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Miles
Monday 7th September 1931
This was a familiar route by now: up the marble staircase and along the corridor to the well-polished oak door, behind which was the anteroom to the office of Sir James Lorimer, head of the Balkan section of the Secret Intelligence Service, and his very competent right hand man, Charles Naylor. It was a busy section - the summer of 1931 had seen so many changes of political personnel it made one's head spin - and Miles Siward had knocked on that door many times to deliver reports, in his role as a linguist and cipher clerk, or to hear about an assignment when on secondment. He had, he was proud to acknowledge, a very unique set of skills. But Miles couldn't remember ever being as nervous as he was now.
He took a deep breath, straightened his tie and knocked.
Naylor's response was the usual terse, "Enter," but he smiled when he saw Miles. "Siward. Come in. You can have five minutes. What's the problem?"
"Firstly, here's the report you wanted, sir." Miles handed over the first of the two folders he was carrying. "It's all pretty much routine correspondence coming from our office in Budapest, sir, though our man at the hotel is concerned about some elements who are using the bar after hours."
Naylor's unremarkable face showed no sign of emotion as he read the summary sheet and nodded. "In our next dispatch tell him to monitor them but not to interfere, he's too valuable to risk." He paused and gave a pointed stare to the other file in Miles's hand. "You have four and a half minutes left."
"Actually, sir, this has an element of personal worry. About Bucharest. And I wanted to ask some advice. If you can spare the time, of course."
"Bucharest?" Naylor raised an eyebrow.
"Yes, sir." Miles took a deep breath. "From the embassy, sir."
The really good thing about Naylor was that you didn't have to fill in all the details. Miles suspected he took personnel files home to memorise just for the fun of it, so he knew perfectly well that any reference to problems at the British embassy in Bucharest would be a problem that affected Miles's parents, Sir Clive and Lady Siward, the current Ambassador and his wife.
Naylor gestured to a chair. "I can give you fifteen minutes."
That was rather more than Miles had hoped for, so he wasted no time in seating himself the other side of Naylor's desk and offering him the thin file.
"Two documents," he said. "One is the latest letter from my mother, dispatched on Thursday, the 3rd September, and I received it on Saturday. We have been aware for some time that some of her letters are being opened and read, but had no worries about it. We assumed it was some over-zealous embassy official and we put a safety measure in place - Mother adds a small section of hair, exactly one and one eighth inches in length, between the first two pages. Her hair is very fine and pale, hard to spot. If it's missing, or elsewhere, I know the letter has been opened and may have been altered."
Naylor was reading the letter already but glanced up to give Miles an approving nod. "Sometimes simple measures are best. So what is the worrying part of the letter?"
"Page two, sir. Her account of the dinner at the Cotroceni Palace and her encounter with the mathematician. She didn't quite catch his name, she said, Von something, and he was so busy talking to her that she didn't get a chance to ask."
Naylor grunted and turned the page. "Oh ... oh yes. 'Although his first love is mathematics I believe he is employed in something in your line'. That wouldn't ring any bells with anyone who thinks you're a civil service clerk, but anyone who knows a little more might be nervous."
"Especially since she says she's looking forward to telling me all about it when she next comes home. But that alone wouldn't be enough to make me take up your time, sir. The other paper is a telegram we intercepted over the weekend from another embassy; it was almost the first thing I saw when I reached my desk this morning. We've checked the contents against local newspaper reports and it seems to be correct."
Miles watched Naylor read, spotting the moment when interested toleration - Naylor was a good superior and could generally be counted upon to reassure his subordinates - sharpened to concern. Although he probably wasn't half as concerned as Miles had been when he had first seen the telegram.
Von Stroebel body recovered. Sending home by normal method.
"And what do the local news reports say?" Naylor asked, squaring the papers up neatly and putting them back in the folder.
"That a minor member of the German trade delegation went for a walk to clear his head after a party and was robbed at knife point. His wallet and watch were missing. It was suggested that he put up a fight and paid with his life. Such a promising career cut short etc, etc. I looked Von Stroebel up, sir. His specialities are a little suggestive - a combination of mathematics and engineering."
"Oh, really? Yes, I see." Naylor put his hand on the folder and slid it back across the desk to Miles. "So what do you propose to do about this?"
"If you think it's sufficient cause for concern, sir, I would suggest that my mother's doctor summon her home for a medical consultation immediately. I know my father is embroiled in the trade talks, so perhaps my brother George could go to Bucharest to accompany her back to England? As a concerned son not wishing his sick mother to make such a long journey alone, of course"
Naylor considered for a moment then shook his head. "George is, last I heard, on assignment somewhere between here and Rome. And I see no reason to divert him from his tasks when I believe that you are perfectly as capable as he is."
"I didn't want to assume, sir."
Naylor snorted. "Of course you didn't. Lady Siward should be extracted as soon as possible. In fact I think it might be wise to arrange for you to make both journeys by aeroplane."
"Oh?" Miles swallowed. "I've - er - never flown, sir."
"High time you had the experience then. I'll have to get approval from Sir James, of course, but for now ..." Naylor scribbled on his memo pad, tore off the sheet and stuffed it into an interdepartmental envelope. "Give that to your superior. Usual arrangements about you being seconded to my office."
"But no need this time for the frocks, sir?" Miles said with a grin.
"Good grief, no. You’ll be travelling as yourself, not the very useful Mrs Carstairs." Naylor shooed him towards the door. "I'll get in touch with the embassy and let them know what arrangements we're making. Go and fetch your passport and pack for no more than two days. We can spare you for that long, but the sooner Lady Siward is home the better. I’ll expect you both in my office on the morning of Thursday 10th to make your report to Sir James. And remember - you'll be flying, so pack light."
"That will be a change," Miles said. "Thank you, sir."
"I take it you won't need your man to travel with you."
"No, I won't." Miles opened the door. "The poor chap will probably appreciate the rest."
#
"And I would, sir," Pritchard said when Miles repeated the sentiment to him. That his Welsh accent was more marked just showed how concerned he was. "If I wasn't laying wakeful for worrying, of course. But I suppose that since it will be a fleeting visit, to take one's household might seem a little extravagant."
"Especially since I'm travelling on His Majesty's ticket. I did suggest that since George is already part way there," - the Siward brothers knew a lot more about each others' activities than either their superiors or their parents suspected - "he might be able to collect my mother, but Naylor is happy for me to do it." Miles watched as Pritchard folded one of Miles's evening shirts preparatory to placing it in his dressing case. Dressing for dinner was a fact of embassy life, and to turn up under-equipped would not be good even under such trying conditions. Also there were standards to maintain and Pritchard's care for Miles was all encompassing.
"Do you miss working for Father?" he asked after a moment. "I feel bad that I've never asked before, but I was so grateful when you agreed to come back with me and run my little establishment that I suppose it never occurred to me to ask."
Pritchard paused, his hands full of snowy linen. "Lord bless you, sir, no. Ronald and I were heartily sick of exchanging letters by then, and maybe seeing each other once a year - your father's commitments allowing. To be offered the chance to come here, with private accommodation provided, was a Godsend. My only worry was that a relationship started in the trenches and continued on paper might not weather more frequent contact."
Ronald - professional stage manager, natty dresser, a full head taller than Pritchard - was perhaps a little shrill, but one had to be shrill to be heard in theatrical circles. From what little Miles had seen of Pritchard and Ron together, though, they seemed blissfully happy and he wished them well and envied them with all his heart.
"I'm glad," he said. "Going from valet to His Majesty's Ambassador in Bucharest to the man-of-all-work of a clerk seems such a come down."
"We both know that you are far more than a clerk, sir," Pritchard grinned. "And speaking of more, Bucharest is not that far from Belgrade. While you are there, will there be any chance of meeting with the master?"
Miles snorted. "You mustn't call Briers that, it only encourages him. He'll turn up in plus fours and a monocle next, you wait and see!"
"It's meant affectionately, sir." Pritchard gave him a serene smile and tucked a rolled black tie and a pair of silk socks in beside the shirt.
"I know, and he loves it." Miles paused in smiling contemplation of Briers Allerdale - tall where Miles was short, dark where he was fair, a hard-bitten field agent where Miles spent a lot of time at his desk - and thanked his lucky stars that opposites attract. "But sadly I am only going for one night, solely to retrieve Ma and bring her home safely in time for her appointment. A side trip is completely out of the question.
"I understand, sir." From the sympathetic glint in Pritchard's eye, Miles knew that he did understand, very well. "Sir ... will you be requiring a small selection of your other clothing?"
In the wardrobe in the other bedroom, preserved and concealed by special linen bags, hung part of Miles's other life. Fabulous frocks, handbags and shoes by the great designers hung next to more humble clothing akin to the sensible hardwearing things sported by the secretaries and shop-girls of the capital. Above, on the shelf, were hats, gloves and wraps. An emergency wardrobe suitable for Miles's mother, they would say should any inquire, but actually the tools of Miles's trade. The SIS had many excellent female agents, just as capable and brave as the men, but there was a shortage of ladies with both the required training and fluency in a dozen different Balkan dialects. Amongst the very few people in the know, Miles had acquired a reputation for getting the job done - but this job was a little different.
Miles shook his head. "I don't foresee any need, apart from not wanting to startle my mother. One hopes one's parents might understand, if not approve, of the tasks required by the service, but to take a full kit while essentially on a jolly seems a bit self-indulgent."
"Are you sure, sir? I have taken the liberty of putting together a few items."
"Oh, go on then," Miles said and laughed as Pritchard added a brown paper package tied with string to the dressing case alongside the socks.
"Just the basics, sir. Identification, hosiery, jewellery, an adaptable scarf and footwear." Pritchard nodded. "The black and burgundy Ferragamos are ornate enough for evening wear if necessary. For the rest you will have to improvise."
"Oh, with the weight limit, more would be an extravagance. Very good, Pritchard."
"One aims to please, sir. Now, I believe we are done, apart from your personal hygiene items. I will pack those first thing in the morning. I’ll be sure to get you up in good time."
"Thank you, Pritchard. The car will be here for me at seven tomorrow. After that, enjoy your holiday."
"No holiday for me, sir." Pritchard beamed. "Ron will surely set me to work whitewashing the scullery, and if I do it cheerfully he might make me one of his famous marmalade roly-polies."
"Lucky man," Miles said without the faintest trace of irony.
Ron's marmalade puddings stuck to the ribs, but it was what they represented that Miles envied. Having someone with whom to share the little tasks of everyday life, someone to cook for or whose cooking one could appreciate, someone to whitewash a scullery for, was something Miles missed like the phantom ache of a limb. For a moment he considered how it might be if he traded in his ticket to Bucharest for one to Belgrade, how he could turn up unannounced on Briers's doorstep, demand a share of a bed for the night and a tour of the city... But Briers's cover was deep and the rigours of the job might be requiring him to entertain. Besides, in their last carefully-coded exchange of letters, Briers had implied that he might soon be departing for a trip to another Balkan state. To turn up on Briers's doorstep and find him long gone would be almost as humiliating as finding him tucked up with another lover.
#
Tuesday 8th September, 1931
New experiences were always welcome, and Miles had been looking forward to travelling by air. Briers said he preferred it; he had even once taken a plane to Paris to meet Miles for a weekend of exquisite debauchery. Knowing how much the flights cost, Miles was very glad that His Majesty's Government had agreed to pick up the bill for this particular journey and, moreover, since he was supposed to be assisting the spouse of a valued servant of the Crown, he would be travelling in style.
As arranged, the chauffeur-driven car picked him up on his doorstep on the dot of seven. Miles hopped into the warm leather-smelling interior and made himself comfortable; it was second nature now to carry his Browning and it was not the sort of thing one wanted to accidentally sit on. It was heavy, too, but apparently, from the driver's extensive experience, Miles would probably meet the weight limit.
"I should think so," Pritchard informed the driver as they stowed Miles’s small case in the boot, "since sir hardly weighs anything at all."
Miles had done his research about air travel and knew to the ounce the maximum permissible weight of passenger plus luggage. But watching his weight had become an everyday task as well. He had done some research there too, and had been surprised to discover that weight gain on a man tended to be in different places to weight gain on a woman.
There had been some difficult months in the summer of 1929 when he had been missing Briers who, after a long period of rest and retraining during which he had shared Miles’s flat, his bed and had made himself almost indispensible, had returned to his posting in Belgrade. Miles had been utterly miserable and, he had to admit, had indulged a little too freely in nostalgic meals out at the Criterion, where they had once danced the evening away. Pritchard had been aware of his misery, and he and Ron were happy to supply all the stodgy comfort pudding Miles could eat - plus gallons of custard. They may have cheered Miles up but the consequent tongue-lashing from Throckmorton, Resources’s chief costumier and something of a mentor of Miles’s, wasn't something Miles cared to repeat.
"A few more pounds and I'll put you in maternity wear," Throckmorton had groused. "And that will make you noticeable. Not at all what we want. Once this assignment is over, for pity's sake get some exercise. Also cultivate a taste for lettuce. There's no point in getting you decent frocks if you aren't going to make the effort to stay the right size to fit in them; you're supposed to be gamine, not matronly!"
Miles hated lettuce! But he had made the effort. All the same he was glad he was taking this trip in serviceable suiting from Savile Row, with a second-best evening suit in his luggage. Much as he loved his alter ego, Millie Carstairs, he took a healthy enjoyment from being himself as well.
As the car pulled away from the house Miles waved to Pritchard, then took his book from his pocket. This was just the first leg of the journey - London to Croydon Aerodrome by car, then he would pick up the regular flight to Paris by Imperial Airways. From Paris he would catch one of the LARES flights direct to Bucharest, and should be at the embassy in time for dinner. Of course he was travelling on a potentially difficult mission, but as yet he had no real inkling that his mother was in danger. That meant that, for the moment, he felt entitled to enjoy the new experience. He'd worry about what happened next when he got there.