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Miles
A slow uncomfortable flight, due to iffy weather over the Alps, left Miles very little time in which to make himself respectable before dinner. He took a quick dip in the bath and a brisk towelling, then clambered into his evening suit as fast as he could. He was just fiddling with a cufflink and wishing he had brought Pritchard when he heard a soft knock at the door. It cracked open half an inch.
"Miles? Can I come in?"
"Ma!" Miles beamed and opened the door fully. "My, don't you look smart? I thought it was just the family tonight."
"This old thing?" His mother beamed and smoothed the soft blue velvet of her skirt with her hands. "Do you like it? I bought it last time I was in Paris."
Miles could be very sincere in his admiration because he had something very similar hanging in his wardrobe at home. "I do indeed. That midnight blue sets off the pearls perfectly. And you too."
Flattery, yes, but Lady Siward had a very youthful appearance for a woman approaching sixty. Her skin was clear with only the softest of wrinkles, her blonde hair had taken on a sharper lustre with the addition of white strands, and her blue eyes were still clear and bright.
"Since you are without dear Pritchard, I thought I would come to see how you're getting on." She eyed his suit, a second best one left here for exactly these circumstances, then gave it an approving nod. "I see you are having problems with your cuffs. Please allow me."
"You're a life saver, Ma." Miles offered her the box with the cufflinks.
"Platinum?" Ma said. "And dark nacre. I don't remember these, dear?"
"A gift from a friend," Miles said, and couldn't help smiling. Briers had presented him with the small package after a fleeting but mutually satisfying meeting in Paris. Miles hoped that Briers had been equally pleased with the gift he'd hidden in his bag before they left their hotel.
"A friend?" Mother raised her artfully darkened eyebrows - odd how Miles had never noticed the little tricks used by females to enhance their beauty until he'd had to master them. "I must hear more about this friend at some time. Such good taste. Now, give me your hands."
After so many years helping his father to achieve the effortless elegance required of members of His Majesty's diplomatic service, it was the work of a moment for Ma to fit the links through the stiff linen cuffs but she lingered over the job, her fingers cool against Miles wrist.
"It was very good of your senior to allow you to come away at such short notice," she said, "although I can't help feeling that we're worrying over nothing. That poor young man, Von Stroebel, was a very rambling conversationalist, and I must admit that when he began going into detail about his latest project my mind wandered."
"Oh Ma, as if you don't remember every word!" Miles turned his hand to take her wrist and give it a little squeeze. "Mr Naylor was concerned enough to buy us 'plane tickets, and you know he's not one to start at shadows. And besides, won't a trip to London be rather handy? It's Pa's birthday next month. You could help me choose a present for him."
"And wrap it properly," Ma agreed. "Yes, I must admit that it will be nice to have a change of scene. We will shop and I'll allow you to take me to tea at Derry and Toms."
"George might be in town." Miles's elder brother was an SIS celebrity. "He's mostly doing courier runs now he's back to full health, so - "
"So you can take us both out to tea," Ma finished for him.
"Thank you, that's very good of you." Miles shot his cuffs and inspected himself in the mirror. "Will I do, Ma?"
"Beautifully." Ma linked her arm through his and guided him towards the door. "I don't know what I did to be blessed with two such handsome sons."
"We don't know what we did to be blessed with such good genes." Miles squeezed her arm gently and opened the door for her.
Downstairs Ma gestured to the footman who hurried through the baize door into the back of the embassy. "We have time for a sherry, if you would like one," she said. "Though I will admit that I've been trying to get your father to cut back a bit. Almost every negotiation here seems to be fuelled by drink, some terrifying stuff called slivovitz; I'm sure if there's a fuel crisis we could power the embassy vehicles on it. Tomorrow your father is off to Peles Castle near Brasov. It’s supposed to be so they won’t be disturbed but I suspect it’s because the cellar is rather good. And the Russian envoy will be there - such a lovely man, but spending an evening with him can make it hard to think the next day. At this juncture we all need to keep our wits about us."
"We absolutely do." Miles's father chimed in as they entered the drawing room. "How are you, my boy? Good flight?"
It was just the immediate family in attendance, which meant that they were accompanied by two attachés, Ma's personal secretary Miss Carey, and a cold-eyed gent of military bearing introduced merely as Smethwick. There was no doubt of his function within the staff of the embassy and his connections must have been good because - after a few minutes spent observing Miles with a distinct crease between his heavy black brows - he moved close under the pretence of refilling Miles's sherry glass and breathed, "November '28. Good work there," and moved on before Miles could respond.
The gong put paid to any further conversation until they were seated at the gleaming mahogany table and soup was being served. Miles, at his mother's right hand, sipped and listened and chipped into the conversation when asked to do so. Discussion of the aero-industry and the expansion of British airlines carried them safely through to the end of the main course, when a comment about Italian sea-planes diverted them into speculation about the political situation in Italy and the astonishing and beneficial reforms that were taking place there.
Miles listened to the discussion of public works and spending on welfare without comment. Education was a lovely thing, likewise full employment, but Miles had seen the estimations and couldn't help wondering where the money was coming from. Spending one's way out of a deficit never seemed a good idea; he'd had a few friends at Cambridge who had tried it, and it never ended well. Doing so on national scale could only be worse. But when it came down to it Italy was an ally, even if the politics did hark back to a time of panem et circenses, and it was Miles's job to back his bosses' decisions
Smethwick placed his hand on the table with a gentle smack. "You can say what you like about Il Duce," he said, "but he's a good friend to the British and would like to be better."
"True," Sir Clive said, "all the same I'm glad Emily and Miles will be flying back via Vienna."
"Why yes," Ma agreed. "If one is going to stop over anywhere it may as well be somewhere with really good sacher-torte."
#
Wednesday 9th September, 1931
The bed at the embassy was comfortable, and breakfast nicely judged to nourish while not weighing the stomach down. It was just Miles and his parents at the table, so the conversation was much more personal; Miles was encouraged to talk a little about his work, and Pa brought him up to date with aspects of the local situation that hadn't made the British newspapers. Miles knew most of the titbits he was offered, but kept that to himself because, while they may have suspected, his parents didn't actually know that his security clearance levels had soared over the past couple of years.
After they had eaten their fill, Miles's father bade them a fond goodbye.
"I wish I could come to the aerodrome with you." He squeezed Ma's arm then stooped to kiss her cheek, "but we're at a rather crucial moment in our talks and I can’t afford to give offence."
"Also this is supposed to be an ordinary, routine occurrence. Just a brief trip home to see a doctor." Ma straightened his tie. "We will telephone to leave a message as soon as we get home."
"No matter how late," Sir Clive said. “Smethwick will be expecting to hear from you.”
Miles offered his hand to his father and was a little surprised to be pulled into a brief embrace. "Don't worry, Pa."
His father gave his shoulder a thump. "As long as you're with your mother, I'm sure everything will be fine. Now I must go."
Miles turned away, pretending to check that his and his mother's luggage had been placed sensibly close to the doors, but actually to give his parents a moment of privacy. Miles smiled as he heard his father sigh, the sound of a kiss and a giggle from Ma. They were both approaching sixty at breakneck speed; Miles hoped that he would be as capable of wholehearted affection as they were when he was the same age - but he supposed that rather depended on having someone to be affectionate with.
For a few moments he allowed himself to dream of a time when he had retired from his position in Whitehall and Briers was done with spying. Maybe they would manage the estate for George and his family? Or have a place of their own? It wasn't unheard of for two aging bachelors to pool resources and share a house for both company and economy. Miles would paint and work in the garden. Briers would... Actually, Miles's imagination failed him there. He couldn't imagine Briers developing a passion for hollyhocks or beekeeping. but he must have interests beyond national security. That would be a subject they could discuss next time they met - once they'd got their breath back.
"Very well, I must be off." Father's gruff voice startled Miles out of his day dream. "These trade deals won't negotiate themselves, and now that Prince Carol is back it's a kid glove job. Will you walk me to the door, Miles?"
"With pleasure, Pa." Miles fell in behind his father as they left the ambassadorial quarters and stepped out into one of the public areas. Smethwick was immediately at his father's elbow, casting a nod of greeting at Miles as he did so.
"Sir, I've arranged for madam to have the larger car with Royston to drive." Smethwick pulled on a pair of gloves. "I'll drive you myself."
"Thank you, Smethwick. Miles, Royston knows the route well and has had full training. He's a good man. Miss Carey is rather more than a secretary, as you might have guessed, so between the three of you I'm sure your dear mother is in the safest hands possible."
"Thanks Pa," Miles said. "And thank you for helping me to persuade Mother to come back to London. It might be nothing - "
"But it doesn't do to take chances, I know. Damn Von Stroebel. Why couldn't he have kept his mouth shut?"
"What man can when Ma exerts all her charm to put him at ease?"
"That's true." Pa chuckled. "Give Naylor my regards. You may not be aware of it, but he very much appreciates the effort you have put in over the past few years. There aren't many with your particular set of skills, and I'm told you've been a great asset to the Service."
Miles felt the heat rise in his cheeks, partly from pleasure because Naylor was very close-lipped and it was good to hear that he had been pleased, and partly from worry about how much Naylor had told his father. Then he told himself to buck up. "That's very good to hear, sir."
"It was good to hear but," Pa put his hand on Miles's shoulder, his clasp warm and heavy, "I was already proud of you. I just wanted you to know that."
If he had felt red before, Miles was pretty sure that by now he must be glowing. "Thank you, sir," he said, aware that his voice was a little husky. "Good luck, and good negotiating."
"I think I'll need more than luck. Speak to you later my boy, happy landings!" Pa gave Miles shoulder another soft thump then hurried down the stairs to where his car, already filled with his aides, was waiting.
#
It took very few moments more to see the luggage transferred to the back of the immense embassy Daimler. Royston the driver, smart in his uniform, saw to the stowing of the cases then came to the door to escort Ma and her maid down the steps. Miss Carey passed her own small suitcase on to Royston but kept Ma's dressing-case in her possession. "All ready ma'am," Royston said, and opened the car door so they could embark.
The official vehicle pulled away from the steps of the embassy with the slow grandeur of a cruise ship, and Miles wondered exactly how much armour had been added to its already considerable weight. Miss Carey seated herself on the fold-down seat opposite his mother and draped her coat across her lap.
"Such a beautiful day," she said. "And just as well if we are going to cross the Carpathians. Was it very bumpy on your trip out, sir?"
It might have been the question asked by a nervous young woman about to fly for the first time, but Miss Carey only glanced once at Miles before keeping a wary eye on the world outside the car - so, not anxious at all but trying to provide some reassurance to his mother?
"It was a little bumpy as we crossed the mountains," Miles admitted. "But perhaps today will be better. It doesn't appear to be so windy."
"Oh, windy!" Mother laughed. "Do you remember that trip we took on the steamer, Miles? On Lake Garda. I have never seen so many people being so ill in my life."
"As I recall I didn't see too much of anything."
"Oh poor boy, yes, you were miserably unwell." Ma grinned at him and patted his knee. "I'm so glad you grew out of motion sickness. The suspension on this car can be uncomfortable when cornering at speed."
Miss Carey shot Miles a sympathetic glance then looked out of the window while Ma continued to reminisce. The car stopped and started as they made their way out of the city. It was an interesting place where wide boulevards that reminded Miles a little of central Paris alternated with warrens of narrow streets and low houses. Royston stuck to main routes following a tram for a while, then tucked the Daimler in behind a stately old barouche whose glossy horses made better time than the tram. Eventually the city centre traffic thinned, the barouche turned into a pair of gates, and Royston was able to pick up speed.
"Everyone all right back there?" he asked, then, "Jesus!"
A car parked at the pavement lurched forward to smash into the Daimler's wing. Miles's mother had slid off the seat so he grabbed her and shoved her to the floor. A passenger in the other car levelled a weapon at the window and Miles flung himself over his mother's body. She gave one little cry of protest, then shrank down into the footwell.
"Oh no, you don't, chummy." Royston put his foot down and the Daimler tore free in a shriek of metal. The stutter of an automatic weapon was barely audible over the roar of the engine but shards of glass scattered across the inside of the car. Royston roared a curse and the car swerved to the left off the main road into a side street.
"I'm hit," Royston said, his breath hissing between gritted teeth. "Left arm."
Miles scrambled up and slid the glass privacy panel out of the way. He lunged forward over Royston's shoulder to take the wheel. "I'll steer," he said. "You tell me where to go."
Royston groaned and clamped his right hand over the hole in his uniform coat. "Straight on then left again, second - no, third - turning."
Miss Carey appeared on the edge of Miles's vision. She had a smear of blood on her forehead but the gun in her hands was steady. "We'll take an alternative route back to the embassy. Are you unharmed, madam?"
"Yes," Ma said, her voice muffled. "Perfectly fine, if a little shaken. Can I get up please?"
"I'd be happier if you stayed down for a bit longer, madam," Carey said, then leaned again to speak to Miles and Royston. "I think we're being followed. That motorcycle?"
"Dammit, yes." Miles spotted the vehicle in the mirror, coming up fast. "Shall we try to shake him?"
"It'll be hard, but do your best."
"Certainly, miss." Royston's face was white and sweating but his voice was level as he said, "I'm going to change gear and brake, and you make the turn... now!"
They mounted the curb and for a moment the heavy back end of the car lost traction and swung. Then the tyres bit again and the Daimler hurtled into a narrower street lined with tall Regency-style buildings that wouldn't have looked out of place in Belgravia. Miles glanced up at the mirror and saw the motorbike rounding the corner, then accelerating in their wake. Behind it, battered and lop-sided, was the car that had rammed them.
"Bugger," he said, and Royston growled out a more lurid curse.
Tyres drummed on cobbles and Miles divided his attention between the road ahead and the mirror. A swerve put the rear of the car squarely in the motorbike's path and it fell back, wobbling.
"If you can do that again, I'll try and pick off the cyclist," Carey shouted. "Let him pull up again."
"All right." Miles took as deep a breath as he could with the walnut and metal of the dividing screen jabbing into his midriff. He was all too aware of the target he was presenting to any gunman. Apparently, so was Royston.
"Careful, sir. You don't want to get shot in the arse," the driver muttered.
"What a way to go," Miles agreed.
"Should be all right, sir," Royston gasped. "Armour's thicker at the back."
"Thank God for that."
The motorcycle closed the distance, drew level with the Daimler's back tyre, then Miles flicked the wheel to make the car fishtail. Caught a glancing blow, the bike skidded on its side, sending both passengers tumbling.
"Nicely done," Carey muttered. "The car has stopped to pick them up. Are you sure you're just a clerk?"
"London traffic can be a bit of a trial," Miles said and grinned at Royston. "Royston?"
The driver sagged forward against the wheel. "Don't stop," he gasped. "I'm all right. Keep going."
"Royston?" Carey popped up again and lay her fingertips against Royston's throat. She grimaced at Miles. "He needs a doctor. Plan B. Lady S, when I say, I need you and Mr Siward to bail out with your bags and go into the building. I'll get Royston to safety and send some men back for you. Royston, Siward, next right."
With Royston barely conscious but doing his gallant best, Miles directed the car through two more sharp turns before screeching to a halt by the stone-columned entrance to a hotel.
Carey threw the door open, encouraging his mother to move fast, and turned out the bags out of the boot onto the paving."Into the hotel with you. Quick, off the street. Siward - oh, good notion!" Miles had taken a moment to encourage Royston to shift across to the passenger side of the car. "Siward, take this." Carey thrust his mother's dressing-case into his hands then dived into the driving seat of the car. The car door slammed as she accelerated away, but Miles was already following his mother into the building.
#
Inside it was cool and dark and smelled of fading pot pourri and drains. A uniformed porter stepped aside with a respectful nod then hurried outside to collect the rest of their baggage. Ma stood at the desk speaking to the clerk who was explaining that his best rooms were all gone, much to his sorrow; however, should she care to lay out the cash, there was just one superb top floor suite available.
"We'll take it," she said. "And I assume someone will be able to bring up tea?"
She appeared to be so calm and cool, as though nobody had taken a pot shot at her car or forced her down into the footwell, but the hand she laid on Miles's arm was trembling. Miles heart swelled with affection as he accompanied her and the porter to the lift.
There were four floors, each equally shabby genteel, but the rooms when they reached them looked comfortable enough.
"Some of our aides stayed here when we had that problem with the roof," Ma said once the porter had stacked Miles’s small dressing case on top of Ma’s and Diana’s suitcases, had been tipped and the door had closed behind him. "Comfortable and quiet, and the manager seems a decent fellow."
She looked at her reflection in the mirror on the front of the wardrobe and grimaced. "I look a fright," she said. "We may as well make ourselves comfortable. Carey will send the troops soon."
Miles had busied himself with checking the doors and windows and sticking the most robust of the chairs under the door knob. "There's a cast iron bath, Ma," he said. "If anyone starts shooting I suggest you get in it."
Ma removed her hat and unbuttoned her coat. "Is there room for two?" she asked. "Because I'm not comfortable with the idea of you facing armed men, either."
Miles sighed and went to put his arms around her. "I know I'm not ... Pa or George or - or Smethwick," - he had almost said Briers - "but I can assure you that I know which end of a gun the bullets come out of. I am perfectly capable of looking after you."
"I don't doubt that." Ma gave him a squeeze. "Now, make yourself comfortable while we wait for the tea. For a start, take your hat and coat off. That's the least the porter will be expecting."
Miles raised his eyebrows as he complied. "What on earth did you say to them before I came in?"
Ma went a little pink then turned to adjust her hair. "I may have implied that we were hiding from a lover jealous that I had a new petit ami. I've always wanted to be a femme fatale."
"Oh, Ma!" Miles threw his hat on the wash stand and unbuttoned his coat. He had met a real femme fatale and had no particular desire to repeat the experience. "You are the giddy limit!"
"I know." She grinned at him. "But I was improvising. And it was the first thing that came to mind. All you have to do is sit down and look louche."
"I can probably manage that." Miles peered around the edge of the curtain, straining a little to see the street outside the hotel. "Just for information, because I'm sure, as you said, Miss Carey will be back as soon as she's seen poor Royston to safety, how far are we from the embassy?"
"Too far."
"And the railway station?"
"No more than five minutes," Ma said. "Why's that, darling?"
"Just an idea," Miles murmured. He watched a familiar and battered car cruise slowly past the hotel then glanced at Diana’s suitcase. "With any luck we won't need one but it's always good to have a back-up plan."