25

X2: the counterintelligence and agent-manipulation branch of the Secret Service

In the back of the car on the way to the Lawns Mirabelle couldn’t stop thinking about Jack. He always said you couldn’t predict what was going to happen for one simple reason: people. ‘If the universe was scientific and just left to itself, then we’d have statistical probabilities to rely on. But once people are involved it becomes much more problematic because they’re erratic. People do crazy things that don’t make sense.’

Mirabelle had only been seeing Jack for six months and that night, back at his quarters, they had been drinking Campari. It was dreadful stuff but the whisky had run out. Jack promised he’d cook dinner and then arrived home with a brown paper bag containing six precious eggs. He’d planned to whisk them into an omelette with an onion and some thyme, which grew plentifully in a herb box outside the window. He often came back ‘all thinky’ from work and as he spoke Mirabelle presumed he was trying to explain some of the acts of bravery that had helped the Allies. She sipped the vivid red drink in her highball glass sparingly.

‘People fall in love, you see,’ Jack continued with a cheeky grin, ‘and then they don’t behave logically. Have you ever heard of David Hume?’

She was taken aback. Jack hadn’t said anything about love before. Mirabelle shook her head.

‘Hume’s a Jock philosopher,’ Jack continued as if this wasn’t a landmark. ‘He said that you can see a thousand white swans but you still don’t know that white is the only colour of the swan. You can see white swans all your life, and the more you see, the more you’re sure, statistically, that all swans are white. It’s logical. You think you can rely on it. But all it takes is one black swan and everything changes. It’s a bolt from the blue. Something you aren’t expecting and you have to start from scratch. You’re my black swan, Belle. I love you. And now things will never be the same for me.’

She hadn’t been able to speak. She’d just wrapped her arms around him and, as far as she could remember, they ended up having the eggs for breakfast the following morning.

‘We’re short a black swan,’ Mirabelle mumbled as they went up the stairs and Vesta scrabbled in her pocket for the key.

‘God, I hope they get him out alive,’ Vesta whispered as the police car pulled away.

It was a grey overcast morning. Mirabelle squeezed her hand. The desk sergeant had promised he’d keep them informed: ‘All you have to do is wait by the phone, Miss Bevan.’

‘There’s nothing for it but to sit it out now,’ she said, sounding downhearted, as Vesta put the key in the lock. ‘He seems competent enough.’ She checked her watch.

‘I need a bath,’ Vesta said.

‘Now that is a good idea. I think I have some bath salts. Orange stuff. It would be good to relax.’

They were only just moving over the threshold when out of nowhere the man appeared. At first what was happening didn’t register properly. Mirabelle felt herself being pushed forcefully through the doorway and bundled into the hall. Vesta cried out and was shoved in behind. Mirabelle fumbled for the flick-knife in her pocket. And then, in a second, they both saw with a flood of relief who the unshaven figure in worn work clothes was.

‘Sandor! Sandor!’

He was safe. They flung their arms around him, buoyed up with joy. It seemed too good to be true.

Mirabelle’s face flushed as she breathed in the smell of burning embers and sweat from his skin. If Sandor was alive everything would be all right. ‘Thank God,’ she whispered and she felt the tension in her shoulders release.

It was only when Mirabelle and Vesta drew back that they noticed there was another man – rough-looking and carrying a heavy bag.

‘Ah, yes,’ Sandor grinned, proud at the reaction he’d provoked, ‘Waclaw helped me escape. We have been waiting here for you for hours – almost all night! We watched until you came home. We did not want to show ourselves to the uniformed officers. Just in case.’

Vesta burst into tears. ‘I was so worried,’ she sobbed, ‘so very worried. It’s wonderful to see you, Sandor.’

‘I’m fine, my child.’ Sandor comforted her, putting an arm around her shoulders. ‘All safe now. And I come with news for your operation.’

Mirabelle shook Waclaw’s hand enthusiastically. ‘Polish?’ she asked.

He nodded.

‘You’re very welcome here. Come upstairs,’ Mirabelle said. ‘Follow me.’

Inside, the men inspected Mirabelle’s drawing room without saying a word, Vesta mopped her tears and went to put on the kettle, and Mirabelle rang the station from the telephone in the hallway. McGregor was in a radio car, the desk sergeant said. He’d make sure the message was passed on.

‘Tell him that I have found Sandor. Sandor is with me. He can move straight to his other business.’

‘Other business? Sandy? Right.’

‘No. No. S.A.N.D.O.R. You must tell him straight away. It’s very important.’

‘Right, Miss,’ and the policeman hung up.

Mirabelle glided back into the drawing room feeling energetic despite her sleepless night. She smiled broadly. Sandor had taken a seat and Waclaw hovered by the window.

‘They were going to mount a search to pick you up this morning. I’m so glad you’re safe. It took us a while to track down where you were last night and then when I found it, you were gone. We’ve had no sleep,’ she said apologetically. ‘I should have known that you were more than capable of making your own way.’

‘Ah, the British! You can always rely on the British. Just like the old days!’ Sandor said delightedly.

‘Not quite the same,’ Mirabelle replied as Vesta arrived with a tray of hot tea. ‘The police are not of the same calibre as Jack, you know.’

Waclaw gratefully accepted a cup of tea. He looked over at Sandor, silently requesting permission to speak.

Sandor nodded. ‘You can trust Mirabelle. And we should get down to business now.’

Waclaw hesitated for only a moment and then took a deep breath. ‘I need you to help me,’ he said gruffly. ‘My wife is in Berlin with our children. Two children. Boys. I will tell you everything but you have to get them out. Bring them here.’

Mirabelle stared. ‘Berlin?’ she said vaguely.

‘Yes!’ The man was understandably passionate. ‘They are in a flat near Unter den Linden. I have to bring them to the West. We are Polish and we cannot go home. We need passports.’

Sandor sat back in his armchair with a contented expression. He was at peace. ‘Waclaw helped me escape. He is a goldsmith. He has been working for this Lisabetta woman that you are after. He will make a wonderful informant.’

‘My wife is Marianne Gorski,’ Waclaw started. He drew a crumpled envelope from his pocket. ‘She wrote only a few days ago. I received this. My boys are Udi and Mikhail. Please, I will tell you everything. I have proof.’ He tapped the bag he had been carrying. ‘I just want my family back.’

Vesta’s mouth, Mirabelle noticed, was gaping.

‘Mr Gorski,’ Mirabelle said gently, ‘I’m so sorry. I have no means to get people out of Berlin. This is a police matter now. Perhaps they will be able to help. I’m sure there must be channels of some kind but it’s a criminal matter. If you give them information they may be able to put some kind of a case for your wife.’

The man looked bewildered, then his eyes blazed.

Sandor stood up. ‘But, Mirabelle, you have so many contacts. This man helped me. He has information. Without him I’d still be tied up in that outhouse. You are obliged . . .’

‘I’m not Secret Service any more, Sandor. That was a long time ago. I told you. It’s a different world now.’

Sandor spluttered. ‘What do you mean: you are not Secret Service? What nonsense is this? After all we’ve been through. Come now!’

Mirabelle lost her composure. ‘I told you, Sandor. I told you! I work for a debt collection agency. That’s all. And this matter is in the hands of the police. I can refer you to them.’

‘And this brave young lady?’ Sandor gestured towards Vesta. ‘I suppose she simply keeps the ledgers?’

Vesta gulped. ‘I work in an insurance office, Sandor,’ she admitted, ‘along the hallway from Mirabelle. I’m a clerk.’

Waclaw roared. It was a furious terrifying sound, like a bull about to charge. He flung the cup of tea against the wall, shattering the porcelain. ‘Marianne!’ he shouted.

‘Please, calm down,’ Sandor said. ‘I think that ...’

But Waclaw had launched himself onto the priest. ‘You promised. You promised. You said she would help me. This is not some stupid game. My wife is stuck there. She is stuck there! She is relying on me to get her out! Police? They are useless!’

‘But ...’ Sandor stuttered.

‘You liar! You liar! You old fool!’ Waclaw screamed. In fury he hoisted up the bag of gold and hit Sandor hard with it. The old man keeled over, one side of his face pink and bloody.

Vesta and Mirabelle rushed forward but it was too late. There was a sharp crack as Sandor hit the floor. Waclaw backed off.

‘Oh, Jesus,’ said Vesta.

Little bubbles of spit mingled with blood dribbled down Sandor’s chin.

‘Is he breathing?’ said Vesta.

It was impossible to tell.

‘Call an ambulance,’ Mirabelle said. ‘Quickly! Go!’

As Vesta disappeared into the hallway Mirabelle moved Sandor’s prone body into the recovery position. Waclaw moaned like an animal in pain and she positioned herself in front of the priest to protect him from further attack. But that wasn’t what was on Waclaw’s mind. He put his head on one side as if he was remembering what had happened for a second then he muttered something in Polish that sounded like a curse. ‘My Marianne,’ he said.

‘You’ve really hurt him,’ Mirabelle accused him. ‘He’s a priest, you know.’

Waclaw didn’t reply. He looked coldly at Sandor’s prostrate frame, then with one smooth movement hoisted the bag onto his shoulder.

‘Hey!’ Mirabelle shouted.

But the goldsmith had already crossed the room and made for the door. She would have followed him but she couldn’t leave her friend. Desperately she tried to revive the priest. ‘Sandor,’ she whispered, rubbing his hand as Waclaw slammed the front door behind him. ‘Wake up, Sandor. Please.’

But Sandor didn’t stir. He couldn’t. His neck was broken, and Sandor was dead.