TEN

It felt good to tuck the Jag back into the garage, undented. As I swung the garage door closed and the car disappeared, I felt a rush of relief and a twinge of sadness. That was probably the last time I’d ever drive a Jag. I had kept both eyes on the road and glanced often in the rearview mirror and was so pleased that nobody—not motorcycles, BMWs, white cars or even trucks—had followed us home.

Doris greeted us as we entered the house, moving toward us on her crutches. “I have news! I have news about the meaning of the words!” Her expression grew more serious. “Although you might find it troubling… maybe we should sit down.”

This couldn’t be good. She motioned for us to sit, and she hobbled over and took a seat on one of the small settees.

“The Holmesians did a major search,” she began, “and then got confirmation from other sources. It does seem as if your grandfather was possibly involved in the espionage game…in a most unsavory way. I’m afraid those names—Homer, Hicks and the others—well, they are what are called cryptonyms, or code names for agents, for five notorious traitors.”

“The Cambridge Five,” I said.

“Yes!” she exclaimed, sounding shocked. “But how did you find out? Was it that Dr. Moreau fellow?”

“He knew, but he’s not the one who found out,” I said. “That was all Charlie. She discovered it.”

“But how?” Doris asked.

Charlie held up her phone. “I did a Google search. I put in the five names and it gave me a hit—actually, lots of hits.”

“And that provided information?” Doris asked.

“Pages and pages. Everything we needed to know,” I said.

“It’s strange, but with the Internet, I guess anybody can find almost anything. I wonder what Sherlock Holmes would have done if he had had that tool at his fingertips,” she said.

“Probably been even more amazing,” I said. “And now we need the Internet again. I have to find a reverse directory.”

“What is that?” Doris asked.

“If you have a phone number, you can plug it in and get the address and name of the person who has that number,” I explained. I turned to Charlie. “Do you want to help me with that?”

“I’d like to…but…”

“You have someplace you have to be,” I said—or, more to the point, she had to be someplace with somebody.

“Yes. How about if you get the address and run through all those other numbers, and we’ll start off first thing in the morning?” Charlie asked.

“That sounds like a plan,” I agreed. “I’ll stay here and spend a wonderful evening with somebody who definitely meets my standards…your nana.”

Charlie looked hurt. I felt instantly guilty and wrong, but I didn’t know what to say. I looked down at my feet. I hadn’t meant to hurt her…although I was feeling hurt myself. There was no logic to it, but these things hardly ever have logic to them.

“You have a key to the house and of course you have my address,” Doris said as I got ready to leave after an early dinner.

“Right here in my pocket,” I said, patting it. “Along with my wallet, passport, camera, phone and directions. I’ll be fine…but really, I should just stay in with you.”

“You will not be spending your evening watching the telly with some old woman when you should be exploring London!”

“I won’t be that late.”

“And you’d better not be too early either,” she said. “If you try to come in too soon, I’ll put the chain on the door. You’re young! Go out and meet some people; enjoy yourself.” She paused. “I’m just so sorry that Charlie wasn’t able to be here this evening to take you out.”

“It’s all right. She has a life, and I’m a big enough inconvenience as it is.”

“Don’t think of yourself that way, ever!” She pulled me to her and gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. “There’s an umbrella at the front door. Try to stay dry, and enjoy yourself.”

I grabbed an umbrella from the stand behind the door and headed off. It wasn’t raining outside, but the air was cool and damp, and it looked like it could rain at any time. There were people on the street—a man walking his dog, a couple hand in hand, a businessman in suit and tie, a bowler hat on his head. Only in England. I had the directions to the river and the center of the city in my head and started to walk.

Doris’s row house—which is what she called it—was no more than half a dozen streets from the Thames. From there, I was going to take a walking path along one side of the river into the center of the city, right by Parliament. I had hoped the walk would do me some good and clear my head, but my brain remained stuffed with thoughts and ideas.

I’d called all the numbers. None of them had come to anything. They were disconnected, reassigned—it’s been ours for fifteen years—or they just rang and rang. I’d had the urge to call back the one number that had worked, to introduce myself again and see if there was more going on than an old man hanging up on somebody he didn’t know.

Instead, I’d entered the phone number into a reverse directory and got an address—4030 Coventry Lane—and a name—B. March. Using my phone’s GPS, I’d discovered that it was on the other side of London. If it had been closer, I would have walked over to scope it out that night.

I stopped at the intersection. There on the curb, in big letters, were the words LOOK RIGHT! Only in London were there crossing instructions for dummies. I did a quick look to the left before really looking to the right. There was nothing coming. I started to cross, and a black BMW with tinted windows rolled by. I startled slightly, thrown by its appearance. It kept going and disappeared at the next corner, hanging a right-hand turn. Big deal—the world is full of black BMWs, I told myself.

At each crossing, I looked to the right not just for traffic, but for motorcycles, black BMWs and white cars in particular. It was easy enough to see at least one of those on each street. I also became more aware of the people around me. Hadn’t that woman been behind me for the last few blocks? And that man with the dog…I didn’t recognize him, but that dog certainly looked familiar. This was becoming ridiculous. I was becoming ridiculous. At least Charlie had a reason to think she was being followed.

The river loomed up ahead. I could smell it, a scent even stronger than the faint dampness in the air itself. The wind was blowing down the river and I could feel it through my jacket. I pulled up my collar and fought the urge to turn around and go back to Doris’s house, remembering she had said she wasn’t going to let me in if I came back too early. It wasn’t cold like back home, but there was a rawness that made it seem colder than it was. At least the rain was still holding off.

I turned my back to the wind and pulled out my phone. This was probably a good time to text Steve.

I need you to look in Grandpa’s war journal for any references to a man named Kim Philby. He could also be called Stanley. Let me know asap. This is important. Thanks. Hope all is good.

I pushed Send. Now I’d just have to wait for his answer.

The path I was standing on was wide and well traveled by joggers and cyclists and people pushing baby carriages. I passed by more than one couple around my age walking hand in hand. I fantasized about seeing Charlie walking hand and hand with her man friend and played around with what I’d say to her—or him. I wondered if I’d know who he was. Was she dating some musician or movie star? That was probably as far-fetched as my thinking I was being followed.

Anyway, she wasn’t going anywhere public with this mystery man. How special did he think he was that he had any doubts about being seen in public with her? What did that even mean? Was he a celebrity, or was it something else? Was he married? Was that it? I felt terrible even thinking that. I figured Charlie was better than that.

“Excuse me,” a woman called out. She had a heavy foreign accent. I stopped. “Do you think you could take a picture of my husband and me?”

“Oh, of course.”

“It is a very tricky camera,” the man said. His accent was also very thick…something Eastern European. “First you stand with my wife and I will take picture… set it up…then you take our picture.”

“Yeah, I guess I—”

She grabbed me by the arm and, with remarkable strength, pulled me forward and to the side.

“Say smiley!” he called out. I gave a weak smile and the flash went off. Then it went off a second and third time.

“Now you take us picture…come, George,” she called out to her husband.

He handed me the camera, and then he and his wife posed. I positioned myself so that I could frame them in one side of the picture with the London Eye visible behind them.

“Okay, smile,” I said.

I took one picture and then a second to be safe. “I think I got a good one.”

“Thank you so much,” he said as he took back the camera.

“Yes, thank you. People here are so friendly. What is your name, so I can put it down in my trip memory book?”

“It’s…um…Nigel. Nigel Finch.” I don’t know why I told her that, but I did. It popped out without thinking.

“Good to meet you. If you gave your email, we could send you a copy of picture if you’d like,” he said.

“That’s all right, but thank you just the same. Have a good evening.”

I started off again. It was good to talk to somebody, yet somehow it made me feel even more alone. Everybody walking along here seemed to have somebody except me. I was by myself—whoever that self was. Why had I said Nigel Finch when I’d been asked my name? Was it because I didn’t want them to know anything about me, or was it because I was trying out another name? What if we found out my grandfather really wasn’t David McLean? Would we take on the family name Finch? I certainly couldn’t see myself as a Nigel. It was still strange enough to be called David instead of DJ. For years I’d just been DJ—David Junior—named after my grandfather. It was after his death—in the letter he’d written me—that he said I could be called David now.

I looked up and saw the Parliament buildings looming in front of me. I wasn’t any less alone, but I felt a surge of excitement. It all came back in a rush. Here I was, standing beside the Thames River, in London, England, beside the very seat of modern democracy. This was all pretty darn cool. But maybe my grandfather had worked to try to bring about the downfall of democracy—that wasn’t so cool. I had to stop thinking like that.

Just downriver and on the other side, the London Eye rotated slowly, a gigantic Ferris wheel rising above the river. It glowed red and white in the darkening sky. I’d read that it was 135 meters high. I don’t like planes, but I don’t mind heights—well, not as much. From up there, I was sure, I could see the entire city.

I crossed over the bridge to the other side of the river. I bought a ticket and joined the line for the Eye. Looking up, I counted the cars—thirty-two—each an enclosed glass container that held a couple dozen passengers.

“Pretty amazing, isn’t it?” a man asked me.

“Yeah, it is.”

“You’re Canadian,” he said.

“Yeah, I am…how did you know?”

“The accent.”

I hadn’t said more than a few words. Was it that obvious?

“It’s easy for me to tell because I’m a Canuck too.”

He didn’t sound Canadian. “Really?”

“Well, I guess it gets a little blurred because I lived in New York for a long time, eh?”

“Yeah, that could be it. You do sound more like an American.”

“And we Canucks don’t want to be mistaken for American, right?”

I shrugged. “I like Americans. It’s no big deal.” Unless a beautiful girl didn’t know the difference.

We continued to shuffle forward in the line.

“We’re moving pretty quick, eh?” he said.

This was one really friendly guy, and he was making me super uncomfortable.

We got close to the front of the line. A big capsule stopped and the glass doors slid open. The attendant herded a group of people in. I hoped I’d get in this one—and that my friend wouldn’t. I got on, but he got on with me. One out of two wishes granted.

While others flocked toward the glass sides, I took a seat in the middle of the compartment, on a circular bench. I felt more comfortable with a little distance between me and the sides. As others crowded in, I had a wall of people as protection.

“You nervous around heights too?” a familiar voice asked. Before I could answer, my “friend” said, “Maybe it’s a Canuck thing, eh?”

I’d never heard anybody use “Canuck” so often… or say “eh” so much.

“Rob. Rob Davies,” he said, offering his hand.

I hesitated for half a second. “Nigel Finch.” At least I was consistent. Besides, I didn’t want him to know my real name.

“Pleased to meet you, Nigel.” He gave me a hearty handshake. “So what brings you to London, business or pleasure?”

“Visiting a friend.”

“It’s good to have friends. I make them everywhere I go. Speaking of which”—he tapped the shoulder of a man standing just in front of us—“can you take a picture of me and my new friend Nigel?”

He handed the man the camera and then crowded in close to me, throwing an arm around my shoulder. Before I could react, the man was taking a picture, and then another. Captain Canuck released his grip on me as he took back his camera. I took the opportunity to escape.

“I want to get a better view,” I explained as I got to my feet and walked away from him.

Everybody always talked about big cities being unfriendly. I might have to start visiting bigger cities.