The Unfortunate Englishman E-Book

John Lawton

• Herausgeber: Grove Press UK
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

A thrilling portrait of 1960s Berlin and Krushchev's Moscow, centring around the exchange of two spies - a Russian working for the KGB, and an unfortunate Englishman. Having shot someone in the chaos of 1963 Berlin, Wilderness finds himself locked up with little chance of escape. But an official pardon through his father-in-law Burne-Jones, a senior agent at MI6, means he is free to go - although forever in Burne-Jones's service. When the Russians started building the Berlin wall in 1961, two 'Unfortunate Englishmen' were trapped on opposite sides. Geoffrey Masefield in the Lubyanka, and Bernard Alleyn (alias KGB Captain Leonid Liubimov) in Wormwood Scrubs. In 1965 there is a new plan. To exchange the prisoners, a swap upon Berlin's bridge of spies. But, as ever, Joe has something on the side, just to make it interesting, just to make it profitable...

Leseprobe

THE UNFORTUNATEENGLISHMAN

Also by John Lawton

1963

Black Out

Old Flames

A Little White Death

Bluffing Mr. Churchill

Flesh Wounds

Second Violin

A Lily of the Field

Sweet Sunday

Then We Take Berlin

THEUNFORTUNATEENGLISHMAN

A Joe Wilderness Novel

John Lawton

Grove Press UK

First published in the United States of America in 2016 by Grove/Atlantic Inc.

First published in Great Britain in 2016 by Grove Press UK, an imprint of Grove/Atlantic Inc.

Copyright ©John Lawton, 2016

The moral right of John Lawton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of the book.

Every effort has been made to trace or contact all copyright-holders. The publishers will be pleased to make good any omissions or rectify any mistakes brought to their attention at the earliest opportunity.

A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

HB ISBN 978 1 61185 618 7

TPB ISBN 978 1 61185 545 6

Ebook ISBN 978 1 61185 964 5

Printed in Great Britain

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for the blokes

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Bruce Kennedy

Artigiano straordinario

Robert Etherington

L’Uomo in una mongolfiera

I

Wilderness

Why all this fuss about one of the oldest

and most useful professions in the world?

—Author unknown

Letter to the Times, May 1960

§1

West Berlin: June 28, 1963

He took Berlin.

Wilderness had done stupid things in his time. Stupid things. Unforgivable things. The only person who would not forgive him this time was Wilderness himself.

He took Berlin.

Why, after all this time, had he got involved with Frank Spoleto again? Was once not enough? Had he not learnt the lesson? You can lead a horse to water but you’ll never make him trust anyone called Frank?

He took Berlin.

It was a ludicrous scheme from the start . . . to smuggle a nuclear physicist, a veteran of the Manhattan Project, out of East Berlin using the same tunnel they had used to smuggle coffee, sugar, and God-knew-what during the airlift in ’48. Ludicrous? Crazy. Just asking to get caught.

He took Berlin . . . Berlin took him . . . Wilderness was in the Charlottenburg nick, on the Ku’damm. He’d denied everything. He wasn’t at all sure how long he could keep this up.

Shooting Marte Mayerling had been a mistake. She’d slipped behind him dressed as a rubble lady, a Trümmerfrau, and he’d shot on instinct, shot on memory. For a moment, too long a moment, he and Nell Burkhardt had stood riveted to the spot, unbelieving, her hand wrapped around his. Then the mirror cracked and he had ripped up his shirt to stuff a finger in the dam wall and stanch the flow of blood. Nell had got rid of the gun. Surely she had? With any luck it was gone for good. He’d never see the gun again. He’d never see Nell again.

Berlin took him.

A squad car. An ambulance. A vanload of coppers. Then the slow crawl, hand on horn, honking a way through the surging crowds of Kennedy supporters back to the Ku’damm. A grey cell and black coffee.

As coppers went, this lot were civilised. No one had hit him, no one had so much as raised their voice to him. He had not asked for a lawyer; he had simply asked, repeatedly, that they charge him or let him go. For all his time in Berlin he still had no idea how long they could hold him. Only when the shift had changed and a day copper, a burly sergeant in his forties, had recognised him from the old days just after the war—“You used to sell me black-market NAAFI coffee. You und liddle Eddie. Im Tiergarten”—did it begin to seem inevitable that a chain of connection and causality would be set off that would lead him to this moment. The moment Burne-Jones walked in.

“You should have sent for me at once.”

“I resigned two years ago. You surely haven’t forgotten?”

“You know, Joe, when I have your balls in my fist, sarcasm is really rather ill advised.”

“Alec, I would never have sent for you. It’s all too . . .”

“Too what? Too bloody familiar?”

Wilderness could not deny that.

It wasn’t just familiar; it was almost a carbon copy. Tempelhof, or thereabouts, that cold autumn of 1948, the height (or was it depths?) of the blockade. Lying in a makeshift, prefab hospital in the American Sector with a Russian bullet in his side. Rescued, promoted to a rank he’d never surpass, and thoroughly bollocked.

“Sign here.”

“Eh?”

“Sign on the dotted, Joe, and all this will just go away.”

Wilderness read the page in front of him.

“So . . . I’m re-enlisting?”

Burne-Jones said nothing. Just stared back at him, accepting no contradiction.

Wilderness turned the page around to show him.

“There’s a typo. The date’s wrong. You’ve typed 1961 instead of 1963.”

“Just sign.”

“If I sign this, it’s as though I never left. It’s dated the same day I resigned.”

“Quite.”

“Quite my arse. It means all the time I’ve been here I have technically been working for you.”

“And how else do you think I could get you out? The West Berliners want your guts for garters. You were found with a half-dead woman clutching a smoking gun.”

“No, Alec, that is not the case. There was no gun.”

“Oh. Got rid of it did you?”

Wilderness said nothing.

“Well . . . it will put in a ghostly appearance when these dozy buggers get around to testing your clothes for powder residue, so I suggest we get out now. They won’t like it; after all it’s a stark reminder that they don’t run their own city and that what we and the Americans say counts for a damn sight more than what the chief of the West Berlin Police says. Sign, and it, whatever it is, becomes an Intelligence matter. Sign and walk, or keep up this nonsensical surliness and get charged with attempted murder.”

Wilderness signed.

The sense that once again Alec Burne-Jones had him by the balls was palpable. A tightening in the groin demanding all the flippancy he could muster.

As they stepped out into the summer sunshine on the Kurfürstendamm, Wilderness blinked, looked at Burne-Jones and said, “You owe me two years’ back pay.”

And Burne-Jones said, “Joe, how exactly did you get rid of the gun?”

§2

The zoo, West Berlin: June 26

Marte Mayerling might well die. Wilderness dropped the gun, threw off his jacket and tore at the tails of his shirt to stanch the flow of blood from the wound in her side.

Nell seemed frozen, standing over him in silent shock.

Marte Mayerling was far from silent.

“So, he shoots me . . .” over and over again, a mantra of delirium, the deathly high that is blood loss.

“Nell . . .”

“Joe?”

“Take the gun. Take my passport and go.”

Nell snapped out of her trance and rummaged in his jacket for the passport.

Wilderness took his hands off Mayerling for a moment, the blood surging up again, slipped out of his shoulder holster and threw it to Nell.

“Get to the zoo station, call an ambulance and then disappear.”

“Disappear?”

“Nell, vanish . . . you were never here.”

He pressed down on the wound. Mayerling’s insane chant grew softer and softer. She might die on him any minute and the only plus to that scenario would be her silence. She might die before the ambulance arrived. She might die just to spite him.

Time melted at his fingertips. He had no idea how long he leaned on her. His hands went numb. Fifteen minutes? An hour? It seemed to him an age since she had spoken. He heard the sound of sirens approaching, and Mayerling stirred again, one last croaking complaint of “He shoots me . . . so he shoots me . . . ” Then they were there, a white-suited ambulance crew, a huge Daimler ambulance and seconds behind them West Berlin coppers in their tiny Opel, guns at the ready.

§3

West Berlin: June 28

“Not going to tell me, eh?”

They headed back along the Kurfürstendamm to the Kempinski Hotel. The summer light still striking Wilderness like pinpricks after a day and a half in windowless cells. He wanted out of the ill-fitting clothes the West Berlin Police had lent him when they’d stripped him of the remains of his blood-soaked suit. He wanted a bath and breakfast. Burne-Jones wanted answers he was never going to get.

“Alec, there was no gun when the cops got there; that is all you need to know.”

“Fine, Joe. Just tell me they’ll never find it. They’re dredging the Landwehr. Tell me it’s not there.”

“It isn’t. All coppers are thick. German coppers might be thicker than most. I’m not. Dump it in the canal? Not bloody likely.”

Coffee never tasted so good. A delightful morning scorch. There was a time, an age ago, when Wilderness had smuggled so much coffee the smell clung to him, unscrubbable, and set dogs barking in the street. And for a while he found he could not bear to drink the stuff. He brought home exotic teas, stolen from the PX or the NAAFI . . . Jacksons of Piccadilly’s “Finest Earl Grey.” Nell had asked who Earl Grey was. He’d no idea, now or then.

The dining room at the Kempinski was almost empty. They caught the last shift of waiters serving breakfast, and over scrambled eggs and croissants he told Burne-Jones as little as he thought he could get away with.

Every so often Burne-Jones would put a hand to his forehead as though about to mutter “Jesus wept,” but he never did. Wilderness did not mention the fifty thousand dollars Frank Spoleto had promised him, now floating off up the Swanee. He did not mention Nell, and in conclusion, dismissed his attempt to smuggle Marte Mayerling, nuclear physicist, from East Berlin to Israel as “a bit cockamamy.”

At last Burne-Jones said, “Frank Spoleto cooked this up?”

“Frank . . . and the Company.”

“It’s not as cockamamy as you might think. Not that I could see our people approving, but it has a certain . . . je ne sais quoi . . . a certain ‘balls’ to it.”

“Do our people need to know?”

Burne-Jones strung this one out. It seemed to Wilderness that he wanted to inflict some semblance of punishment on him—the price of rescue.

“Need to know? No. Do they know? That’s a tricky one. The copper who recognised you went through channels to find me. Showed initiative, contacted ‘our man in Berlin,’ Dick Delves, whom I can assume you assiduously avoided . . .”

“Damn right I did.”

“But I have no idea how many ears pricked up between here and London at the mention of your name and a dead German woman.”

“She died? I thought you said ‘half-dead’?”

“No . . . half dead is half alive after all. ‘Dead’ was just an assumption on someone’s part. She pulled through. She’s in the hospital on Kantstraße. You probably saved her life. I gather they pumped endless pints of blood into her and she’s stable. Nobody knew her name, she had no papers on her, and you were saying nothing, but when she came to she told them she was Hannah Schneider, and I assume that was the cover name you or Spoleto assigned her. I wasn’t wholly sure who she was until you just told me.”

“Shocking, isn’t it?”

“Quite. And I rather think I have to get you out of Berlin before honesty overtakes her and she tells the coppers who she really is.”

Wilderness could not think why she hadn’t told them already.

“I need a little time.”

“You don’t have any time.”

“A day, two at the most. There are loose ends. You have been telling me for nearly twenty years now never to leave loose ends.”

“Joe, go back to London. Go back to London and look to your marriage.”

“To my marriage?”

“Why? Do you think I could conceal from my own daughter that you were in jail?”

“We’ve both of us a cellarful of secrets from our wives.”

“Quite. But this could not be one of them. Go home and repair your marriage.”

The inherent conflict between the roles of boss and father-in-law had almost never surfaced in the eight years Wilderness had been married to Judy Jones. It required juggling, and juggle they both did. But it sat like a stubborn knot in the old school tie between them now. Wilderness wondered which Burne-Jones he was appealing to as he said, “Tomorrow, I’ll get myself back to London—tomorrow. I’ll fix whatever needs to be fixed. But if you spirit me away today, it will come back to haunt us.”

Burne-Jones abandoned the attempt to stare him down, got up from his chair all but sighing, and whispered a parting “My God, Joe. What have you done?”

And from where Wilderness sat that seemed all too familiar.

§4

He could have let her die. He could have let her die but the thought had not crossed his mind until now. He could have walked away and let her die, vanished into the crowds chanting “Ken-ne-dy!” and no one would be the wiser. But the thought had not crossed his mind until now.

He walked the half mile to the hospital, the litter from the Kennedy celebrations strewn everywhere, blowing in the wind, gathering in the gutters. He’d glanced at the front page of the Tribune in the bar at the Kempinski. JFK’s rapturous reception, the made-for-TV tag line “Ich bin ein Berliner.” And he could hear Nell’s voice in that. Her habitual cry, her ethical position, her reason to come back to the ruins of Berlin summed up in four words. He could see the last of Nell, walking—no, running—away from him as he knelt over Marte Mayerling, nursing the wound he’d inflicted on her.

Now—looking down at Marte Mayerling. Still and silent, a drip in her right arm, an oxygen tube clipped to her nose. A nurse who had told him to keep it brief.

Her eyes flickered open, took in the man before her.

“Again, Mr. Johnson? Again? What could you possibly want with me?”

She spoke in English. Just as well. Wilderness wanted as few people as possible within earshot to understand what he or she might say.

“What can you possibly want from me?”

“Not much. Just to see with my own eyes that you were alive.”

“So, you didn’t mean to kill me?”

“I’ve only ever killed one man. And the only man I’ve ever wanted to kill killed himself before my eyes.”

“Ah . . . I understand now. I am to receive your confession. I am to absolve you of your sin.”

It took a moment or two before Wilderness realised that the wheezing cackle arising from her throat was laughter.

He turned to leave; there was nothing more to be said. Inwardly he kicked himself for the weakness that had led him there.

“Mr. Johnson.”

Wilderness turned back. As much as she could, Mayerling had twisted her neck to see him more clearly.

“They tell me I will live. I may be here a week or more, and after that weeks more in recuperation.”

It was at this point Wilderness thought she might be waiting on the words “I’m sorry,” which he was never going to utter.

“I will have ample to time to reflect upon my folly and yours. No matter. I doubt I will change my mind. So I will give you the reassurance you seek but will not ask for. It was a scheme thought up by madmen. I was an idiot not to see it for what it was. You were an idiot not to see it for what it was. But it is over. I shall live and you shall face whatever fate awaits you, but it is over. No bomb, no Israel. Genug.

“I am an Austrian. Austria exists once more. I shall go home . . . not a word I ever thought I would use again . . . feel again. I shall go home. If you have a home, Mr. Johnson, go to it. Go to it and count yourself lucky.”

Again Wilderness turned to leave. Again she called him back.

“Mr. Johnson? That is not your real name. Do you have papers in the name of Johnson?”

“Of course.”

“Forgeries?”

“Only insofar as I’m not James Johnson.”

She pondered this a second, and it seemed to Wilderness she had discerned his meaning.

“But you can obtain forgeries.”

And he hers.

“What name would you like, Dr. Mayerling?”

“Hannah Schneider of course.”

Of course. He and Frank Spoleto had renamed her.

“German?”

“Austrian. Born second of May 1913. My real birth date. Then I won’t forget it. Can you do this?”

“Yes.”

“And get it to me?”

“Someone can bring it to you, yes.”

“Then . . . strange as it may seem, Mr. Johnson, I wish you well. Bon voyage.”

§5

Everyone was telling him to go home.

He went instead to a building that had been home for nearly two years not long after the war, to Grünetümmlerstraße, where he and Nell Burkhardt had lived like squirrels in a sprawling room under the eaves, freezing in the fuel-starved winters of Berlin’s broken years and sweltering in the summers. On the floor below them had lived, and still lived, Erno Schreiber.

Wilderness stood on the top floor in the empty room, looking at the scars of past lives, of the lives he and Nell had had together, mentally replacing every stick of furniture. He’d come to Berlin with no expectation of seeing Nell and none that she would want to see him. Seeing her at all just before the Hannah Schneider cock-up had been chance—pure chance and disaster.

Erno must have heard his feet on the bare boards and shuffled up the stairs, carpet slippers and cardigan, whatever the weather.

“Eh, Joe.”

“What have you heard, Erno?”

“Come downstairs. I have a fire of nicely burning evidence. Come warm yourself at the flames of guilt.”

Light scarcely penetrated Erno’s room. The seasons never changed. Something always to be concealed from the sun, something always needing to be consumed by fire.

Erno stuck a mug of black coffee in Wilderness’s hands, flicked open the stove door, raked through the “evidence.” Eulenspiegel the cat wove his way between Wilderness’s legs, motor running.

“I heard,” Erno began. “That things did not go exactly as planned.”

“Nell?”

“Yes. Nell. She came here before breakfast yesterday. I have your gun and your passport—the fake I made you in the name of Schellenberg.”

“Keep ’em, Erno. Just in case hang on to them.”

“Will anyone come looking?

“Doubt it. Burne-Jones is here to bail me out. And Marte Mayerling wants to put it all behind her.”

“Großer Gott. Why?”

“I don’t know. What was it you said about masks? About Hannah Schneider being the assumption of innocence on her part?”

“Not quite. Are you saying she wants to stay as Hannah Schneider? To become Hannah Schneider?”

“Oh yes.”

“And how do you know?”

“I went to see her in hospital, the one on Kantstraße.”

“Oi, Joe.”

“She wants a passport in her new name. Austrian, born second of May 1913. I’ll pay. Can you do it? I don’t have a photograph. You’ll just have to bluff your way in there.”

“Perhaps a bedside visit from her old ‘Uncle Otto’ and his trusty little Minox camera. But I shall have to bite my tongue to avoid asking her a thousand questions. It is most intriguing.”

“You said it yourself . . . something like ‘it is Freud’s own mask.’”

“Joe, I say so many things.”

“Don’t piss on it, Erno. You know what I’m talking about. So why is she doing this? Why is she not screaming it all from the rooftops? Where is your man Freud in all this?”

Erno shrugged, stared into the fire for a moment.

“From middle age onwards, and you are not yet there my boy, life is perceived as a series of regrets. I know few middle-aged men who do not have a mental checklist of life’s might-have-beens. I know men to whom you could sell second chances . . . like some goblin in a Grimms’ tale . . . popping up to tell you that every mistake you have ever made can be undone . . . that the second chance is there for the taking. You maybe did not know it, and I am damn sure Frank Spoleto didn’t, but when you dangled the prospect of freedom in front of Marte Mayerling you held up second chances the woman never knew she wanted. After all, regret is such a male notion. But, she is a woman in man’s world . . . beating men at their own game. And on some other level of consciousness, I will not go so far as to say ‘unconscious,’ the freedom she wanted was not to split more atoms, to make more bombs, it was to be Hannah Schneider. Frank chose the plainest of Jewish names and in so doing gave her exactly what she did not know she wanted.”

“When she came out of the tunnel . . . I didn’t recognise her . . . she was dressed as Hannah Schneider, a dowdy little Jewish hausfrau . . . she looked like . . . like . . .”

“Like Yuri Myshkin the night he shot you back in ’48?”

“Yes.”

“So you shot first?”

It didn’t need an answer.

“Speaking of Major Myshkin, I also have . . .”

Erno reached to the mantelpiece above the stove. Handed Wilderness a rusty key.

Wilderness looked down at the key to the tunnel’s entrance in the Soviet Sector nestling in the palm of his hand.

“Nell left it with the gun and the passport.”

“She must have found it in my pocket. I wonder if she even knows what it is.”

“Am I to keep this too?”

“Why not? A souvenir of human folly. As Dr. Mayerling said . . . it was a scheme dreamt up by madmen. I can’t imagine I’ll ever need this again.”

“Who knows . . . folly is like regret . . . it knows no limits.”

Wilderness turned the key over in his hand, said, “I need to see Nell. Can you tell me where she lives?”

“No, Joe, I cannot. She expressly told me not tell you. Joe, she doesn’t want to see you again.”

The biggest regret in Wilderness’s life, the what-might-have-been, was Nell Burkhardt. Perhaps at thirty-five he was more middle-aged than Erno might ever imagine. To Erno he might seem impossibly young, too young to have regret, too young as yet to be haunted by the ghosts of the living.

He said nothing. He knew he could con, trick, or cajole Nell’s address out of the old man, but he wouldn’t. He could go round to the mayor’s office in Schöneberg and catch Nell at her work. But he knew he wouldn’t do that either. He would go home. “Home,” a word for him that had so little of the resonance it now seemed to have for “Hannah Schneider.”He stood up, took two hundred dollars from his wallet and put them under a candlestick on the mantelpiece. And noticing a large, square-headed nail protruding from the wall above the candlestick, he hung the key on it.

“Too many symbols for one day, Erno.”

He’d go home now.

§6

London: July 1

Few women Wilderness had ever met could do rage like Judy Jones. ­Every year or so he’d make a trip to Petticoat Lane and restock the kitchen with cheap crockery to make up for plates thrown at him in the course of uxorial dispute. Every three months or so he’d slink off to one of the spare bedrooms and give her a fortnight’s cooling off before the inevitable reconciliation, which would begin with “You’re just being silly” or “Can’t we talk about this like grown-ups?” to which Wilderness would reply “We can talk about anything when you stop throwing things.”

She hugged him on the doorstep. Flung the door open before he could even take his key from the lock. Arms around his neck, head pressed to his chest. And was that a hint of tears in her eyes?

She drew back, and yes a tear was wiped away.

“I’ve been so worried. Dad said you were in prison.”

“Jail not prison.”

“And then he came back without you.”

“I’m here now. Any chance I could come in?”

This made her smile.

“You’d better. I want to know everything, and I’d rather not broadcast it to the neighbours.”

Wilderness hefted his bag and followed her upstairs to the living room, but she’d gone up another two flights. He shucked off his jacket, followed the train of discarded clothing, to their bedroom on the top floor.

Judy was in her bra and pants, pulling down the blind on the south-facing roof light.

Wilderness stood in the doorway while she flung her underwear at him and peeled back the sheets.

“I . . . I thought you wanted to know everything?”

“Later, Wilderness, later.”

She turned, yanked on his tie, dog on a lead, and pulled him on top of her, whispered in his ear.

“Come on, togs off, you dozy bugger.”

§7

Afterwards he was churlish enough to wonder, “What was that about?” and enough of a gentleman not to ask aloud.

Judy filled the gap, as though she had read his mind. He lay on his side, looking at the wall; she fitted herself spoon-like to the curve of his backside and said, “Never been with an old lag before.”

“I told you, it was jail not prison.”

“There’s a difference?”

“Yes. And if I’ve suddenly become your bit of rough because I spent a couple of nights in the cells, then you’re forgetting . . . I was in the glasshouse when your dad found me in 1946.”

“Oh . . . that’s just military prison. They can lock up who they like can’t they? This was the real McCoy. Nicked for a . . . well for whatever it was you did. And you’re not military any more.”

Of course, Burne-Jones would ration what he told his daughter. Truth and lies were all the currency a spook needed. That he had told her he was in jail in Berlin spoke volumes. There was no necessity to tell her anything. He’d told Judy because he wanted her to know, wanted her to be the one to punish Wilderness. He’d be very surprised at the nature of the sentence. It would never occur to Burne-Jones that danger, jail, and whatever nonsense Judy was piling on to that would prove to be a turn-on, that, for as long as it lasted, Wilderness had entered Judy’s fiction. Her bit of rough.

“Actually . . .”

“Yeeees? Actually what, my old lag?”

“I am military.”

“Eh?”

“I signed up. It was Alec’s condition for getting me out.”

She rolled off him. He could hear her gathering steam. A 4-6-2 at King’s Cross couldn’t sound more pressurized. But then he noticed the calendar tacked to the wall just by her reading lamp, and the red rings around yesterday, today, and tomorrow, 30th, 1st and 2nd, and her explosion vanished into a vacuum. She was letting him have it, and he heard not a word. She stood by the bed, arms raised, breasts shaking, giving him the bollocking of a lifetime and all Wilderness could hear was the ticking of their biological clock.

He’d been had. She’d had him. All their discussions about family usurped in moment.

§8

He awoke, early he thought, but not so early that Judy had not already left for work—or left to avoid the row that was surely brewing.

He made coffee, went back to bed, flipped on the radio, listened to Jack de Manio on the BBC, waiting for the next dropped brick, verbal gaffe or total lapse of manners.

An hour or so later, no conclusion reached regarding wife and future family, he heard the crocodile snap of the letter box closing and the yowl the cat sent up to announce new post, which for some reason the animal confused with food—Wilderness had not named him Desperado for nothing.

It was a letter in a Connaught Hotel envelope on Connaught Hotel paper.

Sorry kid. No dame no game. Consider this payment in full. Frank.

Wilderness shook the envelope. A single green dollar bill floated down like the first fallen leaf of autumn, eddying to land in front of the cat, who sniffed in disgust and ran away.

“Exactly,” thought Wilderness. “What I should have done.”

The next time he saw Frank Spoleto coming he’d cross to the other side.

For now, he was down $49,999 . . . but he had a job again. A job he didn’t much want, but then he had always regarded the world as one made up of wolves and doors.

II

Alleyn

For he might have been a Roosian,

A French, or Turk, or Proosian,

Or perhaps Itali-an!

But in spite of all temptations

To belong to other nations,

He remains an Englishman!

—W. S. Gilbert

H.M.S. Pinafore, 1878

§9

Germany: May 1945

They found Alleyn wandering—somewhere in Lower Saxony. His memory had left him, but the tatty remains of his RAF uniform and the dog tags strung around his neck were enough. They knew who Alleyn was before he did.

Two days later as bits of memory bobbed flotsam-like to the surface, he said, “Alleyn . . . Bernard Forbes Campbell Alleyn. Squadron leader,” and rattled off his number. The squadron number and base proved more elusive. All the same they knew.

“Kelstern—625 Squadron. Welcome back, old man.”

He had to admit, the cover was brilliant. Moscow had really delivered. Not for a moment, it seemed, did they—that is the English—doubt that he was who he appeared to be. Squadron Leader Bernard Forbes Campbell Alleyn, third generation Scots-Canadian from Perth, ­Ontario—sole survivor of half a dozen straying Lancasters blown from skies somewhere east of Dresden in February 1944.

Alleyn was still alive when the Red Army overran Stalag Luft VIII-B in Silesia on St. Patrick’s Day 1945. Alive, but only just—badly burned and badly patched up, he had succumbed to pneumonia only a fortnight later . . . but by then Liubimov had sat at his bedside for seven days and nights, listened to his mortal ramblings and let the cloak of his identity float down upon him as Alleyn breathed his last.