It was cool on the bench; the sunshine that reached us was filtered by the chestnut trees above us. All three of us were hunched in our coats. After we had been sitting for a couple of minutes, Donna turned to her neighbour.
‘How do you like that book? It’s one of my favourites.’
‘Is it? Oh, good,’ said the woman in a heavy Russian accent. ‘It was recommended to me by a friend. But I have only just started it.’
‘Are you Russian?’ said Donna. ‘You sound Russian.’
Although we were not assuming that anyone would be within listening range, Pat Greenwald had suggested that in the first couple of minutes of conversation we should talk as if we had just met, so that we would be acting that way to distant watchers.
Soon Donna and Irena were chatting happily. Donna had introduced me, and we were sharing our lunch with her.
‘So you have something to tell me?’ Irena Boyarova asked me with a smile. ‘Something about how your nuclear submarine was ordered to fire its missiles and didn’t?’
‘That’s correct,’ I said. And I told her in the vaguest terms what had happened.
She was listening closely. But when she started asking more detailed questions about the launch procedure, I demurred. ‘I don’t want to give away any secrets, here,’ I said. ‘I just want you to know what happened.’
‘And thank you for that,’ said Irena. ‘We have a friend, Pavel, the brother of one of my colleagues, who is the commander of a Russian nuclear submarine. I have spoken to him and he is very interested in what you have to say. He tells us that in our country the navy believes that it is impossible to launch nuclear missiles without proper authorization, and he says that the Soviet navy believes that is true of your navy as well. Pavel is not so sure. He says we need to be able to convince people that in certain circumstances all the safeguards and checks will not work. But to do that, we need details.’
‘I told Pat Greenwald I cannot give away any Classified information.’
‘You have done that already,’ said Irena. ‘And I am not interested in technical details about your submarine or its missiles. But details about weaknesses in the launch procedure are really important. What’s the risk? It’s not as if the Soviet navy can disrupt the launch orders from outside your submarines?’
I hesitated. Irena was absolutely right; although the launch procedures were top secret, knowledge of them would not put any US submarine at risk. And the whole point of what I was doing, and the thrust of the XO’s argument, was that the more the Russians understood about how the US launched nuclear missiles, the less likely they would be to retaliate following an accidental launch.
‘Will I ever meet this Pavel?’ I said.
Irena smiled. ‘Perhaps. I hope so. One day, maybe.’
I liked the idea of this Russian officer who had come to the same conclusion I had, although I doubted Pavel was his real name.
‘Are you going to give this information to the KGB? Or the Soviet high command?’
‘We will get it to one or two generals who are sympathetic to our cause. Then they can pass it on. In the Soviet Union, the only way to achieve any nuclear disarmament is by persuading those in power that it is in their best interest and the motherland’s. And I really believe we can do that. In a few years’ time I believe we will see the Soviet Union reducing its nuclear weapons – if the US government changes its tune and is prepared to do the same. Your information will help us get to that point, but only if we have the details.’
I hesitated; I wasn’t convinced that the details were relevant, but then I could see that giving them would furnish my story with credibility, and ultimately that was what was important. They would be of no help to a Soviet fast-attack sub creeping up on my shipmates in the Alexander Hamilton, of that I was certain.
So I told her the whole story.
She was impressed. When I was done, she smiled and touched my arm. ‘Thank you. For what you did. I thank you on behalf of the Soviet population. If you had not had the courage to kill your friend, my country would have been destroyed.’
This thanks from an enemy affected me unexpectedly. I meant to reply, but found I couldn’t. In the end, ‘thank you’ in turn was all I could manage.
‘I must go back to my conference,’ said Dr Boyarova. ‘There is a chance that one of my compatriots may be watching us. If they are, they won’t be able to identify who you are until you get back to your hotel. So take your time and, if you can, give them the slip.’ Irena smiled. ‘I think I irritate them: I make it a habit to speak to random strangers wherever I go – they can’t follow all of them!’
‘We’ll do that,’ I said.
‘Until we meet again, which I hope we do.’
‘Goodbye,’ I said, unsure we would ever see each other again.
‘Do you think she’s a spy?’ Donna asked, as we wended our way through the little streets around the church of Saint-Sulpice.
‘No,’ I said. ‘She seemed genuine to me.’
‘She was very nice.’ Donna threaded her hand in mine. ‘I hope I haven’t gotten you into trouble.’
‘Don’t worry about it. I’ve thought this through. Even if the KGB do hear about the near-launch, that’s a good thing, isn’t it? If anything, they will be more able to pass it on to the Soviet high command than Irena would be.’
‘That’s true, I guess. As long as you don’t get caught.’
‘I won’t get caught. I expect this will be the last time either of us sees Irena Boyarova.’
The spring sunshine warmed up the afternoon, and we ended up at a cafe on the banks of the Seine opposite the Île Saint-Louis. We ate a cheap meal with a cheap bottle of wine, and then worked our way down to the quai a couple of feet above the river.
‘Let’s sit down and watch for our tail.’
There was no tail. But we sat on the bench, looking up at the eastern end of Notre-Dame. Donna leaned in to me, nestling into my shoulder.
Neither of us spoke.
After the excitement of the afternoon, I found myself enveloped by a warm embrace of deep happiness. Love does that to you. Paris does that to you. While I had enjoyed the Navy and been good at my job, I had always had doubts about a life spent under the ocean. It was unhealthy. It made having a wife and children extremely difficult. And while I had genuinely believed that the threat of launching our missiles had kept the world safe for democracy, the knowledge that I might be involved in firing them had always made that a heavy burden.
Now we had come so close, the burden had become intolerable.
So I had no regrets about leaving the Navy. I had no idea where my business degree would lead me, but it sounded like a challenge, and one I was eager to meet. It would give me a chance to make something of myself in the world. The outside world: the real world.
And I wouldn’t be doing it alone. I would be doing it with someone I loved. The woman resting her fair hair on my shoulder. The future belonged to us both.
Staring at the black water shot through with the shaky yellow reflections of the Paris streetlights and the illumination of the cathedral above us, I was sure the future belonged to us both.
I needed to make that happen.
‘Donna?’
‘Yes?’
‘Will you marry me?’
FORTY-FOUR
Sunday 1 December 2019, Norfolk
Toby opened his eyes. His wife was staring at him. Her eyes and then her lips smiled when she saw he was awake, and she leaned forward to kiss his nose.
‘Good morning.’
‘Good morning,’ he mumbled in reply. He had woken up confused by a vivid dream involving running around Barnholt beach naked in the rain, and then trying to climb into a locked car that was parked on the sand. At least it hadn’t involved Lars’s death in front of him – or not directly.