She squeezed his pale hand.
‘We did what we had to, all of us, dear Rupert. And as for them . . .’ She gestured to a group of young people dressed androgynously, males and females wearing identically flared pastel jeans, their hair equally shoulder length but without the braids a warrior needed to keep the hair out of his eyes – where had that thought come from? – and ridiculous shoes unsuitable for running or agile footwork. ‘They’ll never know what we went through, but it doesn’t matter.’
Give the young folk their due – they did not look like the kind of people who would care about illegitimacy one way or the other. Perhaps her great-niece or great-nephew would not face the same kind of harshness that others used to.
Or her grandson.
‘Anna’s not married to Carl either.’ She had not meant to tell Rupert. ‘I know I call her his wife, but they haven’t ever tied the knot, not legally. She’s still Anna Gould.’
Rupert sighed. ‘You and I . . . The people in our lives don’t have an easy time of it, do they?’
‘Cursed by gypsies, is that what you mean?’
He finally smiled, his face lean, porcelain skin showing lines. ‘On the rare times a game gets out of control,’ he said, ‘I prefer castling as a manoeuvre. A defensive huddle staving off defeat, while I find a way to survive.’
She had always thought of him as playing the chess game of life, and him a grandmaster, but she had never heard him use the metaphor so precisely.
Then he added, ‘Why don’t you come round for supper?’
‘Um . . . You mean to your house?’
‘That’s what I was thinking of.’
She had never been there.
‘And when were you thinking of?’
‘Tonight. If you’re visiting Anna and the baby in hospital, then a late supper, perhaps.’
Was this what he had meant by castling? Old friends spending time in each other’s company as a defence against loneliness?
‘I’d love to, dear Rupert.’
‘Well, good.’
Over the next few weeks, she became a regular visitor to Rupert’s Chelsea home, where listening to Brahms or Bach in his drawing-room (not a term she had ever used outside ironic conversation) became a pleasant habit. At Oxford he had read Greats, which the rest of the world called Classics, and his collection of sketches and old books was fascinating.
But there was another postscript to their meeting in the British Museum that she did not share with him at first, because he did not need the worry. He had officially retired from the Service, and his intention was to write monographs on ancient Troy and the relationship between the early Roman Empire and Greece – echoes of Macmillan’s speech in ’56 regarding Britain and the States – with the benefit of insight gained from a career spent among the secret strategists and covert machinations of international politics.
In her overcoat pocket, when she had recovered it from the museum cloakroom, there had been a photograph, the second time such a message had been left for her. The other time, the picture had shown Ilse and Dmitri, with the girl who turned out to be Ursula; it suggested that this second photo came from Dmitri also, but the darkness did not leave traces in handled material, so there was no way to be sure.
It was consistent with the location, a photograph of a withered, blackened iron blade that might have come from the museum’s Roman room, except that Gavriela could read the pattern that surely no one else could see among the creases and folds.
The sword, more than a millennium old, seemed to be in a display case, no doubt a museum, but the photographer had been careful to exclude any clues as to which museum, or even which country, it might be in. And yet it was not the physical object but the runic word upon it that resonated with Gavriela—
So brave, my Wolf.
—and that was upsetting because it was surely what the anonymous donor intended, and she could not think of anyone but Dmitri Shtemenko who would play with her mind that way. After a day’s thought, she decided to share it with Rupert, because she did not like the coincidence of Dmitri’s being in the country – him or someone working for him – at the same time that Ursula was pregnant.
‘You said he considered Ursula a possession.’ Rupert was sitting with legs crossed in his high-backed armchair. ‘Not a stepdaughter he loved, but something he owned. That we had stolen from him.’
‘I was biased against the idea of him defecting, because I didn’t trust him not to play a double game.’ Gavriela was in the matching chair, at an angle to the fireplace, sitting upright because she could not relax. ‘It may have shaded my perceptions. But I think I was correct, in terms of how he felt about Ursula.’
The knowledge that Rupert was officially retired hung between them.
‘I’ll make a phone call,’ he said after a minute.
‘Thank you.’
There was nothing to do but increase whatever security and surveillance was around Ursula. The details were up to others, far outside Gavriela’s purview and even – these days – Rupert’s.
‘You remember when you sent me to the States?’ she said then.
His lean form tightened. He had sent her in wartime across the dangerous Atlantic – pregnant, though no one knew that, not even Gavriela – to visit Los Alamos for legitimate reasons but also to get her away from Brian, her one night stand, his long term secret lover.
‘The FBI man,’ she said, softening her voice, ‘called Payne, who showed me around, also taught me some New York slang. Noo Yoik,’ she added, ‘including “doing a Brody”, meaning to take a dive off a bridge, suicidally.’
Rupert shook his head.
‘Damnable,’ was all he said.
The ‘Americanisation’ – itself a hated term – of the English language was something he detested, and often said so.
‘I think I mentioned it to Anna once,’ said Gavriela. ‘I’m wondering if that’s where she got the name from.’
‘Dear Gavi’ – he could use her real name here – ‘I really am failing to catch your drift.’
‘My grandson is to be called Brody Gould. Not even his father’s surname, you’ll note.’
‘Oh, dear.’
‘I feel like killing her. Know any decent assassins, Rupert?’
‘None that you can afford.’
She let out a breath and sank back in the comfortable arm-chair. ‘Just as well.’
‘Speaking of what you can afford . . . The rent on your flat is probably quite steep.’
‘No more than anyone’s. What about this place? It must cost a fortune, so it’s lucky you have one.’
Rupert’s lean face twisted.
‘Not the word I’d use, but I’m comfortably off. As for the house, I own it outright, as did my parents for that matter.’
Without jealousy, Gavriela said, ‘Lucky you.’
‘Yes, I know. And with all those spare bedrooms that Mrs Hooper keeps spotless and no one ever sleeps in. So I was wondering . . .’
This was unusual hesitation for the retired spymaster.
‘ . . .whether you’d care to move in, dear Gavi. With all your science books and whatnot, of course. Slide-rules, kind of thing. Broaden my mind.’
She looked at the shelves of books in here – a small portion of the collection scattered throughout the house – then back at Rupert.
‘I’ll move in tomorrow,’ she said.
They stared at each other for a moment, then they both nodded.
‘So,’ said Rupert, picking up a folded Times from the floor. ‘Have you seen today’s crossword?’
‘Not yet.’
He retrieved his fountain-pen and unscrewed the cap. No pencil for him: ink meant getting it right first time.
‘Shall we tackle it together?’
‘Yes,’ said Gavriela. ‘I think we should.’
THIRTY-EIGHT
MU-SPACE & GALACTIC CORE ENVIRONS, 2606 AD
Bad luck hit the mission early. A squadron of Zajinets was heading along the same trajectory, and perhaps for the same purpose; but that was the problem with a war on two fronts – three if you counted the realspace Anomaly of Fulgor and Siganth – against different hostile forces. My enemy’s enemy is trying to kill me, thought Roger, as comms burst into life with a command from Nakamura: