As it turned out, on the Monday morning, Lysander realized that Whitehall Court was one of those London buildings he’d seen from a distance countless times but had never bothered to identify properly. It looked like a vast nineteenth-century château – thousands of rooms with turrets and mansard roofs, containing a gentleman’s club, a hotel and many floors of serviced apartments and offices. It was set back from the river behind its own gardens between Waterloo Bridge and the railway bridge that serviced Charing Cross station.
A uniformed porter checked his name on a clipboard and told him to go up to the top floor, turn left at the top of the stairs, through the door, down a passageway and someone would be waiting. Lysander saw him pick up the telephone on his desk as he made for the foot of the stairway.
That someone turned out to be Munro – in civilian clothes – who showed him into a simple and severely furnished office with a view of the Thames through the windows. Massinger was there waiting, uniformed, and greeted Lysander stiffly, as if he were still guilty for his near-fatal error with his imperfect French. There was a large, leather-topped, walnut desk set back against a wall facing the windows with the chair behind it empty. Someone of greater eminence had yet to arrive.
The three men sat on the available chairs. Munro offered refreshments – tea – and was politely declined. Massinger asked Lysander how he was feeling and Lysander said he felt pretty much back to normal, thank you. A train clattered over the railway bridge from Charing Cross and, as its whistle sounded, as if on cue, the door opened and a grey-haired elderly man in a naval captain’s uniform limped in. The clumping sound as he set his right leg down made Lysander think the limb was artificial. He had a mild, smiley manner – everything about him, apart from the wooden leg, seemed unexceptional. He was not introduced.
‘This is Lieutenant Rief, sir,’ Munro said. ‘Who did the splendid job in Geneva.’
‘Exceptional,’ Massinger chipped in, proprietorially. Switzerland was his territory, Lysander remembered.
‘Congratulations,’ the captain said. ‘So you’re the man who found our rotten apple.’
‘We haven’t quite found him yet, sir,’ Lysander said. ‘But we think we may know what barrel he’s in.’
The captain chuckled, enjoying the metaphor’s resonances.
‘So, what do we do next?’ he said, looking at Massinger and Munro.
‘Not really my area,’ Massinger said, defensively, and once again Lysander wondered about the hierarchy in the room. The captain was the big chief, clearly, but who was the senior between Massinger and Munro? What autonomy did either of them have, if any?
‘I think we have to get Rief into the War Office somehow,’ Munro said. ‘His best asset is that he’s completely unknown – unlike us. Fresh face – a stranger.’
The captain was drumming his fingers on his desk top. ‘How?’ he said. ‘He’s just a lieutenant. Nothing but bigwigs in the War Office.’
‘We set up a commission of enquiry,’ Munro said. ‘Something very boring. Send in Rief with authorization to ask questions and examine documents.’
‘Sir Horace Ede chaired a commission last year on transportation,’ the captain said. ‘There could be some supplementary matters arising –’
‘Exactly. That Lieutenant Rief had to cover and account for.’
‘And there’s a joint nations’ conference coming up which would explain why we have to have everything ship-shape.’
‘Couldn’t be better.’
Massinger was looking increasingly uncomfortable at being sidelined in this way with nothing to contribute. He cleared his throat loudly and everybody stopped talking and looked at him. He held up both hands in apology. Then took out his handkerchief and blew his nose.
‘How long would you need, sir?’ Munro asked.
‘Give me a couple of days,’ the captain said. ‘The higher the authorization the easier it’ll be for Rief, here.’ He turned to Lysander. ‘Hold yourself in readiness, Rief. If we want you right at the heart of things then we need to give you some power.’
Massinger finally spoke. ‘You don’t think we’re treading on M.O. 5’s toes, do you, sir?’
‘This wretched mess all originated out of Geneva,’ the captain said with a trace of impatience in his voice. ‘It was your show – so it’s our show. I’ll square things with Kell. He doesn’t have any men to spare, anyway.’
Lysander didn’t know what they were talking about. He picked at a loose shred of skin on his forefinger.
‘Right, let me get on to it,’ the captain said. ‘We’d better give our rotten apple a codename so we can talk about him.’
‘Any preferences?’ Munro asked.
Lysander thought quickly. ‘How about Andromeda?’ he said, his eyes fixed on Munro. Munro’s face didn’t move.
‘Andromeda it is – so let’s find him, fast,’ the captain said, and rose to his feet. The meeting was over. He crossed the room to Lysander and shook his hand. ‘I saw your father play Macbeth,’ he said. ‘Scared me to bits. Good luck, Rief. Or should I say welcome aboard?’
3. The Annexe on the Embankment
Munro told him to go away and enjoy himself for a few days until he was called for. Once everything had been set up he would be briefed and given precise instructions. So he returned to the White Palace Hotel in Pimlico and tried to keep himself distracted and amused even though he was aware of a steadily increasing undercurrent of uneasiness flowing beneath the surface of his life. Who was this all-powerful captain-figure? What role and sway did he enjoy? To what extent, if at all, could he rely on Munro and Massinger? Could he trust either of them? And why had be been selected, once again, to do his duty as a soldier? Perhaps he’d gain some answers in the coming days, he reflected, but the complete absence of answers – even provisional ones – was troubling.
He went to his tailor, Jobling, and had a small buttonhole fitted for his wound-stripe – an inch-long vertical brass bar worn on the left forearm – sown into the sleeves of his uniform jackets. Jobling was obviously moved when he told him the nature of his injuries. Three of his cutters had joined up and two had already died. ‘Don’t go back there, Mr Rief,’ he said. ‘You’ve done your bloody bit, all right.’ He also adjusted the fit of his jacket – Lysander had lost weight during his convalescence.
He went to see Blanche in The Hour of Danger at the Comedy. Backstage in her dressing room she didn’t allow him to kiss her on the lips. He asked her to supper but she said she couldn’t go as she was ‘seeing someone’. Lysander asked his name but she wouldn’t tell him and they parted coolly, not to say acrimoniously. He sent her flowers the next day to apologize.
He quickly organized a small dinner party in a private room at the Hyde Park Hotel for four of his actor friends with the precise intention of finding out the name of Blanche’s new beau. Everybody knew and, to his alarm, it turned out to be someone he was slightly acquainted with as well – a rather successful playwright that he’d read for called James Ashburnham, a man in his late forties, a widower. A handsome older man with a reputation in the theatre as something of a philanderer, Lysander thought, feeling betrayed, though a moment’s reflection made him realize he had no right to the emotion – he was the one who had broken off their engagement, not Blanche. As Blanche had reminded him, they had decided to remain friends, that was all, consequently her private life was her concern alone.
Of course, being rejected for someone else made him feel hurt and his old feelings for Blanche re-established themselves effortlessly. She was an extremely beautiful, sweet young woman and whatever they had shared together couldn’t be simply tossed aside that easily. What was she doing having an affair with a middle-aged playwright old enough – well, almost – to be her father? He was surprised at how agitated he felt.