“Still, it was one of the things I learned about her. She might also appreciate being given a sort of code name... this ‘Witch’ that you call her. She was fascinated by word games and crosswords.” He tilted his head to one side, remembering. “She would lie in bed puzzling over them... Ah, then there was the third thing.”
“Yes?”
“Sex, Herr Barclay. She didn’t like sex. No sex for Die Hexe.” A smile.
“That must have disappointed you,” said Dominique coolly.
“Oh yes,” said Bandorff reflectively. “A grave disappointment. But it went further. I felt she didn’t like men.”
“She was a lesbian?” Dominique sounded disbelieving. Bandorff laughed.
“No, no, all I mean is that she hated men. Now tell me, you’re a woman, why might that be?”
“I can think of a few reasons,” said Dominique.
“Me, too,” said Bandorff. “I wonder if they’re the same? Perhaps psychoanalysis could explain it.”
“And you’ve no idea where she came from?” asked Barclay.
“Oh, well, she was passed along the line. One activist passed her to another... and so on. Each time a little more radical, a little more committed. But all those people are gone now. You won’t trace her history that way. All I knew was that she wanted to change the world. That was good enough for me back then, and good enough for her. When she left, she left without warning. She’d brought no baggage, and she took none, except for her tarot pack and her teddy bear.” He was reminiscing. It sickened Barclay. “She’s become a myth, hasn’t she? Who am I to tamper with myths?”
He returned to his television. A new quiz show was about to replace the old one. “Ah, now this one is my favorite. It contains a nice element of chance.”
Barclay stood up, followed by Dominique. Was this it? Was this what they’d come so far for? Barclay tried to think of other things to say. He turned to Dominique, who nodded merely. It was time to leave. But Barclay paused, reaching into his pocket again for the photograph. He placed it silently on the desk.
“Thank you, Herr Witchfinder,” said Bandorff.
Barclay and Dominique walked back the way they’d come. “You were brilliant, Michael,” she told him. “Have you forgiven me yet?”
“For what?”
“For lying to you... and then for telling you the truth?”
He smiled. “It was a shock, that’s all.”
“Yes, and look what it did to you.”
Which was true. Something had galvanized him. He’d actually interviewed Wolf Bandorff and had come away with information on Witch — useless information in itself, but something to be added to the file.
“So what now?” he asked.
“Back to Paris, I suppose. Then back to London for you.”
He nodded. There was nothing keeping him on the Continent anymore. Time to head back and confess that he’d come away from France with not a great deal. They were passing Herr Grunner’s office.
“Should we look in and say good-bye?” asked Barclay.
“He’s probably already gone home,” said Dominique. But the office door opened and Herr Grunner stood there, gesturing to them.
“Would you be so kind...?” He held the door open and motioned for them to enter. Past him, a man was standing in front of Herr Grunner’s desk, his raincoat still on, arms folded. Dominique gasped.
“Who is it?” asked Barclay.
“Not my boss,” she said. “But his boss!”
They were at the door now, crossing the threshold, the door closing with a quiet click after them. A figure stood staring from Herr Grunner’s rain-dappled window. It turned around and spoke in a voice which chilled Barclay all the way down to his feet.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Barclay,” said Joyce Parry.
The trip back to London was the least comfortable of Barclay’s life. Despite the chauffeured car, the airplane waiting on the tarmac, coffee and biscuits on board.
“My car’s still in Calais,” he said. “And I’ve some clothes in Paris.”
“They’ll be picked up,” Parry said coolly. She had her glasses on and was browsing through the big fat Witch file, Dominic Elder’s file. She didn’t seem to be in much of a mood for talking, which worried Barclay all the more. Not much had been said in Herr Grunner’s office. Dominique had been given a few curt words of French and then had followed her superior’s superior out of the room, without so much as a backward glance at Barclay. Barclay had steeled himself for similar treatment from Parry.
It hadn’t come. She’d thanked Herr Grunner — in fluent German — and they’d left. He saw Dominique being driven away in a large black Citroën, while an official-looking person got into her 2CV, started it, and rolled out of the prison car park.
“Come on,” said Parry. She led him to a white Rover 2000 where a driver was waiting. He had an embassy look about him which Barclay translated into MI6. “Straight to the airport,” Parry informed the driver.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. Barclay heard humor in his tone, the joke being that Barclay was in for it and he, the driver, was not.
“How did you know?” Barclay asked Joyce Parry. He was thinking of Dominic Elder. He had tried phoning the hotel again first thing, but they said they couldn’t put through his call. He hadn’t understood at the time. He thought maybe he did now. Parry turned her head towards him.
“Don’t be stupid. How could we not know? I’ve heard of cavalier, but this little stunt...” She exhaled noisily. “‘How did you know?’” she echoed mockingly. She shook her head slowly. By the time they’d reached the airport, she’d decided to explain it to him anyway. “Herr Grunner contacted the BfV, who contacted the DGSE and SIS. What do you think SIS did?”
“Contacted you?” hazarded Barclay.
“You can imagine my surprise, being told that one of my agents, who had told me he was in Paris, was actually in Germany. Perhaps you can also imagine my humiliation at having to be told your true whereabouts by bloody SIS!”
Yes, thought Barclay, there was little love lost between MI5 and SIS — the Secret Intelligence Service, also known as MI6. The French DGSE was the equivalent of the SIS, an external intelligence service. They’d no doubt contacted the DST. Dominique was no doubt receiving a similar lashing. Dominique...
“You’re as bad as Dominic bloody Elder,” said Parry. “This is just the sort of stupid trick he’d have played.” She paused. “I know he’s been in touch with you throughout. Tell me, did he tell you to come here?”
Barclay stayed silent. No point defending himself. It was best just to let her get on with it; let all the anger roll out of her. But in fact she said nothing more until the airport, where they boarded their plane. As she was fastening her seatbelt, she looked up at him.
“Why did you lie?”
He’d been preparing for this very question. “Would you have let me go?”
“Certainly not.”
He shrugged. “That’s your answer, then. You saw Dom — Ms. Herault. She was going. If I’d called you for permission and you’d turned me down flat, how would that have made me look?”
“It would have made you look like a junior agent who’s still got to be kept on a tight leash. Which is the truth. But I suppose that wouldn’t have done, would it? It would hardly have... impressed Ms. Herault.”
“It would have made me look like a fool.”
“So you lied to me instead.”
“I’m sorry, I know I shouldn’t have.”
“No, you shouldn’t. Believe me, Mr. Barclay, you shouldn’t. As for conspiring with Dominic Elder behind my back, it’s intolerable!”
“I did what I did because I thought it was in our best interests.” He paused. “Ma’am.”