Games Traitors Play

43

Marchant had been surprised to get a call from Monika. She had wanted them to meet alone for a drink, and they were sitting now in the roof terrace restaurant at Tate Modern, after a whirlwind tour of the galleries. He had thought her interest in art at the Polish guesthouse more than a year earlier had been purely cover, but like all good legends, it was based on fact. Her knowledge was considerable.

‘You know what Picasso once said?’ she asked, sipping a glass of rosé. The London skyline was spread out below them, St Paul’s immediately across the river. ‘“Art is a lie that makes us realise truth.” In our work, you and I lie every day, but somehow the truth gets lost along the way.’

‘Were you lying in Warsaw?’

‘Of course.’

‘And there was no truth in what happened?’

She held his gaze as she put an olive to her full lips. Then she turned away.

‘I lost my brother last month. He was with the Agencja Wywiadu, too. A more senior officer than me, always more professional. I tried to do a good job, make sure you had your freedom.’

‘And you did.’

‘I enjoyed being with you,’ she said, keen to change the subject. ‘You were very gentle.’

Marchant recalled the brief time they had spent together, making love, smoking joints, each playing out their legends: he the tie-dyed gap-year student, she the hippy hostel receptionist. He had thought about her often since then, her confident sexuality worn so close to her skin.

‘But not as gentle as Hugo.’

She laughed, throaty and heartfelt, then lit a cigarette.

‘You’re not jealous, are you, Mr Englishman?’

Marchant looked away.

‘You are.’ She laughed again and prodded him in the ribs. ‘Daniel.’

It wasn’t what he had expected. For a moment, he wondered if he really was jealous. He had been with Monika for twenty-four hours in Poland, most of it spent in bed. But he knew it was something else — suspicion rather than jealousy — that made him keep probing.

‘Of course I’m not jealous.’

Her smile faded. ‘Hugo’s been a good friend. Lifted my gloom.’

Marchant felt a pang of guilt. Prentice had helped him through difficult times, too, particularly when his father had died. He could be a generous colleague, a man who lived life for the moment and wanted others to share in his luck.

‘I’m sorry about your brother.’ Marchant sensed that Monika wanted to return to the subject, talk about him some more.

‘He was shot by the SVR. Four of our agents have been killed in the past year. Another one was murdered last week.’

‘All by the Russians?’

‘We think so. Someone’s betraying them. An entire network’s been taken down. The WA’s in turmoil, searching for a mole.’

‘Is that why you’re here in London?’

She paused. ‘No. Hugo wanted to show me off to his friends.’

‘I lost a brother once. He was called Sebastian. Sebbie. We were twins. He died when I was eight.’

‘I’m sorry.’ She rested a hand on Marchant’s forearm. ‘I had no idea.’

‘He died in a car crash. His turn to sit in the front seat. We were living in Delhi at the time.’

‘You must miss him. They say the bond of a twin is unbreakable.’

‘Every day. I wish I could say it gets easier with time, but it doesn’t. I’m sorry.’

They sat in silence for a while, her hand resting on his. For once there were no legends, no cover stories. Their grief was real, their own.

‘I must go,’ Monika said eventually, ‘otherwise another Englishman will be getting jealous.’

She stood up from the table, gave Marchant a light kiss on the lips and was gone.