Summerland

21 A REUNION AT THE ALBA CLUB, 5TH DECEMBER 1938

As Rachel White stood up in the Soviet safe house and let the hissing ectophone fall to the floor, a cold sense of purpose descended upon her.

While Roger paced and raged, smoking and coughing like a steam engine, she called Special Branch using the house’s telephone. She leafed through the book on the table. Several pages had been torn out and burned. She noted down the Hinton address scrawled inside the cover with a pencil—no doubt it was already inactive, but it would have to be checked.

She consoled Joan and Helen. They were in tears, unable to process what had happened. Max had made a habit of describing his agents in less emotional terms than the ones he applied to his pets, but apparently the lack of affection had not been genuine.

Rachel explained that there was such a thing as spirit violence, although it was rare in a world where you could escape any hostility with a thought, but Max had given everything in pursuit of Bloom.

When Roger had calmed down, they spoke to Booth and Hickson via ectophone together. Hickson had witnessed the struggle between Max and Bloom but arrived too late to follow the mole. Rachel made notes in preparation for her statement. Roger contacted Symonds to ask for help with the clean-up.

The Special Branch officers arrived, two pale, thickset men with bad complexions Rachel remembered from the Langham. Both looked intimidated by the heavy Service presence. Rachel gave them a precise statement, leaving very little out. An unofficial SIS operation in pursuit of a Soviet operative; yes, she had been in charge; yes, an unofficial spirit consultant had Faded as a result, for which she took full responsibility. As she spoke, she felt as if she was outside of her body, and her body was an Edison doll she inhabited.

She kept moving. She called Susi at Max’s Sloane Square flat to give her the bad news and listened to the German girl’s sobs on the phone. Roger refused to speak to Rachel after Special Branch came, clearly already trying to distance himself from the whole affair. She called Harker and weathered his explosion on the phone.

Then it was getting dark, and there was nothing to do except to go home.

Gertrude was used to her late homecomings by now and had prepared supper. She ate mechanically, asked the maid to run a bath but then decided against it, instead sitting in her study in a bathrobe writing a resignation letter. A rational voice in her head tried to say that it was not as bad as she thought, they had still exposed the mole, the Service knew what material was compromised.

She signed the letter and put the fountain pen down, then sat still for the first time in hours. Her hands started shaking. She folded them in her lap, and at last the tears came.

Her crying woke up the Gouldian finches, which fluttered around in their cage. The female made a faint tee-tee sound.

Rachel wiped her eyes and looked at the birds. She still had no clue what went on inside their tiny heads and wondered how well Max had truly understood his animal companions.

How well could you ever really know even other human beings? After all the confessions and meetings, Bloom had remained a closed book to her, a cipher as unintelligible as the CAMLANN files. She doubted he had known her, either. They had just sat together for a few hours, politely lying to each other, even if the lies were mostly true.

She thought of Joe’s story about the war: it was a truth he had shared with no agenda behind it, simply because he wanted her to understand. And now she might not have the chance to do the same for him. At least Spain might be a little safer, with Bloom gone from the Summer Court.

It was only then that Max’s last words caught up with her.

Maybe it wasn’t safer. Bloom had been warned. That meant there was a second mole in the Service. The realisation was sharp as a surgeon’s knife, physically painful, and her entire body tensed.

She had to get hold of Noel Symonds.

* * *

‘Madam, I am terribly sorry but Mr Symonds is not available. He is at his club at present.’

Rachel squeezed the ectophone receiver harder. ‘And which club would that be?’

‘The Alba, madam. May I take a message?’

‘No, that is fine. I will call back later.’

‘As you wish, madam. Good evening to you.’

She put the receiver down and sighed. Symonds would probably stay at the club all night. No doubt he was doing damage control with the other SIS bigwigs, having failed to catch Bloom. Tomorrow would be too late. Harker would be satisfied with nothing less than her resignation by then.

The problem was that the Alba was the most exclusive gentlemen’s club in the capital. It also happened to be Joe’s club and Rachel was well aware of their policies. They never disturbed their members for any reason, always giving polite excuses on their behalf. And one of their foundational principles was no admission for women, not even as a member’s guest. Joe had often used the Alba as a refuge when things were difficult between them.

Sometimes being a woman truly was like being a foreigner in a strange country, visiting—

The idea that came to her was so sudden and absurd that she laughed aloud.

She jumped up and rushed to the hallway where Joe’s old spirit armour stood like an attendant knight. It was a first-generation thing, a heavy contraption of brass, coils and Crookes tubes, rubber and fabric criss-crossed by copper wires, and a small backpack unit of batteries. Joe had kept it in perfect condition.

Rachel touched the plate over the heart. Joe was not the only one who could wear armour in battle, she thought.

* * *

The Alba Club was located in a grand house in Westminster, with a beautiful Palladian facade painted azure with a white trim. The closed curtains and a door lacking a nameplate projected a forbidding reserve.

Rachel was sweating inside the spirit armour as she entered. It was enormously uncomfortable. The joints were stiff and she could barely see through the eyeholes. The batteries were hot and added to her misery.

At least the discomfort distracted her from the feeling that this was the stupidest thing she had ever done.

The entrance hall had a copper-plate memorial to the members of the club who had fought in the Great War. The receptionist gave Rachel an unblinking stare.

‘May I help you, sir?’

The voice was the only truly difficult part. She had called her friend Sykes at the Service’s technical section. He had explained how to plug the armour’s voice box—meant for spirits who could not use the medium’s vocal cords—into a microphone.

‘Yes, I am here to visit a member—Mr Symonds. I am supposed to meet him at the bar.’ It was disturbing to hear the crackling alien words coming out of her chest, an octave lower than her own.

‘Very good, sir. Have you been here before?’

‘A very brief visit with the Earl of Orford, late last century,’ Rachel said, scrawling an unreadable signature in the visitors’ book. ‘I suspect that was before your time.’

‘Indeed, sir. However, if you go past the billiards room, you will find that the bar is still open, just as it has been for the last two hundred years.’

The bar was a narrow, high room with chairs and couches, and a large naval painting on one wall. Joe was nowhere in sight, thankfully. She had planned to ask him to take a message to Symonds but was suddenly not sure what to say to her husband.

Then she heard a familiar voice.

‘Ho there, my dear chap!’

Sir Stewart Menzies, the head of the Winter Court, was waving at Rachel. He had an outdoorsman’s complexion and a thick triangular moustache. He was sharing a small alcove with a New Dead gentleman in a spirit crown and a domino mask.

‘Here, have a drink with us!’ Sir Stewart said. He slapped his knee and motioned towards an empty seat next to him. ‘You, sir, are the perfect man to settle our bet!’

Her superior’s superior officer was gloriously drunk.

Unsure what else to do, Rachel lumbered to the alcove and sat down heavily.

‘Oh my, that thing must be dashed uncomfortable! Are you a member?’

‘No, just visiting. Very kind of you to invite me over. I was at the Carlton earlier this week and never had so much as a hello from any of the members.’

‘Oh, they let anyone in at the Carlton,’ Sir Stewart said, winking at his companion. ‘Right, Symonds?’

Rachel was grateful that the armour’s helmet hid her widening eyes. She had to find a way to speak to Symonds alone.

‘Tell me more about your bet, gentlemen,’ she said.

There were definite political implications to this jovial-looking gathering. Maybe Symonds was worried about the fallout from the Bloom affair and was seeking support against C from the rival Court chief. Sir Stewart must surely relish the opportunity to lay the whole thing at C’s feet: Bloom’s existence would make the Winter Court blameless in the recent Dzhugashvili fiasco in Spain.

Sir Stewart leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘We are all men of the world here, eh? I claim that our living bodies are superior to spirits when it comes to the Venusian arts. Symonds here maintains that the aetheric pleasures far exceed those of crude flesh. We decided to make a bet on the matter and recorded it in the club book. You see our dilemma—we needed a third party to resolve it. And then you walked through the door, sir, fresh from the golden fields of Summerland!’

The barman appeared and put a martini glass with a straw in Rachel’s gloved hand. She managed to take a sip through the armour’s mouthpiece without spilling any.

‘Well, gentlemen,’ she said, ‘that is a topic regarding which I have very little experience.’

Sir Stewart raised his eyebrows. ‘Really?’

‘I passed over very young, and still innocent.’

‘My God, man!’ Sir Stewart exclaimed, slapping his knee. ‘That is a tragedy and a shame! I should take you straight to the Golden Calf right now. Then you would be in a position to settle our bet. A very comfortable position. What do you say, eh?’

These were the men she had served her entire life? These were the best the Service had to offer?

‘Your generosity knows no bounds,’ she said quickly, ‘but sadly, I am engaged.’

‘Even more reason for you to try the ways of the world before the marital bed takes it all away!’

‘Do not tease the poor boy. He can always have mistresses anyway. Here’s to youth and innocence, I say!’ Symonds said, lifting his glass.

‘Hear, hear!’

Rachel squirmed inside the armour. This was a waste of time. She felt a terrible urge to yank off her helmet, but she had to keep Sir Stewart out of this.

‘Since you gentlemen are such renowned experts in both marital and extramarital affairs—’

‘And martial!’ interrupted Symonds.

Rachel had to wait for Sir Stewart’s mirth to subside before continuing.

‘I could, in fact, use some advice on the operational side of marriage.’

‘Ask away, dear boy!’ Sir Stewart said.

‘It is a very delicate matter,’ Rachel said. ‘Perhaps Mr Symonds here could advise me privately, our circumstances being similar.’

Sir Stewart slapped his knee. ‘Duty calls, Symonds!’

‘And so does Nature,’ Symonds said. ‘Please follow me to the gentlemen’s, sir, and we will have your problem sorted out in a jiffy.’

* * *

The gents was at the bottom of a long, spiral staircase, and Rachel was puffing like a steam engine when they reached it. She looked away as the Summer Court’s Head of Counter-intelligence emptied his medium’s bladder in one of the seashell-shaped porcelain urinals, expelling fluid at a rate that reminded her of a fountain in Regent’s Park.

‘So, what is it, then?’ Symonds asked, washing his hands. ‘The affair usually goes just fine if you get her good and ready first—What in hell?’

He saw Rachel’s face in the mirror and jumped, splattering water over his crotch. She had taken off her mask. She looked like a fright: her hair was plastered all over her forehead and there were red blotches on her cheeks where the edges of the mask had pressed against her skin. But she was still recognisably female.

‘What the shit is going on here?’ Symonds roared. ‘You are a bloody woman!’

He held on to the sink’s edge to steady himself and adjusted his spirit crown’s controls. Apparently the shock had been enough to interfere with his connection to his medium.

‘Yes, sir,’ Rachel said. ‘Rachel White. I used to work for Jasper Harker, in Counter-subversion.’

‘My God. You are the one who was right about Bloom. What on Earth are you doing here?’

‘I really need to talk to you, sir. This was the only way to get to you in time.’

Symonds took a deep breath and massaged his temples.

‘I suppose it is the kind of thing Bloom and I would have done, back in the day,’ he muttered. ‘I still can’t believe it. I knew him for almost a decade, and to think that all that time—’ He shook his head. ‘Yes, I suspected something. I pressed him, so he would tell me what was wrong, like he used to. But I never actually believed it.

‘You let him get away, Mrs White. I’m afraid that means my head as well as yours. I came here to try to get Sir Stewart to admit that the Winter Court knew about Bloom and did nothing, but he is too drunk for it to go anywhere. Or too preoccupied protecting himself from the Dzhugashvili fallout. I suspect I’ll be working in my father’s soup business again in the next day or two.’

‘Not if we get the second mole,’ Rachel said.

‘What do you mean?’ Symonds looked shaken, and had to adjust his spirit crown again. Rachel waited for him to recover his composure before continuing.

‘Bloom was warned. I suspect someone. There is a way to prove it, but I need your help.’

‘I can’t possibly be directly involved with another rogue operation, Mrs White. I am doing all I can to distance myself from the last one.’

‘You won’t have to. All you need to do is send a memo to a list of people I will provide you with. It will mention a sighting of Iosif Dzhugashvili in Spain, in a different location for each individual.’

‘You are proposing a canary trap.’

‘Exactly.’ If the Communists in Spain took action in any of those locations, the mole would be exposed. Rachel was fairly certain who it would be.

Symonds paused. ‘Bloom tried to recruit you—is that right? You set yourself up as bait.’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you … did you get a sense of why? Why he turned?’

‘I don’t know for sure,’ Rachel said, ‘but I suspect it was something that happened at Cambridge. He talked about a boy he knew who fell while night-climbing.’

Symonds massaged his forehead. ‘I should have seen it,’ he said. ‘He was never the same after that. What an idiot I was.’

‘It is hard to really know someone,’ Rachel said. ‘I … learned that recently. For what it’s worth, I don’t think everything about Bloom was a lie.’

Symonds tapped his foot. ‘Sending out the memos is literally all I can do for you. No operational support. You will have to take care of the rest.’

‘That’s all I ask.’

‘All right.’ Symonds took out a notebook and a fountain pen and scribbled down the list of names Rachel gave him. ‘When do you want these memos of yours sent out?’ he asked.

‘Tonight, if possible.’ Rache gave him her ectophone’s Hinton code. ‘Send me an ectomail when it is done.’

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said.

‘Thank you.’ Rachel breathed out a sigh of relief. ‘One more thing, sir.’

‘What is it?’

‘Could you go and find Captain White and tell him there is someone to see him in the men’s room?’

* * *

When Joe entered, he just stared at Rachel for a moment. She was leaning against the wall. The weight of the armour and the fatigue of the long day pulled her down. She tried to stand up straight but her legs buckled. The metal armour scraped against the marble tiles.

Joe leaped forward and caught her.

‘Is that my old armour?’ he said, eyes wide. ‘By Jove.’

‘That was the only way to get in here. Are you angry?’

‘Oh, hell, Rachel,’ he breathed. ‘Do you have any idea how ridiculous you look?’

‘I am betting it is not as ridiculous as I feel.’

‘I told you, Rachel. It is better if you just stay away from me.’

She sighed. ‘I didn’t come here only to see you. I think there is another mole and Mr Symonds can help me catch him. Although I am glad you are here.’

‘What do you mean? What is going on?’

‘Joe, I … I made so many mistakes. I should have told you everything from the start. I did transfer to the Finance Section, but I was really chasing a mole, off the books. It was somebody in the Iberian Section—that was one reason why I got so angry when you said you had to go to Spain. I knew it wouldn’t be safe. It all went bad, and … I think I am leaving the Service. Or they might make me go first.’

‘That’s awful, Rachel.’

She laughed. ‘You know, I don’t think it is.’

Joe squeezed her gloved hand.

‘Now, could you take me home, please?’ Rachel asked. ‘We still have things to talk about. I will tell you everything. And I desperately need to pee.’

* * *

Back in St John’s Wood, Rachel called Joan and Helen and told them about the plan. When they heard it was a chance to get back at the Soviets, they swore they would do everything they could to help. She asked Gertrude to make coffee—it was going to be a long night.

After that, there was nothing to do but to wait for Symonds to call. Joe and Rachel sat by the gas fire. She wore a dressing gown, luxuriating in the feel of silk on her bare skin after what felt like hours of imprisonment in the armour.

‘I wasn’t fair to you in the restaurant,’ she said, looking at the flames. ‘I asked you to tell me about what happened, and you did. I’m sorry I got angry.’

‘I understand. You didn’t know what I was.’

‘I know what you are, Joe. You don’t have to be anything else.’

‘I watched your expression change, when you understood, when—’

‘Look at me,’ Rachel said. ‘I slept with Roger Hollis.’

Joe’s face screwed up in a rugby-scrum grimace. ‘Rachel,’ he whispered.

‘I had to do something that would make me feel guilty, to hide my thoughts from Bloom.’ She realised how crazy it sounded. ‘And so I did it, without thinking, without hesitation. A few weeks ago, I kissed a Soviet defector to keep his face from the press. I nearly got shot, too. I stole documents from the Registry to win Bloom’s trust. The Soviets have them now. You did not have a choice in the war, Joe, but I did, with all those things. Does that not make me the bigger monster?

‘I thought about what you said the other night, how you can’t live without the war. Well, the Service has been like that for me, even before the baby. It wasn’t about fighting the Russians or finding out about Grabber plots. I wanted to show that I was just as good as everybody else.

‘But you know what? In the end, the reason I am still trying is not because I failed, not because of the Service, but to keep you safe. After that, I am done.’

‘Rachel—’

‘Don’t say anything. I just want you to stay here for one night, before you leave. And come back alive.’

He kneeled in front of her, took her hand in his and kissed it. She bent over and pressed her forehead against Joe’s. She wished she could transfer her thoughts through his skull, as spirits did in the aether.

But maybe she already had.

Finally, Joe spoke. ‘Did you know that not even the Queen has been in the Alba?’

‘Would you have preferred it if I had been the Queen?’

Joe smiled. ‘No. No, I wouldn’t.’

‘I say, Captain White.’ His eyes were green and flecked with gold. ‘That is very unpatriotic of you.’

She took his hand, placed it on her breast and kissed him.

At that moment, her ectophone rattled.

‘Oh, hell,’ Rachel muttered and picked it up.

IT’S DONE, the rotors said.

‘I’m sorry, Joe. I have to go. One last time, I promise.’

‘No,’ Joe said. ‘Whatever it is that you are going to do, I’m coming with you.’