Summerland

24 THE LAST DANCE, 3RD JANUARY 1939

Rachel White spent almost two weeks sitting on a chair in a cell in Wormwood Scrubs while a procession of interrogators went through the events of the last month in ever-greater detail—and with varying degrees of competence, she thought.

She had not kept up with the news very much, but Joe told her that the fact that a Stalinist group was operating in Britain had made the headlines, and the government had used it as leverage in the negotiations in Spain. However, the existence of the crime hospital had been kept out of the press.

No one was quite sure what to do with her. Harker, in a fit of apoplexy, was initially going to fire Rachel outright. Surprisingly, Miss Scaplehorn stepped up, calmly stated that Rachel was in her Section now, and while Mrs White had clearly engaged in extracurricular activities of a questionable nature, the brigadier should pause to consider the outcomes. After a while, Harker appeared to realise that Rachel exposing Roger and the latter’s connections to the Summer Court gave him a big stick to beat the Spooks with. Finally, Noel Symonds called her and offered her the opportunity to pass over to the Summer Court and take the position in Counter-intelligence originally intended for Roger. She declined.

No one talked about CAMLANN.

* * *

Sometime during the endless series of debriefings, Prime Minister West came to visit her.

She was nursing a cup of cold tea when he entered: a small, round man with a tired face and thin white remnants of a moustache, yet strikingly clear silvery eyes. It took Rachel a moment to recognise him, but when she did, she stood up.

‘Sir.’

West waved a hand. ‘Don’t get up for my sake, Mrs White. Officially, I am not even here.’

He brought in a sweet scent with him that somehow reminded Rachel of a childhood summer.

With visible effort, West sat down in the interrogator’s chair and took off his hat. Rachel braced herself to recount yet another version of the story she had been repeating for days. She wanted to get out and visit Joe in hospital. He was improving, but the experience in the crime hospital had left him emotionally and physically drained.

‘I want to ask you about Peter Bloom, Mrs White. I believe you are aware of our … connection. Of course, if you were ever to mention it outside this room, I would categorically deny it.’

‘Of course, sir,’ Rachel said.

‘It would help me greatly to understand Peter’s final moments.’ He paused. ‘Not the details, but … did he find a purpose? Do you think he believed in what he did?’

‘Only Peter Bloom can answer that, sir. But for what it is worth, I do.’

‘Good. He spent so much time looking for that, looking for truth, for lack of a better word. Sometimes I envied him. My own life has mostly passed in the pursuit of imaginary things, politics included.’

Rachel said nothing. What did West want of her?

‘With that in mind, I want you to know that if you were to consider fulfilling Peter’s mission, you should not regard it as unpatriotic, but rather as a service. Or even just as a favour to a dying old man.’

West placed a card on the table in front of Rachel. It had a Hinton address written in a neat cursive hand.

‘I leave the choice up to you, Mrs White. When it comes to bringing a new world into being, I don’t think failed fathers are much good. What the future really needs is a mother.’

With that, he put on his hat and walked out in an old man’s waddle, and closed the door behind him.

* * *

A week later, Rachel sat down at an outdoor table at a French café in Marylebone, under the blasting warmth of a gas heater, next to the man who had been following her for the past hour.

He hid behind his newspaper for a moment. WAR ENDS IN SPAIN, the headlines screamed. LENIN’S GHOST SUGGESTS PEACE TALKS.

Rachel cleared her throat. The man folded the paper neatly and placed it on the table. He had world-weary eyes, a broad forehead and an ever-so-slightly sardonic, confident smile. He was in his mid-forties, well dressed, and had the beginnings of a paunch.

‘Good day, Mrs White,’ he said. ‘I am Shpiegelglass.’

‘I have a notion of who you are, sir.’

Shpiegelglass was rumoured to be the head of an NKVD unit called the Mobile Group, tasked with purging Stalinists from the Soviets’ European networks. He had been linked to at least six disappearances in France and Austria, as well as the recent events in Spain.

‘I want to thank you,’ he said, taking a sip from his coffee cup. Rachel leaned back and looked at the passers-by. The café was in a corner next to a park, and the air smelled of dead leaves and cigarettes.

‘I am not in the habit of accepting the gratitude of NKVD agents,’ Rachel said.

He pressed the tips of his short, thick fingers together and leaned forward.

‘The situation is unusual, I admit. We had no idea about the Stalinist plot, and I was occupied elsewhere. Not only that, when I reported your actions to the Presence, it led to this outcome.’ He tapped the newspaper. ‘It was not a popular decision amongst my colleagues, nor your Service, I believe.’

‘It is not my Service anymore, sir. I resigned last week.’

‘Ah. In fact, I was aware of that.’ He smiled, still with a hint of mischief in the corners of his mouth. ‘I read Bloom’s reports. We would be very interested in working with you more closely. In a very limited capacity, you understand. Simply an extended interview, if you like.’

‘What, no meticulous asset development? No ideological narrative? No attempt to connect with me personally?’

‘I felt you might take it as a professional insult.’

‘As far as professional courtesy goes,’ Rachel said, ‘I should mention that your name did come up in my debriefing, and the Service is aware of your association with the two Dutch agents.’

‘Of course. I would expect no less.’

‘Respectfully, I am afraid I must decline your generous offer. However, I will make you a trade, Mr Shpiegelglass. You will leave me and my husband alone, and I will give you something.’ She took a fountain pen from her purse and scribbled the Hinton address West had given her on Shpiegelglass’s napkin. He picked it up, smearing the ink with his fingers, and glanced at it with apparent distaste.

‘What is this?’

‘The location of a file. Peter Bloom was determined to get this information to you. I suggest you share it with your Presence.’

Shpiegelglass looked at her curiously. ‘You are full of surprises, Mrs White.’

‘Don’t get any ideas. The information will become public relatively soon anyway. But some details may be of use to you. And I feel that … Peter deserved it.’

The NKVD man folded the napkin neatly and put it in his pocket.

‘Thank you, Mrs White.’

‘Now, if you will excuse me, I have a flight to catch.’

‘Naturally.’

Rachel stood up. ‘I am curious,’ she said. ‘What is it like? Working for a being whose thoughts and insights you cannot begin to understand?’

Shpiegelglass smiled, without mockery this time.

‘Why, it is rather like being a child again, Mrs White. I highly recommend it.’

‘Read the file,’ Rachel said. ‘We may all have some growing up to do, very soon.’

* * *

Rachel reached the aerodrome in the nick of time, just as boarding started. Tethered to the iron needle of the Watkins Tower, the airship resembled a purple cloud against one of those rare clear wintry skies that looked entirely made of light.

Joe was waiting for her at the lifts with their luggage. He looked a little haggard, but there was a spark in his eyes.

‘I was starting to worry,’ he said.

‘I had to run an errand for a friend.’

They boarded the airship with fifty or so other passengers, a mixture of the living and the dead, and stood in the observation gondola as London disappeared into a haze and the steel-grey Atlantic emerged below.

‘I cannot believe you never took me flying before,’ Rachel said.

‘I suppose we never found the right destination.’

The sea was smooth as a sheet as the sun began to set, and it was easy to imagine that the world had turned upside down and below them was another sky.

The next morning, Rachel woke up early in their small cabin. She pulled a blanket over Joe’s sleeping form and hunched next to the small round window, waiting for dawn and the first glimpse of the land where it was always summer.

The first light appeared, turning the night sky from deep indigo into red and gold. It fell onto the birdcage.

The female woke up and made a tee-tee sound. Accompanied by a noise like a bouncing spring, filling the cabin with a flowing, whistling song, the male Gouldian began to dance.