The Villa Golitsyn

  Simon said nothing but waited while Fowler seemed to muse upon the dangers inherent in the study of history, moving his lips as if sucking a moustache he no longer had.

  ‘I can’t tell you everything,’ he suddenly said to Simon, ‘but briefly we think that Ludley, sometime in 1965, gave a classified document to the Communists in Djakarta.’

  Fowler paused as if Simon might protest at this point, but again Simon said nothing.

  ‘As a result of this treason – a direct result – a friend of his from Cambridge, an officer in the Gurkhas, was ambushed in Borneo, taken alive, tortured, mutilated, and then killed.’

  Simon raised his eyebrows; he almost smiled. ‘How dreadful,’ he said.

  ‘His men were killed too,’ said Fowler, ‘all as a result of treachery by someone in the Embassy at Djakarta.’

  ‘Ludley?’

  ‘Do you think it’s possible?’

  Simon hesitated. ‘I don’t really know. I’d rather lost touch with him by then, but certainly, in the old days, Willy was capable of anything.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘He didn’t care what other people thought of him.’

  ‘Uninhibited?’

  ‘More than that. He had a great contempt for what he called middle-class conventions.’

  ‘But one wouldn’t turn traitor pour épater les bourgeois,’ Fowler said in an exasperated tone of voice; and then, in a calmer tone, he corrected himself. ‘Perhaps one would. And the times – one must never forget the spirit of the times at the vulnerable age.’

  ‘I lived through the same times, more or less,’ said Simon.

  ‘Ah yes, but you’re the sound type. Not susceptible, I wouldn’t have thought, to … ideological temptations.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Whereas Ludley – he might have been?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘1965,’ said Fowler. ‘The Americans bombed North Vietnam in February. The marines landed in South Vietnam in March. We were backing the Malays against the Indonesians. There were British troops in Borneo. It could have seemed, then, that a decisive struggle was starting for the whole of Asia.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Ludley, if he had been a fellow-traveller, might have thought that he could help the other side …’

  Simon shifted in his chair. ‘When I knew him,’ he said, ‘he wasn’t particularly interested in politics, but that could have changed.’

  ‘He was a Marxist at Cambridge.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Of course that might have been just to irritate his father. Did you know James Ludley?’

  ‘No. Willy never introduced us to his family.’

  ‘Nastiest man I’ve ever met,’ said Fowler. ‘The mother was a cold woman, too. She died before her husband – driven to it, more or less, by him. All of that, if you play at psychology, would explain treason in the son. A desire to take revenge on the father.’

  ‘He never spoke of him at school,’ said Simon.

  Fowler looked at his watch. ‘I must come to the point,’ he said. ‘The facts are these. A Classified, Most Secret, document – a map, in fact – was found in the hands of the Indonesian Communists back in the autumn of 1965 and was handed on to us the following year. It explained how they had been able to ambush poor Churton and his Gurkhas. It had come from a “comrade L” in the British Embassy. Two men – Ludley and another fellow I shall call X – had stayed with Churton a week before he left for Sarawak.

  ‘Soon after the map was discovered, Ludley did a bunk, and because of that it was always assumed that Ludley was the culprit. For various reasons, which you can probably guess at, it was decided not to pursue the matter. Ludley had resigned of his own accord and since then has always lived abroad. The problem which faces us now is that this fellow X is up for a top job – a job which demands the very highest trust – and in the back of our minds there is this nagging little thought that perhaps it wasn’t Ludley after all, and that if it wasn’t him, then it was X.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘X is one of our best people, and until now this nagging little worry hasn’t mattered because he hasn’t held quite such a sensitive position.’

  ‘There’s nothing else against him?’

  ‘No. Nothing at all. So the time has come either to give him a job which is his due, or tell him that he’ll never go any further.’

  ‘I can see your predicament,’ said Simon. ‘You need to be certain it was Ludley.’

  ‘Yes. To be one hundred per cent sure of X, we’ve got to know that it was Ludley. There’s no question of arrest, prosecution or anything like that. The scandal would do too much damage.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But we do need to know.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Simon, ‘and if I can help in any way …’

  ‘I hesitate to ask you to spy on a friend,’ said Fowler, ‘but if, while you are staying with him, you could bear in mind that little business in Djakarta, and decided to your own satisfaction that it was Ludley …’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Your judgement would be a great help to us.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can.’

  ‘You don’t mind?’

  ‘Not at all.’

  Fowler stood up. ‘There’s no great urgency …’

  ‘Shall I telephone from Nice?’

  ‘No. I don’t like the telephone. Report when you get back.’ He led Simon to the door. ‘You’re absolutely sure you don’t mind?’

  ‘No. I don’t mind at all.’

  Simon returned to his office in a mood of boyish excitement. He had barely come across the security services before and now felt that mixture of exhilaration and self-importance which affects a man who is given a secret mission by his government. The idea that his former friend and future host might be a traitor did not upset him: little that anyone could do could shake the sardonic detachment with which he kept all feelings at bay. Nor did he feel any reflex disgust at the thought of treason itself. Simon’s conservative mannerisms and opinions were only the accoutrements of an actor playing a role. He might carry an umbrella, wear a pin-striped suit and lunch at his club, but he did not feel the strong patriotic emotions which one might expect in a man of such habits and appearance. He had been born and brought up in England, but the suggestion that because of this accident of nature he should think Britain better than France or the United States would have seemed to him a vulgar prejudice. In some ways Britain might be better, but in others it was demonstrably worse; and the loyalty he felt to the British government was no more and no less than the loyalty he would extend to any other employer – the European Commission, the United Nations, a Swiss bank or an American corporation.

  Nor – despite the deference he had shown towards him in his office – was Simon overawed by Fowler’s position as head of security. As soon as he could he went to the reference library to find out who had been with Ludley in Djakarta. He then compared the two or three names with those of diplomats now of a certain seniority who were due for a new posting. He quickly realized that X must be Leslie Baldwin – a man he knew of but had never met.

  FOUR

  It was raining when the boat train left London for Dover. Simon was alone in his First Class compartment and sat contentedly by the window, looking out at the dank Kent countryside. Nothing in life pleased him more than a well-executed plan, and now he was enjoying the fruits of a series of correct decisions. He had been right to escape from the English autumn to an Indian summer in Nice. He had been right to stay with the Ludleys where he could expect a high standard of comfort – even luxury. The only anxiety he had felt was over the human aspect of his stay. He could hardly look forward to the pansy company of Charlie Hope; Willy himself was by all accounts an alcoholic; and his wife was almost certainly a sharp-nosed, opinionated county bitch who had only asked him to stay to make a fourth at bridge. Thanks to Fowler, however, he would have his own game to play, which would certainly see him through the two or
three weeks he meant to stay in the South of France.

  He ate lunch on the boat, and afterwards went up on deck. The rain had stopped: there was only a little wind from the sea. He lit a cigar and walked to the front of the boat to look at the approaching coast of France. There were not many other passengers – fewer than one might expect in late September – and he remarked on only one, an English schoolgirl who clung to her felt hat as she looked out to sea. He noticed her only because of her uniform – a brown tweed skirt, brown stockings, leather shoes and the felt hat with brown ribbon. It seemed old-fashioned on a girl of sixteen or seventeen, and that pleased Simon because the plastic fitments of the ferry had somewhat sabotaged his pretence that he was a 1930s swell going out to stay with Beaverbrook, or that other more celebrated Willy, Maugham. It also struck him as odd that an English schoolgirl should be returning to school in France.

  At the Gare Maritime in Calais he found the compartment reserved for him in the Wagon-Lit coach of the Riviera–Flanders Express and settled down for the journey. At eight, as the train trundled across the dull countryside of northern France, he made his way along the corridor towards the dining car, passing the English schoolgirl sitting bolt upright in a second-class compartment. There was a hockey stick strapped to the suitcase on the rack above her head.

  At dinner Simon read a guidebook to the South of France, noting on a postcard what he should try to see around Nice. The food was good: he drank a whole bottle of Burgundy, and swayed from side to side as he walked back down the corridor to his compartment. The berth had been made up in his absence and he went straight to bed. He awoke twice during the night: once as the train was shunted around Paris from the Gare du Nord to the Gare de Lyon; and for a second time to use the ingenious chamber pot which, once filled, closed to return to its native Burgundian soil what remained of the wine he had drunk at dinner.

  He awoke finally at Marseilles. He raised the blind and saw people on the platform. He pulled it down again and changed out of his pyjamas into navy-blue slacks and a light-blue linen shirt. The train left the Gare St Charles and started its run along the Mediterranean coast towards Nice. He raised the blind again. A watery, yellow sun had risen to illuminate the hills around Bandol. He left his compartment and made his way along the corridor towards the dining-car. It had gone. In its place there was a buffet – a few tables and chairs, and a counter at which a bleary-faced steward handed out little pots of coffee and brioches. As he walked along the carriage to fetch his breakfast, Simon noticed the English schoolgirl, still dressed in her brown tweed uniform, sitting at one of the tables; and when he came back holding his tray, a seat at her table was one of the few that were free. He therefore sat down opposite her, saying, in English, that he hoped she did not mind.

  She shook her head as if to say that she did not, and then looked out of the window. He stirred sugar into his coffee and opened his guidebook, but instead of reading it he studied the girl. She had long, untidy brown hair, ragged at the shoulders, and a fringe which all but covered her eyes. It was plain that like Simon she came from the north of Europe, because the skin of her hands and her neck was exceptionally white. Only her cheeks had some colour. When she turned from the window to drink her coffee he could see that she had a small nose. The eyes glanced at him from under the fringe. She put down her cup. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, ‘but are you English?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Simon.

  ‘Can you tell me,’ she asked, ‘where Monte Carlo is?’

  ‘It’s further along the coast,’ he said.

  ‘Is it before Nice, or after?’

  ‘After Nice. Just before the Italian border.’

  She bit her lower lip.

  ‘Are you going to Monte Carlo?’ he asked.

  ‘I think so, yes, but my ticket is only to Nice.’

  ‘Are you on your way back to school?’

  ‘Yes, I am. Or rather I was.’

  ‘In Monte Carlo?’

  ‘No. In Kent.’

  He smiled. ‘You seem to have missed your station.’

  She looked at him suspiciously from under her fringe. Two tears waited at the corners of her eyes and she blurted out. ‘No, well, I sort of couldn’t face it. You know …’

  ‘You’ve run away?’

  ‘No, well, yes, sort of …’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘My uncle Godfrey lives in Monte Carlo. At least he did. I think he still does. I thought I might go and see him.’

  ‘Is he expecting you?’

  ‘No.’ One of the tears left the eye and set off down her cheek. ‘I haven’t actually seen him since, well, since I was a baby.’

  Simon laughed and ran his tongue over his teeth to dislodge a fragment of brioche. ‘He’ll probably send you straight home.’

  ‘I know.’ The other tear now pursued its companion.

  ‘Why did you run away?’ Simon asked, touched by this overgrown child trying hard not to cry.

  She shrugged her shoulders. ‘You know …’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  ‘School was so stupid.’ She spat out that word as if rage might stave off the tears. ‘I mean hockey, and this uniform, and bossy monitors, and never being allowed out.’

  ‘How old are you?’

  She hesitated. ‘Seventeen – at least I soon will be.’

  ‘It does seem old-fashioned to make you wear a uniform at seventeen.’

  ‘It’s ridiculous. And the teaching is bad. The only point of schools is to get you into university, and no one from our school ever does.’

  ‘Why did your parents send you there?’

  ‘They’re snobs,’ she said, snorting through her nose. ‘They think I’ll make the right kind of friends …’

  ‘What are the right kind of friends?’

  ‘Rich people with country houses.’

  ‘Are your parents like that?’

  ‘No. They’re dead middle-class. Daddy’s an accountant but he’d like me to marry a duke.’

  ‘And you’d turn him down?’

  ‘Who?’

  The duke.’

  She blushed. ‘I don’t want to get married at all.’ She tossed back her fringe and blinked.

  ‘Why not?’

  She shrugged. ‘Boring.’

  ‘So what would you like to be?’

  ‘I don’t know … An actress, perhaps, or an engineer.’

  They chatted on about her life as the train turned inland again, leaving the Massif des Maures between them and the sea. Simon found the girl, who said her name was Helen Constable, both comic and attractive – not sexually attractive but amusing and charming in a gangling way. She was determined to appear grown-up and self-possessed yet those two tears lurked in her eyes. At the beginning of his breakfast Simon had thought that she might help him pass the last hours of a long train journey; by the end he felt he should help her. Certainly he thought that we should all reap what we sow, and if this girl had run away from school she should face the consequences; but now that he had two children of his own, a sense of responsibility for children in general led him to warn her of the white-slave traffickers who might be waiting for her in Nice. He offered her his help which she accepted with an ingenuous gratitude, returning with him to sit in his compartment for the last stretch of the journey.

  FIVE

  The railway station in Nice is set back from the sea at the rear of the city. When the train stopped on the platform, Simon climbed down and then turned to take Helen Constable’s battered leather suitcase, which he then carried for her towards the exit. She followed awkwardly, as if she had only just learned how to use her long legs, and she wrinkled her nose at the smell in the air of ripe fruit and French cigarettes.

  Charlie Hope was waiting for Simon in the main concourse of the station. He was dressed in jeans, sneakers and an orange T-shirt. ‘I’m glad you could come,’ he said, glancing nervously at Simon and taking the two suitcases from out of his hands.

  ‘I’m not
sure I shall be of much help,’ said Simon.

  ‘You’ll be more help than I am.’

  Simon would have asked him what he meant if the schoolgirl had not been standing there beside him to be introduced and explained. ‘This is Helen Constable,’ he said to Charlie. ‘We met on the train. I said we might help her get hold of her uncle in Monte Carlo.’

  Charlie smiled at her. ‘Yes, of course. We could try and call him from here, if you like, but it would be easier back at the villa.’

  Helen looked at Simon.

  ‘Wouldn’t the Ludleys mind?’ Simon asked Charlie.

  Charlie laughed. ‘They don’t mind anything.’

  He led them out of the station towards a white Jaguar six or seven years old, with French registration plates and a left-hand drive. He put the luggage in the boot and they climbed into the car – Simon next to Charlie and Helen in the back. ‘We’ll go by the Prom,’ said Charlie. ‘It takes slightly longer but it will give you a feel of the town.’

  ‘What’s the matter with Willy?’ Simon asked quietly as they set off.

  ‘He’s drinking too much. In fact, I’d say he’s drinking himself to death.’

  ‘Can’t his wife stop him?’

  ‘It seems not,’ said Charlie; and before Simon could ask him anything more, he half-turned to Helen and asked: ‘Have you been here before?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Well this is the Place Masséna. Note the pastel-coloured stucco. Like Turin. Nice was part of Italy, you see – Piedmont as it then was – until 1860. And these gardens are built over a river – the Paillon. In Herzen’s time we’d have been driving down a river bed.’

  ‘Who is Herzen?’ Helen asked.

  ‘A friend of Willy’s,’ said Charlie.

  ‘He must be quite old,’ said Helen, looking out of the car at the palms and shrubs of the public park.

  ‘He was a Russian,’ said Simon. ‘He died some time ago.’

  They turned into the Promenade des Anglais and drove west. To the left was the sea and pebble beach on which a thin sprinkling of half-naked men and women lay supine in the sun. To the right the grand hotels – Rhul, Westminster, West End and Negresco – stood behind their sentinel palm trees.