The Doll’s House (3 page)

‘What kind of business?' Jan spoke in a lower tone.

‘Money business,' Harry Oakham said. ‘Big money, for both of us. We've been together for a long time. Good times and bad, eh?'

Jan nodded, swallowed the last of his drink, looked up at Oakham.

‘Yes; we worked well together, didn't we? You always stood by me, Harry. I'll never forget that.'

‘It was mutual,' Oakham answered. ‘Now we're both off the hook. We don't owe anyone a bloody thing. I've been planning for my retirement. I haven't been sitting on my hands, Jan, waiting for the kick in the backside. I've got a proposition. We'll talk about it later, over dinner.'

‘Well,' Harry asked. ‘What do you think of it?'

Jan wiped his mouth with his napkin. ‘You really want my opinion?'

‘I've offered you a partnership, what do you think I want?'

‘I think you're crazy,' Jan said.

‘Meaning you're not interested,' Harry said flatly.

‘Of course I'm interested. I like crazy ideas. That's why the Department threw me out. But never as crazy as this one. I'll go in with you, Harry. All the way. But one question …'

There'd been a little pulse jumping in Oakham's neck when he thought Jan was going to turn him down. Now he smiled at him encouragingly.

‘How are we going to get that kind of money?'

Oakham beckoned the waiter. ‘Coffee and two Armagnacs, please.' Then he leaned forward. ‘I've got the money.'

The Pole stared at him.

‘I told you I haven't been sitting on my hands. I put out feelers and I got a response. I met our bankers two weeks ago.'

‘In England?' Jan sucked in a deep breath. ‘You took a risk like that?'

‘No risk,' Oakham said blithely. ‘I took Peggy's ghastly nephews on a boat to Hampton Court. The contact was made on that trip. The kids stuffed themselves with ice cream and I talked terms. We've got a guaranteed capital and they'll provide the money we need to set it up when I've got a team together. No money's passed till we can give them the experts. So it's up to you now. How long do you think it'll take?'

Jan frowned. ‘To get in touch, not long. But to get them all together in one place – I don't know, Harry. They'll need convincing it's not a trick.'

‘You were always good at talking people round,' Oakham said. ‘You'll do it. Hook Rilke, and the rest will follow.'

‘You really believe it? You really believe you can bring this off?'

‘
We
can bring it off,' was the answer. ‘They owe us, Jan. You gave them ten years of your life, and what did they do? Chuck you on the dust heap. I started in this game at twenty-four, fresh out of university. Full of ideas about saving the world from the Reds. And where's it got me? Out on my ear. I nearly bought it a dozen times, and then there was Judith.'

‘I know,' Jan said quickly. ‘Don't talk about it.'

‘They bloody well owe me, too,' Harry said, ‘And I'm going to collect. So are you. Thank you.' He spoke to the waiter. He poured coffee. ‘We know Rilke's in Berlin, still living with his mother. See him first. When can you go?'

‘Any time,' the Pole answered. ‘But you'll have to finance me. Aid for Poland doesn't pay enough for travel.'

‘Don't worry about the cash, I've got enough to fund us while we put the operation together. I'll open an account at the Midland for you tomorrow. What's your local branch?'

‘Gloucester Road,' Jan answered.

He lived in a dingy bed-sit near the tube station. He had never invited Harry to see him there. He was too proud.

‘I'll put a decent float in,' Harry went on. ‘Get yourself some new clothes, look prosperous. Book into a good hotel and don't stint when it comes to softening Rilke up. He's got to believe we've got backing, substance. If he thinks this is just an idea off the top of my head, he won't listen.'

‘Can I mention the bankers?' Jan asked.

Harry considered for a moment. High-level people needed high-level counterparts.

‘Libya is backing us,' he said. ‘Gaddafi's a nut, he spends money like shelling peas. Rilke knows that. That'll do to start with. How about one for the road?'

‘I'll be pissed,' Jan protested.

‘So what? Tomorrow, my old friend, you get things moving.'

Harry Oakham caught the tube to Waterloo. He hated travelling on the underground. It was dirty and sleazy like so much of London. And dangerous too. He sat in the train as it moved off and thought he'd enjoy someone trying to mug him. He'd give them more than they bargained for. He wasn't drunk, he was smouldering inside.

His timing was right; it never failed him. He caught the last train home. The carriage was empty. It smelled stale and there was an empty can and some refuse under his seat. The can rolled by his foot as the train jerked into motion, and he stamped on it savagely, crushing it flat.

Twenty-eight years. He started with such high ideals; too late for the war but just right for the next phase in the conflict against a new and terrible enemy. Soviet Communism, swollen with power, strengthened by the weakness of Western political leaders. A tyranny as cruel and contrary to decent values as the horror of Nazism.

Harry saw himself as a soldier, and he brought a soldier's dedication to his job. He'd loved the danger, the challenge of going into the field. He knew what it meant to be afraid, only fools claimed to be without fear, and consequently they didn't last long. But it fired him with excitement, brought out the very best in a nature that was naturally daring, and with quick reactions. He hated the enemy, but he loved friends like Jan. The thought of Jan suffering in that hell-hole at Cracow had tortured him, and there was nothing he could do to help him.

He lost colleagues during those years of action, men and women he came to know, not all of whom he liked, but most he respected.

That was the hard part for Harry. But he endured it and offered himself for the next dangerous mission with extra zeal. And then he lost Judith and the world became a dark and bitter place. Seeing the portrait of the lovely actress in the club had brought her so vividly to his mind that night. She seemed very close to him while he was with Jan. It was a ghost that wouldn't lie quiet until he too was dead. He'd made a refuge for himself in his work; he asked for and was given the highest risk assignments and he seemed in possession of a charmed life. He couldn't get himself killed, but he performed a bloody service for his masters without a single doubt or qualm. He believed in the cause, because it was all he had left. And then the betrayal started. The compromises, the evasions, the politicians with their slimy hands on the controls, manipulating good men for their own advancement. Harry had watched in disbelief as he and those who served with him became unsavoury … a relic of an ugly era that was safely past.

The bureaucrats at the Treasury started cutting costs; he knew for a fact that two agents in Bucharest were sacrificed through lack of funds, when a decent bribe was needed.

Then the redundancies, or retirements, as they called it, began pushing the numbers down, impairing efficiency. Almost, Harry thought sometimes, as if it were a deliberate policy aimed at closing the section. Regardless of who got hurt. His anger grew inside him like an ulcer. It gnawed at him with impotent rage.

Jan's treatment was typical. They'd regret that; he'd sworn to set that right and he was going to do it. Now he had joined his old friend on the rubbish heap, and they expected him to take it like a good Civil Servant and retire gracefully into a world he'd never lived in. Put away the knife and the gun, and join his local golf club for excitement. Put his hands to a gentle use.

He looked down at them. They were clenched together. He relaxed, spreading his fingers. They were strong but sensitive and the gold signet ring on his little finger bore a rubbed crest.

The Oakhams of Dedham in Suffolk. The Army, the Church, the landed squirearchy going back for generations. There was blood on his hands, but he felt no shame. He didn't care. Towards the end his cover was blown, and he'd only just escaped capture by the very man he was now planning to recruit. Hermann Rilke, former head of East German Security. The big fish he was sending Jan out to hook and reel in.

The irony of it amused him. He'd played his part to the end, and nobody suspected that Harry Oakham was anything more dangerous than a middle-aged ex-operator with a maverick streak.

The train pulled in and he got out. It was very late. But the night was clear. He set off to walk home at a brisk pace. He had cat's eyes; darkness didn't bother him. He'd covered miles in hostile countryside in the old days, steering by the stars above him.

He swung into the road; it was well lit, tree lined. The pre-war semi-detached houses looked exactly like each other, all had pretty front gardens. He opened the front gate, found his key and put it in the lock.

If it all works out, he thought calmly, I'll never have to open this bloody door again. Or go upstairs to find she's asleep because she's shagged out after someone else. Not that I give a damn!

He undressed and climbed into the bed. Peggy lay breathing deeply beside him. I don't hate her, he thought, as he drifted off to sleep. I hate myself for putting her in Judith's place. But then grief made me a bit mad. It's not much of an excuse, but it's the only one I've got.

‘What sort of course?' James Bennet asked.

Rosa hated lying to him, but it couldn't be helped.

She said lightly, ‘Everyone's gone overboard about the EEC and all the changes coming. So the Chief's decided to have some of us go on this seminar. It's only a week, darling.'

He made a real effort. ‘I could come and stay at a hotel on the weekend,' he suggested.

‘Oh, I wish you could,' she said quickly. She laid a hand on his knee. ‘I'd love it, you know that, but honestly, darling, it would be terribly boring for you. We'll be flat out working; it's a very tight schedule. I won't have a moment of free time.'

He shrugged; she could see he was angry. She smiled encouragingly at him. ‘We could slip away for a few days when I get back. Go somewhere for a weekend like we used to – remember the sweet little hotel at Fordingbridge where you tried teaching me to fish?'

He knew she was trying to make amends; he knew how hard she had been trying since that night when they had tried to recapture the past.

He tried to admire her for the effort; he even tried to respond, but it only made him feel guilty and resentful.

He remembered the Fordingbridge hotel only too well. She had burst into tears trying to take a hook out of the fish's mouth, and he'd laughed and hugged her for being so soft-hearted. They'd been so happy before her bloody career came between them.

They were driving along the Embankment on their way to a dinner party with one of his colleagues. A very senior colleague, and it was an important invitation. He and Rosa were being inspected with a view to his promotion.

Rosa had been enthusiastic, anxious to do him credit. They were slowing down for the turning and she looked at him.

His face was set and unsmiling. Still angry about the course. She'd dreaded having to tell him, even more because of the timing. But it was mandatory. A high-security seven days at Branksome with lectures and practical training that had nothing to do with EEC regulations.

Instead, she had concentrated on this dinner, on the prospects for his career. He must be in line for a partnership, she suggested, and he'd admitted grudgingly that it was possible.

She had bought a new dress, skipped lunch to get to a good hairdresser, and hoped that he would be pleased. He hadn't even said she looked nice when she came downstairs.

‘Let's do that,' she said. ‘Let's go off somewhere.'

‘I don't know,' James said. ‘Depends on the office.'

He pulled into Cheyne Walk and parked the car. Rosa walked ahead of him up the steps of the handsome Georgian house.

She looked very good, he admitted. She'd chosen a long silk dress that showed off her figure, and wore her hair twisted up into a sleek knot. A minimum of jewellery, although he'd given her some striking pieces. It wouldn't do to outshine the senior partner's wife. Rosa, the perfect diplomat, he thought, and felt suddenly angry.

‘What date is this course?'

She turned, reaching for the doorbell. Oh God, she thought, perhaps he won't remember … ‘The seventeenth, just for the week.'

He didn't say anything. The bell rang; she pressed hard because she was nervous and she could hear it shrilling inside the house.

Then the door opened and a white-coated Filipino ushered them into the hall. James introduced her to the host and hostess.

‘Philip, I think you've met my wife.'

They shook hands and the older man smiled down at Rosa.

‘Of course, you came to one of our dinners last year. My wife Joyce.'

‘How do you do.' Rosa had a charming smile and the older woman liked her handshake. She couldn't bear a limp paw.

The party was successful; it was a dinner party for twelve, and the food and wine were chosen with originality and care.

Rosa admired the splendid flower arrangements, and knew she'd said the right thing because the hostess admitted she always did the flowers herself. The house was elegant, with fine furniture and expensive pictures.

James looked round him, mellowed by after-dinner brandy. This was the future he planned for himself. He would end up as senior partner in the firm, he was sure of that. He'd give smart parties for business colleagues with a beautiful wife at his side to support him.

They'd have a splendid town house and a place in the country for weekends. And children to make it a real family.

He was an only child himself and he longed to give his children everything that he'd missed in his own isolated upbringing. Prep school at seven, boarding school at thirteen; parents who shunted him off to stay here and there because they had other things to do than amuse him during the holidays. He'd grown up tough, determined to prove himself and to shape his own life differently.