done with the Americans. You?”
“I think so, yes. Maybe. There is Wallinger’s house there? And, of course, a Station.”
Kell nodded. “And where there is a Station, there are computers for Elsa Cassani.”
The booting desktop played an accompaniment to Kell’s remark, a rising scale of digitized notes issuing from two speakers on Wallinger’s desk. Elsa tapped something into the keyboard. It was only then that Kell saw the ring on her finger.
“You got engaged?” he said, and experienced a sense of dismay that surprised him.
“Married!” she replied, and held up the ring as though she expected Kell to be as pleased as she was. Why was he not glad for her? Had he become so cynical about marriage that the prospect of a woman as lively, as full of promise, as Elsa Cassani walking up the aisle filled him with dread? If so, these were cynical, almost nihilistic thoughts of which he was not proud. There was every chance that she would find great happiness. Plenty did. “Who’s the lucky man?”
“He is German,” she said. “A musician.”
“Rock band?”
“No, classical.” She was about to show Kell a photograph from her wallet when his phone began to ring.
It was Tamas Metka.
“Can you speak?” The Hungarian explained that he was calling from a phone box across the street from the bar in Szolnok. Kell gave him the number of the secure telephone in Wallinger’s bedroom and walked upstairs. Two minutes later, Metka rang back.
“So,” he said, a strain of irony in his voice. “Turns out you may have met this Miss Sandor.”
“Really?”
“She used to be one of us.”
Why wasn’t Kell surprised? Wallinger was most likely having yet another affair with yet another female colleague.
“A spook?”
“A spook,” Metka confirmed. “I took a look at the files. She worked several times alongside SIS, Five. She was with us until three years ago.”
“‘Us’ meaning she’s Hungarian?”
“Yes.”
“Private sector now?”
“No.” There was a smothering roar on the line, the sound of a truck or bus driving past the phone booth. Metka waited until it had passed. “Nowadays she owns a restaurant on Lopud.”
“Lopud?”
“Croatia. One of the islands off Dubrovnik.”
Kell was sitting on Wallinger’s bed. He picked up the biography of LBJ, turned it over in his hand, skimmed the quotes on the back.
“Is she married?” he asked.
“Divorced.”
“Kids?”
“None.”
Metka emitted a gusty laugh. “Why do you want to know about her, anyway? You fallen in love with a beautiful Magyar poet, Tom?”
So Cecilia was beautiful, too. Of course she was.
“Not me. Somebody else.” Kell had replied as though Wallinger was still alive, still involved with Sandor. “Why did she leave the NSA?”
A phone rang on the ground floor of the villa. Kell heard Elsa’s voice as she answered— “Pronto!” Maybe it was her husband calling. Putting the book back on the bedside table, it fell open to a page that had been marked by what looked like a photograph. Kell picked it up.
“I’m not certain why,” Metka replied. Kell, now only half listening, turned the photograph around. He was astonished to see that it was a picture of Amelia.
“Say that again,” he said, buying time as he came to terms with what he was looking at.
“I said I don’t know why she left us. What I saw of her file showed that it was in ’09. Voluntary.”
In the photograph, which had been taken perhaps ten or fifteen years earlier, in the full flush of Amelia’s affair with Wallinger, she was sitting in a crowded restaurant. There was a glass of white wine in front of her, a blurred waiter in a white jacket passing to the left of her chair. She was tanned and wearing a strapless cream dress with a gold necklace that Kell had seen only once before: it was identical to the one Amelia had worn at Wallinger’s funeral. She was perhaps forty in the picture and looked extraordinarily beautiful, but also
“I think so, yes. Maybe. There is Wallinger’s house there? And, of course, a Station.”
Kell nodded. “And where there is a Station, there are computers for Elsa Cassani.”
The booting desktop played an accompaniment to Kell’s remark, a rising scale of digitized notes issuing from two speakers on Wallinger’s desk. Elsa tapped something into the keyboard. It was only then that Kell saw the ring on her finger.
“You got engaged?” he said, and experienced a sense of dismay that surprised him.
“Married!” she replied, and held up the ring as though she expected Kell to be as pleased as she was. Why was he not glad for her? Had he become so cynical about marriage that the prospect of a woman as lively, as full of promise, as Elsa Cassani walking up the aisle filled him with dread? If so, these were cynical, almost nihilistic thoughts of which he was not proud. There was every chance that she would find great happiness. Plenty did. “Who’s the lucky man?”
“He is German,” she said. “A musician.”
“Rock band?”
“No, classical.” She was about to show Kell a photograph from her wallet when his phone began to ring.
It was Tamas Metka.
“Can you speak?” The Hungarian explained that he was calling from a phone box across the street from the bar in Szolnok. Kell gave him the number of the secure telephone in Wallinger’s bedroom and walked upstairs. Two minutes later, Metka rang back.
“So,” he said, a strain of irony in his voice. “Turns out you may have met this Miss Sandor.”
“Really?”
“She used to be one of us.”
Why wasn’t Kell surprised? Wallinger was most likely having yet another affair with yet another female colleague.
“A spook?”
“A spook,” Metka confirmed. “I took a look at the files. She worked several times alongside SIS, Five. She was with us until three years ago.”
“‘Us’ meaning she’s Hungarian?”
“Yes.”
“Private sector now?”
“No.” There was a smothering roar on the line, the sound of a truck or bus driving past the phone booth. Metka waited until it had passed. “Nowadays she owns a restaurant on Lopud.”
“Lopud?”
“Croatia. One of the islands off Dubrovnik.”
Kell was sitting on Wallinger’s bed. He picked up the biography of LBJ, turned it over in his hand, skimmed the quotes on the back.
“Is she married?” he asked.
“Divorced.”
“Kids?”
“None.”
Metka emitted a gusty laugh. “Why do you want to know about her, anyway? You fallen in love with a beautiful Magyar poet, Tom?”
So Cecilia was beautiful, too. Of course she was.
“Not me. Somebody else.” Kell had replied as though Wallinger was still alive, still involved with Sandor. “Why did she leave the NSA?”
A phone rang on the ground floor of the villa. Kell heard Elsa’s voice as she answered— “Pronto!” Maybe it was her husband calling. Putting the book back on the bedside table, it fell open to a page that had been marked by what looked like a photograph. Kell picked it up.
“I’m not certain why,” Metka replied. Kell, now only half listening, turned the photograph around. He was astonished to see that it was a picture of Amelia.
“Say that again,” he said, buying time as he came to terms with what he was looking at.
“I said I don’t know why she left us. What I saw of her file showed that it was in ’09. Voluntary.”
In the photograph, which had been taken perhaps ten or fifteen years earlier, in the full flush of Amelia’s affair with Wallinger, she was sitting in a crowded restaurant. There was a glass of white wine in front of her, a blurred waiter in a white jacket passing to the left of her chair. She was tanned and wearing a strapless cream dress with a gold necklace that Kell had seen only once before: it was identical to the one Amelia had worn at Wallinger’s funeral. She was perhaps forty in the picture and looked extraordinarily beautiful, but also
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