A Game of Spies by John Altman

Lewis and Art Moore when he had seen the pretty redheaded girl go walking by the window—according to the barmaid, a governess for the Carmody children, who had been in England at that point for only two weeks.
    He had approached her on some slim pretext that he couldn’t even recall. As the months had passed, and they had evolved from acquaintances to friends to lovers, her possible value had become increasingly clear—Eva was a German, after all, and a smart one, with a passion for integrity. When her position in Guildford had ended, she had decided to stay on in London, at Hobbs’ urging, for another year. Finally had come the recruitment itself, that night in his flat in the East End. But even then he hadn’t realized how much he had come to care for her. It was only after she had gone …
    He winced. His goddamned leg. Now the pins and needles were passing, and it was beginning to throb again.
    He settled back into the seat. Dawn was still a long way away. But he couldn’t stand the thought of returning to the dream, returning to the memory.
    He kept his eyes open long after they’d begun to ache, staring at the whispering leaves around the car.

6
    THE FINCH PUB, WHITEHALL
    Arthur Deacon sat alone in a booth, staring into his pint of Guinness. An ashtray near his hand contained the butts of six cigarettes. A seventh burned between his fingers, forgotten.
    He remembered the cigarette only when the ember scorched his knuckles. Then he swore, ground it out among the remains of the others, tossed his dark hair back from his forehead, and knuckled briefly at his brown eyes. He checked his watch. Only five minutes remained before his appointment with Oldfield, and he still had not made up his mind.
    He lit another cigarette, tossed back his hair again—Mary was always nagging him to get it cut, but somehow he could never find the time—then returned to staring into his pint.
    His reverie was broken when Margery Lewis slid into the booth across from him. Margery looked a few pounds heavier than the last time Deacon had seen her, as if the rationing had skipped her altogether. But her lipstick was as bright and tarty as ever, her face as wide and round and homely. He wondered, in that first moment, what he had ever seen in her. Then she leaned forward so he could light her cigarette; her dress scooped down in front to reveal her ample bosom, and he remembered.
    â€œArthur,” she said. “Look at you, so deep in thought.”
    He nodded. “Margery,” he said.
    â€œSitting here frowning like a funeral director.” She dragged on her cigarette, exhaled around a dry smile. “I dare say marriage doesn’t agree with you.”
    â€œBugger off,” he said pleasantly.
    â€œI’d be glad to, love. But I might need a hand. Is that an offer?”
    â€œYou said it yourself, Margery—I’m married now.”
    â€œHappily?”
    â€œVery much so. Thank you.”
    â€œThen why the long face?”
    He shrugged, sipped his pint, and tapped an ash into the ashtray.
    â€œI hear you’ve got a son,” she said. “I suppose I should say congratulations.”
    â€œThank you.”
    â€œShould say. Not will say.”
    â€œGracious as ever. Dear heart.”
    â€œLet’s slip out back, into the alley. For old time’s sake.”
    â€œMargery, love—I’ve got to go. Take care.”
    He stood. She looked after him as he shrugged into his coat, tipped an imaginary hat, and went.
    Once outside Deacon cupped his hand over his nose and blew into it. The beer was still on his breath. Oldfield would not approve. He dug through his pockets, found a sprig of spearmint, and popped it into his mouth.
    Before taking the short stroll to Leconfield House, he stood for a moment, chewing on the spearmint and thinking. He had told Oldfield he would have his decision by today. Yet Deacon felt no closer to making the decision than he