her, covered by her hair, her writhing tanned soft body, the long thighs and the silk down on them. There was no world beyond her . . . nothing but her surrounding him. She was the womb; he felt suspended again.
They slept naked and exhausted, locked together on the rug as the fire slowly died. Sleepily Kate reached out and pulled the goatskins over them; and they slept cocooned in warmth.
Outside it was beginning to snow, large flat flakes that settled on the icy London pavements without melting. Across the river, on the south side of the Thames, a clock struck two. It was Thursday, 16 December. Nine days to Christmas.
Thursday, 16 December
Curran-Price received his instructions from CORDON sooner than he’d expected. A telegram arrived with the morning post. There was no signature, no other identification except the date stamp of origin. Central Post Office Cardiff.
It read simply:
‘YOUR ABSENCE REQUIRED STOP SUGGEST FIVE DAY EXCURSION YOUR CHOICE STOP ESSENTIAL REPEAT ESSENTIAL YOU RETURN AND CONTACT MORNING 22ND FOR FINAL BRIEFING.’
Curran-Price and his wife caught the Alitalia flight from Heathrow to Rome and three hours later, as the other passengers were clearing immigration and customs, he telephoned his London office to explain his unexpected and sudden departure. He told his secretary a relative of his wife was dying - only hours to go - there was really no time to explain from London, they’d only just caught the flight as it was. He gave her the address, telephone and telex number of the hotel - and said he’d give her the flight details of his return trip as soon as the funeral arrangements had been settled.
Curran-Price was a sensible and cautious man. It was essential that there should be no alarm at his departure from London. His explanation would satisfy his own employers for the time being. And there was nothing State Security Operations could do about him here.
Important too that if CORDON should need him urgently they had only to inquire through his office, using one of a multitude of impressive aliases.
So while his wife spent his money in the Via del Corso, he settled down in the comfort of the Hotel Nationale in Piazza di Monteciterio safe from investigation. He would spend the next five days completing his plans for the Transport policy he would present to the civil servants at his new Ministry in the first few days of the New Year.
The advanced passenger train was travelling at over one hundred and twenty miles an hour but there was no suggestion of speed, and it was virtually noiseless except for the whistle of wind through the faulty rubbers in the window, and the slight sway as it passed, compressing the air ahead of it, through deserted and derelict country stations.
Tom sat back, enjoying his first British ride for years, head against the white linen antimacassar, feet up on the seat opposite, a morning newspaper protecting the expensive pile.
Outside it was snowing. He felt he’d been breathing snow since the moment he’d left Kate’s flat early that morning. Sometimes there’d be a pause in the storm and he could see beyond the embankments to the English countryside - Berkshire, Wiltshire, Dorset, now leaving Sherborne for the Somerset border.
He could vaguely remember Somerset as a child of five. He’d been evacuated from his home in South London to a farm near Wells. This train ride took him back to that platform on Paddington Station; a child with his head out of the window, the smell of coal and steam, the large manilla label, his only identification, tied by string and fluttering from his new grey flannel jacket. His mother, twenty-six years old, her navy blue raincoat tied tightly round her slim waist, her red check scarf covering her brown hair, surrounded by other mothers, waving and crying. She’d suddenly turned her back on him but he could just see, as the train pulled away, her arms high across her face, covering her tears. Sobbing, childless, she caught
They slept naked and exhausted, locked together on the rug as the fire slowly died. Sleepily Kate reached out and pulled the goatskins over them; and they slept cocooned in warmth.
Outside it was beginning to snow, large flat flakes that settled on the icy London pavements without melting. Across the river, on the south side of the Thames, a clock struck two. It was Thursday, 16 December. Nine days to Christmas.
Thursday, 16 December
Curran-Price received his instructions from CORDON sooner than he’d expected. A telegram arrived with the morning post. There was no signature, no other identification except the date stamp of origin. Central Post Office Cardiff.
It read simply:
‘YOUR ABSENCE REQUIRED STOP SUGGEST FIVE DAY EXCURSION YOUR CHOICE STOP ESSENTIAL REPEAT ESSENTIAL YOU RETURN AND CONTACT MORNING 22ND FOR FINAL BRIEFING.’
Curran-Price and his wife caught the Alitalia flight from Heathrow to Rome and three hours later, as the other passengers were clearing immigration and customs, he telephoned his London office to explain his unexpected and sudden departure. He told his secretary a relative of his wife was dying - only hours to go - there was really no time to explain from London, they’d only just caught the flight as it was. He gave her the address, telephone and telex number of the hotel - and said he’d give her the flight details of his return trip as soon as the funeral arrangements had been settled.
Curran-Price was a sensible and cautious man. It was essential that there should be no alarm at his departure from London. His explanation would satisfy his own employers for the time being. And there was nothing State Security Operations could do about him here.
Important too that if CORDON should need him urgently they had only to inquire through his office, using one of a multitude of impressive aliases.
So while his wife spent his money in the Via del Corso, he settled down in the comfort of the Hotel Nationale in Piazza di Monteciterio safe from investigation. He would spend the next five days completing his plans for the Transport policy he would present to the civil servants at his new Ministry in the first few days of the New Year.
The advanced passenger train was travelling at over one hundred and twenty miles an hour but there was no suggestion of speed, and it was virtually noiseless except for the whistle of wind through the faulty rubbers in the window, and the slight sway as it passed, compressing the air ahead of it, through deserted and derelict country stations.
Tom sat back, enjoying his first British ride for years, head against the white linen antimacassar, feet up on the seat opposite, a morning newspaper protecting the expensive pile.
Outside it was snowing. He felt he’d been breathing snow since the moment he’d left Kate’s flat early that morning. Sometimes there’d be a pause in the storm and he could see beyond the embankments to the English countryside - Berkshire, Wiltshire, Dorset, now leaving Sherborne for the Somerset border.
He could vaguely remember Somerset as a child of five. He’d been evacuated from his home in South London to a farm near Wells. This train ride took him back to that platform on Paddington Station; a child with his head out of the window, the smell of coal and steam, the large manilla label, his only identification, tied by string and fluttering from his new grey flannel jacket. His mother, twenty-six years old, her navy blue raincoat tied tightly round her slim waist, her red check scarf covering her brown hair, surrounded by other mothers, waving and crying. She’d suddenly turned her back on him but he could just see, as the train pulled away, her arms high across her face, covering her tears. Sobbing, childless, she caught
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