herself. Any interrogator worth his salt knows that silent expectation is hard for an interviewee to deal with. The urge to break the silence with an unintended confession, or at least an admission, is very difficult to resist.
‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘you want to know what the Party requires of you.’ Verity was not sure that she did but . . . ‘It is our belief that Mr Churchill will, at the outbreak of war, become Prime Minister. He will be rewarded for having seen the Fascist menace for what it is when most of his colleagues closed their eyes to it. We do not object to this in principle but it is important we know exactly what he is planning and, most particularly, what his attitude is to the Soviet Union. We know he distrusts it, of course, but will he see reason?’
‘I’m not a spy,’ Verity said sharply. ‘I’m a newspaper correspondent.’
‘We know that,’ Coombs said soothingly. ‘We have spies. What we need from you is exactly what you pride yourself on – honest reporting. Not too much to ask, surely?’
Verity nodded dubiously. It seemed very like spying to her. But was she being naive? Edward would say so. She had to choose sides and in this dirty, dishonest decade there were no Queensberry rules. The end justified the means.
‘Oh, by the way,’ Coombs said as he uncoiled himself to say goodbye, ‘that young Jew of yours – Georg Dreiser – has something we would like.’
‘What is that?’ Verity asked, surprised.
‘Don’t you know?’ he inquired with gentle irony. ‘He has access to people – scientists – working on Germany’s new bomb. We want him to bring them over to us. It is very important, you understand?’
‘To us?’
‘To the Party, to Moscow,’ Coombs clarified. ‘I under-stand you are taking him to Mersham Castle at the weekend. One of our people will ask you for an introduction. That is all. You will facilitate this. Not too much to ask, I think.’
‘A Comrade will be at Mersham . . .?’ Verity asked in surprise bordering on alarm.
‘There or in the neighbourhood. Someone will be in touch. No need for you to do anything. You will get your instructions.’
‘How will I know him?’
‘He will mention my name.’
As Verity left King Street, she did not notice a man at the corner writing in his little notebook but Coombs, looking out of his window, did and smiled. He was aware that Special Branch kept constant watch on the comings and goings at Party Headquarters. Cat and mouse – it was a game two could play.
Verity went from King Street to have lunch with Adrian Hassel, one of her oldest friends who had seen her through bad times in the past and whom she knew she could trust absolutely. They were to meet at the Slade in Gower Street and walk to Bertorelli in Charlotte Street. Adrian always ate there when he was working at the Slade because it was quick and cheap. The bill never came to more than two and sixpence with lamb cutlets and peas at a shilling and Spaghetti à l’Italienne eightpence.
Adrian took her into the Slade’s cavernous interior and showed her the picture he was working on, a vivid – Verity was inclined to think lurid – study of Waterloo Bridge at sunset – bright reds and yellows, a homage perhaps to Whistler. She said the right things but Adrian knew she hated it and laughed wryly.
‘Don’t pretend, Verity. You’re not a good liar. You’ll be surprised to hear,’ he added defensively, ‘that I have begun to sell. I’ve got an exhibition coming up – at the Goupil, no less – in October. You must come.’
‘I will if I can, Adrian, but I expect to be in Vienna or perhaps Prague.’
‘Of course,’ he said suddenly serious. ‘You must think we are all ostriches – unable to see what’s right in front of our noses. The fact of the matter is that we know a war is coming but each day which passes without war being declared leaves us profoundly grateful.’
‘You don’t worry about what compromises are
‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘you want to know what the Party requires of you.’ Verity was not sure that she did but . . . ‘It is our belief that Mr Churchill will, at the outbreak of war, become Prime Minister. He will be rewarded for having seen the Fascist menace for what it is when most of his colleagues closed their eyes to it. We do not object to this in principle but it is important we know exactly what he is planning and, most particularly, what his attitude is to the Soviet Union. We know he distrusts it, of course, but will he see reason?’
‘I’m not a spy,’ Verity said sharply. ‘I’m a newspaper correspondent.’
‘We know that,’ Coombs said soothingly. ‘We have spies. What we need from you is exactly what you pride yourself on – honest reporting. Not too much to ask, surely?’
Verity nodded dubiously. It seemed very like spying to her. But was she being naive? Edward would say so. She had to choose sides and in this dirty, dishonest decade there were no Queensberry rules. The end justified the means.
‘Oh, by the way,’ Coombs said as he uncoiled himself to say goodbye, ‘that young Jew of yours – Georg Dreiser – has something we would like.’
‘What is that?’ Verity asked, surprised.
‘Don’t you know?’ he inquired with gentle irony. ‘He has access to people – scientists – working on Germany’s new bomb. We want him to bring them over to us. It is very important, you understand?’
‘To us?’
‘To the Party, to Moscow,’ Coombs clarified. ‘I under-stand you are taking him to Mersham Castle at the weekend. One of our people will ask you for an introduction. That is all. You will facilitate this. Not too much to ask, I think.’
‘A Comrade will be at Mersham . . .?’ Verity asked in surprise bordering on alarm.
‘There or in the neighbourhood. Someone will be in touch. No need for you to do anything. You will get your instructions.’
‘How will I know him?’
‘He will mention my name.’
As Verity left King Street, she did not notice a man at the corner writing in his little notebook but Coombs, looking out of his window, did and smiled. He was aware that Special Branch kept constant watch on the comings and goings at Party Headquarters. Cat and mouse – it was a game two could play.
Verity went from King Street to have lunch with Adrian Hassel, one of her oldest friends who had seen her through bad times in the past and whom she knew she could trust absolutely. They were to meet at the Slade in Gower Street and walk to Bertorelli in Charlotte Street. Adrian always ate there when he was working at the Slade because it was quick and cheap. The bill never came to more than two and sixpence with lamb cutlets and peas at a shilling and Spaghetti à l’Italienne eightpence.
Adrian took her into the Slade’s cavernous interior and showed her the picture he was working on, a vivid – Verity was inclined to think lurid – study of Waterloo Bridge at sunset – bright reds and yellows, a homage perhaps to Whistler. She said the right things but Adrian knew she hated it and laughed wryly.
‘Don’t pretend, Verity. You’re not a good liar. You’ll be surprised to hear,’ he added defensively, ‘that I have begun to sell. I’ve got an exhibition coming up – at the Goupil, no less – in October. You must come.’
‘I will if I can, Adrian, but I expect to be in Vienna or perhaps Prague.’
‘Of course,’ he said suddenly serious. ‘You must think we are all ostriches – unable to see what’s right in front of our noses. The fact of the matter is that we know a war is coming but each day which passes without war being declared leaves us profoundly grateful.’
‘You don’t worry about what compromises are
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