The Cipher, page 7
A knock interrupted them, and when Lt. Adams opened the door, Nino’s follower stood there. “Nice trick,” he said, holding out his hand to shake Nino’s. “I would have done the same to shake me.”
“He’s one of our prize pupils,” Lt. Adams said.
Nino smiled. He needn’t have been worried.
“This calls for a celebration,” Lt. Adams said. “Drinks and dinner on me at the Criterion.”
“I’d love to, but I’m off to tail another unsuspecting agent,” the man said. He stepped back out, raised his hand in farewell, and was gone.
“Six-thirty in the lounge for pre-dinner drinks,” Lt. Adams said, and Nino nodded.
As he walked back to his room at the nearby hostel, Nino felt fortunate to be in Britain, away from the POW camp. He was certain he’d been selected not only for his English skills, but because he already knew Morse code and radio procedures. The Germans were rapidly advancing, and SOE resources were limited, as was time. Nino’s extraction from the POW camp had been relatively easy. He had simply gone to work at the diatomite plant one morning and never returned. Antonio, whose escape adventure had been a ruse, had retrieved his footlocker and delivered it to him in Kariandusi, before his trip to Nairobi to board a flight for London.
Although Nino was ten minutes early, Lt. Adams waved to him from a table by the window. Nino walked over, his eyes drawn to the gilded floral design on the ceiling that he’d heard was created using real gold and was worth millions. He’d never been anywhere so grand. He sat down and Lt. Adams signalled a waiter, who brought them both drinks.
They were about to raise their glasses when Lt. Adams stopped and waved to someone across the room. Nino followed his eye line to where a tall, willowy young woman stood talking to a small circle of people. She smiled at Lt. Adams, lifting her gloved hand in a small wave.
“That’s one of the secretaries in the War Office,” Lt. Adams said, for explanation. He now raised his glass again. “To the completion of your training!” he said.
Nino raised his glass, clinked and sipped, his eyes drawn to the lovely young woman who was now approaching.
“Viola!” Lt. Adams said, standing up and extending his hand. “Viola, meet Sergeant Nardo Cassar.”
Nino stood too, took her hand and held it, momentarily startled by her green liquid eyes.
“Pleased to meet you,” she murmured and drew back her hand.
Nino stepped back, embarrassed.
“Do join us for a drink,” Lt. Adams said, pulling out a chair.
She hesitated a moment, then smiled and sat down between them. While Lt. Adams signalled a waiter and ordered her drink, Nino tried not to stare at her. Her pale lucent skin and chestnut waves set off the green of her eyes. He had never felt so captivated. He forced himself to look away, to think about Bianca, who until this moment, he had considered the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. He drew in his breath.
“And what are we celebrating?” Viola asked, looking from one to the other. She undid her coat, but kept it on.
Nino turned to Lt. Adams, who had dropped something and was now reaching for it under the table. “Beauty,” he improvised, waving his arm to encompass the opulent white marble, Venetian glass, blue tesserae and gold-foiled ceiling. “And comfort too. We’re celebrating the fact that we’re here, alive, in the midst of a war.” He raised his glass, and Viola and Lt. Adams raised theirs too.
“It’s been a terrible year,” Lt. Adams said. “Who knew we’d be in a world war during our lifetime?”
They all nodded. At the beginning of the month, Germany had invaded Vichy, France, and now most of Europe was under German occupation. The disaster at Dieppe in August had incurred massive casualties, and in North Africa, the British Army had retreated to Egypt. While Lt. Adams spoke about the British in Africa, Nino superimposed a road on the sheer side of a mountain, Elio, the stench of death.
Viola listened, and said little. It made Nino think that she was intimidated by Lt. Adams.
He turned to her. “And you?” he said. “How have you been faring in this war?”
“I’ve helped wherever I could,” she said. “I’m at the War Office now.” She nodded to Lt. Adams. “We’re all managing in our own ways.”
“Well said!” Lt. Adams raised his glass then downed the rest of its contents. “And now, I think we should be off to dinner. Viola, we’d be pleased if you’d join us, wouldn’t we, Cassar?”
“Of course,” Nino said.
Viola eyed them both a little hesitantly. “I wouldn’t want to intrude—” she began.
“Please,” Lt. Adams said, smiling. “It would be our pleasure.”
She smiled at them, and shrugged lightly. “If you insist.”
They stood to move to the restaurant. Nino walked behind Lt. Adams, following Viola’s movements as he went. He felt inexplicably drawn to her. She was beautiful, yes, but he was no stranger to beautiful women. He sensed danger, in the possibility that he could lose himself in her. Perhaps, however, the danger was within himself.
When they were seated at a table, they ordered drinks, and were halfway through them when an officer approached. “A call for you, sir,” he said, nodding to Lt. Adams, who stood up.
“I’ll be right back,” he said. “Have a look at the menus.” He followed the officer to the front desk.
Nino sipped his drink, trying to come up with something clever to say now that he was alone with Viola. He wanted to impress her, but felt an unusual awkwardness.
“Do you usually come here for dinner?” he asked, then thought it an impertinent question, and wished he could take it back.
“No. Actually this is my first time.” She smiled.
Lt. Adams saved Nino from trying to consider what to say next. “I apologize,” he said. “I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me. An urgent matter.” He picked up his coat.
Nino stood up, alarmed. “Something urgent? Should I—”
“No, no, nothing like that,” Lt. Adams said. “Bureaucracy, I’m afraid.” He donned his overcoat, then addressed Viola, who looked uncertain at the sudden change of plans. “Viola, you’ll have dinner with Sergeant Cassar in my place, won’t you?”
“Yes, sir,” she said.
“I’ll take care of the bill,” Lt. Adams said.
Nino remained standing until Lt. Adams was gone, then took his seat. Viola slowly removed her coat and folded it neatly over the back of the chair beside her. She wore a lovely emerald green dress, over which lay a cream collar embroidered with tiny green flowers. She picked up her menu and studied it.
Nino did the same, stealing glances at her. He could hardly believe the choice of food: two starters, seven main courses, four puddings, coffee or tea. For the past two years, British restaurants had been operating on a non-profit basis, as community feeding centres funded by the government. For nine pence, thousands of people displaced by the bombings could have a meal with one serving of meat, fish, eggs or cheese, and two servings of vegetables. Private restaurants like the Criterion could offer three courses, but the maximum they could charge was five shillings. He looked up, and it occurred to him that she might have a date waiting at another restaurant.
“Have we taken you away from another dinner engagement?” he said. “If so, I’m sorry—”
“No, no,” she said, shaking her head. “I came in to relay a message. I was just leaving when Lt. Adams called me over.”
Nino relaxed at this. “Then I’m glad he saw you.”
She smiled again. “Have you been in the service long, Sergeant Cassar?” she asked, setting her menu aside.
“Almost two years.”
“Where were you posted?”
“In Malta through much of it,” Nino said, following his cover story. He told her of Malta’s importance as a base from which to attack Axis ships. “Churchill’s unsinkable aircraft carrier,” he said. “Malta might have been unsinkable, but it couldn’t avoid fierce fighting and bombings,” he said. “We fared worse than the London Blitz.”
She frowned, her eyes concerned. “You survived.”
“Was there another choice?” He grinned and set his menu down.
A waiter came and took their order.
It seemed miraculous that he could be here in London, in a luxurious restaurant, an enchanting woman across from him. He thought fleetingly about Antonio’s play in the POW camp, imagining himself right now inside a large tent, observing the British world he had chosen to inhabit. For a moment, that other world intruded, the cyclops eye of a Kenyan night train, his own longing, the damaged tunnels, the roadblocks, the blown-up bridges, the futile trek to Amba Alagi, the capture, Elio, all a lifetime ago.
Viola leaned forward and her fingers brushed his sleeve just below the elbow. “You have an accent,” she said. “Where are you from originally?”
“My parents were Italian so we spoke that at home. I was born in Malta,” he lied. “Italian used to be one of Malta’s official languages until fairly recently.”
Their meals arrived and they ate in silence for a few minutes.
Presently, Viola said, “My father is Italian, though he’s been living in London for the past two decades.”
Nino wondered if Viola’s father had left Italy willingly. He thought of Uncle Claudio and the squadristi. Three days before, on his return to London, he had walked past his uncle’s house, comforted by seeing it still standing. However, he had been forbidden by his superiors to visit his uncle or cousins or anyone he had been familiar with. They needn’t have worried, because Nino hadn’t maintained contact with them. He would have liked to tell Viola about his uncle, his self-exile, about his antifascist sentiments years before Italy fell under Mussolini’s fist, years before the current war began. Nino had heard that in the mid-1930s, many Italians with antifascist views had been exiled to remote provinces in southern Italy.
“And your parents?” she asked. “Are they still there?
Nino sighed, thinking of his aunt in Pozzecco, probably struggling under German occupation. She had lived through another war, through Austrian occupation. He hoped she was still alive. “No,” he told Viola. “They were both killed while visiting my aunt in hospital.” The lie weighed heavy in his heart, almost as if he had flung a fatal curse towards his aunt.
“I’m sorry,” Viola murmured. She reached across and touched his arm again. A shiver ran through him.
“It’s why I left,” he said. “I wanted to do more than defend. I wanted to avenge their deaths.” This was the truth.
“My brother is in the Navy,” Viola said. “I wonder where he is right now. If he’s all right.”
“Assume the best unless you hear different,” Nino said.
“Yes, I suppose you’re right.” She looked down at her hands and stroked the nails of her left hand with the thumb of her right hand. Their second course arrived.
“What about you,” Nino asked presently. “Where are you from?”
“Here,” she said. “British through and through.” She smiled. “Have you been in Britain long?”
“A few months,” he said.
“And what’s the verdict?”
“I’m getting used to it,” he said.
An invisible thread was drawing them closer. Nino looked away because staring into her eyes disoriented him.
They had finished dinner and were lingering over coffee when three firemen appeared in a doorway and calmly asked everyone to step outside for a few moments. There had been reports of smoke in one of the rooms, and they needed to clear the building to identify the source.
Nino and Viola donned their coats and followed the file of people out into the icy night. It was late November, though it felt more like January or February.
“I do hope it won’t be a winter like the last one,” Viola said. She pulled up the collar of her coat and fastened the top button.
They stood for a few moments among the other clientele waiting for the signal to return to the restaurant, men and women elegant and privileged. It made Nino think of stars, of their careless brilliance despite the war below. “Look up,” he said softly, and Viola followed his lead. “Do you think there are more dimensions than the one we live in?”
“Ummmm, maybe,” she said. “It’s possible.”
He told her that years before, he had visited the Brera Astronomical Observatory in Milan, where for a moment, he’d glimpsed a multi-dimensional world: eight clear acrylic squares stacked six inches apart, each dotted with stars. “Imagine this display as the universe,” the guide had said. “From this angle, you see a shelving unit made of acrylic. Come and look down onto it from above. What do you see now?” Nino had stepped forward and looked down. The stacks merged into one plane dense with stars, betraying the eye. He stared into Viola’s eyes. “Perhaps we’re all like that,” he said.
“Disguised,” she said, smiling, and for a moment, they were suspended in that thought.
“How long are we to be out here?” a man said, addressing a hotel employee while stamping from one foot to another to keep warm.
The hotel employee shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
Nino’s hands were cold. He hadn’t brought his gloves. Viola was shivering. “We might as well go,” he said reluctantly. “Do you live far?”
“A few blocks,” she said. “The walk will warm me.” She held out her hand to say goodbye.
“I’ll walk you home,” he said.
They set out along the street, Nino conscious of Viola’s body close to his. The air tingled with frost in the clear black sky. Here and there, puffs of steam floated past them, ethereal, transparent, like time. Nino wondered if he’d ever see her again.
“Do you miss your home?” she asked.
He thought about his aunt in Pozzecco, curved over a bicycle, avoiding German checkpoints on her search for wild greens, or crushing wheat to make bread, or helping orphaned children as she had done in that other war. “I miss them as they were,” he said. “I miss our lives before this war.” He tried to create a mental picture of his earlier life, his father murdered, his mother dead in the fire, Aunt Isabella his only touchstone. Bianca’s face materialized in front of him, as if to remind him of their liaisons, their furtive lovemaking — all so distant now, he could barely recall the sensations. “What about you?” he said. “Do you miss your family?”
“More than I can say.” She stumbled over an uneven spot on the sidewalk, and he held her arm to steady her.
For a moment, they were transfixed, close, touching. He leaned towards her until they were inches apart, then she abruptly drew back. He let go of her arm, feeling a strange elation, as if he’d experienced a momentary symmetry.
They walked on, turned down one street, then the next, until she said, “This is my hostel,” and stopped in front of a square brick building.
He didn’t want to leave. “Can I see you again?” he said.
She opened her purse and rummaged inside. He imagined she was searching for a piece of paper on which to write her number or address. However, as quickly as she’d begun, she snapped shut the purse and looked up. Her eyes were luminous, questioning. He took her hand and held it to his lips, blowing warm air into her palm.
Slowly she drew her hand away. “Are you leaving soon?” she asked. “Is that why you were having dinner with Lt. Adams?”
“Not as far as I know,” Nino said lightly. “I’ve been working in the War Office, just like you.” They were so compartmentalized that he didn’t have to worry that she’d question the lie. “We could have a drink or see a movie.”
“You can leave me a message here,” she said.
He wanted to kiss her, to hold her in his arms, to tell her the truth about everything, to tell her that he had no idea when he’d be back, but that if she only waited for him, he would be back. He was elated and perturbed by his own emotions. What about Bianca? Wasn’t he in love with Bianca? He moved a little closer towards Viola and she stepped back.
“Good night then,” she said wistfully. “Until we meet again.”
He watched her walk up the steps, then turn and wave her small gloved hand before unlocking the door and going inside. Until we meet again. It sounded both promising and final.
The following morning, Nino arrived at Baker Street, and into Lt. Adams’s office, where, behind a desk to one side, sat Viola.
Nino stared at her, shocked, as the realization overcame him that she had been nothing more than a trap, that he’d misread every signal, that he’d believed the attraction was mutual.
Viola avoided his gaze, and stared down at the papers on her desk.
“I guess I’ve passed this scheme,” he said, bitterly.
Lt. Adams got up and greeted him, shook his hand. “I’m sorry I had to do that. Don’t blame Viola. She was just doing her job.” He clapped Nino on the back. “We need to know you can stick to your cover. It’s standard procedure. The Germans will surely test you and if you can’t resist a pretty girl here, you certainly won’t resist one out in the field, which means you’d put more than yourself at risk.”
Nino felt numb, stupid. How could he have believed this woman was interested in him? He narrowed his eyes at her, but she did not look up.
He left, furious with himself and her. Back at his hostel, he packed his suitcase with identity papers, ration cards, and travel permits, all made in SOE’s forgery department. He shoved in his clothes created by SOE tailors familiar with European designs and fabrics. It was rumored that German Security Police specialists would examine clothing weaves, because British ones were different from continental ones. He took one of Bianca’s letters and slipped it into his coat pocket.
Outside the hostel, Nino joined a group of agents waiting for their ride to Glasgow, then onto a ship bound for North Africa, where they would undertake more training. He thought of the irony of his return to Africa as a different person, with a different loyalty. On deck, the wind assailed him as he listened to emergency procedures. At night, he lay on one of the cots stacked four-high, under a tarpaulin that whipped and flapped around them. He pulled out Bianca’s letter and held it against his heart. His hands were frigid, but he didn’t need to open the letter. He’d memorized it long ago in the loneliness of the POW camp, and now recited the words in his head. How foolish he’d been, how easily infatuated with Viola’s green eyes and pretty face. A honeytrap. That’s all she was. Well, she hadn’t succeeded and for this, he was proud. He wondered how many other agents she’d betrayed, then forced himself to stop thinking of her. He’d escaped.
