Then I got an even bigger surprise. The picture was a standard eighteenth-century portrait, terribly stylised, and, as was often the case, the sitter had been painted to look properly serious and educated. He was in a chair, looking learnedly at a piece of paper — this to disguise the fact that he had, in reality, made his fortune by becoming a developer of jerry-built properties for an expanding London. I peered carefully at the writing on the paper and caught my breath.
‘Henry!’ I called out. ‘What’s this?’
‘Qui moderatur tempus intelligit omnia. Family motto. Even more pointless than most, I think. No one has the faintest idea what it is supposed to mean.’
‘What does it mean?’ Latin was one of the few languages I hadn’t brought with me. I didn’t think I’d need it. The only word I recognised was the third.
‘He who controls time understands everything.’
‘Golly,’ I said.
‘I think he must have had a weakness for metaphysical poetry. I once tried to figure out where it came from. It must be some tag from a classical author, but I never tracked it down.’
I stared at Lucien carefully as Henry pottered off downstairs again. ‘Well, that’s complicated everything, hasn’t it?’
Sam Wind returned with another man, as anonymous as Wind was noticeable, late that evening. ‘Henry,’ they said as they walked straight into his study and poured themselves more of his whisky, then both settled themselves down on the settee.
‘Do come in. Would you like a drink?’ Lytten had not had a good day. He had only just managed to get Angela out of the door and was looking forward to some peace.
‘I’m afraid not. Volkov is in hospital.’
‘What? Whatever happened to him?’
‘Someone took a pot shot at him. We were taking him to the usual place near Yeovil. The van was going round the bend just outside the village, you remember how dangerous it is, so it slowed down a lot. And — pop. One shot.’
‘How badly was he hurt?’
‘He’ll live. Just. It hit him in the chest, but the driver — with commendable aplomb, I must say — pulled him down and slammed his foot on the accelerator. But for that, I’m sure there would have been another shot.’
Lytten fell silent. This was bad. Unexpected. This should not have happened. He examined Wind’s expression carefully, then looked away. Until now it had been almost a game. He had never really thought...
‘Where is he now?’
‘He’s being taken to an army hospital on Salisbury Plain. He’ll have half a tank regiment guarding him, so he should be safe.’
‘Poor fellow! We should have done better for him. What about the attacker?’
‘Not even a cartridge left behind.’
‘Someone who knew what they were doing.’
‘Yes. The point is...’
‘The point is that someone wanted to shut him up. Someone knew he would be in a van, slowing down and turning the corner. Is that what you are saying, Sam?’
‘Yes.’
‘I would like to ask a few questions, if you don’t mind.’ It was the other man, dark-haired, serious, looking slightly nervous.
‘Who are you?’
‘Forgive my companion,’ Wind drawled from the side. ‘He does have a name. Some county or other. Dorset? Devon? Somewhere like that. Careful what you say to him though.’ Wind looked annoyingly fake-conspiratorial for a moment. ‘I’ve seen him, scribbling away when he thinks no one will notice. You’ll probably turn up as a character in some thriller one day.’
‘Very interesting, but why is he here?’
‘Oh. He’s some junior diplomat, temporarily assigned to our new, ever-so-keen counter-intelligence department. Just temporary. I take him out for a walk every now and then to stop him going mad with frustration. Now. This man. This morning. The man who never was.’
‘Angela and I decided he was probably a foreign academic. He told her he was interested in an obscure manuscript in my family.’
‘I very much doubt that. The police evidence is quite clear. He was foreign, certainly, but he had no passport and no account of how he got here. Spoke fluent Russian. He knew Angela Meerson and wanted to find you.’
‘She doesn’t seem to have known him.’
‘So she says. How well do you know her, really?’
‘Angela? As well as I know anyone.’
‘Who were her parents?’
‘I don’t know. She’s never mentioned them.’
‘What is her nationality? By birth?’
‘English? French?’
‘Precisely. When did you first meet her?’
‘1939. In France.’
‘Ah yes. Near the Spanish border, which was, at the time, infested with Republicans, aided by the Soviet Union. Then, through you, she came to England and got a job with us.’
‘Only as a translator. She was brilliant at it. You know that.’
‘She was. Impeccable. Remarkably so.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I remember one conversation with her. I was despondent about the war. She brushed it aside, and said that because of Pearl Harbor, all would be well.’
‘She was right.’
‘She was. Except that she said it three months beforehand.’
‘Who knew about Volkov, Dr Lytten?’ It was the young man who spoke again. Very polite. He’d probably been through some training course. ‘Did you tell Angela Meerson about him coming?’
‘No. I asked her to come and translate only the day before. I didn’t say why.’
‘Did you tell her you were going away to France?’
‘No. No need. She has her own key if she wants to get something from the cellar.’
‘Was she ever in your house alone after Mr Wind delivered that package to you?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Yes or no?’
‘“Perhaps” is a common English word used to express uncertainty. If I knew I would have used a different term.’ He stood up to pour another drink. Old technique. Take command of the momentum. Enforce your own rhythm. Also a handy way of getting some time to think.
‘Let me sum up,’ Lytten said when he was back in his chair. ‘See if I get the drift of your questions properly. You are now convinced that Volkov is the real thing. You think that this man was a Russian sent to find him. You are beginning to think that the conduit between them was Angela. Which would mean that she is a long-term agent of the Soviet Union, who used me as a way of manoeuvring herself into a position where she could spy on us during the war. She discovered the papers on my desk, realised what they meant and tipped off her masters. They dispatched this strange man, who disappears and later takes a shot at him.’
He gazed balefully at the pair of them. ‘Balderdash. Pure gibberish. Sam? You don’t really think this nonsense, do you? You’re clutching at straws to avoid looking like an idiot.’
‘At least she needs to answer some questions. Clear things up.’
‘You’re getting spooked by nothing.’
‘Volkov is in hospital with a bullet in him. It’s not nothing.’
When I left Henry I made my way to my little home in Barton, where I had lived since relocating my activities to England. It was a charming place, newly built in a burst of post-war social engineering, with a tiny garden, delightfully picturesque neighbours and never-ending interest, especially after the pubs closed on a Friday night. I had carefully furnished it, using adverts in magazines as models, and it was very 1960 in its aesthetic tone. Lots of linoleum and Formica and brightly patterned curtains. I was hugely pleased with it, and used to sit at my Danish Moderne dining-room table, admiring the general effect. I had two beds, one in each bedroom, one for sleeping and the other for work; I always found that separating activities was important. It was the second I planned to use that evening, for I had a great deal of hard mental labour to get through, building the sudden irruption of Chang, Grange and Emily into my calculations. The number of variables had suddenly increased dramatically and I was, of course, hampered by the fact that I had no way of knowing what Hanslip would try to do. To my already complex calculations I also had to factor in the unknown and unknowable.