Restless

'It's ours, you mean? The map is ours – is that what you're saying?'

Romer looked at her with mild rebuke in his eyes, as if she were being too slow, lagging behind the class. 'Of course. Here's the story: German courier crashed his car in Rio de Janiero. Careless fellow. He was taken to hospital. In his briefcase was this fascinating map. Rather too convenient, don't you think? I was very reluctant to go down that road but our friends seem to have bought it wholesale.' He paused. 'By the way, I want you to get all this out on Transoceanic tomorrow. Everywhere – date-line US government, Washington DC. Have you pen and paper?'

Eva rummaged in her handbag for notebook and pencil and took down in shorthand everything that Romer listed: five new countries in the South American continent as displayed on Roosevelt's secret map. 'Argentina' now included Uruguay and Paraguay and half of Bolivia; 'Chile' took in the other half of Bolivia and the whole of Peru. 'New Spain' was composed of Colombia, Venezuela and Ecuador and, crucially, the Panama Canal. Only 'Brazil' remained substantially as it was.

'I must say it was a rather beautiful document: "Argentinien, Brasilien, Neu Spanien" – all criss-crossed by proposed Lufthansa routes.' He chuckled to himself.

Eva put her notebook away and used the excuse to sit quiet for a while, taking this in and realising that her gullibility, her susceptibility was still an issue – was she too easy to deceive, perhaps? Never believe anything, Romer said, never, never. Always look for the other explanations, the other options, the other side.

When she raised her eyes she found he was looking at her differently. Fondly, she would have said, with an undercurrent of carnal interest.

'I miss you, Eva.'

'I miss you, too, Lucas. But what can we do about it?'

'I'm going to send you on a course to Canada. You know, care of documents, filing, that sort of thing.'

She knew this meant Station M – a BSC forging laboratory run under cover of the Canadian Broadcasting Company. Station M produced all their fake documentation – she assumed the map had come from them, also.

'For how long?'

'A few days – but you can have a bit of leave before you go, as reward for all your good work. I suggest Long Island.'

'Long Island? Oh, yes?'

'Yes. I can recommend the Narragansett Inn in St James. A Mr and Mrs Washington have a room booked there this weekend.'

She felt an instinctive sexual quickening within her. A slackening, then a tightening of her bowels.

'Sounds nice,' she said, her eyes steady on his. 'Lucky Mr and Mrs Washington.' She stood up. 'I'd better go. Sylvia and I are going out on the town.'

'Well, be careful, be watchful,' he said, seriously, suddenly like an anxious parent. 'Triple-check.'

At that moment Eva wondered if she was in love with Lucas Romer. She wanted to kiss him, more than anything, wanted to touch his face.

'Right,' she said. 'Will do.'

He stood up, and left some coins on the table as a tip. 'Have you got your safe place?'

'Yes,' she said. Her safe house in New York was a one-room cold-water apartment in Brooklyn. 'I've got somewhere out of town.' It was almost true.

'Good.' He smiled. 'Enjoy your leave.'

On Friday evening Eva caught a train to Long Island. At Farmingdale she stepped off and caught another immediately back to Brooklyn. She left the station and wandered around for ten minutes before catching another train on the branch line that ended at Port Jefferson. There, she took a taxi to the bus station at St James. As they motored away from Port Jefferson she watched the cars that were behind them. There was one that seemed to be keeping its distance but when she asked the taxi driver to slow down it swiftly overtook. From the bus station she walked to the Narragansett Inn – she had no shadow as far as she could tell – she was rigorously obeying Romer's instructions. She was pleased to see that the inn was a large, comfortable, cream clapboard house set in a well-kept garden on the outskirts of town, with a distant view of the dunes. She felt a cold wind blowing off the Sound and was glad of her coat. Romer was waiting for her in the residents' sitting-room, where there was a snapping driftwood fire burning in the grate. Mr and Mrs Washington went straight upstairs to their room and didn't emerge until the next morning.

8. Brydges'

I READ THE LETTER out loud to my mother:

Dear Ms Gilmartin,

Lord Mansfield thanks you for your communication but regrets that, owing to pressure of work, he is unable to comply with your request for an interview.

Yours sincerely,

Anna Orloggi

(Assistant to Lord Mansfield)

'It's on House of Lords notepaper,' I added. My mother crossed the room and took the sheet from me, scrutinising it with unusual concentration, her lips moving as she reread the terse message of refusal. I wasn't sure if she was excited or not. She seemed calm enough.

'Anna Orloggi… I love it,' she said. 'I bet she doesn't exist.' Then she paused. 'Look,' she said. 'There's the telephone number.' She began to pace up and down my sitting-room. She'd come for an appointment with Mr Scott – a crown had loosened – and she had popped up, unannounced, to see me. The letter had arrived that morning.

'Do you want a glass of something?' I asked. 'Squash? Coca-Cola?' It was my lunch break: 'Bérangère had just left and Hamid was due at two. Ludger and Ilse had gone to London to 'see a friend'.

'I'll have a Coke,' she said.

'When did you stop drinking?' I said, going through to the kitchen. 'You certainly drank a lot in the war.'

'I think you know why,' she said drily, following me through. She took the glass from me and had a sip but I could see her mind was working. 'Actually, call that number now,' she said, her face suddenly animated. 'That's the thing: and say you want to talk to him about AAS Ltd, That should work.'

'Are you sure about this?' I asked. 'You could be opening some hideous can of worms.'

'Yes, that's exactly the idea,' she said.

I dialled the London number with some reluctance and then listened to it ring and ring. I was about to hang up when a woman's voice answered.

'Lord Mansfield's office.'

I explained who I was and that I'd just received a letter from Lord Mansfield.

'Ah, yes. I'm very sorry but Lord Mansfield is abroad and in any event does not grant interviews.'

So he doesn't 'grant' interviews, I thought. The woman's voice was clipped and patrician – I wondered if this was Anna Orloggi.

'Would you be so kind as to tell him,' I said, deciding to emphasise the patrician qualities in my own voice, 'that I want to ask him some questions about AAS Ltd.'

'It won't make any difference, I'm afraid.'

'I'm afraid it will if you don't tell him, especially to your continued employment. I know absolutely that he'll want to speak to me. AAS Ltd – it's very important. You have my phone number on my original letter. I'd be most grateful. Thank you so much.'

'I can't promise anything.'

'AAS Ltd. Please be sure to tell him. Thank you. Goodbye.' I hung up.

'Good girl,' my mother said. 'I'd rather hate to have you on the end of a phone.'

We wandered back through to the kitchen. I pointed out my new garden furniture and my mother duly admired it, but she wasn't concentrating.

'I know he'll see you now,' she said, thoughtfully. 'He won't be able to resist.' Then she turned and smiled. 'How was your date?'

I told her about Hamid and his declaration of love.

'How marvellous,' she said. 'Do you like him?'

'Yes,' I said. 'Very much. But I don't love him back.'

'Shame. But is he kind?'

'Yes. But he's a Muslim, Sal, and he's going to work in Indonesia. I can see where this conversation is going. No – he is not going to become Jochen's stepfather.'

She wouldn't stay for lunch but she told me to call her the minute I heard from Romer. Hamid arrived for his lesson and he seemed fine, more composed. We spent our time on a new chapter with the Ambersons – now returned from their unsatisfactory holiday at Corfe Castle only to have Rasputin run away – and explored the mysteries of the present perfect progressive. 'Rasputin has been acting a little strangely lately.' 'The neighbours have been complaining about his barking.' The fear of poisoning entered the cloistered world of Darlington Crescent. As he left Hamid asked me again to have dinner with him at Browns on Friday night but I said instantly that I was busy. He took me at my word: he seemed to have lost the agitation of our previous conversations but I noted the new invitation – it clearly wasn't over yet.