‘I see,’ said Phil, dully.
‘That’s why I wanted to go on this trip now. It might be the last chance I’ll have, and I want to do it before I die. It’s also why I asked you to come and drive me. I need a companion, and someone with me if something goes wrong.’
‘But I’m only eighteen,’ Phil said. ‘Surely Mum would have been better? Or one of your friends?’
‘You underestimate yourself,’ said Emma with a grin. ‘And remember I asked you to do exactly as I asked?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK. I understand you are upset now. But I want you to put that out of your mind. I don’t want sympathy, I don’t want pity, and above all I don’t want us both to be miserable for the next couple of weeks. This will be my last holiday and I want to enjoy it. Your job is to help me enjoy it. I’m not sure your mother would be able to do that, but I think you can. Do you understand?’
Phil took a deep breath. ‘Yes. I understand.’ He closed his eyes. He didn’t want to think about his grandmother dying. So he wouldn’t.
He would do what she asked.
He opened his eyes, forced a smile and picked up his glass of wine. ‘To a wonderful holiday, Grams!’
His grandmother smiled back, a genuine smile of pleasure and gratitude. ‘Cheers, Philip.’
The journey to Paris from Pont l’Évêque was less cheery than the morning drive. Emma’s news had shaken Phil. He thought about the gun he had seen in Emma’s suitcase. Was she planning to use it on herself?
No. Phil was being paranoid.
But if not herself, who was she planning to use the gun on? Old English ladies didn’t usually pack heat to protect themselves.
Was she planning to shoot him? No, that really was ridiculous.
Could it have something to do with that little chat with his French teacher’s friend Mr Swann in the Three Castles earlier that week?
Possibly.
He recalled the conversation. Swann leaning forward to sip his pint as he fixed Phil with his calm brown eyes, the soft yellow pub lighting reflecting off his smooth forehead.
‘This is what I want you to do, if you are willing,’ the mysterious civil servant had said.
Phil nodded.
‘I know about your grandmother’s trip. I believe she plans to revisit old haunts. Places she lived before the war. And she intends to see people she knew then.’
‘That’s the impression I got.’
‘One of them may be a man called Lothar. Lothar isn’t his real name; it’s a code name. He used other aliases. Bruno Fleischmann. Anton Bartkowicz.’
‘Is he some kind of spy?’
Swann nodded. ‘Or at least he was. A long time ago. We don’t know very much about him, or where he lives now. If your grandmother finds him, we would like to know about it. We would like to know where he is.’
‘If you can’t find him, how do you think my grandmother will?’
Swann grinned. ‘I’m sure it hasn’t escaped your notice, Phil, but your grandmother is a very intelligent lady.’
‘Why don’t you ask her directly?’
‘We have.’
‘And she said no?’
Swann nodded.
‘Yet you want me to tell you where this Lothar is behind her back?’
‘Yes. It’s very important to us. To our country.’ Swann hesitated. ‘To your country.’
‘Can you tell me why?’
‘I can. But when I do, you will realize why I insist that you keep quiet about this conversation to everyone, especially to your grandmother.’
Phil swallowed. He felt a little as if he was betraying Grams by just listening to this. On the other hand, it intrigued him. How could he not listen to it? There were few people he trusted more than Mr Parsons, and Eustace had vouched for this man.
‘OK.’
‘We believe that Lothar knows of the identity of a spy. Someone who has been working for the Russians since before the war. Someone who is now high up in our government or the intelligence services.’
‘You mean like Philby?’
‘Yes. Like Philby. Or Maclean or Burgess. And a number of others whom the public doesn’t know about.’
‘A mole?’
Swann grinned. ‘I see you have read your le Carré. We don’t call them moles, but yes, that’s exactly the kind of person we are looking for.’
‘And this Lothar can tell you the identity of your mole?’
‘We believe so. It’s even possible that you might come across some clues as to who this man might be. Keep your eyes and ears open and your wits about you. And Phil?’
‘Yes?’
‘I meant what I said about not telling your grandmother. It’s for her own safety — and yours. I’m sure you know how wilful she is. If she thinks that we are looking for Lothar, she might do something she will later regret. Something that puts her in danger.’
‘Like what?’
‘I can’t be specific. Just trust me.’
‘What do I do if we find Lothar? Or I discover who your mole is?’
‘How good is your memory?’
‘Pretty good.’
‘All right. Here is a telephone number.’ He reached into his breast pocket and extracted a simple file record card, on which a number was written in clear pencil. ‘Memorize it and then rip up this card. If you come across any information that might be useful, ring this number, reversing the charges if necessary, and ask for me by name.’
‘Mr Swann?’
‘That’s correct. Whoever answers the phone will know who you are, and put you through to me if they can. Otherwise, leave a message.’
Phil took the card.
‘Will you do that?’
Phil was eighteen. This was exciting. There was some risk — that was exciting too. He would be working behind his grandmother’s back, but he would also be doing something for his country. Phil was well aware that young men his age had done a lot more for their country in the past than travel around Europe with their grandmothers and make phone calls, even ones where you had to reverse the charges in a foreign language.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, Mr Swann. I’ll do it.’
Ten
Emma was watching him. She didn’t know what he was thinking, but she knew he was thinking something.
Phil remembered he was supposed to be cheering her up. He forced a small smile. Then with a supreme effort of will, he transformed it into a big grin.
‘Come on, Grams, let’s have some French pop.’
‘French pop? And where would I find that?’
‘On the radio.’
Emma twiddled the knobs and soon loud French punk music filled the car.
Or not exactly French. Phil recognized the song. ‘This is Plastic Bertrand, you know, Grams,’ he said.
‘Oh really?’
‘Yeah. But he’s not French, he’s Belgian. Not many people realize that. Or not English people anyway. I just wanted to impress you with my musical knowledge.’
‘I am impressed,’ said Emma. ‘Do you like it?’
‘I do,’ Phil admitted. ‘But for God’s sake don’t tell Mel. It will ruin my street cred.’
‘And what’s your street cred?’
‘That is a very good question.’
They drove along listening to ‘Ça plane pour moi!’ belting out across the Norman countryside.
When the song had finished, Emma spoke. ‘Not really my cup of tea, Philip. I think I agree with your sister.’
‘That is your right.’
‘Also — I think you’ll find that although Monsieur Bertrand was born in Belgium, his father was in fact French. Am I correct? I read an interview with him in The Times a couple of years ago.’