“Where, then?”
“I work for the British Foreign Office.”
“So you’re a spy.” She glanced toward the wispy-haired man. “And him?”
“He’s an associate.”
“He doesn’t look British to me.”
“He isn’t.”
“What about Rosencrantz?”
“Who?”
“Oh, never mind.” She heard resignation in her own voice. It was finally over. “How on earth did you find me?”
Her question seemed to take the Englishman by surprise. “It’s a long story, Madame Bettencourt.”
“I’m sure it is.” The bags were growing heavy. “Am I in some sort of trouble?”
“I shouldn’t think so.”
“Everything I did, I did as a matter of conscience.” She was confused. Was it Kim talking, or her? “And what about my—” Abruptly, Charlotte stopped herself.
“Who, Madame Bettencourt?”
Not yet, she thought. Better to keep something in reserve in case she needed to purchase her freedom. She didn’t trust the man, nor should she. The British were the greatest liars God ever created. This she knew for a fact.
The tall, pale one was now standing next to her. Gently, he pried the plastic sacks from her grasp and placed them in the trunk of a Renault sedan before sliding agilely behind the wheel. The wispy-haired man sat in front; Charlotte and the one with blue eyes, in back. As the car drew away, she thought of the books lining the shelf in her alcove, and the antique Victorian strongbox beneath her desk. Inside was a leather-bound scrapbook, so old it smelled only of dust. The long boozy lunches at the St. Georges and the Normandie, the picnics in the hills, the afternoons in the privacy of her apartment, when his defenses were down. There were also eight yellowed snapshots of a child, the last one taken in the autumn of 1984, on Jesus Lane in Cambridge.
47
Zahara—Seville
The car shot past Charlotte’s villa without slowing. The tiny forecourt was empty, but she thought she glimpsed movement in one of the windows. Jackals, she thought, picking over the bones. It had finally happened. Her life had teetered over the edge of the crag and crashed to the floor of the valley. She had been a willing participant, it was true, but it was Kim at long last who had dragged her down. Charlotte was not the first; Kim had left much human wreckage in his wake. She thought again of the Victorian strongbox beneath her desk. They knew, she thought. Perhaps not all of it, but they knew.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“Not far,” replied the blue-eyed Englishman.
Just then, her Seiko wristwatch shrieked. “My pills!” Charlotte exclaimed. “I can’t leave without my pills. Please go back.”
“Don’t worry, Madame Bettencourt.” He fished an amber prescription bottle from his jacket pocket. “These?”
“The other, please.”
He handed her the second bottle. She shook a tablet into her palm and swallowed it without water, which seemed to impress him. The villa was gone from view. Charlotte wondered whether she would ever see it again. It had been a long time since she had ventured more than walking distance from it. When she was younger she had traveled the length and breadth of Spain by motorcar—such was the life Comrade Lavrov’s money had afforded her. But now that she was old and could no longer drive, her world had shrunk. Oh, she supposed she could have traveled by coach, but it held no appeal, all those sweaty proletarians with their garlic sandwiches and howling children. Charlotte was a socialist—a communist, even—but her commitment to the revolution did not extend to public transport.
The valley was green with the winter rains. Rosencrantz had only his left hand on the steering wheel. With his right he was tapping a nervous rhythm on the center console. It was driving Charlotte to distraction.
“Does he always do that?” she asked the Englishman, but he only smiled in response.
They were approaching the turnoff for the A375. The signpost that flashed past Charlotte’s window readsevilla. Rosencrantz lurched into the exit lane without slowing or bothering to signal. So did the car in front of them, observed Charlotte, and the one following.
“How much longer?” she asked.
“An hour and a half,” answered the Englishman.
