“Civil.”
“Did your family attend?”
“Of course not.”
“And how long did this union last?”
“Two years. Ours wasn’t a match made in heaven, Monsieur Allon. It was a match made at Moscow Center.”
“What precipitated the divorce?”
“Adultery.”
“How fitting.”
“Apparently, I was caught in flagrante with one of my husband’s closest friends. It was quite a scandal, actually. So was my heavy drinking, which had left me unfit to be a mother. For the good of the child, I agreed to surrender custody.”
A long and painful period of estrangement followed so that the child would become thoroughly English. Charlotte stayed in Paris for a time. Then, at Moscow Center’s behest, she settled in apueblo blancoin the mountains of Andalusia where no one would find her. There were letters at first, but soon the letters stopped. Sasha claimed they were slowing the transition.
Occasionally, Charlotte received vague, bland updates, such as the one that arrived in 1981 concerning admission to an elite British university. The update did not specify which university, but Charlotte knew enough of Kim’s past to make a reasonable assumption. Without informing Sasha, she returned to England in 1984 and made her way to Cambridge. And there, on Jesus Lane, she spotted the child of treason, Philby’s child, walking through the shadow cast by a tall redbrick wall, an unruly forelock covering one very blue eye. With her camera, Charlotte surreptitiously snapped a photo.
“It was the last time I...” Her voice trailed off.
“And after Cambridge?” asked Gabriel.
Charlotte received an update saying the endeavor had proven successful. She was never told which department of British intelligence it was, but she assumed it was MI6. Kim, she said, would have never settled for MI5, not after the way they pursued him so relentlessly.
“And you’ve had no contact in all these years?”
“Occasionally, I receive a letter, a few empty lines no doubt composed by Moscow Center. They contain no information about work or a personal life, nothing that I might use to—”
“Find the child you abandoned?” The remark wounded her. “I’m sorry, Madame Bettencourt, I don’t understand how—”
“That’s right, Monsieur Allon. You don’t.”
“Perhaps you could explain it to me.”
“It was a different time. The world was different.Theywere different.”
“Who?”
“The Russians. As far as we were concerned, Moscow was the center of the universe. They were going to change the world, and we were obliged to help them.”
“Help the KGB? They were monsters,” said Gabriel. “They still are.”
Greeted by silence, Gabriel asked when she had last received a letter.
“It was about two weeks ago.”
Gabriel concealed his alarm. “How was it delivered?”
“By an oaf called Karpov from the Madridrezidentura. He also informed me that Moscow Center would like me to take a long holiday in Russia.”
“Why now?” asked Gabriel.
“You would know better than I, Monsieur Allon.”
“I’m surprised they didn’t come for you a long time ago.”
