And by a twenty-eight-year-old, sixteen years younger than Peter, a girl. But twenty-eight was old when compared to the young men who had gone to war. Elena had damn well better be up to the job of getting Aiden Strother out! What the hell did anyone’s vanity, or career, or hurt feelings, or broken heart matter, compared with peace?
He reached his home and went through the gate. He put his key in the door, turned it, and let himself in. The hall was the same as always, except there was no post on the hall table. Had Pamela already taken it inside? The house was quiet, with no aroma of cooking or, better yet, baking.
He called out, “Hello!” He wanted her to be home, simply to have someone to demand something from him, to momentarily forget his fears for Elena, and Lucas’s anger, Bradley’s criticism.
“Pamela.”
No answer.
“Pamela!” His voice sounded sharper than he had meant it to.
He opened the sitting-room door and went in. The glass doors onto the garden were closed. He walked across to them, where he could see the lawn and flowerbed beyond. Pamela was standing near the rosebushes, a woven raffia flower basket in one hand and secateurs in the other, the sun at her back, bright on her hair. She was carefully selecting the bronzes and the reds and laying them side by side, watching the mound of brilliant colors grow.
She had always had a good eye for putting together surprising blends and mixtures. It was the one thing about her that had startled him with joy. Why did he not share it more often?
He opened the door and went out.
She looked up. “You’re early.” She frowned slightly.
He had no answer that he was prepared to share. It would worry her. She had always been secure in his income, because he worked for the government. Like the families of many MI6 officers, she had only the vaguest idea of what he did. If she had any curiosity, she was far too well versed in expected behavior to ask. Their roles were complementary, but quite separate. He did not tell her how to organize the house or manage the domestic finances; she did it well. Everything worked, always. That was enough.
“I went in early this morning,” he replied, although she had not asked. “I think I’ll go for a walk over toward the fields. I’ve been sitting all day.”
“Dinner’s at seven,” she said briefly. She hesitated as if she was going to add something but changed her mind. Then she picked up a yellow rose and put it in her basket. She glowed, as if she had turned a light on inside the petals.
He went to the telephone and made the usual brief call to Lucas. It was time he faced the issue. Then he walked to the garage and drove his car out. Even that small act gave him a sense of freedom, since he went to work on the train. He could have walked to meet Lucas, but he lacked the energy and he needed to be there soon, as the sun was lowering already, spreading a patina of gold across the land.
He parked the car in the lane at the edge of the woodland and went on through the gate, closing it behind him. He walked the slightly winding track, which in spring was carpeted with bluebells and where one could hear the calling of new lambs. Now there was silence, except for the wind stirring the leaves far above him, the occasional early yellow one drifting down from its branch. Autumn was on its way, evident from a cooling of the air, the sun reaching the horizon earlier each evening, a swirling of small birds returning home. He was going to the usual place, where he always met Lucas in these woods. He had first found it without conscious thought. Habit was dangerous in his profession. The last thing he should be was predictable, but everyone needed some certainties in life, something to rely on, without having to think first.
Lucas was waiting for him. Peter had let the peace of the woods wrap around his mind, and he had not thought what he was going to say. Not exactly. And “exactly” mattered.
The sun shone through a break in the branches and caught Lucas’s face. He had been smiling until he heard Peter’s foot break a tiny twig and he turned. The light made him look older, as if a weariness inside had ceased to be hidden. Was that his anxiety over Elena?
Peter envied him that. He realized that there was no one he loved so deeply that their absence would leave that type of hole. He knew how great the loss would be if Lucas were absent because he chose to be, and not because he could not help it.
He reached Lucas and stopped. “Thought you might like some news, even slight,” he said. Why did he begin with banalities? Because it was somehow indecent to begin with the emotion burning inside, like stripping off one’s clothes. You left the other person with no way to retreat.
Lucas understood. He was the same: understated, subtle, emotionally aware. Very English.
They walked slowly, side by side, down the path beside the stream. It was almost silent, with too little water in it to rattle on the stones.
Toby was standing in it up to his chest. He had seen a water rat go down a hole in the bank, and it was obvious he was waiting, watching for it to reappear.
“I heard from Elena that she’s found Strother,” Peter remarked.
“Good,” Lucas answered. “That was quite quick.”
“She didn’t need a lot of training: details rather than principle,” Peter observed.
“It’s dangerous, though,” Lucas added. He did not turn to look at Peter but rather kept his eyes on his feet to avoid tripping over the big roots that erupted from the soil, breaking the smooth track.
“Yes, she knows that. But this information is vital.”
Lucas smiled with a downward twist to his mouth. “And not Strother’s life?”
“Only to him,” Peter replied. He knew now what he was going to say. A part of him hated it. “The information is unique, I think. We’ll lose agents sometimes, that’s understood. If their lives mattered more than what they can tell us, we wouldn’t send them. You’ve seen enough to know that. They weren’t your grandchildren, like Elena, but that’s hardly relevant. If it is, you’re not fit for the job.”
“Feelings and thoughts are not the same, Peter, and you know that,” Lucas replied quietly. “What’s more to the point now is that Elena knows it, too. She would hate it if you gave her special treatment.”