William Boyd - Waiting for Sunrise

“It’s very complicated, Rief,” Massinger said. “I don’t know if you’ve been following the war news closely, but this year we have embarked on several significant ‘pushes’ — big attacks — at Neuve Chapelle, Aubers Ridge and recently at Festubert. They haven’t been complete disasters but let’s say we failed signally in almost all of our objectives.” He put his cup down. “It was as if we were expected, if you know what I mean. Trenches opposite were reinforced, new redoubts built, reserves were in place for counter-attacks, extra artillery behind the support lines. Almost uncanny…We suffered very, very heavy casualties.”

His voice trailed off and he looked, for a second, a worried and almost desperate man.

Munro took over.

“We think — to be blunt — that, somewhere in our high command, there is…” he paused, as if the concept were eluding him. “No, there’s no other way of putting it — there’s a traitor. Passing on intelligence of our forthcoming attacks to the enemy.”

“And you think these coded messages are evidence,” Lysander said.

“Exactly.” Fyfe-Miller leaned forward. “The beauty of this is that, as soon as we have these codes deciphered, we’ll know who he is. We’ll have him.”

Fyfe-Miller was staring at him with that odd hostile-friendly intensity he had. Lysander felt his mouth go dry and a muscle-tremor start up in his left calf. Fyfe-Miller smiled at him.

“We know what you can do, Rief — remember? We’ve seen your capabilities in Vienna, seen you in action. That’s why we thought of you. You speak excellent German and you’re an unknown face and an unknown quantity. You’re intelligent, you think on your feet.”

“I don’t suppose I can do anything but volunteer.”

Munro spread his hands apologetically.

“It’s not an option available to you, I’m afraid,” he said. “Not volunteering.”

Lysander exhaled. In a way, he thought, being backed into a corner was better than being asked to do your duty.

“However,” Massinger said, “there is the matter of your outstanding debt to His Majesty’s Government since the Vienna business. Somewhere above one thousand pounds, now, I believe.”

“We would see this mission as payment in full,” Munro said. “A recognition of the somewhat unorthodox nature of the task we’re asking you to perform.”

“Fair exchange is no robbery,” Fyfe-Miller said.

Lysander nodded as if he knew what he was talking about. He kept hearing Hamo’s words: any fool can obey an order — it’s how you interpret it that counts.

“Well, that’s an incentive, at any rate,” he said, with admirable calm, he thought. “I’m ready when you are.”

Everybody smiled. Another pot of tea was called for.

Fyfe-Miller then took me upstairs to a bedroom. On the bed was a suitcase that he flipped open.

“It’s your new uniform,” he said. “You’re now a lieutenant — on lieutenant’s pay — attached to the General Staff. We’ll take you up to the line — we think we’ve calculated the best place — and you can go out on a patrol one night — ” he stopped and smiled. “Don’t look so worried, Rief. You’re going to have masses of briefings before you go. You’ll know the plan better than your family history. Why don’t you try it on?”

Fyfe-Miller stepped out on to the landing while I undressed and put on my new uniform, complete with red, staff-officer flashes on the lapels. It fitted perfectly and I said as much to Fyfe-Miller.

“Your tailor, Jobling, was very helpful.” He looked at me and smiled one of his slightly manic grins. “To the manor born, Rief. Very smart.”

Once again I wonder what machinations have been going on behind the scenes. How had they known about Jobling? Perhaps not so hard to find out, I suppose. I think of these three men and their new influence over me and my destiny: Munro, Fyfe-Miller and Massinger. A duo I know — a little — and an unknown. Who’s in charge of this show? Massinger? If so, whom does he report to? Is Fyfe-Miller a subordinate to the other two? Questions build. My life seems to be running on a track I have nothing to do with — I’m a passenger on a train but I have no idea of the route it’s taking or its final destination.

♦

I’ve moved hotel, from Bayswater to South Kensington. I have a bedroom and a small sitting room with a fireplace — should I need a fire. The days are growing noticeably milder as summer begins to make its presence felt.

And for me, suddenly — as someone who’s about to go there — the news from the front seems acutely relevant. I find I am following the bloody, drawn-out end of the battle of Festubert with unusual interest. I read the news of this great triumph for the British and Empire troops (Indians and Canadians also participated) but even to the uninitiated the cavils and the qualifications in the accounts of the battle stand out. ‘Brave sacrifice’, ‘valiant struggle’, ‘in the face of unceasing enemy fire’ — these tired phrases give the game away. Even some semi-covert criticism: ‘insufficient numbers of our heavy guns’. Casualties acknowledged to be in the tens of thousands. Maybe more.

♦

Mother has forwarded my mail. To my surprise there’s a letter from Dr Bensimon which I here transcribe:

My dear Rief,

I trust all is well, in every sense of the word. I wanted to let you know that I and my family left Vienna as soon as it was clear that war was inevitable. I have set up practice here in London should you ever have the need to avail yourself of my professional services. In any event, I should be pleased to see you. My consulting rooms are at 117, Highgate Hill. Telephone: HD 7634.

Sincere salutations, John Bensimon

PS. The results of our Vienna sessions in 1913 were published in this year’s Spring number of Das Bulletin für psychoanalytische Forschung . You go by the pseudonym ‘The Ringmaster’.

I feel warmed and touched by this communication. I always liked and respected Bensimon but I was never quite sure what he thought about me. “In any event, I should be pleased to see you.” I take that as clear encouragement, almost friendly, an explicit invitation to make contact.

Every day, Monday to Friday, I go to the house in Islington to be briefed by Munro, Fyfe-Miller and, increasingly, Massinger. I study maps and, in the basement, familiarize myself with a detailed sand-model of a portion of our front line. I thought this must be a War Office intelligence operation but I’m beginning to suspect it originates in some other secret government department. One day, Massinger referred inadvertently to a person known as ‘C’ a couple of times. I overheard him say to Fyfe-Miller, with some fervour, even suppressed anger, “I’m running Switzerland but ‘C’ thinks it’s a waste of time. He thinks we should be concentrating our efforts in Holland. We’re counting on Rief to prove him wrong.” What the hell does that mean? How am I meant to respond to that challenge? When I had an opportunity I asked Fyfe-Miller who this ‘C’ was but he said simply, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Stuff and nonsense.”

My Swiss railway engineer identity takes rapid shape. It’s based closely on an actual engineer — a man suffering from chronic duodenal ulcers in a Belgian sanatorium. We have quietly borrowed much of his identity as he lies in his ward, semi-conscious, suffering, hope fading. My name is Abelard Schwimmer. I’m unmarried, my parents are dead, I live in a small village outside Zürich. I saw my passport today — a very authentic-looking document filled with stamps and frankings from the borders I’ve crossed — France, Belgium, Holland and Italy. I’m to arrive in Geneva by ferry from the French side of the lake at Thonon and make my way to a medium-sized commercial hotel. The agent I’m to contact goes by the name of ‘Bonfire’. The Ringmaster meets the Bonfire. Bensimon would chuckle at that if he knew.