William Boyd - Waiting for Sunrise

But he felt a kind of inertia seize him as he wondered what the outcome of these next actions and investigations would be — and felt the near-irresistible urge to procrastinate. He knew that the moment he laid out his evidence in front of Vandenbrook everything would change — not just for Vandenbrook but for himself, also. And, perhaps, for his mother. But all history is the history of unintended consequences, he said to himself — there’s nothing you can do about it.

At the end of the day Lysander strolled along the Directorate’s corridors towards Vandenbrook’s office, feeling more than somewhat nervous and on edge. Vandenbrook was dictating a letter to his secretary and waved him to a chair. There was a green plant in a worked brass pot in one corner, a Persian rug on the floor, and on the wall, hung a nineteenth-century portrait of a whiskered dragoon with his hand on the pommel of his mighty sabre.

“— Whereupon,” Vandenbrook was saying, “we would be most grateful for your prompt and detailed responses. I have the honour to remain, obedient servant, etcetera, etcetera. Thank you, Miss Whitgift.” His secretary left.

“Applying leather boot to lazy arse,” he said to Lysander with a wink. “What can I do for you, Rief?”

“I wonder if we might have a discreet word, in private.”

“‘Discreet?’ ‘Private?’ Don’t like the sound of that, oh, no,” he said with a chuckle, taking his overcoat off the back of the door. “I’m heading home — why don’t you come with me? That way we can have a proper drink and still be ‘private’.”

They took a taxi back to Knightsbridge, Vandenbrook explaining that his wife and daughters had gone to the country — “to Inverswaven,” he said, as an aside, as if Lysander should know where and of what he was talking. Lysander nodded and safely said, “Lovely time of year.” He was feeling surprisingly tense but was acting very calm, and he thanked his profession once again for the trained ability to feign this sort of ease and confidence even when he was suffering from its opposite. He offered Vandenbrook a cigarette, lit his and his own with a flourish, flicked the match out of the window and kept up — in a loud, sure voice — a banal flow of conversation about London, the weather, the traffic, the last Zeppelin raid, how the blackout was a risible farce — “What’s the point of painting the tops of street lights black? It’s the pool of light they cast that you see from up in the air. Farcical. Risible.” Vandenbrook picked up the mood and the two of them bantered their way west across London. Vandenbrook asked him what he recommended at the theatre. Lysander said he simply had to see Blanche Blondel in The Conscience of the King . Vandenbrook said he would pay good money to hear Blanche Blondel read an infantry training manual — and so the two of them chatted on until they found themselves in Knightsbridge in no time at all.

Vandenbrook’s butler served them both brandy and sodas and they settled down in the large drawing room on the first floor. It was a little over-furnished, Lysander thought, a grand piano taking up rather too much of one corner of the room and thereby making the rest of the furniture seem jammed together. There were many vases filled with flowers, he saw, as if someone were seriously ill upstairs, and heavy gilt-framed paintings on the walls of Highland scenes in various seasons — perhaps painted around Inverswaven, he surmised.

“I think you’d better have your discreet word with me,” Vandenbrook said, not smiling for once. “The suspense is affecting my liver.”

“Of course,” Lysander said, standing and taking the envelope out of his inside pocket, unfolding it and handing it to Vandenbrook. “This was yours — ‘Capt. C. Vandenbrook — To be collected.’”

He could see his shock, suddenly visibly present. His lips pursed, the tendons on his neck flexed, his Adam’s apple bobbing above the knot of his tie.

“There are some sheets of paper inside,” Lysander added.

Vandebrook drew the pages half out, glanced at them and shoved them back in again. His eyes turned, to fix themselves on the painting above the fireplace — a stag on some moorland hill, mists swirling.

“Where did you get this?” he asked, his voice suddenly a little shrill.

“Where you left it — the Dene Hotel, Hythe.”

Vandenbrook hung his head and began to sob — a low keening sound, like an animal’s pain. Then he began to shake and rock back and forward. Lysander saw his tears fall on to the manila envelope on his lap, staining it. Then Vandenbrook toppled off his chair, slowly, and fell face forward, pressing his brow into the pile of the carpet, making a grinding, moaning noise as if some deep agonizing internal ache were forcing the sound from between his clenched teeth.

Lysander was shocked, himself. He hadn’t seen a man collapse so abjectly and so suddenly ever before. It was as if Vandenbrook had become instantly dehumanized, changing into a form of atavistic suffering unit that precluded any reasoning, any sentience.

Lysander helped him to his feet — now absurdly conscious of their situation, two uniformed English officers in a Knightsbridge drawing room, one a spy-hunter and the other the sobbing spy he had hunted and caught — and yet every instinct in him was concerned and humane. Vandenbrook was a man in extremis , gasping and snuffling, hardly able to stand.

Lysander sat him down and found some crystal decanters in an unlocked tantalus on a table beside the grand piano and poured him an inch-deep draught of some amber fluid. Vandenbrook took a gulp, coughed loudly and seemed to compose himself, his breathing more measured, his sobbing ceased. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve and stood up, taking some paces towards the fireplace and back. It struck Lysander that, should Vandenbrook attack him, he had no defensive weapon to hand — but Vandenbrook seemed docile, cowed: no threat at all.

He sat down again, smoothed his jacket, smoothed his hair and cleared his throat.

“What’re you going to do?” he asked, his voice still quavery and frightened.

“I have to give you up. I’m very sorry.”

“That’s why you appeared at the Directorate, didn’t you? To find me.”

“To find whoever was passing information to the enemy.”

Vandenbrook started to sob quietly again.

“I knew this would happen,” he said. “I knew someone like you would come one day.” He looked Lysander full in the face. “I’m not a traitor.”

“We’ll let the courts decide —”

“I’m being blackmailed.”

He asked Lysander to follow him and they went up half a flight of stairs to a small mezzanine room off a landing. This was his ‘study’, Vandenbrook explained — some bookshelves, a small oak partners’ desk with many narrow drawers and a green-shaded reading lamp. In a corner was a large jeweller’s safe, the size of a tea-chest. Vandenbrook crouched by it and turned its combination. He opened the door, reached in and removed an envelope, handing it to Lysander. The address said simply, ‘Captain Vandenbrook, Knightsbridge’.

“It’s always put through the letterbox,” Vandenbrook explained, “in the middle of the night.”

Lysander lifted the flap and drew out a photograph and two pages of grubby, typewritten paper. The photograph was of a young girl — ten or eleven, he thought, staring blankly at the camera. Her hair was thick and greasy and the cotton blouse she wore seemed too big for her. Around her neck, incongruously, was a single rope of fine pearls.

“I have a problem,” Vandenbrook said, weakly. “A personal failing, a vice. I visit prostitutes.”

“You’re saying this girl is a prostitute?”

“Yes. So is her mother.”