William Boyd - Waiting for Sunrise

The show had begun by the time Lysander slipped into his seat. A ‘ballet’ of French maids and a hairdresser as far as he could tell.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said to Vandenbrook and turned slightly to gain a better angle on him. He was in a suit, his hair was oiled flat with a middle parting and he had combed down the uptilted ends of his moustache. He already looked entirely different from the usual person he presented to the world — weaker-looking and much less attractive.

“Got the spectacles?”

Vandenbrook fished in his pocket and put them on.

“Ideal. Keep wearing them.”

They were clear-lensed, plain glass with wire rims, borrowed from a theatrical props agency in Drury Lane. As the ballet continued Lysander ran through the plan once more, making sure Vandenbrook understood exactly what to do. There was no need to whisper or even lower his voice as the auditorium was loud with a sustained growl of conversation and the to-ing and fro-ing of people leaving their seats and going to the bars and drinks counters that ringed the stalls. Many of them, Lysander noticed, were uniformed soldiers and sailors. Almost everyone seemed to be smoking so he offered Vandenbrook a cigarette and they both lit up as the ballet ended and the comedy sketch began.

When the curtain came down the Master of Ceremonies reminded them that the top of the bill in the second half of the evening’s entertainment was the ‘celebrated West End actor’ Mr Trelawny Melhuish, who would be reciting the soliloquies of Hamlet, Prince of Denmark. Lysander and Vandenbrook filed out into the aisles and headed for the stalls’ lobby bar. To be or not to be, Lysander thought.

“We’ll split up here,” he said, as they reached the curtained doorway that led to the lobby.

The stalls’ lobby was a wide, curving, low-ceilinged corridor, dimly lit with flickering gas sconces and very crowded with people who had come in off the street and those who were now pouring out of the auditorium. Lysander edged his way towards the central bar opposite the stairs leading up from the entrance. Standing some way back, a silent trio, in civilian clothes as he’d specified in the telegrams he’d sent to them, were Munro, Fyfe-Miller and Massinger. He glanced back to make sure that Vandenbrook was nowhere near him but couldn’t spot him in the throng. Good.

He approached the three men, circling round behind them. They all looked ill at ease, uncomfortable in this bibulous, flushed, shouting crowd. Even better, Lysander thought.

“Gentlemen,” he said, suddenly appearing in front of them. “Thanks for coming.”

“What’re we doing here, Rief? What kind of tomfoolery is this?” Massinger snarled at him.

“I had to make sure I wasn’t followed,” he said. “I don’t trust anyone at the Directorate.”

“What’s going on?” Munro said, his eyes flicking around the faces of the crowd. “What’s your game, Rief? What was so damn urgent to bring us all here?”

“I’ve found Andromeda,” Lysander said, immediately gaining their full attention.

“Oh, yes?” Fyfe-Miller said with undue scepticism, Lysander thought. Over Fyfe-Miller’s left shoulder Lysander could see Vandenbrook circling closer. The disguise was excellent, Lysander thought — Vandenbrook looked like a timid accounts clerk out on the town looking for sin.

“Yes,” Lysander said. He had to draw this out a little, give Vandenbrook as much time as possible. “It’s someone quite high up.”

“It’s not Osborne-Way — don’t waste our time.”

“It’s his number two,” Lysander said. “Mansfield Keogh.”

The three looked at each other. They clearly knew who Keogh was.

“Mansfield Keogh,” Massinger said. “Good god almighty.”

“Yes, Keogh,” Lysander said, half aware of Vandenbrook moving around their group. “Everything fits. The trips to France tally. Only he had all the information in the Glockner letters.”

“But why would he do it?” Munro said, sounding unconvinced.

“Why does anyone?” Lysander said, looking at all three of them pointedly. “There are three reasons why someone betrays their country — revenge, money,” he paused. “And blackmail.”

“Nonsense,” Massinger said. Munro and Fyfe-Miller kept quiet.

“Think about it,” Lysander said.

“How do any of those categories fit Keogh?” Fyfe-Miller said, frowning.

“His wife died recently, very young — maybe it’s driven him a bit insane,” Lysander said. “But I don’t know, in the end. I was just gathering evidence, not looking for motives.”

“Well, we can ask him when we arrest him,” Munro said with a thin smile. “Tomorrow — or maybe tonight.”

Everyone fell silent contemplating the reality of the situation.

“So — Keogh is Andromeda,” Massinger said, almost to himself.

“Well done, Rief,” Munro said. “You took your time but you got there in the end. I’ll be in touch. Keep going to work in the Annexe as usual.”

“Yes, good hunting, Rief,” Fyfe-Miller added, allowing himself a wide smile. “We thought you’d be the man to winkle him out. Bravo.”

A bell began to clang, announcing the second portion of the evening’s entertainment. The crowd began to drift back into the auditorium and for the first time Lysander became aware of the painted women standing around.

“I’ll leave you chaps here,” he said with a smile. “I’m going to watch the rest of the show. Best to go out one by one.” He turned and walked away, glad to see no sign of Vandenbrook.

“Evening, my lord,” one of the doxies said to him, smiling. “Doin’ anything after?”

He glanced back to see Massinger leaving. Fyfe-Miller and Munro were talking urgently, their heads close together. I’ll give it twenty-four hours, Lysander thought, pleased with the way everything had run — something would happen.

Vandenbrook was in his seat already, smoking, waiting for the curtain to go up.

Lysander joined him and handed him a pint of lager beer. He had one for himself.

“Well done,” he said. “Do you like this stuff? I developed quite a taste for it in Vienna.”

“Thanks.” He seemed a bit subdued and sipped at the froth at the top of the glass.

“Well?”

“I didn’t recognize any of them. Except that fellow with the step-collar. He looked familiar somehow.”

“Massinger?”

“I think I may have seen him before. In my War Office days. Is he an army man?”

“Yes. So — conceivably he might know who you were.”

“Possibly — he seemed familiar.”

Lysander thought — it was hardly evidence. The orchestra in the pit began to play a military march and the curtain rose to reveal a chorus of girls in khaki corsets and bloomers carrying wooden rifles. Cheers, whoops and whistles went up from the audience. This was what they wanted to see — not Mr Trelawny Melhuish reciting soliloquies.

“So Massinger could be Andromeda,” Lysander said.

“Andromeda? What’s that?”

“That’s the codename we gave you. When the search began.”

“Oh, right.” Vandenbrook looked a little uncomfortable at the thought he had been identified by a code word, Lysander supposed. “Why Andromeda?”

“It was my choice, actually. Taken from a German opera. Andromeda und Perseus by Gottlieb Toller.”

“Oh, yes. It’s a bit saucy that one, isn’t it?”

“Never saw it,” Lysander said, his eye suddenly caught by a tall, leggy dancer who reminded him of Blanche. He put a sixpence in the slot that freed the catch on the opera glasses fixed to the back of the seat in front of him and raised them to his eyes for a closer look. Might as well enjoy the show, he thought.