Dennis Wheatley - The Secret War

Now, that vision of peace and security had been shattered. It had been shaken the very second she came face to face with Lovelace again, for she knew him instantly, and during this month that they had been together his presence had fired in her that positive passion so utterly different from her deep, calm affection for Christopher. Last night her secret feelings had proved too strong for her, the barriers had gone down, and in that wonderful moment of revelation she knew what she had been suspecting for days past: he loved her with the same fierce, possessive passion as that which she felt for him.

Yet she felt sick, miserable and utterly ashamed. She did not wonder at Christopher's white hot anger when he found them, or that he had abused both her and Lovelace in terms that made them wince. To find the friend whom he admired and trusted and his fiancé, whom he had loved all his life, literally in each other's arms must have been an appalling shock; and he knew nothing of that fateful episode which had established a bond between them a dozen years before.

Lovelace had behaved wonderfully, she thought; but only as she would have expected him to. He took all the blame upon himself, made no excuses, and asked her if she would prefer him to remain or go. Frightened that Christopher might actually attack him she had said she would rather he went to bed and that they would talk things over in the morning. After that she had had to face Christopher's wrath alone.

For an hour he had raved up and down, white faced and glowering, lashing her with his tongue in so fierce a way that she would have far preferred a physical beating. She did not resent it, feeling that he had the right to do so, and it at least gave her time to make a decision upon the awful problem which faced her; to tell him the truth, that she really loved Lovelace, which would shatter him utterly, or bear with him until she won him round to the belief that she had only been guilty of one of those absurd, unreasoned impulses which carry away both men and women at times and are thought of afterwards only with shame and regret.

While his anger lasted the impulse was strong in her to make a break, tell him the truth however much it hurt, and ask him to release her from her engagement; but suddenly his fury abated and he had sunk down beside her clutching at her knees and moaning, 'How could you, Valerie! Oh, how could you?'

Now, as she bathed her tired eyes, she could feel again on her finger tips his dark tumbled hair as she had stroked it very gently and begged his forgiveness,

He had cried then until she thought that he was never going to stop. If she could have cried with him he might have ceased in order to comfort her but she could not. She sat there dry eyed and desperate; praying as she had never prayed for anything in her life before that the ordeal would soon be over that she might get to bed and be alone with her misery.

She no longer had the heart to tell him the truth. She could only repeat again and again that it wasn't Lovelace's fault or premeditated in any way. 'That there was no affair between them; that it had just been a sudden impulse on her part such as came to every woman at times, to test her powers of attraction; and that he must believe her promise that nothing of the sort should ever occur again,

For a time Christopher had accepted that but then he had begun to torture himself about the past. When she had been making her record breaking flights she had travelled over half the world. She must have met innumerable men, hadn’t some of them made love to her? She was good looking, famous, unchaperoned. They must have! How many of them had kissed her or tried to and when and where?

In vain she protested that although lots of men had taken her out to dine or dance and had often tried to flirt with her there had been nothing, nothing, nothing to which he could object between her and any of them yet, in view of what he had seen that night, he simply would not believe her.

Eventually, in order to try and satisfy him, she had been forced to relate a few brief episodes in which she had allowed men to make mild love to her; but very soon she repented of it.

He had demanded details details, details. What did they look like? What had they said? How far had they gone? That nightmare cross examination had been painful and humiliating to a degree.

When he had utterly exhausted himself and her he had suddenly seemed to get a grip on himself again, apologised for his behaviour and declared that he knew such impulses came to other people, yet had believed both of them to be different. Now he saw that he alone must be abnormal. He accepted her statement that Lovelace was not to blame and said that they must forget the whole matter; wipe it from their minds as though it had never happened.

It was then he had told her that on returning to the hotel he had found a note waiting for him. Rudy Connolly had found out about Zirrif. He was lying low at the house of his friend Ras Desoum. First thing in the morning they must make their arrangements to get at him.

At last she had been able to drag herself off to her room. There she had found a note from Lovelace pinned to her pillow. It said

My dear. I could not have concealed my love for you much longer, and, given the chance, I'd move heaven and earth to make you really care for me but you're not free and so my hands are tied.

All I seem to have done is to place you in a wretchedly awkward position by taking advantage o f that sudden resurrection of an old memory, which we shared, tonight. Christopher must have suffered a rotten shock but, knowing you so well, he'll soon come to accept the fact that I mean nothing to you really.

It is I really who have to pay the price of having broken into heaven by now being barred out. I'll leave tomorrow or remain to see the Zirrif business through just as you wish.

Anthony Lovelace.

Although she longed to keep it she had forced herself to tear his letter up. She scribbled a reply which she pushed under Lovelace's door, returned to her own room, shed her clothes and, bursting into a torrent of tears, crept into bed.

Now, as she dressed, she wondered miserably how this fateful day would end. It was the 30th of April. Tomorrow, the concession which would provide funds to strengthen Abyssinia for next year's campaign and give opportunity for involving the whole of Europe in a ghastly struggle, would be signed unless Christopher killed Zirrif first. If Christopher and Lovelace were caught either before or after the attempt they would be dead by evening and she, probably, under arrest for complicity in a plot to assassinate the Armenian financier. In this terrible secret war the Millers of God were waging in their effort to bring permanent peace to the world there would be no mercy on either side.

Valerie knew the best she could hope for was that Lovelace would prevent Christopher throwing his life away through some rash and ill considered plan. After that it would be on the knees of the gods whether they could reach her at the aerodrome in order that she could fly them out of the country. Even if they succeeded in escaping she would now have to say good bye once and for all to Lovelace tomorrow; having found him again and just learned that he loved her, after all these years. As she went downstairs she wondered if ever a girl had been placed, through no fault of her own, in a more wretched situation.

Christopher met her in the hall. To her immense relief he showed no sign that anything unusual had occurred between them, greeted her cheerfully and taking her arm, shepherded her into the dining room.

Lovelace was already seated at breakfast, his tanned face an impassive mask as he waited to see if they would join him or go to another table. On their approach he stood up and said, 'Good morning.'