15. Maiden flight by Emma Harding

“Have you seen who’s in the paper?” The bedsprings creaked as she shifted her position.

“Given I’m still asleep, darling, I would say not.”

“Well, wake up then and have a look. I think it will intrigue you.”

I stayed where I was for about 10 more seconds before concluding that I was indeed intrigued. I rolled over towards her and opened my eyes. She was sitting up in bed, the newspaper spread across her lap, her profile in silhouette against the light streaming through the insubstantial curtains. 

“Here, take a look,” she said, moving the paper in my direction and placing an immaculately manicured fingertip on a small grainy picture at the bottom of the page. I peered at it and recognised him immediately. A tall, smartly dressed older man with a young lady on his arm standing on the steps of Number 10 Downing Street.

“R,” I said. “Amazing what the right school tie does for you. Seems like they’ve forgiven him his misdemeanours then.”

“We knew he was in the clear the minute you were debriefed, didn’t we? They never had any intention of taking him to task. I wouldn’t be surprised if they weren’t in on it - or at least aware of what he was up to - from the start. Anyway, enough about R. It’s the woman he’s with I’m interested in.”

“The woman?” I hadn’t really noticed her. The caption beneath the picture read, retired MI6 boss Sir Roger Clements and companion meet Prime Minister MacMillan. She did though, on closer inspection, look familiar. Finally the penny dropped. “Good grief! Megan.”

“Megan,” she confirmed. “Wonder what she’s up to.”

“No good, I should imagine.”

“That’s a bit harsh. She did save your life, let’s not forget.”

“I haven’t. But that doesn’t mean I would trust her with it again.”

“The two of them probably deserve each other.” She leant over and planted a kiss on my forehead. “Just like us.”

“You’re surely not comparing us to …” I gestured to the picture of the pair and then to the room in which we lay, in a cheap, not particularly cheerful guesthouse. “We’re not quite in their league.”

“Well, Alan, my love,” Valerie said with a smile. “Two ex-spies shacking up together with who knows what agenda. I’d say that was pretty similar.”

“Agenda? What do you mean by that?” But she was already up out of bed and half way towards the door, grabbing a towel on the way. 

“There’s always an agenda,” she said, without looking at me. She opened the door and disappeared across the corridor towards the bathroom.

Perhaps she was right. Her motives at least remained a mystery to me. For a start, what on earth was she doing with me? I still couldn’t quite believe my good fortune, after all that happened last summer. After the excitement on the plane, then the recriminations, rapprochement, media speculation, official denouncements, denials and obfuscations, then the slow gentle descent into obscurity. She came looking for me. Chose me. But I didn’t really trust that she would stay for long. Both of us had our secrets, but, I suspected, her more than me. Who, after all, was she really? She had double-crossed me, the Russians, probably the Americans as well. Was she still playing me? But, more to the point, did I care? The thrill of not knowing was far better than the stultifying peace and quiet I’d been sinking into since Istanbul. Only the inaugural flight of the Comet 4 in October had injected any real excitement into my existence before she had shown up, again. The first commercial plane designed by the British using the technical specifications that I had carried, hidden, fought over, lost and retrieved from Paris to Cairo, via Algiers. And I got to watch its maiden flight. 

“What are you smiling about?” Valerie asked, as she re-entered the room, accompanied by a cloud of steam and the scent of lavender.

“Nothing, darling. But we best get on a move on. We’re on a tight schedule.”

“You’re the one still in bed!” 

…

Half an hour later I waited at reception for the landlady to prepare our bill, watching Valerie as she stood by the front door, reading the noticeboard. She wore a closely-fitting cream suit, a turquoise scarf covered her head and she held a pair of dark glasses loosely in her hand. Elegance personified. It occurred to me she was less a woman of many disguises, more a woman of many layers. And I was enjoying relieving her of each and every one. 

“Any messages?” I asked the landlady quietly, as I wrote a cheque. Any money I’d made from my exploits was rapidly diminishing.

She leaned towards me, seeming to appreciate the need for discretion. “Yes, sir,” she said in a whisper, “the airline called to confirm your flights. New York, they said. How wonderful.” 

“Yes,” I said, “And a surprise.” I nodded towards Valerie and the landlady looked delighted. 

“What’s that?” Valerie said, her old instincts clearly alerted. She walked towards me, her eyes narrowed with suspicion. Yet a smile played across her lips. Could she see through me?

I shook my head. “We all have our secrets, do we not, darling? As you so rightly said, everyone has an agenda.”

THE END