quite a store of East Bloc spirits.’
Freddie shrugged.
‘I think,’ said Catesby, ‘I’ll take my chances with General Franco’s brandy.’
Freddie smiled. ‘I always suspected you were a class traitor. I’ll get you a glass.’
Catesby sat down to a creaking of springs. ‘We need a new sofa.’ The Tachbrook flat was also Catesby’s home when he was in London. It was located in the basement of yet another building owned by Frances’s family. The top floors were lived in by eccentric aunts with artistic and musical connections – a whiff of Bloomsbury in Pimlico. You often heard musical instruments being played through the ceiling.
Freddie came back with the drinks. ‘I take it for granted that you lied to me,’ said Catesby, ‘so I can rest assured that Tomasz isn’t going to burst through the door wielding an axe.’
Freddie nodded.
‘Good. I’ve already had someone try to kill me this evening.’
‘Was it Frances?’
Catesby smiled. ‘You said that with a real gleam of hope in your eye. No, we were having a loving evening until you telephoned. Don’t pout.’
‘Don’t patronise me and treat me like a child.’
Catesby sipped his brandy. His sister was two years younger than him. They had both experienced the grinding poverty of 1930s Lowestoft – and their politics had been formed by it. There was no one closer to him, but no one that he understood less.
‘I’m sorry that I snapped at you.’ Freddie smiled. ‘Did someone really try to kill you?’
The exhilaration of his brush with death was now wearing off and Catesby had begun to feel numb and empty. It was always like that. Being in battle was always better than the depression that came afterwards. Catesby nodded, ‘Yes.’
‘Who? Why?’
‘I don’t know. I’m still trying to put the pieces together.’ Catesby looked at his sister. ‘You’re a better linguist than I am.’
‘That’s not true – but I studied harder.’
‘Who do you know who speaks Elsässerditsch?’
‘No one, but I’ve heard it spoken during a visit to Strasbourg.’
‘And it’s only spoken in Alsace?’
‘As far as I know – and maybe a tiny corner of Lorraine.’
Catesby didn’t need further convincing. He was sure the two men in the Austin had been speaking the low German dialect of Alsace. He had heard it before. It was a distinct dialect that couldn’t be mistaken for Swabian or Swiss German.
‘Their “no”,’ said Freddie, ‘is something like naan .’
Catesby nodded.
‘Is this something to do with Oradour-sur-Glane?’ asked Freddie.
‘They tried to shoot me.’
‘What?’
Catesby briefly explained what had happened, then stared blankly into space. He hadn’t told her everything about Oradour-sur-Glane, but he had confided in his sister more than anyone else. Oradour was a war crime that was tearing France apart. At least a third of the soldiers who had carried out the massacre were not Germans, but Alsatians who had been French citizens before 1940 and became French citizens again after 1945. It was an unhealed wound and the trial of the Alsatians who had been part of the SS battalion at Oradour kept getting delayed. AlthoughCatesby had only seen the aftermath, the French prosecutor had summoned him to be a witness if the trial ever took place. The request had caused consternation at SIS and the British government were trying to assure Catesby’s anonymity.
‘They want to shut you up, don’t they, Will?’
‘I don’t know.’ Catesby did know that a lot of people wanted him dead, but he didn’t think it had anything to do with a French war crimes trial. The art of getting rid of someone was to make it look like someone else did it for a completely different reason. Catesby wanted to change the subject. ‘Where’s Tomasz?’
‘He’s on the nightshift at Bush House.’
‘Nothing more dramatic?’
‘Sorry, Will.’
‘What have you got against Frances?’
Freddie drank her brandy and tossed her
Freddie shrugged.
‘I think,’ said Catesby, ‘I’ll take my chances with General Franco’s brandy.’
Freddie smiled. ‘I always suspected you were a class traitor. I’ll get you a glass.’
Catesby sat down to a creaking of springs. ‘We need a new sofa.’ The Tachbrook flat was also Catesby’s home when he was in London. It was located in the basement of yet another building owned by Frances’s family. The top floors were lived in by eccentric aunts with artistic and musical connections – a whiff of Bloomsbury in Pimlico. You often heard musical instruments being played through the ceiling.
Freddie came back with the drinks. ‘I take it for granted that you lied to me,’ said Catesby, ‘so I can rest assured that Tomasz isn’t going to burst through the door wielding an axe.’
Freddie nodded.
‘Good. I’ve already had someone try to kill me this evening.’
‘Was it Frances?’
Catesby smiled. ‘You said that with a real gleam of hope in your eye. No, we were having a loving evening until you telephoned. Don’t pout.’
‘Don’t patronise me and treat me like a child.’
Catesby sipped his brandy. His sister was two years younger than him. They had both experienced the grinding poverty of 1930s Lowestoft – and their politics had been formed by it. There was no one closer to him, but no one that he understood less.
‘I’m sorry that I snapped at you.’ Freddie smiled. ‘Did someone really try to kill you?’
The exhilaration of his brush with death was now wearing off and Catesby had begun to feel numb and empty. It was always like that. Being in battle was always better than the depression that came afterwards. Catesby nodded, ‘Yes.’
‘Who? Why?’
‘I don’t know. I’m still trying to put the pieces together.’ Catesby looked at his sister. ‘You’re a better linguist than I am.’
‘That’s not true – but I studied harder.’
‘Who do you know who speaks Elsässerditsch?’
‘No one, but I’ve heard it spoken during a visit to Strasbourg.’
‘And it’s only spoken in Alsace?’
‘As far as I know – and maybe a tiny corner of Lorraine.’
Catesby didn’t need further convincing. He was sure the two men in the Austin had been speaking the low German dialect of Alsace. He had heard it before. It was a distinct dialect that couldn’t be mistaken for Swabian or Swiss German.
‘Their “no”,’ said Freddie, ‘is something like naan .’
Catesby nodded.
‘Is this something to do with Oradour-sur-Glane?’ asked Freddie.
‘They tried to shoot me.’
‘What?’
Catesby briefly explained what had happened, then stared blankly into space. He hadn’t told her everything about Oradour-sur-Glane, but he had confided in his sister more than anyone else. Oradour was a war crime that was tearing France apart. At least a third of the soldiers who had carried out the massacre were not Germans, but Alsatians who had been French citizens before 1940 and became French citizens again after 1945. It was an unhealed wound and the trial of the Alsatians who had been part of the SS battalion at Oradour kept getting delayed. AlthoughCatesby had only seen the aftermath, the French prosecutor had summoned him to be a witness if the trial ever took place. The request had caused consternation at SIS and the British government were trying to assure Catesby’s anonymity.
‘They want to shut you up, don’t they, Will?’
‘I don’t know.’ Catesby did know that a lot of people wanted him dead, but he didn’t think it had anything to do with a French war crimes trial. The art of getting rid of someone was to make it look like someone else did it for a completely different reason. Catesby wanted to change the subject. ‘Where’s Tomasz?’
‘He’s on the nightshift at Bush House.’
‘Nothing more dramatic?’
‘Sorry, Will.’
‘What have you got against Frances?’
Freddie drank her brandy and tossed her
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