Tapestry of Spies

“Or some such. Something governmental. I never pay much attention to that sort of thing. Fellow named Holly-Browning. Knew him at Magdalen. First-rate chap, you’ll like him.”

“Well, I certainly?”

But Sir Denis rose and crossed the room to open the door.

“Hullo, James. Vane.”

“Denis. And how are you?”

“Ah, the same. And how’s Marjorie?”

“Blooming.”

“You married the most beautiful woman of our time, that’s for certain, James.”

“She’s still quite beautiful, but I see her so infrequently these days, one forgets.”

“Is he working too hard as usual, Vane?”

“Yessir. To midnight, most nights, and later even on many others.”

“Good heavens, James, after all you’ve been through! Well, here’s young Mr. Robert Florry, our new Spanish political correspondent.”

Florry rose to encounter a large, sad man, dourly turned out, with huge hands and a hulking body. There was something implacable about him, and his beaten but pugnacious face somehow held the promise of secret zealotry that Florry sensed immediately. Florry knew one other thing instantly, having been one himself for five years: he knew he was among coppers.

“Florry, I’m Major Holly-Browning. This is my assistant Mr. Vane.”

“Ah, pleased?” began Florry, extending a hand that nobody seemed to notice.

Sir Denis had quietly slipped out and Florry discovered himself being ushered to a window alcove, where three old leather chairs sat about a low table full of African masks and old numbers of The Spectator.

“The F.O., do I understand?” said Florry.

“His Majesty’s government, shall we say. Please sit. Tea?”

“Er, yes, thanks.”

“Vane, see about some tea, will you?”

Florry, sitting, felt his exultation begin to transform into confusion.

“May I ask, Mr. Florry, are you a red?”

At first Florry thought he had said “Are you well-read?” and he’d begun to compose what seemed an intelligent reply, when it occurred to him that that wasn’t it at all.

“But what possible business is it of yours?”

The major stared at him levelly, admitting the light of no surprise into his dim eyes.

Florry wasn’t fuddled. Though tense and suddenly aware he was in murky waters, his mind flooded with lucidity. “Is this how they do it, nowadays, major? In my time, we were a little subtler. I was a copper. Been in on a few sessions like this myself. I know how it works. The affability and good companionship to put the poor fellow at his ease. Then, with no warning, a hard question. Catch the poor bastard off guard, goad him into something silly. Yes, I can see it now. Perhaps we could spare each other the poking about and get right to it.”

Something very like a little smile crossed the major’s pug face.

“Here’s tea,” sang Vane, wheeling in triumphantly with a tray. “I also found some marvelous buns. Care for a bun, Mr. Florry?”

“No,” said Florry.

“One lump or two, Mr. Florry?”

“One should do, I would think.”

“One it is, then.”

“Vane, I’ll have two. And lots of milk.”

“Yessir.”

“And a bun. Are they crisp?”

“Very crisp, sir.”

“A bun, then. I’ve just asked Florry if he’s a red.”

“Oh?” said Vane distractedly, pouring tea and sorting buns, “and what did he say?”

“He wouldn’t answer. Got his back up.”

“Bully good for him, I say. Now don’t let the major push you about, Mr. Florry. He can be an awful brute.”

“Now then, Florry,” said the major, “suppose we were on the lookout for just such a chap. Let’s say, for a matter of argument, a genuine red. Oh, I’m not talking your harmless parlor revolutionary, all hot air and castles in Spain, your blowsy English eccentric who likes to stand on soap boxes in Hyde Park on Sunday and harangue the passers-by. No, let’s just suppose that somewhere there is a fellow who in his heart of hearts really wants Uncle Joe Stalin to come over here, lock us in chains, turn his secret policemen loose, and teach our children to read Russian. Do you follow me so far?”

“Where is all this heading?” said Florry warily.

“We have information from a source we’re not permitted to reveal that such a chap as we’re describing in this highly theoretical conversation may in fact exist.”

It suddenly dawned on Florry. These men were spies! In the service, they’d been called “politicals,” though perhaps the term had gone out of use by now. These were the chaps that Kipling wrote about in Kim, the great game fellows.

“You’re smiling, Mr. Florry. Something funny here?”

“No.”

“Ever hear of the Official Secrets Act, Mr. Florry? Nasty bit of legislation, went into effect in ’thirty-two. Could put a chap away for seven years in the Scrubs. What I’m about to tell you is protected by the Official Secrets Act, Mr. Florry. It must never leave this room. Understand?”

“I must say, I don’t see how I can be of any help to you.”

“Oh, you can be of great help, Mr. Florry. Now listen closely. In 1931, while you were off having adventures in Burma for the Crown, a Russian secret intelligence operative named Levitsky recruited a Cambridge University student ? young, gifted, clever, a lad with connections, with charm, with immense potential ? to spy for Russia. As the first step of bringing Uncle Joe and his ways over here.”

“Why, that’s revolting,” blurted Florry, not quite sure himself how he meant it.

“Indeed it is,” said the major.

“But what has all of this to do with me? I never went to Cambridge. I can’t help you find him.”

“Oh, we need no help in finding him, Mr. Florry,” said Vane cheerfully. “We know who he is, of course. What we need is somebody to ? oh, what’s a nice term? To stop him, shall we say? To disconnect him. Did the major tell you, he went to a hanging once, too, Mr. Florry. In East Africa, wasn’t it, sir? Before the Great War?”

“In ’eleven, actually,” the major said. “Ghastly thing. One of the boys got drunk on honey wine on safari and actually attacked the mem-sahib with a panga. Cut her on the arm, left a scar. They had to make an example of the boy. Still, necessary as it was, it was horrid.”

“What do you mean ‘stop’?” Florry said. “I can tell you, I don’t like the sound of that word.”

“Play chess, Mr. Florry?”

“Some. A little. Not very well.”

“Ever read Sacrifice Theory by E. I. Levitsky? Published in German in Leipzig in 1901?”

“Haven’t read it, no.”

“Written by a young Russian political exile who’d just won an important tournament. Don’t play myself, although I ran into the author some years later under peculiar circumstances. They say sacrifice is what makes a chess genius a chess champion. The shrewd calculation of present loss against future gain. It’s what Levitsky specializes in, the best part of his game. They call him the Devil Himself; that was his nickname as a chess player back at the turn of the century. Brilliant. Quite an opponent.”

“Major Holly-Browning, I wonder if?”

But the major silenced him with a stout finger, as a prefect silences a particularly rambunctious sixth-former,