Tapestry of Spies

and launched ahead. “Levitsky operated in this country during most of 1931, our information relates. He was at that time head of the Western European Bureau of Comintern, and a lieutenant colonel in the GRU, which is the Russian military intelligence department. Comintern is their apparatus for coordinating world propaganda and espionage. According to our source, early in that year Levitsky became acquainted with and began to cultivate a chap who was perfect for his purposes. Levitsky was talent hunting. He was on safari, one might say, hunting for that perfect young Englishman with a penchant for treason. At any rate?”

“Major Holly-Browning, I’m certain all of this is perfectly interesting to you but I can’t quite?”

“Oh, he’s just about there, assistant superintendent,” said Vane sweetly.

“Yes, Florry. Another second has it. At any rate, this Levitsky, our source says, ultimately came in contact with a group of clever lads called ? perhaps you’ve heard the name; it’s a secret club, fashionable left-wing dons, that sort ? called the Apostles.”

So that was it. Florry sat back. He took a deep breath with some difficulty. He felt the prickles of sweat begin to tingle in his hair.

“Interesting, eh, Vane? Speak the magic word and the impatient, thick-hided young writer instantly loses his color and begins to perspire.”

“I shouldn’t wonder,” said Florry. “It isn’t every day one is asked to inform on one’s best friend.”

“Yes, he’s made the leap,” said Vane. “You said he would, sir, and he did. But Mr. Florry, don’t you think it would be more accurate to say ‘former best friend’?”

Florry rose. “I think you are making a grave and foolish mistake. You are acting reprehensibly. We never treated the wogs this crassly out East, and you are talking about an Englishman of unimpeachable reputation and accomplishment.”

The major stared at him quite placidly.

“Some more tea, sir?” said Vane. “Or a nice bun. They’re very, very crisp, and I was able to find cinnamon.”

“I do not want a bloody cinnamon bun. I want to leave, thanks.”

“Florry, best to sit down.”

“Julian Raines is a poet of distinction as well as a brilliant scholar. He graduated with starred double-first at Trinity College, Cambridge. His poem ‘Achilles, Fool,’ is one of the key texts in the modernist movement. His?”

“Yes, I’ve read it. ‘In the end, it’s all the same/In the end, it’s all a game.’ May I ask, do you agree with those sentiments, Florry?”

“He wouldn’t spy for a batch of bloody Bolshies in overcoats twelve sizes too big. Good heavens, he wouldn’t even have tea with them.”

“He certainly treated you as if you were a figure in a game, wouldn’t you say, Florry? You simply ceased to interest him and he cut you bloody dead. We’ve checked, Florry. You weren’t worth much after that, eh? Went off and hid in the coppers in Burma, right? Couldn’t face life without the great Julian at your side? Bit of a schoolboy crush. Happens all the time, Florry. Only with you, it cut to the bone.”

“He wouldn’t do it,” said Florry. “Yes, Julian’s a bastard. Yes, he likes to hurt people. But he wouldn’t do anything like?”

“The facts are very clear. Of the Apostle Circle of the year 1931, Julian is certainly the boy who fits most perfectly with our source’s description of Levitsky’s recruit. As you say, he was brilliant. His mother is wealthy as well as well connected to the upper-strata political and artistic people of the country. She could get her dear Julian any position he wanted in a liberal or socialist government somewhere down the road. He would have access to the very most important circles.”

“Julian is an artist, a writer. A true artist. He’s not interested in bloody politics.”

“Julian Raines is many men. It simply won’t do to fit him into an absolute category. He’s a brilliant dabbler. At everything he tries he succeeds. And perhaps in this lofty sense of brilliance, he’s come to see himself beyond the rest of us poor blokes. His analysis of history, for example, would be just that much keener. Who’s to say he hasn’t decided to have a dabble at the spy business, Florry, and make the success of it that he made of poetry and that he now makes of journalism?”

“Who is saying these awful things? Some ugly little man in a trench coat?”

“Mr. Florry,” said Mr. Vane, “you were a copper. You know that we’ve got to use informants.”

“A Russian. A secret policeman. Fleeing Stalin’s executioners, that’s all we can tell you,” said the major.

“Some seedy little Johnny Red on the bloody run from his bosses. The bastard would say anything to get himself into the country.”

“Actually, he’s not in the country. He’s in the United States. He’s told his story to the Americans and they believe him.”

“The awful Yanks, yet! Good Christ, this gets seedier as it goes on.”

“More tea, Mr. Florry?”

“I think it’s necessary for me to leave.”

“One last factor, Mr. Florry. Our Russian tattletale worked in Amsterdam. He said his last job for his employers involved opening a special, secret communications link to Barcelona. He concluded from the rush and risk involved that the link could only be to service a secret, most sensitively placed agent. This happened on five August; Julian Raines arrived in Barcelona on four August. And of the Apostle group, he and he alone is in Spain.”

“You see, Mr. Florry, it is quite clear.”

Florry shook his head.

“What we need is somebody to go out to Spain and establish an especially close relationship with Julian Raines. We need somebody to keep watch over him; we need reports on his whereabouts, his chums, his little jobs for the Russians. We need evidence.”

“And then?”

“And then do the necessary. As the necessary has been done before, Mr. Florry, by brave young Englishmen.”

“To kill him?”

“One stops one’s enemies as one can or as one must.”

“Good Christ.”

“Were you in the war, Florry?”

“No, of course not.”

“Well, I have been in several. One learns to do what one must.”

Florry saw now that the whole thing was a sham: Sir Denis and The Spectator working in concert with His Majesty’s government in the subtle, cozy, pleasant, particularly English way of doing such things. Offer Florry the life he wants; in exchange, take only his soul.

“No,” Florry said. “You force me to be somewhat moralistic about this. It’s simply wrong.”

“But surely, Mr. Florry, one’s country counts for more than?”

“One’s friends are one’s country; or rather, without them, one’s country is meaningless.”

He got up to leave. “I’m sure you will inform Sir Denis of my decision.” He turned smartly and walked to the door. It wouldn’t open.

“Mr. Florry,” said Mr. Vane with some embarrassment, “there’s a rather large constable from Special Branch out there at our request. It’s his bulk that is blocking the doorway and he has his instructions.”

“To arrest me, I suppose. On the charge of Refusal to Take Part in Ugly Plots.”

“Mr. Florry, I must say, it’s your sanctimony that I find the most difficult to bear,” said the major at long last. “Vane, tell the moralistic Mr. Florry what the constable has in his pocket.”

“It’s a warrant. And it is for your arrest. But the charge is perjury.”

“Perjury?”

“You do remember Benny Lal, do you not, Mr. Florry?” asked Vane.

Something ripped at Florry’s chest.

“One would think so. You wrote about him quite eloquently. Although you left out certain details, assistant