rel="nofollow" href="#litres_trial_promo">Chapter 24
In memory of my father, Walter Wayne Tombaugh.
June, 1940
I should never have kissed her. Thomas Charles tried to push Cat Carlisle out of his mind, took a deep breath, and turned his attention to the city he had called home for years. He had only been away for two months, yet so much had changed. A tension hung in the air so heavy he could taste it, hot and thick on the back of his throat. His collar stuck to the back of his neck as sweat broke out between his shoulder blades. For the briefest moment, he thought about going back to his flat and crawling into bed. The sling that held his injured arm felt like a wool blanket. Exhausted and weak, he trudged towards Piccadilly Circus, his shoulder throbbing with every step. His thoughts – as they often did – returned to Cat and the unfinished business between them. His kiss. Her rejection. His sudden departure. It had taken Thomas Charles three years to fall in love with Cat Carlisle. And I lost her with one kiss.
Piccadilly didn’t have its usual spark. He hadn’t yet seen a double-decker bus. The statue of Eros had been taken away, Thomas imagined for safe keeping, leaving a yawning chasm in the roundabout. He passed the fruiterer where the lady behind the counter kept the best apples for him. The men who used to stand outside smoking cigars and talking about the state of the world were gone now. The shop windows had been covered up with large pieces of plywood. Someone had haphazardly nailed a large poster to one of the boards depicting a young boy gazing at a British solider. The caption read, ‘Leave Hitler to me, sonny. You ought to be out of London.’
Many women and children had evacuated to the country. The women who remained dressed in the smart style of office workers, independent women who spent their days toiling in offices and their nights frequenting night clubs and dancing to big band music. They walked along the street at a clipped pace with a sense of purpose. Many carried gas masks in a small box which hung from a leather strap. Thomas shook his head, remembering the brutal bombing of Guernica in April of 1937. This war would be different. Gas masks wouldn’t be of much use. It would be incendiary and brutal. Invasion was imminent. Hitler was coming. After Churchill’s rousing speech to the House of Commons, the people were ready.
Thomas caught a glimpse of a tired-looking man with gaunt cheeks and dark circles under his eyes in one of the few shop windows that hadn’t been boarded up. He walked on. After a full minute, he realized the tired man was him. ‘I look like hell.’ He said the words out loud, not caring if anyone heard him talking to himself. He was out of breath and moving slowly. The time had come to reflect and evaluate, make changes in his life where necessary. The question was whether or not those changes would include Cat Carlisle.
The bookshop was just two blocks away. Thomas moved with his usual sense of awareness, deeply inculcated from his years spent doing dangerous things for a man he didn’t really trust.
By the time he arrived at the back-alley antiquarian bookshop, he was ready to sit. The walking journey had weakened him. His shoulder throbbed and he longed to take off the sling which held his arm still and safe against his body. The alley was deserted, not surprising given the early hour. The tailor shop next door stood vacant, its doorway full of leaves and rubbish, its owner in all likelihood having fled to the countryside. Out of habit Thomas ducked into the alcove, ignoring the crunch of glass under his feet, counted to five, and surveyed his surroundings. Through the reflection in the glass across the street he had a good view of the surrounding footpath. Still empty. Certain he hadn’t been followed, he stepped out of the safety of the tailor shop’s doorway.
A bell above the door of the bookshop jangled as he let himself in. The old man who used to sit behind the counter had been replaced by a younger woman, probably in her early thirties. She had cropped raven black hair, fair skin, and thin lips doused in a layer of startlingly red lipstick. Thomas gave her a quizzical look as she looked up from the book she was reading.
‘Where’s …?’ Thomas was embarrassed that he didn’t even know the old gentleman’s name.
‘You mean my father, Frank? He took my children to Scotland.’
‘And you decided to stay?’
The woman reached under the counter and set a small pistol with a mother of pearl inlaid grip on the counter. ‘When the Germans come marching through the streets, I’ll start shooting. Sir Reginald’s in the back office. Turn the sign to closed and lock the door, would you?’ She turned her focus back to her book. Thomas did as she asked and walked along the ancient wooden floor towards the tiny office in the back. Sir Reginald Wright sat on a rickety chair reading a tattered copy of The Warwickshire Advertiser.
Thomas and Sir Reginald had been having their clandestine trysts in this office for decades. The tiny room faced an alley, with windows so grimy the room was cloaked in a patina of perpetual gloom. Disorganized files were stacked precariously in one corner. The desk held a brass banker’s lamp in need of a polish, and – as usual – loose papers covered the surface. Sir Reginald had taken off his hat and set it on the corner of the desk. His cane – black with a silver lion’s head – leaned against the wall. Thomas took in the pinstripe Savile Row suit, the impeccable tie, and felt the familiar irritation raise its ugly head. Sir Reginald didn’t even raise his eyes as Thomas entered the room.
‘That newspaper’s rather out of date, wouldn’t you say?’ Thomas looked for another chair. When he didn’t find one, he cleared a spot on the crowded desk and sat on it, not caring about the impropriety of his actions. For years Thomas had loyally served the Crown under a convoluted chain of command that led through Whitehall and straight to Downing Street. He had survived war, hand-to-hand combat, and a stint in a German prison camp. Sir Reginald had promised a long rest after his latest mission. It seemed as though his superior was going to renege on his promise.
Sir Reginald ignored Thomas as he shook the paper and carefully folded it before setting it on top of the stack next to his chair. Just being in Sir Reginald’s presence set Thomas on edge.
‘I’m here, Reginald. Why did you want to see me?’
‘How’s the shoulder? Infection cleared up?’ Sir Reginald leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs. He surveyed Thomas with his rheumy eyes. Thomas wondered when the old man would finish with this business. God knew, he was ready to leave it all behind. He thought about moving to the country, spending his days doing research and writing in earnest, not just as a cover for his various missions. Of course, Cat would be with him. They would marry … He turned his focus to Reginald. ‘Fine, thank you. My stay in the hospital proved beneficial.’
‘Haakon commended you. I thought you’d want to know. He credited you for keeping your head in Nybergsund.’
‘I wasn’t the only one who kept a cool head,’ Thomas said. ‘It was a group effort, believe you me. I’m just grateful they came willingly. I wouldn’t have relished forcing the King and the Crown Prince to come to England against their will.’
‘Agreed. Now, onto more pressing matters—’
‘No. I’m not interested in pressing matters. I’m finished. We had a deal. No more. I’m not fully recovered from the events