Night Train to Lisbon (10 page)

Carson could feel the sting of the tears welling
up in her throat again. “And yet you let me fall in love with him, knowing who he might be?”

Her uncle's shoulders sagged. “Carson, there are twenty-three representatives from Cambridge at this conference. Your Alec is—what is the American expression?—low man on the totem pole. He seemed an unlikely candidate for a mole. I can't say I was particularly pleased that you'd gotten involved with someone from Cambridge, but then I thought back to that first night at dinner, on the train, and I have to say that Alec had struck me as harmless enough.” Her uncle gave a small, unhappy laugh. “I must be getting too old for this job.”

Carson tried to summon a response, but nothing came to her. She realized that it almost didn't matter if what her uncle was saying was true, if Alec was in fact a member of the Watchers or any of those other awful things that Lawrence had said he was. What mattered was that she could never trust Alec again.

Trust.
All summer long Carson had been learning to trust herself—to trust not the judgment of her mother, or her aunt and uncle, but herself. To make up her own mind. And she had. She had trusted herself to trust Alec. And where had it gotten her? For her, she knew now, there could be no going back, no returning to the state of innocence she'd inhabited when she entered her uncle's study. Or, rather, she
would
be going back: back to Paris, back to the ship, and then back to Connecticut, where she would fall into her
mother's arms, weeping.
Back where I belong,
Carson thought bitterly.

“So that's it, then,” she finally said in a dull, numb voice. “You arrest Alec, I never see him again, and life goes on.”

“Not quite.”

She looked up at her uncle. He went back to his chair now, opened a small wooden box on his desk, took out a cigarette, and lit it.

“Now that we're on to his game, Alec Breve is more valuable to us as a free man than as a prisoner. We have good reason to believe the Watchers are conspiring with certain German officials to put an entire network of information in place before the advent of a war. And that,” Lawrence said, loosing a plume of smoke from the side of his mouth, “is where you come in.”

“What do you mean?”

“Alec mustn't know we're on to him. It's absolutely imperative that nothing change. We don't want to scare him off. If the niece of a man he knows to be in British intelligence should suddenly give him the cold shoulder—well, the consequences could be catastrophic.”

“So what do you want me to do?” Carson said. “Continue seeing him?”

“Precisely.”

Carson simply stared back at her uncle, uncomprehendingly.

“Look, Carson,” he went on, “I haven't been telling you all this simply to let you down easily. I haven't been working all afternoon to get secu
rity clearance for my niece just so I could protect her from the likes of Alec Breve. Of course I appreciate how hurt you've been by what I've told you today. But this is far bigger than a love story between two young people. For your own sake as well as the country's, I've needed to get you involved.”

“So,” she said, “you want me to keep seeing Alec so that I can…keep tabs on him?” she said. “So that I can report what I've learned to you?”

Uncle Lawrence nodded. “That's exactly what I'm saying,” he said.

“Then I would be a spy,” she said.

“Yes, in a manner of speaking,” said Uncle Lawrence. “A spy for Britain. Look, I wouldn't ask you to do this if I thought I'd be placing you in any danger. Nor would I ask you if I didn't believe that the situation was of the utmost importance. And I certainly wouldn't ask you if I didn't think you could handle it.”

He waited a moment for this to sink in. Carson wasn't sure whether she should be flattered or angered—angered that her uncle thought he could win her favor through flattery.

“You've impressed me a great deal this summer, Carson. What I had imagined was a girl who had grown up extremely sheltered and protected by her lifestyle. Philippa herself grew up that way, too, as did Jane. But Jane didn't want any part of it, finally, and for some reason it took falling in love with me for her to see that. You came around to the conclusion the same way, I suspect. By falling in love with Alec Breve.”

“And now you want me to use that love to betray him?”

“I want you to use that love, if that's indeed what it is, to stop Alec from betraying Britain. Look,” her uncle went on, lowering his eyes, “it's none of my business, and I don't mean this to sound uncaring, because it's not. I care for you deeply. But it's entirely possible that Alec's declarations of affection for you are motivated by his knowledge that you're the niece of a member of British intelligence.”

“You think he's using me to get to you?” Carson said.

“I don't know what to think. All I know for absolutely certain is that you mustn't alter your behavior in any way that would raise his suspicions, and if you happen to find out something that might pertain to the war effort, by all means let me know. I'm terribly sorry, Carson, but getting you involved in this is unavoidable. Still, it's only for three more days,” he added.

Carson closed her eyes. Three more days. Until the moment she walked into this room, she had been trying to figure out a way to make her three days left in Lisbon last a lifetime. Now she couldn't wait for them to be over.

“You realize,” she heard her uncle say, “that no one else knows about this. Not even your aunt Jane.”

Carson opened her eyes. “You haven't told Jane?”

“No,” said Lawrence. “The kind of work I'm
in—well, we try not to make exceptions. Of course my wife is entirely trustworthy. You and I both know that. But the Home Office doesn't. And it isn't up to me to use my judgment as I see fit. If everyone were allowed such leeway, it would be a poor policy indeed. No, Jane knows nothing of this, nor should she.”

“So what does Jane think we're talking about in here?” Carson asked. “Won't she think it strange that you called me into your study?”

Lawrence nodded. “I've worked that out. Here's how it will be: We're going to pretend that I asked you to stop seeing Alec, that I told you the relationship was getting far too serious. And that you flat-out refused to obey me.”

“You want me to lie to Jane?”

“Exactly,” said her uncle. “In about a minute, you and I are going to deliberately raise our voices, turning this conversation into something that will sound like a heated argument. And then, if I know her, your aunt is most likely going to come to the door of this room, fling it open, and demand that we stop. She'll calm both of us down, because she's good at that, and she'll think that she's talked reason into us. Then you'll go on seeing Alec, and I'll apologize and say that I was being unreasonable, or something like that. Do you follow me?”

“Yes,” said Carson quietly. And then, as if she'd been rehearsing this for weeks, she suddenly raised her voice to him and said the first words that came to mind: “I don‘t care what you think,
Lawrence! I don't care what you say about Alec! I love him!
I love him!
”

There was a beat, during which her uncle looked at her as if he believed what she was saying—or at least believed that she believed it. Then he blinked, nodded to her, and matched her tone. “Not if you know what's good for you!”

In a matter of seconds, Carson could hear hurried female footsteps across the tile floor elsewhere in the house, and the next thing she knew, the door to the study swung open, just as her uncle had predicted.

 

The beginning of Lawrence's plans went off without a hitch. Aunt Jane was given a chance to broker peace that evening between her husband and niece, and she did so swiftly and calmly. Carson felt the burden of having to lie to her aunt, but when she excused herself after dinner, saying she didn't feel well and needed to go to bed, she was telling the truth. She was sick with exhaustion, if nothing else. Carson crept under the sheets while the last of the long day's sun was still stretching across the red tile floor of her room. As she lay there, she didn't even try to make sense of the day's events. Instead, she pictured herself in Alec's bed, saw his arms wrapping around her tightly, and, just before drifting into the deep sleep of emotional fatigue, realized that as much as her life had changed when she'd met Alec Breve, tonight it had changed yet again.

The following morning, Alec, Freddy, Michael,
and Tom arrived in the open-topped jalopy they'd rented for a trip to the beach. The car pulled up to the villa in a cloud of dust, the rubber horn bleating cheerful, wheezy hellos. In the front hall of the villa, Carson stood very still, looking through the window at the sight of Alec behind the wheel. He had an old moth-eaten sweater on, and his hair had been blown about in the wind during the drive from Lisbon. He looked happy and carefree. As far as he knew, this was a day like any other—a day to go to the beach with his girlfriend and three of his best pals.

Alec hopped out of the car and headed up the stone path to the Villa do Giraldo, past the shrubbery and red and gold flowers that grew wildly, and past the low-slung bees circling their blooms. Aunt Jane let him into the villa, and Carson heard the two of them make idle conversation.

“Did you have a good trip?” Jane asked.

“Oh, yes, thanks, Mrs. Emmett,” Alec said. “The jalopy held up well, considering the state of Portuguese roads.”

“Well, Carson's right inside. I think she's fixed you all a pretty nice lunch.”

Carson had, in fact, spent the morning deviling eggs and making a salad, but she had barely paid attention to what she was doing; instead, she had observed her hands shredding lettuce and mashing egg yolks as though they were someone else's hands, not her own. She felt as though she had gone outside her own body and was no longer inhabiting it. This body, which Alec had touched
and caressed, was now an empty husk. Numb. That was the word for what she felt, and the sensation—or lack of it—stayed with her as she went to meet Alec and let him kiss her cheek and embrace her lightly. It stayed with her as she sat beside him, in the front seat of the car, on the road to Cascais, and it stayed all day at the beach as they lay on the sand, or swam together in the pale, shimmering water.

She hadn't known how she would respond to the sight of him, and so she had allowed herself to be drained of desire, of all physical anticipation. She no longer had any idea who Alec was; she didn't even know how to think about the situation—about this man who could appear sensitive and caring yet harbor deep prejudices and hatreds. Yet, when she saw him waving from the jalopy as it pulled up to the Villa do Giraldo, when she felt the weight of his arm around her shoulders during the drive to the beach, or now, as she surveyed his long, tanned limbs emerging, dripping, from the sea, she experienced a vague version of the stirring that always accompanied the sight of him, or his touch. It was something basic, something primal; it couldn't be helped. But Carson also felt a new sensation: revulsion—toward Alec, certainly, but also toward what her uncle was asking of her. Lawrence, Carson realized now, had no idea of just what his plan would require her to do. He'd never have asked her—never have hatched this plan for her to remain with Alec—if he'd known how far the romance
between the two of them had progressed, and what acts of intimacy it involved.

“Darling?” Alec said.

Carson started. She had settled herself on a blanket on the sand, and now Alec was dropping himself beside her. She shaded her eyes and looked at him. A playful if cautious face looked back.

“Is there anything wrong?” he said.

She smiled weakly at him and pushed herself up on one elbow.

“I'm fine,” she said. “Just a bad night's sleep.”

Well, at least that wasn't entirely a lie. She
had
woken several times in a state of agitation, feeling sure she'd been having a nightmare, but she could never remember what it was. And then she would remember that the real nightmare was what she'd be facing in the morning—the bad dream she was living right now.

“You're quite sure?” he pressed.

“Of course I'm sure.”

Freddy Hunt was sitting beside them on the blanket on the sand, and overheard the conversation. “Alec, don't you know anything about women?” he said jokingly. “They're extremely fickle. One minute they love you, the next minute they're as cold as ice.”

“Stop,” murmured Carson. “I'm not being remotely cold. Alec is making it up.”

“Alec is always making things up,” said Freddy. “The man lives in his head, can't you see that? You get a little deluded when all you do is
cogitate all day. Thank God you came along, Carson, to show him that there's more to life than a thermodynamic equation written on a blackboard.”

The idle talk was unnerving her. She lay back against the blanket, her head resting against the rough local wool, and closed her eyes. The strong Cascais sun beat down on her, but she didn't care. In the distance she heard Alec's voice. He was saying something to his friends about being worried about Carson. “She's not herself,” she heard him murmur. That was true.
But neither are you, Alec Breve,
she thought.

Next thing she knew, Carson heard a soft moaning. She opened her eyes to see who it was, and realized that
she
was the person moaning. Above her was a circle of concerned faces: Alec, Freddy, Tom, Michael, and a few strangers, blocking out the blazing sun.
The sun.
That was why she was moaning. She had fallen asleep in the sun and gotten burned. When she opened her mouth to speak, her lips were parched.

Alec knelt down beside her. “Carson, look, you've gotten a bit of a burn, it seems. I hadn't realized you were so sensitive to the sun. We need to get you home.”