Sorry this is so short but since there’s such a lot I can’t say, and since I haven’t been here for more than a day or two, I hope you won’t judge me too harshly.
Much love,
Hal
I’ll say this for Greg: he knew his women. Rebecca was stunning. Besides going in and out—and then some—in all the right places, she had the most vivid blue eyes, hair the color of straw, skin that shone with health, and a soft, sibilant voice that seemed to enfold you in a secret cocoon, as if you and she were the only people in the world. On top of it the look in her eyes was intelligent, and her aristocratic demeanor—I can’t quite describe what it was exactly but it was an amalgam of self-confidence and world-weariness, as if there was nothing anyone could teach her—was intoxicating, that’s the only word for it. From the moment I met her, I had no doubt she could seduce George Romford.
Her first words, after Greg had outlined the full background to our plan, behind the closed door of his office, were: “So I have to sleep with him?”
“Not necessarily,” said Greg, backtracking.
There was a short pause.
“Yes,” I said. I surprised myself in saying this.
Rebecca turned her gaze on me. The tiniest of smiles appeared along her lips. Then she looked back at Greg, pointing to me. “I like him,” she said in that soft voice she had. “He has more balls than you do, Greg.” She looked back at me. “I’ll do it. Just don’t give me a medal if it works—there’s only one thing worse than trading with the enemy, and that’s sleeping with him. When do we start?”
“Now, today, tomorrow,” cried Greg. “There’s no time to be lost. As soon as we can work out a way for you to meet him.”
“That’s easy,” I said in German.
“What did you say?” said Rebecca, turning my way again.
I nodded. “You wait for him to be seated at his table in the Café Odeon, then you sit at the next one. You look through the menu. Then, in your faltering German, you ask him if he can help you understand the wording. It will appeal to his vanity that he speaks better German than you do. After that, it’s up to you. Knowing Romford, it won’t be difficult.”
She looked me up and down. “Are you always good with women, Hal?”
“No. I just know Romford.”
“Well, how do I follow through? Who am I? Why am I in Zurich in the middle of a war?”
“Yes,” said Greg. “I was thinking about that. What do you think, Hal?”
“Invent as little as possible.” I thought for a moment. Then I turned to Rebecca. “Do your family know where you are and what you are doing?”
“They know I’m in the diplomatic service and serving here in Switzerland. At least my father and mother do. They have been asked not to talk about it.”
I nodded. “Get word to them. Tell them to say, if asked, that their daughter is a closed book, someone they refuse to discuss, full stop.” I looked at Greg. “Can we do that overnight? Send them a wire?” I turned back to Rebecca. “Where do your parents live?”
“Kelso. But they have a flat in London.”
“I’ll send a wire in code to my people,” said Greg. “I’ll have someone go and brief them in person. Impress on them how important this is.”
“Good,” I said. “Now, Rebecca, what you tell Romford is this. You are a pacifist and conscientious objector. You are against this war and all it stands for, and you are sitting it out in Zurich, like a lot of other artists and writers. Let’s make you a writer. If you were a painter, Romford might ask to see your paintings and your studio, which you don’t have, and if you were an actress, he would surely want to come and see you act. As a writer, all you need is some notebooks and/or a typewriter.”
“And how do I explain my poor German, when I’ve been here since the war started, two and a half years ago?”
“Simple: you had a Swiss boyfriend who spoke perfect English. He brought you here in the first place. That was convenient for you, but meant that you never had to improve your German. Now you are on your own—let that slip, but don’t make it too obvious. Romford will think all his birthdays and Christmases have