D-Notice by Bill Walker (big ebook reader txt) 📗

she’d purchased just for this evening. It was silk and would probably be ruined.

She had it all planned: the dinner of tinned beef prepared as Beef Wellington, along with the few fresh vegetables she’d managed to coax out of their meager garden, a pat of precious butter, candles, wine, the lace tablecloth. The perfect atmosphere for letting Michael know that he was to be a father. But instead of feeling joy, all she felt was dread, and the bitter taste of bile in her mouth.

She’d known about the baby for several weeks. And at first, Lillian wanted to die. Swearing the doctor to secrecy, she went home and said nothing to Michael, planning to go to a discreet doctor that Paul knew. Michael noticed something, of course, the dear man would, but she put it all down to a lack of sleep and a persistent case of anemia. But as the days turned into weeks, Lillian realized she wanted the child very much, could feel it growing day by day, along with her love for this unborn being. She resolved to tell Michael at the first opportunity. But she didn’t want to just spring it on him, he deserved better than that. Thus, she had concocted this special meal, telling him that it was just something she wanted to do. And she loved him all the more for not questioning her further.

And that left Paul.

They’d been lovers before she’d met Michael, and she’d kept the affair going even after it was clear that Michael meant far more to her. Yet, she couldn’t break away from Paul. Could not cut ties that bound her to him body and soul, for if it were not for Paul her life would be far different and far darker.

Crying anew, she went to the phone with the intention of telling Paul the truth, that she wanted her life back and that it was Michael’s child, not his, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

God might forgive her for loving two men, but she could never bring herself to kill her child. She’d sooner kill herself along with it. It would amount to the same thing.

Wiping her tears, Lillian blew out the candles and finished rinsing the dishes. Afterward, she sat by the fire and tried to read the latest Agatha Christie, finding that she was reading the same words over and over. She glanced at the clock and saw that it was a quarter past seven. Michael would be at his meeting, now, she thought. And might not be home for hours.

Almost as if someone threw a switch inside her body, images of Paul began to flood her mind. Her heart pounded and a warmth spread through her loins that made her gasp, as Paul’s strong arms seemed to grip her in one of his all-encompassing embraces.

“God help me,” she pleaded.

Lillian marched toward the phone, feeling much like a condemned man on his way to the gallows, picked up the receiver and dialed. She listened to it ring several times, praying that he would be out, yet hoping that he would answer. A moment later he did.

“I knew it would be you,” he said, his mellifluous accent making his rich baritone sound all the more exotic and thrilling.

HANG UP! her mind screamed.

“P—Paul, I—”

“Ssssh, quiet, my love. Everything will be all right. Now tell me what’s wrong.”

“Michael’s been called to a late meeting, and I guess I was feeling lonely.”

“Will he be long?”

“Yes, he said he would.”

“Come to me, then. I want to see you.”

“You know I can’t—”

“You must come.”

It was useless to argue with him. In the end she would succumb, as she always had.

“Where?” she said, resigned.

“I’ll send my car. Wear something nice.”

“I already am,” she said, choking back the tears again.

“That’s my Ninot—my girl. I can’t wait to see you.”

They hung up and Lillian went into the bedroom to freshen up her makeup. Unfortunately, nothing she could do with her dwindling supply of Max Factor could hide the guilt and self-loathing etched into the planes of her aristocratic face. Later, she stood watching out the front window until the long black Daimler with its CD plate pulled up in front of the house. With one last look at the table with its lace tablecloth, she walked out into the night and into the arms of a man to whom she was inextricably bound, a bond that would only end when one of them was dead.

Chapter Four

With each step up those winding stairs, Thorley’s frayed nerves tightened an invisible band around his chest, making him more and more anxious. His throat had a dry coppery taste, as if he’d been running for miles and his head throbbed with every heartbeat.

Reaching the fourth floor, Thorley noted it was much the same as the other three, only here the old portraits alternated with framed prints of foxhunting scenes and brass sconces that sprouted from the walls every few feet, casting a weak amber light that did nothing to dispel the gloom. As for the Lieutenant’s warning, he needn’t have bothered. There was no one about, the only noise being the incessant chatter of a lone Teletype somewhere nearby.

The Director’s office lay at the very end of the hall, the door leading into it resembling something out of a medieval castle: stout, secretive, impregnable. All it said was: Private.

Typical MI6.

No secrets would ever escape from behind a door like that, and once more Thorley had to fight an irrational impulse to turn and flee, as if he instinctively knew, somehow, there would be no turning back once he crossed that threshold.

He raised his hand and knocked. It was answered almost immediately by a callow-faced youth dressed in a somber pinstriped suit. The young man’s lips creased into a chilly