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  TO MY FIRST GRANDDAUGHTER

  My many thanks to the following people for their invaluable advice and research:

  Simon Bainbridge, Sir Win Bischoff, Sir Victor Blank,

  Dr. Harry Brunjes, Professor Susan Collins,

  Eileen Cooper RA, the Rt. Hon. The Lord Fowler PC,

  The Reverend Canon Michael Hampel, Professor Roger Kirby,

  Alison Prince, Catherine Richards, Mari Roberts,

  Susan Watt, Peter Watts, and David Weeden

  PROLOGUE

  1978

  EMMA ALWAYS TOOK a second look at any vessel that flew the Canadian flag from its stern. She would then check the name on the hull before her heartbeat would return to normal.

  When she looked this time, her heartbeat almost doubled and her legs nearly buckled under her. She double-checked; not a name she was ever likely to forget. She stood and watched the two little tugs steaming up the estuary, black smoke billowing from their funnels as they piloted the rusting old cargo ship toward its final destination.

  She changed direction, but as she made her way to the breaker’s yard, she couldn’t help wondering about the possible consequences of trying to find out the truth after all these years. Surely it would be more sensible just to go back to her office rather than rake over the past … the distant past.

  But she didn’t turn back, and when she reached the yard Emma headed straight for the chief ganger’s office, as if she were simply carrying out her usual morning rounds. She stepped into the railway carriage and was relieved to find that Frank wasn’t there, just a secretary typing away. She stood the moment she saw the chairman.

  “I’m afraid Mr. Gibson isn’t here, Mrs. Clifton. Shall I go and look for him?”

  “No, that won’t be necessary,” said Emma. She glanced at the large booking chart on the wall, only to have her worst fears confirmed. The SS Maple Leaf had been scheduled for breaking up and work was to begin on Tuesday week. At least that gave her a little time to decide whether to alert Harry or, like Nelson, turn a blind eye. But if Harry found out the Maple Leaf had returned to its graveyard and asked her if she’d known about it, she wouldn’t be able to lie to him.

  “I’m sure Mr. Gibson will be back in a few minutes, Mrs. Clifton.”

  “Don’t worry, it’s not important. But would you ask him to drop in and see me when he’s next passing my office?”

  “Can I tell him what it’s about?”

  “He’ll know.”

  * * *

  Karin looked out of the window at the countryside rushing by as the train continued on its journey to Truro. But her thoughts were elsewhere as she tried to come to terms with the baroness’s death.

  She hadn’t been in touch with Cynthia Forbes-Watson for several months, and MI6 had made no attempt to replace her as Karin’s handler. Had they lost interest in her? Cynthia had given her nothing of any significance to pass on to Pengelly for some time, and their tearoom meetings had become less and less frequent.

  Pengelly had hinted that it wouldn’t be long before he expected to return to Moscow. It couldn’t be soon enough for her. She was sick of deceiving Giles, the only man she’d ever loved, and was tired of traveling down to Cornwall on the pretense of visiting her father. Pengelly wasn’t her father but her stepfather. She loathed him. She’d prayed her mother wouldn’t marry him. But once her mother became Mrs. Pengelly, Karin quickly realized she could use the petty party official to escape a regime she despised even more than she despised him, if that was possible. And then she’d met Giles Barrington, who’d made it all possible by falling in love with her.

  Karin hated not being able to tell Giles the real reason she had tea at the House of Lords with the baroness so often. Now that Cynthia was dead, she would no longer have to live a lie. But when Giles discovered the truth, would he believe she’d escaped the tyranny of East Berlin only because she wanted to be with him? Had she lied once too often?

  As the train pulled into Truro, she prayed it was for the last time.

  * * *

  “How many years have you worked for the company, Frank?” asked Emma, looking up from her desk.

  “Nigh on forty, ma’am. Served your father, and your grandfather before him.”

  “So you’ll have heard the story of the Maple Leaf?”

  “Before my time, ma’am, but everyone in the yard is familiar with the tale, though few ever speak of it.”

  “I have a favor to ask, Frank. Could you put together a small gang of men who can be trusted?”

  “I’ve two brothers and a cousin who’ve never worked for anyone else but Barrington’s.”

  “They’ll need to come in on a Sunday, when the yard is closed. I’ll pay them double time, in cash, and there will be an incentive bonus of the same amount in twelve months’ time, but only if I’ve heard nothing of the work they carried out that day.”

  “Very generous, ma’am,” said Frank, touching the peak of his cap.

  “When will they be able to start?”

  “Next Sunday morning. The yard’ll be closed until Tuesday, Monday being a bank holiday.”

  “You do realize you haven’t asked me what it is I want you to do?”

  “No need to, ma’am. And if we find what you’re lookin’ for in the double bottom, what then?”

  “I ask no more than that the remains of Arthur Clifton should be given a Christian burial.”

  “And if we find nothing?”

  “Then it will be a secret the five of us take to our graves.”

  * * *

  Karin’s stepfather opened the front door of the cottage and welcomed her with an unusually warm smile.

  “I have some good news to share with you,” he said as she stepped into the house, “but it will have to wait until later.”

  Could it just be possible, thought Karin, that this nightmare was finally coming to an end? Then she saw a copy of The Times lying on the kitchen table, open at the obituaries page. She stared at the familiar photograph of Baroness Forbes-Watson and wondered if it was just a coincidence, or if he had left it open simply to provoke her.

  Over coffee, they talked of nothing consequential, but Karin could hardly miss the three suitcases standing by the door, which appeared to herald imminent departure. Even so, she became more anxious by the minute, as Pengelly remained far too relaxed and friendly for her liking. What was the old army expression, “demob happy”?

  “Time for us to talk about more serious matters,” he said, placing a finger to his lips. He went out to the hallway and removed his heavy overcoat from a peg by the door. Karin thought about making a run for it, but if she did, and all he was going to tell her was that he was returning to Moscow, her cover would be blown. He helped her on with her coat and accompanied her outside.

  Karin was taken by surprise when he gripped her arm firmly and almost marched her down the deserted street. Usually she linked her arm in his so that any passing s