Chapter 39
During the two weeks following John’s rescue and the subsequent fire at Peterson’s house, Lily and John spent many hours catching up with the past. Lola ran the gallery, leaving her husband and newly-acquired stepdaughter, who was some eighty-six years her senior, ensconced in the studio, the door closed. The long summer evenings were spent relaxing, with all the family taking walks along the shores of Thirlmere near the Andrews’ cottage, the young girls seeking out new and secret spots for the adults to sit and take in the dramatic sunsets over a glass of wine. The weather was kind and they all retreated into an idyllic period of contentment.
John was anxious to know the details of Lily’s abduction in 1905, of her many years as an unwilling servant in northern China, her escape and her years since in America.
He shook his head guiltily. “Lei-li, I was on the same continent in the 1930s and by then living a very comfortable life with Catherine and Dom. If I’d had any hint of the fact that you were living in San Francisco, I should have been there like a shot.”
“I know, Papa, but how could you possibly have known?”
She smiled, her eyes twinkling. “You should have known from your own life that both of us have an enduring ability to overcome hardship, to wriggle our way out of difficult and threatening situations.”
“I never gave up hope, Lei-li. Just as I have never completely given up hope about Paola, the daughter I have never even met. You know, I feel sure she’s alive somewhere.”
Lily sat back and stared into the middle distance.
“What is it, Lei-li? Where have your thoughts suddenly taken you?”
She sighed and her eyes focused back onto him.
“It’s probably nothing, but mentioning Paola again and now knowing more about us has jogged a memory. You remember I told you about seeing the paintings by Stefano Baldini back in 1952, the ones I was convinced had been painted by you? Well, not long after I saw those paintings, I remember seeing an article in one of the glossies – it might have been Life or New Yorker, or something similar. They ran features on artists of various sorts, sometimes well-established figures and sometimes up-and-coming hopefuls. It made a huge difference to a young artist if their work could be reviewed in a prestigious magazine. The article took my attention for two reasons. First, it was about a young female sculptor who had an unusual name: Mali Whittaker. I’d never heard the name before; it’s kind of unusual even these days, which is probably why I remembered it.”
“It’s a very pretty name.”
“Yes. It’s Thai. It means jasmine, or beautiful flower. Lovely, huh?”
“Yes, charming. But there’s more to this than a name. What was the other reason the artist took your attention?”
“Well, in the 1950s, most of the photos in the magazines were in black and white, as I’m sure you’ll remember. But in this article, the photo of the artist and her work were in colour. And what struck me about her was her eyes. They were exactly like mine.
“By then, I had long known there was something unusual about me – I was over sixty years old and looked in my late twenties. I’d even had a baby the year before. Of course, I’d met other people with eyes like mine, not exactly the same shade but pretty similar. But this woman’s seemed somehow especially similar.”
“Did you follow it up?”
“No, I didn’t. I had no reason to. I was living in Chicago at the time. I think this Mali Whittaker was living somewhere on the West Coast, but I don’t remember where. Interesting though, don’t you think? Strong artistic ability and the same eyes?”
“And a trail that’s almost sixty years cold,” sighed John. “But yes, I do. I wonder if copies of the magazine are still available. Perhaps you can see them on the Internet these days.”
“I’ll check it out.”
“Imagine, Lei-li, wouldn’t it be incredible if we could find Paola?”
“I shouldn’t get your hopes up, Papa. It could be nothing. As I said, eyes like ours are not unique to us.”
“I’d like to see her photograph, nevertheless. If it was Paola, there would have to be a family resemblance. I can still remember her mother, Francesca, as much as I should prefer to forget her.”
She laughed. “Was she that bad?”
“She was a demon! After nearly five hundred years, I still have nightmares about her.”
Lola put her head around the door.
“John, sorry to butt in; Frank Young’s on the phone.”
“Thanks, sweetheart, I’ll take it in here.”
He reached out for the receiver of the extension.
“Hello, Frank.”
“Sorry to interrupt you, John, I know how much you are enjoying catching up with your daughter. Gosh, you know, it seems so strange to be saying that, knowing what I do about your ages. It’s such an exciting prospect.”
“No problem, Frank,” said John, smiling to himself at the professor’s enthusiasm. “What can I do for you?”
“Well, actually, it’s more what I think I can do for you. The person I told you about has called back. He said my information was greeted by what he called ‘strong interest’. These people aren’t exactly known for being demonstrative, so ‘strong interest’ indicates they are beside themselves with excitement. He arranged for someone to visit me and this man will be coming to see you very soon. I was asked to sign all sorts of official documents, as I’m sure all of you will be too. As a result, I can’t discuss with you what we said, except to say that I apprised him of your condition and the scientific reasons behind it. I must say, John, he seemed remarkably unsurprised by the whole thing, but maybe that’s the way he’s trained to respond to bizarre situations. If you and Lily are in agreement about this, I’m to call him and he will make contact with you. His name is Digby Smith. He will say that he is an old friend of ‘the prof’. He won’t use my name.”
“It all sounds very cloak and dagger, but, yes, we’re certainly in agreement. I’ll wait for his call.”
“Obviously I don’t need to remind you of the need to keep this all confidential.”
“I’m used to keeping my own secret, Frank.”
“Yes, of course you are. How naïve of me.”
About two hours later, Lola looked round the studio door again. “Sorry, you two. John, I think the man the professor called about is on the phone. Polite, but insistent that he talk to you.”
John lifted the phone. “John Andrews.”
“Mr Andrews. My name is Digby Smith. I’m an old friend of the prof. I was wondering if I could arrange to visit you and Ms Saunders for a little chat.”
“Certainly, Mr Smith. When would you like to come?”
“Would tomorrow morning be convenient? Say, around ten o’clock?”
“That would be fine. I’ll expect you tomorrow.”
“Thank you, Mr Andrews. Thank you very much.”
The following morning at precisely ten, the door to the gallery opened and a slim man in his late thirties wearing a well-cut dark grey business suit with a plain, dark grey tie over a white shirt walked in. He was carrying a sleek, black leather briefcase. He glanced around the gallery and seemed to relax when he saw there were no customers. He walked up to where John, Lola and Lily were standing by the studio door.
“Mr Andrews?”
“Yes, I’m John Andrews.”
“Digby Smith,” smiled the man, his bright blue eyes fixed straight onto John’s. “We spoke yesterday. Thank you very much for agreeing to see me so quickly.”
He glanced expectantly at Lily and Lola, and John picked up the hint.
“This is my wife, Lola,” he said. “And this is Lily.”
Smith shook Lola’s hand and then Lily’s, his eyes lingering on hers.
“Lily Saunders,” said Lily. “Pleased to meet you, Mr Smith.”
“The pleasure’s all mine. I’m delighted to meet you all.”
He turned back to John. “Is there somewhere private we can all talk?”
“Am I
included in this little heart-to-heart?” asked Lola.
Smith smiled. “If you would be so kind, Mrs Andrews; to start with, at least. There are one or two formalities that we have to go through and I’m afraid you are part of them. After that, it’s up to you.”
“Come through to the studio,” said John, showing him the way.
Smith cast a professional eye around the studio and declared it perfect for their purposes.
“I’m afraid,” said Smith, opening his briefcase as he sat in one of the armchairs, “that before we start, I’m going to have to ask you all to sign copies of the Official Secrets Act.”
“This is the law that says we’ll be locked up in the dungeons of the Tower of London if we breathe a word of anything that’s said, isn’t it?” said Lola, smiling to herself as she caught the look of horror in Lily’s eyes.
“Something like that,” responded Smith, “only these days we have far less comfortable places for incarceration.”
“Touché, Mr Smith,” said Lola. “I can see that we’re going to be friends.”
“Please read through the covering document while I briefly explain what it is I’m asking you to sign,” he said, passing them each a sheaf of papers.
Five minutes later, he collected the documents and put them back in his briefcase. “OK, that’s the formalities out of the way,” he said, his eyes looking slowly from one of them to the other as he sat back in the armchair.
“I feel like Mata Hari,” said Lola.
“It does all seem a bit formal, I agree,” said Smith. “But it’s as much to protect all of your interests as it is the Government’s.
“Let me start by explaining myself. I work, as I think you realise, for the British Government. The actual ministry and department don’t really matter. Suffice it to say that knowing what I already know from the professor about you, Mr Andrews, and you, Ms Saunders, I can assure you that what passes between us will be treated with the utmost secrecy. In order to ensure that, I can tell you that the number of people on my side who will know about you directly, that is, your names and whereabouts, will be limited to me alone. All dealings with you will be conducted through me and all records of our interviews will be produced by me, not a secretary, and they will be securely locked away in a vault. Anticipating the question I can see on your lips, Mrs Andrews, in case anything untoward happens to me, if I’m run over by a bus, for example, I have colleagues, one of whom would take my place and who then, and only then, would take over access to the records. That access cannot happen without my knowing while I’m alive. I can’t go into the details of how that works; I’m afraid you’ll simply have to take my word for it.”
“You must be answerable to someone,” said Lola.
“Obviously. But my senior officers will know of you only by code names. That is how we shall discuss you. They have no need to know your real names or any others you adopt. And to emphasise how secret we regard this matter, I can tell you that knowledge of it does not go outside the department. For example, the PM doesn’t know and neither does Her Majesty.”
“Presumably these records are stored on a computer,” said Lily. “Computers can be hacked. How secure are yours?”
“A good point, Ms Saunders,” said Smith, his face remaining serious. “We accept that computers can be hacked into and for this very reason, absolutely nothing from the records about you or from the interviews will ever go on any computer. When I type up the notes, it’s on an old-fashioned typewriter. Everything is paper records only and they are stored in part of a fireproof vault to which only I have access.”
“Wow!” nodded Lily, impressed. “So the old methods are the best.”
“OK,” said John, “tell us how we can help you and what we can expect in return.”
“What you can expect in return for what you give us, Mr Andrews, can be summed up as ‘peace of mind’. I know that as a result of your age being far greater than it would appear, you and Ms Saunders have a problem with identity. The professor has already explained that to me. What we can offer you is a guarantee of new identities as and when they are required. New names, new papers and new locations. In perpetuity. Not only you, but your family as well. Obviously you won’t always be dealing with me because I will get older and one day retire. But there is a continuity plan.”
He paused to see if they were following him.
“This will presumably apply to Phoebe as well?” asked Lola.
“Phoebe?”
“Our younger daughter. It would appear that she is the same as John and Lily.”
“I didn’t realise that; I’ll make a note of it. But yes, there is no question: of course it will apply to her. Now, as to what you can give us, I only know the bare bones of the situation. That is, I only know, as I have said, that you are both quite old, and that you, Ms Saunders, are Mr Andrews’ daughter. What I would ask now is that you give me some more details so that we can decide on how we can structure a programme of research.”
“Well, let me start, then,” said John. He told Smith his age and paused, waiting for a reaction.
Smith nodded slowly, taking it in. He looked around the studio. “And you are an artist?”
“Yes. I have always been an artist – that’s how I’ve made my living, using various names through the ages. I was trained by Piero della Francesca.”
Smith sat forward in his chair, registering a reaction for the first time. “Fascinating. Absolutely fascinating. Professor Young made no mention of your always having been an artist,” he said, rubbing his hands together.
“Mr Smith?” said Lola. “May I ask a question?”
“Certainly.”
“You say you have colleagues. At your level, I think you described it. If you are the only one dealing with John and Lily, what do the others do?”
Smith looked hesitant for the first time since he’d arrived. “They are there for back-up, as I’ve explained. This isn’t my only task. I have other responsibilities, as do they.”
“It’s just that you didn’t seem very surprised by what John told you about his age. Tell me, if you can, are there others?”
“Others?”
“Yes, like John and Lily, and, of course, Phoebe. Are there others like them on your books?”
Smith sat back and considered his response. As he did, both John and Lily leaned forward in anticipation. This insight from Lola, which they had missed, had them thinking once again about Paola.
Smith exhaled slowly and stared out of the window. “This is my judgement call,” he said. He paused, debating in his mind exactly what he should say. Finally he turned to them.
“I think you have a right to know. It’s hardly others. There is one, to my knowledge. He is handled by one of my colleagues. Obviously I know nothing about him, absolutely nothing at all.”
“Him. It’s a he?” said John and Lily together.
“Yes, that much I do know,” replied Smith, puzzled by their response. Then he realised. “Were you expecting it to be a woman?” he asked.
“Hoping is perhaps a better word, Mr Smith,” said John. “Let me continue with my story. Aren’t you going to take notes?”
“If I may, yes. They will be destroyed once I have typed everything up.”
“OK,” smiled John. “This could take a while. Would you like some coffee?”
Two hours later, John had led Smith through an outline of his life and identities. He had included mention of Lily, although he was leaving details of her life to her. Smith made copious notes throughout, sometimes interrupting for more detail, but mainly listening attentively and in increasing awe as the story unfolded. Lola had excused herself from the proceedings early on, saying she had to mind the gallery.
John concluded his outline with a summary of recent events to explain how they had reached their present position. When he finished, Smith stopped writing and looked up.
“Yes, the professor gave me Dr Reid’s name as well as Mr Fisher’s and Dr Moreton’s. I shall be
visiting them to get them onside, so to speak. It’s remarkable, given what happened to you, that the number of people who are aware of your situation, if I may call it that, is limited to so few.”
“I assume Frank Young told you what happened regarding my kidnapping?”
“He was actually quite vague about it. He said that he thought it should come from you.”
“Did he? Well, if I tell you, I hope it’s not going to backfire on me and change the way the police are looking at it,” said John defensively.
“How could it, Mr Andrews? What we are discussing here is in total confidence. It is, in every sense of the word, a secret of the highest level. In that respect, I am like a priest. You can confess to whatever you like and there will be no repercussions on you.”
John laughed and described the events at Peterson BioTech.
As John finished, Smith looked up from his notes and nodded. “You had a fortunate escape, thanks, I should say, to the professor and Mr Fisher. Now, let me explain how I perceive we shall proceed. As I mentioned earlier, I intend to be the conduit through which all discussions with you are made. What I have in mind is that both of you would be in a position to provide invaluable insight into everyday life throughout the span of your lives. Living witnesses, if you will. I am in touch with professors of various relevant disciplines at a number of our better universities whom I intend to apprise of certain facts. I shall ask them to provide detailed questions relevant to their subject that I can pose to you and I shall take the answers back to them. That way your identities remain protected. Now obviously, they can’t publish the findings. But they would gradually, over a period of years, include carefully worded details from your accounts into texts, papers, etc., that, given their prestige, would slowly become accepted as facts by a sort of process of diffusion. That way, the details you provide would be taken, eventually, as read, and if it’s done properly, the source material can be blurred enough not to matter. It’s a very subtle process.”
“It all sounds a little dishonest,” said John.
“It’s not dishonest, in that they would be facts. But the provenance of those facts would have to be carefully controlled.
“Regarding Professor Young,” he continued, “I can tell you he is going to be given the resources to undertake extensive research into the genetic side of the matter. He will require some samples from you both but he assures me that is all he will require of you.”
Smith closed his notebook. “That all seems very satisfactory. For you, Mr Andrews, I can see that the whole process of interviews is going to take some considerable time. It could stretch into years. What I suggest, if you are agreeable, is that I pay you a visit once a month and we can sit here for a few hours and talk over whatever set of questions I have in hand. Would you be willing to give up that amount of time?”
“If that’s what it takes to ensure that I never again have to forge or steal an identity, or run away in the depths of the night, it’s a small price to pay. I’d be happy to oblige. But that raises a question about Lily. You’ve been including her in all the points we’ve discussed, but as I’m sure you realise, she’s an American citizen. Not only that, she has a flourishing business in New York that she shortly has to return to. Is that going to complicate matters?”
Smith steepled his hands together onto his mouth and pursed his lips. “In theory, it could, but it rather depends on you, Ms Saunders. The British Government is not prepared to discuss any of this with your government or any other government. Ever. I doubt you would contemplate making your own advances to your government; you would probably be rebuffed as a crank. And now you’ve signed the Official Secrets Act, you would not be able to tell them anything about what has gone on today, nor indeed anything about your father, not if you want to return to this country at any time. So I confess I’ve led you into something of a dilemma quite deliberately. What I’m proposing is that you remain an American citizen with your present identity for as long as is convenient to you. As and when you wish to move on, we can arrange for you to disappear, or for your supposed death if you wish, and you would re-emerge in a new identity as a British citizen. How do you react to that?”
Lily laughed. “Apart from the fact that you’ve given me very little choice, I am perfectly happy with it. Having been born in Hong Kong when it was a Crown Colony, I shall be very pleased to reclaim my British identity in due course.”
Smith smiled. “Good. That’s settled then. As far as interviews with you are concerned, I presume that now you have re-established contacts with your family, you intend to be spending some time here in the UK every so often. We shall be more than pleased to provide you with tickets to do that whenever you wish. That goes without saying. If you would agree to a series of interviews every time you are here, that would be splendid.”
Lily beamed, suddenly excited at the prospect of frequent visits she hadn’t anticipated. “It would indeed be splendid, Mr Smith.”
Smith stood up. “Before I go, perhaps we can call Mrs Andrews in for a final word.”
“Of course,” said John. “I’ll fetch her.”
“Are you leaving us, Mr Smith?” asked Lola as she came back into the room with John.
“For today, Mrs Andrews, yes. I shall need some time to digest all I have heard. But I intend to become a regular and frequent visitor, if that’s not too inconvenient to you.”
“If you intend to be getting under our feet for the foreseeable future, Mr Smith, it will only be convenient if you take off your Ministry coat and cut some of the formality. First names is the norm around here. Can we agree to that … Digby?”
“Absolutely, Mrs, er, Lola. First names are so much better. Perhaps I can finish the formal side once and for all with one last little speech that I am obliged to make. It is simply this: I have to emphasise once again the need for absolute secrecy on all the matters we have discussed. As you now realise, it’s not only for John and Lily’s sake – and indeed Phoebe’s too – although the importance to them is paramount. There are others to consider as well. For so many reasons, the privileged circle who share this secret of yours must remain as small as possible.”
“I think we all understand that well enough.” smiled Lola.
“I know you do. But I should emphasise that my organisation is here to help you in every way possible. It might happen in future that someone inadvertently gets wind of something unusual about you and starts perhaps to put pressure on you. If anything like that happens, no matter how trivial it seems, you should contact me immediately so that it can be addressed.”
“Does that mean that every time John gets arrested for fighting in pub car parks, you can make it go away?” asked Lola, raising her eyebrows innocently.
Smith laughed. “Something like that, although I don’t recommend making a habit of it.”