Copyright © 2005 by John T. Cullen. All Rights Reserved.

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Intersect: Danger

a novel

by John T. Cullen

13.

Canterbury, 1991

With every small leg in her journey, Countess Didier felt herself getting a little bit closer to the secret of where her father was.

The hired limousine took her from Gatwick north a bit; then, a few hours later, through the Kentish countryside with its red clays and rich green woods into Canterbury. It was noon, and she was hungry. The elderly American, Jack Halliburton, had come with his wife to the shopping strip near Canterbury Cathedral to meet her. She gave the driver a generous tip for his journey back to Gatwick. Then she set out to find the retired U.S. Army colonel. She had little trouble, for he stood out even among the many tourists marching from their buses to the medieval town center.

“Madame Didier?” he said, a tall old man in a light blue sweater, who still carried himself with a certain stiffly flowing grace. With him was a small, undistinguished woman, in her 80s as he must be. The minute she opened her mouth to say hello, Marianne could put two and two together. The Halliburtons were delighted at her detective work. “Yes,” Halliburton said, taking the women in arm, one on each side as if they were old friends, “I stayed here after the war. There was a lot to do in Europe, putting it all back together after the mess the fascists made. I met Andrea and never looked back.”

“I was a nurse at Guy’s Hospital during the war,” Andrea said. She had dyed her hair so that it was a mild sort of shoe-polish rusty color, but silver wisps trailed over her delicate white embroidered blouse collar. The Halliburtons were a playful couple, and they seemed to forever be tugging at each other, so that Marianne laughed as she found herself being rattled about. “He looked so tall and handsome in his colonel’s uniform,” Andrea said, “and of course he had more ration cards than Churchill himself.”

“I settled here in Boughton-under-Blean—a village near here—and raised our kids here. Good place to be. Have you spent much time in the States?”

“I’m afraid not enough,” Marianne said. “I was sent away to a dreadful girls’ school in Switzerland. My husband and I lived for years near Paris.”

Halliburton asked delicately: “Is there currently a Monsieur Didier?”

“Past tense,” she said. “Oh, don’t look pained—it’s old history. I was rebelling, I’m afraid. It was the late sixties. We all hated our parents. Especially we spoiled rotten rich brats who’d been sent away. I married a wealthy Austrian insurance exec and we had three lovely sons, all French citizens and grown up now, but we divorced. Didn’t affect the title I inherited from my stepfather though.”

“Oh yes,” Mrs. Halliburton said. “Old Bourbon nobility or what?”

“Bourbon, Habsburg, the whole mix,” Marianne said, and Halliburton nodded. “Yes. It’s like studying a lost world. Doesn’t hurt to have it hanging on your name though, does it?”

“It can hurt, Mr. Halliburton. Attracts paparazzi, unwanted notice, tabloids.” She corrected herself. “Colonel Halliburton, sorry.”

“More old history,” he said, clapping a liver-spotted hand gently over hers as they linked arms. “Yes, I have to confess, We’ve seen photos of you in the paper. Never dreamed we’d meet you one day. Never dreamed there might be a connection with our old friend Mr. Nordhall.” They came to a touristy pub, took one look at the long queues, and decided not to eat there. “Come,” Mrs. Halliburton said, “I have an idea.” They marched through a maze of shops and plate glass walls to a large supermarket, and there was a clean, bright, modern delicatessen section with a few red plastic chairs and tables in a corner. “Not your rustic pub,” Mrs. Halliburton said, “but they have good things to eat.” Halliburton added as they walked up to the barely busy glass windows looking over the serving trays: “Some of it comes right over from France several times a day on the ferries, if you prefer French food.”

His wife laughed. “There is also Dover sole, imported from America.”

“Dover is not far down the coast from here,” Marianne marveled. “What a strange world. Was Mr. Nordhall a nice man?” It seemed strange to be talking about her father in so third-person a manner, but then he was a stranger to her. Halliburton shrugged. “It was long ago, but I seem to remember he was a nice enough guy. Came bursting in one night to tell me he was being framed for espionage. I thought he was crazy at first, but he turned out to be dead right. I kept an eye on him after that. We had lunch with Allen Dulles one day near Westminster. Nordhall was reassigned and disappeared after the war, like so many fellows.”

She put her arm around Marianne and said: “I do hope it turns out he was the fellow your mother—well, it just sounds like he was a nice chap, that’s all. Tell us about your chateau and the ski trips and the Riviera and all.”

“Dear,” Halliburton chided his wife gently.