‘I can think of people I’d rather spend the morning with.’
‘What? Can’t spend a few pleasant minutes with an old schoolmate?’
‘Can it, Charlie. You’re no schoolmate, you’re a thief.’
Danby laughed. ‘And you’re the thief catcher? Not doing such a good job, are we?’ Danby turned around and went back to his observation post at the gun slit. He looked out to sea, dragging on his cigarette. ‘You really don’t get it, do you, Lucas?’
‘Get what?’
Danby reached into the pocket of his trench coat and took out a package of Old Golds and a Zippo engraved with his initials. He laid them on the pitted concrete of the slit and gestured to Dundee. ‘Take one if you want.’
Dundee stepped forward, shook out a cigarette from the pack and lit it, the familiar smell of the lighter filling his nostrils. Danby was staring out at the troubled waters crashing in on the stone beach, each wave presenting a fat green underbelly before it broke over the shore with a pounding crash. ‘Get what?’ Dundee repeated
‘This,’ Danby answered, waving a hand vaguely. ‘You, me, the war, all of it.’
‘I think that’s a little bit beyond me,’ said Dundee with a shrug, wondering what Danby was getting at. ‘I’d prefer to leave that kind of thing to the Bible thumpers.’
It was Danby’s turn to shrug. ‘Call it what you want – God, fate, destiny. Every civilisation has had a word for it.’
‘Get to the point, Charlie.’ Dundee sighed. It was something Charles Danby had always had a hard time doing.
Danby flicked the butt end of his cigarette out the observation slit. He turned away from Dundee and disappeared into the dark shadows at the back of the gun platform, reappearing a moment later with a ribbed steel flier’s Thermos and two tin mugs. He poured coffee from the Thermos for both of them, the rich aroma filling the cold air. Silently Dundee took the offered mug. He tasted the coffee; it was the same as the stuff he’d had in the dining room with the Honourable Sir John Gadsby. Black, rich and expensive, especially with rationing in place; not that it would prove a major obstacle to Charlie.
‘Let me tell you a story, Lucas.’
‘Go ahead,’ said Dundee, rolling his eyes. ‘It doesn’t look as though I’ll be going anywhere soon.’
Danby looked at him speculatively. ‘You know my father, right?’
‘I’ve met him,’ answered Dundee warily. He’d never known Charlie to be the loquacious type and he found the sudden talkativeness intriguing. At a guess he’d almost say that Charlie sounded lonely.
‘A bastard,’ said Charlie flatly. It wasn’t anything but a statement of fact. ‘But a smart bastard.’ He paused. ‘Did you know we come from German stock?’
‘I never really thought about it.’
‘Me neither,’ said Danby. ‘Then, a few years back, my father tells me we’re going to Germany, on a fact-finding mission, like Lindy or the fucking Duke of Windsor.’
‘Interesting?’ asked Dundee.
‘What’s interesting is finding out that my sainted grandfather’s real name was Kurt Von Danboch and he was some rich fuddy-duddy in Hamburg who came out to California because he got some girl knocked up and didn’t want to marry her.’ Danby laughed. ‘I guess it runs in the family.’ Charlie Danby’s arrival at Bain Academy had coincided with one of his female cousin’s extended visit to friends in the east.
‘The Von Danboch family was in the fruit importing business so it didn’t take too much imagination. He got rich pretty quick.’ Danby lit another cigarette. ‘Anyway, my old man and I did the tour; we even had a visit with Hitler at that place of his in the Alps.’
‘Berchtesgaden,’ supplied Dundee.
‘That’s it,’ said Danby. ‘But he spent most of his time with business types, the heads of Agfa-Gevaert, Krupp, Farben, that kind.’
‘I still don’t see where this is heading,’ said Dundee.
‘I’m getting there,’ said Danby. He grinned. ‘This is my story so let me tell it.’
‘I just can’t figure out how it gets around to you having one of your bully boys stuff an ether-soaked rag down my throat.’
Danby ignored the comment and went on with his narrative. ‘Anyway, after a while I started to see the light, which was maybe why the old man had taken me along. He told me about the family history before we changed the name. I talked to him about it one night after we went to a whorehouse in Berlin together.’
‘Nice to see a father and son who can still do things together,’ said Dundee a little sourly.
Danby caught the acid in his tone. ‘Your father’s been to a fair number of cathouses himself, Ten Spot, so don’t play holier than thou with me.’
‘My father’s no puritan, Charlie, but he never took me to a whorehouse.’
‘Maybe he should have.’
‘Forget it,’ said Dundee. ‘Go on.’
‘Like I was saying. I asked him and he told me what the trip was really all about.’
‘Which was?’
‘Business. Money. Power.’ The handsome man looked at Dundee earnestly. ‘Numbers, Ten Spot. What the war would be fought about when it came.’
‘I thought the invasion of Poland had something to do with it.’
‘Poland was part of Prussia during the last war – they fought against us. In the next war they could be the enemy again. It’s not about treaties and loyalties; it’s about one business owing a favour to another, one hand washing the other. It’s about vested interests.’
‘I also heard Pearl Harbor might have had something to do with it as well,’ said Dundee.
‘Pearl Harbor was an excuse to get us into the war. Roosevelt pressured the Japanese until they had no choice. You know as well as I do that the Japs are no threat to us. Can you imagine a hundred thousand little Nips landing on Huntington Beach when the surf was up?’ he snorted. ‘How far inland do you think they’d get? Hollywood? Palm Desert maybe?’
‘I don’t think that’s the point, Charlie. And that’s not the war we’re fighting here.’
‘The point is, Ten Spot, enemies change and borders get moved but the money keeps on getting made. Krupp makes bombs and Ford makes tanks. The same oil makes both of them go; it’s just that they buy from the Venezuelans and we get ours from Texas. But the company’s the same. And big business knows it.’
‘Hitler isn’t a factor or Hirohito or Mussolini?’
‘Who do you think runs Germany?’ said Danby flatly.
‘Why don’t you tell me?’ said Dundee, sure that Danby would do just that.
‘It’s not Adolf fucking Hitler, believe me. Hitler’s like any little tinpot dictator. All that flag waving and all those rallies cost money and he’s not getting it from the German Volk, that’s for sure. He’s getting it from the Swiss banks, who are getting it from big business, businesses like Standard Oil and International Telephone for instance.’
‘There are laws about that kind of thing,’ said Dundee, suddenly weary of Charlie’s rant. ‘It’s called the Trading with the Enemy Act.’
Danby smiled shrewdly. ‘But don’t you think that’s defined by who your enemies are?’ He laughed. ‘Up until we got into the war Standard Oil tankers were openly refuelling German U-boats at sea.’
‘How does that get us to this?’ said Dundee, making a sweeping gesture around the gun platform. ‘How does it get to you being a crook and maybe a traitor and me being the man who’s supposed to hunt you down? Explain that to me, Charlie.’
‘That’s easy enough,’ said Danby, his tone almost gentle. ‘My father knew there was a war coming in 1934 – so did anyone else with a brain in his head. The world was going to hell in a handcart, especially Europe. Big Business knew that someone like Hitler was necessary to shock us all out of our shoes. Don’t you understand, Dundee – we needed this war; it was a godsend. It maybe put Hitler in the headlines but it took us out of the Black Monday fiasco and the Depression.’
‘That still doesn’t explain
any of this,’ said Dundee wearily. He was getting tired of Charlie’s glib explanations of a world gone mad and a war that wasn’t doing anybody any good.
‘When the war is over Hitler will be over with it. The big boys know that; they’ve always known that. They put him into power; they’ll take him out.’
‘They’ve already tried a few times. They may not find it as easy as they think.’
‘Don’t worry, when the time comes they’ll make it happen. Someone like Hitler is useless in a peacetime world so they’ll get rid of him.’
‘And then I suppose it’s back to business as usual,’ said Dundee.
‘Exactly!’ Danby nodded.
‘That still doesn’t explain why you got yourself into Shepton Mallet prison and helped yourself to the Imperial Crown.’
‘Pretty good, huh, Ten Spot?’
‘Pretty crazy, Charlie,’ responded Dundee.
‘Not really. The crown is just a symbol but it’s an important one. Without it you can’t have a king.’
‘A king isn’t the crown, Charlie. He’s the sum total of the people he represents. It’s like the president. It’s an idea, not a person.’
‘Tell that to the little man they’re going to crown after we invade this crappy little island. He’s got some idea that being the King of England is like being King Arthur and the Round Table or something; he thinks he’s a legend and he wants his Excalibur. Frankly, nobody cares what the stupid shitbird thinks, Ten Spot, but he’s a necessary evil as they say and we’ve got to keep him happy.’
Danby was obviously talking about the Duke of Windsor but the whole thing was fantastic; except for the fact that Danby was right, at least on the surface. If Germany won the war, England would need a new king and a basically stupid and naïve person like the ex-king Edward would be a handy pawn, especially with him married to an American. Fantastic maybe, but not impossible, and Hitler’s own attraction to symbolic mythology was well known; the swastika and the rallys at Nuremberg were evidence enough of that. Presented in the right way, he’d buy the idea. Even if it didn’t work in any real sense, the theft of the Crown would be a terrible blow to morale for England’s present war effort.
‘How does all that tie in to this place?’
‘Akergill is a staging base; it has been since before the war. It really is a sanitarium, just like Gadsby is really a doctor, but it’s also a way of getting a steady stream of agents into England without getting anyone’s nose out of joint.’
‘Gadsby’s secretly a Nazi?’
‘He doesn’t make much of a secret about it,’ laughed Danby. ‘He’s convinced that he’s going to be made prime minister after the war. Our friend Sir John, fifth earl of Hawksmoor, isn’t the only Englishman in the House of Lords who agrees with the führer.’ He laughed bleakly. ‘It’s all a façade, Dundee. Gadsby bought his earldom just the way my old man bought me a commission as a colonel. Money, Dundee. That’s all it takes, just the folding green.’
All of a sudden Dundee saw the truth. Charlie was the same bullying sixteen-year-old he’d known all those years ago; nothing had changed at all. On the surface he was a charming rogue with a twinkle in his eye, but you didn’t have to dig very deep to find the bullying confidence man behind that glinting look. Any end justified any means and manipulating anyone was fair game as long as Charlie Danby got what he wanted.
‘You really are a son of a bitch, aren’t you, Charlie?’
‘It’s the sons of bitches who run the world, I’m afraid, Ten Spot,’ Danby answered softly.
It was Dundee’s turn to stare out the observation slit. The grey sky had lowered and a light rain was falling now, dropping visibility to less than a hundred yards. The sea was a cipher; a German E-boat or a small fishing trawler could get in under the coastal radar with none the wiser. Rumour had it that the Nazis hadn’t successfully landed one agent on British soil but that could just be propaganda; maybe Charlie was right after all – the forces of big business conspiring even before the war, ultimately the puppet masters of Adolf Hitler and everyone else, a hidden power structure beneath a veneer of honour, loyalty and patriotism.
‘Where’s the nearest town?’ asked Dundee.
‘Wondering if it would work? Believe me, Ten Spot, it’s been working on this coast for the past four hundred years. They used to smuggle cheese from Denmark and Flemish lace from Belgium, crates of perfume from Cologne and hams from Hamburg. The closest town is Lacburn, ten miles across Kracken Moor, and no road of any consequence between. Most of them think we’re a commando training school and steer well clear. One or two of the overly curious have wound up disappearing; bogs on the moor are dangerous.’
‘How long have you been part of all this?’
‘Since that night in the Adlon with the old man, after our trip to the Kit Kat. I was an instant convert.’
‘You always do what your father tells you, Charlie?’
Colour flared on Danby’s cheeks. ‘It had nothing to do with my old man!’ Danby jammed his hands into the pockets of his trench coat and hunched his shoulders as though feeling a sudden chill. He regained his temper and a smile twitched on his face. ‘I was a convert because it made good sense.’
‘Was being in the Army always part of it?’
‘As soon as it became clear we were going to be in the war.’ Danby nodded. ‘Looked better if you enlisted and made it easier to pick and choose. Anybody with sense knew there were going to be deserters, English and American both. I just made use of them, that’s all.’
‘Your own private army?’
‘Something like that.’ He smiled. ‘Malcontents into “madcontents” as I like to say. As long as they’re useful, I want ’em.’
‘And what happens when they aren’t useful any more?’
‘That’s easy,’ said Danby. ‘I just send them home.’
Dundee shivered. Sending deserters home where they could potentially rat on their boss to the wrong people? Not likely. In a pine box, maybe. It wasn’t just the overly curious who got sent on a one-way trip across the moor.
‘Where do I fit into all of this, Charlie? You didn’t keep me alive just to meet with me and gloat about being some kind of criminal mastermind. You never did anything without a reason.’
‘You got that right, Ten Spot, and unlike Ming the Merciless I really don’t have any intention of telling you what that reason is.’ He smiled again. ‘Let’s just say I’m taking you for a ride.’
Chapter Twenty-one
Jane stepped out of the back part of the cave and paraded herself for the other fugitives, all of whom had studiously kept their eyes averted, with the exception of Solomon who had taken a peek or two as she changed. The clothes she’d had to choose from hadn’t been much but she’d managed to put together something warm and generally clean.
She now wore a garish blue-and-white-checked shirt, a pair of darkly stained dungarees rolled up at the cuffs covering old, black, lace-up boots done up with twine, trousers held up by leather braces, all topped off by a filthy, old shapeless hat, which she’d tucked her blonde hair into, and a patch-pocket jacket in loden green. The shirt was too large and so were the dungarees but everything else fit well enough. The only thing she’d kept of her own was her wallet.
‘What do you think, guys?’ she asked. She’d tried scrubbing the worst of the muck off her face with the sleeve of the jacket but looking at herself in the little fragment of mirror Angus had given her she realised all she’d done was spread the dirt in great angry streaks across her face.
Angus howled with laughter when he saw her and even the silent boy in the school uniform had the trace of a smile on his pale, drawn face.
‘Now, ain’t you the Billy!’’ Angus laughed. ‘You look like a wild man who’s spent too much time hairding goats in the hills.’ He nodded happily to himself as he checked on the state of her wet clothing, now hanging around the fire. ‘That’s it, lass – or should I call you laddie now? A goat hairder you are!’
Jane dropped the old-fashioned carpetbag she’d found on the floor of the cave and glanced at her fellow fugitives. The longer she stayed here the more she put these people at risk. It was an hour past dawn now and Occleshaw was sure to be on his way back to the bridge, sweeping across the moor with his men and probably dogs as well now. It was time to be going on her own way, although God only knew how she was going to get there.
Angus squeezed by her and went into the rear of the cave himself, reappearing a few minutes later, transformed. The kilt was gone, replaced by a dirty but serviceable pair of canvas trousers that might have once belonged to a sailor. His long, unruly hair was tucked up into a gigantic plaid tam that flopped down over either side of his head. A heavy workman’s waistcoat now covered his shirt, the pockets bulging with an assortment of treasures. As he strode into the front of the cave he was trimming his beard with a small pair of rusty pruning shears.
‘I thought I should freshen myself, seeing that we’re now in the company of a woman.’
It was Jane’s turn to laugh. She found herself surprised and even a little enchanted that she’d fallen in with this strange lot so easily. ‘You look very elegant, Angus.’
‘As a McConnigle should look,’ he said proudly. He cleared his throat, standing erect so that the bobble top of his ridiculous tam brushed the ceiling of the cave. He tucked his thumbs into the wide belt he’d transferred to the canvas trousers and put a stern expression on his face. ‘A pairfect picture of sartorial grace and favour,’ he intoned.
‘Angus, have you ever heard of a place called Salem?’ she said, mentioning the name she’d seen on the inside of the matchbook cover in Shepton Mallet. She’d tried to locate it on an Ordnance Survey map of Scotland – assuming that it wasn’t a ruse as Dundee thought – but she hadn’t been able to find it. With the exception of the name of the garage in Glasgow on the cover of the matches it was the only lead they had.
‘Aye, lass, it’s that place in America where they burned the witches.’
An American Spy Page 20