by John Gardner
Naldo offered Arnie a drink, pouring two stiff whiskies, excusing himself to go and make sure the spare bed was made up. He told Arnie they would probably be going to see his father tomorrow, ‘And somehow get up to Redhill Manor to see your illustrious Uncle Richard.’
‘Our illustrious uncle,’ Arnold reminded him. ‘That’s good. Perhaps I’ll get to see the famous Aunt Sara. I’ve seen Richard in the past five years of course, but only heard the fabled stories about Sara.’
Naldo tossed back the whisky and nodded. ‘In her day she was a great beauty.’ He paused, smiling almost secretively, then added, ‘And her day is far from over yet.’
After a while Arnie took himself off to bed and Naldo dialled Barbara’s number. She picked up after eight rings. Her voice was blurred with sleep, but she seemed to waken as soon as she heard his voice. ‘Shall I come to you now?’ she asked. Naldo told her to go back to sleep but be ready for an early start in the morning. ‘I could well be away for a while,’ he said. ‘It might be a good time to break the news to my side of the family at least, otherwise the secret engagement’ll go on forever.’
Barbara groaned at the idea of having to get up at what she called ‘The crack of Doom.’ Apart from that, she sounded pleased at the prospect of being with him, even if only for a couple of days.
Naldo booked an alarm call with the telephone operator, then went to bed.
He had sexual dreams involving Barbara, but in the middle, his Uncle Ramillies came in, dressed as an SS officer. The SS officer kept ringing a bell. He woke to the shrill of his wake-up call. It was seven-thirty, and he dialled his parents’ number at the Cheyne Walk house. A voice he didn’t recognise answered and told him that Mr Railton was away for the weekend.
‘It’s his son, Naldo… er, Donald. Where can I get hold of him?’
‘Mr and Mrs Railton have gone to Redhill Manor for the weekend.’ It was only then Naldo realised it was Saturday morning. They would be expected back at the Northolt house by six o’clock on Sunday evening.
Barbara arrived while Naldo and Arnie were drinking coffee. She wore a skirt and jumper, with pearls and brogues, her Windsmoor coat slung over her shoulders. ‘I’ve got one evening dress in the case.’ She pointed to the scuffed, battered old Revelation which had obviously seen her through the war. ‘Also what Mummy would call a “sensible suit.” I thought as we’re going to the great country house I should wear the right clothes.’
She shook hands with Arnie, who said he knew all about her. ‘I think I broke in on your honeymoon.’ He smiled and she laughed. ‘Please don’t tell anybody.’ Barbara actually blushed. ‘I don’t know about Naldo’s family, but sex isn’t exactly considered the done thing with my people. I often wonder how Mummy and Daddy brought themselves to conceive Bertie and me.’
‘Sure, I know.’ Arnold grinned. ‘You do often wonder about your folks, don’t you?’
‘Never wonder about mine.’ Naldo snorted. ‘They look as though they’ll never tire of rutting. Incredible.’
Barbara draped herself around him, nibbling his ear and trying to make him laugh as he telephoned Redhill. Sara answered. ‘Naldo!’ she said, her voice lifting in delight when he asked if he could come over for the night. ‘Of course – how wonderful! Your mother and father will be so pleased. James was saying only last night that it’s been ages since they saw you.’
He made certain Richard was at home before telling Sara he would not be coming alone, and she sounded happy again when he said Arnold would be with him. ‘And something of a surprise,’ he went on. ‘Don’t breathe a word, because I haven’t asked her parents yet, but I’d like to bring my future wife.’
‘Good grief, Naldo! Everybody had given up hope.’ When Sara laughed it was like being in a roomful of happy children. ‘Sara’s laugh,’ Richard often said, ‘is not so much infectious as contagious.’
‘Don’t tell my parents, please, Sara.’
‘My lips are sealed, Naldo.’ Then, just before she put down the phone, she added, ‘With butter.’
‘She sounds so bloody young.’ Barbara had her ear to the receiver.
‘Looks bloody young as well.’ Naldo gave her a playful pat on her tight little bottom.
*
‘My God, you’re right!’ Barbara muttered as Sara came out of the main door and walked briskly over the gravel to meet them when the car pulled up in front of Redhill Manor. ‘How old did you say she was?’
‘I didn’t. But I’ll tell you later. Amazing lady, Sara.’
Sara Railton Farthing’s first marriage had been to James’ father, John. After his death the Railtons had claimed her as one of their own. During the First War she had run the Redhill Estate and Farm almost single-handed. Even her marriage to Richard Farthing had changed nothing, except that Richard had added Railton to his own name as a mark of respect, binding the two families.
She embraced Barbara on their first meeting, hugging her, then holding the girl at arm’s length, her hand tightly on Barbara’s shoulders, looking her up and down. ‘Well, well, well, Naldo, how did you manage to ensnare such a beauty.’ Then, quietly, ‘I’ve put you in rooms next to one another, in the West Wing.’ Unashamedly she winked at them.
‘She’s absolutely lovely,’ Naldo’s mother – Margaret Mary – told him quietly over lunch. ‘And so full of fun. She’ll make a great Railton. When’s the happy day going to be?’
‘I’ve to ask her family yet.’ Naldo looked slightly embarrassed.
‘Well, get on with it, Nald,’ his father chuckled. They were very happy to see him.
‘I can’t just quite yet.’ Naldo gave his father a wary look. ‘I’ve been posted to Germany again.’
‘When?’ James gave up the pretence of secrecy.
‘Tomorrow night. I’ll be away for a few weeks. Maybe months.’
Margaret Mary sighed. ‘You’re going to leave that beautiful creature with those big black eyes on her own? You men are mad.’
At the far end of the table, Richard and Sara talked to Arnold, who had said he was only over for a brief private visit. Richard pumped him for news of the Farthing family as soon as he heard Arnold had just arrived from the United States: it was a necessary white lie.
Later in the afternoon, Naldo sought out Richard, finding him in what was forever known as The General’s Study. The room was book-lined from floor to ceiling, but had a military flavour. Its windows opened out onto the rose garden.
‘We have to talk, Richard.’
Richard Farthing lifted his leathery face, one eyebrow raised in a quizzical fashion.
‘I think, outside, sir, if you don’t mind.’
Richard nodded, took his favourite stick, and led the way through the rose garden to the tree-lined walk beyond. ‘Well?’ he asked, finally coming to a standstill.
‘It’s confidential.’ Naldo made it sound casual. ‘But C says you’re to telephone him if you need confirmation. He’d rather you didn’t.’
‘Your word’s good enough.’ Richard was very still. Waiting. Naldo said that C had told him to ask about Camp X.
‘But you know about Camp X, surely, Nald.’
‘I was never there. Just give me the general background, then I’ll have a specific question. C seems to think you might have something to contribute.’
‘Right. Well, I suppose someone really ought to put it all on record now – but they won’t. I suppose in the future so-called historians will argue the toss. You know about Intrepid, I presume?’
‘Just fill it in.’
‘Bill Stephenson. Sir William Stephenson. I knew him very slightly in the First War. Canadian, small, wiry. Had the most penetrating blue eyes I’ve ever seen. He was gassed in the first show – Royal Canadian Engineers. Invalided back to England, then joined the Royal Flying Corps. That’s when I knew him. Bagged twenty-six German aircraft. An Ace. Also an expert in wireless telegraphy. Invented the first machine for transmitting pictures by W/T. Made a fortune. Invested well. Scores of compan
ies. Won the King’s Cup air race in ’34. Helped with the Spitfire – money, I mean. In 1940, Winston himself ordered Bill Stephenson to be his personal representative in the States. That is true. People will argue about that. But go and ask Winston.’
Dick Farthing went on to outline Stephenson’s work in America: the setting up of BSC – the British Security Coordination – in a couple of offices in Rockefeller Center, and how the organisation became huge and of vital importance to Intelligence.
‘Camp X was at first an extension of BSC in Manhattan. In the early days we called it the Farm. But “Camp X” stuck. Two hundred and seventy-five acres of it. Nald, you know all this. The training was almost the same as you had for the field; and surely you know what a godsend Intrepid’s work was to the war effort. But you know all of this.’
‘Most of it. I didn’t actually know that you spent a lot of time there until recently.’
Richard nodded. ‘Yes, I worked for Intrepid on and off. Did some lecturing at the Camp.’
‘That’s what C’s interested in. He says you might recall someone who went through the Camp and came out the other side. An American. OSS. Name of Nathaniel Dollhiem.’
Before leaving the Northolt house, C had given Naldo a photograph of Dollhiem taken when he was at the Camp. Now he showed it to Richard, who looked at it closely, then at Naldo. ‘Yes,’ he said softly. ‘Yes, I recall Nat Dollhiem. Spoke Russian and German, didn’t he?’
‘That’s your man.’
‘Yes… We had a spot of bother with him…’ Richard Farthing began to talk at length as he handed back the photograph.
Neither of them saw, or heard, Arnold Farthing, perched in one of the high windows of Redhill Manor, a camera with a long lens to his eyes. As the photograph changed hands again, he clicked off half a dozen photographs. If an American citizen was involved in Tarot, his superiors in Washington would expect him to give advance warning should there be any unpleasantness.
Chapter Fourteen
During the drive from London to Northolt, late on Sunday afternoon, Naldo told Arnold Farthing exactly what Richard had said about Nat Dollhiem.
‘Richard’s given me something interesting,’ he began after they had dropped Barbara off and were alone in the safety of the car. ‘He has cause to remember Dollhiem, and he had some things to say about Newton as well.’
Arnold waited, not asking anything, just letting Naldo do the talking.
It appeared that while Dollhiem was at Camp X, Richard was also there as a visiting lecturer – ‘He used to go over to talk about getting in and out of Europe by air.’
It was true that Dollhiem and Newton had been very close friends. So close that a fight broke out one night in their hut. Another trainee accused Dollhiem of being a homosexual with a fancy for Newton. Nat Dollhiem had to be hauled off the man who had been taunting him. He broke the trainee’s jaw and an arm. ‘So it didn’t go unnoticed.’ Naldo slowed down slightly as a motorcycle policeman went past them. ‘The CO had him on the carpet, and for some reason Richard happened to be in the office at the same time. Dollhiem refused to apologise. Said the victim deserved all he had got. He lost his temper again and shouted something about what would happen to men like that when the Revolution came. It caused quite a rumpus and there was a genuine possibility that Dollhiem would be sent off the course. They weren’t too worried about the political aspect, but Richard says he seems to remember that they checked up on Dollhiem and found he did have leanings to the far left. He couldn’t recall the complete findings, but said he thought Dollhiem had been a card-carrying member of the Communist Party.’
‘And Newton?’ It was the first time Arnold had spoken since Naldo started his story.
‘Background figure. Made no fuss, but he and Dollhiem were very close indeed.’
Arnold said that while C wanted nothing to do with the Tarot Enquiry officially, he presumed the Chief could organise special questions.
‘You were thinking of what?’
‘Getting Newton back in and asking more about Dollhiem – if he noticed anything during the drop? Was Dollhiem in a position to warn the troops on the ground so he wouldn’t get his head blown off.’
‘We’ll put it to him.’
They separated near Northolt station and were both inside the house by six o’clock. Ten minutes later a GPO Telegram boy arrived on a bicycle and after an exchange of passwords handed over the transcripts of Jules Fenice’s – Felix’s evidence.
There was an initial note concerning his arrival in the room where the Board was sitting. He had gone straight to Caspar and embraced him, then presented himself to the other members of the Board. The first day was spent going over old ground – Caspar’s first visit, the recruitment, his training and such matters.
Each member of the network was then identified by his or her name, the Board cross-referencing them with the information obtained from Newton.
Maxine and Dédé were already known by name; the fat man, whom Newton had spoken of as Albert, was the butcher. Henri Villar – the man Fenice had shown reluctance about recruiting during his final conversation with Caspar in 1940. Villar, Fenice now explained, had married his fancied widow, Mme Debron; St Christophe was Michel, Villar’s son by his first marriage. The mysteriously named le Teneur de Livres was the son of another member of the réseau, the lawyer Jean Maury – himself cryptoed l’Arbrisseau: in English, ‘the Sapling,’ because of his slim, almost gaunt, build. The other girl, Florence, had been the local schoolmistress, Annabelle Sabatier, originally from the Roussillon area.
Those so far unmentioned to the Board included the doctor, Paul Clergue – Immortel – and the local curé, Ignace Fabrisse, whom they called Celeste. Of these last two, Felix said everyone thought the cryptonyms very funny: a doctor who was immortal and a priest called heavenly. The Board said nothing, though it was clear they felt the names were not amusing but very insecure.
The entire Board of Enquiry, and Caspar, of course, knew of the eventual fate of each individual member of Tarot. Albert, the fat butcher, had been in Fenice’s house at the time of the raid, and it was he who exchanged shots with the incoming troops and died riddled with bullets from a machine pistol. Florence had been raped at the Rue de Bourgogne SS headquarters. Later she was taken, together with Immortel and Celeste, to a wood near to St Benoît-sur-Loire. All three were made to dig their own graves – the girl was too weak to do anything so the priest did it for her, hearing her confession at the same time and giving absolution to her and the doctor. The graves dug, they were shot and a few spadefuls of earth thrown over them.
This evidence was from several eyewitnesses who returned the following day and carried out a proper burial. The site was now marked and cared for by locals.
St Christophe, together with le Teneur de Livres and l’Arbrisseau, was shot in a courtyard behind the SS headquarters in Orléans, but their bodies were taken to a mass grave south of the city. That was also now marked, and the evidence irrefutable.
Which left Maxine and Dédé, the OSS officer, Dollhiem, and Felix himself.
Maxine and Dédé had definitely been seen – by four unconnected persons – being driven from the Rue de Bourgogne accompanied by two SS officers. The written testaments were read again to the Board. One of them suggested that the girls were almost fraternising with the SS. They smoked cigarettes and were laughing and talking. I was only a few paces from the car, which had to slow down for a military convoy, a witness had written.
The evidence on Dollhiem would come later. First, the Board started to examine Jules Fenice on his own movements, and the true reason for his flight and disguise in a DP camp.
He told them that on the evening before the raid he had gone into Orléans. ‘I went to make certain our radio was safe and try to send a message. It was after curfew when I finished, so I stayed the night. That’s why I wasn’t at the farm when the SS arrived.’
‘You sent a message?’
‘Yes.’
‘Fr
om where?’ It was the senior lawyer doing the questioning.
‘We had two radios. One kept in Orléans, the other in St Benoît. It was necessary to keep moving them around because the Nazis had detectors. They could locate a signal in five minutes. We used several places.’
‘And where was the radio on that night?’
‘In the loft of a bistro near the Gare. I knew the lady who owned the place: her husband was killed in 1940.’
‘Knew in the Biblical sense?’ The lawyer did not sneer.
‘I was sleeping with her, yes.’
‘And what message did you send?’
‘A standard QSLIMI with our call sign for Tarot.’
‘You were asking for a reply to your last message, then?’ The lawyer knew the Q-codes by heart.
‘Yes. We had sent three messages since the massacre of the Romarin team. To let them know we had saved two men. There was no response.’
The chairman broke in. ‘There is evidence of four transmissions after Romarin. All but one appeared to be jammed. The report is in front of you – pages fifty-six and fifty-seven, Tarot Transmissions. We had one report about the failure of Romarin, then these abortive transmissions, followed by silence. It was the primary indication that Tarot had been rolled up.’
The lawyer acknowledged the information, then asked what happened on the morning of the raid.
‘I was getting ready to leave when some Germans came into the bistro. Laure – the lady concerned – came up and told me. She had heard they’d been to my farm; that people were arrested, one already dead. There was an order out for me also.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘She wanted me to stay at the bistro. Hidden upstairs. I did for a few days, then things became difficult. I reasoned with myself about the debacle of Romarin and what had happened to Tarot. I knew I would be blamed, accused, possibly shot when the British or Americans came. It was a panic, but I felt I must go. I went on foot – across country – heading toward Paris. When I finally got near the fighting I found a dead German soldier. I stole his paybook and a few other things. My German wasn’t that bad. When they picked me up, I thought that maybe I would be given a new life – it was better than nothing; better than being shot by the Allies or the Germans.’