by John Gardner
Certainly he had been forced to consort with two Russian doubles, Dollhiem and Tert Newton, both of whom were carrying on the Soviet secret war, trying like so many to get their hands on the most precious possessions of the postwar Allies: the secrets of the atom bomb. Had Dollhiem or Newton been behind the death of Buelow in Washington? What more was there to be extracted from Ramillies? Certainly Caspar’s own interrogation of his brother had fallen short of the mark, for Ramillies had dodged issues, misled, and taken him down dead-end alleys.
Day came. The milkman called. Herbie brought more coffee, with bacon and eggs, which Caspar devoured greedily, his mind still searching for more facts thrown up by this extraordinary pile of fudged secrets.
By midmorning, in his rheumy-eyed state of fatigue, Caspar was aware that his mind was in no state to deal with these complexities. Yet, as he riffled through the decrypts for the last time, his eyes fell upon one of Klaubert’s last letters.
‘God save me,’ he wrote. ‘Soon I must leave this hell – both the hell of the place itself, and the hell which burns my mind and, therefore, my soul. Lord, now lettest thou Thy servant depart in peace – but where can I find peace, with the lives of so many weighing down my soul? I shall burn for eternity, like those I alone have sent to the chambers and fires, or – worse – the living tortures. Is it too late? Saint Augustine thought it was too late. I have of recent days taken to reading his Confessions in secret, just as last year I read Saint Ignatius Loyola’s Spiritual Exercises. It was not too late for him. Yet, like myself, he thought it so. Lord, help me to peace. I fear death – am terrified of it – more than anything. For I would leave this world unabsolved – no priest in the confessional could absolve me from what I have done, particularly my complicity, and duplicity, in the last weeks. Do I know where to go? Is there a place that will give me refuge so that I can make full atonement? I read now what Augustine wrote –
“Too late came I to love thee
O thou Beauty both so ancient and so fresh
Yea too late came I to love thee
And behold thou wert within me
And I out of myself
Where I made search for thee.”’
Why? Caspar thought. Why had he split these lines so oddly? Caspar Railton knew little about Saint Augustine, but he was almost certain that this was a passage of prose, not split as though it was some kind of blank verse.
He took the note pad he had used while reading the First Folio, and uncapped his pen. Carefully he counted the letters, jotting them down until they read –
O-E-T-H-E-E-N-E-N-F-H-E
Then, Caspar reached to the back of the file and opened out the large piece of graph paper which held the copy of the long-dead young Hornet’s checkerboard cipher.
In the kitchen, where he was preparing a meal, Herbie Kruger heard what sounded like a huge war-whoop.
‘I told him,’ Herbie muttered. ‘He should not have worked all night. His brain is creaked. He is unhung. Ach, these Railtons, they are all crazy.’ Then he smiled. ‘The Farthings also.’
Almost at this same moment, in the polish- and incense-laden air of the convent, Caspar’s nephew, Naldo, looked at the checkerboard floor as he heard his sister recite the passage from Saint Augustine. He also saw how the Devil of Orléans had laid out those words, and wondered if perhaps, at the end in those last days, the SS man had left a clue, marked an arrow on a piece of paper to draw them to him so that retribution or forgiveness might follow.
*
Naldo was preoccupied as they drove back, through Haversage and up Red Hill to the Manor. As they slowed, signalling for the left turn into the drive, one of the local taxis crept through the gates.
‘Arnie, do you think?’ Barbara asked tentatively. She knew enough, now, to stay silent when some obvious work problem had intruded, pulling Naldo’s mind from her.
‘Mmm.’ Naldo nodded. ‘Yes, probably. Hope the bloody telephone doesn’t ring for him.’
‘Ask not for whom the bell…’ Barbara began, then saw, as they approached the house up the long elm-flanked drive, Arnold Farthing battering on the door.
They reached the turning circle just as Vera Crook, one of the servants, opened up to Arnie, who plunged past her, shouting with his voice at full power: ‘Dick! Uncle Richard! Dick, you bastard! Where are you?’
Naldo came up the steps, and saw Vera’s shocked face, and the look of anger in Arnie’s eyes as he went on shouting.
During the journey back to England, Arnold had realised that it was Dick Farthing he must question before even giving his news to Naldo.
‘Dick…?’ he shouted again, his voice echoing around the old hall that had seen so many moments of drama.
The door to the General’s Study opened and Dick Railton Farthing came out, his brow creased with annoyance. He saw Arnie, and Naldo with Barbara coming in behind him.
The two men – uncle and nephew – faced each other for a moment.
‘Well?’ Dick asked quietly. ‘What is it, Arnie?’
‘Tiraque. That bastard Tiraque, Dick. Who is he?’
‘Ah.’ Dick showed no emotion. ‘You saw him, then?’
‘I saw him. Who in God’s name is he?’
Dick’s eyes flicked from Naldo and Barbara back to Arnie. ‘You ever hear of a courier called Night Stock?’ he asked when Vera had closed the door and disappeared belowstairs.
‘Caspar’s Night Stock? The one who operated out of Switzerland?’
‘The same.’
Naldo, not knowing what was at stake, said, ‘Then Caspar’s perjured himself. He told the Enquiry that they’d lost sight of Night Stock in the final battles – in France.’
‘Yes.’ Dick gave the hint of a nod. ‘You’d better come in and hear the truth.’ He held the door to the study back. Barbara hesitated and Naldo muttered for her to seek out Sara.
Inside the study, Dick went behind the big old military desk. The sun filtered in through the rose garden, though the flowers were now gone and the bushes had been tied back for pruning.
‘I should tell you first’ – he spoke very slowly – ‘that this is more a family matter than a Service one. Yes, Caspar lied at the Enquiry. There was a furious row at his last meeting with Night Stock – who has a strange history of his own. Tiraque’s his real name, by the way. He accused Caspar of a number of things. Caspar accused him back. I…’ He stopped, for Arnie had taken a photograph from Dick’s desk. It showed two girls, both pretty – one with short, dark hair; the other blonde. ‘Arnie?’ Dick asked, puzzled.
‘I was sure.’ Arnold did not appear to be speaking to anybody in the room. ‘Now I’m absolutely certain.’ He looked up at Dick, then Naldo. ‘This is a photograph of the missing Caro and Jo-Jo, yes?’
Dick nodded.
‘Why?’ Naldo asked.
‘Do you know anything of Tiraque’s circumstances in France? His manner of living?’ He looked into Dick’s eyes.
‘He’s a very wealthy man. Always was. Likes style. He always regarded Night Stock as a stylish name. He’ll be living well, Arn. Why?’
‘Married?’ Arnold raised his eyebrows questioningly.
‘Not that I know of.’
Arnold smiled. He looked very happy. ‘Then I might just have solved one of the problems, though I don’t understand it.’ He indicated the photograph. ‘Jo-Jo’s turned into a very beautiful woman, Dick. I met her yesterday. With Marcel Tiraque. He introduced her to me as his wife, Jacquie.’
There was a second’s fury which crossed Dick’s face like a sudden squall. Then, with an oath which damned Tiraque, his hands leaped out for the telephone.
Chapter Thirty-four
Naldo was quiet, while Arnie could scarcely disguise his impatience as Dick dialled the exchange and booked two calls to different Paris numbers.
‘They should come through within the hour if we’re lucky,’ he said, replacing the receiver.
‘I’ve been bloody lucky on your account, Dick.’ Arnie could not hol
d back his anger. ‘You gave me names so that I can investigate Caroline’s and Jo-Jo’s political leanings, and a pair of thugs try to kill me.’
Dick looked startled. ‘Where? Where did they try this?’
‘You okay, Arn?’ Naldo seemed concerned.
‘I might just have killed one of them and maimed the other. Yes, I’m fine now – except for Tiraque, whose balls I’d like on a plate.’
‘Where, Arnie?’ Dick’s tone was more demanding, and – Naldo thought – more authoritative. He wondered how much Dick Farthing really knew about the inside of Symphony.
‘As I was leaving Tiraque’s flat. The one you gave me, the one in the Rue de Rivoli.’
‘I gave you several names,’ Dick was definitely on the attack. Naldo knew him well enough to see, and feel, the tension. Dick Railton did not take kindly to younger officers – nephews or no – calling him a bastard. ‘Several names – among them Tiraque’s, because I’ve thought for some time that it would be an idea for one of you to go in there and flush him. I could never go, and C would never have sent Naldo.’
‘Why?’ – brusque, from Arnie.
‘Because Naldo’s too close to Caspar, and Tiraque would have firmly closed the door in my face. You’ll understand when you’ve heard it all. Now, apart from Tiraque, who did you see, Arnold?’
‘Only the guy called Manceau.’ Arnie rose and made a flapping gesture with his arms – just one movement, a flap, his shoulders drooping as his palms slapped against his legs. ‘Okay, Uncle Richard. I apologise. Yes, two guys tried to tail me after I left Manceau. They could have been the same pair. Excuse me, please. I got wound up because of Tiraque.’ He paused, reaching out for the photograph again. ‘You see, I was pretty sure it was Jo-Jo – even though she calls herself Jacquie now. You put me onto Tiraque. I figured you must have known about Jo-Jo.’
‘Did you?’ Dick did not bat an eyelid, but anger rushed into his voice, like blood rushes to the face in a blush. ‘D’you think I wouldn’t have been over there in a flash, with as many hoods as I could round up, if I’d known Jo-Jo was actually alive and well, and living in Paris with a cast-iron shit like Tiraque?’
‘You didn’t know?’ Arnold appeared surprised.
‘Of course I didn’t bloody know, you fool! C’s doing fandangos all over the place trying to find out what happened to Jo-Jo and Caro, isn’t he? For God’s sake, Arnie. Caro’s my daughter. Jo-Jo’s like a daughter to Sara and me. D’you think I haven’t been doing my own looking?’
‘Sorry, I – ’ Arnie began, and the telephone rang.
Dick’s hand shot out like a striking snake, but it was some local woman for Sara. They all – probably the caller as well – heard Dick shout from the hall, ‘Sara, Mrs Thingummy on the horn. You know, the woman from the Church Council. For God’s sake get rid of her in double time, I’ve got calls coming in from Paris. Just get her off the bloody line!’
He came back into the General’s Study, listened while Sara picked up an extension, then replaced the receiver.
‘Right, Arnold,’ he said. ‘I gave you Marcel Tiraque’s name for several reasons. First, I hoped you’d call on him and get some kind of reaction. Just anything, because I really thought we should have the whole Night Stock thing in the open. Caspar wanted it buried, and I don’t think C was overly worried about hearing from Night Stock ever again. Wouldn’t be surprised if he had a hand in the story of Night Stock going missing. Now, let’s go over it again. You talked to Manceau, right?’
Arnold told him of the conversation by the Seine, near the Pont Saint-Michel.
‘He actually said that?’ Dick leaned over the desk. ‘He said Caro and Jo-Jo were fellow travellers but not members of the Comintern?’
‘As far as he knew.’
Dick took a very deep breath and exhaled loudly. ‘Oh, he’d know. Manceau would have known if they were Party members. He told you that, and then you spotted a tail on you?’
‘A very obvious tail.’
‘Uh-huh. But you thought you’d shaken them?’
‘Almost certain. They got me when I was quietly ejected from Tiraque’s apartment.’
‘Tiraque didn’t use force?’
Arnold appeared to be thinking. ‘Odd that. No. No, he didn’t actually use force, but I felt as though he had. Didn’t lay a finger on me, but I felt as if he’d taken me by the scruff of the neck and bounced me out.’
‘Yes.’ Dick almost smiled. ‘Yes, Tiraque has that effect on some people.’
‘What about this bugger Tiraque, Dick?’ Naldo cut in. ‘I don’t want to leave you all in the lurch, but Barbara’s supposed to be going to see her family with me. So we can break the glad tidings.’
‘I rather think you’ll have to forget that, Nald old son.’ Dick sounded quite cheerful. ‘As things’ve turned out, I suspect C will want all hands on deck.’
‘Oh, shit!’ Naldo muttered.
‘Hell hath no fury, I know.’ Dick was still cheerful. ‘Arnie, how would you read matters if Manceau put a pair of hoods onto you? Instructed them to see that you went missing?’
‘He’d either lied to me about Caro and Jo-Jo or he wasn’t happy about the news getting any further.’
‘Or someone else instructed him that all queries concerning either Caroline or Jo-Jo were to be treated as threats. Someone else. I stress that because Manceau’s a nobody. Oh, he’d have known about the girls’ political stance in ’39. I’m sure of that. But Manceau isn’t your born leader.’
‘Thought he was a courageous member of the Maquis? Decorated and honoured by everyone?’
‘Courage and leadership are two different things, Arn. Yes, Manceau was a useful maquisard, but not a leader, not so as you’d notice. Look.’ He got out of his chair and perched himself on the end of the desk, as though he wanted to be closer to Arnie. ‘Look, maybe you were right in the first place. Tiraque did know Manceau. Take that as gospel. I was aware of it, so was C and Caspar. There’s a possibility that friend Tiraque retained a few old comrades to keep their ears open. It’s a possibility – a definite possibility now you’ve seen Jo-Jo with him.’ He hesitated. ‘Incidentally, you are one hundred percent sure it was Jo-Jo?’
‘Two hundred.’ Arnie tapped the photograph. ‘Madame Jacquie Tiraque, née Josephine Grenot.’
‘Née Josephine Railton.’ Dick smiled again, though his eyes had in them a deep fire of worry. ‘You see, Arn – ’ The telephone rang again.
This time it was Paris. Dick muttered fluent French into the mouthpiece. Asking questions, almost fawning. ‘You telephone me quickly if there’re any problems,’ he ended. Then a familiar ‘Good luck.’
Hardly had he replaced the receiver when the instrument sprang into life again. Once more Paris, the other number. This time Dick was obviously giving terse instructions, adding a piece here and there, speaking quite softly, but with great authority. Whoever was on the distant end took the orders without question.
Naldo thought, People forget what a deep bloke old Dick is. He’s so damned good that even the family forget how involved he is with the trade.
The conversation ended and Dick resumed command in the room. ‘Jo-Jo’s going to be lifted, on my instructions,’ he said calmly.
‘Can you do that, Dick?’ Naldo felt uneasy. ‘I mean, have you got the authority?’
Dick nodded. ‘Yes. Yes I have. I spoke to their top man in the piscine. He’s as good as anyone in France if you want illegal permission.’
‘Piscine?’ Arnie queried.
‘Can’t ever keep track of what they call their bloody setup. But the headquarters is near a municipal swimming baths on the Boul’ Mortier, hence piscine. Quite an apt name for that shower as well. So, young Naldo, I have permission.’
‘No. I mean can you lift her legally as far as this country’s concerned?’
‘Oh, I think so. I’ll get around to telling C at some point. We need to talk with young Jo-Jo, Naldo. Especially if she’s got herself romantically involved w
ith Tiraque.’
‘About Tiraque,’ Arnold started. ‘Tiraque and Caspar. You said there was a story. Family business.’
‘Yes.’ Dick Railton Farthing moved back behind his desk, settling himself in his chair again. ‘Yes, there are things you should know. I’ve been thinking about that. I’ve come to the conclusion that Caspar should tell you the story himself. It’s accurate enough – from him, that is. Incidentally, I presume he’s still in that bloody pink monstrosity out at Northolt, reading the First Folio.’
‘What the hell do you know about that? This was a contained circle of knowledge.’
‘Symphony?’ Dick raised his eyebrows. ‘Yes, it’s very well contained. C wasn’t going to see it suddenly stop. He didn’t want any repetition of the old C-Hornet-Harold business. As acting Liaison between SIS and CIA, I was brought in before any of you were chosen. In fact, almost before the Joint Intelligence Committee decided that at least one dodgy réseau should be investigated. All in all, I think they chose well when they fingered Tarot.’ He cocked one eyebrow. ‘Mind you, they only thought they had made the choice. We organised it, like a magician forcing a playing card on an unsuspecting punter. There were many reasons for Symphony from the start – they included finding Caroline, Jo-Jo, and Hans-Dieter Klaubert.’
‘So you’re not going to tell us the family story about Tiraque and Caspar?’ Naldo looked concerned, worried, like a child who is not going to get a promised treat.
‘I’ll fill in the background. Caspar’ll tell you the rest – even if we have to use the rack or some other form of torture. Caspar’s not going to like it when he hears Jo-Jo’s wandered off with the precious Night Stock – bastard that he is.’
*
Tiraque was his real name. ‘Marcel Tiraque, out of Mrs Eleanor Tiraque, née Winkmann, by Claude Tiraque – restauranteur and hotelier of New Orleans,’ Dick began.