by John Gardner
Newton/Rosten explained that he and his wife were sent to the United States expecting to be used in sabotage or straightforward espionage.
After Pearl Harbor he received new orders. He was to join the Service and if possible infiltrate Military Intelligence. ‘I did better than that.’ Now, in his true persona, Newton was infuriatingly smug and proud of what he had achieved. ‘I got into the OSS. Sure, we were all allies, but we weren’t fools. Once the war was over, things would return to the status quo. We knew that eventually we were going to have to fight for our faith and the Revolution against the so-called democracies.’
He went on to talk about the way in which he recruited Dollhiem while they were at the military school of languages together. When they completed training and moved to England, there was a complex yet almost foolproof system of communication. They had a control who, in these first sessions, he would only call Simon. They had dead drops, straight postcard ciphers, and telephone codes.
‘This Simon,’ Marty Forman asked. ‘Was he British or a genuine Russian?’
‘Russian. Simon was Russian born.’
‘Yea, but his cover – ’
‘Was cover.’ Newton opened his hands in a gesture which seemed to indicate that everything was plain – or, at least, that was all he would say about his controller.
Marty pressed, trying to grab the pieces of ectoplasm that had been the tradecraft used by Newton, Dollhiem, and Simon. His questions fell on deaf ears.
One morning Newton suddenly started to talk about Romarin. ‘It was Dollhiem who first had the details. Because he was fancied as a German speaker, they’d chosen him to impersonate an SS officer. He knew, weeks before the others – he told me, of course – that it was a do-or-die operation. Through Dollhiem we knew all the details: object, target, the how and wherefore. We fed it all to Simon, who in turn fed it to Moscow.
‘Then the panic came – the night before we were all assembled at Gibraltar Farm.
‘Simon got in touch. We couldn’t believe it. He told us that the target of Romarin was really one of our people. He had been in place for a long time.’
‘So what were your orders?’ Marty couldn’t get through it quickly enough. He wanted to zoom in on the minutiae, and, like a leech, suck the man dry.
‘We were to put the operation at risk. To let Simon know the exact time, date, and the DZ – that was tricky, but we managed it by telephone. They told Dollhiem in the morning, long before anyone else. Simon said we were to use our flashlights on the descent – flashing Morse code S’s as we went down. Whatever happened, we were at all costs to make contact with this guy Klaubert. There was an arranged exchange of speech to prove our bona fides. He must have been a reliable agent, because we were to assist him in any possible way. Even if he told us to get lost, that’s what we were to do.’ Newton gave a dry laugh. ‘That’s what he did with me but Dollhiem stayed. I guess he tried to help. He didn’t need help, that Klaubert. A fucking cold-eyed maniac bastard, that’s what he was.’
It was lunchtime, and Marty was as pleased – he said – as a bull in a field of heifers.
After lunch, Newton insisted on taking his usual exercise. It was a chilly day with a cold mist hanging just above the grass, so the security men stayed in the lee of the house, watching the lone figure walk in slow circles around the damp lawn.
They did not even hear the crack and thump of the rifle. One minute Tertius Newton was pacing the lawn, the next he threw up his hands toward his head, which seemed to have turned into a ball of crimson cotton candy. The red cloud was still floating down slowly through the air when Newton’s body hit the ground.
Two of the Secret Service men on the outer perimeter claimed to have pinpointed the exact spot, in the trees, from where the one shot had come. They were about twenty yards out. The rifle had been left at the place from which it had been fired – an M1903A4, fitted with a scope. There were no fingerprints and little in the way of clues as to how the sniper had escaped. The only certain thing was that the job had been very well done.
‘Well executed,’ Marty Forman said. ‘Professional.’
In London, Caspar heard the news and immediately went to C. ‘We’d better find Klaubert soon,’ he all but snapped. ‘Whoever’s doing the killing knows his targets. Buelow, Dollhiem, Newton. There’s really only one choice for the next target, if he hasn’t been taken out already.’
‘Unless Jo-Jo and Caroline are still alive. They could come before Klaubert.’ Quietly, C went on to tell him that Shepherd and Kruger had arrived in New York.
‘I think you’d best get the rest of the team ready.’ They were in his apartment at Queen Anne’s Gate, and C looked away and out of the window, so that Caspar could not see the frown or the deep worry in his eyes. ‘Make sure Ramillies is kept safe,’ he said. ‘Get someone to check out the Warminster security again, we’ve had one scare there already and there’s still a lot of distance to go with him. Who knows, he might also be on this strange death list.’
Chapter Thirty-eight
Herbie Kruger was not just going along for the ride – there was an important part for him to play in New York with Curry Shepherd.
‘Star billing, Herb,’ Naldo said at the briefing. Apart from two grainy old photographs, Herbie was the only member of the team to have caught even a fleeting glimpse of the real Hans-Dieter Klaubert. A very fleeting glimpse, in one of the camps where the SS man was masquerading as Klausen. By the time Herbie had got back to anyone, Klausen had gone, and, though he followed the route, Herbie had missed him again. There had been talk of bringing Felix in, but this was ruled out as insecure.
Herbie’s English was much improved, only lapsing into its odd parody during times of great stress or excitement.
‘Curry, this is to be the greatest airplane ride I was ever taking.’ He gave his foolish wide grin to the somewhat languid Shepherd as they waited in the final departure lounge – a tent – at London Airport. ‘The greatest airplane ride ever,’ he repeated.
‘Sure, Herb.’ Curry disguised his own excitement. Disguise was Shepherd’s forte, Not the false beards, hair-pieces, and funny walks so beloved of early spy fiction – and fact, according to the old school of the Great Game, and Baden-Powell.
Curry’s disguise lay in his underplayed, bland, and slightly dissolute Englishman, who appeared to believe all the right things for the wrong reasons. With his lank, straw-coloured hair and diffident, even dim, expression, he unknowingly taught Kruger a great deal about what the old hands called ‘natural cover.’
Behind the façade of indifference, Shepherd was excited – and not only because of the operation. He was about to have an adolescent ambition fulfilled. New York! Even the sound of its name made his mouth water.
‘You think we see G-men?’ Herbie looked like a very excited overgrown child.
‘I should think it highly likely.’ Curry yawned; he was dressed in what had become his uniform – cavalry-twill slacks, a double-breasted navy-blue blazer, white shirt, and old-Etonian tie. You could not detect the .38 pistol he carried under the blazer. On the other hand, any trained observer would have spotted Herbie’s S&W .38/32, with the 2-inch barrel, for he was continually touching his hip, patting it as though to reassure himself it was there.
Permission had been granted on all sides for the two officers to go armed into the United States.
For the most part Curry remained silent – dreaming, perhaps, of bumping into June Allyson in Saks – during the very long flight, from London to Prestwick, on the northwest coast of Scotland; then the leap to Gander, Newfoundland.
Gander was fogbound, necessitating a diversion to Goose Bay, Labrador, where they sat, tired and uncomfortable in a log hut, drinking strong coffee and buying sealskin-covered paperweights as mementos. Five hours later they made it into Gander, and from there to New York’s La Guardia airport.
In spite of the restless fatigue, Herbie did not sleep. He watched and examined everything about him, from his fellow
passengers to the stewardesses’ legs, which he found to be an increasing source of enjoyment.
His mouth dropped open when he saw the skyline of Manhattan for the first time, from around two thousand feet – the Empire State building clawing for the sun, the whole huddle of brick, concrete, and steel buildings like great man-made stalagmites: a huge medieval castle, with attendant defences, all crammed onto an island, surrounded by the wide moat of the Hudson, Harlem, and East rivers – the long drawbridges down, to show there was peace. Knights could come and go as they pleased.
They came in low over the busy, flat, reclaimed land around Jamaica Bay where antlike vehicles moved below them, preparing what would soon be New York’s International Airport. Like most air traffic from Europe, their four-engined DC-4 touched down at La Guardia after a flight – including refuelling and the diversion stops – of twenty-seven hours, fifty minutes.
Arnie Farthing had flown in from Washington, and was there to meet them, with a couple of invisible Agency men in the background and another highly visible pair of FBI officers – ‘There’re your G-men, Herbie’ – to check them through at top speed. Normal immigration, passport, and customs procedures were waived. Tired and bewildered, both Curry and Herbie gazed with wonder from the windows of the long black car that whisked them into the heart of Manhattan.
After so many years of drab, grim, wartime landscapes, neither man could believe the traffic, crowded sidewalks, and well-stocked shops. From their car they looked out upon what appeared to be a mouthwatering Aladdin’s cave. Lights twinkled in trees and already, though they were only in November, an illuminated sign said that ‘New York is a Winter Wonderland.’ Here was affluence and bustle, backed by the music of motorhorns echoing in the gulches between the tightly packed tall buildings, and the occasional counterpoint of a police siren.
Arnie saw them into the New Weston Hotel on Madison, at 50th – now long gone, but a luxurious paradise then, for Shepherd and Kruger.
‘Get some food from room service, then sleep it off,’ Arnie advised them. ‘There’ll be a lot for you to do tomorrow.’ He spoke flatly, and brought Curry and Herbie to earth with a bump. The long haul and dazzling arrival had almost driven the real purpose of their visit from their minds.
They ate, droopy-eyed, in Curry’s room – chicken soup and steaks the size of dinner plates. Their shrunken, war-worn stomachs could not take such large portions. The waiter asked belligerently if there was something wrong with the food.
As he finally dozed, and dropped into sleep, Herbie thought that he had never seen bedside lamps as big as those in his room. Curry’s last memory, as oblivion hit him, was, ‘Good night, baby – milkman’s on his way.’
Arnie met them in Curry’s room where they were adjusting to breakfast – the fresh orange juice, bacon, eggs, thick black coffee that made your hands shake, waffles, and syrup.
‘I hear it’s congratulations, Arn.’ Herbie made his closed-mouth smile, splitting his face in a crescent, like a child’s drawing. ‘Nuptials?’ This last spoken like a password. He had only recently learned it – from Naldo.
Arnie nodded his thanks and began to talk. ‘You’d better have good warning. Some of the people I work for seem to think your arrival’s unnecessary,’ he told them bluntly. ‘The guy who’s my boss now, Marty Forman, is of the opinion that we should have handled the whole thing from Washington. His argument is that, as the killings took place here, we should see it through. If Klaubert is really in the United States, it’s the CIA’s business to root him out. But the deal’s been struck, so everyone’ll stick to the rules. Just be prepared to find Marty, and some of the FBI men, a little – well, brusque, heavy-handed.’
They particularly did not approve of the agreed immediate extradition if Klaubert was brought in.
They talked about the problem for a few minutes, then Arnie said it was time for Curry to go into his routine. ‘You have the number?’ he asked.
Curry nodded and went to the telephone. He dialled, and far away heard the long single burrrs, so different from the British brrp-brrp-brrp-brrp. When a voice answered, Curry asked if he could speak with the Father Guardian. He wondered if it was Hans-Dieter Klaubert who was at this moment alerting the Father Guardian to the telephone call.
*
It was odd, like leaving one planet and going straight to another. One minute they were getting out of a yellow cab, right down near Wall Street, where millions – billions – of dollars changed hands each day. The street noises of last night now seemed to be magnified, and that brash, roaring static which tingles the nerves in New York City was pushed up by several hundred volts. Then, within a dozen strides, the noise receded and they were in the midst of peace.
They had walked a few paces up a narrow side street, looked at the sign, engraved on simple wood – PRIORY OF ST FRANCIS OF ASSISI – pushed open the metal gate set in the wall, and stepped into tranquillity.
The courtyard was bordered by stone walls on three sides, one was covered in wisteria, its colour gone with the season; two pear trees, also now asleep after summer, stood near the wall to their right, and there were other bushes behind – to their left and right. In front of them was a short cloister, within the shadow of which they could see a Norman arch enclosing a heavy studded door.
Curry advanced toward the cloister and its door, followed by Herbie, who, as his cover, carried two expensive cameras. Arnold had brought them from Washington.
There was an iron ring bellpull to the right of the door. Far away, from inside, they heard an urgent clanking when Curry heaved at it. Then, silently, the door opened. A short, smiling man, in the brown Franciscan habit, bade them enter. Curry did not even have to give his name. ‘The Father Guardian is expecting you,’ the friar said, moving his hand as though they were donkeys who needed encouragement and guidance. The hallway was cold and small, but the one passage which led off it widened and rose giving a sense of spaciousness.
They stopped by another door, and the monk tapped lightly. From inside came a flat ‘Enter.’ The door was opened and their little monk quietly said, ‘The two gentlemen from England, Father Guardian.’
‘Thank you, Brother Martin. You are excused.’
The monk gave a small bow of his head and retreated, closing the door behind him and leaving them alone with a tall, thin, severe-looking man. He also wore the Franciscan habit. His hair was shaved, and, between a pair of humourless eyes he sported a large aquiline nose. Later Herbie said the Father Guardian actually frightened him. ‘He was not a man of this world,’ he told Naldo. ‘This was a man who had seen other things. Other worlds. I think he had touched God.’
‘Gentlemen, please sit down. Welcome to our humble house.’ In spite of his appearance, the Father Guardian’s voice was soft, almost gentle. Vocally he reminded Curry of one of the inquisitors at Warminster. Intuitively he knew this was a carrot-and-stick man.
‘It’s very good of you to find time to see us, Father – ’
‘Brother,’ the friar corrected him. ‘Yes, the Brothers call me their Father Guardian, but only on the first meeting of the day or when showing in guests. It is a rule of this house, for we are all Brothers – even those of us who are priests and can rightly be called Father. My name is Brother Peter.’
The chairs were hard – little upright wooden things. They were meant to be uncomfortable. The walls were whitewashed, the only decoration being a large crucifix. Apart from the two chairs, only the Father Guardian’s desk and chair furnished the place. Curry later pronounced it ‘Dead Spartan!’
‘Now, on the telephone, I talked to – ’
‘Me,’ Curry said, a huskiness in his throat, which had become very dry. ‘My name is Shepherd.’
Ah, yes… Mr Shepherd. And you are a journalist.’
Curry nodded. ‘Yes. We work for a British magazine called Picture Post. I don’t know if you’ve ever seen it – ’
‘But yes, of course. It is a sort of smaller version of Life magazine. I f
ear that I had to ban several issues – as with Life – from the Brothers’ Common Room.’
‘Oh, dear – then you won’t take kindly – ’
The Father Guardian held up one hand, palm outward. ‘Please.’ He gave the wraith of a smile. ‘It is part of my duty to sometimes hold back certain periodicals – let me say, mainly for the peace of mind and body of the younger brethren – usually those serving their novitiate.’
‘I understand.’ Curry tried to smile.
Herbie shifted uncomfortably. There was silence. Then – ‘Tell me what it is you ask.’ Brother Peter appeared to be looking into Curry’s soul.
‘We are doing – I mean, I am doing a feature for Picture Post.’ Why did he feel so damned uncomfortable lying to this man in the brown habit, Curry wondered. He knew nobody had sought permission from the famous magazine for him to pass himself off as one of their journalists. ‘This is my colleague, Mr Kruger, by the way, who will be doing the photographs.’
‘Charmed, I’m sure,’ said Herbie, to Curry’s dismay. Where in hell – in heaven? Oh, Lord! – had Herbie picked that one up?
Brother Peter looked hard and humourlessly at Herbie. ‘You are not English, Mr Kruger.’ It was almost an accusation.
‘No.’ Herbie bounced back. ‘I come from Austria. Before the war begins, my family get out of Austria.’
Curry smiled. ‘We are doing a feature on the impact of the religious life on people who have gone through the war. Those who have, if I can put it this way, seen into the depths of despair and returned to embrace the religious life.’ He paused, wondering if he was going over the top. Then, seeing Brother Peter waiting for him to continue: ‘We have done several monasteries – and convents also – in France, Belgium, England, Germany even. Now I wanted to try the same thing here. We have to go to other orders – there are some Carthusians in Maine, and the Benedictines are also receiving us. What we’re really doing for the moment is finding out, first if you have any returned veterans, or even foreign immigrants who have fled from the darker parts of Europe, and applied to join your order. Second, if the answer is yes, then we would seek your permission to photograph them, and, perhaps, speak with them – in your presence of course,’ he added a shade too quickly.