‘Some little sod trying to do a double-act. Takes money from us, then gets picked up by the Iraqis with his pockets stuffed with dollars and an Israeli code that was broken weeks ago. God, these bloody Zionists! They’re everywhere, like lice. Or are you another Israeli-lover? Most journalists seem to be, like politicians. Israel’s a gangster state, and they’ve got everyone on the payroll.’
Hawn now remembered other things about Shanklin. His greatest asset to ABCO had been his phenomenally close relations with the Arab leaders: he had been in Iran at the time of Mosaddeq, helping to smooth the way for the Shah’s return; had predicted Nuri’s fall in Baghdad a month before it happened; had wheeled and dealed throughout the Middle East in the calamitous aftermath of the Yom Kippur War. Toby Shanklin was one of those vintage gentlemen-Arabists: his mentors would be Burton and Thesiger and St John Philby. To him Lawrence was a minor adventurer.
He peered at Hawn from under his pale eyebrows. ‘I’m listening. Something about the Caribbean?’
‘It could have been more than the Caribbean. The North Atlantic, Mediterranean, Middle East. I’m thinking of writing a book about how the big oil companies — particularly ABCO — operated during the war. Because of the U-boat blockade of America after 1941, most of the big convoys sailed from the Gulf of Mexico, didn’t they?’
‘Some of them.’
‘And the Middle East oil came through the Canal?’
Shanklin nodded.
‘Would you agree that the volume of oil, and the number of ships — even given that the average tanker was no more than 25,000 tons — would have been enormous?’
Shanklin pulled down his lower lip and revealed teeth like splinters of oyster shell. ‘I believe you’ve been chatting to the late Prince Marino-Petri Grotti Savoia? — the gentleman who snuffed it recently in one of the noble canals of Venice.’
‘You’re sure of that?’
‘Of course I’m sure of it. Don’t be impertinent, old son. I invited you up here, remember. I’m doing you a favour.’
‘Who told you about Grotti Savoia?’
‘Little bird told me.’
‘Ham Logan told you.’
Shanklin shifted his knees and cupped his hairy hands round his chin. ‘Let’s not bother too much about who told me. For the record — as you boys say — you’re supposed to have got the idea off the top of your head. But let’s get to the point. I’ve a pretty good idea what you’re on to. And you want my help. All right — let’s see how far we can both get. You ask the questions — I’ll answer them, if I can. But don’t try to be clever. No funny ones. You start being devious, playing the sharp lawyer with me, and I’ll toss you out on your neck. Fire away.’
‘Very well. Would it have been possible, in your opinion, that in the confusion of war, a certain amount of our oil might have found its way to the enemy?’
‘In my opinion, quite possible. But you’re not talking just about the big Western oil companies — you’re talking about ABCO.’
‘Only that ABCO was the largest.’
‘Fair enough.’ He shunted his knees again. ‘Only I gather that in your judgement it isn’t just a question of a bit of ABCO oil going astray during the war. You’ve been saying that the Consortium made a deal with the Germans, then sold them oil. Now that’s serious, that’s naughty.’
‘I didn’t say that. I may have suggested there was a prima facie case for some sort of deal to have taken place, but I certainly never suggested it was proved.’
‘Thank the Lord for small mercies.’
‘You seem extremely well informed, Mr Shanklin, about a pretty vague conversation in Venice, at a time when your people should have been far more concerned about other events. How come?’
‘Because you shot your mouth off in front of some rather important and sensitive people. I talked to an old chum of mine on the phone a couple of days ago. Name of Robak. Told me about this high-powered British journalist who had been yapping in the Danieli Bar. Not just idle gossip — sounded like high treason to me. And to him. You’re not very subtle, even for a journalist, are you?’
‘Let me explain, Mr Shanklin.’
‘I’d be glad if you would.’
‘I got the beginnings of this idea driving to Venice. Then, by chance, I bumped into Savoia at Harry’s Bar. Savoia was drunk, and I’m quite sure I wasn’t the first person he’d blabbed to about this theory of his. I was interested, but I wasn’t taking it too seriously at the time. Then I met my girl in the Danieli, with that PR man, Logan, and a Frenchman I’d never met before, called Pol, and this American fellow, Robak. I mentioned my theory just by way of conversation. I still didn’t think anything of it at the time. But Robak obviously did — enough to invite me up to his room next morning to explain it in more detail. I thought his reaction was rather odd.’
‘In what way?’
‘He started by giving me a rough outline on how the Germans might have siphoned off our oil. All fairly plausible and fairly friendly. Then he got just a little less friendly. He didn’t actually warn me off, but he gave me a pep talk about getting my facts, and making sure I got them right. My impression was that he was taking my theory rather more seriously than I was.’
‘You mentioned a Frenchman. Charles Pol. Used to be tied up with French Intelligence, now trying to tie himself up with ABCO. Robak also said you and your girl had dinner with Pol the next night. How seriously did Pol take your theory?’
Hawn said nothing. The TV screen was now showing a black-and-white musical from the thirties. One of the telephones rang again. This time Shanklin answered it with a bored movement. ‘Yes? Yes, yes. What’s the trouble? Not another fuck up the other end?’ He listened for a moment. ‘Well, take it out in a briefcase. You’ve got one, I suppose?’ He allowed the sarcasm to linger on his face while he heard the other out, then said, ‘And don’t call me again until you get there.’ He put down the receiver and looked at Hawn as though he were a total stranger. ‘What were we talking about?’
‘You were telling me how I’d had dinner with Pol. Your friend Robak is a damned good listening service.’
‘That’s part of what he’s paid for. And he’s paid nearly half a million dollars a year, and the tax he pays you could put in your sock. What did you talk to Pol about?’
‘I’m not sure that’s something I can discuss.’
Shanklin looked at him with a hard bald expression; the muscles in his big face had stiffened under their fleshy liver spots. ‘So you expect me to give you information, in return for nothing? That’s bad sportsmanship, Hawn. Bad tactics.’
‘Well, he’s interested. He’s interested in the Nazi war crimes angle.’
‘And he thinks you can help him?’
‘Only if I come up with some facts.’
‘And you think you’ll get the facts from me? That I’m a soft touch, perhaps?’
‘I came to you because you were originally attached to SOE in the Eastern Mediterranean and then in the Caribbean. The Nazis had a network of spies all over the world, and they were particularly strong in South and Central America. They were also desperate for oil, and no doubt went to any lengths to get it. The question I want answered is — could they have received clandestine help, either through bribery or coercion, from within the Western oil companies?’
Shanklin leaned his shirt-sleeves on the table-top. His expression was now benign and condescending. ‘Listen to me, Hawn. You may be a big man in Fleet Street, but where the oil industry is concerned, you’re obviously wet behind the ears. You clearly do not understand the first thing about oil — and to be fair to you, I’ve never met a journalist who did.
‘Oil companies run their affairs like police states. They’re ruthless, they’re competent, and they’re secure. Out in Central America we made sure we didn’t have a lot of dagos and wetbacks running around the place playing messenger boys and dipping their hands in the till whenever it pleased them. Nor did we have any Abwehr brass or those SD bastards stick
ing their noses into our affairs. Anyway, you could sniff a Nazi agent a mile off.’
He shunted his knees forward and clumsily got his legs out of the back of the chair and stood up. His pin-striped trousers were too short and revealed several inches of sock. He came round the table with a curious bowed strutting walk, like a top-heavy puppet.
‘I haven’t been much help, have I? And I like helping journalists. Maybe I could drop you a name? Pretty small fry, but it might help. Ever met Norman French?’
‘A few times — if it’s the same man. Engineer who used to work in the oil business — flogged me a few stories about North Sea oil — how the consortiums manage to get round British tax laws, including some of the cons the Government itself has pulled on the British public. I didn’t like him — though his material was usually pretty sound.’
‘Oh, he’s the most awful little creep. No class at all. But he is good at his job — except that he’s a crook. ABCO gave him a top position in the Caribbean a couple of years ago — house, swimming pool, servants, company car — and the little turd couldn’t resist trying to pull a fast one. Did a lot of share-holders out of a lot of money — though I think he was rumbled before he made much himself. But he did collect plenty of enemies — and ABCO makes a bad enemy. You might remember that.’
‘Why wasn’t he charged?’
‘Too much shit to be thrown around, and some of it would have stuck to the wrong people. Besides, Mexican law’s not exactly tuned to the finer points of our own Company Laws. But somebody’ll catch up with him in the end, don’t worry.’ He led the way to the door. ‘Get one thing straight, young man. ABCO represents the interests of Britain. And anyone who tries to damage ABCO, tries to damage this country — and when he does that, he has me to reckon with. I’ve killed a lot of people for this country, Hawn. I might just do it again.’
‘That sounds like a pretty direct threat.’
Shanklin shook his hand. ‘Just a manner of speaking. And by the way, that Frenchman, Pol — be careful of him. He’s a tricky bastard. Could be dangerous.’
CHAPTER 6
It was over a year since Hawn had last seen Norman French. He was an unctuous, pushy little man, always nattily turned out, fond of talking about good food and wines which he couldn’t afford. Hawn had heard that he had been catapulted into the Caribbean, on a tax-free executive salary, and assumed philosophically that the Fates had at last dealt Frenchie a winning hand. Then a few months later he had received a gilt-engraved invitation to a party being given by Mr and Mrs Norman French, Cocktails and Dinner, at Beecham House, off The Avenue, North London.
Hawn had gone alone out of curiosity. It had been an imposing house, ablaze with light. Norman French had evidently returned well-endowed from his misadventures in the New World, equipped now with an expensive wife, and tastes to match.
Two Vietnamese menservants and an English butler had served drinks and canapés of caviar and smoked salmon. The guests had been the usual galère of contemporary fashion: young businessmen of doubtful pedigree, minor showbiz and TV personalities, photographers and their parasites, a right-wing MP, a couple of Arabs, a lacing of models and their couth companions of uncertain gender, hairdressers, obscure pop freaks. Norman French did not have friends: he had contacts.
Hawn had not stayed long. A hunk of hash was being dismembered on a coffee table and a girl with straight dirty hair had begun to sing to a guitar, when he decided to take his leave. As he fetched his coat, he passed the open door of what he took to be the library. A dishevelled man, obviously drunk, was having a furious argument with French.
Hawn paused. At first neither of them noticed him. Norman French was speaking in his quietest, most patronizing voice; but the other kept interrupting: ‘You’re a slimy little ponce! You took me for a ride — you took the whole Consortium for a ride! I know a couple o’ nice guys were cleaned out because o’ you, Frenchie-boy!’ He spoke with a slurred American drawl, his hair flopping over his eyes. ‘Well, I’ll tell you something for nothing. Nobody skims cream off us and gets away with it! Nobody.’
French said, ‘Will you please leave. Or I shall have you thrown out.’
At that moment one of the menservants brought Hawn’s coat. Hawn had never been quite sure whether French had seen him there in the doorway or not; but thinking back on the incident had cleared up a little puzzle. The drunk dishevelled man had been Robak.
Hawn had not seen Norman French since: though he had heard, though the Grub Street grapevine, that the mansion in North London had been sold, and that soon after, Lorna French had returned alone to her native Texas. French’s upper crust had burst.
The last Hawn had known of French’s activities was that he had started his own private business, specializing in a new-fangled central heating system, with a plush office behind Piccadilly; but that soon after the place had closed up, and Norman French had vanished. The only tenuous contact which Hawn retained with him was through a slight acquaintanceship with an architect who had been a partner in French’s now defunct business.
Hawn finally traced the hapless French to a service flat in Paddington, where he was registered under the name of Hudson — presumably to evade creditors. The landlady was not helpful, having evidently been briefed to keep callers at bay. Hawn left his name and waited.
All next day there was no call from Norman French. Then, the following morning, as he was going out, the phone rang. The voice was smooth, cajoling: ‘Tom, how are you? Long time, no see. I gather you’re no longer at the paper?’
‘I’m writing a book. I thought you might be able to help me with some background.’
‘Any time. What’s it about?’
‘Not the sort of thing I can discuss over the phone. Tomorrow, lunch? L’Etoile, one o’clock?’
‘Only if I’m allowed to choose the wine.’
‘Agreed. One o’clock then.’
French did not arrive until 1.50. He was a soft, round man, with large hips, small hands and feet, and moist little eyes behind tinted glasses. His hair, cut short, was smooth as a cat’s. There was something faintly oriental about him: when he smiled, he reminded Hawn of one of those war-time cartoons of Japanese generals.
He came across the restaurant with a slightly swaying walk, like a dancer. ‘Tom — great to see you!’
Hawn smiled and sat down. ‘How’s the Jensen doing?’ he said, by way of malice.
‘Old age. Had to get rid of it.’ Norman French’s features were immobile as he consulted the menu.
Hawn paused. ‘I hear things aren’t too good with you, Norman?’
‘The rough with the smooth,’ French said, and went on to choose two of the most expensive dishes, with an appropriately good wine. Then he shifted his chair back and smiled: ‘Quite like the old days, Tom.’
‘Not quite. You’re rather difficult to get hold of, for a start. What happened?’
‘Broke. Flat, stony, on the sticks. I can’t even get credit at the newsagents.’
The wine waiter poured French’s glass a quarter full; French moistened his lips and nodded. ‘Very nice, Tom. Yes, it is like the old days.’
‘And like the old days you’re going to give me some help. Confidential information — that’s the way it used to be, right?’
Norman French sipped his wine. Hawn said: ‘I want some stuff on ABCO. Nothing current — but confidential. Old stuff going back to the end of the war. Do you know anything about ABCO’s operations at that time in the Caribbean?’
French put down his glass and showed his white teeth. ‘This information — how much does it pay?’
‘Depends on what it is. I want contacts — people I can talk to, names and facts I can check on. But I’ll give you two-fifty on the nail, and two-fifty if the information checks out.’
Norman French looked at him without expression. ‘What do you want to know?’
Hawn knew he would have to handle French with care.
The man was not only untrustworthy — he was
shrewd, with a certain coarse cunning. The least artifice would only whet his curiosity. Hawn wanted his information cold. He decided on the direct approach.
‘Before the war ABCO had fairly close contacts with the German firm, I G Farben. They’re supposed to have broken all contact when the Roosevelt Administration brought pressure to bear in 1940. What do you know about ABCO’s interests in the Caribbean during the rest of the war?’
‘They sold oil.’
‘But they had a lot of interests in Central American government. And some of those governments, in one way or another, were pro-Nazi — or at least, pro-German.’
‘They were pro the US dollar,’ French said.
‘But if the US stayed neutral, or even lost, those regimes wouldn’t have been sorry to deal with the Reichsmark?’
A sly happy look had spread over Norman French’s hairless features. ‘I get the drift. You’re priming me, Tom, to say it wasn’t just the Latin American top class who had pro-German interests. You want me to say that ABCO did too?’
‘ABCO’s a big organization. It only needed a handful of people. Maybe just one person. Five hundred quid, Norman.’
French pretended to be concentrating on his food. He said at last, ‘Most of ABCO’s top people in the war are either dead or retired. But there are people around who had very sensitive jobs in those days. I’m not saying they were pro-Nazi.’
‘Norman, I’m pursuing a line of extremely tentative inquiry. It may lead nowhere. As you say, I’m probably wasting my time — and my money. I just want a lead. Someone I can interview who might know of an Anglo-Nazi connection within ABCO in the last years of the war.’
French put down his knife and fork. ‘If I tell you what I know Tom, you won’t have any way of confirming it. So I shall want that whole five hundred pounds now, as a full down payment.’
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