SS-GB

by Len Deighton

  But if Kellerman had so cleverly outwitted the Abwehr – in spite of the wide-ranging powers that martial law provided for the army – then what of Mayhew, and his network of kingmakers? How long would it take before Kellerman discovered that the Abwehr itself was in league with the men he had called ‘criminal terrorists’? Or was Fritz Kellerman no more than the amiable old do-gooder that he claimed to be? Or was the truth – like so many truths – not any one of the envisaged possibilities?

  Chapter Thirty-two

  ‘I’ve done enough,’ said Harry Woods when they were in the car and driving home.

  ‘Too much.’

  ‘Seriously,’ said Harry, ‘I’ve done enough.’ When Douglas didn’t reply Harry added, ‘“Ohne mich,” the Huns say, don’t they? – “without me” – well, that’s how I feel. The Resistance can manage without me for a little while.’

  Douglas nodded. He too had heard the Germans say ‘ohne mich’ as they dissociated themselves from some arduous, dangerous or expensive demand of the Third Reich’s policies. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Harry touching his bruised cheek, moving the fingertips up his face to discover how far it went, and preparing himself for seeing his wife again.

  ‘Last February,’ said Harry, ‘it seemed like the only thing to do.’

  ‘Last February is a century ago,’ said Douglas.

  ‘And after that I could never think of any way to tell the lads I wanted to get out of it.’

  Douglas nodded. He was accustomed to hearing men rationalize their misfortune, and their good fortune too. Only a few days previously, Harry had been trying to recruit him into their Resistance cell, but he did not remind him.

  ‘Was it Kellerman who arranged my release?’ Harry asked.

  ‘He said he would,’ said Douglas. ‘Why do you ask?’

  Harry was still fingering his bruised face. ‘He’s not so bad, perhaps,’ said Harry. ‘I mean…well, I was wondering in there, whether we’d be just as bad as they are…if we’d won the war and were occupying Germany.’

  They arrived at Harry’s small house. There was a chink of light between the curtains of the basement room. Harry got out of the car and looked around as if seeing the street for the first time. Then he turned back and bent down to see Douglas at the wheel of the car. ‘I wish it could be like in the old days, Doug.’ He seemed oblivious of the rain that was soaking him. Douglas had seen men released from prison stand happily in the worst of weather; it was a celebration of freedom.

  ‘The Germans are here, Harry,’ said Douglas. He was impatient with his partner but he tried to keep that out of his voice.

  ‘No, no,’ said Harry. ‘I mean you and me. I wish it could be like the old days between you and me.’

  ‘It will be, Harry,’ Douglas promised. ‘Now get inside and see your wife. She’s been worried about you.’

  As Douglas drove away down the bleak rainswept street he could not resist a glance in the mirror. Harry Woods was standing under a streetlight and watching the departing car. As he turned the corner Douglas looked again. This time Harry had begun walking, but instead of going to his own front door, Harry stepped off the kerb to cross the street and head elsewhere. To a public phone perhaps. Oh well, thought Douglas, he was not Harry’s keeper, only his friend and partner. He tried not to think about it.

  Douglas detoured to avoid the closed streets that now provided a ‘fire zone’ round Pentonville prison, and followed a series of backstreets to avoid both King’s Cross and St Pancras railway stations. All such vital places were now ringed with infantry and armoured cars and there were the Fliegende Feld- und Standgerichte – flying field tribunals – complete with execution squads. So far there had been no reports of summary executions but the sight of the tribunals was enough to strike fear into the most innocent heart.

  Douglas recognized the unit that waved him to a halt in Tottenham Court Road as one such tribunal. There was an Opel ‘Admiral’ for the patrol commander, six motorcycles and two canvas-topped Daimler-Benz G-3 troops carriers. The steady rain shone in the yellow headlight beams. Somewhere on the other side of the railway there was the moaning of a Feldgendarmerie siren. The Feldwebel who asked for Douglas’s identity papers had that soft-spoken courtesy which so often is the manner of men who cannot be disobeyed. He read the pass with interest, compared Douglas with the photo, wrote the registration number of the vehicle on his clipboard, clicked his heels, saluted in the military style, and waved Douglas on.

  It was the same all over Britain; the German army was demonstrating to the civil population that the ‘field-greys’ were in total control. And yet, if one noted the way in which the army patrols seemed to take a perverse satisfaction in checking the police and SS vehicles and SS personnel, it was almost as if the demonstration was directed at them.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  On Saturday morning they went to the zoo. Douglas told his son that Barbara was a friend he’d met in connection with his work. But Douglas need not have worried about how that first meeting would go, for the child accepted this friend of his father as children usually do, with an awesome interest for the first ten minutes and then a friendly indifference. But Barbara knew that young Douglas was an examination she must pass if she was to have his father’s love and devotion, and she gave all her energies to winning the boy over.

  They rode on the elephants and on the camels. They went to the aquarium and to the rhino house. Eventually Barbara allowed the little boy to coax her into visiting the reptile house. By the time they emerged, little Douglas was holding her hand to comfort her, and telling her not to be afraid of the snakes because he wouldn’t let them hurt her.

  The zoo was almost deserted. Not many Londoners had enough money to pay for admittance to the depleted collection of animals and the bomb-damaged buildings. And martial law had provided other activities for the army of occupation. Douglas and Barbara watched his son on the tiny merry-go-round. There were no other children there and Douggie was able to keep it revolving by running alongside and leaping aboard for brief rides.

  ‘We bring him to the zoo and he ignores the animals in favour of the swings and roundabouts.’

  ‘He likes being with you,’ said Barbara. ‘He doesn’t mind where.’

  ‘Huth hates his father,’ said Douglas. ‘It’s an obsession with him.’ They walked past the wooden benches, newly painted yellow, and marked ‘for Jews only’. There was always enough money and labour for hatred.

  ‘Why?’

  A light plane flew overhead, banking steeply and wheeling so that the flyers could be sure there were no illegal meetings in Regent’s Park. The sky had been busy with these highwing Storks since martial law was declared. Not only were they constantly checking the open spaces and the rooftops but also fetching and carrying between the hastily converted airstrips made from straight stretches of roadway at the Mall, Edgeware Road, Western Avenue, Old Kent Road and Clapham Common. ‘Huth wants more admiration than his father is prepared to provide.’ It was raining now. Douglas and Barbara huddled together in the lee of a kiosk. Its tiny windows were filled with dummy packs of chocolate and cigarettes, dusty and flyblown. On the padlocked shutter a sign said, ‘No cigarettes, no chocolate, no change for the telephone’. The sign was torn and stained with months of rain – it was a long time since it became necessary to tell anyone that there were no chocolates or cigarettes.

  ‘You’re angry about something.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Worried?’

  ‘No,’ said Douglas but he was troubled. He felt like a man ordered to dig his own grave. ‘You told me that Mayhew asked you to go along to Shepherd Market, and try to get the film. But Mayhew had no idea that any film existed until I told him.’

  She said nothing. The rain lessened and young Douggie continued to ride on the merry-go-round. Douglas continued, ‘I think you were working for your own government. And I think the younger Spode was working for them too.’

  ‘I’m not a spy, Dou
glas,’ she said. ‘A man from the Embassy asked me to go along to the Shepherd Market apartment. He said the film would be waiting there for collection. That’s all I know, you must believe me, Douglas.’ She gripped his arm; he nodded.

  He said, ‘Young Spode killing his brother, it didn’t make sense. Family quarrels aren’t about secret documents, they are about unfaithful wives or who inherits what.’

  ‘Who killed Spode then?’

  ‘I couldn’t believe that the younger brother did it and calmly stood there sorting through several hundred pages of mathematical calculations photographing, while his brother was sprawled dead at his feet.’

  ‘He didn’t do it?’

  ‘I fell into the trap of thinking that the two brothers must have been there together, simply because they were brothers. As soon as one forgets that they were brothers, the truth becomes easier to see. There was a train ticket in the dead man’s pocket. No trains from Devon arrive in London stations during the early hours of the morning. Spode wasn’t arriving from the station, he’d been to the flat earlier, to deliver the calculations for his brother to photograph.’

  ‘But young Spode admitted killing his brother.’

  ‘Spode said something about his brother having no shield. I thought he meant that his brother lacked the comfort and protection that Catholicism provides.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘He meant the thermic and biological shields. He was referring to the protection provided for the men working on this nuclear experiment. Spode meant that he was responsible for his brother’s death from radiation. He meant he’d made some error during the work at Bringle Sands.’

  For a long time she was silent. Then she said, ‘Yes, the younger Spode photographed the documents so that they could be sent to Washington. He made contact with my Embassy and offered the film to them. That’s all I know, darling.’

  Douglas held her waist. He wanted to tell her that he trusted her, but he could find no way of saying it that was not clumsy and patronizing. Barbara said, ‘But why would anyone want to kill the older Spode?’

  ‘Someone let him into the flat, Barbara. That place was used as a meeting place by the Resistance groups. I can’t help suspecting that it was done with Mayhew’s knowledge.’

  ‘You have not answered my question, sweetheart. What’s Mayhew’s motive? Why would he want to murder the best damned atomic physicist in Britain when there’s a good chance he could get his hands on the work he’d been doing? Do you think Mayhew is working for the Germans?’

  ‘I just don’t know,’ said Douglas. ‘I suspect that Mayhew’s been meeting Huth, without either of them saying a word about the meetings to anyone. But I don’t see Mayhew in the role of a traitor. Collaborator, well perhaps; but not traitor.’

  ‘But why did that young Abwehr Captain pass young Spode the poison capsule?’

  ‘The Captain thought I was going to take Spode away, and have him grilled by the Sicherheitsdienst. The SD would have discovered every detail of the army’s progress in their atomic research programme, and some damned uncomfortable secrets about the way the Abwehr has cooperated with Mayhew and his Resistance people.’

  ‘Poor Spode.’

  ‘I liked him,’ said Douglas.

  The rain stopped and more aircraft passed over very low. They walked on and into the lion house, with young Douglas holding the hands of both of them.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Linden Manor gets its name from the avenue of lime trees that makes the approach to this mansion so unforgettable. The house is a rambling complex of Tudor red-brick, restored in the nineteenth century by a wealthy megalomaniac who added the Gothic chapel and the folly, a grotesque tower inspired by tales of King Arthur. And yet the aesthetics of Sydney Garin’s and Peter Shetland’s antique-crammed mansion house had little consequence for any except those privileged to enter the surrounding 250-acre estate which kept the vulgar sightseer at a respectful distance.

  The enormous dining-room was seen that evening by the flickering light from three eighteenth-century polychrome glass chandeliers. The candle flames danced in the solid silver cutlery, and allowed the Dutch marine paintings to be glimpsed in that darkness beyond the candlelight.

  ‘We don’t have all this good stuff in evidence when the Huns come down here to see us,’ said Sydney Garin. His speech was accented, his voice nasal. He was responding to a compliment by Barbara Barga about the table setting. He chuckled. ‘It would make the articles they can afford to buy look shoddy.’

  Mayhew gave a slightly pained smile. Sydney’s stories about swindling his customers did not amuse Mayhew, even when the customers were the nouveau riche. Even nouveau riche Huns. And talk about Sydney’s antiques did not interest him, combining as it did both art and trade, two subjects taboo in any decent mess or club. Mayhew picked at his Perdreau à la normande. Shooting partridge was one thing; eating it was quite another. And as for cooking them according to French recipes, with apple brandy, that, Mayhew decided, was quite disgusting. He pushed the food around his plate to make it look as if he’d eaten some.

  At one end of the table sat Mrs Garin, a quiet little woman who looked uncomfortable in her glittering brocade dress. Next to her sat her son David. He was attentive to his mother, and they seemed scarcely aware of the conversation at the other end of the table.

  Douglas was watching Mayhew. The man was an enigma, and Douglas constantly changed his mind about him. The confident manner, his stamina and his jokes gave the impression of a young man. So did his handsome face, muscular body and dark wavy hair. But close to him one also saw the wrinkles and the slightly yellow teeth and the tension that made Mayhew frown too much and fidget with his knife and fork.

  A servant poured Douglas more of the Château Léoville. Barbara Barga laughed at something Sydney Garin said. Douglas looked at his host and was reminded of the rude way he’d treated Garin on more than one previous occasion. He looked, too, at Garin’s son, David, a handsome boy with curly hair and the same large brown eyes that his father had. But David had been to an English public school, and had learned to keep his face expressionless and his eyes lowered.

  ‘On that day that my country was invaded, Barbara,’ said Garin, touching her arm, ‘I said to myself, Sydney Garin, you’ve got to help throw them out.’

  Mayhew frowned as he tried to decide which army had invaded Armenia and when. Just as he had decided that Garin was talking of the Bolsheviks, Sydney Garin said, ‘We English have always been like that.’ He gestured with his fork held high in the air. ‘We haven’t had an invader since William the Conqueror.’ Garin turned to Mayhew, and in an aside added, ‘And that was in 1066, George.’

  ‘Was it?’ said Mayhew stiffly. ‘I was never much good at history.’

  ‘Don’t like your partridge, eh?’ said Garin, leaning forward to scrutinize Mayhew’s plate. ‘Oh well, that’s all right. Had a Hun Colonel here last week who said my best beluga caviar tasted salty – bloody idiot, begging your pardon, Barbara.’ He lifted his finger and said to a uniformed servant, ‘Bring Colonel Mayhew a plate of cold roast beef.’ To Mayhew, ‘More your sort of thing, George.’

  Mayhew had the feeling that he was being made a fool of, or, worse, that he was making a fool of himself. ‘No, no, no, no,’ he said and raised a flattened hand in polite refusal.

  ‘And some English mustard,’ Garin told his servant as he patted Mayhew’s arm. ‘I know the sort of thing you public school men like – rice pudding, cold meat and lots of gravy. Am I right, George? Am I right?’ He turned back to Barbara Barga and said, ‘Funny people we English, Barbara. My son, David, eats the same sort of stuff.’ David blushed. ‘And young Peter is just the same; it’s our public schools that do it, serving kids all that filthy stodge. Peter would eat suet pudding every day if I let him.’

  ‘You mean your partner, Sir Peter Shetland?’ said Barbara.

  ‘Lord Campion,’ said Mayhew, correcting Sydney Garin rather than Barbara Barga. Behind them a serv
ant put on a pair of gloves before taking some logs from the hearth and positioning them on the blazing fire.

  ‘Oh, I don’t set much store by titles,’ said Garin. ‘When I was living in Paris, half the people in the soup-kitchen were Dukes and Princes and so on.’

  ‘Real ones?’ said Barbara.

  ‘Now you are asking a profound question,’ said Garin, glancing round the table to be sure that the servants were keeping the wine glasses filled. He saw that Douglas had almost finished his main course. ‘Douglas is enjoying his partridge, aren’t you, Douglas?’

  ‘It’s delicious.’

  ‘More partridge,’ he commanded his servants. ‘Eat it while it’s freshly cooked, Douglas. It’s not worth anything cold.’ Garin sipped some water; his wine was scarcely touched. ‘Real? You mean if a chap is called a Duke by his friends he’s real, but if he calls himself a Duke he’s a phoney?’ Garin was looking at Barbara, but he couldn’t resist a glance at Mayhew to see if he’d rise to the bait.

  ‘What time is this chappie coming?’ said Mayhew, looking at his gold pocket watch.

  ‘I wish you’d let me come with you,’ said Barbara.

  ‘And I wish it was possible,’ said Mayhew. He flicked a lock of hair from his forehead and gave her his most charming smile. ‘But if I take you along as a sightseer…even if you are the most influential journalist in Britain, the other chaps will feel it’s a breach of security.’

  ‘And who is going to believe that you are an important American journalist?’ said Garin. ‘They will see this radiantly beautiful creature and immediately say it’s another of Sydney Garin’s harem.’ He snorted with merriment at the idea. His wife looked up and smiled politely. He winked at her.

  Mayhew stopped smiling and turned to Garin. ‘What time did you say he was due?’

  The servant put a plate of cold beef on the table but Mayhew hardly glanced at it. From the fireplace there came a series of cracks, a bright moment of flame and a smell of sap as the log caught fire.