The Nostradamus Traitor: 1 (The Herbie Kruger Novels)

by John Gardner

  “You’re not as alone out there as we’ve led you to imagine, George.” They sat hunched, once more, over the gas fire. “My job is to initiate you into some of the really black arts. I’m out to tie a double knot which will leave you as the only person in the world who can untie it. Because, while you are not alone, your friend may belong to another even longer-standing enemy.”

  He examined the various ways in which Downay might well be used. How would they, the enemy, use him? How would George be used through him?

  There were variants so complex that Ramilies had to lead George very gently through tortuous mental caverns. The twists and turns of the man’s mind were an eye-opener to young Thomas. The astuteness, deviousness, and cunning of the Rammer were to remain object lessons for what George described as “the rest of my active life in this godforsaken profession.”

  Ramilies’ will was undoubtedly to drive a deep wedge into the very heart of the Nazi Party: between Hitler himself and his most trusted hatchet man, Heinrich Himmler, Reichsführer SS and Chief of the German Police. He was determined to do it, long range, from the Abbey; and, like it or not, George was to be the mallet in his hand.

  As dawn broke, Ramilies, priest of the dark sciences, exacted one final toll as a safeguard. Like some witch, he required from George Thomas a personal name, known to both of them and to be kept by Ramilies alone. Later, if Downay was proved hygienic, this token would be given to him: and, lastly, to one other person whom George would know only through the revelation of this secret within a secret. The name George gave to Ramilies would be played back to him by the chosen one.

  George speaking: “It was like a childish game, and the choice was mine. I’d been having this recurring dream of childhood, where I was acting out all the parts in my homemade plays for Maman. There was a character, buried deep inside me from this theatre of infancy, which fitted the bill perfectly. I gave Ramilies the name and he had the decency to laugh at the irony.”

  On the next night they set off in a converted Breton fishing

  boat. Luckily the Navy had installed a pair of high-powered engines in her, because the E-boat bounced them in fog a couple of miles from the coast.

  They turned tail and fled back to England.

  It wasn’t until the night of 26-27 February that they finally put him in by Lysander.

  Herbie left the tape running: right up to the point where George met Downay at the Gare du Nord and found himself being introduced to SS Sturmbannführer Kuche and SS Hauptsturmführer Wald.

  22

  LONDON 1978

  FEBRUARY 1941. HERBIE WAS BARELY eleven years old. A lifetime. Another of many lives. The bombing had started and his father was already dead, killed by a British fighter pilot over the English Channel. He remembered the solemnity. The citation for bravery. He died for the Führer and the Fatherland. The awe with which his mother had held the personal letter from Goering.

  He was, himself, with the Jugend. But the death of his father was the first moment that iron entered his soul. The first time that he felt guilty. The Führer had taken his father from him. For Führer and Fatherland. That was, for Herbie Kruger, the start of the divorce, the first crack. He was not quite fourteen when he finally ran from the ruins and his dead mother, making his way to the Americans and offering to help them. That was in 1944.

  The guilt at having sinned against the Führer and the Fatherland in thought was expunged by the sins he committed in word and deed. He had cause to hate the Party. Not just for his father, but for friends. Abraham Schultz; David Steinberg; Arnold Klein. Their parents as well; and the old couple who used to give him sweets. Taken. In the night, taken. Claimed by the chambers and the ovens. As an adolescent he knew what happened to them. They all knew—well, maybe not those who buried their heads in the sand. Some even saw, or carried back stories.

  He knew fear as a boy; and hatred. He had known fear ever since, though the hatred mellowed. The enemy then wore many heads. It had grown a few more since then.

  Big Herbie built himself an extra-large brandy. A horse’s neck. Ginger ale. He brought it over to his “thinking and listening” chair, trailing the telephone with him and putting it on the floor as he took a tentative sip of the drink.

  Seven o’clock. Time for food later. He needed another look at the files to refresh his memory on what he would hear, in its minutiae, from George tomorrow. In the meantime there were some telephone calls to make. Much later he would listen to the Eighth Symphony: “The Symphony of a Thousand.” The Solti recording.

  The phone rang, like it had ESP, just as he was about to reach for it.

  Bob Perry, head of Photography Section—better known as Pix. He was glad to have caught Herbie because their man had taken the prints up to his office and wanted a word with him.

  Which prints? Of course, the ones he had pulled from the files. Five different photographs. All vintage. Early forties. Copies and enlargements. For use with Frau Fenderman on Thursday.

  It wasn’t important, Herbie told him. He would pick them up, maybe tomorrow, or Thursday morning most likely.

  Apparently, that wasn’t the point. The blowups showed hanky-panky. Old prints, Bob. Historical: No, he couldn’t ask what or where they’d come from. What hanky-panky?

  Only two of them, Bob Perry told him. Two had been done against phoney backgrounds.

  Wartime. Hush-hush. Sort of back-projection jobs? Herbie asked.

  No, scissors and paste—and there was more. They were well done. Almost departmental standard, though the techniques weren’t as perfect as modern fakes.

  Herbie thought for a few seconds. “Put them under lock and key, Bob. I’ll come over tomorrow if I’ve got the time. But they’re to go out to nobody but me. Not even God gets them. Right?”

  “Right.”

  Doped-up photographs. It appealed to one theory Herbie had in the back of his mind. Not really a theory. More of a half-cooked idea—and that without hearing all the detail. The files told one story; but who knew? Wait and see. A larger gulp of the brandy.

  He dialled the Yard. Special Branch. Vermin Vernon-Smith. They went through the Rachet and Soap routine, then Herbie gave him a rundown on Nachent and Billstein. Descriptions, and their vehicle, the Mini Clubman, together with registration.

  “Sound like amateurs. Using the same car all the time. You’ve just caught me, dinner with the wife’s brother.”

  “May have to wait. I’d like you to snatch those monsters.”

  “On what?”

  “Loitering. Whatever. Keep them for a while. Turn them over.”

  “And what nefarious outfit do they represent?”

  “Free lance.”

  “How long have you known?”

  “Not long. Thought they were FIA.” He was careful not to say BND so that the Special Branch man would not be confused. Federal Intelligence Agency would be more amenable to Vermin than Bundesnachrichtendienst.

  “You’re sure they’re not?”

  “Spoke to the embassy man this morning. Ex-FIA, the pair of them. Sacked and went private. You’ll probably get them on an arms charge. Who knows? Like them out of the way until Thursday or Friday. Friday would be good.”

  “So would dinner with the wife’s brother.”

  “Well, do it after dinner. Late. Later the better. They won’t go away, not if the bird’s still at the hotel.”

  Vernon-Smith said he would do his best. He sounded disgruntled. Worried.

  Herbie called Schnabeln and asked to be notified when the leeches were snatched. “Are they there now?”

  “Sitting there as conspicuous as foxes in a hen house.”

  Time for food. Herbie felt a great lethargy. He sipped the drink again, then tossed it back in one, his eyes half on his notes. The masochist in him wanted to call Worboys and give him a job. That young man needed some ginger up his backside and there was something he could get on with tomorrow.

  His hand hovered over the telephone, as though he expected it to ring
. It didn’t and he changed his mind. Get him later, as well.

  Big Herbie Kruger spends a quiet, night at home, he thought, and treated himself to another massive drink. To consume while cooking an omelette.

  As his huge hands gently shook the pan over the gas flame; as the butter melted, Herbie sang softly, bitterly:

  For the last time the rifle is loaded….

  Soon Hitler banners will wave over the barricades….

  He sang in German. The Horst Wessel song. Then he laughed. The laugh mocked his childhood and seemed to come from long ago.

  It was nearly nine-thirty when the Entryphone buzzed.

  Maitland-Wood was there and would like a word.

  He came, like Agag, treading delicately, as if he craved a boon.

  This Fenderman woman? Herbie was diffident. Was it worth all the work? Herbie asked, all what work? Maitland-Wood had been given to understand that people were being given odd jobs, that there had been a shooting incident yesterday. Was she a subversive or were the small paragraphs in the papers more or less accurate? More or less, Herbie told him, adding that he was the one doing most of the work, and the Fenderman woman had been passed on to him by the Director himself.

  Yes, the Deputy Director knew that. He understood, but George Thomas was having to give up two days’ work—or so he was told. Did Herbie really have to do all this background stuff?

  “George complaining?” Herbie had offered the Deputy Director a drink; but he had refused, just as he had refused to take off his coat—as if he was trying to make it plain he was on business. He also made some remark about not being able to get Herbie in his office and having to trail out to St. John’s Wood.

  “You could have called. The telephone…”

  “Is an insecure instrument.” Frosty.

  Herbie grinned. Stupid. Dunderhead. “Not this one. This one is special. Delousing gear included at no extra cost.”

  About what Herbie was doing. Did he think the Fenderman woman would be of use? Herbie couldn’t say. “Not until I’ve been through all the background.”

  Again, back to George. “He’s a busy man, you know.”

  “Aren’t we all? What’s the matter, Willis? George been complaining?”

  The negative was exceptionally hesitant. Herbie read it like banner headlines. George had not complained, but had asked Maitland-Wood if this particular dog could be whistled home. He could almost hear the conversation.

  No fuss, Willis. But if it could be circumvented.

  Do what I can, George. Do what I can. No promises. It’s the Director’s pigeon and I’ve okayed the files. No option.

  “Look”—Herbie’s hands spread wide, terrifyingly huge—“I’m putting a team together. This woman has an interesting background. It crosses vaguely with something George was on during the war. I’d like to take her on—or at least drop something her way. But I need to be certain that she’s clean and starched.”

  Maitland-Wood went away looking unhappy. Herbie was far from certain about Hildegarde Fenderman. He was uncertain about a lot of things. Soap. Truth.

  Eventually he got around to Worboys and asked him to start checking first thing in the morning. German Federal passport. Did not know the number. Woman: Gretchen Weiss. Number of visits and their duration to the U. K. during the previous year. Herbie was a great one for independent checks. Schnabeln had said Hildegarde Fenderman had been in for two months last autumn under the name Weiss. Unlink it, and let Worboys have fun with the records.

  “I want it by Thursday morning latest.” He rang off, aware of the irritation he had left at the other end of the line.

  At last Mahler’s Eighth Symphony—the choral masterpiece.

  Veni, veni, Creator Spiritus, the chorus of the Vienna State Opera began. Then the telephone rang. Girren to say the leeches had just been lifted, with a lot of noise and complaint, by some rather ferocious policemen, including Vernon-Smith.

  “Good,” Herbie said and put down the instrument.

  Mentes tuorum visita, continued the choir.

  George Thomas arrived on the dot of nine-thirty the next morning. In the kitchen the big reel-to-reel tape machine was switched on. The bugs nestled at the ready. Herbie poured the coffee.

  “Forgotten where we left off,” George began.

  Herbie gave his idiot smile. “Gare du Nord. Arrival. You’ve just met Downay and the SS duet. I am sitting most comfortably George. So let us go on. I like stories with plenty of adventure.”

  George closed his eyes, passed a hand over his brow, and started afresh.

  23

  PARIS 1941

  “WE ARE RELIEVED YOU have arrived safely, Herr Thomas.” Kuche, the SS Sturmbannführer—the major—spoke in clipped French. Too perfect to be natural. He was slightly shorter than Wald. That was all Thomas noticed at the time. “The Herr Doktor Downay has been making us wait especially for you. You have been most coy—not wanting to come to Paris.” It sounded strange, the French with the German Herr, and Herr Doktor.

  George opened his mouth, but Downay closed it swiftly by taking over. “You know what these academics are like.” He shrugged charm at them with deadly accuracy. “Georges here wishes to write in solitude. I disturbed him. That’s all. He’s here now.”

  They were leading, shepherding George across the concourse to the main façade of the station.

  “The general will be pleased. We can expect some results soon? Yes?” Wald’s French was not quite as perfect as Kuche’s, but it served well enough. He stepped forward and opened the car door. It was a big black Opel, and the driver, a tubby corporal, jumped forward, bouncing to help. Wald fended him off as though he was not really a fit person to assist passengers of their calibre.

  George got into the back with Downay and Kuche, Downay shifting close, lightly touching his thigh in a gesture meant to convey calm. Wald sat next to the driver.

  George lamely said something about the car being an unexpected luxury.

  Downay smiled. “Paris is not like the country, you know. There, you are used to walking and riding the bicycle. It’s hard for me.” He waved a hand towards Wald and then back to Kuche. “These two gentlemen are our liaison with the general. They are very kind over matters of transport.”

  George nodded and turned his head away from the window. The eyes of a passing cyclist had closed with him, and he did not like the look of contempt he saw.

  They pulled out into the stream of bicycles, which appeared to be the main form of transport. Any motorised vehicles were military, except for the odd official French car or van. For the rest it was two feet—either on pavements or pedals.

  Kuche leaned forward. “We expect great things from this collaboration.”

  George said they would do their best, and Downay once more came to his rescue. He had already told them, and the general, what he could accomplish with Georges’ help. Having told them, he hoped they would be good enough to leave him and his colleague in peace for a while.

  They slid through the streets at speed, moving cyclists with horn blasts like grenades. George was able to take in only a montage of the city he knew so well. It was a painful sight to one who was half French. Uniforms everywhere, many of them slung about with cameras, the eternal rubbernecks on the tourist run. There was an impression of queues, reminiscent of home, mainly around bread shops; and of old men perusing newspapers and posters stuck to otherwise empty stretches of wall. Many of the posters displayed garish paintings of Marshal Pétain.

  From the car, it looked as though the troops outnumbered the civilian population by two to one. George was unprepared, though, for the number of young women who strolled with officers and other ranks alike. That kind of collaboration was only to be expected, but it had gone unmentioned at the Abbey.

  They crossed the Pont Neuf, clipping the corner of the Ile de la Cité. The Germans had not moved any of the buildings. A sharp left turn off the Rue Dauphin, and the car pulled up gently in front of one of those inscrutable building
s with a big door, part panelled by glass, with a grille of metal bars behind.

  The two SS men saluted as Downay pointed George towards the door. They would be calling in a day or so. You couldn’t tell if that was a threat or a promise.

  Inside the door, a withered and bent concierge poked her head from a cubbyhole and gave Downay a venomous glance; then eyed George up and down, smiled sadly, and disappeared.

  “I’m on the sixth floor.” Downay seemed relieved that they were alone. George knew the feeling.

  L’ascenseur ne marche pas. French elevators are as bad as those in other parts of the world. At that time they were even worse.

  George tried to ask about the pair of SS brigands, as they toiled up the curving stairs, but Downay shushed him, sharply: suggesting that he should guard his tongue until they got into the apartment.

  There was no way that he could have given George a warning, he said when they were inside his front door. The SS officers were his direct liaison with General Frühling, who, in turn, was being controlled by the Propaganda Ministry. He’d played them along, but in the end it was impossible for him to keep Georges’ arrival date a secret. He hoped to God they hadn’t checked out the other end. George was lost, and said so.

  They were well inside now, through the small vestibule with its rack for coats, and what looked like a piece of old drainpipe which was the depository for two or three walking sticks and an umbrella. The vestibule led to the main room, large and uninviting, almost spartan: books lining one wall, the furniture big and heavy. A desk, table, several chairs—two of them deep and padded, pulled up in front of a metal stove.

  There were three watercolours, insipid landscapes, on the walls. The place looked unlived in, the only sign of reality being the desk with its piled jumble of papers and books. That reminded George of Ramilies.