“No longer will lawyers have to rely on the unreliable testimony of eyewitnesses or the too-vague discipline of fingerprinting. DNA will identify the guilty and exonerate the innocent.”
The wonder was not that the intelligence services of three countries had been so keen to get their hands on the secret of DNA, Herbert thought; the wonder was that only three were involved, and that they had not gone further in their quest.
The Soviets had got the bomb three years ago, a decade before the West thought they would. No one underestimated the importance of science any longer; paranoia ensured that every threat was a mortal one, every belch a breach of national security.
He realized, too, the irony in Stensness’ murder. DNA—the very thing he’d been killed for—would be the key to solving crimes like the one perpetrated on him.
Fischer continued: “DNA will also allow us to profoundly revise our opinions about human origins, about who we are and where we came from. Our ancestors’ genes are a treasure trove of information, but until now we have not known how to read them. In agriculture, too, we will be able to improve important species with an effectiveness we have previously only dreamed of.
“And these are merely the applications that present themselves to us at this stage. With each new development, each new piece of research, a myriad of other opportunities will open up, things that none of us will possibly be able to foretell.
“This is where the next war will be fought, of that I am convinced. From the moment the first of our ancestors fashioned a stick into a spear, the results of conflicts have been dictated by technology. World War One was the chemists’ war, because mustard gas and chlorine were deployed for the first time. World War Two was the physicists’ war, the war of the atom bomb. Why shouldn’t World War Three be the biologists’ war?
“The biggest challenge we face is from our own aggressive instincts. In caveman times, these gave definite survival advantages, and were imprinted on our genetic code by natural selection. But now we have nuclear weapons, such instincts threaten our destruction. And since we don’t have time for evolution to remove our aggression, we’ll have to use genetic engineering.”
Fischer gave a small, almost shy smile, entirely at odds with the thunderous images he had been conjuring. “We will not live to see much of this, of course; nor will our children, nor even their children. Vesalius worked out the anatomy of the heart more than four hundred years ago, and we’ve still yet to transplant a heart from one human to another. But progress will come, because progress is like time; it moves only one way.”
He curled the fingers of his right hand around his water glass, no doubt needing a drink after such a monologue.
And then Herbert saw it.
On Fischer’s little finger was an indentation, a fraction of an inch in depth and circling the skin.
The mark of a ring. A ring like the one Herbert had found by the Peter Pan statue.
Herbert gestured toward Fischer’s finger. “Wedding ring?”
Fischer clicked his tongue in his throat. “Ach. Took it off in the bath.”
It might have been, probably was, almost certainly would turn out to be, nothing; but Herbert’s curiosity was an itch that would not be scratched.
“Where’s the bath?”
“What?” Fischer looked puzzled, as well he might. It must have seemed an extraordinary question.
“Which bath did you take it off in?”
“My bath.”
“Here, in London?”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Where?”
“At the Embassy, where I’m staying.”
Space was tight at the Embassy, Papworth had said; but nonetheless Fischer was staying there, probably Pauling too.
Not so much the lap of luxury, Herbert thought, as a gilded cage.
“So if we went to that bathroom right now, the ring would be there?”
“Where else would it be?”
“You tell me.”
“What the hell is this all about?” Papworth demanded.
“I found a ring by the Peter Pan statue, where I believe Stensness had been struggling with his assailant,” Herbert said. “Kind of a coincidence, don’t you think?”
“If you’re implying that Dr. Fischer had something to do with Stensness’ death,” Papworth said, “then yes; a coincidence is exactly what I think it is.”
Herbert turned to Papworth. “When you were waiting for Stensness that night, were you alone?”
“Of course.”
“Then how do you know where Dr. Fischer was?”
“He was with Professor Pauling.”
“Who isn’t here to confirm that.”
“The fog’s got to him. He’s feeling poorly again. But we can go and ask him.”
“I think I’d like to ask Dr. Fischer some more questions.”
“I must protest.”
“You can protest all you like. Dr. Fischer isn’t a diplomat. He has no protection in the eyes of the law.”
“I’d prefer to stay with him.”
“And I’d prefer that you don’t.”
“Are you arresting him?”
“If I was arresting him, I’d have said so. And if you keep on at me, I will arrest him, and then we’ll be doing this the hard way.”
“This is ludicrous.”
“Go back to the Embassy. When I’ve finished with him, and if I’m satisfied with his answers, I’ll return him to you there.”
“This case is done and dusted, Herbie. You know that damn well. De Vere Green’s dead, by his own hand, all loose ends tied up. What more do you want?”
Herbert shrugged. “I’ll tell you when I find it. Now, go.”
“I wasn’t there,” Fischer said, when Papworth had left. “I wasn’t in the park.”
“Did you know about Stensness’ offer beforehand?”
“No.”
“Even though you’re working on exactly the same quest that he was?”
“Mr. Papworth is looking after me during my stay here. I’m a scientist. He works for the Embassy. I’m no fool, I know as well as you do what his real job is, but that’s his business. I am a scientist, no more.”
“How long have you known him?”
“Mr. Papworth?”
“Yes.”
“Only these past few days.”
“Not before?”
“No.”
“You never met him on, say, the Manhattan Project?”
“I’m a biologist, Mr. Smith, not a physicist. My science is that of life, not of death.”
“How long have you worked at Caltech?”
“Six years.”
“And before that?”
Fischer paused. “Before that, I was in Germany.”
The maths were inescapable. Herbert saw the connection instantly.
“You were a Nazi?”
“No.” Fischer almost spat out the denial. “I was not a Nazi.”
“You were not a member of the Nazi party?”
“Yes, I was a member, of course.”
“Then you were a Nazi.”
“Not in the way you mean. I was a member because I had to be one; without that, I would never have secured an academic posting of any repute.”
“And did you have good postings?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“The Institute of Biological Research at Berlin-Dahlen, and the Frankfurt Institute for Hereditary Biology.”
“You have a tattoo under your armpit?”
“No. I told you: I was a member because I had to be. I did the very minimum I could. Only the SS had such tattoos.”
Herbert remembered the SS, with their oak leaves and their motto of their honor being loyalty. “Show me.”
This irritated Fischer, though Herbert suspected that was more for the inconvenience of pulling his shirt open than anything else. Fischer undid sufficient buttons to slide his shirt off his shoulder, and exposed his armpit to Herbert. Diners on neigh
boring tables looked at them curiously.
Herbert rummaged through the hairs in Fischer’s armpit, feeling like a monkey rooting for ticks, until he was satisfied that there was indeed no tattoo there.
Herbert withdrew his hand and wiped his fingers on his trouser leg.
“If you were a member of the Nazi Party, how did you get to America?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
“American law explicitly prohibits any convicted or even suspected Nazi officials from emigrating to the United States.”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
“Truman brought it in. You went to America when Truman was president. You must have known.”
“As I said—”
“Dr. Fischer, right now, we’re having a chat in a restaurant. We can easily take ourselves somewhere less convivial; somewhere where I can be sure of making you miss your plane back to America tomorrow, even assuming that the fog lifts.”
“But this is nothing to do with the boy in the park.”
“I don’t know that.”
Fischer was silent for a few moments, evidently weighing up his options.
“Have you ever heard of Operation Paperclip?” he asked eventually.
* * *
Operation Paperclip sounded like a bad spy novel, but was gospel truth, sickening or pragmatic, depending on which side of the fence one sat.
What did Herbert think had happened to all the Nazi scientists? Did he think that the Americans had let them stay in Germany to help rebuild the country? Or, God forbid, skip the border and go to work for the Russians?
Of course not. That would have presented a far greater security threat than any former Nazi affiliations which they may have had, or even any Nazi sympathies they might continue to maintain.
So the Americans had taken the scientists. In fact, they had gone after the scientists with at least as much zeal as they had the war criminals.
Not that the two were necessarily mutually exclusive, Herbert said.
Fischer clicked his tongue and chose to ignore this last comment.
To get round Truman’s ban on Nazis entering or working in America, the CIA had found ways to whitewash their war records:
Investigation of the subject is not feasible due to the fact that his former place of residence is now in the Soviet zone, where investigations by U.S. personnel are not possible.
No derogatory information is available on the subject except NSDAP records which indicate that he was a member of the Party and also a major in the SS, which appears to have been an honorary commission.
The extent of his Party participation cannot be determined in this theater. Like the majority of members, he may have been a mere opportunist.
Based on available records, there is no indication that the subject is either a war criminal or an ardent Nazi.
In my opinion, he is not likely to become a security threat to the U.S.
Operation Paperclip, because the relevant files were marked with a paperclip; nothing more than that, all very low-key. It had originally been sold to the American people as a temporary measure, six months only. Like many such “temporary measures,” it had never been rescinded or superseded.
Were the Germans willing to comply?
Of course. Not only would they escape punishment, but they were as ardent an enemy of communism as the Americans were.
America and the Soviet Union against the Germans; America and Germany against the Soviet Union. One day, the Reds and the Boche would gang up on the Yanks, and the circle would be complete.
It was like 1984, Herbert reflected, where Eastasia, Eurasia, and Oceania were always at war, two against one, but the alliances were always shifting, and the past was always being rewritten. There was no such thing as history.
And if that was the case, Herbert thought, then what the hell had he and the millions of others been fighting for in the war?
He remembered what he had told Hannah the first night he met her; that if he had ever doubted the justness of the cause against Nazism, then with one look at Belsen, he doubted no more.
And now that struggle counted for nothing, because everyone needed scientists, no matter where they had come from and what they had done.
It did not altogether surprise Herbert that governments continued to place expediency above ideology, but he was gratified to find that it still had the power to revolt him.
He turned his attention back to Fischer.
Had people protested? Of course. But what good had that done? The public was tired of atrocity stories. It was long ago, and they wanted to forget all about such unspeakable happenings.
Or rather, Herbert thought, the public reckoned that what had been done was so horrific that there was no punishment on earth suitable; so when the law was violated and justice perverted, they just shrugged and said, ah well, told you so.
Herbert did not add the rider: America’s war had been primarily in the Pacific, and so what the Nazis had done resonated less, at least on an emotional level, with them than with the Europeans.
But surely, Herbert asked, surely the scientists screened by the U.S. to prove that they were untainted must also have been screened in Germany to prove their loyalty to Hitler?
Of course, said Fischer.
Then the whole thing was a farce.
Of course. Fischer called it Persilschein. Bogus certificates could wash off even the brownest stains.
Despite himself, Herbert laughed.
Herbert took Fischer back to the Embassy, again going the long way round via the main thoroughfares—Shaftesbury Avenue, Regent Street, Oxford Street—rather than risk getting lost in the back streets.
Papworth looked relieved to have his charge back. Herbert imagined that losing Fischer to the Metropolitan Police, if only for a night, would probably not have done the CIA man’s career prospects much good.
Herbert wondered how much Papworth knew of Fischer and Operation Paperclip.
Probably most, if not all of it. Papworth seemed the kind of man keen to equalize quantities of pies and fingers.
“Where’s the bathroom?” Herbert asked.
“Down the hall, first right,” Papworth said. Herbert had already taken a step when he realized his mistake.
“Sorry; I meant the bathroom. As in the English definition. With a bath. And Dr. Fischer’s ring.”
Papworth laughed. “Two nations divided by a common language, huh? Upstairs. I’ll show you.”
He led the way, Herbert following, Fischer bringing up the rear.
The ring was on the side of the bath. It was silver, it was engraved in willowy swirls, and it fitted Fischer’s little finger perfectly.
December 8, 1952
MONDAY
You hear that?” Hannah whispered.
Herbert was so deeply asleep that Hannah had to repeat herself twice, shaking him from side to side, before he realized that her voice was not part of his dream.
“Hear what?” he said, struggling awake.
“That.” She paused. “There.”
“I can’t hear a thing.”
“Footsteps.”
“You’re imagining it.”
“I know every sound in this building, Herbert. I know noise of plumbing, windows opening, people downstairs, all. And that is not sound that should be here.”
“How do you know?”
“They footsteps. The stairs wooden. Footsteps quiet. Means that someone walk with much care.”
Herbert understood now. “Which means they don’t want to be heard.”
He got out of bed, rubbed his eyes, and walked out of the bedroom. The light switch for the living room was by the front door; he would turn it on and investigate.
He never got there.
A quick, expert clicking of the locks from outside, and the door was open.
In an imperfectly darkened flat—the dull orange glow of the fading fire gave glimmers of ambient light—a man loomed from the shadows.
He
dived at Herbert.
It was like a rugby tackle, shoulder slamming into Herbert’s midriff, head tight against Herbert’s hip and arms wrapped round the backs of Herbert’s thighs. Herbert went down hard onto his backside, the impact zagging stingers up his spine.
“Herbert?” Hannah shouted. “What happen?”
“Where’s Stensness’ stuff?” the man whispered.
His voice was too low for Herbert to identify—was it Papworth, was it Kazantsev, was it Fischer?—and, since his head was pressed up close against Herbert’s, Herbert could feel from the rough scratch of wool against his cheek that the man was wearing a balaclava.
“I’ve no idea,” Herbert said, more calmly than he felt.
The punch came out of nowhere—at least, out of the darkness, which equated to more or less the same thing.
With no time to anticipate, prepare himself, flinch, or try to duck the blow, Herbert was left only with an explosion of light behind his eyes and, after a second, a wave of pain radiating out from the bridge of his nose.
“Herbert!” Hannah’s voice was louder this time, more urgent.
Herbert heard her get out of bed; and the man did, too.
He hit Herbert again, more to keep him quiet than anything else; then he pushed himself to his feet and ran over to the fireplace, too fast for Herbert to tell whether his gait was recognizable.
Hannah’s fire tools were laid out in neat rows, the easier for her to find them: a poker, a shovel, and a pair of bellows.
The man picked up the poker, turned around, and saw Hannah advancing blindly across the room toward him, her screams edged hard with the righteous outrage of one who has suffered more than her share of violations.
Herbert saw what was going to happen, and was already shouting, but to no avail.
The intruder swung the poker in a wide arc, from far behind his shoulders to maximize the speed, and then flatstick through the air.
Hannah must have felt the wind as the poker came toward her, for she tried to turn away at the last minute, but too late.
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