No More Dying

by David Roberts

  ‘Hickory?’ Edward inquired, picking up an aluminium-headed putter and weighing it in his hands.

  ‘No,’ Kennedy replied with obvious satisfaction, ‘it’s steel-shafted but coated to look like wood.’

  Steel clubs had come in only recently and Edward had never played with one. He swung it thoughtfully. It felt light and almost springy in his hand.

  ‘James Braid designed these specially for me,’ Kennedy continued. Braid had won five British Opens and designed numerous golf courses. ‘What’s your handicap?’ he demanded.

  ‘It used to be eighteen.’

  ‘Mine’s thirteen,’ Kennedy told him complacently.

  They walked on to the course and Kennedy teed off with a magnificent stroke which took him almost on to the green. His face, which had promised all kinds of wrath, cleared miraculously. Edward placed his ball on the tee with trepidation.

  ‘It’s a Dunlop 65,’ Kennedy told him.

  ‘I thought it might be,’ Edward replied. ‘It’s a fraction larger than an ordinary ball, isn’t it?’

  He had an excellent eye and his first stroke lifted the ball high and true – a hundred and forty yards on to the green, just a yard from the pin. He shrugged his shoulders, rather embarrassed, and muttered something about beginners’ luck but he could see that Kennedy was impressed as he marked his scorecard.

  As they strolled towards the green, Wooster guiding them rather self-consciously Edward thought, Kennedy said, ‘You know, whatever Winston believes, I’m right about Hitler. I’m convinced that he doesn’t want to fight. The problem is economic. He simply can’t afford it. At present, Germany is on a wartime economy with full production turning out everything Hitler requires, but he can’t keep it up for long without a crash.’

  ‘But, if he suddenly moved on to a peacetime economy, his factories would be idle and hundreds of thousands of his people would be thrown out of work. Can he afford that?’

  ‘There’s something in what you say but my friend, James Mooney, the head of General Motors in Germany, knows Herr Krupp well and has met Hitler on a number of occasions. He assures me that he won’t go to war. For one thing, Hitler despises Slavs and every black man under the sun but he admires the English, another Aryan nation.’

  Edward was sceptical. ‘What does Joe Jr say? He spent some time in Germany recently, did he not?’

  ‘Indeed, he is my eyes and ears and I trust him absolutely. He also tells me that if England plays her cards right –’ like most Americans, he always said England when he meant Britain – ‘there will be no war.’ He almost shouted the words ‘no war’ and Edward was once again depressed that this purblind man was the United States Ambassador to the Court of St James. Churchill had told him that Roosevelt had simply wanted him out of his hair and never took him seriously, but it was hard to believe that his views carried no weight in the White House.

  ‘And what about the Jews?’ Edward pressed him. ‘We can hardly call ourselves civilized and leave them to their fate at the far from tender hands of Herr Himmler.’

  ‘Look, Corinth, I am not anti-Semitic. When I met Dirksen last month’ – Herbert von Dirksen was the German Ambassador to Britain – ‘he told me why they want to get rid of their Jews and I understood him. They should all be taken to Palestine. It’s not the elimination of the Jews that is the problem, it is the fanfare with which Hitler does it. There’s a book I commend to you by Brook Adams, brother-in-law to Henry Cabot Lodge. Adams says that there is a moment in history when a particular race reaches a level of achievement where it no longer functions effectively and a more aggressive race takes over. England has been engaged in high living for too long. The new well-educated Germany with its superior armed forces will, if it comes to war, easily knock out England and take over its government. You Brits have two choices – either avoid going to war or submit to being governed by a superior civilization.’

  Edward was horrified but recognized that there was no point in arguing. Nothing was going to change Kennedy’s mind. Even so, he was tempted to throw down his golf club and stalk off the course – but what was the point? He must make Kennedy promise to pass on any information that might prevent Churchill being assassinated. That was his priority and he couldn’t allow personal disgust to destroy his chance of persuading Kennedy to trust him.

  ‘However, Joe,’ he risked the familiarity, ‘that doesn’t mean you would consent to seeing one of our greatest men die by an assassin’s bullet, does it?’

  ‘No, of course not. I see you are in earnest, Corinth, and so I will instruct Casey to look into it and report back to both of us, but I can assure you that – if an attack is being planned on Winston – it’s nothing to do with us. The United States is not in the business of killing politicians, whatever their views.’

  ‘I know that and thank you,’ Edward replied with a sigh. ‘I never doubted it. By the way, had you heard of Danny O’Rourke – the IRA man Verity mentioned?’

  ‘O’Rourke?’ Edward thought Kennedy was about to deny any knowledge of him but he must have decided that his lie might be found out. ‘I was introduced to him once in Boston. He was trying to raise money for the “armed struggle”, I guess.’

  ‘And was he successful?’ Edward asked lightly.

  ‘I’m afraid he was, Corinth. The English aren’t much liked where I come from. Now, let’s stop talking politics and play a hole or two.’

  After the first hole, Edward’s play deteriorated and Kennedy won the next five fairly comfortably. Edward won the seventh and they halved the next three.

  ‘Shall we make this the last?’ Kennedy suggested as they prepared to tee off at the eleventh. They were at the farthest point from the clubhouse and it was the longest hole at over five hundred yards, par at five. ‘Probably time we were getting back if we are going to be in London before dinner.’

  Edward, keen to leave the Kennedys and Cliveden behind him, agreed while trying not to sound too enthusiastic. ‘Indeed, Joe. Best to call it a day. That first hole must have been something of a fluke. I can’t seem to hit a barn door.’

  On the final hole, for some reason, Kennedy hit hard but wide, his ball falling into the rough. He cursed but seemed gratified when Edward did no better, slicing his ball to the right where it fell not far from his host’s. Edward found his ball without much trouble but Kennedy’s seemed to have vanished in the undergrowth. They sent Wooster after it – Lord Astor had told them his dog could always find a lost ball – but, instead of returning with the ball in his mouth, he remained in front of a patch of gorse barking noisily. Edward called him but when he refused to move and continued to bark hysterically, Fenton and Washington went over to see what was the matter. As they pushed aside leaves and long grass and Edward was on the point of suggesting they forget about finishing the hole, there was a shout from Washington. The alarm in his voice made them realize immediately that it wasn’t a ball Wooster had found. When they reached him, he was holding the dog by his collar and standing over the body of a man.

  ‘Oh Christ!’ Kennedy exclaimed. ‘What the hell . . . ?’

  It was Eamon Farrell. He was lying on his back, his head twisted awkwardly so that they could see the thin silver knife protruding from his neck.

  8

  Verity was in the shower when she heard the doorbell. She slipped on her dressing-gown and tied a towel round her head. Before opening the door, she called out, ‘Who’s there?’

  ‘It’s me, Adam. Can I come in?’

  Hearing that familiar, patrician voice with just a hint of a German accent sent her heart racing. It was a voice she had never expected to hear again. They had been lovers – she and Adam von Trott – in the summer of 1937 and it had been the most intense experience of her life. For a few months she had imagined Adam to be the only man she could ever love. She would have done anything for him. He was so good-looking but that was just the half of it. Her romantic nature – despite thinking herself a hard-bitten, cynical journalist, she was a romantic – ha
d responded to his noble soul, his belief that it was his fate to bring Germany and England together in peace and amity. She admired his courage in deciding to fight Hitler from within Germany. He saw exile as betrayal and he was, above everything, a patriot.

  They had gone to Vienna together – she to report on the Anschluss and Adam to help her meet the ‘right people’ who could give her the insight she needed. Before her eyes, he was kidnapped by Himmler’s thugs. For months she did not know if he were alive or rotting in some terrible prison camp. Then she had a letter from him. He was safe. He was in the Far East studying philosophy. His tone was cool, casual, matter of fact. She had to face the fact that, for his safety or hers, he had given her up. Their love affair was over.

  In time, the pain lessened and she taught herself to think of their love affair as a coup de foudre – a summer storm that had passed as suddenly as it had appeared over the horizon, as was the nature of such things. She had turned to Edward who had been standing by, patiently waiting for her. She loved him and was to marry him in just a few weeks so why, at the sound of this voice from the past, was she finding it so difficult to breathe with the blood beating a tom-tom in her temples?

  She opened the door and there he was – older, with anxiety etched on his face, but still those cool, clear, steadfast eyes, the high intellectual forehead and determined chin.

  ‘Adam,’ she gasped, ‘I didn’t know you were in England.’

  ‘Yes, I have been staying with Nancy Astor in St James’s Square, meeting government people – even the Prime Minister granted me an interview. Didn’t she tell you? Perhaps she thought . . .’

  ‘Have you seen Edward?’

  ‘No. I hear youare tobe married.Many congratulations.’

  Beneath the banalities another silent colloquy was taking place, the gist of which was ‘Do you still love me? Why did you abandon me? Why did you let me down? What do you want from me?’

  ‘Adam, sorry. I don’t know why we are standing on the doorstep. Come in. How long are you here for?’

  ‘Just two more days. I have been here a week.’

  ‘Why didn’t you come and see me earlier?’

  ‘I’ve been very busy,’ he replied lamely. ‘I thought you might not want to see me but, in the end, I had to come.’

  He took a step towards her and put his arms round her. He was much taller than she and it had always made her feel safe, protected. ‘Let me look at you. Nancy said you had been ill.’

  ‘Yes, but I’m better now.’ She hardly knew what she was saying.

  ‘Meine liebe,’ he muttered and bent to kiss her.

  With a huge effort, she broke away from him. ‘No, Adam, it’s too late. I’m in love with Edward. You could have had me but you went to the other side of the world.’

  ‘They made me go. It was either the Far East or prison.’

  ‘But now I hear you have made your peace with them. You have joined the Nazi Party?’

  ‘No!’ He sounded anguished and she was suddenly sorry for him. What a terrible position to be in – to be a patriot and yet to hate your government!

  ‘Have you been to see Diana?’ she asked, bitterness once again creeping into her voice. She had learnt after Adam had disappeared that she was not the only Englishwoman he had made love to.

  ‘Please, Verity, don’t let’s quarrel. We have so little time. My mission has been a failure. I return to Berlin with – how do you say it? – my tail between my legs. I think this is the last time we shall meet. There will be a war and everything will be destroyed. I shall die – I know that – but not before I have tried to kill the man who has brought down this misery on all of us.’

  ‘Adam, please . . . I do still love you – that’s why it hurts . . . that’s why I feel so bitter.’

  ‘Then let us make love for the last time.’ He stretched out his hand to pull off her robe but she stopped him.

  ‘No, I cannot do that. I can’t betray Edward. I love you but not in that way any more. I love Edward. Only him . . .’

  She kept repeating that she loved Edward as though it was a way of warding off temptation – as though she needed to remind herself with whom her future now lay. For a moment, Adam looked mutinous but then he laughed and relaxed. ‘Ah well, it is good that I begin to know what it is to lose what I care for. I think I shall have much practice.’

  Verity smiled. ‘Now you are trying to make me feel sorry for you.’

  ‘Make me some coffee, will you? I haven’t eaten today.’ He sounded peremptory but she forgave him. She reckoned it couldn’t have been often that a girl said no to him, and it must hurt.

  As she boiled the kettle, he said, ‘So, Edward, what is he doing now?’

  ‘Jobs . . . I don’t know. He’s got very friendly with Winston Churchill.’

  ‘Well, tell him that they are after his life.’

  ‘What do you mean? Whose life?’ she said, almost spilling the water she was pouring on the coffee.

  ‘Churchill’s. Edward’s not yet that important. Tell him that Der Adler, the eagle, is in London. Dirksen told me. It is a great secret. Dirksen doesn’t approve of political assassinations.’

  ‘But who is Der Adler? How do we recognize him? He can’t be allowed to assassinate . . .’

  ‘I didn’t ask, Verity. Even if I had, he wouldn’t have told me. If it ever gets out that I mentioned Der Adler, then I will hang for sure although, like Dirksen, I don’t approve of political assassins.’ He laughed. ‘What am I saying! If Hitler were killed, I would rejoice.’

  ‘Please, Adam. If there is a war and Churchill is not there to lead us, we will be defeated.’

  ‘That is what Mr Kennedy and Lord Lothian believe – that England will be defeated. I have had long talks with them.’ There was almost a note of satisfaction in his voice as he said it.

  ‘But Adam, you would not want that. You love England.’

  ‘Do I?’ he responded moodily. ‘All my English friends blame me . . .’

  ‘For what? Of course we don’t blame you. We love and honour you. You make us understand that there are good Germans – patriots who love their country but hate the evil of Hitler and Himmler.’

  ‘You do believe in me?’ he asked, sounding momentarily cheered.

  ‘I do. You are a good, brave man who loves women – sometimes too much.’

  ‘Then I shall tell you everything Dirksen told me. If I tell you all our state secrets, will you sleep with me one last time?’

  ‘I cannot!’ she cried desperately. ‘Please don’t ask me again.’

  ‘Very well, then I shan’t . . .’

  ‘Adam!’ She was exasperated. ‘Der Adler. Tell me before I slap you. How will we find him before . . .?’

  ‘I don’t know but I think he may be Italian.’

  ‘Italian?’ Verity was incredulous.

  ‘But I may be wrong,’ Adam added, maddeningly. ‘I am wrong about most things.’

  As soon as he had gone she had telephoned Edward at Albany but there had been no reply. She then rang Cliveden and discovered that he was staying another night so he could be interviewed by Inspector Voss in the morning about the second murder. When he told her, as succinctly as possible, how they had found Eamon Farrell’s body on the golf course, she was horrified but relieved that at least Inspector Voss could not suspect her this time.

  She, in turn, told Edward of Adam’s visit and then, as opaquely as possible in case anyone was listening in, repeated what he had told her about the would-be assassin’s nationality.

  Edward had been unimpressed. ‘There’s nothing to worry about. I’m coming back to town tomorrow and I’ll tell you everything then.’

  After he had put down the receiver, he hesitated before picking up the telephone again and dialling a number. However dubious he was about the value of Adam’s information, he thought he had better pass it on to Liddell. He had never had Liddell’s telephone number, only a number he could ring and leave a coded message that he needed to speak to hi
m.

  Liddell did not return his call until eleven thirty when everyone had gone to bed. Mr Lee had had to summon him from his bedroom, making his disapproval abundantly clear. Edward apologized but the butler had continued to grumble that there had never been so much police activity at Cliveden since he had started working for Lord Astor’s father. Edward had the feeling that he thought murder was no reason to disrupt the smooth running of the household.

  Liddell stopped Edward the moment he began to tell him of Farrell’s death. Telephone operators in the country were the main source of gossip and rumour for the entire neighbourhood. Liddell told him to return to London in the morning after he had seen Inspector Voss and gave him the address of his ‘office’.

  His interview with the Inspector was brief. Edward restricted himself to describing how he had found Farrell’s body and offered no theories about how it might have got there. As soon as he reached town, he went to Liddell’s office – not his real office, or certainly not his main office, as Edward knew. He thought Liddell’s obsession with security rather absurd but would never have dared say so. Liddell listened to what he had to say about Verity’s meeting with von Trott and his own conversation with Kennedy.

  ‘I don’t think Churchill is any longer in danger despite what von Trott says.’

  ‘What makes you so sure?’ Edward asked.

  ‘Because we’ve had confirmation from Berlin that Der Adler is dead. He was a German and has been killed by British agents in Buda.’

  ‘Will you tell Churchill?’

  ‘No, at least not yet. I’d rather keep him on his toes. He has our man with him now – Walter Thompson – and I keep him briefed. There’s always danger – if not Der Adler, then some other lunatic.’

  ‘And Farrell . . .?’

  ‘There is something going on at the American Embassy but what it is I don’t know. I rely on you to find out. Chief Inspector Pride is now on the case. Between the two of you, you ought to be able to clear up this little mess.’