Nucleus

by Rory Clements

  Wilde took the ailing professor’s hand again. It was clear the old Bolshevik really didn’t have long, might not even survive the summer. Even his anger seemed to have dissipated. ‘Well, in the absence of grapes, I’ll promise to bring Arnold Lindberg along. You can discuss the Communist revolution and the downfall of fascism to your hearts’ content.’

  Dill’s eyes were closed. Not quite sure whether he had fallen asleep, Wilde continued to hold his pathetic parchment-skin hand for a few minutes, then slowly slid away.

  *

  Back in his own rooms, lunch was waiting for him on a tray, two plates of food kept warm beneath silver cloches. Also waiting for him, lounging back in his desk chair, with his feet up as though he owned the place, was his friend Geoffrey Lancing, a young man with the secrets of the universe at his elegant fingertips and a set of flying goggles perched on his forehead.

  Lancing, a small slender man, leapt to his feet, grinning. ‘Good to see you back, Tom.’

  ‘And I’d like to say it’s good to be back, Geoff, but if I’m honest, I haven’t quite made up my mind yet. The jury’s still out.’ On the voyage across the Atlantic, it had all come back to him – the pettiness of college life, the jealousies, intolerance and spite of so many men in the gowns and squares of academe. He had not been at all sure that his mother wasn’t right when she had exhorted him to stay in America and join the diplomatic service. So what had brought him back? The English summer was a big draw, of course, but most of all, there was Lydia . . .

  ‘Worried about the prospect of war?’ Lancing said. ‘Don’t be. We’ve got the Spits. Been up in one with 19 Squadron out of Duxford this very morning. Tom, she’s sleeker than Garbo with more firepower than Mae West . . .’

  ‘Don’t you have to be in the RAF to fly one of those things?’

  Lancing laughed. ‘I slip in with the University Air Squadron. And I have a friend or two in 19. Highly irregular, of course, Tom, but they know I’m already very experienced.’

  ‘I imagine your father could pull a few strings for you?’

  ‘Good Lord, what a suggestion! Heaven forfend.’ He winked mischievously. Lancing’s father, as everyone knew, had been an ace in the last war when the RAF was still the Royal Flying Corps.

  ‘Are you going to enlist?’

  ‘I’m halfway there already, to tell the truth. When the war comes, wild horses won’t hold me back. I’ll be in the air and you can slum it in the trenches, Wilde.’

  Wilde’s thoughts briefly went back to Washington DC. Dexter Flood had been interested in Lancing. Was he expecting Wilde to spy on a friend? What did he think Lancing could reveal?

  ‘Are you up for a drink, Tom? Eat your lunch, and then I’ll stand you one at the Eagle. I want to hear all about the US of A. And I have some big news to impart’

  Wilde laughed. ‘Now that sounds like an offer I can’t refuse.’

  CHAPTER 6

  For a moment, Lydia didn’t recognise Eva Haas. Her dark hair was longer than she remembered, but the rest of her was somehow diminished. Her once plump, almost voluptuous figure was now slender and athletic. And she was visibly shaking, her eyes darting and fearful.

  ‘Eva,’ Lydia said, crossing the chaotic room on the third storey of Bloomsbury House. The floor was littered with the results of their work, thousands of files packed in hundreds of boxes; the table piled high with papers, in use or awaiting filing. Normally, this room would be occupied by up to a dozen of Bertha’s army of volunteers, but they had vacated the room so as not to intrude on the crisis surrounding the missing boy. ‘You have heard the bad news, yes?’

  Eva nodded, her jaw tight, her dark eyes wide.

  ‘I’m so, so sorry,’ Lydia said. She hesitated a moment, then took her in her arms. There was no resistance, nor did Eva respond. After a few seconds Lydia stepped back awkwardly from the embrace. ‘No one seems to have any idea where he is.’

  ‘Mr Eaton has told me everything.’

  ‘We are continuing to do everything we can. Our people in Berlin are making inquiries, so is the Embassy. Unfortunately the convoy leaders know nothing. They did not see Albert leave the train. We have also contacted all the other children from that carriage and they pretty much agree with what Anna Rosenheim has told us. From their descriptions of the men, it seems likely that one was a uniformed border guard and one was plain-clothes Gestapo. There was also a woman on the platform who may have been with the men.’

  ‘They want me to go back there. That is their clear message to me. They are holding him hostage to force my return.’

  Lydia was silent for a few moments. Of course, it seemed probable that Eva’s conclusion was correct. Why else would Albert have been taken from the train other than to put pressure on his mother? A mother would do anything to save her child, but surely Eva could not go back to Germany. From all that Lydia knew of the regime, they would keep her from the boy anyway, and probably consign her to a concentration camp.

  ‘Mr Eaton says he will be lobbying the German embassy in London and talking to some of his own people in Berlin. He is also contacting the authorities in the Netherlands, in case he crossed the border. Mr Eaton assures me it must be some terrible mix-up.’ Eva shook her head helplessly. ‘Oh, Lydia, I can’t bear it. Albert means everything to me.’

  ‘I’m sure Mr Eaton is right,’ Lydia said, taking Eva’s hands in hers. At least she had stopped shaking. ‘Someone obviously knows where he is – and even the Nazis wouldn’t stoop to harming a child.’

  ‘Wouldn’t they?’ Eva gave a hollow laugh. ‘I fear you do not know the new Germany, Lydia.’

  Eva had come here in a taxi, leaving her uncle in their modest hotel in South Kensington. Eaton, who had driven them all the way from Switzerland, had called Lydia to say he would be going to Cambridge later in the day to ask Tom Wilde about lodgings for Lindberg. If Wilde was unwilling to help, Eaton would seek out another host. ‘I’m afraid it’s not entirely straightforward, Miss Morris. Herr Dr Lindberg’s presence might cause difficulties with some people.’ He did not elaborate further.

  Eaton had warned Lydia that her old friend, though stoical, was in a very fragile state after receiving the news of her son’s disappearance. It was arranged that Eva would stay at a small London hotel while Lydia was working with the Quakers to find Albert; they would return together to Cambridge in due course.

  ‘Do you know the worst thing, Lydia?’ Eva said. ‘It is the casual everyday cruelty Albert has endured these past few years. The other children at school shunned him. I had no idea how bad it was until his sixth birthday when I organised a party for him – and no one came. Not a single child. And then the Nazis excluded Jewish children from their schools altogether. Albert says nothing about this, but what must he be thinking? What must this do to a gentle young mind?’

  Lydia did not know what to say.

  Eva sighed. ‘I would so like to believe Mr Eaton that it is all a mix-up, but I don’t. Nor do you, not in your heart.’ She tried to smile. ‘And so I suppose I have no option, I must go back to Berlin and suffer the consequences. Perhaps if I do, they will send Albert to freedom. Last month they opened a new concentration camp especially for women at Ravensbrück not far from Berlin. I can die there while Albert lives.’

  The telephone rang. Eva and Lydia stared at each other. Lydia stumbled across the boxes in her haste to pick up the receiver. She grabbed a pen and a pad and began making notes.

  Eva stared at her, straining to hear the conversation. Lydia avoided her gaze, fearing more negative news. Eva turned away and walked to the window. She stared out across Bloomsbury Square, her eyes fixed on the street below as though her son might somehow appear among the passers-by. Suddenly she stepped back from the window and hurried to the door.

  Lydia put her hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Eva?’

  ‘I have to get some air, please. Five minutes.’ And she was gone.

  *

  A rector in Wolverhampton was on the telephone. The
child he had taken into his care believed he remembered Albert, although he had not been in the same carriage.

  ‘He says he looked out of the window and saw the boy being led away by two or three men and a woman, both in uniform and plain clothes. From his description, it sounds as though it might be the boy you are looking for.’

  Lydia thanked the clergyman and replaced the receiver. The call added nothing other than confirming what little they already knew. She went to the window. Eva was standing in the street, almost directly below, talking to a man. From above, all Lydia could see was his hat and the black tips of his shoes. He was large, almost twice Eva’s size. Who was he? Lydia watched, for a moment, trying to make sense of the encounter, and then made for the door, taking the stairs down two at a time.

  Outside, Lydia stopped at the top of the stone steps leading down to the pavement. The man Eva had been talking to was already a hundred yards away, hurrying northwards in the direction of Great Russell Street. He had a rolling gait, like a sailor returned to land after months at sea. Eva’s eyes were fixed on his retreating back.

  ‘Eva?’

  Eva turned abruptly, eyes wide.

  ‘Who was that man?’

  ‘Which man?’

  ‘The one you were talking to. You were deep in conversation with him.’

  ‘Oh, that man.’ Eva shrugged. ‘It was nothing, Lydia. He was asking the way to the Marylebone Road. I was trying to recall my knowledge of London, but I wasn’t doing very well.’

  She forced a smile, scrabbled for a cigarette from a pack she was clutching.

  ‘From the way you were talking, I got the impression you knew him.’

  ‘No, no. He was a stranger.’ Eva put a cigarette to her lips and struck a match to light it. As an afterthought, she offered the pack to Lydia, who shook her head.

  ‘What are we going to do?’ Lydia said, half to herself, half to Eva Haas.

  Eva drew nervously on her cigarette and said nothing.

  ‘Promise me you won’t do anything rash, Eva.’

  ‘No, I will not do anything rash.’ Eva put the back of her cigarette hand to her cheek and wiped away a tear. ‘Goddamn these things, I hate them. I have never wept for anything or anyone.’ She drew at the cigarette again, aggressively. ‘Lydia, I thank you for all your help and concern in this matter. I think there is nothing to be done, and so I must put myself to work. I must do something. Perhaps Eaton will take me up to Cambridge today.’

  Lydia took her into her arms again, and this time Eva succumbed to the embrace, racked with ungovernable sobbing. No, Lydia thought, looking round at the beautiful summer day, at the trees in full leaf in this lovely part of London, at the men in shirt sleeves and the women in their summer dresses, this is not good enough. There may be nothing to be done by you, but what about me? I might be able to go where it would be suicidal for you to tread. She felt responsible for Eva, but more than that, she felt a duty to Albert. He had, after all, been entrusted to her care.

  *

  The Eagle was heady with alcohol and smoke and loud voices. Tom Wilde and Geoffrey Lancing bought pints at the bar and tried to find a quiet corner of the ancient pub, but there was no such thing, not today, at least. They wedged themselves close to a window in the smoke room and clinked glasses.

  ‘So what’s the big news, Geoff?’ Wilde took a deep draught of the beer: his first English bitter in months. He looked around at the other drinkers and was surprised to see how many of them carried gas-mask boxes; he supposed he should do something about acquiring one.

  The young physicist took a deep breath. ‘You’ll never guess who’s over for the summer, Tom.’

  Wilde raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re right. I won’t. Who?’

  ‘Clarissa.’

  ‘Clarissa?’

  ‘You know – my sister!’

  ‘I’m teasing you, Geoff – of course I know who you meant! I was merely registering surprise. We don’t often get movie stars in Cambridge.’

  ‘She’s staying with American friends at a rather grand house and estate near here. Milt Hardiman – have you heard of him? Lots of wild parties and tennis planned.’

  Milt Hardiman. The man who would be contacting him, according to Dexter Flood. Interesting. A spy might wonder about the coincidence. A good spy might think there was no such thing as coincidence. ‘Well, well, that is big news. Hasn’t she got any films on? To what does Cambridge owe the honour?’

  Lancing shook his head. ‘Don’t try talking to her about films. She’s fuming. Had a huge bust-up with Selznick when they picked some bloody little unknown – her words – for this year’s big picture. It was a part she was desperate to get. Anyway, I rather think she stormed off in a fury . . .’

  ‘Hollywood’s loss is our gain then.’

  ‘Don’t worry; she’ll go back – and demand even more for her services. Clarissa has never had doubts about her worth.’

  ‘Put me in the line, would you, Geoff?’

  ‘You’re already at the front of the queue. Actually she’s rather keen to meet you. Perhaps when I mentioned you in my letters I should have been a little less flattering.’

  ‘I very much doubt the glamorous Clarissa Lancing will have the slightest interest in a dull-as-dishwater academic.’

  ‘You wait! Anyway, tell me – what did you do in the States? Sell millions of your new book, I hope.’

  Wilde went over most of the ground: his ailing mother, the campuses he visited, jazz nights at Café Society. He mentioned his invitation to meet the President, which impressed Lancing.

  ‘Remarkable, Tom – what did you talk about?’

  ‘This and that. My books, Billie Holiday.’

  ‘And that’s it?’

  ‘No, he was fishing. Wanted to know whether I thought there would be a war. Would Britain fight? He talked about gas bombs. Even got onto this new thing out of Germany that you mentioned – fission?’

  ‘Really? Was he concerned?’

  ‘Interested.’

  ‘So he should be. The implications are obvious to any particle physicist. Well, well, so the politicians are waking up at last. About time, too.’

  ‘Won’t you tell me about it again? I confess I feel rather ignorant about a subject that is clearly of some importance.’

  Lancing’s eyes were bright. This was his subject. ‘The new research means the immense power of the atom can be harnessed. In essence, it’s pretty simple, but the details are complex. Everything ever devised by man – from the knife to the steam engine – has had the potential for great good or great harm. You know all this because you’re a historian. The thing is, fission once harnessed will likely be the same – a life-giver and destroyer – but a millionfold on both sides. Hahn and Meitner have potentially unleashed a monster.’

  ‘I’d love to know a bit more.’

  Lancing shook his head. ‘Not here, and not against this din. We’ll share a quiet supper soon and I’ll explain it all very carefully.’

  Wilde looked at his watch; there were matters to attend to at college before Eaton arrived. Mail to be checked, a courtesy call on the master, progress reports on the undergraduates under his supervision who had been looked after by a professor from Peterhouse during his leave of absence. He also wanted to talk with Jim Vanderberg at the US embassy in Grosvenor Square, get the lowdown on Dexter Flood.

  ‘Can I call in on you at the Cavendish tomorrow, Geoff?’

  Lancing finished his drink. ‘Eleven o’clock sharp. I’ll show you around.’

  *

  Henty O’Gara gripped the handles of the bag with dry fingers and palm. His brow and top lip, likewise, were dry. These were the places those in the know – customs men, police officers – always looked. Sweat on the top lip, damp palms: these were the giveaways that suggested you had something to hide.

  But this man, whatever he felt inside, didn’t betray such nerves, even though the bag was heavy and contained gelignite and detonators, among other things.
/>   ‘Name?’ the landlady demanded.

  ‘Declan Burns,’ he said. It was the first lie. ‘Here’s my travel document.’

  She was a thin woman with a pinched, cheerless face. She looked at the document closely and saw the word Ireland. ‘You’re Irish then?’

  He grinned. ‘Was it the accent that gave it away?’

  She didn’t get the joke. ‘No, but it says so here. Ireland, it says.’ She looked up and studied his face, then glanced at the bag. ‘That’s a heavy suitcase you have there.’

  ‘I’m doing a great deal of travelling. I’m a salesman.’

  ‘You’re not one of those bombers are you, Mr Burns?’

  ‘Would you like to look in my bag, missus?’

  ‘Why, what’s in it?’

  ‘Shirts, pants, socks, books and bombs.’ He was still grinning. ‘Don’t worry about the bombs, they’re only small ones.’

  Her lips pursed sourly. ‘I assume that’s your idea of humour, Mr Burns.’

  ‘Sorry, missus. You know, I’ve got this and that. A few unmentionables. Will I open it for you?’

  ‘No, thank you.’ There were certain things ladies never did, and one of them was inspecting gentlemen’s undergarments. The very thought of it . . .

  ‘But you’ve got a room I can have for the week?’

  She hesitated, weighing up the pros and cons. Filling an otherwise empty room and making a couple of pounds against the disgrace of having a vulgar and impertinent Irishman under her roof at a time when they were setting off bombs all over England. Mercenary interests won the day. ‘Very well, Mr Burns,’ she said. ‘But I’ll have no funny business in my house. No women callers, no alcohol, no whistling. Is that understood?’

  ‘But I can build my bombs, can I?’ he said, so quietly that she didn’t hear.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘I was just agreeing to your terms. No women, whistling or whisky.’

  ‘Money in advance.’ She held out her right hand.

  ‘Two pounds, was it?’