Nucleus

by Rory Clements

  ‘Two pounds ten shillings.’

  It was daylight robbery. This place stank of unwashed bodies and over-boiled cabbage. Slowly, he counted out the money then deposited it in her hand.

  Her fingers curled around the cash, then she reached to a rack behind her and removed a key. ‘Follow me. It’s here on the ground floor. If you’re not in by ten o’clock the front door’s locked and no amount of banging will get you in. Breakfast is at six-thirty. Porridge, two rashers of bacon, two eggs, two slices of toast and you’ll share a pot of tea with the other three men on your table.’

  ‘Will there be marmalade with the toast?’

  ‘This isn’t the Ritz, you know. Supper’s at six. Soup, meat with spuds and two veg, pudding with custard.’

  ‘Well, it all sounds just grand, missus.’

  The room was at the back, looking out over the garden. It had a single bed and a window of rotting wood that appeared stuck fast. Well, sod that, he’d be opening it all right. The landlady nodded to the bed. ‘Sheets are clean on. I expect the bed to be made every day. Hospital corners, mind. The lav and bathroom are one floor up, but there’s a chamberpot under the bed. You’ll empty it before you go out in the morning. Are you looking for work, Mr Burns?’

  ‘As I said, I’m a travelling salesman.’

  She looked at him as though she didn’t believe for a moment that he had work, but handed over the key and left the room, with a last backward glance of disgust in his direction. He couldn’t resist a laugh. After she had gone he locked the door and opened his valise. He pulled out his shirts and spare trousers. There beneath them were three dozen sticks of gelignite and half a dozen electric detonators.

  O’Gara glanced at his wristwatch. Four o’clock. He’d have to call Hyde soon. The bastard hadn’t answered the last three times. The phone just rang and rang. It was unnerving. An operative without a controller was like a ship without a rudder. So he’d call him first, then go to the library. Please God, Hyde would answer this time.

  He guessed the public library would probably close in an hour. From the depths of his bag, he pulled out a padlock and secured the grips together in such a way to make it impossible to open. It would be enough to deter the landlady, but would easily be bypassed if she got worried and called the police. It was a risk he would just have to take.

  *

  He found the book in the rather magnificent reading room of the Free Library in Wheeler Street. It occupied the high-domed space at the rear of the Guildhall, an altogether too grand salon for the somewhat down-at-heel men and women who were reading the newspapers at lecterns or whiling away their days at the long benches, heads bowed low over books and magazines.

  O’Gara smiled at a young woman and took a seat at her side. She turned her shoulder to him, as though he were intruding on her space and privacy. He put the book down on the table in front of him. It was an old, slim volume – at least two centuries old – but it looked in pristine condition, as though it had never been much in favour. He opened its leather cover. The title page revealed it to be Grace Abounding to the Chief of Sinners, by John Bunyan, dated 1666.

  He flicked through the leaves until he came to page twenty-four. There it was, the small slip of paper he had come for, exactly where it was supposed to be. He glanced around the room. Everyone was engrossed in their own reading. No one was looking at him.

  His right hand covered the slip of paper and closed around it. For five minutes he read the words in the book, the spiritual tract of an imprisoned Puritan gentleman, perhaps as much of a rebel in his own way as Henty O’Gara had been brought up to be.

  Surreptitiously he removed his hand and slid the paper into the breast pocket of his jacket. Finally he closed the book and returned it to the shelf where he had found it.

  At the desk, he thanked the librarian who had pointed him in the right direction.

  ‘Did you find what you were looking for?’

  ‘Indeed, sir, thank you,’ O’Gara said. ‘A brief moment of spiritual guidance. It’s all we can ask for, isn’t it?’

  ‘We don’t get much call for Grace Abounding. Personally, I find it a comfort on the rare occasions I delve inside.’

  ‘Well, good day to you.’

  *

  He tried calling Hyde again. Still no answer. This was alarming. He returned to his lodgings, where he studied the slip of paper from the book in the library. It was encrypted, of course. A few minutes later, he had decoded the message and memorised it. He struck a match and burnt the paper in the grate, then returned to the joyless single bed. It was harder than a prison mattress. He glanced at his watch. Still four hours until dusk. Time for a nap, but sleep would not come easily.

  And then to business. And, all being well, contact with the Scavenger.

  *

  On the west coast of Ireland, Dorian Hyde hesitated a few moments on the far side of the road from the pub. There was no sign outside, nothing to say that this was a boozer, but anyone would know what it was: the reek of beer and smoke told the story, even across the street. It was a low, single-storey building that looked as though it had been constructed of mud, then dried out and whitewashed. Not untypical of the commonplace houses in these northern reaches of Galway, outside the town itself and a little way to the east of the Corrib River.

  At last he gathered his courage, crossed the road and ducked inside. The doorway would have made a man of five and a half feet dip his head, and Hyde was a six-footer plus another couple of inches besides, so he was almost bent double. Once inside, he straightened up, feeling enormous and out of place. Eyes turned to look at him and kept looking at him.

  Hyde touched his flat cap, which was not far from the ceiling, and nodded to the dozen or so drinkers. He was dressed as a working man, loose trousers held up with knotted string, shirt sleeves rolled up tight, cloth pack with meagre contents slung over his left shoulder.

  The other drinkers did not acknowledge him further, but turned back to their pints.

  Even as he entered he had spotted Connell’s sallow cheeks and his grey, grizzled head, but his eyes did not linger there. Instead he tilted his chin to the barman. ‘A pint of stout, if you will.’

  The barman said nothing, but began pulling the pint.

  ‘I was told there might be work in the town,’ Hyde said.

  The barkeep, a bull of a man with bulging biceps and a navy beard, snorted. ‘Who ever told you that’s a liar, mister. Where you from?’

  ‘Kildare.’

  ‘Jesus now, that’s a distance.’

  ‘Walked the whole way.’

  ‘Should have turned east instead of west, swum to England. That’s where the work is. Look at these fellers,’ – he swept the taproom with his eyes – ‘barely an honest day’s work between them these past six months.’

  ‘What of the fishermen? Would there be work on the boats now?’

  ‘Not a hope in hell. You might get a place on a passing freighter if you don’t mind going to the ends of the earth, but that’ll be your lot.’

  ‘Well, I’ll maybe try the harbour anyway.’ He spoke just loud enough that Connell, a couple of places along the bar, could hear him.

  The barman shrugged and turned away. Hyde downed his pint, wiped his sleeve across his mouth, nodded to nobody in particular and ducked back out into the cool Galway dusk. He strolled down to the harbour and sat on the dock, swinging his legs. Connell appeared an hour later, just after dark. He didn’t sit down, merely stood with his hands deep in his pockets looking out across the lights of the teeming boats.

  ‘Do you want to get me killed, Captain Hyde?’ he said from the corner of his mouth. ‘Coming in there like that. Is that what they teach you in the British secret service?’

  ‘I need to know about O’Gara. I don’t trust him. I need to know the truth about him.’

  ‘I can’t talk here. You’re as obvious as a wolf in a sheep pen.’

  ‘I’m as Irish as any man in this town, Connell.’

&nb
sp; ‘Ah, well, that was always the Anglo-Irish mistake now, wasn’t it? Thinking youse was one of us.’

  ‘You watch the way you address me, Connell. Remember who’s the chief around here.’

  ‘My apologies, captain.’

  ‘Where then?’

  Connell lit a cigarette, then crumpled the pack and dropped it. ‘I’ll be there at midnight.’

  A little while after Connell had gone, Hyde picked up the cigarette packet. Inside he found a slip of paper with a map and the name of a house two miles along the coast to the west.

  CHAPTER 7

  When Tom Wilde arrived home, Philip Eaton was already there, waiting in his car. Wilde felt a mixture of emotions as he looked at him: curiosity over his request for assistance with the German refugees, but also distaste. Three years after their last encounter, it was never going to be an easy meeting. Not for Wilde, at least.

  In the winter of 1936 they had worked together to foil a conspiracy by enemies of the British state. Wilde, the amateur, had joined forces with Eaton, the professional spy, to prevent a blood-soaked atrocity on British soil, but the operation had left Wilde with a profound sense of unease about the true motives and loyalties of the MI6 officer.

  Eaton climbed out of the car as soon as Wilde reached his front gate. He afforded Wilde a friendly smile and put out his hand. Wilde hesitated for no more than a heartbeat before shaking it, but it would have been long enough for Eaton to note the slight hesitation.

  ‘Good to see you after all this time,’ Eaton said.

  ‘Quite a surprise, Eaton. Quite a surprise.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure you didn’t think you could avoid me forever. Anyway, you look well. And you’re clearly prospering. The new book’s selling like hot cakes, I believe.’

  ‘Come indoors. I’ve got tea or whisky.’

  ‘Hmm. No contest.’

  They settled in the kitchen over tumblers of Scotch. Wilde got straight to the point. ‘You’d better tell me everything.’

  Eaton was in no hurry. He warmed the whisky glass in his hands and reclined back on the wooden chair. ‘As I said, we’ve got Lindberg out of Germany.’

  ‘And how exactly did you extract him from the concentration camp?’

  ‘England has friends. Friends who despise the Heydrichs and the Streichers. It was important for us to get him to safety. A war’s coming and the fewer men with Lindberg’s intellect left in Germany, the better it will be for the world. And now that he’s out he needs to come here to Cambridge. He needs access to a lab – and the Cavendish is the place.’

  ‘Don’t avoid the subject. If I’m to help, I should be given the courtesy of a little straight talking. I want to know how he escaped.’

  ‘The Jewish underground.’

  ‘And they can get prisoners out of Dachau, can they?’

  ‘You’ll see the evidence with your own eyes. Hear it from Lindberg’s own lips.’

  ‘And then how did he escape Germany?’

  ‘He and his niece walked through the mountains if you must know. I was waiting for them in Switzerland.’

  ‘Posing as a Times journalist, of course.’

  ‘Not posing, Wilde. I am a Times correspondent, as you know very well.’

  Among other things, thought Wilde.

  ‘Look, I’m telling you the truth. Lindberg is here in England with Frau Haas and they need somewhere a little more permanent than a London hotel. That’s the size of it. I suppose they could both stay next door with Miss Morris, but it seemed to me that with you here, it might be more comfortable if you had one each. Miss Morris with her friend, Lindberg with you. Share the burden.’

  ‘How long would you intend him to be here with me?’

  Eaton gave a non-committal shrug. ‘Hard to say. Hopefully things will settle down and we’ll find him lodgings of his own – perhaps rooms in one of the colleges.’ He sighed. ‘I have to come clean with you. His disappearance from Dachau has caused ructions in Berlin. Himmler is beside himself with rage. You may recall that Lindberg insulted the little creep? Well, Heinrich Himmler doesn’t forgive easily. He wants Lindberg dead.’

  Wilde’s stomach tightened. So it wasn’t lodgings that Lindberg needed, but a safe house. ‘You’re expecting an attempt on his life?’

  ‘Not expecting. But it’s possible. Germany has agents here. That’s why I’m bringing Lindberg to someone I trust. You know all about keeping your mouth shut.’

  Wilde did not feel flattered. Nor did he feel at all reassured that Cambridge was the correct place to keep an enemy of the Third Reich safe from harm. The town was full of people of all races and political creeds, including Nazis, Mosley’s Blackshirts and their sympathisers. As for the Cavendish Laboratory, how would Lindberg’s presence in that crucible of cutting-edge science be kept a secret?

  ‘As I understand it then, you’ll be asking me to put my life on the line? And what of Lydia if she’s looking after the woman – will she be in danger, too?’

  ‘I said I wouldn’t lie to you and I meant it. Yes, if word gets out that Lindberg’s here, you could be at risk. But I also know from my own experience that you and Miss Morris do not lack for courage and resourcefulness.’

  Wilde ignored the soft soap. ‘Have you spoken to Lydia yet?’

  ‘Yes, of course. She has been a party to this all along.’

  This was a bad idea. A very bad idea. ‘Why not keep them on an army base somewhere?’

  Eaton poured himself another shot. ‘Herr Dr Lindberg has just spent the last three years of his life in the barrack-room hell of Dachau. I think he deserves rather better than another dose of barracks, don’t you? Isn’t that the difference between our civilisation and Hitler’s barbarism?’

  Wilde had been backed into a corner. ‘I’ll do it. But he’ll need to fend for himself, because I have work at college – and I had intended going down to London to help Lydia when the long vacation starts next week.’ Not only to help her, of course, but to try to plaster over the lesions in their long-distance relationship. He knew she resented him for not accompanying her to London to help with the refugees; likewise, he had desperately wanted her to accompany him to America to meet his mother. Who could know whether it might be her last chance?

  He and Lydia had not parted on the best of terms but he had missed her – and he rather feared that she had not missed him. These were not matters for Eaton, however. ‘When are you going to bring Lindberg up?’

  ‘Soon enough. My colleagues at the ministry have been chatting to him, trying to find out what they can. He’s providing some good intelligence – extraordinary the people he lived with in Dachau. Some of Germany’s finest minds reduced to scrubbing the latrines.’

  ‘What about Frau Haas?’

  ‘Well, she was going to stay in London, but she insisted she wanted to come up to Cambridge right away, with me. She’s got a room at the Bull. I’m not happy about it, though, Wilde. Not happy at all. I really would have liked the chance for a longer, more intensive interview with her. But it was her decision to come up; she was adamant.’

  ‘Is she safe?’

  Eaton hesitated a moment too long. ‘I can’t discuss our security arrangements.’

  ‘Should I be armed?’

  ‘That’s up to you, Wilde. I can provide a weapon if you wish.’

  Wilde sighed. ‘I’m not sure I’ll forgive you for this, Eaton. I certainly won’t if any harm comes to Lydia.’ What in God’s name were they letting themselves in for?

  ‘Come on, nothing’s going to happen in sleepy old Cambridge!’

  ‘And you can say that with a straight face? Do you intend the woman to stay at the Bull until Lydia gets home?’

  ‘Why not? I wouldn’t think it would be for long. Perhaps you could look in on her, make her feel at home.’

  ‘If you think that would help.’

  ‘More than anything, I would like to find them both space at the Cavendish. They’ve both done work there in the past. I believe Frau Haas was one
of the first female student researchers there. My office has spoken with the lab’s director, Lawrence Bragg, but he seems a little uncertain. He said they would happily have taken in a hundred German physicists if they had space – but they don’t. America seems the better option. Personally, I would rather keep Herr Lindberg to ourselves. We’ll need minds like his when the balloon goes up. See what you can do, Wilde. You have charm. Use it on your chum Lancing.’

  Wilde stiffened. How did Eaton know of his friendship with Geoff Lancing? Perhaps he shared sources with Colonel Dexter Flood in the White House. He breathed out. ‘I don’t suppose I should be surprised.’

  ‘That I know about you and Lancing? Well, the Cavendish and science in general has taken on a new significance in recent months on various fronts, and for various reasons I am not at liberty to discuss. The upshot is, men like Lancing have come under close scrutiny.’

  ‘Under scrutiny?’

  ‘Not just Geoff Lancing. They all have – all the clever scientists. With war probably no more than a year or two away, we have to take precautions. You’re a Walsingham man. You understand such things.’

  Of course he did. But he didn’t always like them to be so close to home.

  Eaton raised his glass. ‘You’re a good man, Wilde. We could do with people like you in the service.’

  ‘Very funny. I’ve turned you down on that score already, if you recall. I’m American by birth. Very happy to work with the British, but not for them.’

  ‘Indeed. I took your point when I first broached the subject. Talking of America, I believe you’ve been seeing some interesting people during your little sabbatical.’

  ‘You mean my mother, of course. She’s always interesting. Mostly she berated me for never going to Mass.’

  ‘Oh come, come, don’t be so modest. You know that’s not what I meant. The White House . . . can’t keep a thing like that secret in a gossipy town like Washington DC, you know.’

  Wilde should have felt affronted but he wasn’t surprised; that was the point of a secret intelligence service, wasn’t it? He laughed. ‘Well, Eaton, if you know so much you won’t need me to tell you any more.’