‘What makes you think that?’ McGinn asked.
‘Maybe they feared she had sensitive scientific information that they didn’t want passed on? I’m sure it’s some sort of blackmail. I saw her talking to someone in the street in London. I think he was putting pressure on her.’
‘So she has some kind of expertise that the Nazis are reluctant to lose?’
‘Something like that. There’s another thing. When she escaped Germany, her uncle, Dr Arnold Lindberg, who is also a scientist, went with her. He had been in Dachau for three years. I’m not quite sure how she managed to get him out. Is it possible the Nazis abducted the boy in revenge for his escape?’
JT McGinn rose from his seat. He put his thumbs in his red braces and nodded to his comrades. ‘I’m going to ask Miss Morris to come with me somewhere quieter, chaps. Not at all sure this is the place for a conversation like this. Do you mind?’ He turned to Lydia and smiled. ‘Miss Morris?’
*
Outside the Taverne, the air was cooler and mercifully less smoky. JT McGinn took her arm and guided her back towards Wilhelmstrasse. The night darkness added yet more menace to the swastika pennants that hung from the high buildings, gently fluttering in the light breeze.
‘I’m staying at the Adlon,’ McGinn said. ‘I thought we could go to the bar for a drink, Miss Morris. I’m afraid there are plenty of brown spies there, too, but nowhere’s clear of them in this town. We can find a quiet corner.’
The Adlon, next door to the British embassy, was considered Berlin’s finest hotel. McGinn guided Lydia through to the piano bar where a slender young man in a white dinner jacket and white tie was mechanically pumping out some Nazi-approved piece by Liszt.
They found a table away from the music and other guests. ‘You never got your grappa, Miss Morris,’ McGinn said. ‘How about your original choice, schnapps?’
‘That would be lovely. Thank you.’
‘Now then,’ he said when the waiter had gone. ‘I’m interested in this other character, Lindberg. I haven’t heard of Frau Haas, but I’ve certainly heard of Arnold Lindberg. I think he survived the Deutsche Physik’s purge of Jews pretty well for a couple of years, but then he was rather indiscreet and found himself hauled off to Dachau. Is that the way you understand it?’
‘Yes, just about.’ For the first time, in the soft light of the bar, she took a good look at JT McGinn. He wore round glasses. His fair, wavy hair, was casually parted down the left, and his blue silk tie set off a well-tailored linen suit. ‘I suppose you’ll be looking for a newspaper story from this?’ she said
‘That’s always a bonus. It’s the reason my masters in London pay me to live here in luxury, but despite what you’ve heard about reporters, I am not entirely without scruples. The fate of a little boy, whether he be Jewish or otherwise, should concern us all.’
The waiter arrived with two shot glasses of schnapps. McGinn put his hand up. ‘We’ll need a couple more after these.’
‘Of course, sir.’
McGinn watched him go. ‘He’s a brown, paid to listen in to the guests’ conversations, but he knows I’m wise to him, knows he’ll get nothing from me.’ McGinn threw back the drink, but Lydia sipped hers. She couldn’t afford to get drunk.
McGinn moved closer so he was whispering directly into her ear. ‘Don’t tell a soul, Miss Morris, but I am myself part Jewish, on my mother’s side. If Himmler and company found out, they’d have me on the next plane or train out. So this is personal for me. And I fear things are not looking good.’
‘I’ve heard some pretty awful stories.’
He afforded a resigned smile, but he clearly wasn’t amused. ‘It’s going to get worse. Much worse than the world realises. At the end of last year Das Schwarze Korps, the newspaper of the SS, spoke of “the vital necessity to exterminate this Jewish sub-humanity”. Not expel, you’ll note, but exterminate. America’s consul general here in Berlin, Raymond Geist, has seen what’s threatened, too. He has said he believes the Nazis mean to annihilate the Jews. That’s his word, annihilate. We can’t say we haven’t been warned.’
‘Why does one not read about this in the British press?’
‘I’m afraid our editors don’t have the stomach for it. Nor, perhaps, do our readers. That’s why men like Foley are doing such an important job. He just says, to hell with it – have a visa and get out of this dungeon as fast as you can. So that’s me. That’s where I stand, Miss Morris. I’m not out to fill column inches with the story of Albert Haas. Unless it helps, of course. Sometimes a light shone on a subject is just what’s needed. But to get back to detail, tell me this, just how did Arnold Lindberg get out of Dachau? To be honest, I’m surprised to learn he’s still alive.’
McGinn took out a packet of cigarettes and offered them to Lydia. She was about to shake her head. She never smoked. Instead she took one and he lit it. She coughed and blew out a mouthful of smoke. ‘Ugh.’
The reporter laughed. ‘You’re not a smoker, Miss Morris.’
‘Pretty obvious, eh?’ She sighed, but kept the cigarette. ‘You asked about Lindberg. I have to say the story I’ve heard has more holes than a colander. Frau Haas says she was helped by some sort of agent from the Jewish underground. He dressed in SS uniform and fooled the guards at Dachau into releasing Herr Dr Lindberg. It all sounded thoroughly implausible.’
‘Yes, I see your point. Did this fellow have a name, by any chance?’
‘Baumgarten.’
McGinn’s eyes widened. ‘Baumgarten?’
‘Do you know him? Does it mean something to you?’
‘Oh yes, it means a great deal to me.’
The waiter arrived with their second glasses of schnapps. McGinn drank his in one hit and waved the waiter away. When he was gone, McGinn held a hand over his mouth and spoke so quietly Lydia had to strain to hear him.
‘Baumgarten isn’t one man, Miss Morris. It’s a codeword. They think it’s amusing. Baumgarten is the SD or Sicherheitdienst. It’s Reinhard Heydrich’s secret service.’
CHAPTER 14
Tom Wilde stood just long enough to see the diminutive Paul Birbach attach himself to the woman’s naked haunches. With a grunt, the little German scientist pushed himself forward into her. She did not glance back or in any way acknowledge what he was doing to her, merely continued her scrubbing motion as he made quick little thrusts.
Outside, Wilde caught his breath and tried to make sense of the strange tableau that had just been acted out in front of him. He needed to hunt down a drink. Anything to get the Bosch-like vision out of his head.
His vow to cut down on alcohol could go hang itself tonight. This was May Week and Lydia was in London. Scotch would console him for a while. As he wandered towards the marquee, he signalled a champagne-toting waiter, the same one who had brought him whisky before. ‘Why don’t you leave the decanter with me this time.’
‘I’ll find you a fresh bottle, sir. Single malt, perhaps.’
‘Oh yes, indeed. Good man.’ He reached in to his pocket and took out a half crown, then placed it on the tray.
‘Thank you, sir.’
As he watched the waiter make his way back indoors, Wilde was aware of someone at his shoulder and turned sharply to find himself confronting a man of his own height.
‘You be careful, buddy.’
‘What?’
‘I saw you with her.’
‘Who are you?
‘Milt Hardiman. I own Clarissa Lancing – and I own this joint. You’re Tom Wilde, right?’
‘Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr Hardiman. It seems we have friends in common back home.’
‘That we do, Wilde. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. Dexter Flood has told me great things.’
The men shook hands and sized each other up. Hardiman might have had a strong face and a powerful physique, but his thin black moustache gave him the look of a two-bit fairground hustler.
‘How exactly do you own Miss Lancing?’
‘My money made her a star. I can unmake her any time I want. But she’s dangerous, Wilde. She’ll eat you up and spit you out.’
‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘You will. Soon enough. Anyway, it’s good to have you here. You’re a history man, yes?’
‘I am. And you, Mr Hardiman?’
‘I help America and I make money.’ His moustache rose a scintilla as his lips curled into a grin. ‘Clarissa Lancing is one of my investments.’
‘Well, it seems you have spent it well.’
Hardiman shrugged. ‘Maybe. By the way, what do you make of her brother?’
‘He’s a good friend.’
‘I know that, for Christ’s sake! That’s not what I meant. I want to know about his science. Is he up there with the best of the atom boys?’
Everyone was clever at the Cavendish, but some were – Wilde thought of Birbach and Hellquist – well, different. Geoff Lancing knew his stuff, but he wasn’t quite different enough, as he himself would probably admit. Nonetheless, his reply was circumspect. ‘I don’t know, Mr Hardiman, I really don’t know.’
‘Milt. The name’s Milt. And that’s this week’s work for you – get the gen on Geoff Lancing’s brain.’
For a few moments Wilde said nothing, hoping the waiter would hurry up and replenish his whisky. At last he spoke. ‘This house of yours, late Elizabethan, I’d guess.’
‘Yeah, Tudors. All those wives. Not quite Cliveden, but it suits us. Apparently, Queen Elizabeth slept here one time. Not sure who with.’
‘I’d like to know more about it, explore the place – with your permission, of course. Do you spend much time here?’
‘You know, we used to spend our summers at our Old Westbury spread, but we’ve been over here these past three years. Europe’s the place to be right now. The sound of marching boots and low-flying fighter planes. I love it. Do you think the Limeys are going to fight?’
The suddenness of the question caught Wilde off-guard. ‘You mean go to war?’
‘What else would I mean? They won’t, will they? They can’t be so dumb as to stand in Germany’s way. The Luftwaffe could do for this tinpot nation in a week. The Brits would do well to listen to men like Joe Kennedy and negotiate for an alliance of the Aryan races, some sort of understanding against the Jews and the Bolshies and the Slavs. And the sooner they do it, the better it will be for all concerned. The biggest danger, as I see it, is Franklin D. Rosenfeld. Am I right, Wilde?’
‘What did you say?’
‘You heard. The Jew lover in chief.’ Hardiman roared with laughter. ‘Hey, feller – just kidding, right?’
Had he really said that? No, I didn’t mishear, thought Wilde. The waiter arrived with a bottle of whisky and a glass. Wilde poured himself a large measure while trying to work out how to respond. Geoff Lancing had said Hardiman came from Long Island, but his drawl placed him deeper into the southern states of the US. Wilde raised his glass. ‘Good health.’
‘And you, Wilde. Do I shock you?’
‘You know what, Hardiman, I think I’m probably a little tight for politics right now. Another day, perhaps?’
‘OK, but just say yes or no. Will the Limeys fight?’
Wilde sighed. Everyone seemed to be asking him this question lately. ‘I hope so,’ he said. ‘I really hope so.’
‘Then you don’t get it. You don’t get it at all.’ Hardiman slapped him on the back, then shook his head. ‘Enjoy the party, feller. We’ll certainly talk more another day. And bring me what you’ve got – names. That’s what we need, the important names. And the lowdown on Lancing.’
‘Why don’t you just ask him to spy for you?’
‘Because who would report on him? Look, feller, he’s English and you’re American. You’re one of us, aren’t you?’
*
Lydia tried to take in what JT McGinn had told her. If the man named Baumgarten was a Nazi agent, then what was going on? ‘Baumgarten’ was the man who had effected Lindberg’s release from Dachau and had planned his escape through the mountains with Eva. It would certainly explain why the camp guards had been so easily persuaded to let Lindberg go, but why would the SD want him released? What was Eva’s role? Did she know that Baumgarten was SD, or was she merely a pawn in a bigger game? What, for that matter, did Philip Eaton really know? And still the original question – why had Eva’s son been abducted?
‘I beg you, Miss Morris. I have this information in the strictest confidence from a very important source – a senior member of the Abwehr, who despises the SD,’ McGinn said. ‘He told me inadvertently and then realised his slip. It is not so much a codeword as a name that merits instant attention from anyone on the inside. If it got out, then not only would he be in grave danger – but I would lose a most valuable contact.’
By now, Lydia was exhausted and losing track, so the reporter asked the concierge to hail a taxi to take her back to Schlactensee. As McGinn ushered her into the back of a Mercedes cab, they exchanged telephone numbers and the reporter said he would be in touch whatever the outcome of his inquiries. ‘Just be careful what you say on the phone.’
*
Henty O’Gara examined the Thompson’s Lane electric power station from every angle. It was not an impressive building, just the one chimney belching out black smoke where Battersea had four. It was an easy target, but he was worried; there was too much to be done. He couldn’t afford a hiccough.
It was late, after midnight. The drinkers from the St George and Dragon near the park tennis courts had long since gone home. Scudamore’s punts beside Magdalene Street Bridge were all tied up for the night, covered in tarpaulins. The warmth of the evening had given way to a slight chill, but he didn’t notice.
None of this was going the way he had hoped. The decrypted message in the book had taken him to Christ’s Pieces, then the dead letter in the brick wall had led him to this afternoon’s telephone call. The voice at the other end had been muffled and indistinct.
He heard three words, as though through a soup. ‘The power station.’
‘Is there only the one?’
‘Thompson’s Lane.’
‘Can we meet? I need to talk to you. I need your local knowledge. I’ve got ideas. How to fuck the fuckers.’
There was breathing on the line but no reply.
‘I can’t do this on my own, mister. Jesus, we’re fighting for the same cause! Let’s have a pint somewhere.’ He had looked from the telephone box towards the tavern. ‘Tell you what. I’ll be in the Eagle in the town centre at seven. I’ll be by the bar with my left hand on a pint. And I’ll be alone. Come and ask me if I’ve got a horse. How’s about it, mister?’
The breathing continued for a couple of seconds.
‘At least give me another way to contact you, won’t you?’
The line went dead.
In the afternoon, he found the power station. It wasn’t difficult to find, with its tall chimney, down by the river near Magdalene Bridge. But it was a hell of a public place, with working men’s houses all along the lane, barely three or four yards from the outer wall. How could he breach that without being seen? At the eastern end, there was an open space with courts for lawn tennis. You could lay a bomb there, against the wall, he supposed, but would it even make a dent? The best way in was the main gateway where the coal lorries arrived to deposit their loads, but that would be manned twenty-four hours in the day.
At seven, O’Gara had gone to the Eagle. He had bought a beer in the public bar and stood there with his left hand on the glass, waiting like a jilted lover. Plenty of men came in and drank and went out again. One or two even tried to engage him in conversation, but none of them asked about horses.
And so he was still alone, still out on a limb. All he knew was one target: the power station. Jesus, you didn’t have to be a strategic genius to come up with that one, did you?
The power station building was right on the river, on the far bank from Magdalene College, a little
way north and east of the Church of St Clement and the synagogue and the Friends’ Meeting House. Well, thought O’Gara, you’d have thought it would be safe enough with all those godly fellows around, keeping it in their prayers. Seemed almost a sacrilege to bomb it.
But then again, if O’Gara was honest, he would have to say that it would be a crime not to blow up the power station; it did nothing to add to the beauty of this ancient town, and it pumped out endless quantities of smoke and steam from its turbine. No one would miss it, would they? He laughed at the thought that the scholars in the college across the river might actually thank the IRA for their work when they had got over the inconvenience of having no electric light for their studies.
He made a decision. A boat was the way to do it. Not a punt, though. That was a craft with which he was unfamiliar. He had rowed plenty of dinghies in his time, even done a little sailing. But punting was not big in Galway.
One craft, however, had caught his eye – a canoe, tied up alongside the punts. And he had noted that a paddle had been left in it.
*
Whisky bottle in hand, Tom Wilde wandered around the grounds of Old Hall, trying to make sense of his conversation with Milt Hardiman. What exactly did the man stand for? Turning a corner, he spotted Torsten Hellquist sitting on a teak bench on the flagstone terracing that looked out on the lawn. His head was in his hands, his vast bulk hunched forward. Wilde sat down beside him. The Swede did not look up.
‘I won’t offer you a drink, Hellquist.’
‘Give me a vodka.’ He raised his head and Wilde saw that his clear blue eyes were bloodshot. ‘Ah, it’s you, Mr American.’
‘It’s me, without the vodka.’ He held up the whisky bottle. ‘Only this.’
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