Nucleus

by Rory Clements

  Twenty-five minutes later, they were pulling up outside Maxim’s right in the heart of the city, close to the Place de la Concorde and the Madeleine.

  ‘You know, darling, I really think I’ve changed my mind. They’ll be all over me here like a casting director’s hands. They’ll tell the press boys and they’ll want my photograph to hang in the lobby.’

  Wilde climbed out of the car. ‘Well, no one’s going to notice me – and I’m hungry now, so this suits me just fine.’

  *

  ‘You have no idea what a trial fame can be, Professor Wilde,’ she said, sipping her second coffee. ‘We’ve had reporters clambering all over Old Hall and the estates trying to get a picture of me. Thank God for Izzy!’

  ‘The dog.’

  ‘The boys with the cameras don’t like Izzy. She has very sharp teeth – and she’ll use them, too.’

  Wilde had always wondered about the attraction of fame. Not to be able to walk down the street quietly and unobserved. Had she had enough of celebrity?

  ‘Will you go back to Hollywood?’

  ‘Who knows? But they’ll have to get down on their knees. You know I get cables every day begging me. Scripts arrive and go straight in the garbage. The best – the very best – was turning down Selznick. Now he’s stuck with some ghastly little nobody for his big colour film.’

  ‘Why would you turn down something like that?’

  ‘Darling, you don’t know Hollywood. You don’t know movies. The more you spit at them, the more they want you. My price goes up with every rejection.’

  This certainly wasn’t the way Geoff had told the story.

  ‘Do you want to make love to me, Professor Wilde?’

  For a moment, he was thrown. He met her eyes. ‘Not while I’m eating my breakfast.’

  ‘Perhaps you’d like me for lunch. You know Tallulah ate me for lunch. Or so I read in one of the scandal sheets.’

  ‘Tallulah? As in?’

  ‘Is there another? One name is enough in Hollywood. Greta, Marlene, Mae, Bette, Clarissa.’

  ‘I suppose you must know them all?’

  ‘In the carnal sense? No, not all. Most, perhaps – but it’s not gentlemanly to ask.’

  ‘I think you’re teasing me, Miss Lancing. Your brother warned me you were dangerous.’

  ‘Geoff said that? Disloyal boy. Anyway, he’s always been the dangerous one.’

  Wilde finished his coffee. ‘Geoff dangerous?’

  ‘Always. Even as a small child, you could never know what he was going to do or say next. Don’t trust a word he utters, Professor Wilde.’

  ‘Do you mean he was a danger to himself or to others?’

  ‘He shouldn’t be allowed near a lab. All those glass vessels, all those chemicals and gases and electricity. It’s asking for trouble.’

  Wilde laughed out loud. ‘I think we’re talking about different people.’

  ‘You think you know him better than me, darling? I’ve known the bloody swot for thirty years. How long have you known him – three?’

  Wilde realised he needed sleep. The coffee, strong as it was, would not keep him awake much longer.

  She read his mind. ‘We’ve got a suite booked at the Bristol, you know. Let’s get over there and get you to bed. You’re hung-over. And when you wake up, we can play a game. It’s called Gone With the Wind. You can play Rhett and I’ll be Scarlett.’

  Share a room with Clarissa Lancing? He had sobered up enough for alarm bells to start jangling. A few hours ago at the Old Hall, he had thought . . . well, what had he thought he was going to do when they went indoors and he gazed up at the staircase? He shrugged off the difficult question. That was then and he had been as tight as a sailor in port. Now was different.

  ‘Well? Shall we go?’

  ‘I—’ He stopped. What could he say? Contrary to the impression I might have given back in Cambridgeshire, I have no intention of being unfaithful to my beloved Lydia Morris. As it turned out, he didn’t need to say anything.

  ‘Don’t be a bore, darling,’ she said, heavy ennui in her voice. ‘I’m not going to pounce on you and molest you.’

  ‘I need to get back to Cambridge,’ he said. ‘I have a lot planned for today.’

  What in God’s name was he doing here with this woman?

  ‘Well, you have three choices. Take the boat train, fly regular service from Le Bourget – or wait until I’m ready to go. For now, though, I suggest we shun the motor car and take a brisk walk over to the Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. Then you’re on your own. I’m off shopping.’

  *

  Back in Cambridge, Henty O’Gara stretched out on the rank bed. What a disaster of a night. The guards at the power station hadn’t laid a finger on him, nor had they chased him through the streets of Cambridge, but they were now aware of an intruder. There was no longer any chance of catching them napping.

  It was a matter of waiting for his contacts to come to him. But would they do that now that he had failed in his first task? Chances were, they’d simply cut him loose, write him off. He couldn’t afford that. Only one thing for it: he had to find another way into the power station. Prove himself.

  CHAPTER 16

  Lydia arrived at the Adlon to find JT McGinn pacing up and down the lobby. He stopped as soon as she entered. He had called her at nine thirty that morning, just as Miss Forster’s bible reading was finishing, and asked her to meet him at eleven. He had refused to say anything further on the telephone.

  Taking her arm, McGinn ushered her out and around the corner on to Wilhelmstrasse. ‘Just walk,’ he said.

  ‘Is something the matter?’

  ‘Everything’s the matter. I think I’ve stuck my finger into a wasps’ nest.’

  ‘Who have you been speaking to?’

  ‘The thing is, you see, Miss Morris, whatever you might think, not all Nazis are cut from the same cloth. Even among the high-ups they come in all shades. There are the rabid ones, but there are also the career ones who find a lot of the worst excesses rather distasteful. There are the wives, too. Not all of them are as cruel as their husbands. Even Emmy Goering is said to have secretly helped a Jewish friend in need.’

  He was looking around constantly, making sure they could not be overheard, trying to spot the spotters.

  ‘I understand that, of course.’

  ‘I have a friend among the higher ranks at No. 8 Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse. I can’t give you his name. I called him at home last night from a public kiosk and asked him if he knew anything. He was very edgy, told me to shut up and said he would meet me at a cafe we both know on Matthäikirchstrasse this morning at eight thirty. It never occurred to me that they put taps on their own kind, but I was wrong.’

  ‘What happened?’

  JT’s round tortoiseshell glasses had slipped down his nose; he pushed them back up. ‘Oh, he was there all right, but he was very jumpy. He told me I should not be asking questions about such matters. He was furious with me for calling him at home. Previously we had always made contact at public events – embassy banquets, that sort of thing, where everyone talks to everyone. But I wasn’t having it. I pushed him – hard. Played on his conscience. This was an innocent eight-year-old boy. We were entitled to answers. He just shook his head. And then the bloody Gestapo pulled up outside the cafe. I saw him go white. I told him to run, but he just shrugged. “It is nothing, old chum,” he said. “I have told you nothing. They have nothing on me. I’ll get a lecture for meeting you, but I’ll brush them off with the usual excuse – I was intelligence gathering.” And then, just before the Gestapo boys arrived at our table to escort him away for questioning, he whispered a name and telephone number to me.’

  ‘Will he be all right, your friend?’

  ‘Probably. But they’ll give him a hard time. They’ll want to know why he was talking to a foreign journalist without authority, but we already have a cover story for that. He will say that I had promised him information on a dissident who has now left the coun
try. Easily checked – and part-way true.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘Oh, they just made the usual threats. Said I would lose my permit and be kicked out of the country if I stepped out of line again. I don’t care about that.’

  ‘Then we can phone the number, can we?’

  He stopped, looked around again. Nodded in the direction of a man in a trilby and dark brown suit. ‘That’s the problem over there, Miss Morris. And others like him. I’m a tethered goat now. So are you. I have made contact from a public phone, but I don’t want to risk another call.’

  ‘Then what now?’

  ‘He will meet you.’

  ‘Will you be with me?’

  ‘No. I’ve done all I can. This is the parting of the ways.’

  ‘But you said you would help me.’

  He shrugged. ‘And I have done. If it’s not good enough, then I’m at a loss.’ His hands were in his pockets.

  ‘So where do I meet this man – and when?’

  ‘Keep your voice down, Miss Morris. Stay in the centre of Berlin today. Do tourist things. Go to galleries and shops. He will approach you if and when he considers it safe. If he thinks he’s at risk, he won’t come near you.’

  She was aghast. McGinn was leaving her high and dry. Had she misjudged him so utterly?

  He pulled his right hand from his pocket. ‘Shake on it, yes?’

  She took his hand. As he withdrew, she realised he had left a sliver of paper in her palm. Lightly, she curled her fingers around it.

  ‘Good luck,’ he said. ‘And remember, you will be in danger, too.’

  She watched him walk away, back into the hotel. Then she crossed the road on to Behrenstrasse, and sauntered eastwards past the Deutsche Bank. Was she being followed? She didn’t dare look. She turned right down Friedrichstrasse. The broad frontage of the Schauspiel Cafe beckoned. She went in, took a seat and ordered herself a coffee. A copy of Der Stürmer had been left on the corner of the vacant table at her side. She picked it up. On the front was a cartoon of Neville Chamberlain with a prominent nose. She flicked through it and was appalled. It was nothing but an anti-Jewish rant.

  In her hand, she still had the piece of paper McGinn had placed there. She hadn’t dared look at it yet. The waitress arrived with her coffee. She asked if there were any lavatories and was directed to a door at the rear of the cafe. Once in the cubicle, she unfolded her hand. The paper said simply, ‘Inside St Hedwig’s. 6 p.m. Wear a hat with a feather. Destroy this paper.’

  She tore it into little pieces and flushed it away.

  *

  The Scavenger. O’Gara had to find the Scavenger. Or to put it more precisely, the Scavenger had to make himself known, because otherwise there was no way of finding the fucker.

  There was a knock at the door. He slid from the bed and lifted the latch. It was the landlady. ‘Good morning to you, missus,’ he said. He hadn’t bothered to ask her name and nor would he.

  ‘It’s ten o’clock, Mr Burns. You can’t stay in your room in the daytime. These lodgings are for working men.’

  ‘Ah, is that really the time? I’ll be out in a jiffy, missus.’

  She had her arms folded across her bony chest. ‘I thought I heard a noise coming from this room late last night. As though someone was messing with the window, climbing in or out maybe.’

  ‘No, no, I woke up in the early hours and needed air. It was awful stuffy last night, missus. That’s all. Sorry if my opening the window woke you.’

  The landlady kept her arms folded. The corners of her lips were turned down. ‘I need your room,’ she said. ‘I want you out this morning.’

  ‘I paid for a week.’

  ‘You’ll get what’s due if there’s no damage.’

  ‘And what if I stay put?’

  ‘Then you’ll be dealing with the constable, who just happens to be my own son. Out by midday, Mr Burns. I don’t like your sort one bit.’

  *

  Alfie Carpenter unscrewed the Thermos flask and poured sweet, milky tea in two tin mugs. Beside him, Willie Smith stretched out on the riverbank with his hands behind his head, gazing up at the blue sky and the southward-scudding clouds. The tip of his rod rested on a home-made tripod, the line out to a float in mid-river with an earthworm on the hook below the surface. The fish weren’t interested, but Alfie didn’t care. This was the good life. Him and Willie and a sunny day by the river.

  They were on the bank of the Cam halfway between Cambridge and Grantchester. Not too many people out yet, not too much river traffic to disturb them or the fish. They’d been here since seven o’clock in the morning but the only bite they’d had was a nibble of their own cheese and ham sandwiches.

  ‘Cheers,’ Smith said as he took the mug.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘I said “cheers” – are you deaf, lad?’

  ‘No, not you – that.’ Carpenter pointed towards a riverside tree, twenty yards upriver. ‘What’s that thing?’

  Smith was up on his elbows, peering at the curious object washing this way and that, caught up in the roots of the tree but not held firm. ‘Dead body.’

  ‘That’s a dog.’

  ‘I’m not so sure . . .’

  Carpenter put down his tin cup and sauntered across the grass towards the tree, a weeping willow. He turned back, mouth open. ‘Dear God, it is a body,’ he said. ‘A child’s body.’

  *

  In the Louvre, Wilde stood a long time in a sort of trance, gazing at the Venus de Milo: a two thousand year old hunk of stone that was said to evoke intensely erotic feelings in men. Not in him, it didn’t. He was intrigued by the statue, but it was the pale, living flesh of Clarissa that stirred him.

  He went back to the Hôtel Le Bristol and lounged on an elaborately upholstered sofa in the lobby, reading the world’s newspapers and trying to get his thoughts together for a lecture he had to give the following day. It would be easy enough – The illusion of stability in late sixteenth-century England – nothing too taxing, nothing he didn’t know by heart. Finally he nodded off. He woke at midday, his head throbbing but his mind clear. From one of the bars he heard the strains of J’attendrai. His eyes drifted to the main doors. Clarissa was coming in, carrying a large leather shoulder bag and a smile that seemed to say Mission Accomplished.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘are you ready to go? The car’s waiting outside.’

  He pulled himself to his feet. ‘Yes, I’m ready. May I carry your bag?’

  ‘Thank you, kind sir. Do you like it? I got it for a song in the flea market.’

  He took the bag from her. It was so worn and scratched he thought it must be a hundred years old. Mostly, he was surprised by its weight. He frowned at her. ‘You carry a lot of lipstick and mascara, Miss Lancing.’

  ‘And you are exceedingly impertinent for even expressing an interest in the contents of a lady’s bag. If you must know, it contains a couple of very expensive bottles – so don’t bash it about.’

  An hour later they were in the air. They were flying into a headwind and the flight was longer and less comfortable, but he felt grateful for the small mercy that she did not attempt any aerobatics. Over the din of the engine, he tried to make conversation. ‘Why England, why now?’ he asked.

  ‘For the season,’ she said. ‘Aren’t you glad I’m here?’

  ‘War might come tomorrow.’

  ‘One can but hope.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Oh, Hollywood’s so safe. No one’s going to attack America. Europe’s the place to be. Don’t you hear the guns of war? Aren’t you excited by it all? Goose-stepping into Austria and Czechoslovakia? He’s like a medieval warlord, don’t you think? A German Attila or Genghis Khan, off to conquer the world.’

  ‘What will you do when he goose-steps into Cambridge?’

  ‘I’ll invite him to dinner, of course.’

  He laughed despite himself.

  They landed at five o’clock. The Hispano-Suiza was wa
iting. In the back of the car, she leant against Wilde’s shoulder.

  ‘Good adventure, huh? So where now, Professor Wilde – back to your stuffy books, or Old Hall for drinkies?’ She patted her leather bag. ‘Remy Martin Louis XIII.’

  ‘Lucky I didn’t bash it around then.’

  ‘Wrapped and double-wrapped like swaddled babies.’

  Her smile was serene. In the light of day, he studied her eyes again. In colour and shape, they really were remarkably similar to Charlotte’s, as was the smile that played at the edges. But they were missing something: his late wife’s warmth and kindness.

  ‘Drinkies?’

  ‘No. There are things I must do.’

  ‘And to think Geoff told me you were Wilde by name, wild by nature. Well, you don’t escape from me that easily. Come over tomorrow when the crowds aren’t there. And wear your whites. Tennis and the finest brandy money can buy.’

  ‘I’m expecting guests.’

  ‘Bring them, Professor Wilde. Any friend of yours is a friend of mine.’

  *

  A note had been put through the letter box. It was lying there on top of the rest of his mail, a sheet of paper folded over.

  ‘Dear Wilde,’ it said. ‘I’m at the Bull. Brought Lindberg up today. Apologies for the change of arrangements. Come over at your leisure. Eaton.’

  Wilde screwed up the paper and threw it in the bin. He sighed. Yes, he’d agreed to this, but he enjoyed having his house to himself. Perhaps that was why he and Lydia had never set up home together, either with or without a gold band.

  Damn it, he had no option. A promise was a promise. He wandered over to the shelf where the Scotch bottle was looking at him with a gimlet eye. It was still empty.

  On the table, he couldn’t avoid yesterday’s cable from Colonel Dexter Flood. He read it again. ‘Fears this end,’ it said. What sort of fears?

  He picked up the telephone and dialled a London number. The call was answered at the second ring. ‘United States Embassy.’

  ‘Jim Vanderberg, please. It’s Thomas Wilde. He knows me.’

  There was a pause, then the click of the call being transferred.

  ‘Tom? You’re back! Well, good. When are you coming down to see us?’