Nucleus

by Rory Clements

  ‘What do we do?’

  ‘You do nothing,’ the priest said, putting his hand to her shoulder to guide her away. ‘You go and make yourself safe. I will deal with this.’

  ‘We must report it, Father.’

  ‘To whom? I know that man,’ he jutted his smooth chin towards the corpse. ‘I have seen him before. I always thought he was one of them.’

  ‘Gestapo?’

  ‘Who knows? Gestapo, SD, SS, SA . . . they are a many-headed serpent.’ He nodded towards the retreating man, the fat killer. ‘Same with him, I am sure.’ He crossed himself. ‘They burnt the synagogues. They will burn the churches next.’

  As she looked down at the body and the pooling blood, Lydia thought her heart and lungs would burst from their casing. What had she got herself into?

  CHAPTER 18

  Wilde telephoned Philip Eaton at the Bull and told him to keep the Germans at the hotel overnight. ‘I’ve got nothing here. No food, no beds made up. All I can offer them is whisky, and not much of that. I need to get our char, Doris, on board for the domestic stuff. Filling the larder, all that. I’m hoping she’ll do a bit of cooking and baking for me, too.’

  ‘Well, at least come over and say hello. They’re understandably very nervous.’

  ‘I will. I’ll just nip into college for one or two things. Then I’ll be with you.’

  Wilde hastily tied his tie, then grabbed his jacket and walked into the centre of Cambridge. The weather was still fine. Every so often he saw someone carrying a gas mask. Not something he’d bother with for the moment. In the event of a sudden attack by a hostile power, Cambridge would be some way down the list of targets. His sense of peace was shattered by a thunderous roar, and he arched his neck to see a formation of Spitfires directly overhead. They kept low, barely two hundred feet above ground. Before he could count them, they were gone.

  The head porter looked grim-faced as he welcomed Wilde. ‘Evening, Professor.’

  ‘You look as if you’ve seen a ghost, Scobie.’

  ‘Not much to cheer the spirits in college today. Haven’t you heard the news, Professor? They found poor Dr Birbach dead in the river this morning.’

  ‘Birbach dead?’

  ‘Couple of anglers found him. Thought he was a child at first, I believe. Well, he was small enough, wasn’t he? He was supposed to be off to California today. The whole college is in a state of shock. Doesn’t feel like May Week.’

  ‘This is awful, Scobie. Was it an accident? Are the police involved? What happened?’

  ‘I gather he drowned, sir. But I don’t know anything more than that. Shocking news. Not that it ever felt as though Dr Birbach was truly one of us, if you know what I mean, what with him being a German gentleman. But still, it shakes you up a bit.’

  Wilde trudged up the stairs to his rooms. On the way he passed Birbach’s door, which was closed. He had been a strange man, perhaps every bit as brilliant as Geoff Lancing and Torsten Hellquist clearly believed, but Wilde’s abiding memory of him now would be on his knees in a boathouse preparing to mount a woman playing the part of a cleaning lady.

  Within hours, he had somehow come to his death in the Cam. Accident? Suicide? Murder? It was puzzling and disturbing in equal measure. Wilde wanted to know more.

  He sat down at his desk and picked up his fountain pen, looking down at a pile of papers. He let out a sigh: the night and day had caught up with him. Bobby had left a bottle of whisky on the desk as promised, but it remained unopened. He couldn’t work, couldn’t look at any essays or deal with correspondence. God, did he really have to go and make small talk with the Germans and Eaton? He put down the pen, stretched his shoulders and yawned. Get it over with, he told himself.

  Rising from the desk, he wandered to the window and looked out over Old Court in all its early summer finery. Ivy on the walls, the lawn a magnificent shade of green. Young men in gowns striding forth with purpose as Easter Term drew to a close. Among them he spotted the large figure of Hellquist waddling across the lawn. He ought to go and offer condolences. Perhaps, too, he might know something about the circumstances of his friend’s death.

  Hellquist had reached Birbach’s door as Wilde was about to descend the stairs.

  ‘Dr Hellquist,’ Wilde called out.

  The Swede, who was carrying a large leather briefcase, stared up into the gloom of the stairwell and squinted. ‘Is that you, Mr American?’

  ‘I saw you crossing the court. Please accept my condolences. I know that you and Paul Birbach were close.’

  Hellquist nodded. There was sadness there, obviously, but something else, too. Anger? Or something akin to it.

  ‘Thank you. You are a good friend. You know, Paul, for all his flaws, was the best of men. I rather think I loved him.’ He sighed heavily.

  Wilde rather thought Hellquist was about to cry, but instead the big Swede shook his head.

  ‘Ah, this is so bad, so bad.’

  Wilde nodded. No words of condolence seemed adequate.

  ‘You know, Mr American, I was just going into Paul’s rooms. There are papers he was going to give me before he left for California. I need them. Your head porter, Scobie, said it would be all right.’

  ‘Of course. Can I help you with anything?’ Wilde followed Hellquist as he opened the door and squeezed his great bulk inside.

  He had never been in Birbach’s set before and he almost laughed at what he saw. The main room looked like one big, incomprehensible mathematical puzzle. There were half a dozen blackboards of varying sizes, a couple hammered to walls, one on an artist’s easel and the others propped against furniture. Every inch of them was covered in chalked numbers and letters and mathematical symbols and curious drawings. The floor was littered with sheets of paper, all covered in calculations.

  ‘Don’t worry. It all makes sense to me,’ said the Swede.

  ‘I’m sure it does.’ Wilde looked around for some sign of a life outside mathematics. All he could see was a hard wooden chair and, ranged across the back wall, a single rather austere bed. ‘I had no idea he lived like this.’

  ‘He had a flat nearby, where he mostly slept and had immensely long baths and entertained his . . . his ladies. He was a man who split his life into pigeonholes, that is the best way to describe him.’

  Every man had his secret passions. But that didn’t explain how he had died. ‘How did this happen, Hellquist?’ Wilde asked.

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘I just don’t understand how he could have ended up in the river. What time did he leave Old Hall?’

  ‘I don’t know. I suppose I saw him at midnight with that awful new woman of his. What do you suppose they talked about when they were not, you know, jig-a-jig?’ He waved his large hands. ‘I’m sorry. I liked Paul very much. I just didn’t always like the company he kept.’

  ‘Did he introduce her to you?’

  ‘Not as such. Paul did not understand society’s little courtesies.’

  ‘Have the police said anything? Was it alcohol? It seems such a . . . such an extraordinary accident.’

  Hellquist was scooping up papers from Birbach’s desk and thrusting them into his case. He stopped and gave Wilde a strange look. ‘Accident, Mr American? Paul Birbach’s death wasn’t accidental. He was murdered.’

  ‘Murdered? I thought he drowned.’

  ‘Well, if he did, then it was because someone held his face under water. A man like that does not die by accident. Birbach held the secrets of the universe in his head. Someone wanted to stop him in his tracks. They will try to get me next.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Of course I’m serious. They will kill me because I was the only one here who understood exactly what he was doing. And so I think I might be safer elsewhere.’

  It struck Wilde that Hellquist really believed his life was in danger. He intended to flee.

  ‘Where will you go?’

  ‘Who knows? Home to Stockholm perhaps. Or America, as Paul pl
anned to. Best that I tell no one, I think. That way no one can betray me. I can trust you, Mr American?’

  Wilde nodded.

  ‘But still, it is safer not to tell you where I am going. First, I need to deal with all this.’ He picked up a board rubber and began scrubbing out Birbach’s blackboard equations.

  ‘Dr Hellquist, I don’t think you should be doing that.’

  ‘No, Mr American? What would you do? Let it fall into someone else’s hands?’

  ‘But don’t you need it?’

  ‘It’s already safe in my head. Much safer than being left here.’

  The words in Dexter Flood’s telegram came rushing back. Fears this end. Two Cavendish men: one dead, the other scared for his life. Perhaps Colonel Flood knew what he was talking about after all.

  *

  On his way out, Wilde called on Horace Dill. He pushed open the door to his rooms tentatively. Horace did not like to be disturbed at the best of times. As before, the place stank like a prep school sick bay. That and the sweat and the overpowering stench of stale cigar smoke, a smell that would never go away if the windows were to be left open ten years.

  He entered on tiptoe. The mound of Dill’s body beneath the bedclothes was not the size it would have been a few months ago; poor Horace was much diminished. His eyes were closed, so Wilde turned around to leave him to his sleep.

  ‘I’m awake, damn you.’

  ‘Ah, Horace. Glad to find you alive.’

  ‘Have you brought my grapes?’

  ‘No. They’re not quite in season, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Good. I hate the fucking things.’

  ‘And I’m not lighting a cigar for you. But I do have news to cheer you up. Arnold Lindberg has arrived. He’s at the Bull.’

  ‘Arnold’s in town? Well, why isn’t he here?’ Dill’s voice collapsed into a rasping cough. His body shook violently beneath the covers.

  Wilde found a glass of water on the bedside table and held it to Dill’s lips. He tried to drink, but only coughed more. Wilde waited until the spasm subsided.

  ‘Are you trying to poison me, Wilde?’

  ‘It was water, Horace.’ Wilde suppressed a chuckle. It occurred to him that Horace was rather enjoying his deathbed scene. He had always been one for high drama. ‘Shall I ask Lindberg if he’d like to pop around and see you? How many years is it since you were working together for world revolution?’

  Dill held up both hands with fingers splayed. ‘Ten,’ he said.

  ‘You may not be able to have much of a conversation.’

  ‘I’ll be all right. For pity’s sake bring along some ale. That fucking water will be the death of me.’ Dill gasped and clutched his chest and fell into another bout of blood-flecked coughing.

  Wilde would have liked to ask how Dill had come to be friends with Lindberg. All Wilde knew about him was that the German was a Communist, a Jew, and that he had tried to escape Germany in 1936 after falling foul of Himmler and being denounced by the Deutsche Physik, the Nazi-sympathising group of scientists who had ‘cleansed’ Germany’s laboratories of non-Aryans. But it was clear that he wasn’t going to be able to get much information out of Horace Dill at the moment.

  ‘I’m about to go and see Lindberg now. I’ll bring him back if you think you’re up to it.’

  ‘Just fucking go!’

  Wilde went.

  *

  Henty O’Gara had found a hotel. Not a rooming house this time. He had hoped for anonymity in his lodgings, but instead his Irishness had been all too conspicuous. Well, he’d have to pay good cash for a room in a fine toffs’ hotel. At least no one there would make a song and dance about his accent, no one would look at him sideways as though he had bombs in his bag. No one would treat him like a dog, and he wouldn’t have to sneak in and out of windows.

  The room was pleasant enough and he was able to take a quick bath and a shave in the bathroom down the corridor. Then he headed northwards down St John’s Street, past the great colleges, Trinity and St John’s, to take another look at the Thompson’s Lane Power Station. Once again, he sensed he was being followed every step of the way. He was just about to double back and see if he could spot his pursuer, when he felt a tap on his shoulder.

  A sharp, urgent, whisper in his ear. ‘Oi, mister! Come with me.’

  O’Gara whirled round. A boy, barely in his teens. ‘Who the hell are you?’ he demanded.

  ‘Sod that. Just follow me,’ the boy hissed and set off back towards the river.

  Swearing under his breath, O’Gara followed the youngster across Magdalene Bridge, and along Castle Street, away from the bustle of the town centre. Up past Castle Hill, he ducked into a side street and slid into a low-fronted public house. O’Gara did the same. If this lad was a copper’s nark, he was done for – but, Jesus, there was a time in every man’s life when the whistle blew and he had to go over the top.

  ‘Over here, in the corner.’

  The pub was heaving with drinkers: working men, bargees, drivers, he guessed. Rough types. Not a scholar in sight out here.

  ‘What you drinking, mister?’

  ‘Milk stout. Tell me, are you old enough to be in here, son?’

  ‘Sod you, mister.’ The boy sauntered off to the bar and returned with two pints. ‘There you are. Don’t say I do nothing for you.’

  O’Gara relaxed a little; not too much. ‘Thank you, sonny.’

  ‘I’m not your sonny.’

  ‘What’s your name then?’

  ‘None of your business.’

  ‘Then sonny it is,’ O’Gara said. ‘Why have you been following me – and why have you brought me here?’

  ‘You messed up Thompson’s Lane, mister, that’s why. You’ve got to get back in there.’

  ‘Jesus, it’s pointless. And keep your voice down, will you?’

  The boy was shabby, his pores ingrained with dirt. He slouched like a burglar casing a joint, his fingers cupping his hand-rolled cigarette. O’Gara looked at him and was appalled. Was this kid really the best the IRA command could find in England?

  ‘It ain’t pointless, mister. We wanted you to blow the place to smithereens.’

  ‘Well then, you’d better get me a barrel load of gelignite, because what I’ve got wouldn’t do much more than knock a hole in a wall.’

  ‘Well, do that then. You’re supposed to be the sodding bombs expert.’

  Oh, he was a bombs expert all right. The English had taught him that well enough in their war with Germany before he went home to a more important conflict – the war for Irish independence.

  ‘I want to meet the Scavenger.’

  ‘Scavenger?’ The boy paused, suddenly alert. ‘What’re you talking about? What Scavenger?’

  ‘You know very well who the Scavenger is. You wouldn’t be here otherwise. Don’t take me for a fool.’

  The boy shrugged. ‘It ain’t gonna happen.’

  ‘Then how can we plan a proper campaign? I was told contact would be made with the Scavenger, that there would be access to explosives from building sites or Army depots, that we’d work out a list of targets together. I can’t work blind, sonny.’

  ‘Well, maybe you’ll get it when you show who you are and what you can do.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Yes, we’ve got something bigger for you, but first you’ve got to show us you can blow a hole in a sodding power station. Right, mister? Hardly like trying to blow up Buckingham sodding Palace, is it?’

  ‘OK then,’ O’Gara said slowly. ‘OK, I’ll do what you say. I’ll blow a hole in an outer wall tonight. But there’s no way I can get to the turbine or the chimney. It’ll be symbolic, nothing more. Tell the Scavenger that, if you will. And then I want a meeting.’

  The youth smirked, and then downed his pint of bitter in one. He took a last drag of his thin cigarette stub, dropped it to the sawdust floor and stamped it out. ‘Be seeing you, mister,’ he said.

  O’Gara watched his receding back, took another sip of his stout and put down the almost ful
l glass. As he slipped from the pub out into the street, he saw the youth loping away down the hill. A hundred yards on, he stopped, and began to roll another cigarette. O’Gara wanted to laugh. This would be easy.

  CHAPTER 19

  Wilde met the German scientist Arnold Lindberg and his niece Eva Haas at the Bull. They were in the reception area with Eaton when he arrived and all three of them stood up, as though on parade. Eaton made the introductions and Lindberg shook hands and made a sharp bow. Wilde half expected a click of the heels.

  ‘Mr Professor Wilde, I am honoured to make your meeting,’ Lindberg said. ‘No, that is incorrect. I must say acquaintance. I am honoured to make your acquaintance. I have heard great things about your scholarship.’

  ‘I am sure your English is a great deal better than my German, Herr Dr Lindberg,’ said Wilde. ‘And I too, have heard marvellous things about your scientific work.’

  He noted the gauntness in the man’s face, the close shaven stubble on his veiny head; he had suffered terribly.

  Wilde turned to Eva Haas and smiled at her. She was not at all what he had expected. Small and earnest, she was deathly pale, and yet there was an exquisite luminescent quality to her complexion.

  There was, above all, a hint of warmth in her mouse-like seriousness. She said nothing other than ‘How do you do’, so he tried to bring her out of her shell as they sat in the lobby with coffee.

  ‘Tell me about your time in Cambridge, Frau Dr Haas. You were at Girton, I am told.’

  Her eyes suddenly lit up as though recalling a better time. ‘I remember English crumpets, Professor, with lots of melting butter. In the afternoons, we would gather in one of the young women’s rooms and we would use forks to toast crumpets on the open fire. And we would drink pots of sweet and milky English tea. I enjoyed those days very much.’

  ‘And I believe you knew Lydia Morris.’

  ‘Of course. She was a wonderful friend to me. I was a little lost and hesitant with my English when I first arrived, but she gave me much assistance. I owe her a great deal.’

  ‘Well, she should be up soon. And’ – he hesitated – ‘I hope you have had some good news about your little boy?’