Nucleus

by Rory Clements

  Eva looked down and shook her head. There was an awkward silence.

  Eaton put up his elegant hand. ‘A quick word in private, old man.’

  ‘Excuse us,’ Wilde said, and followed Eaton through to the bar. ‘What’s going to happen now?’

  ‘I’m going to leave them here overnight. Can you pick them up tomorrow when you’ve fixed all the domestic arrangements?’

  ‘Will they be safe?’

  Eaton sighed. ‘To keep them completely safe, we’d have to put them in Pentonville. We’re taking a gamble that Himmler’s boys simply won’t have the wherewithal to find them, particularly as no one will broadcast their presence.’

  ‘What about Frau Haas? Do you think Lydia will be back tomorrow? I rather got the impression that she was staying in London for the duration. Doesn’t seem quite right to leave Frau Haas all alone in Lydia’s house.’

  ‘Perhaps she could stay with you in the meantime. How many spare bedrooms have you got?’

  ‘Two.’

  ‘Perfect. One for each of them, then. She’s a widow, so I doubt your charlady or neighbours will think it too scandalous. Anyway, I’m sure it won’t be for long. Miss Morris will be back from Berlin any day.’

  Wilde’s brow creased. ‘What do you mean?’

  Eaton took a sharp intake of breath. ‘Oh God, I wasn’t meant to tell you.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Wilde demanded.

  ‘I’m sorry. I think I’ve put my size tens in it.’

  ‘Are you serious? Lydia in Berlin?’

  No point in trying to dissemble now. ‘I think she didn’t want to worry you. She’s gone to try to find out what happened to the boy. Personally, I doubt she’ll get anywhere, but who knows, the German high command has a soft spot for Quakers. I’m sure she’s in no danger.’

  ‘This is madness, Eaton! Why did you let her go?’

  ‘How could I prevent her buying an aeroplane ticket?’

  ‘You could have called me – look, I’ve got to go to her.’

  Eaton gripped Wilde by the arm. ‘You’d have known nothing of it if I hadn’t blabbed – and you would have had no cause for concern. She’ll be back safe and sound in next to no time, you’ll see.’

  Wilde looked at his watch. Seven o’clock. When did flights start in the morning? ‘Where can I fly from?’ he demanded.

  Eaton clicked his fingers to summon the barman. ‘Forget it, you’re not going. If necessary I’ll have your passport confiscated.’

  ‘You can’t do that! I’m an American citizen.’

  ‘Try me. You’re an alien in Britain and I can make things very difficult for you. Think it through, Wilde. Your presence in Berlin would endanger both of you and do bugger all for relations with the German regime if you start throwing your weight around. Do you think you’re not known over there?’

  ‘But she could already be in danger.’

  Eaton’s voice dropped. ‘My man Foley is looking out for her. Directs the passport and visa office. But that’s just a cover: he’s MI6 station chief in Berlin.’ Eaton mouthed the words. ‘His secretary, Margaret Reid, is also one of ours. They will have been pointing Miss Morris in the right direction – the safe direction. And they’ll do a better job than you at keeping her safe, Wilde. Believe me. They know Berlin – you don’t.’

  Wilde could see the truth of Eaton’s line. Of course it didn’t make sense to blunder into Berlin after Lydia, but he felt sick with worry. And there was another thing: why had Eaton blabbed? He never said anything by mistake. Never. There was always an ulterior motive.

  ‘When is she coming back?’

  ‘She didn’t say, but look, chances are she’ll draw a blank. Either way, I’d expect her home soon. She can only delve so far in Berlin and she knows she’s needed up here to look after Frau Haas.’

  ‘Lydia’s in a foreign country, a country we could be at war with at any moment, and you’re saying there’s nothing I can do?’ Wilde was angry – and not just with Eaton. Why was he the last to know what Lydia was up to? The answer was obvious, of course – because he would have moved mountains to stop her going, and they both knew it.

  ‘No, that’s not at all what I’m saying. There’s a great deal you can do to help.’

  ‘Keep our German scientists safe. What about your offer of a gun?’

  ‘As I said, that’s up to you.’ Eaton paused. ‘There was something else, too, Wilde.’

  ‘You surprise me.’ Wilde raised an eyebrow. He should have known. There was never anything simple with Eaton.

  ‘You’ve been consorting with the Hardimans out at Old Hall.’

  Why did Philip Eaton always have the power to unnerve him? For a moment, Wilde considered punching him for being so bloody intrusive. Instead he laughed. ‘Of course I shouldn’t be at all surprised that you know that. And I suppose you want me to stay away from them, is that it?’

  ‘Quite the opposite, old boy. I want you to get in there among them. Become thick as thieves with them. I want to know what they’re up to, because I’m certain of one thing – they’re not on our side.’

  Not for the first time, Wilde wondered just whose side Eaton might be on himself – but he was pretty sure it wasn’t Hitler’s, so they shared that much in common. ‘I’ve told you before, Eaton. I am an American. I’m not interested in working for the British secret service.’

  ‘I know, I know. But I must tell you, I think we’ve all got reason to be worried about people like Milt Hardiman.’

  ‘Because he’s a Nazi sympathiser? Plenty of people are, you know.’

  Eaton clicked his fingers again and finally the barman arrived. ‘Come on, let’s have a quick Scotch. I’ve been drinking coffee with our distinguished guests for hours, and I’ve had enough of it.’ He ordered a couple of doubles. ‘Look,’ he said to Wilde. ‘All I’m asking is that you accept their invitations. I’ll be frank with you: we think Hardiman’s here for a specific reason. He was linked to some unpleasant types in America – Fritz Kuhn’s Bund, but others, too. Men who kept their heads down and didn’t go shouting their heads off like Kuhn’s bully boys, but were able to wield real influence. Much more dangerous.’

  ‘But what exactly do you suspect?’

  ‘If I knew, I’d tell you. But you have a way in. And you have certain skills.’

  ‘Ah, you’re trying to flatter me.’

  ‘No, Wilde, it’s the truth. I’ve seen it in you before. For God’s sake, we need to find out what the bastard is up to.’

  The whiskies arrived. They clinked glasses. ‘To daylight,’ Eaton said.

  ‘Is that it? Your toast?’

  ‘A terrible darkness is falling. Don’t you feel it?’

  Yes, he felt it all right. ‘OK,’ he said, trying to sound casual. ‘I’ll keep an eye on Milt Hardiman.’ No need to mention that he had actually been instructed to work with the man. He also needed to discover the true nature of Colonel Dexter Flood. If Flood wanted him to work with Hardiman, and if Hardiman had Nazi sympathies, then what did that make Flood? And what game, if any, was FDR playing?

  ‘I don’t trust Hardiman,’ Eaton continued. ‘I don’t trust his damned wife or anyone around them.’ He gave Wilde a long and level look.

  ‘Anyone? Are you including Clarissa Lancing in this?’

  ‘Apart from fancying the pants off the girl, what do you think of her?’

  ‘A little on the wild side.’

  Eaton laughed out loud. ‘That’s the understatement of the year coming from a man who has just been flown to Paris for breakfast and back again. Come on, let’s down these and get back to Lindberg and Haas.’

  ‘There’s something else. Did you hear about Birbach? Paul Birbach, the Cavendish scientist?’

  ‘Should I have?’

  ‘His body was fished out of the river.’

  Eaton was suddenly alert. ‘Why haven’t I heard of this? Are the circumstances suspicious?’

  ‘Not as such, but his friend Torsten Hellqu
ist certainly has doubts. They were both at Hardiman’s place for the big party. Along with a lot of other Cavendish and university people, I might add.’

  Eaton took out a notebook and scratched a few notes in his elegant hand. ‘It doesn’t sound good. I’ll look into it, Wilde. See what the police say and get back to you.’

  ‘As for that gun . . .’

  ‘I’ll slip you my Walther.’ Eaton got up, and tossed back his drink.

  ‘One moment.’ Wilde put a hand on his arm. ‘I’ll keep an eye on Milt Hardiman for you, provided you guarantee to get Lydia back safely. Can you promise me that?”

  *

  After Eva Haas had retired to her hotel bedroom, Eaton left, saying he had to get back to London. Wilde and Lindberg walked slowly to college. They spoke very little on the way. Lindberg had new clothes, a good suit bought in London, but it could not disguise his skeletal frame or sunken cheeks. He brightened at the sight of Horace Dill, however. The two comrades clutched each other’s hands, tears in their eyes.

  Lindberg had worked under Rutherford at the Cavendish in the late twenties and had come to know Dill through the Cambridge University Socialist Club; both had also been members of the Communist Party. Despite such a long association, however, conversation was difficult at first. If Lindberg had ever had the art of small talk, he had lost it in the brutal confines of Dachau; Dill was unable to say much without suffering a choking fit. Nonetheless, there was real warmth between them and for half an hour the two men reacquainted themselves, the tears falling liberally. Wilde had never seen Dill like this before.

  He had brought two bottles of ale and handed the old friends one each.

  At last they began to talk properly, and Wilde stood back and watched them, and listened.

  ‘You know what they did, Comrade Dill? For a special treat, every Sabbath, they put pork in the broth, or so they said. In truth, I couldn’t taste it, but every week they said it was there, just to torment the stricter Jews among us.’

  ‘Bastards,’ Dill rasped.

  ‘For myself, I could happily have had more pig in my broth. Particularly bacon. I cannot resist bacon. I had it for breakfast with eggs this morning. It was like manna from heaven.’ Lindberg laughed out loud and Dill managed a grin. ‘But you know there were those who would not eat the Dachau broth for fear of offending God, and they were close to starvation.’

  When it became clear Dill was fading into sleep, Wilde gently guided Lindberg back to the Bull. He would collect him in the morning. In the meantime, he had other things on his mind, in particular the troubling death of Paul Birbach. Did he die in some hideous accident, or had he been murdered as Torsten Hellquist suspected?

  *

  Lydia spent the evening with Frank Foley, first at the passport office and then at his home in Wilmersdorf, with his wife Kay, trying to make sense of the events at St Hedwig’s Cathedral.

  Foley listened carefully, smoking a succession of cigarettes. Finally he spoke. ‘Of course it’s possible that what he told you about the boy is true.’

  ‘So Albert could be in England.’

  ‘Yes, why else would he have been so certain? It would help, of course, if we knew who the man in the cathedral was. I’ll make inquiries but don’t hold your breath, Miss Morris. We won’t see anything about it in the papers.’

  ‘Won’t McGinn know who he was?’

  ‘His Nazi contact will know – but he’ll have to keep a very low profile for a while.’

  ‘What should I do?’

  Foley lit another cigarette. ‘The fact that they killed your man must be taken as a serious warning. Any goodwill felt for you because of your Quaker background can no longer be relied on. As you’ve seen for yourself, these men have no qualms in pursuit of their aims.’ He drew a finger across his throat. ‘You need to go home to England. We’ll try to get you on the first flight in the morning.’

  At 11 p.m., Foley stretched his arms and yawned. ‘Enough,’ he said. ‘I have to sleep. Won’t you stay the night with us here, Miss Morris? You know, I’m not sure it would be wise to travel across Berlin tonight, not after what you have witnessed.’ He gave a half smile. ‘To be honest, Miss Morris, one is never quite sure who is driving the taxis. Kay will make you up a bed.’

  ‘What about Miss Forster? She will be expecting me.’

  ‘I’ll call her. And I’ll have the embassy driver pick up your bags.’

  *

  Earlier that evening, Henty O’Gara had been taking a solitary drink in the bar of the Bull when his long-lost cousin entered with another man. Wilde had been engrossed with his smooth-suited companion and didn’t see him, so O’Gara threw his drink down his throat and slid unnoticed from the room and out onto Trumpington Street. He waited on the far side of the road, and watched. Tom Wilde would have to emerge eventually.

  Half an hour later, Wilde stepped out with yet another companion, a frail man with a shaven head and a stoop. They moved along the road at a snail’s pace, eventually entering the gateway of one of the great university colleges.

  O’Gara was in two minds. He already knew where Wilde lived. But he wanted more than that. It was just possible he might be of some help. Because, let’s be honest, I need some fucking help.

  Jesus, Wilde was kin, wasn’t he? And half-Irish to boot? And fate had thrown him into his path, so it had to make sense to use the fucker.

  The problem facing him was his isolation. Whenever he dialled Dorian Hyde’s number, the phone just rang and rang and rang. No contact for the best part of a week, and here he was all alone with the Scavenger in his reach. But what should he do if the phone was never answered?

  Damn it. He had no option.

  He waited until dark and returned to Thompson’s Lane, this time carrying his bag. He didn’t try anything fancy. Just set the fuse and dropped the bastard thing against the perimeter wall and walked on.

  Two minutes later, the bomb exploded and blew a hole the size of a car in the wall of the Power Station. Across the road, windows were blown in. The occupants of the houses stumbled out. Some were in pyjamas. Children were crying. They clustered around the smoking mass of bricks in stunned horror.

  Police officers from the St Andrew’s Street station were on the scene within five minutes, followed by the fire brigade. There was no sign of any human injuries, but a stray mongrel was found dead on the other side of the road.

  Henty O’Gara stood with his hands in his pockets watching the aftermath with grim satisfaction. It should be enough to keep the Scavenger happy, he reckoned. If anything would get him on the inside of the operation, then surely this would be it.

  He lit a cigarette and slowly walked away to find a phone box. He had to try the number again.

  CHAPTER 20

  Wilde was too late for high table, so he ordered food in his rooms, then scribbled notes for his scheduled lecture until his eyes clouded over. It was only just dark when he gave up. Unable to face the trek home, he stripped off his clothes and took to his narrow cot bed.

  He lay with his eyes open. Despite the exhaustion, sleep wouldn’t come. The room was stuffy, even with the window open. He threw off the bedclothes and lay naked in the still, fragrant warmth of the night. His mind was hundreds of miles away in the capital of Germany with Lydia Morris. What had happened between them? Where had the trust and companionship gone?

  In Boston, he had shown his mother pictures of Lydia and had talked of their hopes and plans. He knew his mother was disappointed not to meet her, but she came from a time when such emotions were held in, and so he had told her half the truth – that Lydia was working with the refugee council at a time when all hands were needed. His mother had seemed to accept it; or at least she hadn’t asked the obvious questions: why hadn’t they married? Why did they live next door to each other rather than together in one house? Did they not want children? They were not questions he could have answered adequately.

  A restive sleep came at last but, not having drawn the curtains, he w
oke soon after dawn with sunlight streaming across his chest.

  He clambered out of bed, splashed water from the basin over his face and body, towelled himself down and dressed in the clothes he had been wearing the night before. He needed to get home to prepare for his guests. He could bathe and shave and put on a fresh shirt there.

  As he looked out of his door, he spotted Bobby, bustling about the gyp’s room, across the stairway from his own rooms.

  ‘Coffee, sir?’

  ‘Thank you, yes, but it’ll have to be very quick, Bobby. And very, very strong.’

  ‘Of course, Professor. Black without sugar, as always.’

  Wilde followed the gyp into his little kitchen and watched him as he prepared the coffee. The aroma of the new-ground beans was enough to spark life. It struck him that there was little going on in college that Bobby didn’t know. ‘Sad news about Dr Birbach, Bobby.’

  Bobby drew back his lips from gap-toothed gums. ‘Terrible, sir. My brother-in-law Willie Smith found the body while fishing. Proper shook him up.’

  ‘Where was that?’

  ‘Halfway between Cambridge and Grantchester, tangled up in the roots of a willow.’

  ‘Any idea what happened?’ He didn’t mention to Bobby that he had seen Paul Birbach, very much alive, at a country house party some miles south-west of Cambridge just hours before his body was discovered.

  Bobby shrugged. ‘Accidents happen and people drown – especially after a few drinks have been taken, if you get my meaning, sir. Young gentlemen jump from the bridges or go swimming when they oughtn’t to. Others fall from punts and boats. It’s the booze, Professor, always the booze. Willie works for Scudamore’s Punts, so he’s found more than one body in his time. Mind you, he did say there was something a bit different about this one.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well, Willie was in the war, and he was surprised by the state of the dead gentleman’s mouth. Don’t know how long the body had been there, of course . . .’

  Wilde broke in. ‘What about the mouth?’

  ‘He said it was blistered and raw, like it had been burnt . . .’ Bobby tailed off.