‘Go on.’
‘Well, sir, as mad as it might sound, he said it was like the terrible blisters our lads got in the trenches – from the mustard gas the Hun blew their way.’
*
Wilde very much wanted to hear what the police had to say about Birbach’s death. What about Rupert Weir, the police surgeon – had he seen the body? Perhaps Bobby’s cousin had an over-active imagination, but it certainly merited investigation.
Doris was dusting the front room when he arrived home.
‘Good morning, Professor Wilde.’
‘And you, Doris. Actually, I need a quick word with you. Two refugees from Germany, scientists, are coming today. They are Herr Dr Lindberg and a lady named Frau Dr Haas. I’m sure Miss Morris must have spoken to you about her.’
‘Yes, sir. She said her little boy would be staying with her for a while.’
‘Well, the boy won’t be coming as yet. And until Miss Morris arrives home, the Germans will both stay here – so I need beds made up in the spare rooms. And I wonder if you would provide enough food for breakfasts and perhaps prepare a beef stew or pot chicken for a couple of suppers. I’m sure they will both be out at lunchtime, so no need to bother about that.’
‘Of course, sir. That will be no problem at all.’
Wilde showered, dragged a razor across his face, then dressed quickly; that was one thing he had learned at Harrow – how to get dressed in double quick time. The penalties for tardiness were not to be taken lightly.
Downstairs, he dialled Jim Vanderberg’s home number in Chelsea.
‘Ah,’ Vanderberg picked up on the third ring. ‘I’m glad you called me at home. I was trying to get through to you all last night. Been on the tiles again, buddy?’
‘No, I stayed in college, Jim. But I do have a couple of things to talk about.’
‘Before you do, I have something to say to you apropos of Milt Hardiman. You recall I told you he was poison, a flag-waving American nasty, to be avoided at all costs? Well, forget that piece of bullshit advice. The exact opposite is the case.’
‘You mean he’s not a nasty?’
‘No, I mean he’s not to be avoided. I would very much like you to smarm up to him as though he’s the most admirable man you’ve ever met. Can you hold your nose and do that?’
Wilde trusted his old friend implicitly, but this was just a bit too odd. A hell of a lot too odd. Why, separately, were Philip Eaton, a British MI6 agent, and Jim Vanderberg, a senior attaché at the US Embassy, both trying to get him to spy on this man Hardiman, a man he barely knew?
‘You better explain where this is coming from, Jim – and what exactly you are hoping I might discover.’
Vanderberg lowered his voice. ‘I got a message via my old pal Bill Donovan. It came here, to my home, bypassing official channels.’
‘What is it?’
‘This man Hardiman is a close associate of you know who.’
Wilde was exasperated. ‘No, I don’t know who.’
‘Think about it. I don’t want to say the name. OK, to hell with it – Joe Kennedy, my boss here at the embassy. Now, I’m not for a moment suggesting that he is anything but one hundred per cent loyal to the United States of America, its interests and people, but I’m damned certain that he doesn’t give a monkey’s armpit for Britain or the British.’
‘I get it.’ Ambassador Kennedy – Joseph Patrick Kennedy – had made no secret of his disdain for Britain, constantly talking the country down and letting it be known that Germany would crush the puny British Army and air force within weeks of war breaking out. And he seemed quite certain that the world would be a better place for it. The message to his homeland: don’t get involved, America. Leave this next war to the Europeans. Make friends with Herr Hitler and let him have his way.
It was common knowledge that the White House was not too happy about his stance; and nor were some members of Kennedy’s London staff, Jim Vanderberg among them. Relationships were severely strained at No. 1, Grosvenor Square.
‘Hardiman’s presence in England cannot be a force for good at this time, Tom. If you can be discreet, stick to him and find out what he’s up to.’
‘And why me?’
‘Because you’re already on the inside. You’re in a unique position, buddy.’
‘OK, Jim. I’ll see what I can do. But look, I should tell you Philip Eaton has already asked me much the same. You remember him?’
‘Sure. I thought you didn’t like him too much.’
‘Let’s say my feelings are conflicted. My question is this: are you and the British working together on this?’
‘No. But it might make sense to cooperate.’ Vanderberg paused. ‘So what was it you wanted to talk about?’
‘Dexter Flood. You said you’d ask around.’
‘What can I say? Sounds like a regular guy. War hero, trenchant views. Irish-American like you, Tom.’
‘I had a cable from him. Wanted me to contact him soonest about the Cavendish Laboratory. His words were: Fears this end.’
‘So did you contact him?’
‘I wanted to talk to you first. What concerns me is his link to Hardiman. If Milton Hardiman is my enemy, how can Flood be my friend?’
‘A good question. I’ll do some more digging.’
‘And I have to tell you that something’s happened. A Cavendish physicist by the name of Paul Birbach has been found dead. Brilliant man apparently. Brilliant, but strange. The secrets of the universe at his fingertips. The thing is, his close friend and working partner, a Swede named Torsten Hellquist, says he was murdered – and he fears he will be next.’ Wilde waited a beat. ‘And the last time I saw Birbach was at Milt Hardiman’s party, a few hours before he died.’
There was an intake of breath at the other end of the line. ‘Wow. Is that a coincidence, or is something going on here?’
‘I don’t know, but I do know that Birbach was meant to have left for America by now – to work with one of the top men over there, guy by the name of Oppenheimer. Instead he was found dead in the river, and I aim to find out exactly how he died.’
‘Do you think there’s some link to Hardiman?’
Did he? His suspicions weren’t really coherent as yet. First he needed to talk to the police and the pathologist. ‘All I can say is that it’s hard to imagine these events are isolated. There’s something else. Two physicists have arrived from Germany. Jewish refugees. I’ve been put in charge of their safekeeping by, you’ve guessed it, Philip Eaton. The point is, these two are working on the same sort of stuff as Birbach and some of the other Cavendish guys. Atoms and all that – exactly the sort of thing Colonel Dexter Flood asked me to look out for.’
‘And what are you suggesting?’
‘I don’t know – probably nothing at all. Except . . . One of the German scientists is a woman name of Eva Haas. Her son has gone missing on the way to join her in London. The only reason I could think for anyone to abduct a child would be either ransom or to exert control on the mother. It worries me.’
‘What do you want from me then?’
‘Well, that’s it, Jim, I don’t know. I really don’t know. A steer, perhaps? Are these things I should be telling Colonel Dexter Flood? A missing boy, a murder . . . oh sweet Jesus, Jim, this isn’t good.’
*
Tempelhof was busy and they were in plenty of time, so Kay Foley took her leave of Lydia outside the main doorway to the rather grand terminal building. ‘Do stay in touch,’ she said. ‘I would so love to hear that you have found the little boy safe and well. If only we could protect all of them.’ She smiled wanly and grasped Lydia’s hands. ‘This German situation isn’t going to end at all well, you know.’
The two women embraced. Lydia went into the main foyer and found a seat where she could hear the speaker system. The plane wasn’t due to leave for an hour and they hadn’t started boarding, so she tried to read her book. She couldn’t concentrate. While she was asleep during the night, her mind had
been clear, but now it was full of blood and the ghastly image of a man dying before her eyes.
When the call came, she walked to passport control. The official, a thin man with half-moon spectacles, studied the document closely, raising his eyes from her photograph to peer at her face.
‘Frau Morris?’ he said.
‘Yes.’
‘Come with me if you would.’ He spoke English fluently.
‘My flight has been called.’
‘There is still a little time. Leave your bag here. We will look after it.’
Ordering an underling to take over his duties, the official led her down a brightly lit corridor to a bland room with a table and two chairs but no window. ‘Wait here, please, Frau Morris.’ He clicked his heels, bowed politely and left, shutting the door after him. He had kept her passport.
Lydia waited. She looked at her wristwatch and saw the minutes ticking past. She badly wanted a cigarette. Or a drink. Her throat was parched. God, a neat Scotch would slip down well. She could not take her eyes from her watch. With ten minutes to go before the flight was scheduled to depart, she went to the door, half expecting it to be locked. It opened. She looked down the corridor, both ways. No one was coming.
What was she to do? She was almost certain that the seat reserved for her was the only one available that day. Kay Foley had told her she had only managed to book because there had been a cancellation. She couldn’t afford to miss her flight.
To hell with it. She walked back to the passport desk. The official looked at her with cold displeasure. ‘You must return to the room, Frau Morris.’
‘I’m about to miss my flight. Please give me my passport and bag and let me through.’
‘This is a serious matter and I have my orders. Officers are coming from Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse. It will be for the best if you stay where I have left you.’
‘Can I make a telephone call?’
‘That is for the officers of the Geheime Staatspolizei to decide.’ He nodded to his underling and said, in brisk German, ‘Escort this woman to the holding room. Stay with her. She is not to leave again.’
Lydia understood the command. ‘This is ridiculous! You have no right to detain me. I am a British citizen. I insist you call the embassy. Talk to Captain Francis Foley at the passport office at Tiergartenstrasse 17.’
The officer dismissed her with a flick of his fingers. ‘Enough.’ His subordinate took her upper arm and pulled. She tried to shake him off, but he was too strong. What was the point in fighting? She didn’t even have her passport; she wasn’t going anywhere until these officials released her and returned her papers. Humiliated, she was aware that the other passengers were watching her surreptitiously. Once more it was plain; in a police state, no one wanted to get involved. She recalled a dark joke: What is the difference between England and Germany? In England, if we hear an early morning knock at the door, we know it’s the milkman.
*
Fifteen minutes later, the door to the room opened. Two men in civilian suits entered. The bulges beneath their dark jackets gave away the presence of handguns. Both snapped a sharp ‘Heil Hitler’ to the guard, who saluted in return and left the room.
‘Good afternoon, Miss Morris,’ the shorter and older of the two newcomers said, smiling. He spoke almost perfect English. ‘I am Rudolf Kirsch, Kriminaldirektor. I must apologise for this interruption to your travel plans, but we very much wanted to talk with you before your departure. We have been looking for you since last night.’
‘Not very hard. I haven’t been hiding,’ she said, and then wished she hadn’t. It couldn’t be wise to rile these men. She tried to smile, attempting to conceal her irritation and charm them instead. ‘I don’t know what this is about, Herr Kirsch, but I think you’ve made me miss my aeroplane. I need to get back to England. Can you not help a damsel in distress?’
‘We will get you on the earliest available flight – once this matter is sorted out to everyone’s satisfaction. We are only doing our jobs, Miss Morris.’
‘But what is this matter? No one has told me what is going on. The passport man said you were Gestapo. Is that true?’
Kriminaldirektor Kirsch took the second chair and sat opposite her across the table. He wore a good suit, dark grey, with a red tie. On his lapel, his party membership badge. The other detective, much younger than his superior and in a cheap brown suit, stood to attention by the door, his mouth firmly shut, his eyes bovine and dull. ‘You were at St Hedwig’s Cathedral on Orpenplatz last night,’ Kirsch said. ‘You were witness to a murder.’ He waited, still smiling, watching her face closely. His dark hair flopped across his brow. Like his Führer, but without the moustache, she thought. ‘Why did you not report this to police? Is murder not considered a serious crime in your country?’
‘But I was still in the cathedral when the incident occurred. The square was full of people. Any one of them would have seen more than I did.’
‘That is not the way I understand it. I am led to believe you came out of the cathedral with the priest, that you were at the top of the steps looking down at the dying man within seconds of the shot. You must have seen the gunman.’
‘No.’
‘Did you examine the injured man? Did you think to call for medical assistance? I do not understand why you would not do this.’
‘My spoken German is not what it might be. There were others better placed than me. The priest, for instance.’
Kirsch rose and began pacing the small room. His colleague did not move.
‘Can I make a telephone call, please?’
He ignored the request. ‘Why are you in Berlin, Miss Morris? Why exactly did you come here?’
‘I was visiting friends, and I wanted to see more of Berlin. I was here for the Olympics in ’36 and I wished to see more of the city.’
‘Which friends?’
‘Quaker friends. I don’t see what business it is of yours.’
‘Ah yes, you are a Quaker. A pacifist, no doubt.’
She did not reply. The word pacifist was intended as an insult.
‘And what, then, were you doing at the cathedral? St Hedwig’s is not a Quaker meeting house but a Roman Catholic temple.’
‘It is a beautiful building with a remarkable dome. I was told I must visit it. Quakers, too, appreciate beauty.’
‘But you met someone there, you spoke to him – and then he was shot dead within seconds of leaving the building.’
‘No,’ she said. Lying did not come easily to her. ‘No, I met no one. I sat alone in a pew and prayed for peace.’
‘A man joined you. He sat behind you, talking to you. The man who was shot.’
‘Who told you this?’
‘Do you confirm it then?’
‘No, of course not. No one spoke to me. I was aware of someone sitting behind me and heard some words. I turned to see who was there and presumed he was praying aloud. That is all. It was certainly no one I recognised, so why would I have talked to him?’
‘Perhaps he had some information to pass to you. Secrets, for instance.’
‘No, that’s nonsense. Who was he anyway? Why was he shot?’ And who had been watching us, she wondered? Who had reported her to the police? The priest? The old woman who lit the candle? Or the killer himself? Perhaps he had looked around the door and seen the self-styled ‘Scarlet Pimpernel of Berlin’ talking to her, then slipped out and waited on the steps for his victim.
‘Indeed, those are interesting questions: who was he and why was he shot? We very much hoped that you would be able to help us with that, Miss Morris.’
‘So you don’t have a name for him?’
He shrugged, the smile still fixed firmly to his face as though it had been painted on. He did not answer her, simply peered into her eyes. Finally he stood up. ‘I am sorry. I do not find your answers adequate. You will accompany us to Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse for further questioning.’
‘This is outrageous! I have committed no crime. I am a British citize
n. I demand that the embassy be informed – and that I be allowed to talk with them.’
‘Don’t make this difficult, Miss Morris.’
*
She walked between the two Gestapo officers along the corridor, then out into the main lobby of the aerodrome. There was no physical force used because there was no need. But nor could they disguise the fact that she was a woman being marched away by two law officers.
They were at the main doorway out on to the road where the taxis waited and big black cars dropped off wealthy patrons. There were few clouds now; the morning was brightening up. Above them, a three-engined plane droned monotonously as it made its approach to land.
‘Miss Morris?’
She stopped and turned at the unexpected voice. So did her escorts. A large figure towered over all three of them, seemed to cast them into shade.
‘It is Miss Morris, is it not?’
‘Yes.’
‘Perhaps you do not recall me? Manfred Bloch. I was with you on the flight from London.’
She put a hand to her chest as realisation dawned. He had been a travel agent, hadn’t he? Now she remembered. ‘Of course, Herr Bloch. What are you doing here?’
‘I was about to catch the Munich flight. More business. Always business. But what is this?’ His eyes flicked from Lydia to the two police officers. ‘What is happening here?’
‘Excuse me, sir.’ Kirsch took her arm and inserted himself between her and the newcomer. ‘This lady is coming with us.’
Bloch looked bewildered. ‘Who are you?’
‘Kriminaldirektor Kirsch, Geheime Staatspolizei.’ He stressed the words, presumably accustomed to the very mention of the Gestapo wreaking terror. ‘Now, if you please, sir, go about your business.’
‘I know this woman. Is she being detained?’
‘Good day, sir.’
She was being pulled away now, towards a black Mercedes, a driver in the front seat, its engine running.
This was her chance. ‘Call Captain Foley at the British passport office. Tell him—’ But before she could say any more, she felt a hand push down on the top of her head and she was being forced into the smoke-filled back seat of the car.
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