Nucleus

by Rory Clements

  ‘That is simple; because I am not taking you to the concentration camp.’

  It was something, but it wasn’t much. There were many ways to squeeze information from someone, one of which was to fool them that you were on their side. But what information could they want from her? They must know that she had not seen the murder. And this, surely, could have nothing to do with Albert Haas? Unless it was an elaborate ruse to get her to reveal the location of Eva and Arnold Lindberg?

  ‘You must take messages for me,’ Bloch said. ‘To Philip Eaton.’

  ‘Philip Eaton?’

  ‘We work together.’

  ‘He would have told me.’

  Bloch gave a dry laugh. ‘When did Philip Eaton give out more information than was absolutely necessary?’

  ‘If you want to take messages to Philip Eaton, do it yourself. Why should I believe a word you say, Herr Bloch? I have had enough of your charade.’

  ‘This is no charade. And I cannot return to England. I must stay in Germany now. I will be needed here when the war comes.’

  ‘What are these messages?’

  ‘I will tell you at Tempelhof. It is safer that way . . .’

  He meant that if she was caught before reaching the airport, she might reveal information about Bloch and his contacts. If she knew nothing, she could reveal nothing. And in the meantime, she was beginning to realise, she had no alternative but to place her trust in him. She had to get out of Germany. The man in the cathedral had said the answer to Albert’s disappearance did not lie here, and she had believed him.

  The cars began to move again. Forty-five minutes later, they pulled up outside the terminal building at Tempelhof.

  Manfred Bloch switched off the engine and turned around to face her, holding out her passport. ‘When you get out, I will walk you to the door carrying your bag. There, I will hand it over to you. You will not have long to wait, so go straight to passport control. I will be watching. If I am wrong, if the passport control man from this morning is still there, I will intervene on your behalf. If I have to do this it will expose me. But if it has to be done, I will do it.’

  ‘Are you “Baumgarten”? Are you the man who got Lindberg out of Dachau?’

  ‘No more questions, Miss Morris. Now please, the message for Philip Eaton. Remember this carefully. Do not write it down. Tell him Seamus O’Donovan was here again, a guest of the Abwehr. And this time he has not been buying arms for the IRA. This time, he was finalising details for a major, joint attack on Britain. Some place of importance. This is all I know.’

  ‘Who is this O’Donovan?’

  ‘He’s the man behind all those bombs that have been going off in England these past few months. He allies himself with the Nazis against the British, and the Nazis happily take his side. Do you have my message clear?’

  She nodded meekly. ‘Yes, Herr Bloch. I will tell Eaton. A major attack on Britain . . .’

  ‘One more thing. Tell him he must break the habit of a lifetime for a Six man – and cooperate with Five on this. I have reason to believe they have an agent somewhere on the inside.’

  CHAPTER 24

  ‘Well, Tom, you look the part. But can you play the game, that’s the question.’

  Hardiman sized up his opponent with undisguised disdain, his gaze ranging from the top of Wilde’s head, down his billowing white shirt and long white trousers to the tip of his tennis shoes.

  Wilde ignored him and proceeded to remove his racket from its press. He held it flat in front of his eye, examining it for warping. It was old enough to be consigned to the lumber pile as firewood, but he had a soft spot for it: the racket had served him well. It seemed straight enough, considering it had not been out of the cupboard since last September. He tested the gut strings; they were a little on the loose side. Should have done something about that before coming here but it was too late now. In any case, he had more to worry about than the strings.

  Milt Hardiman was flexing his elbows and wrists, rotating his right shoulder. He was almost as tall as Wilde and had the physique of a sportsman. He had half a dozen rackets on the bench, along with a tube of balls, fresh, white and virgin. He picked out one of the rackets, then tossed a couple of balls to Wilde. ‘Your racket’s pre-war, Tom. Want to borrow one of mine?’

  ‘No, thank you, Hardiman. I like it.’

  ‘Milt. The name’s Milt. We’re Americans aren’t we? None of this damned English stand-offishness. Where have you played?’

  ‘School. University. Lawns like this.’

  ‘Is that it? Geoff Lancing told me you were a player. No Wimbledon?’

  ‘Geoff might have exaggerated my skills.’ Last time he had played with Geoff, he had beaten his old friend in straight sets. But beating Geoff Lancing did not, sadly, make him among the greatest of players. ‘I’ll try to give you a game, Milt. I can promise nothing more.’

  ‘What’s the stake?’

  ‘Let’s say half a crown, shall we?’

  ‘No, goddamn it, Tom! Let’s make it worthwhile. Five hundred.’

  Wilde laughed. ‘Five pounds is my limit. Guineas if you must.’

  ‘Bullshit. What do you drive?’

  ‘I have a motorcycle, a Rudge Special.’

  ‘Can’t you afford a motor car? What sort of man doesn’t drive a car?’

  Wilde was getting bored with this. ‘I happen to like my motorbike.’

  ‘What do you do when it rains?’

  ‘I get wet.’

  ‘More fool you, buddy. OK, your bike against my Lagonda. Sports tourer, four and a half litres.’

  ‘No, the Rudge is more valuable to me than any car. Five guineas is my max.’

  Hardiman’s son, Theo, was buzzing around them like an irritating fly. Every so often he kicked the newly marked chalk dust on the baseline of the court. His father ignored him.

  Wilde had said hello to Theo when he arrived at Old Hall with Lancing. The boy had been kicking up gravel in the drive. As the car with the newcomers arrived, he had grabbed several handfuls of stones and chucked them at the bonnet and windscreen. When Wilde tried to introduce himself, the boy had replied. ‘Don’t know you, mister. Tradesmen at the back.’

  Now he was busy scuffing his shoes on the white lines. Perhaps he would be put to work as ballboy. Wilde hoped not.

  Hardiman walked purposefully down to the far end of the court. There was a very slight incline, and Hardiman had chosen the high point. If he served from there, the balls were liable to skid down the lawn without enough height to reach Wilde’s hitting zone. It was something to bear in mind.

  ‘Five minutes knock-up, then straight in. Best of five sets.’

  ‘Fine by me.’

  They started knocking up gently, close to the net. Wilde immediately realised his lack of practice was affecting him badly. While Hardiman hit the sweet spot time after time, Wilde messed up. The ball was coming off the wood and the grip of his racket was slipping through his fingers. And when he did catch the strings, he was still failing to get the satisfying sound a ball makes when it brushes up from the very centre. He fought to concentrate, to focus on the ball, to move quickly and accurately, but his muscles were tensing, which is no good for tennis.

  Hardiman’s son, Theo, aimed a ball at Wilde’s head. Wilde put up his left hand and caught it easily. The boy sneered. ‘You know what, mister? Our dog, Izzy, could beat you.’

  The dog, a powerful and vicious-looking German Shepherd, had greeted their arrival with a volley of bare-toothed barking, straining at its handler’s leash.

  ‘You may well be right, Theo,’ Wilde said equably.

  ‘Even Bee could beat you.’

  ‘Who’s Bee?’

  ‘My new friend.’

  ‘Is Bee a boy or a girl?’

  Theo looked at Wilde as though he was dense. ‘A boy, of course. He’s very clever, but I don’t think he’s very good at sport.’

  Wilde looked around. By now, the other guests had emerged from the house
and were sauntering down the lawn towards the court. Both Clarissa Lancing and Peggy Hardiman were wearing calf-length tennis dresses and carrying rackets. If they thought there would be time for a game of women’s singles after this match, they clearly didn’t have much faith in his holding out against Hardiman for long.

  But it became evident that they had other ideas. Clarissa joined Wilde and presented her cheeks for kisses, while Peggy walked over to her husband at the far end. Hardiman seemed put out. ‘What the hell’s this?’ he demanded. ‘We’re playing men’s singles here.’

  ‘No,’ said Clarissa, approaching the net. ‘We’re playing mixed doubles – Professor Wilde and myself against you and Peggy.’

  ‘No, no, no,’ Hardiman insisted. ‘We’ve got a wager running. We’re not playing goddamn girls’ stuff.’

  Clarissa smiled sweetly. ‘If there’s a bet, Professor Wilde and I will take it on against you and Peggy. OK? What is the bet, by the way?’

  ‘My Lagonda against his miserable motorbike.’

  ‘The hell it is,’ Wilde said. ‘I agreed five guineas. And that’s it.’

  ‘Boys, boys,’ Clarissa said. ‘I have a better idea. Your Lagonda, Milt, against my Hispano-Suiza, which, I am sure you will agree is the far superior motor car.’

  Milt’s face was red with rage. ‘You two can get off my lawn right now. I’m playing this know-it-all professor and I’m going to give him a whipping.’

  Clarissa laughed out loud. ‘Oh, listen to yourself, Milt. This is tennis and cocktails, not Wimbledon!’

  His wife took his arm. ‘Milt, honey, let’s just play a nice soft game, then we can all have drinks.’

  Wilde had seen Peggy Hardiman only briefly at the party. Now he had a chance to look at her. She was very thin, tall, fair-haired, with a Long Island sheen that told of a lifetime of privilege. Her husband might be of indeterminate provenance, but she was undoubtedly old money and Old Westbury. Her voice was quiet and very much to the point; her conversation would centre on gossip about mutual friends and enemies. You would not want to be one of her servants. That quiet voice would not tolerate inefficiency or idleness.

  Just then, Geoff Lancing emerged from the house, Eva Haas at his side. When they were about fifty yards away, Hardiman growled at Clarissa in a voice loud enough for everyone on court to hear. ‘What in God’s name made your excuse for a brother think it was OK to bring a goddamned kike here?’

  Peggy tried to pull him away. ‘Please, Milt, honey, don’t make a scene. Not tonight. Let’s just play some tennis, have some horse’s necks and play some records. Please, honey.’

  He wrenched his arm away from her grip and stalked to the back of the court. ‘OK then, play. My Lagonda for your Hispano. And you, Lancing!’ He hailed Geoffrey. ‘Leave that damned woman alone and come over and umpire. Theo, you’re ballboy.’

  ‘How much do I get?’

  ‘Ten dollars.’

  ‘Twenty.’

  As Wilde walked back to his baseline he spoke in Clarissa’s ear. ‘What was that? Did he really say that about Dr Haas?’

  ‘Oh, don’t make a fuss, Wilde. And to be honest, Geoff was a bit out of order just turning up with her.’

  Under other circumstances Wilde might have made his excuses and left, but he had to swallow his revulsion and stay here. He changed the subject. ‘I don’t mind playing tennis, but I really don’t want to be part of any bet.’

  ‘You don’t have to be,’ Clarissa said. ‘It’s my bet. Anyway, we’ll win very easily. Keep the ball on Peggy’s backhand, which is kitten-weak. It’ll drive Milt insane. He’s a very fine player but we’ll cut him out and then he’ll lose all control. And tennis, my dear Professor Wilde, is all about control.’

  She bestowed her movie-star smile upon him and he found himself wishing to kiss her. Like millions of other men.

  *

  As soon as the match proper started, Wilde realised that his tennis wasn’t as bad as he had feared. By playing steadily and carefully, using a great deal of topspin and simply getting the ball back in court without going for outright winners, he and Clarissa were holding their own. She was a fine, strong player. By the time the first set was five-all, he saw that her tactics were paying off. Peggy was struggling with her backhand and Hardiman, seeing the danger, kept trying to poach balls that might have been better played by his wife. In doing so, he was over-reaching himself and leaving open court.

  ‘You see,’ Clarissa said smugly when she and Wilde sewed up the first set eight–six. ‘Don’t you want to join that bet now?’

  ‘You were right. But no, the bet is yours.’

  The next two sets were easier and by the end of the third, Hardiman had smashed his racket into splinters on the ground and had had to fetch a replacement from his chair. When Wilde and Clarissa took the final point, he refused to shake hands.

  ‘Take the goddamn Lagonda! Useless Limey car anyway.’ He clicked his fingers and a servant came running. ‘Get cocktails, get music on.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And deposit some of Izzy’s turds in the Lagonda.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Forget it.’

  The four players, along with Geoff and Eva, ambled up towards the terrace. Theo trailed alongside them, kicking a tennis ball as he went. ‘I’m bored,’ he said.

  ‘Then go and play,’ his mother said.

  ‘Bee’s asleep.’

  ‘Oh, Theo, don’t be a pain.’

  The boy hunched his shoulders and sidled towards his father.

  ‘Bee’s his friend, right?’ Wilde said. ‘Is he staying here?’

  Peggy Hardiman raised her pencilled eyebrows. ‘His imaginary friend, Mr Wilde. Don’t you know anything about kids?’

  ‘Does he have any brothers or sisters?’

  ‘Theo’s enough for any mother.’

  They sat around a marble-topped table laden with olives and canapés and game chips. A servant took their drinks orders. Hardiman, who hadn’t said a word on the way from the court, said he was going to change and strode off into the house.

  ‘Oh, don’t mind Milt, Mr Wilde,’ Peggy said. ‘He’s always been a sore loser. Clarissa knew what she was doing, you see – she knows all my weaknesses. And his for that matter.’

  Theo was grabbing all the game chips from the table. He kept looking at Eva, who was sitting beside Geoff Lancing. Their conversation – all about science – went straight over everyone else’s heads. Theo went up to her.

  ‘What are you talking about, lady?’

  ‘The atom.’ Eva said. It occurred to Wilde that Theo could not be much older than her own son.

  ‘Pa says you’re a dirty Jew.’

  There was a united gasp from the adults. Peggy Hardiman got to her feet and grabbed her son by the wrist. ‘What did you just say?’

  ‘Well, he did. He said she was a dirty Jew. Ask him.’

  ‘How dare you!’ She slapped the boy’s face, and he yelped. ‘You’re going to your room, young man. Your father never said anything of the kind.’ She turned to Eva. ‘I’m sorry, Dr Haas. My son has a vivid imagination – and he hears terrible things at school.’

  Eva nodded. ‘Thank you, but please don’t punish the boy. I have heard worse, much worse.’

  Their drinks arrived and Hardiman returned, changed from his tennis whites to grey pants and a light blue shirt. ‘What’s the problem with the boy?’ he demanded of his wife.

  ‘He was rude and he told lies, Milt.’

  Hardiman parked himself next to Wilde. ‘We were going to continue our talk, as I recall, Tom. You were dog drunk on my whisky last time we met.’

  ‘Then I apologise.’

  ‘Nothing to apologise for. I was dog drunk, too. How did you find Paris?’

  ‘We turned left at London and headed due south.’

  ‘Oh, you’re the funny one.’

  ‘To be honest I was too tired to notice Paris. Apart from the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower I could have been anywhere in the world,
but I suppose it was an adventure.’

  Hardiman lowered his voice. His eyes indicated Eva Haas. ‘This woman with Geoff, she’s a German Jew, right? What in God’s name is going on here?’

  ‘She’s a scientist. A very fine physicist.’

  ‘I guess she’s one of the Cavendish mob. They let in all sorts there, from what I hear.’

  ‘Not all sorts,’ said Wilde. ‘Only men and women with very big brains.’

  ‘But the Jews, you know . . . From what I hear the big news from Germany is that an Aryan guy, Otto Hahn, is the one who made the big breakthrough. You know, made a bomb possible. The Jewish science is all bullshit.’

  ‘Einstein’s Jewish.’

  ‘He’s a fake. The Deutsche Physik guys have disproved all his crazy ideas.’

  ‘Well, what of Hahn’s collaborator – she was Jewish.’

  ‘And as soon as she snuck out of the country, Hahn made his breakthrough. Think about it, Tom. Was the woman a help – or a hindrance?’

  ‘I’m surprised you’re aware of all this, Milt.’

  ‘What? You think money men can’t understand science? You’d do well to stay on the right side of a guy like me. We need men like you.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘You know what I’m talking about. America, buddy. Dexter Flood got you on side, right? Got to be on the right side of history, Tom. You’re a historian – you know all about that. If you’re a true patriotic American, you’ll be with us. Don’t get sentimental about the kikes, because they sure as hell wouldn’t cross the road to help you, unless you opened your wallet. You’re not British, so you get to choose your side. Choose the right one.’

  It occurred to Wilde that Eva Haas must be able to hear a lot of this rant. And yet she seemed deep in a conversation of her own with Geoff Lancing. He glanced over at them and began to wonder. Well, why not?

  He turned back to Hardiman. ‘Did Geoff tell you that one of your party guests was found murdered?’

  ‘Burbank – no Birbach. Another goddamned Jew scientist. What happened to the guy?’

  ‘It seems he might have been gassed.’

  ‘You mean he put his head in the oven?’