Nothing was more certain than that Jake would render a bill of some sort.
'And that really is the sum total?'
'I might be able to come up with a few more names. But it wouldn't signify, because he covers too much territory. That's the trouble — you can't pin him down. In any case, David, you'd best tell me more exactly what it is you want.'
Basically the Israelis knew no more than the British: they both knew simply what was common knowledge. But Audley had expected that. What they did have, however, was by far the best record of events in Berlin in 1945; it was a mere byproduct of their long hunt for the missing Nazi butchers, but it was rumoured to be astonishingly complete. That, though he didn't know it, was going to be Jake's special contribution.
'Well,' began Audley judiciously, 'there are several periods of Panin's career I'd like to fill in, but I think you'll only be able to help me with the early one, which is really the least important. I may not even need it, but if you could pass the word to one or two of your Berlin old-timers, they might know something.'
Jake's face hardened. Different nations had different raw places, tender spots, where no leeway was ever allowed. For the Indians and Pakistanis it was Kashmir. For Frenchmen it was 1940. For Jake, and for may other Israelis, it was still the missing Nazis of 1945. He should have remembered that.
'I give you my word, Jake, that as far as I know this has nothing to do with war criminals. Absolutely nothing. And you know how I feel about that.'
The Israeli relaxed. In as far as he trusted any Anglo-Saxon he trusted Audley. Which was not far, perhaps, but far enough.
He nodded. 'Okay, David. I'll drop a word to Joe Bamm–you can always get him at our Berlin place. He's forgotten more about the old days than most other people ever know. In return, if you turn up any little thing about one of them, don't you sit on it.'
He looked at his watch. 'Is that all, then? Because if it is my Delilah awaits me.' He paused, unsmiling again. 'But just you watch it, David, my old friend. You're not dealing with simple Jewish farm boys and stupid Arab peasants any more. You're dealing with real chess players now. If I were you I'd wear belt and braces. They haven't changed one bit, the Russians, whatever your starry-eyed liberals say.'
Audley had one more self-appointed contact to establish before going to the office, but there was no time unfortunately to make it a face to face one. The hated telephone had to be used this time.
'Dr Freisler? Theodore–David Audley here.'
Theodore Freisler was outwardly the archetypal German of the twentieth century world wars, hard-faced and bullet-headed. But within the Teutonic disguise lived an old nineteenth century liberal, whose spiritual home was on the barricades of 1848. His books on German political history were highly regarded in the new Germany, though even in translation Audley found them unreadable. The mind which produced them, however, was at once gentle and formidable: Theodore was a wholly civilised man, the living answer to Jake's unshakeable suspicion of everything German.
'Theodore–I'm glad to have caught you. I'm always expecting to find you've gone back to Germany.'
Theodore had quite unaccountably settled in Britain, in an uncomfortable flat near the British Museum, during a historical conference in 1956. And although he was always revisiting Germany and talking of returning to the Rhineland he had showed no sign of actually doing so. Audley had wondered idly whether he was producing some terrible successor to Das Kapital, to set the next age of the world by the ears.
'One day, David, one day. But until that day I shall make my personal war reparation by letting your chancellor have most of my royalties. That is justice, eh?'
'You'll have to work a lot harder to shift our balance of payments, Theodore. But you may be able to help me just now.'
Their friendship had started years before when Theodore, no Nazi-lover, had volunteered the information which had set the Israeli propaganda on the German experts in Egypt in its proper perspective. Since then he had been Audley's private ear in West Germany on Arab-Israeli policies.
'I am at your service, Dr Audley.' The formality marked the transition from banter to business.
'Theodore, I've got a riddle for you: what is it that was of great value to the Russians in 1945, was attractive enough for a private individual to steal, and is still of interest to the Russians today?'
There was a short silence at the other end of the line.
'Is this a riddle with an answer?'
'If it is I haven't got it.'
'Do you have any clues?'
'It came out of Berlin in the summer of '45, possibly in seven wooden boxes, each about the size of that coffee table of yours, Theodore. Roughly, anyway.'
'You don't want much, do you? In 1945 there were a great many things of value to be had in Berlin, and the Russians took most of them. But of value now—'
'You can't think of anything?'
'Give me time, Dr Audley, give me time! But it is time that makes a nonsense of your riddle. There was much plunder to be had then, but that would not interest them now. Not even Bormann's bones would interest them now! That is perhaps the one thing that you can say for them: their sense of material values is not so warped as ours in the West.'
'But you're interested?'
'Interested in your riddle? Yes, of course. It is the lapse of time which makes it interesting. But can you give the date of the theft more precisely?'
'Not the theft, Theodore. But it left Berlin end of August, beginning of September.'
Theodore grunted. 'I will ask my friends, then. But it is a long time ago, and I cannot promise success. Also, some riddles do not have answers. And if there is an answer, is it a dangerous one? I don't wish to embarrass my friends.'
'To be honest, Theodore, I don't know. But just give me a hint and I can get someone else to do the dirty work.'
Theodore chuckled. 'Ach, so! I do the searching, others take the risks and the good Dr Audley sits in his ivory tower putting all our work together–that is the way of it! But I think I shall move circumspectly, since you do not know what it is I am to find.'
Audley had to take it in good part, for it was true enough.
'If you're too busy—'
'Too busy? I'm always too busy, David. But not too busy for a friend–never too busy for a friend. And besides, it interests me, your riddle. Something old, but still valuable to them, eh? And "them", I presume is the Komitet Gosudarst-venoi Bezopasnosti?'
'That's by no means certain, Theodore.'
Nothing was certain, that was the trouble. All he had was an elaborate house of cards built on only partially interlocking theories. But as he drove back to the office Audley felt fairly satisfied. He had set things moving for which he did not have to account to Stocker: Jake would dig further out of sheer curiosity, and anything Theodore turned up could be cross-checked in the Israeli Berlin files as well as the London ones. If only he had one good hard fact to convince himself that it was all worthwhile …
Without that one hard fact, however, there was really nothing he could do. Butler was hard at work in Belgium; half an hour with Roskill should be long enough to work out Monday's schedule. There was no point in rushing things, and he could look forward to a blessedly peaceful weekend. Even the presence of the Steerforth-Jones girl seemed acceptable now. It made a change to have a girl about the house again, even though she hardly qualified as a girl-friend. She might even cook Sunday lunch!
Even the department was reassuringly empty, with Mrs Harlin's chair unoccupied, a certain sign of the absence of external crises. On such a quiet Saturday as this Lord George Germain had lost the American colonies–and well lost them, too, in the interest of his long weekends.
He tiptoed past Fred's door and slipped into his own room noiselessly.
Stocker, the man from the JIG, was sitting in the armchair opposite the door.
'Good morning, Audley. I hope you don't mind me lying in wait for you like this in your room, but I wanted to get to you firs
t. Have you made any progress?'
Audley composed his face. 'Here and there,' he said guardedly. 'It's rather early days yet for anything concrete -if there is anything.'
Stocker gave him a thin, satisfied smile.
'Well, I can give you something nice and hard: Nikolai Panin's coming to see you.'
Audley carefully set his brief-case alongside the desk, undipped it and drew out the Steerforth file. It never did to let anyone throw you. Or to show it when they did. Friend or enemy, the same rule applied.
But if Panin was coming to England, then the thing -whatever it was–must truly be in England and could be found. Until now he had never quite believed in his own theory: it had been a mere intellectual exercise in probabilities. Now it was all true because it had to be.
'You don't seem very surprised.' Stocker sounded disappointed.
The devil tempted Audley, but only momentarily. There were times to take undue credit, but assumed coolness was usually more highly regarded than omniscience.
'On the contrary,' he replied mildly. 'I'd rather discounted the possibility. But then we've got twenty years of lost ground to make up. He didn't say what he wanted of me by any chance?'
Stocker sat back, seemingly reassured by Audley's fallibility.
'Actually he doesn't know yet that he'll be meeting you, so you have one small advantage at least. To be precise we've simply been informed that a certain Prof. N. A. Panin, a distinguished member of the Central Committee, would like to visit England informally, in a semi-official capacity. Apparently he wants to discuss "a matter of mutual interest" with what they term "an official of appropriate seniority".'
'That hardly describes me. It might describe you.'
Stocker laughed shortly. 'It had the Foreign Office a little baffled, I think. Indeed, they were all too ready to agree that it was more our concern than theirs. Their Mr Llewelyn actually suggested that this might be very much up your street — I believe he's a friend of yours?'
God help the Israelis, thought Audley. And Allah protect the poor Arabs too.
'Anyway, I'm going to lay down a welcome mat for our distinguished visitor, Audley. And then you are going to take over from me. You are going to show the professor all the sights of interest.'
They had it all worked out: mark the mysterious Professor Panin with the inconvenient Audley. No matter that Audley isn't trained for this sort of thing. What he doesn't know he can't give away.
Or did they really think he could do what no one else had yet done?
'And just what am I expected to do with him?'
'Be nice to him. Find out what he wants and why he wants it. Get to it first. Then give it to him.'
'Give it to him?'
Stocker coughed apologetically. 'The official view is that whatever it is, it's unlikely to be more valuable than his gratitude. If it was valuable to us he'd never come openly asking for help, which is what he appears to be doing. It's thought that one good turn may lead to another.'
'And what do you think?'
'My dear Audley, I've always found gratitude a somewhat intangible thing. But on the whole I go along with the official view. We don't want to offend him if we can help it. We'd like to know a lot more about him, but we don't want him to put one over on us, if you see what I mean.'
Audley didn't–and did to the uttermost degree. Everyone was in the dark.
'But I've got freedom of action?'
'Within all reasonable limits.'
'And I can have Roskill and Butler as long as I need them?'
Stocker smiled. 'But of course–and anyone else you need. Roskill and Butler have got German and Russian–but then you're quite a linguist too, aren't you?'
Audley couldn't make out whether he was being superior or matter-of-fact. Fred was always matter-of-fact because he never needed to be superior.
'I read them. I've got no ear for languages.'
'No matter. I'm told the professor speaks perfect English. Anyway, you've got until Tuesday to wrap it up. He comes in on the scheduled Aeroflot flight at 11.30. And for the record — just what have you got on Steerforth?'
Audley looked at him bleakly. 'He took something and hid it. If Panin thinks it can be found we must agree with him, I suppose.'
Stocker got up. 'In that case I suggest you find it first, Audley. Then all your troubles will be over. If you need any help just ask for it–I'll see you're not held up.'
When he had gone Audley sat staring despondently at the file. In the past he had stood as an adviser on the fringes of operations which had seemed to him ingeniously simple or hopelessly devious. Or brilliantly complex. Or plain stupid. Whatever Panin was about, it wouldn't be stupid. And this time he was in the barrel.
V
'There's the place,' said Roskill, pointing down the street. 'Two small boys with their noses against the window.'
Audley followed him through the dense Saturday crowd, many of whom seemed bent on playing chicken with the motorists. The pavements were hardly less dangerous than the road, with mothers bulldozing their way ahead with prams and pushchairs from which children peered through ramparts of cornflakes and soap powder. Roskill adroitly slipped into the wake of one of the most aggressive pram-pushers and Audley skipped after him.
The crowds parted left and right before the woman's advance, which continued providentially to a supermarket just beyond their destination. There she slewed the pram inwards with superb timing and Audley and Roskill were able to join the two small boys unharmed.
'I dunno wot it is,' said one boy to the other. 'They got the red, white an' blue wrong way round too.'
'Which one?' asked Roskill.
The boys looked round in surprise. Then the smaller pointed to one of the numerous model aeroplanes on display.
Roskill peered down. 'Bristol Blenheim Mk IV,' he said. 'Those are Free French markings–the French who were on our side in the war.'
He straightened up. 'Morrison's had this shop for twelve years,' he said, indicating the legend above the shop window, The Modeller's Shop. The large off-white letters needed repainting, as did the shop itself. 'Not exactly a gold mine, apparently.'
Audley took a deep breath and pushed open the door. Ahead and just above him an enormous yellow-nosed Stuka was just beginning its dive: on every side colourfully illustrated boxes advertised the progress of half a century's war in the air. To most of them he could not put a name with certainty: bright, barbaric little biplanes and triplanes and more familiar modern British aircraft in respectable green and brown camouflage. And–yes–an Israeli Mirage swooping down on a hapless Egyptian MiG. No mistaking those two!
'Can I help you, sir?'
The thick mousey hair of 25 years ago had thinned and retreated. The nose had reddened and sharpened and spidery gold spectacles sat on it now. The whole face had aged prematurely and less gracefully than Jones's, a sagging and unhealthy version of the filed photograph.
'Are you two gentlemen together?'
Odd how obscene the innocent statement sounded these days–a commentary on the times!
'We are, Mr Morrison.'
'Yes, sir. What can I do for you? We've got one of the finest ranges of models in Southern England. Planes, ships, cars, armoured vehicles, British and foreign. Working models too.'
'Planes we're interested in, Mr Morrison.'
Morrison was obviously trying to place them both, and having no success.
'You're in luck, sir, then. We've just got the latest Airfix range in—'
'Dakotas.'
'Dakotas? Yes, we've got Dakotas.' The little man turned, scanned the shelves behind him and selected a box. 'This is by far the best Dakota model, sir. The Airfix one. It's been on the market for several years, but it's very popular. With alternative American wartime transfers, or Silver City civilian ones.'
'We're after a Royal Air Force Dakota, Mr Morrison.' Roskill was joining the game now–a cat and mouse game when played like this, but one which might be over quicker this way
.
'Well, sir, in that case I should buy the Airfix model and then some RAF transfers separately.' Morrison shifted his glance from Audley to Roskill.
'And you've got 3112 Squadron transfers?' Audley spoke this time, and the man's gaze came back to him.
'I beg your pardon?'
'3112, Squadron,' said Roskill. 36547–G for George. Pilot–Flight Lieutenant Steerforth, navigator–Flying Officer Maclean, second pilot–Warrant Officer Tierney. And radio operator–Sergeant Morrison.'
Morrison looked from one to the other uneasily.
'Who are you? What do you want?'
'We don't actually want a Dakota, Mr Morrison. We've got the Dakota. We've got Steerforth. And now we've got you.'
'Who are you?'
'In fact there's only one more thing we want, Mr Morrison, and you are going to tell us all about it. With no lies this time.'
Morrison took off his glasses and polished them furiously. Sweat glistened on the pouches under his eyes.
'Please tell me who you are,' he pleaded.
Audley hated himself. 'We are not your old comrades, Mr Morrison,' he said brutally. 'And we've no time to waste arguing. You brought it in to Newton Chester.'
Morrison's will crumbled like a piece of rotten wood.
'I–yes,' he mumbled.
Audley breathed out. Some men's defences could only be approached with all the precise formality and deliberation of an eighteenth century siege, with parallels and saps, gabions and fascines. Surrender was a mathematical certainty if the attacker had the force, the time and the patience. But others could be knocked off balance and taken by a coup de main before they could recollect their wits. Morrison was a weak man who had fallen to a crude surprise attack. A text book case.
'What was it?'
Morrison gestured unhappily. 'I don't know. I swear I don't know. He never told me.'
'Steerforth never told you.'
The wretched man shied away from the name as though it would shrivel his tongue.
'What did Steerforth tell you?'
'It's such a long time ago–I don't remember.'
'You're in trouble, Morrison. We know perfectly well that you haven't forgotten. You read about the Dakota in the papers a few days ago. You haven't forgotten.'
The Labyrinth Makers Page 6