Greg stood up and arched his back. “My spine seizes up if I don’t do something like this,” he muttered.
“It had crossed my mind,” he continued, “that something very like what you say is happening with Hood is happening with these other companies. Why should this sort of deal be confined to just one outfit? If Hood has only three ships and makes, as you suggest, only around nine deliveries a year to the Germans, it would be expensive to keep Amery at the Bar au Lac full-time.”
He stretched his back again.
“But, and this could be a big ‘but,’ maybe that’s only part of the picture. Germany, we know, is short of raw materials. Say a handful of treacherous British firms are willing to profiteer from this state of affairs. That could mean that Amery uses his front to collect money on behalf of—what, half a dozen? a dozen? a score? of companies, taking a hefty commission along the way.”
I was shocked by what Gaimster said. It simply hadn’t occurred to me, as it should have done, that other firms than Hood could be acting in this way. “So why haven’t you picked him up?”
“Three reasons, all of them good ones. First, we can never get close enough to overhear the conversations, so we can’t be sure what the meetings are in truth about. Second, we have never observed any money being handed over. Occasionally they shake hands but never anything more. No one swaps bags or anything obvious like that. And third, we don’t have any authority to pick him up. If we denounced him to the Swiss police, they would ask for evidence—evidence we don’t have.”
He sat back in his chair and laid both hands, palms down, on the desk in front of him. “If we ever do prove that Amery is trading with the enemy, or collecting the cash on others’ behalf, if we can be certain of our ground, there’s only one thing we can do. Very quietly, and very discreetly, and totally tidily, we have to kill him.”
He let this sink in. “So, you can see, we need to be sure. Your evidence may help. If, in the next few days, he meets someone from Frankel, it will be very powerful evidence that what we suspect to be happening actually is happening.”
He glanced again at his watch. “Come on. Amery usually has a prelunch cocktail at the Café Odeon. We’ll stroll down there and you can take a look. Size up our man.”
The Café Odeon, the famous home of Dada. I couldn’t believe it. My very first full day in Switzerland and I was on my way there.
As we went, I asked a question that had been bothering me. “Greg, why don’t the Germans just pay Amery direct into his bank account? Bank to bank.”
“Too dangerous. One, there would be a paper trail, and two, the Swiss would hate it. They would see it as an abuse of their neutrality and they would close the whole thing down.”
There was something else, too. “What does Amery look like? His name rings a bell.”
Greg shot me a sideways look. “Really? He’s small, shiny black hair, mustache, sideburns too long. Always wears a turtleneck pullover.”
I shook my head. That description didn’t ring any bells at all.
“If there’s even a slight chance you know him, Montgomery, we don’t want him seeing you. We’ll sit right at the back of the café.”
What a difference it was to be in Switzerland, after Britain and France. There was nothing drab about Zurich; it was throbbing with life. Looking around, you could see flowers, people sitting at cafés, eating ice cream and fruit; there were no soldiers framing every view; the faces of passersby did not look weary. I had forgotten what peace was like.
The Café Odeon, when we came to it, was large, busy, with a polished wooden façade and bright red-and-yellow umbrellas outside. The waiters were dressed head to toe in black, with long black aprons that stopped just above their shoes.
We found a small table inside, right next to a pillar, behind which I could hide if I needed to. On the table, besides salt and pepper and an ashtray, was a small jug with fresh milk. Greg ordered beers and went to fetch two newspapers that were hanging on a contraption by the entrance, each with a wooden pole down its spine.
“How’s your German?” said Greg, in German.
“Ich bin zweísprachíg,” I said in reply. “I’m bilingual.”
“I think we should talk in German from now on,” he said, sticking in the same language. “It will attract less attention.”
“Sehr gut,” I said softly. “Very well.”
I leafed through the paper. The king had just returned to London after a ten-day visit to the front lines in France. Back home they were experimenting with air-raid sirens—until then the warnings had been sounded by whistle and the all-clear by bugle. The Americans had mobilized their National Guard.
But my eye kept straying to the lake. I have always loved lakes. For me they are more interesting than the sea—at least the open sea. I have never been able to understand the attraction of sailing. Being on a small boat, out at sea, with only the horizon for company is my idea of what the newfangled psychologists call sensory deprivation: nothing to feast the eyes on. With lakes, however, there is always something to watch: the far hills, yachts, the glitter of the waves—
“Here he is. On schedule. Amery’s here.”
I looked across in the same direction Greg was looking. A small man was pulling back a chair near a table at the edge of the pavement. He was being helped by a waiter who clearly knew him and stood close. As a result, my view was partially obscured. The man sat down and looked up at the waiter as they conversed. At first all I could see was his neck and shoulders and I registered only that he had a large Adam’s apple, which jiggled when he spoke. He was obviously giving his order because as soon as they had finished the waiter moved away. At last I got a full view—and immediately ducked behind the pillar.
With admirable self-control, Greg didn’t flinch. “You know him, then?” he whispered. “You recognize him?”
“Yes,” I whispered back. “I recognize him all right. But he’s not Bryan Amery. His real name is George Romford.”
“If he’s here under an assumed name, then he’s obviously up to no good.”
Greg and I were eating lunch at a brasserie a few blocks from the Odeon—and we were tucked away at the back of the restaurant, where hardly anyone could see us, and completely hidden from view from the road outside. We had eased out of the Odeon by the emergency exit and left Amery/Romford to himself, for the moment.
After we had ordered—sausages, frites, a salad with fresh tomatoes, a Swiss red wine that Greg liked but I thought filthy—I had filled him in about Romford and me, Romford and Stratford, Romford and Pritchard.
“A lot of water under the bridge since then,” replied Greg, gulping his wine. “For both of you.”
I nodded. “And it explains why the name Bryan Amery was familiar. He was a fellow student at Stratford.”
Greg made a face. “My money says this Amery person died and Romford ‘borrowed’ his identity. Easily done in wartime.”
The food was brought. Too quickly, I thought. The sausages had not been cooked fresh. Greg didn’t seem to mind; he had already started.
“I agree that an assumed name is suspicious, Greg. But is it enough to … you know… kill him?” What was I saying? What sort of talk was this? “Don’t we need to understand the system a little more, if we are going to stop it properly?”
His mouth was full but he moved his head from side to side. “Maybe. Maybe not. I’ll have to check with the brigadier. But, for now, what can you tell me about Romford? Can we get closer? What sort of character is he, what are his strengths, what are his weaknesses? You know him—or used to. You can be a big help here.”
The sausages were not good. Maybe, just maybe, I could finish the salad and frites. And maybe a glass of red, if I could get it down.
“There are two and a half things I can remember about Romford that you might be able to use.”
“Good. Go on. More red?”
I shook my head. “One, women. Romford is a bit of a slimeball who has never had much experience or su
ccess with women. If we are going to approach him, lure him, whoever does so should be a woman. Two, he’s got a chip. He’s from the East End and hates all toffs—or he says he does. I think he is secretly attracted by them, so that if you have a woman in the outfit who is an aristocrat—and looks and sounds like it—you, we, should choose her.”
“And what’s the other thing, the half a thing?”
“He was always self-conscious about his German. He learned it at school, has never been to Germany, so this trip in Switzerland is his first German-speaking country. If his German is better than that of whoever approaches him, he will feel more secure, show off more, and relax more, maybe give things away.”
Greg stopped chewing. “I can see why the brigadier chose you. That’s sharp thinking.” He chewed on, then stopped again. “But I’m smart too, and I can use what you say.”
He swallowed his red and immediately refilled his glass.
“Rebecca… Rebecca Berwick, that’s who we need.” He fixed me with a look. “How old would you say Romford is?”
“Early thirties.”
“I’d say Rebecca is twenty-eight. Just right.” He smiled. “She’s lovely but she’s terrifying in a way. Father’s a viscount, owns huge chunks of the borders and half of Battersea. She has a degree—in math of all things, so she’s one of our code breakers—and… well, she looks a million dollars, a billion. Not married—God knows why not. Her German’s okay but she’s a long way from bilingual—she sounds ideal for our little plan.”
“Which is?”
“Operation Pillow Talk. The Honorable Rebecca Berwick meets Georgie Porgie, seduces him, for king and country, and learns all his secrets: who he meets, why he meets them, where the money is. Poor guy won’t know what’s hit him.”
“Let’s hope it’s as simple as that.”
“Hal, if you’re right about Romford, I am certainly right about Rebecca. This two and two are going to make a very juicy four.”
“When can I meet her? I can’t wait.”
“You’ll have to. She’s in Bern today, at our embassy. Back to morrow.”
That night, as I lay in bed in my nondescript hotel, I wondered what route Romford had followed from Stratford to Zurich. I had often wondered if our paths would cross again—and Romford himself had said he hoped as much during our last… encounter at the Ag. But I had assumed it would be in civilian life, after the war was over. Never did I imagine we would meet in such circumstances. And what had made him turn—assuming Greg was right and Romford was indeed working for the Germans? Was it all down to his chippiness? Was he getting his revenge on a system that, as he saw it, had held him back? Or was that too glib, too simpleminded? Would I ever find out?
Was this Rebecca up to the job? Greg was certainly sold on her, but the last aristocratic woman I had encountered in this war— Genevieve—had been anything but a heroine.
Dear Sam,
This is going to be a very weird letter. As you know, I can’t tell you where I am or why I’m here, and I don’t even know when or if you will receive this. All I can say, then, is that I am well, I arrived on schedule, and the people I am working with seem professional and agreeable. You are not to worry about me.
I miss you. The censor will read this letter before you do, so you will forgive me for not going into too many private details. Enough to say that our last night together was almost worth committing treason for—you will know what I mean—and I can only hope you feel the same way. It certainly felt mutual. And you can be certain that I will be home just as soon as I am allowed.
One good piece of news. I think that where I am is the home of one of Will’s favorite toys. All being well, I can bring him something that will help him forgive me for going away. Give him a big kiss from me. And to Lottie.
Sorry this is so short but since there’s such a lot I can’t say, and since I haven’t been here for more than a day or two, I hope you won’t judge me too harshly.
Much love,
Hal
I’ll say this for Greg: he knew his women. Rebecca was stunning. Besides going in and out—and then some—in all the right places, she had the most vivid blue eyes, hair the color of straw, skin that shone with health, and a soft, sibilant voice that seemed to enfold you in a secret cocoon, as if you and she were the only people in the world. On top of it the look in her eyes was intelligent, and her aristocratic demeanor—I can’t quite describe what it was exactly but it was an amalgam of self-confidence and world-weariness, as if there was nothing anyone could teach her—was intoxicating, that’s the only word for it. From the moment I met her, I had no doubt she could seduce George Romford.
Her first words, after Greg had outlined the full background to our plan, behind the closed door of his office, were: “So I have to sleep with him?”
“Not necessarily,” said Greg, backtracking.
There was a short pause.
“Yes,” I said. I surprised myself in saying this.
Rebecca turned her gaze on me. The tiniest of smiles appeared along her lips. Then she looked back at Greg, pointing to me. “I like him,” she said in that soft voice she had. “He has more balls than you do, Greg.” She looked back at me. “I’ll do it. Just don’t give me a medal if it works—there’s only one thing worse than trading with the enemy, and that’s sleeping with him. When do we start?”
“Now, today, tomorrow,” cried Greg. “There’s no time to be lost. As soon as we can work out a way for you to meet him.”
“That’s easy,” I said in German.
“What did you say?” said Rebecca, turning my way again.
I nodded. “You wait for him to be seated at his table in the Café Odeon, then you sit at the next one. You look through the menu. Then, in your faltering German, you ask him if he can help you understand the wording. It will appeal to his vanity that he speaks better German than you do. After that, it’s up to you. Knowing Romford, it won’t be difficult.”
She looked me up and down. “Are you always good with women, Hal?”
“No. I just know Romford.”
“Well, how do I follow through? Who am I? Why am I in Zurich in the middle of a war?”
“Yes,” said Greg. “I was thinking about that. What do you think, Hal?”
“Invent as little as possible.” I thought for a moment. Then I turned to Rebecca. “Do your family know where you are and what you are doing?”
“They know I’m in the diplomatic service and serving here in Switzerland. At least my father and mother do. They have been asked not to talk about it.”
I nodded. “Get word to them. Tell them to say, if asked, that their daughter is a closed book, someone they refuse to discuss, full stop.” I looked at Greg. “Can we do that overnight? Send them a wire?” I turned back to Rebecca. “Where do your parents live?”
“Kelso. But they have a flat in London.”
“I’ll send a wire in code to my people,” said Greg. “I’ll have someone go and brief them in person. Impress on them how important this is.”
“Good,” I said. “Now, Rebecca, what you tell Romford is this. You are a pacifist and conscientious objector. You are against this war and all it stands for, and you are sitting it out in Zurich, like a lot of other artists and writers. Let’s make you a writer. If you were a painter, Romford might ask to see your paintings and your studio, which you don’t have, and if you were an actress, he would surely want to come and see you act. As a writer, all you need is some notebooks and/or a typewriter.”
“And how do I explain my poor German, when I’ve been here since the war started, two and a half years ago?”
“Simple: you had a Swiss boyfriend who spoke perfect English. He brought you here in the first place. That was convenient for you, but meant that you never had to improve your German. Now you are on your own—let that slip, but don’t make it too obvious. Romford will think all his birthdays and Christmases have come at once.” I smiled.
“Have you done this sort of thing
often?” Rebecca said.
Greg answered for me. “No, he was shot at the Front in the early months of the war and has been in intelligence more or less ever since. The brigadier spotted him, but this is his first trip into the field. Do you think his ideas work? Are you comfortable with being a writer?”
“My brother’s a writer. I’ll adopt some of his mannerisms. And I’ve met one or two other writers through him. I think I can carry it off.”
“Well, don’t overdo it,” said Greg. “Let Romford make the running. Don’t come across too easily, but don’t let him get away, either.”
Our meeting broke up just then. Greg went off to send the coded wire, and Rebecca went back to her own office, which she shared with two others. Later that day, however, there were two further developments that made us all feel better. Greg received a coded acknowledgment of his wire to London, which said that Rebecca’s parents were being informed that very evening. He also received a visit from one of his footmen, the people who followed the men Romford met at the Café Odeon. That very day, while Greg and Rebecca and I had been in conference, Romford had met someone for lunch at the café. After the lunch, the other man had been followed, back to the Hotel Grüben. Discreet inquiries at the hotel had revealed that this man, a Christoph Heyne, was a director of Frankel. The load of pyrethrum, which had obviously now reached Germany via Morocco, was in the process of being paid for.
That evening, Greg, Rebecca, and I had dinner together, at a restaurant a good way from the Odeon, the Grüben, and the Bar au Lac. We went over our plan of attack, scheduled for the next day, but we also discussed something else that bothered me.
“Greg, Romford is undercover, as Bryan Amery. Why aren’t the Germans he does business with? Undercover, I mean. Come to that, if this operation is so important to the Germans, why isn’t the whole thing organized by the government, centrally?”
“Ah, I wondered if that was bothering you,” said Greg. “I can’t give you a definitive answer, but I think I know.”
We were waiting for our main courses and for a refill of the wine bottle—Greg certainly liked his booze—and we all sat back as the waiter brought the food.
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