Cathy printed out the article and read it through once more. She took three sticky notes from a pad and wrote a name on each: “Pauli”, “Hillman”, “Reiss”. She tried them in a row, one above the other, left to right, right to left and even in a triangle, but none of the arrangements made sense. What was it Robert Reiss had said? Never at Farm Hall; left Germany in April and not June 1945. She scribbled a few notes beneath the printed text. Yeah, but so what? Historical inaccuracies, that’s all. She did another search: “Farm Hall”. That at least gave results which made sense and she added them to the list – Operation Epsilon; country house near Cambridge; used as collection centre for Nazi atom scientists; all rooms bugged; transcripts sent to US – just the sort of place people like Reiss and his colleague, Standfluss, would end up. So Oppenheimer and his gang pulled a few strings and got these two a pass on Farm Hall. Cathy shook her head. All perfectly logical: important during the war maybe, but not now. And if it was murder, why wait till Reiss was in his 90s? And as for the motive… she threw her pen down and thumped her elbows on the desk in frustration. Once more she stared at the mystifying collage of names and notes. What the hell is the connection? she thought. Why does any of this even matter? And now, if Reiss junior was to be believed, a “conspiracy of deception” had happened, was happening? Who knows. People’s lives are in danger, he had said. “Link to paintings” she wrote, feeling embarrassed as she did so. Then she added a fourth sticky note and wrote “Atkinson” on it. This was too much: she pushed her chair away from the desk and stood up. Come on, be serious, Robert Reiss is a fruitcake – he has to be.
***
The following day three men held a meeting in a nondescript booth of a nondescript diner across town. Two men in their forties and wearing heavy, dark blue overcoats sat across the stained Formica-topped table from a younger man wearing a woollen beanie and a ski jacket. They watched impassively as he gesticulated at them.
‘I’m not sure I want to go on with this,’ he said, trying to sound more decisive than he felt.
‘I’m not sure you have any choice. This is a Federal investigation and if you stop helping us, that’s withholding evidence, assisting the commission of a felony and that’s just for starters. We know who killed Lisa Greenberg but we need more proof before we can move.’
‘They said it was an accident.’
‘We don’t think it was. You owe it to her to keep that information to yourself and to help us find her killer.’
‘But I’ve already helped you. Isn’t that enough?’ The despair and fear in his voice were unmistakable. Next, the wheedling started – the sound of a poor hand being played badly. ‘You said I’d made a contribution to national security.’
‘Will you keep your goddam voice down.’
‘Sorry, it’s just so unfair – ’
‘Just shut up and listen. Please.’ The word was shoved into his face like a fist. ‘You’ve been very helpful to us and as we’ve told you a dozen times, this is a matter directly affecting Homeland Security, which is why we’ve been so generous to you for your time and effort – ’
‘Look, I’ve been thinking about the money and I’m not so sure – ’
‘Course you’re sure. Here, take this.’ The young man felt a paper package being pressed against his leg under the table. ‘Use your common sense, carry on behaving like a good citizen and there’ll be more of these and no dumb questions from the IRS, you have my word.’ He turned to look at his colleague sitting next to him on the bench who nodded in confirmation. ‘However, if you screw with us, your shitty little existence will become a living hell, shortly followed by it coming to an abrupt end: Agent Wilson here and I will make personally sure of that. You understand?’
The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the waitress who stopped chewing her gum just long enough to take their order and waddle off towards the kitchens.
‘So what have you got for us?’
‘What you asked for,’ said the young man, sliding a thick buff envelope across the table. ‘It’s a complete system dump. All the diary entries, travel and hotel bookings, expenses, planned interviews, editorial meetings – stuff like that – for the next two weeks.’ The despair returned to his voice. ‘I don’t know why you want me to take such a big risk for this stuff; they change their schedules from one minute to the next. I could get my ass fired for this if I’m caught.’
The two older men nodded in unison. ‘We know that and we’re very grateful. I hope we’ve shown you just how grateful.’ In response he instinctively felt for the parcel of notes in the pocket of his ski jacket as though afraid it might have evaporated. ‘And you’re sure that there are no meetings or anything of the sort that doesn’t get put into the system?’
‘Positive. It’s what they live by – it acts as their time sheet, expenses calculator, you name it – if it’s not in the system, they don’t get paid for it, can’t get it published, don’t get credit for it, nothing.’ The young man looked from one to the other, his natural cockiness returning after the earlier fright. ‘You still haven’t told me what she’s done,’ he said. ‘You’re supposed to be the freakin’ FBI, why don’t you just bug her phone or hack her internet connection? Isn’t that what you do?’
‘How do you know we haven’t hacked yours? How do you think we’ve got the details of all that weird shit you download from the web?’
‘What weird shit?’ he brought his palm down hard on the table and an elderly couple sat at the table opposite turned to look at what was going on. ‘You’ve got no right to – ’
‘Calm down, will you.’ He turned to his colleague and his face broke into what may have been a smile. ‘Jeez, it’s like taking candy from a baby, isn’t it Agent Wilson?’
The elderly couple resumed eating and the young man started to bluster again but was cut off short. ‘Just stick to your side of the bargain and everything will come out fine. You’ll find out all about it when you see the arrests on TV. Until then, just remember – screw with us and we’ll make you wish you’d never been born. Got that?’
Chapter Seventeen
Novelty of life here wearing off. Houses either side occupied by military but they stay in plain clothes. Still watching us constantly. Taken to big shop called Supermarket under escort. Allowed to choose food but couldn’t understand labels. Nothing fresh, everything in cans or packets. New mail box remains empty.
*
After his rehearsals in London, James’s first press conference in New York went smoothly. However, the stage-fright and the fear of not being able to answer or of saying the wrong thing wouldn’t go away: the butterflies before the event in Washington DC were just as big.
Even with the reassuring presence of Cuthbertson by his side, he felt his legs shaking under the table and his palms becoming clammy with apprehension. The air conditioning in the conference room was losing its struggle with the heat given off by the TV lights and the press of bodies.
As Cuthbertson pointed to the first questioner, James took a deep breath and tried once more to remember what he’d been told – stick to the generalities, keep the good stuff for the people who are paying us most and for Christ’s sake, smile.
It felt the longest thirty minutes of his life. Cuthbertson selected the journalists well and the first questions were easy. In response, James did as he was told, speaking about himself in the vaguest of terms. Happy childhood; minor public school; PPE at Oxford; gap year as a ski instructor; graduate training scheme at a now-defunct investment bank; married but divorced – amicably of course, no children; and now delighted to be able to return the paintings to their rightful owners and, no, never for one moment had he thought of trying to pass them off as his own or trying to sell them on the black market. After all, he wouldn’t know where to start and to prove the point, launched into a Bertie Wooster-ish impersonation of himself trying to sell old masters to the geezers down at his local pub. The audience warmed to the self-deprecation, unaware that the closest pub
to his flat in London was the usual grim offering from a themed chain, frequented by vicious adolescents and pram-faced slatterns from the nearby estate. The idea had been Cuthbertson’s but he still found the deception painful to carry off.
As for the paintings, he had no idea how his uncle had got hold of them. Another deception. At a guess, Bill Todd’s interest in engineering may have attracted him to the find, probably salvaged the alloy tubes from the cellar of a bombed-out house – always “salvaged”, never “looted” – and maybe he brought them home in case they turned out to be useful, put them in his workshop and forgot all about them. And no, in the short time they spent together before his sad demise, Uncle Bill had never mentioned what was in them – probably never got round to opening them.
As the performance went on, the excitement of the attention and new-found celebrity was replaced by the sour aftertaste left by the lies he was telling, even if it was to protect Bill Todd and benefit the Hospice, and so, ignoring Cuthbertson’s advice to stay on-message James moved the story away from the paintings. The PR man kicked him under the table but he took no notice. None of the journalists in the room interrupted as James detailed the kindness shown to Todd by his GP and the staff at the St Catherine’s, ending with a simple statement. ‘I know you have hospices here too,’ he said. ‘And I’m sure the staff are just as wonderful as the people at St Catherine’s. They’re the real heroes of this story.’
Hands were still waving and more questions coming in from the floor when Cuthbertson stood up to announce that James had a very busy schedule in front of him and that, sadly, time was up. James followed him through the curtains and via a side door to what served as the green room.
James poured himself a large glass of water: Cuthbertson mixed himself a gin and tonic, leading his charge away from the little knot of media people who were all congratulating themselves on the success of the conference. ‘Bloody good job,’ said Cuthbertson, clapping him on the back and nearly causing James to drop his glass. ‘See, I told you there was nothing to worry about.’
‘I still feel a bit of a fraud though.’
Cuthbertson snorted. ‘Everyone in this industry is a professional fraud. You’re just a bloody amateur. And besides, what does it matter? They get their pictures back, your uncle comes out of it as a hero and you look like God’s Englishman.’
James didn’t feel like smiling but forced himself to do so. Cuthbertson continued. ‘Next up is a one-on-one with New Horizons. Same brief: stick to the script, keep it simple and you’ll be fine. You’re meeting a Cathy Stenmark – she’s bloody gorgeous but bloody sharp, so don’t get distracted by thinking about how much you’d like to shag her. Now, if you go over to Sarah there, she’ll get the makeup off for you.’
A short taxi ride later and James was shown into the interview suite of New Horizons magazine. A slim, attractive, blonde woman stood to greet him and introduced herself as Cathy Stenmark. James suppressed a grin as he thought of what Cuthbertson had just said. The magazine’s receptionist led the PR man away and they were left alone.
‘First of all, many thanks for agreeing to see me,’ said Cathy, handing him her business card. They both knew that large amounts of cash had changed hands, but civilities had to be observed nonetheless. Now it was her turn to make an assessment of her subject. Not at all what she’d expected: tall, straight teeth – and that was a rarity for a Brit – seems in reasonable shape, not bad looking. Pity he used to work for a bank, that’ll take some living down, she thought.
‘I’ll be recording what we say if that’s ok with you. Firstly, it makes sure I don’t misquote anything, and secondly, it saves me having to take so many notes.’
As soon as the questioning started, he realised that Cuthbertson had been right: astute and professional. And, as for the other thing, well… if she offered then…. no, concentrate, this is important, he thought. I wish bloody Mick had never said that.
The initial questions were every bit as gentle as those he’d handled at the start of the press conference and, as a result, James made the mistake of letting his guard drop.
‘So how many of these tubes were there?’ she asked.
‘Oh, about twenty or so.’
‘And so they must’ve been quite big?’
‘I never measured them precisely but I’d say each one was about three feet long by about three and a half, maybe four inches in diameter.’
‘So wherever your uncle stored them, they’d take up quite a bit of real estate?’
James realised too late where she was going and tried to deflect the question but Cathy continued undeterred.
‘So if a bunch of tubes, each with a screw cap on the end, were lying around in a workshop as you said, even a big one like your uncle’s, don’t you think he’d have bothered to open them?’
‘Well, I’m not sure – ’
‘So why bring them all the way back from Germany? A consignment that size isn’t going to fit in a kit bag, is it?’
‘I suppose not,’ said James.
‘So he’s gone to all that trouble to bring them home, at the end of the war when it can’t have been easy to move stuff around, and then put them in his workshop where he spent the next sixty-five years having to walk round them each day, but never wondered what was in them?’
James feigned indifference. Cuthbertson had anticipated this question and he was well briefed for it. ‘Now you put it like that, I suppose it does seem odd. He never mentioned them to me and it was only after he died that I noticed them.’
Cathy’s eyes narrowed and he began to feel uncomfortable under her questioning, however affable its delivery. ‘How long after your uncle died did you open the tubes?’
‘Not until after the funeral and all the legal details had been wrapped up.’
Questions were batted back and forth for about five minutes until Cathy reached across and switched off the recording machine. ‘Let’s take a break here, Mr Atkinson – ’
‘James, please.’
‘OK, James. Now come on. Surely, you must’ve had suspicions that your uncle knew damn fine what was down there.’
‘I’m not entirely stupid.’
‘I’m not suggesting you are. So why d’you think he didn’t tell you?’
James shrugged. ‘Maybe he was too busy dying of cancer.’ The reply seemed to throw her off balance.
‘Or that he was hiding something.’ She was back on her feet.
‘Well he was hiding something,’ said James, smiling in an attempt to thaw the conversation out a little. ‘Fifty or so priceless works of art. If you want an honest answer then, yes, I think he probably did know, probably knew straight away what they were, but when he got them home he realised they were too hot to handle, didn’t want to chuck them out, couldn’t sell them, couldn’t tell anybody, so he just hid them in the cellar and tried to forget all about it.’ He was straying away from the party line and knew it.
‘Please don’t take this the wrong way,’ said Cathy, ‘but I think there’s more to this than meets the eye.’
A look of incredulity came to James’s face. ‘Just hold on. A massive hoard of art, stolen to order by Hitler and Göring, turns up in a basement in Devon and you say there’s more to it,’ he said. ‘What more do you want, Josef Mengele in the broom cupboard?’
‘It’s not that, James. I think there may be other people out there who know more about the hoard than you or I.’
‘Such as who?’
She hesitated for a moment and he could see that she was wrestling with a dilemma. Mick Cuthbertson had warned him that at some stage during the media tour a crackpot conspiracy theory would inevitably surface and that the worst thing he could do would be to pay it any heed. As James looked up he could see Cuthbertson on the other side of the glass partition frantically jabbing at his watch and making wind-up signs. Cathy followed James’s gaze to the dumb-show. ‘Can you spare me five more minutes?’ she asked. James hesitated but what she said made his mind up for hi
m. She spoke softly, almost inaudibly. ‘I have information that suggests your life may be in danger.’
He looked at her aghast. This wasn’t in the script. ‘Are you pulling my leg?’
‘No. I’m deadly serious. Can you spare me a few more minutes to explain?’
‘Of course, hold on. Let me go and talk to Mick. I think he’s about to burst something.’ He got up and opened the door, steering Cuthbertson out of earshot. ‘She needs five more minutes, that’s all.’
The PR man shook his head. ‘Can’t be done. We’re running late as it is. If you need five more minutes to try and pull, that’s your tough luck. Come on, we’re leaving.’ He waved goodbye to Cathy and tried to guide James towards the exit, but he slipped away from under his arm.
‘Five minutes, Mick. I’ll be right with you.’ Closing the door behind him, he sat back down next to Cathy.
‘Running late?’ she asked.
‘Yes but it doesn’t matter. You said my life was in danger. I want to know why.’
‘I said it could be in danger. I don’t have all the information yet and it’ll take too long to explain properly. I need to talk to you again. Off the record.’
James frowned. ‘Off the record?’ he said. ‘Call me cynical, but where journalists and policemen are concerned, there’s no such thing as “off the record”, is there?’
The Manhattan Deception Page 14