‘You’re lucky I’m not Kalb,’ he growled.
‘Of course I am. I’m lucky you’re not Valentin, too, but happily your Russian has seen to him. What will you do about him now? The Russian boy?’
‘Protective custody,’ Schultz said stiffly. ‘Just like you.’
Larissa was still on the couch. She wondered aloud whether protective custody extended to a favour. She needed to use the toilet.
Schultz nodded. ‘One of my guys is outside the door. Ask him to show you where to go.’
Larissa got up, briefly checked her face again and then left. Bella heard a murmur of conversation outside the door. She turned back to Schultz. She remembered very clearly an evening they’d once shared in a bar in Berlin. 1938, she thought. With Hitler still digesting the Sudetenland.
‘You remember Der Teufel? Just around the corner from Abwehr headquarters?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘You took me there once, had a driver pick me up from the embassy. It was just before Christmas. You promised to drink me under the table and that never quite happened.’
‘Impressive,’ Schultz conceded the point. ‘You were English, and you were a woman. Two reasons why you should have been unconscious by midnight. I admit it. I failed. But don’t blame me for trying.’
‘I blame you for nothing. What interests me is that phrase of yours. Protective custody. You used it that evening, too.’
‘With respect to?’
‘The Czechs. I said the rest of that poor bloody country was next on Hitler’s list and you half admitted it. Protective custody, you said. Which somehow meant protecting the Czechs from themselves. Grabbing their country in their own best interests. Is that fair?’
‘The phrase was theirs, not mine.’
‘Theirs?’
‘Hitler’s. Goebbels’s. That fool Ribbentrop’s.’
‘So you didn’t believe it?’
‘Not for a moment. If we’d still had a legal system, it wouldn’t have stood up in a court of law. Not for a moment.’
‘Yet you went along with it.’
‘I did, yes. While the going was good, you went along with all kinds of nonsense.’
‘And now?’
‘Now’s different,’ Schultz rubbed a big hand over his face and half stifled a yawn. ‘We’re in the shit, and most people with a brain in their head know it. No dog bites off more than he can chew. Not if he’s wise. Russia, the Soviet Union, is a very big bone. Our sainted Leader might have borne that in mind. Belgium was a titbit. France was a proper meal. I’ve served in both countries and that, believe me, was a pleasure. This place? Kyiv? And all the other Kyivs to come? Kharkov? Rostov-on-Don? Stalingrad? You have to be kidding. This winter will freeze the balls off us. The winter after that might be our last. Hang on here for a couple of years and you’ll all be speaking Russian again. Is that a message that anyone in Berlin wants to hear? Not in a million years. Drive the Ivans east of the Urals, grab the oil, grab the grain, do a deal with Stalin, it’s just a matter of time. Time and all that Aryan will. It’s crazy, but these are crazy times. Just ask your Yuri. Unless he’s lucky enough to be dead by now.’
My Yuri? If he belongs to anyone, Bella thought, he belongs to Larissa.
‘Do you have a son, Schultz?’
Schultz frowned. Questions this intimate had never been part of their relationship, not even in Berlin, but the speech he’d just delivered had come straight from the heart and they both knew it.
‘No,’ he said. ‘We thought about it once, but it never happened.’
‘We?’
‘Me and my ex-wife. She has three boys now, so I guess that makes them both very happy. He’s a good man, Klaus. She did well. And so did he.’
‘And you?’
‘I take my pleasures when I can. I doubt there will ever be children.’
‘Does that make you sad?’
‘Not at all. Sadness is a luxury these days. No one has the time for a long face. Enough’ – he checked his watch – ‘Where’s your friend? How much time does a woman need to empty her fucking bladder?’
He clumped across to the door. The sight of the guard outside put a frown on his face.
‘Where is she?’ he demanded.
‘Still in the toilet. She said she knew the way.’
‘Check, my friend. Run along there. Schnell, eh?’
The guard disappeared. Schultz stood in the open doorway, tapping one foot, waiting for him to reappear. The guard was back within the minute.
‘Gone?’ This from Schultz.
‘Ja.’
‘Scheisse.’ The door slammed shut and Bella heard the key turn in the lock. Then came a roar from Schultz and the heavy thunder of boots.
Bella sat back, suddenly exhausted. Protective custody, she thought. If only.
22
SUNDAY 28 SEPTEMBER 1941
The car arrived for Tam Moncrieff early on Sunday morning. He said his goodbyes to Lenahan and wished him well. He’d quietly acquired a box of matches from one of the cooks in the field kitchen and pressed it into the young American’s hand as a farewell present.
‘Set Europe ablaze,’ he said, giving his shoulder a squeeze.
‘Sure,’ Lenahan grinned. ‘It’s been a pleasure, buddy.’
The car, a dark green Rover, appeared to have come from London but when Moncrieff enquired where they were going, the driver wouldn’t say.
‘Talk to the lady, sir,’ he muttered. ‘I expect she’ll tell you.’
They picked up Ursula Barton from a big hotel on the outskirts of Brockenhurst. She and Moncrieff made themselves comfortable in the back of the car. It turned out that Barton had been in residence for a couple of days, since the night of her arrival. She’d managed to track down the remains of the Peugeot to a garage in Southampton and taken full details. The car still had French registration plates but according to the mechanic there was evidence that UK plates had been recently removed. He’d given Barton the number stamped on the engine block and confirmed that the colour – maroon – was very probably original.
Armed with this information, Barton had initiated further enquiries through the government department responsible for importing foreign cars but knew that progress would be slow. In the meantime, she’d had another chat to Lenahan on the phone.
‘About?’
‘You, Tam.’
She reached forward and closed the sliding glass panel that masked the conversation from the driver.
‘Me?’
‘Yes. You won’t mind me saying this, but you’re different, you’re not the man you were. That’s a judgement, of course, that only I can make. Lenahan didn’t know you before. But we both agreed that you’re nervous, unsure of yourself, unsure of anything, not at all the Tam Moncrieff I used to know.’
Moncrieff nodded. He supposed it might be true, but he couldn’t really tell. Which was – of course – the measure of the problem.
‘You’re sacking me?’ he enquired. ‘That would sound logical.’
‘Au contraire. We’re going to nurse you back to health. We will, of course, have ulterior motives and you won’t be surprised to know that one of them is that memory of yours. I’m the layman here but I refuse to believe that a man in your condition, in the prime of his life, can simply lose six whole days. There has to be an explanation, and we intend to find it.’
‘We?’
‘Guy and myself.’
‘Anyone else? Or is this a private party? Invitation only?’
‘That’s better, that almost qualifies as wit,’ she offered a thin smile. ‘Maybe there’s more of the old you in there than meets the eye.’ Her gaze wandered to the ancient bag Moncrieff had acquired from Lenahan. ‘Would that be yours?’
‘It belonged to Lenahan. He gave it to me.’ Moncrieff had turned to gaze out of the window. They were crossing an old bridge. On the one side, a river. On the other, a gleaming stretch of water edged by docks.
‘Southampton, Tam. The
River Test.’
‘Trout,’ Moncrieff murmured. ‘Fine fly fishing. My father would have loved it in his prime. You haven’t answered my question, by the way.’
‘About?’
‘Who else will be bothering themselves with me.’
‘Nobody, Tam. You have my word.’
‘Not even Philby?’
‘Absolutely not. Would that possibility disturb you?’
‘It might.’
‘May I ask why?’
Moncrieff was in two minds. Barton might be right, he told himself. I used to be decisive. In the Corps, and latterly in the Security Service, that came with the territory. You made the call fast. You acted on your instincts. And most of the time it worked out. Now, he didn’t know what to do, where to even start, and that bothered him.
‘This is difficult,’ he said.
‘I’m sure it is, Tam. I’m here to help. Believe me.’
‘Help who?’
‘You, of course.’
‘And?’
‘Us.’
‘Us?’
‘The Service.’
‘And King? And Country?’
‘You’re wincing, Tam. Why is that? Are we having doubts?’
‘About?’
‘The job? The people we’re here to defend? Everything – our terms of service, our education, our upbringing, our families, all that, are you starting to wonder? Just a little bit? Or perhaps a lot?’
Moncrieff closed his eyes. He wanted to bring this conversation to an end, but even that was a puzzle he couldn’t solve.
‘You’re German,’ he said quietly. ‘What would you know about any of that?’
‘Quite a lot as it happens. Yes, I’m German, but you can’t be married to my fool of an English husband for all those years and not pick up a clue or two.’
Moncrieff opened his eyes and apologised for what he’d just said. He assumed he’d insulted her, or at least upset her, but once again he’d got it wrong.
‘Absolutely no offence, Tam. If this thing is going to work, we have to be totally honest with each other. It’s also a question of appetite. Do you want to go through with this thing? Do you want to lay hands on the old Tam Moncrieff and drag him back? If the answer’s no, just say so.’ She smiled. ‘Is that fair?’
‘Of course it is.’
‘So, what’s your answer?’
‘My answer is that I simply don’t know.’ He winced again. ‘Hopeless, isn’t it?’
Barton sat back. They were in Southampton now, the inner city disfigured by bomb damage. Kyiv, thought Moncrieff, must look a little like this.
‘I suspect there might be a photograph in that bag of yours, Tam.’
‘You’re right. Did Lenahan mention it?’
‘He did. He also said it obviously meant a great deal to you. Might I take a look?’
Moncrieff shrugged. He could hardly say no, but he knew he didn’t want to share it with anyone else, least of all Ursula Barton. Yet another dilemma.
After a while, he bent to the bag and pulled out the envelope.
‘Help yourself,’ he muttered.
Barton slipped the photo onto her lap, face down. When she turned it over, she took a long look.
‘Isobel Menzies,’ she said. ‘With no hair. I take it this isn’t charades?’
‘Anything but.’
‘Lenahan mentioned a little message as well.’ She peered into the envelope. ‘May I?’
‘Of course.’
She found the message. Moncrieff knew she spoke little Russian.
‘Every life has a price,’ he muttered. ‘That’s what it says.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning that she’s gone back to Moscow, as we all know, and that they’ve taken her hostage. Shaving the head is standard practice in Siberia. It goes with the serge shirt and hard labour and all the rest of it. Look at her face, her eyes. She was never easy to frighten but they’ve done it.’
‘And that’s really where you think she is? In the depths of Siberia? Doing her penance? For what, Tam? Why would they send her there? She’s a hero. She saw through all our little foibles, like democracy, and constant hot water, and Elgar walking the Malvern Hills. Marx matters to her. She’s a believer. Why on earth would they ship her to Siberia?’
‘Because that way, they’ll buy my silence.’
‘About?’
‘Philby. Who else? They think she knows. And they’re assuming she’s told me.’
‘Told you what?’
‘That he’s a traitor. That he’s working for both sides. That his heart lies where hers does. In Moscow.’
‘And has she told you that? Be honest, Tam. We need to know.’
‘She’s hinted.’
‘Evidence?’
‘Nothing she’s shared.’
‘So why say it at all?’
‘Because she loves me…’ he was frowning. ‘… I think.’
‘And you? You, Tam?’
‘The same.’
‘You love her?’
‘I want to, yes.’
‘But you’re not sure?’
‘I’m not sure about anything,’ Moncrieff turned his head away again. His eyes were filling, and he knew there was nothing in the world he could do about it.
‘Camp dust,’ he swallowed hard. ‘That was the last thing she said to me.’
*
Schultz commissioned an immediate search for Larissa. He gave Bella a driver, plus an armed escort, and told the driver to cruise the local streets, one by one, looking for a woman who didn’t want to be seen. The driver nodded and when he asked in which direction the search should progress, it was Bella who was first to answer. In her heart she knew why Larissa had fled.
‘Make for wherever the SS have gone,’ she said. ‘Kalb in particular.’
Schultz gave the driver the name of a building up towards the Pechersk Monastery. While the driver consulted a map, Schultz leaned into the car. Bella could smell alcohol on his breath.
‘You’re sure?’ Schultz asked.
‘Absolutely.’
‘But why?’
‘She’ll offer Kalb a deal. One life for another.’
‘Hers for the boy’s?’
‘Exactly.’ Bella withdrew as the car began to move. Schnapps, she thought. The man deserves the whole bottle.
They searched until nightfall, street after street. On Schultz’s orders, news that the bombings would soon come to an end had been announced on the radio and through the pages of the city’s newspapers, and the city centre had come alive again. Bella sat beside the driver, scanning face after face as they crawled slowly past, wondering whether Larissa would have laid hands on a disguise of some kind, a different coat, a headscarf that might hide most of her face. Look for an arm in plaster, she kept telling herself, but even this wasn’t really a help. The Luftwaffe’s visits, and now the bombings, seemed to have touched everyone’s lives, and the pavements were full of the walking wounded.
In the darkness, they made their way back to the museum. Schultz, alone in his office, was studying a pile of documents. The only illumination came from his desk light. The bulb was dim, and his thick finger moved slowly from line to line as he battled with the text. He heard the door opening and his head lifted as Bella came in.
He told her to sit down. He didn’t ask about the search because he didn’t need to.
‘She’s with Kalb,’ he said. ‘He phoned and told me. Don’t waste the fuel, he said. She came here because she can’t resist us. Take a leaf from our book. Keep an eye on your prisoners. Heil fucking Hitler.’
He threw his pen onto the desk and sat back in the chair.
‘And Yuri?’ Bella enquired.
‘He wouldn’t say.’
‘You asked?’
‘Of course I fucking asked.’
‘So, what do you think?’
‘What do I think? I’ll tell you what I think. What I think is what I know. The SS has them both. As long as it suits
their purposes, they’ll keep them alive. If you want the truth about your girlfriend, she hasn’t got a prayer. She’s high-profile. Half the city knows who she is. If the SS want to send a message, and they do, she’s the perfect opportunity. The way we are now, nothing protects you if you happen to be a Jew. Not fame, not money, not connections, nothing. Sending her to her death will raise one or two glasses of whatever those bastards drink.’
The way we are now.
Bella shook her head. ‘That’s exactly what Yuri said,’ she muttered.
‘Surprise me.’
‘But she’d have insisted on a deal. I know her. She’s strong. She gets what she wants.’
‘Insists? Are you serious? Negotiation stops the moment she sets foot on their turf.’
‘Then he’s lying,’ Bella said hotly. ‘She’d never be that naïve. She’ll have found a phone somewhere. She’ll be talking to him at arm’s length, insisting on Yuri’s release first. I know her, Schultz. That’s the way she works.’
‘Very Jewish.’
‘Of course. And maybe that’s why she’s so good at what she does. I’m not sure the Kalbs of this world have realised it but Jews are an asset. Liquidate? Is that the verb?’
‘It is.’
‘Then it’s madness.’
‘I agree. The Jewish thing is a distraction and a waste of everyone’s time, but that won’t get your girlfriend back. You saw her this morning. You saw the state she was in. People like me know a thing or two about pressure. We know how to apply it and we know what it will do. The pressure on her is immense. She’s been blown up twice. Ask any soldier what that does to you.’
Bella nodded. In her heart, she knew he was right. The idea, she thought. Another victim, overwhelmed by their own certainty, totally unaware of what might follow.
‘One suggestion,’ Schultz had opened a desk drawer and produced a bottle of schnapps. ‘Or maybe two. Drink?’
‘No, thank you. And your other idea?’
‘It’s more than possible they’ll interrogate Yuri. That process will have started already. With Jews, it tends to be easy, they just shoot them, but with non-Jews, especially educated white males, they like to build a case and kid the world they have some regard for justice.’
‘So?’ Bella had no idea where this was heading.
Kyiv (Spoils of War) Page 23