He didn’t much like field work, preferring his mundane job at the embassy, filling out forms, correcting the grammar in other people’s reports, and translating German documents. Amazing that over half of the Berlin Embassy staff were not fluent in German. Some spoke scarcely any at all. But it was his absolute fluency in German that had earned him the interesting visit to Schloss Eichenholz, where he actually spoke to both Herr Hitler and the Duke of Windsor. Something to tell his children, assuming it was no longer secret by then. Assuming he ever got married.
And now it had got him to the Kabarett, will he or nill he. And, truth be told, he nill. What if he muffed it? The Assistant Secretary would not quickly forgive and even more slowly forget. He would probably not forgive himself. He would spend the rest of his career doing, well, just what he was doing now. He stared into the beer.
He had just about finished his drink, and the waiter had preemptively set a second one alongside the first, when Elyse came out from the back in an ivory dressing gown with a fluffy red collar and began working her way around the tables. He tried looking away and feigning disinterest, when part of him was honestly very interested indeed. But the ploy didn’t work. When she reached his table she sat down across from him and smiled a world-weary smile. He was annoyed to discover that he was very pleased that she had done so.
‘Buy a girl a drink,’ she said. It took a second to register that she had said it in English, which didn’t make him feel any less uncomfortable.
‘Um,’ he said, looking in all direction but hers. This was deucedly awkward. If anyone saw him … If the Foreign Office … A girl like this … a singer in a cabaret … Reflecting that he was here incognito, that no one from the FO would come in, that if they did, they would avoid his eye as much as he avoided theirs, he took a deep breath. Then a new thought: he was here incognito to meet someone. If his contact saw him with this woman would he …
Elyse leaned forward. ‘Kiss me!’ she said.
‘What?’ He almost jumped.
‘Good,’ she said. ‘Now I have your attention.
‘I don’t …’
She shook her head. ‘The British government entrusts you with its sensitive assignments and sends you out – all by yourself? I don’t believe it.’
He almost suppressed a rising tide of indignation. ‘Now see here …’
‘But you are kind of cute,’ she said.
The waiter appeared again with a bottle of champagne and two stemmed glasses. He made a production out of opening it, allowing the cork to arch across the room, and poured.
‘I didn’t—’ Neville began.
‘Of course you did,’ she told him. ‘You bought me an eighty-mark bottle of champagne, and that’s why I am sitting here talking to you. It is all so mundane. Were I to sit here talking to you without the eighty-mark-bottle inducement then it would become of interest to anyone watching. Why you? And we don’t want it to become of interest, do we?’
His mind felt sluggish, but finally he thought it was catching up. ‘You’re …’
‘Elyse,’ she said. ‘I sing. Sometimes I dance. I can be rented for an eighty-mark bottle of champagne for up to half an hour, perhaps several times until I have to do my next set. I will go on again right after the acrobats. You will like the acrobats.’
‘I thought—’
‘That I’d be a man in a trench coat with the collar turned up, a fedora pulled low over his eyes, smoking a cigarette and talking out of the side of his mouth like in the American cinema?’
‘I suppose. Something like that.’
‘Pince-nez,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘Pince-nez?’ This time it was a question.
‘Oh.’ It was the countersign he had been given. But now the response had gone completely out of his mind. ‘Uh.’ He stared at the wall opposite for inspiration.
‘Don’t tell me I’ve made a horrible mistake.’
‘Ah, pickelhaube.’
‘That’s better. Now we’re official.’
‘I wonder who makes up these words,’ Pekes said. ‘I mean, one is supposed to use them in an innocuous sentence in case you’re speaking to the wrong chap. Now I can imagine using pince-nez—’
‘I used to wear pince-nez,’ Elyse offered, ‘but they pinched my nose?’
‘Exactly,’ Pekes agreed. ‘But “pickelhaube”? “I used to wear a pickelhaube but it squeezed my head”?’
‘Lean forward and put your hand over my arm,’ she instructed.
‘Ah …’
‘Merely for the benefit of any watchers,’ she assured him. ‘You’re getting your eighty marks’ worth.’
‘Speaking of which,’ he said, ‘I don’t know whether I have eighty—’
‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘It’s covered.’
‘Um,’ he said, and he put his hand over her arm.
‘Is that the transmitter?’ she asked indicating the suitcase.
‘I, uh …’
‘You don’t know. Of course you don’t know. Why would they tell you what you were carrying? It might make you nervous. More nervous.’ Her hand covered his and she smiled up at him. ‘Just forget it when you leave,’ she told him ‘It will be taken care of. And here,’ she put a white envelope on the table, ‘stick this in your pocket.’
‘All right,’ he said.
She raised her champagne glass. ‘A toast!’
‘To what?’ he asked, clinking glasses with her.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Certainly not to the future. Perhaps to the distant future. “Till the war-drum throbb’d no longer, and the battle-flags were furl’d. In the Parliament of man, the Federation of the world.”’
‘Tennyson,’ he said.
‘There is something about your English poets,’ she said. ‘Rupert Brooke makes me cry. Kipling makes me laugh.’
‘And Tennyson?’
‘He makes me think.’ She downed her glass of champagne and allowed him to fill it again. ‘Do you like it?’ she asked.
‘What, the champagne?’ He took a sip.
‘It isn’t, you know. It’s Sekt. Even the label is an ersatz imitation. It’s actually pretty good, but they can charge more for it if they call it French champagne. And so they do.’
‘What am I to do with the envelope?’
She smiled. ‘Are you so anxious to leave me, then?’
‘No – no, it’s not that …’
Now she laughed. ‘You should stay a while,’ she said. ‘Seduced by my hypnotic charm. Leave sadly when I go back to change for my next set.’ She leaned in toward him. ‘You do realize,’ she said softly into his ear, ‘that this is serious. Perhaps deadly serious.’
‘No, I …’ He paused. What had he thought? He hadn’t really. ‘I wasn’t told,’ he said. ‘Sir Roger told me to come to this cabaret this evening and a man would meet me and take the suitcase. He told me it was very hush-hush, and to wear a green tie. You,’ he added, sounding aggrieved, ‘are not a man.’
‘Thank you for noticing,’ she said. ‘You are not wearing a green tie.’
‘Well, I don’t own a green tie, so I put that bit of green ribbon on my hat.’
‘What hat?’
‘Oh,’ he said, suddenly realizing. ‘I checked the hat.’
She shook her head. ‘You do not take this very seriously.’
‘Truthfully,’ he agreed, ‘I thought it was all a bit of tomfoolery. I’m still not sure that it isn’t. Some sort of joke.’
‘I assure you that it is not a joke,’ she said. ‘As I said, if any of the watchers think that you are anything other than a slightly drunken customer trying to get the girl singer to agree to go home with him after the show, and perhaps feel her legs a bit under the table—’
‘I would never!’ Pekes said indignantly.
‘A shame,’ she said. ‘It would add that touch of verisimilitude to this otherwise bald and unconvincing narrative.’
‘Watchers?’ he asked.
‘Wha
t?’
‘Watchers. You said “watchers”.’
‘Most assuredly there are watchers. The Gestapo has men assigned to watch the personnel of all embassies, but especially I believe the British, French, and Polish. Also their men spend time in clubs such as this to see who is being indiscreet with whom, and if they’d be of any use to blackmail. That is why this charade.’ She made a small gesture with her hand. ‘When I leave you, on the way to my dressing room, I shall go over to that fat man with the overly blond mustache across the room. He has indicated an interest in my, ah, singing.’
‘That was a very good song,’ Neville said. ‘Evocative. And the way you sang it …’
‘There is an interest in sad songs in Berlin today,’ she told him. ‘But not too often, and they must be balanced by a sort of manic gaiety. Most people can feel that there is something in the air. They do not know what, and they do not wish to know.’
Pekes did not know how to respond to that, and so he said nothing.
‘You will please do me a favor,’ she said.
‘What sort of favor?’
‘When your superiors ask you to describe the man who took the suitcase and gave you the envelope you will tell them that he was a tall, well-dressed man with a scar on his cheek. Yes, I think a scar on his cheek would be a good touch. His left cheek. He spoke German with a Bavarian accent. It was dark inside the cabaret, so you could note nothing else of interest. Do not overcomplicate the description.’
‘And why,’ he asked, ‘should I lie to my own people?’
‘To keep me safe. Some of your people,’ she told him, ‘are known to be sympathetic to the current regime. Some of them think Herr Hitler has brought order to the chaos that was Weimar. And again some of them may be vulnerable to persuasion of various sorts.’
‘What … Who?’
She shrugged. ‘I do not know. But it is possible, is it not? It is better not to take the chance. And nothing is to be gained by describing the “man” who gave you the envelope. In it is a brochure for a spa in Bad Salzuflen, you should visit it, it is very healthful. If the brochure is treated with the proper chemicals, and I do not know what they are but presumably the man who is to receive the envelope does, a list of transmission times and other such information will appear, so we never have to meet again. Also a message, I believe.’
She stood up. ‘Goodbye. You should have touched my thigh, it is a nice thigh.’
He blushed. He could feel the heat in his ears.
‘Stay here for a while,’ she said. ‘Drink your Sekt. Look sad.’
‘I am sad,’ he said. ‘I should have touched your thigh.’
She smiled. ‘Goodbye,’ she said. ‘Take care.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
You can’t make an omelet
without breaking a few eggs
– old English idiom
Blake was already at the Figaro, his hands wrapped around a coffee mug, a sour expression on his face, when Welker arrived. ‘It’s about time,’ Blake groused. ‘Where the hell were you yesterday?’
‘In Washington,’ Welker said, sitting down and waving at a waiter, who promptly ignored him, as is the way at the Figaro. ‘What’s so urgent?’
‘I got news,’ Blake told him. ‘I don’t know what it means, but I got news.’
‘OK. What is it?’ Welker waved at the waiter again, who grudgingly came over and took his order for a cappuccino. ‘And a piece of pie,’ Welker added. ‘Apple pie.’
‘No apple,’ the waiter told him, looking infinitely sad at the bad news. ‘We got peach, lemon meringue, blueberry, which I don’t recommend ’cause the blueberries come out of a jar, and we got cheesecake.’
‘OK. Give me a slice of cheesecake.’
‘Come to think of it, we got an apple crisp. That’s a lot like pie.’
‘Cheesecake,’ Welker decided.
The waiter nodded. ‘You got it,’ he said.
Welker turned back to Blake as the waiter left. ‘What’s the news?’
‘Well, first, you know those cards – the Commie membership cards that Gerard had me print up? Lehman gave them out at the Commie meeting yesterday. Said everyone should carry one, at least when they come to meetings. Shows they paid their dues. And to identify themselves to other members. Just why or when you’d want to do that he didn’t say. And they’ve all been numbered with one of those numbering stamps. But what’s weird is the numbers weren’t sequential. Like he’d follow a three with a nineteen and then back to, maybe, seven, and like that.’
‘That is interesting,’ Welker admitted. ‘Why would he do that?’
‘Yeah, why?’
‘Maybe he wants it to appear that there are a lot more members than there are.’
‘Yeah,’ Blake agreed. ‘And why would he want that? Especially ’cause Lehman ain’t really Lehman, he’s a Nazi in Lehman’s clothing. So what do you suppose he’s up to? What do you suppose it means?’
Welker shook his head. ‘No idea,’ he said.
‘Well, I wouldn’t of asked to meet you just for that. It’s weird, but it would have waited. There’s something else.’
‘OK,’ Welker said.
Blake leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘He’s setting up an action group. That’s what he calls it, an action group. He needs a dozen people who are willing to put their words into action. He says. I don’t like it.’
Welker lowered his voice to match Blake’s. ‘What sort of action?’
‘That he doesn’t say. Or when – he doesn’t say that either.’
‘How is he picking this dozen members?’
‘First you got to volunteer – and don’t say what you’re thinking, ’cause I won’t.’
‘I didn’t say a word.’
‘Yeah but were thinking it, or you were going to be thinking it.’
‘Actually not,’ Welker said. ‘He knows who you are, doesn’t he?’
‘Yes, ‘Blake said. ‘He passes me messages to take back to the Gauleiter. Sneaks them in a pamphlet or a copy of the Daily Worker and hands it to me.’
‘So if he wants real Commies for whatever this is, he wouldn’t pick you anyhow.’
‘Yeah, I guess that’s right.’
‘Cheesecake?’
Welker swiveled around. The waiter was standing behind him with a slice of cheesecake in a small plate balanced on his open palm. ‘Sorry,’ Welker said, shifting to one side slightly to give the waiter space to put the plate down.
‘The chef took the liberty,’ the waiter said, ‘to cover it with a raspberry puree that he made himself this morning.’ He said it with the mournful air of a man who knew that his customer’s next words were going to be, ‘I hate raspberries.’
‘Why, that’s very nice,’ Welker said, resisting the urge to ask, ‘You actually have a chef?’
‘Um,’ the waiter said, and moved away.
Blake waited until Welker had turned his attention back across the table and repeated, ‘I don’t like it.’
Welker considered. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘I don’t much like it either.’
‘That cheesecake any good?’ Blake asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Welker said, ‘I haven’t tasted it yet.’ He took a forkful and tasted it. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘It’s very good.’
Blake waved at the waiter and pointed at the cheesecake and made ‘give me a piece too’ motions with his hands. The waiter stared at him for a moment and then stalked over. ‘You want something?’
‘Cheesecake,’ Blake said. ‘Bring me a piece of cheesecake.’
The waiter sighed and moved away.
‘The question is,’ Welker said, ‘what now?’
‘Easy,’ Blake said. ‘What I should do now is move to Oklahoma.’
‘I thought it was Philadelphia or Kansas City.’
‘Maybe a little further away. Maybe Guam.’
‘Guam?’
‘It’s an island.’
‘I know it’s an island.’
‘Probably no Nazis on it. Or Commies. Probably just nice peaceful Guamites.’
TWENTY-NINE
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
– William Shakespeare, Hamlet
‘It comes together,’ Welker said, ‘but it doesn’t seem to go anywhere.’
‘What do you have?’ Geoffrey asked.
They were sitting on easy chairs in Geoffrey’s living room across a glass-top coffee table from each other nursing drinks – Scotch and water, no ice, and Scotch on the rocks. The Scotch was Glenkinchie, a single malt not yet sold in the US that, as Geoffrey’s father put it, ‘Goes down singing hymns.’ Garrett had brought out a plate of strange twisted pastries for them to sample that he had just created from a recipe with an unpronounceable name in a language that didn’t seem to actually exist. But the twisties were hot and fluffy and tasted of cinnamon and vanilla. Patricia and Sophie were out shopping.
‘You first,’ Welker said. ‘You called me.’
‘So I did. I have word from our contact in the German, ah, government. There is an active clandestine operation against your country that is set to mature sometime in the immediate future.’
‘Sabotage?’
‘Our contact doesn’t know exactly. Perhaps not sabotage in the classic sense, not destroying things, since its object, he believes, is to keep America neutral and blowing up anything would seem to work against that ideal.’
‘We are neutral.’
‘Not neutral enough, apparently. My good friend Felix says that Fall Bude, whatever that may be, has been activated and is in progress.’
‘Felix?’
‘His code name. His true identity is known only to, I believe, three people.’
‘Wise,’ Welker agreed. ‘I have heard of this falling Buddha before, but with no context.’
The Bells of Hell Page 22