The Secret Houses

by John Gardner

  ‘He was okay. He’d lost blood, yes. But it was really only an unpleasant flesh wound – through his side. He was moving about almost normally the day before I left.’

  ‘He could have gone with you? You have no doubts about that?’

  ‘None at all. In fact he said he was okay, said he could come. But he chose to stay.’

  The pressure was being turned very slightly.

  ‘He chose to stay? Did Dollhiem use those words?’

  ‘It seems a long time ago. My memory’s not as clear as it should be, but I recall him saying he felt he could be of use to the network. Yes, that’s what he said: “I can be of greater use here. There are ways I can help them.”’

  The chairman began again. ‘Isn’t it true that you knew Dollhiem before you got to the Camp?’

  ‘I don’t – ’

  ‘You knew him for the couple of months when you were brushing up your French and German, Mr Newton. Isn’t that so?’ For the first time he stressed French.

  There was a note in the transcript saying that Newton hesitated for some seconds. Then –

  ‘Yes. Yes, I did. You know, I’d forgotten that. Yes, he was at the School of Languages.’

  ‘Brushing up his French, German… and Russian. Right, Mr Newton?’

  ‘Yeah, Yeah, he spoke all three. Unlike me.’ (Transcript Note: Mr Newton’s mode of speech became less precise.)

  ‘That is a point, Mr Newton.’ The most pompous of the lawyers, an interrogator by trade, moved into place. ‘When you told us the details of Romarin you claimed not to speak French.’

  ‘I don’t,’ with a nervous laugh.

  ‘But your record shows you were approached in the first instance because you spoke French and German. It also says you came through the courses with high ratings in both languages.’

  ‘That was a fix.’

  ‘A fix? What kind of a fix?’

  ‘Oh, God, this is embarrassing. My German’s good. Still is. But my French is schoolboy stuff. I can read it – translate on sight. But I don’t speak French. I have no ability for the accent, and I can’t follow it when it’s spoken to me – I’ve some kind of block.’

  ‘There’s no mention of that in your record.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I talked to the instructors. Look, I was keen as mustard to get through. I came clean about the French to my instructor at the School of Languages. He passed me on sight translation. If there was any possibility of my having to speak French, they’d have pulled me from the op.’

  ‘But they didn’t, Mr Newton. They did not pull you from Romarin, did they? Did anyone really know? I mean anyone connected with Romarin?’

  ‘I guess not.’

  ‘And you didn’t own up to it?’

  ‘I didn’t think French would be required.’

  ‘You were jumping into France.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Why go into a French operation without the language, when everybody else must have thought you spoke it?’

  ‘I wanted… Oh, hell. I wanted some action.’

  ‘You realise you could have caused trouble? Apart from Dollhiem, who was needed to speak German, you were the only other OSS officer down as a French speaker.’

  ‘We had Tony with us: Antoine, the French guy.’

  ‘Who was killed before he even touched his native soil.’

  ‘It all went wrong. You can’t hold me responsible for that.’

  ‘Maybe not. Then again, maybe you were in part responsible.’

  ‘What the hell d’you mean by that?’

  ‘You told us that nobody – nobody in the team – knew the extent of Romarin until a couple of hours before you left. Is that strictly true?’

  ‘How could we know? Cartwright briefed us that evening. Before we left.’

  ‘Dollhiem knew, though, didn’t he?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Dollhiem was briefed, with Major Cartwright, a couple of weeks before the operation. He had to be briefed. He and Cartwright were both given a full rundown. They were even fitted with the SS uniforms. They both knew what was to happen long before the team got together at Gibraltar Farm. That’s a matter of record, just as it’s a matter of record that you and Dollhiem were close friends. Ever since the Language School you were close. Right?’

  ‘Right.’ Softly. Caught.

  ‘So when did Dollhiem tell you what Romarin was really all about?’

  Newton’s defences were gone. ‘The day before.’

  ‘At last. The day before. He opened his mouth twenty-four hours before the operation got the green light?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He tell anyone else?’

  ‘Not that I know of.’

  ‘Well, who did you pass it on to, Mr Newton?’

  ‘Nobody. I didn’t breathe a word.’

  ‘Maybe. But we’ve already proved your evidence is tainted – and somebody passed it on. Probably in France, but it was passed on. Dollhiem and yourself survived, but they knew in Orléans. They knew you were coming.’

  Another of the lawyers asked if Dollhiem had access to a telephone. Newton said he couldn’t be certain.

  And they started going over it again, question by question. Then the same questions once more. Their queries rained down on Newton like cudgel blows.

  The transcript went on for thirty pages and ended with the chairman suggesting that Newton should stay in England as they might need to hear more from him.

  *

  ‘Through the wringer,’ Arnie said, dropping his copy on the pink glass table, from which C scooped it up.

  ‘And it’s still going on.’ C smiled, reaching out for Naldo’s copy. ‘I’m sorry you’ve been kept so late, but time’s running short. You follow the line of my concern, Naldo?’

  Naldo nodded.

  ‘There’s a little more that you won’t learn from the Enquiry.’ He laid his body back in the easy chair. ‘Mr Newton’s offered to assist in any way he can. They have him in a quiet safe house with a pair of inquisitors. Just to be sure.’ He sighed, a weary man. ‘You see, it’s not Newton who worries me. The missing Dollhiem is the true thorn in my side.’

  ‘Because he’s a Russian speaker?’ Naldo asked.

  ‘Partly. That; the Orléans Russians; and one other thing.’ They waited. C appeared to be making up his mind. Then – ‘This is family business, Naldo. You’ll have to explain it to Farthing here. Are you aware of the cooperation between the Russian NKVD, our Service, SOE, and Farthing’s former service, OSS?’

  Naldo looked blank. Arnold shook his head.

  ‘Well.’ C drew a deep breath. ‘We took it upon ourselves. rightly or wrongly, to allow the NKVD facilities into Europe – Germany itself – on a few occasions. They sent their men into London and we took them out via Gibraltar Farm.’ He turned towards Arnie, ‘Your former chief, General Donovan, was anxious to build on these operations. He wished to establish a permanent OSS mission in Moscow. The Russians, always our uneasy allies, agreed, but only if they could operate a similar NKVD team in Washington. I was against it, I can tell you that.’

  ‘I can imagine,’ Naldo murmured.

  ‘So you can also imagine that many people almost went hairless at the idea.’ C smiled again.

  ‘The plan was scotched, of course. But we had already received people from the Russian Service in London, and we had facilitated their entry – mainly by parachute – into Germany where, I must admit, they did better than my own people. Early in ’44 we agreed to take three of them in. Donovan knew. We kept them in a safe house in London, and they came complete with their own dispatching officer.’ He paused, looking hard at Naldo. ‘That man was Rogov. Your Uncle Ramillies, Naldo. Gennadi Aleksandrovich Rogov.’ He saw Arnold Farthing’s puzzled expression. ‘Explain it to Farthing at your leisure.’

  Naldo nodded.

  C cleared his throat. ‘General Donovan knew we were about to infiltrate NKVD men into Germany, so
he asked if his Service could be privy to the advance briefings. After all, SOE was doing the spade-work, and we also had a representative with them – SIS, I mean. To cut a long story short, we agreed. The officer Donovan sent was Nathaniel Dollhiem, a good Russian speaker. He had several semi-private conversations with Rogov.’

  ‘Jesus!’ breathed Naldo.

  ‘So’ – C continued as though he had heard nothing – ‘that’s another piece of the jigsaw we are calling Symphony. The pieces get more numerous, not to mention more complex, each day.’ As he said it, the telephone rang. C picked it up and spoke quietly. Several exchanges took place before he cradled the receiver. ‘Well, time is running out. The school says that young Kruger’s as ready as he’ll ever be without more experience out in the cold. They’ve also narrowed the field of possible camps where Klaubert might be holed up – two in Germany and three in France. It’s possible you’ll have to get Symphony under way long before the Enquiry’s heard all the witnesses. They’ve had a first session with Felix today. When they’ve finished with him, there’s the all-important Buelow.’ He glanced at his watch. It was almost midnight.

  ‘I suggest you both leave here. Take forty-eight hours off and come back around eighteen hours the day after tomorrow. I’ll have transcripts up to date by then. You might have to read through the night, and I’ll come and give you my final briefing and, possibly, bring Kruger. You got a bed for Farthing, Naldo?’

  ‘Yes. He can stay with me. No problem.’

  ‘Good. Don’t forget it’s imperative that we keep the whole thing silent as the grave – though I think a few words with Dick Farthing at Redhill Manor might not come amiss. If he’s reluctant, tell him to telephone me, but for heaven’s sake don’t even give a hint that I’m running my private operation. Nobody, and I mean nobody, must know what we’re at.’ He sucked in breath, almost through his teeth. An uncharacteristic action. ‘You know Richard Farthing worked at Oshawa on and off?’

  ‘I had some idea he was there.’ Naldo tried to calculate the possibilities of getting to Redhill and back, plus entertaining Arnie and spending time with Barbara before he left. ‘Have my father and Uncle Caspar been told about Ramillies yet, sir?’ he asked.

  C gave a curt nod. ‘Your father was told this afternoon. He was instructed to break the news to Caspar when the Enquiry closed for the day. Caspar was going back to his office.’

  *

  That afternoon, Caspar had returned to his office after listening to his old friend Felix giving evidence. Jules Fenice had been direct and believable. It was pouring with rain and Caspar had trouble getting a cab. James was waiting for him, and stood silently while he shook out his sodden raincoat and umbrella.

  When the cousins had greeted one another, James told him about Ramillies, and his re-emergence as a senior officer of the NKVD.

  Caspar, knowing who had set up his brother Ramillies’ defection all those years ago, in 1918, walked over to the window and looked down onto the soaking streets. His mind seemed to be like a car in a skid. He thought of agents he had turned during his career – agents he had doubled.

  Aloud, like any good Railton, he quoted Shakespeare, knowing James would understand.

  ‘And is old Double dead?’ he queried with terrible bitterness.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Caspar’s wife, Phoebe, was waiting for him in the hall of the elegant house in Eccleston Square. ‘God, what a filthy night.’ She took his coat. ‘How did it go?’

  ‘Usual. Nothing to be bothered about.’

  ‘You know Alex is coming to dinner? Alex and Hester?’

  ‘I’d forgotten. Sorry. Andrew couldn’t make it?’

  ‘No. He’s working on a case. Some whore got herself murdered and he’s briefing the defence. Murdered whores are more important than family dinner parties.’

  Caspar stood at the foot of the stairs. His head ached and he felt weary from the strain of the Tarot Enquiry: sick from the news about his long-lost brother Ramillies.

  ‘Alex tried to cry off as well,’ Phoebe said, and Caspar gave her a blank look. ‘I told him he had to come.’

  ‘You can’t go on treating him like a child.’ Caspar smiled but it held no warmth. ‘If he didn’t want to come, you should have left it alone.’

  ‘The excuse didn’t hold water. I told him we wanted no rifts in the family.’

  ‘You’ve been talking to my mother.’ Charlotte Railton’s fury that Alexander was to give evidence flickered in his mind.

  ‘Yes. I know he presented some information to the Board.’

  ‘Couldn’t look me in the eyes, either. What he gave had no bearing on me at all.’ Caspar turned and began to climb the stairs. ‘I’ll change. Be down in half an hour.’

  He went to the second floor, not to their bedroom. His study was on the second floor – practically the only room in the house that remained unchanged. It had been Giles Railton’s study, and was known in the family as the Hide.

  Caspar stood just inside the door, looking around the room with its big old military desk and the custom-crafted cabinet which took up one whole wall. The cabinet, made of polished oak, was lined with drawers of different sizes which contained his grandfather’s maps, hand drawn and of almost every major battlefield, from the wars between Palestine and Syria, some 1100 years before the birth of Christ, to the Boxer Rebellion.

  Other slim drawers held stacks of trays in which whole armies were stored – tiny, moulded-lead replicas of fighting men and materiel – siege towers, ballistas, carts, early cannon, right up to Gatlings and French 3-inch field guns.

  Here Giles had reenacted the great battles of history, using maps and models.

  Now that he knew Ramillies was not dead, but working within the Soviet regime as an NKVD officer, Caspar wondered if he could ever use this room again. Here, his brother must have been briefed for the Russian adventure, and the seeds of treachery might even have blossomed in this very place. He closed the door, walking slowly to the bedroom and his dressing room where he began to change for dinner.

  Over dinner, Caspar’s daughter, Hester, was full of the social life she had begun to lead since demobilisation from the WRNS. By nature she was a bubbly chatterbox of a girl, very attractive but, unlike most Railtons, not to be trusted with anything confidential. Nobody in the secret trade within the family would speak of it in front of Hester.

  Alexander remained quiet during the meal, speaking only when the ladies retired, leaving father and son alone with the port. The Railtons would always maintain tradition.

  ‘I gather Grandmama’s angry because I had to appear before the Board,’ he said, pouring from the decanter. A couple of small drops of the wine fell to the white cloth like bloodstains.

  ‘You mustn’t be concerned about your grandmother,’ Caspar said. ‘She’s got it into her head that I’ve been caught up in some witch-hunt.’

  ‘Well, haven’t you, Dad?’

  ‘No. I’m not under threat.’ He sipped his port. ‘Maybe I’ll be hauled over the coals for not getting wind of the situation earlier. But I have no troubled conscience about running Tarot.’

  ‘Not even a conscience about recruiting the girls?’

  ‘That’s a different matter, and, yes, if you want to know, I feel like a murderer. Very guilty.’

  ‘It was a pretty cold-blooded thing to do.’ Alex looked away.

  ‘I know,’ Caspar said quietly. ‘I do know.’

  ‘Do you also know that you’re deluding yourself about the Board of Enquiry?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Dad, there were a hundred réseaux that went to the bad, were infiltrated by the Abwehr or got stuck with informers. Nobody’s putting their British controllers on the rack. Nobody’s been accused of lousing up Prosper, or the “pianists” that were turned early on.’

  Caspar shrugged. ‘Let’s see,’ he said, though in his heart he had long ago begun to worry. The Board was unnecessary when put against the other foulups that had g
one on across Europe. C had ordered the Board of Enquiry and then said he wanted nothing to do with it. There had to be a deeper purpose. Something that mattered now.

  In bed that night he thought to himself. No, this isn’t just to do with Tarot. It’s about something else, and the something else concerns C at this moment. He tried to think logically. What was it that mattered? Was Klaubert alive or dead? What had happened to Caroline, Jo-Jo, and the OSS man Dollhiem? What were the Orléans Russians’ signals? Why? As he thought, certain pieces of the puzzle began to assemble themselves in his mind, just as they were being assembled by C so that Naldo and Arnie could take action and dig out the roots of truth.

  As he drifted off into a troubled sleep, Caspar knew that the truth was important – not merely because in his profession people liked to know the truth, but because the truth about Tarot was essential to something that was going on in the here and now.

  *

  Just as Caspar was easing himself toward sleep, Naldo was driving Arnold Farthing to Kensington. They had observed all the formalities: C going ahead on foot – though they knew he would have somebody trustworthy nearby – then Naldo leaving to walk a long route to his car and later picking up Arnold near Northolt station.

  As they drove, Naldo gave Arnie a brief rundown on the complexities surrounding Ramillies – how he had been sent as an agent into Russia in 1918, disappearing almost immediately only to resurface – unrecognised by anybody, including Naldo – in the ’30s while on a recruiting drive for the Soviets in Cambridge. Now he had been positively identified as an NKVD officer of some rank. ‘He’s going to be part of our leverage for Symphony. I’ve no illusions about that,’ Naldo said.

  When they arrived at the house near Kensington Gardens, Naldo checked to make certain Barbara was not there. He had provided her with a key so that she could come and go when she wished. ‘I’m not a free agent, if you’ll forgive the pun,’ he told her, ‘but you are free. Always remember that.’ His father, James, had once told him that the best way to keep a woman was to give her a very long rein. Barbara had replied that she would certainly do as she pleased, but only as long as it pleased Naldo. Every meeting brought them closer together, and they spent twice as much time exploring each others’ minds as they did enjoying each others’ bodies.