by John Gardner
Herbie growled to himself, staggered from the wall, and moved farther down the street. The sedan had all but blocked his view.
From across the road Curry gave the sedan a surreptitious look. There was a man at the wheel, and he thought he discerned some movement in the back, but when he slyly looked again, nobody was there.
At that moment the green door opened and two friars came out onto the cold street, the wind whipping at their habits. One was tall, striding from the doorway like a holy hero about to do battle against Satan.
‘Go! Go-go-go!’ Marty almost screamed, looking incredulously at the car in front and cursing the time the FBI men took to get from it.
In fact it was only a second or two, but in those moments Marty and Naldo were out, standing in readiness, while Curry still performed his drunk act and began to walk unsteadily toward the friars – ‘Holy Fathers!’ he slurred. ‘Will you not help a poor man who can’t get work?’ He even bumped against Brother Clement as he staggered, separating him for a moment from his companion.
The three FBI men moved in, and, as they did so, Herbie unstuck himself from the wall and began to walk forward into the street, his eyes on the tableau outside the Refuge.
Curry hung on to Brother Clement’s habit, and one of the FBI men took the other Franciscan a few paces away, while the remaining pair began to speak – ‘Brother Clement?’ one of them asked.
The tall man just nodded, then his face broke into a smile as though he had been waiting for this moment for years.
‘We are officers of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I must ask you to come with us and answer some questions, Brother.’
Caspar, Arnie, and Dick were out of their car now, eyes fixed on the man they had sought for so long.
‘Gladly, brothers. Oh, gladly.’ Klaubert smiled, then nodded. ‘You know of course that my real name is Hans-Dieter Klaubert? That I was in charge of the Schutzstaffel in Orléans?’
‘Yes.’ The agent gave a slow nod.
Herbie was halfway across the street now. Somewhere behind him he heard a car door open, then, out of the corner of his right eye he caught sight of a figure moving past, on his outside. The figure came fully into his vision – a stocky, well-built figure, moving in a boxer’s crouch.
It could only have been a tenth of a second before he realised what was happening. Herbie heard himself scream, ‘No!’ The shout seemed to echo as it came simultaneously from Naldo and Curry.
Herbie launched himself at the crouching man, his huge hand going for the Smith & Wesson he had carefully strapped inside the long overcoat.
He hit, in a flying tackle, hearing the breath come out of the crouching figure. But even as he hit he knew it was too late. The stocky man had straightened at the last moment, his arms coming up in front of him. As Herbie struck, bringing him to the ground, he fired two shots.
It was all a mixture of sounds and noise – the crack as Herbie’s shoulder connected with the gunman’s legs, just behind the knees; the shots at the same moment; the thwack of both bullets finding their target; the breath exploding from the body now under Herbie; and shouts from all around.
Naldo saw it all, and for a moment could hardly believe it. He knew the intruder only from description – Marcel Tiraque: Night Stock – just as he knew Klaubert, now pitched backward off his feet and thrown to the ground, the heels of his sandals scraping on the surface of the street.
Naldo moved to Herbie’s aid, though the German lad needed no help, apart from having the gun kicked away from Tiraque’s hand. Then everyone turned looking toward the car from which Tiraque had come. There was movement from the rear, and one of the FBI agents took up the double-handed grip, his pistol an extension of both arms. Marty Forman did the same. Then the others, a ring of handguns pointing toward the sedan, the fingers taking up pressure on the triggers.
‘Noooooo!’ Naldo shrieked above the confusion and noise, running, putting himself between everyone and the sedan. ‘Hold your fire! Don’t shoot! ‘
He saw Arnie moving along the sidewalk on the far side of the sedan, and Caspar coming into the middle of the road. There were screams, the sound of feet running, and cars honking; a sea of people; and voices all around.
Naldo had not even drawn his gun. Now his hand reached for the rear door of the black sedan, wrenching it open. He found himself looking down the barrel of a large Colt automatic. Behind the Colt was a small, dark-haired, very pretty young woman. She looked like a darker version of Sara, and behind her there was another girl, with an elfin face and long blond hair.
In the wink of time between opening the door and seeing the young woman and the gun, everything fell into place within Naldo’s head. It was as though by some magic a jigsaw puzzle thrown from a box had made itself into a picture on the table of his mind.
In his head he saw the cyanide gun outside Otto Buelow’s door; the truck shattering the CIA interrogators’ car; the bullet splintering Nat Dollhiem’s skull; the sniper blowing away the top of Tert Newton’s head. Most of all he was now nearly certain that he knew about Caroline and Jo-Jo; knew how they had gone, and who with; knew how they had been deceived; knew about the now-dead Klaubert; knew about the intrigues and deviations of Lightning/Harold; Thunder; and Night Stock, whom Herbie had in an armlock with the stubby barrel of his S&W stuck into the man’s ear. Night Stock – Tiraque – was laughing hysterically: ‘Got the bastard. Got the bastard traitor.’
Naldo looked at the girl with the Colt automatic and saw the tears running down her cheeks.
‘It’s okay, Caro. It’s over. Give me the gun.’ Gently he took it from her, glancing over her shoulder and nodding. ‘It’s over now, Jo-Jo.’
Arnie had opened the far rear door and was helping Jo-Jo onto the sidewalk, just as Naldo assisted Caroline.
He heard Caspar’s voice, almost breaking emotionally behind him –
‘It’s all right, Caro, Jo-Jo. It’s all right. It’s over for you. He’s dead. You’ve done what you thought best. The rest of us will have to live with our mistakes. Forgive me if you can, please.’
Naldo thought he heard one of the girls whisper, ‘Oh, Cas. Cas. Thank God!’ And he knew that there was little relief in her words. For Jo-Jo and Caroline it was all far from over. In some ways, for them, the hell was about to begin.
Chapter Forty
It was not until the chaos following Klaubert’s death began to recede that the full implication of what had occurred hit them. For almost half an hour the British team surrounded the cars. Tiraque had been cuffed and placed in one of them with an FBI man. The girls were separated and put in different cars, while various family members went to talk with them. The young women appeared to be frightened, and – in Caroline’s case – almost hysterical.
Naturally, as her father, it was Dick who spent most of the time with Caroline, and it was to Dick that she whispered the name of the hotel where they had been staying. ‘I loved him, Daddy,’ she kept saying through tears. None of them knew whom she was talking about. At the time Dick was convinced she spoke of Tiraque.
The hotel information was passed to Arnie, who nodded and slipped away to speak with his CIA colleague. There were telephone calls, and the second CIA man disappeared to join a team already in New York, dealing with other matters.
In the end it was left to Marty Forman to explain the real problems. Until he spoke with Dick they were all under the oddly euphoric impression that it was merely a case of getting Tiraque and the girls away, then taking them back to England for a full, lengthy, and demanding interrogation. It quickly became obvious that this could not happen.
‘The guy should by rights face a Murder One rap,’ Marty said. ‘And the women should be held as accessories. I’m not a fool, so I can work out the possible connection with the Washington killings.’ He spoke of Buelow, Dollhiem, Tertius Newton, and the two interrogators.
Caspar looked outraged. ‘This was a combined Agency/SIS operation. We have to take them back to the UK. We had an
agreement, damn it.’
Marty slowly shook his head, saying that they had an agreement regarding Hans-Dieter Klaubert – ‘Who’s going to the City Morgue. There can’t be any agreement or understanding about this other guy and the women.’
Arguments continued between the FBI and the British team. An ambulance took Klaubert’s body away, and members of the NYPD moved the crowds on, their plain-clothes officers talking earnestly with the FBI agents. While all this took place, Marty Forman disappeared.
When he returned, Marty beckoned Dick out of the car where he was still comforting his daughter.
‘The situation’s kinda fluid,’ he said. ‘They gotta appear before a judge in camera. No press, no nothing. But the guy Tiraque’ll be on a Murder One charge, the women as accessories. Now, make sure you’re hearing me right. I spoke to my boss, Fishman. He says it’s a case for very long debriefing, and he’s speaking with a judge now. The Director himself is having words with the Attorney General. In any case we’ll have all three of them safe in Washington by late tonight.’
So it turned out. Tiraque, who sat silent, shaking his head at questions from Caspar, was advised to reserve any plea at the initial court arraignment, scheduled to take place almost immediately.
Loath as they were to let either Tiraque or the women out of their sight, it was necessary for the British team, together with the Agency people, to give them up to the FBI.
Sadly, in Dick’s case – and with much frustration for the others – three unmarked cars moved swiftly away, carrying Tiraque, Caroline, and Jo-Jo.
From that point things moved very quickly. Marty was a fireball of organisation, getting the teams into cars, detailing the drivers, and moving them out. Hard, tough, and rough though he was, Marty Forman had a deep sense of fairness and truth. He knew how the Brits felt – particularly in respect of the fact that the women were relatives of most of them.
The only amusing incident in an otherwise worrying series of events was the arrest of both Curry Shepherd and Herbie Kruger, by over-zealous cops, on charges of vagrancy and carrying concealed weapons. It was a sideshow, and the pair were eventually saved from spending the night in the drunk tank – which also housed vagrants – by the none-too-speedy intervention of the senior FBI agent of the section assigned to Klaubert’s apprehension. The business brought a few smiles, but failed to lift the anxieties which pervaded the British contingent.
Early that evening they all stood in a small courtroom. The three defendants were still carefully separated, and each was now represented by an Agency-appointed lawyer. The charges were read out, but the names of the accused were omitted. The victim was also named only as Brother Clement OFM. When these preliminaries had finished, the judge ran his eyes over the small assembly and began to speak.
‘I am advised by the Attorney General,’ he began, ‘that this matter contains certain aspects which concern national security and our security agencies. I am, therefore, not going to proceed with the arraignment at this time. The defendants will remain in the custody of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, who, I am assured, will see that they are delivered into the keeping of other agencies who need to make a full investigation regarding the killing of Brother Clement – a novice of the Order of Friars Minor.’
‘I have instructions from the Attorney General that the defendants will face charges at some future date’ – he hesitated before adding – ‘if such charges are deemed necessary and valid following further investigation. The defendants are released into the hands of FBI agents now present in this court.’ He rose. The court rose. Tiraque and the young women were quietly led out of a side door, where Agency hoods waited to take them, by safe and guarded routes, to Washington.
‘Okay,’ Marty told the British team. ‘We’re arranging a special flight to get you all to Washington. There’s a lot of work ahead, and I guess you folks’ll bear the brunt of that.’
*
They all met on the following morning in James Xavier Fishman’s office. Curry and Herbie were not present – by request. Instead, a couple of Agency men took them on a tour of Washington, with instructions to keep them happy and give them anything within reason until the preliminary interrogations were over. The Agency wanted no member of the British team leaving for England until at least the foundations of truth were exposed.
Fishman explained how things stood. Tiraque and the women had been kept separately from the moment they were taken in the Bowery. ‘I felt you’d want that.’ He spoke mainly to Dick as the most senior officer present. ‘Obviously there are possible matters of conspiracy, maybe treachery – and charges under your own beloved Official Secrets Act. We’re naturally concerned about anything relating to the killings of Buelow, Dollhiem, and Newton. We’re also anxious about the possible leakage of secrets from the Atomic Energy Commission. Things Newton might well have passed on before his sudden death.’
Fishman said that in the circumstances he felt the British officers should, as he put it, ‘Have the first shot.’ If these initial interrogations bore no fruit, then the results would be passed on to Agency people.
He left the clear impression that his own interrogation teams would not be gentle – he did not mean in any physical way – nor would there be any possibility of even discussing release of the women. They were accepted, he said, as ‘Gallant Resistance officers during the European campaign, unless it was proved otherwise.’
Dick did not wish to be involved. Caroline was his own daughter, and Jo-Jo had been brought up mainly by her foster mother, Marie Grenot, Sara, and himself. It was not right that he take any active part.
So it was agreed that Caspar, having run Tiraque as Night Stock, should begin to debrief his former agent. Naldo, together with Arnie Farthing, as the Agency’s representative, would talk with the girls, who were still kept strictly apart. Caroline was in a house quite near Arnie’s place in Georgetown. Jo-Jo had been lodged in the apartment in which they had once kept Otto Buelow. Both were heavily guarded by Agency people – men and women officers, with a ring of watchers nearby.
Marcel Tiraque had been taken to the house outside Alexandria. The house where Newton had died. Tiraque was held under an overkill of security.
Before they went their separate ways, Arnie not only disclosed what had been found in Tiraque’s hotel room in New York but handed over the material. Caspar looked through it, not even disguising his bewilderment. This was a job that could be done best by others, he said, and shut himself away with Dick Farthing for almost two hours, going through the material, taking only one or two token pieces with him to the Alexandria house while Dick began to make long, detailed, and secure telephone calls to London.
In the first days it was clear that Tiraque had no intention of talking. Caspar’s questions appeared to fall on deaf ears. ‘You really care about what happened?’ Tiraque asked him. ‘I did you a favour. I did all of us a favour. I got rid of the Devil of Orléans for you – evened the score a little. I also saved your own relatives, Caspar, like I told you I would a long time ago. You think it wasn’t done out of friendship? All we did was even the score. The fact that the war was technically over makes no difference. If you’d caught up with Klaubert, you’d have put him to death judicially – and those Red treacherous bastards Dollhiem and Newton would have been put behind bars. Christ, you’d have thrown the key away on them!’
‘What about Otto Buelow?’ There was no hint of Caspar’s knowledge concerning Klaubert’s almost ephemeral connection with the British Secret Intelligence Service.
‘What about Buelow?’ Tiraque countered. ‘He was Klaubert’s deputy, wasn’t he? He had blood on his hands.’
‘He was also related to my family by marriage – which means he was Caroline’s relative. Which one of the girls got rid of him, Marcel?’
‘I got rid of him.’ He banged his chest. ‘Me. I did them all.’
‘You?’ Caspar raised his eyes incredulously. ‘You did Buelow, Marcel? You killed him with an ingenious p
iece of Russian equipment?’
‘It was my ingenious piece of equipment,’ thumping his chest again. ‘I did it all.’
‘So you managed to get yourself into two places at once? You killed Buelow, then spirited yourself away, in a matter of minutes, stole a truck, caught up with Buelow’s interrogators in the pouring rain, and smashed them into charred pulp on the freeway.’ He took a deep breath, smiling at Tiraque. ‘You find a telephone booth to change in, Marcel?’
Tiraque grunted questioningly.
‘I mean, if you are the Caped Crusader – let’s get it on the record.’
‘I did it all.’ Tiraque spoke quietly, snapping his mouth shut. ‘I saved the girls; kept them hidden; looked after them; swore vengeance with them and allowed them to see the results. That’s all.’ Again the mouth closed, lips pursed.
‘We need more detail, Marcel. You and me, we’ve known each other for a long time. Surely you can pass on the details to me. Why keep the girls hidden for so long? Why go to all that trouble?’
Marcel simply shook his head. ‘That’s all I’m going to say.’ He then refused to answer any more questions, so Caspar had to wait for the results of Naldo’s and Arnie’s work on Caroline and Jo-Jo – together with the answers concerning material taken from Tiraque’s New York hotel room – before he could really lay the news on his old agent.
*
Naldo was, not unnaturally, concerned with the time scale. They were already into the last week of November, and he had a date at the altar with Barbara on December 23. Arnie told him not to worry. ‘If they cooperate, we have no problems. We only need the baseline details.’
They had been given permission to reveal the main First Folio evidence – that Klaubert was an unserviced British asset who was also playing a game with the Soviets – if they felt the need. In the end they kept it to themselves, for, happily, Caroline appeared to be open and honest with them.
By the time of their first interview the initial shock had worn off. Now Caroline was just pleased to see friendly faces, though she pleaded a dozen times to see her father.
