Within minutes he had pulled on the business suit, tying the silk tie as he exited.
A block away August ducked into a second-hand shop and purchased an old briefcase and placed all of his belongings into it – the final prop to the disguise.
The United Nations building was vast. It was hard not to be intimidated by the sheer size – built in the style of a Grecian temple, the ionic columns soared up towards an unerringly perfect blue sky. It had been built to impress, to reduce the pedestrian to a mere foot soldier expected to serve greater ideals than his mere mortality. Recalling the ineptitude of the ill-fated League of Nations during the build-up towards the Second World War as a way of stiffening his resolve, August walked briskly up the steep stairs, feigning a familiar casualness. Stepping into the shadow of the columns and through the huge glass doors, he approached the reception desk.
‘Bonjour, Madame, I am here to see Mr Clarence Winthrop. I believe he is with the US delegation currently in chambers.’
The receptionist, a steely old matron, ran her eye down a list placed before her.
‘Mr Winthrop is in the building. Is he expecting you?’ Her gaze briefly settled on his jacket. He glanced down and noticed he’d missed a button doing up the jacket.
‘Absolutely.’ August looked over at the huge clock that hung over the entrance to the inner courtyard. ‘About five minutes ago in fact, and Senator Winthrop is a most punctual man.’
The subliminal pressure worked. Trust the Swiss to care about such matters, August thought, thankful nevertheless as the receptionist reached for the phone.
‘And your name?’
‘Monsieur Tubbs,’ he told her, with a straight face, knowing his father would recognise the name.
Three minutes later she directed him to the UN offices behind the great assembly hall.
Senator Clarence Winthrop sat behind a vast oak desk, which was more notable for its bare surface than its immensity. A single document sat in the middle and beside that a large glass ashtray in which a cigar – Cuban no doubt – smouldered. He had his head bent over as he read, his hair, once thick and black, was now thinning and a pure white, August observed with a poignant shock. It was a bleak reminder of how many years had passed since he’d last seen him. The diplomat looked up as August shut the door. Their eyes met and August’s stomach clenched despite his resolve. How could I have been your son, when there is nothing we share except a coldness of heart?
His father, a large man with an even larger presence, had not lost any of his presidential, patrician air. He stared expressionless at his son, his florid complexion mottled with age. Then without a word he put the cigar to his mouth, sucked, then exhaled, eyes closed, the broad hands August remembered as a child now liver-spotted and latticed with blue veins. So the patriarch is mortal, he thought bitterly to himself, long live the patriarch. The silence stretched into an unbearable tension. Unsure of his next move, August walked into the middle of the room, noticing a UN pass had been casually left atop a pile of newspapers and magazines on a side table against the wall. His father rubbed his eyes.
‘Mr Tubbs? I thought it must have been you,’ Clarence Winthrop remarked, flatly. ‘So all those years of reading Moby Dick amounted to something. If only this, the prodigal son returning to haunt his dying father.’
August pulled up a chair opposite the desk. The last time he’d seen his father was in late 1938, just after he’d returned to London from Spain. His father was visiting London to see his good friend Senator Joseph Kennedy, then the US ambassador. Both men were full of admiration for the German chancellor Herr Hitler, an opinion Clarence Winthrop had voiced over an embassy dinner, much to August’s horror. Father and son had argued publicly and then privately, August resisting his father’s wishes for him to return to Boston and consider a career in either the military or politics – both of which the senator could facilitate. The argument had finished in a violent stalemate and the two men had not spoken since. Now August found himself remembering all those affectations and opinions he’d loathed about his father. Watching him, August noticed with a silent shudder that his father held his cigar in exactly the same manner he himself held cigarettes, same long fingers, same hands. Despite his revulsion, he fought the impulse to light up himself.
‘Are you dying?’ August asked, trying not to sound hopeful.
‘Nope. But you will be soon, if you’re not careful. You look like a cheap spiv. I guess this is what you spies call a disguise.’ He practically spat the word out, and August guessed he was far better informed than he was revealing.
‘Oh, come now, Father, I’m far too candid to be a spy, surely you remember that about me?’ It was a calculated risk. Lolling back in the chair, August feigned a blasé amusement, the entitled dilettante. It was the way he imagined his father had always seen his younger self. His father studied him through a cloud of cigar smoke.
‘That’s right, you’re a freelance researcher, writer? Whatever the term is nowadays for agitator. The real question is, August,’ he leaned forward, ‘why are you visiting me now after fifteen years, here in Geneva at the UN?’
‘You know why.’
Clarence flicked his ash into the large ashtray moulded in the shape of an aeroplane, an inscription across the wooden base declaring it to have been a gift from the First Infantry Division 1917–1919. The ash fell in a gentle cascade of grey dust.
‘I might and I might not. Maybe I just want to hear you, for once in your life, beg me for something.’
‘That’s not going to happen.’
‘Then I guess I can’t help you.’
There was a short pause as the two men stared at each other. Somewhere in an office nearby the telephone rang then stopped.
‘How’s Mother?’
‘You know how she is, son. I know you two write.’ Clarence’s hand hovered dangerously near the telephone. Any minute August knew he could pick up the receiver and call security.
‘Father, I’m here because I know there will be another attempt from the US in the general assembly to have Franco accepted back into the UN and I know that Truman plans to sign a defence pact with the dictator in September.’ It was a flat, matter of fact statement, not a plea, not an apology, yet as soon as he said it the old fear of disappointing his father began to churn in his guts. The bastard still has a hold. August tried to push down the impulse to leave.
‘Jesus, August, when are you going to start surprising me? Don’t you know who just died? Stalin! Have you any idea what this could mean in terms of US security? We could be on the brink of a new world war, and we know the Soviets have nuclear weapons. Washington could be the next Hiroshima unless we have bases close enough to the Russians to strike first. We need those bases in Spain.’
‘Franco is a fascist. Two hundred and twenty-six million dollars will fund him for decades – he has murdered hundreds of thousands of his own people.’
‘And the Soviets will murder us given half the chance. I see the bigger picture, August. You were always the blinkered idealist. I suppose you’re in cahoots with this crazy Englishman.’ He looked down at the dossier in front of him. ‘A Jacob Cohen.’ He frowned in disgust. ‘Probably a Zionist.’
Jacob. August’s head whirled with possibilities.
‘What about him?’
‘He infiltrated the conference and staged a protest yesterday.’
‘He’s been arrested?’
‘He’s a British citizen. But the Swiss have detained him. A friend of yours?’
August changed the subject. ‘So you won’t help me at all?’
‘Sure, I’m helping you right now by not picking up that telephone and calling security. Son, you have twelve hours to get out of Geneva before I alert Interpol and the guys over at the Bureau myself. I think that’s fair, don’t you?’
August got up from the chair.
‘I knew it would be a waste of time coming here.’
‘And you should know, in case you were thinking of getting mate
rialistic later in life, you are no longer in my will. For me you no longer exist.’
August stared into the face of his father, searching for a flicker of empathy, one tiny window of emotion. There was none. His father’s face was as blank as wood, the only betrayal a slight twitch at the corner of his granite jaw.
‘Was I really that much of a disappointment?’ he asked him, softly.
‘I’m just thankful I have two children.’ As if that concluded their relationship, Clarence turned his back and stared out the vast glass window beyond which stretched the long perfectly manicured lawn of the Court of Honour. Not daring to dwell on his own emotions, August began walking out, swiping the UN pass from the side table as he went.
‘The Swiss have done what?’ Malcolm screamed down the telephone to the ambassador’s aide. ‘Cohen should be under our jurisdiction – he is the subject of an MI5 investigation, and he has nothing to do with the Swiss.’
‘He committed a crime on Swiss soil, within the UN itself.’
‘How long can they detain him?’
‘Another twelve hours.’ The attaché sounded young, nervous, straight out of some minor private school west of Kent, Malcolm thought ungenerously. Christ, he hated dealing with amateurs.
‘Make sure you thank the Swiss profusely,’ he retorted, his voice heavy with irony, then slammed down the phone and directed his attention at the agent lounging on the small couch set against the large Regency window that overlooked Lake Léman.
‘Nice suite. Upstairs must like you. Stacked bar fridge?’
‘Appearances. I’m a visiting businessman, remember?’ Malcolm snapped. He was trying to regain some strategy: the whole situation was getting out of control, and if he didn’t get August back now, his job would definitely be on the line. He was certain August was somewhere in Geneva and the last thing he needed to deal with was the distraction of some maverick independent like Jacob Cohen. He turned back to his Swiss counterpart, an ambitious operative they’d originally recruited in Monte Carlo, Roger de Pestre, son of an ex-Belgian diplomat and English mother. De Pestre had welcomed both the intrigue and the financial means to stay on the cocktail circuit. He was already helping himself to some champagne.
‘Roger, I want you to go over to the UN building and chat up the secretary of Clarence Winthrop. See if he’s had any unusual visitors recently. And if any fit August’s description, let me know. After that you’re to head over to Le Havre police station on Her Majesty’s business. Make Cohen sing. I don’t care how and I don’t need to know the details. If he doesn’t sing, silence him. Make it look self-inflicted.’
De Pestre smiled. Malcolm had always suspected him of being somewhat of a sadist. ‘With pleasure.’ De Pestre raised his champagne glass. ‘Chin-chin.’
August sat in a small office in Le Havre, the central police station of Geneva, waiting to see Jacob Cohen. At the reception he told them in his best British accent that he was a journalist with The Times and unless they allowed Mr Cohen to give his side of the story, August was happy to publish some embarrassing revelations about the lack of press freedom in democratic Switzerland. The ploy worked eventually – after they initially refused he had threatened to phone his old friend the British ambassador, who, August claimed, would be most interested to hear how he was not allowed access to a fellow British subject. In fact August knew the ambassador’s aide – they’d been to Oxford together – but he doubted the aide would have remembered him, except for the fact that August had seduced his sister.
They ushered August, clutching his briefcase, into a bare room with a table and a barred window. After a few minutes a guard led Jacob in. He barely bothered to look at August, his demeanour listless and defeated. Oh God, what have they done to you? Jacob sat at the table, August opposite him. Sporting a black eye and a bandaged wrist, he showed no signs of recognising the American until the guard had left the room and locked the door behind him.
‘So you came after all.’ Jacob looked up, struggling to contain his emotions.
August opened the briefcase and pulled out the three photographs of the mazes, and a notepad. He indicated Jacob’s wrist.
‘Was that the guards?’
‘No, they treat me well here. That was UN security. There was a scuffle in the press gallery.’
‘I heard you caused quite a disturbance.’
‘He was there, August. Tyson. Smug as they come, in person, sitting with the US delegates, like he wasn’t a criminal, like he was human. I couldn’t help it, I lost control. You’ve seen your father?’
‘It was him who told me you were here. Apart from that it was a total waste of time, except that I now have only’, he checked his watch, ‘about eleven hours before he gives me up to both the CIA and Interpol.’
‘Your own father?’
August didn’t need to reply – his face said it all. Jacob leaned forward. ‘Tyson is at the Beau Rivage, room thirty-nine,’ he said, in an urgent low voice. ‘And he isn’t the only one. One of the Spanish delegation is there too. A general called Molivio.’
August blanched. ‘Cesar Molivio? Are you sure?’
‘Positive. You’ve heard of him?’
The sound of the general’s voice came flooding back to August, his calm inflections over August’s own screaming: ‘The trouble with young men like you is idealism. You think your Communist friends will support the people if they get power? My dear young man, you are deluded. They will be worse than Franco. Tell me who they are, save yourself.’
‘He tortured me, in Spain. Back then he was only an officer.’
‘Sounds like the type that would be a good friend of Tyson’s.’
‘Where’s Izarra? She followed you here about two days ago. Have you seen her?’
‘Just before I went into the UN.’
‘Is she okay? Where’s she staying?’
‘Somewhere in Les Pâquis, I don’t know where exactly. Listen, you have to get me out of here as soon as possible. Tyson will have me killed if the English don’t claim me, and, frankly, there’s little chance of that.’
‘I promise we’ll get you out of here.’
‘Another thing, August, in case something does happen.’ He pulled the notebook towards him and scribbled down something. ‘This is the number and code of a locker at Cornavin station. Inside is an FBI dossier I stole on Tyson. Everything you need to expose him is inside.’
There was a sharp knock on the door then the guard poked his head around the side. ‘Dix minutes!’ he barked, then locked the door again.
‘There’s one last thing I need from you.’ August pointed at the three photographs, laid side by side between them. ‘This is the third maze.’ He showed Jacob the photograph of the Blankenese maze. ‘As you can see, here Tiphareth, the third sephirot from the base, is planted – in this case bay and laurel leaves. Malkuth had lily and vervain while Yesod had anise and mandrake root. Could this somehow make up an anagram?’
Jacob studied the mazes thoughtfully. ‘If there was one, it wouldn’t lie in the names of the herbs but more the order of the planted sephiroth – “M” for Malkuth, “Y” for Yesod and “T” for Tiphareth. That in itself makes no sense, but if you add a “D” at the end …’ here he took August’s pen and drew a new circle between the top sephirot Kether and Tiphareth in the middle, ‘… for Da’ath, you get “MYTD”. I’ve seen the Hebrew letters for this before, in a photograph of an old bronze statuette Tyson purchased – one of those mystical icons. I remember it because it was so strange. It was a pair of winged feet. These letters were written across the base. They stand for “The Eyes of God”. It was a name taken up by a kabbalistic cult that dated from the late seventeenth century and was adopted by a maverick English black magic cult in the 1920s, headed up by a follower of Aleister Crowley – an Olivia Henries.’
August looked up sharply. Now a logic was beginning to form to the puzzle.
‘She was with me at the maze. She died in my arms, trying to protect me.’
&
nbsp; ‘Olivia Henries? Are you sure?’
‘I know her, Jacob, from years ago, when I was a student at Oxford. She worked at the museum where I used to study. But how does this “cult” fit in with the disappearance of Baptise?’
‘That I can’t answer. I am a rationalist – nothing in my life has led me to believe in God or miracles. As far as I’m concerned he’s never there when you need him.’
They could hear the guard unlocking the door. Jacob grabbed August’s wrist. ‘The reason I know all this is that I have information that in the late thirties Tyson attended a few of their meetings before the war. It’s all connected,’ he finished, urgently, as the guard entered.
‘Don’t worry, Mr Cohen, I shall endeavour to secure a release for you as soon as possible,’ August said, formally as he packed the briefcase. He nodded at the guard and walked out.
August sat back against the chaise longue and stared up at the atrium that loomed over the lobby of the Beau Rivage. The three-storey hotel was famous for the number of celebrities, politicians and aristocrats who had stayed there over the past decades and it amused August that he found himself in such a place under such circumstances. The Beau Rivage had legendary status with his mother, a social climber and Europhile; she had once stayed there as a giddy eighteen-year-old with her mother, on the obligatory trip to Europe expected of American debutantes. What would she make of her son now? August couldn’t help wondering, a fugitive pursuing his nemesis in a stolen suit. Poor Mother, a woman who prided herself on being able to trace her ancestors to the Mayflower, she would never forgive him the scandal.
The elegant atrium was built around an enclosed courtyard in which a pink marble fountain tinkled musically through an atmosphere that was equal parts wealth and discretion, in the way only the Swiss could achieve. Rows of pink-marble square columns edged the courtyard, above which open balconies to the upper floors were visible. The private suites were situated on these floors, August noted, as he sat, armed with a cocktail from the hotel bar, under the pretence of meeting a friend. He glanced at the reception desk. The maître d’, a professionally handsome man, was busy dealing with an Arab sheikh and his entourage of two wives and assorted nannies and children, all five of whom were clad in neat little black-and-white sailor suits. The commotion had allowed August time to survey both the lobby and the floors open to the atrium: the hotel was extremely exclusive, with only thirty suites, and he knew Tyson’s would be located on the first floor. August sipped his gimlet, thankful for the expensive suit he was wearing. Suddenly, he became aware of being watched. He looked to his right and caught the eye of an expensively dressed brunette, somewhere in her forties. She wasn’t unattractive and when she smiled coquettishly back, waiting for an invitation to join him, he was actually tempted – an old reflex. After chastising himself he picked up a copy of Der Spiegel from a side table and studied it. A few moments later the woman rather pointedly left, leaving a trail of florid perfume behind her as she sauntered past him.
The Map Page 49
