New Jerusalem

by John Meaney

  "Hello," I said. "I don't suppose you've seen—? Oh."

  "Good afternoon, sir. Who were you looking for?"

  "Um, Dr Montagu, if you know him."

  "I'm afraid not. And you are...?"

  "David Wolf. I'm meeting Charles, Dr Montagu, and then we're going to the lecture theatre."

  A round-faced woman came out of the next office, and said: "Dr Wolf, hello. Dr Montagu is already down there. Can you remember the way?"

  "I haven't been here for years," I said, "but I'll find it. Thank you."

  But the older detective was holding out a small photograph. The sight of it made me tighten my grip on the Feynman proofs.

  "Do you know this person, sir? Dr Appleton?"

  This was him, the man I was looking for.

  "No, sorry."

  Inside the pages I was carrying was a large photograph of the same guy, so I'd better not drop them.

  "Are you sure you—?"

  Then a familiar Gallic voice sounded behind me.

  "Ah, Wolf. You are here."

  He and the detectives said hello. Charles asked whether they'd found Appleton yet. The younger detective gave a police-jargon reply about enquiries proceeding.

  Then Charles said: "Dr Wolf is my visitor, and he's due to lecture in five minutes. Can I take him away?"

  "Of course. You're not based here, Dr Wolf?"

  "I haven't been in Oxford for six, seven years."

  "Guess you'd better give your talk, then. Hope it goes well, sir."

  "Thanks. So do I."

  As I followed Charles down the steps, I added: "It might be helpful to know what I'm giving a talk on. You know, just a hint would do."

  "Ah, my friend. You'll enjoy it. No preparation required."

  We came out into the downstairs corridor.

  "That's good, since I haven't done any."

  Then a stooped man with drooping facial skin tottered over to me, pulling his academic gown around himself.

  "Young Dr Wolf."

  "Hello, Professor."

  "We're looking forward to hearing about the exciting life of a science writer. I'm sure you have interesting tales to tell."

  Charles was grinning, and raising his eyebrows.

  "I'm delighted to be here," I said.

  Most of my audience were young men in suits and narrow ties, some with bow ties. There was one female undergraduate with glowering dark looks. At the rear sat a handful of faculty members. Centring myself, I smiled and spread my hands. Charles was right: I was going to enjoy this.

  "There's a science fiction writer called van Vogt" – I smirked, aware that sci-fi was frowned upon in the halls of academe – "who coined the term nexialist to describe someone with an overview of all the scientific disciplines. A person with the knowledge and imagination to make intuitive leaps that a narrow-focused practitioner in the field would never—"

  And so on, in that vein.

  I talked physics for a while, then moved onto a topic the students probably hadn't considered: "The thing, it's not just about ideas, it's about people. You think solving Schrödinger's wave equation is hard. Try convincing a researcher to spill the beans when they think you're in collusion with their opposition, or persuading an editor to pay for your travel to Japan to track down the latest—"

  Of course I omitted the most interesting skills that I had really learned: how to manipulate others with covert techniques most people don't know exist; how to combine physiological knowledge with intense physical fitness in order to kill.

  Finally, Charles was making clock-winding motions to indicate we were running out of time. Amazed that an hour had passed, I rounded things up with remarks about the magical truth behind science that is so easy to ignore if you're working on it day to day. Then I asked if there were any questions.

  "How many science journalists are female?" asked the young woman with the glowering looks.

  "Not enough," I said. "We need more women."

  There was a ripple of laughter at my quick answer, and she frowned.

  I could have worded that a little better.

  But before I could elaborate, a sharpsighted faculty member who'd spotted my book proof said: "Is it true you met Richard Feynman?"

  And if you know anything about the personalities in science, you'll understand that I could not ignore the professor's question.

  "Yes," I answered. "And he really is the genius that everybody says..."

  For a few minutes, I held the audience spellbound, describing my visit to Caltech early last year. Then Charles thanked me, thanked everyone for coming, and said there would be tea in the corridor outside. Everyone applauded.

  "Er... Thanks," I said.

  Charles grinned at me.

  We stood with cups and saucers in hand and chatted. Charles dunked a ginger nut in his tea – for a Frenchman, he'd picked up some terrible habits – while Professor Sanderson told me about the new crystallography programme. Then I noticed the dark young woman standing at the edge of the group, without a drink, simply observing.

  She turned to leave.

  "Excuse me, Professor." I left Sanderson, and headed off the young woman. "Pardon me..."

  "Oh! Sorry... Yes, Dr Wolf."

  Her dark eyes held vulnerability, but there was something more.

  "I wanted to apologize for the short answer I gave you," I said. "Um... Have you ever heard of Rosalind Franklin, by any chance?"

  I had interviewed Dr Franklin once. She and this woman shared a certain intensity.

  The young woman took a step back, focusing on me.

  "You mean the researcher" – her voice started soft, then grew in volume – "whose supervisor broke into her lab, and showed Crick and Watson the DNA diffraction patterns that she had captured?" And, louder: "Allowing two men to steal her results and discover the double helix because her colleagues thought she was a stroppy Jewish bitch?"

  By this time, all other conversation had stopped.

  "Is that," she added, "the Rosalind Franklin you mean?"

  Everyone was staring.

  "Yes," I said. "And you're an awful lot like her." I pulled out my wallet, and extracted a card. "Contact me if I can ever be of help. The world needs people like you."

  After a moment, she took the card.

  Well, that was unexpected.

  Behind her, Charles mimed applause, while everyone else gawped.

  That was praise enough for me.

  A cool wind passed along Parks Road as we walked. The evening light lent a subdued glow to the centuries-old buildings. Beside me, Charles was carrying a stylish, slim leather case that fastened with straps. Perhaps it contained some physics paper he wanted me to read. What I wanted to talk about was the missing man, Appleton.

  "You're staying here for how long?" I said. "A whole year?"

  "Seven, maybe eight months." Charles gave a twisted, ironic smile. "I came here for the food, as you said back in Paris."

  "What better reason could there be?"

  We both laughed.

  "Interesting this, what's his name, Appleford?" I said. "Police detectives inside the department. Imagine."

  "It's all right, my friend." Charles glanced to either side, though there were few pedestrians, none close by. "I told them nothing."

  Told them nothing about what?

  The only connection between me and Appleton was that I'd seen the guy in Munich.

  "What are the police after, precisely?"

  We were into New College, slowing down as we entered the cloister. I leaned against a pillar that in the States would have been inside a museum. I crossed my arms, making sure not to tuck my fingers in, able to react fast. Charles laid his leather case on the low stone wall.

  "Appleton's gone, David, with no word to his colleagues. You knew this?"

  "Not exactly. When did he disappear?"

  "Over two weeks ago." Charles made a tiny movement that suggested a shrug. "Maybe longer."

  "So tell me what you know about h
im. Appleton."

  "Pfft." When he spread his hands, Charles' fingers looked long and fluid. "Rude bastard, but he knows his solid state. He made his name with some interesting work on glasses."

  Glass is really an ultra-thick fluid that flows very, very slowly. The structure isn't well understood.

  "Anything else?"

  "He moved over to the laser optics group, but nobody likes him very much."

  "That's a shame."

  "You haven't met him, David. That young lady you were talking to earlier? She refused to have him as a supervisor. The term anti-Semite never actually appeared in writing."

  "Ah."

  "Which was why I was puzzled when your Mr Segal called me."

  I uncrossed my arms.

  Jean-Paul?

  "Where was this, Charles? Here, or Paris?"

  What the bloody hell would Jean-Paul talk to you about?

  "Paris, a month back. After I'd started my sabbatical here, but I'd popped back for the weekend. To visit an old friend."

  "Ah. How was she?"

  "Delightful."

  "And my friend, Jean-Paul. What did he say?"

  My separate worlds were merging, in a very disturbing way.

  "What's going on David? I mean, the police are involved. Shouldn't you tell me?"

  Turning to face Charles, I paid careful attention to his breathing. It was part of my preparation for what I was about to do.

  "It's curious," I said, "how what you hear can let you wander here and now—"

  The expression on his face was interesting: the beginnings of a defensive frown, and then a softening as his eyes grew unfocused.

  Shit. No.

  His eyelids fluttered, then snapped open as I brought my voice back to ordinary tones, abandoning what I'd been about to attempt.

  "—which is just a weird thought I had. Anyhow, I'm hungry."

  Because if I'd reached the stage of covertly hypnotizing my friends, then everything had gone bad.

  "Qu'as tu fait, David?"

  "Rien du tout, and I'm bloody starving. Is there anything better than college food around here?"

  "Of course there is."

  We sat in the corner of something unusual: an Italian restaurant in England. I wasn't sure the idea would catch on, unless the Italians learned how to overboil vegetables until all vitamins were obliterated. Off to one side, a long table held a group of loud-mouthed Hooray Henrys. Their obnoxious voices masked what Charles and I were talking about.

  "I've read every article of yours I could track down," said Charles. "Insightful writing."

  "Thanks. I got half the ideas from you."

  "Only half? But I'm good at ferreting out obscure papers." A proud smile flickered across his face: he'd used 'ferreting out' correctly, and knew it.

  "You could pass for an Englishman," I lied. "Your language ability is superb."

  He'd need to work on the accent, but his syntax and idiom were faultless.

  "Maybe. And my maths was good enough to total up the payments you must have earned on all the articles. Not enough to live on."

  "Oh. Did I mention the inheritance from my mother?"

  "No, but I remember all the times in college when you said how glad you were that you were broke. Remember, when the rich idiots" – he gave a miniscule nod toward the noisy table – "used to go on about inheritance tax and family feuds?"

  I raised my glass of orange juice in toast.

  "You work for Mossad, David Wolf." Charles was staring at me, watching for feedback. "And Mr Segal works for the Deuxième Bureau."

  "Jesus Christ." I put the glass down. "How did you work it out?"

  "Excuse me? Did you say Jesus Christ?"

  "I'm undercover," I told him. "Oy vay tends to give the game away."

  I'd drawn back from hypnotizing him. That didn't mean I had to tell the truth. Fucking Mossad, indeed.

  "All right, my friend. Your Mr Segal's tame art expert needed to be put in touch with Appleton, and so he asked me."

  "Art expert."

  "You know, the Arab guy."

  Charles was suspicious, which spoke well for his intuition.

  Art expert. Arab...

  Then a memory came back to me. The party in Fern and Jean-Paul's apartment in Paris some five months earlier. The architecture-and-sculpture expert I'd talked to. Thin and bearded, but I couldn't recall his—

  "Professor Bazargan," I said.

  "That's the man." The expression on Charles' face grew clear. "Why a Saudi art professor was helping Moskowitz, I wasn't sure. And as for Appleton... "

  "Did he get paid?"

  "Probably, and technically it was his field – properties of some material Moskowitz was planning to use in his sculpture – but Appleton helping a Jewish sculptor? Very odd."

  "Perhaps he meant to sabotage the work."

  "Not good for his reputation."

  After a moment, I said: "Neither is disappearing. What do people think happened?"

  A tentative idea was in my mind. Appleton was in Munich when some English people – meaning me and Clive Rogers – attempted to infiltrate the FPDA and then bugged out, spooked by something they probably couldn't guess.

  Unless Strang had in fact spotted me: noticed me noticing him. That would alarm the Black Path team. Perhaps they'd brought Appleton in, thinking he'd been rumbled.

  Which would mean my op in Munich was more of a disaster than I'd thought.

  "Neither Appleton nor your Monsieur Segal talked about it." Charles laid his slim briefcase on the table, opened it, and pulled out a folded newspaper page. "But you know what Berlin's most famous sculptor is working on, don't you?"

  "Er..."

  "I didn't think so. That's why I kept this."

  The last time I'd gone running in the Tiergarten, I'd passed the Raging Wall. The sculpture is black iron, and its mood is anger, a determination to remember forever.

  I read aloud: "Le sculpture <> sera situé au centre de la Plaza U.N. On dit qu'il est vraiment énorme, construit avec bronze et un materiel nouvel, c'est-á-dire, la vitrine noire..."

  "Nice accent, David."

  There was an artist's impression of what the new sculpture would look like. Call it a landmine with angel's wings, destined for U.N. Plaza. I put the paper down.

  The proprietor's daughter was fetching our order.

  "So it's a piece for the United Nations." I looked up at the young woman. "Thank you."

  "You're welcome, sir."

  Her gaze was intent on Charles, but he was shaking his head, looking at me. Disappointed, she put his dish down, and returned behind the counter. Her father, the proprietor, smiled.

  "What happened when they met?" I asked Charles. "Appleton and Bazargan, I mean."

  "They chatted in a friendly way, in a restaurant in London. I'm not sure if I can remember the name."

  "Who picked the place? Appleton?"

  "Actually, it was me. We met at Charing Cross, walked towards Covent Garden, and I spotted a place that looked all right." Charles pretended to search in all directions for eavesdroppers. "For a British restaurant. Don't tell anyone."

  "Uh-huh." This wasn't helping. "What did they talk about?"

  "I don't know. I had a coffee, then left them to it. I had to get back here."

  So that was it: all the information Charles had. Steam was rising from the cream sauce across my tagliatelle. We ought to eat while the stuff was warm.

  "An English solid state physicist with an interest in lasers and a hatred of Jews," added Charles, "is helping Moskowitz, New Jerusalem's most famous recluse. And now he's disappeared."

  "Moskowitz?"

  "Appleton."

  "Yes. Weird, isn't it?"

  "David..."

  I took a forkful of tagliatelle.

  "Mmm. Excellent."

  "Wolf, my friend. Am I going to get anything more out of you?"

  "Unlikely," I said. "But I will pay for dinner."

  "I suppose that will have
to do."

  TWENTY-SIX:

  OXFORD, April 1963

  I sat in darkness in my college room, cross-legged on the small, hard-mattressed bed. Random images and sensations flitted through my thoughts: Jean-Paul and Fern, Colonel Ignatieff, Moscow streets and overpowering snow and fighting Zadok in that cold hangar, Crossman slipping out of sight on the Salt-and-Pepper Bridge. And Fern again. Mostly of Fern. Raised in Lithuania by Communist partisans, fighting the Nazis who'd destroyed her childhood world. If Fern were a mole, her employers were the KGB.

  Or the GRU?

  It's hard to distinguish between sister services. Charles thought I was working for Mossad.

  But Black Path have the bomb.

  Enemies on all sides, and one enemy had stolen resources – not just uranium, but world-class assassins trained by the GRU – from the other. Could resurgent Nazis really be working with powerful figures inside the Soviet hierarchy? Crap. I couldn't see the pattern, not clearly. We working on the outside, like the proverbial blind men guessing the shape of an elephant by feel. That was because we'd failed to penetrate the Black Path cell in Munich, no, I had failed, my mission blown apart just because I was feeling nervous.

  If we don't put it together, Uncle Isaak and a million New Yorkers are going to die.

  None of this was helping.

  Report in.

  That was the thing. Having learned this much, this link between Appleton and Moskowitz, a famous Berlin sculptor, I ought to contact Pinchas or Schröder. What if something happened to me? If only Charles hadn't mentioned Jean-Paul's name.

  Black Path's English asset, Appleton, had dealings with Moskowitz, brokered by a Saudi professor, Bazargan, who was surely run by either Jean-Paul or Fern, since I'd met him in their flat. If any more nationalities got involved, we'd have enough for a United Nations quorum. But remember the way we confuse the neophytes in training: the situation only looks confusing because there's someone involved whose identity you don't know, their motivations straightforward but unknown to you. In Fern's case, I found it hard to believe she might be a traitor; with Jean-Paul it was totally unthinkable.

  So ring Schröder and tell him everything.

  Somehow I couldn't.

  I pulled on an overcoat over my suit. There was a pencil-flashlight clipped inside my jacket pocket, plus the usual lockpicks. My shoes were rubber-soled.