by Jan Needle
‘He’s a war criminal. He was Hitler’s second dicky, didn’t that sink in? I don’t know much about it, it’s not my war, it’s history, but he was the one who made the laws against the Jews, or somesuch.’
‘Final Solution,’ said Peter-Joe, as if on Mastermind.
‘But he flew a plane!’ said Wiley. ‘Surely? Didn’t he fly to Scotland and give himself up? Wasn’t he bananas?’
‘He was fit to plead at Nuremberg,’ said Silversmith. ‘What is this, Bill? Why are you giving me this shit? We’re talking job.’
His claws were close to slipping from their sheaths. And why the hell not, thought Wiley. If he told Peter-Joe to kill a babe in arms he’d do it like a shot, so what was his excuse? They were talking job.
‘He was a monster,’ said Peter-Joe. ‘A murderer, a mass murderer. Bloody hell, Bill, you are going soft, aren’t you? He’s a fucking Nazi.’
It had stopped raining, and the light outside was failing. He was getting in too deep, he knew it, he was in dangerous waters, he was with dangerous men.
‘Look,’ he said. ‘You’re very close to it, you understand. I need a rest from Ireland, I need to clear my craw of the politicals, the hypocrisy, the blundering in the dark. I need a change, you’re quite damned right I do, but I don’t think murdering old men is it. I don’t think I’ll be much good to you, I think there are better men to do. That’s the bullshit part, isn’t it? “You’d chosen me already, Peter-Joe rates me as himself.” It’s bollocks, there’s a million other guys. Who’s number three, for instance? Come on, level with me.’
The Widowmaker’s eyes were steady, bleak.
‘Me,’ he said. ‘I’m leading from the front. You are the number three.’
Wiley was silenced.
‘Big job,’ said Peter-Joe. ‘No messing. Silversmith leads, and we’re his team. Privilege. And you want to turn it down? Gordon Bennett, Bill.’
‘Can I turn it down?’
Silversmith drank whisky, his eyes levelled across the rim.
‘It’s a free country.’
‘No thanks to Rudolf Hess,’ said Peter-Joe.
‘I need to think. Maybe I am finished. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I have lost it.’
‘But I don’t really think so,’ said Silversmith. ‘Otherwise I’d chuck you through that sodding window, you awkward prat.’
‘But I can turn it down?’
The glass was raised again, this time obscuring the eyes. Then the stocky man stood, heavily and awkwardly. He turned his back on Wiley, turned to the whisky on the table.
‘The sergeant’s in the bar,’ he said. ‘Get him to drive you to the airport.’
Peter-Joe’s face was closed, all expression lost in hair and long moustache. Bill began to speak, to explain, apologize, but thought better of it. He left.
They were waiting for him when he got back to Belfast, which came as no surprise, whatever Silversmith had said. As he approached the Q-car in the car park, two men detached themselves from an angled wall and came towards him. An MIO called Copthorne and his other-ranker buddy, Charlie Brink. It was a lovely Irish night, clear and fresh and cooler, the air sweet from the early rain.
‘Bill,’ said Nigel Copthorne. ‘Sorry about this, chum. Colonel’s orders. What have you been up to?’
‘What have you heard?’ He bent to check the underside of the car, flashing around with a small pocket torch.
‘It’s clear,’ said Brink. ‘I checked it for you.’
Without replying, Wiley carried on his check. Fuck you, he thought.
‘What have you heard?’ he repeated, standing up. He put the torch away and sorted out the key.
Copthorne was uncomfortable.
‘Nothing definite. Boswell’s in on it, is the main buzz. We were told to make sure you arrived. We’ve got to take you home. Well, follow you.’
Instead of anger, Wiley felt frustration. No adrenalin flooded his bloodstream, a dull ache, a vague depression, settled on him. To be watched by your own side was one thing, but to be guarded openly… It was intimidation.
‘No chance of slipping somewhere for an illicit fuck, then.’ He tried to make his voice calm and casual. A laid-back joke.
The Finco said: ‘Not unless we come, too.’
Nigel Copthorne could see the whiteness of Wiley’s knuckles on the steering wheel.
‘Listen,’ he said. His voice was cultured, and circumspect. ‘I’m sorry about this, Bill, but don’t let it get to you. The buzz is that you’re getting in a state, you’re overwrought. Remember Holroyd. I’ll say no more than that. Stay calm.’
Charlie Brink said nothing, but his lips thinned in unspoken contempt. The fate of Holroyd, an MIO who had been shunted into mental hospital when he started criticizing certain secret operations, could still open up a great divide. Brink was clearly of the side that thought he’d had it coming to him, mad or sane, honest or deluded. Copthorne said no more, but let the thought sink in.
‘Right,’ said Bill. He turned the ignition key, the engine fired.
‘I’m going, if you want to get your car. I’ll take it fairly slow, I’ve been on whisky. Are there any other messages, or is this escort duty it?’
Brink turned away, jingling in his pocket for his keys. Copthorne banged the roof of Wiley’s car, not hard, a salutation.
‘You’re to be in Boswell’s office at nine o’clock. That’s all.’
‘Of course. Thanks, Nigel. You needn’t follow if you don’t want to. I’m not going anywhere.’
‘Charlie’s driving. Need I say more?’
‘No.’
Liz had started to snore gently. Bill Wiley stared at her slack face, in a sort of horror. Once, he knew, he would have been moved by it, found it endearing. He glanced at his watch. Ten past three.
There had been another woman once, a serious one. He did not think of her, normally, he avoided it. But he would have to find her, he would have to get in touch. Because of what she knew, and her connections. Perhaps she could convince him that it was reasonable to murder Rudolf Hess.
But he didn’t think so. He had already made his mind up.
Seven
Boswell, as always, was massively reasonable. He shook hands warmly, and put Bill in an easy chair half facing another, which he took. It was not so hot today, but the windows were still open to the noise of Belfast. Boswell, in a dark suit, did not sweat.
‘Silversmith was on the phone before you reached the airport,’ he said. ‘I was in the bath. He said you didn’t want to do the job.’
‘And he thought I’d do a runner? Or was that your idea, to have me met? I suppose Silversmith could guarantee I got on the plane at Blackpool.’
Boswell was calm. He had already commented on Wiley’s appearance, the haggard features, the strain around the eyes. It had probably been a warning. Bill breathed evenly. He would try to take it.
‘I don’t think either of us thought you’d be so silly. But it was worrying. Is worrying. You were chosen for the job, your work over here is excellent, your attitude exemplary. Then you sprang that. It was something of a bombshell.’
Attitude. That word again. He tried, and failed, to keep his mouth shut. It would have been better, at this stage, to have listened.
‘It’s a funny word,’ he said. ‘Maybe that’s what threw me, sir. Peter-Joe. Have you met him recently? What do you make of his attitude?’
The fat man stirred. A smile crossed his hard, moon face.
‘I don’t know the man that well. Silversmith rates him highly.’
Wiley said: ‘He’s a killer. He’d kill your grannie for you. Anybody’s grannie.’
‘Yes. As I said, they rate him highly. He’s been working on aspects of this problem for several years, I understand. Made sacrifices.’
‘Two years in jail in America. That’s a hell of a sacrifice.’
‘He was told to work in total secrecy, he was told if anything went wrong he was on his own, and he accepted it. In similar circum
stances I would expect some people to operate the same; you for instance. Frankly, Bill, I’m disappointed.’
Wiley crushed the urge to sound sarcastic, or too combative.
‘Frankly, so was I.’ He kept his voice quite flat. ‘I actually didn’t join the service to become a licensed murderer, at least I don’t remember that as one of my reasons. When I’m confronted with a man who is, I’m capable of being thrown. I’ve worked with Peter-Joe before. I didn’t like it. I didn’t like him. This target’s over ninety. A bag of bones. I could imagine Peter-Joe taking pleasure in his death. That’s all.’
Boswell was scratching his nose, considering.
‘A licensed murderer,’ he said. ‘That sounds quite odd to me. It isn’t murder, Bill, that’s the direct line to insanity. If I thought we were murderers, I wouldn’t do the job, it’s as plain and simple as that. If I thought you were a murderer, I wouldn’t talk to you. The enemy murder people, and we have to stop them, and sometimes it gets messy and unpleasant. There’s a war on.’
‘And Hess’s ended in 1941.’
‘Hess’s maybe. But the rest of us? You think some politician just woke up one day and thought this killing would be a jolly wheeze? Don’t kid yourself. I don’t know the ins and outs of it, but our masters tell us he has to die, so die he must. Think it regrettable. Strange even, most bizarre. But don’t imagine that anyone would undertake it lightly. It is neither whim nor pleasure.’
Bill thought of Peter-Joe. Not fucking much. It was a bit sudden though, wasn’t it, for poor old Hess? He was hardly likely to escape from jail and gas a Jew, was he? He toyed with the idea of putting this to Boswell, but Boswell’s features had taken a different cast. Wiley had a twinge of apprehension, deep in his gut, that he had consciously to suppress.
‘Another thing,’ he said. ‘I thought about it in the night. Isn’t there some doubt? Some theory? That the man in Spandau isn’t really Hess at all? That it’s a ringer?’
There was a creak as Boswell heaved himself out of his armchair. He came up flushed, and turned his back on Bill. He checked his wristwatch, then turned to lean against the mantel, his body filling the empty fireplace. Then silence, for a noticeable time.
He said: ‘Why am I such a reasonable man? You are impertinent, Wiley, and I’m beginning to think you’re foolish. I know the rumours, and I can assure you that they’re lies. As a man of honour, I can assure you that they are the maunderings of a few crackpots and cranks. Conspiracy theorists, Hess freaks, nuts, possibly malicious, there’s a whole damn army of them. The prisoner is Hess, take my word for it. Look, I’m running out of time, I have work to do. What am I to say to Silversmith?’
Bill steeled himself. He was on quicksands, he did not believe for a moment that he had a choice, not any more. How could they trust him if he ducked out of this? What use would he ever be again? He swallowed.
‘You put your finger on it yesterday,’ he said. ‘My boy’s birthday party. It’s not me who’s got the psycho problems, it’s Liz, my wife. She’s in a state, she’s verging on a pretty awful mess. She’s taking Valium, and I wouldn’t be surprised if there wasn’t drink involved. But the birthday brought it to a head. You know.’
Automatically, Boswell murmured, ‘I do indeed, I do indeed.’ He drew breath, deeply. ‘So what are you suggesting, Bill? I wish you’d said before. The welfare of the ladies… Paramount.’
Now or never. Don’t overplay the hand.
‘The thing is, sir, I need some thinking time. Time to be with her, to get it back to normal. I think it’s a matter of tangents, there’s nothing seriously wrong. I think she just needs me there for a day or two to sort her out.’
‘Good man,’ said Boswell. The automaton. The speaking clock. ‘What, take some leave? A couple of days or so? Three? Then back into the harness. The Silversmith job won’t take long. Not really.’
‘When would I need to go? To leave Ireland?’
Boswell gestured.
‘Not certain. There’ll be some training, briefing, you know the score. Work in England with Silversmith and Peter-Joe. Prelims. I could give you three days leave, I think.’
His manner was relaxed, avuncular, and Wiley did not trust it.
‘Not leave,’ he said. ‘Thanks, but I really feel Liz would be better if I played it less unsubtly. I think she’d think she was bananas if I took time off, it isn’t in my nature, it would scream “Serious,” she’d be terrified. There’s a lead I want to follow up, a good one. It’ll mean running round a bit, but home at nights. Nothing very taxing.’
‘Running round?’ said Boswell sharply. ‘I don’t want you across the Border, mind. I don’t want you taking any risks. D’you understand?’
Bill did. He left the office five minutes later a free-ish agent with a free-ish hand. He would be expected home at nights, and to make a check-call in the mornings at a time that suited him. He was on a rein, but it was not a short one. Boswell, as he saw himself, was a very humane man.
Humane is, as humane does, thought Wiley. Indeedy.
He drove his Renault to a spot near Adelaide Park and walked to Veronica Burnett’s house. An hour later they left in her car, and she took him to Teaguy, a village about ten miles from Belfast. Dropped there, he went to a small transport yard, where he was well known, and spoke to the proprietor. Three hours after- wards he was in Larne, he was a lorry driver’s mate, and by early evening he was in Stranraer. Dropped on the M6 where it meets the East Lancs Road, he hitched to Liverpool and found his way to West Derby and a Higsons pub he knew. The barmaid, a thin, bright woman called Chris who had been a friend for years, gave him a kiss and a pint of bitter, then the key to her house a mile away.
He had to make some phone calls, fast. He did not have much time, he thought.
Before they jumped.
Eight
Bill Wiley’s life, it struck him with some surprise, was defined and circumscribed by women. He was in a woman’s house, making phone calls to women, trying to track a woman down. Even his way of leaving Ireland had been through Veronica, and he would need her help again quite soon. He worked with men, he played men’s games, he was controlled by men. But he had none of them for friends, except his son.
‘Am I allowed to ask?’ Veronica had asked that morning, having expressed no
surprise at all that he had turned up on her doorstep. ‘It’s very sudden and mysterious. Why me?’
They went into the kitchen, which was in the same state as always, untidy, noisy, lived in. Veronica also – the same dressing gown, the same insouciance. Later in the day, he knew, she would emerge like a butterfly from a chrysalis into clothes of gripping elegance, and the kitchen would be transformed by Maeve Maguire, her (Catholic) cleaner, before the kids got home from school. It was schizophrenia rampant, Veronica would laugh, if asked. She had a full red mouth, broad bones, red hair – not like a Protestant at all. She hinted darkly at some dreadful secret in the family past, some loose-legged ancestress, some filthy Taig footman or groom who had not known his proper place, some contaminated blood.
‘I’m expecting dirty tricks,’ he answered. ‘I’ve got to go to England for a while, extremely unofficially. I thought if I asked you face to face, you’d save my life.’
Veronica threw back her head and laughed.
‘You’re crazy, so you are! What dirty tricks? Answer me, or you get nothing, you little English chauvinist.’
She knew he could not answer all of it, but she sat expectantly to hear the parts he could tell. Bill said that he was involved in something complicated, that meant him bending rules, and he was afraid there might be retaliation from the top. Her eyes were serious, but full of animation.
‘You’ve never been having doubts, have you?’ she said. ‘You’ve never started to come to some conclusions? Am I to be proud of you yet, one of these days?’
He grinned.
‘You’ve got that house in Donegal still, haven’t you? I may need to hide in it. I haven’t got the fogg
iest idea, really, what’s going to happen but… Would you? Can I?’
‘Count on me? You sound like a country and western song, I bloody love it! Tell me what you want and it’s yours. Anything!’
She was mocking wildly, but there was delight. As she dressed, he glimpsed her naked in the mirror. It was like old times.
In her slip, Veronica came out of the bedroom.
‘Should we fuck?’ she said. ‘Or would that lead to complications!’ And she screamed with laughter, and they did, sprawled across her kingsize bed.
As Bill came, she whispered in his neck, ‘That was for you, you poor bloody Englishman. Don’t despair.’
And then, his Renault left well hidden, she drove him down to Teaguy.
The man Bill phoned to find the woman that he needed was a last resort, because he did not like him much, or want to speak to him. But the blanks he had monotonously drawn had a cumulative effect that depressed and deadened him. The information was withheld deliberately, not from lack of knowledge of the number. He was looking for a woman called Jane Heywood, and the refusers were her friends.
After the fifth knockback he sat back on Chris the barmaid’s old and grubby sofa, pondering. So far he had made it across the water, down the motorway and into darkest Liverpool. The house was in a terrace, on the rough edge of West Derby, and was probably perfect cover. But that was all. In an hour or less Chris would be home from work, and friend or no friend, she would be curious. There was no man in the question either, at the moment, and her kids were at her mother’s being sat. Perhaps Chris would leave them there tonight, and come home alone. Bill did not want that, for the moment that was his only certainty. He picked up her bright red telephone and put it on his lap and dialled.
Liz’s voice was thick and slow. She tried to give their number, but he interrupted her.
‘Liz, it’s me. What’s going on?’
Fatuous. Her pause, punctuated by the sound of breathing, accentuated that.
