‘So this woman – Müller – typed the note,’ Tamm suggested. ‘And Donovan pulled the trigger. Is that the story?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Why? Why would he do that?’
‘Because Fiedler was feeding these people stuff from the Hill, atomic stuff, and for whatever reason he’d decided to stop. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was something else. Either way, he’d signed his own death sentence.’
‘These people being the Nazis?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Tamm made another note and then turned back to Gómez.
‘So what did Donovan have to say?’
‘Nothing, sir. By the time I found him, he was dead.’
He told Tamm about last night’s rendezvous. The news that he’d left the corpse with Halliday appeared to amuse the Assistant Director.
‘You think Donovan killed himself?’
‘I have no idea. He may have done. It’s possible. But I doubt it.’
‘Do you doubt every suicide you happen across?’
Gómez didn’t answer. Tamm glanced at O’Flaherty then he was back with Gómez.
‘Tell me more about Fiedler. What kind of access did this man have down there in Los Alamos?’
‘He worked in the metallurgical lab. He was part of the Tamper Group. Oppenheimer keeps the science to himself but I understand Fiedler was concentrating on the trigger mechanism for one of the bombs.’
‘There’s more than one?’
‘There’s two. Maybe more. Fiedler was working on the plutonium bomb.’
‘So he’d know a great deal? Is that what you’re telling me?’
‘He’d know pretty much everything about the plutonium bomb and I’m guessing he’d know a whole lot of other stuff about the rest of the Project. The scientists down there are like kids in the candy store. They help themselves to everything.’
Tamm nodded, sat back.
‘Shit,’ he said softly.
‘Exactly, sir.’
Gómez wondered whether he’d done the story justice. Tamm was looking at the Brit.
‘Walter? What are you thinking? Not the Commies at all. Quite the reverse.’
Bell nodded. He complimented Gómez on tracing Donovan and making the link to the German woman. In his view, the war was by no means over. They were facing a madman who would stop at nothing to preserve what little was left of the Reich. If destroying London would buy him a peace treaty, then so be it.
Tamm didn’t agree. ‘He doesn’t even have to do that, Walter. All he has to do is make us believe it’s goddam possible.’
‘You’re right,’ Bell glanced down at his notes. ‘I talked to London an hour ago. It turns out we have a source of our own. I have no idea who or what it might be but it’s important enough to warrant Guy’s personal attention.’
‘Guy?’ Tamm looked lost.
‘Guy Liddell. Director of Counter-Espionage. When he starts attending interviews, I’m guessing the shit’s about to hit the fan.’
23
On Stefan’s third day at the Centre he awoke to rain drumming at the window. For a moment or two he lay in the bunk, hopelessly confused, uncertain of his whereabouts, then the dream came back to him, perfect in every detail.
He’d been dreaming of his hero at school, Dieter Merz. In real life he knew from friends that Dieter had joined the Luftwaffe and ended up in a fighter squadron. These young pilots were the cream of the cream, combat-hardened in the Spanish Civil War, the very best of Goering’s flying talent, which was no surprise because Dieter had always been someone truly special, a gifted athlete with the knack of meeting any challenge. Not just on the sports field. Not just on the ice of the Alster when winter came. But now in the air as well.
Stefan knew that Dieter had gone on to fly against the British once the French had been beaten. By now commanding a squadron of Messerschmidts, he’d personally accounted for thirteen Hurricanes and nearly as many Spitfires, but over the months that followed the clouds of war had slowly darkened until he’d found himself posted east to Russia. Had Dieter – like Werner – paid the price for Hitler’s worst mistake? Or was he still out there? Still aloft? With his crooked smile and god-like tangle of blond curls?
Stefan had no idea. All he knew for sure was that Dieter had returned to him in a dream. Easing himself out of a Messerschmidt 109. Dressed as a woman.
Now, fully conscious after the coldest of showers, Stefan trudged across the wet grass, accompanied by escorts on both sides. It was the first time he’d been handcuffed and the first time he’d warranted an extra guard. He didn’t know whether this was a compliment or an abrupt turn for the worse, but either way he told himself to gather his wits, to shake off the dream, to keep his concentration. The only thing he knew for sure was that he was starving hungry.
‘Is there anything we can get you, Kapitän?’ Impeccable German.
The question came from the older of the two newcomers Stefan had met yesterday and this time he was alone in the big first-floor room. He was a stooped, rumpled figure, almost completely bald, someone you’d pass in the street without a second glance. Stefan judged his age at fifty-plus and there was something close to sadness in his eyes. His collar was a little too loose. His flesh had a pallor that spoke of snatched meals and insufficient sleep. He looked, if anything, slightly abandoned by life.
Stefan enquired how he should address his new host. The stranger across the table gave the question some thought.
‘Direktor,’ he said at last.
‘Then I’d like some breakfast, please, Herr Direktor. Preferably with eggs.’
Both of the escorts were on sentry duty outside in the corridor. The Direktor got to his feet and left the room. Within seconds he was back.
‘They’re going to be powdered, I’m afraid. That’s all we’ve got.’ He’d already settled back in his chair. He dismissed Stefan’s thanks with a wave of his hand. Musician’s fingers, Stefan thought. Long, delicate.
Stefan asked him whether the information he’d supplied so far had been helpful.
‘The operational material was excellent. We had a full review yesterday. Most of it we were aware of already but there were elements that were new to us, especially with regard to the Elektro boats. We appreciate your candour, Herr Kapitän, even if we don’t yet fully understand your motivation.’
‘Is that what this is about? My motivation?’ Stefan tried to bridge the gap between them with a smile.
‘To be frank, yes. You’ve done something very unusual, Kapitän. That doesn’t handicap you in any way. Indeed, in some respects it makes you all the more interesting. But in our world we’re obliged to test everything. A fêted warrior like yourself turning his back on the Reich? Does that make you another Hess? Or should we be asking a different set of questions?’
Stefan acknowledged the point with a nod. Rudolf Hess had been at the very top of the regime when he’d stolen a plane and flown to Scotland to try and negotiate some kind of peace treaty. No one had heard of him since though the word in the Kernevel mess at Lorient was that the British had taken a good look and declared him clinically insane.
‘You think I’m mad? Like Hess?’
‘I think you’ve been through a terrifying experience.’
‘You’re talking about the storm? Losing my boat? My crew?’
‘I’m talking about the war. With some people the pressure is cumulative. You refuse to deal with it, you dismiss it, you pretend it doesn’t even exist, but it’s there nonetheless, growing and growing. I’ve seen it with some of our own people, individuals I’ve known for years. Sane one minute, broken the next. And you don’t have to be on the front line to crack. Am I making any kind of sense, Kapitän? Is this something you recognise?’
Stefan nodded. ‘Broken’ he recognised. It told him that this man must have been close to imploding himself.
‘You’re right,’ Stefan admitted. ‘War is like a virus. It eats away at you. You think you’re immune and you’re not. In
the early years, you know nothing except victory. Targets hit, ships going down, flags and flowers when you get home. You think that’s easy. You love it, the taste of it, the way people look at you in the street when you get home on leave. Later, when things go wrong, it starts to feel different. Maybe the victories were too soft. Maybe we had it too easy. Maybe we all fooled ourselves. Either way, you pay the price and maybe that’s because you have to. We started this war for the wrong reasons but we were too blind and too greedy to realise it.’
‘And too young?’
‘Yes.’
‘You’re twenty-four. Am I right?’
‘Yes.’
‘How old do you feel?’
‘Down there …’ Stefan touched his leg, ‘… I feel like an old man. Up here …’ his hand strayed to his head, ‘I feel nothing.’
‘And here?’ The Direktor had covered his heart.
Stefan acknowledged the point with a smile. After being machine-gunned by the colonel, this man’s touch was as light as a feather.
‘In my heart, I know I’m lucky.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I survived. Because the storm didn’t kill me. And because of what happened afterwards.’
‘I imagine you’re talking about Eva.’
‘You’re right. I am.’
‘Eva Gironda.’ For the first time, with the deftest touch, the Direktor had sprung a surprise and he knew it. ‘You weren’t aware of her family name?’
‘No.’
‘And now you’re wondering how we found out?’
‘Of course. I imagine you sent someone up there.’
‘You’re right. We did. We checked. Like we always check.’
‘And?’
‘She wasn’t there. The house was locked.’
‘Did you find her brother? Enrico? Or maybe the doctor? Agustín?’
‘Yes. And in both cases we drew a blank. They didn’t know where she’d gone. Very strange, Kapitän. And from your point of view, I imagine very unsettling.’
Stefan nodded, grateful for the figure at the door. Steam was curling from the tray. At a whispered word of command from the Direktor, the sentry unlocked Stefan’s handcuffs. The toast was soggy and the scrambled eggs were the thinnest yellow but nothing, just now, could look sweeter.
‘Do you mind?’ Stefan gestured at the plate.
‘Please. Go ahead.’
The Direktor watched him eating. When he’d finished, he asked the question again. Where had Eva gone?
‘I have no idea. The last time I saw her was when I left the village.’
‘On the fishing boat?’
‘Yes.’
‘Leaving was your idea?’
‘Yes. We’d talked about it. She knew the police could pick me up at any time. And she agreed they’d probably hand me over to my own people. Germans don’t like traitors.’
‘Is that what you are?’
‘In their eyes, yes. Otherwise we wouldn’t be having a conversation like this.’
‘And so you went?’
‘Yes.’
‘With regrets?’
‘Immense regrets. You’re right. The war broke me. She was the one who looked after what was left.’
‘And put the bits back in working order?’
‘Started to.’ Stefan was staring at his empty plate. ‘In Lisbon I asked the military attaché about her.’
‘I know. He told us. You want her brought to England. That’s partly why we went to find her.’
‘You’d do that? You’d bring her back here?’
‘If that’s what you both want, it’s certainly a possibility. But we need to be sure, Herr Kapitän.’
‘About what?’
‘About you.’
*
It was the phone that woke Gómez. The FBI had put him in a hotel for the night. He struggled upright, looking for his watch. Nearly nine o’clock.
‘Gómez,’ he grunted.
It was Yolanda. She’d got the number from O’Flaherty. She wanted to know whether he was up or not.
‘The answer’s no.’
‘I woke you?’
‘Yes.’
She said she was sorry. She was wondering whether they were still going to get married.
‘For sure. Where are you?’
‘Back home. San Diego. I was talking with Agard just now and he knows a Pentecostal church in Alexandria. Great music. Plus he wants to be your best man.’
‘Beaman?’ Gómez was awake now. ‘You mean Agard Beaman?’
‘The very same. He’s disappointed because I guess he wanted you for himself but he thinks I’m the next best thing so he said yes.’
‘To what?’
‘To being your best buddy.’ She was laughing now. ‘How about next week? Only Agard needs time to work on his speech.’
Gómez was staring at the phone. Last night, leaving Tamm’s office, he’d secured agreement to go back down to Los Alamos and fix a couple of loose ends before handing in his resignation. He’d have to route through Chicago. The next train left at twenty to eleven. Tight.
‘Tell Agard I’ll phone him,’ he said. ‘You thought of a dress yet?’
‘No.’
‘Good. Anything but white.’
*
It was nearly lunchtime before the Direktor returned to the subject of Eva. He and Stefan had taken a leisurely conversational stroll among the small print of Stefan’s war. To Stefan’s surprise, he didn’t appear to be remotely interested in any of the hard, factual data that he’d always assumed to be the currency of this kind of exchange. On the contrary, he seemed to want to get a fix on what this talented young officer had expected from the Nazi regime, and how that expectation had survived what followed.
‘It didn’t,’ Stefan told him. ‘At sea we did what we were trained to do. It was our world. We were good. We got results. We trusted each other, relied on each other. It was the coming back that made us realise what had gone wrong.’
He described trips on leave back to Hamburg before the firestorm. He talked about visits to Admiral Doenitz’s headquarters outside Berlin. He described long nights on trains, the company of strangers, how you learned to feel your way into a conversation without at first revealing what you really believed, and how quickly you realised that most people you met felt exactly the same way about the war as you did. That everything was going wrong. And that there was absolutely nothing to be done about it.
‘A feeling of helplessness?’
‘Exactly. Germany woke up one morning bound hand and foot by the Nazis, trussed like a turkey. And that was before the war when it didn’t really matter. Later it mattered a lot but it was far too late. By then you knew there was nothing you could do. If you stepped out of line, they shot you. And that was if you were lucky. If you really stepped out line it could be far worse. They say it took the July plotters half the night to die.’
The Direktor wanted to know about the firestorm, about the night Stefan’s entire past went up in flames. What did it feel like? Heading back to Hamburg the following month to find everything in ruins? Stefan did his best. Talking to this man was easy, a tribute to the way he listened.
‘You had women when you came back from the sea?’
‘Yes. Sometimes.’
Stefan talked about Trévarez, and Aurélie. The Direktor knew the name already.
‘I understand she turned out to be working for us,’ he said.
‘That’s right. She was with the Resistance. I didn’t know at the time. The security people at Lorient only told me later.’
‘Would it have made a difference?’
‘Probably not. I didn’t share any secrets with her. It was much simpler than that.’
‘Did you tell her about Sol? Your mystery half-brother?’
‘No.’
‘Did that make him a secret?’
‘No. He was just never part of the conversation. She talked about her husband a little. I mentioned my mother and father. My br
other, too, and a friend called Dieter. But most of the time we were otherwise occupied.’
The Direktor nodded and made a note. Stefan was thinking about last night’s dream. Dieter Merz dressed like a woman. Strange.
The Direktor looked up. He wanted to know whether Stefan had been involved with any other women during the war.
‘A couple. One worked in a restaurant in Lorient. We met up once or twice. She’d been to Galicia. She knew the coastline. The other one I met during an air raid in Berlin. We were caught in the open. It was dark.’ He shrugged. ‘I didn’t even know her name.’
The Direktor smiled. So many questions unasked.
‘Eva is a Communist. Were you aware of that?’
‘No.’ Stefan blinked. ‘How do you know?’
‘She worked here in 1940. She was a photographer. We kept an eye on her. We had a file that went back to the Spanish Civil War.’
‘She told me she was an anarchist then.’
‘Her boyfriend was the anarchist. In Madrid she was reporting to a Russian called Sergei. I gather they rated her highly.’ He smiled. ‘A true believer.’
‘And she stayed with them? In England?’
‘That’s not clear. I think we should assume she did.’
‘But you don’t know?’
‘No, we don’t. The Russians are masters of the dark arts. We’d like to think we have their measure but it isn’t always true. The point I’m trying to make is this. You think you know someone and it turns out you don’t. In your case that may be problematic.’
‘You’re talking about Eva? You’re telling me not to trust her?’
‘I’m exploring the notion of absolutes. She’s stepped into your life. She took a risk in looking after you. She’s putting you back together. You’ve fallen in love. On that journey, a man will do anything. On that journey, Stefan, you are utterly vulnerable. And you’re talking to someone who knows.’
Stefan tried to mask his surprise. It was the first time he’d used Stefan’s Christian name. The intimacy was so sudden, so unexpected. Vulnerable was right. Vulnerable was the key to everything.
‘This has happened to you?’
‘Not exactly. But it involved a woman, yes.’ He studied Stefan for a long moment, refusing to go further. The silence stretched and stretched. Stefan began to feel uncomfortable.
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