‘Says you.’
‘Says the scene. I’m happy to go over it again but this time you have to listen.’
‘You think I didn’t last time?’
‘I think you had other things on your mind. I’m a detective, Colonel. I deal in facts, evidence.’
‘And me?’
‘You deal in outcomes. There’s a difference. And you know what that means? Sometimes it means ignoring the evidence, or maybe bending it a little.’
The two men stared at each other. Whyte was the first to blink.
‘That’s a serious accusation, Lieutenant. I had no idea you felt that way. This interview is terminated. I shall tell General Groves you weren’t able to make it.’
‘You can tell him what you like, sir. I plan on being there.’
‘I’m not sure you heard me right, soldier. I’m ordering you to stand down. We’ll discuss this later.’ He nodded towards the door. ‘On your way, son.’
General Groves arrived shortly after noon. Recognising the bulky figure in the back of the big Buick, officers snapped a salute as the limousine swept past. Then, from one of the more distant canyons, came the reverberating boom of yet another explosion. They’d been happening all morning, a sign, thought Gómez, that the program was slipping into top gear.
He was sitting in his office. He knew the location of the first of the general’s meetings because Merricks had told him. Oppie’s conference room, he’d said. Over in the Tech Area. Now, he lifted the phone. Oppie had two secretaries and Gómez knew them both. One owed him a couple of favours. The other, an older woman called Margery, was rumoured to have a secret passion for the Hill’s taciturn Hispanic.
Gómez recognised her voice. He asked whether Groves had made it up to the office yet. She said no.
‘When he asks, here’s where you’ll find me.’
‘I thought you were off the list?’
‘You thought wrong.’
The phone rang again within minutes. Marge again.
‘Now would be good,’ she said. ‘How come the great man even knows your name?’
Gómez pulled a file from his drawer. He made his way across the site and flashed his ID to the sentry on the inner checkpoint. From here he could see the windows up in Oppie’s office. The blinds were down in both of them. Marge met him in the corridor.
‘What have you done to my favourite man?’ She loathed Whyte as well.
‘Speak truth unto power.’ He shot her a rare smile. ‘Never fails.’
The atmosphere in the conference room was icy. Groves, as usual, was sitting at the head of the table, flanked by Oppenheimer and Whyte. Oppenheimer was already on his second cigarette. Whyte was even paler than usual.
Groves returned Gómez’s salute and waved him into the seat across from Whyte. Whyte had a file open in front of him. The case for the prosecution, thought Gómez. The file had Fiedler’s name on the front.
Groves was asking about a contractor called Donovan. Whyte had some difficulty placing the name. Groves, a man not famed for patience, turned to Gómez.
‘You can help us here, Lieutenant?’
‘Sure. The guy turned up on Tuesdays. Drove up from Santa Fe. Shot coyotes.’
‘So where did Fiedler figure in all this?’
‘Fiedler became a friend. So did Marta. One of those chance meetings that might not have been what they seemed. Either way the guy Donovan began to drop by. Said he was a big Bears fan. Got Fiedler talking. Like I say, buddies.’
‘You were the one who handled the incident?’
‘I got the call, sir, yes. First responder.’
‘And what did you think?’
‘I thought I was looking at a dead man. The scene was picture-perfect: gun, note, weeping widow.’
‘A suicide?’
‘Might have been. In those situations, it pays to reserve judgement. On three fronts I had a problem. Number one, Fiedler hated guns of any kind. Number two, by his wife’s account he hadn’t appeared depressed. And number three, there was a major mistake in the note.
He said he’d recovered the slug that had killed Fiedler and sent both the bullet and the weapon to Washington for forensic matching.
Whyte stirred. He said he’d never authorised the despatch. Knew it ran counter to Army rules. Gómez pointed out that the FBI ran the best forensics service in the country. He had contacts there. No place on earth was time so precious as up here on the Hill. Best get the thing done quickly.
Groves wanted to know about the match. He was looking at Gómez.
‘Positive, sir.’
‘And the gun?’
‘The gun belonged to Donovan.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I asked him. He admitted lending it to Fiedler.’
‘Why did Fiedler want a gun? When he hated the things?’
‘They’d been bothered by a coyote. Fiedler wanted to shoot it.’
‘Says who?’
‘Donovan.’
‘And Marta?’
‘Marta says there never was a coyote. It never happened.’
‘You put this to Donovan?’
‘I couldn’t, sir. By the time I checked it out, he’d left town.’
Groves shot Whyte a look. The rest of the story, thought Gómez, the general must know already. Not true.
‘We have a problem here.’ Groves was looking at Oppenheimer. ‘The Bureau say they have evidence of a major security leak but they ain’t telling me a thing. I have a fire to fight and all the damn buckets are empty. If we lose this one, Hoover will be all over us. I need to know what they know and I need to know it fast. Changing my schedule was a bitch but we’re not leaving this room until I know exactly what’s been going on here.’ The huge head swung round. ‘Any ideas, Colonel?’
‘Fiedler killed himself, sir. No one knows what really happens inside a man’s head but I can make a guess or two.’
‘Go ahead.’
‘He was out of love with the program.’
‘We’re all out of love with the program, Colonel Whyte. That’s what it’s there for, to drive us insane. You’re telling me he killed himself because he couldn’t keep up?’
‘No, sir. I think there was an ethical component. He hated killing in principle. He couldn’t bear the thought of all the blood we’d be spilling.’
‘This is the guy that borrows the gun? To shoot the damn coyote?’
Whyte blinked. This was worse than any court of law. Much worse.
‘There was something else as well, sir,’ he said. ‘Something more intimate.’
He described the afternoon Fiedler exposed himself to a woman in one of the caves in a nearby canyon. Afterwards, he’d tried to have an affair with her. When she’d threatened to tell his wife, Fiedler had panicked.
Whyte had at last got the general’s attention. He was even making a note. Then his head came up.
‘How come you know all this?’
‘The woman was my wife, sir. She was deeply shocked.’
There was a silence round the table. Oppenheimer tapped ash into his saucer. Then Gómez opened his file and lifted out the photograph he’d got from Betty Kerekes.
‘That incident never happened, sir. And I can prove it.’
Two hours later, at the other end of the afternoon, Gómez found himself alone with Oppenheimer. Groves, persuaded that Whyte and his wife had cooked up the story about Fiedler, had asked the colonel to make himself available later for a personal interview. With Whyte dismissed from the room, Gómez had briefed Groves and Oppenheimer about exactly what had happened down in Mexico. The news that Sol Fiedler had been ferrying nuclear secrets to the Nazis via Donovan and his lady friend in Ciudad Juarez had reduced even Groves to silence. Letting this stuff fall into the laps of the Soviets was bad enough. This was far worse.
Oppenheimer was in a reflective mood. One of the things Gómez was beginning to like about him was his refusal to panic. Behind the charm and the intensity that had become his trademarks,
this man had nerves of steel. He also found time to ponder every aspect of whatever crisis came next until a resolution drifted into focus.
Now was no different. He’d known Sol Fiedler. The man wasn’t a drinker, and neither was Oppenheimer, but they’d shared a glass or two together from time to time and prowled the ramparts of this strange new life on the Hill.
‘I don’t buy it,’ he said. ‘Sol hated the Nazis. There was no way he’d do anything to help them. Shipping stuff out to the Commies? Maybe. But even then it’s beyond unlikely. That man loved America. He believed in what we were doing. Why would he ever want to murder our baby at birth? It makes no sense. None whatsoever.’
‘Maybe Whyte was right about his conscience. Maybe he figured that a secret shared might let him sleep at night.’
‘So how does that work? Imagine the Nazis are first past the finishing line. Say they drop their own Gadget on London. On Antwerp. How does that serve the cause of world peace?’
Gómez admitted he didn’t know. Oppenheimer hadn’t finished. He wanted to find out more about Donovan.
‘Sure.’ Gómez nodded. ‘Another so-called suicide.’
‘You don’t think he killed himself?’
‘It certainly looked that way but that doesn’t mean he did it. There’s always another question to ask.’
‘Cui bono,’ Oppenheimer said. ‘Who stands to gain.’
‘Exactly.’
Oppenheimer lit another cigarette from the butt of the old one. ‘You’re telling me Donovan had some kind of relationship with this German woman?’
‘Yes.’
‘Because she knew he had access up here on the Hill?’
‘I’m guessing so.’
‘So how did they meet?’
‘He was running cars into the States from Mexico. Everything operated from Ciudad Juarez right there on the border. It’s not a big city. Two gringos? It would be strange if they didn’t meet some place, get to know each other. She’s an attractive woman. He likes to play the stud. Plus she acts like a kind of consul so she’s in constant touch with the regime back home.’
‘And she’s the one who wants Fiedler dead? Who types the note? Gets Donovan to pull the trigger? Then fake the whole scene?’
‘Yes.’ Gómez nodded.
‘So why would she do that?’
‘Because she wants us to believe that Fiedler has been leaking secrets.’
‘Not she, buddy. Berlin. Berlin wants us to believe all this stuff.’ Oppenheimer was frowning. ‘But she makes mistakes. Like in the note. Like having Donovan lend him the gun.’
‘Sure …’ Gómez nodded, ‘… but maybe that was deliberate. Maybe that was a come-on. Maybe she was depending on someone like me to play the cop and sniff the air and follow the smoke upwind. What she wants, what she needs, is a solid link between Donovan and herself. Once that happens, she’s got people like me and you believing what the Nazis want us to believe with only one problem left.’
‘Donovan.’
‘Exactly. He knows the suicide was faked.’
‘So she has him killed.’
‘Sure. Not a difficulty where she’s living.’
Gómez sat back. In another life, he thought, Oppenheimer would have made a decent detective. Give the bag of evidence a shake and see what falls out. Then keep rearranging the pieces until you end up with the truth. Oppenheimer sucked smoke deep into his lungs, tipped his head back, and then expelled a thin blue plume towards the ceiling. Gómez, watching, sensed exactly where he was heading.
‘There were no secrets,’ Gómez said softly. ‘The whole thing was a set-up.’
‘Sure.’ Oppenheimer nodded. ‘All they need is for us to believe it might have happened. That’s enough. Might. Catastrophe in the subjunctive. Never proven. Never one hundred per cent. But emphatically possible. Very neat. Very elegant.’ He picked a shred of tobacco from his lower lip. ‘Almost beautiful.’
25
Stefan was awoken in the middle of the night. This time he’d been dreaming about his mother. He was a child again, small, busy, inquisitive. They were on a tram into the middle of the city. His mother was trying to explain to the inspector why she hadn’t bought a ticket. The man was unforgiving. He had a greying moustache. Every time he opened his mouth, he wanted more money. First one Reichsmark. Then ten. Then a hundred. His mother was crying. She had no money. Then the man’s gaze settled on Stefan. ‘Him,’ he grunted. ‘I’ll take him.’
The Direktor was waiting for him in the main house. No handcuffs this time, and only a couple of blankets between Stefan and the intense cold. The escort lingered briefly at the door. The Direktor dismissed him with a wave of his hand.
‘My apologies.’ He turned back to Stefan. ‘This is no time for civilised people to be talking to each other. Under any other circumstances, I’d have left this until the morning.’
‘But you can’t?’
‘Alas, no. What I’m going to propose, Stefan, is in the nature of a deal, or perhaps an understanding. On your side, you must believe that I have the authority to make this thing happen. On my side, I have to believe that you’re telling me the truth. Does that sound equitable to you?’
Equitable. Stefan frowned. Was anything fair in war?
‘What do you want to know?’ He asked.
‘I want to know what really happened from the moment when you left your boat.’
‘And me? What do I get?’
‘Eva.’
‘You know where she is?’
‘We do.’
‘How?’
The Direktor shook his head. Enough, he seemed to be saying. Trust me. Or face the consequences.
‘And if I say no?’
‘If you say no, then the matter will be out of my hands. What will happen to you, God alone knows. This isn’t Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse but this country has an ugly side, believe me.’
Stefan enquired no further. He pulled the blankets more closely around himself. The silence stretched and stretched.
‘I’ve turned my back on my own country once already,’ he said at last. ‘Maybe it pays to be consistent.’
‘You consider yourself a traitor?’
‘In some ways yes. In others, no. But deep down I’m not sure I care any more.’
‘Is that a confession?’
‘Yes.’ Stefan forced a smile. ‘Do you want the rest?’
*
It was Merricks who roused Gómez. He’d gone to bed early, exhausted by the events of the last week. Now Merricks had something urgent to tell him.
‘A woman phoned for you. I’m guessing it was Yolanda.’
Gómez struggled upright in the narrow bed. It was a capital offence to impart any phone number on the Hill but he’d done it nonetheless.
‘What did she want?’
‘She wouldn’t say. She sounded upset. She left a number. I said you’d phone back.’
Gómez dressed. The office was five minutes away. Merricks had left it unlocked. Gómez dialled the number, aware the call would be logged, but he no longer cared. Whyte was history. Marge said she’d found him in shock. The general had demanded he resign his commission, effective immediately. Marge had phoned his wife and asked her to come over but she said she was too busy. Nice people.
Yolanda picked up at once.
‘It’s Agard,’ she said. She seemed to be choking on the phone. Gómez had never associated her with tears.
‘What’s happened?’
‘He was attacked this evening. Two guys came to his apartment.’
‘They beat him up?’
‘Worse. Acid.’
‘In his face?’
‘Yeah. He managed to get to the Emergency Room. They did what they could.’
‘You’ve seen him?’
‘I just came back.’
‘And?’
‘It’s horrible.’ She started crying. ‘You need to be with us, baby. You need to be away from that place.’
Gómez told her to try and st
ay calm. He’d get a flight tomorrow morning. His work on the Hill was done. He told her he loved her and put the phone down.
Arthur Whyte’s wife was standing in the open doorway. She must have heard every word.
‘Your work on the Hill?’ she said. ‘Is that what you call it? Wrecking a senior officer’s career? Upsetting everything?’
Gómez studied her for a moment. The state of her make-up told him she’d been crying, too.
‘A decent man died,’ he said. ‘Your husband just needs to find another job. One day you might understand the difference.’
*
Stefan was released from the Centre the following morning. A pretty woman in Royal Navy uniform drove him into central London. Bomb damage, light at first, got worse but nothing Stefan saw from the back of the car compared to what he’d seen in Hamburg.
The woman at the wheel hadn’t introduced herself, neither did she answer when Stefan asked where they were going. The traffic was thickening now and behind the pile of sandbags he recognised the statue of the Duke of Wellington on horseback, one of the stopping points on the tour of the capital he’d taken as a naval cadet.
Hyde Park, he thought. Ducks on the water. Londoners lazing in the sun. And in the evening, a visit to a reception at a big house in a square somewhere near here. Back then Europe was still at peace, a fact of life it was all too easy to take for granted. Their hosts had made them very welcome, rich people, people who approved of the Reich.
The driver was slowing to make a turn. Two American airmen paused at the kerb and one of them blew her a kiss. She wasn’t amused.
In the maze of streets off Piccadilly, the car finally came to a halt. The Direktor was waiting on the pavement. Summer seemed to have returned and he was sweating lightly in the hot sunshine. Stefan shook his outstretched hand and turned to thank the driver but the car had gone.
‘This way, Stefan.’
It was a modest, three-storey house, Georgian, fine windows. The Direktor produced a key and stepped inside. There were fresh flowers in a cut-glass vase on a table in the wall and carpeted stairs led to the upper floors. The Direktor climbed the stairs slowly, turning to check that Stefan was able to manage on his injured leg. When they reached the top of the house, he paused to tender an apology.
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