by Ken Follett
of himself taken in 1937, with a group of students at a seminar in
Oxford. In those days he actually looked older than he did now: pale
skin, wispy hair, the patchy shave and ill-fitting clothes of a retired
man. The wispy hair had gone: he was now bald except for a monkish
fringe. His clothes were those of a business executive, not a teacher.
It seemed to him he might, he supposed, have been imagining it that
the set of his jaw was firmer, his eyes were brighter, and he took more
care shaving.
He sat down behind his desk and lit a cigarette. That innovation was
not welcome: he had developed a cough, tried to give it up, and
discovered that he had become addicted. But almost everybody smoked in
wartime Britain, even some of the women. Well, they were doing men's
jobs they were entitled to masculine vices. The smoke caught in
Godliman's throat, making him cough. He put the cigarette out in the
tin-lid he used for an ashtray (crockery was scarce).
The trouble with being inspired to perform the impossible, he
reflected, was that the inspiration gave you no clues to the practical
means. He recalled his college thesis, about the travels of an obscure
medieval monk called Thomas of the Tree. Godliman had set himself the
minor but difficult task of plotting the monk's itinerary over a
five-year period. There had been a baffling gap of eight months when
he had been either in Paris or Canterbury, but Godliman had been unable
to determine which, and this had threatened the value of the whole
project. The records he was using simply did not contain the
information. If the monk's stay had gone unrecorded, then there was no
way to find out where he had been, and that was that. With the
optimism of youth, young Godliman had refused to believe that the
information was just not there, and he had worked on the assumption
that somewhere there had to be a record of how Thomas had spent those
months despite the well-known fact that almost everything that happened
in the Middle Ages went unrecorded. If Thomas was not in Paris or
Canterbury he must have been in transit between the two, Godliman had
argued; and then he had found shipping records in an Amsterdam museum
which showed that Thomas had boarded a vessel bound for Dover which got
blown off course and was eventually wrecked on the Irish coast. This
model piece of historical research had got Godliman his
professorship.
He might try applying that kind of thinking to the problem of what had
happened to Faber.
It was most likely that Faber had drowned. If he had not, then he was
probably in Germany by now. Neither of those possibilities presented
any course of action that Godliman could follow, so they should be
discounted. He must assume that Faber was alive and had reached land
somewhere.
He left his office and went down one flight of stairs to the map room.
His uncle, Colonel Terry, was there, standing in front of the map of
Europe with a cigarette between his lips, thinking. Godliman realized
that this was a familiar sight in the War Office these days: senior men
gazing entranced at maps, silently making their own computations of
whether the war would be won or lost. He guessed it was because all
the plans had been made, the vast machine had been set in motion and
for those who made the big decisions there was nothing to do but wait
and see if they had been right.
Terry saw him come in, and said: "How did you get on with the great
man?"
"He was drinking whisky," Godliman said.
"He drinks all day, but it never seems to make any difference to him,"
Terry said.
"What did he say?"
"He wants Die Nadel's head on a platter." Godliman crossed the room to
the wall map of Great Britain and put a finger on Aberdeen.
"If you were sending a U-boat in to pick up a fugitive spy, what would
you think was the nearest the sub could safely come to the coast?"
Terry stood beside him and looked at the map.
"I wouldn't want to come closer than the three-mile limit. But for
preference, I'd stop ten miles out."
"Right." Godliman drew two pencil lines parallel to the coast, three
miles and ten miles out respectively.
"Now, if you were an amateur sailor setting out from Aberdeen in a
smallish fishing boat, how far would you go before you began to get
nervous?"
"You mean, what's a reasonable distance to travel in such a boat?"
"Indeed."
Terry shrugged.
"Ask the Navy. I'd say fifteen or twenty miles."
"I agree." Godliman drew an arc of twenty miles radius with its centre
on Aberdeen.
"Now: if Faber is alive, he's either back on the mainland or somewhere
within this space." He indicated the area bounded by the parallel
lines and the arc.
"There's no land in that area."
"Have we got a bigger map?"
Terry pulled open a drawer and got out a large-scale map of Scotland.
He spread it on top of the chest. Godliman copied the pencil marks
from the smaller map on to the larger.
There was still no land within the area.
"But look," Godliman said. Just to the east of the ten-mile limit was
a long, narrow island.
Terry peered closer.
"Storm Island," he read.
"How apt."
Godliman snapped his fingers.
"I'll bet that's where he is."
"Can you send someone there?"
"When the storm clears. Bloggs is up there: I'll get a plane laid on
for him. He can take off the minute the weather improves." He went to
the door.
"Good luck!" Terry called after him.
Godliman ran up the stairs to the next floor and entered his office. He
picked up the phone.
"Get Mr. Bloggs in Aberdeen, please."
While he waited he doodled on his blotter, drawing the island. It was
shaped like the top half of a walking-stick, with the crook at the
western end. It must have been about ten miles long, and perhaps a
mile wide. He wondered what sort of place it was: was it a barren lump
of rock, or a thriving community of crofters? If Faber was there he
might still be able to contact his U-boat: Bloggs would have to get to
the island before the submarine. It would be difficult.
"I have Mr. Bloggs," the switchboard girl said.
"Fred?"
"Hello, Percy."
"I think he's on an island called Storm Island."
"No, he's not," Bloggs said.
"We've just arrested him."
The stiletto was nine inches long, with an engraved handle and a stubby
little crosspiece. Its needle-like point was extremely sharp. Bloggs
thought it looked like a highly efficient killing instrument. It had
recently been polished.
Bloggs and Detective-Chief-Inspector Kincaid stood looking at it,
neither man wanting to touch it.
"He was trying to catch a bus to Edinburgh," Kincaid said.
"A PC spotted him at the ticket office and asked for his
identification. He dropped his suitcase and ran away. A woman
bus-conductor hit h
im over the head with her ticket machine. He took
ten minutes to come around."
"Let's have a look at him," Bloggs said.
They went down the corridor to the cells.
"This one," Kincaid said.
Bloggs looked through the judas. The man sat on a stoolin the far
corner of the cell with his back against the wall. His legs were
crossed, his eyes closed, hi hands in his pockets.
"He's been in cells before," Bloggs remarked. The man was tall, with a
long, handsome face and dark hair. It could have been the man in the
photograph, but it was hard to be certain.
Want to go in?" Kincaid asked.
"In a minute. What was in his suitcase, apart from the stiletto?"
"The tools of a burglar's trade. Quite a lot of money in small notes.
A pistol and some ammunition. Black clothes and crepe-soled shoes. Two
hundred Lucky Strike cigarettes."
"No photographs?"
Kincaid shook his head.
"Balls," Bloggs said feelingly.
Tapers identify him as Peter Fredericks, of Wembley, Middlesex. Says
he's an unemployed toolmaker looking for work."
"Toolmaker?" Bloggs said sceptic ally
"There hasn't been an unemployed toolmaker in Britain in the last four
years. You'd think a spy would know that. Still..."
Kincaid asked: "Shall I start the questioning, or will you?"
"You."
Kincaid opened the door and Bloggs followed him "in. The man in the
corner opened his eyes in curiously He did not alter his position.
Kincaid sat at a small, plain table. Bloggs leaned against the wall.
Kincaid said: "What's your real name?"
"Peter Fredericks."
"What are you doing so far from home?"
"Looking for work."
Why aren't you in the Army?"
Weak heart."
"Where have you been for the last few days ?"
"Here, in Aberdeen. Before that Dundee, before that Perth."
"When did you arrive in Aberdeen?"
"The day before yesterday."
Kincaid glanced at Bloggs, who nodded. Kincaid said:
"Your story is silly. Toolmakers don't need to look for work. The
country hasn't got enough of them. You'd better tell the truth."
"I'm telling the ruth."
Bloggs took all the loose change out of his pocket and tied it up in
his handkerchief. He stood watching, saying nothing, swinging the
little bundle in his right hand.
Where are the photographs?" Kincaid said.
The man's expression did not change.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
Kincaid shrugged, and looked at Bloggs.
Bloggs said: "On your feet."
"Pardon?" the man said.
"On your FEET!" Bloggs bawled.
The man stood up casually.
"Forward!"
He took two steps up to the table.
"Name?"
"Peter Fredericks."
Bloggs came off the wall and hit the man with the weighted
handkerchief. The blow caught him accurately on the bridge of the
nose, and he cried out. His hands went to his face.
"Stand to attention!" Bloggs shouted.
"Name!"
The man stood upright, let his hands fall to his sides, and whispered:
"Peter Fredericks."
Bloggs hit him again in exactly the same place. This time he went down
on one knee, and his eyes watered.
Where are the photographs?" Bloggs screamed, The man shook his head
dumbly.
Bloggs pulled him to his feet, kneed him in the groin, and punched his
stomach. What did you do with the negatives?"
The man fell to the floor and threw up. Bloggs kicked his face. There
was a sharp crack, as if something had broken. What about the U-boat?
Where is the rendezvous? What is the signal?"
Kincaid grabbed Bloggs from behind.
"That's enough, Bloggs," he said.
"This is my station, and I can only turn a blind eye for so long, you
know."
Bloggs rounded on him.
"We're not dealing with a case of petty housebreaking, Kincaid this man
is jeopardizing the whole war effort." He wagged a finger under the
detective's nose.
"Jus* remember: I'm MI5, and I'll do what I fucking well like in your
station. If the prisoner dies, I'll take responsibility." He turned
back to the man on the floor.
The man was staring at Bloggs and Kincaid. His face, covered with
blood, showed an expression of incredulity.
"What are you talking about?" he said weakly.
"What is this?"
Bloggs hauled him to his feet again.
"You are Henrik Rudolph Hans von Muller-Guder, born at Oln on 26 May
1900; also known as Henry Faber; a lieutenant-colonel in German
Intelligence. Within three months you will be hanged for espionage,
unless you turn out to be more useful to us dead than alive. You'd
better start making yourself useful, Colonel Muller-Guder."
"No," the man said.
"No, no! I'm a thief, not a spy. Please!" He cowered away from
Bloggs' upraised fist.
"I can prove it."
Bloggs hit him again, and Kincaid intervened for the second time.
"Wait," the detective said.
"All right, Fredericks if that's your name- prove you're a thief."
"I done three houses in Jubilee Crescent last week," the man gasped.
"I took about five hundred quid from one and some jewellery from the
next one diamond rings and some pearls and I never got nothing from the
other one because of the dog ... you must know I'm telling the truth,
they must have reported it, didn't they? Oh, Jesus' Kincaid looked at
Bloggs.
"All those burglaries took place."
"He could have read about them in the newspapers."
"The third one wasn't reported."
"Perhaps he did them he could still be a spy. Spies can steal."
"But this was last week your man was in London, wasn't he?"
Bloggs was silent for a moment. Then he said: Well, fuck it," and
walked out.
Peter Fredericks looked up at Kincaid through a mask of blood.
"Who's he, the bleedin' Gestapo?" he said.
Kincaid stared at him thoughtfully.
"Be glad you're not really the man he's looking for."
"Well?" Godliman said into the phone.
"False alarm." Bloggs' voice was scratchy and distorted over the
long-distance Line.
"A small-time housebreaker who happens to carry a stiletto and look
Like Faber."
"Back to square one," Godliman said.
"Damn."
"You said something about an island."
"Yes. Storm Island it's about ten miles off the coast, due east of
Aberdeen. You'll find it on a large-scale map."
"What makes you sure he's there?"
"I'm not sure; not at all. We still have to cover every other
possibility other towns, the coast, everything. But if he did steal
that boat, the... ?"
"Marie II."
"Yes. If he did steal it, his rendezvous was probably in the area of
this island; and if I'm right about that, then he's either drowned or
shipwrecked on the island."
"Okay, that makes sense."
"What's the weather like up there?"
"No change."
"Could
you reach the island in a big ship?"
Bloggs grunted.
"I suppose you can ride any storm if your ship's big enough. But this
island won't have much of a dock, will it?"
"You'd better find out. However, I expect you're right. Now listen:
there's an R.A.F fighter base near Edinburgh. By the time you get
there, I'll have an amphibious plane standing by. You take off the
minute the storm begins to clear. Have the local coast guard ready to
move at a moment's notice, too I'm not sure who'll get there first."
