Oppenheimer spun round. ‘Georg. What on earth are you doing here? I thought you were living up a tree in Brazil.’ Instantly forgetting his bruises, he shook his old friend by the hand and the two embraced.
‘Argentina, actually,’ said Reiss, beaming from ear-to-ear. ‘So you got my postcard then?’
‘I did indeed. Poor Leslie Groves nearly had a fit.’
Reiss laughed. ‘If you see him, please tell him I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t worry. He’s retired now, I’m sure he’s got over it.’
Reiss became serious once more and checked all around to see that no-one was listening. The last of the students were leaving the hall: little knots of enthusiastic young people, chattering like starlings, brimming over with excitement about Oppenheimer’s lecture. From the upper door a janitor came in and began rearranging the dust between the tiered rows of seats high above them. Busy with his broom, he was well out of earshot and so Reiss continued. ‘I kept my promise you know. I never told a soul, not even my wife.’
‘I never expected anything else.’ Oppenheimer smiled and drew hard on his cigarette. ‘So you’re married now, when did that happen?’
‘Oh, about three years ago. We’ve got a little boy – eighteen months old.’
‘Fantastic. What’s he called?’
Reiss looked bashfully down at his shoes. ‘We called him Robert. After you. I hope he’ll want to be a physicist when he grows up.’
Oppenheimer snorted and the smile faded. ‘Don’t wish that on him, Georg, whatever you do.’ He recounted the story of how the US President himself had asked him to resign his position as an advisor to the government; how he’d refused and then had made the fatal mistake of submitting to the Atomic Energy Commission hearing that had given Teller the chance to betray him.
Reiss listened aghast. ‘I can’t believe they’d treat you that way,’ he said. ‘And after everything you did for them.’
Oppenheimer raised his eyebrows and shrugged. ‘If there’s one thing I’ve learned from physics, it’s that the element with the shortest half-life known to man is gratitude. But I’m still alive,’ he said, ‘still in one piece and enjoying being back in Europe. What I really want to know is when you got back here and how.’
‘Nothing to tell, really,’ said Reiss. ‘After you came to see me at Oak Ridge I had a visit from the FBI asking me all kinds of questions about Max and why someone would want to kill him. I’m glad you warned me what to expect, because it wasn’t pleasant.’
‘Did they ask you anything about how you came to America?’
‘No. I managed to keep them away from that but at the time I was still convinced that poor Max had been killed for talking about it. I naturally assumed that he was no longer of any use and as soon as I fell into the same category then I’d be next on the list. And when they said they’d be back, that was the final straw.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘I asked to take a few days’ leave to visit Los Angeles – figured I had to see Hollywood before I died.’
‘Disappointing, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose I was expecting to meet Clark Gable and Spencer Tracy in the street, but all I saw were lots of other tourists like me. Anyway, I stayed for three days, checked out of the hotel and told them I’d decided to go to San Francisco. Instead I went the other way; caught the train to San Diego, crossed into Mexico at Tijuana and then took a bus all the way to Mexico City – that was a dreadful journey I can tell you. From there I went to Veracruz where I found some friendly Germans who helped find me a passage to Buenos Aires.’
Oppenheimer nodded in appreciation. ‘Quite a trip.’
Reiss gave an involuntary shudder at the memory. ‘Not something I’d care to repeat.’ They sat down, side-by-side, on the edge of the stage and Reiss refused Oppenheimer’s offer of a cigarette. ‘I’ve given up and if you’d seen the research on those things that I have, you would too,’ he said.
‘Too late for me. I’m hooked.’
‘It’s never too late, Oppie. If you don’t stop, at the rate you get through them you’ll be dead inside ten years.’
Oppenheimer blew a cloud of smoke into the air. ‘Maybe I won’t live to be a hundred, but if I give up one of life’s great pleasures, it’ll sure seem that long. Anyway, where are you getting all this research from? Have you given up physics or something?’
‘No, I’m still at it. I’m a professor here at the university.’
‘And nobody came looking for you here after your “extended holiday”?’
‘Evidently not. I suppose they were still looking for me in Argentina.’
‘You were lucky.’
‘Yes and no. When I first tried to get a ship from Veracruz, things started getting difficult and I nearly got myself arrested by the Mexican police. So when the offer of help came along I didn’t ask too many questions.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Oppenheimer.
‘Well, when I said that I met some “friendly Germans” I found out that they were part of an organisation smuggling wanted men and women out of Europe.’
Oppenheimer looked grave. ‘Nazis, you mean?’
‘Nazis, yes. But what was I to do? I told them I was a scientist, that I’d been kidnapped by the Americans – ’
‘Which is almost true.’
‘Exactly. The rest I changed completely and told them that I was an aeronautical engineer trying to get home to Austria. After that they put me in touch with their people in Argentina and the rest was easy. At the time they had a very efficient network for getting people out and so sending a “parcel”, as they called their clients, in the opposite direction, was easy.’
‘Amazing how easily we make deals with the Devil when we’re desperate enough,’ said Oppenheimer.
Reiss stared into space. The janitor was working his way slowly down towards them in his own little private cloud of dust. ‘Do you know,’ said Reiss. ‘I never even gave it a second’s thought. I knew who they were, what they represented and what their “parcels” had done, all those people they’d killed. The worst thing was that for me it wasn’t even a moral dilemma: I needed to get out, I had money, they had what I wanted and so yes, I did a deal with the Devil. I suppose that makes me a monster, particularly in your eyes.’
Oppenheimer thought for a moment. ‘No. Not a monster. Just human,’ he said, giving his friend a pat on the shoulder.
‘And you don’t think they’re still looking for me?’ asked Reiss.
‘I’d very much doubt it. And, besides, even if you do reappear, you’re in the clear so far as the murder’s concerned.’
‘Yes I saw that. I still think about poor old Max, but at least they know who did it.’
‘I reckon you’re perfectly safe. Max is dead, you’ve no idea where the other two “parcels” from Berlin are – they may be dead too for all I know – and if you tried to tell the story, no one would believe it. I certainly wouldn’t back you up. And where’s your proof?’
‘Switzerland, they said.’
Oppenheimer lit another cigarette. ‘If it’s there then it’ll be buried so deep under one of their mountains that no one will ever find it,’ he said.
‘You think so?’
‘Positive. Look, Georg, I’ll tell you how sure I am. I’m going to put a proposition to you. We’ve worked together in the past so how would you feel about coming back to the States and starting again?’
Reiss pulled a face. ‘Don’t make fun of me, Oppie.’
‘I’m not. I’m deadly serious. Have you ever heard of The Institute for Advanced Study?’
‘At Princeton, you mean?’
‘Yes. I’m the Director.’
‘I know that. Everyone knows that.’
‘Well how would you like to come and work for me?’
Reiss beamed. ‘If you think it’s safe, there’s nothing I’d like more in the world. I’d have to ask my wife of course.’
Within three months, Georg Reiss was naili
ng down the lid of his packing cases. This time they contained personal effects rather than gas centrifuge components and what’s more, he knew where he was headed.
Chapter Fifteen
Cannot believe it – am so happy. News has come that we are to move. The thought of spending another winter in this place is too much to bear. A’s health suffering badly. Don’t know where Virginia is but hope it’s warmer than here. A. frantic to find a way of contacting friends in CH.
*
Finally, the legal square-dance came to an end and, with a bow-to-your-partner and a cheque-to-your-lawyer, James was declared rightful owner of The Lodge. Bill Todd’s will made provision for the Hammonds who inherited the cottage where they had lived for the last forty years.
When he set up a wireless network in the old house and installed a computer in the study Mrs H showed her disapproval by deliberately failing to dust the new equipment, but in the realm of protests, it was something he could live with. Hammond looked at the machine and asked whether it was a four-stroke or a two-stroke: James wasn’t sure whether or not he was joking.
The following weeks were like an extended holiday for James. Days were spent swimming in the sea and ignoring his ex-wife’s increasingly urgent demands for cash: his suspicions that her latest man had grown tired of her whining and spending and thrown her out had been proved correct. With summer approaching, he realised that he’d probably missed his chance to land another job this side of next year’s bonus round, and the only possible ship on his personal horizon was an opening with a hedge fund that had recently moved from London to Zug in Switzerland. He looked it up on the map: it would do, he thought, but the only problem was that he didn’t speak a word of German. Still, it was a decision that didn’t have to be taken now, if at all.
On the other hand, the decision that wouldn’t stop tugging at his sleeve was what to do about the paintings. After almost two weeks of uninterrupted sunshine it started pouring with rain and for want of anything better to do, he summoned up the courage to phone the National Gallery in London. After a morning of being put through to the wrong department, cut off or treated as a practical joker, he eventually got through to a woman who sounded very excited at what he’d found and asked him to photograph some of the paintings and to e-mail them to her. She replied to his e-mail within minutes and promised to send someone the very next day.
James wasn’t one for instant dislikes, but in this case he was coming close to making an exception. The wretched little man from London with his silly bow tie had been rude to him on the phone and was now getting on his nerves within five minutes of arriving at The Lodge.
‘I really do think you should’ve brought them up to us. They’re not safe here, you know,’ he said.
James’s face was a picture of indifference. ‘Look, there are twenty tubes and over fifty paintings. Firstly, I couldn’t get them all in the car in one go and secondly, I’m not certain my insurance would cover me if the car got nicked from a motorway service area. I can just imagine what they’d say when I listed the contents of the car. I think it’d be something along the lines of, “and do you have a receipt for that Renoir, sir?”.’
The little man from The National Gallery made a huffing noise. He was sweating profusely and kept mopping at his brow with a spotty handkerchief in what James thought was an extremely affected manner.
‘You do realise that it’s entirely possible, if not probable, that they’re all fakes and I’ll have come all this way for nothing?’ he said, poking the handkerchief back into the top pocket of his blazer.
‘They look pretty real to me,’ said James. ‘You said they looked real from the digital photos I sent your colleague.’
‘Ah, but you can never really tell from a photo, and to the non-expert eye, even a fairly amateur fake would pass muster. That’s the whole point of the forger’s art.’ Condescension dripped from every syllable and James resisted the temptation to ask him why he’d bothered coming.
James led him down to the workshop. The letters of transit had been transferred to stout cardboard tubes which bore stickers in his uncle’s writing: “Blackburn NA 39 – Nosewheel Steering, 3 of 4”, their place taken in the now empty alloy tube by Corot’s Mother and Child in Woods which in turn had spent the last sixty years snuggled up with Rigaud’s Portrait of Mme Labrait.
After about five minutes, the little man stripped off his cotton gloves. James noticed that his face had changed from bright scarlet to the colour of putty and his hands were shaking. ‘You do realise what you’ve got here, Mr Atkinson?’
James did his best to sound nonchalant as though it were an everyday occurrence. ‘Ooh, I’d say that it was probably the biggest haul of Nazi art that’s been discovered in the last fifty or so years.’
His visitor was still shaking. ‘It’s absolutely priceless, all of it. How did you come to find it?’
James gave him a quick potted history of how he’d inherited the house and that he’d only recently found the tubes. What he omitted was that both the tubes and the remaining gold bars had spent the weeks since his uncle’s death safely hidden in the loft until the probate valuation was complete.
‘I’ll have to make a few phone calls,’ said the little man, dabbing nervously at his face with the spotted handkerchief. ‘We’ve got to secure the collection. If anybody broke in and stole any of these, it would be a tragedy.’
James felt an overwhelming urge to stick something sharp into him to see if he would whizz around the workshop like a deflating balloon. ‘At a guess they’ve been here since the war, so I hardly think that’s likely, do you?’
‘Well, I’m not sure. You see, I have a responsibility to the – ’
‘Truth is, you’re worried that now I know they’re real, I’ll do a moonlight flit and clear off with them. That’s it, isn’t it?’
The little man began to bluster, ‘No, no, it’s not that at all – ’
‘Don’t worry,’ said James, cutting him short again. ‘You’ve told me all I need to know and I promise they’ll be here tomorrow when you come back.’
The following afternoon an entire circus descended on the Lodge. Photographers, conservators, an armoured security van and two bemused policemen completed the parade. Once she’d got over the shock of what James had found in the workshop, Mrs Hammond bustled around producing cups of tea – the conservators’ request for decaffeinated green tea was met with a look of Tiggywinklish blank disbelief, much to James’s amusement. A few curious locals stuck their noses around the gateposts to try and see what was going on but were shooed away by the police.
It took the team from the National Gallery three days to finish cataloguing and photographing the treasures and to make sure they were in a fit state to be transported to London. A press release was scheduled for the following Wednesday and James was invited along to face the inevitable requests for TV and other interviews. The Gallery’s press officer predicted that it would be a big story – nobody had any idea how big. After yet another day of fielding requests to interview James, the press officer phoned him. ‘James, have you got something to write with?’
‘Yes, why?’
‘This is too big for us to handle. You need full-time help. Write this address and phone number down.’
James did as the press officer asked. ‘What do I need this for?’ he asked.
‘I’m out of my depth here and so will you be if you don’t contact him.’
‘Who?’
‘Mick Cuthbertson.’
‘What the bloke who does the PR for all those ghastly celebs? You must be joking.’
‘I’m not. Listen, I’m getting over two hundred calls a day as it is and if you don’t contact Mick, I’ll give them your mobile number.’
***
James crossed the Mall and made his way through Green Park. The Tube would have been quicker but he wasn’t in a rush and it was too nice a day to spend cooped up with the sweaty hordes underground. He strolled along Piccadilly and at the So
ho end, turned north towards Brewer Street.
The address, hemmed in between a fast-food outlet and a seedy pub, didn’t look particularly upmarket and when he pressed the button next to the handwritten label saying “Cuthbertson Associates – PR Consultants” and the automatic release failed to open three times in a row, he began to wonder whether he’d made a wise choice. The stairway was sticky underfoot and didn’t smell too good either. When he eventually reached the reception area on the second floor, it was about the size of a broom cupboard, with the receptionist, her desk and a consumptive rubber plant taking up most of the available space. The carpet looked as though it had spent the last twenty years on the floor of the pub next door. Fortunately for James, no other clients were present or he would have been left standing outside on the stairs. If these people are so good, he thought, how come they can’t afford a decent office?
The receptionist glanced up from her celebrity magazine and looked at him as though he were something she’d just trodden in.
‘Can I help?’ Her voice sounded as bored as she looked.
James searched for a suitably witty remark but none came to mind. ‘I’m here to see Mr Cuthbertson. We have a meeting at eleven,’ he said, as if anyone in their right mind would come into this dump for any other reason than to see the man behind the over-painted door.
‘I’ll see if he’s available.’
James smiled to himself at the unintentional irony. Then he watched as she turned and put her head round the door: so small was the reception area that neither of these actions involved her leaving her seat.
‘You’re in luck, he can see you now.’
James manoeuvred himself past the desk and into the office where he was greeted by a bear-like figure in a shirt several sizes too small for him and with a tie at half-mast. None of the associates mentioned on the letterhead were in sight so James assumed that this must be the man himself, the great Mick Cuthbertson. He moved a pile of press-cuttings off the seat in front of the desk and invited James to sit down.
The Manhattan Deception Page 12
