A Gathering of Saints

by A Gathering of Saints (retail) (epub)

  Desperately trying to organise his thoughts, he turned left towards the east aviary and the clock tower. If the Swede and the men following him arrived at the main entrance, he’d be ahead of them, and if they came via the north entrance and the connecting tunnel beside the teahouse, he’d be waiting.

  The clock tower was a stunted Victorian structure located at a widening in the path between the east aviary and the camel house. It looked like an armless, clapboard windmill poking out of a gardener’s potting shed, the shed in turn topped by a green-shingled minaret.

  Across from it was a large, thickly treed circle of ornamental gardens split down the middle by the broad processional way of the elephant walk. At the edge of the circle there were a number of conveniently placed wood and wrought iron park benches. Tennant chose a relatively dry one, protected by the spreading umbrella of a tall Dutch elm. He lit a cigarette, stared at the pale face of the tower clock and tried to think.

  The protocol for his communications with Heydrich’s organisation in Hamburg and Berlin was simple and supposedly safe. All radio transmissions were made by Tennant, using Sandpiper; there were no return messages. This ensured that Tennant would never find himself entrapped by the roving radio direction finders of the RAF Signals Intelligence Service.

  Instead, any response from Germany would come through a small advertisement in the Daily Sketch on the third, fifth and seventh days after his transmission. The advertisement, extolling the virtues of a Swedish herbal laxative, had a Stockholm mailing address and was presumably placed by Heydrich’s contacts in Sweden.

  On seeing the advertisement Tennant would then go to one of three locations depending on the day the advertisement appeared. The third appearance of the ad meant he should go to the Ring Refreshment House in Hyde Park, the second appearance meant the All Weather Golf Practice Course just off Holland Walk in Kensington and the first appearance meant the zoo. By watching the paper on all three days he always knew his spot.

  The most basic rule was that there would be no direct contact. Depending on the circumstances, the courier would leave his message hidden in the toilet tank of a specific cubicle in either the WC discreetly hidden in the artificial hill between the fox and jackal pens or the larger facility at the entrance to the underground aquarium beneath the Mappin Terraces.

  When Tennant was sure that the way was clear, he could retrieve the reply to his transmission at his leisure. The messages were coded using a mutually agreed upon key. The entire procedure was supposedly foolproof, with no possible risk to Tennant.

  Supposedly. But now it was obvious that MI5 knew about the courier and there was a good chance they also knew about the messages in the Daily Sketch. If that was the case, one of the two watchers would follow the Swede while the second would check any possible place a message might be dropped. There was also a reasonably good chance that the Swede would be picked up after the drop had taken place and then interrogated. At the very least such an interrogation would lead MI5 back to Stockholm and a connection with Heydrich, even if it didn’t reveal his identity. His lifeline to Hamburg and Berlin would be severed.

  Tennant dropped the butt of his cigarette onto the gravel path in front of him and ground it out with the toe of his shoe. He glanced at the clock tower. He’d been sitting there for almost five minutes. The Swede would be arriving at any moment. He had to make a decision. Standing up, he turned then headed through the trees behind him.

  Coming out from under the trees, he hunched his shoulders against the spattering rain and crossed the elephant walk, swinging south across the open lawn on the far side of the avenue, moving towards the lion house and the antelope paddock.

  At the end of the lawn he followed a wide pathway to the left, walking in the direction of the south entrance leading out to Broad Walk. Before he reached the entrance gate he turned left again, taking the narrow walkway that led between a trio of small hilled pens used by the resident prairie dogs and the long narrow building that contained the birds-of-prey aviaries.

  Continuing on for another fifty yards, he cut in behind the low, wood-sided refreshment concession and paused in front of the raccoons’ cages. He lit another cigarette, watching as half a dozen of the masked, sharp-nosed creatures paced back and forth in their enclosures, fat bellies and high back legs giving them the look of shambling, ring-tailed sailors.

  Behind him, less than ten feet away, were the cages containing the foxes and jackals. There was no sound except for the patter of the rain and the distant jungle hoot and caw of the monkey house and the main aviaries close to the entrance.

  Fifty feet to his left, screened by the fox and jackal pens, was the sloping walk leading to the tunnel beneath the Outer Circle Road. If the Swede came through the north entrance, as he had on the last three occasions, he would leave his message in the WC here.

  The psychiatrist looked cautiously to left and right; he was alone on the pathway. He glanced over his shoulder; a jackal, fur matted with the rain, ears pricked nervously, watched him from beneath a ledge of concrete built into the ten-foot-high hill. It lifted its narrow head, tasting the air. Tennant shuddered with a sudden chill and wondered if the creature could smell his fear.

  He turned on his heel and walked quickly towards the hidden entrance to the men’s lavatory. Ever since he’d come through the gate, he’d tried to identify his options; now he realised there were none. There was only one course of action he could take. Reaching the door of the lavatory, he took a last look around. To his right the bandstand in front of the large teahouse was empty, rain dripping from its gingerbread eaves. To his left an old man in a long black coat and worn galoshes stood in front of the small-cat house. Tennant pulled open the door and went inside.

  The lavatory was a long, narrow bunker, its eastern wall forming the rear of the fox and jackal pens, its roof covered with soil and vented through two small metal chimneys. Three lights recessed into the ceiling, wire-mesh guarded, threw pools of sick yellow light around the white-tiled chamber.

  There were three porcelain sinks and a long, polished metal mirror just inside the plain swinging door, a row of urinals on the left and five toilet stalls on the right. The Swede would leave the message in the tank of the farthest stall. The place stank of disinfectant and old urine.

  Tennant turned on the taps of the nearest sink and stared at his dim, streaked reflection in the mirror. His suit jacket was damp with rain, his hair plastered down on his skull. A mess. He knew it was his imagination but he could almost swear that dark rings had suddenly appeared beneath his eyes.

  The fear he felt was as palpable as the aching throb of his heart pounding against his ribs, as terribly real as the hot rip and tear of the blood coursing through his veins. His mouth was thick as oiled cotton and looking down he saw that the dark hairs on the back of his hands were rising. Adrenaline, a heightened sensory awareness brought on by massive anxiety – there were a score of physical and psychological manifestations and precedents for what he saw and felt and heard. Madness. Control.

  He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and took out the fountain pen he always carried, unscrewed the top, then placed it carefully on the edge of the sink close to his right hand. He bent his head low, splashed water on his face then froze, hearing the yawning creak of the door as it swung open behind his back.

  The Swede entered the lavatory and Tennant raised his head, looking into the mirror. The tall, blond man paused for a moment then let the door swing shut behind him. He glanced at Tennant, and then, instead of moving to the stalls, he went to the row of urinals and began undoing his flies. Christ! What was he doing?

  Tennant pushed up the lever to drain the sink, his face still dripping. The Swede finished then came back towards the psychiatrist. He chose a sink to Tennant’s left and began to wash his hands. The psychiatrist picked up the pen, gripping it in his clenched fist.

  ‘Where is it?’ Tennant asked, turning towards the Swede, keeping the hand holding the pen at his side. �
��You’re being followed. Give it to me, quickly!’

  The Swede frowned. ‘Forlat? Vad sade ni.’

  ‘The message, man!’ Tennant hissed. ‘I’m the Doctor. Give it to me!’

  ‘Doktor? Jag talar inte engelska.’

  Tennant groaned. The idiot didn’t speak English. Sanity was deserting him, spinning away on a whirling flood of rising panic. ‘Ich bin der Doktor,’ he said, switching to German. ‘Du hast ein—’

  ‘Nej! Nej!’ said the Swede, backing away from the sink, suddenly realising whom he was speaking to, his hands coming up defensively as the implications of meeting Tennant face-to-face dawned on him. ‘Jag gar—’

  There was no more time. The psychiatrist reached out, gripped the man’s left wrist and pulled it aside, simultaneously bringing the pen up in a sweeping arc, burying it deeply in the socket of the courier’s eye.

  The man screamed, struggling horribly, but Tennant held on, pushing the pen even deeper into the socket, the gold nib slicing the optic nerve and finally embedding itself in the soft tissue of the man’s brain. There was a sudden terrible odour as the man’s bowels voided and then he died. The Swede slid away, dropping to the floor as Tennant withdrew the pen, stuffing the gory instrument into his jacket pocket.

  He bent over the dead man and began going through his pockets, muttering half to himself and half in apology to the man he had just murdered.

  ‘You saw my face. You knew who I was. They were following you. It was necessary. Necessary.’ His breath was coming in ragged, panting gasps and he felt the sour taste of vomit rising in his throat.

  Clear fluid was draining down from the man’s eye, slowly turning crimson as it tracked down his cheek and dripped onto the floor. The smell filling the lavatory now was a hideous mixture of blood and excrement strong enough to blot out the scent of the chemical disinfectant.

  Tennant felt as though he was going to be sick at any moment. He went through the last pocket. Nothing. The messages were invariably carried in a small Bakelite tube, sealed and coated with paraffin.

  Tennant moaned. ‘Christ, man! What have you done?’ And then he knew. Instead of coming in through the north entrance and using the tunnel under the Outer Circle Road, the courier had chosen instead to use the main entrance. He’d deposited the message in the lavatory beside the stairs leading down to the aquarium, then cut along here. He’d used the urinal in earnest.

  ‘Oh, God,’ Tennant whispered, standing, staring down at the dead man. By now the watchers would have gone into the aquarium lavatory and one or both of them would be close by, watching for the Swede to reappear. He was trapped in this evil-smelling hole. Doomed, a murderer, a spy, a traitor. They’d post him against a wall within the Tower, pin a paper target over his heart and then six stone-faced soldiers would blow him to hell and his life would be over. The last shred of reason fled. He had to get away. He turned and bolted, racing for the door.

  It swung open before he reached it and Tennant had the fleeting impression of a heavyset man wearing a hat pulled low over his brow. The passenger in the Fordson. The psychiatrist slammed into the man, who was already reaching under the long flap over his overcoat.

  The two went down, sprawling on the floor beside the first of the toilet cubicles. The watcher was at least six inches taller and much heavier but Tennant had the advantage of surprise and the panic-stricken strength of his overwhelming terror. He smashed at the man’s face and pushed his free hand under the overcoat, feeling the hard metallic shape of a pistol in the man’s hand.

  They rolled sideways and the watcher’s shoulder smashed against the supporting stanchion of the cubicle door. For a split second his grip on the pistol loosened. Tennant’s fingers scrabbled madly for the trigger and then the weapon fired, the sound muffled by the overcoat and the watcher’s own bulk. The watcher let out a single, sharp exclamation and then sagged to one side. Less than a minute had passed.

  Tennant crabbed madly away from the body on all fours, reached the row of sinks, then pulled himself upright, breathing hard, lungs fighting for air. He turned, leaning back on the edge of the sink and looked back. The watcher lay like a bundle of rags next to the toilet cubicle. Dead. The psychiatrist felt the world spinning away under his feet, almost overcome by nausea, the meat of his tongue like a choking gag. In the space of five minutes he’d murdered twice. Two men were dead at his feet and it wasn’t over yet.

  He pushed away from the row of sinks, forcing himself to move through sheer power of will. Wooden-legged, he reached the door, took one deep breath and stepped out into the open air again. Letting the door swing shut behind him, Tennant paused and looked around, trying to look as casual as he could.

  The old man in front of the small-cat house was gone. The path leading back past the raccoon cages and behind the refreshment concession was empty, as was the bandstand and the teahouse terrace. He was alone. Thank God for that; there was still a chance. Gritting his teeth, he walked away, his pace as calm and slow as his terrible fear would allow. He moved towards the dark mouth of the tunnel leading to the middle garden, trying not to think of what he was leaving behind.

  At each step he expected to hear the crack of a bullet or the harsh screeching of a policeman’s whistle but nothing came. There was only the wet-bone crunch of gravel under his shoes and the small tapping whisper of rain in the trees. He reached the shadows of the tunnel entrance and disappeared. Safe.

  But for how long?

  He ran, his pelting footsteps echoing in the darkness, and then he was gone.

  * * *

  Katherine Copeland sat at the writing desk in the sitting room of her anonymously furnished flat on Shepard Street, smoking an endless series of DuMaurier cigarettes as she went over the dossier Bingham had given her on Detective Inspector Morris Black, occasionally making notes on a block of lined paper.

  She took a long, deep pull on her cigarette. Donovan had once told her, and not too kindly, that she smoked like a man, holding the cigarette low between her fingers instead of high and exhaling through her nostrils. Katherine made a snorting sound under her breath. It wasn’t the only thing she did like a man if truth be told. She stared down at the open folder, frowning.

  Black, at least on the surface, was every inch the plodding, ordinary policeman and very little more. She’d combed through the libraries of half a dozen London newspapers, eking out a bare-bones history of Black’s career and had come to the conclusion that he was very good at his job and shied away from any sort of publicity.

  More detailed information picked up by Larry Bingham seemed to indicate that by dint of his methodical nature and an ability to glean useful knowledge out of seemingly irrelevant detail, Morris Black was often given the most difficult, if not the most exciting, cases.

  Digging a little deeper, Katherine had also decided that Black’s work was more a way of life than a way to make a living. According to Bingham’s sources, Black came from quite a wealthy family, owned the building he lived in only a few blocks from her flat and had a sizeable income outside of his salary at the Yard. He didn’t bother to collect the clothing allowance due to plain-clothes detectives and rarely if ever put in vouchers for work-related food or travel.

  Since the death of his wife the previous year, he’d also taken on an ever-increasing caseload, working almost twice as many open dockets as his friend Capstick. The lonely widower burying his sorrow in work? It was a possibility, and if Black’s reaction to her on the train to Cambridge was any indication it might also be a vulnerable soft spot in his character that she could use to her advantage.

  Twisting out her cigarette in the already overflowing ashtray, Katherine glanced out through the gauzy curtains and shook her head. She was starting to think like Bingham and she didn’t like that one little bit. Maybe Donovan was right; smoke like a man, think like a man, drink like one, next thing you know she’d be sprouting a moustache. What the hell had happened to Charlie Copeland’s little girl, the senator’s pride and joy in pigtail
s, riding around their West Virginia estate on her pony Cimarron and smiling at the photographers?

  She’d grown up, that’s what, cursed as her father once said with as much brains as beauty. Baulking at a Southern belle’s debutante future, she’d gone to Sarah Lawrence looking for an education, not a Harvard husband.

  Six months after receiving her degree, Katherine Copeland ended an instructive and almost violently passionate affair she’d had with her European-history tutor, placed a telephone call to her father in Washington and landed a job as a research assistant in the Georgetown branch of the law firm headed by William J. ‘Wild Bill’ Donovan. The rest, she thought wryly, was history, and history had brought her to this, playing the role of a Yankee Mata Hari, mixing with grey-faced horrors like Lawrence Bingham and planning the seduction of a British bobby who was probably still in mourning for his wife. A long way from pigtails and pony rides.

  And too far to go back.

  Katherine took a deep breath and let it out slowly, watching the curtains moving slightly in the soft breeze. Maybe tonight those same curtains would be blasted to shreds by a whirling storm of flying glass as a German bomb exploded in the street. She’d always wanted to come to London, but not this way.

  Somewhere along the line, her feelings, her hopes and dreams, had faded. She’d told herself often enough that she was the victim of events and her personal life had to be put aside, at least for the moment. Which was all horseshit, of course. School had been a way to get away from home and working for Donovan had been a way of getting away from school. It had been exciting at first but after a while she saw that Washington society wasn’t much different from Sarah Lawrence; given time she would have succumbed, letting herself be married off to a son of one of her father’s well-connected friends. London was just another place to run to.

  And now that she was here, Bill Donovan and Larry goddamn Bingham were doing their level best to turn her into a whore. Katherine looked down at the file on Black again. She and Black were a lot alike, flotsam and jetsam drifting on a sea of war, caught on a rising tide of other people’s plots and plans. She’d met Black once and liked him almost immediately; now she was supposed to betray him. She lit another cigarette and stared at the photograph of Black clipped to the file.