10
GODLIMAN AND BLOGGS WALKED SIDE BY SIDE ALONG the pavement of a bomb-damaged London shopping street. They were a mismatched pair: the stooped, birdlike professor, with pebble-lensed spectacles and a pipe, not looking where he was going, taking short, scurrying steps; and the flat-footed youngster, blond and purposeful, in his detective’s raincoat and melodramatic hat; a cartoon looking for a caption.
Godliman was saying, “I think Die Nadel is well-connected.”
“Why?”
“The only way he could be so insubordinate with impunity. It’s this ‘Regards to Willi’ line. It must refer to Canaris.”
“You think he was pals with Canaris.”
“He’s pals with somebody—perhaps someone more powerful than Canaris was.”
“I have the feeling this is leading somewhere.”
“People who are well-connected generally make those connections at school, or university or staff college. Look at that.”
They were outside a shop that had a huge empty space where once there had been a plate-glass window. A rough sign, hand-painted and nailed to the window-frame, said, “Even more open than usual.”
Bloggs laughed, “I saw one outside a bombed police station: ‘Be good, we are still open.’”
“It’s become a minor art form.”
They walked on. Bloggs said, “So, what if Die Nadel did go to school with someone high in the Wehrmacht?”
“People always have their pictures taken at school. Middleton down in the basement at Kensington—that house where MI6 used to be before the war—he’s got a collection of thousands of photographs of German officers: school photos, binges in the Mess, passing-out parades, shaking hands with Adolf, newspaper pictures—everything.”
“I see,” Bloggs said. “So if you’re right, and Die Nadel had been through Germany’s equivalent of Eton and Sandhurst, we’ve probably got a picture of him.”
“Almost certainly. Spies are notoriously camera-shy, but they don’t become spies in school. It will be a youthful Die Nadel that we find in Middleton’s files.”
They skirted a huge crater outside a barber’s. The shop was intact, but the traditional red-and-white-striped pole lay in shards on the pavement. The sign in the window said, “We’ve had a close shave—come and get one yourself.”
“How will we recognize him? No one has ever seen him,” Bloggs said.
“Yes, they have. At Mrs. Garden’s boarding house in High-gate they know him quite well.”
THE VICTORIAN HOUSE stood on a hill overlooking London. It was built of red brick, and Bloggs thought it looked angry at the damage Hitler was doing to its city. It was high up, a good place from which to broadcast. Die Nadel would have lived on the top floor. Bloggs wondered what secrets he had transmitted to Hamburg from this place in the dark days of 1940: map references for aircraft factories and steelworks, details of coastal defenses, political gossip, gas masks and Anderson shelters and sandbags, British morale, bomb damage reports, “Well done, boys, you got Christine Bloggs at last—” Shut up.
The door was opened by an elderly man in a black jacket and striped trousers.
“Good morning. I’m Inspector Bloggs, from Scotland Yard. I’d like a word with the householder, please.”
Bloggs saw fear come to the man’s eyes, then a young woman appeared in the doorway behind him and said, “Come in, please.”
The tiled hall smelled of wax polish. Bloggs hung his hat and coat on a stand. The old man disappeared into the depths of the house, and the woman led Bloggs into a lounge. It was expensively furnished in a rich, old-fashioned way. There were bottles of whiskey, gin and sherry on a trolley; all the bottles were unopened. The woman sat on a floral arm-chair and crossed her legs.
“Why is the old man frightened of the police?” Bloggs said.
“My father-in-law is a German Jew. He came here in 1935 to escape Hitler, and in 1940 you put him in a concentration camp. His wife killed herself at the prospect. He has just been released from the Isle of Man. He had a letter from the King, apologizing for the inconvenience to which he had been put.”
Bloggs said, “We don’t have concentration camps.”
“We invented them. In South Africa. Didn’t you know? We go on about our history, but we forget bits. We’re so good at blinding ourselves to unpleasant facts.”
“Perhaps it’s just as well.”
“What?”
“In 1939 we blinded ourselves to the unpleasant fact that we alone couldn’t win a war with Germany—and look what happened.”
“That’s what my father-in-law says. He’s not as cynical as I. What can we do to assist Scotland Yard?”
Bloggs had been enjoying the debate, and now it was with reluctance that he turned his attention to work. “It’s about a murder that took place here four years ago.”
“So long!”
“Some new evidence may have come to light.”
“I know about it, of course. The previous owner was killed by a tenant. My husband bought the house from her executor—she had no heirs.”
“I want to trace the other people who were tenants at that time.”
“Yes.” The woman’s hostility had gone now, and her intelligent face showed the effort of recollection. “When we arrived there were three who had been here before the murder: a retired naval officer, a salesman and a young boy from Yorkshire. The boy joined the Army—he still writes to us. The salesman was called up and he died at sea. I know because two of his five wives got in touch with us! And the Commander is still here.”
“Still here!” That was a piece of luck. “I’d like to see him, please.”
“Surely.” She stood up. “He’s aged a lot. I’ll take you to his room.”
They went up the carpeted stairs to the first door. She said, “While you’re talking to him, I’ll look up the last letter from the boy in the Army.” She knocked on the door. It was more than Bloggs’s landlady would have done, he thought wryly.
A voice called, “It’s open,” and Bloggs went in.
The Commander sat in a chair by the window with a blanket over his knees. He wore a blazer, a collar and a tie, and spectacles. His hair was thin, his moustache grey, his skin loose and wrinkled over a face that might once have been strong. The room was the home of a man living on memories—there were paintings of sailing ships, a sextant and a telescope, and a photograph of himself as a boy aboard HMS Winchester.
“Look at this,” he said without turning around. “Tell me why that chap isn’t in the Navy.”
Bloggs crossed to the window. A horse-drawn baker’s van was at the curb outside the house, the elderly horse dipping into its nosebag while the deliveries were made. That “chap” was a woman with short blonde hair, in trousers. She had a magnificent bust. Bloggs laughed. “It’s a woman in trousers,” he said.
“Bless my soul, so it is!” The Commander turned around. “Can’t tell these days, you know. Women in trousers!”
Bloggs introduced himself. “We’ve reopened the case of a murder committed here in 1940. I believe you lived here at the same time as the main suspect, one Henry Faber.”
“Indeed! What can I do to help?”
“How well do you remember Faber?”
“Perfectly. Tall chap, dark hair, well-spoken, quiet. Rather shabby clothes—if you were the kind who judges by appearances, you might well mistake him. I didn’t dislike him—wouldn’t have minded getting to know him better, but he didn’t want that. I suppose he was about your age.”
Bloggs suppressed a smile—he was used to people assuming he must be older simply because he was a detective.
The Commander added, “I’m sure he didn’t do it, you know. I know a bit about character—you can’t command a ship without learning—and if that man was a sex maniac, I’m Hermann Goering.”
Bloggs suddenly connected the blonde in trousers with the mistake about his age, and the conclusion depressed him. He said, “You know, you should always ask to see a policeman’s warrant card.”
The Commander was slightly taken aback. “All right, then, let’s have it.”
Bloggs opened his wallet and folded it to display the picture of Christine. “Here.”
The Commander studied it for a moment, then said, “A very good likeness.”
Bloggs sighed. The old man was very nearly blind.
He stood up. “That’s all, for now,” he said. “Thank you.”
“Any time. Whatever I can do to help. I’m not much value to England these days—you’ve got to be pretty useless to get invalided out of the Home Guard, you know.”
“Good-bye.” Bloggs went out.
The woman was in the hall downstairs. She handed Bloggs a letter. “The boy’s address is a Forces box number,” she said. “Parkin’s his name…no doubt you’ll be able to find out where he is.”
“You knew the Commander would be no use,” Bloggs said.
“I guess not. But a visitor makes his day.” She opened the door.
On impulse, Bloggs said, “Will you have dinner with me?”
A shadow crossed her face. “My husband is still on the Isle of Man.”
“I’m sorry—I thought—”
“It’s all right. I’m flattered.”
“I wanted to convince you we’re not the Gestapo.”
“I know you’re not. A woman alone just gets bitter.”
Bloggs said, “I lost my wife in the bombing.”
“Then you know how it makes you hate.”
“Yes,” said Bloggs. “It makes you hate.” He went down the steps. The door closed behind him. It had started to rain….
IT HAD BEEN RAINING then too. Bloggs was late home. He had been going over some new material with Godliman. Now he was hurrying, so that he would have half an hour with Christine before she went out to drive her ambulance. It was dark, and the raid had already started. The things Christine saw at night were so awful she had stopped talking about them.
Bloggs was proud of her, proud. The people she worked with said she was better than two men—she hurtled through blacked-out London, driving like a veteran, taking corners on two wheels, whistling and cracking jokes as the city turned to flame around her. Fearless, they called her. Bloggs knew better; she was terrified, but she would not let it show. He knew because he saw her eyes in the morning when he got up and she went to bed; when her guard was down and it was over for a few hours; he knew it was not fearlessness but courage, and he was proud.
It was raining harder when he got off the bus. He pulled down his hat and put up his collar. At a tobacconist’s he bought cigarettes for Christine—she had started smoking recently like a lot of women. The shopkeeper would let him have only five, because of the storage. He put them in a Woolworth’s bakelite cigarette case.
A policeman stopped him and asked for his identity card; another two minutes wasted. An ambulance passed him, similar to the one Christine drove; a requisitioned fruit truck, painted grey.
He began to get nervous as he approached home. The explosions were sounding closer, and he could hear the aircraft clearly. The East End was in for another bruising tonight; he would sleep in the Morrison shelter. There was a big one, terribly close, and he quickened his step. He would eat his supper in the shelter, too.
He turned into his own street, saw the ambulances and the fire engines, and broke into a run.
The bomb had landed on his side of the street, around the middle. It must be close to his own home. Jesus in heaven, not us, no—
There had been a direct hit on the roof, and the house was literally flattened. He raced up to the crowd of people, neighbors and firemen and volunteers. “Is my wife all right? Is she out? Is she in there?”
A fireman looked at him. “Nobody’s come out of there, mate.”
Rescuers were picking over the rubble. Suddenly one of them shouted, “Over here!” Then he said, “Jesus, it’s Fearless Bloggs!”
Frederick dashed to where the man stood. Christine was underneath a huge chunk of brickwork. Her face was visible; the eyes were closed.
The rescuer called, “Lifting gear, boys, sharp’s the word.”
Christine moaned and stirred.
“She’s alive!” Bloggs said. He knelt down beside her and got his hand under the edge of the lump of rubble.
The rescuer said, “You won’t shift that, son.”
The brickwork lifted.
“God, you’ll kill yourself,” the rescuer said, and bent down to help.
When it was two feet off the ground they got their shoulders under it. The weight was off Christine now. A third man joined in, and a fourth. They all straightened up together.
Bloggs said, “I’ll lift her out.”
He crawled under the sloping roof of brick and cradled his wife in his arms.
“Fuck me it’s slipping!” someone shouted.
Bloggs scurried out from under with Christine held tightly to his chest. As soon as he was clear the rescuers let go of the rubble and jumped away. It fell back to earth with a sickening thud, and when Bloggs realized that that had landed on Christine, he knew she was going to die.
He carried her to the ambulance, and it took off immediately. She opened her eyes again once, before she died, and said, “You’ll have to win the war without me, kiddo.”
More than a year later, as he walked downhill from High-gate into the bowl of London, with the rain on his face mingling with the tears again, he thought the woman in the spy’s house had said a mighty truth: It makes you hate.
In war boys become men and men become soldiers and soldiers get promoted; and this is why Bill Parkin, aged eighteen, late of a boarding house in High-gate, who should have been an apprentice in his father’s tannery at Scarborough, was believed by the Army to be twenty-one, promoted to sergeant, and given the job of leading his advance squad through a hot, dry forest toward a dusty, whitewashed Italian village.
The Italians had surrendered but the Germans had not, and it was the Germans who were defending Italy against the combined British-American invasion. The Allies were going to Rome, and for Sergeant Parkin’s squad it was a long walk.
They came out of the forest at the top of a hill, and lay flat on their bellies to look down on the village. Parkin got out his binoculars and said, “What wouldn’t I fookin’ give for a fookin’ cup of fookin’ tea.” He had taken to drinking and cigarettes and women, and his language was like that of soldiers everywhere. He no longer went to prayer meetings.
Some of these villages were defended and some were not, Parkin recognized that as sound tactics—you didn’t know which were undefended, so you approached them all cautiously, and caution cost time.
The downside of the hill held little cover—just a few bushes—and the village began at its foot. There were a few white houses, a river with a wooden bridge, then more houses around a little piazza with a town hall and a clock tower. There was a clear line of sight from the tower to the bridge; if the enemy were here at all, they would be in the town hall. A few figures worked in the surrounding fields; God knew who they were. They might be genuine peasants, or any one of a host of factions: fascisti, mafia, corsos, partigianos, communisti…or even Germans. You didn’t know whose side they would be on until the shooting started.
Parkin said, “All right, Corporal.”
Corporal Watkins disappeared back into the forest and emerged, five minutes later, on the dirt road into the village, wearing a civilian hat and a filthy old blanket over his uniform. He shambled, rather than walked, and over his shoulder was a bundle that could have been anything from a bag of onions to a dead rabbit. He reached the near edge of the village and vanished into the darkness of a low cottage.
After a moment he came out. Standing close to the wall, where he could not be seen from the village, he looked toward the soldiers on the hilltop and waved: one, two, three.
The squad scrambled down the hillside into the village.
“All the houses empty, Sarge,” Watkins said.
Parkin nodded. It meant nothing.
They moved through the houses to the edge of the river. Parkin said, “Your turn, Smiler. Swim the Mississippi here.”
Private “Smiler” Hudson put his equipment in a neat pile, took off his helmet, boots and tunic, and slid into the narrow stream. He emerged on the far side, climbed the bank, and disappeared among the houses. This time there was a longer wait: more area to check. Finally Hudson walked back across the wooden bridge. “If they’re ’ere, they’re ’iding,” he said.
He retrieved his gear and the squad crossed the bridge into the village. They kept to the sides of the street as they walked toward the piazza. A bird flew off a roof and startled Parkin. Some of the men kicked open a few doors as they passed. There was nobody.
They stood at the edge of the piazza. Parkin nodded at the town hall. “Did you go inside that place, Smiler?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Looks like the village is ours, then.”
“Yes, sir.”
Parkin stepped forward to cross the piazza, and then it broke. There was a crash of rifles, and bullets hailed all around them. Someone screamed. Parkin was running, dodging, ducking. Watkins, in front of him, shouted with pain and clutched his leg. Parkin picked him up bodily. A bullet clanged off his tin hat. He raced for the nearest house, charged the door, and fell inside.
The shooting stopped. Parkin risked a look outside. One man lay wounded in the piazza: Hudson. Hudson moved, and a solitary shot rang out. Then he was still. Parkin said, “Fookin’ bastards.”
Watkins was doing something to his leg, cursing. “Bullet still in there?” Parkin said.
Watkins yelled, “Ouch!” then grinned and held something up. “Not any more.”
Parkin looked outside again. “They’re in the clock tower. You wouldn’t think there was room. Can’t be many of them.”
“They can shoot, though.”
“Yes. They’ve got us pinned.” Parkin frowned. “Got any fireworks?”
“Aye.”
“Let’s have a look.” Parkin opened Watkins’s pack and took out the dynamite. “Here. Fix a ten-second fuse.”
The others were in the house across the street. Parkin called out “Hey!”
A face appeared at the door. “Sarge?”
“I’m going to throw a tomato. When I shout, give me covering fire.”
“Right.”
Parkin lit a cigarette. Watkins handed him a bundle of dynamite. Parkin shouted, “Fire!” He lit the fuse with the cigarette, stepped into the street, drew back his arm, and threw the bomb at the clock tower. He ducked back into the house, the fire of his own men ringing in his ears. A bullet shaved the woodwork, and he caught a splinter under his chin. He heard the dynamite explode.
Before he could look, someone across the street shouted, “Bullseye!”
Parkin stepped outside. The ancient clock tower had crumbled. A chime sounded incongruously as dust settled over the ruins.
Watkins said, “You ever play cricket? That was a bloody good shot.”
Parkin walked to the center of the piazza. There seemed to be enough human spare parts to make about three Germans. “The tower was pretty unsteady anyway,” he said. “It would probably have fallen down if we’d all sneezed at it together.” He turned away. “Another day, another dollar.” It was a phrase he’d heard the Yanks use.
“Sarge? Radio.” It was the R/T operator.
Parkin walked back and took the handset from him. “Sergeant Parkin.”
“Major Roberts. You’re discharged from active duty as of now, Sergeant.”
“Why?” Parkin’s first thought was that they had discovered his true age.
“The brass want you in London. Don’t ask me why because I don’t know. Leave your corporal in charge and make your way back to base. A car will meet you on the road.”
“Yes, sir.”
“The orders also say that on no account are you to risk your life. Got that?”
Parkin grinned, thinking of the clock tower and the dynamite. “Got it.”
“All right. On your way. You lucky sod.”
EVERYONE HAD CALLED HIM a boy, but they had known him before he joined the Army, Bloggs thought. There was no doubt he was a man now. He walked with confidence and grace, looked about him sharply, and was respectful without being ill at ease in the company of superior officers. Bloggs knew that he was lying about his age, not because of his looks or manner, but because of the small signs that appeared whenever age was mentioned—signs that Bloggs, an experienced interrogator, picked up out of habit.
He had been amused when they told him they wanted him to look at pictures. Now, in this third day in Mr. Middleton’s dusty Kensington vault, the amusement had gone and tedium had set in. What irritated him most was the no-smoking rule.
It was even more boring for Bloggs, who had to sit and watch him.
At one point Parkin said, “You wouldn’t call me back from Italy to help you in a four-year-old murder case that could wait until after the war. Also, these pictures are mostly of German officers. If this case is something I should keep quiet about, you’d better tell me.”
“It’s something you should keep quiet about,” said Bloggs.
Parkin went back to his pictures.
They were all old, mostly browned and fading. Many were out of books, magazines, and newspapers. Sometimes Parkin picked up a magnifying glass Mr. Middleton had thoughtfully provided, to peer more closely at a tiny face in a group; and each time this happened Bloggs’s heart raced, only to slow down when Parkin put the glass to one side and picked up the next photograph.
They went to a nearby pub for lunch. The ale was weak, like most wartime beer, but Bloggs still thought it was wise to restrict young Parkin to two pints—on his own he would have sunk a gallon.
“Mr. Faber was the quiet sort,” Parkin said. “You wouldn’t think he had it in him. Mind you, the landlady wasn’t bad looking. And she wanted it. Looking back, I think I could have had her myself if I’d known how to go about it. There, I was only—eighteen.”
They ate bread and cheese, and Parkin swallowed a dozen pickled onions. When they went back, they stopped outside the house while Parkin smoked another cigarette.
“Mind you,” he said, “he was a biggish chap, good-looking, well-spoken. We all thought he was nothing much because his clothes were poor, and he rode a bike, and he’d no money. I suppose it could have been a subtle kind of disguise.” His eyebrows were raised in a question.
“It could have been,” Bloggs said.
That afternoon Parkin found not one but three pictures of Faber. One of them was only nine years old.
And Mr. Middleton had the negative.
HEINRICH RUDOLPH HANS VON MüLLER-GüDER (also known as Faber) was born on May 26, 1900, at a village called Oln in West Prussia. His father’s family had been substantial landowners in the area for generations. His father was the second son; so was Heinrich. All the second sons were Army officers. His mother, the daughter of a senior official of the Second Reich, was born and raised to be an aristocrat’s wife, and that was what she was.
At the age of thirteen Heinrich went to the Karlsruhe cadet school in Baden; two years later he was transferred to the more prestigious Gross-Lichterfelde, near Berlin. Both places were hard disciplinarian institutions where the minds of the pupils were improved with canes and cold baths and bad food. However, Heinrich learned to speak English and French and studied history, and passed the final examinations with the highest mark recorded since the turn of the century. There were only three other points of note in his school career: one bitter winter he rebelled against authority to the extent of sneaking out of the school at night and walking 150 miles to his aunt’s house; he broke the arm of his wrestling instructor during a practice bout; and he was flogged for insubordination.
He served briefly as an ensign-cadet in the neutral zone of Friedrichsfeld, near Wesel, in 1920; did token officer training at the War School at Metz in 1921, and was commissioned Second Lieutenant in 1922.
(“What was the phrase you used?” Godliman asked Bloggs. “The German equivalent of Eton and Sandhurst.”)
Over the next few years he did short tours of duty in half a dozen places, in the manner of one who is being groomed for the general staff. He continued to distinguish himself as an athlete, specializing in long-distance running. He made no close friendships, never married, and refused to join the National Socialist party. His promotion to lieutenant was somewhat delayed by a vague incident involving the pregnancy of the daughter of a lieutenant colonel in the Defense Ministry, but eventually came about in 1928. His habit of talking to superior officers as if they were equals came to be accepted as pardonable in one who was both a rising young officer and a Prussian aristocrat.
In the late ’20s Admiral Wilhelm Canaris became friendly with Heinrich’s Uncle Otto, his father’s elder brother, and spent several holidays at the family estate in Oln. In 1931 Adolf Hitler, not yet Chancellor of Germany, was a guest there.
In 1933 Heinrich was promoted to captain, and went to Berlin for unspecified duties. This is the date of the last photograph.
About then, according to published information, he seems to have ceased to exist….
“WE CAN CONJECTURE THE REST,” said Percival Godliman. “The Abwehr trains him in wireless transmission, codes, mapmaking, burglary, blackmail, sabotage and silent killing. He comes to London in about 1937 with plenty of time to set himself up with a solid cover—perhaps two. His loner instincts are honed sharp by the spying game. When war breaks out, he considers himself licensed to kill.” He looked at the photograph on his desk. “He’s a handsome fellow.”
It was a picture of the 5,000-meters running team of the 10th Hanoverian Jaeger Battalion. Faber was in the middle, holding a cup. He had a high forehead, with cropped hair, a long chin, and a small mouth decorated with a narrow moustache.
Godliman passed the picture to Billy Parkin. “Has he changed much?”
“He looked a lot older, but that might have been his…bearing.” He studied the photograph thoughtfully. “His hair was longer, and the moustache was gone.” He passed the picture back across the desk. “But it’s him, all right.”
“There are two more items in the file, both of them conjectural,” Godliman said. “First, they say he may have gone into Intelligence in 1933—that’s the routine assumption when an officer’s record just stops for no apparent reason. The second item is a rumor, unconfirmed by any reliable source, that he spent some years as a confidential advisor to Stalin, using the name Vasily Zankov.”
“That’s incredible,” Bloggs said. “I don’t believe that.”
Godliman shrugged. “Somebody persuaded Stalin to execute the cream of his officer corps during the years Hitler rose to power.”
Bloggs shook his head, and changed the subject. “Where do we go from here?”
Godliman considered. “Let’s have Sergeant Parkin transferred to us. He’s the only man we know who has actually seen Die Nadel. Besides, he knows too much for us to risk him in the front line; he could get captured and interrogated. Next, make a first-class print of this photo, and have the hair thickened and the moustache obliterated by a retouch artist. Then we can distribute copies.”
“Do we want to start a hue and cry?” Bloggs said doubtfully.
“No. For now, let’s tread softly. If we put the thing in the newspapers he’ll get to hear of it and vanish. Just send the photo to police forces for the time being.”
“Is that all?”
“I think so. Unless you’ve got other ideas.”
Parkin cleared his throat. “Sir?”
“Yes.”
“I really would prefer to go back to my unit. I’m not really the administrative type, if you see what I mean.”
“You’re not being offered a choice, Sergeant. At this stage, one Italian village more or less makes relatively little difference—but this man Faber could lose us the war. Truly.”