Katastrophe, page 6
By now, the death toll was in three figures. An underground railway line ran below the market in a shallow cutting, and the sheer force of the explosion had collapsed the floor of the building into the void below. Many of the dead, having survived the blast, had tumbled onto the line and perished from impact injuries or electrocution. Rescue crews had worked through the night evacuating the wounded and tidying the remains of the dead onto stretchers. Three bodies, all of them shrouded in blankets, still awaited collection.
Barton wanted a list of the dead, the missing and confirmed survivors. At first the Major shook his head but she took him aside from the crowd of onlookers and Moncrieff watched as she explained herself. After five years of war, he thought, London was no stranger to scenes like this. People had got used to the sweet stench of ruptured sewers, to uniforms dusted with falling ash, to faces blank with exhaustion and shock, and to the shrill pipe of the search leader’s whistle demanding silence as his men bent to the rubble, listening intently for any sign of life. These glum dramas had unfolded year by year, street by ruined street, but Moncrieff sensed something else this morning that hadn’t been evident before. People knew that the war was coming to an end. And that made the sudden violence, and the countless bodies, even harder to bear. By now, Londoners should feel safe in their own homes, yet the carnage went on and on. Worse still, thanks to the dark arts of German rocket science, there appeared to be nowhere to hide.
Moncrieff’s gaze strayed to the shrouded bodies on the stretchers. Beside them was a line of bird cages, most of them damaged in one way or another, and when he took a proper look he realised that each cage contained the body of a canary, stone dead among a scatter of bird seed. They must have come off a speciality market stall, he thought. Maybe there were more pets under all that rubble, hamsters, and rabbits, and a tortoise or two, all of them felled by the blast of the explosion, but there was something very English about the neatness of the line, about the care and effort that somebody must have taken to retrieve these broken little bodies. It spoke of a thousand sitting rooms, all of them brightened by the chatter of a little bird. It spoke, in a way, of the nearness of peace.
Barton was consulting some kind of list in a notebook the Major had produced. Her finger strayed from page to page until suddenly it stopped, and she looked up, and nodded, and turned away to rejoin Moncrieff at the kerbside.
‘He survived,’ she said briskly. ‘Whitechapel Hospital.’
*
The hospital was nearly as chaotic as the scene they’d just left, staff and relatives milling about in the cluttered space that served as a reception area. At first the woman behind the desk refused to admit them but once again Barton found the right official at the right level, played her MI5 card, and gained entry. A harassed nurse took them to a small, cheerless room at the end of a corridor at the back of the building. A bunch of early daffodils in a jam jar had begun to wilt in the heat from the big cast-iron radiator, while a poster on the wall warned them about listening ears. Under the circumstances, given MI5’s duty to keep the nation safe, this might have raised a muttered comment and maybe even a smile, but Barton seemed oblivious.
At Moncrieff’s insistence, she took the plumper of the two armchairs, crossing her legs, nursing her battered handbag, and staring into nowhere.
‘Is he badly injured?’ Moncrieff enquired after a while.
‘I’ve no idea. That’s why we’re here.’
The comment didn’t invite further conversation. Moncrieff studied her a moment, the pursed lips, the tiny nerve-flutter beneath her left eye, the pallor from a life spent largely indoors, then shrugged. Like everyone else at St James’s Street, Barton was familiar with this kind of violence both first hand, especially during the Blitz, and almost daily in the flood of interview transcripts that came across her desk. Refugees claiming to have fled countless Nazi atrocities. Whole families, often Jewish, betrayed by watching neighbours. Alleged survivors from the Gestapo torture suites. It was one of MI5’s jobs to sieve through the wreckage of the war in Europe in the search for duds and phonies, and some of the finer print, whether invented or real, was frankly shocking in its barbarity. Was this why Ursula Barton had so suddenly turned her face to the wall? Or was there something Moncrieff had missed?
‘How well do you know this man?’ he asked.
‘Not at all well. Which, I suspect, is rather the point.’
‘So…?’ Moncrieff still didn’t get it.
‘You’re right. My Mr Witherby is a stranger. He sells me pies. He has the nicest smile. He seems to treat everyone like a member of his family, and he never cheats on the change. You might think it’s not much to ask but from where I’m sitting, he’s beginning to feel the exception to the rule.’
‘Which is?’
‘Every man for himself. And every woman, too. Dog eats dog these days. War is supposed to bring out the best in us. I’m no longer sure that’s true.’
Moncrieff nodded. Part of him knew exactly what she meant. Wherever he looked, whenever he listened to passing conversations, he sensed a growing selfishness, which was odd. The better the news from the front, the less kind and less patient people seemed to be to each other. In both friends and strangers, he’d noticed a grim determination that when the war was finally over, there’d be no going back to the old ways. Deference and good manners could take a society just so far but after this amount of blood had been spilled, there had to be a very different settlement.
‘You think we’re doomed?’ he said lightly.
Barton seemed to flinch at the crassness of the question. Then a hint of a frown clouded her face before she turned for the first time to look Moncrieff in the eye.
‘I think we’re in deep trouble,’ she said. ‘Especially in our line of work. It’s nothing we haven’t discussed before, but soon it might truly matter.’
Moncrieff nodded. This wasn’t about Mr Witherby and his pies at all. This was about the latest quarrel between rival intelligence agencies, about the oceans of bad blood that had lapped against the battlements of St James’s Street and Broadway.
Barton wanted to know whether Moncrieff had phoned the number on the single sheet of intelligence about the Bern episode that had arrived from MI6.
‘I did. Of course I did. I told you last night. After we discussed Willi Schultz.’
‘And?’ The frown had deepened. ‘Remind me.’
‘The number took me to some apparatchik. She was worse than useless. She said the intelligence had come in from the Americans. She had no idea of its value or its exact provenance. She’d simply been asked to pass it on in the usual spirit, and that’s exactly what she’d done.’
‘Usual spirit?’
‘I gather that was Broadway shorthand for co-operation. We might see it differently. Bluff would be a kindness.’ Moncrieff was frowning now. ‘Obfuscation, making life tough, would be closer.’
‘You think they’re trying to throw us off the scent?’
‘I think they’re telling us to stick to our knitting. If a scent exists, it’s none of our business. What is or isn’t happening in Bern is very definitely happening abroad. Abroad belongs to them, always has done. It’s turf, territory. That’s what these people are really about.’
Barton held his gaze for a moment, then nodded and stared down at her hands. Last night, once she’d shifted the weight of the day’s paperwork, Moncrieff had spent nearly an hour trying to press her about Willi Schultz. Winston Churchill, he’d pointed out, appeared to believe her when she said that Schultz was alive and still in post in Germany. He seemed keen for Moncrieff to make an enquiry or two, track the man down, have a conversation. This he was willing to do, not least because Churchill was his Prime Minister, but he had to know a great deal more about the old Abwehr bruiser. What was the strength of the intelligence? Where had Barton got it from? How did she know Schultz was back in play?
Last night, Barton had mentioned Birger Dahlerus, a Swedish businessman who’d once acted as a conduit between Generalfeldmarschall Hermann Goering and the British government. Goering’s bid to open separate peace negotiations before the war erupted with Hitler’s whirlwind descent on France had come to nothing, but it seemed – years later – that this backchannel through Stockholm was live again with an approach from Willi Schultz. Before he’d left the office last night, Moncrieff had pressed for more details, but Barton had shaken her head. She planned to put another call through to Dahlerus. Then a sensible way forward might become a little clearer.
Now, Moncrieff wanted to know whether she’d managed a second conversation.
‘I did, yes.’
‘And?’
‘He was evasive. Not at all the old Birger. To be frank, I think he’s gone lukewarm on us, and to be even franker, I think I know why. Our friends in Broadway have been whispering in his ear. And he, poor soul, has been foolish enough to listen.’
‘He told you nothing? About Schultz?’
‘Only to confirm that they might be having conversations.’
‘Might be?’
‘Yes.’
‘About?’
‘He wouldn’t say. I mentioned Bern twice and the fact that he wouldn’t comment, I take as a yes.’
‘Meaning Schultz is involved in the Bern business?’
‘Up to his neck, says little me. Do I have proof? No. Would we be remiss not to find out? Yes. And do you, Tam Moncrieff, represent our best chance of doing just that? I’m afraid the answer, once again, is yes.’
Moncrieff leaned forward, wanting to know more about this proposition, but there came the lightest knock on the door before he looked up to find a young man in a white coat gazing down at them both.
‘My name’s Carter,’ he said. ‘I’m one of a team of doctors looking after the people from the market. You’re interested in…?’
‘His name’s Witherby,’ Barton said at once.
‘And you are?’
‘A friend. Or maybe an admirer. His first name’s Stanley, if that helps.’
The doctor nodded. He’d met Stan Witherby’s wife only an hour ago.
‘And?’
‘I’m afraid he’s not at all well. Multiple contusions, broken ribs, damage to his pelvis, and that’s not the half of it. We’ll get him through one way or another but it’s going to take a while.’
‘Is he allowed visitors, by any chance?’
‘I’m afraid not. The surgeons took his legs off first thing this morning. He’s still very poorly.’
Moncrieff was looking at Barton. The news that he’d spend the rest of his life a cripple took a moment or two to sink in. Then, with a visible effort, she got to her feet and smoothed the pleats on her skirt and offered the young doctor the brightest of smiles.
‘I imagine he’s a lucky chap to be alive,’ she said. ‘Thank you for looking after him.’
They shared a taxi back to St James’s Street. A burst water main had sent the traffic on a long detour through Clerkenwell and when it became obvious that their route was going to take them back past the ruins of Farringdon Market, Barton leaned forward and told the driver to take another diversion left.
‘Cost yer, ma’am.’ The cabbie gestured at the meter.
‘It has already,’ Barton snapped. ‘Just do as I ask.’
Back in the office, she was suddenly brisk. Moncrieff lingered briefly by the open door, awaiting what he fondly imagined might be orders, but when he asked whether he needed to pack a bag and prepare himself for some kind of expedition, she shook her head.
‘We need to know a great deal more,’ she said. ‘Your friend Ivor phoned first thing. I suggested a late lunch at the hotel.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘He should be there by now. By all means send me the bill.’
*
St Ermin’s Hotel had been a hive of spies for most of the war. MI6 had established an early presence on one of the top floors, while SOE – Churchill’s cherished Special Operations Executive – pitched their tents a floor or two lower. The restaurant became an unofficial and wildly overpriced canteen for men who traded in secrets, and every year the maître d’ took a quiet pride in acquiring the first August grouse before any other hotel in London.
Moncrieff found Ivor Maskelyne on a barstool next door. He was a big, untidy man with a fierce, restless intelligence who taught classics at Oxford and was frequently the guest of choice on high tables across the university when votes were cast for provocative company.
Moncrieff had first met Maskelyne when he was keeping wicket for the team Kim Philby fielded at Glenalmond, the St Albans outpost of MI6’s Section Five, and they’d shared a companionable ride back to London in Maskelyne’s Alvis. More recently, a real friendship had developed after Moncrieff’s arrival at Balliol College. Mastering Russian in just nine months was never going to be easy, but Maskelyne’s company in the back bar of a dowdy pub called the Antelope had turned a challenge into a delight.
‘Ivor.’ Moncrieff extended a hand. ‘How are you?’
‘Same as ever.’ Maskelyne reached up for Moncrieff’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. ‘Nothing changes, I’m afraid. Once upon a time I thought this bloody war might turn us all into heroes. It’s good to be wrong sometimes, but not always. What Oxford needs is a bit of youth, a golden splash or two of innocence, something truly callow in the way of ignorance. But we’re all too fucking old, and all too fucking clever.’
‘You came up specially?’
‘I came up because that delightful woman of yours suggested it would be in your interest. Might a silky Margaux be in order? She’s tasked me with buying at least one bottle, but I think she meant two. To be honest, I’d no idea that state funds could stretch so far. What does the Treasury know that we don’t?’
Maskelyne called for the sommelier from the restaurant and ordered the wine. Moncrieff settled on a glass of dry sherry to warm proceedings before they ate. The bar was beginning to fill, and already Moncrieff recognised a number of faces, most of them florid and blotchy but no less watchful after five busy years behind MI6 desks. As the sherry arrived, Moncrieff beckoned his guest closer.
‘Was this hotel your choice?’ he asked.
‘Hers. I suspect is we’re here to be seen. I know it’s far from subtle, but La Barton knows us Broadway types prefer it that way. Your good self lunching with the enemy in plain sight? A bold move, if I may say so.’
‘They’ve extended your contract?’
‘My guess is they’ve forgotten to cancel it. Either that or the bloody thing never existed in the first place. Rule one in Broadway? Never write anything down. The Germans live and die for paperwork. We make everything up as we go along and leave no trace behind. This at least has the merit of spontaneity. Catch the enemy on the hop. Attack him when and where he least expects it. On s’engage. Et puis on voit. Sound advice in the right hands but, alas, there are no Napoleons at Broadway.’ He smiled. ‘Are we getting the picture here?’
Moncrieff nodded. MI6 had developed a habit of inviting top academics into the world of intelligence gathering, and Maskelyne was part of this spillage from Oxbridge high tables. At first, Moncrieff had wondered what he brought to the Broadway feast apart from a raging thirst and an acid wit, but his months at Balliol had taught him a great deal about the man’s integrity, as well as his intellectual courage, and he could imagine circumstances when the wiser souls at MI6 might listen to his advice and act accordingly. Maskelyne had always argued that both intelligence services wasted a great deal of the nation’s time and effort exploring cul-de-sacs that led nowhere and, after six years with a front-row seat at this circus, Moncrieff could only agree. Which left one key word on the table.
‘Bern?’ Moncrieff enquired.
They’d moved from the bar into the restaurant. Maskelyne had insisted on a table at the back of the room where they could rely on a degree of privacy.
‘Bern, my friend, is a mess. You’ll know already that the OSS are bossing this. Broadway fancy they have the measure of the Americans, but nothing could be further from the truth. It’s not just Bern, incidentally, it’s Zurich, too. Allen Dulles runs the OSS operation out of Bern but keeps a special apartment in Zurich, and that’s where episodes of special interest tend to happen. Because Dulles, of course, calls the shots.’
‘Karl Wolff?’
‘Interesting character. Came to the Party at a sensible time. Had the good sense to get alongside Himmler, who knew talent when he saw it. There’s a lovely shot of a little group at the Berghof in May 1939. The photograph is in colour, which is a treat, and Himmler is there and so is Heydrich, but Wolff is definitely the grown-up on the terrace. He has no interest in the camera. On the contrary, he’s looking very hard at a document in Heydrich’s hands. Plotting comes with the territory at that level, but this is definitely a man with a sense of destination.’
As Moncrieff knew, Reinhard Heydrich was another of Himmler’s protégés. Despatched to Prague to sort out the unruly Czechs, he’d been ambushed and badly wounded by partisans. Days later, he’d died, and word of the savage reprisals exacted by the SS had reached every corner of the British intelligence community. By then, as the appointed liaison officer between SS headquarters and the Reich Chancellery, Wolff had become Himmler’s eyes and ears in the upper reaches of the regime. This, according to Maskelyne, was a position with immense potential but the passing of Heydrich had triggered a power struggle at the very top of Himmler’s sprawling empire, and Wolff had found himself facing serious opposition.
‘Like?’
‘Walter Schellenberg for one. Wolff had a dalliance with the Jew programme a couple of years back. He was in Poland at the time and he despatched hordes of the Chosen People east after cleaning out the Warsaw ghetto. This comes back to paperwork, mon brave. Wolff made the trains run on time. He’ll have issued diktats, kept records, maybe even written a letter or two of thanks afterwards. We still have no proper confirmation of what happened to these people but I’d hazard a guess that they’re never coming back. Schellenberg knew that. Schellenberg knew everything. Which puts Wolff in a somewhat sticky position.’
