Authors: Len Deighton
‘But young Spode admitted killing his brother.’
‘Spode said something about his brother having no shield. I thought he meant that his brother lacked the comfort and protection that Catholicism provides.’
‘But?’
‘He meant the thermic and biological shields. He was referring to the protection provided for the men working on this nuclear experiment. Spode meant that he was responsible for his brother’s death from radiation. He meant he’d made some error during the work at Bringle Sands.’
For a long time she was silent. Then she said, ‘Yes,
the younger Spode photographed the documents so that they could be sent to Washington. He made contact with my Embassy and offered the film to them. That’s all I know, darling.’
Douglas held her waist. He wanted to tell her that he trusted her, but he could find no way of saying it that was not clumsy and patronizing. Barbara said, ‘But why would anyone want to kill the older Spode?’
‘Someone let him into the flat, Barbara. That place was used as a meeting place by the Resistance groups. I can’t help suspecting that it was done with Mayhew’s knowledge.’
‘You have not answered my question, sweetheart. What’s Mayhew’s motive? Why would he want to murder the best damned atomic physicist in Britain when there’s a good chance he could get his hands on the work he’d been doing? Do you think Mayhew is working for the Germans?’
‘I just don’t know,’ said Douglas. ‘I suspect that Mayhew’s been meeting Huth, without either of them saying a word about the meetings to anyone. But I don’t see Mayhew in the role of a traitor. Collaborator, well perhaps; but not traitor.’
‘But why did that young Abwehr Captain pass young Spode the poison capsule?’
‘The Captain thought I was going to take Spode away, and have him grilled by the Sicherheitsdienst. The SD would have discovered every detail of the army’s progress in their atomic research programme, and some damned uncomfortable secrets about the way the Abwehr has cooperated with Mayhew and his Resistance people.’
‘Poor Spode.’
‘I liked him,’ said Douglas.
The rain stopped and more aircraft passed over very low. They walked on and into the lion house, with young Douglas holding the hands of both of them.
Linden Manor gets its name from the avenue of lime trees that makes the approach to this mansion so unforgettable. The house is a rambling complex of Tudor red-brick, restored in the nineteenth century by a wealthy megalomaniac who added the Gothic chapel and the folly, a grotesque tower inspired by tales of King Arthur. And yet the aesthetics of Sydney Garin’s and Peter Shetland’s antique-crammed mansion house had little consequence for any except those privileged to enter the surrounding 250-acre estate which kept the vulgar sightseer at a respectful distance.
The enormous dining-room was seen that evening by the flickering light from three eighteenth-century polychrome glass chandeliers. The candle flames danced in the solid silver cutlery, and allowed the Dutch marine paintings to be glimpsed in that darkness beyond the candlelight.
‘We don’t have all this good stuff in evidence when the Huns come down here to see us,’ said Sydney Garin. His speech was accented, his voice nasal. He was responding to a compliment by Barbara Barga about the table setting. He chuckled. ‘It would make the articles they can afford to buy look shoddy.’
Mayhew gave a slightly pained smile. Sydney’s stories about swindling his customers did not amuse Mayhew, even when the customers were the
nouveau riche
. Even
nouveau riche
Huns. And talk about Sydney’s antiques did not interest him, combining as it did both art and trade, two subjects taboo in any decent mess or club. Mayhew picked at his
Perdreau
à la normande
. Shooting partridge was one thing; eating it was quite another. And as for cooking them according to French recipes, with apple brandy, that, Mayhew decided, was quite disgusting. He pushed the food around his plate to make it look as if he’d eaten some.
At one end of the table sat Mrs Garin, a quiet little woman who looked uncomfortable in her glittering brocade dress. Next to her sat her son David. He was attentive to his mother, and they seemed scarcely aware of the conversation at the other end of the table.
Douglas was watching Mayhew. The man was an enigma, and Douglas constantly changed his mind about him. The confident manner, his stamina and his jokes gave the impression of a young man. So did his handsome face, muscular body and dark wavy hair. But close to him one also saw the wrinkles and the slightly yellow teeth and the tension that made Mayhew frown too much and fidget with his knife and fork.
A servant poured Douglas more of the Château Léoville. Barbara Barga laughed at something Sydney Garin said. Douglas looked at his host and was reminded of the rude way he’d treated Garin on more than one previous occasion. He looked, too, at Garin’s son, David, a handsome boy with curly hair and the same large brown eyes that his father had. But David had been to an English public school, and had learned to keep his face expressionless and his eyes lowered.
‘On that day that my country was invaded, Barbara,’ said Garin, touching her arm, ‘I said to myself, Sydney Garin, you’ve got to help throw them out.’
Mayhew frowned as he tried to decide which army had invaded Armenia and when. Just as he had decided that Garin was talking of the Bolsheviks, Sydney Garin said, ‘We English have always been like that.’ He gestured
with his fork held high in the air. ‘We haven’t had an invader since William the Conqueror.’ Garin turned to Mayhew, and in an aside added, ‘And that was in 1066, George.’
‘Was it?’ said Mayhew stiffly. ‘I was never much good at history.’
‘Don’t like your partridge, eh?’ said Garin, leaning forward to scrutinize Mayhew’s plate. ‘Oh well, that’s all right. Had a Hun Colonel here last week who said my best beluga caviar tasted salty – bloody idiot, begging your pardon, Barbara.’ He lifted his finger and said to a uniformed servant, ‘Bring Colonel Mayhew a plate of cold roast beef.’ To Mayhew, ‘More your sort of thing, George.’
Mayhew had the feeling that he was being made a fool of, or, worse, that he was making a fool of himself. ‘No, no, no, no,’ he said and raised a flattened hand in polite refusal.
‘And some English mustard,’ Garin told his servant as he patted Mayhew’s arm. ‘I know the sort of thing you public school men like – rice pudding, cold meat and lots of gravy. Am I right, George? Am I right?’ He turned back to Barbara Barga and said, ‘Funny people we English, Barbara. My son, David, eats the same sort of stuff.’ David blushed. ‘And young Peter is just the same; it’s our public schools that do it, serving kids all that filthy stodge. Peter would eat suet pudding every day if I let him.’
‘You mean your partner, Sir Peter Shetland?’ said Barbara.
‘Lord Campion,’ said Mayhew, correcting Sydney Garin rather than Barbara Barga. Behind them a servant put on a pair of gloves before taking some logs from the hearth and positioning them on the blazing fire.
‘Oh, I don’t set much store by titles,’ said Garin.
‘When I was living in Paris, half the people in the soup-kitchen were Dukes and Princes and so on.’
‘Real ones?’ said Barbara.
‘Now you are asking a profound question,’ said Garin, glancing round the table to be sure that the servants were keeping the wine glasses filled. He saw that Douglas had almost finished his main course. ‘Douglas is enjoying his partridge, aren’t you, Douglas?’
‘It’s delicious.’
‘More partridge,’ he commanded his servants. ‘Eat it while it’s freshly cooked, Douglas. It’s not worth anything cold.’ Garin sipped some water; his wine was scarcely touched. ‘Real? You mean if a chap is called a Duke by his friends he’s real, but if he calls himself a Duke he’s a phoney?’ Garin was looking at Barbara, but he couldn’t resist a glance at Mayhew to see if he’d rise to the bait.
‘What time is this chappie coming?’ said Mayhew, looking at his gold pocket watch.
‘I wish you’d let me come with you,’ said Barbara.
‘And I wish it was possible,’ said Mayhew. He flicked a lock of hair from his forehead and gave her his most charming smile. ‘But if I take you along as a sightseer…even if you are the most influential journalist in Britain, the other chaps will feel it’s a breach of security.’
‘And who is going to believe that you are an important American journalist?’ said Garin. ‘They will see this radiantly beautiful creature and immediately say it’s another of Sydney Garin’s harem.’ He snorted with merriment at the idea. His wife looked up and smiled politely. He winked at her.
Mayhew stopped smiling and turned to Garin. ‘What time did you say he was due?’
The servant put a plate of cold beef on the table
but Mayhew hardly glanced at it. From the fireplace there came a series of cracks, a bright moment of flame and a smell of sap as the log caught fire.
Garin reached across and put a calming hand on Mayhew’s arm. ‘Don’t fret, George. My people will light the fires as soon as they hear the engines. And the pilot is sure to circle a couple of times, to be sure he’s not dropping his passenger in the wrong place. There’ll be plenty of time for you to have your plate of cold beef, and a cigar and brandy, and put your feet up for five minutes.’ Mayhew reached for his wine and drank some as if suppressing a desire to argue. ‘If you relaxed a little more, George, you wouldn’t need to carry those indigestion tablets in that silver box in your waistcoat pocket.’
‘This fellow’s come a long way,’ said Mayhew. ‘I want to be there, to make sure that the fires are in the right pattern and well alight. We can’t afford any mistakes.’
‘My dear George,’ said Garin in a voice that was kindly and in no way patronizing, ‘I’ve spent all my life being hunted and persecuted. I’m giving you good advice, my friend, when I tell you to slow your pace, live for each day and learn to enjoy the small pleasures of life…’ he waved vaguely in the air, ‘…beautiful women, good clarets and fine food. We can’t beat the Germans by next weekend, George, it’s going to be a long, uphill struggle. Pace yourself, and take the long view.’
‘What time does the moon go down?’ said Mayhew.
Garin sighed. ‘Very well, George, drink your claret and let’s get our coats.’
There were other aircraft in the air that night; three Junkers transports flying at five-minute intervals, heading due east towards Holland and then Germany.
Garin offered his silver hip-flask of brandy to Mayhew and Douglas but both declined. Garin put it away untouched. ‘You’re right,’ he said, ‘we might be out here for a long time yet.’
‘Your men, down there at the other end of the big ten-acre field, know that they mustn’t light their fires before we do?’
‘For goodness’ sake, calm down, George. You’ll get me jittery too if you pace up and down like that.’
Soon they heard the engine of the aeroplane. Garin’s son ignited the petrol-soaked rags, and the firewood blazed into tall yellow flame.
The men at the landing place knew little or nothing about flying. They had complied with every detail of the radio messages about the preparation of the landing field. The A light – or agent’s fire – was at the touchdown point and the two up-wind fires had been double-checked to get them in line and on the correct bearing. Now the aeroplane came low over the moonlit field. The pilot throttled back so that the sound of the engine quietened as he confirmed his navigation by visual checks. The passenger saw the curiously shaped lake flash in the bright moonlight and the pilot glimpsed the ugly tower that in the previous century had held an astronomer’s telescope.
After one circuit the pilot tried a landing, cutting back his engine and letting the big aeroplane settle and side-slip a little until the three fires were all in line. He was almost down on the ground when the lights disappeared. The pilot slammed the throttle lever and the engine roared as the aircraft clawed at the cold night and climbed, agonizingly slowly. The pilot cursed gently, his words an afterthought to the moment of fear. Abruptly, he tilted a wing so that its tip almost brushed the treetops, and turned the heavy
biplane so lightly that he came back almost on the same line as the approach.
‘What’s wrong?’ said Mayhew.
‘He’ll not get into that field,’ said Douglas.
‘The trees!’ said Sydney Garin. ‘Are the trees too tall?’
‘There was nothing in the radio message about the height of the surrounding fields’ trees,’ said Mayhew. ‘Damn the man; he
must
do it!’
Douglas looked at Mayhew. His hands were thrust deep into his overcoat pockets, and his face was tight and drawn. ‘He’ll be worried about flying out again too,’ said Douglas. ‘He probably guesses how wet the ground is, after all the rain we’ve had.’ The aeroplane came over them, flying very low.
‘I hope he doesn’t circle too long,’ said Mayhew. ‘He’ll start attracting attention if he’s seen going round and round Linden Manor all night.’
Sydney Garin said nothing. When the aeroplane returned it did not throttle back at all. The pilot was simply confirming what he already knew to be true, as he flew down the length of the lighted fires and took a good look at the height of the trees. The nose of the biplane tilted up again and the men on the ground heard briefly the full force of the engine noise, as the propeller blades took the weight of the aircraft and dragged it upwards in great spirals, like a moth that could not resist the light of the moon.
The biplane was no more than a speck against the gathering clouds as the parachute opened. The moonlight caught the billowing silk. For a moment there were two moons in the night sky, then one grew steadily larger until Garin’s farm-hands, dousing the up-wind fires, shouted that the parachute would land on the far side of the ornamental lake.
‘Farther than that,’ said Garin calmly. ‘He’ll come
down in the lower pasture. I hope there’s not too much noise.’
‘The Germans?’
‘No. I’ve got a mare in foal over there.’ To his son he said, ‘Don’t let anyone disturb Buttercup.’
‘Right you are, Dad.’
‘Not you two!’ Garin said to Mayhew and Douglas as they were going to follow. ‘The lads in the village can keep their mouths shut about things dropped out of aeroplanes…but a toff falling into a ditch in evening dress will strain their vows of silence beyond breaking point.’