‘If you permit it,’ said Douglas.
‘In the circumstances I think it will do no harm,’ said Kellerman.
‘I imagine you will want to eavesdrop on what is said?’
‘There is no such thing as a free meal, Archer. I’m sure you are familiar with that proverb.’ Kellerman smiled but this time he didn’t bother to make it warm and friendly.
Chapter Forty
They’d given Standartenführer Huth a suite in the block reserved for high-ranking visitors to the Research Establishment. His last hours were spent in comfort. There was a bottle of brandy on the sideboard and an untouched breakfast tray with silver jugs, fine German porcelain and white sugar.
‘So Kellerman let you come?’
‘Yes, Standartenführer.’
Through the window, Douglas could see the burned-out laboratory. There was enough wind to bring charred pieces of paper up to the window before sending them whirling back across the churned-up grass and tangling them into the barbed wire.
‘The army has decided to close down its atomic research programme,’ said Huth. ‘Did you know that?’
‘It’s what you wanted.’
‘But not like this. No one in Berlin supports it, and the Reichsführer will not allow the SS to continue the work. The Americans will make the bomb…and win the war that will begin the moment they are ready. We Germans are a shortsighted race, Archer. The German army is already beginning to think that last night’s raid was a blessing in disguise.’
‘Why can they think that?’
Huth pointed to the window and the ruined buildings. ‘That raid will enable the army to keep its martial law for at least a year. God knows how many million Reichsmarks will be given to the army, to prepare defences against another raid. Oh, the Abwehr will be delighted, and what’s more they have General Kellerman in their pocket.’
Huth walked over to the sideboard and opened a bottle of brandy. ‘And Kellerman will be delighted too,’ he continued. ‘He’ll keep his job, get rid of me and be entirely safe from any charges connected with his financial dealings.’ Huth smiled. He guessed that the conversation was being recorded. But whether it was on disc or the newer sort of wire record, it would be impossible now for Kellerman to use it in evidence without risk to himself, or tampering with it in some way that would be immediately apparent. ‘Kellerman will have me as a scapegoat,’ said Huth. ‘Any unsolved crimes, swindles or failures will be put down to my account. He was even trying to prove that I had a hand in the Highgate explosion. Have a drink?’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘No need of courtesies any more.’ Huth passed him a large measure of brandy. ‘We were all playing for high stakes. Kellerman won, so did Mayhew. You’ll not hear me whining about it.’
‘Mayhew?’
‘He promised me the earth. It’s his style; flattery and promises, eh?’ He dropped into an armchair and drank greedily.
‘Yes, that’s his style.’
‘He told me about the attack, helped me plan the ambush even.’
‘I can’t believe it!’ said Douglas.
‘Oh yes. He helped me intercept the diversionary attack. I fell for it. But while we were fighting, his main force went cross-country with their half-tracks and knocked out the Research Establishment.’
‘The diversionary attack was virtually wiped out,’ said Douglas, aghast at the enormity of it.
‘Mayhew was determined to get those Americans into combat,’ said Huth. ‘He had Dr Spode murdered and all his papers destroyed because Dr Spode wanted to take them to the US Embassy. You gave him a film and he burned it. He didn’t want the Amis to get the research except by fighting us, because that would get them into the idea of fighting a real war. Only in the matter of the King did Mayhew go wrong.’ Huth shrugged. ‘But we all make a mistake occasionally.’ He smiled in grim self-mockery.
‘The King was killed.’
‘Mayhew should have had more confidence in his own plan. Originally he was going to send the King to meet up with the main force. They had the halftracks for the documents. The King could have gone in one of those.’
‘Yes, of course,’ said Douglas, although he was now coming to the terrible conclusion that Mayhew had not planned anything of the kind. Mayhew had deliberately sent the King by the cliff path, knowing that Huth’s men were in ambush there. It was Mayhew playing God. It was Mayhew writing the future history books. It was Mayhew making sure that the King died in battle alongside his American allies. Far better that, than an infirm and pathetic exile King in Washington, butt of the cartoonists’ cruelty, darling of the hostesses and constant reminder of the infirm and pathetic Britain occupied by the victorious Germans. Yes, now Douglas began to understand the way that a politician’s mind worked. No doubt the Queen and the Princesses were already on their way to Washington DC.
‘You are lucky, Archer,’ said Huth.
‘To escape with my life?’
Huth shook his head. ‘No. There was never any doubt that you would escape with your life. That was all decided long ago.’
‘Decided? Decided when? By whom?’
‘When Harry Woods agreed to be Kellerman’s informant, telling him every move you made, every meeting that took place, reporting every word to which he could get access.’
‘Harry Woods? My Harry?’
‘Woods phoned Kellerman about the ambulance as soon as you’d disappeared into the Reform Club. Kellerman tackled the Abwehr, and pretended he knew what they were up to. That’s how he got his men here just as the raiders were withdrawing. Not while the fighting was on, you’ll notice. Kellerman didn’t want the raid repulsed, he wanted it to be a success. After that he moved in quickly with his flying field tribunal, and their execution squad…over there eating breakfast in the mess hall. They’ve had a busy morning, you know. Their shoulders must be bruised by now.’
‘When? When did Harry do it?’
Huth sighed. ‘When he was under arrest. They came to terms. You’re a policeman, you know what a few hours under arrest does to a man.’
‘Harry Woods is as brave as a lion.’
‘You don’t think Kellerman is crude enough to threaten violence, do you?’
‘Then what?’
‘You,’ said Huth.
‘Me?’
‘You’re a fool, Archer. Don’t you realize that Harry Woods looks upon you as the son he never had? Don’t you know how proud he is of everything you do? Don’t you know that even when Harry has a success, he tells everyone that you were the brains behind it?’
‘No, I didn’t realize that,’ said Douglas softly.
‘Kellerman was arranging to have your son sent to a boys’ home in Bohemia, a Hitler Youth unit. No need to tell you that Kellerman pretended that it was intended as a wonderful act of generosity, but Harry recognized it for the threat it really was.’ Huth sniffed and wiped his nose. ‘He knew it was the best way to make you desperately unhappy…’
‘I’m still not sure that I understand.’
‘Harry co-operated with Kellerman so that you and the child would be safe. Come along, Archer, it’s a common enough device. Have you never given an informant protection in exchange for a really good tip-off? Well, Harry delivered the goods, and Kellerman kept his word. This morning you and Harry stood trial and were cleared, all inside five minutes. Be grateful.’
‘Harry did that for me?’
‘He’s got little to live for,’ said Huth brutally. ‘Fleabitten little house, a shrew of a wife. Perhaps if they’d had kids it would have worked out differently.’
‘But Harry loves his wife.’
Huth shook his head. ‘That was a long time ago…He preferred your secretary, this Sylvia something. The one who got herself killed trying to save him. But that was strictly Resistance business.’
‘You know everything.’
‘That’s why they are executing me,’ said Huth evenly. ‘I can see into people, Archer. A policeman must be able to see into p
eople.’
‘I don’t want to be that kind of policeman.’
‘You’ll have to be any kind of policeman Kellerman needs,’ said Huth. ‘For the time being anyway.’ He sipped some of his brandy. ‘What time is it, they took away my watch?’
‘Nearly ten o’clock.’
‘Not much longer.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘Does your son want to be a policeman?’
‘On a motorcycle, yes.’
Huth smiled. ‘You’re lucky, Archer. Keep him out of this lousy business.’
Douglas didn’t answer. Outside the window he could see Kellerman’s gleaming Rolls-Royce. The driver was polishing the windscreen, very very carefully.
‘I’m sorry about the woman – the Barga woman. I’m sorry about the way that happened.’
‘Yes,’ said Douglas. He didn’t want to talk about it.
‘As soon as Kellerman knew you’d abandoned the ambulance he sent a couple of his Gestapo thugs round there.’
‘To Barbara’s? I phoned, a man said he was the window cleaner.’
‘They’re not very bright. You know that.’
‘I believed him,’ admitted Douglas. ‘I phoned again. She was there. She was abrupt, rude almost.’
‘Trying to warn you off, eh? Well that was foolhardy. She must have loved you very much. It’s probably what made them lose their tempers; her warning you off like that. They hit her harder than they meant to. It wasn’t part of any plan. The death of an American reporter will take a lot of explaining.’
‘Her voice was faint,’ said Douglas. ‘She’d been whispering so that she was not overheard.’
‘Why do these people love you, Archer? Is it simply because you show little or no response to their affection?’ He shook his head and did not pursue the conundrum. ‘The Gestapo men didn’t hear the phone ring. The woman was upstairs putting her coat on. She must have heard the phone click before it rang.’
‘And I thought she didn’t want to see me.’
‘None of us is very clever with the ones we love,’ said Huth. ‘Could you take a message to my father?’
‘I have leave to come and I’m cleared for travel to Germany,’ said Douglas, ‘but I thought you hated him?’
‘Tell my father about the raid, as far as the censorship will permit. Tell him there was shooting and that I got caught in the crossfire. Tell him I died bravely. Tell him all that crap that fathers want to hear about their sons, and sons want to hear about their fathers.’
A soft knock came at the door and a young SS officer asked that the Standartenführer should be ready in five minutes. He saluted punctiliously.
‘Well, I must polish my shoes,’ said Huth, ‘and part my hair and get ready to play my star role in this Teutonic opera. The official notice will say that I was a casualty of the fighting.’
‘I’ll take the message,’ said Douglas.
‘Caught in the crossfire,’ said Huth. ‘That would be a good thing to tell him.’ He smiled sardonically.
Douglas picked up Mayhew’s duffel coat from where he’d left it on a chair. He put it on and closed the wooden toggles. It would be cold outside, and he’d be grateful for this ill-fitting coat with its curious perfume. He recognized it then; the heavy smell of snuff. It would never be enough, of course. The half-smoked Romeo y Julieta and the spilled snuff from the broken tin in Dr Spode’s waistcoat pocket: but he knew without any doubt that Mayhew had taken Spode back to the flat in Shepherd Market and murdered him before spending half the night burning all the mathematical papers. He had to prevent the Americans getting their hands on those vital figures and even more important, prevent them talking with Dr Spode. Mayhew was determined to make the Americans fight.
‘Caught in the crossfire,’ said Huth. ‘We were all caught in the crossfire.’
‘Goodbye, Standartenführer,’ said Douglas buttoning up his collar. Through the window he saw General Kellerman’s Rolls driving past on the way to the main gate. The pennants were flying.
By Len Deighton
FICTION
The Ipcress File
Horse Under Water
Funeral in Berlin
Billion-Dollar Brain
An Expensive Place to Die
Only When I Larf
Bomber
Declarations of War
Close-Up
Spy Story
Yesterday’s Spy
Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Spy
SS-GB
XPD
Goodbye Mickey Mouse
MAMista
City of Gold
Violent Ward
THE SAMSON SERIES
Berlin Game
Mexico Set
London Match
Winter: A Berlin Family 1899–1945
Spy Hook
Spy Line
Spy Sinker
Faith
Hope
Charity
NON-FICTION
Action Cook Book
Fighter: The True Story of the Battle of Britain
Airshipwreck
Basic French Cooking
Blitzkrieg: From the Rise of Hitler to the Fall of
Dunkirk
ABC of French Food
Blood, Tears and Folly
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About the Author
Len Deighton was born in 1929. He worked as a railway clerk before doing his National Service in the RAF as a photographer attached to the Special Investigation Branch.
After his discharge in 1949, he went to art school – first to the St Martin’s School of Art, and then to the Royal College of Art on a scholarship. His mother was a professional cook and he grew up with an interest in cookery – a subject he was later to make his own in an animated strip for the Observer and in two cookery books. He worked for a while as an illustrator in New York and as art director of an advertising agency in London.
Deciding it was time to settle down, Deighton moved to the Dordogne where he started work on his first book, The Ipcress File. Published in 1962, the book was an immediate success.
Since then his work has gone from strength to strength, varying from espionage novels to war, general fiction and non-fiction. The BBC made Bomber into a day-long radio drama in ‘real time’. Deighton’s history of World War Two, Blood, Tears and Folly, was published to wide acclaim – Jack Higgins called it ‘an absolute landmark’.
As Max Hastings observed, Deighton captured a time and a mood – ‘To those of us who were in our twenties in the 1960s, his books seemed the coolest, funkiest, most sophisticated things we’d ever read’ – and his books have now deservedly become classics.
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Copyright
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Harper
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers
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A paperback edition 2009
FIRST EDITION
First published in Great Britain by
Jonathan Cape Ltd 1978
Copyright © Len Deighton 1978
Introduction copyright © Pluriform Publishing Company BV 2009
The verse from ‘The White Cliffs of Dover’ is reproduced by permission of EMI Publishers Ltd 138–140 Charing Cross Road, London WC2H 0LD. © 1941 by Shapiro Bernstein & Co., Inc., subpublished by B. Feldman & Co. Ltd
Len Deighton asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
All rights reserved under International and Pan-America
n Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition © 1978 ISBN: 978-0-00-734774-2
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Len Deighton, SS-GB
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