Gifts of War (37 page)

With admirable self-control, Greg didn’t flinch. “You know him, then?” he whispered. “You recognize him?”

“Yes,” I whispered back. “I recognize him all right. But he’s not Bryan Amery. His real name is George Romford.”

“If he’s here under an assumed name, then he’s obviously up to no good.”

Greg and I were eating lunch at a brasserie a few blocks from the Odeon—and we were tucked away at the back of the restaurant, where hardly anyone could see us, and completely hidden from view from the road outside. We had eased out of the Odeon by the emergency exit and left Amery/Romford to himself, for the moment.

After we had ordered—sausages,
frites
, a salad with fresh tomatoes, a Swiss red wine that Greg liked but I thought filthy—I had filled him in about Romford and me, Romford and Stratford, Romford and Pritchard.

“A lot of water under the bridge since then,” replied Greg, gulping his wine. “For both of you.”

I nodded. “And it explains why the name Bryan Amery was familiar. He was a fellow student at Stratford.”

Greg made a face. “My money says this Amery person died and Romford ‘borrowed’ his identity. Easily done in wartime.”

The food was brought. Too quickly, I thought. The sausages had not been cooked fresh. Greg didn’t seem to mind; he had already started.

“I agree that an assumed name is suspicious, Greg. But is it enough to … you know… kill him?” What was I saying? What sort of talk was this? “Don’t we need to understand the system a little more, if we are going to stop it properly?”

His mouth was full but he moved his head from side to side. “Maybe. Maybe not. I’ll have to check with the brigadier. But, for now, what can you tell me about Romford? Can we get closer? What sort of character is he, what are his strengths, what are his weaknesses? You know him—or used to. You can be a big help here.”

The sausages were not good. Maybe, just maybe, I could finish the salad and
frites
. And maybe a glass of red, if I could get it down.

“There are two and a half things I can remember about Romford that you might be able to use.”

“Good. Go on. More red?”

I shook my head. “One, women. Romford is a bit of a slimeball who has never had much experience or success with women. If we are going to approach him, lure him, whoever does so should be a woman. Two, he’s got a chip. He’s from the East End and hates all toffs—or he says he does. I think he is secretly attracted by them, so that if you have a woman in the outfit who is an aristocrat—and looks and sounds like it—you, we, should choose her.”

“And what’s the other thing, the half a thing?”

“He was always self-conscious about his German. He learned it at school, has never been to Germany, so this trip in Switzerland is his first German-speaking country. If his German is better than that of whoever approaches him, he will feel more secure, show off more, and relax more, maybe give things away.”

Greg stopped chewing. “I can see why the brigadier chose you. That’s sharp thinking.” He chewed on, then stopped again. “But I’m smart too, and I can use what you say.”

He swallowed his red and immediately refilled his glass.

“Rebecca… Rebecca Berwick, that’s who we need.” He fixed me with a look. “How old would you say Romford is?”

“Early thirties.”

“I’d say Rebecca is twenty-eight. Just right.” He smiled. “She’s lovely but she’s terrifying in a way. Father’s a viscount, owns huge chunks of the borders and half of Battersea. She has a degree—in math of all things, so she’s one of our code breakers—and… well, she looks a million dollars, a billion. Not married—God knows why not. Her German’s okay but she’s a long way from bilingual—she sounds ideal for our little plan.”

“Which is?”

“Operation Pillow Talk. The Honorable Rebecca Berwick meets Georgie Porgie, seduces him, for king and country, and learns all his secrets: who he meets, why he meets them, where the money is. Poor guy won’t know what’s hit him.”

“Let’s hope it’s as simple as that.”

“Hal, if you’re right about Romford, I am certainly right about Rebecca. This two and two are going to make a very juicy four.”

“When can I meet her? I can’t wait.”

“You’ll have to. She’s in Bern today, at our embassy. Back to morrow.”

That night, as I lay in bed in my nondescript hotel, I wondered what route Romford had followed from Stratford to Zurich. I had often wondered if our paths would cross again—and Romford himself had said he hoped as much during our last… encounter at the Ag. But I
had assumed it would be in civilian life, after the war was over. Never did I imagine we would meet in such circumstances. And what had made him turn—assuming Greg was right and Romford was indeed working for the Germans? Was it all down to his chippiness? Was he getting his revenge on a system that, as he saw it, had held him back? Or was that too glib, too simpleminded? Would I ever find out?

Was this Rebecca up to the job? Greg was certainly sold on her, but the last aristocratic woman I had encountered in this war— Genevieve—had been anything but a heroine.

I’ll say this for Greg: he knew his women. Rebecca was stunning. Besides going in and out—and then some—in all the right places, she had the most vivid blue eyes, hair the color of straw, skin that shone with health, and a soft, sibilant voice that seemed to enfold you in a secret cocoon, as if you and she were the only people in the world. On top of it the look in her eyes was intelligent, and her aristocratic demeanor—I can’t quite describe what it was exactly but it was an amalgam of self-confidence and world-weariness, as if there was nothing anyone could teach
her—
was intoxicating, that’s the only word for it. From the moment I met her, I had no doubt she could seduce George Romford.

Her first words, after Greg had outlined the full background to our plan, behind the closed door of his office, were: “So I have to sleep with him?”

“Not necessarily,” said Greg, backtracking.

There was a short pause.

“Yes,” I said. I surprised myself in saying this.

Rebecca turned her gaze on me. The tiniest of smiles appeared along her lips. Then she looked back at Greg, pointing to me. “I like him,” she said in that soft voice she had. “He has more balls than you do, Greg.” She looked back at me. “I’ll do it. Just don’t give me a medal if it works—there’s only one thing worse than trading with the enemy, and that’s sleeping with him. When do we start?”

“Now, today, tomorrow,” cried Greg. “There’s no time to be lost. As soon as we can work out a way for you to meet him.”

“That’s easy,” I said in German.

“What did you say?” said Rebecca, turning my way again.

I nodded. “You wait for him to be seated at his table in the Café Odeon, then you sit at the next one. You look through the menu. Then, in your faltering German, you ask him if he can help you understand the wording. It will appeal to his vanity that he speaks better
German than you do. After that, it’s up to you. Knowing Romford, it won’t be difficult.”

She looked me up and down. “Are you always good with women, Hal?”

“No. I just know Romford.”

“Well, how do I follow through? Who am I? Why am I in Zurich in the middle of a war?”

“Yes,” said Greg. “I was thinking about that. What do you think, Hal?”

“Invent as little as possible.” I thought for a moment. Then I turned to Rebecca. “Do your family know where you are and what you are doing?”

“They know I’m in the diplomatic service and serving here in Switzerland. At least my father and mother do. They have been asked not to talk about it.”

I nodded. “Get word to them. Tell them to say, if asked, that their daughter is a closed book, someone they refuse to discuss, full stop.” I looked at Greg. “Can we do that overnight? Send them a wire?” I turned back to Rebecca. “Where do your parents live?”

“Kelso. But they have a flat in London.”

“I’ll send a wire in code to my people,” said Greg. “I’ll have someone go and brief them in person. Impress on them how important this is.”

“Good,” I said. “Now, Rebecca, what you tell Romford is this. You are a pacifist and conscientious objector. You are against this war and all it stands for, and you are sitting it out in Zurich, like a lot of other artists and writers. Let’s make you a writer. If you were a painter, Romford might ask to see your paintings and your studio, which you don’t have, and if you were an actress, he would surely want to come and see you act. As a writer, all you need is some notebooks and/or a typewriter.”

“And how do I explain my poor German, when I’ve been here since the war started, two and a half years ago?”

“Simple: you had a Swiss boyfriend who spoke perfect English. He brought you here in the first place. That was convenient for you, but meant that you never had to improve your German. Now you are on your own—let that slip, but don’t make it too obvious. Romford will think all his birthdays and Christmases have come at once.” I smiled.

“Have you done this sort of thing often?” Rebecca said.

Greg answered for me. “No, he was shot at the Front in the early months of the war and has been in intelligence more or less ever since. The brigadier spotted him, but this is his first trip into the field. Do you think his ideas work? Are you comfortable with being a writer?”

“My brother’s a writer. I’ll adopt some of his mannerisms. And I’ve met one or two other writers through him. I think I can carry it off.”

“Well, don’t overdo it,” said Greg. “Let Romford make the running. Don’t come across too easily, but don’t let him get away, either.”

Our meeting broke up just then. Greg went off to send the coded wire, and Rebecca went back to her own office, which she shared with two others. Later that day, however, there were two further developments that made us all feel better. Greg received a coded acknowledgment of his wire to London, which said that Rebecca’s parents were being informed that very evening. He also received a visit from one of his footmen, the people who followed the men Romford met at the Café Odeon. That very day, while Greg and Rebecca and I had been in conference, Romford had met someone for lunch at the café. After the lunch, the other man had been followed, back to the Hotel Grüben. Discreet inquiries at the hotel had revealed that this man, a Christoph Heyne, was a director of Frankel. The load of pyrethrum, which had
obviously now reached Germany via Morocco, was in the process of being paid for.

That evening, Greg, Rebecca, and I had dinner together, at a restaurant a good way from the Odeon, the Grüben, and the Bar au Lac. We went over our plan of attack, scheduled for the next day, but we also discussed something else that bothered me.

“Greg, Romford is undercover, as Bryan Amery. Why aren’t the Germans he does business with? Undercover, I mean. Come to that, if this operation is so important to the Germans, why isn’t the whole thing organized by the government, centrally?”

“Ah, I wondered if that was bothering you,” said Greg. “I can’t give you a definitive answer, but I
think
I know.”

We were waiting for our main courses and for a refill of the wine bottle—Greg certainly liked his booze—and we all sat back as the waiter brought the food.

“Don’t forget the wine,” Greg said, touching the waiter’s arm.

Rebecca shot me a glance.

“Now,” breathed Greg, reverting to the main topic of discussion, “always remember that the war is going against Germany, and that she shares a lengthy border with Switzerland. Britain, of course, is miles away. Which means British businessmen in Switzerland—because there are so few—draw attention to themselves. Why would they be here? It follows that the British side of this operation would want as few people here as possible, and that those who
are
here are undercover. We can’t be sure that Amery/Romford is the only one, after all. With Germany, it’s different. This part of Switzerland is German-speaking; it has long and intimate links—commercial, banking-wise, cultural, educational—with Germany.

“We don’t
know that
this whole operation
isn’t
organized centrally, just that on the surface it doesn’t look that way. And I can see why.
If it was organized centrally and was blown at any point, the whole shooting match would have to be closed down. It is, after all, an abuse of Swiss neutrality in a major way. If all the operatives were here secretly and their cover was blown, it would be very embarrassing and ruin Germany’s access to raw materials at a stroke. But, run the way that it is, we have several—one might even say many—German businessmen coming here, under their own steam, so to speak, using their real names, ostensibly conducting transactions on an individual basis. Should any one of them be found to be contravening Swiss neutrality, he can be bundled out of the country but the operation overall isn’t exposed and closed down. The system goes on.”

The second bottle of wine arrived and, as Greg tried it, Rebecca and I sat in silence, digesting his argument. There was nothing to add; what he’d said made sense.