The Good Liar (27 page)

‘I wanted to make sure we were still on track,’ says Roy.

‘You are kidding, aren’t you? I thought you’d want it all on hold.

Until things were clearer.’

‘By which you mean if I get out of this place in a box or not.’

Vincent stares at him and does not deny his thinking.

‘Nah,’ says Roy. ‘Take a bit more than a little fall to put me out of action. Bruised and battered, maybe, but not beaten. Down but not

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out. Be back home before you know it. Full speed ahead as far as I’m concerned.’

‘You sure? I mean . . .’

‘What? You having cold feet or something, Vincent? Betty flut-

tered her eyelashes or something? You a little bit besotted?’

‘No, nothing like that,’ says Vincent irascibly. ‘If you must know, I’m looking out for you.’

‘Thank you kindly. But no need to do that. I’ve coped well enough

over the years.’

‘This is madness, Roy. It’s suicide, or close to it, you doing her

over. You’ve got yourself neatly set up there. She looks after you

and surely that’s what you need now, not more money.’

Roy laughs. ‘You are having seconds, aren’t you? Not like you.

Think I’m going to pop my clogs in the middle of all this and leave a mess for you to clear up? More for you, I’d have thought. Betty’s not one for reneging on deals. You’d have my stake money in your

back pocket too. You’d be quids in and all you’d need to do is to fade neatly into the background.’

‘No, it’s not that, Roy. This is crazy. Why are you doing this?’

‘I’ve told you before. It’s what I do.’

‘Not good enough, Roy. You’ll destroy her and you’ll destroy

yourself.’

‘It’ll have to be,’ says Roy sharply. ‘I don’t have to explain myself to you. You get paid well enough to keep your trap shut and do

what I want. Or is that it? You think this is our last gig together and you can shake me down for some more? What is it you want? Sixty

per cent? Seventy?’

Vincent shakes his head. ‘No, it’s not that. I just don’t think you should be doing this.’

‘So does that mean you’re out? Because if so you could have had

the decency to tell me earlier. You leave me in a right mess, I can tell you.’

‘No, Roy. I’m in, still. If it’s what you definitely want. I was just saying you have time to pull out if you want. No hard feelings. No

payment necessary for what I’ve done so far. I’d be happier to let

it go.’

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Roy relaxes in his bed and adopts a calmer tone. ‘No, we’re hang-

ing on with this one. To the bitter end. Look, Vincent. This is my

life. Dodging and weaving. This is me. We both know that it’s you

too. I know what makes you tick, Vincent. No, when it comes to it

I’ll die in the saddle, talking some greedy mark into doing some-

thing stupid. Maybe this one, maybe the next. Now, can we get on

with it?’

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A Faraway Country

1

Snow had already arrived in Berlin, driven by the chill wind across the steppes. Konrad Taub and his son marched through the streets

in the teeth of the blizzard, unable to converse, simply covering the ground with grim resolve.

Taub rang the bell and pulled off his gloves, banging them against

the brickwork to shake away the residue of snow. Hans imitated

him and looked up at the grey sky, thick flakes floating down, then caught on the wind and hurled violently. It resembled chaos.

A servant opened the door and admitted them without speaking.

Carefully, they removed their coats and stamped their feet on the

doormat, which was as large as the rug in the main room of their

small apartment. Traces of snow and wet dribbled on to the mat.

Hans shivered as the warmth made him realize how cold it had

been outside.

They knew their way and the servant departed with a nod, carry-

ing their coats. Away from the turmoil of the wind and the snow

and the dark busyness of the city, it was quiet here, with a beguiling calm. All that could be heard was a distant murmur somewhere

deep in the house, the preparations for the Christmas ball in the

evening to which neither Hans nor his parents had been invited.

The meeting with Schröder would be short.

They climbed the stairs and walked to Schröder’s study.

‘Ah, welcome,’ he said. ‘How are you, Konrad? And Hans? It’s

cold outside. A coffee? Maybe a schnapps?’

‘A small glass, perhaps,’ said Taub.

Schröder found a bottle and glasses in a cupboard. ‘It’s chaos

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round here. The party this evening. Magda is frantic. She thrives on it. I’m sorry we didn’t invite you. I thought it best.’ He said it in a matter- of- fact voice.

‘No. I understand. I doubt it would be our kind of occasion.’

‘Nor mine,’ said Schröder with a smile. ‘But it’s expected of me.

Not, you understand, that we invite any of those awful Nazis. But

our relationship is, I think, best kept low- key. For both our sakes.

Renate is well?’

‘Yes. As busy as ever.’

‘So, young Hans. How old are you now?’

‘Fourteen, sir.’

‘I wonder whether you might wish to join us in a glass of

schnapps, Hans. If your father would permit it.’

‘No, sir. I don’t think so, sir.’

‘Please, Hans, if you would like to,’ said his father.

‘No, Father. I don’t think I’d like the taste.’

‘A sensible young man,’ said Schröder with a smile. ‘It’s good to

avoid the demon drink as long as possible. I’ll order something from the kitchen for you. What would you like? I’m sure there must be

some chocolate cake somewhere in the house.’

‘It’s all right, sir. I’m not hungry or thirsty.’

The two men sat with their drinks on leather sofas that faced

each other in front of the blazing hearth. Hans remained standing,

his cap in his hand, his shoes continuing to drip melt into the

carpet.

‘Well then, Konrad. What’s the latest?’

Hans was fascinated by this room. The walls were lined in rich,

dark mahogany bookcases, floor to ceiling, and each shelf was full

of books. There was a small ladder that matched the bookcases so

that the top volumes could be reached. A large, heavy desk, the size of his bed, faced inwards from the window. Its surface was covered

almost entirely with papers, arranged carefully in neat piles, each, he imagined, covering a different aspect of Herr Schröder’s business empire. Despite his curiosity and boldness, he would not have had

the temerity to look at the papers even given the chance. The room

was lit in sections, a large lamp illuminating the desk’s surface,

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discreet lighting in the bookcases to aid navigation there and two

heavy iron floor lamps behind each of the sofas to supplement the

fierce bright light of the fire. This was the sort of room he wanted as his refuge.

The two men, keen to discuss their business, had evidently for-

gotten his presence.

‘War is definite,’ Schröder was saying.

‘That’s what everyone thinks,’ replied his father.

‘No. What I mean is that I know that it’s their firm intention to

have war once their preparations are complete.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Ravenstein. We supply to him. He’s not exactly a sympathizer,

but then again he’s not exactly out of sympathy. He’s a personal

friend of Speer. He’s been asked to increase production for the

next six months with the express purpose of being ready for con-

flict part- way through next year. Hitler will find some pretext to precipitate it. Probably Danzig. You may tell your confidential

contacts.’

‘And as for the diplomatic effort? Britain’s appeasement?’

‘Ravenstein says it suits Hitler. He thinks Chamberlain is a con-

venient fool. He may buy Britain a few months, but he’s also giving us more time to sharpen our tools. Hitler won’t let Chamberlain

affect his plans. The British are a busted flush. The point is, though, Konrad, what can we do? We can expect atrocities against Jews to

increase. Ravenstein says plans to develop the concentration camp

programme are well in hand. And they’re considering mass forced

emigration of Jews to the east. With militarization as well, we’re on an unstoppable path to hell. Now’s the time for you and your associates to act.’

‘The question remains the same as ever, Albert. Precisely how?

We have no military structures, we have no money, no weapons, no

expertise. We’d be slaughtered. I’m a journalist. I’m not a political figure, let alone a leader. I have no idea what to do. It’s too late to sow unrest in the factories. They’re too full of patriotic fervour.’

‘Your friends outside the country?’

‘I’m a liberal, Albert. And I have my contacts. But Britain and her 178

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allies? They will contemplate and consider and be reasonable until

it’s too late altogether for reason. It’s too late already, but they don’t know it. They simply think that the Sudetenland is a distant country. They’ll think the same of Poland or Czechoslovakia. Or France

and the Netherlands if it comes to it. They think of us all as far

away, so long as we don’t interfere in their interests. And by the time we do interfere, it’ll be too late.’

‘Then we must do what we can.’

‘I agree. What do you have in mind?’

‘The Jews will suffer most in the next few years. They’ll be vic-

timized, even more than today. I shudder to think what will happen.

It would be the same for us if we were Jewish. Just an accident of

birth or religion.’

‘So?’

‘So we need to establish means of saving them from us,’ said

Schröder. ‘A means of enabling them to escape, as many as can. I’m

prepared to find money. Large amounts of it. But you will have

to work on the practical details, with your friends outside the

country.’

Konrad paused, and looked over to Hans.

‘Hans,’ he said, ‘I’m sorry. We forgot you were there. We’ve been

boring you with our political talk. Please, you’re excused.’

‘Hans,’ said Schröder, ‘why don’t you go and find the girls? I’m

sure they’re around the house somewhere.’ Schröder stood, and

Hans felt him watching his progress down the corridor before he

closed the door of the study.

He padded along the corridor, jumping experimentally to feel his

feet sink into the plush pile carpet with a deadened impact. Despite the distant noise of servants scurrying and furniture being moved

and cutlery and crockery being laid on tables, up here it was quiet.

He opened one door and then another, but there was no one. He

looked in the formal drawing room and then in the cosy little snug

on the opposite side of the wide corridor. Outside, it was snowing

heavily.

Eventually he heard excited voices behind a bedroom door. He

opened it slowly. There they were, the three elder sisters.

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Charlotte giggled with delight. ‘Oh, it’s little Hansi. Come in,

come in.’

Once, he had been glad to be their little Hansi. Anything that

brought him access to their fragrant presence had been bearable.

Now he resented being called little. He was taller than any of them and much more powerful. The sense that they were making fun of

him made things worse.

Nonetheless he went in. Charlotte was the middle of the three,

aged eighteen, and the most skittish in Hans’s view. She was also the one he found prettiest, the one he wanted most to kiss. Her lips

were red, ripe and full. But any of the three would have done. Han-

nelore was the eldest, marginally more serious than the other two.

She had already started working in her father’s factory. Anneliese

was simply too young for him, though three years his senior. She

was just so immature.

None of these girls had ambition or intellect. They were all frivo-

lous and he was not familiar with frivolity. His own father and

mother were serious and thoughtful, and encouraged him to be so

too. In this family Lili, the youngest sister, would be the studi-

ous one.

‘We’re trying on our dresses for the party tonight, Hansi,’ said

Anneliese with fake coyness. ‘Would you like to see them?’

‘Er, yes,’ he said, blushing. ‘I suppose so.’

They laughed. ‘Oh, dear Hansi,’ said Charlotte, ‘are you coming

to the ball tonight? Will you be our prince?’

‘Er, no. I’m not coming.’

‘Stop teasing, Charlotte,’ said Hannelore. ‘Are you here with your

father, Hansi?’

‘Yes.’

‘I do hope Daddy will stop work soon,’ said Anneliese. ‘He needs

to get ready too.

The room smelt of cleanness and soap, and of them. He was

embarrassed almost to the point of squirming, yet he was glad to be here. The brightness of it all was dazzling. He longed to reach out and touch one of them. Even better if one of them touched him.

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‘Aren’t you warm, Hansi?’ said Charlotte. ‘Isn’t it warm in here,