Ultimate Issue (12 page)

His organisation, the Federal Republic’s Office for the Protection of the Constitution, as Bonn liked to call its counterintelligence service, operated from there. B1 was one of its classified departments.

“Anything special worrying them?” inquired Unterberg.

“My friend, they always worry. It’s their nature. And this business especially.”

Unterberg piled the horseradish on a piece of meat. He was wondering if the rumors about B1 were true. East German propaganda said it was a nest of ex-Nazis. That even some of the secretaries had worked for Goering and Himmler. The CIA kept out of it; they hinted quietly, in highly classified reports, that some of it might be true, but they had no proof.

He respected Pech as a professional. A damn efficient guy. Aged about, he guessed, forty-one, so he’d have been in his mid-twenties in the war. Interesting. There had been Gestapo field officers in their twenties.

“Tell them to relax, old buddy. We’ve got a tight rein on things here, believe me.”

He poured Pech some Chateau Nenf de Pape. The wine waiter hadn’t been watching the glass.

“Helmut, how’s the girl?”

“Helga?”

“Who else?”

Pech was still having trouble with the piece of meat in his teeth. “Difficult,” he said. “A very difficult girl. She is so suspicious.”

“Do you blame her?” Unterberg asked dryly.

“She should trust us more. Doesn’t she understand that we are all on the same side?”

“Yeah,” said Unterberg. “But maybe she can’t work out which side that is.”

Pech blinked.

“I’m not kidding,” added Unterberg hastily.

“She is making life very difficult for everybody.” Pech sniffed disapprovingly. “How about your man? Is he behaving?”

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“Captain Tower is well taken care of,” said Unterberg. He hoped he was right. “You want dessert?”

Pech looked at his watch.

“I think I’d better not,” he replied. He patted his stomach It was flat ILke an athlete’s. He was in good shape but he liked to make out he had a weight problem. “Must watch it.”

“Me too.” Unterberg was still trying to work out if that was the only reason Pech had come over. To ask him for a “reassurance.”

“Things still tight in Berlin?” he inquired gently. It was only the second time Berlin had been mentioned. Yet that was the thing uppermost in both their minds.

Pech lowered his voice. “It’s getting worse, between you and me, Clyde. We’re bursting at the seams. The office is drowning. You should see the paperwork.”

He finished his wine. “I must go.”

Unterberg paid the bill. Outside, in Panton Street, as they waited for a cab, Pech explained:

“I have to go and buy cheese. That is very important. My plane leaves at five so I have very little time. I’m sorry I can’t stay longer.”

“So am I,” lied Unterberg. Hoping it sounded utterly distinterested,he added casually, “Anything else you have to do before you leave?”

“Only the cheese,” said Pech, and stared him straight in the eye.

“Well, I hope the trip’s been worth it.”

“To make contact with you, my dear colleague, is always worth it,” said Pech.

And he actually meant it, even if it wasn’t for the reason Unterberg thought.

Wednesday, June 28, 1961

Molesworth

JOHN Tower faced the two men in the barely furnished room to which he had been escorted.

“Who’s he?” he growled.

Lieutenant Jensen indicated the bald air force officer with the captain’s bars.

“This is Captain Perriton,” he announced.

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The bald man smiled amiably.

“What does he want?” demanded Tower. He looked a little more careworn than when Jensen had last seen him.

“Sit down, John,” said Captain Perriton.

There was a table in the middle of the room, and three chairs, two on one side and the third facing them. He indicated the third chair.

Perriton and Jensen took their places opposite Tower. On the table lay a briefcase. Perriton opened it and took out a pack of cards. They were much bigger than playing cards.

“~‘hat’s the idea, Jensen?” asked Tower.

The small lawyer creased his thick lips into a semblance of a smile.

“It’s a little test,” he said reassuringly. “It might be useful at the trial.”

“Test?”

“Captain Perriton is from Burderop Park,” explained Jensen. “He’s come up specially.”

Tower’s eyes narrowed. He had heard about Burderop Park.

“Are you a doctor?” he asked Perriton.

“Sort of. But that isn’t important, John.” He laid the stack of cards face downward. From his briefcase he also produced a clipboard. “You just relax and enjoy it.”

“Where is Verago?” demanded Tower.

“We don’t need him for this,” Jensen said soothingly.

“I want to see Captain Verago. Right away.”

“Not right now,” said Jensen.

‘let’s all right,” interrupted the bald man. ‘Yt’s perfectly understandable. But we’re doing this in your interest, John. Lieutenant Jensen feels that it will help your case. It’ll give Captain Verago more ammunition.”

He pushed the pile of cards forward. “Just look at each card,” he said. “You’ll see a funny shape on it. A kind of ink spot. Simply tell me what it reminds you of.”

“I know about the Rorschach test,” Tower said curtly. “You’re a psychiatrist, aren’t you?”

“Does that worry you?” asked Perriton. He had the Korea ribbon on his uniform. Tower suddenly wondered if he had been on the brainwashing commission for the Pentagon.

Tower stood up. “That’s all gentlemen,” he said.

They stared, owlishly. Jensen’s baby face had darkened.

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“Now just a moment, John ” he began angrily, but Perriton silenced him with a little gesture.

“You’ve got it all wrong.” He smiled at Tower. “The air force has been using this test for years. That’s how combat air crews were assessed in the war. It’s perfectly routine.”

“Not for me,” said Tower.

“Before you say no, you might consider one thing,” Perriton said, almost silkily. “It won’t help you if the court got to hear you’d refused to go along with us.”

They were the enemy, of course. He knew that. Jensen, in the guise of defense counsel, and the bald man as the even-helpful psychiatrist. They had picked a time and place when Verago wasn’t around to entangle him deeper still.

Tower smiled. It was a dangerous smile. He sat down.

“Okay,” he said, “let’s play cards.”

Jensen looked relieved.

“Now,” said Perriton. “Study each card. Tell me what image it suggests to you. If you see more than one shape, don’t worry. Give me all the pictures you see in your mind.”

He turned up the first card.

“Mickey Mouse,” Tower said without hesitation.

Perriton made a note on the clipboard, then turned up the next ink blot.

“Donald Duck,” said Tower.

Perriton raised an eyebrow.

“Is that all? Nothing else?”

Tower leaned forward and studied the card again gravely.

“Yes,” he said. “Positively Donald Duck.”

The third card was exposed.

“Ah,” said Tower. “Now that could be a flat lettuce leaf. Or maybe just an ink blot.”

Perriton was annoyed. “If you’re not prepared to do this seriously …”

“Oh, but I am. I really am,” said Tower.

Jensen gave him a furious look.

“All right,” said Perriton. “Try this one.”

He turned up another card.

“That’s interesting,” said Tower. “It’s General Croxford, upside down.”

“Right,” said Perriton. He grabbed the pile of cards and put them back in the briefcase. “I don’t think there’s any point in going on with this.”

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“Neither do I,” Tower agreed mildly.

Jensen was biting his lip nervously, but Perriton put his clipboard away resignedly.

“Just what are you afraid of, Captain Tower?” he asked.

“Bats and butterflies,” said Tower.

“What’s that?”

“It’d make you happy, wouldn’t it? If I played the game and came up with fire-sprouting dragons, and twisted faces, and poisonous insects, then you could deduce that I hated my father, never knew my mother and fell downstairs when I was six.” He paused. “Or better still that I was mentally unstable, an advanced hysteric, obviously unreliable. Wouldn’t that make everybody happy?”

“You’ve got a problem, John,” said Perriton.

“So who are you going to testify for, the defense or the prosecution?”

Jensen went to the door. Two white-capped APs, both armed, were outside.

“Sergeant,” he said, “escort Captain Tower back.”

Perriton stood up and held out his hand.

“Anyway, glad to have met you, Captain,” he said. “Anytime you feel you need any advice, don’t hesitate to let me know.”

“Sure,’” said Tower. “You’ve got a permanent vacancy for me in Ward Ten.”

He didn’t take Perriton’s hand.

After he had gone, they were still trying to work out how he knew that Ward 10 at Burderop Park was always kept locked, day and night, because it was reserved for very special cases.

Thursday, June 29,1961

=

London

THAT day at 5:10 P.M., Daventry received a phone call at his chambers from Serena Howard. “Can you come over?” Her voice a little breathless. “Now?” He sounded somewhat irritable. “I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important,” she said. “Won’t it keep?” he asked.

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“Something’s happened,” she said. “I need to see you.” He frowned. It was awkward. “Look here, Serena, it’s late. I’m sure it will keep. Perhaps we could meet bAeDy “

He hesitated. Tomorrow was Friday. He had a busy day ahead. Then the weekend. That was impossible.

“How about Monday?”

“Mr. Daventry, I’m frightened.”

“What on earth for?” Really, she was a curious girt She sounded very apprehensive.

“Couldn’t you just come for ten minutes? Please. It’s only Charlotte Street. You’ve got the number, haven’t you?”

He looked at his watch. He was about to leave anyway. He might as well.

In the cab, Daventry sighed. When Pettifer arranged his life, everything was always so uncomplicated. He missed his good offices.

Her flat was on the first floor above a shop displaying a huge photograph of Mao and giving its window over to the writings of Marx, Engels, and various Spanishsounding gentlemen Daventry had never heard of.

There was a Turkish restaurant opposite, and parked in front of it was a black Chrysler. The two men in it stared at him as he paid off the cab.

He rang the doorbell. Serena had on a sloppy wool sweater and slacks. Her face was drawn.

“Thank you for coming,” she said.

She led him inside and up the stairs.

“I’ve got some coffee on,” she said, as he sat down. The floor was covered by multicolored rugs with weird patterns. On the wall hung three primitive, garishly hued masks. She seemed to have a penchant for Mexican art. At least Davenry thought it was Mexican. He wasn’t sure.

“I can only stay a few minutes,” said Daventry. “Now, what’s all this about? What’s happened?”

“Look,” she said, going over to the window. She stood a little to one side, so that the curtain concealed her from the street.

He got up and looked out of the window. “What is it?”

“I’m being followed,” said Serena. “You see that car. The men in it. They’ve been following me.”

“Yes. I saw them when I arrived,” he said. “They don’t look very suspicious to me.”

“They’re watching me,” insisted Serena

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“How do you know?” asked Daventry.

She poured him some coffee from a small percolator.

“I know,” she said, as if that was final proof. “Milk? Sugar?”

“Just a drop. One lump. Why should they be following you?”

“They’re there, keeping an eye on this flat. Seeing who goes in and out. Taking pictures.”

“What?”

“They’re photographing me with a telephoto lens.”

He stirred the coffee slowly. “I see. And they trail you?”

“Not exactly trail me.” She brushed an errant blond hair away from her brow.

“You said they followed you?” repeated Daventry, as if he was questioning an uncertain witness who kept changing her facts.

“They turn up where I happen to be. Sometimes. It’s horrible.”

He sipped the coffee and leaned back in the wicker chair. “Have you told the police?”

“Yes.’,

“And?”

“They said thank you.”

“That’s all?”

“They hinted I was seeing things. That it didn’t matter. They weren’t very interested.”

“Of course their presence may. not have anything to do with you at all, Serena,” he said, putting down the cup.

“I don’t understand.”

“Well, you seem to have a rather, er, radical establishment downstairs.”

Her eyes opened wide. “You mean Ron? The Maoists? Oh, they’re absolute sweeties.”

Daventry put his fingertips together. ‘] don’t doubt they’re very nice people, Serena, but the authorities do keep an eye on extremists and radicals. I mean, it’s quite possible that well, perhaps the Special Branch is watching these premises. And you simply happen to live on the first

“And that’s why they take my picture? Or suddenly show up in Petty France when I renew my passport? Or lurk out there right now?”

Daventry liked commonplace explanations for uncommon happenings. “What do you suggest it’s all about?”

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“It’s to do with John,” she said firmly. “I know it is. It’s something to do with the courtmartial. I’m convinced of it.”

Daventry got up. “There’s not much more you can do about it. You’ve told the police. If they continue to annoy you, tell them again. Make an official complaint. Personally, I can’t see how it’s got anything to do with the other business.”

She came closer to him. “Can’t you find out? It’s terribly worrying. I feel … it makes me so … uneasy.”

“I’d just try to forget about it. Take no notice. I think it’s your friend below they’re interested in.” He did his best to sound reassuring. “By the way, have you heard anything more?”

She shook her head.

“Nothing from … Captain Tower?”

“No,” she said. “And that’s worrying me too.”

On the TV set stood a framed photo of a man in U.S. Air Force uniform. There was the faintest trace of scar under his left eye. She followed Daventry’s look.