Artillery of Lies (24 page)

“That was a wonderful evening,” Stephanie said, eyes aglow. “I really enjoyed myself.”

“So did I,” Laszlo said. “So did I.”

“So did we all,” Docherty said. “Maybe not the bulls, perhaps, but …”

“For the bulls, if they are brave bulls, it is the greatest moment of all,” Laszlo declared, and he lectured them on Brave Bulls I Have Known And Killed for five minutes, until Ferenc arrived, carrying four hot sausage sandwiches and four bottles of India Pale Ale. “I had to fight a whole company of British grenadiers to get these,” he said.

Laszlo was salivating so strongly that he had to swallow. “Not much of a fight,” he said, “for a true Romanov.” The sausage sandwich tasted like prime rump steak.

“In fact my father was a Hungarian gypsy horse-thief,” Ferenc said. “Killed by a tram in Budapest.” He was rapidly opening bottles and passing them around.

“That's a damn lie,” Docherty said comfortably.

“You're right, it wasn't in Budapest,” Ferenc said, “it was in Nyíregyháza, but whoever heard of Nyíregyháza?”

“I've seen his dossier,” Docherty told the others. “I know the truth.”

“Well, tell us, then,” Stephanie said.

Docherty took a long swig of beer. “All right,” he said. “Ferenc is really a woman. Ferenc is really Marlene Dietrich.”

“That's true,” Ferenc said, “but what you don't know is that Marlene Dietrich is really Tito, the Yugoslav partisan leader.”

“Oh, yes?” Laszlo challenged. “In that case, what were you both doing in Madrid jail?”

“Screwing the head warder,” Ferenc said. “And his wife. On alternate nights.” Docherty laughed and Stephanie giggled but Laszlo only shrugged. He had asked a perfectly sensible question and as usual Ferenc had tried to make him look stupid. All his life, Laszlo had suffered because some worthless brainless shit had made people laugh at him.
You watch,
he thought. Now that he had some food and drink inside him he suddenly felt quite cocky, and the thought became speech. “You'd better look out,” he said. “All of you.”

“Myself, I intend to look out for a rich widow,” Docherty said, “preferably a brunette. The trouble with blonds is they show the dirt. I might marry the widow of an English army officer; it would have to be a good county regiment and nothing under lieutenant-colonel, you understand.”

“Docherty's a snob,” Stephanie said.

“I never denied it.”

“I used to be a snob,” Ferenc said, “but the doctors told me to give it up, it was sapping my strength.” He looked down his nose and flared his nostrils. “See? I was a top snob once.”

“Where was that?” Laszlo asked.

“Barcelona penitentiary.” This amused Docherty and Stephanie, and Laszlo wished angrily that he had kept silent. “We had the best snobs in Europe in there until everyone rioted and burned the place down.” Stephanie wanted to know why. “Oh, pride, I suppose,” Ferenc said. “Natural arrogance. Scorn for the peasantry. Also, the food was shit.”

“I never heard of a fire at Barcelona,” Laszlo said.

“Maybe it was Valencia. I would have to consult my press-cuttings.”

“You're a terrible liar, Ferenc,” Stephanie said, and kissed him.

“I was afraid you might see through me, sweetheart. It's just as well. Poor Laszlo has been memorizing all this rubbish so that he can expose me to the proper authorities.”

“Well done, Laszlo,” Docherty said. “The act of a truly second-rate snob. When I marry the widow you can be my best man. Or second-best. Would that suit you?”

Laszlo got up and walked away. He knew they were mocking him, even if he didn't understand exactly how or why. He had to go out on deck, in the fresh air, away from the crowd and the smell and the noise, but when he stepped out he found that it was raining hard.

He came back inside. Only a few more hours and they would be in Liverpool. He felt a grim contempt for all the men in uniform around him. What did they know of war? They were just numbers. Numbers didn't change anything. Laszlo felt the same exciting tightness in his throat, the same rapid breathing at the top of his lungs, the same clattering, runaway pulse that he had felt from time to time during the evening of the Brigadier's farewell dinner party in Madrid. Not long now. Not long.

Only two or three die-hard card schools survived, little islands of soft talk in a sea of sleepers, when he picked his way across the saloon. All three agents were asleep, Ferenc with his head and arms resting on the stack of suitcases. Laszlo squeezed his shoulder and whispered: “Don't make a noise.” When Ferenc straightened up and gave a soft groan, Laszlo took the top suitcase. “Come with me,” he whispered. “Don't wake the others.”

Ferenc caught up with him as he went through the blackout curtains and on to the deck. The rain had eased but chilling flurries of wetness came slanting out of the night from time to time. “What's going on?” Ferenc asked. His eyes felt like boiled sweets. His tongue belonged to someone he didn't like. “What's up?”

“I'm going to throw this case into the sea,” Laszlo said. He carried it to the rail and heaved it into the night. Any splash was absorbed by the overwhelming rumble of the ship.

Ferenc joined him at the rail. “Well,” he said. “So what? I don't see what it's got to do with me.” The wind chased his hair round his head.

“That's your trouble, Ferenc. You don't see what anything's got to do with you. Ever since we landed you've played the fool. I think you want us to fail.”

“And I think you're a piece of piss. No, you haven't got the strength to be a piece of piss.” For once, Ferenc lost all patience with Laszlo. “You're a small fart in a large room, Laszlo. Why d'you think nobody talks to you?”

“I have friends. In Madrid—”

“Oh, screw Madrid.”

“
Many
friends. I am very popular in Madrid. Everyone wants to talk to me in Madrid. I am very liked and respected in—”

“There you go again. Me, me, me. Nobody cares a damn about you.”

That is not true. And why do you always interrupt me? I am as much entitled to my opinion as—'

“Nobody's entitled to be as boring as you, Laszlo.”

“I warn you. Don't interrupt me again or you—”

“Boring, boring, boring, boring, boring, boring. Now I'm going back to sleep and you can stay and bore the seagulls.” As Ferenc turned, Laszlo raised the pistol and shot him through the ribcage, twice. Ferenc slumped against the rail as if he were about to be sick. Laszlo shot him a third time, in the back of the head, then stuffed the gun in his pocket. He made sure Ferenc's arms were hanging over the rail, grabbed hold of his ankles and heaved upward. Laszlo was stronger than he looked. One final flourish sent the legs up in the air, and the body cartwheeled into black space.

Laszlo thought he heard the splash but he couldn't be sure. He unscrewed the silencer and stowed the weapon in his inside pockets. The time was five to two. He felt much better now.

The whoop of the ferry's siren as it entered the Mersey estuary woke everyone up. The saloon became a tangle of moving bodies. Dawn had not yet broken, and in the dim light it was some little time before Docherty and Stephanie realized that Ferenc and Laszlo were not there. No cause for concern. They were probably in the lavatories. Twenty minutes later Laszlo turned up, freshly shaved and very perky. Where was Ferenc? He had no idea. But during the small hours, Laszlo said, Ferenc had told him he had decided not to go to England. He had said he was going to stay on board and return to Ireland. And look: he's taken his suitcase.

By now the
Maid of the Mersey
was docking. It was impossible to search the ship; indeed it was hard enough to force your way along a corridor against the mass of troops and kit-bags. Docherty and Stephanie did their best, and then gave up. There were a hundred places where Ferenc might be hiding. On the dockside, Docherty said, “Why didn't you wake me and tell me?”

“I thought he was joking,” Laszlo said. “You know what a funny man he was.”

They stared at him. All around was loud activity; only their three figures were still. “This isn't right,” Stephanie said. “This is all wrong.”

“A nice cup of tea would be jolly nice,” Laszlo said. “Don't you think, old sport?”

*

When Domenik produced a copy of Christian's SD dossier, he grew enormously in importance in Christian's eyes. Before, he had seemed a lightweight, even a bit of a wastrel; now he was clearly a man who had valuable contacts. Christian invented reasons to pass by Domenik's office; the door was always open and usually he was invited in. Domenik puzzled Christian because he seemed all wrong for the
Abwehr:
too chatty, too disrespectful, not
military
enough. He was a great gossip. Normally Christian disapproved strongly of gossip but he made an exception because Domenik's inside stories turned out to be pretty reliable. They were certainly a damn sight more useful than the stuff churned out by Goebbels's Department of Propaganda to explain, for instance, the sudden death of Hans Jeschonnek, a man whom Christian had known slightly and admired enormously. Jeschonnek must have been the youngest-ever officer in the German Army—he was commissioned lieutenant when he was only fifteen. That was in 1914. Three years later he became a pilot. In the twenties and thirties he worked as hard as anyone at rebuilding the German air force, and by 1939 he was its Chief of Staff. Then, as the war turned sour, everything went wrong for Jeschonnek. While Marshal Goering neglected his duties as head of the
Luftwaffe,
he also failed to give Jeschonnek the backing he needed to fight the air war. As Domenik told Christian, all the talk inside the
Luftwaffe
High Command was of Jeschonnek's impossible position. Day by day the Allied bombing of Germany grew worse, and week by week Hitler put the blame on Jeschonnek rather than on Goering because Hitler still liked Goering. Jeschonnek was an honorable man. In the end the pressure crushed him. He shot himself. Officially it was a stomach hemorrhage. Christian found Domenik's version far more credible, and infinitely more depressing.

Not that Domenik ever seemed depressed by anything. To him the war was one long black comedy, the source of endless jokes. He even managed to make Christian laugh at a story about von Ribbentrop, the Foreign Minister of the Third Reich. “Old friend goes to see Ribbentrop at the Ministry,” Domenik said, “but the building is empty! He goes from room to room, knocking on doors, until finally he knocks on the last door and Ribbentrop opens it, stark naked except for a hat. The old friend says, ‘Why aren't you
wearing any clothes?' and Ribbentrop says, ‘Why should I? Hitler never wants to see me anymore.' And the old friend says, ‘Then why are you wearing a hat?' And Ribbentrop says, ‘Well, you never know; he
might.' ”

It perfectly encapsulated Ribbentrop's vanity, stupidity and irrelevance, and Christian enjoyed it. “How on earth do you find them?” he asked.

“Oh, you know,” Domenik said. “It goes with the job.”

“I can't believe that this is your whole job, collecting jokes.”

“Actually my real job is as a sort of freebooting liaison officer.” Domenik could see that Christian was not entirely satisfied, so he added, “Some people need to have their imaginations stimulated; don't you find that? Well, I'm free to go around thinking the unthinkable.” He paused a moment to see how this went down. “And sometimes also to speak to the unspeakable.”

“But who do you report to?”

“Posterity. Like all of us.”

Christian realized he wasn't going to discover anything more, and he changed the subject. But he thought about what Domenik had said, and the next time they met he asked for advice. “We've been having some problems with one of our agents abroad. Not so much with that agent as with one of his sub-agents, so to speak.”

“Eldorado and Garlic”

“Ah.” Christian stroked his beard. “I should have known that you would have known.”

“I also know how to shut up about what I know.”

“Glad to hear it. Anyway, you understand the problem. We've taken action to eliminate Garlic, which ought to be the end of the matter. But I can't help thinking …” Christian picked up a pencil and held it at arm's length to read the lettering on it. “I mean, it makes you think.”

“Think aloud,” Domenik said.

“Well … the trouble with Garlic is he was just too bad to be true. If
we
could see all the contradictions and anomalies in his reports, then Eldorado should have spotted them too. In fact, Eldorado should have noticed them
at the time.
So why didn't he?”

“Busy man. Lots of other sub-agents to handle.”

Christian made skeptical sounds in the back of his throat. “You don't know how meticulous this man is. He's painstakingly correct. If he makes a mistake he reports it. I remember he once identified
a new shoulder-flash with the letters CLB as Canadian Low-flying Bombardiers. Later he corrected it to Church Lads' Brigade. He doesn't care if he looks foolish as long as we get the truth.”

“With one exception,” Domenik said.

“That's what worries me. Either Eldorado was unbelievably careless, or …”

“Or what?”

“Well, there are various possibilities, aren't there?”

“Are there?” Domenik was enjoying this. “Tell me some.”

Christian hunched his shoulders defensively. “Maybe Eldorado spotted the contradictions and actually told us he wasn't altogether happy about Garlic but his report went astray.”

“I see. And when he got no response, he said to himself, ‘Oh well, they don't care what rubbish they get from Garlic, so I'll send them some more.' Right?”

Christian sighed and let his shoulders slump. “Have you any thoughts, Stefan?”