They glanced at each other briefly and Todd nodded in acquiescence. The Archbishop pushed his chair back and pulled out a drawer in his desk. He took out some papers and placed them on top. ‘Please,’ he said, indicating them.
I walked over and picked through the papers. There weren’t many. A passport like the others, but also letters with seals similar to the ones I’d seen over two months ago taken by Malachi from Dragan’s house. I held up the one with the seal of the Vatican on it and the signature under the printed name and seal of the Austrian Bishop Hudal.
‘Does Bishop Hudal exist?’ I asked.
‘Most certainly. He is the rector of the Pontficio Istituto Teutonico di Santa Maria dell’Anima in Rome. It is a seminary for Austrian and German priests.’
‘And has he been arranging escape routes – rat lines – for Nazis?’
The Archbishop folded his fingers together and said carefully, ‘Some escape routes were set up during the war. For our own people. For persecuted churchmen. To help them get out of the occupied territories during the war. It seems perhaps these routes have been compromised.’
‘By Bishop Hudal?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Are you saying that someone else might be using the bishop’s signature and stamp?’
The Archbishop twisted in his chair. His eyes flicked to Todd’s. ‘We are not certain.’
‘It’s an uncertain world. But tell me, why am I here? What do you want from me?’
‘I want you to know – believe it if you will – that here in Scotland the Catholic Church plays no part in these so-called rat lines.’
‘So they exist but outside your control. I see.’ My sarcasm must have stung. It brought colour to Campbell’s cheeks and a groan from Todd.
‘You don’t, do you, Brodie? Why should you?’
I waited. The Archbishop got up. We began rising too. I assumed the audience was over and that I was about to be thrown out for failing to take the word of a bishop of Rome. And for being chippy.
‘No. Sit, please,’ he said and moved round from behind his table. He walked over to a small painting on the wall next to his desk. It showed Paul, kneeling and blind, while a great light shone down on him.
‘You know this scene?’
‘The road to Damascus.’
‘I’m not going to make simplistic parallels, Brodie. But let me at least throw some light on this matter.’ He walked over to the window that gave out on to the side passage of the cathedral. He turned and looked at me. His face was contorted with anguish. ‘I hear your friend McRae was in Dachau?’
I nodded.
‘These stories of Nazi concentration camps. The stories of mass murder of our brothers in Christ, the Jews. They are
our
stories, Brodie. Thousands of my Catholic brothers were murdered by Hitler’s gangs.’ His Highland accent was growing stronger as he talked, the lilt making the words sing.
‘Ask your friend McRae about the priests who died alongside him. They were gathered in Dachau from all over Europe and were slaughtered there. I am telling you that your enemy is mine. Nothing,
nothing
would have made me give them assistance to escape justice.’
I noticed the tense he was using. ‘You sound as though there was temptation.’
His face darkened even more. He nodded. ‘Christ himself would struggle with the choices. Nazism or Communism? Stalin is as much a persecutor of the Church as Hitler. Two years ago – shortly after I was appointed here – a representative of Rome called on me. He was the envoy of Cardinal Eugène Tisserant.’
‘French?’
‘Yes. And anti-communist.’
‘Calling on the Auld Alliance?’ I said with incredulity.
‘You might say that. The cardinal had been approached by certain Argentinian cardinals. They were offering to establish escape routes to South America for French anti-communists.’
‘And for anti-communist read Nazi?’
‘He made a powerful argument. A subtle argument. Let me paraphrase. Communism’s implacable goal is to wipe out religion. The Red Army is Satan’s hordes. We cannot afford to be too selective as to who would serve with us under Christ’s banner. Indeed, if we are clever, we can stand to one side and let the Bolsheviks and Fascists fight each other to extinction.’
‘Total war doesn’t work that way. There are no sidelines.’
‘You’re right, Brodie. That is the pragmatic objection. But there is also the moral one. I wrestled with this proposal for a day and a night. But in my heart I had already instantly decided. This was a squalid argument and a squalid bargain.’
‘You refused to help.’
‘Yes.’
‘But
someone
accepted? Someone locally.’
‘It seems so.’
‘Do you know who?’
‘Not the name.’
‘But . . .?’
‘The envoy said that America was on
our
side. His side. Against communism. That they wanted selected senior Nazis – scientists, doctors, spies – to help them in this new war.’
‘So the local contact is an American?’
‘A senior officer of some sorts.’
‘In Glasgow?’
‘At the airport. At Prestwick Airport.’
I stared at the Archbishop, then at Duncan. It was so obvious that it felt as if I was having my own Damascene enlightenment. I’d flown into it barely a fortnight ago. Prestwick had been a major allied hub for war planes throughout the war. Hundreds of freight and bomber flights every day poured in from America and Canada. The US Air Force had based a huge staff there marshalling forces for D-Day and beyond.
The airport was only eight miles from Kilmarnock. I remembered coming home on leave once and taking the train down to watch flight after flight roaring over the white beaches of Troon and Monkton. Now Prestwick was the booming heart of civilian transatlantic passenger flights. It was never fog-bound and offered a short direct hop to and from America’s east coast. A perfect escape route.
FIFTY
I walked back to Central Division with Duncan.
‘Did you know all this beforehand, Duncan?’
‘Nup. I was dumbfoonert. Ah just had a wee chat with my own priest about the Vatican letter and next thing it’s a holy summons.’
‘At confession? I thought that was sacrosanct? No clyping even to an archbishop.’
‘It was outside the confessional, I’ll have you know.’
‘Well, I’m sure you’ve earned yourself an indulgence or two.’
‘Don’t mock, Brodie. That’s as near as Ah’ll get to the top man.’
‘God?’
‘Ye cannae help yersel’, can ye?’
‘What are you going to do about the American connection?’
‘What am
Ah
gonnae do? What do you suggest? Raid Prestwick Airport? Just roll down there wi’ a fleet o’ Black Marias and lift every Yank in sight. Is that the plan?’
‘It’s pretty desperate, isn’t it?’
‘Aye, it is.’
‘We have to do
something
. This stinks.’
‘To high heaven. But I assume it’s occurred to you that it might be sanctioned?’
‘By our own government? Yeah. Nothing surprises me any more. But Sillitoe would have said something. Surely.’
We walked back through the park and up Turnbull Street. Ahead of us was a small group of people. They seemed excited. As I got closer I recognised some of them, one especially. Rabbi Silver.
‘Maurice, what’s going on?’
‘Brodie! It’s Shimon and Isaac! They’ve taken them!’
‘What! What are you saying? Who’s taken them?’
The crowd re-formed round Duncan and me. To one side was a red-faced police sergeant.
Duncan pressed forward. ‘What’s going on, Sergeant?’
‘Sir, these men say they got a phone call. Someone claiming they’ve kidnapped two of their pals.’
Maurice Silver cut in. ‘They called the synagogue. Said they’d taken Shimon from his shop in Candleriggs and Isaac from his place and were holding them until we freed the man on the bridge, they said. They said they were both going to die unless they got
their
man back. We checked both shops. They’re empty. But they’d carved a swastika on the counters. The two families are in a terrible state. Brodie, who is this man they want to trade for our two?’
‘Yes! Who is this?’ The little crowd of onlookers were shouting and shoving and working themselves into a real lather.
‘Quiet!’ I called. I tried to clear my head though it was fizzing with anxiety. ‘Listen. Danny and I captured a Nazi on the South Portland Street Bridge yesterday. But Malachi Herzog showed up with armed men and took him from us. We don’t know where they’ve taken him. We searched the man’s house and found he was living with a woman. She was out and never came home. She must have found out her boyfriend had been taken. I assume she told her pals.’
Duncan took over. ‘Right, you lot, I want the rabbi inside, and we’ll take proper statements. The rest of you, on about your business. We’ll handle this.’
Inside, in the dark vestibule of the police station, my heart was hammering its way out of my chest. I had to think, had to calm the panic. How the hell did they know about Shimon and Isaac? Both leaders of the groups that first got me involved? And one a dear friend? It seemed a very targeted bit of pressure. I put in a fast call to Sam’s house and got Danny. I gave him the gist, and then I listened to Maurice as he gave us more details.
‘I took the call at the synagogue, in my office.’
I asked, ‘What did he sound like? The caller?’
‘Like he was reading a script and putting on an accent.’
‘A Scottish accent?’
‘The other way around. Like a Scot putting on a German accent.’
‘Did he mention the man’s name? This Nazi we caught?’
‘No. He called him the man on the bridge and also the man from Carlton Place.’
Duncan and I looked at each other.
‘Tell us exactly what was said.’
‘That we had to put the man back at the bridge. By himself. No police. They will be watching. By no later than six o’clock. Or they will kill Belsinger and Feldmann.’
‘Six o’clock? When? Which day?’
Maurice looked surprised. ‘Today. He said today, Brodie.’
We wasted precious time while Todd and his sergeant debated their next action. They summoned other officers to a review meeting. All so familiar. When you didn’t know what to do next, you held a meeting. I took Rabbi Silver to one side and sat with him.
‘We
have
to find Malachi.’
‘I know, I know.’
‘Any ideas?’
‘No. Nothing. I don’t know where he lives.’
‘What about Rabbi Leveson at Garnethill? Will he know?’
‘I will ask him. I’ll phone him right now.’
‘Hmm, I assume Malachi wouldn’t be holed up in his own house. What about the pub I met him in? Would they know?’
‘It’s possible.’
‘It’s a start. Look, the best place for you is back at the synagogue. Stay next to the phone. I’ll keep in regular contact.’ I looked up. Danny was panting towards us. He arrived and I grabbed his arm. ‘Don’t stop. Let’s go.’
Outside and away from the front of the police station, I asked, ‘Did you bring them?’
‘Why do you think my coat’s clunking?’
We skulked between the pillars of St Andrew’s in the Square while Danny slipped me the big Webley. He drew out my service Enfield. He passed me a fistful of ammunition and we both loaded up. We looked like assassins preparing to slaughter a priest. The mood I was in, if that’s what it took, so be it.
‘Where are we going?’
‘A pub.’
‘Good. I could murder a beer.’
‘It’s Malachi’s local. Brown’s.’
‘The Catholic pub? Will they let us in?’
‘Why do you think we’ve got guns?’
We splashed through puddles and running gutters all the way to the Barras. A brief thaw had set in, at least for a day. It meant we arrived at Brown’s with our trouser cuffs soaking, our coats flapping and sweat wetting our hat-bands.
‘Do we do this like Cagney? Crash through the doors, guns blazing?’ he asked.
‘We could. Or we could just walk in,’ I said and pushed the saloon door open. It was lunchtime and there were a handful of drinkers at the bar. No hush fell. It was already morgue quiet. The barman barely looked up. We strode in and plonked our hats on the bar. The barman languorously lifted his head from the paper and stood up straight.
‘Aye, boys, what’ll it be?’
‘Where’s Mal?’ I asked. ‘Malachi Herzog.’
‘Never heard o’ him, pal.’ He smirked at his two customers and settled back down to his paper.
I sighed and turned to Danny. I had no time for games. ‘Looks like Cagney wins.’ I took out my gun from my coat pocket and laid it on the counter with a good solid thunk. It got better attention. The two customers were off their seats in a trice and would have been out the door if Danny hadn’t been standing between it and them with his gun trained on them.
‘I’ll ask you one more time. And if you don’t start telling me something useful, then I’m going to come round the bar and shoot you in the knees.’
His face spoke for him, as did the nod.
‘Good. Where’s Malachi?’
I could see him struggling for spittle. His Adam’s apple bobbed and then he found a voice. ‘He isnae here.’
I shook my head. ‘I can see that. Where is he?’
‘There’s a snooker place. Doon the road. Jake’s. Try there.’
I got the address from him plus a promise not to call ahead to Jake’s. To help him keep his word, I tore out the phone wires in the back room.
FIFTY-ONE
We hurried round to Jake’s. It was an upstairs room above shops south of Barrowland. This time we took Danny’s preferred approach. I hit the door with my shoulder, opening it enough to let Danny burst through first, gun in hand. I dived after and to his left, pointing my revolver round the small room. There were two snooker tables and only one man. He wasn’t playing. He’d been sitting with his feet up on a table, balanced on the back legs of his chair. He was clutching a newspaper. Behind him was a door. Loud music was blasting out from within. It didn’t seem like a tea dance. The chair dropped and he sprang to his feet, reaching for the shotgun lying along the green baize.
‘Don’t do it!’ I shouted.
He froze and Danny ran forward to sweep up his weapon. I saw his eyes flicker to the door behind him.