‘Where do you live, Bathsheba?’ Sam asked.
‘Anderston.’
‘With your parents?’
She shook her long auburn hair. ‘An aunt. Sort of. My parents didn’t make it.’
‘Does your aunt have a phone?’
She looked wary. ‘No, but the woman in the next house does. Can I call her and say I’ll be late?’
‘Of course. But if you like, I’ll speak to your aunt and say you’re staying here tonight. I can put you up on the couch upstairs. It’s far too late and far too cold to be out one second longer. Is that all right?’
Bathsheba looked panicked and shook her head. ‘No, no. I couldn’t put you out. And I have to get to work in the morning.’
‘What do you do?’
‘I’m a nurse.’
‘Good for you. Now look, it really is late. If you won’t stay, let’s call your aunt and then a taxi.’
While they were out, I turned to Danny.
‘She’s lovely, Danny, and she seems pretty interested in you.’
‘It wouldn’t be hard to be interested in her.’
I refilled our glasses. It set Danny off again.
‘Look, Dougie, about Isaac. You cannae carry his death on your shoulders. We’re up against evil. We don’t always win.’
‘Just once would do. Lately it’s been one-way traffic.’
‘We’re getting closer.’
‘All I know is I’ve lost a friend. The world lost a good man. In exchange for what? A war criminal? There is a rat-line unit operating here. There is a controller, probably American, running a team who handle the human parcels. And I’m going to find them and take them apart.’
‘Wait a minute! Why do you think it’s a Yank we’re looking for?’ He looked startled, as well he might.
‘Blast! Sorry. I haven’t told you about my meeting with Duncan’s boss this morning.’
‘Sangster?’
‘His spiritual boss.’ I told Danny about the Archbishop’s protestations of innocence. Danny’s eyes grew wider.
‘You believe him?’
I shrugged. ‘He’s an archbishop.’
‘If they can lie about transubstantiating wafers into flesh, they can lie about anything.’
‘Not a lie, surely. Just a belief.’
‘You’re too generous, Douglas. But he was right about the priests. The Germans sent them to Dachau from all over. There were a couple of thousand, maybe more. Mainly Poles. They had their own barracks and mostly didn’t have to work. But they still died. About half of them, they said.’
‘So Rome is hardly likely to side with the Nazis.’
‘The Catholic Church is the great survivor. It bends and shifts to suit the times. Given a choice between Hitler and communism – well, I can imagine there would have been advocates in both camps.’
‘Like Bishop Hudal handing out refugee papers? But Donald Campbell wasn’t seduced.’
‘So he says.’ He held up his hand to stop my argument. ‘Let’s assume he’s right. That there was – is – an American involved. I’m not surprised one wee bit.’ I could see he was excited; his brain was running hot as he turned things over.
‘What?’
‘I need to tell you a wee bit more about Eve Copeland. In Berlin she tracked down a bigwig Nazi; the guy who’d killed her folks. Unfortunately the Yanks had put him in place. A stooge in a key job.’
‘She killed him? Your kind of woman, Danny.’
‘She didn’t think so. Anyway, for that and some other stuff, they got gie upset with her. They set their new outfit on her. The Central Intelligence Agency, or CIA. Bit like MI6 but competent. And ruthless.’
‘You think the CIA are involved here?’
‘It has their dirty prints all over it. It’s what they
do
, Douglas. Look, I’ve got a contact in our intelligence service. Gerry Cassells was a senior officer in SOE and got absorbed into MI6 after the war. I’ll call him on Monday. MI6 have the links to the CIA.’
‘Why would he help?’
‘Ah, that’s another wee story I haven’t told you about. One of the coppers I tangled with in London ended up as liaison between the CIA, MI6 and Scotland Yard. A right bastard.’
‘Dare I ask what happened to him?’
‘He was murdered.’
‘Please don’t tell me you did it.’
‘No. But I know who did and I might be able to make a trade.’
FIFTY-THREE
By the time Sam and Bathsheba rejoined us the taxi had arrived. We saw Bathsheba into it, paid the driver in advance and waved her off. Danny wanted to go with her but she refused to put him out. We reconvened round the kitchen table, enjoying the warmth from the range and soup. I brought Sam up to date with the day’s events, including my encounter with the Archbishop. But the conversation kept veering back to Isaac.
‘Why him? Why such a good man?’
‘He’s a prominent Jew, Douglas. His synagogue is just round the corner from Carlton Place,’ suggested Sam. ‘Maybe they knew him? Maybe Langefeld bought a coat or something from him. Did you check his clothes? And labels?’
‘Sam, it’s a great thought. Like checking the woman’s clothing. That could be the connection. Tenuous, but we’ve nothing else to go on.’
We lapsed into silence. Later, in bed, holding Sam to me, and knotted up inside, I thought about our earlier conversations and stifled the one idea that kept trying to prod its way fully into my consciousness.
Jewish law requires burials to be scheduled as soon as possible. But the next day was their Sabbath, and it wasn’t until Sunday that we were able to bury Isaac. Even then it took considerable exhortation by Rabbi Silver to get the police to release his body to the family.
It was a long desolate drive out to Riddrie Cemetery. The snow lay deep against gravestones. The ground was so frozen that the gravediggers had had to build fires on the earth to break it up. Dig a foot, light a fire, dig another. When we got there the hole was ready but all round the snow was melted and the earth scorched. Though I noted from the sacking that still hung from it that they’d taken care not to harm the gravestone already in place: Hannah, beloved wife of Isaac, taken in ’43 by TB.
Sam, Danny and I weren’t the first. There was already a big crowd by the grave site from his synagogue and also from Garnethill. Shimon stood huge among them and nodded at me. Lionel and his men were there, ramrod straight. All they lacked were rifles for the salute. Alongside them were the rest of my platoon. Shortly, the funeral horse and cart drew up with Rabbi Silver and Isaac’s family walking behind. Amos and his sister Judith led the group, supported on either side by their spouses. Walking between Amos and Judith and holding their parents’ hands were two small children: Amos’s daughter and Judith’s son. They too linked hands. Judith also clutched a small shy girl to her shoulder. Though I hadn’t seen Judith in years I recognised instantly – and with a pang – the unmistakable eyes and features of her mother. There were a dozen or so others behind them; relatives who’d also set up home here.
As instructed by Rabbi Silver, Shimon and I joined the cortège. Together with Amos and three members of the Great Synagogue congregation we shouldered the coffin and brought it gently to the graveside. We laid our light burden down by the edge of the deep rectangle, on top of three good ropes. The simple service began. I remembered Isaac’s explanation and how similar it was to our Protestant service.
Amos started, ‘“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want . . .”’
The rest of us joined in the familiar psalm:
‘He maketh me to lie down in green pastures;
He leadeth me beside still waters.
He restoreth my soul . . .’
The mourners recited a blessing and Isaac’s children ripped the lapels and the pockets of their clothes. The
Kriah
.
Maurice Silver talked simply and eloquently of Isaac Feldmann’s life. A good life. The life of a good man. Then he led them in the recitation of the
Kaddish
.
‘“Exalted and sanctified be his great name . . .”’
‘Amen.’
‘“In the world that in the future will be renewed . . .”’
We took up the cords again and lifted the coffin over the grave and began to lower it. It bumped and swayed and finally settled in the cold earth. We mourners took turns to tumble icy clods into the grave. With some prodding from their parents, and the passing of some objects to them, Isaac’s grandchildren stepped forward. Judith’s son held a tiny teddy bear and Amos’s daughter a doll. They threw them on to the plain wood casket.
Finally the crowd formed a tunnel and the family walked through it taking handshakes and kisses and hugs as they departed. The
Nechama
. I held my hand out to Amos. He looked at me and nodded in just the way his father used to. His wife smiled at me from his side.
‘There is nothing to stay for now, Mr Brodie.’
I glanced down at his daughter who was staring big-eyed up at me. ‘Her?’
‘She will eat oranges every day.’ He smiled down at her, a promise made.
I nodded at the grave. ‘Him?’
Amos shook his head. ‘He was talking about coming too. When we got settled. Said his old bones could do with some sun.’
And now they’d never feel it. I turned to his sister. ‘What about you, Judith?’
She hefted her babe to the other shoulder and touched the child’s blond hair. A faint light came to Judith’s cold cheeks. ‘We are staying. We will look after him.’ Her gaze flicked down to her son standing beside her, then up to her husband. Their blue eyes and fair colouring spoke volumes. I smiled. I shook Amos’s hand and embraced Judith and they were past. For the family, the seven days of mourning –
Shiva
– would start now.
We had no time to mourn.
Sam, Danny and I drove home in silence and took strong drink, but it wasn’t strong enough.
First thing Monday morning, Danny called his SIS contact, Major Gerry Cassells, from the house. It was a long call, and from the kitchen Sam and I could hear Danny’s voice sometimes pleading, sometimes cajoling. He came back down.
‘Right. He says he’ll get back to us. It’ll take a few days.’
I headed into the newsroom with little enthusiasm for turning out copy that had anything to do with Isaac. But once Eddie learned that I’d been at the heart of events, he all but threatened me with my cards unless I coughed up a front-page story for Tuesday’s edition. I did, but steered it down the path of a one-off attack by an anti-Semite. I made no mention of rat lines, far less a possible American controller or a Vatican connection. For which latter omission I got a grateful call from Todd and a discreet thank-you note from St Andrew’s Cathedral within hours of the paper hitting the streets.
There was also the worry that if the truth got out, the American controller would scarper. I very much wanted to confront him. Almost as much as I wanted to find Langefeld’s lover and her murdering pals. Find Suhren.
By Wednesday, every newspaper had banner headlines about an anti-Semitic murder. Still no mention of the Nazis at large. I guessed Malcolm McCulloch was keeping a lid on that angle.
I’d barely got my feet under my desk when I was called to the phone. It was Danny.
‘Cassells has just been on. He’s got a name!’
‘The American?’
‘The Yank. The dirty Yank! Major David bloody Salinger, United States Air Force. He runs the supply-control unit for the Yanks at Prestwick.’
‘I bet he does.’
‘Shall we go?’ Danny’s voice was breathless, like a wee boy with a plan for mischief.
‘I’m beginning to sympathise with Duncan Todd. Go? As in, just breeze in and – what exactly?’ Having voiced the idea myself to Todd a few days back, I’d swung round to a more practical view of the barriers. No police warrant card. No jurisdiction over an allied military unit.
‘We can’t just sit on our arses, Brodie!’
‘Let’s talk tonight.’
That evening when I got home, Sam backed me up.
‘What would you charge Salinger with, Danny?’
Danny bristled. ‘War crimes, Sam. Salinger is as bad as any in your dock at Hamburg.’
‘He’s an ally,’ she said.
‘Not when he’s shielding the enemy! And Salinger is a pretty German-sounding name if you ask me.’
‘That’s ridiculous, Danny. America is full of German stock. They’ve been fighting Nazism as hard as we have.’
‘Fair enough. But we should still go after him.’
‘What’s your proof, Danny?’ she persisted.
‘Major Gerry Cassells, SIS, says so. And if you’ll recall, so does the Archbishop of Glasgow!’
‘Would you get either of them in the witness stand?’
Danny shrugged. I took over again.
‘OK, what
do
we do? Tell the police? I could have a word with McCulloch. But what would
he
do? It’s not in his jurisdiction. Get him to phone the local PC in Monkton and ask him to pop along on his bike to the airport and arrest the top brass?’
‘What about your pal in MI5?’ asked Danny.
‘Actually I was wondering why Sillitoe wouldn’t know already, if your man in SIS knows?’
‘MI5 handles the local British action. SIS – or MI6 – covers the foreign stuff. Cassells explained it all to me.’
‘They don’t share information?’
‘Not if it lost them an edge. Seems they’d rather share with the Russians than each other. It’s all about budgets, Brodie.’
‘So, should I tell Sillitoe or not?’
Sam said, ‘Why not?’
Danny agreed.
‘Fine,’ I said, ‘but that might not get us anywhere. We still have this woman on the loose. And we know she’s not alone.’
‘In the meantime,’ said Danny, ‘can I just remind you that you’re a bloody half-colonel. Use your authority! Why don’t we just visit Major Salinger and shake his tree a bit.’ He had that light in his eyes again. But his comments stung. As they were meant to. He knew I preferred action to reflection. I made one last halfhearted attempt.
‘That sounds like a crystal-clear objective. How will we know his tree has been shaken?’
‘If a Nazi drops out?’ he replied with a grin. ‘And may I suggest,
Colonel
, if we are heading down to Prestwick, you press your uniform?’
‘Only if you give back my gun.’
FIFTY-FOUR
We set off early next day. I decided to postpone calling Sillitoe until after we’d seen Salinger. I’d have more to tell him. And he might have tried to stop me. It wasn’t a repeat of the journey Sam and I had taken – so long ago it now seemed. There was no staff car picking us up at Sam’s house and whisking us to the airport. No military driver to salute and help us on board.