Martin Cullanan walked past the ruins of the belltower down to the harbour. It was a small island, no more than three miles long and perhaps half a mile wide at its narrowest point. Cullanan had lived here all his life, and he knew every foot.
Standing on the quay, he looked towards the south and the grey contours of Donegal on the mainland, and he wondered about the boy. He couldn’t have walked far, not in his condition; he must have come by boat, and he could not have navigated a boat alone.
As he turned his gaze to the east, he spotted something, partly hidden by rocks. He jumped down from the quay and followed the shoreline eastwards. A boat, not a proper lifeboat, but a small ship’s rowing boat upturned but not smashed, at the edge of the tideline. The tide was out; it must have arrived in the night. On its prow it bore the name of the ship from which it had come: SS Athenia.
So this was how the boy had got here to the island. Cullanan was a godly man slow to anger, but he was filled with an unholy fury. What were they thinking, those Germans, to be torpedoing and sinking an unarmed ship full of women and children?
He scouted around, looking for some clues. Above him the seabirds seemed excitable this morning: gulls and kittiwakes, shags and guillemots, all riding on the wind, above the choppy sea. Perhaps a storm was coming, although he had heard no word of it.
And then he saw the woman’s broken body. ‘Oh Mary, Mother of God,’ he said out loud. He turned. Patsy and Eamonn were standing behind him.
‘Radio the mainland, Patsy. Tell them to send a launch over sharpish with a doctor.’
‘No need of a doctor for her,’ Eamonn said.
‘But there’s a boy came with her, and he’s still alive. Catherine’s tending to him.’
‘I’ll do that then,’ Patsy said.
‘And Eamonn, call the town and Father Michael to join us here. I want that woman’s body carried to the church with respect. And we’ve got to keep looking. There may be more to find, God help us.’
*
‘I wasn’t entirely honest with you, Wilde,’ Rowlands said. ‘When I said you could get out of this alive if you cooperated, that was a something of a white lie.’
‘You surprise me.’
‘No, I don’t. You’re a clever man. Your survival is not an option, not now that you’ve seen the film.’
‘Perhaps I haven’t seen it.’
Rowlands smiled. He poured three cups of tea. ‘Milk, Wilde? Sugar?’
‘Neither.’
‘You won’t want to get out alive anyway,’ he went on conversationally. ‘You’ll be begging for death by the time Marcus gets to work on you. His SS friends taught him some marvellous tricks, tricks that our own secret services could only dream of. The pain will go on and on until you tell us the whereabouts of the second film. And when we know that – well – you have guessed the ending.’
‘How do you know there are two copies of the film?’
‘Because two copies were made, and Rosa Cortez stole them both.’
‘So what was between you and Miss Cortez, Marfield? There must have been something. Didn’t you say as much? And I knew it in London when I saw you together.’ Wilde had to drag this conversation out. Every second, every minute of health and life might bring an opportunity. He’d had one chance – in the windpump – and he’d wasted it. Please God, let there be another.
‘Of course. We met in a bar near the Plaza del Progreso in Madrid. A bomb fell in the square, one of many, and we helped the injured. She was UGT – a socialist – and it turned out her job was to liaise with the International Brigades on behalf of the union. We were lovers and fighters.’
‘You loved her?’
‘Well,’ Marfield paused. ‘We made love. I enjoyed her company. Is that love?’
‘It’s not a bad start for most people. But you were also fighting for the other side. I suppose she discovered the truth about you?’
‘She became suspicious. I think she became concerned by the pinpoint air-raids and artillery bombardments. And then there were my disappearances – and of course my good fortune never to be present when the mortars rained down on my sector. Also, reports were coming through of the liquidation of guerrilla bands behind the Falange lines.’
‘Because you betrayed them.’
‘They were criminals and communists. It was my role.’
‘Are you saying the people in the film made up a guerrilla band? That old couple? The mother? A baby? Are you saying the baby was a guerrilla?’
Marfield shrugged. ‘If you spare a child it will grow into your enemy.’
Wilde felt sick. He thought of the bleak monochrome footage of the mother handing over her child, pleading for its life even though she knew she, herself, was doomed. ‘Why did you have to do that? Why make that woman see her child die? Couldn’t you have killed the mother first? Why be so cruel?’
Marfield didn’t answer.
Wilde tried another tack. ‘So Rosa had her suspicions. How did she find out the truth about you?’
Marfield glanced over at Rowlands.
‘It’s all right,’ said Rowlands. ‘Tell him. I’m interested myself.’ He took a sip of his tea.
‘My one mistake. I didn’t think for a moment she was so suspicious of me that she would pursue me across the lines, and so I wasn’t watching closely enough. She followed me on the day of that raid.’
‘Who were those people? That “guerrilla band”?’
‘The woman was Carlita Pascual, wife of the leader of a republican death squad. Anarchists or Communists – who knows? They were all the same to us: the enemy. They had been busy for weeks lining up Falangist sympathisers and shooting them. One day a big grave will be found full of their bones.’
‘And the woman – Carlita?’
‘As handy with a gun as Pascual himself. She knew the risks.’
‘Then you already knew her – and she knew you?’
Marfield shrugged, a teasing smirk playing about his lips.
‘How did you find her that day?’
‘Her husband told me before he died. I can be quite persuasive.’
Wilde closed his eyes, trying to blank out his imagination.
‘Have I answered all your questions? This is tedious – and going nowhere.’
‘No, you haven’t. Why would you make a film of something like that?’
‘That was a little present for our friends in Germany. Something of a sideline for the cameraman. He usually shot newsreels for the cinemas, but this was a favour for us. When he returned to Seville to have it processed, he made an extra copy. One for Himmler and Heydrich in Berlin, the other for viewing in the Führer’s private cinema in the Berghof. What I didn’t know is that Rosa had seen it all. Not good. Somehow she must have traced the cameraman to the studio in Seville and got into the building. It was not a good day for the staff when the theft was discovered.’
‘How did you find out it was her?’
‘I had my suspicions when I was shot at Le Vernet. They were confirmed when we saw her there at the gate. I suppose it was her who shot me, or one of her friends. Somewhere between France and England she must have changed her mind about killing me and decided to ruin me instead. A wrong decision as it turned out. But we have to live or die by our decisions.’
‘What happened in Chelsea that night?’
‘She told me what she was going to do. Told me one copy was going to my parents and she was going to use the other to destroy me.’
‘You were trying to preserve your reputation as a left-winger fighting against international fascism? That’s why you made your way across the Pyrenees and allowed yourself to be interned in Le Vernet instead of travelling to Madrid or Berlin with your real friends.’
‘Of course. We have work to do against a great enemy. Now drink your tea, we’ve wasted enough time already.’
Keep talking. Keep him occupied. Delay. Stall. ‘Your father would have been devastated by the film.’
‘The old fool. His brain was turned to jelly by the war.’
‘He loved you. You were his life.’
‘He saw my strength and envied it.’
Wilde turned away to the older man. ‘What’s this about, Rowlands? I thought you were close to Colonel Marfield?’
‘Oh come, come, you know the answer to that! It’s about war, Professor – war against Bolshevism.’
‘I thought the Bolsheviks were Hitler’s friends now? What about the Molotov–Ribbentrop pact? Stalin and Hitler will be going on holiday together next.’
Rowlands barked a dry laugh. ‘Don’t be naive. You don’t believe that. No one with half a brain believes that.’
‘Marfield has been your man all along, hasn’t he, Rowlands? You never lost him in Spain – you used him to help your friends in the Falange. You ran him as a double agent. How will all this help your war?’
‘Because, Wilde, in one fell swoop, we will ensure that Britain and France cannot win, because America will never join them. And without America, the right will win.’
Wilde frowned. ‘Really? You can be sure of that, can you? Roosevelt loathes the Germans even more than the British Empire.’
‘Roosevelt’s hands will be tied. America won’t allow him to lift a finger to help Britain. No arms shipments, no food and not a single boot on the ground. Your homeland, Wilde. Home of the brave? Let’s see, shall we?’
‘You have something against America?’
Rowlands shrugged. ‘Not as such.’
‘But you do?’ He was looking at Marfield.
‘Not America, Americans.’
‘Why?’
‘I think we’ve talked enough.’
After a night with barely any sleep, crawling through mud and sludge, facing death, seeing the horrors of the film, Wilde’s brain was not functioning as it should have been. But a thought was forming. Perhaps Rowlands and Marfield were not just talking in general terms. Perhaps it wasn’t just an opinion that Roosevelt would not be able to bring America into the war, but their intention to make it impossible that he could do so. Did Rowlands and Marfield believe that they might somehow have the power to direct the course of events on the other side of the Atlantic?
‘I think I may be beginning to understand, Rowlands,’ Wilde said.
‘I doubt it. And even if you did, much good it would do you. Britain and France will reach an understanding with Germany. Hitler is already offering peace and no German wants to fight in the West. They know their true enemy lies in the East. Together, we will be invincible. The Croix de Feu will seize power in France, the BUF here – and then a European war machine will strike eastwards. Stalin and his criminal crew will fall.’
Meanwhile civilians and soldiers alike were being slaughtered in the conquest of Poland. Slowly, Wilde picked up the mug of tea in his bound hands. It was still hot and it would have given him some pleasure to drink it, because he was thirsty. Instead he threw it in Marfield’s self-satisfied, beautiful face. It was a gesture of contempt, nothing more. A gesture he knew he would pay for.
*
Wilde understood pain and how to overcome it. The first time he put on boxing gloves at school he was punched full in the face. The pain had brought hot tears to his eyes – a pain he had not believed he would ever be able to endure again. But he learnt. Pain can be soaked up and overcome.
That was physical pain. Mental torture was something else altogether.
He had expected to be clubbed around the head with Marfield’s gun when he threw the scalding tea in his face.
Instead, without a word, Marfield wiped the hot liquid from his eyes and cheeks, rose from his seat, and walked out of the room, leaving Wilde alone with Rowlands. Wilde’s feet were not tied and he looked at the MI6 officer and wondered momentarily whether there was anything to be gained from launching himself at him. But Rowlands had his gun in his left hand, trained on his captive. He shook his head.
‘For pity’s sake, don’t do this, Rowlands,’ pleaded Wilde. ‘You’re better than this. I’ve seen you with Eaton, taking care of him. Marcus Marfield is a psychopath.’
Rowlands pulled a cigarette case from his top pocket, shook out a cigarette and planted it between his lips. ‘Why do you think we selected him?’ he said, the tobacco still unlit.
‘I understand why you have doubts about Bolshevism and the Soviet Union – but how can whatever you’re doing help your cause? Whatever you have planned, it’s going to look bad. Just like the sinking of that ship. How did anyone in Berlin think drowning American women and children was going to help the German war effort?’
Rowlands said nothing, merely lit his cigarette and waited. A few seconds later the door opened and two people were pushed in, both hooded with their hands bound. Marfield stood behind them. He pushed them again and they both stumbled into the room. One man, one woman. Even with hoods on, Wilde could tell they were elderly. In their seventies, perhaps even eighties, both frail and bewildered. Marfield held his pistol to the temple of the man.
‘Well, this is jolly,’ Rowlands said. ‘Mr Wilde, I’d like you to meet Mr and Mrs Charles Farrow. I believe it’s their wedding anniversary today.’
Wilde’s eyes widened in horror. Who were these poor people?
‘Now then,’ Rowlands continued. ‘What we need is the location of the film. We really don’t have time to beat about the bush, so I suggest you tell us immediately. I’m sure you can imagine the consequences of prevaricating.’
Wilde looked at the hooded man and woman with a sense of utter dread. Did they have any idea what was going on? The man was stooped and shaking and not just with fear. His hands, tied together, fluttered like birds’ wings. Parkinson’s. Wilde desperately wanted to save these people, but he had no information to give Rowlands and Marfield that might save their lives. Think, Tom. Think fast.
‘Okay, okay, it’s in my rooms at college.’
‘You’ll have to be more specific,’ Marfield said. ‘Where in your rooms?’
‘On my desk, I think, with all my books and papers. I’m pretty sure that’s where I left it.’
‘Did you watch the film there, as soon as you opened the parcel?’
‘No, I didn’t have a projector. I wasn’t sure why it had been sent to me. I first saw it at the house in Histon.’
‘So the film at Histon wasn’t your copy?’
They knew that already. They were trying to catch him out. ‘No,’ he said. ‘That wasn’t my copy. I told you, I left my copy on my desk.’
‘You’re sure about that?’
‘Yes, I’m certain.’
‘I looked there.’
‘You’ve been in my rooms?’
‘It’s not on your desk. I’ve been in your house, too – and it’s not there either. So where is it?’
‘Wait, now I remember, I needed to make some space in my rooms, so I moved it to one of the bookshelves. I think it’s somewhere between Proust and my Shakespeare volumes. You probably wouldn’t have looked there.’
Marfield pulled the trigger. The explosion was deafening in the small space and Wilde recoiled in abject horror as the old man buckled and fell heavily to the stone floor. Blood poured through the hole in the hood and swirled in an expanding bright puddle on the stone. He lay on the floor, twitching, dying. The woman collapsed too. An awful sound emanated from beneath the hood over her face. Gasping for breath, moaning. A wailing of utter misery.
Wilde leapt to his feet and lunged forward, but the table was in his way. ‘God almighty, what have you done? Who are these people?’
Marfield kicked a chair out of his way and came around the table. He held the pistol square in Wilde’s face. ‘A sweet old couple from the bus stop. I saw them and stopped and generously offered them a lift. Little bit cramped in a two-seater, but we managed. Sadly there’s no such thing as a free ride, as they’ve now discovered. So the truth, Wilde, the truth. Otherwise the woman is next. And then, if necessary, I will find more. Children, perhaps, or women with babies.’
‘Innocent people!’
‘Your choice.’
Wilde was lost for words. If he knew where the film was, he would gladly give it up, but how can you tell someone a secret you don’t know?
Rowlands lounged against the range, smoking. His mouth was curled down in distaste. Wilde got the distinct impression that for all his nonchalance, Rowlands was disturbed by what he had just witnessed. Perhaps he hadn’t understood quite what he was dealing with in Marfield? If either of them was to be worked on, it had to be Rowlands. He tried to meet his eyes. ‘Are you going to allow this barbarity to continue, Rowlands?’
‘The film,’ said Rowlands. ‘Try again.’
He had to stop this, find time to delay the inevitable. Where could he say he had left the film? Somewhere plausible, somewhere they would have to go and search, somewhere they would have to take him so he could point out the exact spot. Not his house, nor Lydia’s. These people must not go near her. Oh God, at least she had Eaton with her, and he had a gun.
Should he say he handed it in to the police? But if he managed to make them believe him, there would be no more reason to keep him or the old woman alive. At least there would be no more deaths . . . but it wasn’t a good enough option. He had to come up with something so that they would go out and look.
The old man was motionless now. The old woman, still hooded, had crawled over his bloody corpse and was holding him, stroking him with her bound hands, weeping. Everything about her spoke of horror, but Wilde was certain her fear had gone. He envied her that.
Marfield held the gun to her head.
‘No,’ Wilde said. ‘Please. I’ll tell you everything. Just please, please, let her go. I’ll take you there. I knew what had been sent to me and I knew I had to find somewhere safe. I took it to Dr Charlecote’s house in Great Shelford and I buried it. It’s not easy to find, but I’ll show you.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ Marfield said, and shot the woman. ‘So now you are going to stay here with Mr Rowlands while I go and fetch someone you do care about.’
Wilde glanced at Rowlands. The blood had drained from his face. And then it struck him; it hadn’t just been Wilde who was stalling for time. Rowlands really didn’t have the stomach for this.