'Swallow? Yes, sir. Ann Gordon is her real name.'
'Is she living in England?'
'In a little hamlet about thirty miles west of London.'
Shaw nodded contentedly. 'I'll need to speak to her. I don't want her
coming here, though. Set up a secure line so that I can brief her by
phone.'
Wilson's brow knit with confusion. 'But I don't understand, Sir
Neville. Swallow is retired.'
'I seriously doubt that. But even if she is, she'll come running when
she hears Stern's name.'
'Do you mean to reactivate this woman, sir?'
Shaw ignored the question. 'I don't know how Jonas Stern is tied into
the Hess case, but he can't be allowed to get near those papers.
If papers are what's been found.'
'But why use Swallow at all? She's ... she's an old woman. My lads can
handle any situation with twice the reliability.'
Shaw laughed quietly. 'Wilson, we tread shadowy paths, but there are
deeds done in this world that should never see the light of day.
Swallow has done more than her share of them. I'll bet your four best
men couldn't sandbag that old harridan.'
Wilson looked indignant. 'Sir Neville, this seems terribly irregular.
Going out of school like this-'
'That's exactly the point,' Shaw snapped. 'Swallow is absolutely,
totally deniable. If something embarrassing were to happen-if she
happened to kill Stern, say-all could be blamed on this old vendetta.
Even the Israelis couldn't fault us. Their letter practically
exonerates us before the fact. It proves Stern was at risk the moment
he left Israel.'
Sir Neville folded his hands into a church steeple and studied a
Wedgwood paperweight on his desk. Wilson watched his master with
growing apprehension. The mI-5
director looked as if he'd aged five years in the brief hours since
their last meeting.
'You're to put together a second team,' Shaw said slowly.
'No brief as yet, but have them ready. More hard boys. The hardest.'
Wilson cleared his throat. 'May I ask what for, sir?'
Sir Neville ran his hands through his thinning hair, then massaged his
high forehead with his fingertips. 'I'm afraid, Wilson, that if your
other lads are unlucky enough to find those Spandau papers, they'll have
cashed in their chips.'
Wilson's face went white. 'But you . . .' He faltered, recognizing
the diamond-hard gleam in Shaw's eye. 'When you briefed them you gave
direct orders not to read the papers if found. They won't.'
Sir Neville sighed. 'We can't be sure of that.'
'But they're my best three men!' Wilson exploded.
Sir Neville raised an eyebrow. 'Your men? Interesting choice of words,
Wilson.' His craggy face softened. 'Damn it, Robert, it's not my
choice, is it? It's the word from on high. Tablets from the bloody
mountaintop!'
Wilson's mouth worked in silent, furious incomprehension. 'But what
does that mean, Neville? We are a constitutional monarchy, for God's
sake!'
Sir Neville cleared his throat. 'That's quite enough, old boy.
I've been instructed that as regards this case, we're to consider
ourselves on a war footing.'
'But we're not at war! We can't just kill our own people!'
Sir Neville attempted a paternal smile, and it was terrible to see.
His eyes had focused into some foggy distance that he alone perceived.
'Some wars, Wilson,' he murmured, 'last a very long time. A war like
the last one-the last real one-Aoesn't end on a battlefield. Or on some
baize treaty table. There are loose ends, unfinished business.
Left uncut, those loose ends tangle and eventually get drawn into the
skein of the next war. That's what's happening here. For too long we
simply hoped that this Hess business would go away. Well, it hasn't.'
Sir Neville blinked, then splayed his hands on the mahogany desktop.
'It's settled,' he said with resignation. 'I've got my orders.
When those papers are found, everyone down the chain is on borrowed
time.
'But that's insane!' Wilson almost shouted. 'You sound like a bloody
Nazi yourself!'
Sir Neville bit his lip in forbearance. 'Wilson,' he rasped, 'if your
lads find those papers and bring them to you, you shut your eyes and
shove them right in here to me. Because no one in that chain will be
exempt. Am I clear?' He examined his fingernails. 'And I've got a
feeling that includes myself.'
The deputy director's eyes widened. 'What in God's name is in those
papers, Sir Neville? What could that motheaten old Nazi have known?'
Shaw grimaced. 'It's not what's in them, Robert, but what might be in
them. What they could lead to. You think the Cold War's over?
What a load of tripe. Twenty hours ago it reared its ugly head, and not
for the last time, I'll wager.
I've heard half a dozen back-corridor versions of the Hess affair in my
time, and not one of them is true. There are guilty consciences on
high, Wilson. It's evidence we're after.
Of what? A bargain with the devil, British-style. A marriage of
convenience to the Teutonic Mephistopheles. Enough black ink to smudge
out the oldest reputations in banking, government, and manufacturing.
Maybe enough heat to crack the bloody Crown itself.'
Wilson flexed his fists. 'The Crown be damned,' he said softly.
'We should have killed Hess years ago.'
Arctic fire flickered in Sir Neville Shaw's eyes. 'We did kill him,
Robert,' he said. 'I suppose it's high time you knew.'
Wilson felt cold sweat heading on the back of his neck.
'I ... I beg your pardon, Sir Neville?'
'I said we killed Hess.' Shaw plucked an errant lash from his eye. 'The
damned thing of it is, we're going to have to kill him again.'
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
2DD A.m. Tiorgarten Kriminalpolizei Division West Berlin Detective
Julius Schneider lifted the telephone receiver and dialed a number from
