‘You seem extremely well informed, Mr Shanklin, about a pretty vague conversation in Venice, at a time when your people should have been far more concerned about other events. How come?’
‘Because you shot your mouth off in front of some rather important and sensitive people. I talked to an old chum of mine on the phone a couple of days ago. Name of Robak. Told me about this high-powered British journalist who had been yapping in the Danieli Bar. Not just idle gossip — sounded like high treason to me. And to him. You’re not very subtle, even for a journalist, are you?’
‘Let me explain, Mr Shanklin.’
‘I’d be glad if you would.’
‘I got the beginnings of this idea driving to Venice. Then, by chance, I bumped into Savoia at Harry’s Bar. Savoia was drunk, and I’m quite sure I wasn’t the first person he’d blabbed to about this theory of his. I was interested, but I wasn’t taking it too seriously at the time. Then I met my girl in the Danieli, with that PR man, Logan, and a Frenchman I’d never met before, called Pol, and this American fellow, Robak. I mentioned my theory just by way of conversation. I still didn’t think anything of it at the time. But Robak obviously did — enough to invite me up to his room next morning to explain it in more detail. I thought his reaction was rather odd.’
‘In what way?’
‘He started by giving me a rough outline on how the Germans might have siphoned off our oil. All fairly plausible and fairly friendly. Then he got just a little less friendly. He didn’t actually warn me off, but he gave me a pep talk about getting my facts, and making sure I got them right. My impression was that he was taking my theory rather more seriously than I was.’
‘You mentioned a Frenchman. Charles Pol. Used to be tied up with French Intelligence, now trying to tie himself up with ABCO. Robak also said you and your girl had dinner with Pol the next night. How seriously did Pol take your theory?’
Hawn said nothing. The TV screen was now showing a black-and-white musical from the thirties. One of the telephones rang again. This time Shanklin answered it with a bored movement. ‘Yes? Yes, yes. What’s the trouble? Not another fuck up the other end?’ He listened for a moment. ‘Well, take it out in a briefcase. You’ve got one, I suppose?’ He allowed the sarcasm to linger on his face while he heard the other out, then said, ‘And don’t call me again until you get there.’ He put down the receiver and looked at Hawn as though he were a total stranger. ‘What were we talking about?’
‘You were telling me how I’d had dinner with Pol. Your friend Robak is a damned good listening service.’
‘That’s part of what he’s paid for. And he’s paid nearly half a million dollars a year, and the tax he pays you could put in your sock. What did you talk to Pol about?’
‘I’m not sure that’s something I can discuss.’
Shanklin looked at him with a hard bald expression; the muscles in his big face had stiffened under their fleshy liver spots. ‘So you expect me to give you information, in return for nothing? That’s bad sportsmanship, Hawn. Bad tactics.’
‘Well, he’s interested. He’s interested in the Nazi war crimes angle.’
‘And he thinks you can help him?’
‘Only if I come up with some facts.’
‘And you think you’ll get the facts from me? That I’m a soft touch, perhaps?’
‘I came to you because you were originally attached to SOE in the Eastern Mediterranean and then in the Caribbean. The Nazis had a network of spies all over the world, and they were particularly strong in South and Central America. They were also desperate for oil, and no doubt went to any lengths to get it. The question I want answered is — could they have received clandestine help, either through bribery or coercion, from within the Western oil companies?’
Shanklin leaned his shirt-sleeves on the table-top. His expression was now benign and condescending. ‘Listen to me, Hawn. You may be a big man in Fleet Street, but where the oil industry is concerned, you’re obviously wet behind the ears. You clearly do not understand the first thing about oil — and to be fair to you, I’ve never met a journalist who did.
‘Oil companies run their affairs like police states. They’re ruthless, they’re competent, and they’re secure. Out in Central America we made sure we didn’t have a lot of dagos and wetbacks running around the place playing messenger boys and dipping their hands in the till whenever it pleased them. Nor did we have any Abwehr brass or those SD bastards sticking their noses into our affairs. Anyway, you could sniff a Nazi agent a mile off.’
He shunted his knees forward and clumsily got his legs out of the back of the chair and stood up. His pin-striped trousers were too short and revealed several inches of sock. He came round the table with a curious bowed strutting walk, like a top-heavy puppet.
‘I haven’t been much help, have I? And I like helping journalists. Maybe I could drop you a name? Pretty small fry, but it might help. Ever met Norman French?’
‘A few times — if it’s the same man. Engineer who used to work in the oil business — flogged me a few stories about North Sea oil — how the consortiums manage to get round British tax laws, including some of the cons the Government itself has pulled on the British public. I didn’t like him — though his material was usually pretty sound.’
‘Oh, he’s the most awful little creep. No class at all. But he is good at his job — except that he’s a crook.
