Pol giggled, as he carved himself a slice of goat’s cheese. ‘Mon chèr, if I am a member of a secret or illegal organization, I do not discuss it, even with my friends. The important thing is, Doktor Mönch has flown — or rather, he hired a taxi this afternoon and drove towards Madrid. I must give the man credit — after so many years, his intelligence network is remarkably good. But then of course, the Nazis were first-rate professionals.’
‘Monsieur Pol, do you have any reason to believe that Mönch was a Nazi — as opposed to someone who served them?’
‘He was a long-standing Party member.’ Pol sucked at a finger that was like a freshly-peeled shrimp. ‘I have no illusions about Hans Dieter Mönch. He was a very superior Nazi. If handled properly, he could be of immense use to us.’
‘He’s no use to us if we chase him away the moment we’ve found him.’
Pol ignored the objection. ‘Have you considered the possibility that Mönch, having taken the money, will invent the information?’
‘Then why hasn’t he done so before?’
‘Because no one has ever asked him to. Mönch is one of those war criminals who lack what we might call “political sex appeal”. He has no glamour, no status, like Albert Speer. Nobody would be normally interested in his memories. And if he decided to cover them with a maquillage of incriminating facts against ABCO and other Western companies during the war, the manuscript would almost certainly be thrown back in his face. No reputable — even disreputable — publisher would touch it. And even if he did find some fly-by-night journal of scandal to print the stuff, they would not pay him the sort of money that would make it worth his while.
‘Mönch and his kind want a quiet life. They have just enough money to live comfortably and in reasonable safety. Why should they rock their own boat? Why should they stand up and shout things to the world that most people would prefer to leave unheard? Above all, why should they make new enemies at their stage of life?’
Anna broke in: ‘So you think we’ve thrown your six thousand dollars into the Nazi Pension Fund?’
‘Not necessarily, ma petite. You forget that Mönch is frightened — frightened of a French organization called Jacques. If I were Mönch, and I had been presented with six thousand dollars, by a stranger, in return for a few hours’ work, I think I would oblige that stranger. Then, if I found that Jacques was getting close to my doorstep, I might try to do a deal. I might come up with a list of names — eminent names, and not just the names of Frenchmen. Veterans, even heroes, who made their money out of the Second World War.
‘That is another reason why Mönch and his friends have not been so quick to divulge all they know. It is a form of insurance. Their best and only insurance.’ He sat back and belched luxuriously. ‘No. My guess is that you will find a letter waiting for you in Madrid.’
‘And what happens to Mönch?’
‘The fate of Doktor Mönch no longer concerns you.’
‘And when I get this letter, and the information in it, how do I contact you?’
‘I will contact you. Do not be embarrassed or annoyed — but I must make it my business to know where you are. I cannot allow you to contact me. I am conspicuous enough. I must permit myself some privacy.’ He turned and smacked his little hands together, and the boy came trotting in. Pol asked for the bill; after he had settled it, he tossed the boy a five-hundred peseta note. ‘The Herr Doktor is already proving a most expensive investment,’ he said. ‘Let us hope he is worth it.’
Hawn and Anna spent the next five days meandering around the wide plain of Castile, with its barren red earth and broken windmills and paltry furrows of cultivation.
The interlude since Soria, and the encounter with Doktor Hans Dieter Mönch, followed by their reunion with the mercurial, gluttonous Pol, had distanced events enough to give them a disquieting sense of unreality.
To his dismay, Hawn had come to realize that the only event that could be taken as both absolutely serious and relevant was the murder of Norman French. He had twice been able to buy English newspapers, and saw that although French’s death was still mentioned, there were no clues, no suspects. This had at first whetted the subeditors’ appetites, but later, with nothing to report, the story had slid lower down the inside pages; and Hawn saw — both with relief and some curiosity — that his own name had been left out of all the reports. Perhaps the one thing all the newspapers wished to avoid was billing an ex-journalist who might at that very moment be snatching the exclusive.
He was up early on Monday morning, before Anna; and without waking her, and armed with his passport, arrived outside the American Express a few minutes before nine o’clock, to join the lines of brittle, bright-eyed American divorcees waiting to collect their alimony — a dole queue of sexual disaster.
Only today he found the pavement empty, the doors locked. It was a national holiday to commemorate some saint. Hawn cursed the saint and had a coffee, then a few beers, followed by a medicinal Fundador; and returned to the hotel in time to find Anna getting dressed.
He repeated the routine next morning, but this time Anna joined him. They reached the Poste Restante desk and Hawn showed his passport. The clerk checked, but there was nothing for Senor Hawn, Mr Hawn, Herr Hawn.
They returned at noon, just before the place closed; and again at 4.30 when it reopened; and still there was nothing.
That evening they drove out to Segovia and got drunk at dinner.
Next
