‘We’ve got to prove that the Germans got it from ABCO. They obviously did — in huge quantities, and pretty regularly. But we’ve still got to make a case. A case for the prosecution. And a case that ABCO — with all its power and money and well-dressed henchmen — isn’t going to be able to break or fix.’
‘And you don’t think we’ll be able to do that by ourselves? That we’ll have to go on sitting on our hands waiting for Pol — to know what’s in that second instalment from Mönch? D’you think Pol will let on?’
‘It depends if he thinks we can still be of any use to him.’
‘You’re pretty cynical about Pol, aren’t you?’
‘If you mean, do I trust him? — no! The moment we start trusting a man like that, we’re finished.’
CHAPTER 17
Two days later a letter arrived from France, date-stamped Chamonix. Pol was writing on hotel notepaper. Considering his flamboyance, the contents of the letter were impersonal and peremptory. He wanted to meet them both in three days’ time at the Hotel Lotti in Paris at 8.00 p.m.
Anna’s extended holiday had finished, and she had just started work again at the LSE. It was with some difficulty that she managed to persuade them to grant her another week’s leave — though Hawn had an idea that one week would not be enough.
The post next day enclosed two first-class tickets, one way, from London to Paris. Hawn did not like the one way, since he could scarcely credit Pol with meanness: but also he could hardly argue.
At London Airport there was a billboard for the evening paper: POTATO CANCER SCARE. Ah, we live dangerously, he thought; and bought the paper which he read over the champagne during the flight.
It was in the Stop Press: FORMER NAZI WAR CRIMINAL FOUND HANGED. ‘Monsaraz, Portugal. Former Nazi official, Dr Hans Dieter Mönch, was found hanged here in his hotel room. Local Police are treating it as suicide.’
He and Anna had spent too long having their senses lulled by the dead drudge of statistics. Now they were alert again, awake to the full potential menace of Pol and their one-way ticket from him to the Lotti Hotel.
The fat man was already at the bar when they walked in. He greeted them voluptuously, but was careful not to disturb himself from his stool lest he could not get back on again. ‘Excellent, mes chèrs! Now, Monsieur Hawn, I shall be able to offer you that meal which the Spanish authorities so rudely denied you.’
They ate in a little restaurant behind Notre Dame. It was unpretentious, and half the tables were empty. The proprietor was a gaunt man with a bad leg and a fat wife. He greeted Pol by kissing him on both cheeks. Hawn guessed that they were either confederates in crime or old Resistance comrades.
‘This is not a famous place,’ Pol explained, tucking in his bib: ‘but it is probably the best restaurant in Paris.’
Hawn waited until the wine had been poured and Pol had ordered the first course. ‘So what happened to Mönch?’
The Frenchman gave a grandiose shrug that caused his chair to creak. ‘Ah, the poor Doktor. He had cancer, you know — cancer of the bone. He had not long to live.’
‘Did you, and your friends in Jacques, do it?’
‘Mon chèr Monsieur Hawn, that is scarcely a polite suggestion. And I was so looking forward to an agreeable dinner with you both. I am sure Mademoiselle Admiral would not like it spoilt for her.’
Anna looked him in the eye. ‘I’d be happier if I knew what happened to Mönch.’
Pol spread out his napkin and sighed. ‘Mönch was a very wicked man, my friends. He worked close to Himmler — he was a confidant of his. He employed slave labour — and we all know what that meant.’
‘Did you collect his second affidavit?’
‘I did. And you have the first, of course?’
‘Of course.’
Pol sat smiling brightly at them both. Hawn added, ‘First, why the one-way tickets?’
‘Ah, a mere bagatelle. Just that I do not expect you to be returning direct from Paris. But we can discuss your travel arrangements later. First, the document.’
‘And yours,’ Hawn said.
Pol gave his girlish giggle: ‘Ah, Monsieur Hawn, you are so suspicious!’
‘You’d think me an idiot if I wasn’t.’
The Frenchman wobbled with laughter; then reached inside his voluminous jacket and produced a folded wad of typescript, identical in appearance to the first — only this time there were only six pages. In return, Hawn handed him the photostat of Mönch’s original documents, which Pol read while he ate. He ate busily, washing almost every mouthful down with a glass of wine. He read them a second time, then folded them away inside his jacket.
Hawn had meanwhile worked his way through Mönch’s second missive. There were not two names — only one. Reiss. Mönch confirmed that the man had been a top double-agent in both Istanbul and the Caribbean, that he had worked for ‘Operation Bettina’ throughout, and that this was an organization so secret that it was known only to Himmler and his immediate entourage.
The last three pages consisted of loose technical verbiage, mostly German industrial firms — several of them still in existence — on which ‘Bettina’ had fed for its information, its know-how and transportation facilities. Mönch was not specific about anything. The implication might be there, but there was no direct link with ABCO, or with any Western agency, diplomatic or commercial.
Hawn said, ‘And you paid four thousand dollars for this?’
‘My friend, I am not so naive. I am aware that these documents are not important in themselves. But Mönch also enclosed his address. I was anxious
