Emerald Decision

Mersey, if they survived the wolfpacks that without doubt waited for them. Except the cruiser's captain and first officer, who had opened their sealed orders after they rendezvoused with the convoy, and knew that a passage was being swept for them at that moment through the St George's Channel minefield.

Those two officers also knew the nature of the special cargo carried on board the cruiser itself, more vital in its way than the grain and oil and machine-parts on board the merchantmen, more vital even than the experimental route of this special fast convoy.

October 198-

Goessler and Lobke were shopping in Oxford Street, — the younger man with an almost child-like pleasure, sampling boutiques and department stores and record shops with the hurried inquisitiveness of a garden bird seeking food in winter. Goessler's attitude was parental, a mock reserve covering his own enjoyment. After a couple of hours, they abandoned the thudding rock music of the small boutiques for the encompassing, air-conditioned expanse of Marks & Spencer near Marble Arch. For Lobke, Oxford Street had already almost replaced the Kurfurstendamm as a place of dreams.

They had travelled to London as accredited personnel of the East German embassy the previous afternoon, registering at a modest but comfortable hotel in Bayswater. From their floor, there was a distant view of Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens.

While they shopped with the habitual comprehensiveness of East European diplomats visiting the West, Goessler answered Lobke's questions concerning the operation that Goessler had termed Juwelier — jeweller. McBride was the merchant who would handle the gemstones of Smaragdenhalskette. Their deliberately casual and interrupted conversation provoked no interest in the shoppers around them.

Piling two Shetland pullovers onto the heap of shirts he carried in the crook of one arm, Lobke said, 'Herr Goessler, I don't understand something—'

'Yes, Rudi?' Goessler replied pleasantly, the greater part of his attention taken up by a cellophane-wrapped pile of cardigans through which he was searching for his size. 'What would that be?' He seemed to reject the fawn- coloured sample in his size, and began rooting under the piles again for another colour. When he did not find his size in navy-blue, he clucked his tongue against his teeth.

'Why the Wehrmacht ever attempted to invade Ireland in November?'

Goessler smiled. He had moved on to the sweaters, and held up one with a vivid green lightning-flash down its middle. He checked the size, nodded.

'Pride, more than anything else. The Pact with the Bolsheviks, the cancellation of Seelowe — an army of occupation sitting on the coast of France, doing nothing.' He tucked the sweater under one arm, moving on to the underwear counter with a surprising eagerness. Lobke trailed after him, the racks of suits irritating the corner of his eye, making him impatient. He returned to his questions as to an anodyne against helpless covetousness. For a moment, he understood shoplifting.

'That's all, Herr Goessler?'

'Inertia — yes. The Wehrmacht had rolled over everyone except England — and that prize had been taken away because Goering could not subdue the RAF. They decided to enter through the back door. Sit in Ireland until the spring, threatening the mainland. A sort of second front which would also have the effect of dissuading the Americans from sending more convoys, increasing their aid to Britain—'

A woman with rinsed hair arranged to frame her narrow face looked up at the sound of Goessler's German, and Lobke wandered off towards the suits while Goessler answered her questions concerning the whereabouts of men's overcoats — a friend had bought a long leather trench-coat on her last visit for less than three hundred and fifty marks, were there any left? Goessler seemed amused by the conversation.

When he joined Lobke, the young man was already being instructed by a sales assistant not to leave his parcels unattended on the floor while he tried on a suit jacket. Goessler laughed, explained that he would stand by the heap of plastic bags. Lobke paraded in front of a full-length mirror, shy of Goessler's proprietorial smile.

'It was rather a good scheme—' Goessler explained, half to himself.

'Why did the Nazis try to hide all trace of it?' Lobke asked, shuffling through a rack of trousers to find his size.

'Another failure was not to be admitted, even remembered, Rudi — besides which, I think it was hidden deep in case it was to be used again in '41, or maybe even as late as '42.'

'But it wasn't?'

'No — Barbarossa was on the road by then.' Goessler seemed tempted by the racks of suits, studied a conservative brown one, held it out from the rack while Lobke guarded the parcels — aware, briefly, of the irony of the IRA bomb-panic that inspired the assistant's concern. Goessler swiftly selected jacket and trousers, and returned to Lobke without trying on the jacket. An Arab passed them, carrying four jackets, followed by his veiled wife. Both East Germans watched the couple, shaking their heads, smiling.

'Will McBride be of sufficient use to us?'

'The good Professor? Of course. He will be back in London within a couple of days. Then he will begin to look at Admiralty records, and we all know what he will discover there—' Goessler grinned in a way that was almost good-natured, kindly. He looked at his suit, nodded. 'I believe the Americans would call it dirty for dirty. Oh yes, my dear Rudi — and how dirty it all is!'

Someone who spoke German looked at Goessler then at a nearby Oriental, and nodded in complicity.

A bell began ringing. Neither Goessler nor Lobke heeded it, Lobke already collecting his parcels and unbought clothes and heading for the topcoats next to the suits. Goessler shook his head as the younger man walked away, followed him clutching his own prospective purchases. The bell went on ringing. People moved past them.

Lobke was pulling himself into a leather topcoat when the assistant approached them, the young woman who had reminded Lobke not to leave his packages unattended.

I'm sorry, but the bell means you must leave the store,' she announced calmly. Goessler seemed to attend to the bell for the first time, cocking his head as if to hear it more clearly. Lobke, one arm hitched into the topcoat, looked stunned.

'I am sorry—' Goessler said, watching the customers trooping towards the exits, canteen staff passing down one of the escalators, the blue overalls of the sales staff more evident than ever. The doors out into Oxford Street and Orchard Street were wide open.

'Would you please put down all the items you haven't paid for — just on the floor, and leave by the Orchard Street exit.' She pointed across the shop. The bell insisted.

Lobke looked betrayed, mocked. He let his arm sag back out of the coat, studied the mound of cellophane- wrapped garments on the floor by his feet, and looked to Goessler as to a parent, who would somehow reverse the logic of events. Goessler laid down his own unpurchased items, picked up the bags that belonged to both of them, and simply nodded.

'Thank you,' he said to the assistant. Their corner of the ground floor seemed suddenly empty. Lobke trailed after him, joining the orderly flow towards Orchard Street. He was sulking, pouting at Goessler.

'Damn,' he muttered. 'Shit and damn.'

'There is an irony, my dear Rudi — perhaps it serves us right, you know?'

'Will we be able to come back in?' Lobke asked eagerly.

'Not for hours — the police will be here to search the store thoroughly. That will take the rest of the afternoon. I suppose it serves us right. Dear Herr Moynihan and his friends. We must look on the bright side, Rudi.'

They came out into Orchard Street. Someone was holding a placard high, instructing the staff of M. & S. to congregate on the forecourt of the Selfridge Hotel, across the other side of Orchard Street. Customers drifted away towards Oxford Street.

'Come, Rudi,' Goessler offered. 'We will try Selfridge's.' Lobke appeared unconsoled. 'After all, if there is a bomb in the store, you may have arranged its shipment to Herr Moynihan yourself!' Goessler laughed, slapping Lobke on the back.

November 1940

McBride was sitting in an armchair beside the fireplace when Drummond arrived. Maureen was sewing, looking up in occasional disapproval at the plaster adorning McBride's forehead. She had been gruffly solicitous when he returned the previous night after unsuccessfully scouting for the vanished German; then, when she thought