Dead Secret Read online

  ‘The frontier is less than an hour away. Before dawn we will be in Salonika. There your problems will be over.’

  Hawn remembered that he still had his passport, from his visit to the American Express that afternoon; but he wasn’t so sure about Anna. He had the impression that she hadn’t collected her passport since leaving it at the hotel desk on that first morning, five days ago. He waited anxiously, peering out under the dark trees: through the smoked glass it was like looking into an unlit fish tank. He did not see her until she had opened the door: her movements were stiff, as though suffering from cramp. He waited until she had tucked herself in beside him, then said, ‘Have you got your passport?’

  ‘It’s back at the hotel.’

  Pol answered, his voice soft and soothing through the warm dark car: ‘Do not concern yourselves. Everything has been arranged.’

  ‘What about the hotel — and our luggage?’

  ‘That, too, is taken care of.’ He patted Hawn’s arm. ‘You must trust me.’ Then he gave what sounded like an order, in a heavy patois which Hawn did not understand. The headlamps flared on, the engine started with a powerful hum, as the car drew out into the road. Pol relaxed, and rubbed his fat little hands together. ‘Our chauffeur is Monsieur Serge Rassini. I believe you have both already made his acquaintance? He is a native of Corsica, but has the advantage of looking like a Turk. He behaves like a Turk, too.’

  ‘And who were our gallant “police” escort from Istanbul?’

  ‘Ah, there you were privileged, mon chèr! One of the gentlemen, until recently, was the most wanted man in France, until he turned informer. Now I protect him, like a son. The other — your driver — was a Lieutenant-Colonel of the Dixième Régiment Parachutiste. One of Massu’s men, until I took him under my wing.’

  Hawn felt warmed by the brandy, lulled by the swift smooth motion of the car. ‘Why did you kill Salak?’

  ‘Salak received the justice which he deserved,’ Pol said, with gravity. ‘His crimes were immense and he was lucky to have lived so long without receiving a bill for them. He paid tonight, in full.’

  ‘You tortured him first,’ Hawn said. ‘Was that also part of the payment?’

  ‘Salak had certain information which I wanted. Information which you want, too. But while you were prepared to pay him, and accept what you received in good faith, I preferred a simpler approach. I wanted to make sure that our friend Salak was telling the truth. The whole truth.’ He patted the side of his vicuna coat; the heater was on and he had begun to sweat. ‘I have it here — five pages, all beautifully hand-written by Monsieur Imin Salak himself.’

  ‘Are we allowed to see these pages?’

  ‘But certainly! When we get to Salonika — and you will have had your roles explained to you.’

  ‘What was our role in Istanbul? To sniff out Salak, so that your boys could move in and deal with him in your own refined way?’

  ‘You both have been invaluable,’ Pol said, and passed the hip flask to Anna.

  ‘How many men have you had working on us?’ Hawn said.

  ‘Enough. Enough to ensure that I knew your every movement in Istanbul from the moment you arrived. You see, my men have not only been chosen because they look conveniently Turkish — one of them even has Turkish blood — but because they are top operatives in the French underworld — mostly in the Marseille area — together with some senior ex-officers from the Secret Army, left over after Algeria. They do their job better than most policemen, I assure you!’

  Hawn closed his eyes and nodded in the darkness. So Pol’s elect troop of idealists, of Resistance heroes pledged to avenge their maimed and murdered comrades, were after all no more than a bunch of off-the-peg heavies and hitmen from the sump of the Riviera and the waterfront of Ajaccio, together with a ‘respectable’ corps of soured turncoats from two disastrous colonial wars, who still saw it as their abject duty to kill at a mere nod of command.

  ‘Did you write the note from Salak — telling us to take the Usküdar ferry this evening?’

  ‘Let us say that Salak wrote it, under my instructions.’

  ‘So what was the point of sending us all the way to Usküdar in that pissing rain?’

  ‘Two points. I wanted to be absolutely sure that Salak had agreed to make a deal with you. If he hadn’t, you wouldn’t have gone on the trip so readily. But I had another, more important reason. You forget your little visit to a certain American gentleman who has been staying at the Istanbul Hilton. We know that you were brought to see him earlier today — under a certain duress, n’est-ce pas?’

  ‘Go on,’ Hawn said wearily. ‘I suppose you’ve got the interview on tape?’

  ‘That was not necessary, mon chèr. You instead will provide me with the full account of your conversation with Monsieur Robak. No — my purpose in sending you to Usküdar was to see how efficient this Monsieur Robak is. For it might amuse you to know that his employee, a certain Otto Dietrich, is also a full-time member of the BND — the Federal German Security Service.

  ‘Now, you may well ask, what is a senior executive of the America-Britannic Consortium doing in the company of the West German secret police? And in Istanbul, of all places? I cannot give you the precise answer, although I can draw inferences. ABCO is anxious to cover its tracks in Turkey. And it follows that the organization will be even more anxious to cover them in Germany — for it is in Germany that the real truth lies. The truth that was buried there some time at the beginning of May 1945 — the complete documentation of a world-wide conspiracy, known as “Operation Bettina”.

  ‘However, I digress. In the event, you were not followed by Robak’s men to Usküdar. There is even a chance that they do not yet know of Salak’s death. And that will be useful — it will give us time to breathe, to make plans.’

  ‘Always assuming that we get over the frontier,’ said Hawn. ‘There was our driver from the hotel, remember. Then the girl from the shop whom your gorillas threw out of the car a few miles back. What sort of story do you think they’re both going to tell the police? And Anna here hasn’t even got a passport.’

  Pol cooed happily in the dark, and fumbled under his mighty coat, from which he produced a pair of slim dark blue documents; then gave an order and the driver switched on the interior light. The two passports were neither new nor old. They had both been issued a year ago, in the married name of MARZIOU. Hawn’s described him as JEAN-PAUL LAURENT MARZIOU, PROFESSION: PROFESSEUR D’ECOLE, NE: 1938, REIMS. Anna was now YVETTE, NEE NALBE, and described as Maitresse de Maison.

  The only items which were obviously new were the photographs. Hawn guessed that these had been taken with a zoom lens sometime in the last four days — probably while they were sightseeing, or sitting in a pavement cafe. The background had been shaded out, and the rest was bad enough to make a convincing passport photograph. Equally convincing was the recent messy stamp from Turkish Immigration at Yesilkoy Airport. There were also a number of other stamps from European Immigration, including one from Dover and another at Heathrow. Hawn realized that it was the first time he had ever seen a British entry stamp.

  Pol was sucking the tip of his thumb, watching them both with amusement. ‘A beautiful job, hein? It was done by one of the most expert forgers in the Resistance. If he could deceive the Gestapo for five years, you can be sure he has no problem in deceiving the Turkish authorities.’

  Hawn weighed the passport in his hand: it gave him an uncomfortable sense of distorted reality — like glimpsing the back of one’s own head in a complex of mirrors. It would take time to get used to Monsieur Marziou, and his young wife, Yvette — to shedding a whole identity, and slipping into a new one, like changing one’s clothes.

  ‘And how long do we remain Monsieur and Madame Marziou?’

  ‘As long as it remains convenient for you. And for me.’ Pol patted Hawn’s knee. ‘You see how easily things can be arranged! You must not concern yourself so much, mon chèr. Anyway, we will be at the frontier in a few minutes
.’

  They reached the border town of Edirne at 12.40 a.m. — just two-and-a-half hours after Hawn and Anna had made their dreadful discovery above the chemist’s shop.

  It was a dark muddy town where the main road into Greece had been deliberately allowed to peter out into a potholed track, churned up by the endless procession of juggernauts rolling between Europe and the Middle East. There was a great row of them now, pulled up on the side of the road in front of two sheds which housed the Customs and Police. The big American sedan was the only private car.

  A man in a dark uniform, in black gaiters and boots, with a machine-pistol, beckoned them forward. He looked casually at the number plate, as the driver rolled down his window.

  The rest of the police were busy negotiating bribes with the juggernaut drivers, and appeared to have little interest in a Swiss-registered car with French occupants. A second man with a machine-pistol glanced at the four French passports, hesitated, then glanced at the window of the shed, to where a man sat with his boots on the desk, his peaked cap pulled down over his eyes. The man outside shouted something and laughed. Inside the shed the man raised a hand, without otherwise stirring. The man outside turned, handed the passports back, and saluted.

  The Greek frontier post was half a mile across desolate, uncultivated fields. Hawn watched the lights creep towards them; Anna sat very still beside him, her eyes staring out in front. Then Pol began to laugh. He was still laughing, when the Greek officials peered in through the smoked windows, and waved them on across the plain of Thrace.

  Yugoslav Airlines Flight 268, from Salonika to Belgrade, was due to board in ten minutes. Pol had ordered another three ouzos. He was in an excellent mood — despite the paucity of Greek cooking — and his high spirits were infectious.

  Hawn regarded this next stage of their odyssey with extreme misgiving. Until now, he and Anna had continued to operate as ostensibly free agents, even though their movements had been monitored by Pol, even manipulated by him.

  But from now on they would be entirely Pol’s creatures — their new clothes, new wallets, new luggage, air tickets to Belgrade and on to Frankfurt and Tempelhof, Berlin — all were ordained by Pol, as intractably as were their names and personal details written into their new passports.

  Pol had been watching him carefully, obviously sensing his malaise. ‘You are not happy, my friend?’

  ‘You know I’m not. If I knew more — if I just knew where this information of Salak’s is going to lead us.’

  Pol spread his short arms expansively. ‘But that is the whole point — the very thing we are hoping to discover! I cannot tell you what I do not know.’

  The final call was going out, when Pol took his leave of them. ‘Au revoir, mes amis. Until tomorrow night — at the Kempinski. And don’t be late.’

  ‘If we are,’ Hawn said, ‘it won’t be our fault.’

  CHAPTER 24

  The sharp grey sunshine cut through the copper-glazed windows of the restaurant cafe, which spread out across half the pavement of the Kurfürstendamm. Outside, the snow had stopped; traffic moved slowly, quietly.

  Hawn and Anna had found a table from where they could see right up the Kudamm to the Memorial Church, sticking up from the glaring neon like a burnt thumb. Next to them, at the same table, sat two stout women in plastic raincoats with fur collars, drinking mugs of chocolate. Hawn and Anna were having an early lunch, of white Bockwurst, beer and black coffee.

  ‘Look, Tom! Over there!’ Hawn was in time to see two tiny creatures disappear giggling into the back of the cafe. They both had frizzy ash-white hair, green mascara, blood-red lipstick, and each wore tall leather boots and steel-studded black leather bum-freezers. ‘They must be girls?’ Anna said.

  Hawn stared. ‘They can’t be more than twelve years old?’

  ‘I’d say nearer ten.’

  Hawn finished his beer, called for the bill, and glanced back up the Kudamm. A huge sign winked on and off against the heavy sky: ‘BERLIN BLEIBT IMMER NOGH BERLIN!’ Berlin Forever Remains Berlin.

  Outside it was freezing, and for a moment they had to grab on to each other to avoid slipping on the packed slush. Hawn took his usual quick glance both ways. The BND would have at least one man, perhaps even a car; and Pol would probably have someone too — if only because Pol was a careful bastard, and liked to make sure that his hirelings and protégés did as they were told.

  The crowds were dense and resolute, booted and fur-lined: the Berliners walked fast, he had noticed, with a dogged sense of purpose, as though each of them feared being late. A yellow truck crawled down the edge of the street, spraying sand on the frozen surface. They began to walk arm in arm up the street, reached their hotel and pushed through a heavy curtain, into the warm lobby mewing and tinkling with Muzak; a girl’s sharp metal voice sounded from the bar. It was nearly three o’clock. Hawn stretched and winced. His neck and ribs still ached after the handiwork of Pol’s ‘most dangerous man in Europe’, and he had slept badly; though Anna seemed to have recovered.

  ‘I’m going to get a couple of hours’ sleep. I’m done in.’

  ‘Do you mind if I go out for a walk? I thought I might look at the city.’

  ‘I’d rather you stayed here. If you go anywhere, I’d prefer to be with you.’

  She smiled, crinkling up her eyes. ‘Determined to play the knight in shining armour?’

  ‘Just a sensible precaution. In Istanbul they decided to warn only me. Next time they may decide to do it the other way round — lean on you instead. Perhaps pick you up and hold you, just to make sure I behave myself.’

  ‘Tom, love.’ She turned and faced him in the middle of the lobby, putting both hands on his shoulders. ‘Haven’t you realized yet that whatever we decide to do, we’re committed? You’ve just spelt it out yourself. Because even if ABCO let us go — on the assumption that we don’t yet know quite enough to really damage them — there’s always fat Charlie Pol. And you can be certain he’ll look after me — make sure I’m not kidnapped.’ She looked up at him, with a small crooked smile. ‘Tom, what interests me is — why doesn’t ABCO, with its entire reputation at stake, just rub us out? Two French tourists murdered in Berlin — poof! — killed in a car accident, run over in the street. It’ll take a bit of time to unravel the business of our real identity, but with ABCO’s influence with the German police, I don’t suppose anyone’ll make too much fuss about that.’

  He began to yawn, and clamped his jaws shut. ‘You’re asking me why we’re still alive? Because ABCO don’t yet know enough. They know we’re on to something, and they must know we’re not alone — that we’ve got powerful interests backing us and covering up for us, as well as murdering the vital witnesses, like Mönch and Salak, as soon as they cease to be useful. But as far as ABCO know, we’re just the pathfinders — the pawns. Pol’s pawns. And ABCO are no doubt far more interested in Pol than they are in us. For the moment they may be happy to let us run free — just to see how far the line leads, and how well they’ve covered their tracks and where the loose links are. It’s when we come to the end of the line that we’ll be in real danger.’

  The lift doors opened.

  ‘All right, you go for your walk. If you don’t come back…’ Hawn shrugged dramatically. ‘Well, if you don’t come back, I’ll just go and meet Pol at the Kempinski at six and hope he can set his organization on to finding you.’ He stepped back towards her. ‘Anna, forget the walk. Come to bed.’

  ‘No. You’re far too tired. You look like a death’s head — you must get some sleep before we meet Pol.’

  He took hold of her and kissed her on the lips and on the forehead and behind her ear. ‘Oh shit,’ he whispered, ‘I hope this isn’t the last time I do this. I don’t want to lose you, Anna. I don’t want to lose you to anyone — least of all to those bastards in ABCO.’

  ‘You won’t lose me,’ she said, breaking free of him. ‘I can look after myself. Anyway, you’re probably just as vulnerable in the hotel.’
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  ‘Thanks for the tip.’ He watched her walk away and disappear through the revolving doors.

  Hawn woke suddenly, from a dreamless sleep. He couldn’t think where he was. The darkened chandelier, the dim shape of the twenty-four-inch television set, the half-curtained windows against the twilight which was already full of blinking neon and the moving beams of traffic.

  He must have dozed off again, because when he next looked at his watch it was 5.32. He leapt up, turned on the bedside light and glanced around. Anna was not there.

  His first reaction was confusion. He didn’t know whether to be furious or scared. There was no time to take a shower; he doused his head in cold water, grabbed his trousers and shirt, and in the middle of pulling them on, rang down to the desk. There had been no messages for him, no word from Madame Marziou.

  He now began to dress more slowly, feeling his rage turning against himself. It was his fault for letting her go on her little walkabout. She didn’t even have a street map — unless she’d had the sense to buy one on the way out. And she would be followed — that much was certain. They had both known it, when they had parted downstairs.

  He must have been crazy to let her go! Or just dull with lack of sleep. Out there, alone, Anna would be as vulnerable as a child. A single bullet from a cruising car, or a manipulated skid against a blank wall. Or perhaps, after all, they would just want to hold her as a bargaining counter. It would be easy enough to have a car creep up beside her in the snow, the front door open, boxing her in with the rear door, then dragging her into the back. They were professionals — from whichever side they came — while Anna, for all her subdued ideological fervour, was an utter innocent.

  Hawn preferred to think that if he had been with her it might have been different. Either they wouldn’t have risked it, or he’d have spotted them in time and he would have been able to drag her into some doorway or down an alley where they couldn’t follow.