The café was a small, sad place, half a dozen wooden tables and chairs, no more. A man in a dark blue overcoat was fast asleep in a corner. He was the only customer. The barman sat at the zinc-topped counter reading a newspaper.
She waited at a table by a window overlooking the river. Behind her, she could hear Vaughan ordering coffee and cognac.
As he sat down she said, ‘You speak excellent German.’
‘My grandmother came from Hamburg. She grew up by the Elbe, I was raised on the Thames. She lived with us when I was a boy. Raised me after my mother died. Made me speak German with her all the time. Said it made her feel at home.’
‘And where was this?’
‘Isle of Dogs near the West India Docks. My old man was captain of a sailing barge on the Thames for years. I used to go with him when I was a kid. Down to Gravesend and back. Even went as far as Yarmouth once.’
He lit a cigarette, the eyes dark, as if looking back across an unbridgeable gulf. She said, ‘Where is he now?’
‘Dead,’ he said. ‘A long time ago.’
‘And your grandmother?’
‘Flying bomb, November ’forty-four. There’s irony for you.’
The barman appeared with a tray, placed a cup of coffee and a glass of cognac in front of each of them and withdrew. Vaughan took his cognac in one easy swallow.
‘A little early in the day, I should have thought,’ she commented.
‘Or too late, depending on your point of view.’
He reached for her glass, she put a hand on his. ‘Please?’
There was something close to surprise in his eyes and then he laughed softly. ‘Definitely too late, Maggie. You don’t mind if I call you that, do you? In fact, very definitely far too far gone. You know that poem of Eliot’s where he says that the end of our exploring is to arrive where we started and recognize the place for the first time?’
‘Yes.’
‘He was wrong. The end of our exploring is to recognize the whole exercise for what it’s been all along. One hell of a waste of time.’
He reached for the glass again and she knocked it over and sat staring at him, her face very white.
‘And what’s that supposed to prove?’
‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘Just take it as sound medical advice.’
He sighed. ‘All right. If you’re ready, we’ll move on. I’m sure you can’t wait to get back on your side of the fence anyway.’
As they started towards the bridge she said, ‘You still don’t trust me, do you?’
‘Not really.’
‘Why?’
‘No particular reason. Instinct, if you like. A lifetime of bad habits.’
‘Yet you’ll take me back across the wall because Father Conlin asked you to. I don’t understand.’
‘I know. Confusing, isn’t it?’
He took her arm and they started across the bridge, footsteps hollow on the boards.
2
It was ten o’clock on Tuesday evening when the old army truck loaded with turnips pulled up the hill out of the village of Neustadt. About a quarter of a mile further on it turned in to the side of the road under pine trees.
Father Conlin wore a corduroy jacket and peaked cap, a grimy blue scarf knotted around his neck. His companion, the driver of the truck, wore an old army tunic and badly needed a shave.
‘This is it, Karl, you are certain?’ Conlin asked in German.
‘The cottage is a couple of hundred yards from here at the end of the farm track through the woods, Father. You can’t miss it, it’s the only one,’ Karl told him.
Conlin said, ‘I’ll take a look. You wait here. If everything’s all right I’ll be back for you in a few minutes.’
He moved away. Karl took the stub of a cigar from behind his ear and lit it. He sat there smoking for a while, then opened the door, got down and stood at the side of the truck to relieve himself. There was no sound at all, so that the blow that was delivered to the back of his head came as a total surprise. He went down with a slight groan and lay still.
There was a light at one of the cottage windows for the curtains were partially drawn. When Father Conlin approached cautiously and peered inside he saw Margaret Campbell, dressed in sweater and slacks, sitting in front of a blazing log fire reading a book.
He tapped on the pane. She glanced up, then crossed to the window and peered out at him. He smiled, but she did not smile in return. Simply went to the door and opened it.
Conlin moved into the warmth of the room, shaking rain from his cap. ‘A good night for it.’
‘You came,’ she said in a choked voice.
‘Didn’t you think I would?’ He was warming himself at the fire and smiled at her. ‘Your father – how is he?’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ she said tonelessly. ‘I haven’t seen him for weeks now. They wouldn’t allow me.’
He saw it then of course, saw all of it, now that it was too late. ‘Oh, my poor child,’ he said and there was only concern for her in his voice, compassion in the faded blue eyes. ‘What have they made you do?’
The kitchen door creaked open behind, a draught of air touched his neck coldly and he turned. A man was standing there, tall, rather distinguished-looking, dark hair turning to silver, a strong face – a soldier’s face. He wore a heavy overcoat with a fur collar and smoked a thin cheroot.
‘Good evening, Father Conlin,’ he said in German. ‘You know who I am?’
‘Yes,’ Conlin said. ‘Helmut Klein. I believe you once enjoyed the dubious distinction of being the youngest full colonel in the Waffen SS.’
‘Quite right,’ Klein said.
Two men in raincoats emerged from the kitchen to stand beside him. At the same moment, the outside door opened and a couple of Vopos entered armed with machine-pistols, followed by a sergeant.
‘We got the truck-driver, sir.’
‘What, no comrade?’ Father Conlin said. ‘Not very socialistic of you, Colonel.’ He turned to Margaret Campbell. ‘Colonel Klein and I are old adversaries, at a distance. He is Director of Section Five, Department Two of the State Security Service which is charged with the task of combating the work of refugee organizations in Western Europe by any means possible. But then, you’d know that.’
Her eyes were burning, her face very pale. She turned to Klein. ‘I’ve done what you asked. Now can I see my father?’
‘Not possible, I’m afraid,’ Klein said calmly. ‘He died last month.’
The room was very quiet now and when she spoke it was in a whisper. ‘But that can’t be. It was only three weeks ago that you first sent for me. First suggested that I …’ She gazed at him, total horror on her face. ‘Oh, my God. He was dead. He was already dead when you spoke to me.’
Father Conlin reached out for her, but she pulled away and launched herself on Klein. He struck her once, knocking her back into the corner by the door. She lay there dazed. As Conlin tried to move towards her, the two men in raincoats grabbed him and the Vopos advanced.
‘Now what?’ the old priest asked.
‘What do you expect, whips and clubs, Father?’ Klein asked. ‘Nothing like that. We have accommodation