Adrian Magson - No Sleep for the Dead

‘What other crimes?’

‘We think he might now be bringing weapons into the country. Weapons bought from armouries and depots across the former eastern bloc.’

‘And you will do what with this information — put this man in prison?’

Palmer shrugged, wary of making rash promises he was in no position to keep. ‘I can’t say. That would be the ideal solution.’

Cecile nodded her head slightly. ‘Of course. But this man… this person who Claus worked with, he is with your British Intelligence, you know that? Claus told me. But if he is a criminal, also, how can you touch him? Where I come from, such people are beyond reach. To try to make them answer for what they have done is to invite retaliation.’

‘Things are sometimes different, here,’ said Palmer. ‘Not always… but there are ways.’

Cecile shook her head and sighed, staring down into her mug as if she hadn’t heard him. ‘I was such a person myself, for a while. I was never an official, not important, although I was trained in their ways of…doing things.’

‘Tradecraft?’ said Palmer.

She nodded. ‘As you say, tradecraft. I don’t mean I was a spy — not in espionage. But I was expected to do certain things.’ She looked up at them, her eyes steady. ‘I was a translator for many years, and worked with some important people. People who were expected to be…exposed to the West in their work. As part of my responsibilities, I was expected to listen and to report on anything unusual — anything which was not in accordance with proper thinking. Here and now, I cannot imagine why I did such a thing. But back then, so many others were doing the same.’ She shrugged. ‘It was normal. Even your closest friends might be informing on you, and you would never know. It was the way things were. We were all part of the system. But now I have left all that behind. That is why I have come to London. I wish to forget it all and become… someone else.’ She waved a hand. ‘I don’t mean a different identity, but a different person. It is not easy, however.’

Palmer waited for a few heartbeats, but when she added nothing more, he said, ‘We need to find some proof of your brother’s contact with the man he was working with. Something tangible — maybe a name. Otherwise we can’t touch him. Was there anything Claus said to you, that you recall? Any details about his movements, how he contacted this man… where the man stayed? We believe he must have travelled across the border, so did Claus ever say where they met?’

Cecile shook her head. ‘No. Nothing like that. He would not have dared, you see.’

Riley leaned forward, puzzled. ‘What do you mean?’

But Cecile shook her head, and it was Palmer who supplied the answer, speaking softly. ‘Claus knew she was working with the authorities. It was too risky, even among families.’

‘Oh.’ Riley felt suddenly immensely sorry for this woman, and realised the burden she was living with. Her brother must have gone to his grave wondering if it had been his sister who had finally betrayed him.

‘There is something else, is there not?’ Cecile said suddenly, eyeing them both in turn. ‘I do not think you would be here if all he had done was steal art works and ship weapons. That would be for the authorities to deal with.’

Several seconds went by, then Palmer nodded. ‘We think the man we are after told Claus that he would help him cross to the west. But he betrayed him.’

The old woman stared at Palmer, her face undergoing a whole range of emotions she could not contain. ‘‘How? How did he betray him?’

‘We don’t know. But the border guards knew Claus was coming. They were ready for him. I’m very sorry.’ He put his hands on his knees and began to rise.

‘Wait.’ Cecile raised her hand. She had a hint of tears in her eyes, and a look of dawning awareness on her face. She stood and motioned Palmer to stay where he was, then walked out of the conservatory. They listened to her walking upstairs, then came some muffled thumps, as if she was moving boxes, followed by her footsteps coming back down. She returned to the room with a cigar box, which she opened. Inside was a bundle of photographs, some of them pierced through with drawing pins, as if they had been hastily taken down from a wall and not looked at since. She withdrew the photos and knelt down, spreading them across the coffee table in front of her visitors.

‘These are all I have from…that time,’ she said quietly. ‘A few photos of our family which I kept on a board in the kitchen. It is all I managed to bring with me.’ They were a collection of standard family shots, some relaxed, some obviously posed. They could have been of any family group in the world, with a range of nervous half smiles, or tilted squints against a sunny day, save for the drab clothing and surroundings which betrayed their origins. Cecile shuffled them around, then placed her finger on one of the shots and pushed it across the table.

‘They came to our house one day. It was to meet a truck. Claus told me not to show myself, because it was better that way. I did as he asked. But a few days before, I had been given a small gift by a member of the Trade Ministry I had worked with. It had been difficult work with long hours, and he had been very pleased because he was being promoted. He had been given a camera by an American visitor, but he could not be seen to use it in his position, so he gave it to me. I took this photo. Claus never knew, of course. He would have been very angry with me.’

The photo showed a group of three men, all in long coats and hats. The ground around them was covered in snow, and they were standing at the rear of an old army truck with a canvas screen. One of the men was elderly, with a bent back. He appeared to be pulling the screen away from the truck while the other two watched. One of these two was tall and well built, and it was obvious by his features that he was related to Cecile Wachter. The man beside him, apparently smiling at something one of the others had said, was shorter, with darker skin and a thin face. He looked younger than he did now, of course, but there was no mistaking the features.

It was Arthur Radnor.

Riley and Palmer drove back towards central London in silence, leaving Cecile Wachter staring at the collection of memories spread out on her coffee table. In spite of their requests and promises to take care of it, she had steadfastly refused to let them have the photo of Claus and Radnor, saying it was the last one she had of her brother and could not bear to part with it.

Palmer had relented, suggesting they bring back a portable scanner or copier so the photo wouldn’t have to leave her possession. She had agreed with reluctance, but only if they didn’t come back until tomorrow, as she had some translation work to complete and could not afford to miss her deadline.

‘Did we do the right thing?’ Riley eventually broke the silence, ‘telling her what Radnor did?’

‘She already knew,’ Palmer replied with conviction. ‘She just didn’t want to say it. It meant opening up all the memories.’

‘Maybe.’ Minutes later, she said, ‘One thing puzzles me. Bringing Wachter over would have cut Radnor’s supply-line to the artwork, wouldn’t it?’

‘I doubt it. If Radnor was any good as an agent-runner, he’d have had a standby waiting in the background. It’s how people like him operate. Never put all your eggs, and so forth. His bigger problem was Wachter, who could put him in prison if he ever got to the West.’

‘So he killed him.’

‘Cleverer than that: he allowed the border guards to do it. That way, no involvement, no links back to him. It happened all the time, so who would question it? Not the East Germans; as far as they were concerned, Wachter was a crook and a malcontent, so no great loss. Radnor’s men would have had time to strip the body of any incriminating evidence before we got there, and Radnor possessed the clout to cover it up as an Intelligence matter, so no questions were asked.’