Here Be Monsters Read online

  The name meant nothing to her. But then codenames never did mean anything—Overlord, Cobra, Horserace, Ajax, Warsaw, Peeler—they were all nonsense unless -or until—you were cleared. And even then, now that the Beast-computer ruled, every punched-in inquiry was recorded for posterity. It was easy to understand why they all hated the machine which used them while they used it.

  ‘In fact, there were two lists, Elizabeth.’ Latimer squirmed again, and she realized that she’d been staring him out of conscience. ‘We had one, and the Americans had one. And the Americans eventually shared theirs with the West Germans, against our advice. And we only tipped them off—the Americans—because we needed to curry favour with them, after Suez … If they’d got it first they’d never have trusted us … Not that it did us any good, in the end. More like the opposite, in fact.’

  The two ‘in facts’ bracketed far more information than she’d expected, even though she still didn’t know what it meant. But as there was a chance that he might actually be giving her more than was in the official record in those asides of his, it was worth pushing her luck. (There were times to push, and times to hold back, and the trick was judging the right time, was what David Audley always preached. And one right time was when your contact was pleased with himself.)

  ‘Two lists?’ But how to push? ‘Major Parker was on the American list, presumably?’

  ‘He was.’ He rewarded her initiative with a tiny flash of approval. ‘But we didn’t know that at first—‘ He waved his hand in a jerky disclaimer ‘—when I say “we”, Elizabeth, I don’t mean me, of course—I had no part in the affair … It wasn’t known, let us say, until we compared lists in detail, the Americans and ourselves. And by that time both Thomas and Parker had been completely cleared, you see. Among others.’

  ‘Cleared of what?’

  ‘Ah … well, let’s just say cleared of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, for the present? Audley will tell you.’ His hand hovered over the Thornton’s box, as though it had a life of its own and was trying to assert itself. ‘Suffice it to say that until that comparison, nothing even remotely suspicious had been established against either of them.’

  ‘How good was the vetting?’

  Latimer bridled slightly. ‘It was … it was good enough, as far as it went.’ He frowned. ‘No—it was good—let’s be fair.’ He nodded. ‘If it had been me, I might have cleared them, too—shall we say that?’ The effort of ‘being fair’ taxed him sorely, she could see: he didn’t want to be fair.

  But that was not what she wanted right now. ‘So they compared the two lists?’ She had to keep him moving. ‘And came up with the Pointe du Hoc?’

  ‘Not immediately, no. That came later. What they came up with first was Parker’s name in Thomas’s address book and vice-versa. So then they started to double-check.’ He stared at her. ‘And, you know, that really is the one absolutely curious thing about this whole wretched business, when you think about it.’

  ‘What is?’

  He shifted in his chair. ‘The Pointe du Hoc—or that particular point in the sea midway between the two American landing beaches anyway, where Parker picked Thomas up. Because that really was the only connecting link between them which anyone could come up with. They were each on their own respective list in ‘58, and they’d met just that once in ‘44—and they gave exactly the same account of it, near enough. Apart from those few cards … which they’d stopped exchanging long since … there was nothing else. They both worked for their governments—they were both civil servants. But Thomas had no American connections of any significance, his work was strictly European. And Parker’s was strictly South American … or maybe Central American.’ He blinked irritably. ‘”Hemispherical”, the State Department called it. But it doesn’t matter. What matters is that they checked Parker again too, and pronounced him pristine. He remembered Thomas from ‘44, but that was all. Their paths hadn’t crossed again.’

  ‘And we cleared Thomas?’

  ‘He was cleared also.’ Traces of irritation remained in Latimer’s expression. ‘And we were duly reminded that he was a D-Day hero who deserved better of his country than to be hounded by inquisitive little men in dirty raincoats.’

  ‘So he was cleared.’ The point had to be pressed. ‘So what happened then?’

  ‘He resigned … not long afterwards.’ Latimer waved his Thornton’s hand vaguely.

  ‘Why?’ The point still had to be pressed. ‘If he’d been cleared—?’

  ‘He had been cleared. And by that time the whole Debrecen investigation had been aborted.’ Another vague gesture. ‘He said he wanted to go back to teaching. The Foreign Office blamed us. You must ask Dr Audley—he blamed the Foreign Office.’

  That at least sounded like David Audley, whose instinct in adversity was never defensive. But, as Latimer kept saying, she could ask David about everything in due course. What mattered now was that Latimer expected her to ask him, judging by his expectant expression.

  In fact she had a Wimbledon Centre Court queue of questions, all pushing and shoving. But now a new one had just jostled its way to the very front.

  ‘Yes, Elizabeth?’ He played not so idly with the lid of his box.

  ‘One thing, you said—two things, actually—I don’t understand.’

  He rubbed the tip of his nose. ‘Only two things?’

  Supercilious pig! ‘You cleared Squadron Leader Thomas. Back in 1958.’

  He worked on his nose for a moment. ‘He was cleared, certainly. Twice, actually. But not by me.’

  That re-emphasized minor matter, in passing: that whatever had gone wrong in ‘this wretched business’, Oliver St John Latimer was not going to take any past blame.

  ‘And Major Parker was cleared.’

  ‘So he was.’ He agreed cautiously. ‘By the Americans.’

  ‘Yes.’ That was another straw in the wind. Or a bale of straw. ‘So how do we know they never met again, before last week?’ She sought wisdom as politely as a fourth former catching out her teacher in a spelling mistake. “They were both cleared—but we’ve been watching them for twenty-six years? Or have I missed something?’

  ‘Ah … ’ He opened the box. ‘Will you have a chocolate?’

  Thank you.’ As she selected one he watched her so intently that she wished she knew which was his favourite.

  ‘And I’ll have one too.’ His smile mortified her as he pounced on his preference gratefully, greedily. ‘No … no … No, there, I must admit, I am relying on the Americans, Elizabeth.’

  ‘The Americans didn’t abort their original investigation?’

  ‘Uh-uh.’ He shook his head, unwilling to swallow his chocolate prematurely. ‘It was … it was a joint decision, back in ‘58. The whole affair had become very messy politically. Indeed, counter-productive.’ He disposed of the chocolate at last. “There have been faint echoes of Debrecen down the years since then, but never loud enough to justify a reactivation. Until last year, when a rather unpleasant episode occurred in America, involving one of the names on the American list.’ The pudgy hand, which had been toying with a brightly-coloured sweet-paper, clenched it. ‘A very nasty affair.’

  Elizabeth pretended innocent interest. When Latimer had been in America last year there had been a minor panic one evening while she had been duty officer. But she had never been privy to the details, which had been swiftly taken out of her half-trained hands by Paul Mitchell.

  ‘Involving Major Parker?’ She reinforced her pretence with the question.

  ‘No.’ Latimer relaxed. ‘No. But his name was at the top of the list when they decided on reactivation.’

  ‘Although he’d been cleared?’

  ‘Cleared in 1958.’ He reached for another chocolate. ‘What they did, Elizabeth, was to programme his whole career into that computer of theirs in Fort Dobson. Every decision he’d had a hand in, every advisory committee he’d served on—what it achieved, or didn’t achieve. And they came up with some altogether damning c
onclusions.’

  ‘He’s a traitor, you mean?’

  ‘No. That is exactly what he isn’t—or wasn’t rather, seeing that he retired five years ago. All the evidence points to him having been a one-hundred-per-cent red-blooded American. And also a one-hundred-per-cent loser, you see.’ Latimer smiled evilly at her. ‘The New Model Traitor, Elizabeth, is the one you can’t call a traitor to his face without risking an action for slander.’

  Elizabeth shook her head. ‘Now you’ve lost me.’

  ‘It’s quite simple. He backed losing causes—the Bay of Pigs, Batista, Somaza—all the equivocal fire-fighting decisions which ended up with the whole house going up in flames. Even with Allende—he helped to overthrow Allende in a way which made him a martyr, not an exile.’ Latimer nodded. ‘So far as they can establish, no secret he had was ever betrayed to anyone, least of all the Russians. He just helped to make all the wrong decisions. Which, when you think about it, is a much more efficient treason than the conventional variety.’

  But there was a flaw in this argument, thought Elizabeth. ‘So there’s no evidence that he was a traitor?’

  ‘None at all.’ Latimer nodded. ‘No evidence.’

  ‘So … he could just have been stupid, Mr Latimer -surely?’

  He nodded again. ‘Or unlucky—quite so! And we could make traitors of half our governments since the war—and before it—on the same basis. I agree, Miss Loftus—Elizabeth. But they thought of that too, you see.’ Another beastly smile. ‘So they leaned on him—they asked him questions, and they let him know he was being followed. And they bugged his phone, and burgled his house—they did all the things which are considered to be the unacceptable face of security, to suggest to him that they knew more than they actually did.’ He looked at her sidelong.

  ‘Why?’

  She knew that answer, anyway. ‘To make him run?’

  ‘To make him run. And, of course, he did run.’

  But that wasn’t strictly accurate. ‘But he was a D-Day veteran, Mr Latimer. How was that “running”?’

  ‘He didn’t attend the D-Day celebrations, Elizabeth.’

  ‘But—‘

  ‘He came back to Europe—for the first time since 1945.’ Latimer cut her off. ‘He wasn’t interested in D-Day.’

  ‘But he did go to the Pointe du Hoc, Mr Latimer.’

  ‘Yes. But you’d better talk to Major Turnbull about that.’ Latimer toyed with his box of chocolates. ‘It’s what he did before that which matters to us now. And why, even more than what.’

  It wasn’t difficult to read between those lines: if the CIA had been leaning on the poor devil, then they would have leaned all the way to France, with their usual enthusiasm.

  ‘Before he went to the Pointe du Hoc, Elizabeth, he visited Squadron Leader Thomas, at a place called St Servan, where Thomas lives now, in France. It is his retirement home.’ He pushed the Thornton’s box to one side. ‘So far as we are aware, that was the first time they’d met again since Parker deposited Thomas on the beach—Omaha Beach—on June 7th, 1944. And two days later he was dead. And I do not particularly like being told all that by their Head of Station in London, as a friendly piece of information. Because it rather suggests to me that they know their business better than we know ours.’

  Well, that at least accounted for the urgency, thought Elizabeth: they could hardly allow such ‘friendly’ intelligence to lie in the pending tray—not even David Audley could argue with that; and Latimer himself would be doubly sensitive about their efficiency in Colonel Butler’s absence, of course.

  But all that, and not least the American interest, made her own leading role even more odd. ‘So the CIA is helping us, then?’

  ‘No.’ He made another cathedral spire with his fingers. ‘They regard Squadron Leader Thomas as our affair now. Though we shall have to tell them the outcome, in the circumstances, naturally.’

  A knot of anxiety twisted inside her suddenly. The outcome was what was expected of her. ‘But if Squadron Leader Thomas is a traitor, Mr Latimer—‘

  ‘Was, Miss Loftus,’ he interrupted her. ‘He’s retired now. He’s an old man sitting happily in the sun—happily and blamelessly.’

  That made it nastier. ‘But if he was a traitor, like Major Parker … ’

  ‘There won’t be any concrete evidence?’ He adjusted the angle of the spire slightly. ‘No, I don’t expect there will be. Or nothing we could ever hope to proceed with, anyway. But we shall be able to re-assess everything he’s done in a new light. If he was a traitor, that is.’ He closed his eyes for an instant. “The initial assessment must be largely subjective in the first place. And perhaps even in the last place.’

  ‘Unless he runs—like Major Parker.’ No wonder Audley hadn’t complained about her preferment! thought Elizabeth grimly. ‘Or falls over a convenient cliff.’

  ‘He hasn’t done either of those things yet.’ He seemed to catch a glimpse of her disenchantment. ‘We do have him under surveillance now, Elizabeth—however belatedly. Dale, from Paris, is superintending it. And Dr Audley has the details for you. And Major Turnbull has other information for you, as I said.’

  ‘Oh yes?’ He had been going about things in a curiously back-handed way, she thought irritably: while she had been researching an obscure episode of the Second World War, other people had been doing real work. ‘So … why have I been doing what I’ve been doing?’

  ‘My dear Miss Loftus—Elizabeth!’ He opened the cathedral roof. ‘All that was mere spade-work, what others have been doing. There was no need for you to be burdened with it. And I wanted you here, to hear what I have told you, without any pre-conditions.’

  He hadn’t wanted her to talk to anyone. But why? ‘So I’m an expert on the American Rangers, Mr Latimer?’ Big deal!

  ‘So perhaps you will have something to tell Squadron Leader Thomas that he doesn’t know about?’ He inclined his head almost apologetically. ‘When you talk to him?’

  ‘Talk to him?’ But at least that was a clue as to what he expected of her.

  ‘Why not?’ He spread his hands again.

  Why not? thought Elizabeth.

  ‘What I am asking you to do is … not easy, Elizabeth -I know that.’ He squirmed in Colonel Butler’s big chair. ‘But that is the particular nature of this section’s work. And you were chosen for it because you had particular aptitudes—not simply policeman’s aptitudes, for pursuing facts without emotions, but something more than that, and much more rare … Which I do not propose to define, because there are some things which cannot be put together again after they have been taken to pieces.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘And because we do not have the time now for such esoteric discussion.’

  Was he complimenting her with his trust? wondered Elizabeth. Or was he bull-shitting her—as Paul would say?

  ‘You’ve got to get to know this man Thomas.’ Latimer leaned towards her. ‘You’ve got to know about him first—and Audley will help you there. But I don’t think you’ll get the answer I need without meeting him face-to face, in the end.’

  That was telling her. ‘And if he runs then—?’

  ‘Then our problem’s solved.’ He sat back. ‘But if he was going to run, I think he would have done so by now, for what it’s worth.’

  So Thomas was a harder nut to crack than Parker, was what he thought. Perhaps even an uncrackable nut.

  ‘Did we make a mistake in ‘58?’ The cathedral reformed momentarily, then collapsed as he reached for the chocolates. ‘Because if we did, then we reactivate our whole Debrecen list. And it’s up to you to tell me, Miss Loftus.’

  3

  ‘UNSATISFACTORY, Miss Loftus.’ Major Turnbull answered the question without hesitation. ‘My investigation was unsatisfactory.’

  Elizabeth felt the word envelop her, as though he intended that it should apply to her also. It was only the second time that she had spoken face-to-face to the department’s newest recruit, but her recollection of the first encounter was all too vivid.


  ‘Unsatisfactory, Major?’ The repetition of his rank (if it really was his rank) recalled Major Birkenshawe to mind, but only for an instant, since her own dear old major resembled this one in nothing except that. ‘In what way unsatisfactory?’

  ‘It is evident that you have not read my report, Miss Loftus.’ His unnerving immobility, not only of body and features but also of eye, began to work on her again.

  ‘No, Major.’ She fought the urge to explain her failure, and finally settled on saying nothing at all, remembering the last time—

  ‘What a dreadful-sounding place!’ (Superintendent Andrew, secure in his impeccable and genuine working-class accent, had been lodged in the tiny village of Grimeby, the better to find out why one of their Known Agents was presently fishing in the troubled waters of the Great Miners’ Strike.) ‘Grimeby!’

  But Major Turnbull had waited for her to elaborate on her stupidity.

  ‘You can see how people living in a place like that might want to throw stones at the police—“Grimeby”!’

  Only then had Major Turnbull pounced.

  ‘Had you visited it, Miss Loftus, you would know that Grimeby is a not unattractive hamlet on the edge of Baldersby Dale. And had you cared to research it further, you would know that “grime” has nothing whatsoever to do with coal-mining. It refers, in fact, to a standing stone of great antiquity nearby, dating from Viking times and sacred to the Norse god Odin, “Grim”, or “Grimar”, being a colloquial rendering of his fierce expression. The god of war and battle, Miss Loftus, as well as the patron of wise men and heroes. And also the god of hanged men riding the gallows as his steed.’

  But not this time, by God! He could look at her as grim-faced as Odin himself riding his gallows. But whatever his objection to her might be—whether it was professional, against women in this line of work, or Father’s simple old-fashioned misogynism—whatever it was, it would cut no ice with her this time. This time he was going to do the talking.

  Finally he looked at his watch. But then his hand returned to his lap, the fingers loosely clenched, alongside the other hand, which hadn’t moved. If he had a train to catch he was evidently prepared to miss it rather than forgo the satisfaction of making her speak.