Pilgrim Soul (35 page)

Partly this was because we weren’t heading there in an official capacity. Partly because the direct route over the Fenwick Moors from Glasgow to Prestwick via Kilmarnock was under ten feet of drifting snow. We could have borrowed Sam’s car and gone round the coastal route via Greenock, but it would have taken all day and there was some doubt about the link between Greenock south to Ardrossan.

We took the train. Snowploughs had reopened the Glasgow–Paisley route two days ago and it would take us on down through Beith and Dalry, then over to the coastal track through Irvine, Troon and into Monkton. It was a five-minute taxi ride from there to the airport.

Danny and I sat opposite each other in the overheated carriage.

‘I like the outfit, Brodie. Less fussy than either of our Highland kit.’

‘It still feels strange. Especially knowing that the last man who wore it is dead.’

‘Any bullet holes?’

‘He’d have been in combat gear.’

‘Are those his medals?’ He pointed at the ribbons on my chest.

‘No. Mine.’

Danny whistled. ‘How did you get the MC?’

‘A long story.’ I paused. ‘Actually it’s a short one. We were pinned down for days outside Caen. I threw a tantrum and charged a tank.’

He grinned. ‘And there’s me thinking you were always the cool head.’

‘I have my moments.’

We could have changed at Irvine and caught the train across to my home town of Kilmarnock, but there was no time. Besides, my mother would have had a heart attack. We reached Monkton by one o’clock and got a ride in the local taxi that plied between the station and the airport. The only part of the journey that became familiar was stopping at the gatehouse to the military part of the airport. But this time no one was expecting me. I wound the window down as the RAF Regiment guy stepped forward.

‘Lieutenant Colonel Brodie for Major David Salinger.’

‘Sir!’

His arm shot up. I returned the smart salute as best I could in the back of the Austin 10.

He looked at his watch. ‘Straight over to the officers’ mess, sir. You should find the major still at lunch.’ He pointed at a low brick building which ran along the airfield perimeter. It would house staff offices too, I guessed. We drove over, pulled up, I paid the driver and we walked into the building. A white-jacketed, white-gloved catering corps sergeant was passing.

‘Two for lunch, sir?’

‘Yes, thanks, Sergeant. We’re also looking for Major Salinger.’

‘He’s just finished, sir. He’s taking coffee in the bar. Do you want to see him before or after lunch?’

‘I think after, don’t you, Captain McRae?’

Danny’s eyes widened at my use of his old rank. ‘Sounds good to me,
sir
.’

We handed over my cap and Danny’s hat and coat. We entered the dining room, which had pretensions to be an officers’ mess room but looked merely like the inside of a Nissen hut with cloth-covered tables. But the food was good and we scoffed the lot. A waiter took my name for the visitors’ book, assuming I would be signing for it against some travel chit. We didn’t drop the pretence. The sergeant came up at the end of the meal.

‘I mentioned to Major Salinger that you hoped to see him, sir. He’s still in the bar if you’d like to join him?’

‘Perfect, Sergeant. Please lead the way.’

We grabbed our headgear and Danny’s coat on the way. It was nearly two o’clock. The bar was empty apart from one officer in USAF uniform. He was bald and wore rimless specs. He got up as we entered and came towards us, smiling, with his hand out.

‘Colonel, I’m David Salinger. Welcome to Prestwick.’

‘Thanks, Major. This isn’t my first time.’ We shook.

‘You’ve transited through here before?’

‘A few times. Last time, three weeks ago. Coming back from Hamburg.’ I didn’t enlighten him about my earlier trips. Once on a borrowed bike and umpteen times on the Troon train with my bucket and spade for a day at the beach. ‘Can I introduce Captain Daniel McRae, formerly Scots Guards and SOE?’

Did I see Salinger’s eyes flicker at the mention of the SOE? They shook hands.

‘Shall we sit down, gentlemen? How about some coffee? It’s from Cuba.’ He leaned over the table and pushed a box towards us. ‘As are the cigars. Can I offer you one?’

‘Coffee, yes please. But it’s too early in the day for cigars. Thanks.’

We exchanged small talk until the coffee was brought and we were left alone.

‘Now then. How can I help, gentlemen?’

I gave it a beat, then, ‘We want to talk about your escape route for Nazis.’

His cup didn’t tip, didn’t even clatter. He eased it back from his mouth and carefully placed it on the saucer. Then, just as carefully, he placed them on the table.

‘Forgive me, Colonel. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ He smiled indulgently.

I smiled back. ‘Let me help. I mentioned Hamburg. I was there for the Ravensbrück trials. The Nazi trials. Some of the Nazis were missing. They’d escaped through
Rattenlinien
– rat lines that run through Prestwick Airport.’

He laughed. ‘I’m sorry, Colonel, I’ve never heard of these – what do you call ’em? – rat lines?’

‘How about Vatican letters of transit? Ever heard of Bishop Alois Hudal? Cardinal Tisserant?’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about, Colonel. Is this a joke? Am I being set up by my buddies?’

‘No joke, I assure you. Do the following names sound familiar: Suhren, Langefeld, Mandel, Draganski . . .’

As I reeled them off, Salinger sat in the armchair, his fingers together in points, the eyes behind the glasses staring at me unblinking. I came to a halt and waited.

He shook his head. ‘Nope, nothing. What do you want, Colonel?’

‘Do you read the papers, Major?’

‘
New York Times
.’ His voice had gone soft.

‘I’m sure you’ll have glanced at the local headlines in Scotland. At the end of last week a man was kidnapped and murdered. Not just a man; a good man. A dear friend of mine. His body was found on Glasgow Green. What the papers didn’t say was that it was in retaliation for the killing of one of your Nazis by a Jewish hit team. Ring any bells?’

His eyes didn’t blink behind his smart specs. He asked again, even softer this time: ‘What do you want, Colonel?’

‘We want to know where to find Sturmbannführer Fritz Suhren, former commandant of Ravensbrück. We want the names and whereabouts of the other Nazis at large including Hauptsturmführer Langefeld’s lover. And when we have all that, we want to rip up this end of the rat line. No more Nazis heading off to a sweet life in South America. Not through
my
country.’

He was silent for a long moment; then he pulled himself up in his chair. His voice strengthened. ‘Who sent you? Who are you working for?’

‘If you’d answer some of my questions, I might answer yours.’

Danny cut in. ‘Tell us, Major, can you be in the CIA and a serving officer at the same time?’

He peered at us slowly though his glasses. Then he got up. ‘Gentlemen, I think we’re done here. If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.’

Danny was also on his feet. And pointing a gun at Salinger. Sam’s Webley looked huge in his hand.

‘Now that’s veeery stupid,’ said the Major.

‘No, what’s very stupid is not answering our questions,’ said Danny, settling his stance and supporting his gun hand with his left. His voice had the ring of calm certainty of the slightly deranged. From Salinger’s viewpoint the gun would look like a small cannon. For the first time, Salinger’s façade cracked a little.

Danny continued: ‘You see this scar, Major? I earned it in France. From the Gestapo. They made it worse during my sabbatical in Dachau. And here’s the thing: after I got back they gave me months of psychiatric treatment. Because I used to do crazy things.
Apparently
.’ He shrugged. ‘I don’t recall
every
silly wee thing I did. But I know it included shooting the man who framed me for murder. Funnily enough,’ he mused, ‘he was a major too. British Army. But hie, I’m not choosy.’

Salinger’s eyes were growing wider. I decided to help things along.

‘I’m afraid it’s all true, Major. Captain McRae is as controllable as a bucket of frogs. Crazy enough to shoot his old boss. Crazy enough to shoot an American officer who was helping Nazis use his country as a staging post.’ I sighed. ‘If he’s caught, McRae will just get hospitalised for a while then let out again. Mad as a hatter. But my kind of mad. The choice is yours. Sit down and talk or get a bullet in the head.’

‘Not the head, Colonel. I wouldnae start there,’ said Danny, pointing his gun lower.

I looked at him, and then turned to the major and shrugged as if to say,
What can you do with a lunatic?

The major was gulping and I could see a sheen of sweat form on his lip and forehead. He swallowed and found his voice. It was less certain now.

‘This is such a big mistake. You guys have no idea what you’re doing.’

‘The mistake would be yours. We know what we’re doing. We want to know what
you’re
doing.’

He thought for a moment and nodded. We took our seats again and he began to talk. Danny encouraged him by keeping his gun trained on his gut. Salinger confirmed what we knew, or guessed. That he’d been seconded to the CIA to perform this service.

‘This order came from the top, Colonel. And I mean the top. That means your government knows all about it, don’t you think?’

I feared he was right. ‘Keep going.’

He knew it sounded bad but it was pragmatism at work. Didn’t we realise who the new enemy was? Didn’t we hear Churchill’s iron curtain slamming down across Europe? We’d seen how the Commies had fought: mercilessly and with zero regard for their own casualties. The West was next.

‘Hell, you English fought the French a dozen times. Now you’re allies.’

‘We’re not English,’ Danny interrupted.

‘OK, OK, you Scots fight alongside the English and the Irish, for God’s sake. What does it matter? This is the here and now!’ He jabbed the arm of his chair for emphasis.

‘Why did the conveyor stop?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Last year. The rat line got stuck.’

He shrugged. ‘Change of policy. You know how that goes.’

‘Tell me.’

‘My predecessor wasn’t doing enough – how shall we put it? – sifting.’

‘Any old Nazi got through?’

‘That kinda thing. We decided we should be a bit more selective.’

‘Useful Nazis, as opposed to plain old sadistic murderers.’

‘Broadly.’

‘How many got a home run before this change in policy?’

‘Before I came on board, about a dozen.’

‘But you let another batch get this far.’

He looked pained. ‘Not our idea. The guy on the continent just dumped them on us.’

‘How many in the second batch?’

‘Eight, I guess.’

‘You guess? You don’t seem to be giving this your full attention, Major. Let’s drop all the moral arguments. What we’re dealing with here is murder. Some of the guys in
your
team have committed murder on our soil. We want them in custody. And if you have had any hand in the business we want you in custody too.’

‘Wait a minute. Just a goddamn minute! You can’t touch me. My government would come down on yours like a ton of shit. You Limeys won’t know what hit you—’

‘Spare us the threats, Salinger. We can account for three of the second batch of eight: Mandel, Draganski and Langefeld. All three dead. Correct?

‘If you say.’

‘We also know three of the names of SS officers from the delayed batch: Fritz Suhren, Rudolf Gebhardt, Siegfried Fischer. Are those correct?’

‘Could be.’

‘Could? Let’s assume so. We want their local identities. And where we can find them. That leaves two unnamed women. We want them identified and located. Help us and we’ll leave you alone. I’ll put the word up the line and let my government handle you any way they want to.’

‘Why the hell should I?’

I nodded towards Danny who was playing with the gun in his lap. ‘Maybe I’ll just leave you two alone for a while. See what transpires.’

Danny looked up and grinned. It wasn’t a nice grin.

Salinger said, ‘All right. I can give you details. But they’re back in my office.’

‘Where’s your office?’

‘Just along the corridor. Next building.’

Danny and I looked at each other. Was he bluffing? Playing for time? Luring us into a trap? Maybe all of the above.

‘Let’s go,’ I said. ‘Captain McRae, please walk behind us with your gun under your coat.’

We walked through the officers’ mess and into a long corridor. We passed open rooms and offices, and as we walked we got deeper and deeper into what seemed to be American territory. The uniforms were US Army or Air Force. The salutes came thick and fast. And somewhere in that progress, Salinger must have given a signal. We stopped outside an office with his name and title on the glass panel.

‘Here we are, gentlemen.’

He turned the handle and walked in. We followed and found two US Marine rifles sticking in our ribs.

FIFTY-FIVE

Behind us were running steps and shouts. More rifles and pistols were jammed in our backs.

Salinger called out: ‘Take their weapons and cuff them.’ A US Marine sergeant asked, ‘Sir! Please, sir! This one’s a senior British officer. Cuff him too?’

‘Cuff him, Sergeant. I have reason to believe he’s impersonating an officer. Take them both down to the brig and lock them up. We’ll do some checking of their credentials.’

He stood in front of me. ‘You don’t get it, do you? This is World War Three, fellas. Time to choose sides.’ He turned to his sergeant. ‘Take them away.’

We had a hard bed each. And one toilet and basin. We sat facing each other, heads in hands.

‘You’re going to have to stop pulling a gun on people.’

‘It works.’

‘Unless they have more guns than you.’

‘True, Brodie, true.’

‘You
are
bloody mad, you know.’

‘I thought you were overdoing that point, frankly.’

‘Not nearly enough.’

The hours drifted by. Meals were brought to us, and tea, but no one came to ask us questions. We shouted at the guards to bring the most senior British officer at the airport. Or to allow us one phone call. But nothing. We were simply ignored. They were well trained. We made ourselves as comfortable as possible on the bunk beds and eventually drifted off to sleep.