Pilgrim Soul (39 page)

Much later, we poured Duncan into a squad car that he’d summoned.
A wee perk o’ the job, lads.
The rest of us went to our separate rooms for separate nights of troubled dreams.

For penance in the morning I should have done an extra ten lengths at the Western. But it was still closed. In lieu, I filled my stomach with four oblongs of grilled Ulster Fry in a floury bap. The result was I felt much better when I reached my desk than I had any right to. The good feelings didn’t last long. Eddie lounged over the filing cabinet holding a long streamer of tickertape in one hand.

‘This just came in, Brodie. Seems your Jewish pals are holding this Yank. Threatening to shoot him unless . . .’

‘Unless what, Eddie?’

‘They didnae say. In fact it seems that’s what the
unless
is aboot. They will reveal
something
unless the Americans stop doing whatever it is they huvnae revealed. If you follow. Any guesses?’ He looked at me knowingly.

‘Oh, yes, Eddie. I can guess.’

‘Can we run wi’ it? Or are you going tae go all secret agent on me?’

I got up and stood behind my chair to think better. Eddie waited. I came to a decision.

‘Can we do an evening edition, Eddie?’

His eyes gleamed just like the old Eddie’s. ‘Is it that good, Brodie?’

‘It’s big. Big as it gets. Give me an hour.’

It took three drafts with much blue-pencilling from both Eddie and Sandy Logan to get the words right. There were also calls upstairs to let the directors know what we were doing and to get their permission to run a special. They wanted to see a draft first. Then they wanted to see me.

Eddie and I were ushered into the boardroom on the fifth floor for a hastily convened meeting. I found myself facing Alec Gillespie, the Chief Executive, across the table. Four of his fellow directors lined the sides of the dark oak table. The smoke from two pipes and three cigarettes made the air opaque.

‘Mr Brodie,’ asked Gillespie. ‘Is this true?’ He waved my draft article.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You’re really saying that there are escaped Nazis living in Glasgow, and that they’ve been behind the spate of murders in the Jewish community? And’ – he looked down – ‘this operation has been run by the United States military out of Prestwick Airport?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Hell’s teeth, man. Can you prove this?’

‘If you mean, can I table evidence that would stand up in court, I doubt it. The question is, can the government
dis
prove it?’

Gillespie tapped his fingers on the table while he thought. Then he reached out and pulled the snake of tickertape towards him.

‘And this American major who’s been kidnapped, he was running the show here? This is what the terrorists are threatening to reveal?’

‘I believe so, sir.’

‘What happens if we run this?’

‘To Major Salinger? We can’t be sure. But if we don’t, we can be pretty certain that the Americans will refuse to agree to the kidnappers’ demands. They will never admit they’re helping some Nazis escape while they’re busy hanging others in Nuremberg. Whereas if
we
disclose it, the Jews will get part of what they want and they might release Salinger unharmed.’

‘But the Americans will deny it and our government will get it in the neck. Then
we’ll
get it in the neck.’

One of the other directors – Hamilton, I think – leaned across the table.

‘Alec, we’re a newspaper. This is news. Big news. We cannae miss this chance.’

Gillespie looked round the table. He got nods from the three others. A smile lit his face. He looked as though he’d been waiting for this moment all his days.

‘Mr Paton, don’t just stand there, roll the presses!’

SIXTY-ONE

We didn’t have enough material in the main article to publish a full paper. We got a couple of other journalists to knock out some fillers on the weather and sport. And we always had a spare couple of cartoon strips for such an eventuality. But I sat with Sandy and concocted a chain of linked columns that traced the pattern of events since the first inkling of something dark happening. We reminded the readers of the various murders and how we could now reveal their connections. We flung in some photos from my SS scrapbook and tossed around some lurid headlines.

I wrote about the goings on at Prestwick Airport. How it had been taken over by the Americans and how it was being used as a staging post for Nazi war criminals to swan out of the country and on to a nice life in the free world. I considered presenting Salinger’s arguments about combating the rise of communism to see what reaction we’d get, but then I realised I knew what the man on the Govan tram would say.
Whit? Are ye aff yer heid? We jist fought a bloody war against they bastards. An’ noo ye want to be pals wi’ them? Away tae hell . . .

The end result was a ten-pager whose front page ran under the banner ‘NAZIS AMONG US’.

By six o’clock the paper-sellers were calling out the latest from every street corner in Glasgow:
Latest, latest, read all about it! Nazi gang in Glasgow! Nazi murderers in Glasgow! Special edition! Read all about it!

And they did . . .

I was exhausted by the time I got home clutching a copy of the special. But Sam had beaten me to it. She was in the lounge, sipping tea, the paper folded on the side table beside her.

‘Do you think this was wise?’ She pointed at the paper. ‘I mean, aren’t you going to get shouted at by – oh, let me think – everybody? It’s already on the wireless.’

‘Sticks and stones.’

‘It’s the stones that worry me. Not to mention the knives and guns.’

‘Samantha, I’m fed up being on the back foot. Let’s see what reactions we get.’

The phone rang. We smiled at each other.

‘That’ll be for you,’ we said together.

I broke first.

I went down to the hall and picked up the phone.

‘Colonel Brodie, please hold the line.’

Oh, God. Still a colonel then.

Then: ‘Brodie? It’s Percy Sillitoe.’

‘Sir.’

‘Have you any idea how upset our best friends are?’

‘No, sir.’

‘This is at Foreign Sec level, Brodie. They are –
we
are, it is only fair to say – pissed off at the very highest level. Especially my sister service.’

‘Sorry to hear that, sir.’

‘You should have consulted me before telling the world that the Americans are protecting former Nazis.’

‘You would have stopped me.’

‘Damn right I would.’ Then his voice dropped. ‘So I’m glad you didn’t.’

‘Sir?’

His voice lost its hectoring tone. ‘You’re a man after my own heart, Brodie. Act first, apologise afterwards. That’s how I cleaned up Glasgow in the thirties. With your help. And
your
bravado has got a result. MI6 has coughed up a name, Brodie. Along with their heart’s blood and spleen. Bloody games they play. Anyway, we have a name and details of the top Nazi that Salinger was trying to get out of the country.’

‘Suhren, I presume, but why are the Americans helping?’

‘On the one hand they can openly and publicly deny their role in helping Nazi war criminals escape. They will want you to withdraw your outrageous claims. But at the same time they can quietly tell the kidnappers you have the person they want and get Major Salinger back.’

‘But I don’t.’

‘Well, it’s time you did, isn’t it? And I have news for you. It’s not Suhren.’

‘What!’

‘Apparently the former commandant of Ravensbrück missed the cut. The Yanks changed their mind about letting him through. He had nothing they wanted.’

My brain did a flip. ‘But Suhren came here. He left Cuxhaven for Leith about a year ago.’

‘He did, but the Americans were already reviewing policy. Re-assessing criteria, shall we say. Hence the pause in the conveyor belt. Suhren’s arrival simply confirmed their doubts. His skills – running a concentration camp, for God’s sake – were not required in the New World. And the man was a loose cannon. Wanted the emperor treatment. Fine food, wines, brandy. Wouldn’t lie low. Quite delusional.’

‘Fits with Odette Sansom’s description. Where is he now?’

‘Sailed away under his own steam. They think he found his way to France.’

‘Damn! So who
is
the chief rat? One of the other medics? Rudolf Gebhardt? Siegfried Fischer?’

‘Neither. I’m afraid they both caught a ride to the Americas.’

‘Useful Nazis?’

‘Apparently. They did some interesting research into eugenics and how to survive dips in the North Sea.’

I was struggling to take it in. ‘So who’s left?’

‘The mystery woman. The one you call Auntie.’

‘Name?’

‘Dr Herta Kellerman. She was a senior doctor at Auschwitz and, before that, Ravensbrück, where she trained. You’ll have a photo and full details first thing in the morning. I have a courier on his way.’

‘I assume she was no angel of mercy?’

‘Hardly. She carried out experiments on wounds. You would know how easily wounds go septic on the battlefield.’

I surely did. I’d seen more than my share of men weeping as they were hauled away to have a leg or arm amputated a few days after a minor shrapnel wound. If they were lucky.

‘What did she do?’

‘Experimented with a stuff called sulphanilamide. Seemed to have some success with it. Huge potential.’

‘We used sulfa. So did the Yanks. Poured it over everything. But it was hit and miss. We lost thousands of fighting men from minor wounds that went bad.’

‘You can see why our friends across the water were interested.’

‘So she was testing this stuff on the German soldiers?’ It was a stupid question. I knew the answer but just didn’t want to hear it.

‘Not on their own troops, Brodie. The good doctor tested it on the camp inmates. Injected them with spores of tetanus and gangrene. And just to make certain, cut them open and filled the wounds with dirt and glass and metal. To simulate a battlefield injury. Then she waited till the rot set in and tried to arrest it with varying amounts and forms of sulphanilamide.’

‘Good God!’

‘No, he wasn’t. Not in the camps, Brodie. You know that.’

I felt a bubble rise in my chest. My heart was hammering. Not again. Not now. I focused on what he told me. Concentrated on the next steps.

‘So Salinger was lying. They restarted the rat line for the select few. Why didn’t Kellerman get passed on to the Americas?’

‘We don’t know. The Yanks didn’t say.’

‘Why don’t the Yanks go get her themselves?’

‘Because they don’t want to have anything to do with her. Not after your newspaper revelations. As I said, they’re going to deny everything.’

‘Well then, we can call on Malcolm McCulloch and his merry men.’

‘Brodie, you can’t sidestep this. We don’t want a hue and cry. Any more than we have already.
You
need to find her. Bring her in.’

‘Where do I start? Where is she now? Does she have a new name?’

‘At this stage all I know is she’s still calling herself doctor. More details in the morning.’

‘She’s practising?’ I felt the last piece click sickeningly into place.

‘Apparently. The Glasgow Cancer Hospital.’

Of course. ‘Did she bring a colleague with her? From the camp?’

‘Oh, yes. The woman you handed over to McCulloch? Bathsheba something? Seems she was her assistant. Real name Martha Haake, a nurse at the camp.’

‘Salinger knew all this. He was playing with me. Did our American friends tell you about the others? The ones who murdered Isaac Feldmann, kidnapped Belsinger? Who hanged Malachi? Are they the same team?’

‘They knew nothing, I’m afraid, Brodie.’

‘But likely to be armed. At least with pickaxe handles.’

‘You should assume so. And because of that, Brodie, I’m giving you authority to arm up to six of the men in this ragtag army of yours. Do any of them know how to handle weapons?’

‘I know just the ones, sir. Where will I get the arms?’

‘McCulloch. I’m calling him now. Good luck, Colonel.’

SIXTY-TWO

I stood for a long time in the hall, long enough for Sam to poke her head out the lounge door and ask if I was all right. It jolted me out of my bleak reverie.

‘That was Sillitoe.’

‘Did he shout at you?’

‘Funnily enough, no. We have a name. I think the phrase is:
the game’s afoot.
I’ll be up in a tick. I need to make a call.’

I was hanging up when Danny came in. I joined Sam in the lounge and waited till Danny was with us to tell them about Sillitoe’s call.

Danny was galvanised. ‘This is it, Douglas! Let’s go!’

‘Go where, Danny? It’s ten o’clock at night.’

‘The hospital, of course.’ He was on his feet and pacing.

‘She will be long gone. She must be the woman living at the flat in Finnieston. And she hasn’t been seen since we uncovered Bathsheba – sorry,
Haake
. Besides, we’re waiting for a photo and more details from Sillitoe in the morning.’

‘There’s no harm in ruling out the hospital where . . . where Haake worked.’ His face twisted. He’d shown little emotion other than anger over Bathsheba. I wondered how he was really taking it?

Sam said, ‘Douglas is right, Danny. It’ll keep till the morning. And what about these others? The four who killed Isaac and Malachi. Same four? Who are they? Where are they? Are they standing guard round this woman?’

‘On that last point, Sillitoe’s authorised me to arm some of our team. I’ve asked them to meet me here first thing. Then we’ll do some planning.’

I slept badly and woke early when I heard the letterbox snap and something hit the wood floor of the hall. I went down to retrieve it and sat in the kitchen studying the papers and the photo. The door opened and Sam came in wearing her dressing gown.

‘Tell me,’ she said.

‘She’s got a passport in the name of Dr Heather Coleman. Funny how people don’t want to get too far from their own name. Before the war, she did her medical training in Berlin and then four years at Imperial College and at Guy’s Hospital in London. Native German speaker but also Polish, French and, of course, from her stint in London, fluent in English.’