Читать книгу Black Cross - Greg Iles - Страница 13

It was late afternoon in London when Brigadier Smith’s silver Bentley rolled onto the A40 and headed for Oxford. Smith was driving himself today, making use of an ingenious shift mechanism designed for him by SOE engineers. Jonas Stern sat beside him, studying a topographic map of Mecklenburg, the northernmost province of Germany.

“I remember it all,” he said excitedly. “Every road, every brook. Brigadier, the target has to be Totenhausen.”

“Be patient, lad.”

“I don’t see the concentration camp marked here.”

“I told you, Totenhausen isn’t like any camp you’ve ever heard of. It’s strictly a laboratory and testing facility. Compared to a place like Buchenwald, it’s minuscule. The SS let the trees grow right up to the electric fence. You need a larger scale map. Himmler is serious about hiding that camp.”

Brigadier Smith had not worn his uniform today. He looked professorial in a tweed jacket and stalker’s cap. “Listen,” he said, “I’ve changed my mind about this meeting.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I don’t want you to say anything unless I ask you to.”

“Why not?”

Smith looked away from the road long enough to let Stern know he meant what he was about to say. “Dr. McConnell is not like most men. He’s too smart to be manipulated—by you, anyway—and he’s too principled to be shamed or bribed into doing anything he doesn’t believe in. He’s also too bloody pigheaded to listen to reason.”

Stern gazed out of the car window. “What kind of man calls himself a pacifist in 1944? Is he a religious fanatic?”

“Not at all.”

“A philosopher? Head in the clouds?”

“In the sand, more like. He’s a different sort of chap. Brilliant, but down to earth. Probably a genius. The pacifism comes from his father. He was a doctor too. Gassed in the Great War, one of the worst cases. Badly scarred, blinded. That’s why the son chose the field he did. Wanted to prevent that kind of thing from ever happening again. Didn’t muck about, either. His uncle owned a dye factory in Atlanta, Georgia. When McConnell was sixteen, he used the chemicals in that plant to brew his own mustard gas. Phosgene too. Tested it on rats he trapped in the basement. Building bloody gasmasks at sixteen.”

“He sounds like a dangerous sort of pacifist.”

“Oh, he could be, if he chose. He’s a riddle. He was a Rhodes scholar in 1930. Took a First at University College. Went back to America for medical school. Graduated top of his class there, then decided to go into general practice. Master’s degree in chemical engineering. Holds five or six patents in the U.S. for various industrial compounds.”

“He’s rich?”

“He didn’t grow up rich, if that’s what you mean. I’m sure he’s comfortable enough now. My point is this. He may say things that seem truly outlandish to you, or to anyone who really understands war. But don’t lose your temper, no matter what. And don’t mention his father. In fact, don’t say anything at all.”

Stern tossed the map of northern Germany onto the floor of the Bentley. “Why did you bring me along, then?”

“I want you to get a look at him. If he agrees to go on the mission, he’ll be your only partner.”

“What? You’re saying this is a two-man job?”

“As far as you’re concerned, yes.” Brigadier Smith revved the Bentley past a U.S. Army truck.

Stern shook his head slowly. “This sounds more like a suicide mission every day.”

“It may well be. But keep one thing clear in your mind. The mission you hear me propose to McConnell will be somewhat different than the mission I discussed with you. For obvious reasons, certain aspects of the offensive side of things will be … minimized. No matter what I say, you will show no surprise. Clear?”

“No matter what anybody says, I keep my mouth shut.”

Brigadier Smith glanced at the young Zionist one last time. “So far, you haven’t shown much of a talent for that.”

Stern showed his right palm to the brigadier and wiggled his middle finger up and down, the most obscene Arab gesture he knew.