The Intercom Conspiracy (25 page)

Latimer himself had seemed unaware of that aspect of the situation. True, in a letter to me he had spoken of taking risks, but he had never referred to them in our discussions. His attitude towards the project had been like the attitude he had ascribed to his two colonels on the threshold of their conspiracy; he had been playing a rather amusing intellectual game of ‘let’s pretend’. I had assumed – reasonably, I think – that publication of the book would come as a big and disagreeable surprise to Jost and Brand; and, remembering what I had been through, I had looked forward to the moment. As far as I was concerned the bigger and more disagreeable the surprise the better. It had never occurred to
me that Latimer might have neglected to take precautions against premature disclosure of the book’s subject matter.

His game-playing approach to the material had also produced some strange inconsistencies. In one place he described Jost and Brand as hard-headed, self-reliant and resourceful men ‘with the special skills needed for the successful conduct of clandestine operations’ and habits of discretion that were instinctive. Yet, in another place, and in order to authenticate his narrative reconstruction, he had explained that Jost ‘liked to talk’. If Jost had talked as freely as the reconstruction suggested he would appear to be one of the blabbermouths of all time and about as well suited to the successful conduct of clandestine operations as a skid-row alcoholic. If I had not had first-hand evidence of the existence of the Arnold Bloch conspiracy, I would have been tempted to dismiss the narrative reconstruction entirely and to conclude that Latimer’s ability to deal with fact had at last been overcome by his talent as a purveyor of fiction. As things were I could only treat it with reserve and remember that its author had unaccountably and under strange circumstances vanished.

Latimer had once described me as being in the position of an innocent bystander caught in a bank hold-up or that of the victim of a practical joke perpetrated by strangers. Was it possible, I wondered, that he had without knowing strayed into one of those positions himself?

Two months after the disappearance, his London publisher came to see me. I discussed with him some of the questions I have raised here. The outcome of our discussion was that I received a commission to act in Latimer’s absence (now assumed to be enforced) as a kind of editorial salvage man, to gather what further material I could and attempt to tie up some of the loose ends. My first task would be to go to Majorca and try to locate Colonel Jost. In the event (thought to be unlikely) of my succeeding, I was to make a cautious approach to him and find out if he were prepared to be interviewed by me, or, if he were not, whether he would be willing to make a statement for publication.

I flew to Majorca at the end of the first week in August.

Latimer’s house was on a hillside above a small inlet town on the southeast coast of the island. The town was flanked by steep pine-covered slopes rising from beaches of soft sand and was overpoweringly picturesque. At that time of the year it was also very hot. Luckily I was able to get a room at an inn with a pleasant outdoor dining terrace.

I took the room for a week. If Jost were living in or near the town I thought that would give me time enough in which to find him; and if I failed to find him in that time I could reasonably conclude that he didn’t live there. In the latter event I would check the nearby towns and villages – there were two villages and one other town within a ten-kilometre radius – and if I still failed, that would be that. I would go home.

I was neither pessimistic nor optimistic about my chances. As a young reporter I learned that in order to find and interview persons who don’t want to be found and interviewed you often need luck as well as ingenuity and persistence. For luck you can only hope. I was relying on the other things. True, I knew neither the name Jost was using nor his nationality, and I had to remember that either or both could be assumed; but I did know what he looked like and that he was a foreign resident. I also had a possible lead. The man from London had told me that the Majorcan couple employed by Latimer as cook-housekeeper and gardener were still in his house and, since Latimer had not then been presumed dead, were still being paid by his accountant in Palma. It was my intention to talk to the couple and find out who in the neighbourhood had been Latimer’s friends and acquaintances. If Jost was among them I felt sure that it wouldn’t take me long to track him down. I had decided to go up to the house first thing in the morning.

I never went. There was no need to go.

I dined at nine-thirty. That is early by Spanish standards and, since the Anglo-American tourist invasion hasn’t yet reached that particular town, I had the terrace to myself for a while. It was a fine Mediterranean night. The air was still, but it had cooled off a little and the sounds of crickets and the waves on the beach
below were soothing. I ate a mountainous paella and drank a bottle of white wine. Around ten-thirty the terrace began to fill up and I began to think of sleep. However, I didn’t immediately do anything about it. I was comfortable where I was and I knew that my room would still be hot and stuffy. I ordered a brandy.

And then Jost came in.

2

He looked about ten years younger than when I had last seen him. His face and arms were deeply tanned and the sun and sea had bleached his hair white. The bifocals were gone. He wore a blue linen beach shirt, denim slacks and espadrilles. He exuded good health, and though he still wore a regretful little smile there was something fat-cat about it now. With him was a girl young enough to be his daughter, but obviously not his daughter. She had long, light-brown hair, a Modigliani face and a lean, seductive little body. There was nothing incongruous about the pair of them. If she was the kind of girl who liked going to bed with older men, he was the kind of virile older man that kind of girl usually has in mind. Evidently Colonel Jost had found a better cure for boredom in retirement than talk and detective stories.

They were valued patrons. The innkeeper’s wife herself showed them to their table, fussing over them and chattering as she took their order. I heard her pass it on to the kitchen.

‘Crayfish,’ she said; ‘large portions for Señior Siepen and the Señora.’

That name really startled me. No doubt my mention of it had startled Latimer when I told him about Jost’s visit to
Intercom
. It also explained something. That big cut in the manuscript had been made to protect not me but Colonel Jost.

He hadn’t seen me and I was glad he hadn’t. I needed time to think.

Werner Siepen of Hamburg was clearly a very well-established and well-documented identity; Jost had probably been building
it up for years. It suited him. The West German passport that went with the identity was doubtless impeccable, and in Majorca there would be few to notice that his German accent wasn’t quite Hamburg and fewer still to care.

But it had been careless of him to use the Siepen identity in Geneva. As far as I was concerned he was blown. All I had to do now was to let him know it, but to do so in such a way as to inform him at the same time that, if he was prepared to answer some questions, he had nothing to fear from me.

He still hadn’t seen me. I sipped my brandy and wondered what would be the best approach. It wasn’t, I knew, going to be easy. Blown he might be, but he was in a strong position. My weakness was that I still didn’t know his true identity. Those who did know it, his former chiefs, had almost certainly concluded by now that their former Director of Defence Intelligence had been one half of the partnership know as Arnold Bloch. Clearly, they would not advertise that conclusion unless they were obliged to do so; politically the revelation would be horribly embarrassing. When the
Intercom
scandal broke, Colonel Jost had had a choice of two courses. Course One meant staying on the job and, if suspicions were aroused and awkward questions were asked, standing pat, denying everything and counting on being believed. Course Two meant clearing out ahead of the questions, leaving those with the red faces to draw their own conclusions, and becoming Werner Siepen.

Wisely, perhaps, he had chosen the second course. True, he had forfeited his pension and lost his good name; but who needed a colonel’s pension when he had a million Swiss francs in the bank, and who cared about losing a good name when the loss remained on the secret list? There was not very much left to expose about Jost. All he really had to fear from me was inconvenience – the inconvenience of having to change his identity again and find another place to live.

He was pouring a glass of wine for the girl when he saw and recognised me. For a moment our eyes met, then he went on pouring. He didn’t spill a drop. He was a cool one.

I considered going over to his table, then decided to wait and let him come to me. He would have to find out whether my presence there was coincidental or not, and it would be better to let him make the first move. Once he had made it, though, I would have to get a hook into him. Until he had realised that he would be better off if he came to terms with me, there was nothing to stop him taking the first plane to the mainland in the morning and simply avoiding me. Even if I could have kept track of him – a big if – I was in no position to go chasing all over Spain; the expense money wouldn’t have run to that.

I had another brandy and watched them eat crayfish. They both had hearty appetites. To pass the time I tried working myself up into a rage about them – or him anyway. Jost–Siepen had, after all, been instrumental in giving me a bad time – one of the worst I had known – and he had done so simply in order to have money in the bank and be able to sit on a terrace with a sexy girl friend and stuff his belly with crayfish. And I wasn’t the only casualty now of that game for two players. Latimer, too, had been carried off the field. The nature and extent of his injuries were yet to be ascertained, but it was unlikely that they had been superficial. And here was Jost–Siepen, one of the winners, living it up like a bloody lord and …

But it was no good. I couldn’t get angry. The only emotion of which I was capable just then – if it is an emotion – was curiosity. I badly wanted to know.

Eventually, Siepen called for the bill and they got up to go. As they did so I saw him say something to the girl and motion with his head in my direction. She smiled and then with a casual glance at me left the terrace. Colonel Jost, as I shall call him now, came over to my table. I stood up.

‘We’ve met before, I think,’ he said in Spanish. ‘Señor Carter, isn’t it?’

Spanish is not one of my languages. I knew he spoke English, so I answered him in it.

‘Yes. We met in Geneva, Colonel.’

His eyes flickered at the word ‘colonel’, but he was still smiling.

‘My name is Siepen.’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I remember. But we have mutual friends, Colonel, who know you better than I do.’

‘Do we?’ His eyes were very watchful now.

‘Charles Latimer, who was your neighbour here.’

‘Ah yes. And you were a friend of his?’

‘I knew Arnold Bloch of Munich better, Colonel. In fact it was he who suggested that I should come here and see you.’

He took that blatant lie calmly. ‘About a money matter, perhaps?’

‘About a matter of information. He said you had some to sell.’

‘What price did you have in mind, Mr Carter?’ He spoke very quietly now.

‘Anonymity, Colonel,’ I said. ‘Your privacy here.’

He pursed his lips, then nodded. ‘I see no reason why we should not at least discuss the matter. Tomorrow perhaps? Or the next day?’

‘Either would do.’ He made a movement as if to leave and I went on quickly. ‘Colonel, when we last met you gave me some advice. The man of sense, you said, submits to pressure with good grace. If for any reason you should not be available tomorrow or the next day, if, for example, you were suddenly to be called away on business, I would have to conclude that anonymity and privacy were of no value to you.’

He shrugged. ‘Privacy is of value to every man of sense. My car is outside and a lady is waiting. Join us if you wish.’

His coolness was disconcerting. ‘Now?’

‘Why not, if your business is so urgent?’ He turned and started to walk out. I caught up with him at the kitchen door.

‘Just a moment, Colonel,’ I said. ‘Where exactly are we going?’

He stopped and gave me an amused look. ‘Don’t worry, Mr Carter. You’ll get back safely.’ He put his head inside the kitchen and called to the innkeeper’s wife. ‘Señor Carter is an old friend. He is coming with me to my house to join me in a glass. Don’t lock him out, Señora.’

She came out, beaming, to assure him that she wouldn’t. I received a look of approval. As a friend of Señor Siepen I had clearly gone up in her estimation.

The car was a B.M.W. and the girl was sitting at the wheel. Jost introduced me to her as he got in beside her. ‘This,
mein Schatz
, is Herr Carter. He is a friend of Herr Lewison and we have a little business to discuss. It won’t take long.’ He patted her thigh.

He did not tell me his ‘treasure’s’ name. As I climbed into the back seat she gave me a quick smile and then started the engine.

Jost’s house was on the other side of the inlet at the end of a hillside road crisscrossed by low-voltage power lines. He spoke only once on the way. We were passing a heavy wooden gate at the entrance to a driveway.

‘Lewison’s house,’ he said. ‘Have you been there?’

‘No.’

‘A very nice property. It has a lemon grove.’

His own place was among fig trees and looked like a remodelled farmhouse. The living room – the only room I saw – was furnished in a Spanish provincial style with upholstered chairs and sofas added for comfort. There was a large fireplace. A paved terrace had been added on the side facing the sea and vines were being trained over a rustic pergola to give shade from the sun. From the terrace a steep path led down to the beach some distance below.

When we reached the terrace Jost lit candles mounted in wrought-iron brackets and then turned to me