Thomas was led from the immigration area and placed in the backseat of an unmarked dark-blue Rover. His luggage was placed in the trunk. He pulled slightly at the cuffs on his wrists and shuddered at the feeling of freedom diminished. He saw that the backseat of the car, which was separated from the front by a wire screen, had doors that could not be opened from the inside.
One of the uniformed men drove. The other stayed behind.
Hunter sidled into the front seat in front of Thomas, his expansive shoulders filling practically half of the frontarea. The Rover pulled away from the curb.
"Where are you taking me?" asked Thomas.
Hunter turned to face his prisoner.
"Are you worried?" he asked.
Thomas didn't answer. The porcine bearded face slowly creased into a grin.
"I wouldn't worry," grunted Hunter.
"You're going exactly where you wanted to go. You really had very little choice about it. Mr. Peter Whiteside wants to see you himself."
The Rover was on the motorway heading toward London.
Thomas looked out of the car apprehensively.
"How did you know where I was coming from?" he asked.
"Oh, come now, Mr. Daniels" said Hunter in a baritone chuckle.
"George McAdam?"
"We could have picked you up in Switzerland if we'd liked. But that might have been sticky, as well as unnecessary. Thank you for flying British Airways" Thomas settled back in the seat, calming slightly and seeing no alternative.
"Why couldn't I have gone to see Whiteside myself."
"Because you have a nonexistent address:' growled Hunter.
Thomas looked at the back of Hunter's neck, a neck that must have measured eighteen inches in circumference.
"Really, Mr. Daniels, you're horribly naive" The car traveled through the bleak working-class neighborhoods surrounding London. It passed through several unrecognizable sections of the city. Then Thomas recognized Victoria Station before the Rover turned left and within three more minutes was pulling to a curb in front of a Belgravia townhouse.
Hunter stepped out and quickly unlocked the back door. Thomas stepped from the car and looked into Hunter's drooping eyes.
Thomas held out his captive wrists.
"Are these still necessary?" he asked.
"You don't think I'm letting you run away now, do you?" asked Hunter harshly.
"They weren't necessary at all. But you insisted."
He took Thomas by the elbow and moved him toward the unmarked front door of a solid sandstone townhouse.
"Come along" Hunter said absently.
Thomas allowed his overcoat to be draped across his wrists.
Hunter pressed a thick finger to a doorbell and the townhouse door opened seconds later.
A plain clothed security guard surveyed them. The guard obviously recognized Hunter. Thomas was led inside as the driver from the Rover carried in his luggage.
They entered a small white rotunda where still another security man stood. A colored institutional portrait of the Queen hung on one side of the round room, a Union Jack stood on a standard on the other side.
Thomas was led down a hallway which was carpeted with thick maroon runners. He recognized that he was within a gracefully aged Edwardian townhouse which had been converted to Government offices of some sort.
Hunter stopped him before a door.
"Now," asked Thomas's bear shaped keeper, "you're not going to do something foolish if I unlock you, are you?"
"Certainly not," said Thomas flatly
"I'm so happy to be here."
Hunter hardly batted an eye. He unlocked Thomas's wrists and then let Thomas into a small office off the hallway. Thomas's instructions were to sit down and wait, which he did, as Hunter closed Thomas in and stood outside.
Thomas seated himself on a comfortable sofa in a small plain room with no window. The room had an empty wooden desk, an armchair, sound insulation, and a few perfunctory decorations such as the British coat of arms on the wall behind the desk. The room offered very little other than privacy, of which it offered an abundance.
Thomas remained seated as an austere, elegant older man in a dark classically tailored pin-striped suit entered. The man was in his mid seventies but his body was trim and moved easily, giving no indication of its occupant's age. The man's eyes, as he glanced at Thomas Daniels, were sharp, blue, and alive. His hair had resisted grayness and was instead a yellowish white. In earlier years this had obviously been a remarkably handsome man, lean and athletic, a man to whom flabbiness of flesh would have been as repugnant as flabbiness of thought.
His movements were epicene. He offered his hand to Thomas.
"I'm Peter Whiteside," he said.
"Did you enjoy your trip?"
They shook hands. Thomas was still cautious.
"From Switzerland to London? Or from the airport to here?"
"No matter. Either." Whiteside sat in the armchair and studied the younger man. He sat with his legs crossed and both hands on the top knee.
"Was that your gorilla who picked me up?" asked Thomas.
"That's not very kind of you at all," said Whiteside, 'attributing bestial characteristics to my associate, Mr. Hunter."
"Why am I here?" Thomas asked.
"Because you wanted to be," laughed Whiteside.
"Good God, man, you were in Devon a few days ago asking leading questions, badgering the hall of records and trying to scare up the dead. Now don't tell me you don't want to be here where you can ask questions about Arthur Sandler and Leslie McAdam."
"Then let's begin," said Thomas.
"I don't like being held prisoner."
"You're not."
"I'm not under arrest?"
"You're free to leave at any time," said Whiteside.
"There's the door. I'll escort you to the street if you prefer."
Thomas studied the door and wondered if he sensed a trick.
"However," said Whiteside, "you'll find it rewarding to stay. We can have a most interesting conversation."
"All right," said Thomas. He settled back on the sofa.
"Intriguing," said Whiteside absently.
"How something like this crops up after twenty-some years."
"Excuse me?"
Whiteside's gaze shot back to Thomas.
"I'm retired, Mt. Daniels," he said.
"As far as the Foreign Office is concerned, I don't even exist anymore.
But this Sandler-McAdam problem was in my lap back in 1954. Nasty problem, really, though I don't expect that you know the half of it yet. My 'section,' shall we call it, was within M.I. Six and linked with the Chancellery of the Exchecquer. Or Treasury, as you'd term it."
"Money, in any language "Currency if you like," said Whiteside.
"That's how I became involved with Arthur Sandler."
"Currency manipulations again?"
Whiteside smiled.
"You are a barrister, aren't you? The incisive question quickly and succinctly. No matter. You'll have a few of your answers presently."
The smile disappeared.
"The trouble is, sir, for you, there will be other questions. Maybe you'll help us with those ' Thomas opened his hands to indicate that he had no idea of what Whiteside was speaking.
"Ah, yes' Whiteside continued, 'you're owed a few explanations.
Shall we start with Arthur Sandler?"
"I'd love to."
"You know him as an industrialist and a financier, I would think" said Whiteside.
"And with a bit of chemistry added in. Correct?"
"Reasonably correct " "Ah, yes. Some of the espionage nonsense, too.
You know about that' ' Thomas nodded.
"What you don't know about is Sandler's greatest singular skill.
The nice word for it is engraving."
"Engraving?"
"And the not-so-nice word for it is forgery. Or counterfeiting, if you prefer."
Thomas offered no reply. He merely sat there in puzzlement until Whiteside spoke again. He studied the intense acerbic man in front of him, a man with a Latin teacher's face and voice combined with the crisp assurance of a major in infantry.
"Daniels, either you're an actor of inordinate skills or you know nothing about this. In either event, I assume you would like to hear more' "I ' would."
"Have you ever heard of Operation Bernhard?"
The two shrewd eyes watched Thomas as he thought. Thomas shook his head.
"What about Sachsenhausen? Name mean anything?"
Thomas shrugged.
"How innocent the young are" commented Whiteside sardonically.
"What about Helmut Andorpher? Or Heinrich Kinder?" ill "Nothing," said Thomas.
"It's time we added to your education'" said Whiteside.
"Allow me to graphically transport you back to 1943. As you may have learned from the history books, there was a bit of a conflict going on in Europe."
Thomas was silent, watching and listening as Whiteside folded his long narrow fingers into a steeple on the desk before him.
"Germany had several different phases of its war against Britain"
Whiteside continued.
"Not all were military. There is more than one way to destroy a nation. Militarily is one way. Economically is another. Operation Bernhard was of the latter."
"A plan of economic destruction?" asked Thomas, his eyebrows lowered into a frown.
"Operation Bernhard was a highly secret German project," explained Whiteside, leaning forward and speaking with more intensity now.
"The operation was to counterfeit British currency, specifically the five-pound note but also tens and twenties. This was the brainchild, as it were, of an SS colonel named Helmut Andorpher who conceptualized the project in 1940 and received approval directly from Hitler in 1941.
The intention was quite simple.
Inflate the pound sterling so catastrophically that its value on the world market would be destroyed."
"Brilliant idea;' conceded Thomas.
"Not at all original," sneered Whiteside dourly.
"Andorpher was a student of history." Whiteside cleared his throat and allowed himself a thin smile.
"During your War of Independence our General Howe counterfeited Continental dollars to undercut their worth. With considerable success, I might add. The only distinguishing quality separating the original from the facsimile was that the counterfeit was a better product."
"But we won;'said Thomas.
There was a silence.
"Yes. I'm told you did. In any event, Andorpher headed Operation Bernhard. He was a formidable strategist and an "cellent soldier. What he was not was an engraver."
Thomas nodded.
"What he needed to make his operation work was the homme indispensable, the indispensable man who could engrave the plates and who could duplicate the paper. The man who could turn out the unquestionably perfect counterfeit product."
"And he found him. Within German intelligence, I'll bet "Very good, Daniels," nodded Whiteside.
"Of course he found him. A man very intimate with international finance and currency.
A German intelligence officer named Heinrich Kinder." Whiteside allowed himself another meager smile.
"A nom de guerre, of course."
"Of course ' "Arthur Sandler," sighed Whiteside.
"Our dear, dear American double agent Pensively, he continued,
"Well, our friend Herr Sandler straightened out the Huns with their printing presses. It makes sense. He was a chemist, remember? He concocted a bleach that positively lifted the ink off old one-pound notes. Then he reduced the paper to pulp, reprocessed it to accommodate five pound notes, meticulously reengraved the plates and began running off five-pound notes as fast as the presses could roll.
Damned nice of our American cousins to supply the enefny with the essential man for their Operation Bernhard. Don't you think so?" he concluded with bitterness.
"How much damage did they do?"
Whiteside broke his hands apart and rubbed the palms together.
"During the war, surprisingly little. The saving factor was that an operation such as this took enormous time to get underway.
Kinder-or Sandler-was given his workshop in Sachsenhausen concentration camp. He had labor there to run the presses, but there were logistical problems getting all his material and engraving tools to him. By the time everything was fully underway and by the time the presses were rolling at full speed, it was late 1944."
"And the war was almost over."
Whiteside nodded.
"The German armies were in retreat everywhere. And the channels in Switzerland, North Africa, and South America which could pass the money were limited or impaired. It was somewhat like the V-2 rockets, Daniels, or the atomic bomb.
Time ran out on the Huns before they could shove it down our throats."
Whiteside spent a moment in quiet reflection.
"Bloody jerries," he muttered.
Thomas sensed that Whiteside might be given to more candor than he'd intended. He pressed the questioning.
"You haven't even told me the real problem," said Thomas.
"Sorry?"
"You said Operation Bernhard did surprisingly little damage.
Your own words. Yet it was important."
"Yes, it was."
"Why? I said it did little damage during the war. What we're leading up to is 1945. Early on in the year."
Thomas thought quickly. It was just before this period that Arthur Sandler had stepped out of the life of Elizabeth Chatsworth.
"The fate of the Third Reich had been decided by the beginning of 1945" said Whiteside.
"No question about that. Again, it was a matter of time, closing the noose, choking off the armies, and reaching Berlin' Thomas listened intently. His eyes drifted to the coat of arms on the wall behind Whiteside. The Lion and the Unicom, Dieu et Mon Droit. .
"The Reich was drawing in upon itself," said Whiteside.
"Hitler had retreated to his Alpenfestung. He was on the dark side of insanity by now, of course. He was ordering children into combat, sending out commands for battalions which had long since been decimated.
And he ordered his counterfeiters to keep working. Right up till the end " Did they?"
"Yes" he said with a pained smile.
"And beyond. When the Bolsheviks got to Berlin, the counterfeiters packed it in. TheySandler, Andorpher, and whatever help they had-tried to escape with all the equipment, heading south toward Austria. They travelled by truck. That essentially is how we know what they were up to. The main truck, bearing most of the equipment plus crates and crates of freshly printed pound notes, broke down on the escape route. They couldn't bury it, it was too big. And they couldn't abandon it, it was too valuable. So they tried to hide it. Sandler released the brake on the top of a hill. They let it roll down until it splashed into a lake. And there it sank."
"Forgotten?" asked Thomas with obvious sarcasm.
"For a few weeks. Then the crates broke open. Millions of pounds worth of notes came floating to the surface. Fives, tens, twenties, and fifties. Need I say, the locals had a fine time. Wringing out the money and hanging it in trees to dry. It was the first time Allied intelligence heard of it. Wasn't exactly the type of thing that could be kept quiet. It was the first time any outsider had any inkling about Bernhard." Whiteside's brow was furrowed.
"There'd been suspicion for a long time, mind you. There were simply too' many pounds circulating. But now we knew. Our sacred pound sterling, and our friends the Sausage Makers had been printing it "And Sandler?" asked Thomas, sensing the next chapter.
"And Andorpher?"
Whiteside made a gesture with his mouth. It was half wince, half pained smile.
"This is where it gets sketchy," he said.
"But some basics are known. Andorpher, for example."
"Captured?"
"In a sense. He was found dead, seventy-five miles east. Not west, mind you, but east. He was lying in a ditch Whiteside delivered the next sentence as casually as ve might give a cricket score or a weather report.
"Andorpher was lying in a ditch with his throat Cut.
Ear to ear. That left our friend Sandler."
"Alone?"
"Almost. When the trucks were pulled out of the lake we learned that he'd taken along some items for good luck. The plates. The engraved counterfeiting plates."
"Of course," said Thomas, almost inaudibly.
Whiteside looked at the younger man as if to judge him. Whiteside's eyebrows were slanting downward in a nervous frown; his teeth were clenched in concentration.
"Now," Whiteside continued, 'let's see if Thomas Daniels is a man or a boy. Let's see if he can spot the fox in the thicket."
"Go ahead."
"You're obviously a clever young man, Mr. Daniels. Otherwise you would never have gotten this far. And if you're as sly as I give you credit for being, you'll have spotted something very wrong.
There must have been something in the story I told you that struck you as odd."
"A certain detail or turn?" asked Thomas.
"Yes. What was it?" he asked challengingly.
Thomas didn't have to think.
"East made no sense' he said simply.
"In light of everything about Arthur Sandler, east makes no sense at all."
"Exactly!" snapped Whiteside with enthusiasm, bringing a fist down hard on his desk. He allowed a moment or two to regather his poise.
"For twenty-two years, Mr. Daniels, east has made no sense.
And now we'll discuss why."