"No bloody sense at all' continued Whiteside.
"None! Here's a top American agent, a man who spent the war slipping back and forth across enemy lines, a man who moved around Austria and Germany with obscene ease, a man who knew the inner mechanisms of German intelligence for five years, and what does he do when the war is over? He moved one hundred eighty degrees in the wrong direction.
Instead of returning to the Americans, he jumps into the Russians'laps' "Whiteside shrugged disgustedly.
"We know he was in Moscow for a month at least' "There are possible explanations" said Thomas thoughtfully.
"Of course there are," buffed Whiteside.
"Countless explanations.
Want to know the best one, the one most popular at the Foreign Office?
Here it is: The Yanks recruited a closet Bolshevik in 1941.
Sandler, the theory goes, was working three ways from the middle, with his highest allegiance being given to Moscow."
"I don't follow," said Thomas.
Whiteside buffed slightly, as if mildly exasperated at having to explain.
"A triple game, Mr. Daniels he elaborated.
"You Americans thought Sandler was your own spy acting as a double agent against the Germans. In a sense he was, but he was also a triple, selling out Washington to Moscow whenever he had the opportunity. That would have explained why he went east instead of west."
"Intriguing," said Thomas reflectively.
"Intriguing, yes:' retorted Whiteside.
"And possible. But it doesn't wash. Not all the way. We tried several theories on Sandler.
We had to. Can you guess why?"
"It's obvious, isn't it? He had those plates. He kept using them"
"Brilliant' remarked Whiteside quietly from behind white teeth that were most clenched in annoyance.
"He kept printing our money."
Thomas suppressed a sudden smile as the incredible Sandler fortune, the one which had magically materialized after the war, flashed into his mind. Of course, he thought to himself. Of course, of course, of course!
There were muffled noises in the corridor outside the small room. They were voices. It broke Thomas's concentration and he glanced at his watch. He had been alone with Whiteside for almost an hour.
"From there we lost track of Sandler. We thought the Russians had him.
But then he turned up some way in New York. How he got from one place to the other I've never known. All I know is that he did. And his plates were with him."
"In the United States?"
"Where do you think all those pounds were being printed, damn it" snapped Whiteside.
"In your citadel of democracy. Our pound was being sabotaged unmercifully. It was happening on United States soil and nothing was done to stop it."
"Maybe.. " "Washington knew," said Whiteside flatly.
"They knew and did nothing" After an annoyed pause, he added,
"It strengthened the dollar, you know."
Thomas felt a tinge of embarrassment. Whiteside knew it and played the moment to its advantage, letting several seconds pass before speaking again.
"So you see, we knew that our currency was being sabotaged by counterfeits, we knew who was doing it, and we knew it had to be stopped. Your Uncle Sam wouldn't help" Whiteside sighed.
"We don't like to do things this way, really we' don't, But it became incumbent upon us." He -paused.
"We ordered him 'put down ' "Is that what you call assassinated?"
Thomas asked. Whiteside nodded.
"Sounds like the mercy killing of a horse."
"Term it anything you like,- said Whiteside.
"Men are much more vile than animals anyway. Call it killed. I gave the order myself.
Personally. In 1954. And in case you're wondering," he added without hesitation,
"I'd order it again today."
"You might have to," Thomas said.
"You missed the first time" "Yes " said Whiteside.
"I know. Sandler was up to the chauen ' as usual. He had a double.
Imagine" gel mused Whiteside pensively.
Then his expression brightened.
"But in any event, the forgery of pounds stopped soon thereafter. So the put-down of the double may have accomplished its purpose in a roundabout manner. Maybe it drove Sandler farther underground. Maybe it genuinely scared him, though I doubt it. Or maybe he was plain ready to graduate to other things. Who knows?"
Both men were silent in thought for a moment. Whiteside spoke next.
"All I know is that the forgery of British pound sterling stopped within weeks. That was all I was ever concerned with" "No, it's not"
Thomas reminded him gently.
"Not all. Not by a long shot "Ah, yes he said, remembering.
"Leslie "You certainly took steps to protect her. But why after all those years did Sandler feel that he had to come back and kill a wife and daughter? That makes no sense, either."
"Vaguely, it does," said Whiteside.
"But only when considered from a certain angle, and conceding that with Sandler one isn't always dealing with a rational man" "Can you elaborate?" asked Thomas.
"This is merely speculation, but maybe we never knew the full story of the post marital breakup. Perhaps there was a good reason why Sandler never returned to her after the war. Thus he could have been infuriated that she'd claim part of his 'estate' after he was 'dead." "
"Maybe," said Thomas.
"But why wait so long?"
"She initiated the contact," Whiteside said. His hands were busily working a small Canary Islands cigar out of a compact gold case.
He took the cigar in his lips, lit it, and was enshrouded by a mild white cloud of smoke as he continued to talk.
"Perhaps Sandler had believed her to be long lost and forgotten. Or perhaps he thought she'd been killed during the war. Maybe he doubted that the daughter was his." Whiteside shrugged.
"I don't know," he said.
"And from my standpoint, it's not all that important."
"Not to you, maybe. But there's something big that's still missing."
"Granted."
"He loved Elizabeth Chatsworth enough during the war to want to provide for her in the case of his death. Then suddenly after the war he's totally oblivious to her. British and American intelligence knew he was a spy and helped cover him up. Right?" Whiteside nodded absently.
"Then this same man wants to come back and kill his wife and daughter nine years later." Thomas was shaking his head.
"There are large pieces of this missing" he concluded.
Whiteside managed a pained smile.
"Larger than you imagine he said.
"Particularly in view of this woman who has come to you in New York Thomas frowned.
"Meaning what?"
Whiteside rubbed his hands together gently, then flicked a small tip of ashes into an ashtray. He stood.
"Come along," he said.
"We're going for a ride. I want to show you something" Thomas stood and let Whiteside lead him to the door.
"Should I bother to ask where we're going?" he asked.
"This should be of interest to you," he said.
"I'm taking you to see Leslie McAdam."
The car was still at the curb in front of the stone townhouse. The tall, austere Whiteside stepped from the building first and immediately the driver slipped back into the car. The Rover began moving through congested London traffic. A few minutes later the windshield wipers were turned on and silently kept a fine rain from obstructing the driver's view.
Twenty minutes later the Rover eased to a stop in a subdued neighborhood bordering Earl's Court and Kensington. Whiteside and Thomas stepped from the car. They were on a quiet street with little traffic, trees, clean sidewalks, and a small church.
"The Chapel of St. Michael the Redeemer," said Whiteside.
"Peaceful, I suppose, though I've never much cared for Presbyterians' "
The driver remained with the car.
"Come with me," said Whiteside to Thomas.
They walked through a side door to the small, modest neighborhood church. The rector saw Whiteside and the two men exchanged nods. No word was spoken. Thomas reasoned that the church might have a small group of Anglo-Scottish parishioners. But he was only guessing.
They walked through the chapel, up the aisle, and then past the altar.
Whiteside led Thomas out another side door which led into an old churchyard with weather-worn tombstones, a few ornate but most of them modest. The headstones marked the resting places of humble working people from the neighborhood. There was a steady cold drizzle now.
"I was always very fond of Leslie McAdam" Whiteside said in a moment of unconcealed candor.
"A frightened little girl most of her life " He looked at Thomas as the rain fell on his angular face and dripped down to his beige Aquascutum raincoat. He wore no hat.
Whiteside's hair was matted and soaked.
"Man to man, old boy," he said,
"I guess I saw in her the daughter I would always have liked to have had. Are you married?"
"Divorced."
"I see", he answered, as if suddenly enlightened. He added as an afterthought,
"I was never of the temperament to marry." His smile was wry.
"A bit of a public-school vice, you understand." He motioned to a modern tombstone in the newest section of the churchyard.
"Here we are," he said.
Thomas looked down and stood absolutely motionless as he read the inscription in gothic letters: LESLIE McADAm 1945-1974 He stared at the stone disbelievingly, then lifted his gaze back to the older man.
Whiteside was studying his reaction, conscious that he'd just thrown his trump card. Several moments more passed before Thomas spoke.
"What's this supposed to mean?" he asked.
"It means that a man with counterfeit money also has a counterfeit daughter," said Whiteside. The rain continued to fall on his face. His expression was twisted in confusion also.
"Albeit'" he added, 'as usual Arthur Sandler's counterfeit is, well, perfect."
"Perfect?"
"The story you told George McAdam in Switzerland. It damned well made poor old George's blood go cold. The story was perfect.
Not a word out of place. Every detail. Things that only Leslie would have known. Your girl in New York. She knows them all. I'll be bloody well struck dumb before I can figure out how that's possible. ' Thomas looked down at the headstone again, at the wet grass growing around it and the long convex mound of earth upon the grave.
"How do I know that there's anything really under there?" he asked.
"You don't. But I do. And I'd have no reason to waste time lying to you. Would you like to see the coroner's report? I could arrange it for you. It's a fitting day for it."
"Are you sure you buried the right girl?"
"Yes" he said flatly.
"May of 1974. The real Leslie McAdam is dead."
Thomas squinted slightly from the rain.
"Sandler?" he asked.
"We think so. She was in London visiting and about to return to Canada. She was staying in a flat in Bloomsbury. Protected by the Foreign Office, yet. Found with her throat slashed one morning.
Shall I go on?"
"Only if you want to" said Thomas.
"Well," huffed Whiteside, pulling his overcoat closer as the drizzle thickened, 'from our point of view there's an awful lot still at stake.
There's the murder of this girl and a still-unsolved murder of her mother from 1954. Unfinished business you might call it, not of the highest priority but important nevertheless ' As Whiteside spoke, Thomas was silent. He pictured Leslie McAdam in New York. Someone-if not everyone-was lying mightily.
Whiteside continued.
"This whole thing is bloody perplexing and the fact that Arthur Sandler is involved is what makes it so. What was so important that he find this girl, a daughter whom he might never have even seen? Something is still happening and we don't know what it is. Our government is rather curious. If Sandler can be found, we'd like to have a go at him, too' " Thomas was shaking his head, still looking downward at that headstone.
"He's got to be seventy-six years old " he said.
"Unless he's been reincarnated some way," said Whiteside in half serious tones.
"What?"
"Well, let's face it. We're rational men standing here in cold daylight in the middle of a very real world. But this Arthur Sandler is defying natural law, one would think. Rather spry for a man of his age, wouldn't you say? We should all be treated so kindly by time."
Thomas didn't reply. But the answer was yes.
"Consider your problem, Mr. Daniels" said Whiteside. The two men turned. Whiteside placed his hand on the other man's shoulder as they walked around the churchyard, through the rain.
"You have a man who's alive who claims to be dead. And you have a girl who's dead who claims to be alive. I don't envy you. And I'm not at all certain you'll ever be able to resolve this to everyone's satisfaction."
They passed back through the small stone chapel. Thomas was reminded of the church in North Fenwick. The image of the marble tomb flashed before him, the Devonshire priest entombed beneath his own likeness in iron. Thomas couldn't shake the image.
He was aware of being watched. Two old women were in the pews, one with wrinkled lips moving above a prayer book, the other silent and motionless on her thick, aged knees. The parson watched Thomas with more than transient curiosity. Thomas glanced back at him and had the distinct impression that the man's face evoked Central Europe-perhaps the Alps or the Tyrol-more than the m island of fog, Dickens, and gin.
Whiteside spoke again when they reached the wet sidewalk.
"Tell me, are you planning to pursue this affair?"
Thomas looked into Whiteside's cunning eyes.
"I've come this far, haven't I?"
Whiteside was thoughtful as they approached the Rover.
"This is just a suggestion:' he offered, 'but you might give some thought to discovering who was running him."
"Running him?"
"Yes. Who was controlling him." Whiteside looked to Thomas and realized he was drawing a blank.
"An agent might operate for totally self-centered reasons," he elaborated.
"Money. Sex. Power.
But he doesn't operate by himself Sandler had to have had a case officer, a superior in control who was, as we say, running him. Has that occurred to you?"
Thomas shook his head.
"No, it hasn't."
"It should have. Give it some thought' He paused, then added as the chauffeur unlocked the Rover,
"If you're able to arrive at any conclusions, do let me know. Her Majesty's Government should be most grateful."
They reentered the car and it slowly pulled away from the chapel, moving toward Westminster. Thomas was deeply in thought. The only words on the return trip were Whiteside's after another long pause.
"I like to think of myself as a career servant with unimpaired honor, Daniels. So trust me on one further point. There's a further aspect to all this. But I'm absolutely forbidden by ethics, English law, and propriety from divulging it at this time. Terribly sorry."
Daniels looked at Whiteside, as if to see within the man. He couldn't.
"Does it affect my… my search?" he asked.
"Not in essence said Whiteside. He sighed, as if he wanted to say more. Thomas had a slightly disgusted look on his face. He was thinking of the graveyard as much as anything. Whiteside read him perfectly.
"This whole thing has a rather repellent smell, doesn't it?" asked Whiteside.
"Killing young girls, and all that." His smile to Thomas Daniels was bittersweet.
"People genuinely stink. Myself included."