The Judas Code - Derek Lambert

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when the Germans finally took Prague.’

      ‘And where did you go to?’

      Hoffman, who felt that Cross knew the answer to this and most of the other questions, replied: ‘To Switzerland.’

      ‘How? Across Germany?’

      ‘Austria.’

      ‘Same thing by then.’

      We think so. Hoffman took a gulp of whisky. ‘It wasn’t too difficult. I had forged papers and foreign languages didn’t surprise people in that part of Europe in those days. The Balkan tongues had spilled over …’

      ‘Why the Red Cross?’ Cross asked abruptly.

      ‘Should I be ashamed of it?’

      ‘It’s a dedication not a job. You were very young to choose a dedication.’

      ‘I knew what was happening in Europe. To the Jews in Germany. I knew what was coming. I wanted to help.’

      ‘But not to fight?’

      ‘Apparently you didn’t wish to fight either, Mr. Cross.’

      Cross didn’t look as angry as he should have done. But the interrogation lapsed for a few moments. A ship’s siren sounded its melancholy note, bringing a touch of loneliness to the evening.

      Cross poured himself another whisky. Then he said: ‘For a pacifist that was a very belligerent remark, Mr. Hoffman.’

      ‘Pacifist? I suppose I am. I happen to think I can do more good working for the Red Cross than becoming another freedom fighter.’

      ‘An unusual appointment, isn’t it? A Czech working for the Red Cross in Lisbon?’

      ‘On the contrary. As you know, the city’s full of refugees from central and eastern Europe. I can help them, we understand each other.’

      ‘Quite a cushy number,’ Cross remarked. Hoffman hadn’t come across the word ‘cushy’ but guessed its implication and guessed that Cross was trying to needle him. ‘Like mine,’ Cross added. ‘Did you go to Berne?’

      ‘Geneva. I spent a year there. I learned English there. Second secretary of what, Mr. Cross?’

      ‘Chancery,’ Cross said without elaborating.

      The phone rang.

      Cross spoke into the receiver. ‘Yes … He is, is he? … Yes, he’s here … No, we won’t … I won’t forget … I’ll ring you back.’

      He replaced the receiver saying to Hoffman: ‘Yes, he’s dead all right.’

      ‘Do you mind if I ask a few questions?’

      ‘Fire away, but don’t expect too many intelligent answers.’

      ‘I presume you’re with British Intelligence.’

      ‘You may presume what you wish, Mr. Hoffman.’

      ‘Who was he?’

      ‘Your very-dead, would-be assassin? A man named Novikov.’

      ‘Russian like his gun?’

      ‘As far as we can gather. As you know Portugal doesn’t recognise the Soviet Union. But quite a few Russians managed to infiltrate during the Spanish Civil War when they were backing the Communists. They settled here with false identities and kept their heads down.’

      ‘And why were you following him?’

      ‘He worked as an interpreter – like you he was quite a linguist – and did a lot of work for us. But, of course, he was a Soviet agent. Who isn’t an agent of some sort or another in Lisbon these days? He was also a hit man,’ Cross said. A breeze breathed through the open window, ruffled the curtains and, with a tinkle, spent itself in the chandelier. ‘But we had penetrated his set-up and we got word that today he had a contract. We didn’t know who but it soon became obvious that it was you. Why, we didn’t know, still don’t,’ raising an eyebrow at Hoffman. ‘At one stage Taft and I thought he was going to clobber you in the castle grounds.’

      ‘Then why didn’t you try and stop him?’

      ‘We wanted to know where you were leading him and then perhaps why he was after your blood.’

      ‘Mistaken identity?’

      Cross grimaced at such a preposterous suggestion. He picked up the automatic, pointed it at Hoffman and said: ‘Don’t worry, it’s not loaded.’

      ‘Never was?’

      ‘Oh, it was loaded all right. Taft took the bullets out.’ He aimed the gun at the window and pulled the trigger. Click. ‘There,’ he said.

      Hoffman put down his glass; he wasn’t used to hard liquor and the whisky had affected his reasoning. There was a catalogue of questions to ask but he had to search for them.

      ‘Until today I was a stranger to you?’

      ‘Not quite. We make a point of checking out Red Cross personnel. I admire your dedication, Mr Hoffman, but it’s not unknown for a few devils to flit among the angels of mercy.’

      ‘But I—’

      ‘We just checked you out, that’s all. Any more questions?’

      ‘Why did you shoot him? It was you, wasn’t it?’

      ‘As a matter of fact it wasn’t. Taft did the dirty work.’

      ‘Did you have to kill him?’

      ‘He was going to kill you. Don’t let that dedication of yours blind you to reality.’

      ‘And you think you’ll get away with it?’

      ‘I’m quite sure we will. There are a lot of unsolved murders in Lisbon these days as I’m sure you know. The PIDE can’t follow up the death of every stateless mid-European. Perhaps he had stolen someone’s family jewels, their papers, their seat on the Clipper …’ Cross spread wide his hands. ‘My turn again?’

      ‘What more questions can there be? I don’t know why he tried to kill me, nor do you.’

      Cross leaned forward, grey eyes looking intently at Hoffman. ‘Novikov worked for the NKVD. Have you really no idea why the Russian secret police should be so anxious to remove you from the face of this earth?’

      ‘No idea at all,’ lied Viktor Golovin.

      ‘So,’ Churchill said to the tweed-suited man sitting opposite him on the lawns of Chartwell, ‘contact has been made in Lisbon?’

      The man, who had fair hair needled with grey and a withdrawn expression that looked as though it had been recently but permanently acquired, nodded. ‘Some weeks ago.’

      ‘You didn’t inform me,’ Churchill said reprovingly.

      ‘With respect, Prime Minister,’ said Colonel Robert Sinclair, head of the Secret Intelligence Service, ‘you told me not to worry you with details. Only the grand stratagem.’

      ‘You’re right, of course.’ Churchill smiled at him brilliantly through the smoke from his cigar and the spymaster’s pipe. ‘I’ve had a few things on my mind recently …’

      In the distance they heard the wail of air-raid sirens; then the alarm at Westerham groaned into life.

      A few things on my mind, Churchill thought, and all of them disasters.

      Since his becoming First Lord of the Admiralty on the declaration of war and then Prime Minister on May 10, 1940, after Chamberlain’s policies had finally collapsed, the Nazi jackboot had crushed most of Western Europe; now its toe was aimed across the English Channel at Britain.

      Well,

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