‘A lot of things have happened,’ explained Kleiber. ‘I thought it was best to come myself.’
‘I’m surprised you found me at the workshops,’ said Breslow. ‘You have lost none of the old skills, Willi.’
Kleiber had been an Abwehr officer. He had made his name infiltrating a French underground network in 1942. Later the Abwehr had been taken over by the SS intelligence service and Willi’s subsequent career included many incidents of which he never spoke. ‘There has been a bad failure of security,’ said Kleiber. ‘Some youngster gained access to the big new FRÜHLING computer that Dr Böttger’s bank have installed in Hanover. He went right through all the security checks and was retrieving data from the zweiter Fall, something the experts said was impossible.’
‘Experts!’ said Breslow. ‘A couple of years in the movie business and you’d no longer listen to the experts.’
‘They say it would have been impossible from anywhere in Germany,’ said Kleiber, ‘but some bloody fool asked the programmers to insert a simplified series of “keys” for retrieval from overseas. It was to save the bank money, Max! How do you like that? Forty million Deutschemarks that damned computer cost the bank, and some idiot simplifies the security in order to save a few Pfennigs in telephone charges.’
‘What did they discover?’
‘It was a German-a clerk in the London office-who decided to try his hand at getting as far as he could into the secrets.’
‘What did he get?’
Kleiber nodded to acknowledge the repetition of the question. ‘He found his way right into Operation Siegfried.’
‘Good God, Willi!’
‘I told them not to use that code name.’
‘Operation Siegfried,’ said Breslow. ‘It was a foolish choice. The name smells of the Third Reich.’
‘They are old men,’ said Kleiber. ‘Old men become romantic. They do not readily face up to the realities we face.’
Intuitively, Max Breslow began to realize what Kleiber was about to tell him. ‘You had this boy killed?’
‘What alternative was there, Max? He had all the names and addresses. He knew the way in which all the banks and our companies were working together. He had the details of the trust fund from which we are financing the work.’
‘Sometimes a man can read such material without understanding its import.’
Willi Kleiber studied the bottom of his coffee cup and then, without replying, went across to the machine at the counter and took the coffee pot off the hot plate. He poured more for himself as he planned his reply. ‘It’s easy to be critical afterwards, Max. But that boy had already placed a long-distance call from London to the Stein house here in Los Angeles. He couldn’t get a person to person, so finally he left a brief message on Stein’s answering machine.’
‘I know all about that,’ said Breslow. ‘I used the musical tone to intercept the stored calls. I know all about that.’
‘Do you?’ said Kleiber with mock surprise. ‘You were behaving as if you had forgotten it.’ Kleiber turned round so that he could see the movie. There was too much light in the room, and the images on the screen were muddy and blurred. A locomotive roared through the picture, scooping up the man in the top hat, but in the subsequent close-up he was still eating. The camera shot widened to show that he was seated astride the cow-catcher, the table and table cloth still in position and his elaborate meal undisturbed.
‘You said the killing of the Britisher from Washington would be the end of it,’ said Breslow. ‘You tried to kill the Englishman Stuart, and wiped out the wrong man. It was a bad business, Willi. And killing Stuart would have solved nothing. I hope you realize that.’
‘It’s easy to be clever afterwards,’ said Kleiber. ‘Don’t tell me you are losing your nerve, Max. I knew that the others would squeal like stuck pigs the moment the business started, but I depended upon you for support.’
‘Then our old comrade Franz Wever. Why did he have to be killed?’
‘Our old comrade Franz,’ said Kleiber bitterly, ‘only wanted to discover what we were doing. Had he found out, he would have reported everything to the British intelligence. He was their man. Franz Wever would have betrayed us.’
Breslow said nothing. Franz Wever had always been envious of him and had gladly admitted it. Franz was permanently posted to the communications job while Breslow had seen front-line service at the war. Perhaps it was this frustration that had caused Franz Wever to jump into the Danube so promptly that cold evening at Linz, where they had spent their leave together. The drowning child would never have survived the current. For a moment he had thought both Wever and the child would be swept away. They had spent a miserable evening in the local police station, waiting for Franz’s uniform to dry. Only months later did Franz receive the letter from the boy’s father: ‘Carry this photo to remind you of the life you saved; may my son grow up to be worthy of your gallant act,’ and there was a snapshot of the child standing in front of a ghastly painted backdrop of mountain landscape. Franz had carried it everywhere.
Kleiber pursed his lips to indicate that he disapproved of Breslow’s silence. What had happened to his friend, he wondered. Was this something to do with living in California? ‘People are going to get hurt, Max.’ He tapped the table silently with a fingertip. ‘Stein will have to be disposed of, you realize that, don’t you? He knows too much to remain alive. Anyone who reads the material will have to be dealt with in the same way. It is regrettable… I don’t enjoy it… but it is a fact.’
‘Where is Stein now?’
‘Are my people here in Los Angeles not keeping you informed?’
‘The last I heard he sent his son Billy to London.’
‘Yes. Billy Stein went to London. The English secret service sent their man along to see him. There wasn’t time to put a microphone in the room so we don’t know what was said. Personally, I think they found the bodies before the police did. I think they found them even before young Stein did. They are cunning, Max, we have to be most cautious.’
‘Bodies? There was more than one?’
‘An Englishman, a friend. We think he was the one who told him how to get into the computer memory. It was better to get rid of both. He was sure to have told his English friend how well he’d succeeded.’
‘How did you discover the leak?’
‘It was the only stroke of luck we have so far had on this business A very close friend of mine in the BND got it over lunch from the director general of the British secret service. The inquiry came to me soon after you took the message off Stein’s answering machine. It was clever of you to do that, Max.’
‘There was nothing clever about it,’ said Breslow. ‘I have the same model of answering machine. Stein got it for me wholesale. I was able to get a whistle with the same musical tone as Stein’s machine.’
‘Well done,’ said Kleiber.
Breslow did not reply. He did not have Kleiber’s long experience of intelligence work: the business with the answering machine had left him feeling defiled and ashamed.
Perhaps Kleiber realized this. He said, ‘It was of immense help to us. Knowing what the message was meant I could get on the plane to London immediately. I didn’t have to wait to hear what this fellow Paul Bock wanted to tell Stein-we knew already.’ He smiled and patted Breslow’s arm in a congratulatory manner. Breslow flinched. He could never get used to such physical contacts. Masculine embraces might be de rigueur for restaurateurs, footballers and film stars, but not for old comrades.
‘Don’t underestimate Stein,’ Breslow warned him, ‘He may look like a slob, but under that gross and unattractive exterior there is a man of great physical strength and considerable intellectual resource.’
Kleiber waved his hand as if to waft away these praises of Stein. ‘By this time, Stein should be on his knees, begging for money.’