The Testament of Caspar Schultz

He pushed himself up against the pillow, “Who’s speaking?”

“Jean Frazer. Your flight got into London Airport from Greece three hours ago. Why haven’t you checked in?”

“What’s the rush?” Chavasse said. “I made a preliminary report from Athens yesterday. I’ll see the Chief in the morning.”

“You’ll see him now,” Jean Frazer said. “And you’d better hurry. He’s been waiting for you since that flight got in.”

Chavasse frowned. “What the hell for? I’ve just done two months in Greece and it wasn’t pleasant. I’m entitled to a night’s sleep if nothing else.”

“You’re breaking my heart,” she told him calmly. “Now get your clothes on like a good little boy. I’ll send a car round for you.”

Her receiver clicked into place and he cursed softly and threw back the bedclothes. He pulled on a pair of pants and padded across to the bathroom in his bare feet.

His eyes were gritty from lack of sleep and there was a bad taste in his mouth. He filled a glass with water and drank it slowly, savouring its freshness and then quickly rinsed his head and shoulders in cold water.

As he towelled himself dry, he examined his face in the mirror. There were dark circles under the eyes and faint lines of fatigue had drawn the skin tightly over the high cheekbones that were a heritage from his French father.

It was a handsome, even an aristocratic, face, the face of a scholar, and somehow the ugly, puckered scar of the old gunshot wound in the left shoulder looked incongruous and out of place.

He fingered the flesh beneath his grey eyes and sighed. “Christ, but you look like hell,” he said softly and the face in the mirror was illuminated by a smile of great natural charm that was one of his most important assets.

He ran a hand over the two-day stubble of beard on his chin, decided against shaving and returned to the bedroom. As he dressed, rain tapped against the window with ghostly fingers and when he left the flat ten minutes later he was wearing an old trenchcoat.

The car was waiting at the bottom of the steps when he went outside and he climbed in beside the driver and sat there in silence, staring morosely into the night as they moved through deserted, rain-swept streets.

He was tired. Tired of living out of a suitcase, of hopping from one country to another, of being all things to all men and someone very different on the inside. For the first time in five years he wondered why he didn’t pack it all in and then they turned in through the gates of the familiar house in St John’s Wood and he grinned ruefully and pushed the thought away from him.

The car braked to a halt before the front door and he got out without a word to the driver and mounted the steps. He pressed the bell beside the polished brass plate that carried the legend BROWN & COMPANY—IMPORTERS & EXPORTERS, and waited.

After a few moments the door opened and a tall, greying man in a blue serge suit stood to one side, a slight smile on his face. “Nice to see you back, Mr Chavasse.”

Chavasse grinned and punched him lightly on the shoulder as he passed. “You’re looking fine, Joe.”

He went up the curving Regency staircase and passed along a thickly carpeted corridor. The only sound was a slight, persistent hum from the dynamo in the radio room, but he moved past the door and mounted two steps into another corridor. Here, the silence was absolute and he opened a large, white-painted door at the far end and went in.

The room was small and plainly furnished, with a desk in one corner on which stood a typewriter and several telephones. Jean Frazer was bending over a filing cabinet and she looked up, a slight smile on her round, intelligent face. She removed her spectacles with one hand and frowned. “You look pretty rough.”

Chavasse grinned. “I usually do at this time in the morning.”

She was wearing a plain white blouse and a tweed skirt of deceptively simple cut that moulded her rounded hips. His eyes followed her approvingly as she walked across to her desk and sat down.

He sat on the edge of the desk and helped himself to a cigarette from a packet which was lying there. He lit it and blew out a cloud of smoke with a sigh of satisfaction. “Now what’s all the fuss about? What’s the Chief got on his mind that’s so important it can’t wait until a respectable hour?”

She shrugged. “Why don’t you ask him yourself? He’s waiting for you inside.”

He frowned slightly. “Another job?”

She nodded. “I think it’s something pretty big.”

Chavasse cursed softly and got to his feet. “What does he think I’m made of—iron?” Without waiting for a reply, he walked across to the far door, opened it and went in.

The room was half in shadow, the only light, the shaded lamp which stood upon the desk by the window. The Chief was reading a sheaf of type-written documents and he looked up quickly, a slight frown on his face. It was replaced by a smile and he waved a hand towards a chair. “So they finally managed to locate you, Paul. Sit down and tell me about Greece.”

Chavasse slumped into the chair and pushed his hat back from his forehead. “Didn’t you get my coded report from the Embassy in Athens?”

The Chief nodded. “I had a quick look at it when it came in yesterday. It seems satisfactory. Any loose ends?”

Chavasse shrugged. “One or two. Your hunch about Skiros was right. He was a double agent. Been working for the Commies for the past four years. They’ll have to wait a long time for his next report.”

The Chief selected a cigarette from a silver box and lit it carefully. “How did you manage it?”

“I traced him to Lesbos,” Chavasse said. “He was having a skin-diving holiday. Unfortunately something went wrong with his aqua-lung one afternoon. By the time they got him back to the beach it was too late.”

The Chief sighed. “Most unfortunate.”

Chavasse leaned across the desk. “Now I’ve explained the finer points of the affair, perhaps I can go back to bed.” He got to his feet and crossed to the window. “I feel as if I haven’t slept for a month.” He stood there, staring out into the rain for a moment and then turned abruptly. “To be perfectly frank, on the way over here I was considering packing things in.”

The Chief raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Could you see yourself going back to lecturing in a provincial university?” He shook his head. “Not a chance, Paul. You’re the best man I’ve got. One of these days you’ll be sitting behind this desk.”

“If I live that long,” Chavasse said sourly.

The Chief gestured to the chair; “Come and sit down and have another cigarette. You always feel like this when a job’s over, especially when you’ve killed somebody. What you need is a long rest.”

“Then what about it?” Chavasse said. “Christ knows I’ve earned one. This last year’s been hell.”

“I know, Paul, I know,” the Chief said soothingly, “and I’ll see you get one—after this next job.”

Chavasse turned from the window angrily. “For God’s sake, am I the only man the Bureau’s got? What about Wilson or LaCosta?”

The Chief shook his head. “I sent Wilson to Ankara last month. He disappeared his second day there. I’m afraid we’ll have to cross him off the list.”

“And LaCosta?”

“He cracked up after that affair in Cuba. I’ve put him into the home for six months.” The Chief sighed. “I had a psychiatrist’s report this morning. Frankly, it wasn’t too good. I’m afraid we shan’t be able to use LaCosta again.”

Chavasse moved across to his chair and slumped down into it. He helped himself to a cigarette from the box the Chief held out to him and lit it with a steady hand. After a while he smiled. “All right, I give in. You’d better put me in the picture.”

The Chief got to his feet. “I knew you’d see it my way, Paul. And don’t worry. You’ll get that holiday. This affair shouldn’t take you more than a couple of weeks at the most.”

“Where am I going?” Chavasse said simply.

“West Germany!” The Chief walked to the window and spoke without turning round. “What do you know about Caspar Schultz?”

Chavasse frowned. “One of the top Nazis, probably killed in the final holocaust in Berlin when the Russians moved in. Wasn’t he in the bunker with Hitler and Bormann till the very end?”

The Chief turned and nodded. “We know that for certain. He was last reported trying to break out of the city in a tank. What actually happened, we don’t know, but certainly his body was never identified.”

Chavasse shrugged. “That’s hardly surprising. A lot of people died when the Russians moved in.”