The Testament of Caspar Schultz. Jack Higgins
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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.”
The Chief moved back to the desk and sat down. “From time to time there have been vague rumours about Schultz. One of them said that he was living in the Argentine, another that he was farming in Ireland. We checked these stories very carefully, but they proved to have no foundation in fact.”
A cold finger of excitement moved inside Chavasse and he straightened slowly. “And now you’ve had another report? Something a little more substantial this time?”
The Chief nodded. “Do you know Sir George Harvey?”
Chavasse frowned slightly. “Wasn’t he Minister of Intelligence for a time in the Coalition Government during the war?”
“That’s the man,” the Chief said. “He retired from politics after the war to concentrate on his business interests. Yesterday, he went to the Foreign Office with a very strange story. The Foreign Secretary sent him straight to me. I’d like you to hear what he has to say.”
He pressed a buzzer on his desk twice. After a moment, the door opened and Jean ushered in a tall, greying man in his early sixties. She went out, closing the door softly behind her and the Chief got to his feet. “Come in, Sir George. I’d like you to meet Paul Chavasse, the young man I was telling you about earlier.”
Chavasse stood up and they shook hands. Sir George Harvey had obviously kept himself in good condition. His handclasp was strong, his face tanned and the clipped moustache gave him a faintly military appearance.
He smiled pleasantly and sat down. “I’ve been hearing some very complimentary things about you, Mr Chavasse.”
Chavasse grinned and offered him a cigarette. “I’ve had my share of luck.”
Sir George took one and smiled again. “In your game you need it, my friend.”
The Chief struck a match and held it out in cupped hands. “I wonder if you’d mind telling Chavasse here exactly what you told me, Sir George?”
Sir George nodded and leaned back in his chair. He turned slightly towards Chavasse. “Among my many business interests, Mr Chavasse, I hold a great number of shares in a publishing house which shall remain nameless. Yesterday morning, the managing director came to see me with an extraordinary letter. He and his board felt that it should be placed before the Foreign Secretary as soon as possible, and knowing that I was a personal friend of his, they asked me to handle the affair.”
“Who was the letter from?” Chavasse said.
“A German called Hans Muller,” Sir George told him. “This man states in the letter that Caspar Schultz is alive. He says that Schultz lived in Portugal until 1955 when he returned to Germany where he has since been living quietly under an assumed name.”
“But what does he want with a publishing firm?” Chavasse asked.
“I’m coming to that,” Sir George told him. “If the letter is to be believed, Caspar Schultz has written his memoirs and wants them published.”
“With Muller acting as middle-man?” Chavasse said. “But why hasn’t he tried a German publisher? I should have thought that such a book would have been an even bigger sensation over there than in England.”
“Apparently Muller did just that,” Sir George said. “Unfortunately he chose the wrong publishers. He wrote them a similar letter and, within hours,