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“Proof of what?” Bradley was motionless now, frozen. A cloud drifted away and the sunlight streamed through the windows. “What kind of proof? Word of mouth, or actual records? What is this Fatherland Front I hear of? Is it serious? Or don’t you know?”
Why should Peter be so reluctant to trust him? He was letting personal dislike take control. That was an error. It was not only unjust, it could eventually be self-destructive. And it would give Bradley grounds to fire him. He himself would not work with a junior who did not trust him, especially one treading on his heels in rank. Did Bradley think Peter wanted his job? Did he? Was Bradley right?
“The Fatherland Front is a pro-Nazi group. Paramilitary, of course—”
“Of course! What else?” Bradley interrupted. “Is the money going to them?”
Peter forced himself to relax, even smile slightly. “I’m hoping my contact is going to supply proof of exactly who is backing the Fatherland Front, and to what degree. When we know that, we’ll be in a far better position to judge the issue.”
Bradley’s eyes narrowed. “What are you looking for, Howard? Arrests? What can they tell you that you don’t already know, or deduce? What sort of money? Thousands or millions? We don’t want this getting to Churchill, the scaremongering old fool. We’d be playing right into his hands. This doesn’t go beyond my office, you understand me? You tell Standish any of this and he’ll tell Churchill. He thinks the daft old man walks on water!”
Peter chose his words very carefully, aware of how deeply Bradley feared Churchill’s influence. That was another reason Bradley hated Lucas: because of his long and deep friendship with Winston Churchill. He was one of the very few who believed Churchill’s dark fears were only too well founded.
“No, sir. Not amounts. I was more concerned with where the money came from.”
Bradley frowned. “You mean…who.”
“No, sir, I do mean where.”
“Like?”
“The United States.” He saw Bradley’s eyes widen. “If it’s from Britain, sir, that’s one thing. But, for example, if it’s from the United States, that’s quite different.” He saw the light change in Bradley’s eyes. “At the very least, we need to know.”
“Indeed, we do,” Bradley said softly. “Do you think this Fatherland Front is influenced by the Americans?”
“Not the government. But if the Fatherland Front wants continued money, they’ll be careful not to offend them. It’s got to be worth something. Nobody gives away millions expecting nothing in return. I’d like to know who from, how much, and where.”
“So would I, Howard, so would I. Keep me informed. I hope you’ve got a good man working on getting your man out.”
“The best person I have, sir, for this job. Contact has been made already. We have to go carefully, because we want to know how mu
ch money is involved, and from whom.”
“Yes, of course. Good work, Howard.”
“Thank you, sir.” Peter pushed his chair back and stood up.
* * *
—
He took the train home early and walked from the station to his house. He was inwardly far less certain of his own convictions than he had implied to Bradley. In the fifteen years since the armistice, a new generation had risen up who knew only the stories. But almost every family had lost someone, either to death or to disability. Who could blame anyone whose fortitude now and then took a turn away from any path that led to war?
Peter had hoped that the millions of lives taken or ruined in the trenches, the sight of so much wasted blood, would have driven home unforgettably the lesson that one man’s blood is no different from another’s. Yet here we were, dividing ourselves into Christian or Jew, British, French, or German, Catholic or Protestant, persecuting the different, Gypsy or homosexual or Communist. All over the place, people were setting up barriers to keep others in…or out. The Germans had already built vast camps to hold “unsuitable” people apart from the rest of society. Labor camps. Effectively, prisons. A life sentence for the crime of being different.
Germany had lost its balance. Italy was fast going the same way under that grandiose clown Mussolini. Austria was caught between the two. A buffer? Or a piece of living flesh, to be torn apart, dismembered, and swallowed piece by piece?
Peter crossed the sunlit road. The wind was blowing dust about.
The Austro-Hungarian Empire had been something of a mongrel beast anyway. Would the new republic be strong enough to stand in its place? Was Dollfuss going to help it or harm it? Would the British Foreign Office effectively feed it to the Germans, simply by standing by and doing nothing…until it was too late?
Yes. Probably.
Aiden Strother had been well placed when he was in Austria. It had taken years to get him so close to the people with real power and information. What he had sent back, carefully and infrequently, was vital to decisions made by the Foreign Office, and then by the prime minister.
They were lucky to have kept him there so long. It was a risk, but it was a judgment call. This money, raised to fund the Fatherland Front, directed into the right hands, might even be enough to support Dollfuss and an independent Austria until it had the strength to stand alone. It would definitely change the balance of power between Hitler and Mussolini.
It was a pity Aiden had to come out of Trieste.
