Nucleus Read online

  Praise for

  ‘Dramatic . . . pacy and assured . . . Well crafted, it has all the pleasures of an intriguing lead character, intricate plot and fascinating historical context’

  DAILY MAIL

  ‘Rory Clements’s timely spy thriller set in the 1930s evokes a period of political polarisation, mistrust and simmering violence. Corpus is fast-paced and there are plenty of red herrings to keep you guessing’

  THE TIMES

  ‘This clever novel, rich in deceptions and intrigue . . . Corpus is a standout historical novel and spy thriller by an author who can turn his hand to any historical period he chooses’

  DAILY EXPRESS

  ‘Clements juggles his story’s disparate ingredients very skillfully’

  LITERARY REVIEW

  ‘A dynamic, fast-moving murder mystery brimming with menace, violence and intrigue . . . This fascinating pre-war era comes breathtakingly and insidiously to life . . . Clements is undoubtedly on to another winner’

  LANCASHIRE EVENING POST

  ‘Corpus is a compelling novel, the writing is subtle . . . the research makes the plot utterly convincing. Clements kept this reader guessing right up to the last page – and beyond’

  HISTORIA MAGAZINE

  ‘Clements spins his wheels within wheels to enjoyable, if mind-boggling, effect’

  SOUTH CHINA MORNING POST

  ‘Enjoyable, bloody and brutish’

  GUARDIAN

  ‘Clements has the edge when it comes to creating a lively, fast-moving plot’

  SUNDAY TIMES

  ‘Faster moving than CJ Sansom’

  BBC RADIO 4

  ‘Beautifully done. . . alive and tremendously engrossing’

  DAILY TELEGRAPH

  ‘Raises Clements to the top rank of historical thriller writers . . . an intricate web of plots and subplots vividly evoking the tenor of the times’

  PUBLISHER’S WEEKLY

  ‘John Shakespeare is one of the great historical sleuths’

  BARRY FORSHAW

  ‘Great new character, upbeat pace, low cunning plot’

  JON WISE

  ‘An omniscient viewpoint and multiple characters give this novel the gravitas of Le Carré and it is highly accomplished. It is impressively executed and Clements delivers a multi-layered historical spy thriller that few can emulate’

  CRIME FICTION LOVER

  ‘Clements’ clever, atmospheric, fast-paced and immaculately researched novel is both pacy and assured . . . a real rollercoaster’

  CRIME REVIEW

  Contents

  April 1939

  Chapter 1

  May 1939

  Chapter 2

  June 1939

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Letter from Author

  Copyright

  For Geoff,

  A true friend

  APRIL 1939

  CHAPTER 1

  The room was square, airless and its single window was closed. Located on the third floor of the vast IG Farben building, it had been chosen for its bland anonymity and its thick, deadening walls. As a precaution it had been swept for listening devices that morning, but no one expected to find any. Why would anyone bug such a room?

  Five men sat at a plain elm-wood table. A sixth, Reinhard Heydrich, paced behind them in his immaculate SS uniform, his profile pale and predatory, his short fair hair oiled away from his smooth, bloodless forehead; his hands clasped behind his back.

  At the head of the table sat General Erich Schumann, a man equally at home in the military and scientific worlds. Today he wore a brown civilian suit, with a party badge at the collar. As a scientist, he was known for his work with explosives and acoustics. As a soldier, he was head of research at the Heereswaffenamt, the Army Ordnance Office. As a man of culture and the grandson of the composer Robert Schumann, he liked to think of himself as something of a musical genius in his own right.

  Next to him, and less prepossessing, was his younger and cleverer subordinate Kurt Diebner, a nuclear physicist. His thinning hair was swept back, his eyes encased in round tortoiseshell spectacles.

  Sitting opposite Diebner was Otto Ambros, an untidy man with a sandy, greying moustache. For five years he had worked for the chemicals giant IG Farben, developing weapons here in Frankfurt and at various other plants.

  The last two men round the table were using aliases, at the insistence of Heydrich. If you had chanced upon them together in a Munich Bierkeller, you might have thought them brothers, but they were in fact unrelated. ‘Herr Grün’ was an agent with the Abwehr – military intelligence. His shirt front, bulging across his large frame, was damp with sweat. The other – known on this day only as ‘Herr Schwarz’ – was an officer in the Sicherheitdienst or SD, Heydrich’s internal intelligence agency. His eyes followed his master’s every move and word.

  ‘Well, gentlemen,’ Heydrich said. ‘You have been given time to gather your thoughts, and so you will now bring them together. No minutes will be taken at this meeting, and no one will make notes either now or later. Herr Professor Schumann, straight to the point if you please . . .’

  Schumann nodded. ‘Four days ago, Paul Harteck, who is closely associated with the Heereswaffenamt, advised us that a fission weapon – an atomic bomb if you prefer – is no longer the stuff of fiction, but an immediate possibility. This follows recent advances made by Otto Hahn in Berlin and the Joliot-Curies in Paris. In the past twenty-four hours I have spoken with Carl von Weizsäcker, one of the finest of our younger physicists, and he says making such a bomb might be remarkably easy.’

  Heydrich stopped pacing. ‘Should he not be here?’

  Schumann raised a doubtful eyebrow. He respected Weizsäcker’s scientific opinions and was impressed that he enjoyed the confidence of his peers, especially Niels Bohr and Werner Heisenberg, but Schumann did not trust him; his loyalty to the party was uncertain. Perhaps as the son of Hitler’s second-highest Foreign Office official, he believed himself untouchable. Such men needed to be watched.

  ‘No,’ Heydrich agreed. ‘Perhaps not.’ He resumed his pacing. ‘Herr Dr Diebner?’

  Diebner’s shoulders stiffened and he gave a brisk dip of his head. ‘We are pursuing this technology as a matter of urgency. Tomorrow, advanced and targeted research will begin under the auspices of the Arbeitsgemeinschaft für Kernphysik. We are gathering together the best men. Unfortunately, the best does not necessarily mean the most reliable politically. I will be watching them closely and reporting directly to General Schumann regularly.’

  ‘That alone may not be enough,’ Heydrich said.

  ‘Indeed not, Herr Obergruppenführer. Thi
s is now a race.’

  ‘And you believe the British, French and Americans understand the implications of this, Herr Dr Diebner?’

  ‘Yes, sir. The Paris laboratory has repeated Hahn’s experiment and has discovered that secondary neutrons are released in fission, meaning that a runaway chain reaction is possible.’

  ‘A runaway chain reaction?’

  ‘In other words, a bomb. An atomic bomb. Powerful enough to destroy a town, perhaps. The most destructive weapon ever conceived. Everyone in the close-knit world of particle physics knows what it means. I believe there is much excitement in Britain and America.’

  ‘Then it is, indeed, a race,’ Heydrich said. ‘But this is not the Olympic games. There is no room for sportsmanship here. This is a matter of survival and conquest. Even as we strive for this weapon, we must prevent our enemies acquiring it.’

  None of the others spoke.

  ‘As I understand it,’ Heydrich continued, ‘the pre-eminent laboratory outside Germany is in Cambridge, England.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Diebner said. ‘The Cavendish Laboratory. The atom was first split there.’

  ‘I want to know what they know, and I want to know what they can achieve.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘And when we have all their knowledge, we will cut the tendons at their heels so that they cannot run, so they cannot even enter the race. To which end, I have brought you gentlemen here today.’

  The men gazed at each other around the table. There was a shuffling of hands and feet.

  Heydrich nodded towards the chemist. ‘This is Herr Dr Ambros. He has been doing important work for IG Farben, work which will be at your disposal.’ Heydrich’s narrow eyes widened a fraction and he nodded to Ambros.

  ‘Thank you, Herr Obergruppenführer.’ Ambros paused until he was sure he had everyone’s full attention. ‘We have a new chemical compound – one that we hope will have major implications in the course of any future military campaigns. Full-scale production is planned in the months ahead. We believe – I believe – it will perform the task you require in this present operation. It is subtle and transportable. And as far as I am concerned, its use in this operation will have the bonus of being an invaluable test of its effectiveness.’

  The room fell silent.

  Heydrich turned towards Grün and Schwarz. ‘So it is up to you – and to our friends abroad. Herr Ambros is giving you the tool, the Scavenger will give you the means. You will make it work.’ He walked over to the door and turned the handle. ‘I will return this afternoon, by which time every piece will be in place, every possibility accounted for. Clear heads, gentlemen. Find out what they know, and then destroy them.’

  MAY 1939

  CHAPTER 2

  Geoffrey Lancing felt sick. Above him, the little green biplane circled against a clear sky and prepared to land. He had longed to see his sister again; yet now the moment had come, he was riven with apprehension. The world adored her, but he knew the truth.

  Boldbourne was a private airfield. A small, unremarkable place a few miles south of Cambridge, one of many such aerodromes dotted around the English countryside. It had no runway, as such, just a broad, flat expanse of grass. It was of limited use when the rains came and churned the turf to mud, but the land drained well here, so it was fine for its purpose most of the year. Now, in late May, the ground was parched after a dry spring.

  There were three buildings: a large corrugated-iron barn that served as a hangar for a couple of light aircraft, and two squat, flat-roofed brick constructions. One of them contained chutes and flying suits and there were some armchairs and a table where fliers and their companions could relax with a flask of tea or a bottle of spirits. The other building was a workshop, where spares, fuel, oil, coolant and the mechanics’ tools were stored.

  The green biplane was on its final approach now. Clarissa had always been a superb aviatrix and today she was at her best; she came into land with barely a bump. Lancing, standing alone on the concrete apron in front of the buildings, watched nervously. As she taxied towards him, he could see her exquisite face through the screen. She brought the little aeroplane to a halt and killed the engine.

  Her telegram two days earlier had sent a shiver through his veins. His sister, the great movie star, was coming home for the summer. She would be staying at Hawksmere Old Hall with the Hardimans, she announced. There would be champagne, jazz, dancing and tennis.

  In the past eight years, Geoff Lancing had only seen Clarissa on the silver screen. But now here she was, in the flesh, stepping from the cockpit, more slender and gorgeous than ever, even in her boy’s flying jacket, goggles perched on her forehead. Glamour personified. The elder sister he adored and feared in equal measure. What would she demand of him this time? Of all the men in the world who loved her from afar, who genuflected at her very name, only he knew her secrets, and even then not all of them. And yet he could say nothing, for he was in thrall to her.

  She was smiling; arms wide for his embrace. A perfunctory kiss on the cheek; then the hug and her exquisite scent enveloping him like a Parisian boudoir.

  ‘Welcome home,’ he said. The words seemed hopelessly inadequate.

  ‘Geoffrey, darling, you’re so fresh-faced! You’re still my baby brother. You don’t look a day older.’

  Nor did she. She was thirty-two now – two years his senior – but looked younger than ever. The magic of Hollywood, perhaps.

  ‘How was my landing?’

  ‘Oh, you know, not bad for a beginner.’

  She laughed and jabbed him in the ribs.

  ‘All right,’ he conceded. ‘It was perfect, as always.’

  ‘Lovely little thing – Hornet Moth. She was waiting for me when the boat docked at Southampton. But come on, you’ve got a car for me, yes?’

  ‘Powder-blue Hispano. Devil’s own job to get hold of it at such short notice.’

  ‘You’re a miracle worker. Let’s go. Can’t keep the champagne waiting. I want dancing and picnics, cocktails and croquet, and I want to meet all your friends, Geoffrey. Especially the handsome ones.’

  ‘Oh, my friends are all far too dull for you. Swots to a man, just like me.’

  ‘I don’t believe that,’ she said, grabbing him by the elbow and pulling him along with her. ‘What about Tom Wilde? He sounds like fun. You’ve told me so much about him in your letters, so I must meet him. Just consider yourself my social secretary. So much to talk about, darling. Come on, I’ll drive.’

  *

  Tom Wilde was ushered into the Oval Office by the president’s private secretary, Missy LeHand. Roosevelt was already standing at the side of his enormous desk, his hands gripping the edge, but he made no move towards his guest. Wilde waited by the door, his eyes acclimatising to the light that streamed in through the three high windows behind the president.

  ‘This is Professor Wilde, Mr President,’ the secretary said.

  ‘Wilde,’ Roosevelt thrust out his right hand, holding firm to the desk with the left. He nodded to his grey-haired secretary and she bowed out, closing the door behind her.

  Wilde approached across the oval carpet, then dipped his head in salute. ‘Mr President.’

  They shook hands.

  ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Professor Wilde.’ He waved towards the leather sofa against the wall. ‘Take a seat. I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. Please take a seat. Don’t worry about me.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Wilde sat down and found himself at a disadvantage; FDR remained standing.

  The President noticed his guest’s discomfort and smiled. ‘I hope you’re not put out. It’s the devil’s own job for me to get myself standing, and I wanted to be on my feet when the German chargé d’affaires arrived. Didn’t want that damned Nazi looking down on me. The bastard’s gone now. Actually, as Nazis go, Thomsen is a fair enough guy.’

  The room was cool and pleasant – an aroma of clean air and polished wood – but the president was sweating and Wilde guessed h
e was in pain. Paralysed by polio eighteen years earlier at the age of thirty-nine, he fought like a demon to make the world see him as able-bodied and capable of standing at the lectern for speeches or at important events; Wilde was well aware that it was all show. He began to rise. ‘I could assist you to your chair if you like, sir.’

  ‘Would you? That would be swell.’

  Wilde lent him an arm and guided him to his desk chair.

  ‘Ah, that’s a sight better. Now then, Professor Wilde, sit back down again and let me start by saying that I have admired your work from afar for some years.’ Roosevelt flipped open a silver box, took out a long cigarette and lit it. As an after thought he proffered the case to Wilde, who shook his head. ‘I was most impressed by your book on Sir Francis Walsingham and his destruction of the Queen of Scots.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Power raw in tooth and claw.’ The president grinned, acknowledging kinship with Walsingham across three hundred and fifty years. He drew deep on his cigarette, and then flicked the tip at an ashtray, though there was, as yet, no ash to dislodge. ‘But we’re not here to discuss the lethal machinations of a spymaster, nor your own literary attributes. What interests me is that you live in England. I am, of course, disappointed that a man of your talents and accomplishments should choose to live outside America, but let’s make use of it. America needs men like you. As a Cambridge don, I guess you meet a lot of well-connected, knowledgeable people, so I ask you this: is there going to be war?’

  ‘Yes, Mr President. And sooner rather than later.’

  Roosevelt nodded. ‘Did you read my Chicago speech?’

  ‘Yes, sir. And I agreed with every word. The world is about to explode and America will not be protected by the oceans alone.’

  There was a knock on the door and a servant appeared with coffee. Roosevelt waved his hand towards the desk and the man put down his tray. ‘How do you take it, Wilde?’