fanatic?”
“Not at all.”
“A philosopher? Head in the clouds?”
“In the sand, more like. He’s a different sort of chap. Brilliant, but down to earth. Probably a genius. The pacifism comes from his father. He was a doctor too. Gassed in the Great War, one of the worst cases. Badly scarred, blinded. That’s why the son chose the field he did. Wanted to prevent that kind of thing from ever happening again. Didn’t muck about, either. His uncle owned a dye factory in Atlanta, Georgia. When McConnell was sixteen, he used the chemicals in that plant to brew his own mustard gas. Phosgene too. Tested it on rats he trapped in the basement. Building bloody gas masks at sixteen.”
“He sounds like a dangerous sort of pacifist.”
“Oh, he could be, if he chose. He’s a riddle. He was a Rhodes scholar in 1930. Took a First at University College. Went back to America for medical school. Graduated top of his class there, then decided to go into general practice. Master’s degree in chemical engineering. Holds five or six patents in the U.S. for various industrial compounds.”
“He’s rich?”
“He didn’t grow up rich, if that’s what you mean. I’m sure he’s comfortable enough now. My point is this. He may say things that seem truly outlandish to you, or to anyone who really understands war. But don’t lose your temper, no matter what. And don’t mention his father. In fact, don’t say anything at all.”
Stern tossed the map of northern Germany onto the floor of the Bentley. “Why did you bring me along, then?”
“I want you to get a look at him. If he agrees to go on the mission, he’ll be your only partner.”
“ What? You’re saying this is a two-man job?”
“As far as you’re concerned, yes.” Brigadier Smith revved the Bentley past a U.S. Army truck.
Stern shook his head slowly. “This sounds more like a suicide mission every day.”
“It may well be. But keep one thing clear in your mind. The mission you hear me propose to McConnell will besomewhat different than the mission I discussed with you. For obvious reasons, certain aspects of the offensive side of things will be . . . minimized. No matter what I say, you will show no surprise. Clear?”
“No matter what anybody says, I keep my mouth shut.”
Brigadier Smith glanced at the young Zionist one last time. “So far, you haven’t shown much of a talent for that.”
Stern showed his right palm to the brigadier and wiggled his middle finger up and down, the most obscene Arab gesture he knew.
9
I n Oxford it was raining. McConnell stood inside a bewildering maze of metal pipes, pressurized storage tanks, rubber hosing and racks of gas masks—a maze of his own construction. There were enough skull-and-crossbones POISON signs tacked around the lab to scare off a German regiment. Two elderly white-coated assistants worked quietly at the far end of the lab, preparing for the afternoon’s experiment.
McConnell leaned against a window and looked down into the sandstone courtyard three floors below. Cold rain pooled in the cracks between the stones, running through channels carved over the past six centuries. He wondered if his brother was flying today. Did weather like this ground B-17s? Or was David navigating the sunny ether above the clouds, humming a swing tune while he pressed on toward Germany with death stowed under him?
Hardly a day had passed since their last meeting that Mark had not gone over his brother’s words again. His determination not to participate in the race for a doomsday gas remained as strong as it had been that night, yet something within him would not let the issue rest. How many scientists had faced similar dilemmas during the war? Certainly those on the Tube Alloys project, men who labored in the shadowy, Faustian field of atomic physics. They had much in common with the men working in the sealed chemical laboratories at Porton Down. Good men living in bad times. Good men making compromises,
“Not at all.”
“A philosopher? Head in the clouds?”
“In the sand, more like. He’s a different sort of chap. Brilliant, but down to earth. Probably a genius. The pacifism comes from his father. He was a doctor too. Gassed in the Great War, one of the worst cases. Badly scarred, blinded. That’s why the son chose the field he did. Wanted to prevent that kind of thing from ever happening again. Didn’t muck about, either. His uncle owned a dye factory in Atlanta, Georgia. When McConnell was sixteen, he used the chemicals in that plant to brew his own mustard gas. Phosgene too. Tested it on rats he trapped in the basement. Building bloody gas masks at sixteen.”
“He sounds like a dangerous sort of pacifist.”
“Oh, he could be, if he chose. He’s a riddle. He was a Rhodes scholar in 1930. Took a First at University College. Went back to America for medical school. Graduated top of his class there, then decided to go into general practice. Master’s degree in chemical engineering. Holds five or six patents in the U.S. for various industrial compounds.”
“He’s rich?”
“He didn’t grow up rich, if that’s what you mean. I’m sure he’s comfortable enough now. My point is this. He may say things that seem truly outlandish to you, or to anyone who really understands war. But don’t lose your temper, no matter what. And don’t mention his father. In fact, don’t say anything at all.”
Stern tossed the map of northern Germany onto the floor of the Bentley. “Why did you bring me along, then?”
“I want you to get a look at him. If he agrees to go on the mission, he’ll be your only partner.”
“ What? You’re saying this is a two-man job?”
“As far as you’re concerned, yes.” Brigadier Smith revved the Bentley past a U.S. Army truck.
Stern shook his head slowly. “This sounds more like a suicide mission every day.”
“It may well be. But keep one thing clear in your mind. The mission you hear me propose to McConnell will besomewhat different than the mission I discussed with you. For obvious reasons, certain aspects of the offensive side of things will be . . . minimized. No matter what I say, you will show no surprise. Clear?”
“No matter what anybody says, I keep my mouth shut.”
Brigadier Smith glanced at the young Zionist one last time. “So far, you haven’t shown much of a talent for that.”
Stern showed his right palm to the brigadier and wiggled his middle finger up and down, the most obscene Arab gesture he knew.
9
I n Oxford it was raining. McConnell stood inside a bewildering maze of metal pipes, pressurized storage tanks, rubber hosing and racks of gas masks—a maze of his own construction. There were enough skull-and-crossbones POISON signs tacked around the lab to scare off a German regiment. Two elderly white-coated assistants worked quietly at the far end of the lab, preparing for the afternoon’s experiment.
McConnell leaned against a window and looked down into the sandstone courtyard three floors below. Cold rain pooled in the cracks between the stones, running through channels carved over the past six centuries. He wondered if his brother was flying today. Did weather like this ground B-17s? Or was David navigating the sunny ether above the clouds, humming a swing tune while he pressed on toward Germany with death stowed under him?
Hardly a day had passed since their last meeting that Mark had not gone over his brother’s words again. His determination not to participate in the race for a doomsday gas remained as strong as it had been that night, yet something within him would not let the issue rest. How many scientists had faced similar dilemmas during the war? Certainly those on the Tube Alloys project, men who labored in the shadowy, Faustian field of atomic physics. They had much in common with the men working in the sealed chemical laboratories at Porton Down. Good men living in bad times. Good men making compromises,
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