by Walter Ellis
The Duke, too, was in fine form. “I hope you’re all looking forward to my party tomorrow,” he announced, smiling broadly. “The Ambassador is really pushing the boat out and I should imagine there will be quite a lot for the diary items in the newspapers.”
Beigbeder beamed, amused by the idea of a diary column in Arriba. “Your Royal Highness, he said, “tomorrow’s reception is a fitting symbol of the rebirth of Madrid society after the years of war, and also of the importance attached by Spain to the good company of our British friends.”
Primo de Rivera, rarely seen without a glass in his hand or a girl on his arm, decided to cut straight to the heart of the matter. “But what about you, my dear Duchess? Are you finding our society terribly limited or do you think there is still a capacity for fun?”
The Duchess leaned across and tapped the younger man’s hand. “There is always fun when you are around, Miguel.”
Beigbeder’s moustache twitched. He smiled nervously and exchanged glances with his wife. Fortunately, at this point, chilled champagne was offered around the table. The Foreign Minister stood and announced, apparently to the entire restaurant: “On behalf of the Government of Spain, it is my honour to welcome to our country His Royal Highness the Duke of Windsor and the Duchess of Windsor. May their time among us be long and may each day bring the promise of a safer world. The Duke and Duchess!”
At this, the entire clientele of the restaurant rose once more to their feet to join in the toast. Bramall felt he had become part of a bizarre historical tableau in which there was no substance, only light shining at different moments on different characters. The meal passed for him in a blur as those present referred constantly to previous parties and gatherings, in Switzerland, on the Riviera, in Monte Carlo, in Rome, wondering aloud when the next Paris fashion week would be held and what on Earth had happened to old so and so, whom no one had seen for years. At least, he thought, the food was good: Gazpacho, fresh fish from Galicia, Jamón Serrano (well, you had to smile), even, at one point, roast suckling pig – all matched by some of the best Rioja wine he had ever tasted. If there were shortages in Madrid, clearly they did not apply to the ruling class.
It was only as the coffee was brought that conversation turned at last to the serious issues of the day. Beigbeder leaned towards the Duke. “We have been talking of former times, when life and its possibilities seemed to stretch out forever. But Your Royal Highness will be more aware than most of how the world has changed and of how much pain there has been in recent years. Do you think it possible that Europe can learn once more to be at peace with itself, or must it simply be conquest, victory and defeat, and to the victor the spoils?”
The Duke thought for a second. “You raise an interesting point, Foreign Minister. Spain has endured more in recent years than any country should reasonably have to expect, even in time of war. I myself have, of course, been through an extended conflict of my own. Now it is the turn of my country. Mutual antagonism, a refusal to see the worth of the other side – the ruthless pursuit of victory at all costs. Europe is bleeding, my friends. Even here, at this table, each of us is bleeding. We have known so much hurt. I don’t know how it can all be resolved. But I tell you this much: someone must make an end.”
Bramall’s mouth had fallen open half way through the Duke’s brief peroration. It was not so much the stab at eloquence; it was the sheer thoughtfulness and sensitivity of his words. Perhaps he had got the man wrong after all.
Beigbeder’s eyes, flickering behind his large, tortoiseshell spectacles, darted from face to face around the table. “Mr Bramall,” he said suddenly. “We have not heard from you. I understand you were involved in the fighting in Norway.”
How on Earth did Beigbeder know that? He hadn’t told anyone. “Yes, Sir,” he said. “At Narvik.”
“Wasn’t that where the allies won and then withdrew the next day?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“A somewhat disagreeable sensation, I should imagine.”
“Well, yes. We lost a lot of men, but got the job done. The Navy and air force were superb. Problem was that with the rest of Norway gone and France about to fall, there didn’t seem much point in hanging on.”
The Duchess accepted a light for her cigarette from a hovering waiter. “At least it showed that Germany can be beaten. Their armed forces may be formidable, but they are not invincible.”
“Absolutely,” said Bramall, grateful that his earlier strictures had actually had some effect. “His Royal Highness is, of course, correct to deplore the fact that we are at war. Germany and England have so much in common. Yet, once the fighting starts, every man must know his duty.”
Beigbeder looked from one side of the table to the other. Stohrer would be interested to hear about this. “And what do you think will happen now? They say the invasion force to be sent against England will be more powerful than anything since the Armada.”
Bramall turned towards the Minister, around whom a fug of smoke had gathered. “An instructive comparison, Sir, if I may say so. Only this time it is not only the Navy that is waiting, but the Royal Air Force as well.”
“A bloody business just the same,” said the Duke, leaning forward into the table. “Thousands would be killed on both sides. Hundreds of thousands. And the destruction! Remember what happened to Rotterdam. London could be next.”
Bramall groaned. The Duchess looked as if she was about to add something, but took a sip of coffee instead. It was Madrid’s gadfly governor who characteristically blurted out what most of those around the table were obviously thinking.
“Look,” he said, “I know I’m not the politician my father was or my late brother was, but I know which way the wind is blowing and I can tell that peace now between England and Germany would be preferable to peace later, when Fascism has triumphed everywhere, from the Atlantic to the Urals.”
“My dear Miguel,” Beigbeder interrupted, “I am not sure that …”
“ – No,” said the Duke. “Don’t mind me. Let him speak.”
Bramall felt his heart skip a beat.
“Well,” said Primo de Rivera, indicating to the waiter that another glass of wine would be in order, “it’s just that we all know the Duke and the Duchess have spent time in the company of the Führer at the Berghof and that they are not exactly overwhelmed by the way things have turned out.”
“That’s certainly true,” said the Duke. “The whole bally business is a tragedy. To see the Luftwaffe and the RAF squaring up to each other – to know that one day soon the Royal Navy might have to defend our shores against a German invasion – well, it sickens me right to my stomach. And I must tell you now that if there were some means available to me, consistent with reason and honour, that would resolve the situation short of continuing conflict, I would welcome it with open arms.”
A silence descended around the table. Beigbeder looked thoughtful. Primo de Rivera just looked pleased with himself. Bramall coughed and caught the Duchess’s eye. She understood his meaning at once and turned, beaming, to their host. “Minister,” she said, “it has been a most enjoyable and stimulating lunch – as always when you are involved.” Beigbeder beamed. “But now, if you will excuse us, the Duke and I have other business we simply must attend to.”
“But, of course, my dear Duchess.”
As the Duke and his consort rose to their feet, everyone in the restaurant, as if responding to a hidden signal, at once followed suit. The Foreign Minister escorted his guests back out to the street where their car was waiting. He bowed to the Duke and kissed the Duchess’s hand, whispering something to her that got lost in the general hubbub. Moments later, as the car pulled away from the restaurant, Bramall could contain himself no longer. “My God, Sir. What were you thinking of?”
“What do you mean?”
“To tell the Spanish foreign Minister that y
ou would be ready to sponsor some sort of negotiated peace with Germany.”
“What are you talking about, man? I never said that.”
Bramall’s exasperation surfaced, freed of all constraints of protocol.
“But you did, Sir. Near as dammit. What else could he have taken from your words? What other possible meaning could there have been?” He paused, picking his words carefully, anxious that what he said next should not be inconsistent with his supposed BUF allegiance. “With respect, you really must be more careful. It is one thing to wish for rapprochement with Germany, even at this very late stage. You would not be alone in harbouring such sentiments. But even those of us who see merit in the German system and wish that things were different cannot go around expressing anti-war feelings willy-nilly. People here hang on your every word.”
“Rubbish. It was only conversation, nothing more. We were among friends. You must realize, Bramall, that I would never engage in anything that did not have the express approval of His Majesty’s Government. I learned that much as King, if nothing else.”
Nothing else at all, apparently, Bramall thought. This was self-delusion on a truly regal scale. He tried to catch the Duchess’s eye so that she might say something that would convey to her husband the seriousness of the situation he had created. But she turned away. So he sat back instead and looked out the car window. A military truck halted halfway across an intersection to give way to the royal procession. In the back were a score or so of young men, their hands tied, guarded by half a dozen soldiers. Bramall dreaded to think what was going to happen to them.
It was back at the hotel later that afternoon, as he emerged from the shower, that he noticed a pale white envelope lying on the floor. It had obviously been pushed under the door while he was in the bathroom. He picked it up, sniffed it and reached for the letter opener on his desk. Inside was a single sheet of notepaper. The handwriting, in English, was immaculate copperplate.
Charlie,
Who’d have guessed it? I thought I’d seen the last of you for sure. But it looks like I was wrong. Anyway, now that you’re here, it’d be a crime if we didn’t meet up. What do you think?
If you’re interested, (and I can’t see how you wouldn’t be), be in the Plaza Dos de Mayo tomorrow night after ten. Only do me a favour, don’t look for me – I’ll find you.
E
He stared at the note and read it again all the way through. Who the hell was “E”? He had no idea. And then it hit him, like a sockful of coins. Eddy bloody Romero. Fucking Hell! He hadn’t seen his fellow Irishman for, it must have been 18 months. Not since Barcelona. Mad as a snake and twice as deadly, possibly the most violent man he had ever known. He had first run into him during the Ebro campaign, just before the fighting started. An Irish brigadista, with a Spanish father, he was a mad bastard who’d stop at nothing in pursuit of his warped vision of justice for all.
How in God’s name would Romero know he was in Madrid? He put the note in his pocket and made his way downstairs to the cocktail lounge. There was nothing he could do tonight that would change anything. He surveyed the bar counter. At least bloody Hasselfeldt wasn’t there. There was only a young man and woman, in their late 20s by the look of them, sat at a table in the corner, lost in each other’s eyes, and a couple of men in suits, one of them a German, arguing about the price of good scotch. He took a stool at the counter and signalled to the barman, a stocky fellow with unusually thick hair, who walked over to him with a dish of pistachio nuts. “Whiskey!” he said out, dipping his fingers into the pistachios. “Irish. And make it a double.”
Four hours later, when he got back to his room, he was barely able to speak. He fell asleep, fully clothed, listening to the Tommy Dorsey Orchestra singing Marie on his wind-up gramophone.
Madrid: Ritz Hotel, next morning
Bramall’s head was pounding. He sent his breakfast trolley away, all except the coffee, and spent the next half an hour in the bath. He hadn’t intended getting drunk; sometimes it just happened that way. Still draped in a towel, he called the Interior Ministry to confirm his appointment with Serrano Suñer. The Minister couldn’t see him for several days yet, apparently, but Ortega would look out for him at the embassy reception and provide him with the necessary details.
After that he spoke briefly with Buchanan-Smith, and asked about the Duke and Duchess’s evening. It turned out that nothing untoward had occurred, which was a relief.
“Went pretty smoothly, from what I hear,” the equerry drawled. “Pair of ‘em didn’t get back until two in the morning, all smiles.”
“And today?”
“Lunch with yet another old friend. Portuguese chap, name of Ricardo Espirito Santo Silvo. Doesn’t that mean Holy Ghost or something? ’Fraid you’re not invited. Strictly tête-a-tête.”
Buggeration! Croft had mentioned Santo Silvo. He sounded like a complete creep: a monumental social climber and Nazi sympathiser. Still feeling the worse for wear, he made his way to the Duke’s suite to make inquiries, only to be told by a detective on the door that His Royal Highness was under no circumstances to be disturbed before midday. Stymied, he went back to his room where, after placing a Do Not Disturb sign on the door knob, he fell asleep again for the best part of an hour.
His alarm went off at midday and he awoke, still groggy, to prepare himself for the meeting with Hasselfeldt. If dealing with the Duke was problematic, into what category should he place having lunch with a senior officer of the SS? Christ! He had only been in Madrid a couple of days. It was all happening too soon. He wasn’t ready. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be ready. One hour later, having satisfied himself that he had not been followed, he walked up the steps of the newly re-opened German Legation on the Avenida del Generalísimo, entering the building beneath a massive bronze Swastika. The scale was gigantic. There was room for a hundred people, maybe more, in the lobby. Two guards clicked to attention, their boots echoing on the polished marble. “Heil Hitler!” he replied, raising his right arm from the elbow in the half-hearted fashion he associated with party functionaries from newsreels.
Hasselfeldt was waiting for him. Dressed in a crisp blue suit and dark red tie, the only thing in any way out of the ordinary about him was a tiny swastika badge in his right lapel. Had he been wearing that the other night in the hotel bar? Bramall wasn’t sure.
“Guten Tag, Herr Bramall. Wie geht’s?”
“Sehr gut. Und Sie?”
“I also. You were not followed, I hope?”
“Not that I noticed.”
Hasselfeldt hid a smile behind his hand. “ Please, come upstairs to my office. There is much to discuss.”
“Whatever you say.” As they made their way upstairs, Bramall reminded himself for the umpteenth time to be careful. He mustn’t sound too keen or submit too readily. Croft had stressed to him that when he was approached, he should be careful not simply to fall in with whatever proposal was put to him. They’ll see through that straight away. It was one thing, he had said, to be an appeaser, even a former acolyte of Mosley. There were plenty enough of those. But he should not offer himself up on a plate as a spy. Espionage was a game with its own rules, played by professionals. It was important that Bramall should appear to be the troubled amateur, desperate to do the right thing. He had to maintain some distance, show a certain defiance . That way, his compliance, when it came, would be all the more convincing.
The SD chief’s office was on the first floor of the embassy, half way along what looked like the executive corridor. The architecture, he noted, was both opulent and austere: like one of those stately homes where the owners couldn’t make up their minds whether to go classical or Gothic. He fancied that the giant double doors at the far end were those of the Ambassador, Von Stohrer. Stohrer, he calculated, would be a major player in the game on which he was now embarked. How he could ever hope to outmanoeuvre him was a
question to which he had no answer.
Hasselfeldt turned the handle of his own, more modest office door and stood to one side to let Bramall walk ahead. The room was light and airy and overlooked a pleasant courtyard, with trees, shrubs and wooden benches.
“Please sit down,” he said, indicating a comfortable fin-de-siècle-style chair, padded with an oversized cushion. “Would you care to smoke?” Bramall shook his head. Hasselfeldt replaced the silver cigarette case he had taken out of his jacket pocket and made his way round to his desk, which, unlike the chair, was uncompromisingly modern. “Now tell me,” he said, leaning back in proprietorial fashion, “are you feeling better after last night?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh, someone told me you had been hitting it pretty hard in the bar of the hotel. They saw you staggering into the lift in the lobby at two in the morning. But what of it? None of my business.”
“Just out of interest,” said Bramall, irritated almost beyond words, “do your men watch me the entire time?”
“Not at all.” Hasselfeldt smiled, observing Bramall’s upraised eyebrows. “But we, too, have people at the Ritz, and we like to make sure they are safe. After all, this is a dangerous city in dangerous times.”
“Well, I can look after myself, thank you very much, so do you think we might get to the point? Why am I here?”
This was his show of defiance. It was pathetic really, he felt.
Hasselfeldt waved a hand airily in front of him. “Oh! Plenty of time for that.” He reached into a drawer of his desk and pulled out a Leica camera. “Smile, please.” The was a soft click as the shutter opened and shut. The SD man laughed, as if at some private joke, and replaced the camera in the drawer. “Now,” he said, “what about some lunch? You must be starving. I don’t suppose you managed to eat much by way of breakfast this morning.”