by Walter Ellis
“Are you always so cruel to your father’s colleagues?” Bramall asked as he whisked Isabella towards the centre of the floor. The dance was a waltz, which was fortunate as his tango was rudimentary at best.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
He slipped his hand around her waist. “Oh, I think you do.”
“It’s simply that I cannot bear to see the Army and the airforce, and all the rest, swaggering around Madrid doing nothing while the rest of Europe is at war and the people of Spain are starving.”
“Quite the radical, then.”
They moved in swirls across the dance floor. At one point they found themselves next to the Foreign Minister, Beigbeder, partnering a striking-looking woman who Isabella said was a French countess newly arrived in Madrid.
Bramall heard the name, but forgot it instantly.
“What do you think the Spanish Government should be doing?” he asked.
“Staying clear of Hitler and Mussolini. Feeding the people.”
“And what if it joins the Axis instead?”
“That will not happen,” she said. “If it did, I would have to leave the country.”
Bramall wheeled her round. “The first thing they’d do is attack Gibraltar, and then things really would be serious.”
“Is that all you care about? Holding on to your empire?”
“It’s not the empire, Señorita Ortega. I don’t give a fig for the empire. It’s the fact that without Gibraltar Britain would lose the war – and then where would we be?”
Isabella thought about this for several seconds, but before she could reply, the waltz ended and the airforce colonel appeared at her side.
“Señorita Ortega,” he began, “you move so beautifully that I am almost too embarrassed to ask, but may I have the honour of the next dance?”
“But of course, my dear Colonel. I should be delighted.”
The music swelled up. As Bramall looked on, Isabella turned her head towards him. “Call me,” she said.
Bramall bowed in her direction. He was fighting an erection that had appeared out of nowhere. Time for a spot of air, he told himself.
Madrid: German Legation, July 1
Paul Winzer a Gestapo Kriminalkommissar and the Legation’s police attaché, with the SS rank of Sturmbannführer, did not wholly approve of his colleague Klaus Hasselfeldt, whom he considered both impulsive and unstable. In spite of being just 32 years-old, Winzer had a long history in Madrid. He had helped train Franco’s Secret Police, the Dirección General de Seguridad, and was adept at kidnapping. He was methodical and cool-headed – a believer in archives and the building up of files of evidence. He did not believe in the current doctrine of jumping in with both feet, which he attributed to a rush to the head brought on by his country’s unalloyed military triumphs.
This morning he had arrived early to talk with Hasselfeldt about the Duke of Windsor. He knew from his own contacts among the Spanish that something was brewing. Berlin was reticent about the matter, but he called in a few favours and now felt he had sufficient facts with which to construct a theory. Ribbentrop, he decided, had picked up on the Führer’s half-baked notion that the Duke could turn England against the war. It was all too predictable. Left with nothing to do now that diplomacy arrived out of the barrel of a gun, the foreign minister was reduced to mischief-making – and fantasy.
The reality of the war with England was difficult enough without such meddling. Göring had promised Hitler that the Luftwaffe would sweep the RAF out of the skies and leave England open to invasion. But what if he was wrong? An invasion without mastery of the air would be hazardous in the extreme. In that event, the leadership would be looking for new ways of taking the war forward. One, which he found particularly intriguing, was Operation Felix, a German-led assault on Gibraltar, which was even now being worked out between the High Command and elements of the Spanish military. Winzer considered the Gibraltar scheme a sensible proposition, with a high probability of success so long as Franco could be brought on board. It would knock England out of the war at a stroke. The alternative, trying to open a diplomatic second front, using the Duke as honest broker, was the sort of wishful thinking he associated with Ribbentrop. The minister’s fingerprints were all over it. Winzer considered it both impractical and mad. The question was, since both approaches required the intervention of the Legation, where did Hasselfeldt stand?
At 7.15, he heard the Austrian’s boots on the stairs. He did so love his uniform. “Good morning, Klaus,” he called out, putting his head round his office door. “Care for some coffee?”
“You’re up early.”
“Business. You know how it is.”
“Well, thanks for the offer.”
Hasselfeldt entered Winzer’s well-ordered office and sat down, leaving the Gestapo officer to pour the coffee and bring it to him.
“You must be extremely busy these days,” Winzer began.
“Oh, you know …”
“I mean, with Ribbentrop obsessed with the Duke and him about to leave for England.”
The SD officer looked as if someone had slapped his face. “What makes you say that?”
“I keep in touch.”
“Are you involved in some way?”
“Don’t you know?”
“Are you going to tell me?”
Winzer smiled to himself. This was going better than he had hoped. “Listen, my friend,” he said, “the Wilhelmstrasse may say now that all it wants is surveillance and ‘indications’ of the Duke’s mood while he is here in Spain. But Ribbentrop, you should realise, is impulsive and volatile. You should take nothing for granted. If you want my advice, have a plan drawn up and ready to go, so that they can’t take you by surprise. Don’t rule out any option, not even a pre-emptive strike. Face it, the Duke is never going to agree to join us voluntarily. Oh, he may wish things were different. His wife, too. But until they are, he has no choice but to do Churchill’s bidding. What are you going to do if Berlin says it wants him set up to negotiate with the Führer and then you find out that the Duke has left for London?”
“Are you suggesting we kidnap him?”
“You tell me.”
Hasselfeldt took off his glasses and held them up to the light before rubbing the lenses with a clean white handkerchief. “What part does the Gestapo play in all this?” he asked, thoughtfully.
“I’m afraid we have other preoccupations.”
“Such as?”
“Helping to persuade our Spanish friends that their future lies with us.”
“You mean the Big Picture?”
“The same picture, just a bigger frame.”
Hasselfeldt sipped his coffee. He remembered the confrontation between Stohrer and Serrano Suñer: the degree of resentment on the Spaniard’s part. “I doubt the Führer is overly bothered with Spain just now.”
“You’re probably right. Our work is riddled with blind alleys.”
“So you think I should recommend an abduction?
“If I were in your shoes,” said Winzer, glancing down at Hasselfeldt’s gleaming jackboots.
There was a moment’s silence as the two men considered their next move. “Thank you for the coffee – and the advice. You should know how much I admire your professionalism, Paul.”
“And I yours.”
Madrid: Ritz Hotel, July 1
Bramall had decided on an early night and when he heard the discreet knock at the door assumed it was the waiter bringing his supper.
“Come in!” he called out. There was no response. “I said, come in.” Still nothing. And then the knock was repeated. Swearing, he levered himself out of bed, threw on his dressing gown and made his way to the door. “Who’s there?” he asked.
“Isabella Ortega.”
The name halted him in his tracks. Such a development belonged in his dreams – or in a nightmare. What if one of Hasselfeldt’s goons had followed her? What if her father found out? Or Luder? On the other hand, what if she was here to … well, to seduce him? He allowed himself a sharp intake of breath. If so, he would have to deal with it. He checked his robe and opened the door. “Señorita Ortega, what in the name of …?”
“I need to see you,” she said.
He looked quickly up and down the corridor to check there was no one else about. It was empty. “Does anybody know you’re here? Did anybody recognise you?”
“What are you talking about?” She looked achingly attractive, dressed in a powder blue frock that barely covered her knees. The neckline of the dress was low, and if her face not been so appealing he would have found it difficult to keep his eyes from her cleavage. But what was she up to? He may not have read all the way through the agent’s handbook yet, but he was sure this was the oldest trick in it. He clutched his hand to his head, which was now throbbing. “Just tell me,” he said. “Were you followed? Did anyone in the lobby appear to be especially interested in your arrival?”
She looked at him. He was sure she was flirting with him. “Well, I did notice one or two heads turn in my direction.”
“I didn’t mean that.” Christ! He had to make a decision. “You’d better come in,” he said, making way for her, then quickly closing the door and locking it. “I don’t know what you’re doing here, but if we’re going to talk, we might as well get on with it.”
Isabella placed a tiny clutch bag she was carrying on an occasional table in the centre of the room, beneath a lamp, and then went over to the window, where she stood looking out over the Plaza de la Lealtad. Her hair was tied back with a bright red ribbon. The street lights here were on and she could make out groups of young people and couples arm in arm promenading past on their way to dinner. No starving dogs next to the Ritz. No beggars. No old people robbed of their children. Did Bramall care about such things? She thought she had detected something in his eyes when they spoke before – something plaintive that was missing entirely from the look of the young Spanish men she knew, all of them wary of feeling and only out for what they could get. What was it, though? Was he simply an adventurer, or was there something more? She turned slowly to face him, tilting her head and pulling a stray batch of hair from in front of her face. He was staring at her.
“ I have to tell you, Señorita Ortega, that your presence here shocks me. What would your father think? You’re engaged to be married, and in the circumstances I really don’t think …”
“ – Nonsense! Who told you I was engaged?”
“I don’t know. Someone at the embassy.”
“Well it’s not true. My father might think I am engaged. After all, it was he who arranged it when I was just 17. And the brute he arranged it with may believe it also. But the fact is, I am not.”
Bramall sighed. “Listen to me,” he began. She really was stunning.
“No. First, you must listen to me.”
Of course. Women, he had long ago decided, operated by different rules. “Very well.”
“I’m not what you think I am,” she said.
“And what might that be?”
“The pampered, empty-headed daughter of a senior government official who contrived to avoid the entire horror of the Civil War by staying with family in Buenos Aires.”
“Actually I had no idea you were in Argentina. That must have been how you met your fiancé.”
Isabella’s eyes narrowed. She had considered seducing Bramall, but she did not take well to these constant knowing references to her and Luder. “He’s not my fiancé,” she said. “We’re not lovers and we never will be.” She looked into Bramall’s eyes to see how he was taking this piece of frankly intimate news. All she could see was a studied blankness. The whole idea of seducing someone older had appealed to her for years, ever since she turned 14 and saw the change in the way men regarded her and the looks they gave her when they thought she couldn’t see. They undressed her with their eyes. She could read their techniques. Some would start with her skirt. If she parted her legs only slightly, they would fix their eyes on her knees, hoping to see whatever she might reveal next. Others would concentrate on her breasts, which had achieved an early and sustained popularity, having a youthful firmness to them that she knew drove men mad with lust. Only a few – and Bramall, she thought, was one – looked first and foremost at her face, on which this evening she had lavished considerable attention. Now, as she studied his reaction to her surprise arrival in his bedroom, the thought of what must be going through his mind was positively intriguing. Reluctantly, she turned away.
“The point is,” she said, “that I am not a Fascist, or even a Fascist sympathiser. I am a patriot. And if I’m any judge of character, you are too. ‘Friend of the Party’ just won’t do, Señor Bramall. There’s something you’re not telling me.”
“I’m afraid you have me at a loss.”
“To begin with, you’re not the equerry sort. You’re interested in events, politics, the war – not place settings and knowing how to bow backwards out of a room.”
Bramall turned away, remembering Hasselfeldt’s warning. “That may be,” he said. “But the point is that your arrival here, like this, is not something that my superiors, or your father, would readily understand. There are other factors, too, which I so not propose to discuss. Suffice it to say that it’s dangerous for you to be seen with me. Dangerous for both of us – for all sorts of reasons. You have got to leave right now and then you have got to stay away from me. Do you understand?”
Isabella felt a knot of frustration rise in her throat.
Bramall continued his attack, though it pained him to do so. “You should understand that I have a lot on my mind. Madrid these days is a very serious place. A great deal is happening, and I have things I need to get on with – things that, with respect, are no concern of yours.”
“Such as?”
“Such as dinner and a good night’s sleep in my own bed.” He picked up her bag from the table and handed it to her. “So now, if you will excuse me …”
He was finding this very hard. It went against his every instinct.
“Aren’t you going to invite me to join you?”
“To which? Dinner or my bed?”
“Which would you prefer?”
“Goodnight, Señorita Ortega.” Placing his hand lightly on her waist, he attempted to guide her to the door.
“It’s about Gibraltar. That’s it, isn’t it? That’s why you’re here.”
Shit! He grabbed her arm and pulled her hard towards him. “Who told you that?”
“Please! You’re hurting me.”
He released her. What she had said was probably no more than a lucky guess, but now he had given the game away.
“I’m right, aren’t I?” She was staring at him. He looked away, unable to meet her gaze.
“Tell me,” he said, “is there any way I can persuade you to go back to your home and get on with your life and never mention any of this to anyone?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On you. I need to know whose side you’re on and what it is you hope to achieve. Do you care about Spain, do you care about defeating the Germans, or are you just a Fascist stooge?”
As she spoke, there was a sharp knock at the door. “Bugger!” said Bramall. “That must be my supper.”
“Do you want me to hide in the bathroom? Like in the films?”
“What? No! Well … yes, I suppose so.”
“Ask him for some champagne.”
As soon as she closed the door behind her, Bramall coughed and called out, “Enter!”
The waiter tried the handle. It was locked. “Ho
ld on a second,” Bramall said. Pulling his bathrobe tightly about him, he turned the key and pulled back on the door. The waiter, a grey-haired man in his fifties, entered the room carrying a tray.
“Your supper, Señor. A simple paella, like you ordered, and a bottle of water.”
“Thank you. Just put it over there, would you?”
“Si, Señor.” The waiter deposited the tray on a table next to the bed and hovered for a second, waiting for his tip.
Bramall found himself saying, “Do you think you could bring me a bottle of champagne?”
“Champagne?”
“Yes. Would that be possible?”
“Of course, Señor. A bottle of champagne. For one. It will take a few minutes.”
“Not a problem.” As the waiter left, Bramall wondered if he suspected anything. Well, what if he did? It wouldn’t be the first time a gentleman entertained a lady in his room at the Ritz Hotel.
“He’s gone!” he called out.
Just for a second, Bramall wondered if Isabella might have taken her clothes off in the bathroom. It would be such a cliché. Then again, if clichés weren’t true, they wouldn’t be clichés. But when she emerged, moments later, she was fully clothed. Was he relieved or disappointed? Both, he realised. He was just glad that he was wearing a thick robe. The only thing he could see that was different was that she had untied her hair, which now fell loose about her shoulders. What did it mean? What was she trying to tell him?
“So do we talk now?” she said.
“Sit down.” He decided he would pretend that he hadn’t noticed the change in her hair.
There was an armchair by the window, next to a two-seater sofa. “I’ll sit here, you sit there,” she said, indicating the sofa. As she sat back, she curled her legs up beneath her, causing the hem of her skirt to rise up above her knees.
He tried not to look at her legs. “What do you want to know?”
“The truth. What are you doing here?”