Franco's Map

by Walter Ellis

  Next to the desk diary was an open notebook. He picked it up. It turned out to be full of ornate squiggles – shorthand, Bramall assumed – that meant nothing to him. But as he was replacing it, his hand knocked against the diary, causing it to slip off the desk. He caught it just before it hit the floor, but not in time to prevent two embossed invitation cards from calling out.

  Christ! He could hear footsteps in the hall. Cassares was coming back. Bramall felt the blood boiling in his veins. Stuffing the cards into the diary at random, he replaced the heavy volume on the desktop, then retreated hastily to the chair by the window and stared fixedly into the square below. His heart was pounding. The second he sat down, the door to the outer office opened and Serrano’s secretary walked into the room.

  Bramall turned around, wondering if he looked as guilty as he felt. It had been a desperately close-run thing. “A wonderful view, Señorita.”

  “Yes, Señor Bramall. “I have the statement of claim for you that the Minister asked me to fetch. It includes a copy of the map above the fireplace. It’s sure to be useful. There is also a car waiting for you outside the front door.”

  “Thank you, Señorita. You are most kind. I enjoyed my visit, which was everything I could have wished for. Please convey to the Minister my grateful thanks for his time.”

  Mers-El-Kébir, French North Africa: July 3

  The unthinkable happened at tea time. Out of a cloudless sky, the battlecruiser Hood, the largest warship afloat, opened up on the French with its secondary armament of 8” guns. The intention was to provoke a surrender, or at least a fresh response from Gensoul. But no signal came. Soon after, from its position 10 miles offshore, the Hood fired its primary guns, joined almost immediately by the Valiant and the Resolution. Each shell weighed three quarters of a ton and was the length of a small car. The projectiles rained down on the French, huddled together in harbour. The third salvo fired hit the main magazine of the battleship Bretagne, which exploded in a massive fireball, then capsized. Gensoul, rushing to the foredeck of the Dunkerque, saw a group of his sailors, their clothes and hair ablaze, jump from the side of their doomed vessel, only to be crushed when it collapsed on top of them. He would be told later that 977 of the Bretagne’s crew had died in the inferno. Consumed by rage, he ordered immediate retaliation. The big guns of the French ships opened up, firing blind. Shore batteries, better positioned, quickly joined in. Crucially, the Strasbourg, newly commissioned but battle-ready, announced that it was ready for instant departure. Gensoul reckoned that his anti-submarine netting, stretched across the harbour mouth, could be used to sweep the British mines. He ordered the nets drawn in, then sent the Strasbourg and its escorts into the maelstrom.

  Gensoul’s own ship, the Dunkerque, had also got up steam and was ready to join the escape. But no sooner had the flagship shipped its moorings than it was struck by a salvo of British shells and driven off course into the shallows of the harbour, where it quickly ran aground. The Provence, sister ship of the Bretagne, was also damaged. The Mogador, a newly-commissioned “super” destroyer, blazed in mid-harbour, having lost its stern to a direct hit from a 15” shell. Many of its crew had been blown to pieces; others were horribly burned.

  Fifteen minutes after the bombardment started, Gensoul signalled a ceasefire. Somerville responded: “Unless I see your ships sinking, I shall open fire again.” While he awaited a French reply, the British commander instructed his inner ring of ships, mainly destroyers, to withdraw from the harbour mouth, fearing that they could be damaged by the 7.7” guns of the coastal batteries. This turned out to be a mistake. At once, out of the smoke of battle, the French destroyers appeared, accelerating to full speed, followed by the prow of the 26,500 tonne Strasbourg.

  Captain Holland, by now beating a hasty retreat from the action he had been unable to prevent, could scarcely believe his eyes. The Hood, 10 miles distant, was ordered to pursue and destroy the breakaway group. Other British guns opened up, hitting several of the runaways and cracking open the funnel of the Strasbourg. But they were too late. The French leviathan, pride of the fleet, moved smoothly through the ocean, en route to the safety of Toulon. For a while, Swordfish from Ark Royal took up the chase, but achieved little. Somerville almost willed the French to succeed. The action in which he had just engaged sickened him.

  No British lives were lost, but more than 1,300 French sailors died. Churchill, masking his shame, portrayed the attack as a necessary evil, one that would convince both Hitler and Roosevelt of his ruthlessness in the pursuit of victory. De Gaulle, inconsolable in his grief, would never accept in his heart that the sacrifice had been inevitable. But he did not complain, impressing the Prime Minister with his dignity. Throughout France and its empire, anti-British feeling plumbed new depths of rancour. “Remember Oran!” the cry went up. “Remember Mers!”

  Pétain ordered that the anomaly of diplomatic relations with London be broken off at once. From this point on, he announced, the empire would defend itself at all costs. It would become the shining light of French honour. As the Strasbourg and its surviving escorts sailed triumphantly into Toulon on the morning of July 4, Germans and Frenchmen cheered together.

  England: Secret Intelligence Service, MI6, Hanslope Park, July 3

  It was one of those grey, damp days, so characteristic of the English summer. Some of the flowers in the park were in defiant bloom, as if they had decided that they might as well make the best of things. Others were shut tight, waiting for a break in the weather that they knew must come eventually. Braithwaite was just about to leave the office for home when a signals clerk knocked and handed him a confidential cable from the embassy in Madrid. “Bugger,” he said. “Give it here.” After signing the chit, he took off his trilby and laid his brolly on the desk. Bramall, eh? About bloody time. Everything he’d heard about him so far was via Hoare or Croft. He’d been wondering when he’d make contact.

  Most Confidential

  To Braithwaite, Iberia & N. Africa Section MI6

  From Resident Madrid, July 3

  Spoke with Serrano today. Discussed British attitudes to Gibraltar and his thoughts on the war. Clear to me that Madrid ready to go along with any German plan that would enable Spain to recover Gibraltar and expand its colonial territory at expense of France. Franco will consider any counter-proposals from UK but sceptical of their value. Had sight of letter from Serrano to Ciano in Rome asking for Italian support for Spanish claims in Africa. Said these claims were “under review” in Berlin. Serrano warned of possible Spanish “intervention” in French Morocco to quell “disorder”. Serrano and Beigbeder, plus Vigón, will meet German Ambassador at Legation July 8, 10.30 am.

  Embassy here confirms that a planned meeting between Serrano and Sir S. Hoare at that time was cancelled without explanation. Suspect Serrano wishes to enter auction. Other issues under control. Duke in Lisbon, Hasselfeldt undecided whether to use me or kill me. No immediate danger I think.

  Braithwaite sat for a moment and blew out his cheeks. Then he folded the cable and locked it in a metal filing cabinet. Pocketing the key, he put his hat on again, adjusting the brim so that it pointed downwards over his forehead. He nearly forgot his umbrella, but remembered just before he reached the front corridor, with its black and white floor tiles and faintly antiseptic smell, like a hospital. By the time he stepped out onto the turning circle by the main door, it was raining heavily and he wondered if he’d make it to the bus stop without getting soaked through.

  Madrid: Ritz Hotel, July 3

  Bramall had an uncomfortable feeling that he was getting in over his head. With the Duke now safely in Lisbon, it was time for him concentrate on his main mission. Yet here he was, against all good sense, getting involved with Isabella Ortega. Her motives in approaching him in his hotel were difficult for him to assess. It ought to have been he who was in control. He was nearly ten years older than her; he had
been with a number of women in his time. He was an army officer, a diplomat. For Christ’s sake, he was a spy. And yet he had been putty in her hands. He had felt her coldly operating his switches and levers – and not only the ones in his groin. It was as if she were auditioning for a role as femme fatale while simultaneously assessing him as the potential male lead. It was infuriating, yet compelling.

  He poured himself a whisky and read through a memo he had just written – his second that day. He had typed it, using two fingers, on an old Underwood supplied by the hotel. It was to Hasselfeldt and he planned to hand-deliver it next morning.

  Sturmbannführer Hasselfeldt,

  German Legation,

  Madrid

  July 3

  As you know, the Duke of Windsor left Madrid today for Lisbon, accompanied by the Duchess and his staff. You expressed interest in his views re a possible negotiated peace with Germany.

  When we first met in Madrid, at the Ritz hotel, the Duke (who was at the time engaged in conversation with Don Miguel Primo de Rivera), expressed interest in the fact that I had once associated with Sir Oswald Mosley. He said how much he thought that the present Government of Spain, in which he had every confidence, would meet with the Sir Oswald’s approval.

  The following day, in private, the Duke asked me what I thought about a negotiated peace. I said it would depend on someone’s being found whom the British people felt they could trust. The Duke replied: “I was very popular, you know, when I was Prince of Wales. The people felt then that I understood them. I still understand them and I know that this dreadful war must be ended. It is the worst mistake a British Government has made in a generation.”

  At a subsequent lunch with among others foreign Minister Beigbeder, the Duke was as indiscreet as I have heard him in public. Beigbeder asked him at one point if there was a possibility that peace could be restored to Europe. The Duke replied that mutual, unthinking antagonisms were what had brought us to this point. “Europe is bleeding, he said. “Even here, at this table, each of us is bleeding. We have known so much hurt. I don’t know how to resolve it. But I tell you this much: someone must make an end.”

  Given his sentiments and experience, it seems to me possible, even probable, that His Royal Highness favours talks negotiations between London and Berlin and that he sees himself as a possible bridge-builder. You should realise, however, that Churchill is aware of this tendency and will take steps to negate it. The Duke will be kept under close guard in Lisbon. It will also be made perfectly plain to him where his duty lies. I would not bet on his being persuaded to come into the open on this question.

  You should know also that I had a meeting today with Minister Serrano Suñer, who expressed interest in the Duke’s intentions but gave me the clear impression that he did not expect him to adopt an anti-Churchill stance. This, in my view, is the attitude of many on the Spanish side.

  Steuermann

  He had made the second quote up, knowing that the others could be checked, if necessary, with Primo de Rivera and Beigbeder. What it all amounted to, he wasn’t sure, but he hoped it would be enough to keep Hasselfeldt off his back while adding nothing of substance to the known facts. If it didn’t, then his personal future could be dark indeed. The Austrian was a ruthless bastard and he had made it clear that he didn’t trust his latest acquisition. As he made his way to visit Romero in the tasca, Bramall could almost feel the noose tighten round his neck.

  Chapter 6

  Madrid: Villa Ortega, Calle Beatriz Galindo, July 4

  “What do you mean, Felipe is here?” Isabella was standing at the top of the front stairs when her mother delivered the news that Luder had arrived unexpectedly from Buenos Aires. “He’s not due for another week at least.”

  Doña Vitoria rolled her eyes. “I do not organise your fiancé’s travel arrangements, Isabella.”

  “And stop calling him my fiancé.”

  “Really, darling, not that again.”

  Isabella hurried down the stairs. “Where is he now?”

  “He arrived at the airport an hour ago. He has taken a villa next to the war ministry. He’ll be round later on, once he’s settled in and had a bath. I thought you’d be pleased.”

  “Mother!”

  “Well, if you’re going to spend the rest of your life with him, you might as well get started.”

  “You’re mad. You and Father. You’re both insane.”

  “You’d need to talk to your father about that. Anyway, I’m going inside to check with cook on tonight’s supper. I expect we’ll have to lay an extra place.”

  Isabella stamped off into the courtyard. The very idea of Luder disgusted her. In her head she had decided that he wouldn’t make it across from Argentina until August, by which time she and Bramall would have left for London. His unexpected arrival was an intrusion, a shock to the system that she didn’t need right now and couldn’t cope with. But what was she supposed to do?

  She had been just 16 years old when they first met. She was with her parents in Argentina, visiting her father’s brother Rafael, who bred horses in Córdoba. Luder was already coming up on 30 and looked to her adolescent eyes like a combination of butcher and secret policeman. His father, a Bavarian-born adventurer, had opened a beef export business after the Great War that eventually included a small commercial bank. Felipe, an expert horseman and polo player, grew up to run the bank, and with the coming to power of Hitler in Germany presided over seven years of spectacular growth. He was a confirmed Nazi, having joined the party in 1936 in Munich, where his father still kept a home. Contracts followed to supply the German armed forces with beef, making made him a wealthy figure in Buenos Aires society. Later, with war imminent, things got even better when the resources of his bank, now with a branch in Zurich, proved useful to the Reich. Isabella had heard that he smuggled all kinds of things out of Latin America intended for the German war effort. In Spain, wolfram was his main interest. No wonder the Nazis loved him.

  On the surface, he could be charming. He was attentive to the vanity of women and the egos of men. But in reality, he possessed no redeeming qualities. Of this she was sure. In Córdoba, when she was still just a girl, he had run his huge, steak-like hands through her hair and commented on how attractive he found her. At the same time, his eyes bored into her, seeking dominance. It made her tremble with fear. One afternoon, in the trees next to the paddock, when there was no other adults around, he had held her head in an unbreakable grip and kissed, sticking his fat slug of a tongue down her throat so that she almost threw up.

  It was like kissing the devil. She hoped his interest would fade as quickly as it arose, so that she could interpret the experience as a warning to her to be careful about the sort of men she spent time with. But when her father sent her back to Córdoba in the spring of 1937, he was once again on her trail, ogling her and casually tracing his hands over her body. She made a point of never being alone with him When he came to stay at the stud farm for a weekend a month after her arrival, ostensibly to buy polo ponies, she clung to her aunt’s skirts, refusing to go near him. Aunt Pilar understood perfectly. Even Uncle Rafael was careful not to let her out of his sight when Luder was around. Once, though, he succeeded in stealing up on her in the stables. He crept up on her from behind and cupped her right breast, running his tongue down her neck and forcing her hand to the front of his trousers. She slapped his face and run off. But he only laughed.

  Things got worse when her father up turned up in Argentina on a business trip. Luder introduced himself, impressing Ortega not only with the fact that he was rich, which was obvious, but with the extent of his contacts in Nazi Germany. It was a time when the Condor Legion and the build-up of German ground troops were starting to make a real difference in the Civil War. It was also the point when it became clear for the first time that Hitler, not Mussolini, was to be the senior partner in Europ
e’s New Order. Colonel Ortega, desperate to bring glory to his family name, was captivated. Of course Felipe could step out with his daughter. Of course they should have lunch together. And, in the end, despite her tears and angry protests, of course they should become engaged. The Colonel and Doña Vitoria would be proud to have Felipe as their son-in-law.

  That was three years ago. There had been no one since. Once, in Córdoba, there was a boy, the son of a local lawyer, who was very nice. But when Uncle Rafael had caught them kissing, he sent him packing. In the meantime, Isabella had returned to Spain and, to her surprise and relief, she had seen nothing of Luder. He was busy, apparently, with his various enterprises and spent much of his time in Germany cultivating relationships with senior members of the party hierarchy, Heydrich in particular. She was sure he had had any number of affairs. What else he got up to she could only guess. But at least he stayed out of Madrid.

  Until today.

  Now he had turned up, anxious to claim his bride. Isabella shuddered at the very thought of his touch. All her father could think about was the dowry and the connections he would make. Her mother, though not unkind, was preoccupied with rebuilding a “normal” life after the war and refused to give credence to the concerns of her daughter. In any case, she said, Felipe was encantador – charming. Isabella knew now that she must be the architect of her own salvation. She would get through the morning, she decided, then take a taxi to the Ritz hotel, were she would thrown herself on Bramall’s mercy. She hurried upstairs to pack.