by Walter Ellis
“I can’t forget that, Izzy, and I certainly won’t forgive. One day, and I have to believe it will come, their bodies will be exhumed and the souls of the dead will rise up to condemn their persecutors. But until then, they will be remembered in my prayers and the prayers of others who won’t allow Franco and his hounds to proclaim unchallenged the lie that these men and these women, whose very children were taken from them and given to the victors, never drew breath, never believed in their cause, never fought and never died.”
“I wish you God’s protection,” was all Isabella could say. “The war you’re going back to will never end. Not in our lifetimes. This is only the beginning.”
“I know it,” Romero said. But meanwhile I have unfinished business to attend to. There are a few loose ends that have to be tied up.”
“Felipe, you mean?” Her voice fell.
“Him and one or two others.”
“I hate this war,” she said suddenly.
“We all hate it. Isn’t that the truth? But up to now, it’s the only one we got.”
That made her smile. But her grin faded quickly after Romero withdrew his head, closed the cab door banged twice on the roof as a signal to the driver to pull away. Isabella craned her head out the open window and watched with infinite sadness as the Irishman grew smaller and smaller until he disappeared entirely.
Would she ever see him again? She hoped so. Would he care one way or the other? She thought for a moment and decided that he would. For much though he dismissed the role of the individual in what he called the political “struggle,” Eddy would live and die a faithful friend.
The cab spend on, turning onto the road that led south to Elvas. Half an hour later, she was on the station platform waiting for the midday express.
Bramall’s border crossing had gone without a hitch – so much so that he wished now that he had invited Isabella to join him. But better safe than sorry. The car that had brought him from Spain, arranged by Romero, was a big old limousine normally used for weddings and funerals and was well known on both sides of the frontier. The driver, who arrived complete with peaked cap, took the back road between Valencia de Alcantara in Spain and the Portuguese town of Marvão, north of Portalegre. Though Bramall had been put on an Interior Ministry wanted list that very morning, news of the fact had failed to reach the frontier post at Valencia de Alcantara, where the immigration official on duty, seeing the be-suited caballero reading his copy of Arriba in the back of his car, carried out only a cursory inspection of the vehicle before stamping his passport and raising the barrier. A hundred metres further on, at the two-man Portuguese post, all Bramall did was brandish his official-looking papers while invoking the magic words, O Duque de Windsor. His driver dropped him at Elvas railway station in plenty of time to locate Isabella, who greeted him with a kiss on the lips that, so far as he was concerned, made the entire experience worthwhile.
Back at the frontier, the local Guardia Civil checking that day’s comings and goings did not report to Badajoz until lunchtime. Badajoz in turn did not report to Madrid until four in the afternoon, at which point alarm bells began to ring.
In the meantime, the regional express from Badajoz had pulled in to Elvas station just one hour and fifteen minutes behind schedule, arriving in Lisbon seven hours later, where Croft was waiting. The station chief had brought with him in the embassy car a bottle of Veuve Cliquot.
Madrid: German Legation, July 16
Winzer’s manner was so cold and clinical he could have been a pathologist dissecting a corpse. Even so, Hasselfeldt felt that he had done well against him. Though his face was a mess, the two days he had spent in hospital had set him well on the road to recovery. His mind was free of the fog that had gripped it and he now believed that his situation, though bad, was not irrecoverable.
The Kriminalkommissar had been as good as his word. He went through Hasselfeldt’s files and personal papers and compiled a dossier on what might have been of particular interest to an intruder. What he lacked, however – and he knew it – was evidence of what had been removed.
Bramall had taken the tape, plus his unfinished transcript, as well as two other notebooks that were sitting on his desk – one of them containing details of his spy network in Madrid. Hasselfeldt admitted only to the loss of his address book. He denied there was any missing tape. What tape? And if there was no missing tape, there was no missing transcript either. No. It must have been his address book that the intruder was after. The terrorists attacked the guards on the ground floor. At the same time, an accomplice, dressed as a Kriegsmarine officer, made his way to the first floor and attacked him when he attempted to make an arrest. The whole affair, he suggested, was the work of Spanish Communists, or anarchists, trying to find out which of their countrymen were employed by Berlin.
“I very much regret that I was unable to protect my contacts, Kriminalkommissar. But I did what I could in the middle of an extremely chaotic situation. The raiders must have known that I would be the one with the important contacts, not the Gestapo. Otherwise, the attack might have focused on you, instead of me.”
It was a shrewd ploy and appeared to have some impact on Winzer, who smiled softly and offered Hasselfeldt a coffee. “So you have no idea who the intruder might have been?”
“None whatsoever.”
As Hasselfeldt rose to leave, Winzer threw out one last question. “Tell me, Klaus, do you know anyone by the name of Steuermann?”
The SD man froze in the doorway. “Steuermann?” he repeated. “No, I don’t
think so.”
“It’s just that we found a letter in your files, dated June 28, appointing a Mr Charles Bramall, equerry to the Duke of Windsor, to be an agent of the Reich, with the codename, Steuermann.”
“Oh, Es tut mir leid – I’m sorry. Yes, of course. It was in connection with my primary mission, which, as you know, is to assist Foreign Minister Ribbentrop and Obersturmbahnführer Schellenberg in their pursuit of the Duke and Duchess.”
“Except that you’d forgotten his name.”
“Only his cover name. I remember now.”
“But you didn’t see him on the day of the attack?”
“Not at all.”
“You didn’t, for example, meet him in the washroom?”
“In the washroom? Not that I know of. But if he had visited the Legation, Reception would know all about it. Why don’t you ask downstairs?”
“I would, naturally, were it not for the fact that all of those on duty at the time are dead.”
“Ah yes. How tragic.”
“Except for one, a corporal, who was on duty at the side entrance.”
“The side entrance?”
“Exactly. This fellow informs me that Fregattenkapitän Gunter Rath, head of the Abwehr in Algeciras, presented himself at the side door of the Legation at 9.30 on the morning of the attack, half an hour early for an appointment with Colonel Bruns, our chief military attaché.”
“I know who Bruns is.”
“Natürlich. I know you keep on top of things.”
“Was the identity of this officer confirmed?”
“The corporal insists he saw Rath’s naval ID and checked his face against the stamped photograph. Rath was tall, black haired, in his 30s, with a scar on his cheek. All of this corresponded with the visitor’s appearance. Furthermore, he spoke with a pronounced Hanover accent, which would certainly fit the facts. Given that the appointment was valid, there seemed no reason to detain him.”
“What has happened to the corporal?”
“He has been arrested, of course, and will face the charge of dereliction of duty. If found guilty, he will be shot.”
Hasselfeldt shivered. “Well,” he said, “if you have concluded your questions, I should resume my duties. It was good to speak with you, Kriminalkommissar
.”
“We must do it again soon.”
As soon as Hasselfeldt had left, Winzer looked down once more at the week-old Steuermann entry in the visitors’ book and smiled. He and his staff had already checked the ambassador’s suite and discovered the eavesdropping device, which they quickly traced back to the SD office. He hadn’t mentioned it to Stohrer in case he needed to use it himself at a later stage. Before Hasselfeldt came to see him, he had placed a call to SD headquarters in Berlin. How many recording tapes had been allocated to SD Sturmbannführer Klaus Hasselfeldt for use with his Magnetophon? The answer came back just 15 minutes later. Six. He had signed for six. There should have been six tapes in the locked cupboard next to the device. In fact, there were only four. He wondered how his SD colleague would account for the missing two. Perhaps they were in his apartment. Perhaps he had sent them back to Berlin in connection with a research project. And perhaps they were even now in the hands of a British double-agent, tall, in his 30s, with a talent for impersonating German officers, codename Steuermann.
Back in his office, only a space surrounded by a neat perimeter of dust indicated where Hasselfeldt’s Magnetophon should have been. The Austrian groaned and sat down heavily at his desk. Winzer would not relent, he knew it. He could not remain here in Madrid while this investigation hung over him. Sooner or later, the Gestapo chief would piece his case together and the guards would come for him. He would do anything to prevent that. But his only hope lay in retrieval and redemption, and the place to start was Lisbon. He reached across to his desk to pick up his phone. As he did so, it rang.
“Buenos Dias, Señor. My name is Villalobos. I work for the Ministry of the Interior in Badajoz, My job is to liaise with the Portuguese authorities along the central border region.”
The man’s reed-like voice reflected what the German felt would be his seedy appearance. “Go on,” he said.
“Si, Señor. I spoke a short while ago to my superiors in Madrid, who informed me that I should speak with you. Two hours ago, an Englishman crossed the frontier into Portugal some kilometres north of Badajoz. It seems he was a diplomat working for the Duke of Windsor.”
Hasselfeldt could feel his chest tighten, so that his ribs started to hurt. His voice came out as a strangled sigh. “What was his name? What was the Englishman’s name?”
“Bramall, Señor – Charles Bramall.”
It was unbelievable. He had him. Maybe God and his Holy Mother had not deserted him after all.
“Where is he now?”
“Impossible to say. But there was a train to Lisbon at midday, which stopped nearby at Elvas.”
“Damnation!”
“Si, Señor.”
Madrid: Villa Ortega, July 17
“I tell you, Raoul, she is not here. She is gone!”
Colonel Ortega yawned, pushing his elbows out either side of his head. Then he wiped the sleep from his eyes with his knuckles and groped for the switch of his bedside lamp. “What are you talking about, woman? Gone? Gone where?”
Doña Vitoria was beside herself with grief. She was crying. “I don’t know. She was supposed to be spending a few days with my sister Elena in San Sebastián. Remember?”
Her husband, aching in every muscle after a day’s hunting, nodded.
“She should have been home tonight. But she still hadn’t arrived when I went to bed. I thought maybe she had caught the late train and would take a taxi back from the station. But when I got up just now to check, her room was empty.”
Ortega hauled himself up in the bed and ran a reflective hand across his brow. The vein in his forehead had begun to throb. “She will be with Felipe,” he said quietly, his tone that of a father explaining to an innocent the facts of life. “It is not something of which we can be expected to approve, my dear, but Felipe is, well, that kind of a man.”
“I know the kind of man Felipe is,” Doña Vitoria said, her voice dripping with contempt. “But she is not with him. It is because of him that she is gone. Read for yourself. I found this letter on her pillow when I went to turn down the bed.”
Ortega grabbed his spectacles off the bedside table and squinted at the sheet of notepaper his wife handed him, fearing what he would find there.
Dearest Mama,
These have been difficult times for all of us. But the moment has come for me to make choices of my own. I cannot marry Felipe. I do not love him and I despise everything he stands for. I also oppose with every fibre of my being the direction in which Spain has moved under the Caudillo and cannot bear to remain in the country so long as he stays in the Pardo.
I ask you to find it in your heart to forgive me for the action I have decided to take, and also to know that I wish that I could have been a better daughter to you. When I get to where I am going, I will try to contact you. It is my dearest wish that the situation will change so that I can return home and live my life as a free and loyal Spaniard.
Please tell Papa that, in spite of all our differences, I continue to love him. He should inform anyone who asks that he has sent me back to Argentina.
Pray for me, as I shall for you,
Your loving daughter,
Isabella
Ortega scanned the letter twice, then threw it down in a rage. “A cadela pequeña!” he shouted – the little bitch! “She will ruin us.”
Doña Vitoria could not believe what she was hearing. “Husband,” she said, “have you become so hard and so ambitious that you no longer care about your family? Our daughter has left us. Do you not care what has happened to her?”
The vein in Ortega’s forehead was pulsing. A single high-pitched note was playing inside his skull. He made a fist, then thought better of it and sat back heavily on the bed. It was so unfair. Isabella had betrayed him. When Luder found out, he would be beside himself with fury. But then he looked at his wife, standing distraught above him, and his heart began to melt.
“Where has she gone?” he asked. “Have you any idea?”
“None. I knew she was unhappy, but I never dreamed it would come to this. Oh, Raoul, these are such dangerous times. There are so many mad and wicked people around.” She sat down on the edge of the bed so that her husband could place his arms about her. After a moment, she said: “But do you know? I think she is right. Felipe is a pig, and Spain is a nightmare. Wherever she has gone, it has to be better than this.”
Colonel Ortega said nothing. He felt drained of all resolve. His mind was numb.
Madrid: Interior Ministry, July 17
Serrano Suñer’s ears were burning. He had just taken a call from Stohrer in which the ambassador had expressed Berlin’s fury over lack of progress by the Spanish police concerning the attack on the German Legation. Accordingly, he was in a foul and vindictive mood. He buzzed through to his secretary.
“Contact the chief of police, the head of the Guardia Civil and the Governor of Madrid. Tell them I expect them here, in my office, in one hour.”
“Yes, Minister.”
“And then put me through to the British embassy. I wish to speak with Sir Samuel Hoare.”
“Of course, sir.”
Colonel Ortega was fluttering in the background, nervously batting one of the shutters of the Minister’s office window backwards and forwards between his hands. “And stop that wretched noise, Raoul – it’s driving me mad.”
“Yes, Minister, My apologies.”
“What’s the matter with you? As if I didn’t have enough on my plate already, I have to put up with you mooning around my office like a lovesick boy.”
The comparison stung Ortega, who had not been lovesick for many years. “I am sorry, sir. It is nothing. Just a few personal worries. Family concerns, that is all.”
“Then worry about them at home. We have work to do and I require your full attention.”
&n
bsp; Ortega nodded and swallowed hard. The lines around his throat and jaw were growing taut – a sure sign that he was losing his grip. Isabella, he was convinced, had run off with Bramall. Luder had told him earlier that morning that she and the aide were seeing one another behind his back and that Bramall was now suspected by the Gestapo of being behind the armed raid on the German Legation. If that was true, then his daughter might shortly be declared a fugitive from justice, with a price on her head. It was monstrous. Luder had already upbraided him in no uncertain manner for letting Isabella run wild; now the Minister was about to involve the police and the Guardia Civil. Running his finger nervously round the edge of his shirt collar, he could almost feel the garrotte tightening.
The phone rang on Serrano’s desk.
“Get that,” the minister said, gesturing towards the still shrieking instrument. “Unless it’s the British ambassador, tell whoever it is that I am too busy to speak to them.”
“It was the Pardo,” Ortega announced a minute or so later. “The Caudillo says he is most concerned about the situation and expects it to be resolved as quickly as possible. He has asked for a report.”
This actually made Serrano laugh – a rare event. He whinnied for a second, reminding his subordinate of a thoroughbred with a cough. Then his scowl returned. “You will tell the Pardo that we are going to find who was responsible for this attack, who planned it and for what purpose. You will tell the Pardo that we are going to arrest those responsible and everybody who has ever met them or spoken with them – and their families. And when we have done that and completed our investigation, we are going to keep the city executioner busy for the next three months.”