by Walter Ellis
“Don’t make a sound,” he warned her. “Say nothing and you will be all right. Nod your head if you understand me.”
Terrified, the woman nodded. He twisted her round to face him. “I am going to tie you up,” he told her, reaching into the side pocket of his linen jacket for a length of cord. “I am also going to gag you. But you will be safe.”
Two minutes later, with the servant securely locked in the laundry room, he made his way into the passage outside and the main hallway beyond. He climbed the marble stairs, flooded with light from an overhead lantern, and began a systematic search of the first floor rooms. As he entered Luder’s bedroom, he thought he could hear the noise of someone in the bath.
Perfect, he thought.
A man’s voice called out to him – hard-edged and unpleasant. “Klaus! Is that you? Did you remember to bring the little putas?”
Romero walked silently across the bedroom and pushed open the bathroom door.
“Reach me a towel,” Luder called out, reaching out blindly. “I’ve got soap in my eyes.”
Romero didn’t speak German but took a towel off the rack to the side of the tub and handed it across. The Argentinean sat up and wiped his eyes. Seeing Romero standing in front of him holding a switchblade, he gasped in shock and fell back heavily into the water.
What happened next was like a scene from opera bouffe. Luder flicked at the intruder with the towel, using it like a whip. At the same time, he began to scream out for someone to help him. The bathroom window was open and passers-by were bound to hear.
The Irishman shook his head, amused. His blade slid like a scalpel across Luder’s extended arm “You’re not a nice fellow, Felipe,” he announced in Spanish, “and some friends of mine have asked me to take care of you – do you follow?” The banker stared down at his wrist, from which purple blood was erupting from a severed artery. For a moment he fell silent. Then he started to scream again in the direction of the open window.
The blade above his head flashed again, this time across his throat. “The first was for the people of Spain,” Luder said. “That was for Isabella Ortega!”
Luder reached up to a gash that had opened beneath his chin. He felt the hot blood bubbling through his fingers. Fear gripped him. He tried once more to scream, but failed. Looking up at the face of his killer, he was consumed not by rage, but by terror. He stretched once more for the towel, hoping to staunch the flow of blood. It was too far away, beyond his reach. As his vision faded, he slipped down, gurgling, into the bathwater, which immediately flushed scarlet. His last breath caused tiny bubbles to form on the surface of the water.
Romero ran the blade of his knife beneath the bath tap before folding it back into its enamelled shaft. Time to get out of here. He turned around. A man in SS uniform, his face like a bruised tomato, was standing in the doorway. He held a Luger in his hand.
Hasselfeldt!
“I do not know who you are, amigo,” the Austrian said in heavily accented English. “But I do know where you are going. You have an urgent appointment with my colleagues in the Puerta del Sol. Really most urgent. Now drop the knife. Quickly. At once.”
Romero weighed his options. Letting go of the switchblade, he kicked it, obligingly, towards the SD man. As Hasselfeldt bent his eyes fractionally towards the knife arriving at his feet, Romero wheeled round and reached with his right hand for the revolver in his waistband. He swung it up away from his body and squeezed the trigger.
Before the hammer could land, a shot from Hasselfeldt’s Luger cut through his stomach. He felt to his knees, gasping, but still managed to get off a single round, which whistled past the Austrian’s cheek, taking off the lower section of his right ear. Hasselfeldt let out a high-pitched roar, consumed with pain and rage. Holding one hand to his ear to stop the bleeding, he lashed out with his right foot at the stricken figure in front of him.
Romero’s head began to fill with images of his childhood. He could see his dog, Pablo, that used to come with him to hurling practise in the Phoenix Park. Then he heard his mother calling him in from the street to come in out of that and have his tea, and his own voice replying (so high – it hadn’t broken yet): “I’ll be right there, Mammy!” But then, as if a door had shut, the past faded from view and he felt his mouth fill with blood.
Madrid: Villa Ortega, July 21
Doña Vitoria had not, if the truth were told, been overly upset by the news that her future son-in-law had been shot dead. But for her husband, it was a bitter blow. “What did the Minister say?” she asked him.
Colonel Ortega took his wife’s hand. Her face, normally so jovial, was lined with worry. “If you must know, he didn’t seem particularly bothered. The fact of the matter is, he didn’t like Felipe at the best of times.”
“He wasn’t alone in that.”
“No. But the point is, he doubts the case will ever be solved. The fellow had too many enemies and his assassin was almost killed in his turn by a German agent. He is in hospital and so far has revealed nothing.”
“And Isabella? What about our daughter, Raoul? ”
Ortega ran a hand across his brow. He had been dreading this moment. “I don’t know, my dear. I’m only guessing. But it’s starting to look as if this Bramall may have had a hand in the attack on the German Legation. He has been spotted since in Lisbon … in the company of a young Spanish woman.
Doña Vitoria grabbed her husband’s sleeve. “Was it Isabella?”
“I can’t say. She gave a different name, but she had green eyes.”
“It must be her, Raoul. She was determined to do something to keep Spain out of the war, and now, when I think of it, I’m sure there was a spark between her and Señor Bramall.”
Ortega was thinking the same thing.
“You know better than I, Raoul,” his wife continued. “You know what she is like. She is so … wilful. And it is obvious she could not abide Felipe. But if it is true that they are together, you are to do nothing. You will make no inquiries; you won’t mention anything to Serrano. We must just wait until we hear from her.”
“Very well. But Vitoria, what if the Germans get to her?”
“She is being protected by the British, is she not?”
“I assume so. Bramall is obviously much more than he appeared.”
“Then thank God and His Holy Mother!” Doña Vitoria turned away and sat down on a hard chair by the dining room table. There were tears in her eyes. “Hear me now, Raoul,” she said. “I don’t mind you checking the file. We need to know that Isabella is safe. But I want you to leave her alone. Promise me you won’t interfere. If you have never listened to me before, listen to me now. For all our sakes.”
Colonel Ortega drew in a deep breath, then let it out again before sinking down in the chair next to his wife. The truth was he was tired of conspiracy and ambition. The sheer awfulness of Luder’s attitudes and the threat behind Serrano’s practised smile: he could take no more of it. Yes, he would do nothing. He would wait for news of his child. And in the meantime, he would spend more time with his wife.
Maybe he could make a clean break and return to his regiment. Postings came up every month. He would talk to Serrano, see what could be arranged. San Sebastián was nice at this time of year, and Vitoria’s sister was there. Maybe he could take charge of the garrison at Irún.
“Don’t worry, my dear,” he said, glancing fondly over the top of his glasses. “I am not a complete fool and I know when to let sleeping dogs lie.”
Chapter 11
Lisbon: Boca do Inferno, July 22
“Mr Bramall! Is that you?” The Duchess was waving from the breakfast room, where she was seated in front of a sliced grapefruit and a bowl of imported Swiss muesli.
Bramall, on his way through the front hall, fixed a smile on his face and waved back. “Yes, indeed, Ma’a
m. Always at your service.”
“In that case, come inside, won’t you? There’s somebody I’d like you to meet.”
Christ! The previous day, at the ambassador’s request, he had moved out of Croft’s apartment into the main household, and since then the Duchess’s trivia had plumbed new depths. Who was it this time?
“Delighted, Ma’am. If you could just give me a second.”
Inside the breakfast room, the Duchess was seated at the head of the table. She wore a soft, embroidered hat of some kind, covered with sequins, and a Chinese dressing gown over silk pyjamas. Her face looked heavily lined, as if she had been up all night, which she might well have been, for all Bramall knew.
There was no sign of the Duke. Not a man for the early morning, he had discovered. Like his grandfather, Edward VII, he liked the day to be well aired before he consented to grace it with his presence.
To the left of the former Mrs Simpson sat Espirito Santo, wearing what looked like golfing clothes, helping himself to a surprisingly large portion of scrambled eggs. But it was the woman seated on the Duchess’s right that most interested Bramall. She was the most exquisite creature, aged about 30, with a flawless complexion and lips like chillies. Even at this hour of the morning, and it was not yet nine, she wore a low-cut blouse that showed off to perfection the pale, yet assertive swell of her breasts.
He wondered what Isabella would make of her.
“Mr Bramall,” said the Duchess, slicing into her grapefruit, “I’d like you to meet my friend, the Comtesse Dominique de Fourneau, visiting from Madrid.”
She was speaking in French, with an excellent accent, he noticed.
Dominique extended her hand. Her nails looked sharp. Bramall took just the ends of her fingers and bent down to implant the faintest kiss. “Enchanté, Comtesse, I’m surprised we haven’t met before.”
“I also, monsieur. But I have only been in Spain two weeks. You live there, I think?”
“Alas, no. I was there in the service of the Duke and Duchess. Now I have been transferred to Lisbon. Another week or so and I should be back in London.”
“ Tant pis. That is too bad. But I hear that you have been quite active during your time in Madrid.”
“Really?”
“Mais oui. The rumour is that the Germans are not too enamoured of you just now. They think you are quite the man of action.”
The Duchess put down her knife and fork with a clatter. Her eyes seemed to catch fire.
Bramall stared at her for a second, puzzled, before turning back to her companion. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
Dominique offered him a dazzling smile. “Please forgive me,” she said. “Just my little joke.”
“And most entertaining, I’m sure.” Bramall switched his attention to the Duchess. “But now, if you will excuse me, Ma’am, I have many duties to attend to.”
The former Mrs Simpson still looked animated, as if she had been subjected to a mild electric shock. “Of course, Mr Bramall,” she told him, “I wouldn’t dream of separating you from your duty. His Royal Highness and I are depending on you.”
He bowed. “Your Grace, Comtesse … Senhor.”
As he left the breakfast room, Bramall was convinced that de Fourneau had seen right through him. She knew something, he could tell. She was serene and self-possessed, but calculating. And attractive. Definitely attractive. She would make just the perfect spy. As for the Duchess, he had no idea what on earth had got into her. The Comtesse’s characterisation of him as a man of action almost caused her to jump out of her chair. It was strange and would need watching. Right now, however, it was time to find Crowther, the new hotshot marksman, sent over by Braithwaite, and see what he was doing. One thing about eternal vigilance: it never let up.
Madrid: German Legation, July 22
For one delicious moment, Winzer entertained the thought that Hasselfeldt had gone mad and shot Luder himself. Sadly, just the most cursory glance at the crime scene in the Villa Luder – to say nothing of the mystery assassin and Hasselfeldt’s missing ear – had forced him to a quite different conclusion.
Whoever he was, Luder’s killer was not Spanish. He had begun rambling in English, with what he was assured was a pronounced Dublin accent, at the military hospital in Madrid, But the fools taking care of him, instead of calling a detective to take notes, had sedated him and whisked him off to theatre for emergency surgery on his stomach.
As soon as the bullet was removed and his life was no longer in danger, his interrogation, supervised by Winzer, was brief, but bloody. He said nothing at first, then blurted out that he hated all Fascists and their Nazi agents. A personal crusade. then? It was possible. At one point, when Hasselfeldt had bent over him and taunted him in English, he had cursed at him and spat in his face. The Austrian was furious, punching him so hard in the face that his right retina had detached, rendering him partially blind. It was as Winzer had always suspected. Under pressure, the Austrian had no sense of what was appropriate. It was as if he was a wild beast. Winzer and a Spanish officer had dragged the SD man off, amid his protests, and continued the procedure alone. One by one, the detainee’s fingernails were removed – the screams were heart-rending. Then electrodes were attached to his genitals. Normally, electrodes loosened the tongues of even the most determined villains. Not this one. The Irishman had screamed and roared and told them all they were the sons of bitches, but he had not broken. It was another man, a barman arrested 36 hours later, who had given up the missing name. Apparently, the fellow was no more than a frustrated Brigadista – a Dublin-born Communist, with Spanish blood, by name of Romero – striking out against Fascism the only way he knew how.
Winzer could not finally make up his mind if the man being questioned knew more than he admitted. In the end, the Spanish examining magistrate, acting on orders from Minister Serrano Suñer’s private office, had taken the matter out of his hands and ruled that Romero should be executed for his crimes. The Minister, according to his senior aide, Colonel Ortega, was not prepared to devote the resources of the state to one out of the hundreds of homicides that happened each day in post Civil War Spain. Romero, his body broken, but his spirit intact, was transferred next day to the prison of Cárcel de Carabanchel, where he would remain until a date was fixed for his execution.
Winzer’s principle concern had been to satisfy himself that Romero – if that was his name – did not pose a broader risk to the Reich. Luder was a brute, with enemies in at least three countries. It was easy enough to imagine how his death might have come about in more normal times. He would have insulted or humiliated someone; raped someone’s wife or daughter. His fiancée, it transpired – the daughter of Serrano’s chief of staff – had disappeared recently without explanation. Perhaps Luder had murdered her and incurred the enmity of a rival for her affections. Or maybe he had defaulted on a business deal, or said the wrong thing to the wrong man at the wrong time. Ordinary criminal behaviour, as Winzer had good reason to know, had not been suspended while the Führer sorted out the evils of the world. Whatever the reason, an assassin had been deployed as the instrument of justice – an assassin who was now already in the middle of a countdown to his own demise. Case closed.
It was a pity that the fellow hadn’t managed to shoot straight. If the SD station chief had only ended up next to Luder on the bathroom floor, it would all have been quite perfect.
As it was, Hasselfeldt had been handed a reprieve when he most needed it. He was the man of the hour, praised by Serrano and by Heydrich for his decisive intervention. Winzer’s muttered comment that it would have been helpful if Luder had in fact survived or it the assassin were still available for questioning, was lost in the general hubbub of approval.
Winzer was not taken in for a second by the Austrian’s sudden determination to return the Duke and Duchess of Windsor to Madrid. He was conv
inced that his SD colleague’s primary purpose, which only the week before was to project himself into the heart of German diplomacy at the expense of those best capable of running it, was now seeking desperately to cover up his culpability in the attack on the Legation. He was certain that it was Bramall who was behind the attack and that, far from being a stooge, the man was a skilled and determined double agent. Whether or not the Irishman, Romero, was part of Bramall’s team, it was so far impossible to say.
The inquiry had all the makings of a classic dead end. You couldn’t interrogate a corpse and, besides, some mysteries were destined to remain exactly that – mysteries.
What truly engaged the Kriminalkommissar was the fact that Hasselfeldt had chosen Lisbon as his bolthole. It might simply be that he wanted to be wherever Schellenberg was. He was like a moth to a flame where power was concerned and the Obersturmbahnführer was Heydrich’s favourite, destined to go all the way to the top. But Winzer would put money on the fact that the true reason was proximity to Bramall, who had recently turned up in Lisbon. What was that about? How did it fit into the larger picture? He had no idea.
He would talk to the ambassador tonight. Heydrich had insisted that, as head of the Gestapo, he remain in Madrid, where the Luder murder had been added to the attack on the Legation in his file of unsolved cases. But a good detective always followed the trail of evidence, and right now the trail led straight to Lisbon.
Boca do Inferno: July 22
Bramall was working at a small Italian desk in his first-floor bedroom in Espirito Santo’s seaside mansion. He was composing a cable to Braithwaite about the proposed mission to France, but finding it difficult to concentrate because he kept thinking about Isabella. Ever since his “confessional” with Romero, he had been obsessed with keeping her safe. That was why he had agreed to let her go to London even when she had begged him to let her stay. But what if, in spite of everything, she were to fall in love with him? Stranger things had happened and she had already made it clear to him, not least on the train from Elvas, that she wanted their relationship to develop. If that happened, she would want to be with him in spite of all dangers – and he would certainly wish to be with her. Whatever happened, what was vital was that he should always be there for her when danger threatened. That was the promise he had made to Romero and it was one promise he intended to keep.