by Walter Ellis
Hasselfeldt’s task was to try to divert Bramall and his principle agents from their key task of protecting the Duke. It remained to be seen how he would fare with that. As for Schellenberg himself, he and his chosen SS henchmen, Heineke and Böcker, would wait in a fast car. Their job would be to seize the Duke and Duchess at the optimum moment and then drive hell for leather to the frontier, where Winzer had arranged a reception committee, Spanish as well as German.
Would it work? It seemed unlikely. It was more a spin of the roulette wheel than a plan. But at least it might convince Ribbentrop – and the Führer – that he had done his best.
Cascais: Boca do Inferno, August 1
The previous days had been bizarre, even by the standards of recent weeks. Shots had been fired at the house, stones hurled at the windows in the middle of the night. The captain of the Excalibur had telephoned just that morning to report a possible bomb on board, which, fortunately, turned out to be a hoax. Immediately following lunch, the German Ambassador, Hoyningen-Huene, breaking with all precedent, had rung personally and asked to speak to the Duchess. “I’m sorry, Ambassador,” Croft had told him, “but our two countries are at war – or did you think Germany was neutral, too?” He passed the phone to Espirito Santo, who turned pale and said he would call back the following day. Listening in on the hall extension, Croft wondered if the next surprise would be an invitation to the Mad Hatter’s tea party.
Miguel Primo de Rivera, the civil governor of Madrid, rounded things off shortly before the scheduled departure when he went down on his knees to the Duke and Duchess and begged them not to leave for the Bahamas. “Your Royal Highness,” he implored, his eyes red with tears, “the British are determined to kill you. If you fear for your life, and that of your dear wife, come hunting with me instead in Spain.”
By now, even the Duke had had enough. “Get me out of here, Croft,” he said. “This is like a Whitehall farce.”
“My pleasure, sir,” Croft replied.
The Excalibur, under constant guard, was scheduled to sail in mid- afternoon, as soon as the royal party was on board. Predictably, the Duchess was obsessed to the very end with the non-appearance of her personal maid, Mlle Moulichon, who had apparently been held up by the Germans in Paris. “I asked her to fetch as much soap as she could fit into a suitcase,” she told Croft. “Now what do we do?”
“The soap and towels will be sent on, ma’am,” Croft said … “together with your headed notepaper.”
When he was sure that everything was ready, the MI6 station chief left for the docks. Bramall was left to take charge of the actual journey from the Boca, through Lisbon city centre.
The Duke and Duchess would be in a bullet-proof Daimler, lent by Dr Salazar himself, to whom the Duke had earlier said goodbye at his official residence. The driver was an expert assigned by MI6. Inside, as well as the future Governor of the Bahamas and his bride, were the couple’s two terrier dogs, plus Bramall and Crowther, both of them armed. The big Buick would take the lead, with a Special Branch officer at the wheel and two colleagues as lookouts and guards. The assigned passengers in this instance were the Windsors’ neighbours from Antibes, George and Rosa Woods, and the Duke’s comptroller, Major Phillips. Finally, bringing up the rear was the Riley, driven by a member of the embassy security squad, with the redoubtable Piper Fletcher and a Special Branch officer to provide the necessary armed deterrence.
At 3pm precisely, having bid farewell to the Ambassador and Sir Walter Monkton, the former king and his American wife stepped into their limousine and gave a last wave to Ricardo Espirito Santo. The banker looked as if good riddance was not far from his mind, though he had to admit that he would miss his daily “constitutional” with the Duchess.
Half a mile away, from his vantage point on the cliffs near Cascais, Klaus Hasselfeldt checked his weapons. He had a Luger and a Walther, both fully loaded, as well as a German stick grenade. Ever since learning that Bramall had moved out of Croft’s apartment to be closer to the Duke and Duchess, he had developed a nervous twitch. His plan to plan to assassinate both Britons had so far come to nothing. But he wasn’t done yet. There was still a chance. As soon as it was clear that the British were on the move, he turned to the Ambassador’s bodyguard, Schultz, sitting on the running board of the commercial attaché’s Volkswagen smoking a cigarette.
“Let’s go, you idiot,” he said. “I will drive.” Schultz just shrugged and threw away his cigarette.
Schellenberg’s plan, outlined two hours before, was for him and his men, backed by a group of mercenaries, to shadow the British convoy and then, 200 metres ahead of the harbour entrance, stage an ambush and seize the Duke and Duchess. The Obersturmbahnführer considered the likelihood of success at less than 50:50. His resources were few and he had little faith in anyone but Heineke and Böcker. But he had pulled off such a mad act once before, in October 1939, when he had kidnapped two British agents across the German border in neutral Holland before crashing through the frontier, guns blazing, back into the Reich.
Following a parallel course, Hasselfeldt’s VW was at this point one street below the convoy, undetected by Bramall and his team. Schellenberg, accompanied by Heineke and Böcker, was waiting close to the intended point of contact, with his vehicle’s engine running. The six hired gypsies responsible for the actual ambush were concealed inside a warehouse adjacent to the port. Lookouts would tell them when to strike.
Ahead in the Daimler, the mood was tense. “Is everything all right, Mr Bramall?” the Duchess asked as they dropped down from Cascais into Lisbon’s western suburbs. “You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”
“If you don’t mind, ma’am, I’m trying to concentrate. As you will be aware, it’s been a rough kind of a week. All that matters to me now is that His Royal Highness should arrive safely on board the Excalibur.”
“With me in tow, is that it?”
“If you say so, ma’am”
“Well, I must say …”
“Oh, confound it,” the Duke intervened. “Let the fellow do his job. He can’t make smalltalk with you and keep an eye out for the Germans at the same time.”
The Duchess turned away, glowering. She was not used to being spoken to like this.
It was Crowther who first suspected something was wrong. “Hold on,” he said, as they drove past an intersection about half a mile from the turnoff. “Just a second. What’s that down there? I’m sure I saw a car, moving at speed. It was that VW I spotted yesterday, near the Boca. It’s like it’s keeping level with us, one street down.”
“Right,” said Bramall. “We’re taking no chances. We’ll use the emergency gate.” He turned to the driver. “Turn left at the next major intersection. Flash the lead car. I’ll indicate to the one behind.”
He pushed forward out of the jump seat and dived between the startled Duke and Duchess, using a torch to signal to the car behind to be ready to turn off. Up ahead, the Buick had got the message. At the next set of lights, it swung south.
By chance, the alternative route, leading to a second, barred-off harbour entrance, took the Royal convoy past the street in which Schellenberg and his men were now waiting – though facing in the opposite direction. It was Böcker, keeping watch out of the rear window, who spotted the convoy at the “wrong” end of the street. Schellenberg shouted to Heineke to turn the car around. At the same time, he called the leader of the Portuguese mercenaries on a two-way radio, ordering them to split into two groups and search out the British column.
The Daimler and its escorts were now less than half a mile from their destination, weaving in and out of the thin afternoon traffic at speeds in excess of 60 miles per hour. The pursuing Mercedes, with Schellenberg and Böcker poised to open fire, was nevertheless closing the gap, keeping one “civilian” vehicle at a time between itself and its quarry. The SD chief could not be certain that the gy
psies would get a chance to stage their ambush, but if they did, he had to be prepared.
Time was running out. The Mercedes swept out from behind its civilian cover. It was 200 metres, now 100 metres, behind the third car of the convoy. In the Riley, the Special Branch marksman saw what was happening and released the safety catch on his revolver.
Schellenberg heard a crackle on his radio receiver. The leader of the Portuguese ambush party was on the line. “We have lost them, cheffe,” he announced. “Now what do we do?”
Schellenberg cursed. But he and his two Germans could still get the job done. All it took was cool heads and steady hands. He turned towards Heineke to order him to make straight for the Daimler. But it was at that moment, as he opened his mouth to speak, that Hasselfeldt’s Volkswagen hurtled out of a side street at 70 miles per hour and came straight at them. Schellenberg watched, aghast, as the VW slammed into the rear end of the Mercedes, sending it spinning off the road into a parked car, throwing him hard against the windscreen. Blood began to spurt from his forehead. Heineke’s mouth and chin had struck the steering column. He grunted as the vehicle shuddered to a halt and spat out a front tooth.
Hasselfeldt’s Volkswagen, meanwhile, had ricocheted off the larger Mercedes and ended up jammed against a lamppost, its front bonnet pointing up at an angle of 30 degrees.
Schultz was unhurt but the Austrian had injured his foot. Soon, he thought, painfully, he would have no working parts left. There was a long silence before he got out and hobbled over to Schellenberg’s car.
The SD chief was holding a bloody handkerchief to his head. His carefully devised plan – conceived in spite of the idiocy of his masters – had been reduced to a shambles by Hasselfeldt. “You imbecile!” he said. “You’ve ruined everything. Now the Duke and his party have got clean away and we – or, rather, you – are the one who will have to explain this mess.”
Hasselfeldt was devastated. These had been the worst two weeks of his life. “I apologise, Obersturmbahnführer. We were trying to get ahead of the Duke’s car, except that Schultz here chose the wrong street.”
“I am not going to discuss this with you,” said Schellenberg, examining the blood on his handkerchief. “We will talk about it later, at the Legation.” He turned to his driver, who was sitting staring into the rear-view mirror at the sudden gap in his teeth. “Heineke, listen to me. Does the car still drive?”
A small crowd had gathered. A siren could be heard in the distance. The police would be on the scene within minutes. Heineke took a deep breath and tried the ignition. The engine started with a roar. German engineering. Everyone, including Hasselfeldt, jumped back.
“Then get us out of here. Now!”
The Mercedes, its rear mudguard bent hopelessly out of shape, pulled back with a scream of metal from the rumpled side of the parked car. As soon as it was clear, Heineke slammed it into forward gear and powered away, smoke belching from the engine, the broken mudguard trailing in its wake.
Half a mile ahead, at the side entrance to the harbour, the Duke’s small convoy passed through the gates without further incident and drew up next to the gangway leading onto the Excalibur.
“Now, would you mind telling me what all that was about?” the Duke demanded. “The Duchess and I were thrown about back there like nobody’s business.”
“I’m terribly sorry, sir,” Bramall said, “but I think you may just have escaped a Nazi kidnap attempt.”
“What?”
“Only it looks as if they weren’t up to the job.”
“My God!” said the Duchess. “Is that the best you can come up with, Mr Bramall?”
“My wife has a point,” said the Duke. “The whole thing could have been paranoia on your part.”
The two men stared at each other. “That is possible, sir,” Bramall said. “But sometimes it pays to think the worst – wouldn’t you say? Either way, we’ve got you and the Duchess to the ship unharmed.”
By now, the Portuguese foreign minister, standing alongside David Eccles of the Department of Economic Warfare and the captain of the Excalibur, were lined up to greet the former king. Croft was also on hand, trying to pretend that nothing had happened.”
The Minister stepped forward, as if conducting a funeral. “Your Royal Highness,” he began. “We live in troubled times. Yet it is my Government’s most earnest hope that you and the Duchess managed to enjoy your brief stay in our country. As you leave Europe to embark upon another glorious chapter in your career, may I wish you a safe, and comfortable, onward journey.”
“Thank you, Senhor …” The Duke’s voice trailed off, for he had no idea what the fellow’s name was. “The Duchess and I are most grateful for the hospitality that has been extended to us during our stay and hope that we may return to Lisbon in the not too distant future.”
The Minister bowed.
“And now, sir,” said Eccles, “If you don’t mind, I think it would be best if you boarded the ship. Your stateroom is ready and cocktails will be served in half an hour.”
“Oh, excellent. Well, that’s it, then, Croft. You too, Bramall. Let us hope that if we do meet again, it is in happier circumstances.”
Croft and Bramall looked at the Duchess, who stared blankly back at them, after which they turned to the Duke, dropping their heads just a fraction. “Your Royal Highness,” they said in perfect unison.
The Excalibur did not meet its scheduled departure time of 4pm. There were further security checks and some problems with the Duchess’s luggage. When it did finally put out to sea at 6.40 in the evening, Walter Schellenberg watched its progress down the Tagus waterfront from the tower room of the German Legation.
Things had not worked out as planned and Ribbentrop was sure to register his displeasure. How Canaris would laugh when he learned what had happened. On the other hand, he had a perfect scapegoat. Hasselfeldt, it turned out, was already under investigation by Winzer for gross negligence arising from the assault on the Legation in Madrid. The unfortunate Sturmbannführer’s latest performance, impeding a direct order of the Führer, would surely put paid to his career. Watching through his field glasses as the Excalibur turned west into the Atlantic, Himmler’s head of foreign intelligence ran his free hand over the wound to his forehead, which the embassy doctor had managed to close with stitches. His temple throbbed. There would be a scar, he had been warned Could he call it a war wound? That would be stretching it. But an injury sustained in the line of duty? Why not? Others, as he knew, had been awarded the Iron Cross for a great deal less.
Chapter 12
England: one week later
Isabella stood inside the open door of the Lysander, hearing the headlong rush of air, watching the landscape drift slowly past two kilometres beneath her feet. Hills and fields stretched out in all directions, like an illustration from a children’s book. For once it was sunny, and the sun, she had discovered, transformed England instantly into a magic kingdom. The colours of earth and sky were no longer dull and lifeless, but intense and vivid.
But she was terrified.
“I can’t do it,” she shouted to the RAF sergeant standing at her shoulder.
“’Course you can, love,” he bellowed back. “Don’t think about it, that’s all. Then it’s easy as falling off a log. Just remember, count to ten and pull the ripcord. Oh, and don’t forget to bend your knees when you land. Piece of cake.” With that, he gave her a shove. For a moment, she lost her footing, catching the tip of her boot on the doorframe, then she felt herself fall forwards into the abyss. Her scream was lost in the roar from the Lysander’s engine.
The air accelerating past her was so sharp it hurt her eyes. She knew she should have worn goggles. She looked down, squinting. Madre de Dios! She was dropping like a stone. Count, they said. But how many was it now? Cinco, seis, siete … Oh, to hell with it! She tugged hard on the cor
d.
The chute opened like an enormous bedsheet. One moment she was hurtling down, the next she was shooting straight up. At least that’s what if felt like. For a moment, all the remaining breath was knocked out of her body
She was afraid she would be sick. Her stomach was in her mouth. She closed her eyes and waited a moment before re-opening them. But then, as suddenly as it came, her fear vanished and the sensation ceased to terrify her and became instead almost sublime. She looked up. The aircraft was tiny. It was impossible to believe she was ever inside it. Below her was the patchwork of the land: small, compact fields separated by hedgerows and trees. Earlier, it had rained; now the sun was shining.
So many colours. Over there was corn ripening: yellow, almost golden. Next to it, the dark green of some kind of vegetable. Cabbage perhaps (didn’t the English eat cabbage?) And an unfolding expanse of pasture – so unlike Spain – with copses of trees, hedgerows and streams. The land was parcelled into small farms, each with its neat farmhouse and barn. She could see Hanslope with its thatched roofs and church tower. And over there was her hotel. It was so peaceful, so tranquil, so … untroubled. To bring war to such a landscape, she felt, would be nothing less than a crime.
It was a rare moment of detachment. They hadn’t told her about this. She was floating. Alone in the sky, it seemed as if nothing in the world could touch her. Love was different. It was like a predator. It stole up on you unawares and consumed you. She hadn’t expected to fall in love with Bramall. She thought they would have at most a brief affair, like in a French novel, and in a pragmatic way she had looked forward to that. It would be her first time and the final part of growing up. Instead, he had come to occupy the centre of her life.