Raid 42

by Graham Hurley

  Gasgoigne departed the following morning, assuring Tam of a warm welcome should he ever find himself in the Shetlands. It had been a real pleasure to revive a memory or two and he’d be back like a shot if young Cathy needed any company on these dark winter nights. She lingered in the open door as he clambered into his car and she grinned as he blew her a kiss.

  Later, after lunch, she drove Moncrieff to the station. Mist had covered the mountains all day and a thin rain had begun to fall. Moncrieff had been round the house after Gasgoigne’s departure and now he handed Cathy a list of jobs she might have the time to attend to. She’d parked outside the station. She barely glanced at the list.

  Moncrieff had the passenger door open but had yet to get out.

  ‘You’ll be careful, Boss?’ she said.

  ‘Always.’

  ‘There was a big raid last night. It was on the wireless. Central London. Hundreds killed. Lots of damage. Watch out for yourself, Big Man.’ That smile again. ‘You promise?’

  *

  Cathy was right about the bombing. Next morning, after the overnight sleeper finally crawled into London, Moncrieff took a bus from King’s Cross station, a journey lengthened by endless diversions. Southampton Row had been cratered in three places, and a fountain of water was still pumping from a fractured main. A demolition crew had started work on a tottering façade on Bedford Place, while a thin stream of traffic slowed in fascinated anticipation of the building’s collapse.

  It was mid-morning by now and Moncrieff got off at Oxford Circus to walk the last half-mile to MI5 headquarters in St James’s Street. The area around the bus stop had survived Saturday night’s raid virtually intact but several Mayfair properties off Conduit Street had taken direct hits and platoons of tailors’ dummies occupied the pavement along Savile Row while shop staff cleared up the damage inside.

  Moncrieff paused to watch them for a moment. Scenes like this had become routine, a strange mix of the familiar and the bizarre, but what struck him most was the sheer stoicism of Londoners. Maybe they’d been anticipating this for years, he thought. Maybe the real lesson of the thirties is that God and Hitler have no surprises left.

  Half an hour later, he was standing in the middle of St James’s Street, enjoying the thin winter sun on his face. A huge bomb had demolished a building at the upper end of the street and passers-by were still stepping around drifts of rubble and broken glass. Few windows at number 53 had survived the blast and Moncrieff lingered to watch a small army of carpenters nailing boards to the empty frames. Stepping inside the building, he paused beside the reception desk. Mid-morning, it was unusual to find the burly civil servant in charge working by the light of a candle.

  ‘Electricity off?’

  ‘Until lunchtime, Mr Moncrieff. That’s the rumour.’

  ‘And water?’

  ‘Later this afternoon. If it’s tea you’re after, Miss Barton had the good sense to leave the kettles filled on Friday night.’

  Good sense, my arse. Ursula Barton had an uncanny knack of anticipating every single enemy raid. Quite how she managed this Moncrieff had never fathomed, but she was rarely, if ever, wrong. On the one occasion he’d dared to ask, his question had drawn a rare smile and a muttered reference to a secret source. This, to Moncrieff, simply confirmed that she was, in all probability, a witch.

  He found her in the first-floor office she occupied next to the Director of ‘B’ Section. She was thin-faced, blonde, slightly forbidding. She had a stylish dress sense with an overwhelming emphasis on black. Her operational budget stretched to two candles but when Moncrieff enquired about the possibility of a cuppa, she shook her head. Carpenters were working on the windows of the floor above and the noise was deafening.

  ‘I’m nearly out of tea leaves,’ she shouted. ‘You might be luckier this afternoon.’

  Moncrieff nodded at the door that led to Guy Liddell’s office. She understood the unvoiced question at once.

  ‘He’s been in since eight,’ she said. ‘Just like the rest of us. I think he might appreciate a word.’

  Moncrieff knocked on the door, waited a second or two, and then stepped inside. Liddell’s single window had, for some reason, been spared by the blast. A couple of cracks in the glass but nothing missing. Moncrieff stood in front of the big, glass-topped desk, blinking. Already, in a matter of minutes, daylight had become a novelty. Just like peace, he thought. You never know you’ll miss it until it’s gone.

  Liddell was bent over a pile of paperwork. Moncrieff studied the polished oval dome of his head.

  ‘Sir?’

  The Director looked up. Moncrieff wondered whether the surprise on his face was real.

  ‘Ah…’ Liddell smiled, ‘… the wanderer returns.’

  ‘We talked on Saturday, sir. On the phone.’

  ‘We did indeed. Very briefly. And now we must talk a little more. But not here, I fear. I don’t mind the bloody Germans making the nights so difficult, but this is ridiculous. Maybe we should all invest in a hammer and a ladder and a bag of nails. Make ourselves rich before we all go mad.’

  The hammering stopped for a moment and in the brief silence Moncrieff became aware of a scuffling noise and a soft mewing. Beneath the desk, in an empty drawer, the office cat had nested in balls of newsprint. Her name was Brünnhilde and just now she was busy attending to a litter of tiny kittens.

  Liddell sat back, his arms neatly folded.

  ‘Gave birth during the raid. Prematurely, we think. Wonderful mother, though, and still loves powdered milk, thank God.’ He got to his feet and glanced at his watch as the hammering resumed. ‘Anthony Eden has made himself available at noon. Perfect timing, Tam, as ever.’

  Liddell and Moncrieff walked the half-mile to the Foreign Office where Eden, as Secretary of State for War, had been attending a meeting. On the other side of St James’s Park, Liddell paused at the sandbagged entrance to King Charles Street to show his pass to one of the sentries before escorting Moncrieff towards the steps that led to the main entrance. On the train rumbling slowly south, Tam had expected – at the very most – some kind of internal gathering where he could present what he’d learned in Stockholm and debate its significance. The last thing he’d anticipated was this.

  Anthony Eden was occupying a small, bare office at the back of the building on the first floor. The ageing diplomat who’d met them downstairs warned Liddell that the War Secretary was due at a lunch in Downing Street at a quarter to one and that time was therefore precious. He appeared puzzled by the lack of advance briefing papers.

  ‘You people fly by the seat of your pants,’ he paused outside the office Eden had borrowed. ‘Sometimes that can be a cause of envy.’

  Liddell chuckled but said nothing. The aide knocked softly on the door and then stood aside to let his guests in.

  Moncrieff had met Eden twice before, on both occasions at diplomatic receptions, a brief handshake and an even briefer exchange of pleasantries, but this was the first time he’d had the chance to take a proper look. In Whitehall, Eden had a reputation for impatience and a certain loftiness. He had little time for small talk and none at all for politicians or journalists prepared to credit the Nazi regime with anything but the most malign of intentions. Before the war he’d spent three years in this very building as Foreign Secretary before resigning over the issue of appeasement. Now, according to Liddell, he was rumoured to be only weeks away from returning. Hence his interest in Moncrieff’s brief visit to Sweden.

  Now he rose from behind the desk and buttoned his jacket before extending a hand to Liddell. For a politician, he was improbably handsome. His face alone would have won him a career in Hollywood.

  ‘Guy…’ he murmured. ‘I’m afraid this has to be quick.’ He waved the two men into the waiting chairs and resumed his seat. No handshake for Moncrieff.

  Liddell offered a brief résumé of the chain of events that had taken one of his key agents to Stockholm. Wilhelm Schultz, he said, had an ear to some important doors in
Berlin. His network of trusted confidants extended deep into the upper reaches of the military. As an Alter Kämpfer, a brawler from the twenties, he was no stranger to the rougher edges of the Nazi regime. And the message he was sending was impossible to misinterpret.

  ‘You’re telling me this is official?’

  ‘We believe so, yes.’

  ‘Proof?’

  ‘There is none.’

  ‘So what’s this man telling us?’

  Liddell glanced sideways at Moncrieff. Moncrieff described the conversations he’d shared with Schultz in the harbourside restaurant and during another, briefer meeting at the airport the following morning. In essence, the Germans believed the war was as good as won. The British were now isolated with no possibility of recruiting allies in occupied Europe. The Russians were bound hand and foot by the Non-Aggression Pact and the Americans had turned their backs on the quarrelsome tribes across the Atlantic. The British still had an empire, and therefore a future. Berlin would be only too happy to call off the bombers and the U-boats in exchange for a formal peace treaty. In short, Germany’s rightful claim to her European destiny should be no concern of London’s.

  ‘They’ve said all this before.’ Eden was looking at Moncrieff.

  ‘So I understand, sir. But that was before the fall of France. The point Schultz makes is that time marches on. Much like the Wehrmacht.’

  ‘Facts on the ground? We have what we hold?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘So what would this… peace treaty… comprise? What could possibly be in it for us?’

  Moncrieff had been anticipating this question since he and Liddell had set out from St James’s Street. He outlined the bones of an agreement whereby Hitler would withdraw from France and the Low Countries in return for a permanent peace with Britain.

  ‘He said this? Schultz?’

  ‘On the first night, no. It was my idea, my suggestion.’

  ‘You’re telling me you’re a diplomat, as well as a spy?’

  ‘No, sir. I was sent to listen. To listen, and probe, and maybe sow a seed or two.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘As I said, we met again at the airport the following day. Schultz had obviously been in contact with Berlin overnight.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And he appeared to think some kind of deal might be possible. He called it an arrangement. Between like-minded friends.’

  ‘Including formal withdrawal?’

  ‘That’s the impression I got.’

  ‘From Paris? Brussels? Amsterdam? Copenhagen? The full status quo ante?’

  ‘Not as far as Norway’s concerned. He talked of protecting the ore supplies.’

  ‘Remarkable. And you believed all this?’

  ‘I’m not a diplomat, sir, as you just pointed out. I’m simply reporting back.’

  There was a silence. Eden was staring at Moncrieff. He looked, if anything, irritated. Then Liddell fingered the crease in his trousers and cleared his throat. He wanted the War Secretary to be absolutely clear where Wilhelm Schultz stood in the ongoing battle between the key German intelligence agencies. He was an Abwehr man, a devotee of Admiral Canaris. He viewed Himmler and the dead-eyed careerists in the Sicherheitsdienst with little short of contempt. If we were to put our money on any horse in this race, ventured Liddell, then the odds might favour Wilhelm Schultz. He’d been around for years. He was an Alter Kampfer. And, as one of the old campaigners, he had form.

  Eden nodded and said nothing. Listening to Liddell, Moncrieff had suddenly realised exactly why this brief meeting was taking place. It wasn’t about war and peace at all. It wasn’t about some fanciful Nazi ruse to buy the British off and shut them out of Europe. It was about a turf battle much closer to home. MI5, Liddell was implying, had much better sources in continental Europe than MI6. Listen to us for a change, and begin to understand what’s really going on in the enemy’s black heart.

  Eden checked his watch, then he got to his feet. He said he was grateful for Liddell’s time and would ponder the implications of what he’d had to say. It was just possible that Mr Moncrieff might be obliged to repeat his story in the presence of others and he trusted that wouldn’t be a burden. Moncrieff shook his head. Eden was still looking at him. His irritation appeared to have evaporated.

  ‘The Glebe House?’ he said at last. ‘Am I right?’

  Moncrieff blinked, remained silent

  ‘Cathy Phelps? Been with you a while?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Wonderful girl. She made weekends at Balmoral almost bearable. You’re a lucky man, Mr Moncrieff.’ He winked. ‘I wish you well.’

  *

  Walking back across St James’s Park, Liddell wanted to know more. Moncrieff, who’d always guarded the privacy of his life at the Glebe House, was reluctant to go into details. A woman called Cathy Phelps was currently keeping house for him. She’d previously been with the Royal Household at Balmoral. With domestic help so hard to find, he counted himself more than lucky.

  ‘That sounds a bit wooden to me.’

  ‘Far from it. Honest? Conscientious? Tireless? Good company? Since when did words like that go together? No wonder Eden was so smitten.’

  ‘Eden’s a gourmet when it comes to women. He normally treats himself to other people’s wives. That might not have been the case at Balmoral.’

  ‘She was in service, sir. With respect.’

  ‘All the better, Tam. Droit de seigneur. While the royals weren’t watching.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Ask her. Get the full story,’ he was smiling. ‘Not that it matters a damn, eh?’

  Moncrieff didn’t answer. They walked on in silence for a while. Then, leaving the park, Liddell was struck by another thought. He fumbled in his pocket and brought Moncrieff to a halt.

  ‘Here. Andrew gave me this first thing this morning. He said it came in the post from your sister. Andrew’s over in Washington for the rest of the week but he thought it might amuse you.’

  Moncrieff took the card. Andrew Ballentyne worked for another arm of MI5 and had been quietly appointed liaison officer with the FBI ahead of the moment America might be obliged to take up arms against the Nazis. Two years ago he’d been responsible for Moncrieff’s introduction to the secret world and the two men had been friends ever since.

  Moncrieff was looking at the card. He’d never heard of Gordon Millord Hesketh.

  ‘He’s some kind of historian,’ Liddell said. ‘He’s over from Lisbon and paid a call on that sister of yours. Some story about growing up in her house. Lisbon?’ His eyes were gleaming in the pale sunshine. ‘You think it might merit a conversation or two?’

  Moncrieff smiled. Guy Liddell was a man you underestimated at your peril. As the last hour had so amply proved.

  ‘You think it went well? Back there?’ Moncrieff nodded at the grey Italianate façade of the Foreign Office looming over the park.

  Liddell gave the question some thought.

  ‘Politicians know so much and understand so little,’ he said at last. ‘From time to time we need to redress that balance.’

  3

  It was mid-week before Dieter Merz could get away from Zwolle. His host, Hans Siebert, cancelled one of the lectures, combined three others into a single day-long session and drove Dieter to the railway station to catch a train to Berlin. Dieter had talked to Beata twice on the phone and knew that the doctors at the Charité hospital were still fighting for Georg’s life. An operation on his swollen brain had released pressure that had nearly killed him in the hours after the accident but he was still unconscious and his vital signs, in Beata’s dry phrase, barely kept him ticking over. Even her constant presence at his bedside had failed to raise a flicker of response.

  Darkness had fallen in Berlin by the time the train pulled into the Anhalter station. Beata had offered to meet him on the platform, but Dieter said he’d take a taxi straight to the hospital.

  She was sitting on a bench outside the neurologic
al ward when Dieter finally arrived. Heavy blackout curtains hung at every window along the corridor and she looked pale and thin in the dim lighting. This wasn’t the Beata he’d last met back in the summer. Then, she’d been in the rudest of health, tanned from days in the sun playing with her daughter Lottie. Now, grey and drawn, she might have been a ghost.

  She struggled to her feet and Dieter gave her a hug. She pressed herself against him. There were tears in her eyes.

  ‘Any improvement?’ Dieter nodded towards the nearby ward.

  ‘None.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. He’s not dead yet.’

  She slipped her arm through his and walked him into the ward. It was bigger than Dieter had expected and the silence was punctuated by the steady ticking of bedside equipment and the clack-clack of their own shoes on the polished wooden floor.

  Beata led the way to a bed at the far end of the ward. Dieter barely recognised the swollen face on the pillow. Georg’s head was heavily bandaged and his eyes were closed. His long body was covered by a single sheet and Dieter had to look very hard to catch any sign of movement when he breathed.

  Georg Messner had always been the man in charge. Over Spain, he’d flown as Dieter’s wingmate, but in every other respect he’d taken responsibility for the life they’d led together. He was utterly dependable. He’d been born grown up. In the air and on the ground, he always made the wisest calls. Never for a second had Dieter doubted his immortality. Now this.

  A male nurse stepped into the ward from a door at the end. He was carrying two chairs. He offered Dieter a nod and arranged them side by side at the head of the bed before murmuring something in Beata’s ear. Then he was gone.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He told me they’re going to operate again. Tomorrow afternoon.’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘He doesn’t know. He’s seen the operating schedule. He’s a friend. He’s doing me a favour.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you ask?’

  ‘Ask who? It’s half past eight in the evening. The doctors are all at home eating supper with their families.’