Raid 42

by Graham Hurley

  ‘He’s an anchorite,’ Goering said. ‘He should be living in a cave. Deserts were invented for people like Hess. No temptations. Nothing fancy.’

  Merz nodded. At major rallies he’d noticed that Hess had no taste for elaborate uniforms or any of the other trappings of power. On the contrary, unlike Goering, he favoured a plain brown shirt, unadorned.

  ‘He never uses the government fuel stations when he’s driving.’ Goering was rocking with laughter again. ‘Can you imagine that? At first I thought he was a simpleton. Now I know it’s even worse. He’s got principles. Principles? In a regime like this? In God’s name…’

  Merz smiled. The government fuel stations, with their rock-bottom prices, were a present to the Party faithful. Pledge your allegiance, claw your way up the Party ladder, and you could drive for practically nothing. Unless you were Hess.

  ‘You’re telling me he pays the regular price for fuel?’

  ‘I’m telling you he gives us a good name. He’s the conscience of the Party. And he’s educated, too. That’s why Hitler loves him. Needs him. He keeps the Führer honest. Don’t ask me why but no one else can do that.’

  Merz had been wondering what kind of assignment he might expect to give him time to look after Beata. Now it appeared to have something to do with Rudolf Hess.

  ‘You liked him?’ Goering was always looking for something to play with. Just now, he’d found a small die-cast model of the Bf-109, weighting down a pile of loose paperwork on the borrowed desk.

  ‘He was interesting, someone a little different,’ Dieter said. ‘I wouldn’t claim to know the man, but shyness isn’t a sin.’

  ‘Good to hear it.’ Goering picked up the tiny fighter, ran an approving finger over the long powerful nose. ‘As you know, our spartan friend has a single weakness. He loves to fly. When we went into Poland he begged the Führer to let him join the Luftwaffe. It wasn’t the glory he was after. He didn’t even want a special rank. Just the promise of flying was enough, ideally in one of these.’ He tapped the cockpit of the 109. ‘Hitler wouldn’t hear of it. Hess matters to him. He wants the man alive. He needs the voice in his ear when it suits him. And so the answer was no. But Hess doesn’t give in. Ever. He was at the Chancellery night and day. He badgered. He argued. He even pleaded. And in the end there was a negotiation. One year. Just one year. That, believe me, makes Hess unique. Hitler never negotiates.’

  ‘One year of what?’

  ‘Of not flying. Of staying on the ground and doing his job.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘The year is up. Hess has been counting the months, probably the minutes. And so now, without even checking with the Chancellery, he’s come down here to Uncle Willi and ordered himself a nice fat aeroplane.’

  ‘A 109?’

  ‘A 110.’

  ‘He’s qualified for twin-engines?’

  ‘No, and that’s the point. He needs instruction. Hitler has found out because Hitler finds out everything sooner or later and he’s ordered Uncle Willi to find the best men to get our Rudolf flying solo on the 110. You know the other Willi?’ Dieter nodded. Willi Stor was Messerschmitt’s Chief Test Pilot. ‘He’s taking Hess through the basics but he’s leaving soon for another appointment and so Helmut Kaden will take over as Chief. He’ll be with Hess as well, but speaking personally I’d like a third pair of eyes on our friend at the controls.’ He paused, carefully returning the model to the desk. Then he looked up. ‘How do you find the 110?’

  ‘I like it. I like the power. It’s built like a horse. It can take punishment. Nimble? Not really. Reliable? Yes. Quick? Definitely. And plenty of range, too.’ Merz frowned. ‘So why the 110? Why not a fighter? Single-engine? No need to convert?’

  ‘Hess says he needs the range and the speed. He’s everywhere, that man, all over the Reich, day after day, speech after speech. A personal carriage on a regular train might be fine for the lesser gods but our Rudolf sees no point in wasting all that time. In here’ – he tapped his head – ‘he’s been a pilot since he was old enough to dream. He flew in the last war, just a couple of months before it all turned to Scheisse. He tells me the conversion to the 110 is all for the good of the Reich and I think I believe him.’

  Think? Dieter said nothing. A third pair of eyes was the key phrase.

  ‘You want me to fly with him?’

  ‘I do. And I want you to talk to him, make a friend of him. It won’t be hard. He’s a decent man. And he respects you as a flyer. You think you can handle Hess? Turn him into a human being? Tease a little mischief into that cave of his? Daub something interesting on those walls?’

  Dieter nodded. He said it would be a pleasure, something he’d look forward to. He was thinking of Beata again. Was taking care of Hess his only commitment for the time being?

  ‘It is. And what’s more, I’ve taken the liberty of warning Hess what might be in store. You know what he said? When I told him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘He said he couldn’t wait. He said der Kleine was the perfect addition to his new toy.’

  ‘A toy? He called it a toy?’

  ‘Of course he didn’t.’ The Reichsmarschall was beaming. ‘That’s my word, not his. The man’s a child at heart. Listen to him, take care of him. And then go back to Berlin and do the same with Frau Messner.’

  Minutes later, dismissed with a hearty slap on the shoulder, Merz found himself looking for Hans Baur. The Führer’s pilot was in the canteen, eating alone, demolishing a plate of Schnitzel. Merz queued at the servery counter and then joined him. Baur, who was never less than direct, wanted to know what der Eiserne had been after. Merz took his time answering. Something had troubled him about the conversation upstairs – seemingly so cheerful, so innocent, so unforced – but it took Baur’s question to put it into words.

  ‘He wants me to spy on Rudolf Hess,’ Merz murmured. ‘Is that something I should be doing?’

  *

  Tam Moncrieff took nearly a full day to track down Gordon Hesketh. The number he’d been given by his sister turned out to be a hotel in Bayswater. A male voice confirmed that Mr Hesketh had been occupying a room at The Limes since last weekend. None of the rooms possessed a telephone but he’d be more than happy to pass on a message. Moncrieff gave him an MI5 number he was authorised to use and said he’d be grateful for a call. Mr Hesketh was to ask for Mr Rogerson.

  Nothing happened. Hours later, Moncrieff tried again, this time from a call box on the Bayswater Road. From here he could see the hotel. So far it had been spared the attentions of the Luftwaffe but nothing could hide the seediness of the place: pitted stucco, peeling yellow paintwork around the windows and a hand-lettered sign on the door, when Moncrieff had paused to check, that offered rooms with special rates for servicemen. This, as Moncrieff knew, was code for payment by the hour. Hesketh, despite his Belgravia origins, was living in a brothel.

  This time it was a woman’s voice on the line. She sounded foreign, perhaps Spanish. Yes, Mr Hesketh was aware that he needed to make a phone call. And, no, he wasn’t up in his room just now. Maybe he gets in contact later. Or maybe not.

  Back in the gloom at St James’s Street, Moncrieff attended to various files while waiting for the call that might not come. The office was manned twenty-four hours a day and it had been dark for hours when the phone on his desk finally rang. A call for Mr Rogerson.

  ‘Might I ask your real name?’ An English voice, rich, cultured, sure of itself, with more than a hint of amusement.

  Moncrieff ignored the question.

  ‘Mr Hesketh?’ he asked.

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘My sister gave me your number. How can I help you?’

  Hesketh apologised for the relative lateness of the hour. Nearly eight o’clock was no time to find a man at his desk. However, he’d taken the liberty of checking with the Ritz Hotel and they’d be serving dinner until 10 p.m. Hesketh himself could be in Piccadilly within half an hour and he suspected that Mr Rogerson was even closer. He’d
booked a table in his own name. Just ask the maître d’.

  Moncrieff said nothing for a moment or two, long enough to make Hesketh break the silence.

  ‘If you’re worrying about the Ritz, Herr wer auch immer, let me put your mind at rest. My choice of venue and my pleasure in settling the bill.’

  The line went dead. Moncrieff, still holding the receiver, was staring at the phone. Herr wer auch immer was German for Mr Whoever-you-are. Several messages in one simple phrase. Clever.

  Moncrieff took the long route to the Ritz, ducking into Green Park and using his pass to negotiate a path through the ack-ack emplacements. According to Ursula, the Luftwaffe were occupied elsewhere tonight, with raids expected on Birmingham and Southampton, and as Moncrieff stepped deeper into the park he paused to savour the calm that descended on the city at this time of night. From surrounding roads came the low growl of traffic moving with great care and if he listened very hard he thought he could hear the clop-clop of a distant horse. From time to time, the flare of a match pricked the darkness and he caught the briefest glimpse of a face beneath a helmet as one of the gun crews lit a cigarette. Then, from nowhere, came a murmured offer.

  ‘Two bob, mister? Whatever you fancy?’

  Moncrieff glanced behind him. The boy was barely into adolescence. His thin face was pale in the darkness and he seemed oblivious of the surrounding gun crews. Moncrieff studied him for a moment. More and more kids were coming north of the river, taking advantage of the blackout to earn themselves whatever they could negotiate. This area – monied, raffish – was said to offer easy pickings, especially after the cocktail hour, and for the briefest moment Moncrieff tried to imagine the kind of life this child might lead in daylight. Did he go to school? Did he have a job of some kind? And was it his family who despatched him every night to the land of milk and honey? Moncrieff was tempted to ask. Instead, he fumbled in his pocket, handed over a fistful of small change and watched the boy disappear into the darkness. Then came a throaty cough from a nearby gun pit.

  ‘His name’s Danny,’ a voice said. ‘But his brother’s the real looker.’

  The Ritz was packed. Stepping in from the darkness of Piccadilly, Moncrieff elbowed his way through the mill of bodies in the lobby and deposited his greatcoat in the cloakroom. When the uniformed attendant offered to take his briefcase, Moncrieff pocketed the ticket and shook his head.

  ‘Stays with me,’ he said.

  The big dining room lay beyond a noisy swirl of guests. With its walls of gilt-framed mirrors and heavy chandeliers it offered a glimpse of an England that was fast disappearing. The floor-to-ceiling windows were shrouded in thick falls of blackout material, and the floral displays – on close inspection – turned out to be made of paper, but half close your eyes and you could be back in an Edwardian London that had yet to experience a world war.

  In truth, Moncrieff had never had much time for the Ritz. Over the past year or so he’d dined here on a number of occasions, line of duty, accompanying Guy Liddell and occasionally Andrew Ballentyne when they were conducting discreet fishing expeditions with highly placed visitors. The Ritz was undeniably popular, partly because it offered much better protection than the Savoy or Claridge’s, and partly because the food was still so good, but Moncrieff had quickly wearied of the hotel’s mix of minor European royalty, cinema starlets, Fleet Street gossip correspondents, fellow-travellers from the intelligence world and national politicians on the make.

  The Lower Bar downstairs, known as the Pink Sink, was the trysting spot of choice for well-connected homosexuals – as well as a clutch of off-duty MI5 faces – and Moncrieff had lost count of the aristocrats he’d watched, titled figures from the House of Lords, ascending the big staircase with their pale young escorts in tow. Did the kid from Green Park ever make it this far? And, if so, had he gone home with proper money in his pocket?

  Moncrieff intercepted the maître d’ on his way to a table of partying officers in RAF uniform. Mention of a booking in the name of Hesketh prompted a smile.

  ‘Over there, sir. Beside the palm tree.’

  Moncrieff nodded. He was looking at a smallish individual who was sitting alone, a glass of wine at his elbow, enjoying a cigarette. His greying hair was cut en brosse. He wore a moustache and a goatee beard. His rumpled black suit didn’t quite fit, and there was a tiny curl of cotton wool beneath his jawline where he must have cut himself shaving, but he had the composure, to Moncrieff, of a man at peace with his surroundings. Gordon Millord Hesketh might have pitched his tent in a Bayswater brothel but he was no stranger to indulgence of quite another order.

  He offered a nod of welcome as Moncrieff approached and got to his feet to extend a hand. Balliol tie, poorly knotted. Deep-set eyes, the darkest shade of brown.

  ‘Your sister suggested I call you Tam. Might that be a good idea?’

  ‘If you wish.’

  ‘Then Tam it is. A ’32 Gewürztraminer. Playful at this time of night. May I?’

  Without waiting for an answer, he steadied the bottle over the empty wine glass. Moncrieff put his briefcase beside the table and settled into the chair. The nearest diners were conducting a loud conversation in German. Hesketh noticed Moncrieff’s interest.

  ‘Émigré bankers,’ he said. ‘Jews to a man. One of them’s fresh in from New York. Arrived this morning. Took the clipper to Lisbon and then onward to Poole. He says the food was shameful and the company en route worse. These days everyone wears a uniform and has absolutely nothing original to say. His words, not mine. Your health, my friend. Happy days.’

  They clinked glasses. Already, within less than a minute, Moncrieff felt the conversation slipping slightly out of control but Hesketh had a knowing smile on his face and he was right about the wine.

  ‘Excellent,’ Tam took another sip. ‘Your choice or the sommelier’s?’

  ‘Mine. There are plenty of risks I’m happy to take but wine isn’t one of them. Your sister thinks you work for Box. Might she be right?’

  Box 500 was a favoured code for MI5. It was Moncrieff’s turn to smile.

  ‘My sister has many talents. Discretion isn’t one of them. Neither does she always get the facts right. I’m intrigued by what she had to say about you. Is it true you grew up in that pile of hers?’

  ‘I’m afraid it is. How well do you know the house?’

  ‘Barely at all.’

  ‘A pity, if I may say so, and very much your loss. The place is a jewel. My first memory, the day I emerged from the chrysalis, was a spider that must have been bigger than my chubby little hand. I was up on what I later knew as the top floor. The sun was streaming in through the nursery window and the spider was busy webbing the clouds over all those rooftops. My father took me to the circus years later but nothing ever beat that spider. It spun, and it hung, and then it spun some more, and every time it put those threads to the test my tiny little brain waited for the whole thing to fall apart. But you know what? It never did. Ever see a spider eat a fly? The purest magic. One of God’s conjuring tricks. The fly alive one moment. Starting to decompose the next. Prost dem Feind, ja?’

  Cheers to the enemy. The raised glass again. Moncrieff wanted to know how long Hesketh had stayed in the house in Eaton Place.

  ‘Many, many years. Sometimes it felt like forever. Your sister will have told you most of it. I was adopted. I was below stairs. My real parents were Irish. Lots of vigour, lots of dreams, but nothing they could put in the bank. My adoptive parents changed all that. They gave me a new name and they gave me everything money could buy. My father was away most of the time, prospecting for oil. When he found it, he took it to market and made a fortune for everyone within touching distance. That included us. There was a sweet little school round the corner. Blazers the colour of boiling rhubarb. Tiny straw boaters. Prayers every morning and a grace before lunch. At Christmas we walked to Westminster Abbey for the carol service, every spring they took us to St James’s Park for the ducks and the daffodils, and every midsumme
r’s day we went to the zoo. They tried to turn me into a gentleman and I’m glad to say they failed. You’ve taken a look at The Limes? Chez moi? Bayswater Road?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I rest my case. At my age you learn a thing or two about quality. Her name is Carol, she’s cheap, she’s grotesquely overweight, and she’ll put every other woman you’ve ever had to shame. An artist. Unvergleichlich.’

  Beyond compare.

  Hesketh smiled, reaching for his glass again. Well-shaped fingers, heavily stained by a lifetime’s smoking.

  ‘You’re indulging me, Tam. Change the subject. Save me from myself.’

  Moncrieff wanted to know about Lisbon. According to his sister, Hesketh had been there for some time. True?

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I love it. Pay attention, my friend. Lisbon is what happens when a million people turn their collective face to the sun, to the ocean, to the west, and shut the door on the world they left behind. It’s not a city at all. It’s like this place.’ He gestured round the busy dining room. ‘It’s a confection, an illusion, a glorious fantasy scored for fat helpings of everything that’s supposed to be bad for you. An earthquake knocked it over several hundred years ago but it got back up on its sturdy little legs and brushed itself down, as good as new. I lived there first in the late thirties. Not a hint of war, not a proper war, not unless you happened to be Spanish, and I loved it at first sight. The Portuguese can be glum people but not there, not in Lisbon. Then the war came and thanks to the Germans us Lisbon Volk have prospered. Mightily. We invent. And we trade. And we barter. And when we’ve got nothing left to sell we invent a little more. In Lisbon, you live on your wits. And then you turn your face to the sun. Believe me, Tam. It never fails. Ever.’

  Moncrieff sat back a moment, fingering his glass. At first he’d assumed that Hesketh was drunk. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  ‘But what do you do out there?’ he said. ‘How do you make a living?’

  ‘I have an allowance, of course. My ma and pa saw to that. I’m not sure either of them were terribly pleased the way things worked out but you might be surprised to know that adoptive blood is a great deal thicker than the real thing. Then there were the books, of course. They certainly helped.’