‘Books?’
‘I’m a writer. Your sister never mentioned it?’
‘She did. I remember now. What kind of books?’
‘Military history. It’s a virus I picked up at Oxford. Show me a battlefield and I’ll put it between hard covers. Lines of Torres Vedras? Ring any bells?’
‘Wellington’s campaign. Peninsular War.’
‘Excellent,’ Hesketh mimed applause. ‘That’s what brought me to Lisbon in the first place. I’d made a name for myself with a series of tomes about the Franco-Prussian War. Sedan. Gravelotte. The Siege of Metz. All grist to the authorial mill. But the Lines of Torres Vedras will be my magnum opus. Once the book’s done there’ll be nothing left to say.’
A waiter approached. Hesketh appeared to know him. The manager had warned him that a party of two dozen were about to dine in a private suite. The kitchen was already busy. Might now be a good time to order?
Moncrieff reached for the menu. To the best of his knowledge the Lines of Torres Vedras were a series of fortifications north of Lisbon. They’d spared the city the attentions of Napoleon, and it was easy to imagine this eager little figure in his shapeless suit pacing the earthworks and plotting lines of attack.
‘You’re close to finishing the book?’ Moncrieff had settled for the Dover sole.
‘Never. That’s the point. Find something you love and never let it end.’ He glanced up at the waiter. ‘The usual, please,’ he patted the beginnings of a paunch. ‘But not too many of those gorgeous spuds.’
The waiter made a note and departed with the order. Hesketh’s gaze swept the room before returning to Moncrieff.
‘You’ll know most of these people. I imagine one way or another they’ll be in those files of yours. Over there, for instance. By the door.’
Moncrieff stole a glance. A tall, thin-faced figure bent over his table, locked in conversation with a younger man. Lord Londonderry. Family seat in Northern Ireland. Otherwise known as Charlie.
Hesketh nodded. ‘You know what else they call him?’
‘The Londonderry Herr.’
‘Touché. Excellent. Put most of the people in this room on a London bus and their first port of call would be Berlin. But you’d know that, of course.’
Moncrieff conceded the point with the faintest smile. Charlie Londonderry had been beating the drum for Hitler since the mid-thirties, in keeping with a number of fellow aristocrats. Add most of the City, a sizeable number of industrialists, dozens of leading Tories, plus a longish list of sympathisers from Court circles and it was a miracle that Britain was at war at all. Why pick a quarrel with the Germans, these people asked, when the real menace marched under the red flag, pledged their lives to the Proletariat and couldn’t wait to fall on the Western capitalists and tear them apart?
‘You’ll have a large circle of friends in Lisbon…’ Moncrieff began.
‘Is that an assumption or a question?’
‘The latter.’
‘Then the answer’s yes. Conversations, a passing friendship or two, the rest I expect you can imagine. That’s what Lisbon’s about. That’s what makes the place so…’ the briefest frown, ‘… intoxicating. It’s a ragout, a stew, une bouillabaisse. Fascists. Communists. Anarchists. Monarchists. Jews. Slavs. Poles. Gypsies. You dine à la carte. And you never go hungry.’
‘Anyone especially interesting? Anyone you might like to bring to our attention?’
For the first time the conversation faltered. This was the heart of the matter, the reason they’d stepped in from the darkness outside, and they both knew it. The old dance. You first. Me first. A courtly bow. A murmured word of apology. And then the music restarts. Perhaps a little brisker.
‘I thought abroad was MI6 territory?’ Hesketh had lit another cigarette.
‘It is. Occasionally we hunt in tandem. Operational protocols needn’t concern you. I suspect you have something to share. Just tell me what it might be.’
Hesketh gave the proposition some thought. Then he bent over the table and gestured Moncrieff closer.
‘June,’ he said. ‘Magnificent weather. The Portuguese were celebrating the eight hundredth anniversary of their independence and the flags were out the length of the Avenida da Liberdade to prove it. Fiesta time. Dancing and bottles of icy Alvariño and all kinds of other mischief. Lisbon does this kind of thing extremely well. Small wonder the bloody man turned up.’
‘Bloody man?’
‘George Windsor. The Duke of Kent. He married a Greek Princess in ’34 to keep the royals quiet but his heart was never in it. Morphine. Cocaine. A riotous affair with Noël Coward. Gloria in excelsis Deo, Tam. Get on your knees and do your worst.’
Moncrieff ducked his head. MI5 kept a file on the maverick Duke and regarded him as a significant security risk. Hesketh was right. The bloody man was frequently out of control.
‘You’ve met him?’
‘I have,’ Hesketh nodded. ‘Thanks to a good friend of mine.’
‘And who might that be?’
‘Ricardo Espirito Santo Silva.’ He beamed with pleasure, savouring each vowel. ‘A banker. A man of immense wealth and immense ambition. A man who plays skat with the German ambassador and rarely loses. A man whose knowledge of Torres Vedras is nearly as extensive as my own. We’ve visited the fortifications together on a number of occasions. And each time, dare I say it, Ricardo left the field of battle a wiser man.’
‘Thanks to you.’
‘Indeed. He respects knowledge and he respects authorship. Two reasons why we see a great deal of each other. He’s also won me a role in the restoration work at the Castelo in Lisbon, for which I’m more than grateful.’
Santo Silva’s royal connections, he explained, extended beyond the Duke of Kent. The abrupt collapse of France drove millions south, away from Hitler’s armies. Overnight, even the wealthy became refugees. One of them was the Duke of Windsor, George’s elder brother. With his American wife, Wallis Simpson, he made his way to Madrid where he enjoyed the hospitality of Sir Samuel Hoare, the British Ambassador.
Moncrieff reached for his glass, sensing what might be coming. The Duke of Windsor had formerly been Edward VIII, King of England. Wallis Simpson was an American divorcee, an unthinkable choice of Queen, and the affair had triggered a constitutional crisis. In the end, offered a choice between kingship and love, the Duke had been forced to abdicate. Exiled to Paris, he’d become a baleful presence on the wrong side of the Channel, not least because of his admiration for Adolf Hitler. Alone, despite the ravages of a spiteful peace treaty, this was a leader who’d restored the fortunes of a great race. The Germans, he assured anyone who cared to listen, were lucky to have him.
‘You’ve met him, too? The Duke of Windsor?’
‘I have. The briefest conversation, alas, but fascinating nonetheless.’
The Duke and Duchess, Hesketh said, had arrived in Lisbon from Madrid. Santo Silva had been their host. He’d installed them in a rather pleasant villa at Cascais, on the coast road north from Lisbon. Pink stucco, lots of bougainvillea, and views that fell sheer to the boiling Atlantic surf.
‘The local fishermen call this place Boca do Inferno. You know what that means?’
‘The Jaws of Hell.’
‘Exactly. That’s why God invented metaphor. That’s exactly where they found themselves. You’re familiar with Operation Willi?’
‘Tell me.’
‘The Windsors, alas, were a liability. Still are. Dear Bertie, the current King, was put in to replace his errant brother. When it comes to public events, he can’t hold a candle to Edward VIII and he knows it. After the fall of France, the Windsors were desperate to get back home, back to the Mother Country, but Bertie wouldn’t have it. He told Churchill to find his wretched brother another job. Preferably on the moon.’
Churchill, he said, was no friend of the current King. He’d taken Edward’s side during the Abdication Crisis and George VI had never forgiven him. Churchill had toyed with various postings a
nd finally settled on the Governorship of the Bahamas.
‘Imagine St Helena with a nicer climate. Somewhere safe. Somewhere sleepy. Somewhere on the very edge of the map. The Duke and his good lady were appalled. They fought to have the order rescinded. No matter. Churchill’s writ runs to every corner of the Empire. What he wants, he gets. And so there they were, the Duke and the Duchess, sitting on a clifftop in Cascais, growing glummer by the day. Churchill had arranged a boat to take them away. The last thing they wanted was to get aboard. Something of which our German friends were very aware.’ Hesketh paused for a moment. His eyes were bright. He was a storyteller by trade and he knew he was good at it. ‘I’m sure you’re aware of all this, Tam, but just imagine the possibilities. You’re sitting in Berlin. The once and maybe future King of England is nursing a whole list of grievances. He’s marooned in Lisbon. He’s on neutral territory. He’s on your side. He’s there for the taking. All you have to do is be rude about Churchill and assure him that one day, with a little help from his German friends, he might be back on his throne.’
Operation Willi, he said, was the logical consequence of the Windsors’ plight. A team was despatched to Lisbon. They had a good look at the villa overlooking the Boca do Inferno. They spread a number of ugly rumours about the British and their real intentions. Under cover of darkness, they reinforced these threats with shots aimed at the windows of the villa. And then, once the real peril of the situation was more than evident, they had the Spanish extend an offer they judged the royal couple would find hard to resist. An unlimited stay at the Palace of the Caliph at Ronda, a chance to catch their breath in the safety of Spain before the pressure of events and a sizeable German army bore them back to London.
‘If that sounds like kidnap, Tam, then I’m afraid it is. And you know who they put in charge?’
‘Walter Schellenberg.’
‘Indeed. A king in his own right. The lord of the dark arts. The mastermind who gave MI6 a black eye at Venlo. The ship was due to sail on 1st August. The whole city knew the date. Schellenberg arrived three days earlier. A letter was delivered to the villa that same afternoon. It warned the Duke that his life was in danger and offered him safe passage to the Spanish border. By now Churchill had sent the Duke’s trusted friend to whisper in his ear. You know Monckton? Dear Walter? A lawyer of genius and a very civilised man. That did the trick. Santo Silva threw a farewell party at the Hotel Aziz the night before the ship was due to depart. I was there. And so was Walter. And so were the Germans. They had trick after trick up their sleeves. Talk of a gunman despatched from London to take the Duke’s life. Another dark rumour about a bomb aboard the bloody ship. This was opéra bouffe, Tam. Music by Offenbach. Libretto by our friend Walter Schellenberg. And you know what happened the following day? The ship sailed. With the Windsors on board. I watched it leave. Hundreds of well-wishers on the pier and two blasts on the steamer’s siren as it slipped away. That day was a legend in the making, and Lisbon loved it. Can you guess the name of the ship? Excalibur. It sailed at twenty to seven in the evening and the whole episode, if you know where to go, is still the talk of the city. Believe me, Tam, the word Arthurian doesn’t do this tale justice.’
Moncrieff was watching an enormous family eating at a table in the middle of the dining room. They were Albanian royalty and their various members occupied a fat file at MI5. A telephone had been brought to the table. The adult in charge, an imposing figure with an impressive beard, finished a conversation and murmured something to the woman who might have been his wife. At her command, the children pushed aside their plates, neatly folded their napkins and made for the door. At the same time, Moncrieff became aware of a more general stir in the room. Then came the wail of an air raid siren and the sudden appearance of the maître d’ in the entrance to the dining room that led to the reception area and the staircases beyond. Guests were advised to make their way to the basement bar. He apologised for any inconvenience.
Diners gazed at each other for a moment. For many of them, this invitation was part of the Ritz routine, a prudent retreat in the face of Luftwaffe high explosive and the laws of chance. The cannier souls took their food with them, half-eaten kidneys swimming in a pool of jus, the chef’s signature fish pie, a glorious assemblage of cod, pollock and rock salmon, nestling in a whorl of mashed potato spiked with butter and dill. The wait downstairs could last hours, often did. A man could die of hunger before the all-clear sounded.
Moncrieff and Hesketh were among the last to leave the dining room. Hesketh insisted on finishing his tripe and onions in a civilised setting and Moncrieff didn’t blame him. He was thinking about Ursula Barton. Her predictions for the evening’s entertainment were seldom wrong. She seemed to have a direct line to Luftwaffe headquarters in Gatow. So why hadn’t she foreseen tonight’s raid?
None the wiser, he and Hesketh made their way downstairs. The Lower Bar was standing room only. Diners were shouting orders at the barmen from every corner of the room and drinks were circulating from hand to hand until they found the right home. There was no hint of panic or even apprehension. On the contrary, an incoming raid and the prospect of a bomb or two appeared to be a cause for celebration. For those in the know, five sturdy floors above street level was a virtual guarantee of survival.
Hesketh enquired whether Moncrieff wanted anything to drink. When Moncrieff shook his head, Hesketh excused himself and set off in the direction of the bar, worming his way through the solid mass of bodies. En route, he stopped briefly to talk to a tall figure in an RAF uniform before disappearing completely. Moncrieff looked around. In truth, he wanted to be anywhere but here. The crush of dozens of well-fed diners was oppressive. There was an overwhelming fug of sweat and alcohol and clouds of impossible-to-obtain perfume. Maybe now was the time for Moncrieff and Hesketh to make their excuses and take their chances outside in the fresh air.
The bar’s normal clientele lurked on the edges of the room, eyeing the women and the prettier boys. Moncrieff recognised faces from Fleet Street and the Foreign Office, from the House of Lords and theatreland. Many of them were drunk. Some of them were visibly resentful. This was their territory, their evening. By what right had these people, with their wretched children, intruded?
Then came the first explosion, far too close to be comfortable. The whole building seemed to rock and in the silence that followed Moncrieff heard a woman sobbing. A second bomb, even closer, filled the bar with dust and plunged it into darkness. Now came a different smell, far earthier.
Hesketh had suddenly appeared again. Instead of a drink, he’d acquired a child who seemed to have lost her parents. When the girl began to cry, Hesketh assured her that everything was going to be fine.
‘Just a little bang or two,’ he was bent to the child, his mouth to her ear. ‘Let’s find your mummy.’
The child turned out to be foreign. She didn’t understand. Hesketh tried again, first in Spanish, and then in French. French did the trick. The child took Hesketh’s hand, consented to be cuddled, stopped crying. Then, from the darkness, came the sound of a harmonica and a tune that Moncrieff must have heard dozens of times, first on newsreels, then on the streets of Nuremberg and Berlin. It was the ‘Horst Wessel Song’, the soundtrack to the years of Nazi conquests, the marching song that had taken Hitler’s armies into country after country.
Was this ironic? A doff of the bowler hat to the unseen Luftwaffe bomber crews overhead? Or was there something more complex going on? As the explosions receded towards the west, the bar erupted, male voices, plausibly guttural accents, word perfect for verse after verse.
Die Fahne hoch, they roared, die Reihen fest geschlossen…
Die Strasse frei den braunen Bataillonen…
Moncrieff shook his head. Unlike most of the people in this hideous space, he’d tasted the realities of life in Hitler’s precious Reich. He’d served in Berlin. He’d attended one of the Nuremberg Rallies. He’d been at the mercy of the Gestapo. He knew the rules they’d torn up, what
they could do, what they were capable of. Then he felt a tug at his sleeve. At first he assumed it was the child but he was wrong. The voice in the darkness belonged to Hesketh.
‘The British Establishment at play, Tam.’ He’d lit yet another cigarette. ‘You and I need to talk a little more.’
5
At Goering’s insistence Dieter Merz stayed on in Augsburg. His forthcoming visits to squadrons across the Greater Reich were cancelled until further notice and when the secretariat at Hess’s ministry in Berlin confirmed that the Deputy Führer was due to address the Party faithful in Munich the following evening, Willi Messerschmitt put a car and a driver at Merz’s disposal.
The driver turned out to be a veteran from the Condor Legion. Like Dieter, he’d spent a couple of challenging years among the mountains in northern Spain, trying to get the best of the marauding Ivans, and more recently he’d looked after Hess on a number of occasions.
‘He’s unlike the rest of them,’ he said. ‘In fact he’s almost human. Nice wife, too. Proper family man when he gets the chance.’
Hess was speaking at a Bierkeller in the oldest part of the city. A flat tyre en route meant that Merz arrived late. He slipped in through the heavily guarded main doors and offered his ID to the brown-shirted Alter Kampfer in charge. The man ignored the documentation. One look at Dieter’s face was enough to trigger a click of the heels and the Hitler salute. He’d had the privilege to witness a couple of Herr Merz’s air displays. His wife had scissored Dieter’s photograph from an old copy of NS-Frauen-Warte magazine and gazed at it far too often. He was more than welcome here in Munich.
Dieter found a perch at a table at the back of the Bierkeller. Hess was already on the makeshift stage in the centre of the room. He was a tall man, very erect. Bushy eyebrows. Square jaw. Sallow complexion. Sloping forehead. The knee-length boots were beautifully made, the finest leather, but the brown shirt carried no trace of rank or decoration. He held himself very still, the stance of someone with a back problem, and despite the fact that half the audience were behind him, he made no attempt to address them directly. Inflexible, Merz thought. A man of unbending principle, just as Goering had described him.
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