At this point, in the very first session, Hesketh had very definitely won Tar Robertson’s attention. Detainees very rarely had either the mental dexterity or the self-belief to play the interrogation game at this level, and in terms of performance alone Hesketh was frankly exceptional. Every trader, he pointed out, was at the mercy of the iron laws of supply and demand. In times of war, the commodity for sale was information. It had to be very carefully acquired, weighed, assessed. Then came the crucial issue of the customer. Cui bono? Who stands to gain? And – most important of all – who might have the deepest pockets?
So far, so good. But where were the quality controllers in this high-stakes game? Who was on hand to vouch for the accuracy of the information? And what might happen if the trader was simultaneously acting for two parties? Or three? Or even more?
These questions had come from Tar Robertson and drew a nod that seemed to indicate approval from Hesketh. Such obvious enquiries. So elegantly phrased.
‘If you think I’ve been having conversations with some of our German friends then you’d be right. How could I not? Where else could I get the kind of information you might buy?’
‘I could think of a thousand places,’ Tar replied. ‘But that’s not the point. The point isn’t opportunity. It’s motive. Why is this information coming your way? Knowing one day that it will arrive on our doorsteps? Why are they telling you this? You’ve been admirably blunt about your own motive. You want our money. But what do they want? Should that question have any importance in your world? Because it certainly does in ours.’
So far, as the days sped by, there’d been no hint about the information itself. Simply that Hesketh had very close friends in very high places and was therefore very well qualified to serve the Allied cause. The latter phrase had caught ‘Tin-Eye’ Stephens’ attention at once.
‘And what might that cause be?’ he barked. ‘Do we detect just a tiny hint of patriotism?’
‘Good Lord, no.’ Hesketh had laughed. ‘I use the word Allied simply as an adjective, a descriptor. I’m with Palmerston here. Personally I have no allies. Only interests.’
‘Chiefly your own.’
‘Solely my own.’
‘At least you’re bloody honest.’ Stephens again. ‘So what, exactly, might we be buying?’
This was the question that dominated session after session, the honeypot to which – under Hesketh’s subtle guidance – the faces around the table returned. Like any trader, Hesketh permitted a glimpse or two of the goods on offer – a role in a set of negotiations that might end the war – but refused to add hard details in terms of personalities or deadlines. When pinned briefly in a corner during the final session, he would only admit that the peace initiative (or ‘the lollipop’ in Tar’s droll phrase) had come, in the first place, from Hitler but was, at every turn in the carefully constructed plan, deniable.
‘The bloody man wants the British taken care of,’ Hesketh had murmured. ‘Back in the summer, Goering told him the Luftwaffe would do the job. It turns out Goering was wrong and so now there has to be a better way. Our Hermann is the jack-in-the-box. He’s irrepressible. You can’t keep him down. He has a very big finger in this particular pie and that’s why his smell is all over it. Beyond that, gentlemen, I’m not prepared to venture. Not until my lovely bank manager tells me you’ve paid up. The Banco Espirito Santo. My favourite stopping-off point on a sunny morning in downtown Lisbon before it gets too hot.’
The interrogations complete, Guy Liddell called a conference back at St James’s Street to tease out the threads, test their strength and draw a conclusion or two. Stephens thought Hesketh a greasy little shit and said so. He also, if you listened hard enough, had a grudging respect for his honesty. Challenged by Liddell to justify the word ‘honest’ he said it had nothing to do with his character and everything to do with his greed. The little bastard wanted money, lots of it. And his sole redeeming feature lay in saying so.
‘Fair, Tar?’
Robertson was circumspect. What interested him most was Hesketh himself. Over the years he’d had lots of dealings with individuals, mainly men, who’d slipped their moorings at a tender age. Some of them, like Hesketh, had been adopted and forced into a social mould they’d first resented, and then broken. Others, less fortunate, had been abandoned for whatever reason and obliged to cope on their own. Europe was currently full of these characters. They were debris on the tides of war, flotsam and jetsam from a thousand disasters, and a handful had already come to MI5’s attention. Either way, these individuals carefully constructed a version of themselves that would keep the real world at bay and in that regard, to be honest, he found Hesketh all the more interesting.
‘He writes with real passion about fortifications,’ he pointed out. ‘I’ve read a couple of his books. One of his heroes is Vauban. Vauban was a genius. He knew more about fortifications than any man alive. Are we assuming that’s some kind of coincidence? I rather think not. Hesketh has dug himself a moat, thrown up earthworks, built his walls high, readied the boiling oil. That’s why no questions of ours really made any impact. He’s probably lived through situations like these a million times. There was no way we could take him by surprise.’
Moncrieff, listening carefully, could only agree. There was something incomplete about Hesketh, some absence buried deep in his brain that might account for his immunity from the rude messiness of normal life. By his own account, he seemed to have spent most of his life avoiding personal commitments. He found it hard to interest himself in concepts like loyalty or perhaps even friendship. When it came to sex, he preferred to buy it, and when it came to emotions he was truly a man alone. In Lisbon, he was happy to confirm that he lived in an agreeable flat with views over the city and neighbours who knew not to ask questions. No surprises there.
Liddell wanted to know about the information. Every working day the agency was besieged by strangers, British and otherwise, trying to sell something. One of MI5’s many responsibilities was to sieve for the diamonds in all this dross but the Director had a suspicion that Hesketh might truly be someone special. Moncrieff nodded. In essence, as far as they could tell, Hesketh was simply peddling the same story that Moncrieff had already brought back from Stockholm. That British prospects were bleak. That Europe belonged to Hitler. And that two civilised nations should recognise the moment when an honourable peace might be in order.
‘You think this is the same offer that Schultz tabled?’
‘I don’t know, sir. And to be fair to Schultz, he didn’t table anything. He simply told us our fortune. Like they all do. First they tie us up, give us a thorough basting, tell us the facts of life. Then, if we let them, they pop us in the oven.’
‘So what makes Hesketh different?’
‘I don’t know. Except that he’s educated. He understands the way history works. He knows what will and won’t matter in the longer term and he’s canny enough to put a price on that knowledge. Whether we’re prepared to pay it is another matter, but every time we sit down and talk I get the feeling we’d be foolish to dismiss him.’
Liddell nodded. A buff file lay at his elbow. He extracted what looked like a letter and handed it to Tar Robertson.
‘This was intercepted by the Censor some weeks ago. Copies have gone to the Foreign Office, MI6 and the Inter-Services Research Bureau. I’d like you each, please, to read it. Take your time.’
Moncrieff sat back, waiting for the letter to circulate. The Inter-Services Research Bureau was the official designation of what the secret world preferred to call SOE, or the Special Operations Executive. Just now, charged by Churchill to ‘set Europe alight’, they were tramping all over MI6’s turf and upsetting some powerful figures in their Broadway headquarters.
At length, it was Moncrieff’s turn to read the letter. It was dated 23 September and addressed to ‘My dear Duglo’. After a rather formal expression of sympathies for the death of the addressee’s brother-in-law at Dunkirk, it suggested that Duglo might fin
d some merit in getting together for a meeting on neutral territory. The letter was signed ‘A’.
Moncrieff looked up.
‘Duglo?’
‘The Duke of Hamilton. His first name’s Douglas.’
‘And “A”?’
‘We think Albrecht Haushofer. He’s an academic. He’s widely travelled and he’s been a pal of Hamilton’s for some time. We also believe he’s active in resistance circles in Berlin. His father, Karl, was a professor at Munich University, and taught Rudolf Hess after the war. We have it on good authority that the pair of them have stayed very close. Hess, of course, is Hitler’s Deputy.’
Moncrieff took a second look at the letter. Post boxes in Lisbon served as a neutral channel between Britain and occupied Europe and this one appeared to have come through a box registered to a Miss V. Roberts at Post Box 506 in Lisbon.
Moncrieff wanted more details.
‘The original letter came from Berlin. It was addressed to the Duke of Hamilton and Brandon at the House of Lords. It was then sealed inside another envelope and sent to a Miss Violet Roberts at the Post Box.’
‘She’s on file?’
‘Yes. She’s a widow in her seventies. She and her husband knew the Haushofers before the Great War and they stayed friends ever since.’
‘And she lives in Lisbon?’
‘Cambridge. We’ve checked her movements over the past few months and she hasn’t left the country. Our assumption has to be that someone else monitors the Post Box on her behalf.’ Liddell nodded at the letter. ‘Read the marked paragraph, Tam. Aloud, please.’
Moncrieff returned to the letter. The paragraph in question had been lightly scored with a pencil.
‘If you remember some of my last communications in July 1939, you and your friends in high places may find some significance in the fact that I am able to ask you whether you could find time to have a talk with me somewhere on the outskirts of Europe, perhaps in Portugal. I could reach Lisbon any time within a few days after receiving news from you. Of course I do not know whether you can make your authorities understand so much that they give you leave.’
Moncrieff looked up. It was Tar Robertson who put his finger on the key phrase.
‘Friends in high places,’ he mused. ‘What do we make of that?’
Liddell smiled. The Duke of Hamilton, he said, had a wealth of excellent connections. As Lord Steward of the Royal Household he was effectively the King’s representative in Scotland. As the Marquess of Douglas and Clydesdale he’d served as an MP in the House of Commons.
‘He’s a flyer, too. Am I right?’ Tar again.
‘Of some distinction. Currently he holds the rank of Wing Commander. He’s in charge at RAF Turnhouse and flies Spitfires and Hurricanes operationally most days.’
‘And pals with the Nazis?’
‘That’s excessive. Pre-war, he certainly admired what Goering achieved with the Luftwaffe. That’s a matter of record. He was in Berlin for the Olympics and met Hitler on a couple of occasions. But the man’s a patriot. Which is where it might get interesting.’
‘How, pray?’ The question, typically blunt, came from ‘Tin-Eye’ Stephens.
Liddell reached for the letter and carefully returned it to the file. Several days ago, he’d asked the Foreign Office whether they had any objection to the letter finally making its way to the addressee.
‘You mean Hamilton?’
‘Of course.’
‘And then what?’
‘We make it our business to monitor what happens.’
‘You think he might collude?’ Stephens nodded at the file. ‘With Herr Albrecht?’
‘I imagine that’s a possibility.’
‘And if he doesn’t?’
‘Then nothing changes. Albrecht Haushofer remains interested in a conversation and that might offer us an opportunity or two. In which case we’d require someone from our end. Someone plausible. Someone who knows the territory. Someone who could play a role. Someone who could speak for Duglo’s England.’
There was an exchange of glances around the table but it was Moncrieff who offered the obvious candidate.
‘Hesketh,’ he said softly. ‘Perfect casting.’
*
Dieter Merz drove Beata and Lottie back to the waterside house at Wannsee. It was late now, nearly midnight. They’d stayed at Georg’s bedside all evening as he flitted in and out of consciousness, articulate one moment, comatose the next. Under these circumstances, even the most basic conversation became a kind of lottery. Sometimes he’d understand, other times he just looked blank, but what was most hurtful was his seeming hostility towards Beata. Whenever she bent to talk to him he frowned and shook his head. When, on two occasions, she tried to take his hand he withdrew it. And finally, when Dieter had said his goodbyes, he shut his eyes and turned his head on the pillow, ignoring both his wife and child.
‘Did you have a row that day? When you last saw him?’
They were on the final stretch of road before the turn towards the lake. Lottie was asleep on her mother’s lap.
‘No. We never quarrelled, ever. I know it sounds strange, but Georg never saw the point.’
‘Because he was always right?’
‘Of course. You know what he was like. He had views on everything. He was the most logical person I’ve ever met. That was part of the attraction. He was so sure of himself, so certain. With Georg life was always black and white. Nothing in between. Agree with him, and life was sweet. In his world, he had to be in control.’
Dieter nodded. With the handful of men he trusted Georg would occasionally relax, and after a good day’s hunting among the Ivans he could be excellent company. But even after a night in the bodega and a flask or two of the harsh vino rojo, he’d still be categorically right about everything. Do yourself a favour, he’d say. Just believe me.
Dieter was slowing. Beata held Lottie a little tighter in anticipation of the turn.
‘You think it’ll pass?’ she said. ‘Whatever it is?’
‘Of course it will.’
‘You sound like Georg. How can you be so sure?’
‘I can’t. But the last thing you need just now is me telling you he might be this way forever. Have faith…’ he shot her a look in the darkness, ‘… Noo-Noo.’
Beata’s father, Friedrich, was waiting up for them at home. Earlier, he’d been the one who’d taken the phone call from the hospital about Georg and now he wanted to know how the conversations at the bedside had gone. Beata had Lottie in her arms. The child had just woken up and was beginning to struggle. Beata held her for a moment, then caught Dieter’s eye.
‘Please? Do you mind?’
Dieter took the little girl and tried to comfort her. Beata’s father asked again about the hospital. Georg had been unconscious for days. Was he cogent? Did he know where he was? Could he remember anything?
Beata just stared at him.
‘I’ve no idea, Papa,’ she said at last. ‘Except that he hates me.’
Her eyes were moist and when her father put his arms round her she buried her face in his jacket and began to sob. Dieter did his best to explain. Georg, he said, was confused. The aftermath of the accident was playing tricks with him. Soon he’d be a husband again, and a father. In the meantime, a good night’s sleep might put things right.
Beata was drying her eyes. She clearly resented letting her guard down like this and she retrieved Lottie before saying goodnight and heading upstairs. Dieter listened to her footsteps overhead. He knew that mother and daughter had shared the same bed since Georg’s accident and within less than a minute all movement had ceased.
‘You’ll have a drink with me?’ Beata’s father had found a bottle of Schnapps. Friedrich was tall, with thinning hair and a store of amusing stories from his days as a teacher. Dieter could imagine his sense of humour being lost on his son-in-law, but children sensed his gentleness and lately Lottie had taken to spending hours watching him saw logs in the garden overlooking the
lake. His wife, Hanni, had been taken by cancer some years earlier and, according to Beata, her father had never quite recovered.
Now he wanted to know more about the hospital, but Dieter could add very little.
‘He really turned his back on them? Beata? Lottie?’
‘I’m afraid so, yes.’
‘Any idea why?’
‘No. I thought maybe you could help.’
Friedrich nodded. Before the accident he’d been living nearby, in a rented flat in the local village. These last few months, with Georg away so often, he’d seen a great deal of what he called ‘my two girls’.
‘And?’
‘They coped.’
‘With what?’
‘Georg. I’m afraid this isn’t just the accident. He was changing already.’
‘Towards Beata?’
‘Towards family life. I’m not sure Beata was aware of it. Too close and you don’t see what’s under your nose.’
Georg, he said, had become a distant presence in the house, not simply because of the demands of his job but because he seemed to have lost interest.
‘He’d go for long walks alone. He’d take that little rowing boat of ours out on the lake for hours on end. He said he needed the peace and the silence and Beata believed him. Flying our lords and masters, being at their beck and call, would break most people. Beata knew that. And it was in her nature to give him space.’
‘And you?’
‘I agreed. At first.’
‘And then?’
Friedrich studied his glass for a long moment, and then emptied it before reaching for the bottle. Dieter shook his head. He’d barely touched his own glass.
‘And…?’ he asked again.
‘I met someone in the village, someone I know very well. He used to be a flyer in the last war and sometimes he’d find himself in the Weinstube next to the bakery talking to Georg.’
Raid 42 Page 10