He needn’t have worried. Cathy picked him up at Laurencekirk station. He hadn’t seen her for more than a month and she looked radiant. They sat in the old shooting brake for a moment or two, watching the steam from the engine shredding in the wind as the train headed north. Then Moncrieff felt her hand close on his.
‘Kiss me?’
He looked at her for a moment, then cupped her face in his big hands, knowing that Archie Gasgoigne had been right. Housekeeping had been a blind alley, a needless trick he’d played on himself, a source of unspoken torment. Time wasted, he thought, at a moment in the nation’s fortunes when time was no longer something you could rely on. Such cowardice on his part. Such indecision. She was there. She wanted him. She’d said so.
He kissed her softly, then again. Her eyes were open. She pulled away slightly, told him he needed a shave. She’d do it herself, the moment they got home. The water was hot. The towels were freshly laundered. She’d cover him with shaving soap, working up the lather exactly the way men liked, and afterwards she’d take him to bed.
‘You approve?’
‘I think I might.’
‘Might?’ She laughed. ‘Relax, Boss. We’ve nothing to lose.’
They stayed in bed all evening. The bed itself had once belonged to Tam’s parents. After his father’s death he’d treated himself to a new mattress but after he and Cathy had made love for the second time he lay back, her head on his chest, staring at the darkness beyond the window. Had it ever been like this between his mother and father? In truth he’d never know. Cathy was the most accomplished lover he’d ever met and she’d acquired a repertoire of tiny tricks that first surprised then delighted him. There wasn’t a corner of his body off-limits to her busy tongue and later that night, after she’d returned from the kitchen downstairs with a bowl of soup and fresh bread, he’d asked her about previous relationships.
‘Are you checking up on me?’
‘Christ, no. You’ve made me a very happy man. I’m just curious, that’s all.’
She nodded, kissed him, said nothing. They ate in silence. At length, she asked him whether he minded her being honest.
‘Not at all. Go ahead.’
‘Good,’ she nodded in approval. ‘The truth is I’ve wanted you since we first met. Enjoy the moment, Mr Moncrieff. Because these days there’s nothing else.’
Moncrieff had never known a Christmas like it. Even the gods of the weather were on their side. Snow began falling on Christmas Eve and the pair of them had to make their way through knee-high drifts to the sturdy stone-built kirk at the far end of the village for the midnight service. The congregation was thinner than usual and a handful of the older women seemed to sense that something important had happened up at the Glebe House. One of them, who’d been a favourite of Moncrieff’s father when the old man was still alive, took Tam aside as they filed into the darkness after the last of the hymns.
‘You’re a lucky man,’ she said, knotting her scarf against the cold. ‘Take great care of her.’
Moncrieff needed no prompting. In the normally dead time between Christmas and New Year’s Eve, he filled the bright, cold days with expedition after expedition, sometimes an amble through the surrounding forests, sometimes a more ambitious trek down the glen towards the distant gleam of the River Dee. In the garden behind the house Cathy built a snowman with a fine view of the mountains. She gave him unmatched buttons for eyes, a woolly bonnet to keep out the cold and an old pipe where his mouth should be. She beckoned Moncrieff over for a formal introduction and together they crouched in the wind to name each of the neighbouring peaks for the benefit of the lumpy little snowman. Tam, who’d known this landscape since childhood, could only marvel at how a handful of days was changing his life. More, please, he told her.
On New Year’s Eve, he and Cathy awoke to a sudden thaw. Meltwater was dripping from the roof and they stood in the window as the snowman began to vanish in front of their eyes. Moncrieff wondered whether this sudden passing might break the spell but, when he asked, she shook her head.
‘The moment lives on,’ she kissed him. ‘If the poor thing melts any quicker we’ll be sharing the garden with a ghost.’
On New Year’s Day, the heather and peat soggy underfoot, they hiked to the top of the nearest peak. A week of overeating should have taken its toll on both of them, Cathy especially, but Moncrieff was surprised by how fit she was. When they finally reached the stony lip at the mountain’s summit, she seemed barely to have drawn breath. Despite the thaw, and fitful sunshine through rags of cloud, it was cold up here and he put his arms around her. Below, a tiny dot in the wildness of the landscape, was the Glebe House, but what really took his eye was her face. Her cheeks were pinked with the climb. She looked beautiful.
‘You remember Archie?’ Moncrieff was holding her at arm’s length. ‘My bootneck friend? The one who called me Boss?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did he pay you a visit that night he stayed?’
‘Yes.’
‘And?’
‘I told him he was too late. A respectable woman only loses her heart to one man at a time.’
‘Is that a compliment?’
‘It’s whatever you make it,’ she smiled. ‘Boss.’
*
Back in London, waiting for Cathy to join him once her job started, Moncrieff moved briskly from meeting to meeting. Ever-tighter restrictions were bringing queues of people to MI5’s attention, and some of the files – after preliminary investigations – landed on Moncrieff’s desk. Normally he’d battle to keep up with this kind of workload, but Christmas seemed to have revived him.
Everyone said how well he looked, how buoyant, how cheerful. There was gossip about someone new in his life. Liddell hazarded a guess about Isabel Menzies. Maybe Tam had found some way of making contact with his old flame. Maybe he’d tracked her down in Moscow. Maybe they were planning to meet, in Stockholm, or Geneva, or even Lisbon. The rumour drew a shake of the head from Moncrieff, and a murmured reminder about sleeping dogs. Only Ursula Barton, who was privy to the telephone intercepts, knew the truth. That Tam Moncrieff had fallen in love.
The price of her silence, not entirely playful, was an invitation to meet the lady. Moncrieff was delighted to oblige. Cathy moved out of the Glebe House in early February, having found someone to take her place until Tam could make more permanent arrangements. She was allotted a draughty attic room on the top floor at the Palace – a bed, a washstand, a battered old wardrobe plus a crisscross of sticky tape on the single window to protect her from bomb blast – and settled into her duties as a housemaid. Making contact with Tam wasn’t as easy as she’d imagined. All calls from the Palace had to be routed through the main switchboard and waiting one’s turn in the queue could, in the words of her supervisor, be tiresome. Under the circumstances, Moncrieff found it easier to leave messages. ‘Miss Phelps needs to be at the Antelope in Marlowe Street at half past seven,’ he told the voice on the switchboard. ‘I’d be obliged if you could tell her.’
In the event, Cathy was late but Ursula Barton and Moncrieff were no strangers to the Antelope and they had more than enough to talk about. Ursula, Moncrieff knew, had the Director’s ear. Liddell trusted her completely, a compliment she returned by being extremely careful about what she let slip.
In-house, Hesketh had by now officially become Agent Souk. Since the sessions at Latchmere House, he appeared to have vanished and Moncrieff wanted to know why.
‘I thought the Director told you?’
‘No. I’d remember if he had.’
‘Then I’m puzzled. I thought I typed you a confidential note.’
‘I’d remember that, too.’
‘I see.’ She glanced around. On a wet Tuesday evening the pub was nearly empty. ‘He’s back in Lisbon.’
‘We’ve let him go?’
‘On the contrary. We’ve agreed a modest retainer for the time being and given him a list of errands to run. Tar did the negotiations. It wasn’
t the fortune Souk expected but Tar can be very persuasive.’
Moncrieff nodded. He wanted more.
‘Errands?’
‘You’ll have seen the letter that came to us through the Censor.’
‘From Albrecht Haushofer? To Hamilton?’
‘Exactly. It turns out that Souk has met young Albrecht on a number of occasions. They go back a long way.’
‘We know that?’
‘No. We mentioned Haushofer’s name en passant. We said that he might be a person of interest to us and that’s when he told us that they were friends. This is his account, no one else’s, but the Director is minded to believe him. Haushofer is an academic. It runs in the family. Souk likes to put himself in the same box. He knows Munich well. They speak each other’s language. And I’m not just talking Englisch und Deutsch.’
Moncrieff smiled. Ursula was herself German. She’d been married to an English diplomat at the Hague embassy and had been a key asset for MI6. After the debacle at Venlo, she’d jumped ship in disgust and ended up in the arms of the Security Service, much to Guy Liddell’s delight. It had taken a while for the penny to drop but Moncrieff now realised that Ursula Barton was probably privy to more secrets than anyone else in St James’s Street. Hence, perhaps, her near-runic ability to predict air raids.
‘So Souk has been despatched to knock on a few doors. Probably in Lisbon. Am I right?’
‘Yes.’
‘And one of them will be young Haushofer’s?’
‘Yes.’
‘But Albrecht lives in Germany. Which might pose a problem, nein?’
‘Not if he’s come to collect the mail.’
‘A letter, you mean?’ Moncrieff was smiling now. ‘In answer to his own?’
‘That might seem logical.’
‘So Hamilton’s written back? And Souk’s playing postman?’
Ursula’s gaze had drifted to the door. Already she was getting to her feet.
‘This must be your young lady,’ she murmured. ‘Very pretty.’
*
The evening was a success. Cathy had found her feet in the Palace within days. It was a much bigger operation than Balmoral, and light years away from her solitary months at the Glebe House, but it was evident that she had the guileless knack of making new friends and Moncrieff wasn’t remotely surprised to learn that she was already in the running for a promotion.
‘The woman who helps run the appointments secretariat has just found out she’s pregnant. That puts her out of the running for a while so they’ve asked me to stand in.’
Ursula wanted to know what kind of appointments. Was this a question of the Civil List? Gongs and honours for the favoured few?
‘Not at all. These people organise the public appearance schedules. It helps to know who’s doing what where. That’s something I learned at Balmoral. The royals work hard for their money. They’re on the move all the time.’
Ursula seemed impressed. So was Tam. Only a couple of days ago he’d imagined Cathy toiling away below stairs, surrounded by baskets of laundry. Now this.
‘Will you get to join them on any of these outings?’
‘Who knows? Maybe. Maybe not.’ She glanced towards the bar. ‘Do you think they have Mackeson?’
After the pub, Ursula insisted on taking them both for a meal at an Italian restaurant in Covent Garden. She had the ear of the owner, a Genoese émigré who seemed to be able to call on an endless supply of fresh fish. Abelone was always packed but a phone call secured them a discreet table away from the noise.
They settled at the table and Ursula asked a series of questions about Cathy’s young life. None of these enquiries seemed remotely personal, just conversational chit-chat, but as the evening drew to a close Moncrieff realised that he’d just witnessed a masterclass in interrogation. Without ruffling a single feather, Ursula had established that Cathy Phelps came from a big family in Canning Town, that her father was a stevedore in the Prince Albert Docks, that she’d imbibed left-wing views as a child from an uncle who sold copies of the Daily Worker on street corners in Plaistow, and that her mum was mad about Wuthering Heights. Hence Cathy’s name.
The meal over, Tam hailed a taxi to take her back to the Palace. Tomorrow morning she was due to start work at six but she had the weekend free and she couldn’t wait for her first night in Tam’s flat. They kissed goodbye at the kerbside and Moncrieff stepped back as the taxi sped away. Then he turned to Ursula.
‘As an exercise in PV, that was extremely accomplished,’ he murmured.
‘You think so?’
‘I do. Gut gemacht. Congratulations. I don’t think she felt a thing.’
PV meant positive vetting, a normally brutal test of a stranger’s virtue. Ursula was still watching the taxi.
‘You’ve fallen in love with a Communist again,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘Once is careless. Twice might make some of us wonder.’
8
‘Ah…’ Hess shook his head, ‘… die Roten…’
Dieter Merz was sitting in the Deputy Führer’s study at his home in Munich. Hess was drinking boiled water. Downstairs, his wife had poured a glass of wine for Merz. He’d just flown in from Berlin, summoned by his new pupil.
Die Roten meant the Reds. Dieter assumed Hess was talking about Communists.
‘You’re right, Merz. This was after the war. Some days it feels like a lifetime ago. It’s hard to put it into words sometimes. You fight them night after night. You get yourself injured. You see your comrades perish around you. For some reason you’re chosen to survive. And then, when you think you’ve got them on their knees, there’s only more fighting. Not because you want to. Not because you’ve become some kind of animal. But because you have to.’ The flat of Hess’s palm descended on the desk. ‘No choice. Not if you care.’
Merz didn’t know how far to take this conversation. Days at Georg’s bedside and nights trying to get through to Beata had been exhausting. In both cases, neither party really wanted to talk. Georg because the physical act of talking was still beyond him; Beata because she’d turned her back on the world. Then had come the summons to Munich. Hess had a mission for Merz. Might der Kleine be good enough to fly south and discuss it?
‘Der Kleine’ Merz took as a compliment. Hess, as a shy man, hid behind a certain formality. Only very recently had he begun to use Merz’s nickname. It meant, thought Dieter, that he was beginning to let his guard down. In the cockpit and on the ground he knew he’d won Hess’s respect. Beyond respect lay trust, and maybe even friendship. Friends with Hitler’s Deputy? Merz would never have believed it. Yet here he was, listening to a man desperate to share long-ago moments in his past.
‘You fought the Reds in Spain,’ Hess said. ‘You know about Communists.’
‘I know about shooting them down. I’m not sure I ever met any.’
‘Then let me tell you, young man, that makes you lucky. We broke heads, looked them in the eyes, fought hand to hand. No quarter. Not in those days. We shed blood for the cause. Die Blutfahne didn’t happen by accident.’
Die Blutfahne was the Blood Flag, a relic from the failed Nazi attempt to seize power in Munich back in 1923. Wrapped around a Party trooper who’d died in the abortive putsch, it had become an object of reverence and had featured at Party rallies ever since. Merz, along with most of his friends, regarded this piece of Nazi theatre as mawkish but was careful not to say so.
‘Do you miss those days?’
‘Never. They were necessary. They brought us to power. Communists only understand the language of violence. Remember that.’
He nodded, looking Merz in the eye, and Dieter caught a glimpse of the ruthless self-belief that lay behind the Nazis’ climb to power. Nothing mattered. Except their ever-tighter grip on the German soul.
‘You were in prison with the Führer after the putsch? Am I right?’
‘Yes. Nine months in Landsberg. I had the adjoining cell. The people who ran the prison made life easy for us. Every day the Führer
and I had use of another room where we could work.’
The Führer, Dieter thought. The Leader. Even then.
‘And that’s where you wrote Mein Kampf?’
‘Yes.’
‘Both of you? Is that true?’
‘Not quite. The force, the inspiration, came from Hitler. I was the clerk, the housemaid, keeping things nice and tidy, making sure it read well. We worked every day, chapter after chapter. I was happy to contribute an idea or two. Lebensraum, for instance. The need for us to move against the east. That came from my teacher at the university here in Munich. Professor Haushofer. The Führer, I’m glad to say, needed no persuading. He saw at once why Russia was wasted on the Soviets. We need the living space, the wheat, the oil and a thousand other things. One day, young man. And not a moment too soon.’
‘We invade?’
‘Of course.’
‘But the Russians are our allies. We have a pact, an agreement.’
‘The Russians are Slavs. We have a duty to kick down their door and take what we need. My admiration for the Führer is boundless. It knows no limits. No one else in this country could have crushed the Communists and worked such miracles since. But even he has moments of weakness. At Dunkirk, I was frankly dumbfounded. Stop the Panzers to spare the English their blushes? Madness. And I told him so.’
Dieter nodded. Hitler had ordered his generals to pause in sight of Dunkirk to let the Luftwaffe finish the job. To the bewilderment of the tank commanders, the order had lasted three days.
‘You never thought the English would get their men away?’
‘Never. And neither did Hitler. But that’s not the point. In war, you always fight the battle to the finish. The English were there for the taking. We could have played the policeman and arrested them all. Instead, God help us, they still have the remains of an army. So now there has to be another way.’
‘Of what?’
‘Of keeping them quiet. Of making them understand their proper role in the world. The British Empire commands the Führer’s respect. It’s there in Mein Kampf. All they have to do is mind their own business, look after their own affairs, and leave everything else well alone. It’s a rule that any child can understand. So why is that man Churchill so difficult?’
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