Merz heard footsteps on the staircase. Frau Ilse appeared at the open door. She had the bottle of wine in one hand and a plate of biscuits in the other. Albrecht, she said, had arrived and was downstairs playing with young Wolf.
Hess asked her to show Albrecht up. Then he gestured at the bottle. Merz was to help himself. Dieter didn’t move.
‘Is this the Albrecht I met at Augsburg? Albrecht Haushofer?’
‘Yes.’ Hess was on his feet. ‘You don’t speak English. Am I right?’
‘You are.’
‘Gut.’
Albrecht appeared at the door. Tieless in a rumpled linen jacket, he looked a great deal more relaxed than the man Merz had met at the Messerschmitt factory. Hess found him a chair. Albrecht tapped his watch and began to explain, in German, that time was short. He had to be at his father’s house across the city within the hour. Regrettably, they had fifteen minutes to agree arrangements.
Hess nodded and said something in English that Dieter didn’t understand. Then the two men were speaking German again.
‘Tomorrow I want you to fly Haushofer to Lisbon,’ Hess was looking at Merz. ‘You will refuel at Barcelona. At Lisbon you will accompany Haushofer at all times unless he decides otherwise. Accommodation has been arranged and paid for. Please keep a note of all other expenses you incur.’
‘We’re staying at the embassy?’
‘No. And neither will you have any contacts beyond the people Haushofer deems necessary to meet. In this respect and all others during the trip Haushofer has my complete authority. Is that clear, Merz?’
Dieter could only nod. Over the previous weeks, Hess had been softening towards him. Now, for whatever reason, this sudden show of teeth.
‘Understood, Herr. Hess.’
There was a brief discussion of the take-off time. Haushofer needed to be in Lisbon by dusk. According to Hess’s calculations, they should therefore be in the air no later than mid-morning.
‘I’m taking your 110?’
‘No. Another machine has been readied.’
All being well, Merz should expect to be back in Germany within a couple of days, though provision had been made to extend the accommodations, should that prove necessary.
‘Any questions, Merz?’
‘None, Herr. Hess.’
‘Excellent.’ A rather stiff bow. ‘I wish you fair weather and a safe flight. Take care of my friend here. His is work of some importance.’
Hess turned back to Haushofer and began to speak in English again. Dismissed, Merz made his way downstairs. Half expecting an invitation to stay the night again, he found himself being conducted towards the front door.
‘My husband has made arrangements for you to stay at the Drei Mohren.’ She sounded apologetic. ‘They keep a good table. If you like wild boar, you won’t be disappointed. But please don’t tell my vegan husband.’
*
Late that same afternoon, Guy Liddell drove out to Northolt airfield to take the long flight to Halifax, Nova Scotia. Ursula Barton was at the wheel of the Humber Super Snipe, and they conferred for several minutes in one of the RAF briefing rooms before Ursula slipped her notes into her bag and returned to the car. The following morning, she mounted the stairs to Tam Moncrieff’s third-floor office, entered without knocking, and carefully shut the door behind her.
‘All well?’ Moncrieff was in the middle of a particularly tricky report on a Polish agent he’d recently managed to turn. He didn’t look up.
Ursula ignored the question. The Director, she said, would be away for at least five days. He’d managed to coax a handful of luminaries from the American intelligence establishment to meet him on the very edge of the continent. She hinted that their deliberations might pave the way for the day when Washington finally entered the war but in the meantime the management of certain ‘B’ Section operations was in her hands. These included developments surrounding Agent Souk.
‘Delighted to hear it.’ Moncrieff put his paperwork to one side. ‘How can I help?’
Ursula at last sat down, her hands in her lap, her legs crossed. Moncrieff knew that every corner of her life was meticulously organised but even so he marvelled that she never wore stockings that had been laddered. These days, that spoke of powerful connections, almost certainly in the black market.
‘Souk will be delivering the letter tomorrow. In Lisbon. This is a copy. You should read it with some care.’
She handed him two sheets of paper. The letter was typed. The signature at the end was difficult to read.
‘This comes from Hamilton?’
‘Not exactly,’ she nodded at the scribbled Duglo at the foot of the letter. ‘That was as close as we could get. According to Registry it’s near perfect.’
‘And it’s going to Albrecht Haushofer?’
‘Yes. Souk already has a copy.’
‘And Haushofer knows he’ll be meeting Souk?’
‘That’s the message we passed. Gordon Millord Hesketh. A name you wouldn’t forget.’
Moncrieff bent to the letter. Hamilton thanked Albrecht for his letter of 23 September last year and apologised for the long delay in replying. He’d been extremely busy seeing to the prosecution of the war, and to dealing with a number of other responsibilities. As Albrecht might imagine, life had become extremely complicated and, like so many other of his family, friends and colleagues, he longed for the return of peace. Such a profligate waste of treasure, he’d written. And such a needless spilling of blood.
In the second paragraph, Hamilton directly addressed the proposition that the two of them might meet up on neutral territory, perhaps Lisbon, in order to talk about matters in general and perhaps one or two issues in particular. While he, Duglo, could think of nothing more agreeable than seeing his old friend again, in all conscience he could visualise no immediate prospect of such a meeting coming to pass in the very near future. For one thing, his service obligations precluded such a commitment. And in another, he suspected that it might be wise to take soundings among like-minded patriots before embarking on such a trip.
In the latter instance, the letter went on, it would be immensely helpful if Albrecht could be a little more specific about what he had in mind. Time spent in reconnaissance, he reminded his old friend, is time seldom wasted.
Moncrieff looked up. ‘Who wrote this?’
‘You don’t need to know that.’
‘Liddell?’
She smiled, said nothing. Moncrieff went through the letter again. He especially liked the sentence that referred to ‘like-minded patriots’.
‘Very clever,’ he said. ‘Very deft. It’s a fishing expedition, isn’t it? A fly to tempt Haushofer onto the hook.’
‘Nicely phrased.’
‘Because we need to know who these people are?’
‘Because we need to know how serious they might be.’
‘About?’
‘Mounting some kind of peace initiative. These people can see no end to the war and that disturbs them.’
Moncrieff nodded. For a Security Service charged with safeguarding the country’s elected leadership, this made perfect sense.
‘So how do we make sure this doesn’t get back to Hamilton?’ he asked.
‘Everything has to go through Lisbon. To date, that’s meant Violet Roberts’ Post Box address. Souk, as you know, claims he knows Haushofer already. That might turn out to be a godsend. We can only hope it’s true.’
‘And does Souk also know the letter’s a fake?’
‘God, no.’
‘And he’s going to be spending time with Haushofer in Lisbon?’
‘Yes.’
‘So what happens if Haushofer takes it upon himself to make direct contact with Hamilton?’
‘He can’t. That can only happen through Souk. For the time being we’ve closed down the other Post Box.’
‘And Souk himself? What if he goes freelance? Makes some kind of approach to Hamilton?’
‘He won’t.’
‘
Why not?’
‘Because you’re going down there. Tomorrow. Once Haushofer’s gone back to Germany, we want you to make contact with Souk. We need to know what Haushofer had to say. Once you’re satisfied you know exactly what happened you have to make it worthwhile for Souk to bide his time in Lisbon, to maintain contact with Haushofer, but to otherwise keep his mouth firmly shut. I’ve read the transcripts from Latchmere. Hesketh’s a self-important little man. Appeal to his vanity. Make him feel part of the operation. We’ve intercepted the letter from Duglo and we need to know where it leads. That’s the script. That’s the legend. Make him feel wanted. Money will undoubtedly help. Depending on the way things go, you’re authorised to double his retainer and perhaps hint at more largesse as events unfold. Does that make at least a modicum of sense?’
Moncrieff didn’t answer. This whole operation depended on Hesketh already knowing Albrecht Haushofer. The interception of his letter to Duglo Hamilton had happened within a week of Hesketh’s appearance on MI5’s radar. All his life Moncrieff had mistrusted coincidences. And he’d rarely been proved wrong.
‘Well?’ Ursula wanted an answer.
‘Souk remains in the dark about the letter being a fake?’
‘Of course he does.’
‘And we really believe he’s known Haushofer for a while?’
‘I’ve no idea, Tam. But he’s been your Kleines Säugling from the start.’ Kleines Säugling. Little baby. She glanced at her watch. ‘You’re booked on tomorrow’s flying boat. You need to be at Poole by half past ten. The tickets and everything else you’ll need are in my office.’ She got to her feet, adjusted her skirt. ‘Do I detect just a flicker of enthusiasm?’
*
Dieter Merz took off from the long concrete strip adjoining the Messerschmitt works at 10.05 the following morning. In the seat behind him was Albrecht Haushofer, his leather briefcase stowed securely in the rear gunner’s space. At Haushofer’s request, Merz had plotted a route that skirted Switzerland to the south, offering a grandstand view of the Austrian and Italian Alps. Haushofer, who’d skied many of these slopes before the war with his father, was on first-name terms with many of the peaks, blinding white in the bright sunshine. Weisshorn. Signalkuppe. Matterhorn. The list read like a monument to a world that was now beyond reach.
‘You miss St Moritz? Klosters?’
‘I do,’ Haushofer acknowledged. ‘But those days will be back. And very soon, I hope.’
With the blueness of the Mediterranean ahead, and the grey sprawl of Marseilles on the nose, Dieter wondered what clues an answer like that might hold. Both Hess and Haushofer himself had been tight-lipped about the purpose of today’s mission. Merz’s job was to get Haushofer to Lisbon and back. He assumed that some kind of rendezvous awaited his charge in the Portuguese capital, but he had no idea who Albrecht might be meeting.
Merz had never been to Lisbon but it was common knowledge in most squadron messes that this city on the very edge of Europe had become a playground for spies, black-marketeers, and anyone else with the nerve to cash in on a war that had brought blockade and rationing to every corner of occupied Europe. Were Albrecht Haushofer and the Deputy Führer part of this demi-monde? He rather doubted it.
At Barcelona, with Haushofer translating, Merz bought more fuel and kept an eye on the Catalan mechanic in charge of refuelling. A hour later, after coffee of a quality he hadn’t tasted since the outbreak of war, Merz was in the air again, routing south-west over the yellowing body of Spain. From the border it was forty minutes to the Atlantic coast and, as they lost height over the broad estuary of the River Tagus, it was Haushofer who gazed down at the waterside city that was Lisbon.
‘Magnificent,’ he murmured.
The airfield, in the neighbouring town of Sintra, was busy. The Controller directed Merz to join the line of aircraft parked on the hardstanding and after he’d climbed down from the cockpit Merz stood in the spring sunshine for a moment or two, letting the warmth seep into his bones. Two men in white overalls were loading mail sacks into a nearby Ju-52 with Reich markings. Beyond stood a DC-3 in the colours of a British airline, while ground crew were refuelling a battered Potez in the colours of Air Afrique. In Portugal at least, he thought, commerce trumps war.
In the terminal building Haushofer led the way to a cubicle that served as the information desk. The woman in charge spoke good German and recognised the proffered name at once.
‘Herr Hesketh has arranged a car for you. Herr Haushofer? Am I right?’
She summoned another woman who led the way out of the building. Parked nearby was a rusting Mercedes. Haushofer bent to the open window. Behind the wheel was a swarthy half-caste with the whitest teeth Merz had ever seen. The two of them were welcome in Sintra. Please get in the back. The journey will take perhaps an hour.
They drove north, leaving the broad reach of the Tagus behind them. The driver, to Haushofer’s visible irritation, was keen to practise his German. He lived in Lisbon. He had a Portuguese wife and three children. Portuguese women were the best mothers in the world. Also the best cooks. Were his honoured guests staying long? Might they like to sample his wife’s sopa de cação?
‘No,’ said Haushofer, staring out at the fields ablaze with early spring flowers.
The long dusty road led to a low line of what looked like fortifications, stretching left and right into the misty distance: raised earthwork ramparts, grassed-over strongpoints, footpaths winding in between. Then came the outskirts of a small town.
‘Torch Verdsh,’ the driver said.
The sound was incomprehensible. An invitation? A question? The name of something important?
‘Torres Vedras,’ Haushofer muttered. ‘I’m guessing this is where we stop.’
He was right. The dense cluster of red roofs was dominated by the ruins of a castle atop a hill. Within the castle walls stood a white church. The driver had slowed. He was consulting a scrap of paper on which someone appeared to have scribbled directions. Finally, in the middle of the town, he pulled into the side of the road where an old man was tethering a donkey. Shown the directions, the old man shook his head. He couldn’t read. Try the shop. The driver disappeared into the darkness behind the open door. Merz was gazing at knobbly, misshapen potatoes spilling out of a big wicker basket. A minute or so later, the driver was back, waving the directions in triumph. Nearly there.
In the shadow of the castle, where houses lapped up against the yellow sandstone walls, he finally came to a halt. No. 49. He pumped the horn several times. At length the front door opened and a small, neat figure stepped into the sunshine. He was wearing a baggy black suit and the open white shirt beneath badly needed a wash, but the greying beard was neatly trimmed and there was a smile of open anticipation on his face. Merz judged him to be middle-aged, maybe older, and the moment he opened his mouth he knew where he came from. Only the English spoke German like this.
‘Herr Haushofer?’ The face was peering into the rear of the car through the open window.
There was a moment of indecision while the stranger’s eyes flicked from face to face. Then Haushofer opened the door and got out.
‘Mr Hesketh?’
‘Indeed. Please call me Gordon.’
There was an exchange of handshakes and a word of introduction for Merz before Hesketh bent to the driver’s window. The driver had no problem with his Portuguese. He grinned at Hesketh and tapped his watch. Seconds later, he’d gone.
‘It’s been a long drive, gentlemen. My apologies. Come. The exercise will be good for us.’
Without waiting for an answer, Hesketh led the way through a narrow alley that in turn led to a breach in the encircling castle walls at the foot of the hill. From here, the path steepened through rocky scrub. Within seconds, conversation was difficult, then impossible. Merz brought up the rear of the column, his feet sliding on the loose dirt, his balance threatened at every step, his head tipped occasionally backwards, aware of the bulk of the castle above them.
At last they made it to the top. Entry to the castle itself was through a medieval arch that led to a paved courtyard beyond. The courtyard was empty. From its edge the town sprawled below. Beyond the town, in the middle distance, Merz could make out the pattern of the defence works.
Hesketh and Haushofer had been speaking in English. Already, they appeared to be friends. Now, Hesketh switched to German.
‘You know about the wars?’ He was looking at Merz. ‘Napoleon? Messéna? The Duke of Wellington?’
Merz shook his head. He could tell the Englishman a great deal about the Messerschmitt 109, and moments of exaltation in the Kanalkampf, but Napoleon had always been a mystery.
‘A shame, Herr Merz, because history does nothing but repeat itself. Over there, for instance.’ Merz followed the pointing finger north, towards the far horizon. ‘That’s where Napoleon’s army turned up. That’s as far as it got. You know why General Messéna was here? Because the Portuguese refused to close their ports to the English. And you know what the English did to return the favour? With the help of the locals, they built all this. They built it over a period of months. They built it for the sake of Lisbon. They kept it a secret from the French and when the conquering army finally arrived it was far too late. The English kicked their arses and Napoleon never recovered. This was his high-water mark. He wanted the whole of Europe but he couldn’t get further than here. Thanks to the Duke of Wellington. And the English. And, of course, our Portuguese friends.’ He produced a packet of cigarettes. One each. ‘We should always listen to history,’ he smiled, and struck a match. ‘Because history never lies.’
*
Tam Moncrieff’s departure for Lisbon was delayed by two days. When Moncrieff asked why, Ursula Barton told him that negotiations in Lisbon were taking rather longer than anyone had anticipated, a development which was, in her view, deeply promising.
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