‘It might be. Just listen. A dog is standing beside a lake. It’s a sunny day, much like this one. The dog has a big meaty bone in its mouth. The water is totally still, mirror-still. The dog looks at his reflection in the lake. He sees another dog. With another bone. And so he snaps at it. And what happens? He drops the bone in his mouth,’ Moncrieff smiled. ‘Might I assume you get the point?’
‘Of course. The dog’s greedy. And pays the price.’
‘You’re right. But it’s more than that. The other dog was a mirage. It never existed.’
Moncrieff left Lisbon late that afternoon. Hesketh, as urbane and opaque as ever, accompanied him to the flying boat terminal. They exchanged handshakes in the sunshine outside the departures hall and Hesketh confirmed that his personal PO Box was still the best way of staying in touch.
Moncrieff thanked him for his time. He’d given Hesketh a confidential telephone number at St James’s. Should anything happen over the next couple of days, he’d welcome a call and a conversation.
‘Are you happy with that?’
‘Sim. Perfeito. Boa viagem.’
Moncrieff held his gaze for a moment and then turned to leave. The pontoon stirred on the outgoing tide beneath his feet. When he next checked the departures hall, Hesketh had gone.
*
The flight back to Poole filled up quickly. Seats were preassigned and Moncrieff found himself sitting beside a suited figure in his early thirties with carefully parted hair and a light stammer. Deep in a novel, he looked up when Moncrieff eased his long frame into the adjoining seat.
‘Bit of a squeeze, I’m afraid,’ Tam smiled. ‘Think on the bright side. Only six hours to go.’
The stranger nodded. He agreed that conditions were foul. Pre-war, he said, everyone had time. Time meant three days at sea, possibly more, but pay a little extra and you could expect service in your cabin and a choice of champagnes at dinner. He returned to his book. His English accent was wedded to a strangely deferential charm.
The flying boat, exactly on schedule, took off at a quarter to five. The captain carved a path across the waters of the Tagus and then hauled the aircraft into a shallow climb. Above a thin layer of cloud, the sun was already beginning to settle in the west.
Thanks to Hesketh, Moncrieff had laid hands on a copy of The Times before embarkation. The newspaper was three days old but after briefly scanning the headlines he settled down to the crossword. It was hot in the cabin, the air still thick with cigarette smoke, and within minutes Moncrieff’s head began to nod. Seconds later, he was asleep.
By the time he awoke, three and a half hours later, it was dark outside the half-curtained window. His companion, his book still open on his lap, was nursing a glass of what looked like Scotch. Aware of Moncrieff stirring beside him, he reached inside his jacket and produced a silver flask.
‘Fancy a snort? It’s only Laphroaig, I’m afraid.’
Moncrieff liked the single malt and said so.
‘You have to be north of the border with an accent like that.’
‘I’m afraid so. Scots through and through.’ With some awkwardness in the confined space, Moncrieff offered a hand. ‘Tam Moncrieff.’
‘Philby. Say when.’ He’d found another glass. Moncrieff watched him pour.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘More than generous.’
They settled down again. Even at cruising speed, the thunder of the four engines didn’t encourage conversation. Moncrieff, back with his crossword, sipped at the malt. Seven across. Four letters. Coarse person, unknown character becoming top.
Spiv? Caid? Tam shook his head, looked at the clues for the surrounding spaces. Nothing seemed to fit. Three pages earlier, he’d noticed a lengthy review for a book on the Highland Clearances. The fate of Scottish crofters had always fascinated him and he took his time reading the piece. Then he returned to the crossword, hoping the malt might have summoned a little inspiration.
‘Apex,’ said a voice at his elbow. ‘And I rather think that makes six down Marxism. Do you mind terribly? Or should I be reading my book?’
‘Not at all. I’m grateful.’
Moncrieff pencilled both words in. His companion, to his slight irritation, was right. He gazed at the crossword a moment longer. Should he persevere? And invite further humiliation? Or should he just fold the paper and call it a night?
‘He’s a little shit, you know.’ Philby again, his mouth close to Moncrieff’s ear. ‘The man Hesketh. If he told you he went to Lancing College, he’s right, but what he won’t tell you is what happened after they caught him with his sticky little fingers in the till. And as for the Balliol tie, he’s never been near the place. I’m afraid he’s a bottom feeder. Lisbon’s full of them. They pick up all the rubbish and simply sell it on. If you’ve got deep pockets by all means go ahead but when it comes to product you’ll find the stuff stinks. Just a thought, old boy.’ He smiled, tipping his glass. ‘Here’s to crime.’
Moncrieff said nothing. His mind was racing. He had to assume that Philby, too, lived in the shadows of the intelligence world. Had he seen Hesketh at the departures hall? And drawn his own conclusions? Or did he know a great deal more?
Moncrieff reached for his pencil. Most of the crossword was still empty.
‘SIS?’ he wrote. The Secret Intelligence Service. MI6. The Broadway-based agency charged with gathering intelligence abroad.
Philby nodded, and beckoned Moncrieff closer.
‘I head the Iberian Station,’ he said. ‘A small parish but intensely interesting. Madrid? Gib? Tangier? Lisbon? A man could do worse.’
‘And Hesketh?’
‘We used him for a while. He’s good at what he does but what he does, alas, has very little connection with the truth. Those history books earn him peanuts. He should recognise his own talents and write fiction. I told him once, back in the early days when we thought he was some kind of prospect, but he just laughed. That was when the courtship was still young. He’s getting older now, and it shows.’
Moncrieff nodded, said nothing. Albrecht Haushofer? Some kind of peace offer from the very top of the Reich? How much did this man know? Where, exactly, had he been these last two days? Had the pair of them – Souk and his lanky handler – been under surveillance? Had MI6 agents been watching them at the restaurant? At the hotel? On the bench in the park? And if so, why?
The aircraft droned on. Philby had returned to his book. Feigning sleep, Moncrieff badly wanted the flight to end. Hours later, an abrupt change in the roar of the engines signalled the beginnings of a descent. At the same time, a uniformed sergeant advanced down the aisle, checking left and right. Seat belts on, please. Landing in fifteen minutes.
The flying boat touched down with a series of jolts. Moncrieff, peering past Philby into the darkness, saw dancing crescents of sea spray in the throw of light from the cabin. Minutes later, the aircraft nudged the pontoon as the pilot finally throttled the engines back.
Passengers were already on their feet, plucking at stowed luggage. Moncrieff joined them, elbowing his way into the queue that had formed in the aisle. Only Philby hadn’t moved.
Moncrieff gazed down at him.
‘Not joining us?’
‘Alas, no,’ Philby shook his head, ‘I’m flying back tonight. Line of duty, old boy. And just for the record, we think you might be straying off the reservation.’
9
Georg Messner had left hospital by the time Merz made it back to Berlin. For the time being, the Luftwaffe had lodged him in a convalescent home for badly wounded flyers in the Harz Mountains. The doctors and medical staff at the Charité had, according to Beata, decided there was nothing further they could do for her husband. Surgical intervention would be pointless. Best to leave any further improvement to the onset of spring and a dose or two of the bracing mountain air.
Merz toyed with making the long trip down to Bad Harzburg but Beata’s father dissuaded him. The real victim of all this, he pointed out with some asperity, was his d
aughter. Her near-total rejection by the man she’d loved had first exhausted and then depressed her. All her young life, Beata had been a believer. As a child, she never skipped Mass. As a student, she’d clung to her faith despite endless temptations. And her prize at the end of all this devotional fervour, undoubtedly the best day of her life, was the hot summer afternoon back in 1938 when she’d married Georg Messner. At the bridegroom’s request, der Kleine had displayed in front of a gardenful of guests in one of the new 109 Emils. They’d drunk champagne until dusk settled over the lake. Truly a day to remember.
‘She’s looking for a miracle, Dieter, which is why I’ve sent her to Vierzehnheiligen. She’s alone there. Her decision, and a bad one. Depression thrives on solitude. She needs company, someone to talk to, someone to listen to. I get the impression your bosses keep you on a long leash. Just a couple of days, ja?’
Merz couldn’t say no. He’d never heard of Vierzehnheiligen but Friedrich fetched out a map. A shrine had been erected on top of a hill near Bamberg where a shepherd had seen repeated visions of fourteen children. The kids, he said, had announced themselves as The Fourteen Holy Helpers, invoked for protection against disease, and the miracle cure of a local milkmaid prompted the building of the shrine. Beata was staying at the nearby town of Bad Staffelstein.
Next morning, Merz telephoned the Air Ministry. By now he was on good terms with the Luftwaffe staff sergeant who ran Goering’s private office. Bad Staffelstein was a couple of hours’ drive from Augsburg. Did anyone have any objection to Merz returning the Me-110 to the Messerschmitt factory, rather than taking the train down? The staff sergeant thought there wouldn’t be a problem but, just to make sure, he’d check. Less than a minute later, Dieter recognised Goering’s bellow on the line.
‘Merz? Is that you?’
‘Yes, Herr Reichsmarschall.’
‘You took Haushofer to Lisbon?’
‘Yes, Herr Reichsmarschall.’
‘And?’
‘And we made it there and back. Just the way you wanted.’ Dieter was staring at the phone. He was a pilot, not a diplomat.
‘But was it successful? Did he get to meet the Englishman?’
‘Yes, Herr Reichsmarschall, though you should be talking to Haushofer, not me.’
‘Of course. And Rudi? He’s still flying? You’re still keeping him out of trouble?’
‘I am, yes.’
‘Gut. Of course you can take the bloody plane. Help yourself. Rudi thinks well of you, Merz. Proof the man’s losing his wits.’ A final bark of laughter, and the Reichsmarschall was gone.
The 110 was still out at Tempelhof. The squadron adjutant confirmed that the Air Ministry had authorised its release to Merz and that it had been fully refuelled. As Merz was about to leave the office, the adjutant called him back.
‘Has anyone talked to you about night fighters?’
‘No.’
‘And you’re still going down to Augsburg?’
‘Yes.’
‘See if you can raise an engineer called Pauli Hahn. He phoned this morning. Asking for you.’
Night fighters? Merz walked out across the hardstanding, none the wiser, his maps under his arm. Beside the aircraft, he spread one on the tarmac and contemplated his options. The direct route would take him SSW to Augsburg but only a modest diversion to the west would put him among the Harz Mountains. To the best of his knowledge, the Luftwaffe convalescent home was in a valley beneath the Brocken, the tallest hill in the range. Why not pay his ailing wingman a brief visit? Bent over the map, he quickly plotted a course that would take him to the Harz. Thereafter, an 83 degree turn to port would route him south to Augsburg.
His calculations complete, Merz waited for one of the squadron ground crew to settle him in the cockpit. It was a cloudless day, with a light wind from the south, perfect conditions for the kind of flying Dieter had in mind. In less than half an hour, as long as he found the convalescent home, he could be adding a little excitement to Georg Messner’s day.
The ground crew engineer was still bent over the open cockpit, checking the tightness on a control valve. Merz showed him the map.
‘Here,’ the engineer produced a pen and marked a tiny dot south of the Brocken.
‘You’ve been there? You were ill?’
‘Not me. A friend of mine.’
‘And they cured him?’
‘Sadly not.’ He slipped the pen back into the pocket of his overalls and gave Merz a pat on the shoulder. ‘Take care, eh?’
Merz took off a minute or two before noon. He stayed low, maximum power, roaring across the Brandenburg flatlands. This kind of flying drank fuel, but he had full tanks and plenty of reserve if he got into trouble. At 540 kph, the lush green fields were a blur. Within a quarter of an hour, the gentle swell of the Harz Mountains began to fill the windscreen. Twice, thundering across farmland, he was aware of herds of cattle scattering beneath his wings and once, on the edge of a tiny hamlet, he waggled his wings at a woman in a red skirt. She’d got off her bicycle and he caught the briefest glimpse of her upturned face and a waving arm as he flashed by.
The Brocken was easy to spot. Merz pulled back on the joystick and felt the aircraft lift beneath him. By Alpine standards, at just over a thousand metres the summit was a mere pimple. Dieter gazed down at the thickly wooded hillsides, amused by the birds exploding from the darkness of the forest. Fun, he thought. Georg, in another life, would have appreciated this.
Minutes later, exactly where the engineer at Tempelhof had indicated, he found what must have been the convalescent home. From the air, it was ‘H’-shaped. There were ambulances parked outside, painted in Luftwaffe grey, and as Dieter dropped a wing for a better view he spotted a gaggle of wheelchairs on a terrace in front of one of the wards. The terrace was angled due south, and Dieter wondered whether Georg was out here, his face in the sunshine, maybe feeling a little better. One of the tiny figures below lifted an arm in salute. Georg? Dieter had no way of knowing.
He was climbing for height now, one hand on the joystick, the other pushing the twin throttles against the gate. Most pilots were reluctant to test their aerobatic skills on the rugged fighter bomber, largely because it lacked the nimbleness of a single-engined fighter. Put your life in the hands of this machine, fly normal missions, and it would certainly look after you. Try anything fancy and it might bite you in the arse.
Dieter Merz had built his entire career on judging the fine line between calculation and risk. He had a great deal of respect for his own talents but even more for gravity. He certainly owed Georg Messner a twirl or two in this big old plane but he knew its limitations.
At the top of the climb, at four thousand metres, he dropped a wing again and rolled into a dive. The convalescent home was a dot among the trees. Merz lowered the nose a couple of degrees to increase speed and began to feel the aircraft shaking around him. Recommended top speed was 560 kph. The needle on the speedometer was flickering above 583 kph.
Dieter’s eyes returned to the windscreen. The dot was getting bigger by the second and the judder of the airframe had got worse. He eased back a little on the joystick, checking that he still had control. Then came the moment, perfectly judged, when he pulled out of the dive, fed in lots of left rudder and hauled the aircraft into the tightest turn his own body could sustain. Already he could feel his chest trying to squeeze out through his arse. He was struggling to breathe and for a moment he thought he’d overcooked it. Colour was draining out of the landscape. No greens. No blues. On the edge of blacking out, he lifted a gloved hand in salute as the terrace flashed by beneath him. Word had spread about the madman in the Bf-110. The terrace was full of faces, wheelchairs, bodies shrouded in blankets. Men were waving. One of them blew him a kiss. Then, in less than a second, it was over and Merz was climbing again, fighting for altitude, that final image imprinted on his brain. Georg, he thought. I did it for him.
He landed at Augsburg an hour or so later. By now, Dieter Merz was a familiar face a
t the Messerschmitt factory. Ground crew fetched a ladder to let him de-plane.
‘Good flight?’
‘Superb.’
‘Any problems?’
‘None.’ Merz was trying to remember the name of the engineer he’d been given. ‘Pauli Hahn?’
‘Upstairs,’ the crew nodded at the block where the draughtsmen worked. ‘Office at the far end of the corridor.’
Merz took the stairs two at a time. His visit to the Harz Mountains had left its mark. He felt revived, exhilarated. He knocked twice on the office door and pushed it open.
‘Herr Hahn? Dieter Merz.’
Hahn had been working at a drawing board. He was a slight man with thinning hair and a ready smile. Ignore the Party badge on the lapel of his jacket and Dieter might have been looking at Sol Fiedler, Beata’s friend, a Jewish physicist who’d fled to America after the terrors of Kristallnacht. The same alert intelligence. The same eagerness for a conversation.
‘Please…’ Hahn drew up a chair. ‘You want coffee?’
Merz said yes. While Hahn was out of the office, he stole a look at the drawing board. The side view of the Bf-110 was instantly recognisable, except for the addition of what looked like four stubby pipes protruding from the top of the fuselage aft of the canopy. New, too, was an ugly array of aerials poking from the aircraft’s nose.
Hahn was back with the coffee. The sight of Merz in his flying suit behind the desk sparked a grin.
‘Know what it is?’
‘A 110, obviously.’
‘Of course, but what else?’
Merz asked about the pipes. Was there an auxiliary engine in there? Was this some kind of exhaust system?
‘Nice try. I’m afraid the milk’s powdered. You prefer it black?’
Merz nodded. He was still looking at the drawing board. Hahn circled the desk, then gestured at the window. Dieter’s 110 was still on the tarmac.
‘So what do you think of the “E” version?’
‘You want the truth? I think it’s shit. The basic design is still good but we need more power. You’re asking the aircraft to do too much. New engines would solve that.’
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