It was Georg. Since his discharge from the convalescent home, the name Beata had never passed his lips. Only ‘Lottie’s mother’ or ‘my once-upon-a-time wife’.
‘Listen, compadre,’ Georg sounded excited. ‘Good news. The best.’
Dieter bent to the phone. Der Eiserne, Georg said, had given him the OK to join a bomber force going into action this very night. He’d be flying as a spare pilot in a Heinkel 111. After five months in the hands of a surgeon, and unforgiving nurses, and a turd of a psychologist determined to prove that he was insane, Georg Messner would finally be airborne again. Not once had Goering ever let him down but for this act of faith he was truly grateful.
Act of faith? Dieter had last seen his ex-wingman just four days ago. They’d shared a beer or two in a café overlooking the Spree. Now that Georg was back on his feet, physically intact, everything in perfect working order, it was plainer than ever that the accident back in November had stolen the essence of the man he’d once been. Dieter didn’t have a moment’s doubt that Georg could still fly an aircraft, but that wasn’t the point. The old Georg, the man he’d gone to war with in Spain, measured, loyal, committed, had gone.
‘And tonight’s target?’ Dieter enquired.
‘I can’t tell you.’
‘London?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then take care, compadre. It’s a long way down if you get it wrong.’
A strange cackle of laughter brought the conversation to an end. Naked in the slant of early morning sunshine, Dieter glanced round. Beata could move like a ghost but on this occasion a creaking stair had let her down.
‘Georg again?’ She pulled her dressing gown a little tighter around her.
‘Yes.’
‘You think we can do without the phone? You think we might get rid of it?’
‘That may not be necessary. He’s flying tonight. One shell. That’s all it takes.’
*
The stranger who met Tam Moncrieff on the steps of the Air Ministry was full of apologies. Not simply for the absence of the expected weather forecaster, at present nursing a broken leg after a fall from his bike in last night’s blackout, but for the non-availability of the Ministry’s lifts, both the victim of a breakdown in the winding gear. The Met Office, alas, was on the top floor. Within touching distance of the cloud base.
The latter remark, Moncrieff assumed, was a joke. London had awoken to a perfect late spring morning: bright sunshine, a cloudless sky and a warm easterly breeze. The replacement forecaster, a bluff man in his late fifties, was carrying far too much weight for the endless flights of stairs. By the time they made it to the Met Office, he was scarlet with the effort.
The office was smaller than Moncrieff had expected. The forecaster dismissed the woman behind the desk and then cleared a space in the middle of the floor to unroll a map. Barometric pressure rings had been overlaid on the familiar outlines of north-west Europe. On his hands and knees, the forecaster weighed down the corners of the map with books and then rocked back on his haunches.
A huge bubble of high pressure, he said, had settled over the British Isles, extending deep into the Eastern Atlantic. It wouldn’t last forever but for the next forty-eight hours the country would be cursed with cloudless skies and near-perfect visibility.
‘Cursed?’
‘Of course,’ a fat finger settled on the Belgian coast. ‘There’s a full moon tonight, believe it or not. If we’re expecting any kind of visit, all the Germans have to do is follow the Thames. Moonlight that bright, it’s as good as a flarepath.’ He paused, looking up. ‘That is why you came, I assume?’
Moncrieff said nothing. His gaze had tracked north, towards Scotland. The Duke of Hamilton’s country seat lay south of Glasgow. Moncrieff had paid Dungavel House a quiet visit only last week. The estate included a private airstrip, equipped with landing lights.
‘The high pressure extends into Europe,’ Moncrieff said. ‘Am I right?’
‘Yes. Aren’t you from Bomber Command? Or have I got the wrong end of the stick?’
Moncrieff didn’t answer. He took his time looking at the map and then indicated the curl of Friesian islands off the German/Danish border.
‘Assume you were routing west from thereabouts. What conditions might you expect?’
‘Over the North Sea, you mean? Today?’
‘Tonight.’
‘A light following wind, nothing more than ten knots or so, and maybe a little sea mist off the coast around here…’ he tapped the edge of Northumberland above Newcastle.
‘And over the border country? Still heading west?’
‘Bright moonlight.’
‘Visibility?’
‘Excellent.’ The forecaster paused. ‘You want me to look up the sunset time?’
‘No need,’ Moncrieff stepped back from the map. ‘But thanks for the offer.’
Ursula Barton was waiting for Moncrieff in the Director’s office. Guy Liddell was on the phone.
‘Sunset’s at nine minutes past ten, BST,’ Moncrieff folded his long frame into the spare chair.
‘And you’re still sure someone’s coming?’
‘I am.’
‘Because Souk says so?’
‘Yes.’
‘Any idea who?’
‘Souk thinks Albrecht Haushofer. He’s got the contacts. He speaks excellent English. He suspects they’ll fly him into Hamilton’s place.’
‘A plenipotentiary?’
‘Indeed. And when the talks are done and the war’s over he’ll get safe passage home.’
‘Over? Are you serious?’
‘I am.’
‘Because of what might happen tonight?’
‘Yes.’
Ursula shot him a look. These past few months, Moncrieff had been banging the drum about the dangers posed by the peace party, but no one appeared to be listening. Least of all, it seemed, the Director.
Liddell had just come off the phone. Lately he’d been under intense pressure from a number of quarters and it showed on his face. Every week brought more arrests, more suspects to be interned, more names on the ever-lengthier interrogation lists, more holes in the fragile dyke that MI5 had thrown up against untold enemies within. And now, if Tam Moncrieff was to be believed, the country was facing another threat of an entirely different order.
Ursula confirmed the imminence of a big raid on London. At least a hundred aircraft expected. The first wave to arrive around eleven this evening. Stumps to be drawn by three in the morning. Much Sturm und Drang in between.
‘Evidence?’
‘The usual source, sir. Orders went out to Gruppe this morning. We deciphered the bomb loads, too. A mix of HE and incendiaries. Not much sleep for anyone tonight.’
The Director turned to Moncrieff.
‘And you, Tam. What news from the north?’
‘You’ll have seen the surveillance reports, sir. And the telephone intercepts. We’re looking at the makings of a reception committee. So far, unless I’m mistaken, peace negotiations have always been discreet. Lisbon. Geneva. Stockholm. Sylt. Neutral territory. This is different. This is far closer to home.’
‘And you still think Dungavel House? Hamilton’s place?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And you say the great and the good are gathering up there?’
‘In the vicinity, some of them, certainly. Others are keeping their distance. Which may prove very wise.’
‘Care to give me a name or two?’
‘C’, for one.’
‘You said that last week.’
‘I did.’
‘And you still believe it?’
Moncrieff nodded. ‘C’ was the Director of MI6, Sir Stewart Menzies, and every particle of intelligence Moncrieff had analysed over the past few months supported his belief that ‘C’ had quietly thrown his weight behind the peace lobby. He was highly placed in Court circles. He got on famously with the King. His perch in clubland, above all his membership of White
’s, put him alongside most of the key figures arguing for a negotiated treaty with the Germans. Take a cold look at the jigsaw of impending events and Menzies might well end up with a seat in a reformed Cabinet.
‘For what it’s worth, sir, I suspect our friends in Broadway have been in touch with the people around Hess for some time. We’ve barged into their party with that letter of yours from Duglo and that upset them somewhat. At the very least they think we’re guilty of trespass.’
‘Their turf?’
‘Indeed. And they’re not shy about keeping us at arm’s length.’ Moncrieff mentioned the break-in at the Glebe House.
‘You think Broadway were responsible?’
‘It’s possible, yes.’
‘Sending us a message?’
‘Telling us to mind our own business.’
Liddell fell silent for a moment, then nodded.
‘So you think ‘C’ is up there now? In Scotland? Expecting some kind of development?’
‘I know he’s in London, sir. Watching and waiting. For my money, the overthrow of the PM might serve him very well.’
Liddell smiled. If he was shocked by the suggestion that Winston Churchill might be under threat it didn’t show.
‘I thought we were discussing covert negotiations,’ he murmured. ‘Not a coup d’état.’
*
Ilse Hess awoke with a pounding headache and a slight fever. She lay still for a moment, aware of the splash of water from the nearby bathroom. Rudi, she thought. Up early again.
These last few weeks, he’d been acting out of character. Normally, he was predictable, immaculately organised, a glad prisoner of a thousand routines. Every Sunday, he’d make a point of sharing his diary for the coming week, explaining where he was going and why, fitting in time with his family whenever he could. For this, Ilse had always been grateful, only too aware of how rare her husband was among the other big shots in Berlin. For Rudi, time spent in stealing a march on a rival, or spreading ugly rumours about this person or that, was time wasted. He had no further ambitions for higher office. He was a stranger to any kind of conspiracy. He owed his sole allegiance to his Führer, to the Reich, and to his beloved family.
This much Ilse knew, and the knowledge was a source of constant reassurance. And yet recently, especially the last few weeks, something seemed to have happened to the husband she thought she knew. He’d become fretful, often visibly nervous. The smallest things – a missed phone call, a perceived slight from the local herbalist – would trigger a long diatribe and then an abrupt withdrawal into total silence. The diatribes she could cope with – her Rudi had never known how to end a sentence – but the sudden mood changes were something new. More often than not she was able to put them down to the ever-faster pace of events. But the times when there appeared to be no rational explanation had begun to alarm her.
Then, barely days ago, Rudi had got himself measured for a brand new Luftwaffe uniform. After years of dressing in a plain brown shirt with the barest of insignia, she was confused. Why the change of plumage? What was so important that merited the collar tabs of a Luftwaffe Captain? Both questions had gone unanswered yet last night she’d noticed the uniform carefully readied on a hanger in the spare room.
Now, Rudi stepped in from the bathroom, still towelling himself dry. He paused beside the bed, as solicitous as ever, asking whether she needed any more medication. She shook her head. She wanted to know what he had planned for the day. Hess said he’d like a walk in the woods with their son and the dog and her new pups. Alfred Rosenberg, one of the regime’s big brains, was due for lunch. Then, in late afternoon, he’d be leaving for Augsburg.
‘You’re flying?’
‘Yes.’
‘In that lovely new uniform?’
‘Yes.’
‘When will you be back?’
‘Tomorrow, I hope. If not, then certainly Monday.’
He held her gaze and for once she resisted the temptation to ask where he might be going. Minutes later, with Rudi dressed for the woods and attending to their son, Ilse returned to her book. It was an account of a flight over Mount Everest, a present from English friends. The author, the Marquess of Clydesdale, now the Duke of Hamilton, had been the pilot on the flight and Ilse knew that her husband had always treasured the gift.
Hearing a peal of laughter from her son’s bedroom, she flicked idly back to the personal dedication inscribed at the front of the book. ‘With all good wishes and the hope that out of personal friendships a real and lasting understanding may grow between our two countries’, it read. The dedication was unsigned but the clue, Ilse thought, was in the script itself. A male hand, definitely. Carefully measured. Confident. Full of the best intentions.
*
Georg Messner flew himself from Berlin to one of the bomber airfields in the Pas-de-Calais. Approval from Goering would have been enough to win him a ride in any Luftwaffe squadron for tonight’s big raid but Messner knew the Oberstleutnant from their days in the Condor Legion and it was a pleasure to see him again.
‘Messner! What an honour!’
Otto Klopp was a big man, famously foul-mouthed, physically imposing. Conversationally and in every other respect, he always set a fierce pace. Tonight, he said, would be an early birthday present for his new wife. A couple of thousand tons of Third Reich high explosive might just be enough to teach the fucking English the error of their ways. They’d wake up to find some familiar London landmarks gone and with luck they’d at last see sense. By midsummer, he and Hildegarde might find themselves quartered in one of those fancy houses overlooking the upper reaches of the Thames. They’d play polo, and drink thin beer, and have hundreds of kids. They might even consent to learn English and acquire a taste for overboiled vegetables.
‘Tonight, Messner, you and I will make history.’ He got to his feet and reached for his cap. ‘Happy to have you along.’
*
Rudolf Hess took off from the Messerschmitt airstrip at Augsburg at 5.46 p.m. in perfect weather. He was flying alone. On his personal orders, the cannons and machine guns were packed in grease to disable them, and he carried no bombs or ammunition. The specially fitted auxiliary tanks contained an extra 1,800 litres of fuel, extending the aircraft’s range to more than 1,500 miles. He’d also demanded radio equipment he could tune as a navigational aid.
According to the account he offered later, Hess flew north-west across Germany and Holland, reaching the coast at Den Helder. A ninety-degree turn to starboard then took him north-east towards Germany before a second turn to port routed him up the North Sea until he intersected the radio beam from Kalundborg in Denmark. By now it was gone half past eight and the sun was beginning to sink in the west.
Riding the radio beam due west would deliver the Deputy Führer to the English coast just south of the Scottish border but he was wary of entering enemy airspace in daylight and so he flew back and forth for an hour until darkness stole towards him from the east. Locked onto the radio beam from Kalundborg, he began a shallow dive towards the distant smudge of the British Isles. At twelve minutes past ten, residents in the coastal town of Bamburgh heard the roar of an aircraft approaching from the North Sea. Travelling low-level at more than 350 mph, it thundered overhead, disappearing within seconds towards the Cheviot Hills.
Hess, at the controls, had spent weeks rehearsing the next thirty minutes, poring over maps of the border country, memorising the key features, aware that already his presence would have been registered on RAF early warning radar screens. His life was now in the hands of the Me-110. A lone target in the near-darkness, it could outrun most enemy fighters. He had enough fuel – just – to make his destination. Duglo’s country seat, Dungavel House, lay directly under the Kalundborg beam. The Duke’s private airstrip was equipped with lights. And there, praise God, his journey would end.
In his early days as a pilot Hess had loved flying at low altitude. This barnstorming dalliance with gravity had won him many admirers and now – in the
last of the twilight – he took the aircraft as low as he dared. Thirty metres. Twenty metres. The soft contours of the border country were a blur below him.
Somewhere ahead, blacked out, lay the sprawl of Glasgow. Hess lifted the nose and began to climb. This final stage of the journey were the moments he’d dreaded. After five hours in the cockpit he was physically and mentally drained but now he had to rely on the Danish radio beam, and the map of local features he’d so carefully committed to memory.
Throttling back to save fuel, he peered down at the landscape below, trying to orientate himself, but he sensed already that he must have overshot Dungavel House. Ahead, he caught the gleam of moonlight on what must have been the Firth of Clyde. In thirty brief minutes he’d crossed Scotland and would soon be heading for Northern Ireland. Except that his fuel was now critically low.
Already, with the needle on the gauge at zero, he was braced for the moment when the first engine would miss a beat. Then would come another cough, and then another, and then the nose would go down and he’d have no option but to bale out. The thought filled him with horror. He stared out at the curl of the coast and dropped a wing to take him back inland. He’d never made a parachute jump in his life.
*
At about the same time, 10.52, the first wave of Heinkel-111s droned into the Thames estuary, following the silver thread of the river towards the heart of the city. Georg Messner was flying as co-pilot in Oberstleutnant Klopp’s aircraft, and Klopp had given him control as soon as they’d climbed to their cruising altitude over the English Channel. As the Gruppe weather forecaster had promised, conditions were perfect for a night of sustained violence. Already, looking down at the long finger of Southend Pier, Messner knew that target identification would be no problem. In the brightness of a full moon, even with perfect blackout, there was nowhere for London to hide.
Messner relaxed at the controls. On Klopp’s recommendation, he was wearing earplugs but even so the noise from the two engines, one either side of the cockpit, was deafening. Klopp would be taking over in the next few minutes for the run-in to the target, and the bomb-aimer, who was in a makeshift perch behind him, would take his place flat on his belly in the nose.
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