Wojcek glanced at the address.
‘The Caledonian? Isn’t that the one in Sauchiehall Street?’
‘It is.’
Wojcek nodded, and then swallowed a yawn. The last of the vodka in the bottle had gone.
‘Eine Mission für die Menschheit,’ he muttered. ‘A mission to save mankind. Very funny, ja?’
*
Dieter Merz spent the rest of the day in the detective’s office at Gestapo headquarters. The detective himself had long gone, carefully locking the door behind him, leaving Merz with nothing except the interminable silence of a Berlin sabbath.
The knowledge that even the Gestapo didn’t work on Sundays amused Merz. It seemed at first a relic of a more civilised Germany but as the afternoon wore on the absence of any activity – footsteps, conversation, doors slamming, the trill of a distant telephone – began to gnaw at him. Twice he got to his feet and prowled round the bare desk, pausing beside the window. From this height he’d survive a jump, and when he unlocked the catch on the central bar the lower frame moved easily under his fingertips, but he knew only too well that any serious escape attempt would itself have consequences. Nobody was safe any more in Hitler’s Reich. Whoever you were, wherever you hid, they’d find you.
And then what? The basement suites downstairs? The rumoured Hungarian sadists imported from Budapest? The pale men in the white gowns whose speciality was pain? Who had a thousand ways of taking you to the very edge of the ugliest death and then leaving you dangling there? Was that what he really wanted? To put those animals, this regime, to the test?
The answer, Merz knew, was no. And so, as the shadows lengthened in the courtyard below, he knew he had no choice but to sit and wait. Someone would make a decision. Someone would come. And after that, God willing, things might be a little clearer.
He needed to think about what might have happened over the past twenty-four hours. He closed his eyes, trying to imagine Rudolf Hess, his distinguished pupil, alone at the controls of the Me-110. In truth he’d never quite believed the Deputy Führer’s explanation for making the jump to a bigger aircraft. Merz knew he was a busy man. He knew he prided himself on meeting a schedule of public appearances that would have broken a lesser mortal. And in that context it made perfect sense to fly from city to city. Hess was an accomplished pilot. The cockpit was his second home. But why not stick to a single-seater? A Bf-109? Enjoy himself? Avoid the tedium of the three-month conversion?
The answer, Merz knew, was the range of the aircraft. He himself, when he was still a barnstorming display pilot before the war, had flown himself from venue to venue. The longer flights, especially after the Anschluss had brought Austria into the Reich, might need the odd refuelling stop, but that would be no hardship for a pilot like Hess. Unless, of course, he’d had another destination in mind.
The detective, before he’d gone, had hinted at some kind of peace mission. Der Stellvertreter, he suggested, must have cooked up some crazy, half-baked plan to bring the English to the negotiating table. To do that, of course, you had to be mad, clinically insane, because no one in his right mind would ever entertain a conversation with a warmonger like Winston Churchill, not for a single second, and at that moment in the conversation Merz had recognised that the price of his own freedom was to agree.
Hess was mad. That’s why he’d planned the whole thing. That’s why he’d turned his back on his Führer, on the Reich itself, and flown away. Poor, mad Rudi. The believer in herbal cures and magical spells. The stern-faced vegan. The one old fighter who’d never touch a drop of alcohol. Rudi the family man. Rudi the Führer’s favourite. Rudi the king of the crosswind landings. Rudi the fervent believer who’d lost his heart to the cause of peace. Was that madness? God, no.
And so, in the ever-longer silences towards the end of the interview, Merz had declined the detective’s far-from-subtle invitation to parcel up the Deputy Führer and lock him away in the cupboard marked ‘Mad’. Why? Because Rudolf Hess was anything but insane. A man with more than his fair share of obsessions? Definitely. A man half-crippled by his own sincerity? Again, yes. But mad? Dribbling, certifiable, 110 per cent crazy? Never.
The detective had mentioned Scotland as a possible destination and Merz, genuinely intrigued, had asked why, but no details were forthcoming. In their absence, now, Merz tried to visualise the realities of a flight that long. The bomber boys, and elite pilots in the Führer’s Reichsregierung, were used to eating that kind of range but getting to Scotland from Augsburg in an Me-110, even with extra drop tanks, would call for rare precision when it came to navigation.
Hess, it seemed, had taken off around six o’clock in the evening. The last part of his journey, therefore, would probably have taken place in darkness, with half the RAF up his arse. The Me-110, with its sheer power, would be a friend in circumstances like these but you still needed real guts for a challenge like that.
Merz tried to concentrate, to think the proposition through properly. One possibility, of course, was the fact that the British might have known he was coming. Safe passage. Maybe even an escort. With a big fat flarepath at journey’s end. Was that the real story? Was that the reason that big names like Willi Messerschmitt had woken up this morning to find the Gestapo at their door? Had poor Rudi found himself in a nest of vipers? The plaything of some bunch of old-school conspirators? Neanderthal Prussians with their dreams of a nicer, more virtuous Reich? Had Rudi clambered into his brand new 110 and closed the lid, determined to fly to Scotland, to bang the right heads together, and thus save the Führer from his wilder excesses?
Merz didn’t know, couldn’t possibly even hazard a guess, and after a while – awoken this morning far too early – he fell asleep, jerking awake hours later to hear the sound of footsteps approaching in the corridor outside. The detective, he thought, come to check up on me.
He was wrong. He forced himself upright in the chair and rubbed his eyes. Beyond the window, it was dark. The figure in the open doorway, pocketing the key to the office, was wearing the collar tabs of a Luftwaffe officer. He was young, exquisitely barbered and probably spent every weekend practising his Hitler salute.
Merz responded with a tired lift of his right arm but didn’t get up.
‘Who are you?’ he asked.
‘Oberstleutnant Heider.’ The voice was clipped. ‘A pleasure to meet you, Major Merz.’
The fact that he had the manners to use Merz’s rank, Dieter took as a good sign. He struggled to his feet and yawned. For a brief second, he fancied that he might have the advantage.
‘I’m free to go now?’
‘You are, Major Merz. But first I have some news you might like to hear.’
Merz tried to hide his surprise. The best part of a whole day awaiting the pleasures of interrogation. And now this. Crazy, he thought. Completely insane.
‘Your colleague, Major Merz. Your Kamerad.’
‘You mean Messner?’
‘Indeed. We gather you know he was flying last night. In a Heinkel. Against the English.’
‘And?’
‘I’m glad to tell you he brought the plane back in one piece. The cockpit blew out before the bombing run. Had Messner not been on board, the whole crew would have perished.’
‘They’re all safe?’
‘Sadly not. Oberstleutnant Klopp is no longer with us. The Reichsmarschall has recommended Messner for the Ritterkreuz.’ He paused, standing respectfully aside to let Merz leave the office. ‘The Reichsmarschall presents his apologies for the loss of your Sunday. My car is outside. It will be a pleasure to drive you back to Wannsee.’
*
Moncrieff ordered his dinner from room service. Liver and onions with duchesse potatoes, carrots and cauliflower florets. When the meal was finally delivered, nearly an hour later, it was swimming in a thin gravy that proved to be lukewarm and in place of the cauliflower was a stringy greyish vegetable he didn’t recognise. He was tempted to lift the phone and send the whole lot back, but hunger got the better of him. Besid
es, he suspected the evening’s real entertainment was yet to come.
He was tidying up the remains of the liver when he heard a soft knocking at the door. He put his tray carefully to one side and checked his watch. Nearly half past ten. Early, he thought.
He paused beside the door. He hadn’t carried a weapon for nearly a year but Ursula Barton had insisted and now he knew why. The neat little Beretta had been waiting for him at Northolt, and the carefully labelled box had included fifty rounds of ammunition. Ursula again. Clearly expecting some kind of war.
‘Who is it?’
No reply. Then came a second knock, louder, more insistent. Moncrieff asked again for a name. This time he got an answer.
‘Wojcek. It’s Wojcek.’
Moncrieff opened the door. Wojcek was so drunk, he could barely stand. Moncrieff reached for him as he began to buckle at the knees and as he did so he became aware of another figure, bigger, taller, dressed entirely in black, and then a third. The pair of them stepped around Wojcek as he fell and the one in black stooped to drag Wojcek into the room. In his spare hand, Moncrieff had time to glimpse a knife before a blow to his midriff forced the air from his lungs. He stepped back from the open door, gasping with the pain, and managed to duck a second punch. Then the sight of the black automatic in Moncrieff’s hand brought everything to a halt.
‘Fuck.’ The man in black looked first at Moncrieff, then at Wojcek. ‘You should have said, my friend. We’d have come prepared.’
Wojcek was face down on the carpet. He appeared to have gone to sleep. Moncrieff gestured at the door.
‘Shut it,’ he said.
Neither men moved. Then the one in black began to laugh.
‘You think we’re staying?’ he nodded at Wojcek. ‘Tell him it’s the usual address. And tell him we just doubled the fee.’ He looked up at Moncrieff. ‘You can remember that, mister? A nod will do.’
Moncrieff watched them leave. Thick Glasgow accent. Gorbals swagger. Once they’d gone, he locked the door and then hauled the little Pole to his feet. Wojcek gazed blearily up at him and then began to be sick. Moncrieff slipped the gun into the waistband of his trousers, stepped round the pool of vomit and pushed Wojcek into the bathroom, forcing him to his knees over the lavatory.
‘More,’ he said. ‘Get rid of it.’
Wojcek began to throw up again. Soon he was dry-retching, groaning with the effort to empty his stomach. Moncrieff checked the door and then lifted the telephone and dialled reception. He wanted to know whether two men had left the hotel recently and described one of them. The woman on the line said she’d no knowledge of anyone dressed entirely in black, either coming in or going out.
Moncrieff thanked her and hung up. A service entrance, he thought. People who knew what they were doing. Thank Christ they hadn’t been armed.
Wojcek had appeared from the bathroom. He was weaving across the carpet, trying to make it as far as the door. Moncrieff got there first. He told the Pole to fetch two towels from the bathroom. Wojcek stared at him, uncomprehending. Then his gaze drifted to the vomit on the carpet.
‘Two towels?’
‘Yes.’
He did what he was told. Moncrieff draped the bigger of the two towels over the pool of vomit and then led Wojcek to bed and pushed him gently backwards. Wojcek collapsed with a sigh, his eyes closing again.
On the windowsill stood a tall glass vase with a bunch of late daffodils. Moncrieff tossed the flowers onto the carpet and refilled the vase with fresh water from the bathroom. Then he returned to the bed and rearranged the thin body until Wojcek’s head was hanging over the side of the counterpane. Two hotel dressing gowns were on hangers in the wardrobe. Moncrieff removed the cords from both and tied Wojcek’s wrists together. Then he did the same with his ankles. Bound hand and foot, the Pole was now helpless.
He gazed up at Moncrieff. He looked troubled now. Through the fog of vodka he sensed something very bad was about to happen.
Moncrieff made a space for himself on the bed and sat down beside him. He had a number of questions he needed to ask and he’d be grateful for some answers. If all went well, Wojcek would be on his way.
‘Or?’
Moncrieff didn’t answer. He wanted to know who the two men were, and who’d ordered them to the hotel.
Wojcek closed his eyes and shook his head.
‘You must have talked to somebody. After we searched your house. Who was that somebody?’
No response.
‘What were they here to do? Hurt me? Something worse?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I don’t believe you.’
‘It’s true. I’ve never seen them before. I was told to meet them at the back of the hotel. They said you’d answer the door to me.’
Moncrieff was watching the Pole very carefully. He thought he saw tears, but he couldn’t be sure.
‘Let’s talk about last night,’ he said. ‘No one came to look for you. No one came to fetch you. You were out there already. You were waiting. Because you knew Hess was coming. So here’s the question, my friend. Where exactly were you waiting? Dungavel House? The Duke’s place?’
Wojcek turned his face to the wall. He wanted no part of this conversation. Moncrieff stooped lower, his mouth to Wojcek’s ear.
‘Dungavel House? You don’t have to say anything. Just nod.’
An imperceptible movement of his head. A nod? Moncrieff couldn’t be certain.
‘You’re working for MI6, for the Secret Intelligence Service. Yes?’
‘I work for the Consulate. I’m a Pole.’
‘But MI6, as well. Yes?’
Wojcek tried to turn over, to bury his face in the pillow, but Moncrieff stopped him. He was rougher now, pinning Wojcek’s bony shoulders against the counterpane.
‘One last chance,’ he said. ‘Who else was with you? Last night? When you were waiting for Hess?’
‘Nobody. Nobody was there.’
‘You’re lying. You’ve lied from the start. And you’re a bad liar, Kacper. Which is something you might regret.’
Moncrieff reached for the smaller of the two towels and draped it carefully over the Pole’s face. The vase of water was beside the bed. Moncrieff picked it up and poured a little over the towel, then a little more before inching Wojcek’s head over the edge of the bed so the water trickled into his nose and down his throat. Wojcek coughed and then began to retch again.
Moncrieff poured more water onto the towel. Wojcek’s whole body was convulsing now and in the struggle to keep him pinned to the bed the rest of the water spilled over the towel, filling the passages at the back of his throat, reaching deep into his lungs.
Moncrieff had been here before, as helpless and as frightened as Wojcek, and he remembered the chill of the water triggering the body’s most primitive responses. No one ever wanted to drown. Not like this. Not so slowly. So helplessly. In Berlin, he’d been in the hands of experts, but the principles were the same. The water robbed you of everything. Except raw terror.
The water was gone. The vase was empty. Wojcek had been sick again. Moncrieff could hear the vomit bubbling in his throat. Soon he’d have to stop. Attend to the man. Empty him.
‘Last night, Kacper. Just tell me.’
Wojcek’s face emerged from beneath the towel. He nodded. Anything. Anything to make this nightmare stop.
‘Talk to me, Kacper. Who was there last night?’
Wojcek tried to talk, couldn’t.
‘I’m going to the bathroom again, Kacper. I’m going to fill that vase. You understand me? You understand what I’m telling you?’
The Pole nodded, croaked, coughed, but couldn’t shape a single word. Moncrieff got to his feet and reached for the vase. Wojcek shook his head. His eyes spoke for him. No. Please. I beg you. In the name of God.
‘Names, Kacper. Names.’
Wojcek stared at him. Finally, one pale hand circled his head and his eyes drifted upwards.
‘What does that mean, Kacper
? Tell me.’
The Pole made the gesture a second time. Then came another knocking at the door, raised voices shouting Moncrieff’s name, and finally the scrape of a key in the lock.
Moncrieff swore softly, abandoning Wojcek on the bed. He crossed the room, the gun in his hand, stepping aside as the door burst open. Moncrieff recognised the man in the suit from reception. With him were two uniformed policemen. One of them had drawn a truncheon. The other was making for the bed.
He bent briefly over Wojcek and gave him a shake. Wojcek groaned and then whispered something in Polish. A splatter of bile had stained the whiteness of the pillow.
‘The gun, sir?’
The policeman by the door extended his other hand. Moncrieff shrugged and gave him the Beretta. The policeman removed the clip of ammunition and put the gun to one side before Moncrieff found himself surrendering to a search. The search was thorough, every pocket, trousers and jacket, and while the policemen went through the tidy pile of objects on a neighbouring chair Moncrieff kept his eyes fixed on Wojcek. He was still alive, still moving. That, at least, was a blessing.
‘Put your hands behind your back, please sir. Wrists together. And turn round.’
Moncrieff gazed at him for a moment. Handcuffs, he thought.
‘You’re arresting me?’
‘We are, Mr Moncrieff. If that’s your real name.’
13
Moncrieff jerked awake in the chill of a police cell. Fully clothed, beneath a single blanket, he’d passed an uncomfortable night trying to doze on the concrete slab that served as a sleeping platform. A thin grey light had penetrated the thick glass of the barred window and from time to time he caught the screech of an early morning tram. Twice he crossed the cell and banged on the door, demanding to talk to someone, but his pleas were ignored.
At around nine o’clock he was escorted to an interview room where a uniformed inspector asked him to account for the events of last night. The duty officer, he said, had taken a call about an incident at the Caledonian Hotel. An armed man had barricaded himself in Room 633. The staff had seemed oblivious, but the tip had proved to be all too accurate. The Pole, Kacper Wojcek, was mercifully recovering in the General Infirmary. Might Mr Moncrieff care to explain why he’d so nearly killed him?
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