Moncrieff declined the invitation. Last night, with the aid of his MI5 pass, he’d tried to establish that he worked for the Security Service and he would appreciate the opportunity to talk to a Miss Ursula Barton. This request had been refused but now the Inspector made a note of the number and left the interview room to make the call himself. When he returned he offered no apology for the arrest, neither did he volunteer any details about any conversation with London. Instead, Moncrieff was escorted back to his cell and told to wait.
Ursula arrived in person nine hours later. It was early evening. An enormous woman with a thick Glasgow accent had brought him a curling spam sandwich and a cup of lukewarm tea around lunchtime but he was still starving. Ursula was standing at the open cell door in the company of a grim-faced turnkey. She was carrying a small suitcase. She gazed at the cell and then wrinkled her nose.
‘Nice,’ she was looking at the stains on his shirt. ‘You might be glad of this.’
Ever practical, she’d brought him a change of clothes. The turnkey guarded the door while Ursula looked the other way. Moncrieff could have done with a wash but didn’t want to tempt fate by asking for water.
A minute or two later they were leaving the police station. There were no forms to sign, no conversations to be had. The sergeant at the front desk barely lifted his head as they stepped out into the gathering dusk. The right word in the right ear, Moncrieff thought, and any door in this country would open.
Ursula took him to a restaurant near the railway station. The least she owed him, she said, was a decent meal somewhere moderately discreet. A word to the maître d’ on the door took them to a private room at the back of the restaurant. He left her with the key and Ursula locked the door behind him.
Moncrieff was looking at the single table. It was laid for two and included flowers in a vase. A bottle of red wine had already been opened. Ursula poured.
‘How is he?’ Moncrieff was still looking at the flowers.
‘Your little Pole? He’ll live. Christ knows what you did to him.’
‘It was an old German trick. I picked it up in Berlin. Another couple of minutes and we’d be drinking champagne.’
‘Saint-Emilion not good enough for you?’
‘Saint-Emilion’s perfect. Prosit…’
The wine softened what was left of Moncrieff’s anger. After his experiences in Prague and Berlin, he’d never again wanted to spend time in a prison cell but life, unaccountably, had banged him up again.
‘He’s still in hospital? Wojcek?’
‘Of course he’s not. Our friends removed him this morning. Took him somewhere safe. Even that woman of his hasn’t a clue where he might be.’
‘You’ve met her?’
‘I paid her a visit when I arrived. I think she liked the flowers but I’m not sure. That’s a joke, by the way, in case you were wondering.’
Moncrieff forced a smile. Ursula, as she would, had obviously coaxed a full account of the incident from the police.
‘You said they. Care to elaborate?’
‘MI6. Obviously. Whether or not they’re running this whole operation is still moot but we’re beginning to think they’ve been rather clever.’
‘So where’s Hess?’
‘They took him to a military hospital attached to a castle next to Loch Lomond yesterday afternoon. He’s still got trouble with his ankle.’
‘This place is secure?’
‘Of course. At the moment the Army have control but guess who’ll be standing guard from tomorrow?’
‘MI6.’
Ursula nodded. ‘C’, she said, was playing the security card for all that it was worth. Hess was a foreign asset of immeasurable worth. Hence the three armed agents to be assigned outside his door.
‘He’s lodged in the hospital?’
‘In the castle. Upstairs in the servants’ quarters. Thick walls. No heating. He was officially identified yesterday, around ten in the morning. This was at Maryhill Barracks down the road here.’
‘By whom?’
‘Guess.’
Moncrieff stared at her. Wojcek had recognised the Deputy Führer from newspaper photographs. Another soldier, the night he landed, had seemed to know who he was. But official confirmation had to come from another source.
‘Someone in the swim,’ Ursula rarely smiled. ‘Someone who met him before the war.’
‘You mean Hamilton? The trusty Duke?’
‘The very same. He motored over and shook the man’s hand on Sunday morning. Then they spent some time together.’
‘Alone?’
‘Yes. Hamilton had brought an RAF interrogation officer across from Turnhouse but he dismissed him.’
‘Hamilton speaks German?’
‘Very badly. But Hess has good English.’
‘Really?’ Moncrieff was thinking about Wojcek. Why summon a translator when your surprise guest doesn’t need one?
Ursula hadn’t finished. So far no one knew what the two men had been talking about. Churchill, she said, was spending the weekend at Ditchley Hall, the country seat of Ronnie Tree and his wife. Another house guest was Sir Archibald Sinclair, the Air Minister, and she rather suspected that Sinclair had been alerted by RAF officers on the spot within hours of Hess’s arrival. Either way, Hamilton had been summoned to Ditchley Hall yesterday afternoon to offer the PM a full briefing.
‘He flew himself down,’ she said. ‘And arrived in time for dinner. Afterwards they all watched a film. The Marx Brothers. Knockabout comedy. Very apt under the circumstances.’
‘So what’s Hamilton saying?’
‘To be honest, we haven’t got the full story, just scraps from the feast, but I get the sense that Herr Hess never meant to arrive by parachute. He expected to land and that, of course, raises a number of questions. Like where. And for how long.’
‘He expected to fly himself back?’
‘That would be our assumption.’
‘So who would have supplied the fuel?’
‘An excellent question. We gather he’s been asking for a guarantee of safe passage from the King. This in itself is an interesting request. No one’s quite sure that it carries any constitutional weight.’
‘Least of all, Churchill.’
‘Exactly. The PM knows precisely where real power lies and you won’t find it at Buckingham Palace. He motored into London this morning. Hamilton was in the car with him. And afterwards it was the Duke’s job to brief the King.’
‘And Hamilton’s own story? He was really on duty when Hess turned up?’
‘He was. We’ve checked. He was at RAF Turnhouse. Near Edinburgh. That means nothing of course. He could have come off duty, driven himself back to Dungavel, extended a decent welcome. He’s not living at Dungavel House just now, incidentally. He and his wife have a property nearby.’
‘Where he and Hess might have talked?’
‘Indeed. And whoever else had been invited.’
‘Any clues?’
‘Just one. Thanks to you.’
‘Wojcek?’
‘Yes.’
Moncrieff nodded. He had nothing but admiration for Ursula Barton in situations like these. She had an icy ability to marshal the facts, decide probabilities, come to a conclusion or two. Very German, he thought.
‘So where’s Hamilton now?’
‘The PM despatched him back up here with a diplomat, Ivone Kirkpatrick. Kirkpatrick served in Berlin before the war and speaks good German. He also knows Hess, which is more than useful. The pair of them, Hamilton and Kirkpatrick, are due to land about now. They’re expected at Buchanan Castle before midnight. That’s where they’ll find Hess.’
Moncrieff emptied his glass and enquired about food.
‘They’ll serve when we’re ready, Tam. Business first. Then, perhaps, another bottle.’ She refilled his glass and invited him to sit down.
Moncrieff looked up at her. One or two elements in this extraordinary story were slipping into focus.
‘Hes
s was searched when he was first arrested,’ Moncrieff said.
‘Of course. That would have been routine.’
‘Have you seen the list? The inventory?’
‘Not personally, no. But I understand it included some cranky medicine, some photos and a couple of visiting cards. The latter from the Haushofers.’
‘That’s right,’ Moncrieff nodded. ‘And a letter.’
‘What letter? Addressed to whom?’
‘Exactly. I’ve not the first idea. No one’s talking about it. And that, I suspect, is because it’s disappeared.’
He described his return visit to Wojcek’s house. While the police tore the place apart upstairs he’d found the remains of a fire in the grate of the living room below. Earlier, when he’d first met Wojcek in the same room, the grate had been empty.
‘What sort of remains?’
‘Paper. Definitely.’
‘So what are you telling me?’
‘I’m telling you that Wojcek was there when the search was under way. He was there afterwards. He would have known about the significance of that letter. And I’m suggesting he removed it from the evidence bag.’
‘And then burned it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘I don’t know. Except that it might have been deeply revealing.’
‘Naming names?’
‘That’s a possibility.’
‘There’s another?’
‘Of course. It could have been proposals, detailed proposals, proposals backed from the very top.’
‘For what?’
‘For a peace treaty.’
Ursula was frowning now. She fingered her glass, then checked her watch.
‘You don’t, by any chance, have any evidence for this?’
‘Yes. As it happens, I do.’
He took a moment to check the inside pocket of his jacket where he’d stored the tiny surviving fragment from Wojcek’s grate, the tiny curl of paper that had survived the fire. It had gone.
*
Dieter Merz was packing a suitcase when German radio officially announced Hess’s departure. Earlier that day Merz had been summoned to the Air Ministry where the head of Goering’s private office had officially confirmed that Merz was no longer under suspicion with regard to the Deputy Führer’s treasonous theft of an aircraft. The reasons for his flight, indeed its very destination, was still a mystery but Merz had been cleared of all responsibility.
The Reichsmarschall regretted his absence on important state business but wanted Merz to know that he still had his full confidence. That very morning he’d given the new night fighter initiative his official blessing, and wanted Merz to be in charge of all experimental – and later operational – flying. He was to report to the Messerschmitt factory at Augsburg for further detailed orders.
Now, in the kitchen of Beata’s house, Merz turned up the radio and gazed out at the grey waters of the lake. The announcement about Hess came in the trademark parade-ground bellow of Goebbels’ Ministry of Information. Party member Rudolf Hess, after suffering from an illness of some years’ standing, had been strictly forbidden to embark on any flying activity. He had, nevertheless, come into the possession of an aeroplane for training purposes. At about 6 p.m., just two days ago, he’d set off on a flight from Augsburg from which he had yet to return. A letter he left behind had given rise to a fear that Party member Hess had been suffering from a mental disorder and hallucinations. The Führer at once ordered the arrest of anyone who had prior knowledge of Hess’s flying activities. It was feared, finally, that Party member Hess had either jumped out of his plane or had met with an accident.
The news report gave way to martial music, slightly funereal, and Merz reached for the off switch. The report had the fingerprints of Goebbels all over it: the blatant lies, the demotion from Deputy Führer to ‘Party member’, the repeated claims that – all these years – one of the Reich’s most loyal servants had, in fact, been crazy.
Merz shook his head. To his certain knowledge, dozens of people, possibly hundreds, must have known about Rudi and his brand new Me-110. His was a familiar face at the Messerschmitt works and he flew everywhere in the Reich. Since late last year he’d been learning to master the aircraft and yet now, at the stroke of a pen, Goebbels had presented the nation with a very different story.
Merz was staring out at the lake where a pair of swans were drifting slowly in the wind. The man was a lunatic. He’d stolen an aircraft. At best he was a common thief. At worst, a traitor. How many of them out there would believe this fiction? How many in the Reich would even care?
Merz felt the presence of Beata behind him. She’d been up in the bedroom and she too had heard the Goebbels broadcast.
‘Is it true?’ she asked.
Merz turned round and embraced her.
‘No,’ he muttered. ‘It’s a lie.’
14
A heatwave had settled on Lisbon. Most mornings, as Hesketh knew, the city always took its time to shake its feathers and prepare itself for the day to come, but this particular Tuesday the streets were emptier than ever. A handful of people at a tram stop. An old woman in black pushing a bicycle up the long hill below the apartment building, her face filmed with perspiration. A lone refugee with a cheap suitcase, squatting in the shade beneath a tree, trying to sell a handful of onions. Hot, he thought. And barely ten in the morning.
He stepped back into the apartment, clad only in a pair of khaki shorts, grateful for the first stirrings of breeze from the river. He’d listened to the news at dawn, Deutscher Rundfunk on the short-wave radio, out there on the terrace. A leading figure had fled the Reich. Not Albrecht Haushofer at all, but Rudolf Hess. He’d somehow acquired an aircraft and flown away. There was no hint of a destination, neither was there any indication whether he was still alive, simply that he’d gone. He was mad, of course, and doubtless a traitor, but they were bound to say that.
The Deputy Führer? Hesketh shook his head, sensing that this had to be the peace initiative. It was unbelievable. If he’d only known, if he’d only worked it out, he might have made so much more money. Hundreds of thousands of escudos. Maybe more. Maybe millions. He looked around the new apartment. Five rooms. A balcony. A wonderful view of the boats and the river. As it was, he’d earned a decent sum from his hasty liaison with Albrecht Haushofer, but the sad truth was that a flight by Hess, if he’d only guessed, if he’d only have passed the word on, could have made him a very rich man.
He stepped through to the big airy room where he slept. The woman in his bed was Senegalese. She had a habit of never rising until mid-morning and her eyes were still closed, one plump arm thrown out across Hesketh’s pillow. He’d dubbed her Cou-Cou and was glad to have her in this new nest of his.
Hesketh sank into a new wicker armchair he’d acquired only last week. He loved watching her sleeping. She had a languor and a fullness he’d always looked for in women. She was generous in bed and amusing over a drink or two and she’d taught him how to make a foolproof crème brûlée.
In Dakar, if he was to believe her, she’d been the mistress to one of the top Vichy admirals and had been obliged to flee the country after a complex financial scandal. She’d arrived at Hesketh’s door on her way north, to join de Gaulle’s circus in London, but showed no eagerness to move on. His address, she’d told him, had come from contacts at the British Embassy, which meant she’d been a present from Kim Philby, Head of Station for the SIS, but the fact that she’d obviously been installed to keep an eye on him didn’t bother Hesketh in the least.
In her luggage, of which there was a great deal, he’d found a small fortune in uncut blood diamonds – carelessly wrapped in a sheet of newsprint – and he’d taken the liberty of helping himself to a couple of the smaller gems. Either she wouldn’t miss them, he told himself, or she’d sensibly regard them as a down payment on the rent. Either way, they were having a fine time.
Hesketh stirred. She’d brought co
ffee beans, too. The tiny kitchen was at the back of the apartment and he carefully shut the door so that the rasp of the grinder wouldn’t wake her up. He treasured that delicious moment when he could perch himself on the side of the bed and let the waft of the fresh coffee open her eyes. Sex, she always said, was best in the mornings, en plein matin, when the body was rested and eager, and she kept a selection of lotions in the cabinet beside the bed. One of them, her favourite, carried the scent of coconut and under Cou-Cou’s firm direction it was Hesketh’s responsibility to oil her huge breasts before she straddled him. Coconut. Cou-Cou. A perfect pairing.
The beans were done. Hesketh was still waiting for the water to boil when he heard a woman calling his name out in the narrow alley at the back.
‘Senhor Hesketh? You’re up there?’
Hesketh inched the kitchen window a little wider. She was standing in the shade of the building opposite. She was blonde, tall. She was carrying a small suitcase. Hesketh studied her for a moment. Her voice sounded English.
He made his way downstairs and unbolted the big wooden door that led to the alley. The heat down here was intense. The woman was still in the shadows.
‘You’re Hesketh?’
‘I am.’
‘Thank Christ for that.’
She sounded tired, irritable, and she was very definitely English. She was also, for a woman, very tall. Hesketh studied her a moment, amused.
‘Everyone’s got a name,’ he said. ‘What’s yours?’
‘Isabel. Isabel Menzies.’
‘And there’s some way I can help you?’
‘Yes,’ she gestured round. ‘Is it always so bloody hot here?’
He took her upstairs, carrying the suitcase. It was lighter than he’d expected. In the big living room he left her to enjoy the breeze off the river while he prepared the coffee. From the bedroom, there was no sign of life.
By the time the coffee was ready she’d settled on the low banquette that offered the best views of the river. She’d lit a cigarette and relaxed against the rug that Cou-Cou had draped across the back of the banquette. Her eyes were closed and some of the irritation appeared to have gone. Wonderful bones. Full mouth. A hint of laughter in the lines around her eyes.
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