Her pack of cigarettes, together with a lighter, lay on the occasional table beside the banquette. Hesketh deposited the coffees. The cigarettes were Russian. Kapteal.
‘May I?’ Hesketh had extracted a cigarette, sniffed it, reached for the lighter.
‘Help yourself. Keep the whole pack. It’s the least I can do.’
‘For what?’
‘For letting me in like that. A perfect stranger? Is Lisbon always this hospitable?’
‘Always. It’s the charm of the place. How did you know where to find me?’
‘I have friends in Berlin. Albrecht Haushofer? He sends his regards and thanks you for the new address.’
‘You’ve come from Germany?’
‘Moscow. I flew to Berlin yesterday. And now here I am. Flying’s a wonderful thing but you can overindulge. If it wasn’t so hot I could sleep for a year. You know that feeling? When there’s no room left for argument? Even for negotiation? When the only option is surrender?’
Clever, Hesketh thought. A woman with a talent for metaphor.
‘Are we talking about the weather?’
‘Of course.’ For the first time, she smiled. ‘What else?’
‘And you have somewhere to stay? To surrender?’
‘Yes.’ She rummaged in her bag and produced a slip of paper. ‘The Hotel Convento do Salvador?’
‘It’s a five-minute walk from here. I can take you there.’
‘That’s very kind.’
‘But that’s not why you’ve come here.’
‘No.’
‘So how can I help you?’
She took her time, reached for the coffee, took a tiny sip, rolled her eyes with pleasure.
‘Christ,’ she said. ‘Where did you get this?’
‘Senegal. It’s a long story full of interesting asides. If you’re here a while I’m sure we could discuss it further. The Convento’s a fine hotel. I haven’t had the pleasure since God knows when. This city is dedicated to illusion, by the way. When something seems obvious, it isn’t. Even the street signs are put there to fool you. But then I imagine that Moscow is probably the same. Stalin hasn’t stayed in power by playing the Boy Scout. Rule number one, confuse the enemy. Rule number two, eliminate him. My name is Gordon, by the way. More coffee?’
She was smiling now. She seemed to feel at home.
‘Very good,’ she said.
‘The coffee?’
‘You. It’s true what they say about the English. They always know how to make a girl laugh. The Russians can be glum. Witty but glum. And you’re right about Stalin. The Motherland is no place for Boy Scouts.’
‘You’ve been in Moscow a while?’
‘Three years.’
‘The Party badge? The black market contacts? The dacha for weekends?’
‘All three. The dacha’s too small, by the way. A bigger one’s on order.’
‘These people appreciate you?’
The question stung her. Hesketh detected a small spark of anger.
‘It’s my people, not these people,’ she said. ‘And, yes, they do.’
Hesketh fetched more coffee. He very badly wanted Cou-Cou not to wake up. Not yet. Not until this business was finished. But back in the living room, to Hesketh’s disappointment, Isabel Menzies was on her feet. She was truly exhausted. The coffee had been delicious. But now it was time to find the hotel.
‘You still haven’t told me why you came.’ Hesketh refilled her cup.
‘You’re right. It’s a long shot, really, but Albrecht said you might be able to help.’
‘I’m sure Albrecht is right. In what respect? Precisely?’
‘I’ve got a name for you. Tam Moncrieff? You’ve met him? You know him?’
‘Very well.’
‘And you’re in touch?’
‘Yes.’
‘You have a number for him? A telephone number?’
‘Yes.’
Hesketh held her gaze. She hadn’t touched the coffee. Finally, she turned away and looked out at the view.
‘Shall we say tomorrow afternoon?’ she murmured. ‘At the hotel? Who knows, the view might be as lovely as this one.’
Hesketh nodded and found himself a pen. The view, he assured her, would be perfect. He asked her for the scrap of paper on which she had the details of the hotel. He’d memorised the number that would take her to Moncrieff and he wrote it down.
‘You might be talking to him today?’
‘I might.’
‘Good,’ she smiled again. ‘Then tell him Bella will be in touch.’
Hesketh walked her down to the street. As the door opened, she braced herself for the blast of heat and thanked him for the coffee.
‘Bis morgen nachmittag,’ he kissed her lightly on the cheek. See you tomorrow afternoon.
Back upstairs, Hesketh returned to the kitchen and reheated the remains of the coffee before making his way to the bedroom. Something was troubling him and he didn’t know what it was. Then, as the coffee came to the boil, he remembered. Not once during his conversations with Albrecht Haushofer had he ever mentioned Tam Moncrieff.
*
Ursula Barton and Tam Moncrieff took the night sleeper back to London on the Monday night. Guy Liddell convened a meeting of ‘B’ Section principals on Tuesday morning. Repairs had been effected to the Director’s office since the Saturday night raid and he took the chair to review the latest developments. He’d been talking to contacts in Downing Street and had, in his own phrase, been testing the waters on what might lie ahead for Herr. Hess.
The Prime Minister, it seemed, had been all for taking Hess at his word. It seemed he had a sneaking regard for the Deputy Führer’s courage and wanted to confirm in public that he’d arrived ‘on a mission to save humanity’. This had sparked fierce opposition in the corridors of Whitehall, chiefly from the Foreign Office. Both Anthony Eden, now Foreign Secretary, and Alex Cadogan, his Under Secretary of State, preferred to keep information to the very minimum. Hence last night’s terse announcement from the Ministry of Information that Hess had arrived and was now under arrest.
‘Their thinking, sir?’ This from Tar Robertson.
‘They want to wrongfoot Goebbels. They want to keep the Germans guessing.’
‘And longer term?’
‘They’ll do what the Germans have done. They’ll say he’s mad.’
There was an exchange of glances around the table. Nobody in this room had actually met Hess so the allegation was totally unproven.
Moncrieff cleared his throat. He wanted to know whether, in his dealings with Downing Street, the Director had caught wind of a letter Hess might have brought with him.
‘What kind of letter?’
Moncrieff explained briefly about the item that had mysteriously disappeared from Hess’s belongings, and about the ashes he’d found in Wojcek’s grate.
‘This is the house the Glasgow police searched?’ The Director was smiling.
‘Indeed, sir.’
‘A very shrewd move, Tam. Our friends in Broadway regard it as a declaration of war.’
‘But the letter, sir?’
‘No one’s mentioned it. Not in my hearing. What might it contain?’
Moncrieff glanced across at Ursula. Clearly she’d yet to brief Liddell.
‘It might have been peace proposals, sir,’ Moncrieff explained. ‘Developed in some detail and properly authorised.’
‘By whom?’
‘Hitler.’
‘You’re serious?’
‘I am, sir. But sadly we’re unlikely to ever know.’
‘That would be unfortunate. In the extreme.’
‘I agree.’ Moncrieff paused. ‘Do you think they’re even aware of this letter? In Downing Street?’
‘I’ve no idea, Tam. Conceivably not. The PM would give it very short shrift indeed. In fact, he’d erupt if he thought that was the basis for the visit. No one talks to the Germans about peace. Not while he’s Prime Minister.’
‘
No, sir. Unless the plan was to get rid of him.’
Liddell nodded but said nothing. This was old ground, Moncrieff’s conviction that MI6 were up to their collective necks in the Hess conspiracy, but so far Moncrieff had been proved right.
There was a moment of absolute silence. Then Ursula came up with a suggestion.
‘Maybe Tam should talk to his old friend Schultz again,’ she said. ‘If this document exists, I’m sure he can get hold of a copy.’
Liddell nodded. In principle, he said, he had no objection. How would Tam manage the mechanics of such an exchange?
‘Easy, sir. I’d talk to Sir Harold Wernher. He’s the Chairman of Electrolux and reports to Birger Dahlerus in Sweden. He lives out at Luton Hoo. He has a reliable contact with Schultz through Dahlerus in Stockholm. That’s where we met last time, back in November.’ He hesitated a moment, uncertain about Liddell’s memory. ‘You might remember, sir. You marched me to the Foreign Office on my return.’
A frown briefly clouded Liddell’s face. Then he nodded.
‘You’re happy to talk to Wernher by phone?’
‘I’d prefer face-to-face, sir. And I’m sure he would, too.’
‘Then make it happen, Tam,’ a thin smile. ‘And sharpish, eh?’
*
Luton Hoo lay beyond St Albans, thirty-three miles north of London. On the phone, Moncrieff had established that Sir Harold was in residence and would be happy to spare half an hour of his time. Ursula laid hands on a Super Snipe from the Home Office car pool and insisted on a driver who was happy to put his foot down. Early afternoon, the big saloon was nosing up Wernher’s drive.
The estate, Moncrieff already knew, was a cherished slice of English country life. The house itself had been designed by Robert Adam, the grounds by Capability Brown. The sheer scale of the place was breathtaking yet it had retained a style and a colonnaded grace that told Moncrieff everything he needed to know about the England the peace lobby were determined to protect.
It was a beautiful day. Moncrieff checked to make sure he had the letter for Schultz and then eased his long frame from the passenger seat and stood in the sunshine, gazing at the ornamental gardens. A pair of ducks were canoodling on the circular pond and beyond a row of trees Moncrieff could hear the growl of tank engines. According to Ursula, the Wernher family had allowed the Army to establish the headquarters of Eastern Command here, though Sir Harold retained the use of a suite of rooms.
A busy woman in a black skirt and white blouse met Moncrieff beneath the entrance to the house. A beautiful staircase, carpeted in the deepest red, swept them both up to the first floor. The woman paused on the landing beside a portrait of a bearded figure in full dress uniform.
‘Nicholas II,’ she said. ‘The last Czar of Russia. Lady Anastasia’s uncle.’
Lady Anastasia? Moncrieff assumed this must be Wernher’s wife but didn’t like to ask. The woman marched on. Sir Harold, she said, normally worked in one of the big rooms overlooking the pond but this was currently in the hands of the decorators. Sir Harold had therefore been banished to a little shoebox of a cupboard that wasn’t the least bit to his taste. The move had left him out of sorts, but Moncrieff wasn’t to take it personally.
Expecting to find the next half-hour slow-going, Moncrieff was surprised to find himself in a beautifully proportioned space that must once have been a bedroom. There were flowers everywhere, and the deep-pile carpet was striped with sunshine through the tall windows.
Sir Harold Wernher was a tall man, balding, with a long face and impeccable manners. He wore a suit and a tie, despite the warmth of the weather, and his brogues, when he rose from behind the desk, were highly polished. His handshake was firm. He thought he’d met Moncrieff before.
‘I think not, sir. I’d remember.’
‘Royal Marines? Am I right?’
For a moment, Moncrieff was nonplussed. Then Wernher roared with laughter.
‘Just testing, young man. I get many visitors, more than you might think. I always pretend I’ve met them before. The weak-willed say yes because they don’t want to offend me. You avoided that temptation. If you’re wondering how I know about the Marines, I have to confess it came from that nice young lady of yours. Miss Barton? Hint of a German accent? I took the precaution of making a call. Unforgiveable, I know, but these days you can’t be too careful. Now then. How can I help you?’
Moncrieff was still thinking about the last Czar. The Establishment was laced with royal bloodlines, and here was the living proof. No wonder Sir Harold had an interest in a timely peace settlement.
‘Back in November I made a trip to Stockholm,’ Moncrieff began. ‘And I met with an Abwehr man, Wilhelm Schultz. He happens to be a friend of mine but that’s another story.’
‘You want to meet him again?’
‘I do. But first I have something I need him to read.’ Moncrieff extracted the envelope from his jacket pocket and laid it carefully on the desk. Shultz’s name was on the front.
Wernher looked at the envelope but didn’t pick it up.
‘May I enquire why you’re going to these lengths?’
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘Even if I ask nicely?’
‘Especially if you ask nicely. We spies get trained in the arts of subversion. Charm butters no parsnips.’
Wernher beamed his approval. He was tempted, he said, to write the phrase down. Charm butters no parsnips. How wrong could a man be.
He steepled his fingers and sank a little deeper in his chair. Moncrieff had the feeling he was being inspected.
‘Tell me something, young man. Do you mind awfully? Off the record? Strictly entre nous?’
‘That depends, sir.’
‘On what, pray?’
‘On what you want to know.’
‘Very sensible. Very prudent. My question is this.’ He gestured vaguely towards the window. ‘Out there, where the land rises and the going gets tough, there are boffins putting the new tanks through their paces. They’re at it day and night. We hate it, the pheasants hate it, even the poor bloody foxes are probably stone deaf as a result. But in the end I’m assured it’s going to be worth it. Why? Because that’s what Winston wants. This war, young man, has become an act of faith. We’ve become a nation of believers. And that’s because, for once in our history, we’re obliged to look evil in the face. Many of my friends, people I deeply respect, are bankers. They’re also Jews who have had the foresight to make a home on this side of the water. Naturally, they want to protect their wealth. And happily they’re still able to do that. So my question is this. Birger Dahlerus, bless him, is an apostle for peace. But what kind of peace can you negotiate with the Nazis?’
Moncrieff held his gaze. Before he lifted the phone, Sir Harold wanted to check his bearings. Very sensible, and under the circumstances, rather heartening.
‘None,’ Moncrieff said. ‘Even if there was a peace to be had.’
‘A peace to be had. My point exactly. Deeply gratifying, if I may say so, and something that appears to be entirely lost on another family I could name. The Romanovs left a terrible legacy. No one disputes that for a moment. But the future of royal blood lies with Churchill, not Hitler, and our monarchy would be a great deal wiser if they understood that small truth.’ He put Moncrieff’s letter to one side. Then he got to his feet and extended a hand once again. ‘My pleasure, young man. Leave Herr Schultz to me but remember one thing. If you sup with the devil…’ he offered a cold smile, ‘use a very long spoon.’
*
Moncrieff was back in London by late afternoon. In Scotland, according to the Director, Hess was still talking to Ivone Kirkpatrick and the Duke of Hamilton though no one else was privy to these interviews. In due course, he said, Hess would be brought south once arrangements had been made to keep him somewhere secure. MI6 were looking for premises in Surrey but in the meantime a suite of rooms was being readied in the Tower of London. Hess, Churchill had ordered, was henceforth to be treated as a prisoner
of the state.
The Tower of London? Moncrieff slipped behind his desk. Quaint, he thought grimly. Rudolf Hess spending his days in the company of Beefeaters, a colony of ravens and centuries of history he seemed determined to protect. He sat back for a moment, staring at the window. Wernher, only hours ago, had hinted at royal fingers in the Deputy Führer’s pie. What, exactly, had he meant? And how far did this complicity extend?
His phone began to ring, the dedicated line only a handful of agents were authorised to use. Moncrieff picked it up. It was Hesketh. Agent Souk.
‘Grüsse aus dem sonnigen Lissabon.’ Greetings from sunny Lisbon. ‘Is our friend in good order? Everything working the way it should?’
‘Our friend is fine. Apart from his ankle, he’s in rude health. A flesh wound, we think. Nothing serious.’
‘Have you made his acquaintance yet? Talked to him? Berlin thinks he’s slipped his moorings, gone mad. Next they’ll discover he’s got syphilis. You know something about this little episode? I rather fancy Goebbels is losing his touch. Round one to Rudi. What’s your feeling?’
‘It’s early days,’ Moncrieff grunted. ‘You’ve heard from Albrecht?’
‘Alas, no. I imagine Albrecht will be behind bars by now, pleading for his life. Berlin can be unforgiving. Had things gone to plan, the war with the English should be over. You can accuse Hess of lots of things. Albrecht always said he talked too much. But the man’s timing, you have to admit, is impeccable. Belgrade levelled? Greece occupied? Crete waiting to be invaded? Us Brits on the run in North Africa? This is more than bad luck, my friend, and the whole world knows it.’
‘Apart from Churchill.’
‘Indeed. A man in love with history. One day he’ll be writing it so he has no interest in defeat. I bring glad tidings, by the way, from a very good friend of yours.’
‘Who?’
‘Do you want clues? Or just a name? She’s currently in a hotel just down the street from where I am now. The manager happens to be a good friend of mine. He keeps Krug from the German Embassy in his personal kitchen and this afternoon, I’m glad to say, he presented us with no less than two bottles.’
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