Raid 42

by Graham Hurley

  The ocean was louder now, a thunder in his ears, coming up to meet him, to claim him. And then there was nothing.

  *

  Cathy Phelps left the Palace at half past ten by the side entrance into Buckingham Gate. One of the yeomen was on duty, the one she’d made friends with, and he asked when she’d be back. She smiled, and said it might be early in the morning, or maybe even later than that, depending what kind of mood her boyfriend was in, and he grinned back at her and winked to say he understood.

  ‘Lucky man,’ he said, opening the gate to let her through. ‘You know where to come if he ever lets you down.’

  She stepped into the half-darkness of the blackout. She knew the way by heart, not simply because of Tam’s place, but because Doherty lived only ten minutes or so further on, in a chaotic basement flat near the Angel. Down the Mall, she thought. Then left to Piccadilly. Then on through Soho and up to Oxford Street and into the peace and quiet of the Bloomsbury squares. Half an hour if she got a move on. Forty minutes if she took her time.

  She took her time. The warmth of the day had lingered in the capital and she loved the freedoms you found here at night. Very little traffic. The odd passer-by in the Mall. A nod from a stranger. A muttered good evening. When she reached Soho it was suddenly busier, and twice she was propositioned by men who took one look at her and drew the wrong conclusion. On both occasions she told them she was flattered and when the second man became more insistent, offering her money on the spot if she accompanied him down the nearest alley, she looked him in the eye and told him she hated strangers with bad teeth.

  ‘You’re drunk, as well,’ she nodded at the pub across the road. ‘Why don’t you spend your money in there?’

  She walked on, not looking back, and when she knew he could no longer see her she stopped in a shop doorway and checked her bag. The letter for Tam was still there, still safe. She’d written his name on it in case he wasn’t at home. In his stern Scots way he’d demanded a settling of accounts, and she’d been happy to comply. As it happened, the fruit of her labours – a casual question here and there, a peek at schedules that should have been locked away, a couple of checks to make sure she hadn’t got this thing completely wrong – had first amazed, and then shocked her. At first she hadn’t quite believed it but then the moment came when any possibility of doubt vanished. The Duke of Kent, she thought. Sheep in any family wouldn’t come blacker.

  Should she share the news with Doherty? She didn’t know, couldn’t decide. On one level she loved getting involved in the political side of his life – the hours of preparation for the speeches that sounded so spontaneous, the faces in the meeting halls and busy pubs, the all-day marches despite weather that wouldn’t disgrace the Highlands. All this was new to her, an excitement she’d never experienced before, but what really mattered about Doherty was the way he took care of her, made room for her, so natural, so unforced. Tam had never been less than a gentleman, but there was something much rougher about Doherty that she found irresistible.

  She rounded the corner and stepped into Woburn Square. Tam’s little flat was at the end of the terrace. From here she couldn’t see the front of the house and so she crossed the road to look up at the first-floor window. If the curtains were drawn he’d be at home.

  She faltered. Then stopped. The curtains were drawn. Did she really want to knock on the door? Be invited in? Risk whatever scene might follow? Wouldn’t it be wiser simply to post the letter through the door and leave him to find it next day? What did five hours matter? Every detail was there, carefully spelled out in her neatest hand. All he had to do was read it, draw his own conclusions and take whatever actions he thought necessary. Would there be repercussions in the Palace? Some kind of enquiry? A hunt for whoever had raised the alarm? She didn’t know, and in truth she didn’t care. Doherty was right. The royals were leeches. They sucked the blood of the people. The moment was fast approaching when they’d get their comeuppance. And by that time, she’d be gone.

  She felt in her bag for the letter and stepped off the kerb to cross the street. As she did so, she became aware of the car parked beside her. Two doors were opening. Two men got out. One of them stood in front of her, stopping her dead. She began to protest, told them to leave her alone, but then she was lifted bodily off the tarmac. The interior of the car smelled of cigars. Both doors slammed shut.

  One of the men was laughing.

  ‘Easy,’ he said. ‘So easy.’

  18

  Summoned to meet the Director as a matter of urgency, Moncrieff lingered on the pavement outside the Kensington church. Lately, according to Ursula, Guy Liddell had begun to attend services regularly. His marriage, she thought, was in trouble and he seemed to find solace in making space among the press of events for an hour or so when he could reflect in peace.

  He was one of the last to leave St Benedict’s, and to Moncrieff’s surprise he had Ursula Barton in tow. She spotted Moncrieff at once and she crossed the road to join him.

  ‘Is this a regular thing?’ Moncrieff nodded towards the church.

  ‘It’s the last Sunday before Ascension. Back home my mother always celebrated it. We always went with her.’ She smiled. ‘Old habits die hard.’

  The Director joined them on the pavement. He’d been out of London for a couple of days. A light tan suggested a country house with a south-facing terrace. He wanted to know about Hess.

  ‘You saw him? Yesterday?’

  ‘I did, sir.’

  ‘And?’

  Moncrieff did his best to pick the flesh off the bones. Hess was something of an obsessive, definitely. Not crazy, not mad, but a man who’d committed himself to a certain course of action and was determined not to be deflected.

  ‘He believes in peace. I don’t doubt that for a moment.’

  ‘Peace with whom?’

  ‘Us. He likes us. If we were a club, he’d join tomorrow.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary. I gather he’s here for the duration.’

  MI6, Liddell said, had been tasked by Churchill to find the Deputy Führer a permanent home within reach of London. They’d settled on a Victorian pile near Aldershot and were turning the place into a fortress.

  ‘You’re serious?’

  ‘I am, Tam. Earth embankments. A moat. Two lines of barbed wire. Watchtowers. And a couple of companies of Coldstream Guards in case he gets homesick for Scotland. Anyone visiting Mytchett Place needs three passes and an alias. This is theatre. The PM’s idea of a joke.’

  ‘On whom?’

  ‘MI6, I fancy. They’ve been rumbled. Churchill’s taken a good look at all the clues and drawn his own conclusions. Hold your friends close but hold your enemies closer. Sir Stewart Menzies is no friend. He’s brought Hess to the table and now he must pick up the bill. In some respects, Tam, it’s the sweetest of ironies. A week ago you were right. We were probably looking at a coup d’état. Now, thanks to a navigation error on Hess’s part, it’s ‘C’ who’s lost his bearings. Not that he’ll ever admit it.’

  ‘So what’s he saying?’

  ‘He’s telling everyone that Hess was the Sicherheitsdienst’s comeuppance for Venlo. Tit for tat. A clever act of vengeance. As an explanation it holds a little water but not enough. The PM knows that, of course, and so does ‘C’. Which takes us into the realm of pantomime.’

  Ursula checked her watch and then led them into the nearby park. They settled on an empty bench.

  ‘Did Hess mention the Russians at all?’ Liddell unbuttoned his jacket and lifted his face to the sun.

  ‘No.’

  ‘No hint of an invasion date?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Did you ask him?’

  ‘No. I would have done but our MI6 friends had other ideas.’ Moncrieff described the abrupt arrival of the physician. The interview had been cut short, he said. For the sake of their precious guest.

  ‘Golly,’ Liddell opened one eye. ‘That blatant?’

  ‘I’m afraid so
.’

  The Director nodded. He looked suddenly cheerful.

  ‘They’re panicking,’ he said. ‘That’s a very good sign.’

  Ursula wanted to know about the existence of a letter, of a possible peace treaty.

  ‘He definitely bought a letter. Thirteen pages. Translated by Ernst Bohle.’

  ‘He works for the Auslands-Organisation,’ she said. ‘Under Hess.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So what’s happened to the letter? Does Hess know?’

  ‘No. I suspect he thinks it’s still in circulation. He hasn’t given up. Not at all. Any minute now he thinks the King’s going to come to his rescue, bang a few heads together and do the sensible thing.’

  ‘Like?’ Liddell this time.

  ‘Get rid of Churchill. Open negotiations. Declare the last year and a half a terrible mistake. And then turn our attention to the east.’

  ‘Our?’

  ‘Their.’

  ‘But definitely no date?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  Liddell nodded. The smile was back on his face.

  ‘What a lovely idea,’ he said.

  Even Ursula was slightly shocked.

  ‘I hope you’re joking,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Of course I am.’ His hand settled lightly on her knee. ‘Do we have any idea about a signature on these proposals? Under whose name were they issued? Might Hitler be a possibility?’

  ‘I doubt it, sir. But Hess told me they were typed on headed Chancellery notepaper.’

  ‘Really?’ The Director was beaming now. ‘And you think there’s some chance of us laying hands on a copy?’

  *

  Hesketh made contact that same afternoon by telephone from Lisbon. He said he had news from Berlin that Moncrieff’s masters might consider worth buying.

  ‘News about what?’

  ‘Our German Pimpernel. He’s been with you an entire week now. Is his English any better? Have you got him eating bacon and eggs yet? Is Churchill sleeping easy at night?’ One question followed another until Moncrieff brought them to a halt.

  ‘News about what?’ he said again.

  ‘Some kind of package. I’ve been talking to your friend Schultz. He sends his compliments. As does your lady friend. A small but eager queue appears to be forming for your attention. It might be good manners to make yourself available and I’m only too happy to put the appropriate arrangements in place. It’s nearly summer, Tam, and I’ve never seen the city looking more alluring. London can be a demanding mistress. So can this wretched war. Sunshine and a bottle or two of that outstanding Alvariño? Does that sound too much of a cross to bear?’

  ‘This package. Do you know what’s inside?’

  ‘I can guess.’

  ‘When is Schultz due?’

  ‘He’s flying here tomorrow. I’m booking him into a hotel of my choice. That’s where I suggest the pair of you meet. Another thousand US dollars should cover it nicely.’

  ‘The hotel?’

  ‘My fee. I sense a certain eagerness on Mr Schultz’s part. Perhaps on yours, too. Hurry on down, Tam. Peace demands no less.’

  The line went dead. On the basis of the Director’s description, Moncrieff was trying to imagine Mytchett Place, the next port of call for Rudolf Hess. Defensive earthworks. Fields of fire. A once genteel country property converted into a stockade. Hesketh would love it, he thought. Another lazy afternoon circling the battlements. Another book in the making.

  He still had the phone. Ursula, even on a Sunday, would be in her office until close of play. When she answered he told her briefly about the call from Hesketh.

  ‘Go down there,’ she said at once. ‘I’ll sort out the tickets.’

  ‘He wants more money.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘A thousand dollars. US.’

  ‘We’ll pay it.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you check with the Director?’

  ‘He’s with me now. And he’s nodding.’

  *

  Dieter Merz hadn’t seen Schultz since Nuremberg in ’38. They met on the oil-stained crescent of tarmac outside the Führer Squadron mess at Tempelhof.

  ‘Merz,’ Schultz grunted. ‘Still drinking like a newt?’

  ‘Still drinking.’

  ‘And the last three years? They’ve treated you well?’

  ‘No complaints. They gave me a front-line squadron and then found me a war to fight. I was grateful on both counts.’

  ‘You flew against the Poles?’

  ‘I did. They gave me one of those.’ Merz nodded towards the waiting Me-110. ‘The aircraft’s a brute. There isn’t a trench deep enough to hide, not if you’re a Pole and you’re digging in a hurry. We’d fly over a day later and they were still spading out the remains. It was the same against the Belgies. Against the Dutch. Against the French. You play God at thirty metres and don’t look too hard at the results. Refugees were the worst. Families never learn how to dig.’

  ‘And the British?’

  ‘The British were different. I was back in the 109. Some days they kicked our arses. After the Poles and the French that’s not the kind of welcome you expect. Goering switched to bombing the cities but that just made things worse. Wasting your last drop of fuel flying escort? That’s not what we were trained for.’

  Schultz grunted. Two years of war, Merz thought, were beginning to show. Not just the scuff marks on his battered leather jacket, but the darkness under his eyes. Schultz was either ill or exhausted, Merz didn’t know which, but until now he’d never realised how much the Abwehr man loathed flying.

  They began to stroll towards the aircraft. Ground crew had finished with the fuel bowser.

  ‘You hear from her at all?’ Schultz asked. ‘Your Japanese lady?’

  ‘Never. The Japanese are all the same. They come, they go. She used to say the same thing about sakura but I never paid much attention.’

  ‘Sakura?’

  ‘Cherry blossom. The Japanese live for moments of beauty. That’s what I always believed but what they really love is the way the blossom fades and dies. They’re in love with death, those people. I should have taken more notice. All the clues were there.’

  They paused beside the Me-110. Three years ago, Merz had been living in Berlin with the daughter of a Japanese industrialist, little suspecting that she was a spy. At the time he’d almost worshipped her, an act of submission – or perhaps an error of judgement – he’d come to regret.

  ‘But that fool Ribbentrop was filling his boots as well, isn’t that right?’ Schultz offered him a rare smile.

  ‘She always denied it.’ Merz shrugged. ‘So I imagine the answer is yes.’

  Merz helped Schultz into the rear seat. Schultz was looking round, one hand checking the inside pocket of his jacket. He looked acutely uncomfortable. Everything was too tight, too restricting, too intimate. Real life was full of options. Flying as a passenger wasn’t.

  ‘What happens if we end up in the shit?’

  ‘We won’t.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘I’m a fighter pilot. Trust me, Herr. Schultz. Fighter pilots know everything.’

  Merz lowered himself into the front seat and settled down to run the pre-start-up checks. He was still thinking about Keiko and the times they’d spent together. For months the regime had been kind to them and then he’d found the little camera and the rolls of film, irrefutable evidence that her heart still beat to Tokyo time. This, he reflected, was the real hurt, not some passing affair, not the odd fumble with the Reich’s Foreign Minister, but the knowledge that he’d never really known who she was. Sakura, he thought. Those intense yet weightless moments that come and go.

  The wheel chocks had already been removed. Merz signalled the ground crew to stand clear and then hit the starter button. Two coughs, two ragged puffs of dirty smoke and they began to roll.

  ‘Look after me,’ Schultz grunted on the intercom. ‘Nothing fancy, you hear what I’m telling you?
’

  The flight south was uneventful. Twice Merz adjusted his mirror to check on Schultz in the seat behind him and both times he appeared to be asleep. Refuelling in Barcelona, Merz shook him awake and led the way to a small bar the engineering boys used, attached to the main airport building. Schultz, it turned out, had taken a double dose of sleeping tablets ahead of the flight. Hence his drowsiness.

  ‘Why Lisbon?’ Merz asked.

  ‘I’m the post boy,’ Schultz patted the tiny bulge on the front of his leather jacket.

  ‘You’re delivering something?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘To Moncrieff? The English spy?’

  ‘Spy?’ Schultz nearly choked on his beer.

  ‘You’re telling me different? At Nuremberg he put a crazy idea in my head about shooting down the Führer. He knew I sometimes flew in the Reichsregierung with Georg Messner. He knew I had access to the flying schedules and a 109.’

  ‘And he knew you were crazy, too?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Because of the Jap lady?’

  ‘Yes. As it happens, I fucked up but that man played me like a fish. He’s a Scot. Am I right?’

  ‘You are. And he’s learned a lot since Nuremberg. In my business you get to meet the English from time to time. Most of them are fucking devious, which they have to be, but they’re snobs, too. They think they own half the planet, which might have been true once, but they’re in the shit now and they hate admitting it. Moncrieff’s different. He looks the facts in the face and acts like a grown-up. He also leaves the pretty boys alone. That makes him rare.’

  Merz nodded. He was drinking bad coffee.

  ‘You know Albrecht Haushofer?’ he asked.

  ‘Rudi’s adopted son?’ Schultz nodded. ‘Ja.’