by C. J. Carey
‘Actually, I remember Martin complaining about it. He said Berlin wanted to relocate half of the Foreign Office archive to London with no extra provision for it. He had to find space for hundreds of boxloads of documents.’
‘I was seconded to help. It was intensely dreary work, sorting the files into their relevant epoch. But to my surprise, I found some very recent stuff amongst it.’
He diverted suddenly through a door into an empty room and glanced around before closing it behind them.
‘It was a stroke of luck. This is the room housing documentation from 1937. It’s divided into microfilm, Foreign Ministry files and papers. They range from the historic to the incredibly trivial. I’ve shelved Frau von Ribbentrop’s party guest lists here, can you believe. And her dressmaker’s bills.’
The place was a gloomy cavern, illuminated by a single bulb that cast a dismal light. Oliver was standing beside one of the stacks, pulling out folders and rifling through them.
‘It’s just a question of finding . . .’
His fingers were working quickly, running up and down the shelves, tugging files in and out, checking the numbers and letters that were pasted onto their spines, tunnelling into the mountain of documents, folders and papers like a miner searching for a fragment of gold.
‘Look at this, the German–Russian treaties of the twenty-third of August 1939 and another from the twenty-eighth of September 1939, detailing the protocols of the Molotov–von Ribbentrop pact.’
He held them out to her with the wonderment of a historian, as thrilled as if they had been Bronze Age medallions plucked from the earth. Then he put them back.
‘But those aren’t what we’re looking for.’
‘So what exactly are we looking for?’
‘The Berghof Convention.’
A growl of voices in the corridor outside grew louder, and the two of them froze as the approach of heavy footsteps made the metal stacks vibrate. Then the steps passed and faded, and a bark of command from far away uttered, ‘Komm!’ Oliver continued.
‘Back in 1937, the King and Queen visited the Leader at his home in Berchtesgaden in the Bavarian Alps. They were on honeymoon, but that didn’t stop them talking about the shape of the future, should things turn out as they hoped. Specifically, an Alliance between England and Germany. This was the first time they had drawn up plans for how that might work. The agreement they made is known as the Berghof Convention, but as far as we know, it never actually physically existed. It remained unwritten and its protocols were always kept secret. Not even the Queen was allowed to be present during the discussions, and we had no idea of exactly what was agreed, until now . . .’
He seized a file and waved it triumphantly.
‘Here it is!’
He brandished a couple of pages of tattered A4 notepaper, branded with an off-centre stamp of red ink forming the words Streng Geheim. Top Secret. The typing on it was blotchy and faded in places. It looked more like an aide memoire than a formal record of a high-level conference.
‘I thought you said it wasn’t written down.’
‘It wasn’t. A document of that sort would have been dynamite in 1937, with the King’s brother on the throne. Can you imagine? If it had got out, it would have been prima facie evidence of treason. High-level talks with the leader of a foreign power about the prospect of usurping a king? By sheer chance, though, when I was going through all this, I came across the records of one of the interpreters on that day. According to custom, the interpreter always makes a record of verbal discussions, so even though it’s not the finished article, you can see the specific lines of agreement. I’m guessing this should never have seen the light of day.’
Rose peered over his shoulder. From what she could see in the dingy light, the document appeared to have been hammered out on a personal typewriter from hasty notes. The entries took the form of disjointed sentences, as though the interpreter was recording faithfully every meandering part of the two men’s conversation.
22nd October 1937
The notes began with an exchange of pleasantries about the visit and, despite current obstacles, the Leader’s hope that one day the King would fulfil his destiny. This was followed by a statement of intent.
Under the Alliance, Great Britain will become a sister nation. Our two peoples will be entwined through their ancient Germanic brotherhood in a ‘special relationship’. The British Parliament will be involved in the making of some laws, though overall the Protectorate will administer the territory to the benefit of all.
This vision had elicited a clarification, Rose noted.
The King insists that Britain would be no subject nation, required to bend the knee to a conqueror.
She skimmed the pages professionally. The paragraphs ranged from the trivial to the mundane.
Road signs will be written both in German and English.
British vehicles will drive on the right-hand side of the road.
British schools will carry out all teaching in German.
Halfway down the document her eye snagged on a paragraph about citizens’ rights.
Jews and non-Aryans will be permitted to remain in society (subject to obvious strictures).
‘We know all this, don’t we? There’s nothing new here. I still don’t see—’
‘Look at this.’
Oliver pointed to a paragraph towards the end of the paper.
The terms of the Berghof Convention will stay in place until the Coronation of the King, at which time, a fresh agreement will be drawn up.
‘What of it?’
‘You mentioned Martin Kreuz is co-ordinating a conference right after the Coronation.’
‘At Blenheim. He’s organizing the agenda. He said it was the most important conference for years.’
‘If I’m right, Blenheim will be where the top-level men convene to decide the future of Britain. If only we could get our hands on the agenda, it would tell us exactly what our fellow citizens have coming to them. And my guess is, that’s something the Resistance badly needs to know.’
He paused, took off his spectacles to rub his eyes, then shook his head in frustration.
‘The maddening thing is, I can’t see any way of getting into Kreuz’s office. Not even with your help. You’d have to get past that secretary of his, Kohl, and that guy misses nothing.’
Rose stared at him intently, and said, ‘SS-Brigadeführer Schellenberg warned Martin that offices are the least secure of places. Martin says Schellenberg rents a locker at the Lehrter railway station for his really important documents.’
‘You’re not serious,’ Oliver said. ‘You’re telling me that Assistant Commissioner Kreuz rents a railway station locker?’
‘No. Of course not. He keeps the really important papers at his flat.’
Oliver drew a sharp breath and then bundled the interpreter’s record back into its file and seized her hand.
‘Where are we going?’
‘To your old boyfriend’s apartment. I take it you have a key?’
‘We can’t! What if he’s in?’
‘He won’t be.’
‘It’s a crazy risk. What makes you so sure?’
‘Because I have watched SS Assistant Commissioner Kreuz arrive at work on the dot of eight o’clock every day for the past three years. Like clockwork, I’ve seen that fat secretary fetch him a cup of real coffee, sugar and milk on a silver tray. There’s no way on earth he would still be at home at ten o’clock in the morning.’
‘There’s a concierge at the apartment block.’
‘Do you know him?’
‘He’s seen me coming in with Martin occasionally.’
‘Then tell him we’re from the Ministry. We’re collecting some papers belonging to Assistant Commissioner Kreuz.’
‘And what are we actually doing?’
‘Precisely that.’
Martin was fond of touting the many amenities of Dolphin Square, which included a swimming pool, tennis court, croquet lawn, gy
mnasium and shopping arcade. But perhaps the most valuable amenity was Mr Percy Kavanagh, the concierge of Greville House, who dwelled in a glass cubicle at the entrance to the block. According to Martin, Mr Kavanagh was the equivalent of the maître d’ of an upmarket restaurant, a compendium of confidential information who prided himself on knowing the names of every single occupant, not to mention the faces of their wives and mistresses.
He recognized Rose at once and smiled, revealing badly tobacco-stained teeth and an unctuous expression.
‘Herr Kreuz is unfortunately out, Miss Ransom.’
His gaze strayed curiously towards Oliver.
‘Yes, I know, Mr Kavanagh. He’s sent my colleague and myself to collect some papers.’
‘This is most irregular.’
‘I’m sorry. It’s a busy time, as you can imagine.’
Percy Kavanagh did not imagine. Imagining was above his pay grade and besides, in his line of work, allowing his imagination free reign would be overwhelming.
‘I do have a key.’
‘Strictly . . .’ Percy Kavanagh hesitated and Rose could almost see his brain working. Strictly, it was against procedure to allow non-residents access, even with keys, and no tenant was permitted to lend those keys to anyone else. And although the SS Assistant Commissioner was generally perfectly genial, and generous at Christmas, he could be ferocious when crossed. Percy himself was coming up to retirement. God forbid his plans for pleasant hours on his allotment and the odd day trip to the south coast should be derailed by a moment of overzealous enforcement of the rules. Kreuz could be savage with underlings, and the approaching Coronation had thrown a lot of normal procedure into disarray. It may even be that some fresh rules had been issued, of which he was unaware.
‘It really is a matter of urgency,’ said Rose. ‘The Protector’s own business. You can see our Ministry passes if you like.’
She flourished her own, and Oliver fished a pass out of his top pocket.
Kavanagh scrutinized them, looking down at the photograph on Oliver’s card and up to his face and back again, then adjusted the lapels of his ill-cut suit with its gilded Alliance pin.
‘Would you need me to accompany you?’
‘Of course not. We’ll only be quick.’
Hastily, she and Oliver clipped up the carpeted stairs.
Like everything else in his life, bar perhaps his romantic affairs, Martin’s sense of order was meticulous. Rose had watched him many times in the past, sitting at his desk, filing letters and documents in the lower drawer, locking it and concealing the key beneath the brass statue of an eagle that perched precisely midway on the mantelpiece between his SS medals and the pictures of his wife and children.
When she retrieved the key, Oliver strode rapidly over to the desk and began rifling through the papers. Then he was pulling the drawers out and feeling with his fingers into the space behind them.
Rose looked around her.
It was so familiar, this apartment. How many nights had she spent in this bed with its peach silk counterpane, or looking out at the river from this window? Making cups of tea in the kitchenette or luxuriating in the pink enamel bath? Sitting with her feet tucked up on the sofa while she waited for Martin to complete some Ministry business before they went out? From her early infatuation, to the increasing disillusion and dragging unhappiness, these walls had witnessed her every mood and emotion.
Yet now, bar a pair of Aristoc stockings in the drawer and a suggestion of Guerlain perfume in the bathroom, not a trace of her remained. She might as well never have set foot here.
‘I think this is it. Look.’
Wonderingly, Oliver was staring down at a printed list, typed on an official Government typewriter equipped with the runic symbol for the SS, set out on the Ministry’s heavy, expensive, ivory paper.
Blenheim Conference
3rd May 1953
Classification: Top Secret
List of Participants
Leader, Protector Rosenberg, SS-Brigadeführer Schellenberg, SS-Gruppenführer Ernst Kaltenbrunner, Reichskriminalpolizei chief Arthur Nebe
Other Representatives: Foreign Ministry, SS, Gestapo, Race and Resettlement Office, Women’s Office
What do you notice about the list?
She looked up at him soberly.
‘The King’s not on it.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because of what they’re discussing.’
He pointed to the body of the text.
Agenda
Harmonization of regulations in the Anglo-Saxon territories with mainland law
‘There’s no way anyone would organize such a gathering of Party top brass unless they were discussing something of the highest importance. I suspect the phrase “harmonization” means the gloves are off. Everything that applies on the mainland will apply here. Any protection that non-Aryans and other groups have had will be over.’
‘But we don’t know what applies on the mainland.’
‘That’s true. But what we do know from those notes is that under the Berghof Convention, King Edward was allowed a certain latitude in the way that the Protectorate would be run. The man was indulged, basically. Humoured. It’s a weakness of people when they come up against kings, and I imagine the Leader is as susceptible as anyone to the allure of monarchy. Nonetheless, it was always clear that the convention was only ever a temporary arrangement. That was stated in the protocols of the convention itself. Once the King was crowned, they had every intention of replacing it.’
‘Replacing it with what?’
‘Whatever exists elsewhere.’
She didn’t know – none of them knew – what existed elsewhere, but Rose felt the same shiver that came from a dentist’s waiting room, that something terrible lay beyond the door, and she dreaded finding out. A thought came to her.
‘I have a friend, a journalist, Laurence Prescott. He’s on the Echo. He told me they’re on standby for a major Government announcement next week.’
‘That’ll be it,’ said Oliver sombrely. ‘My guess is, they’ll start with the Jews. The Protector is a violent anti-Semite. It must have required every ounce of that homeopathy he takes to keep that hatred in check.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘It’s all there in his book. His views are in plain sight if anyone bothers to look.’
He was folding the paper into his kitbag.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I’m taking this with me.’
‘You can’t! Martin will discover it instantly. He’ll know it’s gone!’
Oliver stopped for a moment and took her face in his hands.
‘Don’t you think he knows everything already?’
What did Martin know? His proposal of marriage and Rose’s refusal – all that seemed a lifetime ago, yet almost certainly he was nursing his hurt, and therefore would have no idea of her arrest, or the fact that she had not returned to her flat the previous night. He had been so persistent in his affections over the past year, however, and so certain that the two of them had a future together. Surely, he would at some point seek her out.
On impulse she went over to the drawer by his bedside. All rental apartments were provided with a copy of the Protector’s book as standard, tucked inside a bedside drawer, in the way that a Gideon’s Bible had been in the Time Before. The idea was that the work would console and inspire readers in the lonely reaches of the night. It was in this book, inside the red leather covers, sandwiched between the gilt-edged leaves, that Martin kept the photograph he had asked of Rose when they first met. ‘Not much chance of anyone looking in here!’ he had joked at the time.
She shook the Protector’s book upside down, but nothing emerged. Like all the other ghosts of her past life, the once treasured photograph had melted into thin air.
With a last glance around the flat, she closed the door behind them.
Outside, on the opposite side of the street, a pair of men wer
e waiting in a black Opel. They shifted fractionally as Rose and Oliver left the building, barely bothering to disguise themselves.
‘They’re watchers, aren’t they?’ she said.
‘They’re on to us sooner than I thought. That concierge is brighter than he looks. I’d guess he called them up the moment we walked through the door. There’ll be others too. Probably another two ahead. We’re very lucky.’
‘Lucky?’
‘If they’d sent the police, we’d be sitting in a cell right now. Instead of which they want to see where we’re going. We need to lose them.’
Rose forced herself to walk normally, eyes on the pavement ahead, looking for all the world as though she was strolling to the office rather than leaving everything she knew for an as yet undisclosed location. There was no turning back, she acknowledged. The momentary comfort of an ordinary day hovered at the edge of her consciousness, then was dissipated by the sound of a car engine.
Behind them the Opel crawled into gear.
‘It doesn’t matter that we’ve seen them. It’s straight from the ASO playbook. Two and two. They swap positions so one pair is in front and the other behind. In this case, I suspect, the other pair are on foot. Pavement artists. A forward party and a back-up team. They pass messages between them – with their hats, or the way they carry a newspaper – they have a whole lexicon of signals. We need to spot them but if we can lose the pair in the car, we stand a better chance.’
Fraught with nerves, Rose scanned the passing figures. A Geli, in a fur collar and tartan coat, two Magdas, carrying cheap plastic handbags, and a Klara dragging a pair of protesting twins in school uniform, their socks at half-mast. A couple arm in arm, the man with thinning hair and a chiselled, handsome face, and the girl – a Leni by the look of her neat heather-grey suit with its herringbone pattern – clinging to his side. Their mutual absorption and passionate closeness told her at once that they were not husband and wife, but lovers. Perhaps they, too, had passed a blissful night together and were making the most of their physical contact before separating for their working day. She felt a momentary longing to be that girl, arm in arm with her lover, face turned laughingly up to his, with no more worries than what they might see at the movies that weekend.