Traitor's Gate

by Michael Ridpath

  Foley looked at Conrad sharply. ‘Are you seeing her again?’

  Conrad smiled. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good,’ said Foley. ‘I like that girl. She has a lot of spirit, a lot of guts. But she is a communist. Or was. And that rules her out.’

  ‘Is there nothing you can do?’

  Foley shook his head. ‘No, I’m sorry, de Lancey. There really isn’t.’

  ‘What if she was a spy? One of your agents? Surely you have agents who are ostensibly communists or Nazis or whatever?’

  ‘She isn’t.’

  ‘Isn’t she? Didn’t she give you that information about the new fighter aeroplane?’

  ‘Yes, she did. The information was first class, which is why I arranged for a visa for her father as I promised. But she made it clear that that was all we could expect from her uncle.’

  ‘And that’s all she can expect from you?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, old man. I’m sorry.’

  They walked on in silence, Conrad biting back his anger. There had to be a way, damn it.

  Of course there was a way.

  ‘What if I was a spy?’ he said. ‘What if in order to recruit me you had to grant her a visa? Couldn’t you justify that?’

  ‘Look,’ said Foley. ‘I know how desperate you are to get Anneliese out, and I would love to be able to help, I really would, but I can’t be a party to you fabricating something. I would have to make a case in a written report to London. It would have to be real information.’ Foley stopped and stared up at Conrad. ‘Is it?’

  It would be so easy to do. Tell Foley about Uncle Ewald’s visit to England. He would probably find out soon enough anyway. The only problem was that Conrad had given his word to von Kleist, which Theo would consider the same as giving his word to him. And perhaps there was something in the Abwehr’s concern that the British secret service had been compromised. By telling Foley he might be risking the trip, threatening Ewald von Kleist’s safety and his efforts to stop a war.

  But Anneliese’s safety was already threatened. Conrad respected Ewald von Kleist, but he loved Anneliese.

  Yet they were only two people in the middle of a continent of millions that was on the brink of tearing itself apart.

  ‘Yes?’ Foley asked.

  Conrad took a deep breath and shook his head. ‘There’s nothing,’ he said.

  Foley nodded. ‘I hate bargaining over people’s lives like this,’ he said. ‘I do want to help you; I want to help her. But I can’t. I am sorry.’

  He turned and hurried back the way he had came, Jonny trotting along behind him. Conrad wandered on through the Tiergarten. He had tried. But had he tried hard enough?

  If the worst happened to Anneliese, Conrad would go through life knowing that he had had the opportunity to save her and had decided not to. That was something he didn’t know if he would be able to bear.

  He might have to.

  A hundred metres behind him a young man in a lightweight suit whipped out a notebook, checked his watch and jotted something down. He saw Foley head one way and de Lancey the other. As per the orders he had received from Kriminalrat Schalke that morning, he followed de Lancey.

  Theo entered the Chief of the Abwehr’s office and saluted. It was the old-fashioned army salute: the first time Theo had met him and barked out ‘Heil Hitler’ Canaris had gently but firmly reached out and lowered Theo’s outstretched arm. Oster had just laughed. Theo had only been in his job for a week when he had attended a meeting where Canaris, with a straight face, had told his staff to give the Heil Hitler salute to any flock of sheep they might be passing in case there was a high-ranking Party official among them.

  The office itself was remarkably bare for an admiral. The rug was severely worn, and in a corner was an iron camp bed. The only pictures were two portraits: one of Colonel Nicolai, the founder of the Abwehr, and the other of Admiral Kanaris, its present chief’s namesake and one of the heroes of the Greek War of Independence. On the desk stood a scale model of the Dresden, the cruiser in which Canaris had served as an intelligence officer during the last war, and in which he had led the Royal Navy a merry dance all around the coasts of South America.

  ‘Well done, Hertenberg!’ the admiral said, smiling broadly. ‘Von Kleist has just been in to see me. Your friend de Lancey has agreed to arrange the meetings for him in London.’ Colonel Oster was sitting by Canaris’s desk, smiling. Both of them were smoking large cigars. ‘Von Kleist was impressed, by the way.’

  ‘De Lancey is a good man,’ said Theo. He was relieved. He had stuck his neck out in suggesting Conrad, especially since he hadn’t been absolutely sure that his friend would go along with Uncle Ewald’s request.

  ‘And you are certain he has the contacts?’ Canaris asked.

  ‘His father does, I’m sure of that. And de Lancey himself knows Lord Halifax.’

  ‘Von Kleist made him promise not to go through the British secret service,’ the admiral went on. ‘We know he has been speaking to Foley. Are you confident he won’t mention this to him?’

  ‘De Lancey is a man of his word, excellency.’

  ‘Good,’ said Canaris. It was an irony that within the Abwehr, ostensibly the centre of guile and deception within the Third Reich, honesty and integrity were highly valued. To Theo, it was what made the organization a tolerable place to work.

  Canaris waved his cigar towards a pile of papers on his desk. ‘General Keitel is on holiday and I have been covering for him. It’s clear from all this that you were right, Oster. Hitler is serious about invading Czechoslovakia; it’s not just a bluff.’

  ‘Is there any indication of the exact date?’ Oster asked.

  ‘Before October the first. It could be any time in September. Hitler has asked me to help Henlein stir up trouble in the Sudetenland.’

  ‘So are we going ahead with the coup?’ Theo asked.

  Canaris smiled. ‘We must be prepared. If the British do as we ask and stand by Czechoslovakia, and if Hitler still insists on invading, as I think he will, then we must move against him.’

  Theo hesitated. ‘What will we do with him, excellency? After the coup.’

  ‘We arrest him and then we try him.’

  ‘Won’t that be a risk, excellency? Letting Hitler live. He will be a focus for all those who oppose us, and there will be quite a few of them. The SS, the Gestapo, the Party members.’

  ‘I know what you are suggesting, Hertenberg,’ said Canaris sternly. ‘And I don’t like it. Killing an unarmed man is murder. It is exactly the kind of behaviour we are trying to stop. It is the wrong way to establish a new regime that will enshrine the rule of law as paramount. Do you understand me?’

  ‘I understand,’ said Theo. He was disappointed. He knew that Oster agreed with him. If a coup was to be successful, Hitler had to be killed on the first day. He admired Canaris for his scruples, but in this case they were a luxury that the plotters couldn’t afford.

  ‘How are your soundings going, Oster?’

  ‘They are going well,’ the colonel replied. ‘We have widespread support. Most of the generals will join us; they are still furious at the way von Fritsch was treated. But if they are to get their junior officers to follow them, they need legitimacy. A leader. Someone from whom they can take orders.’

  Theo and Oster had discussed this problem endlessly. With a decisive leader the army could have moved in March when General von Fritsch had been falsely accused. But von Brauchitsch, his successor as commander-in-chief, had been the model of indecision, and Beck, while just as outraged as his brother officers, had been reluctant to take action. Oster was the organizing force behind the plotters, but he was only a colonel. Canaris was an admiral, but the chief of the secret service was hardly the right person to legitimize a revolt. It had to be someone from the army. Not just a general, but a senior general.

  ‘Beck,’ said Canaris. ‘Without Beck we have no chance.’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Oster.

  ‘I’ve read his memo
randa,’ said Canaris, nodding towards the papers on his desk. ‘They are very persuasive: an invasion of Czechoslovakia will lead to a world war that we will lose.’

  ‘I know,’ said Oster. ‘But he is still hesitating.’

  Canaris puffed at his cigar. ‘Keep working on him, Oster. If we are going to succeed, he must be persuaded.’

  ‘Is this chair free?’

  A jolt of fear ran through Conrad as he recognized the voice. He was sitting in the Café Josty, reading The Times. He looked up from his newspaper to see Klaus Schalke towering over him.

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ he said.

  Klaus smiled, and sat in the chair anyway. It creaked under his weight, and his knee knocked the table, tipping over a salt cellar. Conrad replaced it.

  ‘Cigarette?’ Klaus held out a cigarette case. Conrad shook his head, and Klaus lit one.

  Conrad stared hard at the Gestapo officer. The fear was gone as soon as it had come, an involuntary reminder of the night of his arrest.

  ‘Do you like Berlin?’ Klaus asked.

  Conrad ignored the question. He knew he should be wary; Anneliese had hinted at how obsessed Klaus was with her, and Klaus was no doubt extremely unhappy about Conrad seeing her. But Conrad wasn’t going to be intimidated by that, and he trusted Anneliese when she said she had no intention of seeing Klaus again. In Klaus he didn’t see a rival for his lover’s affections; he saw a murderer.

  ‘Why did you kill my cousin?’

  ‘I didn’t kill him. He had a heart attack while he was waiting to be interrogated.’

  ‘Waiting? While he was being tortured, you mean.’

  ‘I have no doubt he was under a lot of stress,’ said Klaus. ‘He had a lot to hide.’

  Conrad snorted. ‘You killed him.’

  Klaus’s eyes met Conrad’s. He shrugged.

  ‘You don’t deny it?’

  Klaus smiled. ‘What happened to your cousin was an unfortunate accident. And it’s unlikely to be the last.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that it is time for you to leave Berlin, Herr de Lancey.’

  ‘That’s strange, because I was planning to fly out tomorrow morning.’

  Klaus raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m very pleased to hear that. I take it you have no intention of returning?’

  ‘I may,’ Conrad said. ‘I have some research to do for the novel I am writing.’

  ‘I would advise against it,’ Klaus said.

  ‘You will find it difficult to arrest me,’ he said. ‘Do you know who my father is?’ The time had come for name-dropping.

  Klaus smiled. ‘I certainly do. Viscount Oakford, former Cabinet minister, director of the merchant bank Gurney Kroheim, friend of half the most powerful people in your country. And of course you are quite right; if I were to arrest and charge you there would be all kinds of tedious protests. But that’s not what I would do.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear it.’

  ‘No. If you did return to Germany, what I would do is grab you, stuff you in the back of my car, take you to some woods somewhere and shoot you in the back of the head.’

  ‘I don’t like being threatened by petty bureaucrats,’ said Conrad, ostentatiously raising his newspaper and beginning to read. ‘Now bugger off.’

  ‘You are making a big mistake if you don’t take me seriously.’

  Conrad didn’t look up. ‘I said, bugger off.’

  He heard as much as saw Klaus get up and leave. He only looked up when he heard the door of the café bang shut. He watched Klaus, almost a head taller than the crowd, as he pushed his way through the Potsdamer Platz towards Leipziger Strasse and Gestapo HQ.

  If Klaus had been trying to rattle him, he had succeeded. Conrad was very glad that he was taking that aeroplane to London. But he did intend to return. And when he did, he was sure that Klaus would be there, waiting for him.

  The two officers, the colonel and the general, emerged from the trees of the Grunewald, the forest that lay on the western fringes of Berlin, and trotted their horses along the shore of Lake Havel. It was a hot, sticky day, but a breeze blew in from the water, which was dotted with sailing boats taking advantage of the sun and the wind. Jutting out into the lake on their left was the Schwanenwerder, the small promontory which was packed with summer houses that used to be owned by Berlin’s rich Jews, but which now had almost entirely been taken over by the Nazi hierarchy.

  For all the apparent formality of the Wehrmacht, there was a certain intimacy amongst its officers, especially those who had served together before the great expansion of the armed forces after 1933. It was possible for a mere colonel like Oster to provide advice to the Chief of the General Staff, and for that advice to be listened to with respect and friendship. Oster had taken to dropping into Beck’s office at the Bendlerstrasse, but as their conversations had progressed they had begun once a week to ride together through the Grunewald, well out of range of curious ears.

  ‘Has Hitler responded to your memoranda, Herr General?’ Oster asked.

  ‘Not in any well-thought-out way,’ Beck replied. ‘What he did say was “I’m not asking my generals to understand my orders, but to obey them!”’ There was bitterness in Beck’s voice. ‘But it’s my duty as chief of staff to explain the military situation to the Führer. And the war game we played last month clearly shows that Case Green will not work. We will lose a war against Czechoslovakia if it receives the support of France and Britain.’

  ‘Does the Führer think the West Wall will hold the French?’

  ‘He insists it will. But it has barely been begun. He wants it ready by October, but that’s impossible; it will take another two years to construct, at least. Which means, of course, that if we attack Czechoslovakia we will not have enough divisions to defend the Rhine from an attack by the French.’

  ‘What about von Brauchitsch?’

  ‘Oh, von Brauchitsch understands the military situation very well,’ Beck said. ‘Although I doubt he is putting the case forward strongly enough. If I can only get the other generals to back me, we might be able to stop him.’

  ‘How far will you go?’ asked Oster.

  Beck’s piercing eyes examined the other. He knew it wasn’t an innocent question. ‘I have told von Brauchitsch that if all the advice and warnings of the leaders of the Wehrmacht continue to be ignored, then we have a duty to our country and to history to resign our posts. All of us. Hitler cannot invade Czechoslovakia without his senior generals.’

  ‘Can’t he?’ asked Oster.

  ‘Of course he can’t,’ protested the general. ‘It would be madness.’

  ‘It seems to me that our führer is a little mad. Or, to put it another way, by going further than would be expected of any rational man he has seized whatever he has wanted so far. The chancellorship, the destruction of the Weimar constitution, the Rhineland, Austria. We should be prepared for him to take the path which seems madness now.’

  They trotted away from the lake shore and turned on to a quiet track through the pine forest.

  ‘When you say “be prepared”, what do you mean?’

  ‘I mean that if, despite all your reasoned advice, despite the threat of his generals to resign, he persists in starting a war with Czechoslovakia, we should be prepared to remove him.’

  Beck didn’t answer. They came to a decent stretch of grass verge, straight and wide, and he urged his horse on to a gallop. Oster followed him. As the path narrowed again, Beck slowed up. Horses and riders burst into a sweat in the heat.

  ‘You know, Oster, it is so difficult. You, I, General von Brauchitsch: we have all sworn that cursed oath. It is not easy for us, as honourable German officers, to ignore it. When I was told I had to take it I nearly resigned my commission: I wish now I had.’

  ‘If you had, you would be of much less use to your country now,’ said Oster. But he accepted Beck’s point. The oath of a German officer was more than a ritual in an initiation ceremony. It was the contract of honour that bound army a
nd country together. It was why German soldiers had died so bravely in so many wars. To a lawyer, the law is the ultimate arbiter of right and wrong, but to a soldier, it is honour.

  In earlier oaths the German officer had sworn loyalty to the King of Prussia, then the Emperor of Germany, and then, in the time of the Weimar Republic, to the Fatherland. But the new oath, taken by the whole army in 1934, bound the soldier in an obligation of honour to Hitler in person: I swear by God this sacred oath, that I shall render unconditional obedience to the leader of the German Reich and people, Adolf Hitler, Supreme Commander of the Wehrmacht, and at all times be prepared as a brave soldier to lay down my life for this oath.

  Men like Beck, having sworn such an oath, had to be prepared to die for it.

  ‘I will get him to see reason,’ Beck said. ‘I shall keep the pressure up on von Brauchitsch and the other generals. Hitler can’t fight a war without an army.’

  ‘And if he doesn’t see reason?’

  Beck looked Oster straight in the eye. ‘Then we do it your way.’

  22

  Conrad was met at Castle Cary station by Tyndall, his father’s chauffeur, in the shooting brake. It had been a long day: an early morning flight from Berlin’s Tempelhof Aerodrome to Croydon, then through London to Paddington. It was late afternoon, and the sun shone out of a sky dotted with small puffs of cloud on to the green English countryside. According to Tyndall it had been a wet summer, and indeed the fields looked remarkably lush for July. They drove down ever-narrower roads winding in and out of small valleys and tiny villages. After nearly two months living in Germany, Conrad was struck by how disorganized everything was, how the villages and their buildings followed no set pattern, how the road network seemed random and meandering. The sky was smaller here among the rolling hills; there were copses and woods rather than forests, small quiet streams rather than great continental rivers, and a general lack of purpose in the inhabitants as they ambled along roadsides. This time of day was rush hour for the bovine community, and three times they found themselves trundling behind a herd of cows on their way in for the evening milking.