Traitor's Gate

by Michael Ridpath

Life hadn’t been quite as worry-free as he had expected after the old bat had kicked the bucket. There was no nagging, which was a relief. But there were a million and one small things that she had left undone, things that Walter didn’t have the time or inclination to sort out. Bills, cleaning, clothes-mending, that kind of thing. Lazy sow!

  There was a loud knock at the door.

  ‘Who is it!’ shouted Walter, pleased at the loudness of his own voice.

  More knocking.

  ‘All right, all right,’ he said, putting on his dressing gown and staggering down the narrow stairway.

  He opened the door. Two men barged in, one of them grabbing him. ‘Gestapo!’

  ‘What do you want?’ Walter asked belligerently.

  ‘To search your house,’ replied one of the men, pulling out a pistol.

  ‘Put that away!’ growled Walter. The man dug the gun into his ribs, making him launch into a bout of violent coughing.

  The other man opened and closed doors, banging and crashing in first the kitchen, then the parlour, and then upstairs in the bedroom.

  ‘What’s he doing?’

  ‘Searching the house.’

  ‘Why? What’s he looking for?’

  ‘We’ve had a tip-off that you have been distributing subversive material.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous!’ said Walter ‘I’m a Party member, have been since 1929.’

  The man appeared from the bedroom with a sheaf of mimeographed paper. He handed it to his colleague, who scanned it quickly. ‘Come with us!’ he said.

  ‘What’s that? I’ve never seen those before in my life!’ Walter protested.

  The policeman took no notice. ‘Come on,’ he said.

  ‘Wait! My son is in the Gestapo,’ the old man protested. ‘He’s a Kriminalrat in Berlin. He works directly for Heydrich himself. You should give him a call.’

  One of the Gestapo exchanged glances with the other and shrugged. ‘Go ahead,’ he said.

  ‘Hold on a moment,’ said Walter. ‘I’m not paying for the call myself.’

  ‘In that case come with us.’

  ‘No. All right, wait a minute.’

  Walter found Klaus’s office number and called the operator. He was put through.

  ‘Klaus? It’s your father. Can you tell these two baboons to leave me alone?’

  He handed the telephone to the senior of the two Gestapo officers and smiled. ‘He wants to talk to you.’

  The man muttered down the telephone; Walter couldn’t quite hear the conversation. Then, his expression blank, he handed the receiver back to Walter.

  ‘Well, Klaus? Did you sort them out?’ Walter demanded.

  ‘I’m sorry, Father. They say they have found some incriminating documents in the house. I’m afraid that in the circumstances there is nothing I can do.’

  ‘What! You know I’m a good Nazi! You tell them that!’

  ‘We may not see each other again, Father,’ said Klaus, his voice calm. ‘So, goodbye.’

  ‘You bastard! You put them up to this didn’t you? You—’

  ‘I love you too, Father. Heil Hitler.’ Then the telephone went dead.

  Ranting with anger and confusion, Walter was led to a car outside. He was pushed into the back alongside two young SA men in uniform. One of them he recognized from the next street but the boy refused to acknowledge him.

  Half an hour later, a few kilometres outside the city, they turned down a narrow track into a forest. After five hundred metres the car stopped. The SA men fetched spades out of the boot, and the Gestapo officer, brandishing his pistol, told Walter to walk.

  He was still cursing his damned swine of a son when the bullet smashed into the back of his head. He died instantly.

  Conrad approached the British Embassy on Wilhelmstrasse with a mixture of trepidation and excitement. He had received a note from Ivone Kirkpatrick, the First Secretary. Conrad assumed that his father had made the necessary appointments for von Kleist, and Kirkpatrick would have the details for Conrad to pass on. Conrad had expected a coded letter directly from his father, but he supposed that once the Foreign Secretary and the Prime Minister were involved it was natural for messages to go through the Foreign Office. In any event he was anticipating this visit to be more fruitful than his earlier meeting with the Third Secretary to complain about his arrest and Joachim’s death.

  He stopped suddenly and turned, hoping to catch a watcher. There were several people on the street, none of whom gave him a second glance. He had been looking over his shoulder constantly ever since he had returned to Berlin, checking for Gestapo. He hadn’t spotted anyone, but of course that didn’t mean there was no one there. But he had kept his promise to Anneliese to stay away from her at least for a while. It was intensely frustrating to know that she was here in the same city as him, but that he couldn’t see her, talk to her, hold her.

  The embassy was a grand building with four imposing columns framing the entrance, adjoining the Adlon Hotel on the corner of Unter den Linden. It had originally been built as the city palace of a Berlin speculator who had gone extravagantly bankrupt, and Her Majesty’s Government had stepped in to buy the place on the cheap. Fountains splashed in the marble entrance hall and, deeper within, the decor had the hushed, rather shabby splendour of the mature British Empire. Conrad was shown through to a sitting room, which was really a waiting room, and five minutes later the trim figure of Ivone Kirkpatrick appeared, neat in winged collar and morning suit, sporting a bright red carnation.

  ‘Mr de Lancey, good of you to come. The Ambassador will see you now.’

  ‘The Ambassador?’ Conrad said. He had assumed that the kind of message he was expecting would be best delivered by a lower official.

  ‘Er, yes. He was anxious to speak to you himself.’

  Several yards of plush carpet and four turns along a corridor later and he was ushered into the Ambassador’s office, complete with large desk and picture of King George VI. The Ambassador himself looked up, but did not get to his feet. ‘Ah, Mr de Lancey. Sit down.’

  Conrad sat in one of the two chairs facing the Ambassador’s desk. Kirkpatrick took the other one.

  Sir Nevile Henderson was a tall, elegant man with a little jet-black moustache, as fastidiously dressed as his first secretary. He had been British Ambassador in Berlin for a year, since when the tone of British diplomacy towards the Third Reich had changed noticeably. He was a sociable man, even for a diplomat, and he got on famously with the leading Nazis. He was a frequent hunting guest of Göring. He had caused quite a stir when, soon after his arrival, he had given a speech at the Kaiserhof Hotel to the German–English Society where he had said that he hoped that his own country would learn much from National Socialism. Not surprisingly, this remark had been widely reported in Germany and discussed at great length among the expatriate community in Berlin. Conrad knew his father couldn’t stand the man – they had been contemporaries at Eton. Conrad feared that the feeling might be mutual.

  ‘I have been discussing with London a proposed visit of a friend of yours,’ Henderson began.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Conrad.

  ‘Ewald von Kleist. A monarchist.’

  ‘And a staunch opponent of Hitler,’ Conrad added.

  ‘London asked for my advice, and I gave it to them. In my view it would be a grave mistake if anyone in the British government were to be seen speaking to this man.’

  ‘I think the idea is that they wouldn’t be seen.’

  ‘Secret negotiations would be just as bad,’ Henderson said. ‘In fact worse. The government here would find out about them eventually.’

  ‘But von Kleist has an important message to deliver,’ Conrad said. ‘And it is vital that it is heard at the highest level.’

  ‘Ah, yes. And what is that message?’

  ‘That’s for Herr von Kleist to deliver, not me, your excellency.’

  Henderson glanced at Kirkpatrick and tutted. ‘I know you are here in Berlin in a private capacity,
Mr de Lancey, but your father is, or was, a figure of some importance and you must be seen to be behaving in a seemly manner.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘For a start, it is your duty to follow the British government’s line.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘To avoid holding discussions with extremist opposition groups.’

  ‘And that’s government policy?’ Conrad said.

  ‘It certainly is. Also in the current climate you should be careful how you conduct your personal relations.’

  ‘Whatever do you mean by that?’

  ‘I mean that you have been seen consorting with a Jewish communist.’

  ‘I don’t see what that has to do with you, or anyone else for that matter,’ Conrad said, his voice laden with indignation.

  ‘It has everything to do with me,’ the Ambassador said. ‘It is a provocation to our host government. In the current delicate situation between our two countries the last thing I want to have to do is waste time and diplomatic capital on young men who should know how to behave themselves.’

  ‘I will see whom I want, when I want.’

  ‘This isn’t a free country, de Lancey. You know that.’

  Conrad stood up to leave. ‘So who will Herr von Kleist be meeting in London?’ he asked.

  ‘No one, I trust,’ said Henderson. ‘Now, good day.’

  ‘Heil Hitler,’ said Conrad before he could stop himself, and quickly left the room as the Ambassador’s expression turned from disdain to outrage.

  Conrad was fuming as Kirkpatrick led him back to the entrance. ‘Is that man actually a member of the Nazi Party?’ Conrad asked him.

  ‘The Ambassador is very well attuned to the circumstances in present-day Germany,’ Kirkpatrick said.

  Conrad snorted.

  They reached the imposing entrance hall of the embassy. Kirkpatrick shook Conrad’s hand. ‘The Ambassador did tell you to do your duty, didn’t he?’

  ‘By which he meant following the British government’s line. His line,’ Conrad said bitterly.

  ‘I’m sure there was no need for him to point that out. One’s conscience can usually tell one quite clearly enough what one’s duty is, don’t you think? And I would have thought that the British government could require nothing more from its citizens than that they do their duty.’

  Conrad paused and examined the First Secretary’s face, which was a picture of diplomatic inscrutability. ‘Thank you for the advice, sir.’

  ‘A pleasure. Good luck, Mr de Lancey.’ When Conrad stepped into the street the edge of his fury had been taken off. It was good advice. It was the right advice.

  When he got home there was a letter waiting for him, the name and address in his father’s handwriting. He opened it with trepidation.

  Dear Conrad,

  I am really very sorry the weather was so bad when you were staying with us. It’s much better now. Your mother was right, as always.

  Bad news about the wedding. Uncle Claude can’t come and neither can any of his family, not even Great-Aunt Mabel. I’m not sure who’s behind their decision, I don’t think it’s Uncle Claude, but you just can’t tell.

  The good news is that Charlie has said ‘yes’ – you can always rely on him. I’ve also invited Richard Valentine, whom I think you know, and Graham Leigh, whom you probably don’t.

  I was up in London yesterday and saw Graham for dinner at Claridge’s. He’s looking forward to the wedding.

  Hope you are still coming,

  Yours ever,

  Father

  Conrad smiled. It wasn’t as bad as he had thought. The first sentence was the nearest thing to a direct apology he had ever received from his father. ‘Uncle Claude’ was Lord Halifax and ‘Great-Aunt Mabel’ was the Prime Minister, Neville Chamberlain, an old woman if ever there was one. Obviously his father had been unable to discover the hand of Sir Nevile Henderson behind the refusal of any Cabinet minister to meet von Kleist.

  Charlie was good news. That was the codename for Winston Churchill, still the most forceful and articulate member of the House of Commons even though he had been out of government for ten years. The other two were not one of the twenty or so names that Conrad had listed when he had made up the code. In that eventuality Conrad had suggested that his father use the initials of a fictitious guest as a clue. ‘RV’ was obvious: Sir Robert Vansittart, an old school friend of his father’s and a former under-secretary at the Foreign Office. That was good: he could be relied upon to pass on von Kleist’s message to the government. It took Conrad quite a while to work out whom ‘GL’ referred to, until he realized it was George Lloyd, Lord Lloyd, another Eton contemporary of his father, and a prominent Conservative politician. The reference to Graham meant that von Kleist’s first meeting would be dinner at Claridge’s with Lord Lloyd.

  His father hadn’t done badly. With those three establishment figures, von Kleist’s message should get through. Once the British government knew about von Kleist’s plans they would be bound to stand by Czechoslovakia. Then when Hitler ordered the invasion he would be overthrown and the whole continent of Europe would breathe a sigh of relief. And he, Conrad, would have played a small but important role in that.

  He felt a warm glow of pleasure. Finally he was doing something, something David Griffiths and Harry Reilly would be proud of.

  Conrad saw Theo that evening in an odd little bar off Nollendorfplatz. It was called Billy the Kid, and there was a plaster statue of a Red Indian at the door and a mural of a wagon train along one wall. But it was all rather gloomy and tatty, the wood was just as dark and stained as in other neighbourhood bars, and the locals were Berliners through and through. The only gesture to the Wild West theme were the caustic comments the drunken regulars would address to the Red Indian on their way out into the street. They called him ‘Big Chief Fritz’, and seemed very fond of him.

  Conrad had taken an hour to travel the short distance from his flat to the bar, hopping on and off buses, walking in circles around small blocks and doubling back unpredictably: he wanted to make absolutely sure he wasn’t being followed. No one. Definitely no one. Nevertheless they chose a table in the far corner of the bar and made sure that there were no likely lip-readers nearby. They also spoke in English.

  Although Theo was eager to hear what Lord Oakford had organized for his uncle, Conrad noticed a distinct coolness about him. This puzzled Conrad: he thought they had ironed out their differences. He told Theo about the letter from his father and about his interview with the British Ambassador. Theo was clearly unhappy that von Kleist wasn’t going to see either Chamberlain or Halifax, but Conrad assured him that they would hear von Kleist’s message through Vansittart and Churchill.

  Theo downed his beer and ordered another one. ‘We’ve picked up a disturbing report,’ he said. ‘Apparently a prominent German politician is planning to travel to London soon for talks with the British government.’

  ‘That’s not good,’ said Conrad.

  ‘You told Foley, didn’t you?’

  Conrad shook his head. ‘No, Theo. And I asked my father to make sure that the British secret service was kept in the dark.’

  ‘Was it in exchange for a visa for Anneliese?’

  ‘I thought about it, but I didn’t talk to him. I give you my word.’

  ‘And I am supposed to accept that? Your word?’

  Conrad couldn’t help smiling at the irony. ‘Yes, Theo, you are supposed to accept my word. I promised I wouldn’t betray your uncle, and I haven’t. Even though I dearly would have liked to, I didn’t.’

  Theo looked closely at his friend and then returned his smile. ‘All right. So where did the leak come from, do you think?’

  ‘I have no idea. The embassy? I told you I spoke to the Ambassador himself. He is not very happy about this trip.’

  ‘Well, bugger him.’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Conrad. ‘Is your uncle still going?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Theo. ‘It would take m
ore than certain death to put off my uncle.’

  As Conrad walked the short distance home from the bar, it occurred to him that he could have told Foley about the visit after all.

  He turned into Zietenstrasse and a man in a large overcoat walked straight into him, almost knocking him to the ground.

  ‘I say!’ said Conrad. ‘Watch where you are going.’

  ‘Oh, excuse me, I am awfully sorry,’ said the man in English. ‘Captain Foley’s compliments, and he asks Fräulein Rosen to get in touch with him at the earliest opportunity.’

  Before Conrad could reply the man had gone, walking rapidly down Bülowstrasse. Conrad hadn’t even registered his face.

  Then the man’s words sank in. Foley had changed his mind and found a way to grant Anneliese a visa. There could be no other reason why he should suddenly want her to get in touch with him.

  Yes. That was it. That must be it!

  He had to tell her, right then. He had promised that he would be careful about seeing her again, but it was late and it was dark. The streets were almost empty – Conrad was positive he wasn’t being followed.

  Glancing around one more time to check for non-existent watchers, he hailed a passing cab and headed for the Scheunenviertel.

  24

  Klaus watched the taxi pull up on the cobbled street outside Anneliese’s tenement block and saw Conrad climb out. Anger welled up inside him. He fought to control it. He had been waiting for four nights: he would have to wait just a little longer. He walked as inconspicuously as he could around the corner and made a quick call from the telephone kiosk. Then he returned to his station.

  The time passed slowly as he stared at the light in her top-floor window. It was a warm night, and he was overdressed in his leather coat. A couple of times he saw her silhouette; she was checking for watchers. At eleven-fifteen the light went out. At eleven-thirty Dressel and another Gestapo officer named Fischer arrived, ready for action. Klaus nodded to them and they hurried off. Klaus kept his eyes on the window. Sure enough, after two minutes the light flashed on, and he could hear Anneliese’s scream. The street didn’t stir. The inhabitants of that neighbourhood had learned long ago to roll over when they heard a scream in the middle of the night.