Information from Mark Scott—if it could be trusted—suggested that a vital piece of intelligence had been played down during Maisie’s briefings in London and the Cotswolds. No one had emphasized the complicity of wealthy industrialists in Germany, men who had seen an opportunity to get Leon Donat out of the way because they believed his businesses would collapse without him at the helm. Had a word here or there led to the police raid at a certain time when Donat could be captured? But why was she not told? For surely both Brian Huntley and Robert MacFarlane knew. Perhaps it was because, in truth, there was nothing she could do about such men and their activities against another businessman. What they had done could not be undone. But what of John Otterburn?
Scott might have been trying to cause trouble with his insinuations, but the suggestion that John Otterburn might have played a part—along with his business contacts in Munich—in the arrest of Leon Donat seemed like a plausible scenario. Maisie would bet that none of them expected that Donat would end up in Dachau.
She considered the circumstances of Otterburn’s request to help bring his daughter home. She was still uneasy about the apparent break in the wall of secrecy that should have surrounded her assignment, but knowing how deep the tentacles of Otterburn’s power ran, it was more than possible that a contact in Whitehall privy to Huntley’s plans had informed the industrialist of the development. Maisie vowed never, ever to entertain an approach from John Otterburn again, even if he was holding an olive branch. She had sworn such a thing before, yet been drawn back in. No. This was enough. No matter how important he had become, how untouchable he might be—and, indeed, no matter how much her experiences in Spain had changed her mind, made her believe him right in predicting a devastating air war in Europe—she wanted to be as far from the Otterburns as possible.
As she lay waiting for sleep to come, as she tried to exert a semblance of control over her thoughts, it occurred to Maisie that the reason she had not been informed that there were important German businessmen who wanted one of their main competitors out of the way was that she might not have accepted the assignment. Already she had looked hard at the truth behind their decision to earmark her for the role of Edwina Donat. She was a known entity, true, and had worked with both men on highly sensitive cases—but beyond that, they thought she had few connections of true worth to her now.
But now Maisie knew she would prove them wrong. As her father and Brenda, Priscilla, and the Comptons had shown since her return from Spain, she had everything to live for. And as soon as they were alone, on their way to Paris, she would persuade Leon Donat that he had everything to live for too. With his beloved daughter ailing, she knew that might well be her greatest challenge.
CHAPTER 11
Another bright, cold morning greeted Maisie when the alarm woke her at half past eight. For all her early wakefulness, when it seemed rest would be hard to claim, she had at last slept soundly, no dreams to disturb her. Now she had time to consider the morning ahead, envisioning the day as a jockey might imagine every hurdle in the steeplechase before taking to the saddle.
Maisie thought about Elaine Otterburn too. She should be back in England by now, safe, when the body of the SS officer was found. Elaine Otterburn. How great had been the weight of her guilt after she didn’t report for the flight that killed James? Maisie suspected she was living with the remorse only those who have survived when others have lost their lives can know. Elaine might spend her life trying to prove herself, whether by filtering information to people like Mark Scott, or joining do-gooder committees, following in her mother’s footsteps.
Maisie shivered as she rose from the bed, realizing that she could not imagine Elaine Otterburn as an older woman.
She ran a hot bath and allowed herself to soak, going over each move, each journey and possible interrogation, in detail yet again. She took one telephone call from Leslie, who confirmed he would pick her up in a consular motor car at eleven thirty. If all went to plan, he estimated, they would have the completed documents by half past twelve at the latest, and then proceed to Dachau—depending on traffic, they would be there by approximately a quarter past one. All being well, they would be leaving with Leon Donat at half past two and would proceed directly to the Munich railway station first-class waiting room.
As Maisie knew—and she hoped as far as Leslie did not know—every moment she was not on the train was a moment when the body of the young SS officer could be discovered. Without a shred of doubt, a warrant for her apprehension would be issued at once, given her perceived friendship with Elaine Otterburn, who would be considered a fugitive. She pushed away the image of black-uniformed men storming the station searching for her—and at the same time wondered if Elaine was already in England. She might not care for the Otterburns, but if Elaine had been detained, then the quest to take Leon Donat home would doubtless fail, and all would be lost. And she wanted to go home so very much. If nothing else, the assignment had brought the truth of her feelings into sharp relief. When Leon Donat was brought into the guard room, she would hold him as if he were Frankie Dobbs. The very thought of her own father being in such a brutal place brought tears to her eyes. She missed those she loved and who loved her in return so very much, and she wanted to be close to them.
Maisie ordered a light breakfast and dressed in her plain clothes, absorbing the persona of Edwina Donat. She was soon ready once more to step out onto the boards of risk, to watch the curtain open and then play her part.
The telephone rang again. She picked it up on the first ring.
“Edwina. It’s . . . it’s Elaine.”
Hearing another click on the line, Maisie faltered, then spoke clearly. “Oh, hello, Elaine—look, I cannot talk now. I’m expecting another call, and I have a lot on this morning. Do give my best to your parents when you speak to them. Must dash—”
She replaced the receiver in its cradle and put a hand to her mouth, closing her eyes. Think. Think. She pressed herself to make a plan. She had meditated on a perfect outcome to the day’s challenges—the documents, the journey to Dachau, the release of Leon Donat . . . to the train . . . crossing the border . . . Paris. What she had not accounted for, and perhaps quite deliberately, was that Elaine Otterburn had not left Munich. The sound of a train pulling into a station and steam pushing out across the buffers had punctuated the woman’s call. She must be at the railway station, in a public telephone kiosk. It occurred to Maisie that perhaps she should wonder who else might have been the beneficiary of late-night conversations fueled by drink and dancing. She’d received no assurance from any quarter that the sharing of information had gone in one direction only. Could Elaine have been passing information back to the Germans? And could she—Maisie felt almost lightheaded as her thoughts took her in this direction—could Elaine Otterburn have been working on behalf of her father from the beginning? Whatever might ensue, Maisie’s innermost thoughts warned her not to give Elaine the benefit of the doubt.
The telephone rang again. It was Leslie.
“Miss Donat. I’m waiting for you by the registration desk. Let’s not be late.”
“I’m ready, Mr. Leslie.”
Maisie took up her small leather case, her handbag, and her coat. In the mirror by the door she checked her hat and the wig underneath. Does it look the same as yesterday? Does it seem natural? Do I resemble Edwina Donat? And as she made one last check of the room, she knew Maurice would approve. In that moment she felt fear envelop her. Fear might well be her shield against failure, and she could only trust that it would keep her safe—along with the small revolver in the bag, which now seemed to carry all the weight of Robert MacFarlane behind it.
The drive to the Führerbau of the Nationalsozialistische Deutsche Arbeiterpartei on Arcis Strasse seemed to take longer than before. Leslie talked through the plan again. He asked Maisie questions as a teacher might test a pupil, and Maisie became aware that his demeanor had changed, that he was no longer playing the part of a somewhat nitpicking civil serva
nt but a seasoned professional engaged in foreign affairs.
Then he surprised her.
“Of course, just to shift the elephant in the room a bit, Miss Donat.” He seemed to emphasize Maisie’s assumed last name. Had she imagined the tone, or were nerves getting the better of her? Could he have guessed that she was an agent for the British government charged with a sensitive assignment, not the somewhat naive daughter of a wealthy industrialist?
Leslie continued. “There is the problem of Miss Otterburn. Clearly you had your own reasons for paying her a visit, but it was most ill-advised, given her position. And of course there is the pressing question of her missing paramour.”
Maisie said nothing.
“I think you should prepare for the fact that the major might well ask you a few questions about her liaison with the SS officer.”
“I understand.”
“Be vigilant, listen to his questions with care, and do not fall into any traps.”
“I will, yes.” Maisie wondered if Leslie knew she was armed.
“You will, to all intents and purposes, be on your own with your father once you are on the train.” Was Leslie divesting the camouflage now, revealing the full extent of his knowledge? Or was Maisie imagining each sentence to be a hint that he had her number? “We believe the Germans are so convinced that Leon Donat has nothing at all to offer, they will not be positioning an agent on the train—and definitely not across the border. We’re not yet sure why they aren’t more worried. Stupid requests such as stipulating that he can only be released to a family member, when the protocol is for the foreign service to receive the prisoner in a negotiated release, right down to this messing around with papers—it’s all been designed to rattle our cages. It was only to be expected. We poke sticks through their bars every now and again, and they poke sticks through ours. It could of course be an attempt by the Führer’s boys to present him in some sort of compassionate light, though that won’t last long. Anyway, I think we will know more when Donat is released to us.”
Whether he knew Maisie to be working on behalf of the Secret Service or not was not important now, though she knew she would feel safer if he was in the dark.
“Mind you,” he continued, “I would like to have a pin in the map for Elaine Otterburn. She could upset the whole apple cart.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Leslie.”
“It’s done now—and you were quite careful, though that meeting with Berger in the Residenz rather rattled us.”
“He just turned up there.”
Leslie turned in his seat to look directly at Maisie. “No one in the SS just turns up.” He faced the front of the motor car again and continued. “I have no doubt of our success today. However . . .” He did not continue.
Maisie’s voice was low as she filled the gap. “However . . . if it does not go to plan, the most important thing is to get my father out of Munich, to London. I think it’s evident I know that much, Mr. Leslie.”
They sat in silence for the remainder of the journey, Maisie resting her hand on her bag, feeling the now comforting outline of the small revolver, her short meditation not on the outcome of the day but on her training with MacFarlane, and a bullet striking the bull’s-eye with her very first shot.
The guard outside recognized Maisie and Leslie, gave their papers a cursory look, and waved them into the building. Leslie remained in the cavernous entrance hall while, ten minutes after being allowed entry, “Fräulein Donat” was summoned by another guard and shown into the same office as before. She was taken aback to be greeted by Berger. He gave a short bow, and held out his hand to the chair in front of his desk. The same junior officer stood to attention on his right. Berger shuffled some papers.
Maisie spoke first, as she took her seat. “How very nice it was to see you at the Residenz. I enjoyed hearing about it from someone who has studied every facet. Will you be long in Munich?”
“Thank you, Fräulein Donat. And I depart tomorrow—today is a busy day for the Führer’s staff. Now, Fräulein Donat, to business. Let me see—yes, all the papers are here for the release of your father into his loving daughter’s embrace.” He gave a tight half smile as he looked up from the papers.
Maisie thought of Frankie, and tears came to her eyes. “Thank you, Major. Thank you very much—I am so anxious to see him, and to take him home. He is not a well man, as you know.”
Berger looked at his junior officer, and they both began to laugh.
“What is it?” said Maisie. “What about my father’s health do you find worthy of mirth?”
“Mirth?” The men laughed again. Berger spoke in German to the boyish man in uniform behind him. “Warten Sie, bis sie sieht, was unwohl sieht aus wie nach Dachau!”
Maisie understood every word. Wait until she sees what unwell looks like after Dachau! She frowned. “Is something wrong, Major?”
“Oh, no, nothing, Fräulein Donat. Just a little joke between men in uniform—we have to let off a little steam on occasion.”
He looked down at the papers, countersigning each page, checking a word here and there, running his finger along a line and nodding. It’s all a game, thought Maisie. A man’s life had been trampled, and it was all a game.
Berger looked up again. “Just one more thing, Fräulein Donat.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Your friend, Fräulein Otterburn.”
“You already asked me about her. I tried once to get her to return to her parents, at their request. I’m not sure if she decided to heed my advice, but I believe she was thinking about it.”
“Then she must have left Munich.”
Maisie feigned surprise. “Well, at least I have managed to reunite one daughter with her father. I just wish I could be reunited with mine.”
“Patience, Fräulein Donat. Patience.” Berger leaned forward. “Our concern is not that she has returned to England to see her very rich father, but that one of her young men, a fellow officer, has not reported for duty.”
“I—I beg your pardon, Major, but I don’t understand.”
The officer made a point of looking at Maisie’s clothing, at her dull jacket and her plain hat. “No, you probably wouldn’t. I am sure you were never a frivolous young girl.”
“I would never have disappointed my mother and father, Major,” said Maisie. She wondered if his changed attitude toward her, so different from their meeting in the Residenz, might be bravado in front of the junior officer.
There was a pause, during which Berger turned every single page again before finally shuffling them together. He slipped them into an envelope and passed the envelope to Maisie.
“Present these to the Kommandant at Dachau. He will be expecting you. But be warned, it is his job to check every document again before relinquishing the prisoner. Is that clear?”
“Yes, it is.” Maisie stood up.
“And one more thing, Fräulein Donat.”
“Yes?” said Maisie.
“Thank your government very much. On behalf of the Führer, we wish to extend our gratitude to you for paying Herr Donat’s fines, and for their generous contribution to our wounded soldiers’ fund.”
Maisie nodded and tapped the papers she held to her chest. “Thank you, Major.” She turned and walked to the door already held open by the junior officer.
“Oh, I almost forgot, Fräulein Donat.” Berger was standing now, putting on his cap. “If by any chance you see Miss Otterburn, do ask her to be in touch. We are concerned about our brother officer.”
“Of course. But I doubt I will ever see her again, Major. She was never a friend of mine.”
“Thank God. Now let’s get out of here and on to Dachau. You were longer than I thought.” Leslie checked his watch, took the papers from Maisie, and ushered her from the building. The driver was holding open the official vehicle’s door, and they stepped in. Almost before she was settled, the motor car had moved off into traffic.
“This all looks in order,” said Leslie.
/> “I should hope so,” said Maisie.
“Any problems?”
“He asked about Elaine Otterburn.”
“He knows you saw her, so not surprising. Let’s try not to worry about that—at this stage I would hope the Otterburn woman presents nothing more than a distraction, now we are on the way to Dachau.” Leslie placed the papers back into the envelope. “Hopefully they might assume the pair have gone off for a nice long dirty weekend.”
Maisie said nothing at first. The driver was negotiating traffic with speed, weaving in and out between slower vehicles, pressing down on the accelerator when the road was clear. “I’d tell him to calm down a bit if I were you,” she said. “We don’t want any problems at this stage, and reckless driving isn’t the way to respect our hosts.”
Leslie tapped on the window separating the passengers from the driver, and made a hand signal to slow down.
“So, the British government paid to have my father released.”
“It’s not unusual, just not widely known. Not sure it will go on for long, but money talks between nations whose leaders are still in somewhat polite conversation—though the issue with the Sudetenland is going to be a bit of a problem.”
Maisie was quiet again, only breaking her silence to speak her mind. “There’s something wrong, Mr. Leslie. I cannot put my finger on it, but this is all too easy. I’m worried.”
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