by Jack Higgins
“You just don't understand.”
“Is that so? Well, let me tell you something, little white sister. This nigger served with the Harlem Brigade on the Western Front in nineteen-eighteen. We were longer in the trenches than any other unit in the American Expeditionary Force. I lost my only brother, two cousins, and damn near every friend I had in the world, and you know what it taught me? That life goes on. Now your Uncle Max—those bastards killed him. Right?”
She nodded, hands clenched.
“You gonna let them get away with that? He gave you a job to do, girl. Are you gonna do it or are you just gonna sit on your ass and cry all day?”
She flung her arms around him. “Oh, Connie, what would I do without you?”
“That's my girl. Now hear me. I've spoken to the attendant, and it appears we arrive at Madrid at nine o'clock in the morning. There's a train leaves for Portugal at nine thirty-five from the same platform. In fact, it don't leave till we get in so you can't miss it even if we're late. You can get your ticket on board. Fifteen hours to Lisbon. You get in at six-thirty in the evening.”
“That's fine,” she said. “Couldn't be better.”
“There's the border,” Harry Gray pointed out. “Could be trouble there.”
“I don't see why,” Hannah said. “In any case, I'll use the false passport Uncle Max gave me, just in case.”
“When you get to Lisbon, if you need any help, go to Joe Jackson's American Bar. Any cab driver in Lisbon knows where it is.”
“Joe Jackson?”
“We're due to play there next week. He's an old friend and a really great guy. You name it and Joe's done it. Fought against Franco in Spain with the Lincoln-Washington Brigade, and he flew fighters against the Condor Legion. There's nothing happens in Lisbon that Joe doesn't know about.” “You make him sound like some kind of racketeer.” “Let's say he's a shrewd operator and leave it at that. Now get some sleep, kid. You're going to need it.”
She slept then, turning her face to the wall, trying to blot out every thought of Uncle Max. When she finally awakened to Connie's hand on her shoulder, they were in Madrid.
The Junkers had trouble in the port engine, and there was a delay of some five hours at San Sebastian, so that it was almost ten o'clock as they swung in over the old city of Madrid and landed.
There was a car waiting to take them to the Embassy. As they drove down into the city, Kleiber said, “When shall we be continuing our journey, General? Today or tomorrow?”
“Oh, sometime this afternoon, I think,” Schellenberg said. “It depends how long my business takes with the Ambassador.”
“With your permission, I'd like to check the railway station.”
“That train was due in an hour ago, Kleiber.” Schelienberg shook his head. “You're obsessed with the idea of that girl roaming across Europe when she's most probably holed up in some attic in Berlin.”
“Or she could be here in Madrid at this Club Flamenco where the blacks are to appear.”
The car turned into the courtyard of the Embassy and braked to a halt. “Very well,” Schellenberg said. “You can take the car. Be back here to pick me up no later than two o'clock.”
At Chamartin Station, Kleiber soon discovered that the Paris-Madrid Express had arrived on time, and a few moments' conversation with the stationmaster elicited the fact that a train had left the same platform for Lisbon at nine thirty-five. The stationmaster also telephoned the taxi rank to see if anyone had picked up three Negro passengers and came up with the interesting information that Connie and the boys had been delivered to a well-known night club called the Flamenco.
Half an hour later and Kleiber was closeted with Madrid's chief of police who, in line with his country's political stance at that time, was only too pleased to assist the Gestapo.
“I believe there could be a woman named Hannah Winter on the Lisbon Express, traveling on a false American passport. A German citizen, wanted for murder. Once she is in custody, we shall apply for extradition naturally.”
“The train crosses the border at Valencia al Cantara, but I can do better than that.” The chief of police glanced at the clock on the wall. “It stops at Talavera one hour from now. I will have the local police board and search for this woman. In the meantime, if you would care to wait, perhaps we can enjoy a glass of wine together, and you can tell me how it is in Berlin these days.”
* * *
The train had been stopped at Talavera for some time before Hannah looked out of the window and saw the police. She didn't panic, simply settled herself back in the corner and returned to her magazine. She was wearing dark sunglasses and a headscarf tied around her hair peasant-fashion. Connie had bought them for her at the station kiosk at Madrid.
There were only two other passengers in the compartment: a priest and a young woman with a baby. They all waited. Finally the door was pulled back.
Hannah kept on reading the magazine, aware out of the corner of her eye of the uniform legs.
“Señorita. Passport.”
She looked up at the young police officer as if startled, then produced her French passport and handed it over.
“Rose Lenoir. You are traveling to Lisbon, mademoiselle?” he asked in halting French.
“Yes,” she said.
“May I ask the purpose of your visit?”
“Business. I'm a singer. I'm to appear in a cabaret in Lisbon next week.”
She crossed one leg over the other, allowing the hem of her skirt to slide well above the knee. The young policeman swallowed hard and handed back her passport.
“Bon chance, mademoiselle,” he said and went out.
The priest looked quite shocked, the young woman amused. Hannah smiled at her, replaced her sunglasses, and returned to her magazine.
The Club Flamenco was in a small square in the old quarter of the city. When Kleiber, Sindermann, and the Embassy driver went in, the place was deserted except for an old man swabbing the floor with a mop.
“We're closed,” he said in Spanish. “Open at eight o'clock tonight.”
“What about the new act, the Negroes?” the driver asked.
“They were here. Went off to find a hotel. Said they'd be back at two o'clock to rehearse.”
The driver relayed this information to Kleiber, who nodded in satisfaction. “All right—we'll wait.”
“If you don't mind, Sturmbannführer,” the driver said, “I'll phone in to the Embassy, just so they know where I am.”
He went out, and Kleiber went behind the bar and helped himself to a drink while Sindermann took up station by the door.
At the Embassy, Schellenberg found himself in impressive company. There was Von Stohrer, the Ambassador, and the Spanish Minister of the Interior, Ramon Serrano Suner, brother-in-law of General Franco. As his knowledge of German was limited, they spoke together in English, a language they all shared in common.
“Let's take our coffee on the terrace, gentlemen,” Von Stohrer said. “Much pleasanter out there.”
They sat around a small white-painted iron table while one of the servants served coffee. Von Stohrer waved him away. “So, now we can get down to business.”
He was not just a career diplomat, but a conventional Nazi with unquestioning allegiance to the Führer. His close personal contacts with the Spanish government at every level were of tremendous importance, especially at that time when negotiations between Spain and Germany about the further conduct of the war were at a most delicate stage.
“So—what is the present problem?” Schellenberg asked.
“Perhaps, Minister, you would care to say something?” Von Stohrer said.
Serrano Suner nodded. “Very well. So far, we have used as an emissary to the Duke, the Marques de Estella, Primo de Rivera, who has been a friend of the Duke for a long time. I think I should stress at this stage, that the Marques is,” here he hesitated, “how shall I describe it? A man of finest honor?”
“I take your point,” Schellenberg said
dryly.
“To continue. The Marques has no idea of our mutual interest. He believes himself purely to be acting for the Spanish government in the matter and takes his instructions from me on behalf of our government.”
“Are you implying that he only has the welfare of the Duke at heart?”
“Exactly. They are old friends. The Duke has had to surrender his passport to the British Embassy in Lisbon. It is by now common knowledge that he doesn't relish his appointment as Governor of the Bahamas. A posting deliberately designed to get him as far away as possible. It would be understandable if he felt insulted at its lack of importance. It is more than probable that he is also under close surveillance by British Intelligence.”
“So, what has De Rivera suggested to him?”
“That he move to Spain where the Spanish government would gladly grant him asylum, there to await events.”
“And does De Rivera think the British would sit idly by while the Duke and Duchess pack their bags and move out?”
“No. He went to Lisbon again yesterday, to visit the Duke at Estoril. His intention is to arrange a day in the country at some convenient spot near the border. A hunting party with old friends. An obvious opportunity for the Duke and Duchess to step across before the British, or anyone else, knows what is happening.”
“And if they choose not to?”
“But that, my dear Schellenberg, is where you come in,” Von Stohrer said.
Schellenberg nodded. “I see. Abduction. And De Rivera is aware of this possibility?”
“No,” Serrano Suner admitted. “As I've indicated, the Marques is acting purely out of concern for what he believes to be the best interests of an old friend. I should also point out that there is a rumor, current in Spanish society circles at the moment, that it is the plan of the British Secret Service, once the Duke is in the Bahamas, to do away with him as soon as may be. Naturally, the Marques will convey this information to the Duke.”
Schellenberg laughed out loud. “And do you seriously expect him to believe it?”
“I have it from Reichsminister von Ribbentrop himself,” Von Stohrer said stiffly. “A report from a Swiss informant who has had for many years the closest of contacts with the British Secret Service.”
“The Marques will return tomorrow with details of the hunting trip, the date and so on,” Serrano Suner said. “These will be communicated at once to Huene at our Portuguese Legation who will, in turn, pass them on to you.”
A manservant appeared through the French windows and bowed. “Berlin on the telephone, Excellency.”
“Excuse me, gentlemen. I'll be back in a minute.”
Von Stohrer went out and Serrano Suner offered Schellenberg a cigarette. “You looked skeptical, General, about this report from the Swiss agent concerning the British Secret Service and their designs on the Duke.”
“One of the problems of intelligence work is to sift the truth from the lies,” Schellenberg said. “Or what is even more difficult, to learn to recognize the distortions so that you can at least extract what little truth there is available.”
“You think the Swiss may be lying?”
“There are men like him in every capital in Europe. I can see him now, sitting in the corner of some café in Geneva with a bottle at his elbow, wondering what story to satisfy his masters with this week.”
The Spanish Foreign Minister said, “General Schellenberg, I know your reputation, which in your line of work is legendary, so I will be frank with you. We are anxious, here in Madrid, to see a successful conclusion to this Windsor affair for one reason only—to accommodate the German government.”
“And why would this be important at this time?” Schellenberg said. He could guess why, but preferred having the cards on the table.
“The Führer would like nothing better than for Spain to enter the war on the side of Germany. He feels very much that we owe him this if only because our triumph against the forces of Communism in the Civil War was largely due to the massive military aid we received from the Reich.”
“But there is more to it than that?”
“Yes. At the moment Britain is still supreme in one respect—her navy. Our entry into the war would give Germany Gibraltar and strike the most crushing blow against the British Navy possible by denying entry to the Mediterranean.”
“In return, what would General Franco require?”
“Arms, petrol, manufactured goods that are in short supply here because of the devastation of the Civil War. Also the French colonies in North Africa, particularly Morocco and Western Algeria. You understand the situation now?”
“Perfectly,” Schellenberg told him. “General Franco is willing to enter the war on our side, but only after Operation Sea Lion has been concluded with the successful occupation of England. His need is to keep present discussions as drawn out as possible until that happy event is concluded. In the meantime, the abduction of the Duke of Windsor, in accord with the Führer's wishes, serves to show that the General's heart is in the right place, thus keeping everyone happy.”
Serrano Suner smiled broadly. “I couldn't have put it better myself. I see that we understand each other and, to be honest, I think that abduction will be necessary. I do not believe His Royal Highness would come willingly.”
“Have you any special reason for believing that?”
“Yes, I think so. When the Duke and Duchess were here in Madrid recently, they had dinner at the Ritz with Dona Sol, the sister of the Duke of Alba. On their arrival she gave them the fascist salute. It caused something of a stir because the Duke made it quite clear that he didn't like it one little bit.”
“I see.”
“On another occasion, he dined with the Infante Alfonso, his cousin by marriage, who had fought in the Civil War and made a great deal of German military might. In fact, made it clear that he thought Britain finished.”
“And what was the Duke's reaction?”
“He became quite incensed. Asked the Infante if he'd never heard of the English Channel.” Serrano Suñer shrugged. “You may not think these things of great importance, but to me they indicate an attitude of mind in the Duke that is anything but favorable to your cause.”
Von Stohrer returned. “That was Reichsminister von Ribbentrop himself on the telephone from Berlin, gentlemen. I reported your safe arrival, Schellenberg. He trusts that you will carry on to Lisbon with all speed.”
Schellenberg glanced at his watch and saw that it was almost two o'clock. “Yes, indeed. I really must get moving. The pilot was told to be ready to take off at two.”
“I'll see you out,” Von Stohrer said.
“No need. You still have much to discuss, I'm sure. I'll be in touch at the earliest possible moment, naturally.”
* * *
It hadn't gone too badly, he told himself as he went out. He certainly knew more than when he went in. The Great Game, some English intelligence chief during the nineteenth century had once called it, and what a game. Walking the razor's edge of danger. How many years of his life had he lived like that?
And to come so close to throwing it all away for the sake of a girl he hardly knew. Who most certainly despised everything he stood for. That black humor that was so often his saving grace brought a cynical smile to his lips.
“Ah, Walter,” he said softly. “Three Hail Marys and two Our Fathers for the sin of pride. The erratic impulse to constantly try and do the decent thing that keeps breaking through will really be the death of you one of these days.”
When he went out to the courtyard there was no sign of Kleiber and Sindermann or the Embassy car. The porter emerged from the lodge.
“Can I be of service, General?”
“Sturmbannführer Kleiber. Have you seen any sign of him?”
“He hasn't returned yet. His driver did phone in some time ago to say they were at the Club Flamenco. Apparently the Sturmbannführer is waiting for someone.
Schellenberg cursed softly. “Get me a car,” he said. “And
make it quick.”
When Connie and the boys entered the Club Flamenco, the place was deserted. No sign of anyone, not even the caretaker, but Billy Joe's guitar and double bass were arranged neatly on the small stage beside Harry Gray's drums.
“Hey, somebody unpacked for us,” Billy Joe said. “I call that real friendly.”
The curtain behind the stage parted and Kleiber stepped through. “That was me. I admire order; in all things.”
Sindermann moved around from behind the door, blocking the way to the outside. Connie glanced over his shoulder at him, then back to Kleiber.
“What is this?”
“I'll tell you,” Kleiber said. “I have a feeling you've been playing games with me, you black ape. I think you know where Hannah Winter is. I think she may even be here.”
“We're not in Naziland now,” Connie said. “Why don't you go fuck yourself?”
Sindermann moved in very fast and punched him in the spine, putting Connie on his knees.
“Expensive this, eh?” Kleiber indicated the double bass.
He stamped hard, snapping it in two, then put his foot through the large drum. Billy Joe and Harry cried out in anger and started forward, and he drew a Luger from his coat pocket to menace them.
“Come on. Try it. I'd like nothing better than a chance to rid the world of such vermin.”
They stayed where they were, crouched, watching, and he called to Sindermann, “Make him talk, Gunter.”
Connie was still on his knees, and Sindermann moved in and kicked him at the base of the spine.
Connie fell flat on his face, and Sindermann picked him up and threw him casually against the bar.
He was enjoying himself now, and he flexed his huge arms slowly, then moved close and hoisted Connie across the bar.
“Speak up, ape,” he said softly, rubbing himself against Connie, leaning hard. “You like that, don't you,” he whispered in his ear, the excitement rising in him.
“He plays the piano for a living, Gunter. How would he manage without a few fingers?”