To Catch a King

by Jack Higgins

Connie was half-unconscious. Sindermann grinned and, holding the Negro's right hand flat on the bar, leaned across and took a full bottle of brandy from the shelf, gripping it by the neck.

  He had raised it like a hammer poised to strike when a quiet voice said, “Enough, Sindermann. Now let him go.”

  Sindermann turned his head slowly. His face was bathed with sweat, and there was a vacant look in his eyes.

  Kleiber said, “General, these men have information of the greatest importance.”

  “These men, as you term them, are American citizens in a neutral country, and you, Kleiber, are promoting an incident which in the international press could do the Reich nothing but harm.”

  “General Schellenberg, I must protest.”

  “Get your feet together when you speak to me, Sturmbannführer, and put that gun away.”

  Kleiber did as he was told; slowly, but he did it. “You want to play games, we'll play games,” Schellenberg said. “You swore an oath on joining the SS, am I right? A holy oath. Repeat it now.”

  Kleiber stared rigidly ahead as he spoke. “I swear to you Adolf Hitler as Führer and Chancellor of the German Reich, loyalty and courage. I vow to you and the superiors appointed by you, obedience unto death, so help me God.”

  “You would agree that I am your superior officer, appointed by the Führer?”

  “Yes, Brigadeführer.”

  “So, remember in future, you do as you're told.” His voice was very cold now. “If I ask you a question, you will answer, Jawohl Brigadeführer. If I give you an order, it's heels together and Zu Befehl, Brigadeführer. Do you understand?

  “Jawohl, Brigadeführer.”

  “Good.” Schellenberg turned to Sindermann. “Put him down and stand to attention.”

  But Sindermann had gone beyond the point of reason now. “No!” he said.

  “I could shoot you,” Schellenberg told him. “But we haven't got much time, so I'll content myself with teaching you a lesson instead. When I look at you, you fill me with disgust. What are you, after all? About 250 pounds of bone and muscle. Brute force, and what good is that with a mind the size of a pea?”

  Sindermann dropped Connie and charged, arms raised to destroy. Schellenberg pivoted to one side and delivered a left to Sindermann's kidneys as he lurched past. Sindermann fell to one knee, and Schellenberg picked up a chair and smashed it across his back. Then he stood and waited.

  As Sindermann got up and swung a wild punch, Schellenberg sank a left under his ribs, followed by a right hook that landed on the cheek, splitting flesh.

  “I'm afraid I haven't been honest with you, Sturmscharführer. When I was first asked to join the SS, I pointed out that I wasn't a particularly physical specimen. But that didn't matter, my superiors said. It was my intelligence they were after, something you would know nothing about. Learning how to fight is easy, you can teach anyone.”

  He punched Sindermann in the face again and kicked him under the right kneecap. “Especially how to fight dirty.”

  Sindermann went down and stayed on his knees, sobbing. Schellenberg said, “Next time, I kill you. Understand?”

  Sindermann's voice was low, but his reply was quite clear. “Jawohl, Brigadeführer.”

  “Good.” Schellenberg turned to Kleiber. “Get the driver to give you a hand with him to the car and let's get moving. The pilot will be wondering what's happened.”

  Kleiber did as he was told. Billy Joe had Connie in a chair at one of the tables and Harry brought brandy from the bar.

  “He may need a doctor,” Schellenberg said. “He could have cracked a couple of ribs.”

  Billy Joe shook his head. “Man, I can't figure you out, but thanks anyway.”

  Kleiber and the driver had assisted Sindermann out between them, and Schellenberg started toward the door. He paused and turned to face them.

  “Just for the record, a matter of personal interest entirely. She did make it? She is on her way to Lisbon? Am I right?”

  Connie opened his mouth and said hoarsely, “General, why don't you …”

  Schellenberg smiled. “Thank you, Mister Jones, for answering my question.”

  The door closed softly behind him.

  9

  The Duke of Windsor had been closeted with the British Ambassador, Sir Walford Selby, for more than an hour, and the Duchess was in the lower garden cutting roses when he found her. She knew that telegrams had been flying back and forth between her husband and Winston Churchill for some days now. He had even sent Major Gray Phillips of the Black Watch, who had been acting as their household comptroller, to London to speak personally for him to the Prime Minister, in the hope that a more important post might be found.

  “How did it go, David?”

  “Not so good. Winston's latest message seems quite final. So, the Bahamas it is.”

  “I see. Well, if we must go, we must go, I suppose.”

  There was a call and their host, Dr. Ricardo de Espirito Santo é Silva, leaned over the balustrade.

  “Your Royal Highness has a visitor. The Marques de Estella. I've put him in the library.”

  “You go, David,” she said. “I still need a few more flowers. I'll see you on the terrace for tea.”

  She sat beside the pool for almost an hour, and there was still no sign of the Duke and Primo de Rivera. Finally, she heard voices in the courtyard at the other end of the terrace. When she went and looked over she was just in time to see De Rivera getting into his car. The Duke waved goodbye and came up the steps.

  “What happened?” she demanded.

  “Oh, he has some evening function at the Spanish Embassy tonight. Had to get off. Sent his apologies.” They walked along the terrace, his arm around her shoulder. “You know, Wallis, this whole business is beginning to assume rather farcical elements.”

  As they sat down a manservant brought fresh tea. “What do you mean?”

  “I hear from De Rivera that the wicked British Secret Service would like to get their hands on me, according to Madrid society gossip at the moment.”

  “Oh, David, what nonsense.”

  “Well, the logic behind it is really quite simple. It's common knowledge I'm not too happy about the Bahamas appointment, and many people seem to think it a distinct possibility that I might refuse to go. Stay here in Portugal or Spain instead. Now, that wouldn't look too good from the British government's point of view.”

  “So they send the Secret Service to drag you off to the Bahamas by the scruff of the neck? How absurd.”

  “De Rivera seemed more concerned about the possibility that I wouldn't get there at all. Over the rail one dark night and so on.”

  “That's terrible. How could he think such a thing?”

  “Now, Wallis, you must admit I've been a considerable nuisance in certain people's eyes for quite some time now.” He was teasing her and she knew it.

  “I don't like it, David, this sort of talk. It isn't funny, not after France. I'll never forget that.” She shivered. “I'm not even sure that I like this place any more. Too many policemen around.”

  “Well, we're going to change all that. You shall have an outing. A day in the country. De Rivera has a friend who owns a bull farm. You know what I mean? Fighting bulls for the ring. He says they'll stage a couple of fights for us and we can look the place over, have a picnic. That sort of thing. How does it sound to you?”

  “Marvelous.”

  “Good.” He smiled. “Let's go in now. Getting a little chilly and I smell rain on the wind.”

  The Police Attache at the German Legation was named Egger and only too happy to assist in any way he was able when Kleiber was introduced to him. “How may I be of service, Sturmbannführer?” “How good are your relations with the police here?” “Excellent,” Egger told him. “There is a considerable amount of political sympathy for the ideals of National Socialism in Portugal at the moment.”

  “There's a possibility that this woman could turn up here in Lisbon at any time. Here's her descripti
on.”

  He pushed a sheet across with a photo of Hannah pinned to it. “Hannah Winter,” Egger said. “What has she done?”

  “Shot three security men dead in Berlin, so we want her very badly indeed.”

  “She is a citizen of the Reich?”

  “Of course,” Kleiber said, “But she's been using an American passport.”

  “That won't do her any good here. Not once I communicate these facts to the Security Police. They mount a guard on all foreign embassies. You must have noticed it on your way in here. If she tries to approach the American Embassy, they'll have her—as soon as I've given them these details, that is.”

  As he reached for the phone, Kleiber said, “By the way, the Duke of Windsor at Estoril. I don't suppose anyone can get in to see him without passing through the Security Police also.”

  “So I understand,” Egger said.

  “Good. My thanks.” Kleiber got up. “I'll see you again, I'm sure, while I'm here.”

  Sindermann was waiting for him in the anteroom. He had a black eye, his right cheek badly swollen and criss-crossed with adhesive where the flesh had split.

  “Is everything in order, Sturmbannführer?”

  “Fine, Gunter. Couldn't be better. The Portuguese Security Police are on the job now. The moment she shows her face, she's ours. Where's the General?”

  “With the Ambassador. They've booked us rooms at a hotel just around the corner that most of the Legation staff use.”

  “Good, then let's go and see what it's like. I'm hungry.”

  Baron Oswald von Hoyningen-Huene, Minister to the German Legation in Lisbon, was a very different man from Von Stohrer, his Madrid counterpart. He was a genuine aristocrat, a man of considerable culture and refinement. He was also, as Schellenberg well knew, no Nazi. In fact, it was a standing joke in the Diplomatic Service that the legation in Lisbon was staffed by a considerable number of people who saw it as an easy jumping-off point to America if the day came when their lack of political conviction caught up with them.

  Huene examined the Führer order which Schellenberg passed to him. “Naturally, I shall give you every assistance I can in this matter, General. The terms of the Führer's letter give me no choice.”

  “Which means that you don't approve of this whole affair,” Schellenberg said.

  Huene sat there, staring at him calmly for a moment. “General Schellenberg, what exactly are you trying to say to me?”

  “That I don't think much of the idea myself. It's nonsense. There, I've said it, Baron. What happens now? Do you pick up the telephone and place a call to Reichsminister Ribbentrop?”

  “No,” Huene said. “What I do is get a bottle of the cognac I keep in the cabinet over there and two glasses and we talk, completely off the record, of course.”

  Schellenberg sampled the cognac. “Excellent; but to the Windsor affair. Do you honestly think the Duke is on our side in the present European situation?”

  “Frankly, no,” said Huene. “Oh, he's not happy about this Bahamas posting they've given him. He'd hoped for more and he's made no secret of the fact and he is, I think, very bitter at what he sees as a continuing vendetta against him by certain elements in British society. He's certainly pro-German, but with his family background one would expect that.”

  “Which is a very different thing from being in favor of National Socialism.”

  “Exactly.” Huene shook his head. “No, if Ribbentrop and the Führer think differently, then they're much mistaken.” He poured Schellenberg another cognac. “So—where does that leave you, General? With only one choice, as I see it.”

  “Abduction?” Schellenberg shook his head. “I don't think so. In my opinion, there would be nothing to be gained by such an action and it would be greatly to our discredit internationally. If I am wrong; if the Duke indicates a desire to go to Spain of his own volition, then I shall give him every assistance in the matter. But otherwise …”

  “Good. I'm glad we are in accord on this thing,” Huene said. “I have to work here, remember. It's a constant battle for influence with the Portuguese between us and the British. The abduction of the Duke would hardly redound to our credit, however much the present government is in sympathy with us.” He stood up. “Will you have dinner with me tonight?”

  “Another time, if I may,” Schellenberg said. “I've people to see. Old friends. What about accommodations?”

  “There's a place around the corner where many of the staff live permanently. Rooms have been booked there for yourself and your two Gestapo associates. I've also provided a car and a driver for your personal use. A Buick.”

  “Frankly, I should prefer somewhere different to stay.”

  “I know a place, not too far away, kept by a Dutch-Jewish family. Quiet and very comfortable and the food is excellent. Duisenberg, the people are called.”

  Schellenberg said, “Then if you'll be kind enough to give them a ring, I'll get the driver to take me there now.”

  Just before the Madrid-Lisbon Express crossed into Portugal at Valencia al Cantara, Hannah threw the Walther pistol out of the toilet window in case of a body search by customs. There was an inspection on the Portuguese side at Marvao. She was carrying only a small suitcase that Connie had given her. He and the boys had filled it with an assortment of towels, toilet articles, and a few items purchased at the station kiosk in Madrid.

  She used the French passport and explained her lack of luggage by telling the customs officer that her theatrical trunk was coming later by freight train. There was no difficulty—no difficulty at all—and she slept for the rest of the journey, arriving in Lisbon later than expected because of a lengthy delay near Ponte de Sor. It was after eight o'clock when she walked out of the station and approached the cab rank.

  At her third attempt, she found a driver who spoke some English. “You know the villa of Dr. Ricardo de Esperito Santo é Silva in Estoril?”

  “Yes, senhorita.”

  “Take me there.”

  God, but she was tired—so very, very tired. She leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes.

  She came awake quite suddenly as the car braked to a halt. They had stopped outside an ironwork gate set in a high wall. A policeman was standing beside it, a carbine over one shoulder, and he sauntered forward and leaned down and spoke to the driver in Portuguese.

  The driver turned. “He'd like to know what you want, senhorita?”

  “To see the Duke of Windsor.”

  “And now your papers.”

  She produced her own passport and passed it across. The policeman took it to the gate and put it through the bars to a sergeant who had emerged from a small lodge. He, too, examined it then went inside. After a few minutes he came out again and passed the passport back through the bars to the first policeman, who returned it to Hannah.

  “Can I go in now?” she demanded eagerly.

  There was a further conversation in Portuguese and the cab driver said, “I'm afraid not, senhorita. They have a special concern for the Duke's safety. No visitors are allowed through without the permission of police headquarters. He has made the necessary telephone call. Now he must wait for a reply.”

  “I see.”

  “Shall I stay, senhorita?”

  “No—I don't think so. I could do with some fresh air.”

  She paid him off and he drove away. Through the trees, she could see lights in the villa and there was the sound of music. She walked some little way up the road, turned, and came back again.

  Just after midnight, it started to rain and the young Portuguese policeman, the one who could speak no English, brought a cape from his sentry box and placed it around her shoulders without a word.

  It was quite cold now and she walked a few paces along the road to keep warm, pausing to look back across the mouth of the Tagus to where the lights of Lisbon gleamed in the distance.

  A long way; not as far as Berlin or Paris, but she was here now, finally, outside the pink stucco villa at Estoril
. The final end of things, more tired than she had ever been in her life before, and suddenly she wanted it to be over.

  She turned and walked back to the policeman. “Please,” she said in English. “How much longer? I've been here almost an hour.”

  Which was foolish because he didn't understand her. At that moment, there was the sound of a car coming up the hill, headlights flashed across the mimosa bushes and a black Mercedes braked to a halt a few yards away.

  Rain swept in across the Tagus and rattled the window of Joe Jackson's apartment as he threw another log on the fire.

  “That's really quite a story. Will you excuse me for a minute? I'll be right back. Help yourself to another drink.”

  She poured a little more brandy into her glass and sat there in front of the fire, nursing the glass between her hands, staring into the flames.

  As he returned, she glanced up. “Do you believe me?”

  “Those guys on the wharf, Kleiber and Sindermann? Let's just say I like you and I don't like them. That's as good a starting point as any. And the Duke of Windsor is up there in Santo é Silva's villa at Estoril. That's a fact.”

  “But we must get to him somehow, don't you see that?” she said urgently. “We can't just stand by and let the Nazis take him. Not you especially. You fought against them in the International Brigade. Connie told me.”

  “He should also have mentioned that these days I'm strictly a neutral, angel. Abyssinia, Spain—other men's wars. I've had a bellyful, believe me. At the moment, I run a nice quiet bar and that's enough.”

  “For a man like you? I don't believe it.” She stood up. “Anyway, if you won't help me, I'll go to the American Embassy or the British.”

  “And get picked up by the Portuguese police trying to get in? They now have an extradition warrant for your arrest for no less than three murders, and the Portuguese government is pursuing a policy of friendly cooperation with Germany at the moment, remember.”