by John Harris
‘What happens when we get there?’ Woodyatt asked sarcastically. ‘Will there be a man with one eye and a parrot on his shoulder?’
‘Yes,’ she snapped. ‘He will be wearing a striped jersey and we will match two halves of a coin.’
Woodyatt glared. ‘Why all this elaborate hide and seek?’
‘He felt he needed protection. He’s an old man.’
‘Ordinary old men don’t need protection.’
She jerked her hand at the newspaper they had bought. It indicated that German soldiers in the Ardennes were gorging themselves on French butter and wine. ‘They do now,’ she snapped.
They found the Rue de Vanves on the map. It was near the Boulevard Pasteur and in the shabbier part of the district. It wasn’t easy getting there because there were a lot of cars heading for the Porte de Versailles and the West. Many of them were laden with luggage and looked top-heavy. In one of them were children with their faces pressed to the window, and a woman weeping.
They found themselves in a drab area and number 81 was an old building where great chunks of plaster had fallen from the walls, revealing ancient red bricks and timbers. The old man who acted as concierge was sitting in the courtyard in the sunshine reading a newspaper as if it were a normal peaceful summer day. When Dominique asked for Montrouge, he jerked a thumb.
‘Top floor. Four flights of stairs. Take a deep breath.’
The top landing was as drab as the rest of the building and, as they knocked on the door, they heard something drop inside the apartment. There was a long silence then they heard bolts being drawn.
As the door opened, Woodyatt found himself finally facing his quarry.
Part Three
One
The apartment beyond the door had the look of all furnished apartments, unloved and colourless with old and shabby furniture and no personal touches whatsoever. The man in the doorway had broad shoulders and was still very upright. His suit was smart and well-pressed. Everything about him said old soldier, though the deep-set eyes were faded and now less deep-set than sunken. He wore a white moustache but, despite the hollow cheeks and temples, Woodyatt felt he could see the man in the pictures he carried – Major General Sir George Redmond, General Georg von Rothügel, Georges Montrouge.
The old man reached out to Dominique and kissed her on both cheeks. ‘My dear,’ he said. ‘You found me.’
He looked at Woodyatt who wondered for a second, as the old man saw his uniform, if there were the minutest flash of fear.
‘And who is this?’ he asked. ‘Don’t tell me you have fallen in love with a British officer. It’s something I would advise against.’
‘I’m too wise to fall in love,’ Dominique said sharply.
‘Nonsense. Who is he?’
‘This is Captain Woodyatt. He’s been trying to contact you.’
‘Why?’ The question came sharply.
Woodyatt drew a deep breath and trotted out the story he had prepared. ‘I understand you were once a French agent, Monsieur.’ It would do for the time being until he could get the old man away from Dominique’s protective influence. ‘It was felt you needed to be got to safety.’
The old man looked at him shrewdly. ‘Why is Britain interested in me? Why not France?’
‘Britain and France are allies. And we have details in Britain, Monsieur, that France doesn’t have.’
Once more there was a flash of concern, then the old man studied him and seemed to dismiss him from his mind. ‘Have you come far?’ he asked Dominique.
‘From Amiens. We were bombed twice and we ran into German tanks.’
The old man clicked his tongue. ‘I can’t imagine what the army’s doing to allow it. You must be tired. You must stay here. There’s a spare bed. Your young man will doubtless be able to sleep on the floor. I’ve slept on the floor many times.’
‘When?’ Woodyatt asked casually. ‘As a soldier?’
If it had been a slip, Montrouge was immediately in command of the situation. ‘All Frenchmen are subject to military service,’ he said. ‘Unlike England which, for some reason, has always been terrified of conscription, France calls up all her young men. Apart from the halt, the blind and the maimed, they are all soldiers at some time in their lives.’
He had spoken in English. It was idiomatic confident English but it was French-accented. He was smiling at Woodyatt almost as though enjoying taunting him. As he turned to Dominique, he switched back to French. This accent, Woodyatt noticed, was harsh. His French was perfect, but was there something behind it? A different root, a British background? Somehow he sounded like a man who was speaking French because he had learned French, not because it was his native tongue.
‘Perhaps you would like a drink?’
He produced a bottle of whisky. As he moved about, his step was an old man’s careful tread and it was impossible to tell whether he were limping or not, and, if so, which leg he favoured. As he handed them their drinks, Woodyatt noticed he hadn’t poured one for himself.
‘Aren’t you having one?’ he asked.
The old man paused. Woodyatt could see a brandy bottle on the sideboard and he waited for him to pour one and reach for the soda. But he shook his head. ‘A little early for me,’ he said. ‘At my age, one learns to be careful.’
‘The Germans seem to be everywhere,’ he went on. ‘They’re rounding up our people like cattle.’
In these surroundings it was hard to think of him as Redmond or von Rothügel. ‘During the last war,’ Woodyatt said, ‘I believe you were a prisoner in Germany.’
Montrouge turned towards him. ‘Yes. I was unlucky.’
‘Where were you?’
‘As far as you can get from the French frontier. I was in Dresden.’
‘Why Dresden?’
Montrouge looked steadily at him and answered as if the question were stupid. ‘Because I was living in Dresden.’
He turned again to Dominique. ‘Do you wish to tidy yourself up? Travelling is very wearing in the heat.’ He gestured. ‘Through there. There are clean towels. I’m very particular.’
He glanced at Woodyatt with narrowed eyes. They were blue, Woodyatt noticed – the right colour. His face, his jaw, his eyes, his ears, all seemed to fit the pictures he carried.
‘You’d better tell me what you want, young man,’ Montrouge said slowly as the door closed behind the girl. ‘Wars always throw up dubious characters who are after something for themselves. Safe jobs. Decorations. Money. Women. Are you pursuing my niece?’
‘No,’ Woodyatt said.
‘She only needs a little encouragement and she would be beautiful. Badly let down some years ago, I believe. It made her a little wary. But, of course, love is all that women think about. It colours the whole of their lives. But she’s intelligent, has a splendid shape and–’
Woodyatt ignored the line of conversation which, he felt sure, was deliberately pursued to distract him. ‘You lived in Germany a long time, Monsieur?’
‘Yes I did.’
‘You speak German?’
‘Excellent German. I also speak excellent English.’
‘What about when you were made a prisoner? Did they interrogate you?’
‘Why should they? I wasn’t important. But, yes, I suppose they did.’ The old man’s eyes glinted. ‘But I told them nothing.’
Was he implying that he had every intention of telling Woodyatt nothing too?
‘You must have met some very interesting people,’ Woodyatt went on. It was like a game of cat and mouse. ‘Germany in those days was very military in inclination.’
‘Oh, yes. Everybody wore a uniform. Even stationmasters. Even students. Germany was a madhouse before 1914.’ The old man laughed. ‘The Kaiser was breathing fire against everybody, especially his uncle, Edward VII. Preussen über alles. They did nothing but talk of war and they had nothing but contempt for every other nation. Yet Prussianism was such a ridiculous system. Everything depended on the Kaiser’s caprices. He liked to
boast he could rely on his troops being where he wanted them when he wanted them and in good order – at any time. Foreign diplomats laughed. They knew commanding officers were always tipped off by the staff so they could set off for their destination before the orders were officially issued.’
‘You saw it all?’
‘I lived with it. The German Empire was vulgar and the Kaiser was silly. With that ridiculous moustache, he looked like a ferret peering over a hedge. Poor Wilhelm. Anywhere else he might have had his leg pulled a little. It would have done him good.’
‘You met him?’
‘A number of times. He was always with the army and often I was, too. I was always with one officer or another. At the Metropole, the Wintergarten. At concerts at the Zoologische Garten. In the Romanische Café on the Kürfurstendamm. Berlin was a very social place and the German officers weren’t half so terrifying as wartime propaganda would have you believe. And they did have a wider education than their British counterparts.’
‘You knew British generals?’
‘For a year or two I ran a language crammer in England for men hoping to get into the military academy.’
The talk was boastful, as though the old man was proud of the people he had known, of his entrée into select circles.
‘But the British were a poor lot in those days,’ he went on. ‘It was considered that you didn’t need brains to be a soldier, just a good family and a figure that looked well in uniform. There were a lot of grey-headed nincompoops about. Haig – very unimaginative. Sir John French – as stupid as one of his horses.’
The old man was still smiling. It irritated Woodyatt and his next question came out more sharply than he’d intended. ‘How did the German staff know the British generals were so unskilled? Did you run a crammer for them, too?’
Woodyatt had allowed himself to be sarcastic but the old man didn’t seem in the slightest perturbed. The smile returned. ‘My language school wasn’t just a backroom affair.’
‘Did you ever meet Alfred Redl, the Chief of Austrian Intelligence? You must have heard of him. He was exposed as a spy for Russia. They blackmailed him into it.’
‘Yes. I heard of him.’
‘Ever meet a man called Redmond?’
Montrouge paused, then his mouth twisted. ‘Yes. I remember him, too.’
‘What was he like?’
‘Brighter than the rest.’
‘He was accused of homosexual acts.’
‘I heard that, too.’
Woodyatt paused. ‘Have you noticed that your name, Montrouge, could be a loose translation of Redmond?’
‘So it could.’
‘There was a German general. Georg von Rothügel. That’s Redmond, too, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose it is.’ Montrouge gave Woodyatt a long cool stare. ‘Are you trying to suggest something, young man?’
‘There’s a strong belief in England that von Rothügel was Redmond, that Redmond faked a suicide in Paris and joined the Germans, who welcomed him with open arms.’
This time the old man laughed outright. ‘Well, they would, wouldn’t they?’
Woodyatt tried another approach. ‘There was one other who committed suicide. Hector MacDonald. He was a major-general, too.’
‘He was a contemporary of Redmond’s.’
‘You know the British army list well.’
‘It’s not very difficult to obtain a copy – even in Germany.’
‘You got to know an awful lot. Surely the German officer hierarchy was one of the most exclusive clubs in society. How did you get into it?’
The old man’s smile came again. ‘I am a remarkable character.’
I bet you are, Woodyatt said to himself. I’ll just bet you are. It was like a fencing bout, with Woodyatt doing all the thrusting and the old man all the parrying.
‘I was always in the centre of things,’ he explained.
‘In Dresden? Dresden’s a long way from Berlin.’
‘There was a good train service.’
‘Why did you come back to France?’
‘I was growing old. I wanted to return to my native country. Why do you ask?’
‘Because,’ Woodyatt said slowly, ‘it’s thought that you were once Georg von Rothügel. And before that Sir George Redmond.’
The old man was silent for a while.
‘That’s a strange thing to say, young man,’ he observed at last. ‘Redmond must have died years ago.’
‘Have you seen an obituary?’
‘Since you ask, no. Why are you so interested in him?’
‘We want him.’
‘We?’
‘British Intelligence.’
‘To put him in the Tower of London?’
‘To protect him. The Germans want him, too. He once told them how British generals thought. Perhaps now he could tell us how the Germans are thinking.’
‘Where did you get the impression I am Redmond?’
‘If you’re not, why are German agents trying to find your address?’
There was a long silence. The news seemed genuinely to have startled the old man. His eyes flickered over Woodyatt’s face as if he were uncertain what to say.
‘If you’re eager to make headway with my niece,’ he said at last, ‘this won’t help.’
He began to laugh at Woodyatt. It seemed artificial and Woodyatt responded angrily. ‘If it’s any interest to you,’ he snapped, ‘your niece doesn’t believe any longer that you’re who you say you are.’
‘You’ve been changing her mind?’
‘Her mind was changed by a man who tortured her to find your address.’
Montrouge clearly didn’t believe him. ‘I don’t see any signs of torture.’
‘That’s because they’re in a place she’s unlikely to show you.’
‘But you saw them?’
His flippant attitude made Woodyatt see red. ‘I saw them because I happened to rescue her,’ he exploded. ‘She’d been tied to a chair, stripped to the waist and burned with cigarettes.’
‘Why didn’t she tell me?’
‘Because she’s suffering a great deal from the fact that she can no longer believe all that you’ve told her.’
Did he see a momentary flicker of concern? Or was it alarm, even fear? ‘It was a man called Wiart. He worked for someone called Zamerski. Do you know anyone of that name?’
‘Of course not. Why should I?’ But there was a hesitation. ‘Are you here to interrogate me?’
‘No. I’m what might be called a brute-force Intelligence officer. There are much cleverer people than I am to take you apart. My job’s simply to deliver you into their hands.’
There was a pause while Montrouge stared coldly at Woodyatt, then he changed the subject abruptly. ‘This Redmond you seek. Surely he’s long since been forgotten. People surely couldn’t care less after forty years. It’s nothing more than an epitaph on an old tomb. Especially when you’re my age.’
‘I’m not your age. Neither are my superiors. For that matter, neither is Hitler.’
Montrouge was again silent for a moment, as if digesting what Woodyatt had said. ‘Do you think this man, this Redmond, will have a crise de conscience?’ he asked eventually. ‘And give himself up to retrieve his honour? Honour is an out-of-date concept. Suppose you find him? What would you do with him?’
Was the old bastard bargaining, Woodyatt wondered. ‘We’d get him out of France,’ he said.
The old man sniffed. ‘With the situation what it is in France, young man,’ he said briskly, ‘I suspect the task might make great demands on you. And then? Is he to be charged under the Official Secrets Act?’
‘I understand everything will be waived, providing he’s prepared to help. A pardon of sorts would be available.’
‘Would it indeed?’
‘It’s believed he knows things that would be of immense value to us.’
‘By whom is it believed?’
‘My superior officer for a start. Man called Pul
linger.’ Montrouge seemed to be staring into the past. ‘There was a man called Pullinger running British Intelligence at the time of the Redmond affair,’ he said. ‘In 1904.’
‘His father. How do you know about him?’
‘The Germans knew exactly who was running what. He wasn’t considered very good.’ The sarcastic smile reappeared. ‘This is all very interesting, but I always thought it wasn’t considered fair play in the British army to deal with spies – that it wasn’t quite cricket.’
‘The Nazis don’t play cricket.’
The old man was again silent for a moment and Woodyatt felt he was weighing up pros and cons. ‘This pardon,’ he said. ‘It would be in return for what exactly?’
‘That doesn’t concern me.’
‘Suppose he didn’t wish to go?’
‘He’d be well advised to.’
‘You’re not suggesting he’d be kept safe in England and given a pension?’
‘Why not?’
‘It would still be imprisonment. Not in a jail, perhaps. He would perhaps even have a house. With chintzes and a photograph of Mother on the sideboard.’ There was a sneer in the voice now. ‘But there would always be a guard in the kitchen.’ He had described Pullinger’s ideas exactly.
The old man switched the conversation again. ‘I’ve heard that General Gamelin has shot himself,’ he said. ‘I’m surprised he managed it. The Germans had a list of British and German generals they could forget as being not very dangerous. Gamelin was one.’
‘You saw the list, I suppose?’
‘Oh, yes. I had many friends on the staff. Had you heard that the government here has issued a decree that all male civilians except the aged and the infirm – which includes me, I assume – must leave Paris at once? They’re taking care there shall be no munition workers for the Germans to recruit when they arrive. Perhaps they’re considering carrying the war to England. Will England resist?’
‘I haven’t the slightest doubt she will.’
‘How the French government expects all males to leave the city I can’t imagine. All cars are being commandeered by the army, the buses are being used to carry refugees and troops, and the trains have stopped running. I asked at the Gare de Lyon.’