Estocada

by Graham Hurley

  ‘Komm,’ she squealed. ‘Komm mit mir.’

  Taken hostage, Keiko disappeared. Adolf was still gazing up at Dieter.

  ‘Can you come upstairs?’ he asked. ‘To my bedroom?’

  His mother had been called to the phone. Dieter waited for her to finish. He needed to consult about this pressing invitation. Annalies enquired how much patience Dieter had. Reassured that patience and Dieter were best friends, she wished him luck. Adolf, she said, was obsessed by aeroplanes. Be firm if he gets too excited.

  The child’s bedroom was on the first floor, an L-shaped space with a view over the swimming pool at the rear of the property. Wooden models of planes, exquisitely painted, hung on threads of cotton from the ceiling and there were more aircraft, metal this time, carefully arranged on a sheet of brown paper on the floor. The paper had been crayoned with runways and space for a control tower, part of this child’s fantasy world, but pride of place belonged to a Ju-52 parked on the low table beside the bed. Adolf was already sprawled beside his model aerodrome, tenderly fingering one of the new Stukas.

  Dieter squatted beside the Ju-52. The ribbed metal fuselage carried a name. Wilhelm Siegert. Dieter recognised the name. Siegert had been an ace during the Great War.

  ‘That’s my daddy’s aeroplane.’ The child was gazing at it.

  ‘You’ve been inside?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Flying?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Have you ever been flying?’

  ‘No. What’s it like?’

  Dieter smiled at the question. If he got the answer right it would explain a very great deal.

  ‘What does your daddy say?’

  ‘He says it’s noisy.’

  ‘He’s right. It is. What else does he say?’

  ‘Papa says it’s very quick. He says you can get to England in less than three hours.’ He frowned. ‘What’s England?’

  Another good question. Dieter’s gaze drifted to a framed photograph on the chest of drawers showing Ribbentrop in full dress diplomatic uniform in a gathering of notables, similarly attired. One of them, he suspected, was the English king who’d fallen in love with an American and lost his throne.

  ‘That’s England.’ He nodded at the photo.

  ‘No,’ the boy shook his head. ‘That’s my daddy.’

  Dieter tried to explain but Adolf had lost interest. He wanted to know what kind of aeroplane his new friend flew. Dieter glanced at the metal models on the makeshift airfield.

  ‘This one.’ He picked up a Bf-109. ‘It’s called a fighter.’ He performed a loop or two, the fuselage lightly grasped between his finger and thumb. The boy watched him, entranced.

  ‘Again,’ he said. ‘Do it again.’

  Dieter stood up this time, starting by the door. Thanks to Georg, he’d taken up one of the new ‘Emils’ only yesterday, flying from the research field out at Johannisthal. One of the test pilots had briefed him on the differences he should expect from the uprated engine and had asked him about Spain. Dieter had been happy to talk about the tactics they’d learned to expect from the Russian pilots, and how more speed and more agility could only make life even tougher for the Ivans. The 109 he was flying had a full tank of fuel and he’d been able to spend more than an hour in the air, pushing the machine – and himself – to the limits. To his intense relief, the confidence he’d once taken for granted – that feeling of total command – hadn’t deserted him, and the neatness of his landing on the shorter of the two runways had won a pumping handshake from the watching test pilot when he climbed down from the cockpit. Even his lower back, he realised later, had been free of pain.

  Now, easing the toy fighter up from the carpet, he tried to share some of that same flight with young Adolf. The battle to keep the 109 straight on take-off. The feeling of raw power when he climbed away from the airfield. And the moment when he half-rolled off the top of a loop and came screaming down towards the big hangar where he knew the test pilot and a small gaggle of others were watching. He’d made a low pass at no more than twenty metres, half an eye on the speed indicator, judging the moment when he’d have to pull up to clear the swelling bulk of the biggest hangar. In the dive he’d reached 710 kph which was faster than he’d ever managed before and even 600 kph straight and level would have been inconceivable in Spain.

  Adolf wanted to know whether Dieter had killed people.

  ‘Fighting, you mean? In the air? In combat?’

  ‘Yes.’ He tried to mime the chatter of a machine gun but the rat-tat-tat got stuck in his throat. ‘Other planes. Baddie planes. Not our planes.’

  Dieter nodded. He’d shot down lots of those baddie planes.

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Lots.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Twenty-seven.’

  ‘Twenty-seven?’ The boy clapped his tiny hands, and then seized another of the little models. It happened to be an He-51, the sturdy biplane that had been a mainstay of the Condor Legion. ‘I’m a baddie. Shoot me down.’

  Dieter studied him a moment, wondering quite how far he should allow this game to go, and then he began to explain the moves young Adolf should make as Dieter’s 109 crept ever closer. Drop a wing. Look for cover down there, towards the nest of shoes. Push the plane harder. Climb. Roll. Pretend you’re a fish. Wriggle free. The boy loved the charade, breathless with excitement, trying to kick Dieter with his bare feet when he got too close, but then the end came, all too sudden, when Dieter out-turned him by the wardrobe and shot him down.

  ‘It’s over?’ The boy was staring at Dieter. He was close to tears. ‘I’m dead?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘But how did you do that? What’s it called?’

  Dieter smiled at him, extended a hand, promised a rematch any time he wanted, but the boy wasn’t listening. He still demanded an explanation. How come it was over so suddenly? What was the trick Dieter had pulled?

  Dieter couldn’t come up with an answer. Then he remembered the word he’d learned with Georg in Spain: the matador in the bullring, the glint of light on the plunging blade, and then the wounded animal on its knees, the sand pink with blood.

  ‘Estocada,’ he said. ‘It’s called estocada.’

  The boy was staring at him. He liked the word.

  ‘Es-to-ca-da,’ he repeated carefully.

  They had another dogfight and this time Dieter was careful to let the child win, but Adolf knew he wasn’t really trying. He landed his own plane back on the pretend airfield and headed for the door. His big brother was downstairs. His big brother knew everything. He’d even flown in Papa’s plane. Let’s see what Dieter could do against Rudolf.

  Dieter listened to the footsteps running along the landing and back towards the head of the stairs. From the window, he gazed down at the swimming pool, wondering whether the water was heated or not. Then two figures came into view, walking slowly side by side. One of them was Keiko. She was laughing. The other was Ribbentrop, young Adolf’s papa. He was wearing a grey business suit with a party badge in the lapel but it was recognisably the same figure who featured in the framed photo on the child’s chest of drawers: the trademark stiffness, the same slight bend of the upper body, the same stern frown, his hands clasped behind his back.

  Beside the pool, the two figures stopped. Ribbentrop seemed to be explaining something about the way it worked, pointing at a grille at the further end. Then he turned back to Keiko and reached for the kanzash she’d pinned to her head. It was a delicate gesture for a big man, full of wonderment, and in that brief moment Dieter realised that Ribbentrop, too, was helpless in the presence of this woman. She’d taken a tiny step backwards. She’d splayed the fan. She’d turned her face away. But then came the sound of laughter again from the side of the pool, the pair of them sharing a joke, two voices, impossibly in tune.

  Young Adolf had returned. His elder brother, it seemed, had no time for kids’ games. The child picked up the 109 and began to fly it round the room. S
till beside the window, Dieter was aware of his presence but couldn’t take his eyes off the couple by the pool. They were on the move again, Ribbentrop pointing to a summer house at the far end of the garden. Keiko, hanging on his every word, fell into step beside him.

  They crossed the lawn, more laughter, and then Ribbentrop paused to stoop to the flower bed that edged the summer house. The roses were in their prime, the deepest shade of red, and the big man’s fingers brushed bloom after bloom before making his selection. He presented it to Keiko with a smile and a courtly bow. She studied it a moment, holding it delicately between her long fingers, and then lifted it to her nose. Whatever she murmured appeared to delight her companion. Ribbentrop whispered something in her ear and then produced a key to the summer house. Moments later, they were gone.

  Adolf had joined Dieter at the window. He, too, was staring at the summer house.

  ‘That’s Papa’s special place,’ he said in wonderment. ‘No one goes in but him.’

  10

  PRAGUE, 16 MAY 1938

  The British military attaché in Prague occupied a cubbyhole of an office on the second floor of the embassy in the area of the Old Town that dropped down towards the river and the Charles Bridge. Harold Stronge was a soldier’s soldier, terse, businesslike, a man for whom real life held few surprises. When he closed the door and wedged himself back behind the tiny desk, Tam caught a hint of weariness in his voice.

  ‘On the small side, I know. It doesn’t impress our Czech friends either.’

  Ballentyne had set up the meeting and Tam knew at once that the presence of someone from the shadowy world of Intelligence in this city was far from welcome. On the other hand, Stronge appeared to have been briefed about Tam’s pedigree.

  ‘How well do you know these people? Sanderson? Ballentyne? All those chums of theirs?’

  ‘Scarcely at all.’

  ‘They tell you much? About their little set-up?’

  ‘Barely anything.’

  ‘I’m not surprised. These people operate in the dark, write their own rules, help themselves to whatever they choose. When it suits them, they keep their heads down, claim all kinds of immunity. God knows, medals are in short supply just now but if things ever brighten up I’m sure they’ll be first in the queue at the bloody Palace.’

  He enquired, by name, about a couple of officers in the Royal Marines. Tam, who knew both men well, realised he was being put to the test. After several minutes of conversation, with Tam doing most of the talking, Stronge seemed to relax. His attitude to Tam had visibly softened. If anything he seemed saddened that a man with a decent military background should have fallen into such poor company.

  ‘Did your keepers tell you about Maček?’ Maček was the Czech Colonel assigned to liaise with the Western Armies. He spoke both English and French and could, according to Stronge, expect to be seriously disappointed in either language.

  ‘Nice chap, though. Seriously good egg. Something of a realist, too, and in these parts that can be rare. I’m afraid the best we can do for him just now is play the gentleman by not promising too much. Are you getting my drift?’

  ‘I’ve got nothing to promise,’ Tam said. ‘I’m here to take a look, see what these good folk are up to, then report back. Anything else is beyond my pay grade.’ It was a small lie, and Stronge knew it.

  ‘Anyone tell you about their kit? Our Czech friends?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘It’s first class. Better, to be frank, than most of ours. Tanks, artillery, aircraft… they make this stuff themselves and they do it well. They’re also bloody motivated, which is another advantage. This is a rough neighbourhood. It pays to look after yourself.’

  Tomorrow, he said, he and Tam were due to join Maček for a tour of the western fortifications. Stronge had yet to visit the sensitive areas up on the border but he knew that the Czechs were putting a lot of effort into keeping the Germans at arm’s length.

  ‘My spies tell me you’ve been in the Sudetenland.’

  Tam detected just the hint of a smile.

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Karlovy Vary. Henlein. All that lunatic company he keeps.’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘So what did you make of them?’

  Tam took his time in answering. Already, after barely a week, that first evening in Karlovy Vary seemed to belong to another life. Since then, thanks to Renata and Edvard, he’d met countless men and women, most of them appalled by where the Sudeten push for independence might leave the rest of Czechoslovakia.

  ‘These are people who want to fight,’ he said carefully.

  ‘Happy to fight?’

  ‘Not at all. Far from it. Need to fight would be closest. They understand the Germans and they’re not fooled.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning they take Hitler at his word. He wants their country. He’s said so. He thinks it’s his due. Which leaves them no choice but to say no.’

  ‘By resisting.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘With whose help?’

  ‘Ours. And the French.’

  ‘And you really think that will happen?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. But I somehow doubt it.’

  ‘And they share that feeling?’

  ‘Yes. That’s what disturbs me most. They’re aware of the treaties, the pledges, the words on paper. If it comes to a fight, a real fight, they know they’ll need us. I just hope we turn up.’

  Stronge nodded, saying nothing. There might have been that same faint smile back on his face but Tam couldn’t be certain.

  ‘Interesting,’ Stronge said at length.

  ‘Interesting how, Colonel?’

  ‘Interesting how quickly we exceed our briefs. By your own account you came here to compile a report. Yet already you’re offering an opinion. Do I blame you? Not in the least. Do I think you’re right? As it happens, I do. These are decent people, most of them. They deserve our support. But do you think either you or I will make a ha’pence of difference?’ He shook his head. ‘Sadly not.’

  *

  Tam spent the evening with Renata in a bar across the river. By now he knew he’d been right about what had really brought her back to Central Europe. She and Edvard had been close for years and now that closeness had matured into something deeper. This was a man, she said, who enabled her to live with her conscience. Edvard had known her husband longer than she. He knew Karyl like a brother. And that was important because, like Renata herself, he’d suspected for years that his drinking was turning him into someone else, and that there was no way back.

  ‘You have a conscience about Karyl?’

  ‘Of course. I keep it in here.’ She tapped her head. ‘Maybe I’m fooling myself. Maybe it’s just an excuse. But it’s easier to betray a stranger than a friend.’

  ‘A stranger? Karyl? Is it that bad?’

  ‘Worse. One day I realised I didn’t even like him any more. He never beat me. He never even threatened me. He just became a sad old man. He smells, too.’

  ‘And Edvard?’

  ‘Edvard never gives in. And Edvard is an optimist. Two reasons why Karyl always told me he was crazy. So maybe Edvard’s not so crazy. Not once you get to know him. Rare? Yes. But not crazy.’

  She seemed happy with the thought, ducking her head to mask a grin. Then her head came up again. She wanted to know about Tam. Did he have a wife? Children? This was the first indication that she had any interest in his private life and Tam didn’t know whether to be flattered.

  ‘Neither,’ he said. ‘I have a father who’s lost his mind and a business that’s doing its best to make me as crazy as he is.’

  He told her a little about The Glebe House, and his mother’s dying wish that he should try and make the place pay. To date, bookings had exceeded his expectations but he’d never underestimate the challenge of turning a profit. To his surprise, she seemed genuinely interested.

  ‘So tell me about Scotland. What’s it like?’
/>   ‘Empty.’

  ‘And you like that?’

  ‘Very much. That’s where I grew up. You learn to fend for yourself. Maybe that’s why I never settled down. I like my own company too much. Or maybe I’m just scared of taking the risk.’

  ‘The risk is everything. Get it wrong and it can be horrible. Get it right and you’re the happiest person in the world.’

  ‘And you and Edvard?’

  ‘We’ve got it right.’

  Tam nodded, said nothing. Edvard had been due to meet them at the bar around eight. It was already close to ten.

  ‘So where is he?’ Tam asked at last.

  ‘I don’t know. He was in Jáchymov this afternoon. It’s only a couple of hours away. He should be here by now.’

  Jáchymov was in the Sudetenland, Karyl’s home town. Tam remembered the poster over the bed in the Jaywick chalet. Edvard, according to Renata, also came from the area, back in the days when his father was still farming.

  ‘So what’s so important that takes him back to Jáchymov?’

  ‘You want the truth? It’s difficult. It’s complicated. Maybe it’s best we,’ she shrugged, ‘talk about something else.’

  Tam held her gaze. She wanted to tell him more, he knew she did. Already he felt a duty of care towards her. If he ever got married and had a daughter, he hoped she’d turn out to be someone like this.

  ‘You know what Edvard’s doing in Jáchymov?’

  ‘Of course. He tells me everything.’ She stole a look around the bar. At this time of night, it was beginning to empty.

  ‘You want another drink?’ Tam nodded at her glass.

  ‘No.’ She beckoned him closer. ‘You know about Jáchymov? About the quarries?’

  ‘No.’

  His reply appeared to confuse her. She checked again. When he shook his head for a second time she seemed to believe him.

  ‘The rocks there are radioactive,’ she said. ‘Many of the men get sick. Some of them die. One time they tried to make a business out of it, radioactive soaps, wristwatches that glow in the dark, but that’s all stopped. Edvard worked there for a couple of weeks but some of the older men frightened him with their stories. Breathe the dust and you’ll never make fifty. That’s what they told him. And that’s why he went to the railway.’