Estocada

  This claim raised a hollow laugh amongst the listening airman and even the Kommandant had the grace to permit himself a smile. Hitler’s plans for the Sudetenland were an open secret. The current upsets, suggested the Kommandant, might be viewed as a rehearsal for the real thing. There followed a base-by-base analysis of the strengths and weaknesses of the Czech Air Force with a reminder that this intelligence must remain strictly confidential.

  The briefing over, Dieter intercepted the Kommandant on his way to the door. Dieter knew that one of the new 109-Es had been made available for Georg’s wedding and that Goering himself had authorised the display as a fitting gift for one of his personal pilots. All Dieter needed now was confirmation that the aircraft was still serviceable.

  ‘Of course.’ The Kommandant paused to look Dieter in the eye. ‘And one day soon you’ll be showing it off over Prague.’

  *

  Tam Moncrieff’s flight landed in Paris shortly after two in the afternoon.

  Stronge had warned him to expect to be met on his arrival but the familiar face beyond the wooden passport control booth came as a surprise. His own departure from Czechoslovakia had been in some haste and he wondered how Ballentyne had managed to respond so quickly to the news from Prague.

  Facilities at the terminal building were surprisingly lavish. A sizeable restaurant adjoined the ticketing desks and Tam eyed the waiters gliding from table to table, realising how hungry he was. Ballentyne guided him towards the doors marked Sortie.

  ‘We’re expecting a car from the BCR,’ he said. ‘Time waits for no man.’

  ‘BCR?’

  ‘It’s an arm of French Intelligence. Good people. And friends of the Czechs.’

  Ballentyne and Tam sat in the back of the big Citroën for the drive into the city centre. Ballentyne, it appeared, had already been talking to Stronge about Tam’s arrest but now he wanted to know more. When Tam mentioned the American Edvard had met at the hotel in Jáchymov, he half-turned in his seat.

  ‘You have a name for this chap?’

  ‘Sadly not.’

  ‘Description?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Pity.’

  By now they were in central Paris. Kiosks selling newspapers had attracted sizeable crowds, and as they approached the Seine Tam spotted the beginnings of what could only be a peace march. The bulk of the demonstrators were middle-aged men. Many of them carried visible injuries, a missing arm, a limp, hideous facial scarring, and Tam began to wonder how any government could reignite an appetite for war after so recent a bloodletting. À bas la guerre! declared one placard. Jamais plus! another.

  BCR headquarters was on the Left Bank, a stone’s throw from Napoleon’s tomb. Ballentyne led the way into the building, pausing at the nondescript reception desk to offer his passport. An aide appeared to take them to a sunny, spacious office on the first floor. Tam sensed real warmth when Ballentyne shook the hand of the official behind the big desk. His name was François Aubert and he was in charge of the BCR’s operations in Central Europe. He and Ballentyne were evidently old friends.

  The Frenchman wanted a full account of the Czechs’ readiness for war. Tam obliged as best he could, pressed by Ballentyne for more details when it came to his visit to the western fortifications. Aubert had a winning courtliness in English and at the mention of Colonel Maček he looked up from the pad on which he was scribbling notes.

  ‘I know this man. He’s the best. The very best. He showed you the photos of his daughters?’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘Charming. Fighters like Maček give patriotism a good name. I dare say he’s out there as we speak, waiting for the Boche. You think he’s got a chance?’

  ‘I think he’ll fight like a lion. To the death if necessary.’

  ‘But you think he’s prepared? You think he’s ready? You think he’ll teach the Germans to watch their manners?’

  ‘I do.’

  Aubert nodded, and then returned to his pad and made another note. After this meeting, he murmured, he was due to brief the Minister for War, who – in turn – would be attending an emergency cabinet meeting called for this afternoon. Politicians, he seemed to imply, were like a certain kind of woman. They needed constant reassurance and in this respect Tam’s report might stiffen their resolve.

  ‘We have one of the biggest armies in the world.’ He glanced across at Ballentyne. ‘All we need to do is use it.’

  Ballentyne nodded. He was looking at Tam.

  ‘Jáchymov?’ he said.

  Tam described his visit to the Hotel Kavalerie and his attempts to trace Edvard Kovač. Mention of Jáchymov had already sparked Aubert’s interest.

  ‘You know about the mine, Monsieur Moncrieff? The mine in Jáchymov? You know about uranium?’

  Tam nodded. He’d picked up the essentials, he said. Nothing more.

  ‘The mine is precious. Precious to the Czechs and precious also to customers who come knocking on their door.’ He reached for his pen again. ‘An American, you say?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You have details? A name, perhaps?’

  ‘Sadly not.’

  ‘I see.’ Aubert checked his watch and then muttered something in French to Ballentyne before getting to his feet. From a filing cabinet beside the door he produced a thick file and returned to the desk. Seconds later, Tam found himself looking at a photo. It showed a smallish man with a greying goatee beard, hurrying across a crowded pavement into what looked like an upmarket hotel. The fur-trimmed coat and silver-topped cane lent him a slightly Edwardian air, a well-heeled refugee from a different epoch, but what concentrated Tam’s attention was the figure beside him.

  ‘That’s Edvard.’ He looked up. ‘Edvard Kovač.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Absolutely certain.’ Tam was still staring at the photo. From God knows where, Edvard had acquired a suit and tie. He looked freshly barbered and was plainly eager to sample whatever lay beyond the revolving door but there was no mistaking the toothy, slightly lopsided grin.

  ‘Where was this taken?’

  ‘New York. Last month. The gentleman with Kovač has been of interest to us for a while. He normally travels under an alias, Seymour Willson, but his real name is Thomas Kreisky. We see a lot of our Mr Kreisky. He has an affection for French ocean liners, in particular the Normandie. Some months he’s back and forth all the time, Le Havre–New York. One of our agents believes he keeps a permanent cabin on board. He also retains a suite at that hotel, the Beresford on Central Park West.’ He tapped the photo. ‘Kovač, as far as we know, was accommodated elsewhere.’

  ‘But why? What was he doing in America?’

  ‘Mr Kreisky shipped him over. We gather he was a prize specimen, much admired in certain circles. To most Americans, Central Europe is as remote as the moon. No one understands it. No one bothers to understand it. Your friend Kovač was invited to change a little of that. That was his purpose. To shine a light into darkness. As you may know, this man is at home in the Czech underground. He speaks their language. He shares many of their ideals. And most importantly he never wants to bend the knee to the Germans. Kovač was brought to New York so Kreisky could share him with his friends, fellow businessmen, fellow investors.’

  ‘To what purpose?’

  ‘To make more money. And to protect their investment.’

  ‘In what?’

  ‘The Jáchymov mine.’

  Kreisky, Aubert said, had organised a syndicate to buy the mine. They’d tabled a lowish offer and were happily anticipating completion on the deal when a counter-bid arrived.

  ‘American?’

  ‘German. And for a great deal more money. Kreisky thought the sum ludicrous. At first he didn’t believe it. The mine owners naturally came back to him. Did he care to increase his initial offer? No, he emphatically didn’t, because a bidding war could end anywhere and recklessness of that type has never been Kreisky’s style.’

  ‘So he conceded? Is that what you’re
telling me? He lost the deal?’

  ‘In a way, yes. In another, no. For dealers like Kreisky there are always options, alternatives, short cuts. American capitalism, Monsieur Moncrieff, is very supple, very fleet of foot. To put it bluntly, money attracts money. The German economy is booming. People at every level have jobs. The country feels prosperous. If you can’t beat them, you join them. And that’s exactly what our Mr Kreisky has done.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘His syndicate has decided to acquire a sizeable stake in their German rival. That way they keep the price of the mine down while still sharing in the profits. Neat, n’est-ce pas?’

  Tam nodded. Neat, indeed. Renata, he thought. Had she ever known any of this? He looked at the photo, tried to imagine Edvard dining with a table of New York bankers.

  ‘Did Kovač know about the deal with the Germans when this was taken?’

  ‘Definitely not. He was there to guarantee the support of his people, his trouble-makers, against the German bid.’

  ‘And did Kreisky’s bid succeed?’

  ‘Of course. Get the offer right and nothing speaks louder than money.’

  ‘And did Kovač know that? Was he aware of the offer?’

  ‘We think not.’

  ‘So what was his purpose in meeting Kreisky? In the hotel? Just a couple of days ago?’

  Aubert smiled, his gaze moving from face to face, enjoying this small moment of drama.

  ‘We think he planned to blow up the quarry operation,’ he said. ‘To spike the German guns.’

  Tam ducked his head. The logic of the deal was all too obvious. Aubert was right. Money nested where money would make more money. It was as simple and elegant and pitiless as that. Naïve, outmanoeuvred, the victim of their own idealism, Edvard and Renata had walked into a trap. Neither Kreisky nor his new German partners could afford to have production disrupted and so these callow Czech patriots had paid the real price with their lives. Renata’s body had already been recovered. Doubtless Edvard’s remains would be next.

  Tam leaned forward, returning the photo to Aubert.

  ‘Dommage,’ he said.

  *

  Dieter took off from Johannesstahl at ten past three. Flying time to the Wansee was barely five minutes and he’d been on the phone to Georg twice in the last hour. The wedding ceremony in the big Catholic church where Beata worshipped every Sunday had gone without a hitch. The guests were gathering in the big garden behind the summer house. The champagne was on ice. The roast suckling pig was attracting a great deal of attention. All Georg wanted now was twenty minutes of Der Kleine’s best. Three fifteen start. Three thirty-five finish. Then, doubtless well-earned, a chance to join the party.

  It was a beautiful day, cloudless, warm, with just a hint of wind from the south-east. Dieter pushed the throttle forward and fed in a bootful of right rudder to keep the little fighter on the runway centre line. Moments later he was airborne, the aircraft silky under his fingertips, the meadows that bordered the airfield disappearing under the nose. At two hundred metres he eased the 109 into a climbing turn, the city centre visible in the distance under a thin blanket of haze. One eye on the compass, he levelled out, searching for the gleam of sunshine on the broadness of the lake.

  Earlier, Georg had laid a series of yellow buoys a hundred metres off the waterside property to mark the display line. Now Dieter would use the line of buoys as a reference point, the stave on which he’d compose and orchestrate the next twenty minutes. Against the sun it was hard to spot them and when they finally appeared, a neat line of six a little to the right, he was too late to dip the nose and make the low run he’d planned to open the display.

  Cursing himself for not taking a wider turn and appoaching with the sun behind him, he climbed again, pouring on the power and rolling at the top of the loop to bring himself in line with the tiny yellow dots within touching distance of the wedding venue. He was diving now, keeping the nose steady as the lakeside property grew bigger by the second. Eighteen months earlier, over Northern Spain, his thumb would have been settling gently on the firing button as he arrowed down on some enemy position. Now he was concentrating fiercely on exactly the moment when he should pull hard on the control column, flatten the angle of approach and then head once again for the blue of the sky above.

  The altimeter was unwinding fast. Watching guests had acquired heads, faces. Hands were raised against the glare of the sun. Someone – Georg? – was circulating with a bottle in one hand and a tray of something delicious in the other. Then came the moment when Dieter hauled back on the control column and his belly threatened to come out of his arse and the world went momentarily grey as the blood drained from his head. In combat, in a manoeuvre this vicious, he’d have left most enemy pilots for dead. In the heat of the chase, they’d miss their one chance of pulling out of the dive. He’d seen it happen a million times. Greed overcame them, and simple bloodlust, and something even more primitive that briefly turned you into a god before gravity intervened and put the record straight.

  He was climbing now, colour returning to his vision, the world acquiring the blues and golds he loved most. A loop, he thought. A loop so perfect, so beautiful, so worthy of the occasion, that Georg would want to preserve it for ever in aspic and serve it to his guests years later when their first child appeared. He kept pulling on the joystick, feeding in the power, waiting for that moment when he was hanging briefly in his harness, the world upside down, then slowly righting itself as he completed the loop and levelled out again. A glance at the altimeter confirmed he’d judged it perfectly. At fifty metres above the blur of water that was the lake he was plumb on the display line. He glanced left as the wedding party flashed by. The men raising glasses. The women madly waving. And Georg, taller than the rest, standing a little to one side, his trusty wingman.

  *

  ‘You were damn good…’

  Dieter had never seen Georg drunk before. His eyes were moist and his handshake was much warmer than usual. The extravagance of the bow owed more to alcohol than anything in the display but Dieter didn’t care.

  He’d made it back from the airfield after leaving the 109 in the capable hands of one of the ground engineers at Johannesstahl and now he was nursing his first glass of champagne. The engineer had extracted a pine frond from a recess in the belly of the aircraft and held it at arm’s length without comment. Dieter had ended the display with a low departing pass over the trees on the other side of the lake and knew that he’d cut it extremely fine. The knowledge, oddly enough, came as something of a comfort. He’d taken a calculated risk without fear of the consequences. And survived.

  ‘She’s lovely.’ Georg again.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Your Japanese friend. Shame about the company she keeps, eh?’

  Dieter had already seen Keiko. She’d arrived with Ribbentrop, and now the pair of them were deep in conversation at the water’s edge. It seemed the presence of the Reichsminister had caused a stir amongst the guests and even now one or two of the men were casting curious looks in his direction. For the second time in less than a week, Keiko was wearing a kimono.

  Dieter asked after Beata. How had she coped at the ceremony? And where was she now?

  Georg lifted another glass of champagne from a passing tray. Beata, he said, had insisted on making her own wedding dress. She was the busiest, cleverest, most talented woman he’d ever met in his life but her mother had sewn her own dress, and so had her grandmother, and both marriages had survived in the rudest of health and so there was absolutely no way Beata was going to trust her wedding gown to anyone else.

  ‘So how did she look?’

  ‘Like an angel, compadre.’ Georg was studying his glass against the glare of the sun. ‘A gift from God.’

  Compadre was an endearment Georg had picked up in Spain. He used it very sparingly.

  ‘You’ve been drinking,’ Dieter said.

  ‘I have.’

  ‘It suits you.’

  Ge
org was grinning. Another first. ‘She’s over there,’ he said. ‘Beside the roses.’

  Dieter followed his pointing finger. He’d met Beata twice since her non-appearance at the restaurant beside the Spree, and both times he’d understood exactly why she and Georg were the perfect match. She was tall, a little on the plain side, with a fall of lank brown hair and a passion for serious conversation that put most men on their guard. According to Georg, she loathed gossip, declined to share intimacies and was always the last to join a drinking song. On the other hand, much to Georg’s astonishment, she had a huge repertoire of jokes, most of them unrepeatable.

  ‘Who’s she talking to?’ Dieter was still watching her.

  Georg tried to focus.

  ‘Sol,’ he said at length. ‘Sol Fiedler.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘Chap from the Institute. Nearly as bright as my wife. Lovely man. We see a lot of him. Come…’

  He led the way across the crowded lawn. At Georg’s insistence, Dieter was still wearing his flying suit. Women wanted to kiss him, to tell him how great he’d been. Men blocked his path, gave him a playful punch on the arm. One of them, a fellow aviator from the Legion, even ruffled his hair. He, too, was drunk.

  ‘Der Kleine,’ he said, ‘once you stole only the women. Now you steal the whole fucking show.’

  Dieter ignored him. The person he wanted to meet was Sol Fiedler. The last time he’d been alone with Beata she’d talked about some of the fellow physicists she was working with. These people, she’d said, had been a pleasure to get to know. Many of them came from humble backgrounds, making their mark by sheer force of intellect, but what defined them as a group was a wit and a civility increasingly hard to find in the rough clamour of Hitler’s Berlin. As one of the few women on the quantum physics group, she made an easy target for certain kinds of men but so far she’d encountered nothing but respect. In short, her colleagues at the Institute were a breed apart. At the time, Dieter had made a mental note of the phrase. ‘A breed apart’ was often code for Jewish.

  At a nod from Beata, Sol Fiedler turned to meet Dieter as he approached. Fiedler was a slight man, probably younger than he looked. In contrast to the dressier guests, he was wearing a pair of flannel trousers and a plain white shirt, open at the neck. His hair was beginning to thin and Dieter detected the flutter of a tiny nerve under one eye. He stood awkwardly, one leg crossed over the other, but what attracted Dieter at once were his hands. They were beautiful hands, long fingers, deeply expressive, and he used them all the time to make a point or shape a thought. The sight of Dieter’s flying suit put a smile on his face. Like a child, he wanted to touch it.