Estocada

  The contents of the letter from the nursing home took him by surprise. Instead of a demand for yet more money, Tam found himself looking at a cheque. It was drawn on the account of the nursing home itself and represented repayment in full for his first month’s fees. His father’s account, it appeared, was being settled by a third party. Tam thought at once of Vanessa, his sister, but when he offered his thanks on the phone she denied any knowledge of the payment. There was a vague possibility, she said, that Alec may have put some kind of arrangement in place but he’d been very busy just recently helping host a trade delegation from Germany and in any case he’d never taken much interest in her family’s affairs.

  For several days Tam let the matter rest. He’d never believed in the Good Fairy but just now, with the shoot about to reopen, he was too busy to pay much attention to anything else. Then a telegram arrived. It came from Ballentyne. Regret short notice but would appreciate an hour of your time. Very glad that your father is still in good spirits. There followed a London phone number. Tam stared at the message. The key word was still. These people were in touch with his father. The funds to keep him in good hands must be coming from them.

  And so it proved. Ballentyne appeared the following afternoon in a taxi from Laurencekirk station. For whatever reason, Ballentyne insisted that they talk away from the house and Tam was only too happy to turn his back on yet more painting and take the path that tracked across the estate towards the bareness of the mountains beyond.

  It was July and high summer had settled on the bright yellows of the gorse. The path was steep in places but Ballentyne was a great deal fitter than he looked. Halfway up the mountain was a hollow amongst the rocks, a favourite spot for Tam when he needed to think. It hadn’t rained for nearly a week and the moss was soft and dry underfoot. The view to the south extended for miles across the Dee Valley and in the far distance Tam caught the gleam of sunshine on a bend in the river.

  Ballentyne settled on the moss, his back against a rock. So far, neither men had mentioned the nursing home.

  ‘Your father’s in good hands,’ Ballentyne said. ‘That must come as a bit of a relief.’

  ‘You’ve seen him?’

  ‘Twice. You’ll have met the missionary ladies. Impressive, I must say, and comforting, too. Religion appears to be a blessing in the right hands.’

  ‘So how is he?’

  ‘Mad as a coot… but you’ll know that. They look after him well. You should have no qualms on that score.’

  Tam nodded, said he was grateful.

  ‘I rather assumed you’d finished with me,’ he said carefully.

  ‘Assumed or hoped?’

  ‘Probably both.’

  ‘May I ask why?’

  ‘Because of this,’ Tam nodded at the view. ‘Spend a little time away and you realise what you’re missing.’

  Ballentyne had produced a pipe. He began to stuff it with tobacco from a rubber pouch. Then he fumbled for some matches before gesturing towards a lone deer that had broken cover below.

  ‘You’d prefer all this belonged to Berlin?’

  ‘Of course not. But it can’t be that bad.’

  ‘It is, Tam. In fact, it’s probably worse. Our leaders are trapped on the wrong side of history. They show no signs of understanding the phenomenon that is Hitler. These are people who belong to a different world. In a way it’s not their fault. They think their world is Hitler’s world and they couldn’t be more wrong. We see no prospect that any of this will change. But change it must. Otherwise you won’t be the only one round here speaking German.’ He paused to light his pipe, then looked up. ‘You’re telling me this comes as some kind of surprise?’

  Tam shook his head. In his heart he knew that Ballentyne was right. Listen to Henlein, watch the faces of the crowds in Karlovy Vary, picture the Jew Spielmann with his picture book and his flensing knife, and you realised the sheer reach of the darkness that was beginning to envelop the Continent.

  He lay back in the sunshine, his eyes closed. He loved the sweetness of Ballentyne’s tobacco. His father had once smoked something very similar.

  ‘So what happens next?’ he asked.

  ‘The Germans are working on a plan. Fall Grün.’

  ‘Case Green?’

  ‘Indeed. It’s a blueprint for the invasion of Czechoslovakia. The generals are happy to march in a couple of years’ time, once they’re ready. Hitler thinks September more appropriate or maybe, at the very latest, October. We were right about what happened in May when you were there. It was exploratory, an opening move.’

  ‘Where does this stuff come from?’

  ‘Berlin. Unimpeachable sources.’

  ‘For instance?’

  ‘The generals themselves. They think it’s folly. They think he’s mad. As I believe I explained the last time we met.’ He paused. ‘We need to get you into Germany. There are doors we need to unlock and the key to those doors is Schultz.’

  ‘And me?’

  ‘You’re the key to Schultz. He sends his regards, by the way. Says he’s looking forward to meeting you again.’

  ‘Do I have any choice in this?’

  ‘Of course you do. This is still a free country. Which is rather the point.’

  Ballentyne fell silent, gazing out at the heather. Insects were busy in the no-man’s-land where the rocks were lapped by the softness of the moss. At length Tam said he needed a day or two to make a proper decision.

  ‘Of course. I imagine you must have a great deal to do. We wouldn’t need you for at least a couple of weeks, if that helps.’

  Tam nodded, picking at a scab of yellow lichen on the rock.

  ‘What about my father? If I say no?’

  ‘Then you’ll have to fund his stay yourself.’

  ‘And afterwards? If I say yes?’

  ‘We’ll look after him until…’ he looked briefly pained, ‘… he no longer needs those wonderful ladies. We’ll pay you, of course, in addition to all this, thanks to Oliver’s largesse. It won’t be a fortune but it might be handy nonetheless.’

  Tam smiled to himself. His father held hostage. The promise of extra funds. And that subtle appeal to something he could only describe as patriotism. People like Ballentyne, when required, could be as quietly ruthless as anyone in a Nazi uniform.

  Ballentyne glanced at his watch. If possible, he’d like to catch the 6.15 train back to London. Was there anything else Tam might like to ask?

  ‘You haven’t said what you want me to do. I might be missing something here but that strikes me as important.’

  ‘Of course. A little group of generals have formed. Let’s call it a conspiracy. They have the good of the nation at heart but they need reassurance.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About us. They need someone to tell them we’ll fight. Someone in the position to know. Someone who speaks their language. And someone, ideally, who’s also met the Czechs.’

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘An emissary?’

  ‘Nicely put.’

  ‘And will we fight?’

  ‘Of course.’ Tam felt a reassuring hand on his arm. ‘Anything else is inconceivable.’

  *

  After Ballentyne’s departure, Tam prowled the emptiness of the house, wrestling with the decision he knew he couldn’t duck. Ballentyne’s brief visit had revived his guilt about Renata. Staring out of an upstairs window, he imagined her stepping into view, whole, intact, undamaged, offering him a chance to make things right again. She was standing beside the trellis of roses he’d so recently pruned. She was looking up at him, a smile on her face. This happened often. Sometimes she was with Edvard. Sometimes not. Then, worst of all, she began to appear in his dreams, an accusation more than a presence, and he’d jerk awake in the darkness, one hand glued to the cold metal of the Opel’s boot, terrified that he’d find her inside.

  Tam had never been especially religious. His attendance at the small kirk in the village
had been fitful, duty rather than belief, but he knew his father’s respect for the priest back in the days when the two men would share a glass or two. The priest’s name was MacBraine. Everyone called him Cally.

  He lived in a draughty stone cottage down the lane beyond the kirk. Tam arrived unannounced. Cally tidied the paperwork on his desk and sat him down. He was tall and ageless, and rarely trimmed his beard. He wanted to know about Tam’s father. Tam explained about the nursing home. More guilt.

  ‘You’re here about your father?’

  ‘No. I think I’ve let someone else down, too. Badly.’

  Badly sounded pathetic. The woman had died, for Christ’s sake. Died because he’d taken his eye off the ball. Died because he should have understood about her and Edvard. Died because he should have gone with her to wherever she was going. Died because he hadn’t cared enough.

  Tam had disguised the real circumstances. He didn’t mention Czechoslovakia or the Sudetenland or the way this friend of his had met her death. Only the fact that he was complicit. All he wanted from this man was a clue about what he should do next. Guilt exacted a savage price. It pestered him night and day. He wanted, needed, to get rid of it.

  ‘By changing the past? By pretending it never happened? You can’t do that, laddie. What’s done is done. Every decision has a consequence. Live with it. Understand it.’

  Every decision has a consequence. Indeed.

  ‘I want a second chance.’

  ‘To redeem yourself?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then take it. Do it.’

  ‘As simple as that?’

  ‘Not at all, laddie. Nothing is ever simple. Simplicity is a joke dreamed up by the devil.’ He leaned forward, taking Tam’s hand. ‘When you were young, out every day, out on your own, your father was very proud of you. You know what he told me once? Of course you don’t. He told me that you were the bravest wee boy he’d ever had the privilege of knowing. Some days he couldn’t believe you were his son, that he’d fathered a giant like this. That was his phrase, the very word he used. A giant.’ He paused, then gestured towards the paperwork piled on his desk. ‘Give thanks to God you don’t have to deal with all this nonsense. In your heart you know what to do.’

  Tam stared at him. He’d come for advice, maybe a little comfort. Not this.

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘It is, laddie. You need to set the record straight.’ He smiled, getting to his feet. Then he stepped around the desk and extended a hand. ‘Good hunting.’

  Tam walked the mile and a half back to The Glebe House. From the lawn at the rear of the property the swell of the Cairngorms was framed by a huge elm. He’d always loved this view and when his mother was alive, and the weather was clement, she’d sometimes take afternoon tea here. Now Tam gazed at the browns and greens of the mountains shadowed by the racing clouds. Barely hours ago he’d been up there with Ballentyne. He could feel the soft mattress of the heather, smell the sweetness of the man’s tobacco. Every decision has a consequence, the priest had said. And he was right.

  Tam lingered for a moment longer, before returning to the house. The telephone was in the hall. He’d taken the precaution of memorising Ballentyne’s number and he waited an age for the operator to get through.

  Finally Ballentyne was on the line. Tam bent to the phone.

  ‘It’s me,’ he said briefly. ‘The answer’s yes.’

  *

  In Berlin, in late May, Dieter Merz and Keiko Ayama had to surrender the apartment off Friedrichstrasse. With the help of the Ministry of Aviation, Dieter found alternative lodgings in a recently converted stable out near Potsdam. The stable lay behind a grand house that had once belonged to a Prussian nobleman. It was quiet and spacious and there was plenty of scope in the nearby woods for Dieter to run. Running, he knew, would be the real test of his injury. He was cautious at first, a gentle jog, alert for the slightest twinge, but as the days went past he picked up speed and pushed himself harder and harder until he was doing the kind of distances he’d managed in Spain.

  Dieter was still under the supervision of a neurologist in the big military hospital that served the Luftwaffe and when he presented himself for the next of his periodic check-ups, the medic was astonished at his progress. He took Dieter through a series of exercises and then shook the post-operative X-rays from an envelope and held them up against the light. Dieter followed his finger as it darted around the bones at the bottom of his spine. The surgeon, he said, had done a fine job but even so Dieter had no right to be pain-free. It was, he concluded, a miracle. Dieter was tempted to tell him about the reiki, about the long evenings of surrender to his favourite therapist, but knew the relationship was beyond explanation. A miracle indeed, he agreed.

  By now, Dieter was display-flying twice and sometimes three times a week. Word that he was to star in a programme that included a strapping wing walker called Brunhilda, plus three of the new Stuka dive bombers, spread quickly to every corner of the Reich. By early July, the holidays were fast approaching and the crowds grew and grew with families – especially the men and the young kids – eager to see what the heavily publicised Bf-109-E could do.

  With the help of colleagues he respected, many of them Legion pilots with hundreds of hours combat time in Spain, Dieter developed a display that could showcase the little fighter, and more recently he’d tempted Georg back into the seat of a sister 109-E. Together, at weekends, they engaged in mock dogfights over enraptured crowds with Dieter always guaranteed victory. Special smoke canisters signalled a lethal hit and Georg began to excel at dead-stick landings, nursing the wounded fighter back to mother Earth as the prop windmilled and the sea of upturned faces held their breath.

  Goebbels had long recognised the public hunger for authentic Reich heroes and in the shape of Der Kleine and his lanky, unsmiling wingman he’d found the perfect example. One of the Ministry’s propaganda film units put together a thirty-minute profile of the two aviators, drawing on their shared experience of combat over Northern Spain. The movie went into cinemas all over the Reich, and to Beata’s amusement her new husband became something of a film star.

  Crowds at the flying displays grew and grew, especially at weekends, and Goering began to recognise that some of this celebrity would do the Nazi leadership no harm at all. The presence of Georg at some godforsaken airfield, ferrying his charges to a rally or a military parade, was attracting a bigger crowd than usual, but it was Ribbentrop who made the obvious suggestion. Star of the show was Dieter Merz. Why not enlist him in the Führer’s special squadron?

  Dieter was the first to point out once again that he’d need special training to join the Regierungsstaffel. He’d always flown single-seat fighters. That was his speciality, his trade. Piloting one of the bigger transports required expertise he didn’t have. Map-reading. Navigation. Night-flying. Multi-engine operations. It had taken Georg more than a year to master all these skills. When – between flying displays – was he supposed to find the time for all this extra tuition?

  Goering ignored these pleas. He knew that Ribbentrop was receiving intermittent treatment from Merz’s Japanese girlfriend. Like others at the top of the Reich, he resented the way that the Reichsminister still had the ear of Hitler. Any chance to disrupt that relationship, to expose Ribbentrop for the bloated fool he’d always been, might be gold dust in the months to come as Hitler plunged ever closer to involving Germany in a war she couldn’t win.

  At Goering’s request, Abwehr agents had planted microphones in Dieter Merz’s converted stable in the search for confidences Ribbentrop might have shared with his reiki therapist. Goering had briefly listened to a handful of the recordings but so far Keiko hadn’t said a word about her new patient. In the upper reaches of the Abwehr, Dieter Merz was already known as the luckiest man on God’s earth, a tribute to Keiko’s many talents, and so Goering wanted the young aviator exactly where he could keep an eye on him. No better a career move than joining Georg on the Führer’s Regieru
ngsstaffel.

  Dieter battled against the posting but this, as he knew only too well, was one dogfight he’d never win. It was Georg who handed him the training schedule he’d have to accept over the coming months. When Dieter shook his head, said the whole thing was impossible, Georg pointed out that the display season would soon be coming to an end. With the onset of autumn and winter, Dieter would have more than enough time on his hands. Either he joined the Regierungsstaffel or he might end up back with an operational squadron, marking time in some godforsaken corner of the Reich. Did he really want that?

  They were drinking coffee at an airfield outside Munich. The display over, the weekend crowds were filing past the window of the squadron mess.

  ‘There’s a war coming,’ Dieter pointed out. ‘You know there is.’

  ‘Wrong.’

  ‘Who says?’

  ‘Goering. I fly these people. I know what they’re thinking. No war. Not until we’re ready.’

  ‘And Hitler?’ Georg shook his head, wouldn’t be drawn. ‘Well? Isn’t he the guy in charge? Or am I missing something here?’

  ‘Of course he’s in charge.’

  ‘Then it’s his decision. His call. We jump on the Czechs.’ Dieter shrugged. ‘And the game’s over.’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’ Dieter was frowning now. ‘Unless you’re telling me different.’

  16

  BERLIN, 27 AUGUST 1938

  Tam Moncrieff flew to Berlin on the day that London was again alive with rumours about a coming war. Hitler had recently called up three quarters of a million men. Chamberlain had despatched an envoy to talk sense into the Czechs. And now the Chancellor of the Exchequer, no less, had warned about the possibility of imminent hostilities.