Estocada

  ‘Why do you want to know?’

  ‘Because you interest me. That doesn’t happen as often as it should. Grateful is a word I’ve never had much time for but just now it sounds about right.’

  ‘Grateful for what?’

  ‘For you. For this. People tell me I’m the luckiest girl in the world. Travel. Foreign cities. An interesting job. Believe me, it doesn’t always feel so wonderful.’

  ‘Nothing does. Life deals you a hand. You play it the best way you can. We had an instructor once, back in the Corps. You’re expecting thirty hard miles. It’s raining. Everything hurts. The hills get steeper and steeper. Then night falls and you know that’s where the real pain begins. The next step, he always said. That’s the one that counts. The next step. Just do it. Just get through it. Because one day it will stop.’

  ‘For a while.’

  ‘Of course. Otherwise you’re probably dead.’

  ‘Like your Renata?’

  ‘She wasn’t my Renata. As a matter of fact she was Edvard’s Renata. Which makes me twice as guilty. If I hadn’t let her down, if I’d been a bit smarter, she’d still be alive. And if I’d never touched Kreisky, then Edvard would still be tucked up in his little cell in Karlovy Vary.’

  ‘What if it was you they arrested?’

  ‘Then at least we’d still be talking about justice.’

  ‘So are you going to phone someone? My Kripo friend? Tell her you did it?’

  ‘Of course not. And you know why? Because it wouldn’t make the slightest difference. These people live in a world of their own making. A man is beaten in a park. He dies. The question isn’t who did it, the question is how best we take advantage. The truth doesn’t matter any more. The truth is for the little people. The bigger the lie, the better they like it.’

  Bella mimed applause. Tam stared at her.

  ‘You think I’m naive?’

  ‘I think you’re honest. In this city that can be the same thing.’

  ‘So you think I should get on that plane tomorrow? Go back to England? To Scotland? Tell our people I’ve had enough? Try and forget any of this happened? Is that what I should do?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because otherwise you’re going to get hurt. And that’s if you’re lucky.’ She checked whether the restaurant was still empty, and then leaned forward. ‘As it happens I know why you’re here. Oliver told me. If you want the truth, I had a hand in setting this whole thing up. Schultz. Beck. Half a dozen others. They’re in it up to their necks. They’re brave and they’re sincere, and they might even be honest. They’ll still take the Czechs when it suits them but that time’s not quite now and so we owe them our support. The politicians won’t do it. Not Halifax. Not Chamberlain. Not the people at the top of government. But there are others at the margins and if you’re passionate enough you might just make a difference. That’s why Schultz is sending you back. And that’s why we’re sitting here.’

  ‘You know Schultz?’

  ‘Of course I know Schultz. I was the man’s first point of contact. He’s an old bruiser and you wouldn’t show him to your maiden aunt but he tells a good story.’

  Tam sat back. He was trying to get his bearings.

  ‘So if you know so much, how come you didn’t know about me in the Sudetenland? About Edvard? Renata?’

  ‘Because none of that was my business. They tell me what I need to know. Not a Pfennig more. I’m on the ground here. That’s my job. I’m close to the likes of Schultz. I report back to my father. He talks to Uncle Andrew and doubtless one or two other folk. They put my tiny part of the jigsaw with all the other bits and in no time at all I’m opening my office door to this tall stranger with a wonderful Scots accent who plans to settle his scores with an American banker. The latter, to be frank, we could have done without but at least you’re still alive.’ She smiled at him. ‘Does that help?’

  The food arrived, plates of lukewarm goulash from a kitchen that had closed half an hour ago. Tam took a forkful and pushed his plate aside. The taste of paprika on his tongue took him back to the evening in Karlovy Vary when he’d first met Edvard’s mother. Renata had been alive then. Another life.

  ‘So you think I should creep back to Scotland? Stay there? Shut my door on the world? Have I got that right?’

  ‘I think that’s what you ought to do, yes. Under the circumstances that would be more than sensible.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘That won’t happen. You know it and I know it. And you know something else? That makes me very happy.’

  *

  Hours later, in the middle of the night, Tam awoke to find Bella hanging over him. They’d gone to sleep without making love, arms wrapped round each other, comfort rather than sex. Now she dipped her head and kissed him.

  ‘You’re beautiful,’ she said. ‘I just wanted you to know that.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. Take a compliment. It doesn’t happen often.’

  Tam turned his head on the pillow. The curtains were open and he thought he could detect a blush of light in the darkness where the city should be. He thought of Edvard in some cell and of what he must be thinking. Then he remembered Kreisky sprawled on the damp grass, his lifeless body, his ruined face. Nothing connected the two images except Tam’s own complicity. He’d killed one man. And now he was responsible for two more deaths.

  ‘Easy,’ he murmured. ‘So easy.’

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Killing. That’s the real surprise.’

  ‘But you were a soldier. A Marine. A tough guy.’

  ‘I know. It’s inexplicable.’ He peered up at her. ‘You really want me back in Berlin?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You can’t find this somewhere else?’

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘Sex? Company?’

  ‘I can find both. That’s never a problem. What’s different is you.’

  Tam smiled. Pretty, he thought. And immensely beguiling.

  ‘I’d like to believe that,’ he said. ‘I really would.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘I’m not sure I believe anything any more.’

  ‘Do you mean that?’

  ‘Yes.’ Tam found her hand under the sheet. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because of something a good friend once told me. We were up at Oxford. The exams were over. We’d been drinking most of the night.’

  ‘So what did he say? This friend?’

  ‘He said everyone had to have something they totally believed in. It could be religion. It could be some other calling. It might even be another human being. But without it – without that total commitment, that total otherness – you were lost.’

  ‘That total otherness?’

  ‘That’s the way he put it. It’s a kind of surrender. You have to give up part of yourself.’

  ‘And was he right? Did you believe him? Have you done it?’

  ‘Yes, I have.’ She was smiling now. ‘Hard? God, yes. Something I’d ever regret?’ She kissed his hand. ‘Never.’

  Tam was tempted to enquire further but sensed this wasn’t the time. After a while, Bella stirred. Her face was very close in the darkness.

  ‘So what do we do?’ she said.

  22

  LONDON, 1 SEPTEMBER 1938

  Ballentyne was waiting for Tam at Heston Airport in the back of a new-looking black Humber Super Snipe. In the front passenger seat, next to the driver, sat a portly man in his late fifties. Ballentyne introduced him as Freddie and said he worked for the Daily Telegraph.

  Tam got into the back beside Ballentyne. The car smelled of stale cigar smoke.

  ‘Berlin?’ Ballentyne said at once. ‘All well?’

  ‘Far from it.’

  ‘Excellent. We have someone in mind you ought to meet.’

  They skirted the southern suburbs and then motored south, deep into rural Surrey. Ballentyne wanted to tell Tam about his father. The old boy, he said, was in good spirits. His v
icar friend had sadly passed on but he was now playing chess with a younger fellow he appeared to like a great deal. His new friend, according to the Matron, had lost his wits in a plane accident in which he’d suffered a brain injury. Otherwise unhurt, he spent most mornings in the back garden, sawing a consignment of logs in preparation for the coming winter, a commitment which had won unqualified respect from Tam’s father. Tam nodded and thanked Ballentyne for making the effort to keep an eye on his dad.

  ‘Not at all, young man.’ Ballentyne patted his knee. ‘We always protect our investments.’

  They were in Kent now, glorious landscape and a succession of sleepy villages where even the dogs sought shadow in the heat of the day. This, thought Tam, was the picture-book England the politicians were so desperate to preserve from the likes of Hitler and Mussolini. No one could possibly fault their intentions. The harder question was whether or not they could possibly succeed.

  Ballentyne was quizzing the journalist about yesterday’s emergency meeting of ministers in Downing Street. Freddie, it seemed, had a source inside the Cabinet and reported that Chamberlain had won a convincing majority for his determination to keep Hitler guessing.

  ‘Guessing about what?’ Tam asked.

  ‘About whether or not we’d go to war.’

  ‘But Hitler doesn’t believe us,’ Tam said. ‘That’s why his generals are running for cover.’

  Ballentyne shot Tam a look and then put his finger to his lips. The journalist caught the gesture and wanted to know more.

  ‘There is no more,’ Tam said. ‘Hitler’s a madman. That isn’t a secret either, least of all in Berlin. How much faith does Chamberlain have in this guessing game?’

  ‘Faith?’ Freddie laughed. ‘He has faith in himself, in his own judgement. That’s where it begins and ends. He believes in the personal touch. He thinks he can play the peacemaker by being inscrutable. But he’s a realist, too, which is why he’s looking so ill. The truth is he can’t make Hitler out but he won’t admit it. Not even to himself. He’s gone to Balmoral this weekend for the shooting. He thinks a day on the moors might relax him. Either way, he’s up against a deadline.’

  ‘Deadline?’ Ballentyne was staring out of the window.

  ‘The party rally begins in a week’s time. Hitler makes the final speech. People I respect tell me we could be at war the following day.’

  Tam made a mental note. The annual party rallies took place at Nuremberg. Schultz had promised to fly him down for a discreet meeting. Someone at the very top, he’d said. Someone waiting for a message.

  Freddie hadn’t finished. He’d half-turned in his seat, looking back at Ballentyne.

  ‘A favour, Andrew? Do you mind?’

  ‘Name it.’

  ‘I’m hearing about a Plan Z. This is Downing Street again, something the PM’s dreamed up. Ring any bells with your lot?’

  Ballentyne shook his head. His face was a mask.

  ‘Can’t help you, I’m afraid. Never heard of it.’

  *

  Twenty minutes later, past the town of Oxted, the driver slowed for the turn off the main road. The lane wound through neat hedgerows and stands of oak in full leaf with glimpses of fat cattle in the meadows beyond. This was a landscape tamed by history and wealth, thought Tam. The contrast to the wildness of his native Cairngorms could scarcely be more marked. What would it be like to grow up here, he wondered. What kind of person would you become?

  In the distance, looming above a frieze of trees, he caught a glimpse of a manor house, the bricks a soft ochre against the curtains of green, splinters of sunshine caught in the mullioned windows. Then came a lake overlooked by more trees, cupped by the soft rise of the surrounding hills.

  Tam turned to Ballentyne. He wanted to know who lived here.

  ‘Winston Churchill.’ He was looking at his watch. ‘I’m afraid we’re early.’

  Tam knew a little about Churchill. One or two of the officers had talked about him when Tam was serving in the Royal Marines, mostly with a kind of guarded affection. As a politician, one of them had said, the man was a maverick, loyal to a fault when it suited him but never a team player. He’d served the Navy’s needs well, and the lower deck had always loved his readiness for a fight, but he’d somehow become sidelined during the thirties, a brooding and often grumpy presence on the backbenches. When he chose to, he could rise to the occasion and Tam remembered listening to a couple of speeches on the radio that had won his admiration, but Churchill was an old man now, well past his prime, and the current crisis, Tam suspected, called for younger, more nimble politicians.

  They parked behind the main house. Freddie, who’d plainly been here before, led the way round the building towards the front of the property. Chartwell, he said, had long been a personal favourite. To his eyes, the architectural style shouted Tudor. Who’d have thought it was built by the Victorians?

  They found Churchill slumped in the sunshine beside a table on the terrace. He was dressed like a gardener – soft patterned shirt, work trousers, straw hat – and at first Tam thought he might be asleep. Then he caught sight of the pile of manuscript on his lap, and a fountain pen that raced from page to page. At the approaching footsteps, the old man looked up, frowning at the disturbance.

  ‘Freddie,’ he growled.

  Freddie extended a hand. Churchill made no effort to get up. Freddie introduced Ballentyne but had to check Tam’s name. Tam was aware of Churchill’s eyes on his face.

  ‘Moncrieff? The Argyll Moncrieffs? From Lochgilphead?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, sir. We started in the Lowlands.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘We have a place near Crathie.’

  ‘The Cairngorms?’ The big face lit up. ‘Wonderful light. And people who leave you alone. You’re a lucky man, Mr Moncrieff. I can’t begin to think what you’re doing here.’

  There was a small handbell on the table. Churchill summoned a thin, slightly swarthy retainer from the depths of the house. It was too late for morning tea and too early for lunch. They would therefore have something a little more robust to drink.

  The retainer was back within minutes with a silver tray laden with glasses and two bottles of champagne. Freddie and Churchill were deep in a conversation about the old man’s current project. The Daily Telegraph, it seemed, was interested in publishing extracts from this new book and Freddie was here to enquire how it was going.

  ‘Like the wind, Freddie.’ Churchill gestured at the pages still on his lap. He was glad to report that the muse was blowing at gale force and that he had every prospect of meeting his publisher’s deadline. Writing a history of the English-speaking people had opened doors he was ashamed to acknowledge he’d never been aware of. Choose any period and you found yourself in the company of a remarkable tribe. Romans? Saxons? Those magnificent Tudors? It made no difference. A mongrel race blessed by history, favoured by geography, and prisoners of their own insatiable appetites. A pleasure to make their acquaintance.

  ‘That makes me privileged, Freddie. I hope my readers will feel something of the same.’ He half-turned and stared out across the estate. The hills to the south dissolved into a soft blue haze. ‘I was privy to a conversation last week. Most disturbing. If the Germans come they’ll head directly for London. Bound to. And you know one of the first steps our lords and masters plan to take? Evacuation. Not just down on the coast. Not just here. But the whole of Sussex and Kent. Can you imagine that? Can you imagine millions of people on the move with their tails between their legs?’ At last he turned back to the table and his gaze settled on Tam. ‘Will you have room, Mr Moncrieff? In those mountains of yours? Will we all be eating venison and fighting midges?’

  He left the questions unanswered while the retainer opened the champagne. Churchill had gestured Ballantyne to his side. He understood he worked for Military Intelligence.

  ‘Something of an oxymoron, is it not?’ There was a sparkle in his eyes and when Ballentyne showed signs of taking offence he put
a hand on his arm. ‘A joke, Mr Ballentyne. You people man the ramparts. We’d be even more naked without your sort. Every democracy has truth at its heart. And you know what we need to protect that truth? A bodyguard of lies. You have my full attention.’ He at last reached for his glass of champagne. ‘Tell me about Czechoslovakia.’

  This was Tam’s cue and he did his best. He talked about the state of the western defences, about the excellence of the Czech Army’s kit, about the mood in Prague. At the mention of Konrad Henlein, Churchill leaned forward.

  ‘That man is a symptom, not a cause,’ he said. ‘Henlein is someone we should take extremely seriously. We had a dear friend to lunch the other day. She’s English. She’s working as a journalist. She has excellent contacts in Prague and one of those contacts is a Junker of the old school at the German embassy, a man of some refinement. They’ve always enjoyed each other’s company. But she tells me something has changed, even in the soul of this Junker friend of hers. After Anschluss, the Germans have forgotten their manners. She taxed this friend of hers about what happened in Vienna. The arrests and the suicides and all the other atrocities after the Nazis arrived. And you know what he said? This fine Junker gentleman? He told her, Wir lachen nur darüber. Mr Moncrieff? If you please?’

  Tam realised he was being asked for a translation.

  ‘We just laugh about it.’

  ‘Exactly. This is the world we have to cope with. Alas, it’s a world that suits the likes of Mr Henlein only too well. Except that he, too, will be eaten alive.’

  Churchill glowered at the faces around the table. Tam wasn’t sure what he was expected to say next but Churchill, as it turned out, hadn’t finished.

  ‘We are dilatory and profoundly remiss, Mr Moncrieff. We ignore every signal that we should be on our guard for. We belong to the nation of Ethelred and we have never been more unready.’ One hand settled on the manuscript on his lap. ‘You know the worst fate for any politician, Mr Moncrieff? It’s the curse of opposition. You’ve no doubt come to warn me of terrible things about to happen. I hear it all the time. Here, in London, in Paris, even in the south of France. Naturally, I do what I can. I get to my feet and I raise my voice but sadly no one listens. Men like Freddie here do their best. Our newspapers aren’t entirely supine. One can write the odd article, bang the odd table, but it makes pitifully little difference. More and more, Mr Moncrieff, I feel like an old horse put out to pasture, my time done, my oats eaten. On occasions, it’s even worse than that. I feel gelded.’