Estocada

  The rear door opened. Tam climbed in.

  ‘We’re going now?’ he said to Schultz. ‘This is it?’

  ‘Ja.’

  Nothing else. No name. No clues. Just a blur of faces on the pavement as the driver hauled the car into a U-turn and accelerated away from the city centre.

  Tam sat back, oddly content, knowing that this encounter would mark the end of his assignment. He’d try and do himself justice. He’d try his level best to convince whoever wanted to listen that the conspirators had allies in England who’d call Hitler’s bluff. Beyond that, as he knew only too well, he was helpless.

  They were en route through the suburbs towards the complex of new buildings where the rally’s main events were being held. A late-night tram clattered past, heading back into the city. Ahead lay the entrance to the Zeppelinfeld.

  The car was slowing now, Schultz leaning forward, talking to the driver. He was to look for a mobile field headquarters. He described it as a big caravan, an office on wheels. The driver was circling the outside of the Zeppelinfeld. Ahead, looming out of the darkness, Tam could see vehicles parked nose to nose across the paved roadway. Then came a soldier, stepping out of nowhere, his carbine readied, and another, and finally a third. The last one was the officer. He bent to the driver’s window, checked his papers, shone a torch into the back of the car. The beam of the torch lingered on Tam, and he thought he heard the click of a camera, but he couldn’t be certain. Then Schultz was telling him to get out of the car.

  Tam stood in the darkness. The bulk of the caravan loomed ahead of him. Abruptly an oblong of light appeared as someone opened a door. Silhouetted against the light was a portly figure he’d seen only recently. The big barrel chest. The hands planted on the hips. The hint of an outstretched hand as Tam got closer.

  ‘Herr Moncrieff.’ The voice – laden with the beginnings of a cold – was still unmistakeable. Hermann Goering.

  Tam shook hands, glad to be spared the Hitler salute. The caravan was bare and functional: a desk with a bank of telephones, a map of the Zeppelinfeld with various sectors carefully edged in different colours, and three clocks, each set to a different hour.

  Goering was watching Tam’s every movement. His visitor’s interest in the clocks seemed to amuse him. The middle one, he said, was Berlin time. On the left, two hours ahead, Moscow.

  ‘And this one, Herr Moncrieff?’ He stepped forward and tapped the clock on the right.

  Tam studied it for a moment. It was an hour behind. The answer, he knew, was all too obvious.

  ‘London?’ he enquired. ‘Is this some kind of clue?’

  The word clue produced a roar of laughter.

  ‘You think you’re next, Herr Moncrieff? You think that’s all it takes? You think we have an army of watchmakers? Vienna time? Prague time? Paris time? London time? If only it was so simple.’

  An aide in Luftwaffe uniform had joined them. He had a bottle of brandy and two glasses. Tam watched while the Field Marshal lowered his bulk into the bigger of two chairs readied in the far corner. At Goering’s invitation, Tam took the other one.

  ‘It’s Spanish, I’m afraid. The Civil War has done us many favours and this is one of them.’ Goering was examining the bottle. ‘A Gran Reserva Imperial. If you like it, the others in the box are yours.’

  He dismissed the aide and told him to lock the door. He wanted no interruptions and no one anywhere near the door or the windows.

  ‘If you see anyone taking an interest, shoot them. Understood?’

  The aide saluted and Tam heard the turn of a key in the lock seconds after he shut the door. Goering spread his legs and plucked at the creases in his uniform trousers before unstopping the bottle and pouring two generous measures. Tam couldn’t help counting the rings on his fingers. There were four.

  ‘It pays to be frank, Herr Moncrieff.’ He passed one of the glasses to Tam and then patted him on the thigh. ‘I have many friends in England and they all tell me the same thing. What do you think that same thing might be?’

  ‘This is to do with the Czechs?’

  ‘Of course.’ One finger drew a large circle in the air. ‘Everything has to do with the Czechs.’

  ‘Then I don’t know. I too have friends, contacts, colleagues. That’s why I’m here.’

  ‘These people are in Downing Street?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Who, then? I need names.’

  Tam had anticipated this question, as had Ballentyne. ‘Winston Churchill,’ he said carefully.

  ‘Churchill is an old man. Churchill counts for nothing. Brave in his day, a real warhorse, but now he belongs in the meadow. Who else?’

  ‘You won’t have heard of them.’

  ‘That’s an assumption. Just tell me.’

  ‘Anthony Eden. Duff Cooper. Harold Nicolson.’

  Goering said nothing. From the nearby Zeppelinfeld he could hear a roll of drums. Tam held his gaze. Then Goering lifted his glass.

  ‘To Churchill,’ he said. ‘In that meadow of his.’

  The brandy torched Tam’s throat. He felt his eyes beginning to water. Goering swallowed half the glass and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

  ‘So these people of yours say what?’

  ‘Two things. They say that we should fight. And they say that we will fight.’

  ‘And if you don’t?’

  ‘Then the Government will fall.’

  ‘Governments only fall because they lose the support of the people. You’re telling me the English want another war? So soon?’

  ‘The English recognise evil when they see it.’

  ‘Evil?’ The word appeared to amuse him. ‘We’re that bad?’

  ‘Not you, Herr Feldmarschall. Hitler.’

  ‘Ah… an Englishman who tells the truth. Very rare, if I may say so.’

  ‘I’m from north of the border, Herr Feldmarschall. When it comes to the truth, we Scots have no time for anything else.’

  ‘Touché.’ He appeared to be delighted. Another mouthful of brandy and the glass was empty. ‘Did you hear about Ribbentrop today? He received a deputation of ambassadors this morning, our people from London, Paris, Rome and Washington, the four corners of the known world. And you know what they all told him? They told him exactly what you’ve just said. That France and England and maybe even Russia mean to stand by their treaty commitments. That they have the stomach for a proper fight. And you know what Ribbentrop did? He sent them all packing. He told them to take leave. Compulsory leave. They are not to trouble him with news like this and they are absolutely forbidden to approach the Führer. Why? Because Hitler wants a fight and Ribbentrop is determined that he shall have it. My friends in England tell me that Chamberlain thinks Hitler is beset by monsters. He couldn’t be more wrong. Because Hitler is the monster. The biggest monster. The Führer-Monster. And in a country like this, a regime like this, he needs to be.’

  Tam nodded. It made perfect sense.

  ‘Get rid of Hitler,’ he said. ‘And peace stands a fighting chance.’

  ‘I could have you shot for that.’

  ‘I know you could.’

  ‘You don’t care?’

  ‘I’m a Scot. I told you. I care a great deal. But not about Hitler.’

  Goering smiled. He seemed, if anything, to be impressed. He nodded at Tam’s glass and proffered the bottle. Tam shook his head, watching Goering fill his own. This man, after all, was Hitler’s designated successor. Should Hitler die, the office of Chancellor would be his.

  ‘Who says we want that kind of peace?’ Goering was gazing at the brandy. ‘The peace of the landowners? The peace of the aristocrats? In Germany we fight a people’s war. Everything comes from the people. You heard the Führer say it only a couple of days ago. So it must be true, ja?’ He raised his glass and this time the smile was wider.

  ‘That’s insolence,’ Tam said. ‘He could have you shot for that.’

  ‘The Führer holds me in high regard. I bring him nothing but goo
d news.’

  ‘And Ribbentrop?’

  ‘Ribbentrop brings him fantasies.’ He paused. ‘How many other people have you talked to in Germany?’

  ‘One.’

  ‘Schultz? He’s a good man, his own man, that’s rare.’ He was frowning now. ‘No one else?’

  ‘No one.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  Tam shrugged. He had no intention of mentioning General Beck, but the brandy had warmed him. He felt bigger, bolder, more secure. He knew he’d become an object of curiosity for this man, an opportunity for Goering to try out a theory or two in the privacy of their own company, and he had no objection to playing along. A game, he thought. Like so much else in the merciless upper reaches of the Reich.

  ‘What would you do, Herr Moncrieff? If you were me?’

  ‘I’d get rid of Hitler.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he doesn’t know when to stop. Because he’ll go on and on until someone arrives with a bigger stick.’

  ‘And you think that will happen?’

  ‘Of course it will. In a thousand years? I doubt it. In a hundred? Maybe.’

  ‘In a hundred years we’ll all be dead, Mr Moncrieff. Even Hitler.’

  ‘Then the question is academic.’ Tam nodded at the bottle. ‘Yes, please.’

  *

  The phone in Tam’s hotel room rang at half-past eight. Tam rolled over and groped for the phone. It was Bella.

  ‘Schultz tells me you saw Goering last night.’

  ‘That’s right.”

  ‘And?’

  ‘We got very drunk.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I failed completely. He’s got the measure of us. They all have.’

  Tam put the phone down. His head was splitting and he felt ill. He made himself throw up in the bathroom and did it again ten minutes later. The water in Nuremberg tasted slightly sweet. He’d noticed it before. He drank a full glass, then another, then a third. Back in bed he drifted off to sleep, trying to keep the worst of the nightmares at bay, but the same two faces swam up through the murkiness of the swamp in which he was desperately trying to stay afloat. Renata. Edvard. People he’d failed. People who’d died.

  By the time he awoke again it was late morning. He could hear the distant rattle of trams from the Hauptmarkt. Much closer, a woman was singing something he didn’t recognise in German. He lay motionless, marvelling at the way the water appeared to have purged his system, not wanting his head to split in half again. Last night Goering had bested him in every department: he’d drunk more, told better jokes and surfed the wave of bonhomie that had carried them through to dawn. How on earth the man could cope with yet another day of back-to-back engagements after a night like that was beyond him. Maybe all the Nietzschean tosh about a race of Supermen wasn’t so crazy after all. The Third Reich’s best-kept secret? Spanish brandy.

  Someone must have driven Tam back to the hotel. He didn’t remember who. He rolled over and stepped carefully out of bed. He’d kept Ballentyne’s London number in his wallet. He fetched it out and reached for the phone. Dimly, he remembered the three clocks on the wall in the caravan last night and he wondered whether there was anything symbolic in London being an hour behind the rest of the continent. Was that the time it took for the penny to drop? Was Britain fated to be for ever at the mercy of developments across the Channel?

  The moment Ballentyne recognised Tam’s voice he wanted to know whether the line was secure.

  ‘It’s not,’ Tam said. ‘But it doesn’t matter. It’s over. I’m coming home.’

  ‘We understand your meeting wasn’t a success.’

  ‘That’s not true. It was deeply pleasurable.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant.’

  ‘Then you’re right.’ Tam, naked, was staring out of the window. Bella, he thought. She’s briefed him about Goering already. Just who could you trust in this world?

  Ballentyne was telling him to stay put in Nuremberg. There was an edge to his voice that Tam hadn’t heard before. The suggestion had the force of an order.

  ‘Why?’ Tam asked. ‘What good can I do?’

  ‘The situation is very fluid. It’s changing from day to day, sometimes hour by hour. Stay in touch with Miss Menzies. And well done for last night.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Tam was staring at the phone.

  ‘We understand Goering wasn’t at his best this morning.’ At last Ballentyne managed a chuckle. ‘You too, I suspect.’

  *

  That night Tam returned to the Zeppelinfeld, his head beginning to throb again. This time he was here to watch the son et lumière, an extravagant light show that had become a traditional midweek feature of the rally. Dieter had contacted him at the hotel and they met in the street outside before joining the crowds that were streaming out of the city towards the immense oval of vertical searchlights that prefaced the evening’s entertainments. The Watcher, once again, had failed to turn up.

  Inside the Zeppelinfeld the crowd was huge, gazing in awe at the white columns against the night sky, but the moment the speeches began they stilled, a sea of attentive faces. Dieter listened to the Reichsminister for Propaganda for no more than a minute or two. Then he turned to Tam.

  ‘I can’t take any more of this shit,’ he said. ‘We need a drink.’

  Tam nodded in agreement, glad to be spared another dose of propaganda. Goering was next after Goebbels, doubtless recovered from his hangover. That meant at least a couple of hours of ceaseless haranguing. Tam and Dieter left the arena, threading their way past family after family, ignoring the disapproving frowns and muttered comments. Back out beyond Grossestrasse, Dieter hailed a passing taxi. Georg had introduced him to a bar on the other side of town. This time of night, with the fireworks due later, it should be half-empty.

  It was. After a second beer Tam felt normal again. He wanted to know about Goering. Had Dieter ever met him?

  ‘I have. A couple of times. He’s a good boss and he’s a big man. He fights our corner. He could also handle himself in the air. Pilots like to know that. It makes them feel more secure.’

  ‘So how does he get on with Hitler?’

  It was a direct question. Dieter looked up, surprised.

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I’m curious, that’s all. Last night we had a few drinks.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘Me and your boss.’

  ‘Goering?’

  ‘Yes. I’d never met him before, never had the pleasure. He struck me as a real human being. Not someone you’d associate with the likes of Hitler.’

  ‘You were alone, the pair of you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So what did you talk about? You mind me asking?’

  ‘Not at all. We talked about Hitler. And then we talked about Czechoslovakia. And once we’d had enough of politics we talked about each other.’

  Dieter nodded. He was still trying to work it all out.

  ‘You’re some kind of diplomat?’

  ‘Hardly.’

  ‘Then what are you?’

  Tam shook his head. The fireworks out at the Zeppelinfeld had begun and beyond the window the night sky was blooming with golden flowers. A shorter dose of speeches than usual, he thought. Maybe, after all, Goering had failed to appear.

  Tam gestured at Dieter’s empty stein. For someone so slight, he seemed to have a bottomless capacity for alcohol. The woman behind the counter caught Tam’s eye and pulled more beers. Dieter watched her approaching with the foaming steins, his eyes bright with anticipation.

  ‘You find this helps?’ Tam gestured at the beer.

  ‘With what?’

  ‘With whatever’s happened to you.’

  ‘Who says anything’s happened?’

  ‘Georg.’

  ‘Georg is my friend. He shouldn’t be saying things like that.’

  ‘Maybe that’s why he said it. That’s what friends are supposed to be for. He cares about you. I’d take it as a
compliment. It’s a tough old world. Especially here.’

  Dieter nodded, toying with his beer. Then he took another swallow or two.

  ‘What else did he tell you?’

  ‘Nothing. Except that you were drunk and you were due to fly next day and I thought that was odd. Georg said it wasn’t. Not under the circumstances.’

  ‘Georg thinks there’s a reason for everything. If there isn’t then he has to find one. He’s that kind of guy.’

  ‘But maybe he’s right.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Dieter was gazing sightlessly into nowhere, ‘maybe he is.’

  Tam said nothing. After a long silence, Dieter beckoned him closer and described the accident that had nearly killed him. Months of hospital care had left him with a chronic pain he’d have to live with for the rest of his life. Then had come Keiko. In ways he still didn’t understand, she’d made him whole again. Not only physically but in his head, and in his heart. They’d come back from Japan together. They’d lived together. She’d become irreplaceable.

  ‘Lucky man,’ Tam said.

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘I do.’

  Dieter nodded, then reached for his glass. ‘Have you ever heard of Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’s Gestapo headquarters. In Berlin. It’s where you never want to end up.’

  ‘And Keiko’s there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So what has she done?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. She’s Japanese. That could be enough. It doesn’t pay to be different any more, not in this country, not the way things are.’

  ‘Then maybe you should change them.’

  ‘Me? How do I do that? How does anyone?’

  Tam sat back for a moment. He’d been anticipating this conversation for most of the week, ever since he’d watched Dieter displaying over the Zeppelinfeld. It was happening far more quickly than he’d expected but helplessness, as he recognised only too readily, could breed anger. And Dieter Merz was very angry indeed.

  ‘You fly a fighter plane,’ Tam pointed out. ‘And you seem to belong to the squadron that flies the VIPs around.’