Innocence To Die For

by Eidinow, John

  Peter said, ‘I am unaware of the content. I was instructed only to bring it to you.’

  ‘Might I trespass on your patience to ask by whom?’

  ‘If I may rely on your discretion?’

  ‘Our clients have relied on it for some 125 years.’

  ‘Miss Rozalia Gutmannova, though I believe the letter to be from Lady Lewis.’

  ‘The letter is not from Miss Gutmannova. Both documents are addressed to us by Lady Lewis. While we pledge anonymity, I am free to tell you she is a client of our bank for many years; of course together with her late husband, Sir Sigismund Lewis. You know her address in London, perhaps.’

  ‘I was sitting in her drawing room looking over Lowndes Square not a month ago. The room was sadly denuded because of the war. I had taken a painting by Delaunay to her from Miss Gutmannova’s gallery.’

  The banker nodded. ‘She has instructed us to afford you any assistance you may require. To begin with, might I offer you some tea or coffee?’

  ****

  Peter had declined funds or a personal account ‘for the moment, thank you’. However, was it possible to use the bank to receive mail or messages on his behalf?

  Naturally. Was he expecting much? From within the country or international?

  ‘I have in mind in particular a possible reply to an advertisement I must place in your newspapers – papers that particularly circulate in the Neuchâtel area. Perhaps you could advise which.’

  ‘Would it assist if we were to place the advertisement on your behalf?’

  ‘That would be most helpful. It is a confidential matter and I would prefer to remain at arm’s length.’ He had the text ready, drawn from still painful memories of those last days with Dinah – the beauty of Myra Hess’s playing, the forest of shining umbrellas in the Strand, “I must scram”, Davidson’s disquiet under the St Martin’s portico. Well, scram she did. Now to find her:

  “LOST: score of JS Bach Cantata 147 Herz und Mund und Tat und Leben. Also piano version Jesus bleibet meine Freude. Strong sentimental value, owned since school. Finder please contact …”

  If in five days there was no response, the advertisement should be repeated with the additional words: “Phial of Lily of the Valley scent missing with above scores.” He’d thought of Arpège, but that might be to send the wrong message. Lily of the Valley was innocent.

  ‘In both German and French?’

  ‘That would be preferable. Unfortunately, I have no German.’

  ‘Let us hope it does not become compulsory for you.’

  ‘Or for Lady Lewis.’

  ‘Lady Lewis has spoken German since the cradle.’

  ‘We must all hope that she will not have to speak it in her later years.’

  ****

  Back in the bustle of the city – inside its double entrance, the private bank had been as quiet as a block of marble – he sat in a café, drank a beer and accepted that he had done what he had to do. Did that make his use of Rozalia and Lady Lewis better? Of course not. But this was war. His war. The white peignoir was patterned with red. The mind must keep the personal and professional in separate compartments. Burenko’s hand was firm inside the fat. He knew where Ella was. The Oprichnina had only contempt for decency.

  Did beating them mean having to play by their rules? He pressed his fingers against his forehead and had a fleeting sense that Rozalia knew and understood that he must do what he must do. He must lock his feelings of guilt away.

  The advertisement was a step forward. To the watchers, it should have been just another bank on Canadian business. The watchers. He lit a papirosa and as he blew out the smoke studied the faces in the café’s mirrors. Alpine hat, only this time in cap and glasses. But was there someone hanging back?

  Next, the British consulate to say an official hello, then dinner in La Glycine, a walk on the hills outside the city walls to see the mountains, and an early night. Tomorrow … Vichy?

  The French Legation had left a message at the pension. Would he be so good as to call in early next morning.

  ****

  It was very unfortunate. On behalf of the minister, the first secretary could only apologise for having to beg the Canadian deputy chargé’s patience and understanding. The Germans had closed the crossing point from Geneva. There were other possible rail crossings, somewhat less convenient it had to be admitted, which were being put in hand with the Swiss authorities for official use. The deputy chargé would be subject to a slight delay in his departure. Tomorrow morning, almost certainly. He could kindly return later in the day?

  At the British legation, the news was confirmed. The Germans had tightened their grip on their occupied area, dividing it up into five zones and making travel much more difficult between them. They’d also extended their grip to the frontier at Geneva. The legation drawing room offered tea and peace in which to write his interim report; an escort took him to the cipher room to oversee its sending.

  At a loose end, he thought he would explore the valley below the inner city’s ramparts, walking to the famous Bärengraben – the “Bears’ dens” according to his guide, presented to the city in the 15th century by René II, Duke of Lorraine – and then returning to the cathedral terrace by the bridge over the valley. He sat for a while under the chestnuts, taking in the view before walking round the basilica; then into the lower town, stopping to admire the mediaeval houses and craft shops. A tailor’s window caught his eye, but the shop had closed for lunch, so he went to the old Rathaus, had beer and cheese in the cool of a nearby Keller, and went back to the tailor. The watcher had him in sight all the way. Or more than one, perhaps.

  The watcher would have seen how the Canadian deputy chargé pointed to a green hunting jacket in fine, tightly woven wool and how, after some gestures and a lively exchange, the tailor, whipping the tape measure from around his neck, helped the deputy chargé off with his coat and measured chest, back and arms before ushering him into a cubicle; how the tailor sorted out two or three hunting jackets, which he took into the cubicle, presumably for the deputy chargé to try. If the watcher had perhaps remained, glancing at a newspaper while, say, waiting for a friend, he would have noticed tailor and customer emerging from the cubicle, the customer wearing his own coat, the tailor carrying a hunting jacket with chalk marks on the shoulders, sleeves and waist; then the tailor scribbling something down on a sheet of headed paper and handing it to his customer, with what appeared to be thanks and promises of completion in good time.

  For how long can a watcher read his newspaper while, say, waiting for his friend? A watcher could look at his watch, stamp his feet, walk up to the other end of the street to see if his friend is coming that way after all, stand there and light a cigarette, look around, consult his watch again.

  Long enough? Surely the shopping has finished? Stroll back and a passing glance into the tailor’s shows the young diplomat completing the purchase of a country hat. The tailor is just placing it in a box. Then he escorts his new customer to the door and opens it with a bow. There are, the watcher can hear, final expressions of gratitude and promises to have the jacket completed to order.

  Now the watcher sees how the diplomat continues his walk, window-shopping at a snail’s pace, stopping from time to time, forcing the watcher to stay well behind. Across the street a bookshop beckons. Pausing to look up and down for traffic, the diplomat crosses over and goes in. The shop has another entrance on the parallel street. A watcher on his own knows he must take the risk of following his target, the diplomat, inside and himself searching for a title.

  The diplomat is buying a book. He puts down his hatbox while he pays. What is it? The watcher must make a note for his report. La vie dangereuse by Blaise Cendrars, whoever that is. Looking at his purchase, the diplomat has walked away leaving his hatbox. When he reaches the door, he laughs and returns to pick it up. To avoid him, the watcher must drop to his knee to retie his bootlace, then take off his topcoat as he walks out, swearing to himself in German.r />
  ****

  Dorothy hailed Peter as he passed the Bellevue Hotel. She was returning from the travel agent. Ed had decided to go to London. From the reports of German bombing and invasion build-up, he reckoned that’s where the story would be. ‘Time for a drink?’

  ‘I have to drop into the French Legation about transit to Vichy. The Germans have tightened the screw. In about an hour?’

  ‘That’ll be great. You’ve bought a hat? May I see it?’ She studied it gravely. ‘Very Swiss.’

  ‘Is that Swiss, repeat Swiss?’

  ‘No. Quote Swiss unquote. Wear it when you meet Ed. He was saying Canadians have lost all spirit of adventure.’

  ‘Have Americans?’

  ‘Not in the sack.’

  ****

  ‘That’s a great piece of head covering.’ Ed was at his previous table, travel papers spread out in front of him. ‘Do they have to make it so tough for a humble US reporter to get a visa? Some impossible bureaucrat asked me if I was planning to enlist in His Majesty’s armed forces …’

  ‘And me if I was planning to join the nursing corps.’ Dorothy had joined them. ‘I said I would be willing to offer personal comfort to fighting men. I don’t think it went down well.’

  ‘They’re not used to their broads being fresh, Miss Frail. How’s your trip to Vichy, Peter? Any news on when you leave?’

  ‘It’s all arranged. I leave at midnight.’

  Chapter Ten

  Back in Berne, he decided to pick up his hunting jacket before going to the legation to deal with his report to London. The tailor had done a good job. Seen in the mirrors in the cubicle, the jacket fitted well. Very Swiss. Dorothy would have said ‘quote Swiss unquote’. Leather patches, button-down pockets on the outside, deep pockets with buttons on the inside, the soft, fine wool tightly woven against the rain. A good job, but he wasn’t completely happy. He showed the tailor one button that seemed to be slightly out of alignment. The tailor promised to re-sew: he could come back after lunch, if he pleased.

  At the legation, sitting in the drawing room revising the initial draft of his report, he read the scrap of paper he’d found in the right-hand inside pocket of the jacket. On it was printed a date and a time: “1040”. Nothing more. He waited until he was in the cipher room dictating his report and tossed the scrap into the secure waste bag. He’d decided to divide this report into two parts. The second part would be written and ciphered the next day to avoid clogging the legation’s secure communications.

  Uncomfortable, disturbing, edgy, claustrophobic – but how fascinating Vichy had been. Oh, how fascinating. He would have been happy to have continued exploring the “new” France, moving among her politicians, civil servants, military men, journalists and hangers-on. Doors, cabinets had opened to a French-speaking Canadian diplomat, one who knew and respected French traditions. All those holidays he and Ella had spent with the marquis – under his tutelage, he reflected – had equipped him well for this.

  With men jostling for Pétain’s favour, for power and influence over the new régime, he himself became briefly a source of information: a confidence for a confidence, gossip for gossip. Vichy was France’s past becoming her future; mythical past, unlikely future. Vichy was the Marshal, saviour and father; outside his radiance, politicians fighting like rats in a sack.

  He’d enjoyed his drafting so far.

  ****

  When he went to collect his jacket, the button was now perfectly placed. The tailor was all apologies. Peter promised to consider a pair of matching breeches.

  In the right-hand pocket was a slip of paper, torn from a hotel letter-heading: Schweizerhof Bahnhofs-Platz 11.

  ****

  He’d left La Glycine early and caught a stopping train to Thun. On the train he’d changed into his new jacket and hat. At a station a short distance down the line, he’d stepped out at the last moment and taken a taxi back to Berne, paying it off just over the river and walking the rest of the way.

  A minute or two before 10.40, he was sitting in the bustling entrance hall of the Schweizerhof, ordering a coffee. The Journal de Genève caught his eye and he took it from the rack. He ran an eye over the small advertisements – situations vacant, work sought, personal messages. Someone had lost a dog, someone else a Bach score. The coffee came. Under the saucer there was a note on hotel paper. It read simply “Room 16”.

  Room 16 was at the cheap end of the hotel, along a corridor that ran above the kitchens. The door was ajar. Peter tapped on it. No response. He pushed it open and looked into the mirror over the dressing table. The room seemed empty and he went in. Male toiletries on the dressing table, a well-worn leather suitcase on top of the wardrobe, a nightshirt folded on the bolster, a German-language newspaper on the bed, a worn Neue Testament on the bedside table.

  He sat down facing the door and waited. In the silence of the room he could hear the kitchen staff shouting in their incomprehensible dialect over the clash of pots and pans. A tall man in a dark blue suit came in, closed the door quietly and pointed a revolver at him.

  A Mauser 7.63. Like Reichenau’s, now in his safe at home. He felt reassured.

  ‘Forgive me, but I must ask you to stand and turn round.’ The English was clear and clean. Now the pistol was in Peter’s back. A firm hand patted his pockets.

  ‘Thank you. I appreciate your patience and care.’

  ‘I hope sufficient unto the day.’

  ‘You seem to have taken all necessary steps for this meeting.’ He was very tall and very thin. The high cheekbones were sharply defined, the eyes were so light a blue as to be almost colourless, the hair blond-grey. ‘Nobody at all in the British legation knows?’

  ‘No one. You still believe Germany has a man there?’

  ‘Not believe. There is. But the identity is known only at the highest level.’ He wanted further reassurance. ‘You have told no one of this meeting? Not in confidence to a colleague? Someone who might be there only to keep an eye open for you?’

  ‘No one.’

  ‘To business.’

  ‘First, our formal introductions.’

  The skin crinkled round the light eyes. ‘You are correct. Then we must to the point.’

  There was not a great deal to be passed over. The contact was in Zürich, skilful and experienced in clandestine work. He would encode and transmit the officer’s information to Stockholm, whence it would be sent to London. The officer’s codename would be Barbara. Only he would be using this operator.

  As they talked, Peter read into his language that behind him in Germany stood other men, officers, civil servants. He ventured, ‘Is this work for Admiral Canaris?’

  ‘No, no. Canaris is a good man but all politics. This is for the true Germany, the Germany of land, church and honour. The confessing Germany.’

  ‘Do you have anything for me?’

  He had.

  ****

  Back at the legation, Peter polished then dictated the second part of his Vichy report. Then he dictated an Addendum:

  “A senior French officer told me: he had heard from a colleague in Paris that HITLER had issued a Directive to the German Armed Forces for the invasion of England, cover name Seelöwe [SEA LION]. Preparations for the entire operation to be completed by the middle of August. 13 divisions to be assembled in France. Target date 15 September. Training and supply will take until early September at earliest. The landing will be in the form of a surprise crossing on a wide front from about Ramsgate to the area west of the Isle of Wight. The reduction of the English air force to the point where it was not a threat to the crossing was essential: a condition laid down by the naval chief Grand Admiral RAEDER, thought not to be in wholehearted support of cross-Channel assault. The officer added that he had also been told that Goering had ordered the Luftwaffe to destroy British Fighter Command in an intensive campaign.”

  The cipher clerk seemed curiously unimpressed. ‘This isn’t the first invasion warning. We’ve had others come in from foreig
n diplomats – military attachés and suchlike. This is the first codename, though. “Sea Lion”. Sounds right.’

  ****

  The French Legation was his next call, to proffer his thanks and prepare his return, also to reassure Edouard that all was well with his cousin, thank him for the introduction and describe how they’d gone walking in the hills outside the city.

  Duty done, he went to the private bank, taking a somewhat circuitous route – evidently to see a little more of Berne, its narrow medieval streets and unexpected passageways, from time to time pausing, reading the dates and admiring the pitched roofs and carved beams. Nearing the bank, he stopped, looked at his watch and retraced his steps a few paces to a café, where he sat over a beer and watched a bear fountain catching the sunlight.

  In the bank, he heard that the advertisement had brought no response. The original draft, that was to say. However, they had put out the amended version, with Lily of the Valley, and that very morning one response had come by post. The banker stood. He would show Peter to a room where he could open the letter in privacy. When he was ready, he should ring the bell and someone would attend him.

  They went into a small windowless office with two mahogany and leather armchairs and a low table. The banker placed the file on the table by a bell push and went out, closing the door softly behind him.

  In the file was a single plain white envelope. He stared at it for a long moment.

  The postmark was La Chaux-de-Fonds; the address typewritten. He turned it over. There was no return address. He picked it up and sniffed it. There was no scent. He took out his penknife and slit open the envelope. Inside was a picture postcard of Neuchâtel. The view showed the château, high above the town, with an impressive church looming to one side. On the other side, the card told him that the château, dating from the 12th century, was the former residence of the princes of Neuchâtel, now the seat of the cantonal government; the church, also from the 12th century, was the Collégiale Notre-Dame.