Shadows of War

by Michael Ridpath

  So Oakford had jumped at Conrad’s suggestion that he go and fetch Millie’s body, and that morning had spoken directly to the Ambassador in The Hague, whom of course he knew, to arrange it. Conrad had booked a flight to Schiphol in two days’ time. Colonel Rydal had reluctantly agreed to a few days’ extension of his leave.

  They were sitting in Lord Oakford’s study in the house in Kensington Square. Although there was a copy of The Times by his father’s armchair, it was unread. When Conrad had entered the room, his father had been staring out of the window, and when he had turned towards his son, his eyes were glazed, vacant. Lord Oakford’s passivity was worrying in its own way; it seemed fragile, a thin shell that could at any moment be shattered by the rage that Conrad knew must be bubbling underneath. But at least it had allowed Conrad to be civil to him while he was forced to stay at Kensington Square. Conrad was doing his best to control his own temper, which was extremely difficult, given that he still blamed his father for Millie’s death. He hadn’t forgiven him; he didn’t see how he could ever forgive him.

  ‘Can you tell me a bit about the Duke of Windsor?’ Conrad asked. ‘I missed all the fuss over the abdication, I was in Spain.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘Was he forced to abdicate? And if he was, were there reasons beyond his desire to marry Wallis Simpson? His pro-German attitude perhaps?’

  ‘There’s no doubt that Mrs Simpson was the main reason. The government, and the dominions, felt he couldn’t be king and be married to a divorced woman, which it was clear he had every intention of doing. Many people felt that putting his lover before his country was an appalling failure of duty as king. Winston supported him, but what would you expect from Winston?’

  ‘Was anyone concerned about his friendship with Germany?’

  ‘Yes, they were,’ Oakford admitted. ‘He had had a number of meetings with senior Nazis, in particular Hess and Ribbentrop. When he became king, he took a more active interest in government policy than his father had. He put pressure on Stanley Baldwin not to react to Hitler’s invasion of the Rhineland in 1936. There was a lot of concern about Mrs Simpson and her friendship with various unsavoury Germans in London. Ribbentrop saw her all the time while he was German Ambassador, sent her roses every day. The security service had a sordid file on her.’

  ‘Sordid?’

  ‘Oh, yes. She spent time in China, you know, and there is supposed to be a file somewhere about techniques she learned in brothels while she was there. Something called the “Singapore Grip”. Do you know what that is?’

  ‘No,’ said Conrad, although he could have a guess. But since he was talking to his father, he decided not to.

  ‘Probably just as well,’ said his father. ‘They also discovered that while Edward was king, Mrs Simpson was seeing a car salesman named Trundle whom she appeared to be paying.’ Oakford sighed. ‘It’s very painful to watch your sovereign abandon his kingdom for a woman who is sleeping with a car salesman.’

  ‘I can see that,’ said Conrad. ‘And you? What did you think about the abdication?’

  ‘As you probably remember, I fell out with him over his interference in the Abyssinian affair.’ Conrad did remember: in 1935 Mussolini had made a grab for Abyssinia and the British and French governments, with Samuel Hoare as Foreign Secretary had let him get away with it, strongly encouraged by the then Prince of Wales. Lord Oakford didn’t disagree with the government’s policy, but he had resigned from the Cabinet over what he considered the misleading statements from the government about their negotiations with the French and Italians. Lying, he had called it.

  ‘And I think he was a bloody fool to abdicate. He should have toughed it out. Henry VIII did – you could say that divorce is what kicked off the Church of England. He was also a bloody fool to hobnob with the Nazis, but I’m sure he doesn’t actually agree with them. And he has good instincts for peace. Did you read that broadcast he made from Verdun last spring?’

  ‘I read about it,’ said Conrad. ‘It caused quite a stir, didn’t it?’ A few months before the outbreak of war, the duke had used the occasion of a visit to the Verdun battlefield to make an impassioned speech for peace, which was broadcast by an American radio station.

  ‘It did,’ said Oakford. ‘But it made sense to me.’ He frowned. ‘Why all these questions?’

  ‘After Holland, I went to Paris,’ Conrad said. ‘And I heard some worrying rumours about the duke.’

  ‘There are always worrying rumours about the duke,’ said Lord Oakford. ‘People don’t like him after he chucked the throne. But he loves his country, I’m sure of that. And he is still a member of the royal family, a former king. It’s absurd to think that he would do anything to betray England.’

  ‘Absurd?’

  ‘Absurd,’ Oakford repeated. His frown deepened. ‘I know what it is! You think because he believes in peace he doesn’t love his country. Why can’t you understand that it’s exactly because we love our country that people like him, and me for that matter, believe that we shouldn’t be fighting? The war will ruin us. Once it gets going, hundreds of thousands of Englishmen will lose their lives. We might even lose the damn thing. Is that good for Britain? Answer me that!’

  The voice was rising; the eyes were glinting. Conrad’s father was on the brink of exploding. Conrad wanted to answer, to disagree, to argue, but he knew what that would lead to. For his mother’s sake he had stayed on in Kensington Square; for his mother’s sake he was still speaking to his father after he had sent Millie to her death in a quixotic lunge for peace.

  But then his father did something rather odd. He apologized.

  ‘I’m sorry, Conrad. Millie’s death has... Well, you know. And then I have just received some news that I should really tell you.’

  An apology from his father was rare, and Conrad appreciated it. ‘That’s all right, Father. What’s the news?’

  ‘Are you seeing Theo in Holland?’

  ‘I’ve contacted him,’ said Conrad. He had sent a telegram to the Copenhagen address suggesting that Theo meet him at the University of Leiden. ‘I haven’t received a reply, and I don’t necessarily expect one, but I hope he shows up. There’s a lot I want to ask him. He may well know the answers.’

  ‘He may,’ said Oakford. His face, already grave, became even graver. ‘Van telephoned me half an hour ago. They have more evidence about Millie’s death.’

  ‘What?’ asked Conrad.

  ‘They have a witness. A walker who saw Theo running out of the dunes with blood on his hands and his shirt. He identified him by the scar on his jaw. I’m sorry, Conrad. There is no doubt now that Theo killed her.’

  Conrad refilled his glass from the port decanter and sat in his father’s armchair in front of the embers of the coal fire in the drawing room. It was just past midnight: the others had all gone up to bed.

  The decanter was almost down to the dregs; Conrad had already helped himself to quite a few glasses. There was something about drinking port that reminded Conrad of Theo, of those long nocturnal conversations at Oxford.

  He fixed his eyes on the fireplace, as if an answer would be revealed somewhere in the dying orange glow of the coals, if only he stared long and hard enough.

  How could he do it? How could Theo kill Millie?

  Had he really killed Millie?

  Ever since he had heard about the new witness in Holland, Conrad had been torn between fury and disbelief. Fury that Theo had killed his sister and disbelief that he actually had done so. He tried to cling to the disbelief, but all the time he was afraid he was just hiding from the truth, denying the evidence.

  Conrad had known Theo since the age of eighteen. During that time they had shared much: ideas, drink, friendship and, more recently, a sense that the only way to stop global catastrophe was to stop Hitler. They loved and respected their own countries and each other’s. They had faced danger together; together they had worked to overthrow the German dictator. It was bad enough for Conrad to lea
rn that Theo had been negotiating with his sister and his father behind his back. To be told that Theo of all people had actually killed Millie was unbearable. Unthinkable.

  It was unthinkable. Apart from anything else, Theo was not a killer, or not yet. Unlike Conrad, who had killed in Spain and then in Berlin. Chivalry was bred deep into Theo; Conrad could not imagine him stabbing a woman, especially not Conrad’s sister.

  But the unthinkable had happened.

  Why would Theo do it? Conrad couldn’t think of a reason, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t one. In the world of espionage he was beginning to realize that few people if any ever had the whole picture. And the other trait that was bred deep into his friend was loyalty to his country. For the right reason, if there was no other alternative, and if his country demanded it, perhaps Theo could kill, in much the same way his Prussian ancestors had killed, ever since the Seven Years War two hundred years before.

  Conrad hoped he would find out something more in Holland, either from the Dutch authorities, or from Theo himself. But deep down he knew he should stop fooling himself, accept the unacceptable.

  His friend had killed his sister.

  26

  Gestapo Headquarters, Berlin, 21 November

  Schellenberg examined the short memorandum on his desk, and frowned. When you worked for the Gestapo, there were certain moments where taking the wrong decision, following the wrong path, could be career-threatening. Even life-threatening. Survival came from recognizing those moments; they were not always easy to spot.

  Schellenberg’s instinct told him this was one of them.

  The memorandum came from one of the Gestapo officers detailed to keep an eye on Lieutenant von Hertenberg in Holland. The officer had approached a Dutch professor at the University of Leiden, W. F. Hogendoorn, who was a firm believer in National Socialism and felt that his own country’s future would best be served by friendship with Germany. The professor had occasionally been used in the past by Hertenberg as a means of contacting foreigners in Holland. One of these was an Englishman named Conrad de Lancey. Hogendoorn told the Gestapo officer he had his doubts about Mr de Lancey, and by implication about Hertenberg. He wondered whether what they were doing was above board.

  It was a good question and Schellenberg didn’t know the answer.

  The choices facing Schellenberg were the same as before: he could keep the information to himself, he could check with Canaris, or he could inform Heydrich. Schellenberg preferred the first option, but he knew that if he chose not to inform Heydrich now and his decision came to the notice of his superior, he would be in trouble. Possibly terminal trouble. And his instinct was that de Lancey and Hertenberg were likely to cause more difficulties, the kind of difficulties that would get them noticed.

  He dug out the de Lancey file from his desk drawer, picked up the telephone and called Heydrich’s secretary, telling her he had to see him as soon as possible.

  The Gruppenführer was only a few years older than Schellenberg, a tall man with blond thinning hair brushed back over a high forehead. His eyes were small and crafty, and his nose and lips suggested the cruelty of a predator – a hawk perhaps, or even a vulture. Yet there was something feminine about him: his high-pitched voice, his wide hips, his delicate hands. The whole effect was disconcerting, disorienting, a warning. In Schellenberg’s opinion, it was sensible to be disconcerted by Heydrich.

  Schellenberg remained standing as he passed his chief the memorandum.

  Heydrich scanned it quickly, and then waited, his eyes on the paper. Schellenberg knew he was thinking, not reading.

  He tossed it to one side, and leaned back in his chair. ‘So?’ he said.

  Heydrich was asking how much Schellenberg knew. This was Schellenberg’s chance to tell him he knew very little.

  ‘This is the second time I have come across de Lancey’s name,’ he said. ‘It first came up during the interrogation of Major Stevens a couple of days ago. Stevens claimed that his men in Holland had followed de Lancey, and saw him meet Hertenberg in Leiden. That was probably the seventh of November. I retrieved de Lancey’s file and discovered that he and Hertenberg were old friends from Oxford University. In fact they had seen a lot of each other last year, when de Lancey visited Berlin.’

  ‘And what did you do with this knowledge?’

  ‘Much of the file was put together by Kriminalrat Schalke, whom you may remember was murdered in the Tiergarten last year. Having read the file, it seemed to me prudent just to watch Hertenberg and wait to see what he did.’

  Heydrich smiled. ‘You have good judgement, Walter.’

  ‘I was tempted to continue just to watch and wait, but I thought it was better to inform you.’

  ‘Another good decision. Let me see the file.’

  Schellenberg handed it over and Heydrich flipped through it. The Gestapo chief grunted and a small smile crossed his lips. Schellenberg guessed that he was pleased to observe the obvious gaps. Heydrich stood up, walked over to the window, and stared across the Wilhelmstrasse to the new Reich Chancellery. Schellenberg waited.

  ‘Klaus Schalke was a good officer. I’m sorry he died, and I am quite sure that de Lancey had something to do with it. I met him once, next door.’ Heydrich meant the Gestapo building around the corner in Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse. There had been nothing in the file about Heydrich interrogating de Lancey, another deliberate omission no doubt. ‘I didn’t like him. And I have severe doubts about his friend Lieutenant Hertenberg.’

  Schellenberg remained silent.

  ‘Get Naujocks to put one of his men on to it. When de Lancey comes to Holland I want him dealt with. And tell Naujocks that it would be most unfortunate if an accident were to befall Hertenberg at the same time.’

  Schellenberg knew that when Heydrich used the word ‘unfortunate’ he meant the opposite. He had no objection to de Lancey’s death, but he thought Heydrich was going too far with Hertenberg.

  ‘But Hertenberg is an officer of the Abwehr! Shouldn’t we check with Canaris to see whether he knows about the meeting?’

  ‘I am sure that Canaris is being hoodwinked by these two as much as we are. And, as I said, it would be most regrettable if Lieutenant Hertenberg were hurt in the operation. Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Crystal clear, Herr Gruppenführer! Heil Hitler!’ Schellenberg clicked his heels and saluted. He understood his orders.

  Unter den Linden, Berlin

  ‘It’s a shame you couldn’t get away, Theo.’

  ‘I know, Dieter,’ Theo replied. ‘I haven’t been home since May.’ Once again he had had to drop everything and fly to Holland, this time to meet Conrad. He couldn’t explain this to Dieter, of course. His aeroplane was leaving Tempelhof that afternoon.

  Theo and his younger brother were strolling along Unter den Linden, both in their Wehrmacht uniforms. Although Dieter was only five years Theo’s junior, he looked a lot younger than twenty-five. He was an enthusiastic soldier, in fact he was enthusiastic about everything, with a wide grin full of innocent charm, and unruly red hair which even a military haircut could not completely tame.

  They had agreed to meet at Café Kranzler on the corner of Friedrichstrasse, but it was too crowded and Dieter said he needed the exercise between two long train journeys: one from Koblenz to Berlin, another to Stettin, and then on to the little town in Pomerania near which their family owned a small manor house and estate. The war was playing havoc with Germany’s rail system; the trains never ran on time, with delays of many hours, and there had been two major crashes with hundreds dead. During this Sitzkrieg it was safer sitting on the western front than taking a train home.

  It was cold, but at least it wasn’t raining. Unter den Linden was busy, with sleek modern vehicles fluttering swastikas and men dressed in the smart uniforms of the modern German Reich passing purposefully in front of the grand buildings and statues of the old, glorious Prussia. The biggest statue of all, Frederick the Great, looked down approvingly on it all from his horse furth
er down the avenue.

  ‘Father said we are going hunting tomorrow. The Bismarcks will be there. And the Kleists.’

  ‘Give my regards to Uncle Ewald,’ said Theo. ‘And the others.’

  ‘So you and Uncle Ewald haven’t been discussing things recently?’

  Theo knew Dieter was referring to the various plans to remove Hitler. While Dieter had never been involved directly in any of the plotting, it was impossible to be a member of one of those close-knit Prussian families and not know about them. Uncle Ewald – Ewald von Kleist – had been right at the centre of those discussions, and had visited Britain in the summer of 1938 with the help of Theo and Conrad to meet senior British politicians.

  ‘It’s been called off,’ said Theo. ‘I don’t think Brauchitsch and Halder ever really had the guts for it.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear that,’ said Dieter.

  ‘Are you?’ Theo asked sharply.

  Dieter walked in silence for a bit. ‘Yes, I am. I agree with all of you that Hitler is a madman and the country would be better off without him. He will ruin Germany. But I am a soldier and we are at war. I want us to win, Theo. This isn’t the time for a putsch. This is the time for fighting the enemy.’

  In some ways Theo admired his brother’s loyalty and straightforward patriotism. Dieter was no Nazi; he was a decent man who believed in his country. But it had long been Theo’s role in life to explain things to his little brother.

  ‘Look at the linden trees,’ said Theo.

  ‘What lindens?’ said Dieter.

  The tall lindens that gave the street its name had been chopped down in 1934 to facilitate the construction of the S-Bahn. Saplings had replaced them, but it had changed the whole character of the boulevard.

  ‘Precisely. You know the song: “As long as the old trees stay on Unter den Linden, nothing can defeat us. Berlin will stay Berlin.” The trees are gone, Dieter.’