‘You suspect a cover-up?’
‘I am jolly certain that Henry Alston killed my husband.’
Conrad nodded. ‘Thank you, Polly. Did you ever hear Freddie speak of my sister? Or Constance Scott-Dunton?’
‘No. I do know that Freddie was going to ask his niece Marjorie to help him with something, but I don’t know what came of that. Constance Scott-Dunton, presumably.’ She smiled at Conrad. ‘I am sorry about your poor sister. If there is anything I can do to help you prove Sir Henry Alston was involved in her death, or Freddie’s, I will.’
‘I liked your friend Polly,’ Conrad said as Veronica drove him back to London.
‘Do you think she’s right, or do you think she’s imagining things?’ Veronica asked.
‘I rather think she’s on to something,’ said Conrad. ‘What about you?’
‘The thing people don’t realize about Polly is that she’s really quite clever. And perceptive. She may well be on to something.’
Veronica turned to look behind at Conrad. Then the car wobbled and she looked ahead on the empty road. ‘I am sorry about Millie, Conrad. That’s dreadful for you.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Look. We’ll be back in London in no time. Do you want to drop into the Ritz for a cocktail on the way back to the station?’
Conrad was tempted. No matter what she did, Conrad was always tempted by Veronica. ‘I’m sorry, I had better get to the station as early as possible. The trains never run when they should.’
‘I don’t know,’ said Veronica. ‘What does a girl need to do to get a drink these days?’
37
Zossen
‘So, Hertenberg. Can you see the changes?’
Lieutenant Colonel Liss, as he now was, was grinning as he glanced at Theo. They were standing over the cowhide: the relief map of northern France and the Low Countries.
Theo examined the German deployment. There were still three army groups: C by France’s eastern border with Germany, A just to the east of the Ardennes and Luxembourg, and B further north on the Belgian and Dutch borders.
‘You have switched some divisions from Army Group B to Army Group A,’ said Theo.
‘You have a good memory. I remember you suggesting it. Army Group A will now make the main thrust through the Ardennes to Sedan, and Army Group B will push through central Belgium to engage the Allies in Flanders.’
‘I suspect it wasn’t me who changed your mind.’
‘No. It was General Manstein and General Guderian. And the Führer. The crash at Mechelen helped.’
‘Really? I thought that was disastrous.’ In January an aeroplane transporting a staff officer carrying plans for Case Yellow from Munster to Cologne had somehow got lost and crashed in Belgium, near the town of Mechelen. The documents had been captured: they detailed the original Case Yellow invasion plan of Holland and Belgium, with the main thrust being carried out by Army Group B to the north. Theo knew that the plans had swiftly found their way to the French and British general headquarters.
‘The Führer was of the view that we had to change Case Yellow, now that the enemy knew the original plan. So, given the weaknesses you had highlighted around Sedan, we have.’
‘And when you play the war game, do we win now?’ Theo asked.
‘That depends,’ said Colonel Liss. ‘And that’s why you are here.’ He pointed to the French 7th Army, deployed around Lille on the western Belgian border. ‘If the French send their most powerful troops north into Flanders according to their Plan D, then Guderian breaks through here.’ He pointed to the Meuse at Sedan. ‘And there is no one to stop him. But, if the French 7th Army moves immediately eastwards to reinforce the front near Sedan, things get bogged down.’
Theo’s brother Dieter would be with Guderian’s armoured corps at Sedan.
‘Won’t the French assume that we have changed our plans, now we know they have them?’
Liss grinned. ‘According to your colleagues, they seem to believe that the Mechelen crash was staged by us as a bluff. I can see why: it’s extraordinary that any pilot could get so lost as to stray over the Rhine into the wrong country, however bad the weather, but there you are. So, as far as we are aware, the French are still using Plan D. I would like you to confirm that.’
‘I haven’t heard of any changes of plan,’ Theo said. ‘But my sources have gone quiet.’ The Duke of Windsor had finished his inspection of the French lines and, according to Bedaux, was spending the occasional day twiddling his thumbs at the British Mission to French general headquarters at Vincennes. Bedaux himself was cannoning around all over the place. As far as Theo knew he was in Spain trying to secure steel supplies for France, and he had plans to go on to Morocco to look for coal.
‘We don’t have much time, do we? The operation is scheduled for the tenth of May.’ That was in five days’ time.
‘That’s correct,’ said Liss. ‘And the forecast is good.’
A miserable winter, one of the worst on record, had been followed by a lush, sunny spring. Delay was unlikely this time.
‘I will try to get hold of my sources and see if I can find out anything new. It might be difficult in the time.’ Especially since Theo had lots of other agents to deal with in Holland, giving him last-minute indications of Dutch preparations for invasion. The flat Dutch countryside and straight roads were perfect for an invading army, but there was a risk they would pull their fingers out of the dykes and flood the whole country.
Looking at the new version of Case Yellow, Holland was just a sideshow. The battle would be decided in the hills and forests of the Ardennes, and then the French countryside behind them.
‘Do what you can,’ said Liss.
Liverpool Street Station, London
Conrad arrived at Liverpool Street Station early for his train back to his battalion in Suffolk. Which was lucky, because as he was deciding whether to get a cup of tea or read a book, Major McCaigue materialized.
‘You again,’ said Conrad. ‘Don’t you take Sundays off?’
‘I do usually,’ said McCaigue. ‘And I have today. Officially. Do you remember I had an official and an unofficial message for you last time we met?’
‘I do.’
‘Well, I’d like to have a word with you unofficially. About what you have discovered this weekend, if anything.’
‘Why should I tell you?’ Conrad said.
‘We are getting more and more concerned about the Duke of Windsor,’ said McCaigue. ‘But he is still protected. I need all the evidence I can lay my hands on to change that.’
‘I have discovered very little about the duke this weekend,’ said Conrad. ‘But I did find out quite a lot about Sir Henry Alston.’ What the hell. There was a chance that telling McCaigue what he knew would throw a spanner in the works of whatever plan Alston was hatching.
‘Sir Henry Alston?’
‘Do you know him?’
‘I know of him. Conservative MP. Possibly pro-German. Either less extreme or perhaps more clever than Maule Ramsay and Oswald Mosley. The man who sent your sister and Constance Scott-Dunton to Holland.’
‘That’s him. I think that he might have had Constance kill my sister. And that he might have run down Lord Copthorne about the same time last November.’
‘Those are grave allegations. Do you have proof?’
Conrad told McCaigue about his visit to Lady Copthorne. He didn’t mention Anneliese. ‘But you probably know all this already. Lady Copthorne said that the police were very keen to drop the investigation. Orders from on high. Friends of yours, no doubt.’
‘Acquaintances, possibly,’ said McCaigue. ‘I work for the counter-intelligence section of the Secret Intelligence Service. That means I worry about foreign spies abroad. If someone like Sir Henry Alston needed watching, it would be Special Branch of Scotland Yard, or MI5, who would do it. I wouldn’t find out about it, unless someone like you told me.’
‘It’s my pleasure,’ said Conrad.
The irony wa
s not lost on McCaigue, but he ignored it. ‘It’s appreciated,’ he said. ‘Keep me informed, will you? And if you do need help, telephone. You have my card.’
As Conrad took the train back to Suffolk, he was unsure whether he had done the right thing in trusting McCaigue. And a question nagged. How had McCaigue found out that he was in London? On one level it was easy to assume that the secret service was all-knowing. On the other, someone must have told them. It couldn’t have been Colonel Rydal. And it was unlikely to be any of the people he had seen over the weekend: Anneliese, Veronica, Polly Copthorne. No, it was more probably someone in the battalion. The adjutant, perhaps: someone junior to Colonel Rydal whom the secret service had instructed to keep tabs on him.
An unpleasant thought.
The Dorchester Hotel, London
Eight men sat around the table in the private dining room of the Dorchester. Sir Henry Alston was at one end, Lord Oakford at the other. Between them were a General, an Admiral, a Newspaper Magnate, a Civil Servant, a Politician, and an Industrialist. Alston, although he was responsible for bringing everyone together, was the youngest man there. The dinner had been excellent; somehow the Dorch had managed to keep its kitchens well supplied despite the eight months of war.
Alston lit a cigar. ‘There’s no hope for Norway, is there?’
The General shook his head. ‘The Hun is running rings around us. We have evacuated Namsos. We’re making a stand at Narvik, but our fellows have no chance. The whole thing is a muddle; the politicians have let us down again. Winston doesn’t have a clue what he is doing. I blame him entirely.’
‘It’s Neville who will take the blame,’ said the Politician, who was also a junior minister.
‘Is he in danger?’ asked Alston.
‘I rather think he might be,’ said the Politician. ‘I’m sure he doesn’t think so – we have a large majority after all. But he’s getting complacent, and the House doesn’t like that.’
‘The country will want someone to take responsibility,’ said the Newspaper Proprietor. ‘Neville is the obvious candidate. He can’t get away with dropping Winston and carrying on regardless.’
‘Then who will become PM?’ asked the Industrialist.
‘Halifax?’ The General phrased it more as a question than an answer.
‘Edward commands a lot of respect,’ said the Politician. ‘But he sits in the House of Lords. The country needs a leader from the Commons. Someone who can deal with Parliament directly.’
‘Even at a time like this?’ asked the General.
‘Especially at a time like this,’ said Lord Oakford. The table turned to him, anxious for his opinion. They knew how close he was to Lord Halifax. ‘Edward is an old friend of mine and I admire him immensely. He is a good man to have at your side in a crisis. I’m sorry to say it, but I don’t believe he has the courage to step forward and lead the country now. You need a certain kind of man to take decisions which will be of such historical importance. He knows nothing about military strategy, as he will freely admit. He’ll say it’s because he is in the Lords, but the truth is he isn’t up to it, and he knows it.’
‘So who would become PM?’ asked the Admiral.
‘Not Winston, surely?’ said the General.
‘He’s popular in the country,’ said the Newspaper Proprietor.
‘But he’s the one who is principally responsible for the balls-up in Norway!’ protested the General.
‘What we need most of all is peace with Germany,’ said the Industrialist. ‘Churchill is the last man to achieve that.’
There were murmurs of ‘hear hear’ and ‘absolutely’ around the table.
‘The whole country is bored with the war,’ said the Newspaper Proprietor, who prided himself, with some justification, on knowing what his readers thought. ‘And once we start losing it, they will want it stopped.’
‘So, if not Churchill, who?’ asked the Industrialist.
‘Lloyd George,’ said Alston. ‘He’s well known in the country. He wants peace. He’s not tarnished with this war so far. And he won the last one.’
‘He’s an old man,’ said the Industrialist. ‘He must be eighty. He would need help.’
‘He’s seventy-seven,’ said Lord Oakford. ‘And he would have help. Henry and I would support him. And I suspect that there are some members of Cabinet who would serve in a government for peace?’ Oakford glanced at the Politician.
‘There are,’ said the Politician. ‘I would serve under him. And there are quite a few others.’
‘It would be difficult to make peace behind the Frogs’ backs,’ said the General.
‘Wait until the Germans attack them,’ said the Admiral. ‘They’ll give up in no time. France is much weaker than it was in 1914. No backbone.’
‘Shame Edward VIII isn’t still on the throne,’ said the General. ‘He would be the one to lead an honourable peace. I never understood why he had to abdicate just because his wife was divorced.’
‘Neither did I,’ said Alston, quietly.
‘I spoke to him when he was in London in February,’ said the Newspaper Proprietor. ‘With Henry and Arthur. Suggested he do a tour around the country campaigning for peace. He seemed keen, but I haven’t heard anything since he went back to France.’
‘It’s difficult for him,’ said Alston. ‘He can’t be seen to be usurping his brother. But if he was asked to step into the breach when his country really needed him, I’m sure he would.’
‘Absolutely,’ said the Newspaper Proprietor.
There was silence around the room. Alston sensed that the table had edged too close to treason. He knew they all wanted peace with honour, and they needed a way to achieve it that would fit with their idea of patriotism and duty to their country. It was Alston’s plan to give it to them.
‘Well, let’s hope we turn things around in Norway,’ he said. ‘And it’s the Germans who sue for peace.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ said the General. But he knew that wouldn’t happen. They all knew it wouldn’t happen.
The Tiergartenstrasse, Berlin
Theo lay on his back and stared up at the ceiling of his bedroom. Next to him, Hedda slept, snoring gently, her fair hair spread out on the pillow. Her husband’s unit had been sent to Trier, ready to join Guderian and Dieter and a few hundred thousand other German soldiers on their drive through Luxembourg.
Theo had been distracted at dinner at Horcher’s with Hedda. Hedda had noticed – she really didn’t like being ignored. They had left early, and back at his apartment, Hedda had put everything into turning his attention towards her. The resulting sex had blown his mind.
But now his mind was recovering, and turning back to what Colonel Liss had said. Back in November, Theo had taken the decision to warn Conrad of the weakness in the French line. The enormity of what he had done had impressed him, even tormented him, in the following months. He told himself he wasn’t a traitor to his country, but sometimes he thought he was just fooling himself. How would he feel when German soldiers, including his own brother, ran into stiff opposition at Sedan because of his efforts? Especially his brother. The last time Theo had seen him at the family’s manor house in Pomerania, Dieter’s enthusiasm for General Guderian and the forthcoming battle in the Ardennes had known no bounds. Theo could hardly bear to look at him.
What Theo hadn’t considered was that Conrad’s message would fail to get through. He was confident that Conrad would have passed it on, but he now realized that his assumption that the British generals would act on it was optimistic. Conrad himself had pointed out how badly humiliated the British had been by believing in Major Schämmel before Venlo. Why should they believe Conrad now?
Because the weakness in the French lines should have been just as obvious to them as it had been to the Duke of Windsor. Perhaps they were confident that armoured divisions really couldn’t make their way through the woods and forests of the Ardennes.
If that’s what they thought, Theo knew they were wro
ng. The Wehrmacht had practised in the woods of the Eifel Mountains. They knew it could be done.
Dreadful though it was to him as an officer of the Wehrmacht, Theo still believed that a swift victory over France would be a disaster. Hitler would be firmly entrenched. Europe would become a National Socialist continent for years, decades, maybe even centuries to come.
He could not allow that. Even though he was risking his comrades’ lives, including that of his own brother, he somehow had to get a message to Conrad to tell the British what was about to happen. Conrad might be a lowly lieutenant, but Theo admired his resourcefulness.
Besides. It was the only thing he could think of.
38
Suffolk, 6–7 May
It was late. Conrad decided to take a stroll around the football field of the prep school in which he was billeted before turning in. He needed fresh air after the all-too-familiar boiled-cabbage-and-bleach smell. After returning to England from Spain, he had spent a grim six months as a teacher at another school about fifteen miles away. He thought he recognized this school as one a team he had been coaching had played at football. It had rained hard and his school’s side had lost 4–1.
The battalion was a mobile reserve, ready to rush to the site of a landing should the Germans decide to invade East Anglia, an eventuality which seemed to Conrad unlikely, but not impossible. The Royal Navy was the first British line of defence, supported by the RAF. It would be extremely difficult for German invaders to get through to the beaches all the way from northern Germany, out of range of air support.
It was a dark night. Although the moon was almost full, it was shrouded by thick cloud. Conrad thought again about how he could try to return to London to ask more questions. As far as he was aware, the CO had heard nothing yet about his last visit. Would this weekend be too soon to try his luck?
It was infuriating that he was stuck here in the wilds of Suffolk when he had been making such good progress in London. It looked highly likely Alston had killed Freddie Copthorne. And if Alston was willing to kill his own friend, then it was quite possible that he had arranged for Millie’s death through Constance. Then there was the question of Bedaux and the Duke of Windsor. Was there a link between them and Alston? And if there was a link, what were they planning? His father had admitted that he and Alston had had lunch with the duke in February.
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