Who then?
Conrad had an idea. He dialled a number in Suffolk, and asked to be put through to Colonel Rydal.
‘Rydal.’
‘Lieutenant de Lancey here.’
‘Ah, Mr de Lancey. Are you having any success?’
‘I’m making progress. But I need to get to France urgently. And I thought you might be able to help me.’
‘How could I do that?’
‘I don’t know. Send me as an advance party. Liaison officer. Or something.’
‘I will be in trouble enough for sending you to London as it is.’
‘It’s vital I get to Paris.’
‘Mr de Lancey, you told me it was vital you get to London.’
‘And it was!’ Conrad realized he was going to have to tell Rydal the truth. Or at least most of the truth. ‘Look, sir. An envoy has been sent to France to invite the Duke of Windsor to return to England and lead a new regime to make peace with Hitler. I know that envoy and I can stop him. But only if I fly to Paris today.’
‘Good God,’ said Colonel Rydal. ‘You are not exaggerating, are you?’
‘No, sir. These are desperate times.’
‘You are damn right there.’ There was silence for a few seconds. ‘I might have an idea. Give me your number and I’ll ring you back in half an hour.’
Conrad gave him the telephone number of the house in Kensington Square and waited, staring at the phone. As he sat there, his whole being focused on how to get to France. How to stop his father.
Half an hour passed. Thirty-five minutes. Then the phone rang.
‘De Lancey,’ Conrad answered.
‘This is Rydal.’ The name was familiar, the voice less so. ‘I’m with the Air Ministry. I understand you have been speaking to my brother.’
‘I have,’ said Conrad.
‘All right. Go straight to Hendon Aerodrome, taking only a light bag and your passport. When you get there ask for Squadron Leader Ebsworth and tell him who you are. He will put you on an aeroplane to Paris – there is a spare seat but it’s leaving at eleven-thirty so you will have to be quick. On no account tell anyone at all why you are going. If they ask, just say you are not at liberty to answer. That usually works.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘When you get to Paris, you’re on your own. And you will have to make your own way back.’
‘I understand. Thank you so much, sir.’
‘Thank my brother. He told me what you were doing, he had to, to get me to agree to help you.’
‘Of course.’
‘Good luck, de Lancey.’
It was just before ten. Conrad didn’t have much time to get to Hendon. No time to tell McCaigue, who would probably only try to stop him anyway, and certainly no time to go to the War Office. He would tell Williamson he was going back to his battalion. But he dialled Mrs Cherry’s telephone in Hampstead Garden Suburb.
The English voice at the other end was colder than usual. The German voice that replaced it a minute later was distraught. Anneliese’s mother.
‘Ach, Conrad,’ she said. ‘The police came and arrested Anneliese this morning. We don’t know why.’
Conrad felt cold. This was all too familiar. London was becoming Berlin.
There was nothing he could do for Anneliese, certainly not in the few minutes he had before he went to Hendon Aerodrome. This news just made it more important that he go to Paris. He gave Frau Rosen Major McCaigue’s telephone number, and told her to make sure Anneliese asked to speak to him. McCaigue should be able to get her out; Conrad was glad that he had introduced her to the intelligence officer the day before. With any luck she might not even spend one night behind bars.
At first Conrad assumed he knew why Anneliese had been arrested – because of her association with the Russian Tea Rooms. But then he wondered whether it had anything to do with the attempt on his own life the night before. Perhaps Alston and Constance had discovered that she was on to them.
Either way, the best thing Conrad could do was foil Alston. He ran upstairs, changed into a suit, packed a couple of shirts into a small bag and set out for the High Street in the hope of finding a taxi.
47
Hendon Aerodrome, Middlesex
Squadron Leader Ebsworth watched the de Havilland Flamingo transport plane bearing its collection of VIPs and hangers-on heave itself off the runway at RAF Hendon into the skies, bound for Le Bourget. This was the second flight to Paris so far that morning. There was a lot of toing and froing between Hendon and France these days. The Prime Minister himself was due to return from Paris that afternoon after a two-day trip to see his French opposite number.
The panic was palpable. It was in the faces of the politicians and the staff officers. It was in the papers carried in the briefcases that they clutched so tightly. At times they seemed to Ebsworth like hens in a chicken run running back and forth with nowhere to hide from the fox outside, who was rapidly digging his hole underneath the wire.
‘Message from the ministry, sir.’
‘Thank you, corporal.’ Ebsworth took the piece of paper and examined it. It was from Rydal at the Air Ministry: Please tell Lieutenant de Lancey to cancel his mission and travel to Southampton docks immediately to join up with his unit.
Too late. Ebsworth scribbled out a quick reply informing Rydal de Lancey was already in the air. He wondered briefly what the lieutenant’s mission was, and why he was in mufti, not uniform. It was a secret of course, but then wasn’t everyone’s business these days?
Just another chicken.
Regent’s Park, London
Alston strolled through the park, trying to maintain his nonchalance. He had telephoned Constance earlier that morning; she hadn’t heard back from Joe Sullivan, but she was sure that Sullivan would have successfully dealt with de Lancey.
Arthur Oakford was on his way to France. He had dined with his old friend Edward Halifax the evening before, and Halifax had intimated that he was ready to press Churchill on making overtures to Hitler for peace, probably via the Italians. Oakford was confident the issue would split the Cabinet, leaving it vulnerable to the shove which the Duke of Windsor’s arrival in the country would provide.
Not long now.
But long enough for the British Expeditionary Force in France to be destroyed.
Alston was approaching the rose garden and once again saw the Swedish banker. He realized that that was probably a mistake. For them to bump into each other several times in the same park was possible, for it to be in the same place in the same park was too much of a coincidence.
They spent the obligatory minute smiling, shaking hands and moving off together.
‘I have an important message for Joachim,’ Alston began.
It only took three minutes for Alston to convey what he wanted to convey, and then, after agreeing a different spot to meet in the park next time, the two men split up.
Alston walked briskly south to Pall Mall and his club, where Major McCaigue was waiting for him. Armed with a sherry each, they found a corner of the library.
‘Your man was Joe Sullivan, wasn’t he?’ said McCaigue.
Alston nodded imperceptibly.
‘Sullivan was found stabbed in Mayfair last night. He died before they could get him to hospital.’
‘That’s unfortunate,’ said Alston. Damned unfortunate! ‘Any news of de Lancey?’
‘Yes. We have been following him. He is currently on his way to Paris on a flight from Hendon.’
‘How the devil did he manage that?’
‘Special orders from the Air Ministry. There can only be one reason why he has gone to Paris.’
‘To catch up with his father and try to stop him,’ said Alston. ‘Is there anything you can do about it?’
‘I can’t do anything obvious,’ said McCaigue. ‘But I can get someone on to him.’
‘Good. Do that. I wish Sullivan had done what he was paid to do. De Lancey should be dead.’
‘Quite so,’ said
McCaigue.
Three hours later, Alston poured Constance a cup of tea at his flat. She was uncharacteristically quiet; Sullivan’s death had shaken her.
‘De Lancey has to be stopped,’ said Constance. ‘Before he gets to his father.’
‘I know,’ said Alston.
‘Can’t your friend in the secret service do something?’
‘He says he can keep an eye on him, but if he were to use his contacts to get de Lancey killed it would raise questions. At the moment his colleagues think de Lancey is a Russian spy and they aren’t listening to him. If they become suspicious of McCaigue it might blow the whole plan.’
On balance, Alston believed McCaigue’s caution was justified. It had been useful to have a man on the inside in the SIS and his support had been valuable. Pinning Millie de Lancey’s death on the German spy Hertenberg. Calling the police off their investigation into Freddie’s street accident. Keeping de Lancey out of the way. And numerous useful titbits of information that had come the SIS’s way and that McCaigue had passed on to Alston.
Alston owed McCaigue. When he became a leading member of a sensible pro-German government he would be happy to make good that debt.
But he couldn’t make McCaigue kill de Lancey.
‘Do you know anyone else who would do it?’ he asked Constance. ‘Any other ex-Nordic League thugs?’
‘Not really,’ said Constance. ‘Joe was always the best bet. I don’t know how we can get hold of someone, tell them to drop everything and get over to Paris immediately. You must have contacts in Paris?’
‘Yes. Bankers. Businessmen. The odd politician. No one who could organize what we want done.’ Except Charles Bedaux; that was just the kind of thing he might well be able to deal with. But Alston knew Bedaux had left Paris on a mission for the French government in Spain and North Africa, and was now in Madrid. ‘It would take a while to set up. A few days at least. And we don’t have a few days.’
Alston was finding the tension difficult to control. On the one hand success seemed so close. On the other, Conrad de Lancey seemed about to ruin everything. At least he was able to share his frustration with Constance, to let his habitual mask of impassive confidence slip for a few moments.
They sat in silence, Constance sipping her tea with a look of intense determination. ‘I’ll do it,’ she said. ‘Get me to France and I’ll stop de Lancey.’
Madrid
Theo and Otto Langebrück waited in the opulent lobby of the Ritz Madrid. Langebrück had turned out to be a much more congenial travel companion than Theo had imagined. He was a Rhinelander, about Theo’s age, widely read, and a Francophile – much more intelligent than his boss, Ribbentrop. This last was a good and a bad thing. Mostly a bad thing.
Theo had never been to Spain before. Like Holland until very recently, Spain was a neutral country, but there the similarities ended. Holland had enjoyed over a century of peace and prosperity. Spain, and Madrid in particular, had been torn apart by years of civil war. Half-destroyed buildings were everywhere, and the people still had a haunted look about them, even in the spring sunshine. Theo wondered whether Berlin would ever look like that; he couldn’t imagine it would.
Conrad had been involved in fighting around Madrid, Theo knew, although he had never got to grips with the intricacies of the civil war and who had fought whom where. The whole city was humbling; a reminder of what war, real war not the Sitzkrieg, could do.
‘Theo! How good to see you!’ Theo stood up to greet the familiar, ebullient person of Charles Bedaux. He introduced Langebrück. ‘Can we find somewhere more discreet to talk?’ Bedaux asked.
‘I know a place,’ said Theo, who led Bedaux to a quiet café he had reconnoitred earlier, over the Paseo del Prado in a side street a hundred metres from the hotel. It was a while since he had seen the Franco-American, who had been spending time in Spain securing steel supplies for French armaments factories, and in Morocco finding coal for the Spanish steel mills.
The three men sat in a rear corner of the café and ordered wine. ‘I was pleased to see that your general staff took notice of my friend’s observations on the state of the French lines,’ said Bedaux.
Theo smiled. ‘They did. With extraordinary results.’
‘It looks as if my time here will prove to be a waste,’ said Bedaux.
‘I hope so,’ said Theo. ‘But I am sure that if France is defeated your talents will still be of use to my country.’
‘As you know, I am always willing to make things work better,’ said Bedaux. ‘It’s what I do.’
‘After France comes England,’ said Langebrück. ‘And that is what Hertenberg and I have come to speak to you about.’ Since Langebrück had never met Bedaux, Theo’s role was to introduce him. And to listen to what was said and report back to Canaris.
‘Very good,’ said Bedaux, lighting a cigar.
‘You know my boss, Herr von Ribbentrop, I believe?’
‘Very well.’
‘I understand that you have discussed the Duke of Windsor with him before?’
‘I have indeed. In fact I met with him and Herr Hitler to discuss the duke in November in Berlin.’
‘Well, following our successes in France, both the Führer and Herr Ribbentrop think the time is right for a change in the government in Britain. They know that there is a significant element of the British people, especially those in the higher reaches of society, who believe that the time has come for peace. Further, they believe that the Duke of Windsor would provide these people with the leadership they need to give their cause legitimacy. If he were king again, Germany could work with Britain as an ally rather than an enemy.’
‘That was the point I made to Herr Hitler in November,’ said Bedaux.
‘What we are not sure of, is how the duke himself would react to such a suggestion. You know him well. What’s your opinion?’
Bedaux puffed at his cigar. ‘That’s a good question. I have discussed it with him in the past, indirectly. The duke is well disposed towards Germany and Herr Hitler, but he loves his country and would not dream of doing anything that seemed to be betraying it. Which means that the impetus to do what you are suggesting must come from the British and not from Germany.’
‘Could you persuade him?’ asked Langebrück.
‘I could suggest it, but no more than that,’ said Bedaux. ‘Do you know Sir Henry Alston? He’s a British politician.’
‘Herr Ribbentrop knows him well,’ said Langebrück. ‘We have been communicating with him through intermediaries.’
‘I believe that Sir Henry’s intentions are that the duke should be invited to return to England.’
‘Like William of Orange in the seventeenth century?’ said Theo. ‘Invited by Parliament to become king?’
‘Something like that,’ said Bedaux. ‘I heard from Alston yesterday that they are sending an important figure in the House of Lords to Paris to talk to him.’
‘Do you know who that is?’ said Theo.
‘Lord Oakford. A former Cabinet minister.’
Theo couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Conrad’s father? He knew the old soldier was a pacifist, but surely he couldn’t have thrown his lot in with Alston.
‘You look surprised, Theo,’ said Bedaux. ‘Do you know Lord Oakford?’
‘Yes. I think I met him several years ago,’ said Theo, doing his best to recover his composure. Bedaux was sharp; he noticed everything.
‘I’m glad to hear that,’ said Langebrück to Bedaux. ‘I understand what you say about the invitation coming from the English. But is there anything we can do to make his decision easier? Money perhaps? Anything else he wants that we can promise him?’
Bedaux considered a moment, savouring his cigar. ‘The duke is always concerned about money,’ he said. ‘His wife has expensive tastes, and the duke no longer has a kingdom to rely on.’
Langebrück nodded. ‘Anything else?’
‘He is always worried about Wallis. Her safety. Her material comfort.
And particularly her status. For example, I believe that what most upsets him about his treatment by his brother is King George’s refusal to allow Wallis to be called Her Royal Highness.’ Bedaux grinned. ‘As a good American citizen, I cannot understand it, but I never underestimate it.’ He nodded. ‘Yes. Money and Wallis. Those are the keys to the duke.’
48
Paris
Paris was oddly quiet, as though it were an early Sunday morning rather than a Wednesday afternoon. There were few cars in the streets, and of those many were stuffed full of people and their worldly goods, refugees from the north. Several bore the red-and-white number plates of Belgium. People walked fast, faces taut, hurrying from place to place, making arrangements, gathering possessions, preparing to flee. The sun was shining, but in the cafés few if any of the patrons were sitting back watching the world go by, as was their habit. They leaned forward over their cups of coffee, puffed at cigarettes, frowned, conversed earnestly. A good number of the city’s population had left already, and the rest were thinking about it.
But when Conrad walked through the doors of the Hôtel Meurice on the rue de Rivoli, it was like entering another world of hushed, unhurried calm. Conrad had stayed there a couple of times with his parents when he was growing up. It was grand, in a restrained way, without the opulence or the joie de vivre of the Ritz.
Conrad strode up to the reception desk. ‘Good afternoon,’ he said in English. ‘I’d like to see Lord Oakford, please.’ They liked to speak to their English guests in their own language at the Meurice.
‘I am afraid that Lord Oakford left the hotel an hour or so ago, sir. Is he expecting you?’
‘No, he isn’t. But I heard he was in Paris and I thought I would drop by. Will he be here for dinner, do you know?’
‘And who are you, may I ask?’
‘I’m his nephew,’ said Conrad. This seemed less likely to scare his father than admitting that he was his son. Puzzle him, perhaps. Lord Oakford had two nephews: Stefan in Hamburg currently serving in the Wehrmacht, and Tom who was seventeen and living in Shropshire.
‘Ah, I see.’ The clerk checked a book. ‘No, he doesn’t have a reservation for dinner here this evening, but he is staying with us tonight. Shall I tell him you were looking for him?’
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