The Swiss Appointment

by David Boyle

  It soon became clear that the Swiss had responded by closing the border, and it was not long before she realised the implications of that. She had no diplomatic status. She was a member of the armed forces of one belligerent nation and a national of another, working in a neutral country, and would surely, when inevitably discovered, be liable for internment.

  “But I’m a journalist. I’ve got accreditation,” she said, hoping it was true. She had already heard unpleasant stories about the Swiss internment camps, and the thought of being separated for years from Indigo, as he grew up, terrified her.

  She had calmed down considerably by morning, barricading herself in her bedroom by heaving the heavy wardrobe against the door. It will be just my luck if there’s a fire, she said to herself. It made her giggle. Black humour, she supposed. She reassured herself that, as far as anyone knew, she was not a combatant herself. There must be hundreds of Americans, just in Berne, in the same situation. They could hardly arrest them all. Yet the uncertainty unnerved her – she knew her American nationality could only make her more vulnerable to Nazi agents, especially if they knew who and where she was. Why had she come back to sleep at the same hotel, she asked herself.

  What would she do if she was purely an American in difficulties, she asked herself? She would beg for help from her own diplomats.

  *

  Her footsteps on the icy pavement, in this immaculate but nervous city, reminded her with every step just how vulnerable she now was. All the Nazis needed do was to provide the Swiss authorities with evidence that she was the agent of a combatant power and then she would be locked in some camp until the far-off end of the war – or something considerably worse.

  What she had not expected was that the embassy would be virtually besieged by refugees, plus crowds of American nationals trying to get home and by well-wishers, hoping to express their sympathy for the Pearl Harbour attack.

  If the Nazi agents were hot on her trail, and she had to assume they were, hence her doubling back in the approved way to stop anyone following her, she dared not wait in line. There was nothing for it but to try the Berlin trick again. She marched straight up to the security desk and asked for Uncle Sam.

  It seemed to have an effect. The security man stared at her for what seemed like minutes, blinked twice and then seemed to collect himself. She noticed that Americans seemed to be understandably dazed by the attack.

  “Will you wait here, ma’am? And can you write your name down for me here?”

  It must have been half an hour later when she was greeted by a large, thick-set man in military uniform, who introduced himself as Brigadier General Legge.

  “Miss Schneider? I regret to say that Washington’s asleep at the moment – at least those parts of the US government I needed to talk to about you. But I know who you are and I understand why you’ve come here.” He smiled benignly, and Xanthe relaxed a little. She let out a small and somewhat premature sigh of relief.

  “But I must be frank with you. We have a difficult task here right now, and I will find it hard to give you the diplomatic immunity you need, given that you are already known to the authorities as a journalist.”

  “But my life has been threatened,” said Xanthe, beginning to shake.

  “Listen lady, we’ve all now had our lives threatened. By this Hitler guy. I know something about you, and I have a suggestion. In fact, it’s more than a suggestion – it’s an order. You’re to go immediately to the British embassy in Thunstrasse, and ask for John Lomax. Lomax is your man, and I will telephone him now to say you’re on your way.”

  “Really? Who is he?”

  “I have no idea,” said Legge, giving a little wink. “I reckon you’ll have to ask him yourself.”

  *

  Xanthe trudged through fresh snow, careful always to make sure she was not being followed. It was all horribly reminiscent of her sudden departure from Berlin nearly eighteen months ago, and as she walked to Thunstrasse, the full vulnerability of her predicament became clearer.

  She could hardly go to the police in case she was interned. She could not leave the country because the borders were closed. Now that her status had changed, she had to assume that the threat by the Nazi policeman who had virtually kidnapped her in a taxi might be made good – that she would be arrested and handed over to the authorities on suspicion of committing an act of war, not to mention the matter of a dead body in Berlin.

  She mentally checked off the people she knew in Switzerland. She could hardly ask Dr Barth for help because she would put him in even more danger than he was already in. Krieg, she did not trust. Lalonde was as powerless as she was. What about Bob Best? No, he had gone over to the other side. The declaration of war might have brought him back, but she dared not rely on that.

  It was a fifteen-minute walk across the river to the British embassy, and as she walked, she puzzled over the oddest elements of this latest twist of history. Why did Hitler declare war on the USA when he did not have to? There would probably be internal pressure back home to concentrate on the Japanese first, but why would Hitler run the risk of the British winning the argument and the whole, vast American arsenal being brought to bear first on him? It made no sense – unless he had made some kind of deal with the Japanese. Yes, that must be it, she thought. Even so, it was a peculiar deal to make. Then there was Roosevelt, forced to declare immediate war on Japan, when he had been avoiding anything but tacit support for the war against Hitler. Why did Hitler not simply keep those divisions in place?

  She found the British embassy and was shown up to a somewhat unkempt office, occupied by a thin, balding man with a twinkle in his eyes. Papers and what looked like small electronic components were piled on every table top and on the floor.

  “Mr Lomax?”

  On every flat surface, there seemed to be what you might imagine were sales samples from companies involved in the cutting edge of Swiss engineering.

  “Miss Schneider, do come in. I’ve been expecting you – and, in fact, I had been expecting you even before my friend, General Legge, informed me that you were on the way over. You don’t have to spell out your difficulty. I understand it all too well. I don’t know what you have been doing here, and I don’t need to know either. Suffice to say that I know your work is important to HM Government. I also have a plan which I will shortly outline to you. It involves some risk, I’m afraid, but perhaps less risk than you would run by staying here.”

  Xanthe felt pathetic but relieved.

  “Mr Lomax, I am so grateful to you,” she said, taking to the man and his intelligent eyes.

  “You see,” said Lomax, warming to his theme. “Although I am a career diplomat, trained in the art of caution, I am now seconded to the Ministry of Economic Warfare, which has, in turn, trained me in the art of action. And I know my employers will turn a blind eye to what you might call unorthodox methods. Indeed, that is actually my job, in a sense.”

  Xanthe could not stop herself giggling at his tone, part mandarin, part little boy.

  “You may well laugh, young lady. But it must be expected that, one day, I will return to the Foreign Office, where my misdemeanours are noted and where I have no doubt that my elders and betters will exact a terrible revenge.”

  Now it was Lomax’s turn to laugh.

  “Can you drive?”

  Xanthe nodded. “But I haven’t for some time,” she said.

  “You’re aware, of course, that they drive on the wrong side on continental Europe – as you do back home in the States, of course? Now, next question: do you mind wearing a chauffeur’s uniform, if I can obtain one?”

  “Of course not. Anything which seems likely to get me home I’ll wear.”

  “Excellent,” said Lomax, rubbing his hands. “Then I will tell you what I am planning. It so happens that I was at a party, given by the embassy staff, of a small Latin American country, and I met the man who is now their ambassador to Berne. He is quite an eminent lawyer in his own country, but I digress. He n
eeds to leave in a few days for London to take up his new post as Ambassador to the Court of St James. He has kindly agreed to carry a diplomatic bag for me, in the shape of a box which contains, well – let’s just say it contains some crucial equipment that can only be obtained in Switzerland. He has agreed not to look inside the box but to drive it through Vichy France and Spain and down to Lisbon where he will catch the flight to London. Now, I have told him that he will garner the everlasting gratitude from HMG for his efforts and even more so if he can help in one other respect. Some weeks ago, I proposed to him that a man in his position cannot possibly drive himself. In fact, earlier today, I suggested that he needs a chauffeur to drive him and interpret for him. The borders will, I am sure, be open tomorrow – but even if they are not, he has diplomatic immunity.”

  “But I can’t speak Spanish.”

  “My dear girl, he is from Latin America. He was born speaking Spanish. It is French that he will need a translator for – you do speak French, do you not?”

  “Well, sort of…”

  “Excellent. Then I suggest that I accompany you to your hotel now and fetch your luggage, and you can stay in the embassy in some comfort, and rather more safety, until you leave in a few days’ time.”

  He began collecting up his cigarette case and other bits and pieces around the room. Xanthe was too fascinated to prevent herself from asking.

  “Are you really allowed to do this kind of thing? It seems most unusual for a diplomat…”

  “Well, officially, of course I’m not,” said Lomax, getting up and walking over to the window, as if to engage the enemy more closely. “I went to great lengths to persuade HM Government that they must make the strongest representations about the Swiss supplying military equipment to the German side which they were not prepared to supply to us, but I was overruled. That said, I clearly made such a nuisance of myself that the Foreign Office seconded me PDQ. Ironically, it is now my task to obtain those items, and that is why I have been forced to take up my current position.”

  “Which is?”

  “Oh, sorry, I thought you knew. I am Smuggler-in-Chief, by appointment to His Majesty the King.”

  VII

  Berne, December 1941

  “I don’t want to alarm you, but I believe we are expected,” said Lomax as they descended from the taxi a block away from the Bellevue Palace Hotel.

  Sure enough, two policemen were posted outside the hotel steps as Xanthe walked up with Lomax.

  “I think it might be wise for you to go around the back. I will meet you upstairs – remind me of your room number? You have kept hold of the key, have you not?”

  Xanthe nodded. “It is 276.”

  “I will meet you after I’ve gone through reception to settle the bill. I will be paying it out of funds put at my disposal for these kinds of events. I will meet you upstairs as soon as I have paid. But if it is too dangerous by my judgement, then I will meet you round the back, and I will signal like this.”

  He made a bloodcurdling slicing motion across his throat.

  Xanthe went down the back street, past the spot where she had found Gruber injured and where she had nearly been kidnapped. The route was becoming uncomfortably familiar. She glanced around. There was no sign of Lomax warning her off. So it was up the backstairs and along the deserted corridor to her room.

  She knew something was wrong the moment she put her key into the lock. It was broken, and the door just pushed open. Inside was carnage. The drawers had been pulled out and overturned and cupboard doors smashed, her suitcase lay in pieces. She rushed over, desperately worried and calculating whether she had left anything incriminating about her identity or, worse still, about the mission. But she knew she had not been so stupid. She had brought none of her briefings with her and no letters, nothing, in fact, except the tools of her trade as a journalist. Unfortunately, her portable typewriter would never work again. It lay, bent and smashed, with the ribbons spewing across the room like intestines. It was clearly beyond repair.

  She had brought very little with her. She searched in vain for the notes of her interview with Karl Barth and her other scribbles for her Swiss article, but everything was gone.

  A shuffle outside the door brought her to her senses. It was time to get out – and not through the hotel exit. Or down the corridor outside. She glanced through the window. Could she dare to take the ledge for two feet to get onto the fire escape? Hold on – she checked the en suite bathroom window, and managed to slide it up. A moment or so later, she was through the window and down the stairs, on her way to meeting Lomax when he came out again.

  By a stroke of luck, he had already emerged from the hotel when they ran into each other in the side street. He was sweating a little.

  “My dear girl,” he said, trying to catch his breath. “There is a real hue and cry going on about you. The Germans are obviously exerting pressure. There was a policeman by the desk when I asked about you – I thought it best not to pay now – and the man behind the reception desk told me that you were wanted in connection with a murder in Berlin, or some similar cock and bull story.”

  “That’s good to know,” said Xanthe despairingly, “because somebody has smashed my room and stolen my things. It sure is a horrible feeling, I can tell you that for nothing.”

  “Heavens above,” said Lomax without obvious emotion. “Look, there’s a cab over there. I suggest we return post haste to the embassy, and we can talk there. I have talked to the ambassador this morning and he is on board – at least I think he is. So, with a bit of luck, you will be heading home tomorrow or the next day. The border is still closed. I think it may make sense to wait until it opens rather than pressing the diplomatic immunity message, given that we are not exactly sticking to the rules ourselves. All I can say is that you will not be pursued for unpaid hotel bills. At least, not after I’ve finished with them on the telephone.”

  *

  “I am sorry. It is with the deepest regrets, Mr Lomax, but I will not do this.”

  The South American ambassador was audible outside the embassy room where Xanthe was waiting. Her spirits sank.

  “May I ask why not?” said Lomax. “I was given to understand that you were willing.”

  “That was before my discovery that the proposed chauffeur was female. Very distinctly, I heard you describe the person as ‘she’. I will carry your box with the greatest of pleasure, but I will not be driven by a woman. I will be a laughing stock.”

  “Your Excellency,” said Lomax. His voice seemed louder outside the room, and Xanthe realised he had risen in his seat. “In my country, as you will discover, all the most important generals are driven by women. It is a sign of status in warring nations, I assure you. Come, let me introduce you… Miss Schneider, please come in!”

  Shaking a little, Xanthe stood there, uncomfortable in his scrutiny, her hair dyed dark again the previous evening. And wearing the uniform with gold braid that Lomax had commissioned overnight. The ambassador looked familiar somehow.

  “And she is too attractive. People will think I have chosen her for her looks. It does not make me look sober… responsible.”

  “On the contrary, Ambassador, it gives you appropriate style.”

  Xanthe could see that he was now peering at her with a renewed interest.

  “Wait!” The ambassador held up his hand, and Xanthe recognised him. How could she have forgotten such a copious moustache?

  “Are you by any chance Miss Schneider?”

  “I am indeed, Señor Santa Cruz. You are the man to whom I owe my life.”

  He grinned broadly and proudly. Lomax stood back, astonished.

  “Now, I believe I made a promise to you, Miss Schneider. I said, if you needed help again, you had only to shout for Santa Cruz. Did I not?”

  She nodded.

  “Now, if you do me the honour of being my chauffeur, do I fulfil that pledge?”

  “Oh, absolutely. In full.”

  “Right, Mr Lomax. You were
always a persuasive man. I do not understand what I am agreeing to do, but I have promised not to ask. Nevertheless, I accept, on condition that the British government is told when I arrive in London about the part I have played.”

  “I am deeply grateful and so is HM Government,” said Lomax bowing low. “Now, if you would be so good as to provide Miss Schneider with a passport.”

  The ambassador’s face darkened again.

  “No, I draw the line there. Yes, one may pretend to be a Bolivian – how do you say it: a cat may look at a king? But citizenship of my country is a great honour, and it will not be thrown away on a convenience for you or anyone else. Even for my esteemed friend, a courageous woman like Miss Schneider.”

  He bowed to Xanthe.

  “Oh, very well, then. I am deeply grateful to you. I believe the borders are reopening at midnight. You leave at dawn tomorrow?”

  The ambassador nodded, bowed to both of them and withdrew.

  “Right, I will have to get one forged before you go. I will see you later. Now, for goodness sake, practise your spoken French…”

  *

  “That is correct, Miss Duarte,” said the ambassador as they drove haltingly out of Berne towards the frontier with Vichy France.

  Xanthe now held a Bolivian passport with the name Maria Duarte. The car was by far the biggest she had ever driven, and she had crashed the gears nervously all the way out of town, having stalled embarrassingly outside the embassy on her way to fetch the ambassador around the corner.

  She was afraid she had displeased him already, first by failing to get the car started effectively and then by a series of hops she made it do as they drove past the British embassy again at the start of their journey. There seemed to be nobody about, which was a relief. Fuel was almost as scarce here as it was in England, though not quite as scarce as it probably was in France, so there was little traffic on the streets. She had studied the road map given her by Lomax and tried to memorise the way to the frontier and beyond that to the Pyrenees.