Praise for
‘A dramatic, twisty thriller’
DAILY MAIL
‘Rory Clements’s timely spy thriller set in the 1930s evokes a period of political polarisation, mistrust and simmering violence’
THE TIMES
‘Clements creates lively, fast-moving plots’
SUNDAY TIMES
‘Beautifully done . . . alive and tremendously engrossing’
DAILY TELEGRAPH
‘Enjoyable, bloody and brutish’
GUARDIAN
‘This clever novel, rich in deceptions and intrigue . . . a standout historical novel and spy thriller by an author who can turn his hand to any historical period he chooses’
DAILY EXPRESS
‘A masterpiece of spies, intrigue and political shenanigans’
SUNDAY EXPRESS
‘Faster moving than C. J. Sansom’
BBC RADIO 4
For George, with love
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Historical Note
What Happened to Them?
Acknowledgements
Letter from Author
About the Author
Copyright
Chapter 1
Stockholm, 1942
Despite his reputation for wild living, the English prince had never been the most confident of men. He was nervous, his fingers and neck taut with apprehension and the burden of knowing the significance of this meeting. A meeting that must forever be kept secret.
He took his seat with the briefest of nods to his German cousin. No smile, for a smile might be seen as encouragement or collusion.
The German prince was less cautious, more sure of himself, and did offer a smile as he sat opposite his old friend. The two men had known and liked each other for many years but today there was to be no small talk, no comfortable conversation or warm, shared remembrances. Today they were enemies.
Their eyes met across the large table in a rather beautiful room with green silk walls and large paintings of long-dead royals from the days when Sweden was a great European power, and then they both looked away, like cats that cannot hold eye contact. The English prince studied the high ceiling and found himself counting the gilded crenellations on the cornice. He waited.
They were here in this room with only two others present – one aide for each man – with a single purpose: discovery.
What did the other man want? What could he offer?
Summer light streamed down on them from a tall window. Outside, the afternoon was hot, but here in this chamber in the heart of Drottningholm Palace, on the eastern shore of Lovön island in the forest-fringed Lake Mälar seven miles to the west of central Stockholm, there was a definite chill. The English prince shivered.
The flying boat that had brought him here was moored in a large lake several miles further west, well away from populated areas where it might draw attention. He and his closest aides had made the final leg of their gruelling and secret journey in an anonymous motor-launch.
No one from the Swedish royal family had been here to greet them; they could not be involved in this other than to allow the princes the use of this palace, a splendid eighteenth-century building said to have been inspired by Versailles but with its own distinctive Nordic flavour, with stucco exterior walls of smoky yellow.
Apart from the scraping of chairs, the only sound was birdsong, muffled and distant. The air was still, fresh and lightly perfumed by the wax polish administered to the table and chairbacks by maidservants that morning.
As the two princes settled in there was an awkward silence between them, such that one might wonder whether either man would ever break it. At last the German, Philipp von Hessen, spoke. ‘We both want the same thing, Georgie – peace. Is that not so? Is that not the desire of the whole civilised world? Peace in Europe?’
‘This is not about what we want, Philipp. The question is, what does your friend want?’
‘My friend?’
‘I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t know how close you have become to Hitler.’ The English prince, easily the more handsome and imposing of the two cousins, chose his words with utmost care. His purpose could be so easily misunderstood, both here in this room and – if word of this meeting were ever to leak – in other places.
The German prince stiffened, almost imperceptibly. ‘Of course, we know each other . . .’
‘Some say you are his only true friend. His sounding board and his go-between.’
‘You make it sound like an insult.’
‘Little Otto’s godfather, isn’t he?’
Philipp confected another smile. ‘I have many friends. I thought you were my friend, Georgie. That is why I agreed to meet you. All I can tell you is that the Führer is prepared to listen to what you have to say. I am his ears.’ He spoke perfect English; he had after all been sent to school in the south of England three decades earlier and had been back and forth in the intervening years.
‘But you requested this meeting, Phli.’ Phli – or Flea – that was the nickname the extended family had used for Philipp since childhood. ‘I assumed you had something to say, something to impart.’ Prince George had not returned his royal cousin’s smile. He could not afford ambiguity. His mind kept returning to the sensitivity surrounding this meeting; just one misplaced word, one misinterpreted expression might cause untold harm.
This was too delicate. There must be no suggestion that he had come to this place seeking any sort of accommodation with the Nazis. This was a recce mission, nothing more. There must be no misapprehension on that score.
‘Georgie? Talk to me. Tell me what you want. What does your brother want, for pity’s sake? You wouldn’t have come unless you wanted something.’
Prince George, Duke of Kent, brother of the King of England, did not respond. He could have shaken his head and said ‘that’s not so,’ but instead he just waited. He turned his head away; the grand fireplace in his line of vision had a gilt ormolu clock on the mantelpiece and he noted the time. How long should he allow this meeting to last? Ten minutes? Perhaps fifteen? Certainly no more than that. It would not do to seem keen to prolong the engagement.
Philipp and George were great-grandsons of Queen Victoria. In their scandalous, hedonistic youth, they had both exuded glamour and danger, but things were different now. There had been tales of women, of intimate relationships with men, of drugs and alcohol and scandalous parties. But for George those days were long gone. He might be diffident, but at least he had a maturity about him while his cousin, once beloved of poets and
artists, still seemed not to have grown up. And there was something else that George noticed in his cousin – an air of tired desperation. The face that had once charmed men and women alike was pinched and diminished. Perhaps Hitler’s charms were wearing thin; perhaps the aristocratic Philipp no longer felt secure among the lower-class thugs of the Third Reich.
‘Then so be it, Georgie – I will tell you what you want as you seem so reluctant to say the words. You want to make an honourable peace with Germany. This week’s events in northern France must have shown you that you have an empire to lose and nothing to gain by continuing this war. Your situation is hopeless. Damn it, you couldn’t even hold on to Singapore. India will be next, then Australia – your colonies will fall like ninepins. So join us, Georgie – join us, save the British Empire and crush the bloody Bolsheviks.’
‘Is that what Hitler wants, a joint effort against the Soviets? He needs England, does he?’
‘You are twisting my words. Germany doesn’t need England. But many of us have great affection for our old friends across the North Sea. We want to save you from unnecessary pain and destruction. We want you to keep your great empire. Imagine a federal Europe with German armies of the west and north returned to their pre-war stations, France and parts of the Low Countries back to their pre-war borders, all protected from the Asiatic hordes by a greater German Reich. Relations with Japan could be broken off with benefit to us all. We are natural allies – you know we are.’
‘It sounds to me as though your friend is frantic to do a deal with us so that he can divert his western divisions to the East.’
A shaft of sunlight crossed over Philipp’s eyes and he blinked rapidly. ‘That is not so. He is conquering the world – you know he is. He is Attila, Tamburlaine, Alexander and Napoleon. No one can stop him.’
‘Napoleon didn’t fare so well in Russia.’
‘Now you are being trivial. The advance on Stalingrad and the siege of Leningrad are just mopping-up operations.’
‘Then why is he seeking an accommodation with England?’
‘He has always loved your country. Read his book: it tells you everything you need to know about his aims. He wishes to share the spoils, nothing more. Has Germany not offered an olive branch already by cutting back on its bombing raids on your cities – even though provoked by your own raids?’
‘That’s not an olive branch, Phli, that’s strategic necessity – Goering needs the Luftwaffe in the East.’
‘Not so, Georgie – not so.’
‘So it’s an act of altruism by Adolf? Be nice to the poor little Brits?’ Prince George smiled at last, then glanced again at the clock and laughed quietly as he rose from his chair at the table. ‘Thank you, Phli, you have told me everything I wanted to know.’
‘I have told you nothing!’
‘Oh, I rather think you have. All except his terms – and you haven’t even asked what Britain’s terms might be. Your Luftwaffe has done much damage. It would have to be paid for. We wouldn’t even agree a temporary ceasefire without the guarantee of substantial reparations.’
‘Georgie, now you are making fun of me!’
‘And you are trying to take me for a fool, Phli.’
‘Georgie, Georgie, I beg you, don’t throw away this chance. There will not be another. If you do not make peace, then he will crush you utterly – and neither of us can desire that. Please, let us meet again this evening. Perhaps over some supper and wine. Just the two of us.’ He swept his left arm wide to indicate his proposed dismissal of their aides.
Prince George, Duke of Kent, hesitated. ‘I don’t know.’
‘We can talk about old times. I want to know about your family – Marina, the children, the new baby. We have more in common than separates us, Georgie. Much more. It has to be worth preserving.’
‘Just the two of us?’
‘You and me. Like old times.’
Behind them, the eyes of their aides met. Philipp von Hessen did not notice.
*
At first Tom Wilde failed to recognise the young man. He looked older, wore a rather ragged military moustache and was in army uniform. Wilde smiled briefly and nodded, as you do when you’re alone in a railway carriage and someone new comes in.
‘Good evening,’ Wilde said and returned to his newspaper.
The young man grunted, then slumped into a seat in the far corner by the window, delved into a khaki service bag and pulled out a tin of sweets. He lifted the lid and popped one in his mouth, then offered the tin to Wilde.
‘Fruit drop, professor?’
Wilde looked up, astonished at being addressed by his title. He was about to ask how the officer knew him when he realised he was acquainted with the young soldier. ‘Ah, it’s you, Cazerove – sorry, I didn’t recognise you under the moustache. And thanks for the offer, but no to the sweet.’
‘I imagine you’d prefer a Scotch. You always did, as I recall.’
‘Do you have some then?’
‘Afraid not.’
It was the last train of the day. The blackouts were secured and the train pulled out of Liverpool Street at a crawl. Wilde was surprised by Peter Cazerove’s shabby appearance; he had been one of the more sharply dressed undergraduates, if not the most diligent.
‘Changed a lot, have I, Professor Wilde?’
‘Oh, you know, my mind was elsewhere, that’s all. Still used to seeing you in your civvy bags and gown.’
‘You look pretty much the same. Still at the old college, I suppose.’
‘Indeed.’ He wasn’t going to tell this man that he was now engaged full-time working in Grosvenor Street for the Office of Strategic Services – or OSS – the newly formed American intelligence agency. This journey back to Cambridge was a rare break from a hectic schedule. He was longing to see Lydia and their two-year-old son Johnny for the first time in two months. He wanted Lydia badly. Even after six years together, the fire still burned. ‘As I recall, Cazerove, you had plans to go back to your old school to teach.’
‘That was always the idea. I did a year, then duty called.’
‘Athelstans, wasn’t it? War’s buggering up a lot of careers.’
‘Quite.’
‘No time for sixteenth-century studies either, I suppose?’
‘Oh, I read a little now and then.’
‘I remember you were always rather interested in the French side of things. Henry of Navarre, Catherine of Medici, House of Guise . . .’
Cazerove smiled weakly. ‘Debauchery, incest and poison, you mean?’
‘Well, yes, they did indulge in quite a lot of that.’
It was clear they would have the carriage to themselves. The journey was certain to be long and gruelling at this time of night, the train stopping at every small out-of-the-way station en route, and so conversation was unavoidable, which was irritating. Wilde had had a long day of meetings, including a four-hour session with Lord Templeman and other senior MI5 and MI6 men on the practicalities of sharing information and ensuring the American and British secret services did not cross wires. ‘You shall share our secrets,’ Churchill had promised John Winant when he arrived as ambassador. Well, Templeman had been supremely accommodating; nothing would be too much trouble when it came to keeping their allies from across the pond in the loop. Wilde had listened with scepticism. He had had enough dealings with Britain’s spies to know that they were about as trustworthy as a pride of lions babysitting infant wildebeest. But that was all in the past; they had to work together now, for the duration at least.
Here on this train, he was exhausted and wanted nothing but to travel home in silence, perhaps nod off for an hour and then, when he was home, drink a couple of whiskies with Lydia and retire with her to bed. Unfortunately the presence of Cazerove made silence impossible. Reluctantly he folded up his day-old copy of The Times and placed it on the seat at his side, looked up at his former student and prepared to make small talk. ‘So tell me, how have you been keeping?’
‘Do yo
u really want to know?’
‘Yes, of course, that’s why I asked. Haven’t seen you for, what is it, four years?’
Cazerove took another sweet from his tin. ‘OK then, here goes. I’m the loneliest man in the world, professor. Broken. There. That just about sums it up.’
This wasn’t what he expected to hear. For a moment, he was stunned into silence. ‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ he said at last.
‘Well, you did ask.’
‘Indeed, yes, I did.’
‘So there you are.’
Wilde realised he was supposed to delve deeper. His former undergraduate badly wanted to get something off his chest. ‘What is it, Cazerove? Girl trouble, perhaps? This wretched war? You’re not alone, you know – these things get a lot of men down.’ Wilde was embarrassed by his platitudes even as he uttered them, but what else was there to say? He was responding to an unanticipated outburst; usually people said they were fine, thank you, however badly things were going. ‘Mustn’t grumble, old man, we’re all in the same boat.’ That was the British way.
‘Girl trouble, professor? Not in the way you mean it.’
Wilde tried to offer a sympathetic smile. But he was disturbed. He didn’t like this encounter one bit and wondered where the conversation was going. Things happened on trains, and not all of them good.
‘Do you want to talk about it? Not really my business, of course, but I’m a fairly good listener.’
Cazerove returned the smile, but it was still utterly humourless. He was, thought Wilde, a curious specimen. A strong, athletic face, quite handsome but certainly not in the movie-star mould. He wore a lieutenant’s two pips, which was about right for his age – what, twenty-five or so? At Cambridge, he had not always been easy to teach because he had strong preconceived notions about history that were difficult to reconfigure. He was also a bit full of himself, as were so many of the scions of landed gentry that Wilde had encountered during his years in England; he certainly hadn’t been one of the undergraduates that Wilde warmed to and nor did he expect him to achieve much. That wouldn’t harm his prospects for a life of wealth and ease, however, because his family owned vast tracts of land in Norfolk, he recalled.
And as an old boy from Athelstans, he was most likely a member of the Athels. They tended to consider themselves the most elite and ancient of societies – both in Cambridge and elsewhere – and looked after each other. War or no war, the old boy network was here to stay.
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