A Prince and a Spy

by Rory Clements

  ‘Are you going to be all right, Skipper Skoog?’

  ‘Oh, don’t you worry about me, professor.’

  ‘I want to get you some tobacco for your pipe. Is there anywhere in the town that sells it?’

  ‘No, you worry about yourself. You have things to do.’

  Wilde shook the old man by the hand and thanked him profusely, then took his wallet and offered him his choice of banknotes. Skoog refused.

  ‘We have to pay you, Skipper Skoog. That was agreed. At least for the diesel.’

  ‘No, my grandson can pay for that – and you can repay me by continuing to do whatever it is you are trying to do to defeat the Nazis. And if that is not what you are trying to do, then I am no judge of character.’

  *

  There was something about the face of the younger man with the windswept hair. Müller had a strange feeling he had seen him before, but where? He certainly had never met him, he was sure of that. But there was a spark of recognition. How could that be? It didn’t make sense. And if that was the boat that had picked up Coburg, what part had the man played in it?

  This was the perfect moment. ‘Come,’ he said to his two men. ‘Fit your silencers. You are going to board that vessel. Make caution your watchword: I promise you the Führer would not wish an international incident on Swedish soil, but if we can finish it now, all well and good. It is possible the woman is armed. We know her to be a British agent. That said, don’t hesitate to use your weapons. Shoot instantly, shoot silently, shoot to kill.’

  Müller held back. As chief of the Gestapo he was too well known in the world – and he could not be implicated in a shooting in broad daylight in a foreign land, especially not in a country whose ball bearing and iron exports were so vital to the German armaments industry. His two junior agents, however, were expendable. If caught, they would say nothing.

  Huber and Felberg stepped off the Solpalats and strode along the quayside. Reaching the Arethusa they stopped, looked around for unwelcome others, then jumped aboard. Now their pistols were drawn, lengthened by slim silencers. Felberg took up position on deck, partly concealed by the wheel from prying eyes ashore, then nodded to Huber who immediately ducked down into the cabin, his pistol clutched in both hands for stability.

  From the Solpalats, Müller watched the proceedings on the other boat intently, waiting for the muffled, almost inaudible, sound of gunfire that was certain to come.

  There was nothing, not a whisper.

  Huber emerged from the cabin of the Arethusa, shaking his head. ‘Not here,’ he mouthed.

  Müller raised his right hand and snapped it back sharply. His two men hurriedly disembarked and returned to the Solpalats as ordered.

  ‘There’s no one there, Herr Gruppenführer,’ Huber said.

  ‘And you are certain it was the boat we were following?’

  ‘Yes, sir. The old man at the wheel and the other man were the same – as was the boat itself.’

  Müller agreed, but he was puzzled. Yes, it was always possible they had been following the wrong boat all along – except for one thing: the feeling deep in his gut that he knew the face of the younger of the two men from somewhere. But who was he?

  From this distance, they could see the two men talking at the far end of the quay. The old man was sitting on a bench and had a pipe in his mouth. ‘This is what we are going to do, gentlemen,’ Müller said. ‘Felberg, you are going to use all your expensive Gestapo training and expertise to follow the younger of those two men. Huber, go and get a car for us in case he drives away.’

  ‘How do I get a car, sir?’

  Müller handed him a bundle of notes. ‘Borrow one, buy one, rent one.’

  Huber looked bewildered. ‘But what if no one will agree?’

  The Gestapo chief smacked the side of the young man’s head. ‘You hot-wire one, dummkopf.’

  Chapter 34

  ‘Well, Miss Hartwell, the patient needs a great deal of rest and fluids, but I think you already knew that. He had a rare reaction to the adder bite – something I have heard of but have never seen before. Such reactions can be caused by many things, from insect stings to certain foods, such as shellfish. They are often fatal, so your friend has been fortunate, for he will survive.’

  The doctor lived above his surgery less than two miles up the coast from Ekberg. It was a large, delightful house of dark red wooden panelling, backed by woodland and fronted by a lawn that sloped down to the sea, where he had a private jetty. Skoog knew Dr Hansen well and had taken Harriet and Coburg there directly, certain that he would be able to help them.

  Wilde and the doctor carried Coburg ashore and laid him on a narrow bed in his clean white surgery. Wilde would have stayed, but Skoog asked him to return to the boat for the last part of the voyage into Ekberg harbour. ‘Just to fix the moorings and help me ashore, you understand, Mr Wilde. It will be only a half-hour walk from the harbour up to this house.’ Wilde felt he had no option but to agree after all the man had done for them.

  Harriet was now in the physician’s surgery, watching as Coburg was examined with professional thoroughness.

  ‘Yes,’ the doctor repeated. ‘I believe your friend will be fine.’

  ‘Can he stay here with you tonight, Dr Hansen?’

  The doctor frowned. ‘That is a most unusual request, Miss Hartwell.’

  ‘This is a most unusual set of circumstances, doctor.’

  ‘My professional advice is that he should go to hospital.’ He sighed and allowed the young woman a smile. ‘But just this once, maybe you’re right. On balance I agree it were better he do no more travelling today, so yes, he can use my spare room. Where will you stay?’

  ‘I’ll be here with him. I won’t sleep. Perhaps Mr Wilde can sleep in an armchair when he joins us. We won’t require food – just a brief use of your telephone to summon our car. We have to leave early in the morning, you see.’

  ‘And leave Mr Coburg with me? That won’t work. He can stay here this one night, but tomorrow I will have him conveyed to hospital.’

  ‘No, Dr Hansen, we must take him with us.’ She hesitated just a few moments. ‘Well, I suppose I will have to tell you – we are taking Mr Coburg to England. He is a man of great importance to the progress of the war. Everything is arranged.’

  The doctor shook his head. ‘No, that is impossible.’

  ‘We must be at the airfield by seven-thirty in the morning, at the very latest.’

  ‘But Miss Hartwell, this man cannot fly in his present condition. By the sound of it, you may have saved his life by your actions today. To put him on a long flight to England would almost certainly jeopardise all your good work.’

  ‘It’s a risk we’ll have to take.’

  *

  Wilde sensed he was being followed and stopped outside the little shop that catered for all the townspeople’s needs. He went inside and asked the woman behind the counter whether she had any pipe tobacco for sale.

  She couldn’t speak English, so he cupped his hand as though holding the bowl of a pipe and raised it to just in front of his lips and made a sucking sound. ‘Ah!’ she said, then muttered something in Swedish and pointed him towards a small glass cabinet which had a selection of half a dozen pipes. Wilde nodded, then made a show of putting tobacco into his imaginary pipe. She shook her head sadly, but held out a packet of cigarettes by way of compensation.

  He bought two packets, reckoning Skoog could cannibalise them for his pipe, then stepped out of the shop and looked around. He was in no doubt now. There were only two men visible in the street and they both looked out of place, one well ahead of him, leaning nonchalantly against a wall, the other, much younger, standing with his hands in his pockets at a corner fifty yards to his rear. He couldn’t be sure, but he had a strong feeling that they were the men he had seen through binoculars aboard the pursuing motorboat. A car turned into the road, its exhaust spluttering black smoke, and stopped. But the driver did not switch off the engine and nor did he get o
ut of his seat.

  Wilde was now certain these were the men from the boat. If they were following him, it was because they believed that he would lead them to Coburg.

  So he couldn’t go to the doctor’s.

  He put his right hand inside his jacket and gripped the Smith & Wesson revolver with which Bill Phillips had supplied him. It was slotted into a shoulder holster that fitted snugly at the left side of his chest. Briefly, he allowed his jacket to flap open; he wanted these three men to know that he, too, was armed, and that he would not be taken easily.

  *

  Heinrich Müller had achieved his exalted position within the Third Reich hierarchy through dogged hard work and pragmatism. He had been a latecomer to the Nazi party, only joining when it was made clear to him by Heydrich that he really didn’t have any option if he was to achieve high office in the current regime.

  It had not escaped the attention of his enemies in the party that he had actively worked against the Nazis before they achieved power, nor that he had once referred to Hitler as ‘a jobless immigrant house painter.’ Well, he was, wasn’t he? Or had been.

  But politics meant little or nothing to Müller. He was happy to work for anyone who held the reins, and to do that work to the very best of his considerable abilities. He would happily accept that he was a man of limited imagination, but he knew that he put in the hours long after others had gone home to their wives or mistresses. Holidays did not exist in his small, enclosed world, for he was the ultimate functionary, a man willing to do anything, however distasteful, in return for power and status. Even go to Sweden to execute a traitor, if necessary.

  That pragmatism kicked in now with the realisation that he had a lot more to lose than gain if he were to use force against this man in this street. But nor could he let this man go, for he was the key to the whereabouts of Rudolf Coburg. And Coburg had to die, for the Reich could not allow him to live.

  *

  Wilde had to decide between the three men. He chose the younger one – the one standing with his hands in his pockets fifty yards behind him down the hill – and began to walk in his direction.

  As he approached, the man’s hand went nervously to his jacket pocket. His gaze swivelled between Wilde and the older man up the street. Wilde turned briefly and saw the older man shaking his head, almost imperceptibly. The younger man began to back away.

  ‘Möchten Sie etwas?’ Wilde said. Do you want something? He held his jacket open so that the holster and pistol were clearly visible. The watcher stumbled backwards, then turned and loped away. Wilde laughed, then turned his attention to the older man up the hill. That one was clearly the boss; he had a look about him. Probably Müller, given that a man of that name had arrived with two functionaries at Kerstin Larson’s house. He certainly fitted her description. Wilde began to walk up the hill, but the older one – not that old, only forty or so, but older in relation to the other men – simply strolled off.

  Wilde considered his options and made his way back down the hill to find Skoog. He was no longer at his bench, but was hobbling painfully towards the little quayside bar. Wilde caught him up. ‘I need another favour, Skipper Skoog.’

  ‘Name it, sir.’

  ‘I need a telephone.’

  ‘Something has happened? Never mind, don’t explain. Come to my house – I have a telephone. It’s only fifty metres from here.’ He pointed at an isolated wood-clad house fronting the bay.

  They walked slowly, Skoog holding on to Wilde’s arm. As they neared the building, the American expressed his admiration for the property, particularly its location. ‘You must have wonderful views.’

  ‘Finest in all Ekberg. I have to be beside the sea, you understand. If I can’t see it and smell it, I am in purgatory. The ocean is my lifeblood.’

  A few minutes later, they were inside the old man’s kitchen. The place reeked pleasantly of woodsmoke. Wilde handed him the cigarette packets. ‘They didn’t have pipe tobacco, but I thought these might be better than nothing.’

  ‘You are too good to me, sir.’ Skoog pointed at the phone. ‘Help yourself, professor.’

  ‘Could you call Dr Hansen for me? I need to speak to Harriet.’

  The old man dialled a number, got through, spoke quickly in Swedish, then handed the phone to Wilde.

  ‘Where are you, Tom?’

  ‘Harriet, I have encountered unwelcome company. Three men – the ones from the boat, I am certain. I don’t think I can get to you without bringing them along in my wake.’

  ‘What do we do?’

  ‘I’ll call the embassy and tell them to send the car direct to you and take you both to the airfield. Then you send it back to me here. I’m in Skoog’s house on the quayside. The doctor will give directions. I’ll join you at the airfield.’

  ‘Dr Hansen doesn’t want Coburg to be moved. He particularly doesn’t want him flown to England.’

  ‘There’s no option.’

  ‘I told him that. He says he could die.’

  ‘We’re going to take the chance. We can’t afford to wait.’

  ‘All right, I’m with you. But not yet – do it in the morning. Hansen says I can stay here with Coburg. That way Coburg will at least get a few hours’ rest and Hansen can give him a last once-over. He’s been making sure he gets plenty of fluids and I’ve cleaned him up. I think he’s making some progress.’

  ‘OK, I’ll make it 4.45 a.m. for you; that should give us both time to get to the plane. Oh, and don’t forget the briefcase.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘We still haven’t worked out how we’re going to organise this flight, but if I’m not at the airfield in time, you and Coburg just go.’

  *

  Wilde was aware that the Germans knew where he was. How could they not know? Now, they would be waiting and watching, certain that one way or another he would lead them to Coburg.

  Well, they could wait and watch. And if they thought they could use other means to extract information from him, they would have to think long and hard, for they now knew that he was armed.

  He made the phone call to the US embassy and arranged for the pick-up. He requested a two-man team, and this was granted. ‘And tell them to bring guns,’ he said. ‘Preferably a Thompson.’ He put down the phone before they could argue the toss, and gratefully accepted a glass of cold beer from Skoog. Wilde sipped it and gasped with appreciation. It had been a long, gruelling day.

  ‘You like salmon, professor? With dill potatoes? Let me cook it for you.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Skipper. Yes, I’d like that. Do you need any help? I can peel potatoes, even turn my hand to cooking if need be.’

  ‘No, I can manage well enough. You keep an eye out for your German friends. But tell me, are we to be slaughtered in our beds tonight?’

  ‘I’m not going to bed. Don’t worry, if they try anything, they won’t get past me.’

  Skoog laughed. ‘I wasn’t worried. When you have sailed around the Horn aboard a three-masted barque in hundred-knot winds, a few Germans with guns are not very frightening.’

  ‘No, I suppose not.’

  *

  Huber returned the car to the empty street where he had found it. In a small town like Ekberg, such a theft could not be concealed long. He found a better vehicle – faster, with a half-full tank of fuel – on the forecourt of a garage on the outskirts of town. Huber still had the Swedish krona notes and he went to the office to buy or rent it, but there was no one there; the place was locked and deserted. It seemed too good to be true but in the circumstances he could not give in to his doubts, so he hot-wired it and drove back down to the bay.

  Müller wasn’t happy to be using a stolen vehicle again, but he accepted the situation. ‘Keep it hidden,’ he said. ‘We don’t want any trouble with the locals. Return here after dark.’

  The Gestapo chief was on the quayside at the front of the house where his quarry and the old man had gone. Felberg was at the back of the building, crouched out
of sight behind a chicken coop, one hand on the gun in his pocket.

  Müller was certain now that these were the men with the key to Coburg’s whereabouts. The man in the street had been armed, so it had to be him. Ordinary Swedish citizens did not go around with guns secreted in shoulder holsters. And his memory of the face was returning. A face he had seen in a snatched photograph, filed away in the archives at Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse. Certainly, he had to be a British agent. All he needed was a name to go with the face. Why had his English contact not mentioned this man?

  More important was the other question: where had they taken Coburg? There could be no doubt he had been on the Arethusa. But where was he now? Where could they have taken him in the lost forty minutes at sea? Müller was left with two options: force his way into this fisherman’s house and prise the truth from those within. Or wait, watch and pursue.

  One way or another, he very much wanted to kill the man with the gun. But first he needed to find Coburg. At midnight he made his decision.

  *

  Wilde meant to stay awake, but sleep overtook him. Skipper Skoog had hauled himself slowly off to bed in a ground-floor room at the rear of the house, leaving his guest in a chair facing the front door. The house had no curtains. He had the Smith & Wesson in his lap and he watched the door until his eyes became heavy and closed.

  He woke to a flash of light. Torchlight at the window to the left of the door, delving into the darkness.

  The beam crossed his eyes, moved on, then returned and held briefly on his face. In the glare, he saw the shadowy outline of a face in the darkness behind the glass, then there was just the light once more. Wilde flung himself from the wooden chair, the pistol now gripped in both hands, targeted at the window. The light caught him again, then snapped off to leave pitch darkness.

  But Wilde had seen enough – the distinctive outline of a gun barrel behind the glass. Instinctively, he pulled the trigger of his own weapon.

  The explosion of the shot reverberated around the room. Glass shattered outwards.

  Wilde moved on hands and knees to the window, then stood up and peered into the darkness. ‘Ich werde dich töten,’ he growled. I will kill you. He heard running footsteps, retreating from the house. He fired again, high, a warning shot. The intruder wouldn’t fire back because they didn’t want him dead. Not yet, anyway.