He was thinking of the three senior intelligence officers with whom he had been dealing these past days – Philip Eaton, Walter Quayle and Lord Templeman, Richard to his friends. He knew now that Eaton and Quayle had both been at Trinity and he had a strong feeling that Templeman had been there too. They were all of an age and had all made their way into different branches of the secret service.
What else was there between them?
Of course, it was perfectly reasonable to assume that they were all working together for the good of their country in a time of war. That wasn’t a conspiracy, it was joint enterprise for a common good.
In which case, what exactly were they trying to do? And if Quayle was linked to Peter Cazerove, why had the younger man taken his own life, ravaged with guilt over actions that seemed to have bugger all to do with the common good?
But there were inconsistencies. Someone had tortured and murdered Harriet’s father, someone had ordered a violent raid on Mimi Lalique’s Westminster home. And Wilde had been subjected to a drug-induced interrogation.
Each one of these events had but one aim: to find Harriet Hartwell.
But there were sharp differences between the three incidents. First, the murder of the Reverend Hartwell – by all accounts an unworldly, mild-mannered clerical gentleman – had been savage in the extreme. Second, the raid on Mimi’s house had been brutally efficient. By contrast, the doped interrogation of Wilde had been rather tame.
They didn’t sound as if they had all been ordered by the same person.
Chapter 36
Coburg was fully conscious and sitting up in bed, but he was still weak. He had already been through his evidence in painstaking detail, pressed hard by Wilde.
If all their efforts to get Coburg out of Sweden were to bear fruit, they had to be certain of his story. It had to be watertight. ‘OK, Coburg, tell me again, what exactly was the purpose of your visit to this camp at the village of Treblinka?’
‘I’ve been through this, Mr Wilde.’
‘So what? I want to hear it.’
Coburg slumped against the pillows, his head lolling to one side. He was weakening fast.
‘Come on.’
The German seemed to be asleep, but then opened his eyes and took one long, deep breath as though stiffening his resolve. ‘Well, sir,’ he said, ‘we were invited to a weekend party at a grand hunting lodge nearby – a house that at one time must have belonged to Polish nobility. This weekend was said to be a special reward for all our efforts in Berlin and it was all organised by Müller.’
‘Müller?’
‘Heinrich Müller, chief of the Gestapo and one of my bosses in the RSHA. He said we were as important to the war effort as those fighting on the Eastern frontline and that we deserved to be honoured as such. But as I soon found out, there was a hidden motive. It was to implicate us, make us truly part of the gang. Until then – until I saw those people being marched naked to their deaths – I had no idea what was happening.’
‘How could you have not known, Coburg? You were personally responsible for sending trainloads of men, women and children to this camp. What did you think would happen to them once they arrived? Did you think they were to be put up in a luxurious hotel with feather beds and room service?’ Wilde did nothing to disguise the scepticism or disgust he felt.
‘No,’ Coburg said quietly and with something akin to contrition in his voice, ‘no, I didn’t think that.’
‘These were innocent men, women and children, were they not? People living quiet, blameless lives who were torn mercilessly from their homes by you and your Nazi bully-boy comrades.’ Wilde’s voice was staccato, brutal. It had to be so. If Coburg was to be believed by the world’s politicians and press, he was going to have to withstand hard and searching interrogation.
‘I thought their accommodation would be basic but humane. I had visited Dachau before the war and that was reasonably well run. By this summer, however, things were different. A war was on, there were food shortages and Germany needed workers. They would be forced to work for us and then eventually they would be re-settled further to the east.’
‘So you thought they were to be used as slave labour?’
‘Those are harsh words, but yes.’
‘Would you call yourself a gullible man, Coburg?’
‘It seems I was fooled, so yes, I must confess that I am gullible.’
‘Who else was there at this delightful house party?’
‘I have already given you the names.’
‘Well, give them to me again.’
Harriet put a pale hand on Wilde’s sleeve. ‘Tom, don’t push him too hard, he’s still unwell.’
Coburg shook his head. ‘It’s all right, Harriet, I have to go through this. I understand. Well, of course there was Müller himself, Adolf Eichmann, my line manager at Referat IV B4 whom I have told you about.’ He continued to name all those he remembered from the various departments within the RSHA and other ministries. ‘There were also a few others, whose names I did not know.’
‘And at the camp, who was there?’
‘The commandant, Obersturmführer Eberl. I knew his name from the transport directives, but I had never met him before. I know from files that in civilian life he was a physician and then became involved in Aktion T4 in which the useless mouths – the feeble-minded and infirm – were gassed.’
Wilde felt bile rising up in his throat. ‘That’s what you called sick people – useless mouths?’
‘Yes, again it sounds harsh. But with desperate food shortages, it was not seen as rational to provide food for those who could contribute nothing.’
You revolt me, Coburg. He did not say the words, but there would be others who would not hold back. ‘Carry on.’
‘You want to know more about Eberl? Well, I know he had been at another camp, Chelmno, but I have no knowledge of what went on there.’
‘Was that, too, a death camp?
‘Almost certainly. It fits in with what I know of Eberl. In Aktion T4 his job was to kill people by carbon monoxide, and that was what he later did at Treblinka, so one might assume he was involved in similar practices at Chelmno.’
‘Describe him.’
Coburg thought a moment, then laughed. ‘You know, it is funny. He has a little moustache like the Führer or Charlie Chaplin. I think perhaps he thought it would help his career.’
‘I don’t think there’s anything to laugh about,’ Wilde said, his voice sharp.
‘I’m sorry, forgive me.’
‘If you laugh when you are talking to journalists or Western politicians or, later, when you give testimony in court, you will be thought cruelly insensitive or false and it will damage our case.’
‘I understand.’
Harriet took Wilde by the arms. He was sitting on a wooden chair beside Coburg’s bed in the OSS office. ‘Tom, that’s enough now. You’ve been at him for three hours. Let him have a break. Apart from anything else, I need a break. An hour or so to clear our heads. Can’t we get some fresh air – perhaps visit Mimi? It would be a pleasant walk from here to the hospital.’
Wilde took a deep breath. He didn’t want to let Coburg off the hook. He despised the man and wanted to torture him with words. But he took Harriet’s point. He looked at his watch and saw it was noon. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘Break now. You can have some lunch, Coburg, and we’ll be back with you at 1.30. Later, I will require you to write a full account of your experiences, both within the RSHA and also at your weekend house party, which you will sign before a notary. I want you to write it both in English and German so that there is no confusion or inconsistency in translation.’
‘Yes, I will do that.’
‘It will be checked by a translator, so make it accurate. Do not deviate from the truth in the slightest way. In the meantime, some lunch will be brought to you.’
‘Thank you. And, sir, may I ask you – am I safe here?’
‘Yes.’
‘But what will become of me? H
ow will you protect me from the Athels?’
‘Why do you think they would want to hurt you?’ Wilde said.
‘Because my testimony is damaging to Germany and the Athels see Hitler as a better option than Stalin. Ask Harriet here – she knows the way they think. The Nazis are more likely to maintain Europe’s class structure, or so the Athels believe.’
‘But why the Athels? Do you have some evidence?’
‘Peter Cazerove. He was an Athel. Harriet trusted him. The question is, who did he tell? Because someone from England must have passed information on to Müller.’
Perhaps he was right, but that was not Wilde’s most pressing problem. ‘Think it through, Coburg, you’re in danger whether you testify or not, so I can’t promise you protection.’
‘I am a dead man.’
‘Well, this is war, and many people lay their lives on the line.’
‘Yes, yes, of course. I understand.’
‘Good. Well, I despise what you have done, Coburg. But you are doing the right thing now – so you may yet find redemption.’
‘I pray it is so.’
Wilde and Harriet got up from their chairs and made for the door.
‘Before you go, Mr Wilde . . .’
They turned back towards Coburg. ‘Yes?’ Wilde said.
‘There was something else I wanted to say, something that has been troubling me, for I have been doubting myself, doubting that I truly saw what I saw. But in describing Eberl just now it all came back to me, and now I am certain.’
‘Go on.’
‘There was someone else, you see, someone else at the camp.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, two people to be precise.’
‘Guards?’
‘No, no, they were visitors like us, but not from our house party. They arrived separately – a few minutes after us – and left before us. One of them was immensely tall, an SS officer. But it was the one at his side, just a little to the rear in fact, who caught my eye. He was wearing his greatcoat, which was a surprise seeing that it was a warm summer’s evening, and he had his collar up and his cap firmly down across his brow. His face was in darkness, until one of the floodlights swivelled through an arc and lit up his face, just for a moment.’
‘You recognised this man?’
Coburg nodded his head. ‘Yes, it was Adolf Hitler, I am certain of it.’
*
They knew it was foolish to go outside, but they both needed proper fresh air. It felt to them as if they had been crawling through a sewer full of rats all morning. A walk, a little walk in the sunshine was a risk they had to take.
As they strolled through St James’s Park, Tom Wilde and Harriet Hartwell were deep in their own thoughts. It was a warm, hazy, late-summer day. The park was not what it once was, what with bomb craters and the overgrown, untended lawns and beds, but at least the birds were still singing and the Luftwaffe had other things to do than bomb London with the frequency it had employed during the Blitz.
Wilde broke the silence. ‘Do you believe him?’
‘About Hitler? I’m not sure. Do you?’
‘Well, I would guess Hitler’s Eastern headquarters could be nearby. It’s clear to us that his wolf’s lair is somewhere in East Prussia, so it could be within an hour or two of Treblinka. Even quicker by air, perhaps. Close enough for a short visit.’
‘Why, though?’ she asked.
‘To see whether his murderous orders were being carried out to the letter?’
‘Perhaps he just likes seeing people being killed.’
‘God, what a vile thought, but I wouldn’t put it past him. It’s just a damn shame Coburg didn’t get closer to him, or talk to him or find some hard evidence that he was there, because that would put Hitler right at the heart of the murders. The thing is, Harriet, any extra bit of information about the Führer’s presence would be gold dust to our cause.’
‘I’ll work on him, Tom. Let me take over this afternoon. It’s astonishing what people can discover they remember when they’re asked nicely by a pretty young woman. Information hidden deep in the recesses of the mind.’
‘Is that something you do in your line of work, Miss Civil Service Secretary? Interrogate captured Germans? Lure them to their doom with sweet smiles and soft words?’
She didn’t have time to answer. They were just passing the base of a huge anti-aircraft gun, its snout poking aloft, when the attack came.
A man with a knife was moving in from the side, his long blade glinting in the noonday sun. Wilde saw it early and reacted instantly. He pushed Harriet aside and, in the same fluid movement, aimed his right fist full-blooded to the side of the man’s head. The blade was coming up but Wilde was already fending it off, his left forearm cracking into the man’s wrist.
The punch to the head was too hard to withstand. It connected with undiluted force. The assailant buckled and his knees crumpled, but his hand still gripped the knife.
As the attacker fell, his knife hand went down, blade first into the hard earth, trying to steady himself. The heel of Wilde’s left shoe followed the hand, crunching down on the knuckles and forcing the weapon to spin away. The man let out a sickening cry of pain as finger bones snapped. Wilde descended with both knees into the man’s chest and saw his face for the first time. ‘You!’ He hit him again, in the side of the head, then reached out for the buried knife and held the sharp edge to his throat. ‘I should do for you now.’
Wilde turned to Harriet, to tell her that this was the bastard who had killed her father.
But she wasn’t there.
Yet again, she had vanished.
The captive was struggling. Wilde let the knife cut a fraction into the man’s throat. ‘Who sent you? Who’s paying you to do this.’
‘My hand, you’ve broken my hand.’
‘That’s nothing. I’ll slit your throat, so you know how it feels. Shall I do that?’
‘Fuck you.’
A constable was approaching, ambling along on his beat. He stopped suddenly, trying to compute what he was seeing. Instinct and training kicked in. He pushed his service whistle between his lips and blew – hard and long. Then he moved forward with authority. He had dealt with fights many times before. This one held no terrors for him.
The police officer was with Wilde now, truncheon raised to strike. ‘I suggest you remove that weapon from the man’s throat, sunshine.’
‘This man is a murderer, officer. He has killed at least one other person and he tried to kill us. If I release him now, he will run.’
The officer wasn’t large, but he was fearless. He obviously had no idea which was the more dangerous of the two men he was confronting. ‘Drop the knife. You’re both nicked.’
Wilde noticed the look of relief on the officer’s face as two fellow officers came running towards them in answer to the whistle. He threw the knife away, well out of reach of Mortimer’s undamaged hand.
*
‘I have a United States diplomatic passport so you have no authority to hold me,’ Wilde said. ‘But I am willing, of my own volition, to help you with your inquiries.’ The time had finally come when he had to use his immunity.
He was in an office on the third floor of Scotland Yard, in the presence of a uniformed inspector named Alfred Foat.
‘Do you have the passport with you, Mr Wilde?’
‘Professor Wilde.’ He didn’t normally insist on his title being used, but in this case when he was trying to establish his innocence and credentials as a man of reputation, it seemed appropriate. ‘My passport is presently at the OSS offices. I am a professor of history at Cambridge University, but I have recently taken on a new role with the diplomatic mission in Grosvenor Street. You can confirm that with Ambassador Winant or Mr William Phillips.’
Foat had papers on his desk. He picked one up. ‘There has been a warrant out for your arrest, accused of committing murder in Suffolk.’
‘Has been?’
‘It has been
rescinded. It seems you are no longer a suspect. This present incident, however, is a different matter altogether. The constable says you had a man pinned to the ground and were holding a knife to his throat.’
‘That man attacked me. I overpowered him.’
‘So you say.’
‘I also say that the man I tackled is named Mortimer and that he should be your chief suspect in the murder of the Reverend Hartwell in his home at Clade, Suffolk.’
‘Indeed, and what is your evidence for this assertion?’
‘I was at Clade at the time of the murder – and I saw Mortimer escaping on a motorbike.’ Wilde sighed deeply; this was utterly pointless. ‘I’m afraid these are matters well beyond your remit, Inspector Foat. We’re both wasting our time here.’
Foat ignored him. ‘You’ve told me you were with someone else, a woman. Tell me, where is this lady friend of yours? The constable says he saw no woman.’
‘She ran because she was scared. She was the knifeman’s target. The murder victim in Suffolk was her father, the Reverend Hartwell.’ Wilde stopped; he had had enough. ‘Look, inspector, this is a matter for the secret intelligence service. Miss Hartwell is a British agent. All you need to do is keep the man Mortimer – if that is his true name – under lock and key on a charge of attempted murder or attempted grievous bodily harm, then call in Special Branch or MI5. They will take over from you.’
‘The problem, you see, is that we have no evidence on which to hold Mr Ned Mortimer.’
‘No evidence! He came at us with a knife.’
‘He says you attacked him. His right hand is broken and he is presently being treated. The constable says he saw you holding a knife to Mr Mortimer’s throat. Unless you can find evidence to corroborate your story, what am I to do?’
‘Find evidence – and find it quickly. That’s your job. Perhaps you’d like me to give you a couple of telephone numbers? There are others who know the full story.’
‘That won’t be necessary.’
‘Then let me question Mortimer myself. I want to know who he’s working for.’
‘And that certainly won’t be possible. This is a police matter.’
Wilde rose from the hardbacked chair that had been placed for him in front of the inspector’s broad desk. ‘Then if you don’t mind, I will take my leave of you now.’
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