by Anne Perry
He could not argue that. He could only admit it. It was humiliating to be called to explain himself to Hitler, aware all the time that he knew the answers, and he knew that Cordell knew it, too. It was like sticking a pin into a bug and watching it wriggle. There was no point in lying to protect Margot…or Elena. The only thing he could do to survive was tell the truth. To lie, and be instantly caught in it, would render him no use to anyone.
He changed into a clean shirt, put a brush through his hair again, examined his shave to ensure it was flawless, and prepared to leave, stomach churning.
He arrived at the hotel early by a quarter of an hour. It would be inexcusable to be late for the Führer. Wasn’t it Lord Nelson who said he owed his success in life to always being a quarter of an hour early? And his success had been phenomenal—“England expects…” and all that. Cordell found his “duty” a good deal less clear than Nelson’s had been. The enemy was not arrayed in battleships off Cape Trafalgar. No one knew who the enemy was exactly. It could be appalling ignorance, the crushing reparations demanded of Germany in the Treaty of Versailles. It could be merely a confused, hungry, and despairing people pushed too far, for too long.
He forced himself to sit down. He must not pace. It was a clear sign of nervousness that anyone could read. He must be well mannered, but not obsequious. He was a representative of Britain, and not a petitioner coming to ask for something. Britain was an ally, he hoped. It had been an enemy, and might be again, if governments were foolish enough to miss this chance for lasting peace.
An aide had been speaking to him and he had not heard. “Yes?” he asked.
“If you will come this way, sir, the Führer will see you now,” the man repeated.
“Thank you.” He followed the aide across the foyer and along a short passage. The man knocked on a door, and as soon as he heard the voice from inside, he opened it and ushered Cordell in.
Hitler was sitting in a comfortable chair, padded in leather with armrests. He looked exactly like his photographs, except that no camera had caught the luminous blue of his eyes. They were extraordinary, as if the light shone from inside. The rest of his face was perfectly ordinary, and, even sitting down, it was possible to tell he was certainly of no more than average height.
Cordell was not sure whether to salute or not. From an Englishman, it might look like sarcasm. Did Hitler have any sense of the absurd? Impossible. Cordell believed many of Hitler’s fears and even some of his ideals. But Cordell was an Englishman—his sense of the absurd was too strong to ignore. He bowed instead, just from the neck. It was a gesture of respect that could not be mistaken.
Hitler waved his hand toward a chair a couple of feet away. “Sit down, Mr. Cordell,” he invited.
Cordell obeyed, instinctively taking both arms of the chair to steady himself. It was only then that he looked at the third person in the room, and something inside him froze.
Joseph Goebbels was quite a small man, and scrawny, but once you had looked at him, his presence dominated that of Hitler. His nose was straight, his gash of a mouth thin-lipped, but his dark eyes would have been beautiful were it not for their expression of malevolence. He, too, was sitting. Cordell knew already that Goebbels had one leg different from the other: not exactly club-footed, but not normal.
Hitler signaled to the waiter that he might begin serving lunch. Cordell remembered that Hitler was vegetarian and wondered what they would be offered. He would eat it, whatever it was. Years of diplomacy had taught him how to eat almost anything and look as if he enjoyed it. He would remain silent until the Führer gave him leave to speak. He did not even look at Goebbels. He must remember to call him “Herr Doktor.”
“What is the latest news from London, Mr. Cordell?” Hitler inquired politely. “I hear more and more people are expressing respect for what we have accomplished here in Germany. Is that true?”
“Yes, sir, it is.” Cordell found his mouth dry. How long were they going to dance around? They were playing with him as a cat does with a mouse. When were they going to ask about Elena Standish? “It was said in Parliament quite recently…” He went on to describe some complimentary remarks regarding Hitler’s achievements.
Hitler nodded with apparent pleasure.
“And a previous ambassador, Mr. Standish?” Goebbels asked softly. He had a beautiful voice, deep for such a slight man, almost seductive. “Do you hear from him these days?”
Cordell’s mind raced. He could feel the sweat break out on his body. He tried to read Goebbels’s expression, and knew he could not. He was cleverer than Hitler, subtler. He understood emotions as an animal does, by instinct, by smell.
“I think perhaps he’s one of those who see what they want to see,” Cordell replied. “Like us, he has no taste for another war. He can see the wisdom of what you are saying.”
Goebbels nodded slowly, but his face was still unreadable. “It was an Englishwoman who killed Scharnhorst the other day, right here in Berlin,” he observed, then watched Cordell to see his reaction.
Cordell’s mind raced. Were they going to ask him if he had known about it? And see if he tried to deny having seen her? How much did they actually know? Better to think they knew everything. He must appear sincere, speaking from his own feelings. Hitler might believe flattery, Goebbels would not. Nor must he be seen to hesitate.
“I heard about it,” Cordell admitted. “It was only rumor then, and I hoped it was not true. I apologize deeply if it is.”
Goebbels leaned forward very slightly. “You know this young woman, Herr Cordell? This Elena Standish?”
Cordell was cold, in spite of the pleasantness of the day. He was absolutely certain that Goebbels knew the answer to that. He very probably knew that Elena had been to see Cordell the day before the assassination. One lie would be enough to ruin him.
“Yes, Herr Doktor,” he replied without hesitation. “I knew her reasonably well as a child, when her father was ambassador here. As well as one knows a girl still in her teenage years! But she came to see me the day she arrived in Berlin, briefly. Of course, I had no idea she intended such a terrible act. But then she would be aware that I would have had her arrested immediately if I had even suspected such a thing. She was in my office a matter of moments. She was tired from a very long train journey, all the way from Naples. And it was the end of the day.” He must not tell too much. That was always a sign of nervousness.
Goebbels sat back in his chair again. “Of course.”
That could have meant anything and Cordell did not reply.
The silence hung heavily over the table. Both Cordell and Goebbels were waiting for Hitler to speak.
Cordell wished wine had been served. He could use a long glass of a good white. But it was known that Hitler rarely ever drank alcohol, and when he did he put sugar in it! Cordell had needed all his diplomatic skills not to let his disgust show when he first heard this.
It was Hitler who spoke. “We will find her. Not that it matters a great deal. I am sure it was the last thing she intended, but she has done us a service. Is that not so, Herr Doktor?”
Goebbels had a sharper intellect than Hitler, and was more instinctive at judging others. And yet watching him, Cordell was certain that he was afraid of something. Perhaps of his place in Hitler’s esteem. There was nothing heroic about him, yet there was some vulnerability, as even a snake has.
Hitler flew into near hysterical rages. But Goebbels’s eye could strip a man’s soul and read in him what should never be revealed in anyone: the secret hopes and fears, the wounds that still bled, too deep to stanch.
“But Scharnhorst had some good ideas, don’t you think?” Goebbels spoke suddenly, and it was a moment before Cordell realized he was addressing him. His mind raced, trying desperately to recall what Scharnhorst had said, specifically. Ideas, not passion or hatred, not worship of Hitler, and of himself.
Goebbels was waiting, watching as if he could see through Cordell’s eyes into his brain. Was this what they had invited him for? To startle him into revealing his true ideas, not merely the diplomatically correct, carefully rehearsed ones?
“You need more than ideas, sir,” Cordell began. “You need to have specific plans as to how you will carry them out. You are efficient, that is beyond question. But you are not blind ideologues. You think, you plan.”
Hitler nodded very slowly, then turned to Goebbels.
Goebbels was smiling, his lips parted. “Yes, Mein Führer,” he said very softly. “You were perfectly correct. Too soon. Scharnhorst was right, but too soon.”
Cordell looked from one to the other of them. He was beginning to understand. Could it be that they were quite happy that Scharnhorst was dead? And was it worth the risk to let them perceive that he knew?
The silence prickled with tension. Dare he speak? He had earlier. It was the most dangerous time to chance. He must learn what they were referring to…exactly.
“I think we might be wiser to act first,” he said, dropping each word carefully. “When we are certain exactly what works or what might be better…kept…”
“Discreet,” Goebbels finished for him. “Once it is accomplished, then all the arguments are…different.” He looked across the table at Hitler.
Hitler nodded very slightly.
Goebbels was looking at Cordell again. “A final solution,” he said softly. “We are beginning, but it is a long road yet. I think there are those in England who perceive very well. You understand the need to progress slowly, like a man walking across the ice. You test each step before you put your weight on it.”
“Of course,” Cordell agreed, his heart pounding. Bits and pieces of memory came back to him. Scharnhorst standing in a beer garden with a stein in his hand, singing. He talked a lot, afterward, his words slurred with excitement. Ideas about getting rid of the Jews entirely.
Some people had looked startled. Others had agreed.
But that had been a while ago. Like testing the water. Scharnhorst had developed it a bit further since then. Trade unionists were a problem. Communists were a growing menace, and most of them were Jews anyway.
Hitler and Goebbels were waiting for him to express an opinion, commit himself. He scrambled for memory of the terrible events of the previous night. What had Goebbels said at the book burning?
Words came back to Cordell now, phrases. “It is a fight for survival,” he said aloud, conviction not yet in his voice. He must do better. He began more firmly. “We cannot afford indecision. We have enemies, whether they know it or not. Like…like a disease.” He heard his own voice like that of a stranger. “Strength begets fear in others,” he continued. “And, of course, envy.” He was drenched in sweat. His clothes were sticking to his body.
Hitler and Goebbels glanced at each other, then back again at Cordell.
“You have an excellent grasp of the situation,” Goebbels said smoothly. “In fact, perhaps we should be grateful to this young woman from England, whom we don’t seem to be able to catch. We do not wish anyone to think we did it ourselves, even if we are relieved that it has happened.” A half smile flickered on his face, like moonlight on a grave. “So you know her, this Elena Standish, and your daughter—Cecily, is it?—does she know her as well?”
Cordell drew in his breath sharply. He must answer. They were both staring at him. “She used to. I don’t know if she still does. She hasn’t mentioned her.”
Hitler was looking at him. Outwardly he was a very ordinary man. Only his luminous eyes were unusual, and his pale, sensitive hands. Had they belonged to anyone else, they might have been beautiful.
Then Cordell looked at Goebbels, clever like a serpent, testing the air, smelling fear in others. A mistake could be exactly what they were waiting for. He inclined his head politely and made some innocuous, respectful remark. His mind was racing. One thought crowded out everything else. He must protect Cecily.
What was he going to do about Elena Standish? And what was the price going to be?
He answered automatically, politely, careful not to be sycophantic. Goebbels at least was sensitive to ridicule.
The meal seemed to drag out endlessly. It all tasted like sawdust, and he drank too much water to try to swallow it. Finally, it was over and he thanked them and excused himself.
As he was walking out of the magnificent hotel into the street, he wondered what they had invited him for. Was it to set him on course to find Elena? It seemed likely.
What for? To get her out of the country for them, so they could avoid killing her, which might not be believed in other countries whose good opinion they still needed? That is, specifically, England? Or to avoid the embarrassment of a trial, which might make much of Scharnhorst’s appalling ideas? Did they want him to get her out of Germany to avoid an ugly break with Britain?
It was making him feel as if he were walking into a polar night with no dawn on the horizon. Scharnhorst may be gone but it was Goebbels’s vision of a final solution, the extinction of all who did not fit into the mold of Aryan supremacy, that was so terrifying now.
Accommodation, reason, these were impossible. If Goebbels gained more power and influence in Germany, there was no alternative but war, somewhere ahead, not very far.
CHAPTER
21
Peter Howard had gone to Cambridgeshire and told Ian Newton’s family of his death. It had been even worse than he had anticipated. They had no idea what Ian was doing for MI6. Like the rest of Britain, they did not even know MI6 existed. Howard could not remember doing anything that had hurt him more deeply.
He got back to London at four in the morning, slept a few hours, then got up again, washed, shaved, and dressed. He took only a small case with him.
He did not have to explain his going to Pamela. She stared for a long moment at his face, and understood enough.
He would do it for Lucas. There was no hesitation or question in his mind. Actually, he would have considered anything, for Lucas. But he must do this well.
If he asked questions in Berlin, even if he knew whom he could trust, and who not, he could set the Gestapo on Elena’s trail. And not only hers, but a population of citizens who could be arrested if they refused to cooperate. He had seen it all before. Occupied France had been like that during the war. Fear was as thick in the air as a winter fog, choking the breath, distorting sight and sound.
* * *
—
He went out to the airport and caught a plane to Berlin, landing in the early afternoon. He had contemplated checking in with Cordell at the embassy, or at his home, but decided against either. Cordell was a clever man, long trained to be observant. The assassination of Scharnhorst was too recent. Cordell would know for certain that Howard’s visit had something to do with that. Anyone would.
He went instead to an anonymous-looking hotel and had a meal in a café he knew well…and listened.
He heard about the assassination. There was outrage on the surface, but beneath it he also heard a considerable note of relief.
“Took a bloody Brit to get rid of him,” a man in gray said with feeling.
“Have they got her yet?” his friend asked with a lift in his voice. But no one asked whether he hoped they had.
Someone mentioned the attack on the young Jew two nights before.
“Be quiet!” his neighbor hissed.
“Why?” the speaker demanded. “Do you want me to approve, or disapprove?” It was a challenge, said with bitterness.
The speaker lifted his head from his mug of beer and glared at him. “I know nothing about it, and I don’t want to hear your opinion.”
“Not until it’s you, heh?” someone else sneered. “Bit late then.”
“It’s not going to be me! I’m not a Jew!”
“You
’re something! It’ll be your turn one day!”
That killed the conversation. Howard remained silent, trying to think of where to begin looking for Elena. Who did she know in Berlin that would help her? Who could she trust? Why had she not gone back to Cordell? Or anyone else in the embassy? Perhaps she had tried and realized that this was the first place they would look for her.
Would she try the American Embassy? While her mother was American, Elena herself was not a citizen, and they would not have any obligation to protect her. They were neutral. They wanted no part of a quarrel with Germany.
Maybe he had no choice but to go and ask Cordell what he knew, if he was doing anything at all to help.
He had one more glass of beer, but he heard little else of use, except that the assassin had not been captured yet, and the hunt was getting tighter. Would they even try to take her alive? Or kill her, and claim that she had resisted? Obviously not, as they needed to blame her openly, prove she was English. There was still time.
He spent the afternoon and early evening contacting all the agents he knew working in Berlin, but none of them was able to offer any real leads. Wherever Elena was, she must be getting help from someone, because the Gestapo didn’t have her. She must have other contacts. Who could be hiding her? Dare he ask Cordell, who possibly could be working for the Nazis himself? Not until he had exhausted every other reasonable avenue. Where would she go? What would she need? She was a photographer. Film! New film to shoot, and probably used film developed. He asked a few people, but they knew nothing. No one had seen a woman answering her description, or anything like it.
He went back to his lodgings at two in the morning, slept badly. All the years of doing this, and he still could not relax. Some men could. Did they care less or were they just more emotionally disciplined?
He got up early, had a cup of coffee and a pastry, and went out. There was nothing else left to do now but speak to Cordell. He went to the British Embassy and loitered across the road, aware that the embassy would offer Elena her best chance of escape if she was trying to get out of Berlin, which she must be doing.