Estocada Page 10

  ‘How do you know all this?’

  ‘She wrote a book about it. Little novella. Roman-à-clef. All the clues are there, very lightly disguised.’

  ‘It was published?’

  ‘Yes. Small circulation but a modest success. By the time she wrote it I’m guessing the marriage was in trouble. She called it Changing Trains. This is a woman with a sense of humour.’

  Tam was thinking about their first conversation, her luckless husband in a faraway hospital, nursing a broken leg. More fiction.

  ‘So why has she stayed with him? Does the book explain any of that?’

  ‘In a way, yes. She loved him once and she meant it. Nowadays she seems to regard the drinking as an illness, which I imagine makes her a nurse as well as a wife. During the second interview she was alone and she made it quite plain that we’d only get the benefit of her services if we looked after Karyl.’

  ‘And you’ll do that?’

  ‘Of course. There’s an institution not far from Colchester. They have a bed waiting for poor Karyl once you’re both operational.’ He paused, fingering the rim of his glass. ‘I understand your father has moved in with your sister. Might that be correct?’

  ‘It is. I brought him down a couple of days ago. My sister said you’d paid a visit, just to vouch for me. Am I right?’

  ‘Indeed. A bit of an intrusion, I’m afraid, but we thought it might help.’

  ‘It did. She was most impressed.’

  ‘A pleasure, Tam. We like to keep things tidy.’

  Tidy. Tam reached for his glass. Very slowly, the way these people liked it, the pieces of the jigsaw were slipping into place. First write yourself a script. Then turn your mind to the casting.

  ‘So why Renata?’ He was looking Ballentyne in the eye. ‘And why me?’

  Ballentyne had evidently been expecting the question. He got to his feet and fetched a thin manila folder from his briefcase. Then he returned to the armchair. To date, Tam had been spared any kind of detail about what lay in wait for him. All he’d been asked to guarantee was three weeks of his time and a modicum of discretion. In return he’d be well paid with an unspecified bonus on his safe return. The phrase safe return had given Tam pause for thought but the unknown had always attracted him and he knew he could look after himself in most circumstances.

  Ballentyne opened the file and extracted two photographs, laying them carefully on the low table between the two chairs. Then he directed Tam’s attention to the smaller of the two shots. Tam picked it up. It had been scissored from a newspaper. A tall figure in Army uniform was pictured amongst a group of other men, two of them in evening dress. Tam recognised Goebbels, dwarfed by the bulk of the officer beside him. Imposing face, strong jaw, eyes locked on some distant object.

  ‘This is Werner von Blomberg.’ Ballentyne tapped the photograph. ‘Good war. Did well after Versailles. Threw his hand in with the Nazis. Until very recently, Army Commander-in-Chief.’

  Tam took a longer look at the figure in the photograph. A line of medals hung from the chest of his tunic. He held himself erect, unsmiling, aware of the presence of the camera.

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘He upset his lord and master. Life in the Reich must be hell. Hitler holds himself aloof and the rest of them – Himmler, Goering, Goebbels – fight like mediaeval barons. Some of the conversations we’ve had recently are difficult to credit. One moment of weakness, one indiscretion, one misjudgement and the game’s over.’

  ‘Conversations with whom?’

  ‘Germans. Mainly diplomats. Sometimes the odd businessman. The people we talk to are old school. They never really wanted Hitler in the first place but they assumed that power would clip his wings. As it happens, they were wrong. The man is a lunatic. That’s their word, not ours.’

  ‘And Blomberg?’

  ‘Blomberg’s a Prussian. He knows where the real power lies but he’s never stopped being a soldier. Hitler held a conference in Berlin back in November. Blomberg was there. Hitler shared his plans for the next couple of years. He wanted space in the east for the Germans to breathe and he wanted the Army ready to march. There was no timetable, no deadline, but the implications were obvious. Blomberg was appalled. So were a number of others.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because the implications were obvious. Czechoslovakia had to be the target but any war with the Czechs would bring in the French and the Russians and quite possibly us. Blomberg’s a professional soldier. He counted up the number of divisions on either side and he didn’t like what he saw. His big mistake was telling Hitler. Blomberg had no objection to grabbing someone else’s country. He just needed time to get the Army in shape, to bed in the new equipment, to do the thing properly. This distinction was lost on Hitler. Orders are orders. If the Führer says march, you march. The Himmlers and the Goerings spotted their opportunity. Blomberg did his best. The man was brave but badly wounded. They picked him off.’

  ‘He’s gone?’

  ‘Yes. The poor soul had the misfortune to fall in love. His wife had died recently and Hitler consented to be a witness when he married for the second time. Alas, the bride turned out to have once worked as a prostitute. That, at least, was Goering’s story. We think the evidence was cooked up but that’s commonplace now. Hitler, of course, was outraged and when he wanted the marriage annulled, Blomberg resigned.’

  Tam’s eyes drifted to the other photograph, a studio portrait this time, a different face – thinner, more vulnerable – but the same buttoned tunic, the same high collar, the same stiff pose.

  ‘Werner von Fritsch,’ Ballentyne murmured. ‘Blomberg’s Number Two. His enemies dredged up some tramp or other who insisted Fritsch had paid him for sex. Fritsch denied everything and was halfway to proving it when Hitler staged a little diversion. This was last month. You might remember.’

  ‘Austria? Anschluss?’

  ‘Exactly. Germany loses its head, goes mad with joy, all those swooning Mädchen, and nobody cares a fig for either Blomberg or Fritsch. Hitler can do no wrong and no one seems to mind when he assumes leadership of the Army for himself.’ He offered Tam a thin smile. ‘Dictator might be too small a word when it comes to Mr Hitler. The man now controls everything. That meeting in November troubled the generals. They despatched an envoy, a businessman we happen to know well. He brought a number of facts to our attention. One of them was a remarkable degree of unanimity about Germany’s current direction of travel.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘There’s a degree of alarm amongst the top military.’ Ballentyne’s eyes drifted back to the photos. ‘Blomberg and Fritsch have been thrown to the wolves. Other generals are still in post. Loyal to Germany? Yes. Loyal to Hitler?’ He shrugged. ‘Who knows…?’

  ‘This is some kind of plot?’

  ‘Not so far. Not to our knowledge.’

  ‘But it might be?’

  ‘Indeed. They could try and talk Hitler round but I doubt that’s an option. He only listens to people who agree with him. Just now all the signs are that he’s determined to march into Czechoslovakia. The generals think that’s madness, far too premature, but to make the man see sense you need to shout at him. That’s not the generals’ style. Neither, alas, is it ours.’

  Tam nodded. When Ballentyne reached for the bottle of malt, he declined a refill.

  ‘So what exactly do you want me to do?’

  ‘We want you in the Sudetenland. There are people you’ll need to meet, people who have no truck with the Germans, and Renata knows most of them. We have a good man at the embassy in Prague, Harold Stronge, the military attaché. He’ll open more doors. The word from Prague is most comforting. The Czechs have a decent army and their equipment is first class. This is kit they produce themselves, which is one of the reasons Mr Hitler wants to lay hands on all those factories. They’ve also had the foresight to build defence works in the west. We want you to take a look at all that, have a conversation or two, confer with Stronge, and then make a judg
ement for yourself.’

  ‘To what purpose?’ This, to Tam, was the crux of the matter. There was nothing in the assignment that he couldn’t handle, especially with someone like Renata alongside him, but what was the point of it all?

  ‘We live in difficult times, Tam. Politicians only see what they want to see. In the opinion of some of us, the country is flying blind. You, believe it or not, can add something new to the mix. You have the right credentials, the appropriate skills. People will trust you. Exactly the way we trust you.’

  ‘People here?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘People you want me to talk to afterwards?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘What kind of people?’

  ‘People with influence. People who can make a difference. Democracy is a deeply beguiling proposition, but I’m afraid we’re babes in the wood when it comes to dealing with the likes of Mr Hitler.’

  ‘You want to turn me into some kind of messenger? You want me to bring back glad tidings?’

  ‘We want you to help build a case for standing by the Czechs.’

  ‘As simple as that?’

  ‘As difficult, and as complex, and as important as that. We have the connections. We can open doors in appropriate places. But we need to have someone independent, someone plausible, someone who’s been there, someone who knows at the table. Intelligence, I’m afraid, has lately become somewhat debauched. The professionals have a tendency to serve up their masters’ favourite dishes. That’s the last thing we want.’

  ‘We?’

  Tam’s question hung in the air. Not for the first time, he was beginning to wonder exactly which part of the intelligence empire was so keen to acquire his services. Ballentyne made no effort to supply an answer. He was running his fingertips lightly round the rim of his glass. He appeared to be waiting for a decision on Tam’s part. Was this the moment when he could make his excuses and leave? Collect his mad father, take the midday train, and get back to a business that still needed a great deal of attention? Or was the prospect of the coming weeks already too tempting to turn down?

  ‘Well?’ Ballentyne had emptied the glass.

  Tam was smiling. The most important decisions in life were always the simplest. Just one detail still bothered him.

  ‘So why did you send me to meet Karyl and not Renata today? Do you mind me asking?’

  ‘Not at all. We wanted you to make your own sense of the situation, of their wretched little ménage down there.’ Ballentyne uncapped the bottle again. ‘And you did it rather well.’

  7

  BERLIN, 6 MAY 1938

  Dieter Merz had been waiting nearly an hour before Georg turned up at the wheel of one of the new rear-engined Volkswagens. It was black. Two parps on the horn brought Dieter onto the street. Georg reached over and opened the passenger door. He wanted to know what Dieter was doing in a luxury apartment off Friedrichstrasse.

  ‘It belongs to the Foreign Ministry. I’m keeping it warm until they decide what to do with me.’

  ‘Their decision or yours?’

  ‘Theirs. I’ve told them I’ll never make a diplomat but no one at their level ever seems to listen.’

  ‘But you’re supposed to be a fighter pilot.’

  ‘Am I?’

  Georg didn’t answer. Instead, he shot Dieter a look and then gunned the engine and pulled into the traffic. It was a beautiful Berlin day, cloudless, just a hint of breeze, and Dieter sat back, enjoying the ride.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  Georg named a restaurant beyond the Tiergarten. He promised Dieter they pickled Baltic herrings like no one else in the city.

  ‘I can’t stand herrings. You know that.’

  ‘Sure. But Beata adores them. You two need to meet.’

  ‘Her name again?’

  ‘Beata.’

  ‘Is that why you’re wearing a ring?’

  ‘Yes. The wedding’s in a couple of weeks’ time. If you’re doing anything else, cancel it.’

  Dieter stared at him. Georg was as brusque and matter-of-fact as ever. Not a flicker of excitement.

  ‘You’re marrying her?’

  ‘That’s the plan. She’s a Catholic. Very staunch, unlike me. She wants to do it properly.’

  Dieter was still trying to absorb the news.

  ‘You’ve known her long?’

  ‘Eight weeks.’ A ghost of a smile. ‘Maybe nine. This way no other bastard will ever get a sniff. Not even you.’

  The restaurant was packed, a tribute – Dieter assumed – to the herrings. There was a waterfront terrace at the back and Georg had booked the table in the corner. Dieter settled into his chair, enjoying the view of the Spree, while Georg went inside to make a telephone call. A young couple on the far bank were deep in conversation while an old man on a bench beside the water appeared to be asleep. Beata, he thought, savouring the word. Beata and Georg.

  Georg was back within minutes. From his wallet he produced a slightly creased black and white photo and laid it carefully in front of Dieter.

  ‘She can’t come,’ he announced. ‘She sends her apologies, says she was looking forward to meeting you. You’ll have to make do with this for now.’

  Dieter studied the photo. Severe features, sensible glasses, carefully tended hair, just the hint of a smile. If Georg had been born a girl, he thought, he’d end up looking exactly like this.

  ‘Beautiful.’ He punched Georg lightly on the arm. ‘You’re a lucky man. Does she have a job?’

  ‘She’s a physicist. She works at the KWI.’

  Dieter took another look at the photo. The Kaiser Wilhelm Institute was only interested in the cream of the Reich’s scientific talent. The KWI was where the nation’s best brains tore up the old theories, licked their pencils and started all over again.

  ‘She must be a genius.’ Dieter was smiling. ‘You’ll never keep up.’

  Georg ignored the jest. He called a waiter and ordered beers. Enough of Beata.

  ‘I flew Ribbentrop back from Munich a couple of days ago,’ he said. ‘Your name came up. The man’s a fool, of course. God knows how he made it to Foreign Minister but he seems to hold you in some regard.’

  ‘I’m flattered. What do you make of him?’

  ‘He’s a true believer. When he was Ambassador in London he was to and fro all the time, couldn’t bear to be away from his lord and master. That man can’t get further up the Führer’s arse. He’s like a woman with him. He’s besotted.’

  ‘So what did he say? About me?’

  ‘He seems to think you did well in Japan. Very well. Or maybe it was the little souvenir you brought back. He couldn’t remember her name. I said I’d ask you personally.’

  Dieter had turned away. He was watching two newcomers to the bench across the river. They were in SS uniform. One of them wore the insignia of a Hauptsturmführer. He bent to the old man and gave him a shake. Then he hauled him to his feet and pushed him on his way before sitting down.

  ‘Her name’s Keiko,’ Dieter said softly.

  ‘What kind of name is that?’

  ‘It’s Japanese. It means a child full of sunlight.’

  ‘And is she?’

  ‘Yes. And I’ll tell you something else. She does a healing thing with her hands.’

  ‘Should I be surprised?’

  ‘I mean it. Not just the injury but here, too.’ Dieter tapped his head. ‘Some of the games the embassy people play, you need a friend to keep you sane.’

  ‘A friend to keep you sane? Christ, what’s this woman done to you?’

  ‘Good question.’

  ‘You have an answer?’

  ‘No.’

  Dieter explained about the trick that Eugen Ott had pulled, pretending to volunteer him for a carrier landing in the knowledge that his rogue fighter pilot would have twelve hours to imagine the consequences.

  ‘Ott didn’t like you?’

  ‘He hated me. I wasn’t seven feet tall. I didn’t dress properly. I didn
’t say the right things. It didn’t help that he can’t stand Ribbentrop.’

  ‘Neither can anyone else. Doing what I do, you get to hear what the people at the top really think of each other. This town is like a battlefield and the war hasn’t even started yet.’

  ‘You’re serious? About a war?’

  ‘Of course. It’s bound to happen. It’s inevitable. You just have to listen to the radio. Hitler can’t help himself. Once you get the taste for conquest it never goes away. After Austria, he was walking on water.’

  ‘And you think people want a war? A proper war?’

  ‘That’s a different question.’ Georg produced a cigarette case Dieter hadn’t seen before. ‘Tell me about the Japanese.’

  ‘They were fine. Crazy people, especially in the air, but OK. I had some good times.’

  ‘And the carrier? What made you think you couldn’t do it?’

  Dieter was still watching the SS men on the bench. The old man had disappeared, limping away without a backward glance. In another life Dieter would have stripped to his underwear, swum the river and given them both a good kicking.

  ‘I lost my nerve a couple of weeks earlier,’ he murmured at last. ‘If that sounds like a confession, I’m afraid it is.’

  He described taking the controls in Seiji’s seaplane at Nagasaki, his first time since the accident, and the moment on the final approach when he saw the rooftops swimming up towards him and felt the cold sweat on his face.

  ‘I got it wrong, Georg. I was flying like a novice. Hopeless. And I was frightened, too.’

  ‘Frightened?’ Georg offered a cigarette. Dieter shook his head. ‘What did the guy in the back think?’

  ‘He was drunk. I don’t think he was even watching. Like I said, these people are crazy. Some days you’d think that dying doesn’t matter. Not to them, anyway. As it happened, he’s Keiko’s kid brother. That’s how we met.’

  ‘And you have,’ Georg was frowning, ‘a thing going?’

  ‘We have nothing going. Except I’ve agreed to look after her.’