Bad Company (12 page)

“Oh, yes. Marrying an English officer and all that, she just got lost, I suppose.”

“And she would have known von Berger, must have known him,” said Dillon.

“I should imagine so.”

Hannah said, “But what would she have to say?”

“God knows,” said Ferguson. “But I think it’s worth paying a visit, don’t you?”

The Daimler left first, with Hannah and Ferguson inside, and Dillon followed in the Mini Cooper. Newton said to Cook, “Follow them.”

“Which one?”

“We’ll see where it leads.”

He phoned Marco Rossi on his mobile. “Dillon went to Roper’s house in Regency Square, then Ferguson turned up with Bernstein. They’ve all come out again and we’re following.”

“Good, stay with it. The minute they arrive at any kind of destination, phone me.”

Brick Lane ran down to the Thames, a row of nineteenth-century houses on one side, mainly renovated. The front doors opened to the street, which was the only place to park. A church was on the other side – St. Mary’s – and a graveyard. By the river, a path ran beside a low wall, leading to a jetty at the far end that stuck out into the water, a relic of the old days when barge traffic called in on a regular basis. There was a shop at the end of the street called Patel’s, the kind that had prospered under Indian ownership, a general store.

At that time of the day, there was plenty of parking available and certainly in front of number twenty-three. The Daimler turned in and Dillon pulled in behind. Dillon was first out and went to the door. There was a bell push and beneath it a brass plate.

“George and Sara Grant,” he said, as Ferguson joined him.

Dillon pressed the bell and heard a dog barking. There was the sound of footsteps approaching, a bolt being withdrawn; the door opened on a chain. “Be quiet, Benny,” a voice said. A face peered out, worn and lined, very gray hair pulled back from it, above faded blue eyes, and when she spoke it was almost a whisper. “What is it?”

Hannah took over. “Mrs. Grant?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Detective Superintendent Bernstein.” She held up her warrant card. “Special Branch, Scotland Yard. This is General Charles Ferguson.”

“We’d like a word, my dear,” Ferguson told her.

There was immediate alarm on her face. “The police. What have I done?”

It was Dillon who interjected in excellent German. “Don’t worry,
liebling,
we’re not the Gestapo. Information is what we seek.”

“But about what?”

Every instinct told him to be honest. “About the Führer Bunker, about those last few months, and particularly about what happened to
Sturmbahnführer
Max von Berger on the thirtieth of April, 1945.”

“Oh, my God,” she said in German. “You’ve come for me after all these years.” But she pulled the chain and opened the door. There was a little Scottie dog running around her ankles, yapping.

Dillon picked him up and fondled him, and the dog stopped barking and tried to lick his face. The old lady said, “I don’t understand, he never takes to strangers.”

“Oh, I have a way with dogs, ever since childhood. Benny, is it?” He handed the Scottie to her. “All we want is a few words. There’s nothing bad intended, I give you my word.”

She held the dog, looked at Dillon and touched his face with her other hand for a moment, and when she spoke it was in English. “What’s your name?”

“Dillon, ma’am.”

Her eyes became vacant for a moment. “Yes, I believe you. You’re a good man, Mr. Dillon, in spite of yourself.”

Dillon almost choked and took a deep breath. “Trust me. No harm will come to you on this earth, I swear it.”

“Then come in,” and she turned and led the way along the hall.

Newton and Cook pulled in farther down Brick Lane, close to the shop. “You stay here and I’ll take a look,” Newton said and walked back to the house. Ferguson’s chauffeur was on the other side of the road, smoking a cigarette and walking to the river. Newton quickly checked the brass plate, then returned to the car. “Sara and George Grant. I’ll have words in the shop.”

A middle-aged Indian was leaning on the counter, reading the
Evening Standard.
He glanced up, the shop for the moment quiet.

“I seem to be wasting my time as usual,” Newton said. “Can you help me? I’m a debt collector, and I was given an Anthony Smith as being behind in rental payments on a car. I’ve come to check the address I was given. Twenty-three Brick Lane, only it’s a Sara and George Grant.”

“You’ve been had,” Patel said. “A false address. The Grants have been there forever. Mr. Grant died five years ago, Mrs. Grant lives there on her own. Nice old lady, German, actually.”

“Is that so?”

“And she doesn’t own a car.”

“Really. And German, you say?”

“Definitely. She told me her name once. Hesser – Sara Hesser. Lived there more than forty years.”

“Another wasted journey, but thanks anyway.”

Newton went back to the car, rang Marco Rossi on his mobile and explained what was going on. Rossi said, “Stay there and I’ll be in touch.”

In the sitting room at South Audley Street, the Baron was going through some papers when Marco entered. “When you told me of your final interview with the Führer, you mentioned a secretary, an SS auxiliary called Sara Hesser.”

“Is this important?”

“It is if she’s still in the land of the living and resides at twenty-three Brick Lane, Wapping.”

“You’re certain of this?”

“Absolutely.” He told the Baron of the sequence of events. “The fact that they’ve gone straight to this woman’s house speaks for itself. Thank God this Indian shopkeeper knows her well or we’d have been totally in the dark. What do we do?”

“Nothing,” the Baron said. “If the woman tells what she knows to Ferguson, he will come and see me.”

“What do you mean?”

The Baron gave him a look. “It’s time I told you something, Marco. You know of the Hitler diary, but only what I’ve told you. You’ve never read it.”

“Yes, and I’ve often wondered why.”

“Because there’s a secret in it. In 1945, the Führer entered into negotiations with President Roosevelt in an effort to promote a negotiated peace. The idea was for the Germans and Americans to turn on the Russians, to defeat a common enemy. Roosevelt didn’t buy it – but he did discuss it. Hitler sent General Walter Schellenberg of the SS to Sweden – and Roosevelt sent an American multimillionaire and senator named Jake Cazalet.”

There was a moment’s silence, then Marco said, “But that’s the name of the President of the United States.”

“And of Jake Cazalet’s father. He was a member of Roosevelt’s kitchen cabinet. Has it occurred to you how that would look? That Roosevelt, with Cazalet as his agent, actually had such dealings with Hitler? True, it didn’t come to anything, but what capital America’s enemies around the world would make of it! Cazalet would be finished.” He smiled. “I’ve held this secret for years, always certain it would eventually be of great importance.”

“It’s unbelievable.”

“So we wait for Ferguson.” The Baron smiled again. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t have a drink on it.”

The sitting room was crowded, not only with furniture, but with the bric-a-brac accumulated over a long life. An old grand piano stood in a corner, the top crowded with photos, some in silver frames, the largest of a handsome young man in the uniform of an army captain.

Ferguson picked it up. “Your husband?”

“Yes, that’s George. He was a military policeman. I was an interpreter. That’s how we met.” She sat down, clutching Benny on her lap. “I was interrogated, you know, by the intelligence people, about being on the staff in the Bunker.”

Ferguson nodded to Hannah, who said, “Tell us about that, Mrs. Grant.”

“There’s nothing really to tell. I was an SS auxiliary, a secretary, a typist. I was twenty-two years old. I was transferred from SD headquarters in Berlin. SD meant SS Intelligence, but I was, like I’ve told you, just a young office girl.”

“So you were there for six months? Until April ’forty-five and the final catastrophe?” Hannah asked.

“That’s right. I was a relief secretary, the most junior of all. I made the coffee, that sort of thing.”

Dillon was filled with an enormous compassion for this woman, already old and, more than that, old beyond her years, a woman who had been at the sharp edge of history, but also a woman who was lying.

“So you knew the Führer?” Hannah asked.

“Of course, but the others were far more important than me, the other secretaries, I mean.”

Hannah nodded. “And
Sturmbahnführer
Baron von Berger? You knew him?”

“Oh, yes.” The old lady stroked Benny’s head. “He was in the Bunker for the last three months. Wounded in Russia. He came to be decorated, and the Führer took a fancy to him, made him an aide.”

“I see. Was there anything special about him?”

“No.” The old lady said. “The last couple of days were terrible, everything was confused. Then the Führer and his wife committed suicide and we all scattered, ran for it. A lot of us went through the underground tunnels. Some of us made it. I reached the West and the Americans a couple of weeks later.” She shook her head, as if looking back into a past that she didn’t want to see. “But I went through all this with the British intelligence people all those years ago.”

Ferguson interrupted. “So you didn’t see anything of von Berger at the end?”

She shrugged. “He was there and then he wasn’t, but that was true of so many people.”

Hannah carried on. “And yet we know that von Berger escaped from Berlin in a Storch aircraft. He was a prisoner of war for a couple of years, then became a hugely successful businessman.”

“I know nothing of that. Please believe me. I was just a relief secretary, nobody of any importance.” She said almost vacantly, “I made the coffee,” and because she was old and tired and her guard was down, she added, “The Führer liked it black and not too strong. The second cup he liked with brown sugar. Of course at the end, he had the palsy. His hands shook very much and I had to pour for him. He had to lift the cup with both hands. It was very awkward when he was dictating.”

In the astonished silence that followed, Hannah said, “The Führer dictated to you? But you told us you were a nobody?”

The old woman looked at her, dazed, put a hand to her face, and Dillon, in one of the cruelest acts of his life, shouted at her in German, “Fräulein Hesser, you have been less than honest. You will speak.”

Hannah started to protest, “For God’s sake, Sean-”

But he pushed her aside and towered over the old lady. “You took dictation from the Führer, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” She was terrified.

“What kind of dictation? Explain.”

Her head shook from side to side frantically. “No, I dare not, I swore a holy oath to serve the Führer.”

Already hating himself, Dillon raised his voice and thundered at her, “What was so special? You
will
tell me.”

She broke then and answered him in German. “For six months each day, he dictated his diary to me.”

Hannah spoke excellent German, and Ferguson spoke enough to understand. “Dear God in heaven, Hitler’s bloody diary,” he said.

Dillon knelt down and kissed Sara Hesser on the forehead. “I’m sorry I frightened you. It’s all right now.” He hugged her. “Just one more thing. What you said about Max von Berger. It wasn’t true, was it?”

Her eyes had filled with tears. “No. He was there in the Führer’s study on the thirtieth. I was there, too. The Führer had a mission for him. To fly out of Berlin in a plane hidden in Goebbels’s garage.”

“To do what?” Hannah asked.

“Why, to save the diary. A holy book, the Führer called it. He said it must never be copied.”

Ferguson said, “The diary was completely up to date, then?”

“Oh, yes, up to that very day. I covered the last six months of the war. All the traitors, all those who let him down, accounts of everything. His attempts to negotiate a peace with President Roosevelt. The secret meetings in Sweden.”

The silence was breathtaking. “His what?” Charles Ferguson whispered.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “I wrote down every word, General, and, in spite of the years, I remember everything,” which was exactly what she proceeded to tell them.

They left half an hour later and paused by the Daimler. “God, you were a bastard back there,” Hannah said to Dillon.

“He certainly was,” Ferguson said, “but it worked.”

“It was all those years ago, but the SS training never goes away,” Dillon said. “The shouted command, the harsh voice, and the response is a reflex.”

“Anyway, now we know where Max von Berger’s millions came from,” Ferguson said.

“And can’t do a thing about it,” Hannah said.

“We’re also in possession of the uncomfortable fact that in 1945, Hitler made a peace overture to Roosevelt and Roosevelt took it seriously enough to send Jake Cazalet’s father to Sweden to discuss it with Hitler’s representative,” Ferguson said.

“But, sir, if nothing came of it, does it matter?” Hannah said.

“Oh yes, my dear, it most certainly does. And the involvement of the President’s father makes it worse. The media would have a field day. Roosevelt, Cazalet and Hitler.” He shook his head. “It could do the President great harm.”

“And, at the worst, finish him,” Dillon said.

“Yes. Come on. Let’s go see von Berger.”

“I’m your man,” said Dillon, and hurried to his car.

As the Daimler drove away, Hannah said to Ferguson, “I hope the old lady will be all right, sir.”

“Yes, I’m sorry about that, but it had to be done.”

“What do you intend to say to the Baron?”

Ferguson smiled. “I haven’t the slightest idea, Superintendent.”