A War of Flowers (2014) (4 page)

Crossing the café, she walked straight past him, letting her handbag dangle from her arm so that it swung across, knocking the big sugar shaker on its side and unleashing a sticky white
tide over the tabletop.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry. How clumsy of me.’

Hearing an English voice, he looked up immediately, recognition dawning in his eyes.

Clara bent over the table, her back to the window.

‘Here. Let me.’

The sugar coated the table like sand. With one finger, Clara quickly wrote in the granular tide, ‘NO’. She waited until Hamilton had blinked through his horn-rims and nodded before
grabbing a napkin and quickly wiping the spillage away.

‘Awfully silly of me.’

‘Not at all.’

Nonchalantly Hamilton rose to his feet as a waitress armed with a napkin bore down on them and brushed a few specks of sugar from his jacket with a fastidious flick. ‘I hope you
don’t mind me guessing, but I’d say you’re a visitor here. Have you ever seen Paris from the top of Notre-Dame?’

‘Afraid not.’

‘You should, you know. It’s quite a sight. Gives you the big picture of the place. The best time to go is in the afternoon, while the crowds are still having lunch.’ He rolled
his newspaper and tapped it in her direction like a lecturer’s baton. ‘Around two o’clock is ideal. I recommend it.’

‘Well, thank you. I might try it.’

‘I hope you do.’

Tipping his hat, Hamilton strolled across to the bar, paid the patron, and left. Glancing through the window Clara saw the flâneur rouse himself, thrust his cigarette butt away and carry
languidly on down the street in his wake.

She found herself a table at the back and made herself linger for a further thirty minutes, which was not much of a hardship as it involved ordering an
omelette aux champignons
, as light
as a pale yellow cloud and sizzling with butter and herbs. She ate slowly, savouring every last scrap. Eggs were in short supply in Berlin, and it was rare to find any butter that was not rancid or
bad. She followed it with a café crème that was deep and mellow, with none of the chicory or hazelnut coffee substitute one found in Germany. She passed the time riffling through
The Times
, trying and failing to concentrate on news that Len Hutton had scored a triple century in the fifth Test Match against Australia, the government was leading an allotment drive
called Keep Calm And Dig, and the Queen was heading a new charity for disabled ex-servicemen. Occasionally she glanced outside, her mind working furiously.

What species of film producer had a surveillance team on his tail? Was Guy Hamilton really a representative of London Films, and if so, what kind of role was he proposing for Clara? However much
she might project the picture of a relaxed tourist enjoying a day in Paris, Clara had never felt more cautious, or more alone. Surely it was madness to involve herself with a man who was being
tailed by German agents. Briefly she contemplated forgetting Guy Hamilton and whatever proposal he had for her, but even as she considered it, she knew perfectly well that curiosity would overcome
her.

The brooding gargoyles on the parapet of Notre-Dame Cathedral looked over Paris like stony invaders from some Gothic land intent on the city’s conquest. From the tower,
tourists who were prepared to climb the four hundred-odd steps up the spiral staircase could gaze far across the russet rooftops to the bone-white byzantine domes of Sacré-Coeur on the
heights of Montmartre. Beyond the crenellations of Notre-Dame, the skyline, pierced by the Eiffel Tower and the gold-leaved dome of Les Invalides, wavered in the heat. Far below, people the size of
insects crossed the square and bateaux mouches ploughed the thick green stripe of the Seine.

At two o’clock, in the heat of the day, the place was almost deserted. Ranks of pigeons clustered in the shade, shuffling mutilated feet, like war-wounded soldiers. A pair of priests in
long dark coats flapped past, and at the far western corner of the parapet Guy Hamilton, in his well-cut herringbone suit and brown felt hat, leant his elbows on the stone, looking down at the
scene below. Her heart thudding with exertion, prickling with sweat and trying not to appear out of breath, Clara approached, keeping her sunglasses on. She disliked heights, and tried not to look
down.

Hamilton removed his hat and gave a little bow.

‘I’m told Herr Hitler detests Gothic architecture. He thinks it’s strange and unnatural and fosters Christian mysticism.’ He made a little gesture, like a tour guide.
‘All these grotesque gargoyles.’

‘Some might say he has a taste for the grotesque.’

‘Indeed. Perhaps he recognizes himself. At any rate, let’s hope he never makes a visit.’ He nodded. ‘Thank you for your warning, Miss Vine, and forgive my choice of
venue. I couldn’t resist mixing business with pleasure.’

Hamilton’s manner was pleasantly self-effacing in a way which suggested a talent for anonymity. He seemed more like a civil servant than a film producer. He might have been one of
thousands of men who streamed across London Bridge every morning, clutching an umbrella and a briefcase. Perhaps with a weekend hobby for church architecture, judging by the way he was assessing
the construction of the flying buttresses.

‘Is this the pleasure then?’

‘Absolutely. I’ve always wanted to see the view from up here. And I must admit, it’s worth it. Takes the breath away, doesn’t it?’

It certainly did for Clara. She felt an instant rush of vertigo as she looked down and the continuous dim rush of the city, punctured by car horns, rose up towards them.

‘That’s assuming you’ve managed to get your breath back to begin with. But I’m sure you didn’t invite me here to discuss the view.’

‘Of course.’ He swivelled towards her, smiled smoothly and extended a hand. His grasp was surprisingly firm and Clara detected a wiry strength beneath the mild-mannered exterior.

‘I should have introduced myself properly. I’m afraid I neglected my courtesies when I met you this morning.’

‘It rather looked like someone wanted to meet
you
.’

‘Indeed. I discovered last night I had company but I thought I’d shaken them off. Unfortunately it means I’ll have to leave Paris very shortly and I’m afraid my wife will
have to miss out on her face cream. Anything French Diana likes, but there’s no time now. I daresay it can wait.’ He smiled cheerfully. ‘What’s that motto?
Good manners
and a fine disposition are the best beauty treatments
.’

‘Not one I know.’

‘It’s a Latin tag. Ovid, I think.’

For a second Clara thought she had misheard him, or that the wind had lifted and twisted his words. Her throat tightened.

‘Ovid, did you say?’

The name rang through her like a depth charge, but it was not the Latin poet whose face rose to the surface of her mind, nor an enthusiasm for the classics that made her catch her breath. She
was thinking of her former lover, the man who had first persuaded her to pass information to British Intelligence. Leo Quinn translated Ovid in his spare time, as a way of relieving the escalating
pressures of work in a British consulate besieged by German Jews desperate to emigrate. The image of Leo, reading aloud the
Metamorphoses
in bed, was a memory Clara cherished, yet here was
another Englishman standing in front of her making a casual reference to the same poet.

‘Are you very familiar with Ovid?’

He laughed. ‘Heavens no! Don’t ask me to quote any more. I can’t imagine how that line stuck in my mind. The remnants of a classical education, I suppose.’

With supreme effort Clara stopped herself probing further. If Guy Hamilton did know Leo, she would only want to ask if he was settled or married, or still in England, and Hamilton wouldn’t
tell her. And what difference would it make to know? The past was a foreign country you revisited at your peril.

Nonetheless the quote decided her. She was going to trust Guy Hamilton.

‘I take it you’re not a film producer?’

He blinked. ‘But of course. I’ve seen a lot of your work. I’m an admirer.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You’re right though. It’s not film making I wanted to discuss. Not exactly.’ He hesitated and looked about him. They were entirely alone on the windswept parapet.
‘Ever heard of Colonel Claude Dansey?’

Clara shook her head.

‘Dansey was, until recently, the British chief of station in Rome. Codename Z. He’s spent his life in the intelligence service. He’s a good fellow, a little irascible, but he
inspires tremendous loyalty. Unfortunately Dansey has become disillusioned over the state of our intelligence network in Europe. He thinks it is badly compromised, and it could collapse entirely,
which I don’t need to tell you would leave us in a parlous position. His view is that one mistake could leave us without any proper contacts in the case of war.’

‘The entire European network?’

‘Precisely. As a result of which, he’s established a shadow intelligence network. They call it Z, after him. It runs parallel to the existing European operation. Its operatives are
businessmen mostly. People helping out for the principle of it. There’s over two hundred of them now.’

He paused. ‘Care for a smoke?’

Freeing a cigarette packet from his jacket pocket, he lit one for her, then himself, and turned his back, leaning against the parapet to prevent the curls of smoke being blown back into their
faces.

‘Anyhow, that’s where I come in. Let me explain.’

Alexander Korda’s London Films, Hamilton said, was all above board and a thriving enterprise, but it had a second, more secret endeavour. In the course of establishing a Europe-wide
network of offices, Korda and his employees were undertaking espionage and reconnaissance.

‘Reconnaissance?’

‘Their cover is Foreign Sales, or Talent Scout or Location Search, but the job is to check out locations, photograph coastlines, make connections. What better excuse could there be for
having a camera to hand than hunting out locations for your forthcoming travel movie? When the inevitable comes, we’ll need to be prepared. But I don’t need to tell you this, Miss
Vine.’

He didn’t. It seemed half the world was making preparations for war and the other half resolving to ignore them. The copy of
The Times
Clara had just bought featured a front page
photograph of men digging trenches in Hyde Park. Two long trenches had been gouged into the ground, with four shorter ones at right angles to them, like a ladder descending into the bowels of the
earth. On a bench in the foreground a man in a bowler hat sat quite unconcerned, as if the great gaping hole behind him simply did not exist. A lot of people in Britain preferred to think that
way.

‘Not everyone assumes war’s inevitable.’

‘That’s true. Prime Minister Daladier here has no illusions, nor do men like Churchill and Vansittart at home, but Halifax and Chamberlain seem to be far more sanguine about Herr
Hitler’s intentions. An awful lot of people seem hellbent on appeasing him.’

Fastidiously he removed a strand of tobacco from his mouth.

‘Our Prime Minister thinks all Herr Hitler wants is a little territorial readjustment for the benefit of the German minority in the Sudetenland. Whereas it’s clear to us that he
wants to wipe the whole of Czechoslovakia off the map. If not Poland and Romania. We run the risk of everything we won in the war being thrown away because Chamberlain misreads Hitler’s
intentions.’

‘You sound entirely pessimistic.’

‘Not entirely. Though time’s getting tight. It’s not an exaggeration to say that the future of the continent hinges on events of the next month. We’re hearing that Hitler
intends to enter Czechoslovakia in October. France is Czechoslovakia’s ally and will be duty bound to respond. They’ve already mobilized a million men. War could be just weeks away. But
there’s still a chance to avert it.’

Clara shrugged. ‘You mean if Chamberlain and the others agree to stand by while Hitler goes ahead and takes what he wants?’

‘No. That’s not what I meant. But if the British stand firm, and Daladier comes in alongside them and denounces any incursion into Czechoslovakia, that will enable certain highly
placed people in Berlin to paint Hitler as a warmonger who is about to drag his unwilling people into another European conflict.’

‘I appreciate that. But why are you telling me this?’

Hamilton lowered his voice as if there were any possibility of being heard on those windblown ramparts, high above Paris. A breeze lifted his sparse hair and buffeted his jacket.

‘It’s Dansey’s view that it will help our side very much if we can gain an insight into Hitler’s thinking. His mood that could make the difference between peace and
immediate war. The fellow is immensely mercurial. It’s incredible how enormous actions can turn on the whim of a single man.’

He waited until a family with two children had passed out of earshot, and said, ‘That, Miss Vine, is where you come in.’

Startled, Clara took off her sunglasses. ‘Me?’

‘Indeed. If you’re willing. You know who I mean by Eva Braun?’

Clara gave a cautious frown. ‘The Führer’s girlfriend? Only because Magda Goebbels told me about her. The rest of Germany has no idea who she is.’

‘And it’s likely to stay that way, particularly if . . .’ He paused.

‘If what?’

‘If someone decides to remove her. Apparently the top brass – Goebbels and Goering, and to an extent Hess – are concerned at Miss Braun’s hysterical moods. She’s
attempted suicide twice. The one thing worse than people knowing Hitler has a relationship with a little blonde secretary, would be knowing that he makes her so unhappy she’s tried to do
herself in. As it is, she remains Germany’s best-kept secret. It’s easier to breach the operational security of the Wehrmacht than discover anything about Miss Eva Braun.’

‘I’m sorry, but I can’t see what Eva Braun or her happiness has to do with me.’

‘Ah.’ He stubbed out his cigarette, tossed it into the air and watched as it was snatched away by the Parisian breeze. ‘There’s the thing. The fact is, we’d rather
like you to get to know her.’