Shadows of War (43 page)

It was the cocktail hour by the time Conrad got there, and the bar was crowded. Conrad was relieved to see Fruity propping up the bar, a drink in front of him. Conrad squeezed next to him, and then pretended to recognize the Irishman. ‘Major Metcalfe? De Lancey. We met here in November.’

Fruity frowned, and then smiled broadly. ‘Oh, I remember you! What are you doing back in Paris? Or can’t you say?’

Conrad remembered how his evasion last time had been misread as involvement in sensitive work of some kind, and was pleased that Fruity had remembered that too. He didn’t answer, but smiled vaguely. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

‘By all means,’ said Fruity.

Conrad ordered them both whiskies. ‘How are you?’

‘Bloody furious,’ said Fruity.

‘Oh really? Why?’

Fruity stared into his glass and shook his head in an attempt at discretion.

‘Are you still working for the Duke of Windsor?’ Conrad prompted.

‘I was yesterday. I really couldn’t tell you whether I am today.’

Conrad winced sympathetically. ‘Did you get the heave-ho?’

Fruity hesitated, but he was desperate to talk. ‘Worse than that. The man has cut and run.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I dropped him off at his house last night. Rang him this morning for instructions and the butler said he had left first thing! Taken both cars and headed down to Biarritz to be with Wallis! He never told me. He must have had it all planned last night, but not a dickie bird.’

‘Why wouldn’t he tell you?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Fruity. ‘Perhaps he felt guilty about not taking me. Or perhaps he was worried about what I might say. He might be a royal bloody highness, but he’s also a serving officer, and he has just left his post. It’s cowardice, that’s what it is! Bloody cowardice.’

Fruity took a gulp of his whisky. ‘Sorry, I shouldn’t be saying this, but he really has dropped me in it. How am I supposed to get out of here? The Germans will be looking in any moment now.’

‘That is a bit awkward,’ Conrad said.

‘Awkward! It’s bloody disastrous.’

‘Do you really think the Germans will take Paris?’

‘Bound too. At least the French have replaced that fool Gamelin with Weygand, but it’s far too late now. I could have told them what would happen. In fact we did tell them, HRH and me.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘We’ve spent the last few months liaising with the French. We saw their pitiful attempts to defend the Meuse. Reserve divisions with no training and badly sited defences. We pointed out the weaknesses; I helped HRH write the report.’

‘Will you take the train down to Biarritz to join him?’ Conrad asked.

‘You haven’t been here very long, have you? Not a hope in hell of getting a seat on any train heading south. You need a car. And no chance of getting one of those, either. None for hire. You might be able to buy one, but it would cost a fortune.’ He shook his head. ‘No. I’m on my own. I will have to work out my own way back to Blighty.’

‘Best of luck,’ said Conrad. ‘I say, you haven’t seen my father around have you. Lord Oakford?’

Fruity shook his head. ‘Sorry, old chap. Another one?’ Fruity pointed to Conrad’s drink, now almost empty.

‘No thanks,’ said Conrad. ‘I must be off.’ He hesitated. ‘The duke didn’t happen to mention any of what you saw at the Meuse to Charles Bedaux, did he? I remember he was having dinner with Bedaux here in November.’

‘Probably, in passing,’ Fruity said. He frowned. ‘I say, you don’t think Bedaux has been talking to the Germans, do you? He is a mysterious cove. And he has been to Germany a couple of times.’

‘And to Holland,’ said Conrad.

‘Good Lord,’ said Fruity. He was looking troubled. ‘How do you know about Bedaux?’

‘Must dash,’ said Conrad, keen to avoid that particular question.

He extricated himself from Fruity and emerged into the place Vendôme, from where he walked swiftly back to the rue de Rivoli and the Hôtel Meurice. There he discovered that his father, or ‘uncle’ as Conrad referred to him, had just checked out of his room, without staying the night. He was with Hyram Leavold, an American banker whom Conrad knew was a friend of his father, and a young woman whom the hotel clerk did not recognize. They had loaded Lord Oakford’s luggage into an American car, a Packard. Lord Oakford and the young woman had driven off, leaving the American banker to hail a taxi.

Conrad left the hotel and stopped at a nearby café for a beer and to gather his thoughts. Which was difficult, since at the next table an exquisitely dressed young woman of about twenty was arguing with an older man. It was unclear whether the man was her lover or her father, but whoever he was, he was intending to leave Paris without her, and she was not happy. Probably a lover, Conrad decided, who was saving the passenger seat in his car for his wife. The woman stormed off; the man caught Conrad’s eye and shrugged.

Lord Oakford had stayed one step ahead of Conrad. He had discovered that the duke had left for Biarritz and then found himself an American with a car who was willing to lend it to him.

Biarritz was a long way away, close to the Spanish border in the south-west corner of France. It would take the duke, and Oakford, a couple of days to get there. More if the roads were jammed. It was unlikely that Oakford would have discovered where the duke was spending the night en route, in which case he would probably drive straight to Biarritz and approach the duke there.

So Conrad had to get to Biarritz. Fruity had been adamant that trains were not an option, and neither was hiring a car. Conrad didn’t have enough money to buy one. He needed to borrow one. And who the hell would lend him one in current circumstances, with the Germans poised to enter Paris any day?

Conrad needed his own generous American. Or a woman married to a generous American. His sister-in-law, for example.

Holloway Prison, London

Anneliese sat in her cell deep in the heart of Holloway Prison and waited. Waited for British justice to take its course.

It had taken an immense effort of will, but she was calm, and she was determined to stay calm.

She had been all right at first, in the police car with the British bobbies whom she admired so much. They weren’t friendly, far from it, but they were polite and they hadn’t hit her.

It wasn’t far to Holloway Prison, but once the police car had turned off the sunny, civilized English street and stopped in front of the prison’s forbidding battlements, something snapped. She started to scream and to yell in German, and she couldn’t stop. All rational thought was overwhelmed in a flood of terror and hopelessness. Holloway wasn’t exactly like those other places she had been, Moringen or Sachsenhausen or Lichtenburg, but it was an old evil prison, built like a medieval castle, with warders who looked at her with contempt. A German spy.

At the entrance, two large stone dragons perched on top of stone plinths, fangs bared. One of them clutched a great key in its long talons. It terrified her.

They threw her into a holding cell and she lay there sobbing for perhaps half an hour. But somehow, with a great effort of will, she pulled herself together. She had done nothing wrong. They had no doubt arrested her because of her presence at the Russian Tea Rooms. She could explain all that. She would ask to see Major McCaigue; he would release her and she would be home for supper.

Then she was processed: fingerprinted, strip-searched, weighed, given a medical examination and a delousing bath and placed in a proper cell. It was a small room with a table, chair, narrow bed and one fragmented window a foot above her head. The walls were whitewashed and the floors stone. The cell was filthy, the sheets stained and grey with grime, but they gave her cocoa in a mug without a handle embossed with the letters ‘GR’ and a crown. They hadn’t given her cocoa at Sachsenhausen.

She could survive this.

She was calm at her initial interview with two detectives. She had indeed been arrested for her attendance at the Tea Rooms and her friendship with members of the Right Club. It turned out Joan Miller, the model, was working for the authorities. Anneliese was impressed: Joan had been convincing. Anneliese calmly stated that she too had been trying to uncover subversive activities and that Major McCaigue of the secret service would back her up. The detectives didn’t seem to believe her, but they did write it all down. And took her back to her cell.

There was a jangling of keys outside, the metal door opened and a warder appeared. ‘Rosen? Follow me.’

Anneliese followed the warder along corridors lined with cell doors, down two flights of stairs and into the interview room. Waiting for her were the two detectives and a large man with a bald head and florid complexion. Major McCaigue.

Anneliese felt giddy with relief and smiled at the major. He nodded and indicated the chair. The warder stood behind Anneliese.

‘Thank you for coming,’ Anneliese said.

Major McCaigue ignored her. ‘Miss Rosen, I’ve come to urge you to cooperate with the police in this investigation.’ His voice, which had seemed rich and friendly when he had spoken to Conrad and her in the Foreign Office, was now grave, with a hint of menace.

‘Of course,’ said Anneliese, struggling to control a surge of panic. This wasn’t going as she had expected.

‘What we want to know is whether you are working for the Russians or the Germans.’

Anneliese frowned. ‘Neither. I’m working for you.’ She glanced at the older detective, but there was no reassurance there. ‘I told you everything I had discovered at the Tea Rooms. About Henry Alston and Lord Oakford and the Duke of Windsor. You were going to investigate it.’

‘And I have,’ said McCaigue. ‘And there is not a shred of truth to any of it, as you well know.’

‘Of course it’s true!’ said Anneliese. ‘And you must stop it.’

‘We have suspected for a long time that your boyfriend Lieutenant de Lancey is a Soviet spy. He has been trying to undermine the morale of the British people by denigrating the royal family. And you have been helping him.’

Anneliese listened, shocked.

‘My colleagues here will ask you about de Lancey. Whom he works for, what his plans are, what else he intends to do, whether you had help from the Right Club. And you will answer.’

‘I will answer any questions you ask me truthfully,’ Anneliese said, glancing at the detectives. Keep calm. Don’t shout at him. ‘And you are mistaken about Conrad. I am sure that the plot he has uncovered – we have uncovered – is a real one. Sir Henry Alston and his friends want to replace the current government with one that will make peace with Germany. More than that, become Germany’s ally.’

‘You have been arrested under Defence Regulation 18B,’ McCaigue said. ‘This allows for the internment without trial of persons who are members of organizations under foreign control or who sympathize with the system of government of enemy powers. That means you will be incarcerated for the duration of the war. That’s the best you can hope for. But if we find evidence that you have been spying, then you will be tried for espionage, found guilty and hanged.’

McCaigue leaned forward. ‘Luckily for you, the choice as to which will apply is yours. Cooperate and you go to jail. Refuse to tell us everything you know and you go to the gallows.’

Anneliese held McCaigue’s stare. That ‘Regulation 18B’ sounded a lot like the ‘Protective Custody’ dodge that the Gestapo had employed to lock her and her father up in a concentration camp and throw away the key. Cold fingers of panic reached out towards her, clutching at her and threatening to pull her into a deep dark abyss of hopelessness and despair. For a moment she felt she couldn’t go through all this again.

She could. She would. She would do everything she could to persuade the detectives that McCaigue was wrong about Conrad, that there was indeed a plot to end the war involving Alston and others. If she failed, then she would hang, and so be it.

‘I will tell you everything I know,’ she said. ‘You need not worry about that.’

‘Good,’ said McCaigue. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

The detectives followed him out of the door, promising to return soon to continue the interview.

Anneliese watched them go. She wondered what had happened to Conrad. Could he somehow throw off McCaigue’s suspicion and get her freed? Or had they arrested him too? Not for the first time, she felt alone and afraid. But she had survived before; she would survive again.

Paris

It only took Conrad twenty minutes to walk to the Haldemans’ apartment in the eighth arrondissement. Isobel was having supper with her husband.

‘Conrad? It’s lovely to see you but we weren’t expecting you.’

‘No, I’m sure you weren’t. I’m dreadfully sorry for barging in like this.’

Isobel rose to the occasion immediately. ‘Have you eaten? Do join us. Marie was just leaving, but I’m sure she can rustle up something before she goes. An omelette perhaps?’

‘That would be wonderful,’ said Conrad. ‘Thank you.’

‘You remember Conrad de Lancey, Marsh? Veronica’s husband.’ She smiled at Conrad. ‘
Former
husband. The one that got away. Veronica is furious.’

Conrad was impressed by Isobel’s ability to make him feel at home so quickly. Marshall Haldeman less so. The American was in his late thirties, with an oversized square jaw. A catch himself, as Veronica had admitted to Conrad in better times.

‘Take a seat, de Lancey,’ he said as Isobel darted into the kitchen. ‘What brings you to Paris? I thought Isobel said you were in the army.’

‘I’m on leave,’ said Conrad.

‘Huh,’ said Marshall with the clear implication that he didn’t believe a word of it.

‘That’s rot, Conrad, and you know it,’ said Isobel, returning from the kitchen.

‘I admit it’s a special kind of leave,’ said Conrad. He knew he would have to tell Isobel everything, and hope firstly that she would believe him, secondly that she would want to help him and thirdly that she would be able to persuade her husband. He didn’t look a pushover, but Conrad well knew it was foolish to underestimate a Blakeborough girl’s ability to push men.

‘I’m after my father. I have to get hold of him before he catches up with the Duke of Windsor.’