Traitor's Gate (27 page)

‘Oh, Conrad, you always assume I am so
calculating
.’

‘I wonder why,’ said Conrad. He felt sorry for the Linaro family. They stood no chance against Veronica.

‘Look! Here are Tom and Diana.’

Conrad turned to see the handsome figures of Diana Guin­ness, as she was still generally known, and Sir Oswald Mosley making their way through the crowd, heads turning to follow them.

‘I must be going,’ Conrad said, downing his drink.

‘Oh, do stay and have a drink with them. Just one.’

But the idea of talking to a fascist here in Britain, still a land of innocence and freedom, made Conrad’s stomach turn.

‘I’ll see your man tomorrow,’ Conrad said. He was about to add the word ‘darling’, but it stuck in his throat.

The train cut through the South Downs as it sped its way northwards to London. Opposite Conrad sat Mae, a pretty but dull girl originally from Swindon who had moved to London to seek her fortune. She was reading a paperback; they had used up all their conversation before Redhill on the way down to Brighton the day before.

Conrad had a hell of a headache. He had started drinking on the train down the afternoon before, and continued all evening, a lethal combination of whisky and champagne. Mr Haynes had insisted on champagne as being more emblematic of two lovers off to have an illicit good time. The hotel Mr Haynes recommended seemed to know the score; there was no need for a private detective, it was sufficient to give the chambermaid who brought them breakfast in the morning a memorably large tip. Mae had offered to earn her money in the traditional way, but seemed relieved when Conrad had declined. She was happy enough; she had started the latest Agatha Christie on the way down, and should have it finished by the time they reached Victoria.

The night had been bizarre and idiotic, but it did make some sense. No journalist would find much of a story in the charade, whereas if he had taken on the role of plaintiff and cited Linaro as co-respondent in court the newspapers would have been full of it. Conrad wouldn’t have cared, he would be in Berlin, but it would have been unpleasant for Veronica and especially so for the Linaro family.

The whole thing was so frightfully, dismally, seedily British.

The worst of it all was, of course, Anneliese, the woman with whom Conrad would much rather have spent the night. If only Conrad had told Foley about Ewald von Kleist’s visit, then perhaps Anneliese would be on her way to England. Or at least be getting her documents together.

But he couldn’t have done it. Von Kleist’s trip was just too important, more important than him or even than Anneliese. And he had given his word.

His word. The word of an English gentleman. Did that really matter so much?

After paying Mae, Conrad took a cab from Victoria Station back to his club, and turned his thoughts to how he would approach Lord Halifax, assuming he would have received and read his mother’s letter.

But at the club, the porter had a telegram waiting for him: ‘SPOKE TO YOUR FATHER STOP HE PROMISES HE WILL ARRANGE TRIP STOP PLEASE SEND LETTER WITH DATES AND CODE FOR REPLY STOP LOVE MAMMA.’

Conrad had to restrain himself from letting out a whoop. His mother had done it! Somehow she had persuaded his father to change his mind, and that while he was in the depths of one of his vilest moods. She had understood how important von Kleist’s trip was; despite her serene exterior it was always a mistake to underestimate her determination.

He went through to the library and composed a quick letter, laying out the dates of the trip and suggesting a little code by which his father could let him know whom von Kleist would see. It was clever of his mother to remember that any letter sent to him in Germany would be liable to interception.

Then he went to Thomas Cook’s in Piccadilly to book himself a flight back to Berlin for that afternoon. The divorce would have to wait.

He stood waiting in the queue and thought about Klaus’s threat. There was no doubt he was taking a risk returning to Berlin. A big risk. As the lady in front of him argued about the cabin she had booked on the
Queen Mary
to New York, he considered turning around and walking out of the travel agent.

But he couldn’t do it. Too much was at stake: too many brave men were relying on him. He would just have to hope that Klaus’s threats were bluster, and that his father’s status did provide some protection after all.

Finally satisfied, the lady moved away and Conrad stepped forward. ‘I’d like to book a flight to Berlin. For today if possible.’

Conrad rang Anneliese as soon as he arrived back at his flat, and he could tell from her voice that she was as happy to hear from him as he was to speak to her. She suggested he come right round.

After they had made love, they talked. Conrad told her about his trip to Brighton, which Anneliese thought very funny, although she did ask a number of penetrating questions about Mae. What they didn’t do was discuss the implications of a divorce.

‘I saw Foley before I left,’ Conrad said. ‘To try to persuade him to get you a visa.’

‘No luck?’ Anneliese asked.

‘No.’

‘I thought not. It doesn’t matter. I’m just glad he got my parents out.’

‘It
does
matter,’ said Conrad. ‘I...’ He paused. He didn’t know what he was going to say. He didn’t know how to say it. That he had had the chance to secure Anneliese’s freedom and he had chosen not to take it.

‘What is it, Conrad?’

He took a deep breath. ‘I could have told Foley about Ewald von Kleist’s visit to London. Then he might have got you a visa.’

‘No, you couldn’t,’ said Anneliese.

‘Yes, I could. If I had told him about their plot to get rid of Hitler he would have bitten my arm off. You’d be on your way to England.’

‘You couldn’t have told him. You gave your word. And the Gestapo might have found out about the trip and stopped it.’

Conrad touched her cheek. ‘But you would be safe.’

‘No.’ Anneliese shook her head. ‘Listen to me, Conrad. As one who has done things she has deeply regretted to get people out of this damned country, I’m telling you you couldn’t tell Foley. You shouldn’t tell Foley. I wouldn’t want you to.’

He pulled her over to him and held her.

They stayed like that for several minutes, wrapped up in their own thoughts, in each other’s thoughts.

Then she shuddered.

‘What is it?’ he asked.

She pulled away from him and sat up on the bed, her knees hunched up to her chin. ‘You know, I saw Klaus while you were away. The night before last. He came here.’

‘Why did you let him in?’ said Conrad feeling a surge of jealousy.

‘He’s Gestapo, what choice did I have?’

‘Sorry,’ said Conrad. ‘What did he want?’

‘He knows about us,’ Anneliese said. ‘I got the impression he’d been watching us. He tried to play it cool, but I could tell he was as jealous as hell. He warned me to stay away from you. He said you had been seen speaking to a British spy, so he must have seen you with Captain Foley. I said I didn’t believe him, but it scared me. He said he would always look after me, and that I could always go to him for help.’

‘Does he want to get back together with you?’

‘I’m sure he does, but he didn’t say it. I think he’s hoping that if I’m in enough trouble I’ll go back to him. But I won’t. Never.’

Conrad stroked Anneliese’s hair. ‘You must be careful of him.’

‘So must you.’

Conrad hadn’t intended to tell Anneliese about his con­frontation with Klaus the day before he had left for London, but now he felt he had to.

‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’

‘I didn’t want to scare you.’

‘Well I should be scared! We should both be scared.’ She jumped out of bed and went over to her window, looking down on to the street.

‘Can you see anyone?’ Conrad asked.

‘No. Wait, yes! No, it’s just a shadow from the tree. I don’t know... there could easily be someone hiding down there. Klaus will be bound to find out we are seeing each other sooner or later.’ She turned to Conrad, biting her lip. ‘What should we do? I’m frightened, Conrad.’

‘You shouldn’t be. He won’t hurt you.’

‘Yes, but he
will
hurt you. God, I dread to think what he might do to you.’ A tear ran down her cheek. ‘These damned Nazis. They go for everyone I love. Paul. My father. You. I couldn’t bear to lose you.’

Conrad moved over to her and held her tight.

‘You should go back to London right away,’ Anneliese said.

‘I have to stay here in Berlin for a few more days,’ he said. ‘I need to help Theo and his friends. And I couldn’t just not see you.’

He let her go and looked at her, standing naked by the open window, her skin a pale blue in the Berlin night. She was so beautiful.

‘It’s too dangerous,’ she said. ‘We must keep away from each other. At least for a few days. We must be
very
careful.’

Conrad sighed. ‘All right. But it’s going to be difficult.’ He smiled at her. ‘And in that case we had better make the most of the time we have.’

Anneliese kissed him. A moment later they were entwined on the bed.

Just over a hundred miles away, in the city of Halle, Walter Schalke was preparing for bed. He was a little drunk – well, very drunk, having spent the evening at Wilhelmer’s bar down the road. The bedroom was a mess; dirty shirts and underwear lay on the floor, and the grimy sheets were unmade from the morning. After his wife had died, Walter had employed a house­keeper who had done a lousy job and annoyed the hell out of him. So he had sacked her. He was finding it harder than he expected to find a replacement at the rate he was offering. These women were so greedy!

Life hadn’t been quite as worry-free as he had expected after the old bat had kicked the bucket. There was no nagging, which was a relief. But there were a million and one small things that she had left undone, things that Walter didn’t have the time or inclination to sort out. Bills, cleaning, clothes-mending, that kind of thing. Lazy sow!

There was a loud knock at the door.

‘Who is it!’ shouted Walter, pleased at the loudness of his own voice.

More knocking.

‘All right, all right,’ he said, putting on his dressing gown and staggering down the narrow stairway.

He opened the door. Two men barged in, one of them grab­bing him. ‘Gestapo!’

‘What do you want?’ Walter asked belligerently.

‘To search your house,’ replied one of the men, pulling out a pistol.

‘Put that away!’ growled Walter. The man dug the gun into his ribs, making him launch into a bout of violent coughing.

The other man opened and closed doors, banging and crash­ing in first the kitchen, then the parlour, and then upstairs in the bedroom.

‘What’s he doing?’

‘Searching the house.’

‘Why? What’s he looking for?’

‘We’ve had a tip-off that you have been distributing sub­versive material.’

‘That’s ridiculous!’ said Walter ‘I’m a Party member, have been since 1929.’

The man appeared from the bedroom with a sheaf of mimeo­graphed paper. He handed it to his colleague, who scanned it quickly. ‘Come with us!’ he said.

‘What’s that? I’ve never seen those before in my life!’ Walter protested.

The policeman took no notice. ‘Come on,’ he said.

‘Wait! My son is in the Gestapo,’ the old man protested. ‘He’s a Kriminalrat in Berlin. He works directly for Heydrich himself. You should give him a call.’

One of the Gestapo exchanged glances with the other and shrugged. ‘Go ahead,’ he said.

‘Hold on a moment,’ said Walter. ‘I’m not paying for the call myself.’

‘In that case come with us.’

‘No. All right, wait a minute.’

Walter found Klaus’s office number and called the operator. He was put through.

‘Klaus? It’s your father. Can you tell these two baboons to leave me alone?’

He handed the telephone to the senior of the two Gestapo officers and smiled. ‘He wants to talk to you.’

The man muttered down the telephone; Walter couldn’t quite hear the conversation. Then, his expression blank, he handed the receiver back to Walter.

‘Well, Klaus? Did you sort them out?’ Walter demanded.

‘I’m sorry, Father. They say they have found some incrim­inating docu­ments in the house. I’m afraid that in the circum­stances there is nothing I can do.’

‘What! You know I’m a good Nazi! You tell them that!’

‘We may not see each other again, Father,’ said Klaus, his voice calm. ‘So, goodbye.’

‘You bastard! You put them up to this didn’t you? You—’

‘I love you too, Father.
Heil Hitler
.’ Then the telephone went dead.

Ranting with anger and confusion, Walter was led to a car outside. He was pushed into the back alongside two young SA men in uniform. One of them he recognized from the next street but the boy refused to acknowledge him.

Half an hour later, a few kilometres outside the city, they turned down a narrow track into a forest. After five hundred metres the car stopped. The SA men fetched spades out of the boot, and the Gestapo officer, brandishing his pistol, told Walter to walk.

He was still cursing his damned swine of a son when the bullet smashed into the back of his head. He died instantly.

Conrad approached the British Embassy on Wilhelmstrasse with a mixture of trepidation and excitement. He had received a note from Ivone Kirkpatrick, the First Secretary. Conrad assumed that his father had made the necessary appointments for von Kleist, and Kirkpatrick would have the details for Conrad to pass on. Conrad had expected a coded letter directly from his father, but he supposed that once the Foreign Secretary and the Prime Minister were involved it was natural for messages to go through the Foreign Office. In any event he was anticipating this visit to be more fruitful than his earlier meeting with the Third Secretary to complain about his arrest and Joachim’s death.

He stopped suddenly and turned, hoping to catch a watcher. There were several people on the street, none of whom gave him a second glance. He had been looking over his shoulder constantly ever since he had returned to Berlin, checking for Gestapo. He hadn’t spotted anyone, but of course that didn’t mean there was no one there. But he had kept his promise to Anneliese to stay away from her at least for a while. It was intensely frustrating to know that she was here in the same city as him, but that he couldn’t see her, talk to her, hold her.