Franco's Map

by Walter Ellis

  He heard footsteps in the hallway and grunted. The door of his office swung open, revealing the nervous face of his private secretary, Klausener, who glanced across at him, every hair in place, eyes shining. “Herr Botschafter,” he announced, as if springing a surprise on his boss. “The Ministers’ cars are about to arrive.”

  “Yes, yes, Franz. I will be straight down.”

  A minute later, the Ambassador stood, somewhat stiffly, in the Legation’s ornate entrance hall beneath a large, bronze Swastika and two gaudy portraits of Hitler and Ribbentrop. Beigbeder’s limousine was first. The foreign Minister was a wily fellow, whose sympathies, it seemed to Stohrer, veered between support for the Reich and an older, almost atavistic loyalty to the British. If his trust were to be retained in the face of Hitler’s rejection of Spanish participation in the war effort, then he would have to come up with something fast.

  Beigbeder struggled out of his car seat and adjusted his uniform. Tall and swarthy, his dark eyes hidden behind thick-lenses, he could have arrived at the embassy either from an assignation with his mistress or from Friday prayers at the mosque. Both were passions, vigorously pursued. Stohrer, also something of a lothario, but lacking religious conviction, stepped forward. “Good afternoon, Minister. I am delighted you have honoured our embassy with your visit.”

  “My dear baron, always a pleasure. And let me say at once what a splendid refurbishment and expansion you have achieved in so short a time.”

  Then it was the turn of Serrano Suñer, whose car, though second to arrive, swished to a halt in front of that of the foreign Minister. Serrano, who always reminded the Ambassador of an American matinee idol, was on his feet in an instant and gliding towards his host.

  “Mr Ambassador, I come straight from the Pardo, where the Caudillo, my brother-in-law, continues to enthuse over Germany’s miraculous feats of arms. As your new embassy so clearly reflects, we live in a time fit for heroes.”

  Stohrer offered the Minister a slight bow, no more than five degrees from the perpendicular. “Your sentiments are much appreciated, Minister. And now, gentlemen, if you would care to step inside, we have much to discuss.”

  The meeting took place in Stohrer’s private suite, with no one else in attendance. Down the hall, however, in the office of SD Major Klaus Hasselfeldt, recently arrived to head the embassy’s security section, everything that was said was captured on an ingenious reel-to-reel recording device that Hasselfeldt had brought with him personally from Berlin. The machine, big as a suitcase, was known as a Magnetophon and had been developed by AEG and BASF in Germany using technology unique to the Reich. It would never have occurred to the Ambassador, who had only recently come to terms with the fountain pen, that his rooms might be bugged. It was the sort of thing that he would have found ill mannered in the extreme. Hasselfeldt, as it happened, bore no particular ill-will towards his head of mission, whom he regarded as an idle functionary, typical of his type. He merely wished to assure himself – and Berlin – that the Führer’s best interests were not being compromised.

  Serrano chose an upright chair facing Stohrer’s work desk. Beigbeder preferred the sofa. Often on these occasions, especially if the proceedings dragged on, as they often did when Stohrer was in control, the Spaniard would fantasize about his mistress, Rosalinda Powell-Fox, a young Englishwoman who, unknown to him, was in the pay of the British embassy. But not today, Today, all he could think about was the Ambassador’s statuesque wife, Marie Ursula, with whom he flirted quite shamelessly at social functions and who, he liked to believe, found him irresistible.

  “I must say, Stohrer, I am at a loss,” Serrano began, loftily. “We offer you our cooperation in the European enterprise, and, after more than three days, we have yet to have a response.”

  “I can understand your vexation,” Stohrer began, hoping to minimise the impact of the news that he knew would shortly arrive from Berlin. “The Führer is grateful for your offer of assistance in the war. Please be assured, however, that, as far as Berlin is concerned, the place of Spain in the New Order is already guaranteed.”

  “And what place would that be, exactly?” The cold-edged calculation of Serrano’s voice appeared to Stohrer to go perfectly with his theatrical appearance. “Will we have Berlin’s support in the restoration of our empire in North Africa? Or are we to hold our troops in eternal readiness, without reward, lest the Reich should fail and we must rush to your aid?”

  Serrano and Stohrer, though far apart in terms of style, saw eye to eye on most things and did their best to observe the diplomatic niceties. The German refused to rise to the bait. “You will understand,” he said, “that these are questions to be decided elsewhere, at the highest level – most obviously by the Führer and the Caudillo.”

  The Minister bent his head back, twisted in his chair and stared fixedly out of the window. “I see,” he said at last. “I understand perfectly.” Stohrer had never seen the fellow look so aloof. “Come, Beigbeder,” he continued. “There is nothing to detain us here.”

  The foreign Minister started and looked pleadingly at Stohrer. “Let us not be too hasty,” he said. “We are old comrades, are we not? Strategies change, plans alter. But interests remain constant.”

  Beigbeder could always be depended on to come up with the most emollient cliché, and Stohrer was grateful. “The foreign Minister,” he said, “is absolutely right. We in Germany know who our friends are. We know on whom we can rely. While the world awaits the longer-term consequences of our great victory in France, there is a service Spain can yet render that would win for the Caudillo – as if he did not have it already – the Führer’s undying gratitude.”

  Serrano, an opera lover, felt cheated of his exit, but he could not possibly leave without hearing what the German had to offer.

  “Continue,” he said.

  In his office down the hall, Hasselfeldt stopped fidgeting with the knobs on his recorder. He adjusted the headset in which the Ambassador’s words were playing.

  “As you will know,” said Stohrer, “the Duke of Windsor is expected shortly in Madrid.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Beigbeder. “Fleeing from France. The Duchess, too – a most intriguing woman. They were reported in Barcelona this morning. Apparently some French officer requisitioned the hotel they were staying at in Perpignan.”

  Stohrer smiled indulgently. Beigbeder would have made a splendid diary writer for one of the more lurid pre-war magazines. It was such a waste that he had drifted into politics. “Just so, Minister,” he said. “Churchill wants him back in England, but His Royal Highness, it appears, has a mind of his own. Which provides us with a unique opportunity.”

  “What are you suggesting, Ambassador?” Serrano was a practised cynic and felt instinctively that he was being invited to travel up a blind alley.

  “Simply, my dear Minister, that if Spain were to prevail upon the Duke to take a more, shall we say, conciliatory view of relations with the Reich than is currently in evidence from the clique surrounding Churchill, perhaps a way could be found to amplify his voice and to invest it with the kind of authority that could yet make an invasion of England unnecessary.”

  Serrano’s eyebrows arched. “So you wish us to offer to the Duke the prospect of his restoration to the throne of England in return for his support for the Führer and a negotiated peace.”

  “As ever, you cut to the heart of the matter,” said Stohrer, steepling his fingers.

  Beigbeder looked shocked. “The Duke would never agree to such a thing. He may be attracted to the New Order, but you misread him, Ambassador if you think he would betray his country.”

  Serrano was no less dismissive. “Oh dear, Stohrer,” he began. “Has it come to this? We are men of the world, are we not? We should not waste our time indulging in fantasies.”

  The Ambassador shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Gentlemen, gentle
men. We are on the same side here. You believe this business to be a nonsense, and, confidentially, so do I. But not everyone in Berlin is as hard-headed as we. There is room for fantasy, even in the Reich.” He looked down the length of his nose directly at Serrano. “In my experience, it is the dreamer, not the dream that is important. If we each of us assist in this matter, the quid pro quo could prove considerable. We may even find that our own dreams come true.”

  Serrano allowed himself the ghost of a smile. “My dear baron,” he said, “you remain a master of your profession – and, of course, we should be delighted to help.”

  Stohrer raised his hands in blessing. “Gentlemen,” he began, “already our interests are converging. You see – is it not exactly as I said?”

  In his office, hovering intently over the slowly turning reels of the Magnetophon, Hasselfeldt allowed a sly smile to play about his features. He had no idea who was right and who was wrong in the matter of the Duke of Windsor. But he knew disloyalty when he saw it. Stohrer was not loyal. He was a careerist, doing his job without believing in it. If not a crime, it was at the least a misdemeanour – and one for which the Ambassador should be made to answer. More than that, the idea that the key to the ultimate success of the Reich in its war with England could reside right here in Madrid, within minutes of where he sat, was to Hasselfeldt irresistible. It was time to contact his SD superiors in the Prinz Albrechtstrasse.

  SIS Headquarters, Hanslope Park, June 22

  Braithwaite was standing with his pink hands joined behind his back staring out his office window when Bramall knocked and walked in. He wore a brown suit which looked as if it hadn’t been dry-cleaned in months. Sharp concertina creases in the backs of the knees drew the turn-ups of the trousers above the tops of his shoes. “It’s a matter of record now” he said, not even turning round. “France has accepted occupation and Pétain’s in charge of a new puppet regime.”

  “I’d heard.”

  “According to Berlin, the instrument of capitulation – sorry, the armistice – was signed in same railway carriage used by the French to take the German surrender in 1918.”

  “That must have hurt.”

  “Intended to.”

  There was a pause as both men once again took in the implications of France’s formal withdrawal from the war.

  “So it’s official, we’re on our own,” said Bramall, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

  Braithwaite turned to face him, unfastening his waistcoat as he did so and breathing out. “Not exactly a surprise, but a shock all the same.”

  “And my little jaunt?”

  “No change. In fact, we’re moving it forward. Had a stroke of luck. How’s your training coming along?”

  Bramall smiled to himself. He was in pretty good shape. He could run, he could box, he was proficient with a handgun. But it was still a hard, bloody slog. “I’m above average on the physical side,” he said. “But the ‘tradecraft’ stuff – dead letter boxes, radio codes, how to get beaten up without saying anything: All that bollocks tends to pass me by.”

  The air seemed to drain from Braithwaite’s chest. “I see. Well, we want you in position as soon as possible. Next few days if we can manage it.”

  “Just like that. Doesn’t give me much time. Still via Portugal, I suppose?”

  “Embassy’ll sort you out. And while you’re there, you can meet your opposite number in Lisbon.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “Dependable. He’ll give you a few pointers before he sends you on your way.”

  “No doubt. But that still leaves the small matter of how I suddenly materialise in Spanish high society, trusted by Spain and Germany, with links to Britain that go high enough to get me past just about any front door.”

  The look he received in reply to his ostensibly reasonable question was suffused with a mellow, long-suffering superiority. Bramall, for some reason, was put in mind of a ripe stilton in port. “Did you think we were just going to move you in and leave you to get on with it?”

  “Like in Norway, you mean? Or France, come to that.”

  Braithwaite strode round to his desk with little short steps, gaining in authority as he did so. Reaching into his drawer, next to his secret sugar cache, he drew out a slim, grey folder, which he proceeded to hand across. “Problem solved,” he said. “Couldn’t have worked out nicer. Read this, memorise it, then hand it back.”

  “What’s the gist?”

  “The gist is, Mr Bramall, that His Royal Highness the Duke of Windsor, and Mrs Simpson” – he lingered on the Duchess’s former status – “have turned up in Spain. You probably know the Duke served as a senior military liaison officer in Paris. Well, contrary to orders, he didn’t attempt to make it back to England with Lord Gort’s forces. Instead, he and his entourage jumped into an official limousine and headed full-tilt to Biarritz, then on to Barcelona.”

  “Is that where he is now?”

  “About to arrive in Madrid, apparently.”

  “Then what happens?”

  Braithwaite’s exasperation returned. “It’s all in the file.”

  “What file?”

  Braithwaite picked up a slim grey folder from his desk and handed it over. “Answer to a maiden’s prayer, if I say so myself. Neat as a Duchess’s knicker drawer.”

  “Right.”

  Taking a seat by the window, he began to read.

  Top Secret, Most Confidential

  For the attention of Mr Thomas Braithwaite, SIS; Mr Charles Bramall, SIS

  cc The Prime Minister; the Foreign Secretary; Sir Samuel Hoare, HM Ambassador to Madrid; Mr Walford Selby, HM Ambassador to Lisbon

  Following the German attack on France and the subsequent enemy occupation, HRH the Duke of Windsor, accompanied by the Duchess, last week left his home in the Boulevard Suchet in Paris and drove south to Madrid by way of Perpignan. His Royal Highness, who chose not to be evacuated with the BEF from Dunkirk, is still considering the request issued to him by the Prime Minister that he should return to England for reassignment. In the meantime, it is likely that he and the Duchess, together with their household, will divide their time between Madrid and Lisbon. Sir Samuel Hoare, Ambassador to Spain, will shortly issue invitations to a party at the embassy on June 29 at which HRH and the Duchess will be introduced to Spanish society.

  For the purpose of inserting SIS agent Charles Bramall successfully into Madrid, it has been decided that he should be named as an aide, or equerry, to HRH, separate from the embassy, to be available throughout the period of the Duke’s stay in Spain as principle liaison between him and the Spanish authorities.

  Upon the Duke’s expected return to the UK, Bramall will remain in situ in Spain, with official, but unspecified, duties related to HRH. It should be suggested during this time that he has the ear of Lord Halifax, as well as of imprisoned BUF leader Sir Oswald Mosley. The usefulness of this royal appointment to Bramall’s true purpose in Madrid need hardly be emphasised. In anticipation, he should familiarise himself with the circumstances of HRH in Spain, the Duke and Duchess’s history and personal convictions, and elements of court etiquette.

  The document was signed by the deputy chief of operations MI6 and in green ink by an unknown official, apparently in overall charge, known simply as “C.” Bramall read through it several times. He had to admit, it was well thought out and easy to memorise. Braithwaite was right. The Duke’s unexpected emergence on the Spanish scene was a godsend. Added to the BUF stuff, it gave him all the entrée he could possibly want, confirming that his sympathies, if not exactly anti-British, were certainly less than antagonistic to the German and Fascist cause. It was brilliant, if a little fortuitous.

  A more detailed document, included in the same folder, laid out the career of the former king, his character (and that of his wife), and what was known
of his political beliefs, including who shared them in the British Establishment. Apparently, he was a firm believer in Irish unity and an opponent of the Northern Ireland state. He believed, like DeValera, that it was possible for a free Ireland to retain Dominion status and thereby keep a connection with the monarchy. Interesting. Bramall wondered what his father would think about that. Finally, there was a briefing on royal procedure, advising on how the Palace functioned and the correct form of address for the Duke and Duchess – the latter, he noted, was Ma’am (“rhymes with ham”) or Your Grace, not Your Royal Highness – together with potted biographies of the Royal Family and various specifics relating to the secretariat and its links to Downing Street. There was even a synopsis of the more pro-German utterances of Halifax and Sir Samuel Hoare. What a bloody collection!

  Braithwaite had been observing him as he read. Now the Yorkshireman reached out a podgy hand.

  “All clear, I take it?”

  “More or less,” Bramall replied

  “Good. Then hand it over. Any questions?”

  “Only one. Why is the Duke such an absolute arse?”

  This evoked the faintest of smiles. “Maybe you should ask him.”

  Madrid: villa of Colonel Raoul Ortega, Calle Beatriz Galindo, June 23, 1940

  “What do you mean, you can’t stand him? He is your fiancé.”

  “Father: Felipe Luder is not my fiancé. I’ve told you before, I hardly know him, and what I do know I detest.”

  “But you agreed to marry him!”

  “You agreed. I had no say in the matter.”