by Walter Ellis
“Can I help you?” Bramall asked in Spanish.
The man’s head swung round. He looked confused. This was not what he had expected.
Bramall repeated his request in German, and this time the man threw up his hands.
Bramall smiled and shook his head. “Take my advice,” he said, still in German. “Stop fucking talking and start fucking walking.” He jerked his thumb in the direction from which the man had come. “That way. And, please, don’t let me catch you on my tail again.”
“Ja, ja. Natürlich. Es tut mir leid …”
The brief confrontation had done wonders for Bramall’s confidence. No one had been hurt for a start. The only casualty was a single bruised ego. Resuming his homeward journey, he felt momentarily on top of events.
Further good news awaited him back at the hotel. He was invited to cocktails this evening, beginning at 18.30, at the home on Calle Beatriz Galindo of Colonel Raoul Ortega, principle adviser to interior Minister Serrano Suñer. Dress, casual. Now he was getting somewhere. Time for a modest celebration. He would have lunch somewhere, in a tapas bar, then perhaps look in on the Prado – if it was open these days (he had no idea). After that, he would take his first proper siesta in more than a year.
Madrid, German Legation, June 26
The pictures of Bramall taken at the Ritz were wired to the Prinz-Albrechtstrasse less than an hour after they were taken. Researchers in Berlin had no difficulty in producing a match. Hasselfeldt was surprised, to say the least, when two photographs were in turn transmitted back to his office in Madrid. One showed the former King’s equerry in conversation with the Führer and the British Fascist leader Oswald Mosley. The other, taken from a newspaper, showed Bramall, again next to Mosley, at an anti-Jewish demonstration in London’s East End. There had been violence, apparently, and he was shown standing on the front line between the two opposing groups. The cable that came with the photographs advised that the subject was the son of a retired British Army general and a long-standing member of the British Union of Fascists. Before entering royal service, it added, he had been a diplomat in Buenos Aires and Vienna. Later, he had spent time in the colonial service in Burma.
Hasselfeldt sat back in his chair and studied the images in front of him. In the two pictures taken with Hitler, the Führer seemed to be listening intently to what Bramall had to say. Where had this conversation taken place anyway? He consulted the cable: home of Dr Josef Göbbels, Reichs Propaganda Minister, Berlin, October 6, 1936. Fascinating. The new arrival was more interesting than he had given him credit for. Time, perhaps, for him to pay a visit to the Legation. He could prove a valuable ally in the days ahead. Alternatively, of course, he could be an agent, planted by the British, perfectly positioned to play a dual role. He would have to see. The SD major silently congratulated himself on his initiative and reached onto the shelf behind his desk for an invitation card.
Madrid, Villa Ortega, June 26
Bramall hadn’t been to a society reception for years. He had almost forgotten the form. The last time he was in Madrid, immediately after its occupation by Franco’s forces in March, 1939, the mood of the conquerors had not been conducive to social exchange. Revenge was the order of the day. Franco’s view was that combat missions were over but the struggle continued, and the country was left in no doubt that he would hunt down every last opponent of the regime, no matter how long it took. Bramall witnessed several street executions. Once, in a commandeered football field, filled to capacity with “the enemies of Spain,” he had looked on, dumbstruck, as warders, flanked by firing squads, read out lists of those to be put to death that morning. Sometimes they would read out just the first name, then pause, grinning, as all those of that name felt their stomachs turn to liquid. It was state-sponsored sadism, nothing less. Interviewing the officer in charge, he had been invited into the “special” execution chamber – formerly the visiting teams’ changing room – to witness the garrotting of a man who three years earlier had issued pamphlets urging his fellow citizens to defend the elected Government against the rising. Bramall left the room as soon as he realised what was happening, but the sight of the victim’s bulging eyes and open mouth, as he fought desperately for breath, had caused him to throw up into an open drain already flowing with blood.
“Have you met our esteemed foreign minister, Señor Bramall?”
The question, jarring him back to present-day concerns, was put by his amply proportioned hostess, Doña Vitoria Ortega, seated next to him on an ornate metal chair in the shadow of a potted palm. “I’m afraid not, Señora,” he told her. “I still hope to have the honour.”
Doña Vitoria fluttered her fan and smiled. Close by, a Gestapo Kriminalkommissar, shared a joke with an attractive young woman, 20 or so, dressed up to the nines and clearly enjoying every moment of what he guessed was her first grown-up party. In another life, he might have made a move on her. No point in wasting an opportunity, they didn’t come along every day. But not today. Today he was on his best behaviour. Removing his gaze, reluctantly, from the girl, he couldn’t help observing the Gestapo officer, whose look of cold intelligence sent a brief shiver down his spine. “The Minister,” said the Señora, following his gaze, “is a great man. A man of destiny. The fact that he and my husband enjoy such a close association is, I must confess, a matter of some pride to me.”
“And rightly, Señora. The Minister has the ear of the Caudillo and the Colonel has the ear of the Minister.”
Bramall thought for a moment that his remark, which he meant as a compliment, might have come out wrong. A picture sprang into in his mind of the ears of a particularly feisty bull being presented to the matador at the end of a contest in the Plaza de Toros. But he need not have worried. The Señora was in a benign mood today and enjoying her terrace, with its distinguished assortment of guests, on what was undeniably a fine summer evening.
“My husband informs me,” she said, swatting at a fly, “that you are an English Fascist.”
Bramall swallowed hard, though her comment, like his own, was intended to be approving. “That is not precisely true, Señora,” he said at last. “As a public servant, I am required to observe strict neutrality in matters of politics. But as to English Fascists, there are more than you might think.”
She fixed him with a triumphant look. “But not yet quite enough, it seems. For your country opposes the Führer and is presently at war with Germany.”
“That is true. But with honour accruing to both sides, we must hope that an accommodation can yet be reached.”
He felt his face flush with embarrassment. Was there to be no respite from this new language?
“You are equerry to the Duke of Windsor, are you not?”
“Just so. And I assure you, the Duke would never countenance …”
The hostess giggled – the sound surprisingly girlish, Bramall thought, for one so … substantial. “Oh dear, Señor Bramall,” she said from behind her fan, as if confiding a secret, “Now you sound like one of the Caudillo’s speechwriters.” She laughed a second time and sat back in her chair, evidently well pleased with her performance.
Bramall never had been much of a one for small talk. He felt trapped. It was becoming difficult to breathe. As he considered his next step – which hopefully would be in the direction of one of the Army officers on the other side of the courtyard – he was aware of a sudden movement to his left.
A female voice, young, clear and confident. “Good evening, Mr…?”
Bramall looked up. The sun was in his eyes, blinding him.
“This is Señor Bramall, dear,” said Señora Ortega. “He is here with the Duke of Windsor.” By now the mistress of the household was enjoying herself thoroughly. She surveyed the stranger across the top of her spectacle frames. “And, this, Señor, is my daughter, Isabella.”
Bramall stood up. It was the girl he’d se
en earlier. “Ah!” he said. “Señorita Ortega. A great pleasure.” She was certainly a more inviting prospect than her mother. He had never seen such glorious green eyes. And her breasts were … stunning.
She fixed him with a cool, detached stare. “I’m glad to hear it, Mr Bramall. One always likes to give pleasure. But please, tell me, what is it you do for His Royal Highness?”
For a moment, he couldn’t speak. Her hair was a golden honey-blonde. Her skin glowed with vitality. It was all he could do not to reach out and touch it. Her lips were full and pink. He swallowed hard. “The Duke … ” he began.
“What about him?’
“The Duke … He, er, has arrived unexpectedly in Madrid … and it is my task, as his equerry, to ensure that no difficulties attend his progress.” He hoped this sounded less absurd to her than it sounded to him.
“I see. So you work at the embassy.”
“No, dear,” said her mother, admirably deadpan. “Señor Bramall is a Fascist.”
“Oh.” Isabella’s voice at once turned cold. “One of them.”
“What do you mean, dear, one of them?”
“I assure you,” said Bramall, interposing himself hurriedly between mother and daughter, “that, for all practical purposes, my politics are strictly neutral.”
“As Spain is ‘neutral’ in the present war?”
The daughter was implacable. “Well ...”
“Such flexibility is admirable.”
Bramall attempted to register a smile and turned away, running his finger round the edge of his shirt collar. Away from the jacaranda tree, a faint tang of urine drifted upwards into the evening air. The stone balustrade of the courtyard, just a metre or so from where he stood, gave onto a steeply angled alleyway below. Even with the sun still beating down, the steps of the alley were undisturbed and bathed in shadow. Beyond was the Viaduct Segovia, or Bridge of Suicides, linking the Palace across a steep ravine to the domed church of San Francisco El Grande: the aristos above, the plebs below. He wished he was on the steps of the church right now, observing the gathering from afar, removed from its sharp-edged conventions. But then again …
The girl, who, to judge from her well-bred sneer, viewed his discomfiture with contempt, allowed him only a brief respite before resuming her interrogation. “What will you do, do you suppose, when the Germans invade your country? The fight, from what I’m told, will be bloody, but short-lived. Will you join the Resistance, do you think, or will you accept a position in the English equivalent of Vichy … in Cheltenham, perhaps?”
Bramall seized, rather desperately, on the mention of his country’s leading spa resort. “You know Cheltenham?” he enquired.
“No. I don’t know Baden-Baden either. But I’ve heard of it. It’s called education, Mr Bramall. Did you have time for education in England, or were you too busy beating up Jews in the streets?”
“That’s enough, Isabella.” Señora Ortega had risen to her feet, a look of cold disapproval on her patrician features. “You must forgive my daughter, Senor Bramall,” she said. “She learned this week that the father of one of her oldest friends – a man who chose to follow the wrong path during the recent conflict – was arrested this week and suffered the ultimate penalty for his crimes. She is upset. We all are.”
“Please do not concern yourself, Señora,” Bramall said. “Terrible things happen in war. In a civil war, with brother against brother, the results can be especially cruel. May I ask what happened to your daughter’s friend?”
The Señora’s face flushed with emotion. “The mother died of a thrombosis brought on by the news that her husband had been … executed. Her daughter – Isabella’s friend – was sent to a labour camp on the Caudillo’s express instructions. My husband tried to intervene, but there was nothing he could do.”
At this, Isabella spun on her heels and disappeared in the direction of the kitchen.
Bramall watched her go before turning back to his host. “Please convey my sympathy to your daughter,” he began. “Clearly, it has not been an easy time for her.”
Señora Ortega frowned. “In Spain today, sympathy is considered a sign of weakness. We are all so sure of the rightness of our cause. I have to believe that better times lie ahead. But now, if you will excuse me …”
“Of course.”
“Enjoy your stay. And please come again.”
Bramall realised he was sweating. He stood under the shade of a tree for the best part of a minute, sipping from a glass of champagne, then allowed himself to move towards the unmistakable sound of argument. Groups of important looking persons, mainly men, some in uniform, were obviously engaged in sorting out the issues of the day. One group in particular was speaking in French, which intrigued him. Two of them, to judge from their appearance, were Spanish, though entirely at ease in the language of international diplomacy. The others were French. He waited until one of the Frenchmen noticed him before extending his hand. “Excuse me,” he said. “But I don’t believe we’ve met.”
The man was in his late 50s, short and stocky, with a pock-marked face, but he was immaculately tailored and stood with the command of someone six inches taller. Given that he enjoyed no obvious physical advantage, his appearance was, to Bramall, a triumph of self-possession.
“Charles Bramall, equerry to the Duke of Windsor.”
“Philippe le Maitre, chargé at the embassy of France.”
They shook hands crisply as the Frenchman, somewhat improbably, examined the much taller Bramall down the length of his nose – a manoeuvre that required him to bend his head back almost to an angle of 90 degrees. “A piquant situation, is it not?” he said. “The old certainties banished. Phone links cut. The ferries to Dover tied up in the harbour at Calais. Are we allies or enemies? I really don’t know.”
“Allies, surely,” Bramall replied. “I mean, the fortunes of war are one thing, but we continue on the same side of the argument, do we not?”
Le Maitre raised his eyebrows and smiled. He looked weary. “I should need to have notice of that question. But permit me to introduce you to the Marqués de Bermejillo and Don Angel Alcázar de Velasco, both diplomats in the service of Spain. Also my countryman, Monsieur Henri Ardant, managing director of the Société Générale de Banque, visiting from Paris.
“Gentlemen,” said Bramall.
The two Spaniards and the Frenchman nodded.
“So you are here to advise the Duke?” Bermejillo began. He was a florid man, with crinkly hair and a hint of mischief about his eyes. “Did you know that he and I were acquainted?”
“But of course, sir. Indeed, I am informed that you and his Royal Highness have been friends for some time. No doubt we shall be seeing you at the embassy on Saturday.”
“Wild horses could not prevent me from attending. Is that not what you say in English?” Le Maitre laughed. Bloody frog. Ardant simply looked blank.
“I met your former King once in Paris,” Ardant said, as if suddenly remembering something important. “His views on the European situation were close to my own.”
Bramall made a passable attempt at insouciance. “You have the advantage of me, Monsieur. I would not presume to know what opinions you hold on the present … situation.”
In reply, the banker drew himself up to his full height – a gesture that would have meant more had he been of more than average height. “France has been humbled, Monsieur. England’s resistance, though understandable, will end soon. I am sure of it. Then we will all have to learn to make the best of things … together. That is why I am here, on a brief visit. I am exploring the creation in Europe of a single economic area, with a common currency. It could work wonders for our Continent, you know.”
Ardant had an austere, patrician look to him, like an aristocratic monsignor. Bramall would not wish to have been one of his servants. All he could
think of, by way of reply was: “An interesting outlook, Monsieur, but, with respect, as yet a little premature.”
“We shall see, Monsieur Bramall. We shall see. The New Order has arrived. The beach does not reject the arriving tide.”
“Nor,” said Bramall, “does it accompany it upon its withdrawal.”
That wasn’t bad, he thought.
Ardant’s head drew back, like a tortoise’s into its shell.
“Touché, Monsieur,” said Velasco, a small, dark figure, impeccably dressed. “But you will need more than a gift for repartée when the Wehrmacht arrives on the beaches of Sussex.”
“That is why we have an army, Monsieur.” Or what is left of one, he added, under his breath.
As he spoke, Bramall realised with a start that he had met Velasco once before. It was in Salamanca, in 1937. The Spaniard had been one of those who defeated an attempt by rivals loyal to the memory of Primo de Rivera to keep the Falange out of Franco’s control. The “Old Shirts,” as they were known, had been beaten into submission. One at least had been shot. Velasco, he now recalled, had gone on to help found Franco’s Intelligence service. He was a dangerous man – a Galician like his boss – and best avoided. But the question was, would he remember him? Their encounter had been brief: a snatched interview for the Post, conducted after yet another outrage involving the Condor Legion. But those who lived in the secret world rarely forgot a face. That’s what Braithwaite had told him. He made an instant decision.
