by Walter Ellis
Sheisse! He hadn’t known about that. Something more to blame him for. “That is terrible. I went to the washroom. I left my watch. There was someone there – a naval officer. There was something not right about him. I asked him who he was; I tried to draw my gun; and he attacked me. That is all I know.”
The Gestapo officer nodded and pressed the ends of his fingers together beneath his chin. A naval officer – the fellow he had directed to the toilets. Now that he thought about it, he had looked familiar. But who? Winzer peered closely at Hasselfeldt’s injured face, with its vivid red and blue bruising and broken nose. Fortunately, there was no witness to his own brief encounter. “A naval officer, you say? And yet obviously not one of our own.”
The Austrian could feel the police officer’s eyes boring into him. He felt trapped.
Winzer continued. “Strange, don’t you think, that the only person hurt, other than the victims of the terrorists on the ground floor, was you, Sturmbannführer? Not the Ambassador, not the military attachés, not I – even though I am well known for my work in setting up the Spanish secret police. Just you. Have you any idea why that might be?”
“– None!” His denial, he realised, had shot out too quickly, like a bullet fired in his defence. He must be more careful.
“Was there something in your office that an enemy agent might especially want?”
“I am the head of the SD in Madrid. Everything I do would be of interest to an enemy agent.”
Winzer pressed the flats of his hands together in an attitude of prayer. He reminded Hasselfeldt of a portrait of Savonarola his mother gave him as a child. He had the same full nose and fleshy lips, the same small, darting eyes. “Quite so,” he said. “Quite so. We examined your office. It wasn’t ransacked. Your filing cabinet had not been tampered with. Your books were on your shelves. Your desk looked undisturbed. Everything, in fact, appeared to be in place.”
“That’s good news, surely.” Again, too quick. He must slow down.
“Yes … except for one small detail.”
Hasselfeldt tried not to sound alarmed. “What was that?” he asked.
“The lid of your recording device, the Magnetophon, had been forced. You apparently locked it before visiting the washroom. An intruder used a screwdriver to break the lock.”
“I see.” Please God, don’t let him follow this line of questioning.
“We found it on the carpet, next to the machine. So here is my question, Sturmbannführer. What was on your Magnetophon that would have interested an enemy of the Reich?”
“I have no idea.”
“The machine had been on for some considerable time. Its valves were overheating. Why should that be?”
“I don’t know.”
“Were you using it? If so, what was on the tape?”
“I can’t think.”
“Then think harder.”
“I can’t. My head. It’s …”
Winzer stood up. His eyes, it seemed to Hasselfeldt, had taken on a cold, reptilian quality. “Of course,” he said. “My apologies. You are not well. But you will be out of here in the next 24 hours or so. We will talk then. Depend on it. In the meantime, I shall pursue my investigations in the Legation itself. Naturally, I will have to go through your files and personal effects. You will raise no objection, I am sure – not when what is being done is in the interest of Reich security.”
Hasselfeldt swallowed. His headache was growing worse by the second. “No,” he said, weakly, “Of course not.”
Winzer smiled grimly. “It is logical. And now, if you will excuse me, I will leave you to make a full recovery.” He looked down at the figure on the bed, and as he did so his eyebrows rose up his forehead. “If you could report to my office tomorrow afternoon, around four, that would be perfect.”
“Yes, yes. I’ll do that.”
“Enjoy the oranges.”
The moment the Kriminalkommissar left, Hasselfeldt broke into a cold sweat. Winzer had always suspected he was up to something. Now he would be hell-bent on proving it. If it came come out that he had secretly taped Stohrer and Bruns in their negotiations with the Spanish, and then lost the tape and the transcript to a British agent – an agent whom he had recruited as a spy for the Reich – he would immediately be arrested and judged by the insanely strict SS Code of Conduct.
There would be no second chance. It would be an open and shut case. He had encouraged Bramall, who in turn had organised a murderous attack on the building by armed thugs. He had lunched with the fellow in the embassy dining room – even placed his photograph on the wall. He had allowed him to visit his office, not once, but three times, until, on his third visit, he knocked him senseless and stole the Legation’s most closely guarded secret. Worst of all – Oh God! How could he have done such a thing? – he had disobeyed specific instructions from Schellenberg to leave the issue of Spanish participation in the war to others and to concentrate instead on apprehending the Duke. The Duke! Who was now in Lisbon!
I vow to thee and to the superiors whom thou shalt appoint, Obedience unto death.
God protect him! He had even allowed Bramall to visit Gibraltar, the objective of Operation Felix, where he would have spoken at length with his MI6 Control. They would have talked about how Bramall was to gain Hasselfeldt’s confidence and then, afterwards – what was it the Americans said? – take him to the cleaners.
He should have had Bramall dragged into his office after the fiasco outside the Cortes. He shouldn’t have given him a second chance. He should have pulled out his fingernails with pliers and attached electrodes to his testicles. As always, it was his reticence that had had let him down.
He told himself it could easily have gone the other way, with him in command, reeling Bramall in like an exhausted fish. Then he would have been the hero, hailed for his initiative. But that was no more than a fantasy now. They would say it was always a fantasy and that he was motivated solely by ambition. He would be interrogated until he told them everything he knew, and then the Reichsführer would order that he be left alone in a cell with a revolver, loaded with a single round, which he would be expected to use to expiate his crime. If he didn’t, he would be denounced as a coward and a disgrace to the Order. His Death’s Head ring would be removed, his dagger taken from him and his shoulder flashes stripped away. After that, he would be taken out and shot, like a common criminal or Jew. He looked at his hands. They were trembling. He had to get out of here. He must find Bramall and take back what was his. Even if he couldn’t prevent the information itself from being forwarded to London, he might still hope to recover the evidence pointing to him as the source.
One thing he knew for sure: he dared not fail.
Chapter 10
Spanish-Portuguese frontier, July 15
The light was fading when Romero set out with Isabella down the rough, sloping fields from the farmhouse to the valley floor. The conditions were perfect. There were light clouds only. A three-quarters moon hung overhead, promising sufficient illumination to enable them to see the way ahead, not enough to highlight them as targets.
Isabella had said her goodbyes to Bramall outside the house. “Eddy will look after you,” he told her. “I’ve asked him to take special care. Do what he says. We’ll meet up again at Elvas.”
The border proper began 15 minutes down the hillside where the river twisted through the valley. Romero had a torch with him, but was loath to use it. According to village gossip, an extra squad of border guards was active in the area and there was no way of knowing how they would deploy, or when.
A badly-maintained barbed wire fence and occasional warning notices were all that marked the dividing line between the two Iberian neighbours. Romero squinted into darkness and cut through the rusting strands of the fence on the Spanish side with a pair of wire cutters. Ahead of them, across no
-man’s land, lay a dried-up stream that marked the actual frontier and then, past olive groves and cork trees, the uneasy sanctuary of Portugal.
The distance couldn’t have been much more than a mile, he reckoned, but it was slow going. At one point, he thought he heard twigs snapping and signalled to Isabella to stand still. But it was only a small animal, probably a Genet, scurrying through the leaves in search of prey.
Isabella was dressed in a light summer frock. She had a pair of town shoes in a strung across her shoulders, but wore stout walking shoes for the crossing.
“Almost there,” Romero whispered. They spoke in Spanish. “The river’s mostly dried up at this time of year, but there could still be pools, so you should pick up your skirts.”
It was hard to see clearly, especially beneath the trees, but she did her best, picking her way carefully among the rocks. But then, just as they were about to ascend on to the farther bank, her foot slid into a deep pool and she almost fell over into the mud. Stumbling forward, she cried out. Romero immediately put his hand over her mouth, stifling most of the noise. Isabella could feel her heart thumping. She stood stock still for a second to recover her nerve, then nodded to indicate that she was ready to continue. Romero was first on to the bank. He extended his arm and took hold of her hand.
It was at that moment that a torch beam caught him full in the face and a voice shouted out.
“¡Alto! No se mueva. Policía español de la frontera.”
“Get down!” Romero hissed. “Lie flat. Don’t say a word. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
The two-man border patrol, 30 metres upstream, had been on duty for less than an hour when their dog became excited and began dragging its handler south along the riverbed. All the second officer saw in the torch beam was a man, who looked startled and immediately ran off. While his colleague drew his gun, the dog handler slipped the leash of his animal and encouraged it to give chase. Romero could hear it barking as he made his way up and away from the river in the direction of Portugal. His first and only thought was to draw the patrol away from Isabella. He didn’t think they’d seen her and if he could lose them in the trees up ahead, there was still a chance that she could make good her escape.
He drew his own gun, a black-barrelled revolver, and ran, panting, into the cover of the trees. Behind him, he could hear the dog gaining ground on him. When he reached the trunk of a large and particularly gnarled cork tree, he stopped. The dog was almost on him now, its savage bark filling the night. He waited. It sprang. In the split second before it reached him, he managed to swing the barrel of his gun upwards in a long arc. He pulled the trigger. The bullet caught the slavering beast in mid-air, in the softest part of its throat, and as it fell on him, knocking him headlong into the roots of the tree, it was already dead.
Pushing the dog off him, ignoring the wet blood that clung to his shirt, he stumbled to his feet. He was breathing heavily now. His chest was not up to this. From the valley floor, he could hear the two police officers shouting to each to be careful, the man was armed. Then he saw a muzzle flash and heard the zing of a bullet as it whistled past him and lodged in the soft bark of a cork tree.
He stood still, hardly daring to breathe.
The two men were coming at him from separate directions. Pressing his back against a tree, he quietly flicked open the switchblade that he always carried on such occasions. He heard footsteps squelching in the undergrowth. Another gun went off, some distance away. The bullet came nowhere near him. Five seconds later, the man nearest came into view.
Romero’s knife flashed. In the pale moonlight, his victim’s face looked startled as it registered the horror of what happened. The man’s hands flew to his throat. But his windpipe had been severed and he made no sound. Romero grabbed his head and thrust him backwards. He fell with only a slight crump into the leaf mould.
Isabella had done what she was told and lay still on the river bank. The shooting had alarmed her, bringing back memories of the embassy business, but the dog was even more disturbing. She wondered why it wasn’t barking any more. One of the two border guards had rushed up the hill behind his dog. The other was somewhere to her left and had fired several shots in Romero’s direction.
What should she do? Should she stay put or should she get up and create a distraction? Maybe that was what Eddy needed. She didn’t know. But then she heard the Irishman’s voice calling out in Spanish to the officer nearest her, daring him to come and get him. That must mean that the first officer and the dog had been dealt with. My God! What sort of a man was Eddy? And what would he expect from her now?
Another shot rang out. She could see the flash from the barrel less than ten metres from where she lay. The Spaniard was obviously afraid to venture any closer. He didn’t know, any more than she did, what had happened to his comrade or the dog.
It was stalemate. They could remain like this all night. After a moment, the surviving border guard called out in a nervous voice that reinforcements were coming and whoever was up there should give himself up or be killed. The fellow didn’t want to die, she decided, but he wasn’t going to run away either. “Give up, Señor,” he shouted. “There is no escape.”
A cloud passed over the moon, making it impossible to see more than a metre in front of her face. When it passed, Isabella was surprised to see the officer standing with his back to her no more than three metres ahead. He was obviously trying to circle round. Romero, meanwhile, was making his way down the hill, causing the officer to strain his eyes and move the barrel of his gun from right to left and back again.
Seizing the moment, Isabella reached down and picked up a dead branch, about a metre in length. She waited a moment until she was certain that the man hadn’t detected her presence, then leapt forward, screaming. The officer swung round, also screaming, and tried to focus his weapon on his mystery attacker. But he was too late. The branch crashed into his skull, pitching him sideways into the mulch. With a grunt, he rolled over and lay still.
Romero arrived seconds later. “Good work,” he said, reaching for his knife.
“No,” she said. “Don’t kill him. There’s been enough killing tonight.”
The Irishman looked down at the prone figure of the border guard. “Maybe you’re right,” he said. “He doesn’t look like he’s going anywhere.” He reached into the man’s jacket and pulled out a pair of handcuffs. Placing the unconscious figure’s wrists either side of a sturdy-looking sapling, he then fastened the cuffs shut and stood up. “They’ll find him sometime tomorrow,” he said. “But by then you’ll be halfway to Lisbon.”
He looked at her. Her eyes were filled with tears. “Does it always have to be this way?” she asked him.
“I don’t make the rules,” he said.
By the time they arrived on the Portuguese side, a light rain was falling and they collapsed in exhaustion beneath the spread of a cork tree. Isabella passed Romero a small flask of brandy old Robles had given her. He said no at first, then gave way. As he leaned against the soft bark of the tree, listening to an owl hoot, he could feel the hot, burning liquid trickle down his throat.
He felt exultant.
Next morning, Romero waited until the first warmth of the day took the dew from the grass before he wakened Isabella and escorted her the remaining two miles to Campo Maior. “Time to change your shoes,” he said, as they approached the town boundary. “We can’t have you looking like some kind of peasant.”
Isabella grinned and removed her boots, throwing them into a ditch and replacing them with the town shoes from her bag.
“Now take my arm,” Romero said. “We need to look like any other couple, not a couple of desperados on the run.”
As they walked along the road into Campo Maior’s commercial centre, Isabella couldn’t help wondering what would become of the mercurial Irishman. It felt comfortable walking with him like
this, but she knew that for him it was only an act.
Once in the centre, Romero bought them each a coffee in the Café Delta and arranged for a taxi to take Isabella on to the railway station at Elvas. The driver, a lean, ugly man with a preposterously oversized moustache, assumed immediately that they were fugitives from Franco’s Spain, but appeared sublimely unconcerned. His only comment was, “I don’t suppose you’ve got escudos.”
Romero opened the cab door and ushered Isabella inside. Then he leaned in and kissed her on both cheeks. “Good luck,” he said, reverting finally to English. Tell Charlie I did my part. Tell him I kept my word.”
“Of course you did, Eddy. Who could ever have doubted it?”
“Well, that’s just it, you see. He worries about you. He wants nothin’ more than to see to it that you’re safe. If he could have done the job himself, he would, believe me. Only right now he doesn’t have a whole lot of choice. You need to understand that.”
“But what about you, Eddy?”
“Me? Now you’re askin’.”
At this, she reached out and squeezed his hand.” Now that you’ve come as far as Portugal, why not all the way? Take the train to Lisbon. You could come with us to London, or even make it home to Ireland. You don’t have to go back.”
He looked at her. “I don’t think so, sweetheart – more’s the pity. I’ve got to be gettin’ back.”
“Back to what?”
“Back to what I do. Don’t get me wrong, I want England to win this war. God knows how she’ll do it. By winning the last battle most likely. Isn’t that the way of it? But I have my own war to fight, even if it’s a losing cause. Do you know what I heard the other day? Up in Ucles, in Cuenca, there’s an old monastery surrounded by vineyards that were abandoned during the war. Hundreds of ex-soldiers from our side were held there, beaten and starved and made to work every hour God sends. But in the end, word came through to make an end to it and the Fascists and their lackeys had them dig a trench a hundred yards long and six feet deep. When the work was done, they were made line up around the edges and shot until they fell into the trench that was to be their grave. Afterwards, they threw lime into the pit and levelled the soil, declaring it government land, out of bounds to civilians.
