by Walter Ellis
Caxton looked disapprovingly at the tape. “For starters,” he said, “we should get this onto a new reel. This one doesn’t even have a top to it. It could all come off in my hand and then were would I be?”
“Fired,” said Braithwaite.
That evening, after she had eaten – fish and chips, with dried peas – Isabella went to a pub not far from her hotel, where she played a game of Shuv Ha’penny with an ambulance driver who told her, “England’ll never be beat, love, don’t you fear.” A little later, a blonde woman in her sixties stood next to a battered piano and belted out “We’ll Meet Again,” a song made popular by a singer who was apparently the “Forces Sweetheart,” Vera Lynn.
So will you please say hello
To the folks that I know
Tell them I won’t be long.
They’ll be happy to know
That as you saw me go
I was singing this song.
It was funny, Isabella thought, the way a musical hall number like that, sung in a pub by some grandma whose husband had probably died in the Great War, or whose son was at the bottom of the North Sea, sent there by a U-Boat, could have the power and poignancy of art. It depended on whether your heart was in it, and hers obviously was.
On the way out, coming up to closing time, she gave the woman a hug.
“Home on leave, are you, ducks? You look like you’re in the forces.” The old girl’s perfume was overpowering.
“Something like that,” Isabella replied.
“Well, you come back safe next time an’ all. We can’t afford to lose too many like you.”
“I will do my best,” she said.
She’d heard about the sirens over London and the tension that rose when they sounded. Fear like that, she thought, used to be confined to the battlefield. Not any more. Hitler had changed that, as he had changed so much else. Tonight, though, there was nothing, only silence. She could hear her feet echoing in the street behind her as she walked back to her hotel. At one point, a car passed her, with black tape over its headlights, so that only a slit of light got through. A cat, racing across the road, was lucky not to be run over. Turning the corner into what she hoped was the Bayswater Road, she said goodnight to an old man out walking his dog, using the walls and hedges to help guide himself as he shuffled along. There was a full moon, she realised, but it was hidden in cloud for much of the time and with the street lighting turned off it was hard to read the street signs. At one point, a middle-aged man on a bicycle, wearing a tin helmet and a white sash, came dimly into view. As he drifted past, something caught his attention and he blew a whistle and bellowed.
“Put that light out!”
Isabella didn’t know what he meant until she saw one of the curtains in an upstairs window twitch and the room go dark. She called after the whistleblower, asking if this was the Bayswater Road, but he didn’t even turn round.
She found her hotel just a minute later. She had been on the right road all the time. London seemed to her to be turned in on itself, like a widow in mourning. Madrid, she realised, must have been like this during the siege.
An image of Teresa Alvarez swam into her head. She could see her friend’s matted hair and her sunken eyes, dull with fatigue. Then she heard the old man in the alleyway coughing. “The dead and the dying are beyond our help,” he said. “It’s the living you have to watch out for.” She prayed for both of them and for Colonel and Señora Alvarez. She prayed for her mother and for Romero. She even prayed for her father. Finally, she offered a special prayer for Bramall. Then she got undressed and lay naked beneath the thin sheets. As she stared into the darkness, a sheet of lightning billowed briefly across the sky, throwing the window frames behind the cheap curtains into sharp relief. The clap of thunder that followed a few seconds later indicated that the storm, forming out over the Channel, was still some way off.
Next morning, with the rain trickling down the windowpanes of her hotel room, she called in to Baker Street and spoke with Braithwaite.
“Has anything happened? she wanted to know.
“Give it time,” Braithwaite said. “It hasn’t been twenty-four hours yet. We’ll get there. Meanwhile, if it’s all the same to you, we’re thinking of sending you up to our training centre in Buckinghamshire.”
“Buck-ing … ? “
“North of London. Not far.”
“Does that mean … ?”
“It means, Miss Ortega, we’re keeping our options open. And it’ll give you something to do instead of just hanging about.”
“So I might go to France? Is that what you are telling me?”
“Let’s just see, shall we?”
“When do I start? How soon?’
“Tomorrow. I’ll have the details send round to you at your hotel.”
And she had had to be content with that.
Portugal: Boca do Inferno, July 19
The Duke of Windsor stared out the window of the home that he was convinced was now his prison. Far below, the sea crashed against the cliffs and he was reminded of the Count of Monte Cristo, stretching up to the bars of his cell in the Chateau d’If to catch the merest glimpse of freedom.
The Duke was an Anglican and had gone to Church that morning. He believed that the Almighty meant well on the whole. He couldn’t help observing, even so, a connection between his present, dire predicament and the Catholic doctrine of purgatory. He had given up his throne for the woman he loved. He had abandoned the country of his birth – if not his ancestry – in deference to the finer feelings of his family. Most recently, he had denied his true political leanings lest the country and family that had abandoned him were offended, and agreed to remain in exile.
When would it be enough? He endured humiliation on a daily basis. Having fled from Paris, which fell to the Germans because of the ridiculous policies of the French and British governments, he had been told that he must not stay in Madrid – this in spite of the fact that Spain was neutral and the Spanish were obviously keen to have him. Portugal, too, was to be denied to him. Instead, each day, surrounded by Churchill’s army of secret agents, he found himself hounded from pillar to post, awaiting the arrival of the ship that would taken him 3,000 miles out of harm’s way to wear a plumed hat and wave to the natives. Were it not for the enduring love and daily ministrations of the Duchess, he would have been forced to conclude that God, too, had turned against him.
At least Churchill had now recalled Piper Fletcher from front line service to resume his duties as royal batman. That he’d been removed from his household in the first place was an outrage, typical of the spitefulness and small-mindedness of the present Palace establishment and their Whitehall collaborators. Progress, then. But still a long way to go. What of the Duchess’s personal maid and lingère, Mlle Moulichon, despatched to Paris from Madrid to collect some personal things for onward passage to Nassau? Where was she? Who was preventing her return and why? It really was a wretched business. The British Government may have declared war on Germany, but it made sure that among those hardest hit were himself and the Duchess. It was typical and short-sighted. But he would not be deterred. Ich dien, I serve: that was his motto as Prince of Wales, and it was as true today as it was then.
Behind him the door opened to admit an American voice. “Oh, there you are, darling. I thought you were in town.”
The Duke spun round. The Duchess was entering the drawing room with their host, the colourful Portuguese banker Ricardo Espirito Santo. They both looked flushed, he noticed, as if returning from a long ride.
“You seem to be miles away,” the Duchess said, hurriedly separating her arm from that of Espirito Santo.
“Soon we shall be miles away,” he replied, “and no knowing when we shall return.”
The Duchess allowed her features to crease into the semblance of a smile. She
loved her husband, but sometimes his portentousness made her want to scream. “Don’t give it another thought. I’m sure we’ll both be just fine. There’s a new home waiting to be organised, parties to arrange – and New York is only four hours away by airplane. We’ll have a ball.”
“Let’s hope so. But how are you, anyway? I haven’t seen you since breakfast. What have you been up to?”
“I’ve been out riding with Ricardo.”
“Really?”
“Yes. It was wonderful. I really am most grateful to him.” She smiled across at Espirito Santo, who immediately averted his eyes.
“I apologise to Your Royal Highness for having detained the Duchess for so long,” he said. “And now, with your permission, I shall withdraw. I’m sure you have much to discuss.”
The second they were alone, the Duke resumed the litany of complaints that had taken up practically their entire breakfast together. The Duchess groaned inwardly. He complained about the servants, he complained about Espirito Santo (“fellow doesn’t know his place” … “well, actually, my dear, it is his place”). Most of all, he complained about the growing army of police and secret agents who dogged his every step.
“You’ll never guess who’s back,” he said.
The former Mrs Simpson, born and raised in Baltimore, was not a one for word games. “I don’t suppose I will, so why don’t you tell me?”
“Bloody Bramall.”
“Mr Bramall? Oh, that’s nice. Such a charming young man. Such a breadth of shoulder.”
“Chap’s an arse.”
The Duchess wandered over to a small table by the window and picked out a stem from a bouquet of red roses placed there earlier by one of the servants. She held it under her nose and drew in its scent.
“Those came for you this morning,” the Duke said. “German embassy again. Don’t know what their game is.”
“They’re being polite, that’s all. Just because we’re enemies doesn’t mean we can’t be friends.”
“Bramall says from now on, until we’re on the boat, surveillance will be at 100 per cent. Damned cheek, if you ask me.”
The Duchess looked faintly alarmed. “We’ll just have to grin and bear it,” she said.
“At least they can’t spoil dinner.”
“No. Tiger still coming?”
“Absolutely. The Tigress, too. And Primo de Rivera says he’s bringing the Comtesse de Fourneau.”
“Dominique? How marvellous. Haven’t seen her in an absolute age.”
“Yes. Lives in Madrid now. Husband got shot, don’t you know. Some Jew in Berne.”
“How awful for her.”
“Well, according to Tiger, she’s bearing up. Been seeing Beigbeder, apparently.”
“The cunning old dog. And are we hosts or guests?”
“Hosts, I think – courtesy of the embassy. The Ambassador will be there … oh, and Nicholas Franco, the Caudillo’s brother. Did you know he was Spain’s man in Lisbon? I’d no idea.”
“Fascinating. I must make sure I’ve got something decent to wear. I don’t suppose there’s been any word of Moulichon.”
“Not a sausage.”
“A sad commentary on the state of Europe today.”
“Couldn’t agree with you more, my dear. Sometimes I think the Fascists and the Socialists got Europe into this mess just to make our lives a misery.”
Lisbon: Praça das Celbolas district, July 20
Hasselfeldt sat at the bar of the restaurant, chewing at a cheese straw, waiting anxiously for the arrival of his contact in Salazar’s security service, the PVDE. Earlier, he had spoken at length with the SD resident in the city, but the briefing he was given, on the Duke and Duchess’s movements over the previous 48 hours, was of only marginal interest to him. His real purpose, to find and eliminate Bramall, had of necessity to be concealed. To reach his quarry, he must move crabwise, trusting to the tide of events to cover his tracks.
The officer he had arranged to meet at the bar was firmly in the Fascist camp and had been on a retainer from the SD for the last 18 months. He knew that Germany was interested in obtaining the friendly cooperation of the Duke, and, frankly, he couldn’t care less whether or not this offended the British.
Hasselfeldt ordered a glass of port, into which he dipped another cheese straw. He liked the climate and general way of life in Iberia, but the casual attitude towards time frequently enraged him.
Twenty minutes after the appointed time, the Portuguese officer finally showed up. Inspector Amándio Mateus apologised. It was a Sunday – normally his day off. But he was in the middle of a particularly onerous interrogation and couldn’t abandon it half way through. Punctilious in his habits, he had brought with him a surprisingly voluminous file about the modus operandi of the British Secret Service in Lisbon.
Hasselfeldt – who couldn’t help noticing several specks of blood on the Inspector’s uniform – was careful about the way he phrased his questions. He didn’t want to give the impression that he was obsessed with Bramall – something that would inevitably get back to Winzer. Yet he needed to know where he was living and who he associated with.
Mateus, who was 35 but looked older, began working his way through a bowl of olives, chewing the flesh and spitting out the pits in one continuous action. “‘Bramall,’ you say. “Yes we know him.”
Hasselfeldt bit his lip. “As I understand it,” he said, “Bramall is the Duke’s right-hand man, in charge of his day-to-day activities. I can hardly question him directly, but there must be someone works closely with him, a housekeeper possibly, something like that. I need a way in, if you see what I mean.”
Mateus popped another olive into his mouth and slurped a mouthful of cold beer as he considered the problem. “There was a girl came over with him from Spain if I am not mistaken.” He started leafing through the documents on his lap, licking the ends of his thumb and index finger and twisting back the corners of each page. “Ah yes, I was right. Here she is. Maria Rodriguez – at least, that’s the name she gave us, we haven’t been able to check. Last time I looked, she was shacked up with Bramall at the apartment of – who else? – Mr Douglas Croft, the MI6 resident in Lisbon, not far from here …”
Hasselfeldt could feel himself begin to drool.
Mateus continued: “But then she left for England.”
“Ach!” The Austrian clenched his buttocks. “But Bramall – he is still staying with Croft, yes?”
“Far as I know. Not far from here. I can show you. But first, I’m famished. I haven’t eaten anything since lunch. What do you say we have something here? It’s really very good, you know.”
Hasselfeldt was disappointed to learn that the Ortega woman had fled to England. Luder would be beside himself with frustration. But the important thing was that he now knew where Bramall was staying. He felt alive again, as if God had first issued him a terrible warning, then offered the possibility of deliverance. He would not fail again. He turned to Mateus, already signalling to the waiter. “Yes,” he said, “My colleague assures me that the fish here is prima.”
Madrid: Villa of Felipe Luder, July 20
Partly to take his mind off the humiliation of his rejection by Isabella, Luder had thrown himself into his joint project with Heydrich, aimed at doubling German purchases of wolfram from Spain. He hadn’t made much progress so far. The British seemed to have anticipated his actions and taken steps accordingly, and Ortega’s heart didn’t seem to be in it, so that his line to Serrano was less sure than he had hoped. But he was not someone who gave up easily and he had arranged a dinner that night with leading bankers and trade officials at which he planned to lay his proposal right on the line.
He hadn’t given up on Isabella either. There was still no concrete evidence that she was with Bramall in Lisbon. But the Argentinean was in littl
e doubt. Hasselfeldt had assured him that he would go to Lisbon personally and bring her back, kicking and screaming if need be. Luder would then take his pleasure with her exactly as he always intended. She was nothing but a prick-teaser after all. Afterwards, when he was done with her, he would strangle her with his bare hands. In the meantime, Hasselfeldt, who would also attend the dinner, representing Heydrich, was bringing a couple of Moroccan whores for their pre-prandial entertainment. He had said he would turn up around eight, which was just about right. The little putas would help them relax in advance of their business engagement.
It had been a stressful day – and a hot one. Luder decided there was time for him to have a bath before Hasselfeldt’s arrival. He would need a shower afterwards, of course, but that was something else. Stretching his arms and rolling his shoulders, he waited until he heard the bones in his back click. Then he grunted and began to unbutton his shirt.
Downstairs on the terrace, which he reached by way of the courtyard wall, Romero had arrived to settle his account with Luder. The Argentinean’s refusal to give up on the wolfram front was starting to irritate the British. Croft had earlier informed the Irishman, via Burns, of Bramall’s safe arrival in Lisbon, along with Isabella. Now, as a matter of urgency, he had requested that Luder be removed from the picture.
Romero needed no encouragement. Not only had Luder bullied and threatened Isabella, he was a Nazi, who didn’t even wear uniform but made himself rich from the suffering of others. He hated everything the Italian stood for. Killing him would be a righteous act. He felt good – almost back to his old self. His plan was straightforward. The simpler the better in his experience. That afternoon, he had picked up Luder’s trail at the Ministry of Mines and followed him home. He would kill him, then return to Malasaña to take a shift running the bar. He had his revolver in his waistband but his intention was to use his switchblade, which was quieter and just as certain. Making his way into the house, he first checked out the kitchen. A housemaid was standing with her back to him carrying a pile of newly washed clothes. Romero came up behind her and grabbed her with one hand round her waist, stopping her scream with his other hand.
