Franco's Map

by Walter Ellis

  In the meantime, he still had to sort out the business of Operation Felix and Spain’s plan to usurp the French empire in Africa.

  It wouldn’t be right, he had decided, for him to approach Pétain directly, even if that were possible. The old man was a notorious stickler for protocol and was, after all, 84 years-old. Laval, he suggested, would be the better bet. He was younger, and a career politician. He would be concerned with present realities, not eternal verities. Bramall felt that if he could only play the tape to the former Foreign Minister – a former colleague, after all, of Sir Samuel Hoare – then an accommodation would surely be reached.

  He was just about to complete his draft when he became aware of someone standing beside him. He looked up in mild panic. It was the Comtesse de Fourneau. He hadn’t heard her come in.

  “Comtesse!” he spluttered, hastily turning his communication over and shoving it in the top drawer of the desk, which he promptly closed “I didn’t know you were there.”

  She smiled down at him. “I’m sorry,” she said, “am I disturbing you?”

  Bramall returned the smile. “Not at all. You startled me, that’s all. Did you knock?”

  “Of course. But do women always startle you, Monsieur?”

  “Less so if I know they are there.”

  “Ah yes. Once again, my apologies. I was simply wondering …” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “I was wondering if you might be free to take a short walk with me in the garden. It’s such a beautiful day and it seems a shame to spend it all indoors.”

  Bramall thought of Isabella. “I don’t know …” he began.

  “Viens,” Dominique said, looking straight into his eyes. “Take my arm. We’ll walk just as far as the cliff and take in some of that marvellous sea air.”

  Her eyes were quite hypnotic. “Well, I suppose I could …”

  “But of course. It will help you to relax.” She held out her arm.

  Bramall rose from his chair and linked the arm in his. “I think the bougainvillea is in bloom,” he said wondering if it was really him speaking.

  “What a peculiar thing to say.”

  “Yes. You must excuse me. I am not used to walking in the garden with beautiful French countesses.”

  On the way downstairs, they ran into the Duke.

  “Ah, Bramall. Thought you were working on something. But off to check on the local flora and fauna, I see.”

  “Your Royal Highness. Just showing the Comtesse the gardens. I shall be back at work in ten minutes.”

  “Take as long as you like. You too, my dear. Life is not all thrust and parry, Mr Bramall. Even Clausewitz, I expect, liked to take time off to smell the roses.”

  “As you say, Sir. You’re most kind.”

  Without warning, Dominique leaned across and planted a kiss on the Duke’s cheek. He brightened instantly. “You’d better be off,” he said, smiling at Bramall “ or you may have some competition.”

  A minute or so later, as they stood at the top end of the garden, looking out over the Atlantic, Dominique said: “I shouldn’t have thought you were the nervous type. But then I wouldn’t ever picture you as an equerry either.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “All that bowing and scraping.”

  “A means to an end. If you have royalty, you have to set them apart. Otherwise, what’s the point?”

  “I don’t know. What is the point?”

  “You’re a countess, you should know.”

  “Ploint taken. But you strike me as more of a doer than an organiser.”

  “I do what I have to.”

  “Don’t we all? And did you do what you had to in Madrid?”

  Bramall could hear his own sudden intake of breath. “That depends on what you mean.”

  “I mean, Monsieur Bramall, that I think you may be a wolf in sheep’s clothing – is that not what you say? For example, were you to run this second into Sturmbannführer Hasselfeldt, of the SD, I doubt that you and he would exchange luncheon invitations.”

  Bramall was almost as disconcerted by this as he had been on the occasion in which he and the Austrian actually collided. “You know Hasselfeldt?” he asked.

  “I have heard of him. We have not actually met. But I happen to know that he is in Lisbon at the moment. He arrived yesterday afternoon, in the foulest of tempers – or so I was informed. Someone, it seems, shot off part of his ear.”

  “His ear?”

  “So they tell me. Some dreadful murder he stumbled across. I don’t have the details. But, of course, you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

  “Not a thing, I’m afraid. I’ve been in Portugal for the last week.”

  “So there’s no reason he’d be pursuing you?”

  “Hasselfeldt? None that I can think of. But tell me, Countess, would I be right in thinking that you are not in Madrid for the good of your health?”

  “No more than you were, Mr Bramall.”

  “I’m guessing that you are not exactly unknown to the French authorities.”

  “I have been known to perform services on their behalf.”

  Bramall thought for a moment. His hunch was that he had found a possible ally – someone who might provide him with entrée to the obscure world of Vichy. But with so much at stake he had to be sure. A single misjudgement could ruin everything.

  He would keep it cryptic, he decided. If she truly was a French agent she would surely be able to deal with code.

  “Your complexion is exceptionally clear,” he began. I assume, citoyenne, that from time to time you take the waters.”

  “I’m sorry …?”

  “Vichy. I’m told it’s lovely this time of year.”

  “Enchanting. Perhaps we could meet there sometime?”

  “Perhaps. Only the thing is, I am sworn to preserve and protect British interests. That calls for discretion. I can never discuss my business in public, even with someone as … engaging as you.”

  “But in other circumstances, in other company, that might change?”

  “It might. It would depend on how ready those in command were to endorse an honest appraisal of their circumstances.”

  “Fascinating.” Dominique flipped open her clutch bag and withdrew a simple card inscribed with her address and telephone number in Madrid. “Should such a situation arise,” she said, “you will know where to find me.”

  Bramall took the card. “Absolutely” he said, “but now I’ve really got to be getting back. It’s not that I wouldn’t much rather stay here with you, it’s just that …”

  “I know. You have business to attend to.”

  “Exactly. May I escort you back to the house?”

  She kissed the tips of her fingers, then reached up and placed them lightly against his lips. “No thank you, you go on. I think I’ll stay here a little longer and enjoy the view.”

  “As you please. Good day, then. It was … intriguing to meet you.”

  “Au revoir, Monsieur Bramall.”

  As he walked back to the house, Bramall’s imagination raced. Pictures of Hasselfeldt with his ear shot off chased images of Dominique unbuttoning her blouse. My God! He thought. A woman like that could have more impact on the course of a war than an entire division of troops.

  Again, he wondered what Isabella would have thought.

  Back in the house, lost in thought, he ambled up the stairs instead of taking them two at a time as he normally did. It was when he reached the corridor leading to the spare bedroom he was using as an office that he sensed something was wrong.

  At the end of the passage, he saw just the heel of a red shoe disappear around the corner in the direction of the back stairs. Hadn’t the Duchess been wearing red shoes? He had seen
her on her way to lunch and he was sure she had worn red shoes. But what would she be doing hanging round his bedroom?

  Panicking, he broke into a run, throwing open his door and making straight for the writing desk. He pulled open the top drawer and almost sighed with relief when he saw that the cable he was writing to Braithwaite, outlining his preferred strategy on Gibraltar, was there where he had left it. But then he noticed that it was the right way up. He remembered distinctly that he had turned the note over when he had placed it hurriedly in the drawer.

  Christ Almighty! Someone had read his note to Braithwaite.

  The Duchess!

  For a moment, he thought of summoning Crowther and heading up to the Duke’s suite guns in hand. Then he realised that was stupid. But he couldn’t let the moment pass. She could do anything with that information. She could give it to Franco’s brother – he was coming to dinner. Or she could give it to some of her French friends – or she could just cut the crap and go all the way to Berlin.

  There wasn’t a moment to lose. Stuffing the unsent cable into his inside pocket, he headed back out into the corridor. The back stairs led up to the second floor, but a service passage next to it gave access to the main guest suite. The security team checked it out several times a day. If the Duchess really had read his cable, she would presumably have gone straight back to her room while she decided what to do next.

  It took him less than a minute to reach the royal suite. The Duke wasn’t there, which was just as well. He had gone to the embassy for talks with Selby and Eccles. There was a Special Branch detective on the door, but he recognised Bramall and stood aside.

  “Has the Duchess been here?” he asked.

  “Yes, Sir. Went in a couple of minutes ago.”

  “Alone?”

  The man looked shocked. “Yes, Sir.”

  “Right. Keep a careful eye out. Make sure no comes in that you don’t trust.”

  Closing the outer door silently behind him, Bramall made his way through the suite’s living area as far as the door to the royal bedroom. It was slightly ajar and he could see clearly all the way to the desk by the window, at which the Duchess sat writing. She had her back to him and paused every few seconds, as if trying to get her words exactly right. He did nothing, but looked on in silence, waiting for her to complete her task.

  Three minutes went by before she put down her pen and began to read through what she had written, which was contained on a single sheet of notepaper. Apparently satisfied, she folded the letter twice and placed it in an envelope, which she addressed and sealed.

  This was the moment at which Bramall knocked and entered the room.

  The Duchess, a study in concentration, still had her back to him. “Ricardo!” she called out. “ thank God you’re here. I have a most important task for you, and there’s no time to lose …”

  “I should think not, Ma’am,” Bramall said. “Treachery is always a matter of timing, wouldn’t you say?”

  She wheeled round, the incriminating envelope in her hand. The shock registered in her face was total.

  “Mr Bramall! I don’t know what you’re talking about, but would you mind leaving? I was expecting someone else and …”

  Before she could do anything, he strode across and ripped the envelope from her grasp. She turned away, horrified. The address on it read: H.E. the German Ambassador. In the top left hand corner she had written: “Most Urgent! Strictly Personal.”

  By now, the Duchess was on her feet and screaming at him to give her back the letter.

  “How dare you come in here like this? How dare you invade my privacy?”

  When he refused to hand it back, she kicked him with the point of one of her red shoes, bruising him in his left shin. He fended her off and told her to be quiet. She began to whimper, but stood obediently by the window, looking out at the Atlantic, where something of a storm was brewing.

  For several seconds, he stared straight at her, willing her into submission. Once he was satisfied that she had collected herself and wasn’t going to attempt anything stupid, he ripped out the phone cord from the wall next to the bed and made his way back out to the main door. The Special Branch constable was standing there, his automatic in his hand.

  “What’s going on, Sir? I could hear the Duchess.”

  “I’m sure you could, constable. She’s going to be just fine, but until you hear from me or Mr Croft, I don’t want anyone else going in that door – and that includes the Duke. The Duchess is to remain exactly where she is. It is a matter of the utmost importance. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, Sir. But…?”

  “Just do it. It doesn’t matter what instructions she may give you, she is to speak to no one, not even the Duke. And she is not – I repeat not – to use the telephone.”

  “Oh Christ! But what if His Highness demands to be admitted …”

  “You have your orders. I’m depending on you. Do your duty. Mr Crowther will be in charge while I’m gone.”

  The entire house was unnaturally quiet, as if anticipating the crisis. Back in his room, Bramall sat down at his desk and, very carefully, peeled back the flap of the envelope. The glue was not yet dry and it came away quite easily. Steeling himself for the worst, he began to read.

  My Dear Ambassador,

  In haste. I have most important news. British Intelligence was, as you feared, behind the recent attack on the German Legation in Madrid. I have since learned that my husband’s equerry Mr Charles Bramall was the man chiefly responsible. He appears to have stolen a recording of some kind of a conversation, or negotiation, between the German and Spanish governments concerning the future of Gibraltar and tensions between the French and Spanish empires. Please inform Berlin in the person of the Minister that he must act quickly or it may be too late.

  W

  When he had finished reading, Bramall folded the letter and replaced it with care in its envelope. Then he ran downstairs, shouting for Crowther, who had raced in from the garden.

  “What the hell’s going on,” the bodyguard demanded. “I could hear screams.”

  “Shrieks, I’d say. No one hurt, but there’s no time to explain. I’ve got to go and see Croft – and it can’t wait. While I’m gone, you’re to keep the house sealed as tight as a drum. No one in or out.”

  And then he left. Crowther stared after him in bewilderment. A car and driver were waiting outside the front entrance to the house. The driver was smoking, but immediately threw down his cigarette.

  “Take me to the embassy,” Bramall ordered, “and don’t stop for anything.”

  Madrid: Interior Ministry, July 22

  Forty eight hours had gone by since the double killing at the Villa Luder and the Spanish police were stumped.

  “I have to tell you, Ambassador,” said Serrano Suñer sotto voce, as if confiding a state secret, “there is more to this than meets the eye.”

  Stohrer frowned, shifting his gaze from the manicured interior minister to the map above the fireplace showing a large slice of North Africa coloured yellow. “What meets the eye most obviously,” he said, “is that this fellow, whoever he is, murdered an ally of the Reich and was brought to account thanks only to the prompt intervention of a senior member of my own staff.”

  Serrano Suñer did not demur from this analysis. “Yes,” he said, “but until the man talks and we find out who he is and why he acted as he did, we will be no further forward.”

  Stohrer twisted uncomfortably in his chair, which was small and delicate and not made for one such as himself, with the hindquarters of an ox. Heydrich had rung him personally from Berlin to express his annoyance at what had happened. He had ordered him to put Winzer on the case and to insist on maximum Spanish cooperation. Yet even on his own, he could not help putting two and two together. “First, the attack on the Legation
, then a triple murder: both crimes directed squarely at German interests. Might not the same man have been involved in each of these outrages?”

  “He might. But again …”

  “ – It just seems to me, Minister, that so much has gone wrong in recent days and the Spanish police have yet to come up with any answers.”

  Serrano sighed. “For that, I apologise. But I need hardly remind you that your own Kriminalkommissar Winzer is working as a consultant to the investigative team. Every avenue is being explored. We have made a series of arrests. A net has been spread right across the city, and possible suspects are being interrogated as we speak. We will get to the bottom of this, I promise you. In the meantime …”

  “In the meantime,” said Stohrer, who was enjoying this rare chance to be one up on his Spanish friend, “we have still heard nothing about the return from Lisbon of the Duke of Windsor.”

  This was too much for Serrano. “Don’t let’s go into that again. You know my view. The proper way forward for our two countries is not through kidnapping; it is for the Führer to agree to our terms for Spanish entry into the war. Gibraltar will fall, the British will be cut off from the Mediterranean, and peace will come as night follows day. All it requires is boldness on your part.”

  “On my part?”

  The Minister smiled. “I mean on Germany’s part, naturally. I know very well how valiant you have been on our behalf.”