Franco's Map

by Walter Ellis

  Stohrer’s eyes remained ringed with fatigue, but his face softened. Flattery was to him the most satisfactory form of discourse, even when it was transparent. “I will do what I can,” he said, “but it is important that you should identify Luder’s murderer and bring to justice those who attacked our Legation. It would also be prudent if you were to see to it that Spain at least appears to be on our side in the matter of the Duke and Duchess.”

  “I assure you, I am as anxious as you to send those who attacked your embassy to their date with the executioner. I am also mindful of the fact that Herr Ribbentrop is not always so understanding as you in the matter of Spain’s place in the New Order. As to the Duke, let us see what Schellenberg can come up with. There is no man better qualified. Now, please, let us go to lunch. We’ve worked together for far too long to be deflected from our purpose by the plotting and stirrings of those who base their political agendas on reading the Führer’s tea leaves.”

  Amen to that, thought Stohrer. The trouble was, he mused, that Serrano, for all his intelligence and guile, remained a Spanish peacock, seeking in vain to bend Germany to his will. Hitler was not amused by such presumption, which failed totally to take into account that the Master Race set the agenda and could not admit to error. It would all end badly, he feared – not least for Serrano himself, who never seemed to know when to keep his mouth shut. All he could hope to do was minimise the damage and be around to pick up the pieces. Maybe, he told himself, that was what diplomats were for.

  Lisbon: British embassy, Jul 22

  Ambassador Walford Selby had known the Duke of Windsor for many years and had never approved of his marriage to the former Mrs Wallis Simpson. But the revelation that the Duchess was in league with the Germans had shocked him to the core.

  Croft was decidedly more sanguine. “I told you there were things about her would make your hair curl,” he told Bramall.

  “Yes,” Bramall shot back, “but you neglected to mention the fact that she kept up a private correspondence with the German ambassador.”

  “ – Which we only know because you let her get hold of a piece of vital information!”

  “– Which wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t been interrupted in my office by the arrival of a Vichy spy whom you allowed to stay for the weekend!”

  David Eccles, of the economic warfare department, had heard enough. “Gentlemen,” he began, raising his hand in front of him as if trying to ward off the evil eye, “this isn’t getting us anywhere. And has it occurred to either of you that if you both hadn’t made the mistakes you did, we’d still be in the dark? It’s only because you both fucked up that we’ve chanced upon a key piece of intelligence.” He turned to the ambassador. “Is the Duke still in the building?”

  “I believe so,” said Selby, shocked by Eccles’s expletive. “He said something about making some telephone calls to London.”

  “Well, don’t you think we should talk to him?”

  Selby blanched. “What on earth could we possibly say?”

  “We could start with the truth,” said Croft – “that his wife is working for the Germans.”

  “Oh Lord.” The ambassador rose gloomily from his chair. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Meanwhile,” said Croft, “someone should check with Crowther that everything is as it should be in the Hell Mouth.”

  “I’ll do it,” Bramall volunteered, recognising the English translation of the Boca do Inferno. He reached for the telephone receiver on the ambassador’s desk. A minute later, after a brief conversation with Crowther, he replaced it on its rest.

  Croft and Eccles stared at him expectantly. “It’s all right,” he told them, “she’s calmed down. As soon as I left, she tried to order Crowther to bring her car round. She was going out, she said. But he wasn’t having it. Now she’s sitting in her room refusing to talk to anyone.”

  “Good,” said Eccles. “That’s something at least.”

  At this, the door opened and the ambassador re-entered the room and held open the door for the Duke, looking as if the sky had fallen on his head. They all rose.

  “I’ve filled His Royal Highness in on the basic situation,” said Selby, “and he’s understandably upset. He wishes to talk with the Duchess.”

  Eccles stepped forward, head bowed, as if offering his condolences after a death in the family. “I think that would be wise, Sir. But I think the ambassador and Mr Croft should be with you when you do. The Duchess has got to understand the position into which she has got herself – and you. And you must both realise that this is a matter which has gone far beyond the competence of the embassy. The Prime Minister will have to be informed, and also, I’m sorry to say, the King.”

  Everyone waited for the Duke’s response. When it came, it was in a small, quiet voice that was as painful for his audience as it plainly was for him. “I’m not sure what I should say,” he began. “I am no traitor to my country. It is true that I have sympathies with the politics of Berlin and have opposed this war from the start. But I have never sought to undermine the efforts of the Government to prosecute matters as they felt they should best be ordered.”

  No one said anything at this. They just waited for the Duke to continue.

  “As for my wife, it is a fact that she has for some time been … enamoured of the Third Reich – and too damn close to that charlatan Ribbentrop, if you ask me. But I am shocked. I had no idea she would go this far. I can only assume that she has taken leave of her senses and needs urgent medical assistance. To that end, what is clearly most important is that she and I should embark as quickly as possible for Nassau, where, upon her arrival in Government House, I will see to it that no effort is spared in the recovery of her health.

  He paused, realising that everyone in the room was staring at him. Nobody spoke. The Duke cleared his throat before resuming his peroration in a more forceful tone of voice. “The Duchess, you may rest assured, will be prevailed upon most earnestly to behave in a manner more befitting her role as consort to a senior member of the Royal Household.”

  A further silence greeted this latest essay into the world of the absurd.

  It was Selby who finally spoke. “We all appreciate your position, Your Royal Highness, and our sympathies are with you. But I’m afraid this cannot simply be swept under the carpet. There will be repercussions. Downing Street and the Palace will have to decide what to do. In the meantime, I suggest that you and I speak with the Duchess and impress upon her the true seriousness of her situation. Mr Eccles here will contact London. Croft and Bramall will see to it that there are no further breaches of security. I can only pray that something can be worked out that will allow you to proceed with your appointment to the Bahamas and conceal from the British people, and the world, the shame and embarrassment of what has happened here today.”

  The veteran envoy had spoken for all of them. There was no more to be said. Selby and the Duke, who looked mortified, made their way out to the official car, where an escort was waiting. Croft and Bramall looked blankly at each other. Eccles shook his head and reached for the ambassador’s phone.

  London: MI6 offices, July 24

  Caxton didn’t knock before entering Braithwaite’s office. He just threw open the door and stood there, grinning. Behind him, an elderly porter in a brown coat was breathing heavily under the weight of what looked to be a gramophone.

  “Hope we’re not disturbing you,” Caxton said.

  “That depends,” said Braithwaite, continuing to sip his tea. There were pictures of the late King George V and Queen Mary on the side of the mug dating from their fortieth wedding anniversary in 1933. News of the Duchess’s treachery had hit him hard. “What have you got for me?”

  “It’s a gramophone.”

  “Well, I can see that.”

  “Music to your ears, if you know what I mean.”
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  Braithwaite raised a sceptical eyebrow. “Are you trying to tell me that you’ve actually made progress?”

  Caxton couldn’t conceal his satisfaction as he held open the door for the porter.

  “About bloody time,” the MI6 man spluttered.

  “I knew you’d be pleased,” Caxton rejoined, motioning to the porter in the direction of a small table next to the wall. “Set it up, Jimmy. Let the dog see the rabbit.” Then he turned back to Braithwaite. “It wasn’t easy, I can tell you. I’ve had four of our chaps, plus a woman from Imperial College, working on the problem non-stop for a week.”

  “I should damned well hope so. So don’t muck about, what have you got?”

  “Hold your horses.” The porter had plugged in the gramophone and opened the lid. Now he turned it on and let it warm up. He nodded to Caxton. “Okay, Jimmy, that’ll do.” The old man ran his finger under his nose as he left and Caxton shut the door behind him with his foot.

  Braithwaite adjusted his glasses. “I take it from this performance that you’ve put the taped material onto those gramophone records you’ve got under your arm.”

  “Seemed the best way. Just playing the thing was a right bugger, I can tell you. We thought we’d got it right a few days ago, but all that came out was a squawk – and then the tape started to shear. We had to have new guide wheels fashioned, made from rubber this time. The other problem was, we had to install a motor drive that worked around a quarter of our normal speed, with no drag; and a pickup head tuned to the sort of dynamic range and frequency bias of the German tape.”

  Braithwaite did his best to be patient.

  “I don’t mind admitting,” Caxton went on, “it took a while to get it right – but we used the spare tape for the initial run, so we lost nothing in the end.”

  “Bramall’s observations weren’t entirely useless, then?”

  “Not entirely, no.” The scientist sped on. “What you have here on these two records is everything relating to Spain and North Africa. I didn’t bring the stuff on capturing Gibraltar, except for where they talk about it at the start. That’s the big central section and you said you didn’t want the French to hear the detail. We’re working on that separately. It should be along first thing in the morning.”

  “Makes sense,” said Braithwaite. “I take it the Imperial College woman was vetted first.”

  “Of course, Mr B. What do you think I am?”

  The Yorkshireman grunted, as if judgement on that particular point had been suspended. “Well, go on, then, put me out of my misery.”

  Caxton had a lot of time for the old MI6 man, even if they didn’t always see eye to eye on technology. But he wasn’t always the easiest chap to work for. He started the turntable, checked the needle and placed it in the groove at the start of the first of the two discs.

  After a moment, the rich baritone of Eberhard von Stohrer could be heard, talking in heavy, slightly ponderous Spanish. He welcomed his guests. Then a second, self-assured, rather haughty voice cut in.

  “I bring you greetings from the Caudillo. He and I look forward with confidence to the outcome of Operation Sealion and trust that the battle will be both short and decisive.”

  That was Serrano. Cheeky sod!

  Braithwaite had already seen Hasselfeldt’s transcription into German of the early part of the meeting in Spain. But his Spanish was better than his German and hearing the principals actually speak lent a powerful verisimilitude to the episode. He was mesmerised by the quality of the recording, as much as by its content. There was an underlying crackle, resulting presumably from the transfer from plastic tape to shellac. Other than that, it was as if Serrano was in the room with them. Bramall was right. The French were bound to be impressed.

  He could hear people shuffling about and the sound of chairs moving on a hard wooden floor. Next to speak was Stohrer again.

  “You will be aware that the Führer wishes to bring England to the negotiating table as quickly as possible …”

  “ – After you have destroyed their air force and reduced their cities to ashes.” Serrano again.

  A strange definition of neutrality, Braithwaite mused. But not necessarily wrong. First reports he had seen only a quarter of an hour ago indicated more than a hundred enemy aircraft were massed over the Channel, striking at RAF stations and the harbour at Dover. The day before, at least 50 raiders had clashed with three squadrons of Spitfires over Kent, losing 10 of their number against two defenders. Bombs had fallen throughout the Thames area and Dover approaches.

  And this was only the beginning.

  The talk on the record now turned to Gibraltar. Braithwaite listened, scarcely able to believe his ears, as the dialogue in the German Legation unfolded. Stohrer spoke at length of Hitler’s plan for a “joint assault” on Gibraltar. London, he said, would be left “isolated and demoralised … forced to abandon its misplaced and foolhardy defiance of the Reich.”

  Applause greeted his remark. And then the disk finished. This was almost as far as Hasselfeldt’s version ran. Braithwaite could hear the click-click of the needle at the end.

  “Put the next one on,” he said. This was extraordinary.

  Caxton turned the record over.

  “As to the geopolitical context of all this,” Stohrer continued, “Berlin is aware – almost painfully so – of your territorial claims in Africa. The Führer, though unwilling to commit himself in advance of any Spanish participation in the war effort, is sympathetic to these claims and would undoubtedly view in a positive light any ‘adjustments’ that would benefit a proven ally of the Reich.”

  Serrano jumped in at once. “Does that mean he would back our title to a united Morocco and Oran?”

  This was sensational stuff. Listening to the exchange, Braithwaite clapped his hands together like a child with a new toy.

  “The Führer,” Stohrer continued, “does not forget his friends. He appreciates the wealth of sentiment and history that underpins your claim.”

  Once again, the record ended.

  Braithwaite sat back, exhausted. He felt like a man who had just seduced Mae West.

  “Ready for the next one?” Caxton asked.

  By way of reply, Braithwaite could only wave his fingers at the gramophone.

  The A-side of the second disc opened with a detailed exchange concerning food and fuel supplies. Madrid’s shopping list was considerable. Then Serrano chipped in again.

  “Above all,” he said, “we need to know that Berlin will look with favour upon our territorial claims in North and West Africa, upon which our status as a European power will ultimately rest.”

  “Dynamite! Absolute bloody dynamite. To think bloody Mrs Simpson might have given it all back to the Germans! It don’t bear thinking about.” Braithwaite jumped up from his chair and grabbed Caxton by his shoulders, so that for one horrific moment the scientist feared he was going to kiss him. Then he stepped back. “You’ve earned your pay this month – you and your team. This is exactly what I need. You’ve done us proud.” He paused, mainly to draw breath. “But time for you to get back to your lab. I’m going to need that stuff on Gibraltar. Let me know the second it’s ready. The very second, do you hear?”

  After the boffin had gone, Braithwaite hunched forward in his chair for several seconds, holding his hand to his brow. Then he reached for the red telephone on his desk and picked up the receiver.

  “I need to speak to ‘C’, he growled.

  A prim voice came back, “I’m sorry, Mr Braithwaite, but the Admiral is extremely busy.”

  “Is he, by Jove? Well tell him to cancel everything, I’m on my way up.”

  Vichy, capital of Unoccupied France: July 24

  Delacroix didn’t know what to think. Shortly after nine, he had received a telephone call from Madrid. Dominique, it
turned out, had spent a couple of days at the residence of the Spanish Ambassador to Portugal and wanted her boss to know that the British were up to something.

  “Up to what?” he demanded.

  “I can’t say for certain. But you will have heard there was an armed raid on the German Legation the other day. The thinking here is that a British agent was behind it. Papers were stolen; the Gestapo are up in arms. Something to do with Gibraltar is my best guess.”

  “Oh come now, Defarge. It’s never guesswork with you.”

  “Let me say, then, that I have reason to believe – from a usually reliable source – that plans are going ahead, involving Germany and Spain, that could force Britain to look to a future without Gibraltar.”

  Delacroix felt instantly cheered. “But that is marvellous,” he said.

  “Yes, Alain, I knew you’d be happy. But what of the quid pro quo?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Dealing with the little soldier was frequently wearisome. You had to spell things out. And yet, when he finally got there, he was like a dog with a bone. “What would Franco want in return for letting the Wehrmacht into Spain?”

  “Gibraltar, of course.”

  “Bien sûr, Alain. But what else?”

  “You don’t mean …?”

  “I do. The empire: eternal and indivisible.” She spoke in jest, knowing her childhood companion was devoid of all sense of irony. “You must tell Laval his worst nightmare may yet come true.”

  Delacroix pulled at the tiny flap of skin beneath his chin. It was one thing to humiliate the British. They deserved it. But to bring further misfortune on France! It didn’t bear thinking about. Just days before, Abetz had reassured Laval that Hitler understood the importance of a strong French empire and wished to promote Vichy in a new role as a partner of the Reich. The Deputy Prime Minister had been greatly reassured by what the German envoy had told him, insisting to his subordinate that, by way of solidarity and partnership, France would once again hold its head high in the comity of nations. There could be no dismemberment of the empire; that would be like pouring petrol on a fire that had only just been brought under control.