by Walter Ellis
“Have you proof of any of this?” he demanded into the phone.
Dominique hid the mild exasperation she felt. “None, Cherie. None at all. At this stage, it is all conjecture. But I was in Lisbon over the weekend, staying with the Duke and Duchess of Windsor. Did you know they were friends of ours, from Paris? Anyway, while I was there, I enjoyed a glass of Madeira with the Caudillo’s brother, Nicolás. He refused to say anything about Morocco and Oran – clammed up completely. It was what he didn’t say – the silences – that confirmed my suspicions. Pétain and Laval should, I think, be prepared for a shock.”
“For myself, I am always ready to be shocked,” said Delacroix, which was perfectly true. “But so long as Laval and the Maréchal are in charge, I refuse to believe that the Führer would stoop to such treachery. What else do you have?”
“Nothing – unless, of course, you want to hear the latest gossip about the Duke. La toute Lisbonne is talking about him.”
“Oh, please, Defarge, not that. The man is a fool.”
“If you say so, Alain. You’re the expert. But there is maybe one other thing.”
“Go on.”
“In Portugal, I met a British diplomat. His name is Bramall. He works for the Duke. The Germans believe that he may have been involved in the attack on their Legation. When I was speaking to him, I just happened to observe that he was writing a cable to London, in which he mentioned Pétain and Laval.”
“Interesting. What did he say?”
“I’m afraid he covered it up before I could get a proper look, but there was something about not bothering with Pétain, who was old and formal, but going instead to Laval, who was a politician, more concerned with present realities than eternal values.”
“What does that mean?”
“That is for you to work out. Later, he indicated to me that he knew who I was working for and that, at a later date, he might wish to use my services as an intermediary. He did not say why, but my impression was that he had come into possession of information that would be of interest to France.”
“And that is it?”
“I’m sorry it couldn’t be more, Alain, but you will appreciate that in our trade it is not always possible to proceed in a straight line.”
“I understand, of course. But what am I to make of what you are telling me? Should I be concerned in some way?”
“Not so much concerned as intrigued, I would have thought.”
There was a long pause. After five seconds or so went by, Dominique enquired: “Alain, are you still there?”
“Oh, I am sorry, I was thinking.”
“You must be careful not to strain yourself.”
Delacroix pretended he hadn’t heard. “You raise issues that cannot properly be discussed over the telephone – issues that, I must tell you, could go to the very heart of France’s survival as an independent state within the New Order. I am asking myself if it might make sense for us to review your mission, and your assessment of how things stand, face to face. Do you think you might be able to pay a visit to Vichy sometime soon?”
Dominique thought about this. The truth was, she had been hoping to return home for a few days anyway, to see the children, who would be back from school, and attend to some legal matters arising from the death of her husband and state of their properties. It was just that there was so much going on in Madrid at the moment.
“I tell you what, Alain, why don’t I come up at the end of the month? I could attend to some personal business and then drop in to see you on the way back.”
“That would suit me admirably. I look forward to your arrival. In the meantime, please find out whatever else you can about this Bramall fellow. I will do the same from here.”
Delacroix replaced the receiver, wondering whether to approach Laval with what he had learned. He decided against it. The Minister, after all, had appointed him in charge of policy relating to Spain. He did not expect to be burdened with every morsel of information that came in, especially when it had not been checked out. But he would talk to the chargé in Madrid and ask his opinion. When the good name and dignity of France were at stake, no stone could be left unturned.
Cascais: Boca do Inferno, July 26
“Look here, Bramall, I’m not a one to complain. You know that. But this has gone far enough.”
“I don’t know what you mean, sir.”
The Duke had been in a foul temper all day. “I won’t be treated like a half-wit,” he said, his voice high and shrill, as it usually was when he didn’t get his own way. “I was going to play golf this morning, but you said no. I was going to take a swim nearby. We’re living by the sea, for God’s sake, and the temperature’s in the 90s. But no, you wouldn’t allow it.”
“It’s for your own good, sir.”
“Don’t give me that. I’m not a child.”
For once, Bramall gave way to his irritation. “Your Royal Highness,” he began, “I apologise for any inconvenience, but there are at least a hundred German agents in the vicinity and I have only a dozen men assigned to look after you. We’re doing our best. Besides, after everything that’s happened, you should perhaps be grateful that the Duchess isn’t being transported back to the Tower of London. Do you ever think of it that way?”
“How dare you?”
“With respect, how dare you, Sir? Had it not been for the Prime Minister’s personal loyalty and the charity of your brother the King – not shared, as I understand it, by Queen Elizabeth – you and the Duchess would be in disgrace and awaiting trial. You might get off. A jury could very well conclude that you had no idea what your wife was up to. But the Duchess’s position would be as grave as it could possibly be.”
Listening to this, the Duke appeared to shrivel. He fell back slightly, steadying himself again the back of a chair. “Very well, Bramall, I suppose you’re entitled to your pound of flesh. But I have to say, you know how to kick a man when he’s down.”
“I was raised in Ireland, Your Royal Highness. We were always told it was the best time.”
“So what happens now?”
“As I understand it, you and the Duchess begin a lifetime of decent obscurity and rehabilitation. More immediately, I am told that Walter Schellenberg himself, the head of the SD, is in Lisbon overseeing a possible kidnap attempt. I have no idea what they intend to do, but I am determined they should not succeed.”
This seemed to get through to the Duke, who suddenly went quiet and grew deathly pale. “Do you mean to say,” he began, “that we really are in danger?”
“It’s entirely possible, sir. That is why you and the Duchess must remain indoors. I’m sorry, but I don’t see the alternative.”
A hunted look crept over the Duke’s features. His eyes darted about and he looked suddenly like a frightened little boy. “How do I know it’s not you that plans to harm me?”
“Oh, come, come, sir. That’s absurd. You must know that.”
“Must I? I’ve heard rumours. You’re not the only one with contacts. I’ve been told that Churchill wants me gone – with the connivance of the Palace, I shouldn’t wonder. What better way to do away with me than here in the obscurity of Portugal, and then blame it on the Germans?”
This was impossible. “Please don’t think me rude or disrespectful,” Bramall said, “but there’s a word for that kind of thinking.”
“Eh?”
“It’s called paranoia. It’s when you can’t distinguish friend from foe and you think they’re all coming for you.”
“You just said there were Germans everywhere.”
“Yes, but they’re the enemy. England is at war with Germany. We’re your friends.”
“Fine friends,” the Duke spat. “I was your king – your monarch. Now you treat me as if I were some kind of criminal.”
“Y
our Royal Highness, I give you my word …”
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to think. I hear shots – noises in the night. Rumours fly all around me. I’ve been gagged; barred from ever going home; forbidden to speak out. Just because I dared to think differently. I am to be the new Prisoner of Zenda, confined to a desert island while my brother plays the king. Next, it’ll be an iron mask.”
Bramall wondered if all the Duke’s childhood reading had been royalist hokum. “You may be assured, sir, that if it ever comes to that, I shall at once assume the role of d’Artagnan and come riding to your rescue.”
Even the Duke laughed a little at that. “Yes, well things have reached a pretty pass,” he said, “when I lose my freedom and find myself locked up under armed guard – and all in the name of liberty.”
Bramall sighed. “I quite agree, sir. It’s bloody. But I must ask you to be patient. Only a few more days and you’ll be off.”
“I suppose I should be grateful.” Bramall waited to see where this might lead. There was nothing. Instead, the Duke grunted and turned around to face the window. “That will be all,” he said. “Leave me alone. I need to think.”
Bramall backed off. He was as anxious as the Duke to bring the present encounter to an end. “As you wish, Sir. Dinner will be at eight.”
The Harbour, Cascais, West of Lisbon: July 27
As he awaited the arrival of the passengers from that morning’s Southampton run, Bramall felt more than a twinge of impatience. He knew how crucial it was that the Duke and Duchess should embark safely for the Bahamas, but the threat to Gibraltar was once more exerting a powerful pull on his imagination. It wasn’t every day that an individual, other than a general or top political figure, had a chance to alter the course of a war.
A coded cable had arrived for him less than an hour ago from Braithwaite in London. “Finish what you’re doing, then get back here, ready for the mission to Vichy. All approved. The game’s afoot.” Caxton and his team, according to Croft, had finally constructed a device to play the tape, and the content was even better than predicted. The head of the service and the Foreign Secretary had spoken to Churchill, and the Prime Minister had officially backed the mission.
Just a few more days, Bramall told himself. He owed that much to Croft – and to the Duke, for that matter. Then he would proceed to what Croft had come to refer to as his “rendezvous with history”.
At least Isabella was safe in England.
His brush with Dominique de Fourneau in the Boca do Inferno, though charged with sufficient electricity to power a small city, had only served to reinforce the strength of his feeling for the woman who had risked everything in his cause. In one sense, this was dismaying, even downright annoying. He had enough on his plate already and needed to concentrate on what was objectively important. And yet sometime all he could think of was Isabella’s glossy hair, her green eyes, her lips so impossibly inviting and that habit of hers of tucking her legs up beneath her when she sat down, so that he was able to observe close up the fine bones of her knees. If she hadn’t been so sharp, so self-assured and so brave, he could have dealt with her more obvious appeal. The combination, however, was devastating.
But Isabella was not his problem today. Hasselfeldt was out there somewhere with an agenda all of his own. He would have to keep a close eye out for him. And then there was Dominique. He had spoken to Croft about her. He said he’d never heard of her beyond her acquaintance with the Duke and Duchess, but undertook to make inquiries. If it turned out that she could be a conduit to Laval, a large part of their future difficulties would be removed at a stroke. But if she was anti-British, bent on revenge for Mers-El-Kébir, then she could equally be an invitation to disaster.
Finally, there was the Duchess. Until the gangway was pulled back from the Excalibur and and it dsappeared over the horizon, Bramall was part of a deadly game that required his undivided attention. He was reasonably confident. Crowther was behind him, and a couple of Special Branch lads were behind him. On top of that, the embassy security squad provided round-the-clock observation of the Boca do Inferno and its grounds, while the Duke’s own protection detail were on duty 24 hours a day. But he couldn’t afford to underestimate his enemy. The Germans had four times his manpower. If he and his team let their guard down just once, the Duke and Duchess could be seized, with God knows what consequences. Bramall was not going to let that happen. There had been more than enough setbacks already in this particular mission: from now on he was going to be on the winning side.
Out in the harbour, the door of the British flying boat had been pulled back and sealed. A launch was on its way in. Obersturmbahnführer Walter Schellenberg, sent to Lisbon by Ribbentrop to personally oversee Operation Willi, surveyed the scene from the top window of a crumbling villa overlooking the harbour. The putt-putt of the launch’s engine could be heard above the faint slap of the waves against the stones of the jetty. The SD chief had no reason to think that those arriving were of any particular significance, but it made sense to check.
He passed the Zeiss field glasses he had been using to Hasselfeldt, who removed his spectacles and adjusted the focus of the binoculars, which he then trained on the tall, broad-shouldered figure standing at the top of the harbour steps. A younger man, who looked as if he could handle himself, stood a few paces back. A few metres beyond that again were two more men and a couple of cars and drivers. The British were taking no chances. It wasn’t as if the Duke was around. They just wanted to show they meant business.
“Recognise the one by the steps?” Schellenberg asked.
“No, Obersturmbahnführer. He must be new.” In fact, he had recognised him at once. Bramall! It might be too late to get back what had been stolen, but he would make sure the bastard did not live to implicate him in the fiasco.
“Na-ja,” said the SD chief. “Make a note, though. He appears to be their leader. What matters for now is that they should suspect nothing. We will strike only if and when the right moment comes.”
Schellenberg, a tall, elegant figure, who could have been an artist or a priest had he not been a leading figure in the SS, reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. His subordinate immediately produced a lighter and Schellenberg leaned into the flame.
“It occurs to me, Obersturmbahnführer,” said Hasselfeldt, “that I could most usefully focus on the fellow at the dock. He looks, as you say, to be in charge of the security arrangements and we should know what he is up to.”
Schellenberg nodded. In the harbour below, the launch from the flying boat had drawn in to the steps. There appeared to be just five passengers. He didn’t recognise any of them. The tall fellow on the jetty greeted each of the new arrivals in turn, but didn’t seem especially impressed. He looked like he had other matters on his mind. Less than a minute later, both cars pulled away, leaving the launch and its pilot, plus a yawning customs officer, bobbing gently in the swell.
The Obersturmbahnführer turned back to Hasselfeldt. “I want a complete rundown on all of those who arrived this morning. If you can’t do it, find someone who can. Surveillance? Yes, I suppose so. See to it. But don’t do anything rash. And keep me informed, you understand?”
Hasselfeldt jumped to attention. “Jawohl, Obersturmbahnführer.”
Bramall stretched his legs in the front seat of the car as it made its way back to the Boca do Inferno. He had borrowed the Duke’s Buick, from Paris, with its leather seats and brightly polished walnut dashboard. Behind, occupying the rear passenger seats, sat Sir Walter Monkton, a Whitehall mandarin, former legal adviser to the Duke as Edward VIII, come to explain the duties of a governor in wartime; and Major Grey Phillips, responsible for relations with Downing Street. None of them, so far as he knew, were aware of the Duchess’s treachery, which Churchill, with the backing of a horrified Royal Family, had decided should be kept under wraps. Follo
wing behind in the second car, a Riley, were Piper Alistair Fletcher, the Duke’s newly reinstated batman, and two more Special Branch heavies. Everything that he had asked for was now in place.
Lisbon: German Legation, July 30
Schellenberg found it truly tragic that he had been suborned into taking part in such a doomed and desperate venture. His spies in the Boca do Inferno had reported to him that there was absolutely no chance now that the Duke could be persuaded to return to Spain. Lourenço, the number two at the PVDE, had informed him that everything had been done to create the suspicion in the Duke’s mind that British agents planned to murder him – but to no effect. Not even the clandestine efforts of the Duchess, about which Hoyningen-Huene had expatiated at length over lunch, had persuaded him to abandon his protectors. The whole thing had become fool’s errand, and as if to prove the truth of this, he had just received an hysterical cable from Ribbentrop, ending: “The Führer orders that an abduction is to be carried out at once.”
It was crazy. Everybody knew it – everybody except Ribbentrop. The former champagne salesman was a menace.
Yet for all that, a Führer Befehl remained a royal command. No one refused a direct order from Hitler. He telephoned Winzer and ordered him to prepare the ground at Badajoz. Hasselfeldt was not working out as he had thought. There was something distracted about him, something destructive. It was as if a piece of his brain had gone missing. He had been beaten up recently. Perhaps that was the reason. Whatever the truth of the matter, he would not wish to have to depend on him in a crisis.
As for the rest, his hastily recruited team of Portuguese agents, several of them gypsies from the South, had been instructed to step up their efforts to frighten the Duke. At the last minute, Lourenço another weak link – would issue a bomb threat to the vessel, hopefully forcing an emergency evacuation.
