The Quest

by Christopher Nicole

  “I like to know where I stand.”

  “And you consider yourself able to take care of any eventuality.”

  Berkeley signalled the waiter to bring two more drinks. “I usually do.”

  She continued to stare at him, clearly trying to evaluate him, in terms of personal achievement, personal ability. But there was no way she could ever even approach the truth, so he merely smiled at her.

  “I am not a Communist,” she said.

  He wondered if that was surrender, or merely expediency.

  “So, you stand for the right.”

  “I stand for Germany,” she said. “One nation, one folk, one blood, indivisible and indestructible.”

  Berkeley frowned at her; he would have sworn she was quoting, but it was not something he had ever read, or heard before. His knowledge of Nietzsche was a little limited – but Nietzsche could have written those words.

  “You do not like that sentiment,” Frederika remarked.

  “I think it is an admirable sentiment,” Berkeley said. “I wish there were more Germans who shared it.”

  “There will be,” she said, and watched Lockwood coming up the hotel steps. “Let us have dinner.”

  *

  “What do you reckon?” Lockwood asked, as he laid out Berkeley’s clothes for the morrow.

  “That she’s not what she claims?”

  “Well . . . we were told we’d be met by a woman named Lipschuetz, as we were. But how do we know she is the Lipschuetz who was supposed to meet us?”

  “Good point. On the other hand, what’s so special about us? This is just about the first mission we have been sent on that is totally above board. So a lot of people, including Frau Lipschuetz, may have deduced that we do not really work for the Globe. Some may even feel that we are spies. But we’re wearing our hearts on our sleeves. We want to see people and observe, and we’ve said so. I can’t think of any reason for anyone to want to do something about us.”

  “As you say, sir,” Lockwood agreed.

  He closed the door behind himself – they each had a separate room – and Berkeley got into bed, to continue reading his book on German history. But he had barely opened it when there was a gentle tap on his door. He got out of bed, pulled on a dressing gown – he slept naked – and turned the latch, aware that he was not in the least surprised, even if he had not worked out his best response.

  “May I come in?” Frederika asked.

  “If it’s what you really would like to do.”

  He stepped back and she entered the room. She also wore a dressing gown, but it was over a night-dress and slippers.

  Carefully she closed the door behind herself. “Would you like me to get into bed?”

  “If that is also what you’d like to do.”

  She gave him a quick glance, then dropped her dressing gown on the floor and crawled beneath the sheets. Her night-dress was sheer.

  “I’m afraid you will have to put up with me,” Berkeley said, and took off his dressing gown as well.

  “Do you wish to have sex with me?” she asked.

  “What you are looking at is a very natural reaction for any man finding himself in bed with an attractive woman,” Berkeley pointed out. “It is not necessarily an indication of rampant lust.” He got into bed. “Do you have sex with all of your clients, on your first night together?”

  She sat up, and lifted her night-dress over her head. She had an excellent figure. If her legs were shorter than perfection, they were well shaped and matched the rest of her body, and her breasts were large with only a slight – and most attractive – sag.

  “You intrigue me,” she said.

  “Well, I’d have to say that you intrigue me,” he acknowledged. “Are you really Frederika Lipschuetz?”

  “Of course I am. I showed you my press card.”

  “You didn’t, actually. You waved something at me.”

  “I will show you, tomorrow.”

  “Thank you. You haven’t answered my question. Or do you only indulge when men intrigue you?”

  “Not many do.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  She threw back the covers to expose them both, peered at him. “That looks as if it might have been serious?”

  He assumed she was referring to the still discoloured scar on his thigh. “It was, at the time.”

  “It was a Dervish spear, at the Battle of Omdurman, was it not?”

  Berkeley had been lying on his back. Now he sat up.

  “And this . . .” her finger traced the other scar across Berkeley’s ribs. “That looks even more dangerous. You were shot by a Serbian anarchist, am I right?”

  Berkeley wrapped his hand round her throat, and gently pushed her on to her back. “This afternoon, Frederika, you asked me if I knew how dangerous it could be to ask a German the colour of his politics. Have you any idea how dangerous it is to unravel a man’s past?”

  She did not seem disturbed. “Especially such a man, eh, Colonel Townsend? But I do not think you are going to kill me. You need me too much.”

  Women, he thought.

  “But you are going to have to tell me how you found out so much about me.”

  She shrugged; her breasts slid up and down his forearm.

  “I knew at once that you were not on the, how do you English say? The up and up. I knew this as soon as I was told I would be driving you around Germany. To write a book? I do not think that was a very good idea. Germany is in a state of flux. All Europe is in a state of flux. So, you spend some months collecting information, then you go back to England and write your book, more months, then you have it published – more months. From this moment to publication we are talking about eighteen months, maybe two years. My dear Colonel Townsend, in two years time everything you have seen or heard will have changed beyond recognition. So such a book would have been a colossal waste of time. I am sure that you, and your backers, supposing you have backers, are aware of this.”

  “Every time you say something, you need to say so much more,” Berkeley said, but he released her throat.

  She pushed herself up the bed to sit beside him, their thighs and shoulders touching. He had an idea that if they kept this up long enough she would get her wish – but was it her wish, or just a gambit?

  “So, you, a simple messenger girl for the Globe Berlin office, decided to investigate. Are you a simple messenger girl?”

  “That is my job, certainly.”

  “Ah,” Berkeley commented. “But you have an avocation.”

  “To work for the good of Germany. Should I not wish to do that?”

  “Oh, quite. What you mean is, you belong to an organisation in your spare time.”

  “In my spare time.”

  “And this organisation knew about me?” If that were true, he was up the creek. When he got back to London, if he got back to London, he was going to have to have a serious word with Gorman.

  “No. I have a friend, in the London Office, and he did the detective work.”

  “I see. You wouldn’t care to tell me his name?”

  She gave a quick smile. “So that you could kill him? Are you not a professional assassin?”

  “Only when pushed or directed, darling,” Berkeley told her. “Now let me ask you the really important question: what have you done with this knowledge?”

  “I have done nothing with it.”

  “You expect me to believe that?”

  “I wished to meet you, talk with you, get to know you.”

  “You are certainly accomplishing that,” he agreed. “Let’s rephrase the question: what are you going to do with this knowledge?”

  “I would like to persuade you to help us.”

  “Us, being?”

  “My friends.”

  “And how do you think I can help your friends? You have discovered that I am an officer in British Military Intelligence. There is nothing more to me than that. I have been sent to Germany to gather information, specifically, on whether Ge
rmany is willing to, or capable of, standing up to the Bolsheviks if they keep on coming west after they complete the conquest of Poland. That is it. I have absolutely no sway with either the War Office or the Foreign Office.”

  “But what you report will influence their thinking.”

  “It may do. But you have just told me that whatever I have to say will be out of date virtually the moment I say it.”

  “Not everything. But now we have . . . how do you say? Put our cards on the table. Now there need be no secrets between us.”

  “Save that you know all about me and who I work for, and I know nothing about you and who you work for. That’s a little one-sided, isn’t it?”

  “You will know everything,” she promised. “When we get to Munich. And now, as we are in bed together . . .” she put her arms round his neck and kissed him on the mouth.

  Obviously it had been an absurd undertaking, to resolve never to hold a woman in his arms again, because of Caterina. It was now over six years since he had looked on her dead body. No woman could ever replace Caterina, and perhaps it was safest to return to normality with someone who would not dream of trying.

  Which was not to say that as he sank into Frederika’s warm and moist embrace he did not experience an immense feeling of satisfaction and relaxation.

  Yet it was salutary to recall that his last lengthy period of enforced chastity – twelve years ago and caused by duty rather than by guilt – had ended when he had met Anna Slovitza . . . and what a catastrophic series of events had followed on that brief liaison.

  Equally, he understood that this woman, like Anna, wanted something from him. Anna’s aims, when they had met, had been very short term – her escape from the hands of the Austrians who wanted to hang her for terrorism. That they had become long term had been owing to the machinations of Gorman and the War Office. Frederika’s aims were long term, obviously, but were of such importance, at least to her, that she was willing to prostitute herself to achieve them.

  And he still did not know what they were. But finding out was part of his assignment. He could afford to be patient.

  By the time he got down to breakfast in the morning, she and Lockwood were already there, brandishing a newspaper at him.

  “Listen to this!” Frederika cried. “The Russians have been defeated.”

  She was, as before, trimly and elegantly dressed in her skirt and blouse and tie, even if this morning she had omitted the hat and her dark hair lay loose on her shoulders; that apart it was difficult to believe they had shared a bed only a few hours ago.

  Berkeley looked at Lockwood.

  “It’s a fact, Colonel,” Lockwood said. “According to this, they’re in full retreat from Warsaw, scattered all over the place.”

  Berkeley took the paper, scanned the front-page story. It was being called the Miracle of the Vistula, with all credit being given to General Weygand’s great strategy – but this was a French newspaper; he imagined the Poles would feel Marshal Pilsudski had something to do with it.

  But Tuchachevsky’s hordes, which only a week ago had seemed unstoppable, utterly shattered! Therefore the external Communist threat to Germany, and therefore Central Europe, was over, at least in the short term. Which negated the main part of his mission.

  “Doesn’t seem much point in going on now, does it,” Lockwood remarked.

  “I think we need to,” Berkeley said. “Until we receive instructions to the contrary.”

  Lockwood pulled his nose. Berkeley wondered if the faithful old fellow had any idea of how he had spent his night. But of course he did; valets always knew how their employers spent their nights.

  “However,” Berkeley said to Frederika, “I wonder if it would be possible to contact your Berlin office and find out if there is a message for me.”

  “You are not considering abandoning your journey?”

  “Well, circumstances have changed, wouldn’t you say? I really do need to contact my superiors.”

  “Through the paper.”

  “That’s the way it has to be played, yes.”

  “We will do this from Munich,” she decided.

  She was certainly keen on getting them there.

  They crossed the border at Strasbourg, and were in Munich that afternoon. The French were very much in control at the border, and carefully inspected papers, but the fact that the little party were representatives of one of the great English papers saw them through without difficulty.

  Then there were a great many more French troops, on the German side, for the first twenty miles or so.

  “We are virtually an occupied country,” Frederika complained.

  Berkeley refrained from pointing out that in the eyes of the West, Germany had been responsible for the War and therefore was fortunate in that only a small part of the Reich was actually occupied. And soon they saw the Alps looming in the distance.

  “I have arranged an hotel,” Frederika said. “And tomorrow we will see von Kahr.”

  Berkeley checked his list. Gustav Ritter von Kahr was certainly on it; he was prime minister of the federal state of Bavaria, and, according to Gorman’s notes, had ambitions to rule an independent Bavarian state.

  “Would he be your secret employer?” he asked.

  She blew a raspberry. “He is a thug.”

  “And you don’t work for thugs.”

  “Certainly not,” she said.

  “But you are taking me to see him.”

  “He is right-wing.”

  “So his heart is in the right place, at least. What about this fellow Thalmann?”

  “He is a Communist.”

  “I still wish to see him.”

  “Do you still regard the Communists as important?”

  “It says here that it is estimated that one in every three Germans is a Communist. That makes them very important.”

  She snorted. “A meeting will be arranged.”

  “In Munich?”

  “Thalmann is not in Munich. He is in Berlin.”

  “Where we are going next, are we not?”

  “If that is what you wish.”

  She did not appear to have any great interest in what he did, after Munich.

  They drove through the suburbs and into the centre of the city. There was no immediate evidence of any civil unrest; the people were orderly, and if for the most part shabbily dressed, at least their houses were intact, and there were few potholes in the street.

  The hotel was comfortable, and Berkeley and Lockwood were shown to adjoining rooms.

  “I will join you for dinner,” Frederika said.

  “Aren’t you staying here?”

  “No. I will stay with a friend. But as I say, I will join you for dinner, and afterwards, we will go out, eh?”

  “You’re the boss,” Berkeley agreed.

  He was actually relieved that she would not be with them for a while, as he had a great deal to tell Lockwood.

  “The lady knows all about us, Harry.”

  “Sir?”

  Berkeley told him, without referring to the bed; Lockwood undoubtedly knew all about that.

  “That’s a nice kettle of fish,” Lockwood commented, as was his wont. “What’s she after?”

  “That is what we are going to have to find out. Meanwhile, we just continue as normal.”

  Frederika duly returned that evening, having changed her clothes and added a rather splendid fur coat, which on an August evening seemed excessive. She was in the best of humours, and they had an enjoyable dinner.

  “Tomorrow,” she said. “I will show you Munich. It is a splendid city.”

  “And you know it well.”

  “I was born here,” she said. “And got married here. And then poor Heinrich went off to the War, and did not come back.”

  She did not appear to be still mourning.

  “Have you any children?” Lockwood asked.

  “No,” Frederika said very definitely. She finished her wine. “Now we go for a walk.”


  “Right-ho,” Berkeley agreed, and caught Lockwood’s eye. “Is this safe, or should we be armed?”

  “You have arms?”

  “Yes, we do.”

  She considered for a few seconds. “If it makes you happy, bring them. But please do not use them, unless you have to.”

  When they had equipped themselves, she led them out of the hotel and into the street. It was still daylight, just, and there were quite a few people around, walking and talking; there was still no evidence of the unrest Berkeley had been told was endemic in this city, indeed, in this entire state. But soon Frederika turned down a narrow alley-way, where the light was not so good.

  “Are we allowed to ask where we are going?” Berkeley asked.

  “To meet a friend.”

  “The friend?”

  “Yes. Do not be afraid.”

  Berkeley looked at Lockwood, and winked.

  They turned down another alley-way, and then another, and stopped before a beer hall. Outside the door there were three men, rather incongruously dressed, to Berkeley’s eyes, because although from the waist down they looked typically Bavarian, their breeches tucked into their hose, above the waist they wore brown shirts, and on their sleeves the emblem of . . . he tried to remember. The swastika. Something out of history, he recalled.

  The men regarded the arrivals with some hostility, but that ended when Frederika showed them another of her cards. “These gentlemen are my guests,” she said.

  “Of course, Frau Lipschuetz. Please go in.”

  One of them opened the door for her, and she led the way.

  “Was that your press card again?” Berkeley asked.

  “No,” she said. “That was my party card.”

  “You mean this is a party meeting?”

  “Of course.”

  They were now inside the hall itself, and regarding every indication of a political meeting, with rows of chairs arranged in front of a wide dais, on which there were more chairs, and behind, pinned to the wall, a huge flag in black and white and red, again displaying the swastika logo. At the moment there were only half-a-dozen people in the hall, but some more men came in immediately behind them.

  “We are early,” Frederika said. “So we will have seats at the front.”

  Berkeley followed her down the aisle. “May I ask the name of this party?”