‘Big how?’
‘He thinks the Germans are serious about peace.’
‘But we know that already. Your good friend Schultz was kind enough to tell us.’
‘I know, sir. But this might be a little more concrete. And a little bolder.’
‘Specifically?’
‘He wouldn’t say. Not in terms. All he wanted me to believe was that he was in touch with the right people, that he could open doors for us, that he could make things happen. He wants us to regard him as someone of significance.’
‘Make things happen where? How?’
‘In Lisbon, obviously, but it would require our presence there.’
‘You mean your presence?’
‘Yes.’
‘He liked you?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘But you believe him? You think he knows the right people?’
‘I think I do, yes.’
‘Evidence?’
Moncrieff held the Director’s gaze for a moment and then stooped to his bag. From an envelope he extracted a cardboard token the size of a half-crown.
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s a cloakroom ticket from the Ritz, sir. On the back is a figure. That’s Hesketh’s writing.’
He passed the ticket across the desk. Liddell turned it over.
‘Seven?’ he looked blank.
‘There was a raid last night, sir, as you probably know. Nothing major but totally unexpected. Even Ursula was taken by surprise.’
‘And?’
‘Hesketh says the target was the Piccadilly area and it turns out he wasn’t far wrong. He also says just seven aircraft were involved. We need to check that figure.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he claims to have had a hand in organising the raid.’
‘Through his German contacts? In Lisbon?’
‘Exactly.’ Moncrieff smiled. ‘In his own words, it would serve as an act of authentication. He needs to prove the value of his contacts. If he’s right, we’d be foolish to ignore him.’
‘So what does he want?’
‘Money.’
‘How much?’
‘Last night he mentioned a retainer of ten thousand plus a thousand a month operational expenses. All of it payable to a bank in Lisbon. He seems to think that’s cheap. He says the Germans have offered him double that.’
‘To do what?’
‘To come to London and talk to us. Obviously we have no means of checking.’
Liddell nodded, said nothing. Then he got to his feet and walked through to the adjoining office. Moncrieff caught the briefest conversation with Ursula Barton before he was back again. He was carrying a newspaper.
‘Here,’ he gave it to Moncrieff. ‘Page two. Someone you might recognise.’
The paper was the Völkischer Beobachter, the public face of the Nazi Party, on sale daily across the Reich. Moncrieff glanced at the date: 16 November 1940. Nearly a week ago. The main story on page two offered an account of Molotov’s visit to Berlin for trade negotiations with Foreign Minister Ribbentrop.
Moncrieff skimmed the text. Despite the many tributes to the Reich’s steadfast Soviet allies, he detected a darker tone. In Stockholm, Schultz had told him that Hitler wanted to squeeze the Russians far harder when it came to raw materials. More coal. More oil. More everything.
‘The picture, Tam. The photo.’ For once Liddell didn’t bother to hide his impatience.
Moncrieff’s eye drifted down the page. The photo had obviously been taken at the Hauptbahnhof, at the moment of Molotov’s departure. Half a dozen officials were gathered on the platform. Molotov looked ill-tempered. Ribbentrop, his hands clasped behind his back, aloof.
‘The woman, Tam. Look at the woman.’
Moncrieff looked, frowned, then looked again. The woman was tall, as tall as Ribbentrop. Bareheaded on the platform, she was wearing a fur coat that hung an inch or two below her knees. Unlike the men, she had a smile for the cameras.
Moncrieff was staring at her face. This was no close-up but the resemblance was beyond dispute. The same blonde fringe. The same laugh lines around the eyes.
‘Bella Menzies,’ he looked up. ‘She was with the Russians?’
‘That has to be the assumption.’
‘Has anyone checked it?’
‘Not to my knowledge. It would make sense for the Russians to bring her back to Berlin. Not the most tactful move in the book, perhaps, but she speaks good German and she knows the city inside out. If nothing else, we should accept that she’s played her cards well. Our Soviet friends obviously value her many talents. As they should.’
Moncrieff could only nod. Barely two years ago he’d been in this very city, Berlin, a novice agent trying to wrestle Germany away from the madness of its leadership. One of his consorts had been Wilhelm Schultz. Another was Isobel Menzies, whom he’d met at the British Embassy. Bella had helped him on a number of occasions, and watched his back after the death of an American businessman, and to their mutual surprise the relationship had deepened until the moment the Gestapo stepped in. The rest – the interrogations, the torture, the screams from neighbouring cells – was something Tam did his best to forget until the news arrived that Bella, the one woman he might have loved, had defected to the Soviets.
He was still gazing at the photo. Did he need proof that she’d been wedded to a greater cause all the time? That their plans for some kind of post-war life together had been nothing but a fairy tale? If so, here it was. A good-looking woman standing beside a railway carriage. Smiling for the camera. En route back to Moscow.
Liddell was studying him carefully. He gestured at the paper.
‘Keep it,’ he said. ‘It’s yours.’
Moncrieff folded the paper and handed it back. Then a knock on the door brought Ursula Barton into the room. She’d been on the phone to the Air Ministry. As expected, last night’s raids had led to widespread damage in Birmingham and Southampton, but a much smaller visitation had also appeared over the capital.
‘How many aircraft?’ Liddell enquired. ‘Do they know?’
‘Yes, sir. Six.’
‘Six?’ The Director’s gaze had swung to Moncrieff. ‘Hesketh told us seven.’
‘One turned back, sir.’ It was Ursula again. ‘Some kind of problem over Southend.’
6
Thanks to Hermann Goering, Dieter Merz was able to stay in Berlin for nearly a week. He and Beata took it in turns to sit at Georg’s bedside in the Charité hospital. Every hour a male nurse appeared to check his vital signs but nothing seemed to provoke a response of any kind. Then, as the days went by, he began to show flickers of consciousness. Tiny tremors in the right eyelid. Reflex motions in both hands. And finally, towards the end of the week, a muttered demand for water.
It happened to be Merz at the hospital. He stared down at the pale, unshaven face on the pillow.
‘Don’t you say please any more?’
One eye opened, then the other.
‘Merz?’ he whispered.
‘Me,’ Dieter agreed.
‘Water?’
There was water in a jug beside the bed. Dieter drew his chair closer and tried to spoon a little into the slackness of Georg’s mouth. Most of it ended up on his chest.
‘Again.’ Georg licked his lower lip.
Dieter did his best. This time there was enough for Georg to swallow.
‘More?’
Georg nodded. Another spoonful. Then a fourth. Georg’s eyes were closed again and the rise and fall of his chest beneath the single sheet seemed fainter. For a moment or two, Dieter thought he must have gone to sleep but then the eyes flicked open, an expression close to panic, and one hand crabbed up towards his nose.
‘What’s this?’ He began to pluck at the tube that descended to his stomach. Dieter caught his hand before he could pull any harder, surprised at how strong he was.
‘Leave it, compadre. It’s for the stuff they feed you. You need to eat.’
/> Georg stared up at him. Compadre? He didn’t seem to understand. Then his eyes flicked left and right, trying to tease some sense from these strange surroundings.
‘It’s a hospital, Georg. You’ve been in an accident.’ Dieter paused. ‘Accident? You remember the car? The trolley bus?’
Georg shook his head and then winced with pain. A nurse approached and stood on the other side of the bed. When Georg tried to struggle upright, his arms flailing, they both had to hold him down. The flurry of movement attracted two more nurses. Then came the doctor who’d been in charge of Georg from the start. He was an older man, approaching late middle age. He’d served in the trenches on the Somme during the previous war as a medical orderly and had plenty of stories about concussion.
‘My name is Alster, Herr Messner. Don’t fight us, please. We’re here to make you better.’
His voice was firm. He had a natural authority. Georg gave up the struggle, his head back on the pillow, his eyes closed.
The doctor studied him for a moment, and then told Dieter to use the telephone in his office and summon Georg’s wife.
‘Tell her she’s married a submarine,’ he said. ‘Herr Messner just came up for air but it might not last. The sooner she gets here the better. But no speeding, please.’
Beata arrived within the hour. She’d brought Lottie with her. Dieter met them at the entrance to the ward and explained the situation. Georg was asleep, unresponsive, but the right voice in his ear might bring him to the surface again. She nodded. She thought she understood. Her eyes didn’t leave the small group of nurses around Georg’s bed. On Dieter’s arm, she stepped closer. The nurses parted to make space for her. She bent low, her lips to her husband’s ear.
‘It’s Noo-Noo,’ she whispered. ‘And your Lottchen.’
Dieter stared at her. Noo-Noo?
‘It’s me,’ Beata was saying. ‘Your wife. Lottie, too. We’ve come to see you. Can you hear me? Just nod.’
Nothing. Beata moistened a fingertip, then kissed it and placed it softly on Georg’s lips. The intimacy of the gesture made one of the nurses turn her face away. When there was no response, Beata did it again and then made space on the bed for her infant daughter.
‘Talk to him, Lottie. Tell Daddy about Noo-Noo.’
‘You’re Noo-Noo.’
‘I know. Just tell him that. Just tell him I’m here.’
Lottie did what she was told but she seemed frightened by the face on the pillow. Not Daddy at all. Someone else. She held her arms out, wanting to get off the bed. It was Dieter who picked her up.
Beata was back beside Georg. One of the nurses had found a chair. Beata sat down and began to caress the lifeless hand on the whiteness of the sheet.
‘Noo-Noo,’ she murmured. ‘Noo-Noo’s here.’
She looked up. She wanted to be sure that earlier he really had regained consciousness. To her this was the same Georg she’d seen day after day, unresponsive, inert, out of reach. One of the nurses fetched the doctor. Beata had never liked him much.
‘Frau Messner?’
She said nothing. Just gestured at the lifeless figure on the bed. Your fault, she seemed to be implying. You got me here for nothing. The doctor began to explain about how fragile a patient’s contact with consciousness could be. Here one minute, gone the next. Then, as if in agreement, Georg’s eyes flicked briefly open. It was Lottie who saw it. She was sitting on her mother’s lap. She gave a little gasp, part surprise, part delight, the way children greet a conjuring trick.
‘Again, Papa,’ she said. ‘Do it again.’
Nothing happened. The doctor had stopped in mid-sentence. Everyone’s attention was back on the face on the pillow. This time, Georg’s eyes stayed open. His gaze moved slowly from face to face, careful, deliberate, almost thoughtful. Then he settled on Merz.
‘Compadre…’ A tiny motion with his right hand that might have been a wave. ‘Lloviendo?’
Lloviendo? Is it still raining? The daily squadron greeting in the chill of a hundred Asturian dawns.
‘Si.’
‘Que lastima,’ Georg managed a smile. What a shame. His eyes were still on Merz. Dieter nodded down at Beata, who still occupied the chair, but Georg didn’t seem interested. He wanted to know when the aircraft would be ready, when they were flying.
Dieter told him he was in hospital. In Germany. In Berlin.
‘Guernica? Again?’
‘Berlin, compadre. Tempelhof. Wannsee.’
‘Noo-Noo.’ It was Lottie’s piping little voice. ‘Say hello to Noo-Noo, Papa.’
Georg frowned, examined the watching faces once again. His gaze settled briefly on Beata, then moved on. Finally, he shook his head.
‘Noo-Noo?’ His voice was faint. Then his eyes closed again.
*
Gordon Hesketh was arrested the same day, shortly after lunch. Discreet checks in the morning had established his continuing presence at The Limes hotel and it fell to Moncrieff to lead three uniformed policemen to his room on the second floor. They stood aside while Moncrieff rapped on the door.
Hesketh was in bed, naked, beneath a woman who must have been twice his size. The sudden presence of strangers in the room didn’t seem to surprise her in the least. She disentangled herself from a sizeable erection with some care, stooped to kiss Hesketh on the mouth, and then stood beside the bed to gather up her clothes. Her face, thought Moncrieff, must once have been beautiful. She wore nothing but a simple gold chain looped around her fleshy neck. Her breasts were enormous and there was a gleam of defiance in her eyes when she asked one of the policemen to pass her brassiere.
Hesketh lit a cigarette from a packet under the pillow and watched her dress. The expression on his face as he followed her every movement spoke of a sense of pride as well as contentment. They’d plainly shared a great deal in this airless little room and now it was over he wanted to savour the memories. When, for the second time, the sergeant in charge told him to get up he shook his head.
‘Ladies first,’ he murmured. ‘Does anyone have a difficulty with that?’
They drove him to a gloomy looking Victorian villa on the edge of Ham Common. A barbed-wire fence surrounded the property. There were armed guards on the double gates and the grounds were dotted with Nissen huts where the detainees were lodged between interrogations. Moncrieff, who was a regular visitor to Latchmere House, had the use of an office on the second floor. While Hesketh was processed through the admissions procedure, Moncrieff settled down to make a phone call.
Guy Liddell was at his desk in St James’s Street. Moncrieff confirmed that Agent Souk, as Hesketh had been code-named, was safely in custody. Arrest hadn’t disturbed him in the least and his only request en route was that someone might make arrangements to pay his consort for her services to date. She preferred cash to cheques and Hesketh thought a sum of four pounds ten shillings might be more than satisfactory. He offered Moncrieff an address in King’s Cross and checked it for accuracy after Moncrieff had written it down. He would, of course, repay the debt as soon as his circumstances permitted it.
‘He had a bill at the hotel as well?’
‘No. The woman who seems to be in charge says he paid in advance.’
‘For how long?’
‘Two weeks. He arrived ten days ago.’
‘From where?’
‘She thinks Lisbon. That’s what he told her.’
‘He’d stayed before?’
‘Twice. The first time was a couple of years ago. She says 1938. On that occasion he told her he was living in Berlin.’
‘He’s had other visitors? Apart from his lady friend?’
‘She thinks not.’
‘And now we know where she lives?’
‘Yes, sir. And that’s because he wants us to talk to her. Getting the woman paid is a blind. Hesketh never does anything by accident. And I mean that as a compliment.’
The interrogations started that same evening. Hesketh had been lodged in a locked two-bedded room in o
ne of the Nissen huts. His companion, carefully selected, was a Pole with fluent German and respectable English. His job was to win Hesketh’s trust and open him up for the hidden microphones which would transmit every conversation. Moncrieff, already impressed by Hesketh’s coolness under pressure, could only assume that he’d anticipate a trick like this but even attempts to use the eavesdropping to his own advantage might backfire.
In this new world of mirrors, of bluff and counter-bluff, Moncrieff knew how hard it could be to pin down anything as slippery yet absolute as the truth. Was Hesketh as well connected as he claimed? Could he really summon seven German bombers and make the earth shake around targets he’d personally selected in Central London? And if the answer was yes, what kind of man had the sheer nerve to station himself under the falling bombs? To offer himself as a potential target?
Questions like these, heavily disguised beneath a torrent of other more routine enquiries, formed the launch pad for the days and evenings to come.
Moncrieff favoured working in two-man teams. The available interrogators were an ex-Seaforth Highlander called Tar Robertson, and another ex-soldier, Robert ‘Tin-Eye’ Stephens. Both men had amassed a great deal of experience in the busy months since the outbreak of war. Stephens, with his screw-in monocle, sought to offer himself as a near-caricature of the serving Army officer: short-tempered, choleric and all too easy to underestimate. Robertson, with his Edinburgh manners and easy charm, seemed an altogether softer prospect. Together, in one encounter after another, they’d developed a talent for quickly disentangling fantasy or straight lies from something closer to the truth and Moncrieff had yet to meet a detainee who could avoid their artful traps.
Hesketh, however, had their measure within minutes and to Moncrieff’s quiet satisfaction, he listened to the man they’d dubbed Souk parrying every thrust. While Stephens carried a bludgeon, Robertson favoured the rapier, but as the interrogation sessions lengthened Moncrieff became aware of just how deftly Hesketh was laying out the goods on his market stall.
He was, he said, a trader. His mission in life was to make money because, by and large, money opened a number of doors in which he had an interest. If this made him self-indulgent, sybaritic, a mere plaything of the gods of luxe, then so be it, but over decades of both opportunity and amusement he’d learned a very simple truth. That you could have anything you wanted as long as you held your nerve.
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