Raid 42

by Graham Hurley

  Moncrieff returned to page one, reading the original version this time. His years at university had taught him a great deal about the grammar of German bureaucracy, and as he waded deeper into the document he recognised the fingerprints of the Foreign Office committee which must have put these proposals together. Every paragraph perfectly balanced. Every concrete offer freighted with caveats.

  Reaching for a pen, Moncrieff began to make notes, trying to extract the essence of what Berlin was proposing. Broadly, in keeping with every peace offer that had followed the Fall of France, Britain was invited to turn her attention away from mainland Europe and content herself with her overseas possessions and protection of the trade routes that knitted the Empire together. Germany, given her dominance on the Continent, would naturally expect the return of her own colonies, surrendered after the last war, but this act of restitution – in the words of Hess – would answer nothing more than the demands of natural justice.

  The demands of natural justice.

  Moncrieff was sitting in the armchair beneath the window, glad of the breeze from the river on the back of his neck, and he pondered the phrase for a moment or two. The demands of natural justice. Would the Czechs recognise a proposition like this? Would the Poles? The Dutch? The Danes? The French? Entire countries dismembered in less time than it had taken Napoleon to advance less than a handful of miles into Russia? He shook his head. Diplomatic sleight of hand, he thought. The mere act of possession turns out to be the key that unlocks a thousand doors. Neglect your defences, ignore the stamp of a million jackboots across the Rhine, and this is where you end up. Having to concede, in evident good faith, the demands of natural justice.

  Moncrieff read on, scribbling notes as he got to the foot of each page, increasingly surprised what Berlin, for its own part, was prepared to offer the British in return for the cessation of hostilities and a twenty-five-year peace treaty. The withdrawal of all German troops from non-Vichy France, from Belgium, from Luxembourg, from Holland, from Denmark and even from Norway. An undertaking that every trace of German bureaucratic control – that corset of ID checks, local regulations, demands for the surrender of labour, food and other material goods – would likewise be withdrawn. The fruits of the German victory, in other words – so quickly won, so carefully stored – would be returned to their rightful owners.

  Astonishing, thought Moncrieff. There were, of course, conditions attached to this seeming act of generosity on the part of the conqueror. Berlin expected her reliance on the supply of Swedish iron ore, shipped to German ports via Norway, to be respected. Important, as well, was the huge larder that was France. The Reich comprised eighty-seven million Germans. They had to be fed and watered. This happened at the moment by right of conquest but after signature of the Anglo-German peace treaty, Berlin would revert to being just another customer in the brimming markets of Western Europe.

  Moncrieff stared at the phrase. Was the Deputy Führer serious? Did proposals this generous really have the backing of the only person who mattered in Berlin? And if Hitler was serious about what Hess was pledging, would he really stand by his promise? Moncrieff thought the answer was no. If his experience at the last Nuremberg rally had taught him anything, it was the sheer duplicity of the man. He remembered the uniformed figure on the tribune at the Zeppelinfeld, his right arm thrust out, bellowing threats to the Czechs in Prague. Rules, he seemed to be saying, were strictly for lesser mortals. Sign a peace treaty one day, and the next you’d find some pressing reason why national survival or the demands of natural justice demanded a wholesale revision.

  There was something else, too, Moncrieff realised as he checked through the treaty proposals a second time. The document undoubtedly contained good news for France and the other western democracies but where was Poland? Where was Czechoslovakia? Hess had simply ignored the interests of tens of millions of other Europeans, Middle Europeans, now hapless subjects of the Reich. By choosing to exclude them, he’d consigned them to the dustbin of history. They’d ceased to exist. They’d become nowhere people, subject only to the whims of Berlin.

  Did that matter? Moncrieff got to his feet again and stood at the window. In essence, as he recognised only too well, this document returned Western Europe to September 1938. After a taste of German steel, after six terrifying weeks of choked roads and incessant bombardment, would the French really want to surrender the rest of their country for the sake of the Czechs, or the Poles? Knowing what they now knew about the sheer weight of the German military machine? Moncrieff thought not.

  And what of the British audience Hess had flown to engage? For the peace lobby and perhaps millions of others, Dunkirk and everything that had followed afterwards had served as a foretaste of what they, too, could expect. The realities of war were already present in every ration book, in every queue for bread, and a thin smear of butter, and powdered eggs, and a pinch of tea. This was the everyday face of fortitude, of sacrifice, of never giving in. This was bad enough but what if it got worse? What if the Russians went under? What if the Americans kept their powder dry? What if Churchill’s unbending defiance yielded nothing but the guarantee of more misery?

  Moncrieff picked up the letter again, realising at last just how cleverly this document had been drafted. It seemed, at the stroke of a pen, to offer everything that any sane Englishman could ever want. Continued access to the Empire. An end to humiliation in Europe. Properly stocked shops. No more bombers. A good night’s sleep. Put proposals like these to the national vote and the outcome would be a stampede to the polling booths. Two and a half years of war had been more than enough and if the presence of Churchill in Downing Street was the only real obstacle to an honourable peace, then so be it. He’d have to go.

  Moncrieff carefully folded the German copy of the letter and returned it to the envelope. No wonder, he thought, that Hess’s own copy had so quickly disappeared after his arrest. Make these proposals public and Churchill’s days would be numbered. Moncrieff slipped the envelope into his pocket and studied the room for a moment, looking for somewhere to hide the translation. If Hess’s copy could disappear in the relative safety of Scotland then so could this one, here in the kasbah that was Lisbon.

  In one corner of the room was an ill-fitting metal vent at floor level that seemed to be part of the hotel’s heating system. Moncrieff used one of the knives that had come with room service to lever it away. Inside there was just enough room to hide the English translation. He was still replacing the metal vent when he heard shouts from the street outside.

  From the window, hidden by the fall of the curtain, Moncrieff looked down. The shoeshine boy had gone. Two men were standing beside a black car. The car was blocking the street. A third man, suited, seemed to be in charge. He was looking up at the hotel.

  Moncrieff stepped back into the room. He’d no idea who these people might be, but he’d always discounted coincidence and knew that he had bare seconds to leave. Checking that he still had Schultz’s automatic, he made for the door.

  Mercifully, the figures in the street had neglected to check the rear of the hotel. Moncrieff rode the lift to the basement and picked his way through a maze of corridors until a blaze of sunshine beckoned him into a narrow alley. Cats scattered as he hurried towards the clatter of traffic from a nearby road. Here, just another pedestrian on the crowded pavement, he felt safer. He checked his pocket for the envelope. Still there.

  Hesketh’s new address was ten minutes away. Bella had paid him a visit and last night she’d explained exactly where he was living. Familiar by now with the latticework of streets in this part of the city, Moncrieff took care to scout the approaches to the apartment block, alert for signs of surveillance. As far as he could tell, there was no one around. He crossed the road. When he got to the apartment block, the door to the street was an inch or so ajar. He gave it a gentle push. It swung open.

  He slipped inside, pulling the door closed behind him. Here it was cooler. He paused a moment, alert for the slightest mov
ement. The place smelled stale. A staircase led upwards. Windows giving onto the street were shuttered against the heat. Moncrieff drew Schultz’s gun and moved carefully upwards, step by step. According to Bella, Hesketh lived at the very top of the building. On the first-floor landing, Moncrieff paused. In the shadows, every door was closed. Very faintly, from somewhere above, he thought he could hear the murmur of conversation. Another landing, more stairs. Two people, he thought, a man and a woman. They were speaking in a mixture of French and English and from time to time the woman laughed. The man, unmistakably, was Hesketh.

  Moncrieff paused again, then took the next flight of stairs. Finally, he found himself outside Hesketh’s apartment. The door was open and on the balcony beyond the sitting room two figures were sitting at a glass-topped table, gazing out at the view. The wine bottle on the table was nearly empty and, as Moncrieff watched, Hesketh reached lazily back to crush the remains of his cigarette in the ash tray. If she really wanted sex again, he sighed, then so be it.

  The woman, who was black, caught his hand and raised it to her lips. I want it here, she said. In the sunshine. In the heat of the late afternoon. And afterwards, for a while, we’ll go inside and sleep. And then maybe I’ll take you to the casino again and you can make us very rich.

  It was Hesketh’s turn to laugh. He helped himself to the last of the wine in the bottle and lit another cigarette. He had a little business to transact, he told her, but it was nothing that couldn’t wait.

  Moncrieff had seen enough. Neither Hesketh nor the woman were aware of him crossing the living room. When he emerged into the sunshine, she gave a little gasp of surprise and then covered her mouth. She was a big woman, exactly Hesketh’s taste, and she couldn’t take her eyes off the gun.

  ‘Tam, my dear fellow,’ Hesketh ignored the heavy automatic. ‘This is Celeste. Celeste? Say bonjour to my friend Tam. We go back a while, Tam and I. Brothers-in-arms.’

  Hesketh got to his feet. The occasion called for another chair and at least one more bottle of wine. Moncrieff told him to sit down.

  ‘Not a social visit? How disappointing.’

  Moncrieff wanted to know about Bella. Where was she?

  ‘I’ve no idea. I rather thought she was with you.’

  ‘She’s not.’

  ‘You think she might have fled? Found herself a berth on one of those ships down there?’ Hesketh waved a languid hand towards the river. ‘Gone back to Moscow?’

  Moncrieff ignored the suggestion. He wanted to know who had been following Schultz and Dieter Merz in from the airfield.

  Hesketh smiled. Herr Schultz, he murmured, was a prisoner of his imagination. He’d been living in Berlin for far too long. The man was haunted by ghosts. He needed a week or two in the sunshine. He needed to relax, unwind, enjoy himself. The car behind had been entirely innocent. Ditto the driver. Hesketh had been there. He knew.

  ‘Schultz is a friend of mine.’

  ‘I rather gathered that. You know about the secret police here? Salazar’s PVDE? They make sure we all play by the rules. The rules, I admit, can be more than elastic but the one thing they hate is untidiness. Schultz’s little adventure had no merit whatsoever. It was coarse in the extreme and it deeply upset the locals. The PVDE like to model themselves on the Gestapo. Herr Schultz might be wise to take that into account.’

  ‘He’s gone. He’ll be in the air by now.’

  ‘Very wise. The Berlin temperament doesn’t travel well and I suspect Schultz is the perfect example.’ He paused, reaching for his glass. ‘May I assume, at the very least, that he delivered your package?’

  Moncrieff didn’t answer. Downstairs, in the bowels of the building, he heard a bell ring. A moment later, Hesketh was on his feet, stepping past Moncrieff and heading for the door to the stairs. Moncrieff returned the gun to the waistband of his trousers. He nodded at the woman and asked about the casino.

  ‘You go there a lot? You and Senhor Hesketh?’

  ‘Oui. Bien sur.’

  ‘And you win?’

  ‘Often we win. Sometimes not.’

  ‘At?’

  ‘Roulette. Always. Never card games. Always roulette. Your friend says he prefers to trust himself to luck. Not skill.’

  ‘My friend?’

  ‘Senhor Hesketh.’ She put the emphasis on the last syllable. ‘I’ve been at the roulette table many, many times with many, many men but never anyone with the Senhor’s luck. Is he brave? Very. Does he love money? Yes. Does he trust his own luck? Mais oui. So does that make him wise?’ She smiled. ‘Non. Just brave. And a little…’ she touched her head, ‘… crazy.’

  Hesketh was back. Moncrieff had learned to recognise the slightly pained expression on his face. This was Lisbon. Something had gone wrong. Again.

  ‘A contact from the German Embassy, I’m afraid.’ He gestured back towards the stairs. ‘He has news about La Menzies.’

  ‘He’s still here? Your contact?’

  ‘Alas, no.’

  ‘So what did he say?’

  ‘It appears that she’s in their custody. They’re perfectly happy to give her back but there’s a price to be paid. They’re deeply unhappy about the document Schultz gave you. They’re saying he has no jurisdiction in the matter. To be blunt, and Germans are extremely good at this, they want the bloody thing returned.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You give it to me. And I, in turn, pass it to them.’

  ‘And Isobel?’

  ‘She’ll be released within the hour. Which gives us plenty of time to do justice to another bottle.’

  ‘You’re telling me she’ll be coming here?’

  ‘Yes. All I have to do is make a telephone call from the bar on the corner of the street.’

  ‘And Schultz’s document?’

  ‘That will stay on the table until she appears. A deal with just a touch of elegance, n’est-ce pas? You have the bloody thing? You have it with you?’

  Moncrieff didn’t answer. Instead he asked why the Germans should so suddenly be having second thoughts about a peace treaty.

  Hesketh shrugged. ‘That, I’m afraid, remains a mystery. Germans, to be frank, can sometimes be impenetrable as well as bad mannered. Some tribal difference in Berlin? One ministry at another’s throat? Your guess is as good as mine. Your good lady, alas, is the meat in the Wilhelmstrasse sandwich. And so, my friend, are you. I suggest I pop along to make the telephone call and leave Celeste here to keep you amused. Under circumstances like these I always find it pays to have a modest celebration. After the first bottle, Schultz’s document will have lost its importance, and after the second, we’ll have forgotten it ever existed. Sind wir uns einig?’ We agree?

  Without waiting for an answer, Hesketh muttered something in French to Celeste and left. Moncrieff heard the light patter of his footsteps on the stairs receding into silence. Then came the faintest noise of the door to the street opening and closing.

  Celeste thought Senhor Hesketh might be gone some time. If Senhor Tam would like sex she was happy to oblige. Otherwise she would find some more wine.

  Moncrieff studied her a moment, and then checked his watch. Nearly five o’clock. He got to his feet and thanked her for the offer of the wine.

  ‘You’re going?’ She looked surprised.

  ‘I am. Give Souk my regards. And tell him to take care at the roulette table because one day his luck may run out.’

  ‘Souk?’

  ‘He’ll understand.’

  Moncrieff headed for the door. Out in the sunshine, a minute or so later, the street was empty. Only when he got to the boulevard that ran down to the docks did he find directions to the Campo dos Mártires. A number seven tram, the flower seller told him. A ten-minute journey. Maybe less.

  The German Embassy was a grey five-storey building looking onto the park. Over the entrance, a swastika banner hung lifeless in the still air. Inside, a smart-looking woman in a black suit was preparing t
o leave for the day. When Moncrieff asked to see Wolfgang Spiegelhalte, she frowned.

  ‘You have an appointment?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘Hauptmann Spiegelhalte is an extremely busy man. I’m afraid—’

  ‘Tell him Wilhelm Schultz sends his regards.’

  ‘Oberst Schultz?’ She clearly recognised the name. Her hand reached for the telephone on the desk. The frown had gone. ‘My apologies, Senhor.’

  Spiegelhalte appeared within minutes. He was a small, slight figure in a rumpled suit. He wore a pair of dark-rimmed glasses and obviously took some care to avoid the sun. With his air of faint neglect he might have been a university lecturer without a woman or a wife to look after him. Long, white, ringless fingers. And eyes that missed nothing.

  He took Moncrieff by the arm and escorted him up two flights of stairs. He wanted to know about Schultz. Had he left Lisbon already? And if not, why not?

  His office was on the second floor. The big green expanse of the park filled the window, and a black and white photograph of Hitler dominated one wall. Moncrieff took a seat in front of the desk. He’d explained what little he knew about the incident en route from the airfield. Spiegelhalte was watching him carefully.

  ‘Your German is excellent. Do all English spies take so much trouble to learn our language?’

  Moncrieff smiled. He mentioned Isobel Menzies.

  ‘I know Miss Menzies. She, too, speaks good German and now Russian, too. I imagine she must be something of a loss from your point of view.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Professionally?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And in other ways, perhaps?’

  Moncrieff ignored the question. Miss Menzies, he said, appeared to have gone missing. Might she be here? At the embassy?

  ‘I have no idea. You want me to find out?’