Nest of the Monarch

by Kay Kenyon

  “I don’t swim.”

  “Baths, darling. No swim cap needed.”

  “Yes, but they’re enormous. How do you bathe with thirty other people?”

  “Well, it could have been two people if you weren’t such a prude.”

  She smirked. “We were too occupied in the bridal suite to bathe.” They had taken to trading suggestive comments. It helped to make them believable as a couple, in case the Gestapo was watching.

  Alex dropped his cigarette and ground it out with his shoe. “Tell me, did I enjoy myself?”

  “I have no idea. But I enjoyed myself immensely.”

  He laughed, cinching her closer.

  Most of what she knew of the husband the head office had chosen for her came from the dossier she had read and then burned in her fireplace. Alexander Reed was thirty-six, well-heeled, public school, the usual pedigree for the Foreign Service. His appointment as second secretary for trade in Berlin was viewed as a nice promotion after his posting in Lisbon. His father, a provost at Eton; his mother, from the right tribe, active in charities in South Cambridgeshire.

  She twisted the heavy ring on her left hand. It was, she knew, a real diamond. Everything else was complete fabrication.

  Alex had studied her dossier as well. He understood that his wife was undercover as Elaine Reed, the former Elaine Fraser. But he didn’t know much more than that she was on special assignment from the Foreign Office, which he might assume, but not know for certain, meant the Secret Intelligence Service. Doubtless he was curious about her mission, but he didn’t need to know.

  In case anyone should pry, key details of Elaine Fraser’s life were backed up with false documentation in the United States and in Great Britain, most recently at the Chelsea Registry Office, which would document the recent marriage. Alex’s parents had been quietly brought into the picture, but since they were the right sort of family, they could hold a secret. They stoically agreed to bear the disappointment of the marriage annulment when it came.

  Kim’s marriage to a diplomat was how she could credibly be in residence in Berlin, where she could mingle with highly placed Nazi officials. But even as Alex’s wife, she would not have diplomatic immunity. If she were caught in possession of product relating to military intelligence, the host country would be free to make a terrific fuss, an outcome that would strain relations with the German government, and cause consternation in the Foreign Office, where they preferred the roles of diplomacy and espionage to be clear and separate. On the surface, anyway.

  The train to Dresden approached, huffing and clanking. “I shan’t be gone long, just a day,” Alex said, picking up his suitcase. “Kiss me, darling.” He pulled her close, noticing her stiffness, and whispered, “Oh, let yourself go.”

  She put a hand up to his chest. “The English don’t in public, do they?”

  Pressing his hand into the small of her back, he lifted her toward his lips and held the kiss for rather too long.

  “I shall miss you desperately!” he said, loud enough to make a few people on the platform smile. And with that, he boarded the train, waving cheerfully and a bit too long. He would make a terrible stage actor.

  This was not the way Kim had imagined herself being married. At thirty-three, never engaged, she sometimes dreamed of a conventional life. There might be a time for that someday, when the world righted itself. How strange it was that most people seemed to believe that the world was right enough at present, even though Germany had begun a massive military buildup and had retaken the Rhineland, a clear threat to Europe.

  Yet people did nothing. They must not provoke the Germans, a desperate people with a fanatical leader. Everyone had lost someone in the Great War. In a grief that had not faded, she and her father had lost a brother and a son: Robert. People were afraid of another cataclysm, and who could blame them? But fear was not the only reaction to loss. There was also resolve. With SIS, she and her father, Julian, had made a certain choice. It might not change the world. But it wasn’t nothing.

  Since the jitney had left for the spa, Kim decided to go to the village on foot. Her plan was to take lunch somewhere and keep her tourist cover by shopping for gifts. Walking to der Marktplatz, she silently named things in German, practicing this very difficult language. Above the red mansard roofs of the town hall and hotels rose the distinctive tower of St. John’s Church, its dark turret purple in the October light. On the pavement outside, two policemen narrowed their eyes, scrutinizing her as she passed. It conveyed the distinct impression of suspicion and unhelpfulness, something she had noticed already in Bad Schandau. It was odd that a spa village, so far from Berlin where one heard of increased police surveillance, would not be more welcoming.

  There were nights when the thought of being undercover in the heart of Nazi Germany kept sleep at bay. But SIS had intelligence reports on a special German weapon, and His Majesty’s Government was keen to know what it was. A new development in rocketry could put London at risk, even if it was six hundred miles from Germany. And then there was the much darker prospect of atomic weapon development. It was years away, unless a highly rated hypercognition Talent achieved a breakthrough. England would love to have such a person. Pray God the Nazis did not have one.

  So far not even the British mole in the German military intelligence, the Abwehr, had uncovered references to a new weapon. Of course Kim would not be the only spill artist, mesmerizer, or hyperempathy Talent trying to penetrate the operation.

  For lunch, she decided to join the crowd at a charming beer garden with picnic tables outside overlooking the Elbe River. The tables were nearly full, but as Kim stood, lunch tray in hand, surveying the tables, two women waved her over.

  “Please join us,” the one in a shawl said in German, smiling and moving over to make room. Kim sat down, thanking them in halting German and nodding at the woman across from her, heavyset, with her blond hair rolled into a helmetlike do.

  As Kim unwrapped her bratwurst sandwich, the one in the shawl said in English, “So, I make a guess: American?”

  “Ellie!” the blond woman said. “Her German is not so bad.”

  “No, Sophie, I mean nothing,” the other said, tucking into her pastry. They were speaking English now, as a courtesy.

  “Well, that was a good guess,” Kim said to Ellie. “I was raised in America, but I have been in England the past few years. German is a big challenge to learn!”

  “Oh, ja, we have many consonants!” Ellie remarked. “But you can catch on.”

  The river caught the sun as a ferry cut across the water, leaving a swath of molten gold. All was bright and normal, with friendly locals and an excellent sandwich.

  “You know,” Sophie said, digging for something in her tote, “it is so much easier to read than to speak.” Handing her a folded newspaper, she said, “Here. For practice.”

  Kim nodded her thanks. It was a local broadsheet. A small heading mentioned local murders. She frowned at the phrases that spoke of violent deaths.

  Ellie leaned in, noting the article. “Terrible. They say the two were . . . ripped, do you say? And blaming that it was a bear!” She snorted.

  Kim looked askance at her food. Oblivious to the disturbing talk over luncheon, Ellie went on, “To ask me, Jews murdered them. They use the blood in their religious rites, you know.”

  Kim was chagrined to hear this woman express such an opinion in modern times. Blood libel, the bizarre accusation made against Jews, that they slaughtered Christians for unholy rituals.

  “Nein,” Sophie said, wiping pie crumbs from her mouth. “They were Jews that were murdered, so no Jew would do it.”

  “But the blood nearly drained away from them . . . ,” Ellie argued.

  A mother who shared their table and had been tending to her children’s meal frowned at them.

  Sophie bent forward over the table, lowering her voice. “My cousin in Wiesbaden, he said the same thing happened there, a Jewish shoemaker. The throat cut open, the blood drained.” S
he nodded with dark solemnity. “It was a Teufel.” A word Kim didn’t know. “So it does no good to bury them.” She flicked a gaze at Kim. “They will come back.”

  “It says that in the paper?” Kim asked.

  Sophie smirked. “Nein, nein. It is the bear, you know.”

  Kim folded the sandwich back in its paper.

  “Now look, Sophie!” Ellie said. “You have disturbed our guest.”

  Kim shook her head. “Oh, not at all. I will save this for later, but I must be going. How kind of you to share your table.”

  “You may keep the paper!” Sophie said, turning back to her pie.

  “Our last night in Bad Schandau.” In the spa restaurant, Alex held his champagne flute up.

  Kim drank the toast. Tomorrow, Berlin.

  “Tell you what, let’s celebrate!” He gestured for the waiter. “Another.” The waiter nodded, pouring the last of the bottle of Veuve Clicquot.

  “Dresden went well, then?” Kim asked. His meeting had been something to do with war bond repayments on which the Nazi Party had been threatening to default.

  “It did, rather. I have Herr Eckert’s promise to bring a new repayment schedule to Göring. Not full repayment, but I dare say a long way north of half.”

  The new bottle arrived. Kim covered her glass with her hand and the waiter put it on ice.

  “Oh, come now,” Alex said as the waiter retreated. “Our last night. Tomorrow is soon enough for business. Whatever your business is.” He winked at her, his mood so buoyant, she let him pour. He was being a good sport about not prying into her mission, probably assuming it was garden-variety spying. She had to admit that Alex was a rather good companion, and champagne with a handsome man was never a complete mistake.

  “There was an odd thing in the village yesterday,” she said, twirling the champagne in its flute. “Some women were talking about local murders.”

  “People are being murdered in Bad Schandau?” He sat back, waiting to be entertained.

  “Yes, and the blood drained from them. It’s not just here but in Wiesbaden, and they can’t be buried if a fiend has taken them.” Teufel. Fiend, the word she had looked up in her German-English dictionary.

  He widened his eyes in mock alarm. “Well, we shall certainly double-lock our doors tonight.” He tucked into his portion of rack of lamb. “So who was murdered by this fiend?”

  “Two, maybe three Jews, at the very least. Don’t you think it’s strange they’re talking of blood being drained from bodies?”

  “A village like this is full of superstitions. It’ll be different in Berlin.”

  “They were talking about rising from the dead.”

  He topped off her glass. “How Bram Stoker of them! Did they actually say ‘rising from the dead’?”

  “No. They said you can’t bury them because they come back.”

  “I dare say that explains why Germans are never the life of the party.” He leaned in, lowering his voice. “Perhaps some of them are dead.”

  She smiled in appreciation.

  After dinner he ordered dessert for her and port for himself. Somehow he knew that she liked apple torte. So married of him. It was a good touch and she went along.

  But she did not go along with the idea that she should leave the door to the adjoining suites ajar that night.

  He stood in the doorway, sleeves rolled up to show very nice forearms, his tie cast aside. “I didn’t mean it, anyway,” he said when she demurred.

  Despite her refusal, she found herself disappointed. At any one moment she couldn’t quite tell if his flirting was just an act.

  Unless he spilled to her. Which was the surest way to end a relationship, when someone thought they had just had words pried out of them. The very reason she had never gotten past brief courtships with men. Not that she and Alex were having a courtship.

  He smiled. “Goodnight, Kim.”

  “Goodnight.”

  “Fancy a swag of garlic for over the bed?”

  She laughed and softly closed the door.

  3

  TIERGARTENSTRASSE 44, BERLIN

  THURSDAY, OCTOBER 29. Kim slammed shut another drawer. Where would a maid have put her LNER train timetable? Her bedroom was stuffed with dark mahogany dressers, chests, and armoires, all with their drawers and compartments. When she and Alex had arrived that morning, her trunks had already been unpacked, their contents put away by Bibi. The maid had had plenty of time, since the main luggage had arrived five days ago, straight from the steamer at Hamburg.

  Now, having been driven from the S-Bahn station down the Wilhelmstrasse past the Nazi government buildings, Kim was in need of her LNER timetable to calm her nerves.

  Good God, it had only been German bunting, but the banners were everywhere: the red background, the white circle with the broken black cross, or Hakenkreuz, which some called the swastika. It was a powerful symbol, meant to intimidate. Effective too.

  She opened the armoire where her clothes hung, checking the high shelf. No timetable. Just as she was about to close it, she saw that one of her dresses had fallen off the hanger. When she picked it up, she noticed that it wasn’t hers, but rather a lovely satin gown with seed pearls on the bodice.

  Bibi ducked into the room. “Is anything needed, madam?”

  Kim smiled at Bibi. She guessed her to be straddling fifty. Her hair, black and curly, framed a pleasantly lined face.

  “Come in, Bibi.” When the maid stepped in, she went on, “This cocktail dress isn’t mine. It must have belonged to the previous tenant.”

  “Oh,” Bibi said. “Those people left things. I will take it, madam, and dispose of it.”

  “It’s such a fine gown. Can you return it?”

  A worried look crossed Bibi’s face. “It won’t be necessary, madam. They were . . . Well, they have left Berlin.”

  Kim let her take the dress. “Bibi, I would prefer that you not call me madam. Mrs. Reed or ma’am will do. Second, I would like to communicate in German, so I can practice, if you wouldn’t mind helping me a bit.”

  “But Mr. Reed made clear that he wished me to speak English.”

  “Yes, and do so around Mr. Reed, but between the two of us, German, please. If you wouldn’t mind correcting me when I get it wrong?”

  “Well.” Bibi considered this. “I could try.”

  “Thank you. I speak poorly, so just make suggestions on the most important lapses, all right?”

  “Yes, madam.”

  Kim let that go. It might take awhile. “And now, I have a question,” she said in German. “Where is the little orange book? I put it with my . . . um, underclothes in the suitcase.” She didn’t have the word for “trunk,” so she held wide her arms to show what she meant.

  Bibi nodded. She crossed over to one of the thousand drawers and produced the London and North Eastern Railway booklet. “Here it is,” she said slowly in German, as though speaking to a child.

  When Bibi left, Kim climbed onto the bed and propped herself up with pillows. She had greeted the three servants, the tall and commanding cook, Mrs. Grunewald, spry Bibi and her formal, quiet husband Albert, who in his midsixties handled duties as Alex’s valet and the mover, on occasion, of heavy Weimar Republic mahogany from room to room. Bibi served at table and did light housekeeping; then there was someone named Maria who was to come twice a week for heavier cleaning. Everyone was carefully vetted, with nothing recorded against them, so she had been told.

  Tiergartenstrasse 44 was a short walk from the Reichstag and directly across from the Tiergarten, the enormous park at the heart of Berlin. The three-story stone mansion with its decorative wrought-iron fence and a splendid back garden rented at a very reasonable price. Oddly it came furnished not only with the necessary furniture, but personal items such as fine paintings, many old books, brocade runners, and fine porcelain figurines. Alex had been excited to show it to her. “Do you love it, darling?” he had said this morning.

  “Well, I haven’t quite seen it yet
.” They had stood in the vestibule, its walls sheathed in green silk. He gestured her into the drawing room—enameled black mantel, red damask walls, a gleaming piano—and from there into the rather more cozy library, followed by the dining room to seat eighteen, and the lovely wintergarten with a curved wall of glass in front of which sat enormous potted plants obscuring the outdoors. It was all quite Victorian, Kim thought, and could be very much improved by a dog. A well-behaved border collie, say, or perhaps a precocious terrier, to humanize the place.

  Upstairs were the imposing master bedrooms, adjoining, and a long hall leading to other bedrooms where doors had been shut to conserve heat. Servant quarters on the third floor accommodated Bibi and Albert.

  She found herself wishing Alex had not had to present himself at the consular offices right away; he did seem to brighten up any place where he was. Feeling a bit homesick, she sat on the bed and opened the LNER timetable, allowing the names of the stops—King’s Cross Station, Newcastle, Doncaster, Leeds, York—to soothe her.

  Tomorrow she would meet her SIS contact, Duncan. With the Berlin station undercover, reporting to her handler would entail meticulous security practices. There would be a dead drop, signals to request meetings, and the need for her to rent a secure flat the location of which no one was to know. The flat would be her bolt-hole in case of pursuit. It brought to mind a vision of her rushing into a dirty hallway of some cheap walk-up with the Gestapo pounding after her, but that was surely a bit overdramatic. She would start off attending diplomatic functions, meet and mix. Listen for a spill.

  She raised the timetable again, then let it drift back to her lap. By her Helbros watch, the one her mother had given her before she’d left the States, it was 2:43 PM. A couple hours until Alex got home. She would have time for a bath and an hour of German vocabulary.

  But she was too excited to study. The ten-minute ride from the S-Bahn station to the house had left a deep impression.

  When she and Alex had debarked from the train that morning, they had found themselves in the cathedral-like Lehrter Bahnhof Station with its barrel-vaulted ceiling. The embassy had provided a car and driver, and in the limousine, they were whisked onto the Wilhelmstrasse. Soon they passed the immense Reichstagsgebäude, its plaza corners anchored by four soaring columns capped with eagle insignia.