“I did, sir. But I thought—”
“That it was simply a matter of accepting what happened to Anna. Perhaps the fault is ours for not making it clear. You see, Druce, what happened to Anna was merely a concomitant of everything else that has happened in this family over the past twenty years. Anna was kidnapped because I killed Karlovy. I killed Karlovy in a vain attempt to prevent the murder of the Archduke Franz Ferdinand. That I was involved at all was because of my love for Anna’s mother who was, to all intents and purposes, murdered by the Austrian secret police, as had been her father; while her mother, Anna’s grandmother and the woman after whom she is named, was killed by the Austrian army. This family is steeped in blood and battle, Druce. I had hoped it might be over, but now I know it can never be over. It had been my intention that Johnnie, in the fullness of time, would take over the protection of his sisters, and I still hope that will happen. But we have been rather overtaken by events and my own carelessness. So for the moment it is only Anna, and of course Martina, who can protect us.”
“If I may say so, sir, that is a very sombre, uncivilised, and certainly un-Christian attitude.”
“Sadly, we are dealing with uncivilised and un-Christian enemies.”
“Into which category you would place the British War Office.”
“Certainly. There is nothing the least civilised or Christian about the British War Office. To believe otherwise is pure hypocrisy. I am sorry to have to accuse you of that, but I am sure it is simply because you have never considered the matter deeply enough.”
“So you believe that if anyone attempts to kill you, their lives are immediately forfeit? Without due and proper recourse to the law?”
“I might go for due process of law if I believed that it would be the least effective. Sadly we are not dealing with a man who poisons his wife, or even an habitual criminal who commits murder in the course of a robbery; we are dealing with organised forces with immense resources at their disposal. When one of these forces determines that I am to be disposed of, I reserve the right to riposte with every force at my disposal.”
“Including your own daughter.”
“Had I been up and about I would not have allowed Anna to do what she did. As I was not up and about, she took the law into her own hands. In doing this, she acted entirely as her mother and her grandmother would have done.”
“And as you have reminded us, they are both dead,” Druce said bitterly.
“Sadly, yes. But looking over one’s shoulder is nearly always a waste of time. I think you need to think very clearly about this, Druce. I understand and sympathise with your point of view. You were brought up in a totally different world to that of Anna and her siblings. The decision as to whether you . . .” he chose his words with care, “wish, or can afford, to abandon your world for ours, has got to be yours alone. If you decide that you cannot do so then I shall not hold it against you. And neither, I am sure, will Anna.”
He glanced at Anna, who had been following the conversation, as had Martina, with interest.
“But the commitment,” Berkeley went on, “if you join forces with us, will have to be total and irrevocable.”
“I am to stand at Anna’s shoulder and load her gun while she shoots at someone else,” Druce said bitterly.
“It could come to that,” Berkeley said, urbanely.
“And of course, if I were to break the engagement I would immediately have to be executed myself, as knowing too much.”
“I hope it would not come to that,” Berkeley said. “I understand that you have already pledged yourself to support Anna, in this matter at least. Besides, as it is nearly a week since Shrimpton was killed and in that time you have helped Anna in every way possible, that makes you an accessory after the fact. Were you to attempt to turn her in now you would find yourself in serious trouble. You may be able to do a deal with the police for turning King’s evidence, but your career as a solicitor would be ended. Moreover, so that you are in no doubt, should you, to use the hackneyed term, shop my daughter, then you had better hire yourself a bodyguard immediately, not that I think it would do you much good.”
Druce stared at him for a moment, then got up and went into the hall.
Anna followed him. “I am sorry you quarrelled with Papa. But I suppose your conflicting attitudes did need bringing into the open.”
“Conflicting attitudes! Your father is—”
“A remarkable man,” she quickly interjected. “You were very happy about that, once.”
He sighed, and held her hands. “Anna, do you suppose Martina can take care of him?”
“I should think so.”
“Well, then, can you not marry me, come and live in Northampton, and turn your back on all this?”
“You know that is impossible, Harry. The family must stick together, more than ever now. It is us against the whole world.”
“And you glory in that.”
She smiled. “It is a challenge.”
“And you are asking me to abandon everything to join you in facing that challenge.”
“I suppose I am.”
He sighed, and drew her forward for a kiss on the forehead. “You know it will end in your death.”
“Maybe, but I will not abandon Papa, Harry.”
“And I cannot abandon my beliefs – in right and wrong, in the rule of law, in the sanctity of human life – any more than you can abandon yours.”
“Then it is goodbye. At least your parents will be pleased.”
“Anna . . .”
She freed her hands. “I think you should go now; I must go back to Papa.”
Anna closed the door behind Druce and leaned against it. She supposed she should feel like weeping, but she did not. She had always known it was not going to work.
Nor was she even very concerned at the realisation that she would probably never marry and have children of her own. The world, or at least the English world, was full of Harry Druces but there was only one Berkeley Townsend.
She found herself thinking of what Druce had said, all so reasoned, sensible, Christian . . . and civilised Papa had called it, almost contemptuously. Papa had been right, of course; the ability to be so civilised existed only in a few relatively small parts of the world. There had been no such civilisation in the Balkans of her mother and grandmother; she doubted it had arrived yet.
But that did not mean it was not an ideal to be sought. Could someone who had spent five years of her life being raped and maltreated and who had now killed two people ever become civilised? Why not? What of the millions of men who had spent four years killing other millions of men and who were now living civilised Christian lives? They had fought and killed, and then, when the war was over and they had been called upon to lay down their arms, they had done so and resumed their normal lives as law-abiding citizens. She would do the same . . . when the war was over.
Her war!
*
She went into the drawing room, and Martina got up to embrace her. “My darling,” she said. “I am most terribly sorry.”
“It was never possible,” Anna said, and sat beside her father. “Are you all right?”
“I’m in the company of my two favourite women. What more can I ask.”
“We need to plan.”
“We do indeed. But as I said, I can handle Peter Watt. I don’t think they’ll be able to take that any further, at least in our direction.”
“You think you can trust Druce?” Martina asked.
“I think we can. Anna?”
“I believe so. At least for the time being. I am thinking of this Himmler business.”
“I’m afraid that is too hot for us to handle,” Berkeley said.
“And when he sends another assassin?”
“We’ll have to cope with that as best we can.”
“Of course. But it will be difficult, as we won’t know where or when or how.”
“The where and the how are simple enough,” Berkeley pointed out. “As
I can no longer move about, the where has got to be right here at the farmhouse and the how will have to be either a gun or a knife. It is the when that we do not know.”
“And that is his trump card,” Anna said. “He must know that we cannot keep up a state of readiness for an indefinite period. There must come a time when we lower our guard.”
“I’m afraid that’s true.”
“We cannot permit that to happen, Papa.”
“I don’t see how we can prevent it.”
“I have been thinking about it. This Nazi Party is just a fringe organisation, isn’t it? I mean, it doesn’t have any real political power?”
“No, it doesn’t. Which doesn’t mean it doesn’t have power, though. It seems to have its tentacles everywhere.”
“That is one point. The other is that it is surely as subject to the law as any other group or individual.”
“Yes,” Berkeley agreed. “But if you’re thinking of taking it, or Himmler, to court in Germany on a charge of attempted murder, you won’t get very far.”
“Is there not a saying, in chess, that the threat is greater than the execution?”
“I’m not with you.”
“As you have just said, Papa, the chance of getting a conviction against Himmler in Germany for attempting to kill you, and for killing Lucy and Grandma and Maria, is remote, especially as he has used people who cannot easily be connected to him. But according to our Cohn friends, as the Nazis are presently committed to seeking power in an entirely legitimate manner, can they afford to let such a case come to court?”
Berkeley stroked his chin.
“Now,” Anna went on. “Himmler will know by now that you have been shot and badly hurt by some other organisation. He may wish to let the dust settle before coming after you again, and he may suppose that he has all the time in the world. But if he learns that we are taking counter steps, he will realise that he does not have so much time after all.”
“You are thinking that we should advertise that we know who he is?” Martina asked.
“The next best thing,” Anna said. “David Cohn recommended we talk to the Berlin Chief of Police, this man Schuler. I know you didn’t want to do that, Papa; you wanted to deal with it on your own. But circumstances have changed. If I were to go to Berlin and see this man Schuler, tell him what we know, tell him that Helen Karlovy told us it was Himmler, tell him also that the story about your being badly hurt isn’t true but was put out by us to put the Nazis off the track . . .” She smiled. “I wanted Leighton to go the other way. Thank God he didn’t.”
“This police chief would have you deported,” Martina said.
“That would depend on whether or not he is in the pay of the Nazis,” Berkeley said.
“It doesn’t matter whether he is in their pay or not,” Anna said. “Or whether he has me deported or not. I am quite sure there are people in his department who are Nazis, so the news will get back to Himmler pretty quickly. I believe that he will then feel obliged to do something about it, and we will be waiting for him.”
Berkeley shook his head. “Too dangerous. Oh, I am quite sure you’re right as to his reaction, but he may well decide to do something about you first.”
“What would be the point? I am only a messenger girl from you to him. Anyway, he will never catch me. I will go to Berlin and make an appointment to see this Schuler. One hour after the time of that appointment, I will take the train for Poland. I will be out of Germany in an hour. From Warsaw, I will take the train for Vienna, then Paris and home: the exact route we took when escaping from Berlin after Grippenheimer’s death.”
“Brilliant!” Martina clapped her hands. “I will come with you. Oh!”
She gazed at Berkeley.
“The idea was that you both should stay here and look after me,” Berkeley said.
“I will only be gone a couple of days,” Anna said. “I could leave tomorrow and be back by the end of next week.”
Berkeley didn’t doubt she could do it, but the thought of allowing her to go back to Germany, or indeed anywhere on her own, was terrifying. On the other hand, he knew he couldn’t keep her at his side for ever.
“You’ll wait until I have had a chance to write to David Cohn,” he said. “To arrange your meeting with Schuler.”
*
“We are to leave Berlin,” Heinrich Himmler told his secretary.
The young woman frowned. “To go where?”
“I am to go to Munich, to join the Führer’s personal entourage.” He dared not say more than that at this moment, however much he wanted to. “You will like Munich. Do you ski?”
The secretary hesitated. She found working for Heinrich Himmler incredibly boring. He was an incredibly boring man. And apparently totally asexual; he had never made the slightest pass at her, and she considered herself a handsome woman with all the right curves in all the right places. When she thought of the tales her friend Eva told her of Herr Schuler’s advances . . .
“I don’t ski,” she said. “And the fact is, Herr Himmler, I would not like to leave Berlin. All my family and friends are here.”
She paused, but her boss did not appear to be concerned. In fact he was distracted. But then, he had been distracted for the past couple of days; probably it was to do with this move, not that he would be leaving any friends behind; he didn’t have any friends.
“The decision must be yours,” he said. “Now fetch Herr Bruckner.”
The secretary left the office, and Himmler could study the newspaper once again. Who on earth could this strange woman assassin be? He had as yet sent no one to replace the Karlovys. Gerber was certainly capable of carrying out an assassination, but he was also very firmly planted in England, as a result of years of fitting into the community, and to waste all that subtle work the goal would have to be very worthwhile . . . and as Goebbels apparently thought that he had organised Townsend’s shooting, the temptation to do nothing was enormous. But if he did nothing, and Goebbels found out the truth . . . There were many things of which Heinrich Himmler was afraid but, when it came to people, Josef Goebbels headed the list.
“You sent for me, sir?” Bruckner, a large, heavy-set man, stood before his desk.
“Yes. What is the latest word from Gerber?”
“I have heard nothing from him for some time.”
“Have you seen this?” Himmler pushed the newspaper across the desk.
Bruckner studied it. “This was one of ours?”
“No. But everyone thinks it was, and it might be to our advantage to let them suppose so, for the time being. However, you will see that the woman, whoever she was, botched the job. They say Townsend may be crippled for life but our business is still not completed. Is Hassler standing by?”
Bruckner nodded.
“Then send him over. The job must be completed this time. For God’s sake, if the man is a cripple, it should not be difficult.”
“I will despatch him immediately.”
“I wish it clearly understood that should anything go wrong, he must not be traced back to us.”
“I understand,” Bruckner said. “Hassler does too. He speaks perfect English and will have all the necessary documents. You wish me to advise Gerber?”
“Gerber,” Himmler sneered. “That man is a waste of time. What is he doing now?”
“I imagine he is still keeping the house under observation,” Bruckner said. “But of course since the Karlovy fiasco he has had to move from the area.”
“The man is a failure,” Himmler said. “No, do not advise him of this plan. But give Hassler his new address just in case contact is necessary. This time, Bruckner . . .”
“This time, Herr Himmler,” Bruckner said.
*
“Believe me, Colonel, this is very embarrassing for me,” Peter Watt explained.
“You are doing your duty, Peter,” Berkeley pointed out.
“And with you lying there . . .”
The two women had put Berkeley to bed i
n the drawing room. It was filled with vases of flowers as well as Howard, while both Martina and Anna hovered protectively.
“I’m very comfortable,” Berkeley pointed out. “Now, you wanted to ask me about one of my guns.”
“Yes,” Watt said. “That thirty-two you had. Anna says you got rid of it.”
“Why, yes, so I did.”
“May I ask why?”
“Well . . . how many guns does a man need? You remember that thirty-eight I absentmindedly picked up? The one with which I shot the Karlovy boy, and which I had forgotten to license?”
“You have licensed it since?” Watt asked anxiously.
“Of course. But then I had three guns, so I got rid of the thirty-two.”
“You mean you returned it to the gunsmith? Or sold it?”
“Neither. I threw it into the canal.”
“May I ask where?”
“By Weedon Beck. Did you need the gun for something, Chief Inspector?”
“Well, not really. You see, General Shrimpton was shot with a Smith and Wesson thirty-two.”
“And you thought I had done it? My dear fellow, I was in hospital.”
“Absolutely. But you see, well . . .” Red in the face, Watt glanced at Anna.
“The police know that I was in town that day, Papa.”
“And you think that Anna—”
“No, no, sir,” Watt protested. “I would never dream of such a thing. But you know what Scotland Yard is like. They’re trying to round up every Smith and Wesson thirty-two that could possibly have been connected, and hope to match up the bullets. But you say your gun had been thrown into the canal. How long ago?”
“At least six months.”
“Well, that’s it, then. We could look for it, I suppose, but after six months, well, there’s not much chance of finding it. Still, I doubt it matters.”
“And my own business?” Berkeley asked.
“Ah, well, sir, I’m sorry to say I have nothing to report there. Very slick, it seems to have been. Do you think they’ll try again?”
“I wouldn’t be at all surprised.”
“I could mount a patrol out here. It would be expensive, and there might be questions asked. But for you, sir . . .”
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