‘I am a busy man, Herr Groener.’
‘I have a contact in the Kremlin.’
Meissenbach frowned.
‘He is a menial, of no importance whatsoever. But he is there. And yesterday he reported that Herr Chalyapov, who has not been seen for a month, has just returned from hospital. Where, Herr Meissenbach, he was being treated for a badly dislocated shoulder. There is a rumour that he suffered this injury in the course of one of his amours.’
‘He probably deserved it. I never did like that fellow.’
Groener gave another sigh, this time of impatience. ‘The point I am making, Herr Meissenbach, is that we know that Chalyapov, if certainly a womaniser, only ever has one mistress at a time, and for the past six months that woman has been Anna Fehrbach. We also know that Chalyapov is very high in the Soviet Government, and a protégé of Marshal Stalin himself. And thirdly, I also know, because Marlene Gehrig told me, that Anna Fehrbach is as deadly with her bare hands as with a gun. Lastly, we know that she is Heydrich’s creature, who carries out his orders without question or hesitation.’
Meissenbach scratched his head. ‘What are you trying to say? That Fehrbach was sent to Moscow to assassinate Chalyapov? She has taken a very long time about it. And he isn’t dead. I can tell you that when Fehrbach decides someone should be dead, he or she dies, not left merely with a broken arm.’ He flushed. ‘I did actually know something of her background before we came to Moscow.’
‘What? It is essential that I know everything about her.’
Meissenbach sighed. ‘Did you hear about that incident in Prague, last year, when an attempt was made on my life?’
‘Indeed. You were saved by the prompt action of your bodyguards. I congratulate you, and them.’
‘My guards had nothing to do with it. I was saved by Anna Fehrbach, who shot and killed two of my assassins, after disabling their leader with a single blow, all in a matter of ten seconds.’
‘You mean Gehrig was right? She is that good?’
‘Why do you suppose she is so highly valued by the SD – by Heydrich himself?’
‘I see. And you did not think it worth your while to tell me this before?’
‘Well . . . I was told the whole thing was top secret.’
‘And of course you owe her your life. But now you have turned against her. Why?’
‘It would be more correct to say that she has turned against me, cast me aside like a worn-out glove.’
Groener stared at him. ‘Hell hath no fury, eh? I always thought that applied only to women. However, perhaps you will now agree that we simply have to do something about the fair Fraulein.’
The man was starting to sound like a cracked record. ‘I would entirely agree with you, Herr Groener, but for the simple fact that she is protected by General Heydrich.’
‘I think it is worth the risk. I am saying this to you because I believe you are a man to be trusted, a man who has the good of the Reich at heart. Are you such a man?’
‘Well . . . what exactly are you getting at?’
‘I believe that General Heydrich may be following an agenda of his own, one which is not necessarily in the best interests of the Reich, and that he is employing his creature, Fraulein Fehrbach, to carry out that agenda. I believe that it is our bounden duty to the Fuehrer to find out just what that agenda is.’
‘And how do you propose to do that?’
‘Fehrbach uses the Diplomatic Pouch to communicate with her employer. Her letters are always carefully sealed, but I assume they contain whatever information she has obtained at the time. And he of course replies, his letters also being sealed. Now, it so happens that the last time she gave me a letter for inclusion in the pouch was a month ago, May sixteenth. That is the day after Chalyapov was taken to hospital. If we accept my hypothesis, that Fehrbach was responsible for his misfortune, then it is reasonable to assume that the letter she rushed off to Berlin the next day was to inform Heydrich of what had happened. Do you agree?’
‘It would seem likely.’
‘He did not reply immediately. But then, he never does. His reply arrived this morning.’
‘Ah! Did Fehrbach seem concerned by its contents?’
Groener took the envelope from an inside pocket. ‘She has not yet received it.’
Meissenbach gazed at him. ‘You would be taking an enormous risk. Once that seal is broken . . .’
‘I have been practicing for some time, and I believe I can reproduce this seal, at least sufficiently to stand up to a cursory inspection. I have never dared take the risk of doing this before. But I have observed that Fehrbach never does more than turn the envelope over to check the seal has not been broken, before herself breaking it. On this occasion, after a four-week wait and on a matter she will have to be apprehensive about, I believe she will be in such a hurry to see what her master has to say that she will hardly even check the seal.’
‘If you are wrong, it will mean a concentration camp. At the very least.’
‘And if I am right, and the letter proves that Heydrich is carrying on some clandestine negotiation with the Soviet Government . . .’
‘Why have you told me all this?’
‘Because, as I have said, I believe that you are a patriot, who wishes to protect the Reich, and the Fuehrer, from traitors.’
‘You mean, because you are afraid to act on your own.’
‘Because I wish you, the most senior member of the Embassy staff after the Ambassador, to know what I am doing, and why. And because I know that your feelings about Fehrbach are the same as mine.’
Meissenbach decided not to comment on the ambiguity of that statement. He knew that Groener dreamed of nothing more pleasurable in life than to have Anna strapped naked to a table in front of him, with the right to torment her as much as he chose.
Groener was studying him. He knew he had his man. ‘It must be done very carefully,’ he said. ‘The seal must have only one break. Give me that paper knife.’
A last hesitation, then Meissenbach slid the knife across the table. Groener inserted the narrow blade beneath the seal, and exerted just enough pressure to break it. Then with equal care he slowly prized open the flap and took out the sheet of paper within. Meissenbach found he was holding his breath as he watched Groener’s expression. ‘Jesus,’ the policeman muttered.
‘What is it?’
Groener handed him the paper, and Meissenbach scanned the words. ‘My God! This must go to the Ambassador immediately.’
‘That would be suicide.’
‘But . . .’
‘To show the Ambassador would be to reveal that we had opened General Heydrich’s secret correspondence. Anyway, would you not suppose that he already knows?’
‘Count von Schulenberg? He would never be a party to something like this.’
‘That is as may be. But to show him this letter would be to sign our own death warrants.’
‘We have to do something.’
‘I will tell you what we are going to do, Heinz. We are going to reseal this letter, and then we are going to deliver it to the young lady . . . And then we will take certain steps.’
Chapter Nine – The Lubianka
‘Good morning, Fraulein,’ Groener said jovially, closing the office door behind himself before advancing to Anna’s desk.
Anna raised her eyebrows; Groener looking pleased was neither a usual nor a pretty sight. ‘Good morning, Herr Groener. May I help you?’
‘No, no. It is I who am going to help you. I have a letter for you. From Berlin.’
‘Ah!’ Anna could not prevent her relief from showing, although the relief was also tinged with apprehension.
‘Came in today.’ Groener placed the envelope on the desk in front of her.
‘Thank you.’ She resisted the temptation immediately to pick it up.
‘I think you have been waiting for this message, Fraulein.’
‘I am always waiting for orders from Berlin, Herr Groener.’
&nb
sp; She gazed at him, and he realized that she was not going to open the envelope in his presence. ‘Well, then, I will leave you to it.’
He left the room, and Anna remained gazing at the closed door for some seconds. Something was up. But whatever it was, it could not be half as important as discovering what Heydrich had to say.
She broke the seal, opened the envelope, took out the single sheet of paper and unfolded it, heart pounding.
My Dear Anna. Anna frowned. Heydrich had never begun a letter so affectionately in the past.
I most heartily congratulate you on what you have achieved, and I entirely agree that Chalyapov has become redundant in view of your progress. It now but remains for you to render the Reich the ultimate service. I wish to make it perfectly clear that while I most fervently hope to see you back in Berlin in the near future, should you find yourself unable to return, then once your mission is completed you will occupy an honoured, immortal place in Germany history, so long as there is a Germany.
Anna was suddenly aware of feeling cold.
I also wish you to know that once the news of the successful completion of the mission is received in Berlin, your parents, and your sister, will be immediately set free, to pursue their lives as and where they choose.
Now, your Friday meetings with Premier Stalin are the key, together of course with the free access to his presence, plus the fact that you say you are alone during these meetings. Friday 20 June is the decisive day. On that afternoon it is necessary for Stalin to die. I do not anticipate that someone with your skills will find any difficulty in this. It should also be possible for you to complete the task and leave the Kremlin well before his body is found. You will proceed immediately to the address on the separate piece of paper that accompanies this letter. It is situated in the Kotay Gorod, which as you know is the busiest and most crowded part of Moscow. Memorize the address and then burn it together with this letter. You will be concealed there until it is possible to smuggle you out of the country. This has been arranged but may take a day or two to implement. It only remains for me, on behalf of General Himmler, and indeed the Fuehrer himself, to wish you Godspeed and every success. Heil Hitler. Your always admiring, Reinhard.
Anna remained gazing at the letter for some time. Just like that, she thought. Just like that. Next Friday, you will die. Just like that. So much for her dreams of escaping.
The problem with people like Heydrich was that they could never believe there were other people in the world with an intelligence equal to or greater than their own. The plan outlined was perfectly plausible. She did not doubt that she could kill Stalin and escape from the Kremlin before any alarm was raised; the Premier had made it very clear to his staff that he did not wish his sessions with the glamorous Countess von Widerstand to be interrupted. She knew she would even be able to gain the security of this apparent bookshop in the market centre. But that would be as far as she could go. It had apparently not occurred to Heydrich that she would realize there could be only one possible reason for wishing Stalin dead: as Clive had recognized so long ago, Hitler meant to go to war with Soviet Russia. There could be no doubt that Stalin’s sudden death would throw the Soviet government into disorder for some time, if only because, due to his paranoia, there was no truly designated successor, and a power struggle would inevitably ensue, during which the Soviet military would also be paralysed.
And as the dictator’s death had been fixed for a particular day, any German invasion, to gain most advantage from the ensuing chaos, would have to take place within at most forty-eight hours. Which would make it impossible for anyone to be smuggled out of the country. Or would it? It might just make it simpler.
She had to believe that. Because, as always, she had no choice but to carry out her orders, even if she was now realizing that this had to have been the true point of her mission from the beginning, from last June when she had first been appointed as Meissenbach’s assistant. Stalin had always been her goal, and she had been planted, with infinite care and patience, to work towards that goal. And now she was there.
She felt cold and hot at the same time, while a million thoughts raced through her mind. She had known this moment had to arrive sometime, but the realization that it had arrived was still a shock to the system. She knew she had no right to indulge in any recriminations, even to herself. She had been taught to kill, and she had preserved herself by doing so, on too many occasions. To be called upon to die herself was perfectly fair. But there suddenly seemed so much to be done, and so little time in which to do it. But some things were more important than others.
Today was Tuesday. It was therefore her only chance to contact MI6. She did not wish to disappear entirely anonymously. She pulled her block of private notepaper towards her and wrote, quickly and concisely. The note she placed in a thick manila envelope, and then added to it her gold earrings, her crucifix, her ruby ring, and her watch; these were all of her that would remain, all that he would have to remember her by in the days to come.
She sealed the envelope, took it up to her apartment. She lunched with Birgit. They spoke little, but then they seldom spoke much nowadays; she did not imagine that Birgit noticed anything different in her demeanour.
After lunch she went to bed for several hours; she did not feel like taking the risk of encountering anyone she might have to engage in conversation. Then she had a hot bath, dressed, and ate a light supper. Again, Birgit showed no great interest in this rather unusual behaviour. The meal over, she waited until nine thirty, then she placed the manila envelope in her handbag and left the Embassy, the guards as always carefully showing no concern at her movements.
She walked to the Berlin Hotel, enjoying the brilliant June evening, and arrived at ten. It was the first time she had entered the hotel since Clive had left. She could not resist the temptation to glance at the reception desk, but the man who was now standing there was unknown to her, and he did not seem the least interested in her; the foyer was as always crowded.
She took the lift to the fifth floor, and walked along the hall, so many memories crowding upon her. What a happy miracle it would be if Clive were to open the door.
She reached 507 and knocked. It was some seconds before the door opened, and she stared at the man in his shirt sleeves who stood there. He stared back, clearly as astonished as she was. ‘Señorita?’ he asked.
Anna recovered. ‘I am sorry. I have the wrong room. Please excuse me.’
She turned, and he stepped into the hall. ‘There is no need to be sorry, señorita. It is my pleasure to be disturbed by a beautiful woman. Will you not come in? I can offer you some wine.’
‘Thank you, but no. I am looking for someone, and sadly you are not he. Good night, señor.’
She walked back to the lift, leaving the Spaniard staring after her in disappointment. She felt like screaming. But again, the fault was entirely hers. It was nearly three months since she had kept the rendezvous; she certainly could not blame Sprague for having given up waiting for her. But it seemed as if all the accumulated disasters and errors of her life were coming together in one climactic catastrophe. Now she would indeed disappear without trace, only the slightest twitch across the face of history.
She realized she was crying, and hastily patted her cheeks with a tissue from her bag. Her fingers brushed the envelope. Her last will and testament. It would now have to be thrown into the river.
‘Countess! What a pleasure!’
Anna all but fainted as she turned. He wore black tie and had clearly been dining. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Hello.’
‘I have to be the luckiest man alive,’ Andrews declared. ‘I have just endured one of the most boring dinner parties of my life, and suddenly – voila! The night has come alive.’ Then he frowned. ‘You’re not with someone?’
‘No. I was supposed to meet someone, but he didn’t turn up.’
‘In that case he’s a bounder, but am I glad he didn’t show.’ His forehead had cleared, but now the frown returned as h
e peered at her. ‘This guy was important, huh?’
‘Why, no. Not really.’
‘Then why have you been crying?’
‘Well, I . . . should you ask a question like that?’
‘I guess not. That was damned inquisitive of me. Would you let me make it up to you? A drink in the bar?’
Anna hesitated only a moment. This man’s company was incredibly soothing. Presumably it came from being an American. ‘A drink would be very acceptable.’
*
Andrews escorted her into the bar, which was uncrowded. ‘The counter or a table?’
‘I’d prefer a table.’
He seated her in a corner of the room. ‘What do you drink after dinner? You have had dinner?’
‘Yes. I think I’d like a glass of champagne.’
‘Brilliant. Bring a bottle,’ he told the waiter. ‘And I want the real stuff. What do you have?’
‘There is Taittinger, sir. But it is very expensive.’
‘You worry about the liquor, and I’ll worry about the cost.’ He sat beside Anna. ‘I have a strong suspicion that you have had some bad news.’ He raised a finger. ‘Don’t remind me; I’m being darned inquisitive again. But you know what they say: a trouble shared is a trouble cured.’
‘And you once said that if I was ever in trouble you would help me, no matter what,’ Anna remembered, more thoughtfully than she had intended. Did she dare trust this man? Of course she could not, in real terms. But if he was prepared to do her a favour . . .
‘And I meant it.’ The ice bucket arrived and he inspected the label before pouring. ‘Let’s hope this isn’t a fake.’ He brushed his glass against hers. ‘Here’s to us. I have a positive notion that one of these days you and I may be able to get together. Don’t take offence. If a guy doesn’t dream from time to time he becomes a bore.’
‘I don’t think you could ever be a bore, Mr Andrews.’
Angel in Red Page 20
