The Princess Spy

by Larry Loftis

  X. Rommel’s desire, aligned with Beck’s, was for Hitler to be arrested and tried for crimes against the German people and occupied lands.

  XI. Generals Ludwig Beck, Karl-Heinrich von Stülpnagel, Henning von Tresckow, Erich Hoepner, Hellmuth Stief, Paul von Hase, Erich Fellgiebel, Hans Oster, Friedrich Fromm, Fritz Lindemann, Friedrich Olbricht, Eduard Wagner, Fritz Thiele, Karl von Thuengen, and Otto Herfurth; Admiral Wilhelm Canaris; and Field Marshals Erwin Rommel, Günther von Kluge, and Erwin von Witzleben.

  CHAPTER 9 GLORIOUS GLORIA

  Aline thought about blindly shooting into the window but decided to wait.

  The drapery bulged and she could see a figure stepping inside. She held her aim as the curtain swung.

  “Pierre!” she gasped. “What are you doing here?”

  “How are you?” Pierre grinned as he came to her, took the gun from her hand, and set it aside. “Didn’t expect to see me soon, did you?”

  Aline’s heart was still racing. “How did you find out where I lived?”

  “That’s our business, isn’t it? Come, let’s sit down and talk.”

  “Pierre, what are you doing here? You know, I almost shot you just now.”

  “I can’t tell you much. Your boss would have my hide if he knew I was visiting you.”

  Thoughts swept through Aline’s mind, none of them good. Why was he in Madrid? How did he get my address, and why was his visit kept secret? If he’d gotten her address from Thomas or MacMillan or Mellon, surely one of them would have told her. And why the hell did he have to come in through the balcony like a cat burglar? Why couldn’t he just have knocked on the door, or, better yet, called her in advance? It was a bit unsettling, but in spite of all that, she was delighted to see him.

  They moved to the sofa and Pierre kissed her, gripping her with both arms and pulling her close. Then the doorbell rang.

  Edmundo.

  Pierre’s head jerked toward the door. “Who is that?”

  Aline decided to keep it vague. A contact was taking her to a party, she said.

  Pierre jumped up and they returned to the balcony. He kissed her quickly.

  “I can’t be seen. I doubt I’ll be able to see you soon. Don’t forget me.”

  The curtain swung and he was gone.

  Aline stood there, astonished. Had that actually just happened? She reflected a moment and then, trying to look as unflustered as possible, went to the door to greet Edmundo.

  * * *

  Near the end of July, Maria Francesca Hohenlohe, Prince Max’s eldest daughter, invited Aline to a weekend party at the family’s country residence. Aline had met Maria—whom everyone called Pimpinela—while having dinner with Casilda Arteaga, who was Pimpinela’s best friend. Fascinated by the pretty, newly arrived American who was about her own age, Pimpinela determined that they should be great friends.

  The Hohenlohe property was near Escorial, about thirty miles northwest of Madrid, and an invitation to the estate, known as El Quexigal, was one of the most coveted in all of Europe. The residence was a sixteenth-century square-shaped castle now used as a finca.I The grounds covered some 4,400 acres, much of which was farmed as vineyards by three hundred laborers. Prince Max had bought it in 1927, and Pimpinela’s mother, Maria-Piedad de Iturbe, was said to have spent several million pesetas renovating it.

  There would be many guests, Pimpinela said, so Aline figured there was a good chance that Gloria von Fürstenberg or Hans Lazar would be attending.

  On Saturday afternoon Aline and Casilda left Madrid and headed northwest, toward the Guadarrama Mountains. During the drive Aline asked what Casilda knew about the Hohenlohe family, and there seemed to be little she didn’t know.

  Pimpinela, she said, was about to turn twenty-two and was the oldest of Max and Maria’s six children. Her brothers, Alfonso, Christian, and Max Emanuel, were twenty, eighteen, and twelve, while her sisters, Elizabeth and Beatriz, were sixteen and nine.

  Prince Max’s full name was Maximilian Egon von Hohenlohe-Langenburg; he was Austrian, but had been born in the family’s castle in Rothenhaus, Czechoslovakia. His wife was the daughter of the Spanish Duchess of Parcent, but Pimpinela’s great-grandfather on her mother’s side was German.

  Aline had heard stories of Prince Max’s fabulous wealth. In addition to El Quexigal and the Rothenhaus castle, he owned another castle in Santillana, Spain. He also owned a home near San Sebastian, commercial property near Sevilla, a large villa in Biarritz, and two large fincas in Mexico: one near Mexico City, the other by Acapulco.

  As they approached Escorial, Casilda pointed out four spires in the distance. “Look, Aline, that’s the most important royal palace in Spain, built by Philip the Second in the sixteenth century. The same architect who built the Hohenlohe palace.”II

  Aline gazed through the window. It was the most enormous structure she’d ever seen.

  About twenty minutes later they began descending a hill, and Aline saw El Quexigal in its full glory: the castle’s dark orange tiles burned brightly against the deep green oaks and pines surrounding it. They passed through gates manned by Guardia Civil—Spain’s national guard—and she could see just how old this square-shaped colossus was. It was only two stories tall but seemed to run the length of a football field. The exterior was some kind of sandstone, light orange, with countless small windows on the second floor.

  “To me the building appeared impregnable and austere,” she remembered later, “reminiscent of knights in armor and children’s fairy tales.”

  El Quexigal, Escorial, Spain

  They pulled into the parking area where a chauffeur was unloading luggage from a black Mercedes. Behind the main building were two swimming pools and a tennis court. Not far beyond them was a small chapel and another building for housing servants. Next to that was a smaller building, the estate’s school, Casilda said, where the Hohenlohe children were taught alongside the children of the servants, all of whom could read and write and many of whom could speak French.

  Aline looked around, admiring. El Quexigal was its own self-contained town.

  Inside, a butler invited them to sign the guest book, appropriately placed in a sacerdotal setting between two silver candelabra. As Aline wrote her name, she noticed that the book contained signatures going back several years.

  That would come in handy.

  While they waited for their bags to be brought in, she and Casilda chatted and ambled about the foyer. Aline had the same sense of awe she had felt when entering the chapel of La Florida with Juanito. There were no Goya frescoes here, but Gobelins tapestries and priceless paintings were everywhere: El Greco, Murillo, Gallego, Berruguete, Tiepolo. Some works dated back to the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. The furniture was ancient and hand-carved, she noticed, and upon much of it rested countless pieces of Talavera pottery.

  Through a set of open double doors they could see the patio courtyard, the interior of the square. It was about the size of two tennis courts and was lined with some fifty stone columns. On the second level a balcony wrapped the entire interior.

  The place was a fortress, a finca, a hotel, and a museum all rolled into one. All 150 rooms and 86,000 square feet of it.

  Servants appeared with their luggage and two maids escorted them upstairs. They walked down a long corridor and Aline’s suitcases were placed in an anteroom with beamed ceilings and a fireplace, beyond which was a bedroom. As she was admiring the red damask canopy over the bed, the maid turned on a lamp and said she would return momentarily to unpack Aline’s things.

  Casilda met her in the hall and they went downstairs to join the other guests. Going through several salons, they entered a large den where a number of women were having tea and cakes and a tall man in a tweed shooting jacket was bragging to another about the day’s hunt.

  Pimpinela saw Aline from the other side of the room and rushed over. “How happy I am to have you here, Aline. Come meet my father. My mother will see you later—she never takes tea.”

&nb
sp; Prince Max was in his early fifties, Aline presumed, and had a thick build. He was about six feet tall, with blond hair and a plump round face.

  “Aline, it is a pleasure to meet a friend of Pimpinela’s,” he said, “and to have you as our guest.” Max’s English was excellent, but he spoke with a strong German accent.

  As she made small talk with Prince Max, Aline observed the guests having tea and noticed Hans Lazar and Gloria von Fürstenberg. This was the second time Aline had seen Gloria, and both times she had been with Lazar. Seated next to them, to Aline’s surprise, was the young man who had carried her bags when she had checked in at the Palace, and a gray-haired man whom she had not seen before.

  Sitting in another group was the Count and Countess of Yebes, Mimosa Torrejón, and a young man she remembered as Constantin Canaris. Edmundo had pointed him out when they had dinner at Edelweiss one night, and on another evening she had bumped into him while dancing. He was an Abwehr agent, she had learned, the nephew of the former chief, Admiral Wilhelm Canaris.

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw Casilda’s sister Nena approaching the Lazar-Fürstenberg group, and after a few minutes chatting with Prince Max, Aline excused herself to join them. Nena greeted her and introduced her to the others, starting with the young man she called the Count of Quintanilla.

  “I think we have met before,” the handsome count said, smiling.

  Aline blushed, recalling that she had tried to tip him that first day at the Palace Hotel.

  Nena next introduced the older guest, Carlos Beistegui, a distinguished-looking gentleman, and then Countess von Fürstenberg. Aline once again had the notion that the countess was the most ravishing, best-dressed woman she had ever seen. With her height and high cheekbones, Aline thought she could have been a fashion model. And Gloria’s outfit was no less stunning: a snug wool checked suit, custom leather shoes with pointed toes, and a matching jacket.

  “Encantada, Aline.”

  Hans Lazar then stood and introduced himself. “A pleasure, Miss Griffith.”

  Lazar was polite, but Aline couldn’t get past his appearance; sinister and slick was the only way to describe it. And that was precisely his reputation. The British ambassador, Samuel Hoare, made no bones about his dislike for Lazar. He was “well-dressed, and self-consciously well-mannered,” Hoare remembered, “like those operatic Viennese figures created by Straus or Lehar. Those of us who dealt with him came to the conclusion that we were dealing with someone very important. His ambition had no limit.”

  Aline continued greeting the others, eventually shaking hands with Constantin Canaris. Since he was Abwehr, she figured he’d be useful later.

  * * *

  That evening at nine thirty Aline and Casilda headed downstairs for drinks in the great salon, and at ten thirty everyone moved to the dining room. This area, too, seemed like a museum. Giant tapestries from Cuenca—at least ten meters in length—hung from the walls, and Aubusson rugs covered the wide-planked floor. Silver candelabra adorned antique furniture that had been acquired from French palaces.

  Aline peered down the long table and counted eighteen guests. She had been placed between the Count of Quintanilla, whose name was Luis de Figueroa, and Carlos Beistegui. It was like watching a complex choreography, as six uniformed servants scurried in and out to wait on them. She had hoped to engage the handsome young count in conversation, but Beistegui rambled on about living in Paris, bragging that his large house on the Castellana usually sat empty.

  After dinner the party moved into the ballroom, where a troupe of dancers was preparing for the flamenco entertainment. Most of the men were drinking cognac now, and Aline figured it was the perfect time to slip away. She excused herself, saying she needed to get something from her room, and made her way through the labyrinth of salons until she came to the front hall.

  Checking to make sure the coast was clear, she began inspecting the names in the guest book, turning page after page. Suddenly she heard someone behind her.

  “Aline, what on earth are you doing?” asked Pimpinela.

  “I was on my way to the ladies’ room and then I became fascinated by your guest book. What an interesting life your family has had. And this beautiful house. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Pimpinela smiled. “I never think about it—to me it’s just my family and our home. Wait till tomorrow. It is lovely outdoors.”

  Aline took a deep breath. Yes, tomorrow.

  They chatted for a few minutes and Aline asked if it would be okay to wander around to admire the paintings and tapestries.

  “Of course,” Pimpinela said. “My house is your house.”

  Pimpinela returned to the party and Aline bounded up the stairs to the bedrooms. She might have sufficient time, she thought, to snoop around in Gloria and Lazar’s rooms—if she could find them. As she made her way down the corridor, though, she saw a figure leaning against the wall. She continued on and saw that it was Constantin Canaris.

  “The fräulein is missing the wonderful entertainment,” he said. “Or perhaps she is enjoying her own.”

  Aline smiled but said nothing and went on to her room. So much for snooping around. She could hear that the flamenco party downstairs was going strong, but she decided to turn in. Tomorrow would be a full day, and she was anxious to learn more about Gloria, Lazar, and the Count of Quintanilla.

  She fell asleep quickly and began to dream. After some time, perhaps about three in the morning, she stirred in her bed.

  There was a sound and she opened her eyes.

  It was pitch-dark but she was certain.

  Someone was in her room.

  I. Common in Spain and Latin America, fincas are second homes, often luxurious, that are surrounded by farms with full-time workers.

  II. Juan de Herrera.

  CHAPTER 10 VISITORS

  The figure moved toward the bed and Aline realized that her gun was across the room in her purse.

  The smell came first.

  Alcohol. It was Constantin Canaris.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said, slurring his words. “I know all about you American girls. You give your favors easily.” He bent forward to try to kiss her but stumbled.

  Aline punched the top of his head. “Get out of here.”

  Constantin fell to his knees. “I saw the way you looked at him zis afternoon. I’ve heard all about you American women. You are so easy.”

  “Get out of here. Before I scream.”

  Constantin began mumbling and Aline got up and turned on the light. “You’re drunk,” she said, pushing him into a chair, “and you’ll regret your behavior in the morning. But don’t worry, I understand. You’ve got the wrong idea about American girls.”

  He slumped in the chair, nursing his head. “Vat am I doing?”

  Seconds later he passed out and for several minutes Aline tried to revive him. Eventually he staggered to his feet and she watched him meander down the hall to his room.

  The next afternoon when she saw him again, it was clear Constantin remembered nothing of the previous night. It wasn’t worth telling anyone, and she didn’t. But old Major Fairbairn—wherever he was—would have been proud of her right cross. She didn’t see Gloria or Hans Lazar, though, and she and most other guests returned to Madrid by early evening.

  * * *

  As days turned into weeks, Aline proved herself to be a fine coder, continuing to alternate with Robert Dunev on night shifts. Some time after her trip to the countryside, Aline was eating breakfast when her doorbell rang. Angustias, one of her two maids, announced that two women were waiting in the salon. Aline had been expecting only one.

  These were Resistance operatives coming through the escape line, she knew. One of the principal duties of the Madrid station, in fact, was to supervise and facilitate the flow of information and agents between France and Spain. For years the Allies had worked on establishing chains of local agents, informants, and patriots who could assist in any of four areas: providing informati
on on German troop movements or defenses, particularly around port cities; acting as couriers, delivering information and messages from all parts of France to Madrid; providing safe houses or letter drops; and acting as guides or otherwise assisting agents or downed pilots in crossing the Pyrenees.

  A chain organizer could have dozens or hundreds of agents spread across the country, and chain members came from all walks of life—from teenage couriers to dockworkers to widows who offered their homes as safe houses. All told there were thousands of these French agents, and chains rarely crossed lines. Marseille and Toulouse, for example, each had six chains, all working independently.

  OSS chains in southern France as of March 7, 1944. NARA