Dance on a Sinking Ship

by Kilian, Michael;

  They exchanged “heil Hitlers,” then Goering, still wearing his huge military overcoat, turned away, seeking and finding a large chair at some distance from Himmler’s desk. The Reichsführer-S.S. was compelled to leave his bureaucratic throne and take a similar chair near Goering’s.

  “Get to the point, Heinrich,” said Goering, massaging his pale, plump hands. “I have other engagements this evening.”

  With his pudgy face, thick round glasses, weak lips, and wispy mustache, Himmler looked more a bank clerk than a principal instrument of National Socialist terror.

  “You are aware of von Ribbentrop’s reports about the Prince of Wales?” Himmler asked.

  “Long before you were, good comrade,” said Goering, smiling not a little unpleasantly.

  “You have sent an operative?” Himmler asked.

  Goering stared.

  “You have,” pronounced Himmler. “That dreadful Polish Prussian, Markgraf von Kresse.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “I know everything, Hermann. Just like you.”

  Goering looked about, frowning. “Refreshment, Herr Reichsführer?”

  Himmler clapped his hands and a black-uniformed officer stepped forward from the shadows.

  “I will have schnapps,” said Goering.

  “Schnapps, Fritz,” Himmler said. “At once. A chilled bottle and one glass.”

  The S.S. man, doubtless a shop clerk or accountant before he joined the Schutzstaffel, clicked his heels. A large, cold bottle was produced instantly. After pouring, the officer withdrew into the shadows.

  “I have indeed sent my old flying companion, Count von Kresse. He is to determine whether the Prince of Wales is actually in trouble over this Simpson woman and, if appropriate, to take some corrective action.”

  “What sort of corrective action?”

  “I left that to his discretion. He is a subtle man, as well as charming and persuasive.”

  Himmler sat forward abruptly. “Hermann! He is a dangerous man. Totally unreliable.”

  “But eminently acceptable, socially acceptable. I can’t think of anyone in Germany better suited to mix with the English aristocracy.”

  “This makes him no less dangerous, no less unpredictable. He should have been shot two years ago.”

  “Vielleicht,” said Goering, looking down at his thick, polished boots. “But now he is joining the Prince of Wales. I am confident he will attend to our interests as required. He understands the need for close friendship between the Reich and the British Empire, though I will concede that his domestic political attitudes are worrisome.”

  “Worrisome? They are treasonable!”

  Goering smiled benignly. “I share some of your concerns. But this matter cannot be left in that fool Ribbentrop’s hands alone. Von Kresse’s intervention may not suffice. But it’s the best I can do in such a hurry.”

  “He is a man who should be watched.”

  “And I am sure you are watching him. I would not be surprised if you manage to get one of your people aboard the ship with him.”

  Himmler grinned, which he almost never did. “State security is my responsibility.”

  Some passengers had already come aboard in preparation for the next day’s sailing, but only a few were in the first-class smoking room. The two important Englishmen were unmistakable. They had taken a table in the corner, where one now sat and the other paced back and forth impatiently behind him. Both were wearing gray tweed suits and both had been served whiskey.

  Van der Heyden approached with great dignity. Ships made for a social anomaly. At sea, captains were virtual monarchs, the most exalted personage aboard no matter who was traveling in first class. On shore, they were merely employees of their shipping lines—only sailors in port. Van der Heyden was not a man overly concerned about his status, but now conducted himself as the autocrat he would be once the Wilhelmina was underway. These two “gentlemen” irritated him. The simple fact of them did.

  The one who was sitting rose and the other stopped his pacing. “Good evening, Captain,” said the former. “I’m Major Metcalfe, and this is Lord Brownlow.”

  Though he had no mustache, the major looked a typical British officer, handsome enough but distinguished mostly by large, outset ears and far above average height. The other seemed an ordinary Englishman, distinguished only by the “lord” before his name. Van der Heyden reminded himself of how ordinary he and his officers must look out of uniform.

  “Would you care to join us for a drink?” the major asked.

  Van der Heyden seated himself. “A drink? No, thank you. But you wished to speak to me, so here I am. You have a problem, gentlemen?”

  The other two took their chairs, Metcalfe leaning forward on the table, lowering his voice somewhat.

  “We have booked passage,” he said. “It’s a most important booking, perhaps the most important of your career.” The words, as he spoke them, sounded offensively pompous to his ear, but there was no way of withdrawing them.

  The captain had recognized Brownlow’s name, but wanted these English to be more forthcoming.

  “You must know to whom we refer,” Brownlow said.

  “No, I don’t. You are traveling with a large party, I believe. You are leading some sort of tour?”

  “Certainly not!” said Brownlow.

  “Actually,” said Metcalfe, interceding, “it is rather like that. The difference is that our little group includes some rather high-ranking people, and one of them is perhaps the—well, one of the highest-ranking personages in the British Empire. I’ll be perfectly candid. He’s a member of the royal family.”

  The captain had suspected this but decided not to let it appear to affect him. “Yes? Well, I’m sure we can make him comfortable. This is a very well-appointed vessel.”

  “Quite. She seems splendid, sir. That’s not what concerns us. What we wanted to talk to you about, is, well, whether we can count on your discretion.”

  “It’s imperative that no one know he’s aboard,” said Brownlow.

  “That’s easy then,” said van der Heyden, pushing back his chair as if to rise. “He should not come aboard.”

  “Captain,” said Major Metcalfe. “Are you really aware of whom we are speaking?”

  “Ja. Ik weet. But are you aware that this is not a British warship or a private yacht? This is a passenger liner. A Dutch passenger liner. This is not Cunard’s Berengaria. This is the Wilhelmina of the Lage Lander Line. And this is not 1924, when your important personage last made this crossing. It is not my fault that he has since become notorious. Discretion for him is now very rare. And it’s in no way my responsibility. You have made no special arrangements. You do not appear to have provided for security. You just march aboard without any prior notice and start making demands. You’re being unreasonable.”

  “See here, van der Heyden,” Brownlow began.

  Metcalfe restrained him. “I appreciate that, Captain,” he said. “We’re in an awkward situation. It is inconvenient for this member of our party to return to England just now, and the unstable political circumstances make it unwise to remain on the continent. This voyage has become a necessity. In any event, it’s what he wishes.”

  “He is not the King of Holland.”

  “Mind your place, van der Heyden,” Brownlow said. “We’re within our rights to book this passage. If you people make a muck of it, that’s your responsibility.”

  “What Lord Brownlow means to say,” said Metcalfe, “is that if this voyage succeeds, it will be well remembered by a man who in not too long a time is going to be King of England. I presume the Lage Lander Line would not be averse to royal favor, even from Great Britain.”

  Matters had definitely reached the point where van der Heyden should have been telephoning his superiors in Amsterdam for instructions. But that was not his way.

  “Gentlemen,” he said more warmly. “I appreciate the favor you bestow on Lage Lander in choosing us for this, what should I say, unique cr
ossing. It is our interest to accommodate you the best we can in every way we can. But my concern must be for all our passengers. They cannot be inconvenienced in any way.”

  “Understood,” said Metcalfe.

  “If I seem troubled to you,” van der Heyden said, “I have reason. We already have an ‘important party’ booked on this voyage. I don’t know why fate has singled us out for this double honor, but it will not be easy to cope with. This other person is of far more consequence in the United States than your royal personage. He, too, has requested our discretion. It is extremely important that no one knows he is aboard.”

  “Who is it?” said Brownlow.

  Van der Heyeden leaned farther back and folded his hands together before his face. He smiled, contempt and resignation in his eyes. “You see?” he said.

  “We see,” said Metcalfe.

  “If you wish to succeed with this,” the captain said more sternly, “you can make the same arrangements for your royal personage that we have made for our other guest. Bring him aboard tonight, during darkness.”

  “But he’s still in Paris,” Metcalfe said.

  “It can be done,” said van der Heyden, looking at his watch. “They will have to leave Paris within the hour, but they can make it. If they wait until morning, there will be all the other passengers arriving. And there will be some press. This is, after all, the maiden voyage of a major new liner. And we will have an American motion picture actress on board. Motion picture actresses have little interest in the kind of discretion you seek.”

  “Very well,” Metcalfe siad. “We’ll have him here before sunrise.” He turned to Brownlow. “We’ll put Lord Louis in charge of it. Sounds just his ticket.”

  “He’ll make a muck of it.”

  “And once you get him aboard,” van der Heyden said, “this royal highness. I suggest that you see to it he remains in his cabin for the entire voyage. That’s what our other important passenger is going to do. He’s having all his meals served in his cabin.”

  “Cabin?” said Brownlow. “We booked a suite for His—for our special passenger.”

  “I thought you were interested in ‘discretion,’” the captain said.

  Metcalfe laughed, and raised his glass of whiskey. “So we are, sir. So we are. But traveling in a mere stateroom. That is not discretion, Captain. That is degradation. I’m sure you understand.”

  Back in his cabin, his blue uniform coat removed because of the heat, van der Heyden went to the square little window by his desk that look out over the darkened harbor. The running lights of an off-duty tug moved slowly across the still scene.

  If he called Amsterdam, the company would behave insanely. They had when they’d been informed of the other booking.

  He decided he would not telephone them. As was his usual preference, he would deal with the trouble himself and tell no one of his conversation with the two Englishmen. If all went well, the company would be just as happy. If the voyage went badly, it wouldn’t matter whether he told them or not. It would be his last command with them just the same. The time had come for his retirement. He recognized that, even if the company didn’t.

  He lay down upon his bunk. He would allow himself a few minutes’ rest before making his rounds, a brief interlude in which there would be no special passengers. He closed his eyes. It seemed just an instant later that he heard the pounding on his door.

  Opening it, he looked into the square dark face of his Javanese quartermaster.

  “Captain! There’s a fire in the engine room!”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The ever-thorough Reichscommissioner Goering had been more clever than usual. He had promised Count von Kresse an assistant in this intrigue, an accomplice who would feel as at home as he in the rarefied strata at the pinnacle of the British class system yet who would also be capable of helping him meet any danger or difficulty. And so Goering had provided him with his sister, Dagne.

  She had courage and ruthlessness enough. She was quite a strong and still youthful woman who, like Martin, had been confronted with physical risk and challenge from early on in her life as a proper part of her upbringing. She had climbed almost as many mountains as he and won even more equestrian medals. He’d seen her kill a wounded stag with a knife, throwing herself on the thrashing, bellowing animal when her rifle had jammed, cutting its throat. Though she would not admit to it, he guessed she was now armed with a pistol. Dagne also possessed infinite loyalty—to von Kresse, of course, but also to Reichscommissioner Goering. She would doubtless inform der Dicke of every aspect of her brother’s conduct throughout this adventure. She would insure that he carried out the Reichscommissioner’s wishes, in every way, by her mere presence.

  But Goering was more thorough even than this. Surely there must be another accomplice whose identity was not yet known to von Kresse, or possibly even to Dagne. There might be several. As one of the count’s intellectual friends had said during a chess game in a coffeehouse near the Gedachtniskirche on a recent evening, the Third Reich was a universal concept. It was wise to assume its presence wherever one went.

  Dagne was flaunting this truth. As the train rolled out of Gare St. Lazare at the start of its swift journey to the Channel, she took from her traveling case a copy of The Leader’s Mein Kampf.

  “For God’s sake, Dagne. Is that damned book a badge for you?”

  They were alone in a first-class compartment, seated facing each other. Dagne was wearing a very fashionable beige suit, with matching hat and light veil. She lifted the book still higher before her face, a challenge.

  “If the old count were alive he would have you thrashed,” said von Kresse.

  She began reading aloud: “‘And it is precisely for our intellectual demi-monde that the Jew writes his so-called intellectual press.’”

  Von Kresse snatched the book from her hand and turned quickly to the front. “If you can’t think of decency, Dagne, for God’s sake at least think of your class. Listen to this, the men who fell in his pathetic Munich putsch, the men he dedicated this to, listen to who they are: ‘businessman, hatter, bank clerk, bank clerk, bank clerk, locksmith, businessman, headwaiter, student of engineering, valet, businessman, court councillor, retired cavalry captain, engineer, engineer, businessman.’ This is your ‘New Order.’ Clerks, valets, head-waiters, shopkeepers—‘businessmen.’ And let us not forget postcard artists. The lower-middle-class ascendant, the Countess von Bourke and Kresse in their train.”

  She resented his use of irony. Her voice was soft and cool, but she was defiant. “The Duke of Saxe-Coburg und Gotha has joined the party and he is Victoria’s grandson.”

  “He’s a silly fool, just like you.”

  She took the book back and hurriedly thumbed through the pages to a remembered passage. “‘The class arrogance of a large part of our people, and to an even greater extent, the underestimation of the manual worker, are phenomenae which do not exist only in the imagination of the moonstruck,’” she read smugly, as if this was a revealed truth from the scriptures. “‘It shows the small capacity for thought of our so-called intelligensia when, particularly in these circles, it is not understood that a state of affairs which could not prevent the growth of a plague, such as Marxism happens to be, will certainly not be able to recover what has been lost.’”

  “The lunatic is not even grammatical!”

  “You should be very thankful that at this moment we are not in Germany.”

  “You’ve no idea just how grateful I am for that.”

  “Martin! Do you forget what barbarism lies just three hundred kilometers from our home? In what sort of world do you think you live?”

  “Pit barbarism against barbarism and the result is still barbarism.”

  She pushed herself away from him, into a corner of the compartment, lifting the book to completely obscure her face. “We have had this conversation, Martin. To no good end.”

  “Indeed.”

  He had a book of his own, Leopold von Ranke’s Histo
ry of the Roman and German Peoples, but it was hardly the stuff to suit his mood. He moved closer to the train window, folding his arms and extending his left leg to ease the pain. The passing tableau of gray Parisian suburbs was not an enticing diversion either.

  Goering had given him a hastily prepared prècis of his mission, including a one-page biographical sketch of Wallis Warfield Simpson prepared by Reinhard Heydrich’s Sicherheitdienst Security Service and some notes on her reported traveling companions. The count took this from the pocket of his gray double-breasted suit and read through it once again.

  Though the author of the sketch seemed very excited about Mrs. Simpson’s possible Jewishness, he was careful to note this was in no way documented. Rather, it was a belief held firmly in those quarters of Baltimore society resentful of her social progress in England.

  There was evidence that the family had been in Maryland as Warfield since the English crown grants of the early seventeenth century. By Wallis Warfield’s time, the family was in such reduced circumstances that they lived in a rundown house and took in boarders, or so Heydrich’s German-American correspondents in Baltimore reported. Her widowed mother was able to rescue them from their shabby gentility only by marrying a well-off but alcoholic and disreputable local politician.

  Mrs. Simpson’s first husband was a U.S. Navy lieutenant. She had followed him to China in 1924. They had become estranged over his heavy drinking and patronage of Chinese brothels, but she had stayed on in China another two years, drifting from city to city and supporting herself in large part by living off friends and gambling. She was, according to the dossier, a skillful card player.

  She was also, it said, highly claustrophobic and extremely self-conscious about her plainness, especially as concerned her oversized hands and nose and a large mole. She was given to salacious remarks and was reportedly very deft at the amusing conversational titillation so much in vogue in higher British social circles, which accounted for much of her initial social acceptance.