Our Friends in Berlin

by Anthony Quinn

  In her own bedroom she staggered a little as she got undressed. Before she put out the bedside light she remembered the letter she had picked up in the hallway on their return. She got up and retrieved the crumpled thing from her coat pocket. It had been hand-delivered, just her name typewritten on the envelope. She unfolded it and read:

  Dear Miss Strallen,

  I know from Tessa Hammond that you rejected the idea put to you some days ago. Would you reconsider if I explained to you personally why it matters? Please understand that I would not bother you with this were circumstances not of the most urgent sort.

  My number is appended below. I do hope to hear from you.

  Sincerely,

  J.H.

  19

  Amy closed her front door and turned up the street. The morning had a bright little snap to it. She had seen Bobby off the night before at Euston, having spent the Sunday crushed beneath a colossal hangover. She felt a little fogged even now, and at first didn’t notice the shadow drawing alongside her.

  ‘Miss Strallen.’

  She nearly jumped. Jack Hoste had abruptly fallen into step with her. He hadn’t changed much since they’d last met: the pale, appraising eyes, close-cropped hair, the face, perhaps gaunter, giving nothing away. Still the same watchful saturnine air of a man who haunted places, and people.

  ‘How long have you been waiting there?’ she said, feeling no obligation to offer pleasantries, or even a greeting.

  ‘Not long. You read my note?’

  ‘I did, and I’m still pondering it. I didn’t expect to have to answer you immediately.’

  Hoste nodded. ‘I’m sorry, but events have made it impossible to extend you more time. I need a decision from you directly.’

  She bristled at his peremptory tone. The arrogance of these people was staggering. ‘You said something about urgent circumstances. What’s going on?’

  ‘Since Hammond spoke to you there’s been a development. Marita has contrived – I don’t know how – to bring something new into play. Someone new. D’you mind if we stop for a moment?’

  They were in Cavendish Square, facing the shattered premises of John Lewis. She glanced at her wristwatch. ‘I’m on my way to work.’

  ‘Please,’ he said, gesturing to a bench. There was little traffic about. With a reluctant air she sat down. He offered her a cigarette, which was refused.

  ‘I should say straight away that the plan Hammond dreamed up is absurd. You won’t persuade me otherwise.’

  Hoste inclined his head provisionally. ‘I must try nonetheless. Speaking in general terms, you know there’s to be an Allied invasion. German intelligence thinks it knows where they are to strike. In fact they have been foxed, the result of a long campaign of deception on the part of our agents. Everything has worked, until now.’

  ‘Marita.’

  He nodded. ‘She’s this close to finding me out. We’ve had recent intelligence that an Abwehr agent – a real one – may be in London. His name’s Heinrich Brunner, one of their top men. We think he’s been smuggled in. Marita knew him before the war.’

  ‘If he’s the real thing, won’t he know that you’re not?’

  ‘Not immediately. My story was always that Heydrich recruited me personally. He was assassinated two years ago, so there’s no way of proving he didn’t. I can keep Brunner at bay if I have to. It’s Marita who’s the danger. The accident of running into my old bank manager has torn it.’

  Up to this point Amy had fixed her gaze straight ahead while they talked, unwilling to distract herself by having to face him. Now she turned her head slightly, sensing the approach of the conversation’s crux. It was unavoidable.

  ‘How do you suppose she would be taken in by … the two of us?’

  Hoste, jolted by her sudden directness, considered. ‘If we set it up carefully, she would have no reason to suspect. She trusts you – I know, because she’s talked to me about you. As soon as our, um, relationship is established, she’ll start to press you for information. And you’ll be ready to tell her –’

  ‘– that you’re the Gestapo agent you always claimed to be. But where does that get us? Wouldn’t Marita expect me to turn you over to the police as a spy?’

  He shook his head. ‘You’re overlooking the vital element. A woman in love wouldn’t betray her man.’

  ‘Not even if he were a Nazi?’

  ‘Not even then. Besides, we only have to maintain the pretence until the Allies’ assault is under way. If we can keep Marita quiet all’s well.’

  ‘Put like that it sounds quite straightforward.’ She shifted on the bench and looked out at the square.

  ‘It will be far from straightforward. It might even be dangerous. Believe it or not, that’s why I hesitated to ask you.’

  ‘Ah. According to Hammond, you hesitated for a different reason.’

  ‘I have no illusions as to how you regard me. But when I thought it about long enough I became convinced you were right for it.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘First of all, I knew from the Adair business that you had the nerve. And second –’ the ghost of a smile passed over his face – ‘who’s more qualified for the role than a professional matchmaker?’

  She was silent for a long time. There was nothing she liked about this; it seemed to her a desperate and seedy hoax. She quailed at the very idea of trying to fool Marita. And yet the memory of what he had done that night of the Blitz was still alive in her. He had put his body in the way of a blast – had perhaps saved her. He might have used that debt of gratitude as a bargaining chip, yet he had never once mentioned it. She found herself staring absently at the sleeve of his jacket; a button was missing from its hole, and another was hanging by a thread. She thought he probably wouldn’t know how to sew.

  ‘How would it work?’ she said presently. ‘I mean, how would Marita be persuaded that we just … happened to meet?’

  He lifted his gaze to the sky to hide the sweet bite of relief. She had thrown him a lifeline. ‘Leave that to me.’

  ‘What on earth did you say to her?’ asked Tessa. He had called at her office with the news.

  ‘I simply told her the truth. If Marita were to rumble me the whole thrust of Fortitude might be jeopardised.’

  ‘But I told her that, and she still wouldn’t budge. You must have some kind of hold on her.’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. Maybe she felt sorry for me.’ Having not seen her in years he was privately taken aback by the feeling she had revived in him. Her features seemed more vivid, her manner more decided, than that of the pale simulacrum he had carried in his head. Her sweetness in repose still affected him painfully.

  ‘And what about – the drinking?’ Tessa broke in.

  ‘She looked a bit hung-over. I don’t think it’s a concern.’

  ‘You should have seen the bar bill she and her friend ran up in that restaurant. I’m pretty sure her hands were trembling when I met her.’

  ‘Look, she couldn’t do her job if she was a lush. She likes a drink, and with things the way they are I don’t blame her. Anyway, I hardly need remind you this thing was your idea.’

  ‘I know. And I hope we don’t live to regret it.’

  The Luftwaffe raids had died away, and April drifted into May. For those who knew what was coming the atmosphere in London had thickened with omen, yet outwardly all was humdrum. Theatres were quiet, restaurants half empty. The broad, obscuring sprawl of the city felt to Hoste like a warren, a jumble of dilapidated houses and basements – hiding places – from which people stolidly emerged, absorbed the daylight, then disappeared into again. Public shelters at night breathed out a stale, fetid air. He seemed to hear a single question in the chattering of birds, in the rumbling of rails over points: How much longer? How much longer?

  He had telephoned Marita to arrange their usual meeting, and suggested the Lyons Corner House at the foot of Tottenham Court Road. It had recently come to her notice that the family who ran Ly
ons were Jews, and she disliked anything that might help ‘swell their coffers’. But to his surprise she made no objection. The Section had not been able to establish whether Heinrich Brunner, an agent based in Lisbon, had made contact with her. In the present uncertainty between them he wasn’t sure if raising the matter with Marita might be too risky. Since the incident at the Kardomah, every remark had to be measured with care; he could not afford to make another creak on the floorboard.

  The Lyons was nearly full at this hour. Marita was seated, characteristically, with her back to the wall, allowing her an unimpeded view of entrances and exits alike. She greeted him with a sarcastic smirk.

  ‘Why, if it isn’t Eaves, the bank clerk,’ she said as he pulled up a chair next to her. ‘Tell me, do you ever hanker for the old days?’

  ‘Not at all. It was as tedious a job as I ever did.’

  ‘And yet after that you went to work for the Revenue. From one counting house to another.’

  Hoste shrugged. ‘Steady Eddie.’

  They ordered tea from the aproned Nippy and got down to business. From her intelligence – wireless intercepts, spy reports – the Allies were in the final stages of their plan to breach the Atlantic Wall. Preliminary attacks would be launched on the south-west coast of France, near Bordeaux, and another on the coast of Norway. A third would target northern France. This last, Marita said, would be the crux of the entire invasion. But it was still not clear where precisely they intended to land.

  ‘My lot still believe it’s Calais,’ said Hoste. ‘There could be no other reason to amass so many troops in Kent.’

  Marita pulled a sceptical expression. ‘There could be another reason, as I told you. The build-up may be a diversionary tactic. Imagine yourself an Allied leader. Wouldn’t you want the German high command to assume your forces would make the shortest crossing? Then surprise them with a different point of attack?’

  ‘Surprise is a useful weapon,’ he conceded. ‘But like all weapons, it’s liable to backfire. A longer crossing involves a larger risk.’

  Casually inspecting her nails, Marita said that she had a significant new tip-off, in such a way that prompted Hoste to fish a little.

  ‘More intercepts?’

  ‘I believe this one’s straight from British intelligence. There’s someone on the inside who’s passing information.’

  ‘To Berlin?’

  She shook her head. ‘To the Russians. By chance an Abwehr agent happened upon it. The Allies have two operations running in parallel. One is the real invasion plan – the other is a fake.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  Marita stared at him. ‘Sure? Of course not. One must always remember there are people working night and day out there to mislead and deceive. Doubt isn’t just an instinct – it’s a talent. If you’re not doubting, you’re not thinking.’

  Hoste held her gaze. ‘So which one do you think is the fake?’

  She looked at him as though his question was as idiotic as the previous one. Their order had arrived. Hoste leaned back in his chair and took out a cigarette. Marita had been surveying the room with indifference when she suddenly jerked to attention. Slowly, with a frown, she raised her hand in greeting: Hoste looked round at the woman approaching their table.

  ‘Someone you know?’

  She returned a quick affirmative with her eyes. He watched her as she composed her features in preparation, and detected a flicker of reluctance. The surprise encounter had begun.

  ‘Amy – hullo,’ she said.

  ‘Fancy running into you here,’ said Amy with an uncertain smile. ‘I thought you didn’t like these places.’

  Marita turned to Hoste. ‘This fellow chose it.’ There followed a momentary exchange of glances, which obliged Marita to step in. ‘I believe you two have met before – Amy Strallen – Jack Hoste.’

  They faced one another. From this instant they would be under her scrutiny.

  ‘How d’you do?’ said Hoste. ‘I once came to your office – perhaps you remember … ?’

  Amy squinted at him. ‘Yes. A few years ago. The tax inspector?’

  ‘You have a good memory. Do you still go to the lunchtime concerts at the National?’

  ‘I haven’t been in a while. Work and such – you know …’ She looked from him to her, puzzled. ‘But how did you two – ?’

  ‘You may also recall putting us in touch over Bernard’s tax affairs,’ said Marita. ‘A confusion about arrears. Well, we met, we became – friendly.’ Hoste heard the minute hesitation, and smiled to himself. The word friendly had never sounded less sincere. She would rather have swallowed poison than call him a friend.

  ‘Why don’t you join us?’ said Hoste, pulling out a chair in invitation.

  She did so, and for the next half-hour they put on a show of reacquaintance, both working from a long unscripted rehearsal of the day before. Hoste couldn’t help being impressed by her. No actress could have done a more natural job of taking her cue (his lighting a cigarette) or of pretending surprise at their meeting. She was not word-perfect – she seemed halting and bemused – and sounded more convincing because of it. He stole an occasional glance at Marita, and felt himself begin to breathe more easily. Beyond her initial reluctance she appeared to have taken the encounter in her stride.

  Just as Amy was about to leave them Hoste mentioned, in an offhanded way, that he had a spare for one of Myra Hess’s concerts the following week. Perhaps she would care to join him – work permitting? Again, her hesitation, and the demure smile that followed it, was perfectly judged. He told her the date, and the time the concert would start.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Amy. ‘I shall look forward to it.’

  Afterwards, outside the cafe, Marita seemed thoughtful. Cabs and buses rumbled by, and Hoste waited for her to speak.

  ‘She liked you. Did you notice?’

  ‘I liked her,’ said Hoste, shrugging. ‘Though I’d rather forgotten her. Didn’t you once think she was – ?’

  ‘One of us? Briefly. When we were in Germany together, years ago, I thought she might be recruited. But I misjudged her. It turned out she had no interest in politics at all.’

  They had begun walking down Charing Cross Road, neither speaking until Hoste turned to her. ‘So you didn’t mind that I invited her to a concert?’

  ‘Why should I?’ she said shortly. ‘You’re both adults. Amy’s been on her own for a long time. She appreciates company.’

  Hoste waited a beat. ‘Have you heard from Bernard recently?’

  ‘A letter, a few weeks ago. He’ll be stuck there until the war ends. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Just what you said, about being on your own. You and he have been separated for years. It must be hard.’

  ‘I can live with it. Others can’t.’

  He might have known she wouldn’t respond to sympathy. He sometimes wondered if there was any softness in her at all.

  20

  As the Mendelssohn gathered to its conclusion he shot a sideways glance at her. Amy, absorbed in the music, reminded him of a devotional painting in which the sitter might have been transported by the voice of the Divine Himself. The penny programme in her lap had gone unremarked, whereas he had been turning his over distractedly, trying to concentrate. He had suggested that their ‘romance’, however counterfeit at heart, should bear all the outward appearance of authenticity. So they should behave and talk as though they had just been reintroduced and were eager to create a good impression. ‘We have to act as if we’re being watched,’ he said responsibly, and she nodded her agreement. But it had become apparent from the moment of their staged encounter at the Corner House that he had nothing to teach her. The paradox needled him: she was a natural when it came to faking it.

  They came down the steps of the gallery into an afternoon of benign spring gaiety. Trafalgar Square, thronged with promenaders, seemed to have taken a leap back to the pre-war days of uninhibited leisure. Amy threaded her arm through his and briefly pressed herself to
his side. He felt somewhat awkward as they walked on.

  ‘What a smashing concert,’ she said, with a little laugh. ‘Thank you for asking me.’

  ‘A pleasure,’ he replied automatically. After a few moments he added, ‘I meant to say, that was a very convincing performance of yours at the Corner House. I think Marita bought it completely.’

  She waited a moment before answering. ‘I hope she did. I’ve always had the sense she can tell what I’m thinking. How long do you propose I wait before –’

  ‘Telling her about us? It will have to be soon.’

  ‘I’m meant to be seeing her tomorrow night – a party at her house. She’ll ask me about you, I know.’

  ‘So you’ll be ready, like you were at the Lyons.’

  ‘It might be easier, now we’re over the first hurdle.’ She offered him an imploring smile.

  ‘Just don’t overdo it,’ he said, disengaging his arm from hers. Now she looked crestfallen, and he felt annoyed with himself.

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ she said quietly. ‘But bear in mind I haven’t had as much practice as you.’

  He winced at the implied rebuke – it was deserved. ‘I know you’ll do your best. We wouldn’t have asked you otherwise.’

  They said goodbye, and he watched her walk off with a rankling sense of having affronted her.

  Marita’s flat was situated above a tailor’s on Lamb’s Conduit Street. She was on good terms with one of the cutters, who would at short notice run up a smart little jacket for her, or a chiffon blouse. How she could afford such things on clothing coupons Amy hardly knew, and didn’t like to enquire – she herself was an occasional recipient of some expensive cast-off. The shop mannequin she had commandeered stood at the entrance to her drawing room with the air of an old retainer waiting to usher you inside.

  Marita rarely had people round; it had taken over a year before Amy herself was invited. Tonight’s gathering turned out to be a special occasion, a party for one of her Czech cousins who had been seconded to the RAF. The crowd was already lively by the time Amy arrived. She looked around for a face she might recognise, and found none. It was very like the hostess to keep her groups of friends in discrete compartments, where she could control them. Finding herself alone and unattended she shyly steered around the edge of the room, stopping to admire Marita’s collection of prints and photographs, the latter exquisitely presented in silvery deco frames. She had paused at a picture of a woman frozen in the arc of a dive – nominally in black and white, but really a study in the nuances of dove-grey, charcoal and cream – when she became aware of two men hovering at her shoulder. One was tall, blond-haired, the other swarthier, with an eager, amused gaze. Both wore the dark blue RAF uniform. The blond one gave a little nod at the photograph.