Angel in Jeopardy_The thrilling sequel to Angel of Vengeance

by Christopher Nicole

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘But as I told you before, although I have written him to expect a courier, I understand that the Count may not be immediately available, and so you may have to spend a few days in Stockholm. Are you prepared to do this?’

  ‘If you require it, sir,’ Anna said bravely, while her heart was singing.

  ‘Well, then, you leave tomorrow. You are booked in at the Falcon Hotel. I am told it is very comfortable.’

  ‘Very good, sir. And my identity?’

  ‘As Count Bernadotte knows who you are, it would be pointless to use a false name. You are the Countess von Widerstand, and you are on a diplomatic mission for the Reich.’

  ‘As you say, Herr Reichsführer.’

  ‘Just remember that no one, but no one, is to know the contents of this letter other than Count Bernadotte. In this regard, you must be prepared to take any steps necessary to protect it. And yourself, of course.’

  ‘You wish me to be armed, sir?’

  ‘I think that would be appropriate.’ He held out a little booklet. ‘This is your diplomatic passport, which will see you through any Customs post, and you have your carte blanche.’ He took off his glasses to gaze into her eyes. ‘Both our futures are at stake, Anna.’

  ‘I understand that, sir. But . . . am I to await the Count’s answer?’

  ‘Yes. It may just be a preliminary answer. But a great deal will depend on it. Our lives are in your hands, Anna.’

  ‘I shall remember that, sir. And I shall return as soon as is practical.’ Anna stood up. ‘Auf Wiedersehen.’

  *

  Birgit, of course, was aghast. ‘You are going away for a week, Countess? And I am not to come with you?’

  ‘It is simply not practical,’ Anna explained, ‘and it will only be for a few days, really.’

  ‘And I am left here in this . . . this dungeon.’

  ‘By the time I return, I expect you to have turned this dungeon into the sort of home we have both come to appreciate. I give you carte blanche to spend whatever you think necessary. If anyone questions what you are doing, refer them to Herr Himmler.’

  Essermann was equally perturbed. ‘You say you do not know how long you will be away?’ he asked as he sat beside her on the drive to Lübeck. ‘Is that not very irregular?’

  Anna shrugged. ‘I am on the Reich’s business, which, as I am sure you appreciate, must come before any other consideration.’

  ‘Of course. But ah, you are not travelling to – well . . .’

  Anna squeezed his hand. ‘As far I am aware, Hellmuth, I am not being required to kill anybody.’ Unless I have to protect the contents of the letter, she thought.

  His fingers were tight on hers. ‘Oh, Anna, the thought of anything happening to you . . .’

  She kissed him.

  Needless to say, Werter was on the dock. ‘Why, Herr Werter,’ she said. ‘How nice to see you again.’

  He looked decidedly apprehensive, and the more so at the sight of Essermann, wearing his black uniform, into whose arms Anna allowed herself to be swept for a farewell kiss. But he determined to get in a point of view. ‘I assume you are coming back, Countess?’

  Anna smiled at him. ‘You will have to wait and see.’ She squeezed Hellmuth’s hand and boarded the ferry.

  Then at last she could allow herself to think. The sealed envelope was, of course, burning holes in her new shoulder bag far more quickly than London’s acid had done. But the temptation to open it, at least at this stage, had to be resisted. As it obviously did not contain money, it had to be some kind of proposal – from the Reich, with the full authority of the Führer? or from Himmler personally? It had to be the latter. If Hitler wanted to communicate with the Swedish government, which could only be with a view to ending the war – an impossible thought in any event – he would do so through their ambassador in Berlin. But if Himmler was seeking a personal salvation . . .? Would that turn the conspirators’ plans on their heads, or did that mean that she had been wrong in her assumption that he would never risk seeking power as the next Führer? She did not think so. If he was aware, as now seemed certain, that there was an incipient plot against the Führer in existence, and intended to take advantage of it, then the only reason to involve the Swedish government was to find out, through them, if the Allies would be prepared to deal with him. She was absolutely sure they would not, but this might still be a vital piece of information for MI6 . . . and the OSS. She would have to wait and see what, if anything, Count Bernadotte might let slip.

  But all of that, possibly earth-shaking as it was, ranked below the fact that she was being given the opportunity to contact Clive. She should be very angry. And in fact that was still simmering – that she had been exposed to such an experience, and to such a risk, with defective material. Would they want her to try again? She honestly did not think she could handle another night like that. And if Stauffenberg was willing to take on the burden . . . But if he was going to have to do it with the same duff material as she had been given . . . That also needed sorting out.

  By Clive! She was aware of a slowly growing excitement as she caught the train from Malmö to Stockholm, having sailed through Swedish Customs by presenting her diplomatic passport. The journey took several hours, through country entirely blanketed by snow, through which the red roofs of the houses poked picturesquely. Stockholm was equally shrouded in snow, the lakes frozen. The train had been full, and it was necessary to wait half an hour for a taxi, stamping her feet on the frozen ground. But at last she was at the Falcon Hotel, being shown to a very comfortable room, where she could stand for fifteen minutes beneath a hot shower while she thawed out. Then she had a room-service supper and went to bed, enjoying – as she was sure she would have done in Geneva but for the unwelcome interruption, and had done in Lucerne – the utter peace of an air-raid-free city, which was made more peaceful yet by the sound-deadening effect of the snow.

  Next morning she had to control her impatience until nine o’clock, breakfasting in her room. But at nine sharp she telephoned the Swedish Red Cross Headquarters. ‘I need to speak with someone who understands German,’ she said, in that language. As she had told Himmler, Swedish was not amongst her many accomplishments.

  ‘I speak German, Fräulein,’ the woman said.

  ‘Then I would like to speak with Count Bernadotte, please.’

  ‘May I have your name?’ the woman asked.

  ‘I am the Countess von Widerstand. Count Bernadotte is expecting me.’

  ‘Count Bernadotte is not in yet. If you will leave your telephone number I will inform his secretary that you called, Countess, and no doubt he will contact you.’ Her tone suggested, supposing he has either the time or the inclination to wish to speak with some itinerant German.

  ‘Thank you,’ Anna said, and gave the hotel number as well as that of her room, reflecting that with any luck Bernadotte would be out of town and be unable to see her for a few days, which would give her a legitimate excuse to remain in Stockholm for a while.

  As it would still be only ten past eight in London, again she had to wait, so she had a bath and dressed. She was in the middle of her make-up when the phone rang. ‘Countess von Widerstand?’ A man’s voice.

  Damnation, she thought. ‘I am she. Count Bernadotte?’

  ‘I am Count Bernadotte’s secretary, Countess. Count Bernadotte would like you to have lunch with him today, if that is convenient.’

  ‘Today?’ Shit! ‘Of course. That would be entirely convenient.’

  ‘Do you know Stockholm, Countess?’

  ‘This is my first visit.’

  ‘Ah! In that case, a car will pick you up at twelve thirty.’

  ‘Twelve thirty,’ Anna agreed, and hung up.

  That was bad luck, but at least it was now ten o’clock, or nine in London. ‘I would like to make a long-distance call,’ she told the girl on the hotel switchboard.

  ‘Certainly, Fräulein. The number?’

  Anna gave her the
long-memorized unlisted number of MI6 headquarters and waited through a succession of thumps and clicks. Then the number was repeated by an English voice. ‘Good morning,’ Anna said. ‘I would like to speak with Mr Bartley, please.’

  ‘Who is calling, please?’

  ‘Belinda.’

  ‘Belinda. And where are you calling from, please?’

  ‘Stockholm.’

  ‘Stockholm!’ There was a moment’s silence, then the woman said, ‘I will connect you with Mr Bartley’s office.’

  More clicks. Anna had no doubt that the call was now being monitored. But a few moments later another woman said, ‘Did you say, Belinda?’

  ‘That is correct. Who is this?’

  ‘I am Mr Bartley’s secretary.’

  ‘Well, kindly connect me with your boss. It is very urgent.’

  ‘Ah . . . I’m sorry, Count— Belinda, but Mr Bartley is not in the office.’

  ‘Oh, shit!’

  ‘Countess?’

  ‘Forget it. Listen, when do you expect him?’

  ‘In about four days’ time.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He is presently out of the country.’

  ‘For God’s sake! Then who is in the country?’

  ‘Would you like to speak with Mr Baxter?’

  Anna considered. She had only met Billy Baxter once, on the occasion in 1940 when she had agreed to work for MI6 and Clive had considered it necessary for her to become acquainted with her ultimate boss. As she remembered the occasion, she had not liked him, and she suspected that he had not liked her, either – although Clive had told her it was just that Billy was apprehensive of forceful women. But it was absolutely essential that she talk to someone with some clout, and thanks to Bernadotte’s prompt response she only had a couple of days to play with. At least Baxter should be completely au fait with what she was doing. ‘All right,’ she agreed.

  ‘Can you hold, for five minutes?’

  ‘Five minutes.’

  *

  Amy dashed up the stairs and arrived panting before Baxter’s desk. ‘Mr Baxter . . .’

  Billy looked up. ‘Don’t tell me something’s happened to Clive?’

  ‘No, sir. I don’t know, sir. But . . . she’s on the line.’

  ‘Take a deep breath, Barstow,’ Billy recommended. ‘You are yammering.’

  Amy took several deep breaths. ‘The Countess von Widerstand is on my line. She says it is very urgent.’

  ‘You mean she’s alive? And telephoning from Germany? Holy shit!’

  ‘Sir?’ Amy was pained. As a well-brought-up young woman she was unused to the indiscriminate use of obscenity. And now she had been presented with the S-word twice in ten minutes.

  Billy ignored her, ran down the stairs to pick up the phone. ‘Countess?’

  ‘At last,’ Anna commented, somewhat acidly; she had been wondering how she was going to explain what was clearly going to be a staggering phone bill on her expenses.

  ‘Where are you?’ Billy demanded.

  ‘I am in Stockholm, Sweden. I will be here only for about two days. It is of the utmost importance that I meet one of your people in that time. But I understand that Clive is not available.’

  ‘That is correct. Can you not discuss your problem now?’

  ‘Over the phone? I don’t think that would be a very good idea, sir.’

  ‘I see. Well, leave it with me. I’ll get someone across to you.’

  ‘Within twenty-four hours,’ Anna reminded him.

  ‘Ah, yes. Yes. Within twenty-four hours.’

  ‘It would be of great assistance for me to know who my contact is going to be.’ Perhaps, she thought, he could send the real Belinda. That would be rather fun.

  ‘Whoever it is,’ Billy said, ‘will use the Belinda code, and will be known to you. Give me your address.’

  ‘The Falcon Hotel, Stockholm.’

  ‘Very good. You will be contacted.’ He replaced the phone and looked at Amy, who was looking at him.

  ‘Shall I contact Miss Hoskin, sir?’

  ‘No. I do not think that would be appropriate.’

  ‘There is no one else in the office known to the Countess.’ She snapped her fingers. ‘We could use the Americans. I believe the Countess has met that chap Andrews, and I know he is still in England.’

  ‘I don’t like that idea either,’ Billy said. ‘They are trying too hard to muscle in as it is.’ Anna Fehrbach, he thought. Quite the most exciting woman he had ever met. So she was a mass murderess, or, as she would call it, a mass executioner. But she was actually his possession, as long as he kept her out of the hands of the Americans.

  ‘Then who will you send, sir?’ Amy asked. ‘You promised her it would be someone she knew.’

  ‘Yes,’ Billy said. ‘I did, didn’t I?’

  *

  Anna remembered, correctly, that Folke Bernadotte was a tall, intensely handsome man, a descendant of the Napoleonic marshal who had been elected King of Sweden and founded the present dynasty. She was also aware of his work with the Swedish Red Cross that had alleviated the fate of many thousand concentration-camp victims. What Himmler, the man responsible for creating such camps, could expect of him . . .

  To her surprise, the Count wore uniform, but he bowed over her hand most gallantly when she was escorted through the crowded restaurant to his table. ‘Countess von Widerstand! This is an enormous pleasure. I suppose you do not remember me.’ He spoke flawless German.

  ‘I remember you very well, sir. But I am surprised that you remember me.’ Anna allowed herself to be helped out of her sable by the maître d’, and she also gave him her fur hat. She was wearing a pale-green woollen dress and her best jewellery; her hair was loose save for its usual retaining band on the nape of her neck.

  ‘Yours is not a face one easily forgets. Do sit down. Will you accept a champagne cocktail?’

  ‘I will, thank you.’ Anna seated herself opposite him, and the drinks were brought.

  ‘The communication that I received,’ Bernadotte said, ‘from the German embassy, was that you wished to see me on an urgent personal matter, and that you had the blessing of Reichsführer Himmler in doing so.’

  ‘Whereas, I am sure you have deduced that the personal matter is not my own.’

  ‘I had no doubt that you would enlighten me. Shall we order?’ Anna accepted his recommendations, and a bottle of wine was served. Then he asked, ‘Would you prefer to discuss business now, or later?’

  ‘I actually have no business to discuss, Count Bernadotte.’ He raised his eyebrows and she smiled at him. ‘I am merely a delivery girl.’ She opened her bag and handed him the envelope. ‘From Herr Himmler.’

  He regarded both her and the envelope for some seconds, then laid it beside his plate as the hors d’oeuvre was served. ‘I assume you know the contents?’

  ‘No, sir. I do not.’

  ‘But, as I understand it, you are Herr Himmler’s Personal Assistant.’

  ‘That is correct, sir.’ Anna ate her salted-fish pieces, carefully.

  ‘But he does not confide in you.’

  ‘He confides in me what he wishes me to know.’

  Bernadotte considered this while their main course was served, then drank some wine. ‘May I ask you a terribly personal, and impertinent, question, Countess? If you are offended, you are welcome to slap my face, or throw your wine over me.’

  Anna drank in turn. ‘I am not easily offended, sir.’

  ‘Well, then . . . as you occupy so important a place in the German Secret Service, may I assume you are a Nazi?’

  ‘You may assume that, sir.’

  He raised his eyes to meet hers as the emphasis registered. ‘Well, at any rate, you must necessarily support the actions of your government, and of Herr Himmler in particular.’

  Anna chose her words carefully. ‘I am not required either to approve, or to disapprove, the actions of my government, sir. I am only required to carry out my orders, as and when I receive t
hem. My current orders are to deliver that letter to you, personally, and to receive from you a reply, personally.’

  He continued to gaze at her for some seconds, but was too much of a gentleman to continue his interrogation after so pointed a snub. ‘As you say,’ he agreed, and used his clean butter knife to slit the envelope and take out the two sheets of handwritten paper. ‘Do you mind if I read this now?’

  ‘I would like you to.’

  He scanned the sheets, his expression never changing. When he was finished, he looked up. ‘You say you have no idea what this says?’

  ‘No, sir, I do not.’

  ‘I think you are probably fortunate. Try to keep it that way.’

  ‘And your reply?’

  ‘Now, Countess, if I were to give you a verbal reply, you would have to know what I am talking about and, as I have said, it would be far better, and safer, for you not to become involved. Besides, it is not something to which I can reply, off the cuff, as it were. I shall have to consider the matter.’

  ‘Herr Himmler will be impatient to hear from you.’

  ‘I am sure he will. But I am sure he will understand the situation. Lunch with me here the day after tomorrow. My car will pick you up at your hotel. At that time I will give you my reply, in writing, and sealed. Will that satisfy you?’

  ‘It will have to, sir,’ Anna said, and drank her coffee.

  She knew she should be desperately curious as to the contents of the letter, and what Bernadotte would have to say in reply. If, in view of what was going on in Berlin, she had a pretty good idea of the subject matter, she could not determine why Himmler would wish to involve a neutral who, although well known internationally, was not actually a statesman, and was certainly not a Nazi sympathizer. But she could not stop herself from considering the coming twenty-four hours as far more important – as they were, however great her disappointment that it would not be Clive knocking on her door. It would be delightful to see Belinda again, but Baxter had obviously not made up his mind who to send, and besides, if Clive was away, was it not possible that Belinda was with him? Grrr. So it would probably be Johannsson, a man who was setting up to be a nuisance, if only because he did absolutely nothing for her, sensually. But if it was to be him, she would at least be able to tear a strip off him for the failed bomb.