by Jan Needle
‘Fuck off,’ said Bill, and put the phone down.
There was no reply from his own home, and Veronica could tell him little. She had spoken to Sally Kimber, who said an ambulance had arrived at Liz’s front door late the previous afternoon. Earlier, when John should have come home from his school, Liz had been in the street, still in her dressing gown, looking for him, worried but not frantic. No one knew what had happened in the interim, and Sally had not thought to ring the bell, not knowing anything terrible was up. Where was John, she had asked Veronica. Did anybody know? The whole thing, she said, was getting circular, insane.
On the strand, Bill tried to explain some of it to Johnnie. He said that Liz was ill, and had had to go into a hospital near Belfast. It was not her body that was ill, it was her mind. Even aged just eleven, John had seen enough of mental breakdown among the Army wives to know what that meant, and enough of his own mother’s troubles to believe it had happened to her. What he could not understand was why they had come away, why a woman he hardly knew and did not like had lifted him, why they could not go and visit her. He feared – although it took Bill more than an hour to prise it out of him – that it meant marriage breakdown, which to him seemed much more shameful and hard to bear than anything his mum might go through. Divorce.
Bill held him, with the waves crashing almost to their feet, the sun shining, the wind and seabirds whistling. And – with a picture of Jane Heywood clear in his mind – denied it.
‘No more lies,’ he said. ‘I promised you, no more lies. Everything will be all right.’
He knew they had to go, to get out of Ireland, but he was not sure how to do it, and where to head for. On the second day, while Johnnie dammed a small stream near the phone box, he rang Jane. For both of them, it was a wrecking experience, although they managed to hide it from each other.
‘Jane. Bill.’
‘Oh. Oh hello. Oh, how you doing?’
‘Fine. It all went fine. We’re … the boy and me. We’re taking a holiday. We’ll be in … we’ll be on your side, soon. I’ll get in touch, when we’re fixed up.’
‘Yes. How’s … how’s your wife?’
‘Look, I can’t really talk. I’m in some God-forsaken phone box, it’s ridiculous. Jane. I want to see you.’
‘Yes.’
It was as if they were in a room full of strangers, listening. It was pain.
Then Jane said: ‘Bill, I think you ought to come. It’s Uncle Edward.’
Her voice had changed. It was more animated.
‘Go on.’
‘I told him about … about Johnnie and everything. About what happened. What they’ve done to you.’
‘And? Did it amuse him?’
‘Bill, he wants to see you. He wants to talk to you. He wants to tell.’
Johnnie was splashing in the stream. He saw his father, through the glass, and waved. Bill waved back, abstractedly.
‘Bill?’
‘I’m speechless. I’m amazed.’
‘I spoke to Erica. She said Edward had been overwhelmed. He’d thought the Hess affair was over, wrong or right, true or false, it would soon just fade away. She said he couldn’t bear the thought that people were still prepared to do awful things like that. To kill a man of that age. Whatever needed covering, whoever’s reputations were at stake. He wants to stop you doing it. Or anybody. He wants to tell you why.’
Bill thought. Of Boswell, Peter-Joe. The old grey Widowmaker.
‘Darling. I’m going to have to hide. In England. They’ll be searching for me. Hunting.’
‘It’s all right. He’s got another house. Naturally. It’s the long vacation, he doesn’t have to be at college, it’s all arranged. We’ll all go.’
‘But I’ve got the kid.’
‘Of course. Edward joked about it, he can’t bear to be too serious, I think. He said he couldn’t guarantee it would be true. Inevitably. “What is truth”, et cetera. But it will be. I know it will. Bill. Come. Please, please come.’
A smile had broken out across his face. His son looked beautiful, splashing in the stream.
‘You couldn’t stop me if you tried,’ he said. ‘Just tell me where and how. Jane Heywood. I love you!’
‘I know,’ she said.
BOOK TWO - A man can die twice
One
May 10, 1941
The Chief, thought Karlheinz Pintsch, was suffering from nerves. Dragging him away from the house at Harlaching had been like drawing teeth, and on the drive to the airfield he had stopped the car to pick wild flowers. In the name of God! Now he was bitching about all matters technical. A possible fault on one of the aero-engines, the camera playing up. To Pintsch it seemed unfortunate. God help us all, he thought, there’s pain and suffering enough ahead: let’s not worry about the details.
The problem with the port engine was soon sorted. The aircraft had been flown already that day, before refuelling for Herr Hess’s trip, and the motor was still warm. D-type 110s were fitted with 601A units, which did not like warm starts, the Chief had been told that often enough, he was behaving like a Maedchen. Within minutes, both were throbbing comfortably, almost purring. A deafening purr, quite ear-splitting!
As Hess approached the plane, Karlheinz trained the movie camera on him and turned the little switch. Thank God for that, it worked. He raised a hand, thumb upward, smiling. The Chief twitched his famous eyebrows, that stuck out of the flying helmet like two ledges, showed his famous teeth. Nervousness disappearing, Pintsch could see. The sound of aero-engines. The thought of action. Like all the big bosses of the regime, he would have it on film, this great historic moment. Not for posterity, however: for his own collection, assuming he returned. For the Gestapo, thought Karlheinz, if anything went wrong. He switched off almost sadly as Hess disappeared into the cockpit clumsily, too big in the leg for such acrobatics.
There were checks to be done, now that Hess had replaced the mechanic, so Karlheinz backed off a few paces with the camera. It was not a professional affair, only a home-movie job, but it worked well enough when it was working. Pintsch had become an addict of the hobby early in the thirties, as had most of his friends. Most of the other bosses had official cameramen, who photographed their every step, practically their every cough and spit, but he was glad Hess was not like that. For a boss, in fact, he was a very human man, who had hardly tried to hide the tears behind his eyes as he had stepped into the Mercedes earlier. Frau Hess had not come to say goodbye – ill in bed – and little Buz had been in the nursery. On the pot, in fact, the Chief had said. What a way to remember your only son. The Chief had been quiet for a kilometre or two. Wondering, beyond a doubt, if he would ever see the little boy again.
In any case, Karlheinz Pintsch jerked his mind back to the present. The ground crew were making ready. The engines were being revved, full, throaty, reliable. In any case, the first leg wasn’t very far. Only to Aalborg, up in Denmark, for refuelling. Maybe something would happen, then. Maybe the flight would be aborted, as it had been back in January. Although the weather today looked ideal, the forecasts perfect all the way to Scotland. Ah well, something else might happen. He clicked the lever, and the clockwork motor whirred. Pictures.
Out of the cockpit, Rudolf Hess waved, his face obscured now by mask and goggles. It was his own mask, although the flying suit was Kaden’s, borrowed because his own had disappeared, peculiarly, from its hook. Karlheinz caught the wave, then turned the camera on the group of figures standing by. Messerschmitt himself was there, the Prof, which was a surprise. Surely he did not know precisely what was going on? Kaden, too, and a couple of other senior staff at Haunstetten. The engine noise rose, the chocks were pulled. Smoothly, Karlheinz Pintsch panned round as the aircraft passed him, sweeping down the runway. The sky was dull, and the last few seconds were almost certainly wasted film, but he did not switch the camera off until the fighter had disappeared. He returned to the Mercedes then, his heart becoming heavier as he walked. The time-scale had been alter
ed slightly, there was much to do. The letter for Herr Hitler, most importantly, to be delivered personally. His train was booked, hin und zuruck. He doubted, to be perfectly frank, if he would ever get to use the return half.
But other things. He checked his wristwatch. Vital calls to make.
The timing had to be exact.
In the cockpit of the Bf110, Rudolf Hess, Deputy Führer of the German Reich, stabilized the motors and concentrated. Udet had listed the permitted zones and heights for the day, and his path was relatively simple. He was heading for the North Sea coast, which he would cross near Terschelling then follow for a while before turning in for the approach to Aalborg. The fluttering in his stomach had ceased, and he worked to clear his mind of images and worries. Little Buz sitting on his potty was the hardest, the lovely, curly-headed boy. But now he was the pilot. The flier. He had started on the mission.
Reinhard Heydrich – the President, as he liked to call himself – drove alone to Gatow that afternoon. His car was instantly recognizable, as was his profile, so by the time he drew to a halt there were three men waiting to do his bidding. He gave one the keys to the SSK, and told the other two to have an aircraft ready in twelve minutes. Heydrich did not need to file a flight plan – had no intention of so doing – but he strolled to the control tower to tell them he was going for a spin. It was normal.
Heydrich, a man of many talents, considered fighter flying one of the most useful and relaxing of them all. He had come to it relatively late in his short life, having dulled the joys of promiscuity, music and organization early on, and like everything else he took an interest in, he did it with terrifying brilliance. Having mastered aerobatics in his little Deaky before the war, he had gained Hitler’s permission to go on bombing runs, although – boringly – only as a gunner. While others had sweated and trained, whored and drunk like madmen to control their fear, he had practised for his fighter pilot examination – in time stolen from all his other jobs – passing, inevitably, summa cum laude. He flew Willi Messerschmitt’s masterpiece, the 109, in the Norwegian campaign, and over France, Belgium and Holland, while fitting in some high-level photo re-connaissance over England in a modified 110. Both Himmler and Hitler disapproved of all this dangerous activity – they needed him – and Heydrich often had to sneak back to Berlin on late-night transport planes to cover the fact that he had been battling with the RAF instead of with the enemies of the State at RHSA headquarters. If Heydrich had a regret about life on earth – and he had never been heard to express one – it was that a day held merely twenty-four hours. Lächerlich!
The Bf110, he thought, as he flew sedately north towards Denmark, was not half the plane the 109 was. It was a pity, one of the small mysteries of flight and aerodynamics. It had twice the power of its single-engined sister, but far less of practically everything else. Its top speed was lower, and at anything near that speed, its range was laughable. It was a pig to fly, a dog to fight with, an animal. Hess planned to get to Scotland in one, and rather him than me, Heydrich grinned to himself. Hess would never get to Scotland in a 110. Oh no, no, no!
He gazed around him at the late afternoon sky. It was leaden, but clear. No other aircraft, Germany laid out around him like a pale map, yellow and green. He sang aloud, in what he amused himself by imagining was a passable Scots accent, ‘Oh ye tak the high road and I’ll tak the low.
‘And I’ll be in Aalborg afore ye!’
Poor old Hess.
Two
The man they called The Fat One – Reichsmarschall Hermann Goering – was enjoying himself when Karlheinz Pintsch rang him with the news. He was in Carinhall, his country home near Berlin, and he was naked. He had, in fact, just stepped from his bath and, on a whim, had called upon the services of a maid called Ella. He was in front of a mirror, and the sight had brought forth gusts of laughter. Emmy was away, in case the Royal Air Force came with bombs again, and Der Dicke was feeling frisky. Plotting was afoot, deep plotting.
‘Ah,’ he said, when Ella appeared at the bedroom door. ‘Come in, my sweet. Don’t be shy. I need a second opinion, that’s all.’
The girl, who was new but a Berliner, was even so a little shocked. Her eyes rounded at the sight of so much flesh, although she stepped quite boldly into the room. She was dressed – nicely, he considered – in a black uniform in the French style, trimmed in white English lace. Doubtless the other girls had told her what she might expect. Hermann loved Emmy, no one doubted it. But he was a playful man, and generous.
‘Two whelks,’ he said, smiling at her. He opened his arms as she joined him at the mirror. Their eyes met in the glass. ‘A whale, two whelks, and a winkle!’
‘Very nice,’ said Ella, and she meant it. Goering had noted many times before that the fatter and more powerful he got, the more attractive women found him. What a pity he was so old! He read her expression – enquiring – and touched her on both shoulders. As she sank to her knees, the Reichsmarschall felt the winkle underneath the whale begin to rise. From above, he saw only his belly, though, and Ella’s fine brown hair. Changing his mind, and watching in the mirror, he slipped his hands underneath her jaw and pulled her gently up again.
‘On your back, I think,’ he said, propelling her towards the bed. ‘I’m going to pull your skirt up, Ella, and if you’ve got no knickers on you will get a bonus, you saucy little minx. I’m going to envelope you in flesh, I’m going to cover you like a feather quilt, like an enormous dumpling, you’ll like that, won’t you? And when you’ve lain there, and thought of Adolf or whatever good girls do these days, you can watch me dress in my fine underwear, all pristine silk and nicely sticky balls.’
So Hermann Goering was a little on the miffy side when Karlheinz Pintsch rang up before he’d finished. His man had been warned that Pintsch was not to be put off, whatever the occasion, so The Fat One – without irony – shouted ‘Come’ when the bedroom door was knocked. If the NCO saw Ella’s limbs protruding from beneath the supine lard he did not comment.
‘Telephone, sir. Karlheinz Pintsch.’
‘Ja, damn it.’
Withdrawn from silent Ella, in an office off the bedroom, Goering shouted down the receiver: ‘You’re early, damn you! What’s going on?’
Karlheinz Pintsch replied: ‘The bird has flown, Herr Reichsmarschall. He left a little early. I have the letter for the Führer. Everything except the time is normal.’
Goering scratched his balls, felt his drooping penis. That bloody Hess, that Piesl. He always cocked things up.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘You’ve done well, Pintsch. Get your train, as planned. Get to Berchtesgaden. Are you scared?’
‘Naturally, sir.’
‘Don’t worry too much. You’ve got protection. Herr Hess showed you the letter he’s written Himmler, didn’t he? When the Chicken-farmer reads it, you’ll be in the clear. Exonerated.’
Like hell, he thought. Pintsch did, too. But both of them were prepared to live with it, for slightly different reasons.
‘Train,’ he said. ‘Move. I’ve got calls to make. And Pintsch?’
‘Sir?’
‘Good man.’
Before he made his next call, Der Dicke put on his underwear. Ella he had dismissed, as pleasure could be recalled at any time, while the business in hand was urgent. Somehow, he had never thought that Hess had had this in him, he’d never thought the flight would ever – to coin a phrase – get off the ground. Grudgingly, he was impressed. The old windbag still had some spunk left, despite all the shit his dear old Führer made him eat. He had set off early, too. A crafty touch, a crafty touch indeed. Still, Adolf Galland would not be thrown by minor details such as that. Still like a whale, now a silken one, he returned to the small office and put the call through to Galland’s unit in the Netherlands. It took four minutes to connect.
‘Dolfo? Hermann. Look, I’m furious, I can barely contain my rage, every gram of flesh I have is quivering with anger. Do I make myself clear?’
He could imagine Gall
and, a small man who looked as if he had permanent indigestion. Galland would not be smiling at this jollity.
‘I have to tell you,’ he went on, ‘that the Deputy Führer has gone insane. He has obtained a fighter, Bf110, and he’s flying it to Britain. Augsburg to Aalborg, then to Scotland, all right? Naturally, he must not succeed.’
‘I’ll get an intercept worked out immediately,’ said Galland. ‘I’ll scramble shortly.’
‘Oh, Dolfo. This is unprecedented, you understand, totally unprecedented. I have every confidence in you. Let’s have some wizardry, all right?’
‘The orders will be given as soon as possible, Reichsmarschall.’
Which means, thought Goering, get off the line. He dismissed Galland. The humourless little shit. A good man, though, a genius in the air, and Stahl was also in on it. Nothing would go wrong.
Hermann Goering put the receiver back in its cradle slightly downcast. He glanced at the carriage clock on the polished rosewood desk. It had come from a chateau outside Paris, as had some of the other beauties. And the desk! He was taking care of everything for the owners. Oh, what a good man he was! He cheered up a little.
A few minutes, a few checks, some calculations, and Galland would be airborne. That would be all right, then. Fine. Perhaps he should phone the Führer, perhaps a little later. He thought of the evening’s scheduled raid on London. They’d be fuelled up by now, bombs loaded. Six hundred of them. The biggest one he’d ever mounted.
It was going to be some sort of a night for Mr Churchill and his friends, he mused. He hoped – just hoped – it might prove to be conclusive.
Three
Heydrich, who was never late for anything, was too late to stop the flight to Scotland. As he taxied to a halt at Aalborg, he saw a small contingent of SD approach, keen and hungry, and his lips curved. I’ll feed you soon, my dogs, he thought. As he pulled back the perspex canopy he permitted himself a small smile at Stallen, whom he knew. The engines grumbled into silence.
