by Jan Needle
‘We’ll go out. Hannele, you’re whacked. Would you like to take a bath? Drink your tea and take a bath? I’ll make some phone calls, then we’ll go out.’
She nodded.
‘I would like that, but I expect they’ll want to see me. Make your phone calls. We will see.’
Ten minutes later, as he rang number after number, Edward was aware of her behind him. He turned, to find her chewing on a loaf of bread, watching him. Then he heard her prowling, then the rush of water. Five minutes after that, he had exhausted all the numbers that he knew, and drawn a blank. He felt a fool, an utter fool. He tried to get back to the drawing room unheard, but she was waiting. As he tiptoed past the open bathroom door she called.
‘Edward? What is happening?’
‘Nothing much. I’ll tell you in a minute. You have a soak.’
‘Carruthers! Come here! I won’t eat you!’
He did not want to go. If he saw her naked, he knew he would be lost. He would fall into a pit, he would descend to hell.
She was lying in the bath, all underwater save her face, chewing the last crust of the loaf. The water was clear, unblurred by soap, and she was visible, naked and distorted, lovely. Her hair was wet, in dripping ringlets beside her ears, and steam rose to the lightbulb. Her face was no longer white but pink, although her eyes were sunk deep still, deep and dark. She moved when he came in, her shoulders sliding up the curved enamel, her breasts breaking the surface.
‘Well?’
He was wretched.
‘It’s Sunday. Most of the government are still on holiday.’
‘What? With a war about to start! Even spies!’
‘I’m very junior, Hannele. I may have deceived you. I’m hardly in the game at all.’
She was on the last mouthful. She grinned at him.
‘If I tell Goering this, he might change his mind. He might decide Hitler’s is the winning side after all. Is there nobody we can raise? What if we went there?’
‘To the House? 10 Downing Street? It’s not like that, in England. Could one go and knock on Hitler’s door, in Germany? Perhaps you should go to your Embassy. See Theo Kordt.’
‘No. It would not do, this time. Will you be able to get them in the morning?’ ‘Oh yes.’
He hoped he was speaking the truth. Good God, he was! To tell them Goering was coming? Well Halifax, or Cadogan, or Vansittart, anyone would want to hear that news.
‘Edward?’ She raised herself, amid a slosh of water. Her breasts came clear, the nipples flattened with the heat, but still that lovely red.
‘I have eaten all your bread. I am very tired, and I am all wet. Can we forget the restaurant? Can we go to bed? It’s not too early for you?’
To be honest, Edward told himself, I do not know. It was painful to be looking at her, her face open, a tired and unfrightened girl. He was frightened, and there was no component of desire in his response. He was beyond desire.
But he capitulated without a fight. Without a semblance of a fight.
‘Third time lucky?’ he said. His voice was not his own.
‘I’m probably too tired. For anything like that. Shall we just wait and see?’
Ten minutes later, still damp and pink, she was asleep, her black hair dripping into his pillow. Edward lay beside her, fully clothed, with one arm crooked across her back.
He lay like that for ages, until cramp forced him to change position. Hannele slept on.
Eight
Admiral Sir Hugh Sinclair – Quex – looked like a dying man to Edward Carrington. His skin was pale and crepe-like, his eyes too bright inside loose, unpleasant-coloured lids. His office was heated, despite the warmth outside, it was overheated. When Sinclair spoke, his dentures clicked. At first he said very little, only listened.
Carrington, still naive though learning, had thought it logical that Hannele should tell her story to the proper authority in person. They had woken at eight, and he had made tea and toast for both of them. She had been like a lazy cat, refusing to wake up properly, a phenomenon that he had known in young girls before. Twenty, she had said, and in some ways she seemed younger. Edward, at twenty-five, felt staid and mature, and also privileged. Also urgent, as he served her tea and she sat up in the bed, exposing her small breasts without a thought. She caught the look.
‘You’re terrible, Carruthers, you think of nothing else. I’m here on urgent business, I’ve come to save the world from self-destruction. Let me eat some toast first. Where did you get the bread?’
‘They leave it outside my door, with the milk. The porter fetches it every morning.’
‘How very civilized.’
Afterwards they made love, but Hannele had very little interest in it as a process. She did not actually check her watch, but the effect was there, and Edward felt it keenly. As soon as he had come she pushed at him to move, all efficiency.
‘That was very nice. Now, let’s get up, shall we? Edward! Are you sulking?’
He was. Sulking and hurt. She tutted.
‘Please. Don’t be a foolish boy. I’m here to do things. I’m refreshed. I’ve had a lovely sleep. Um Gottes willen, Edward! There are better times for this! There are other times!’
She jumped from the bed and harried him, like a terrier, towards the door. The look of fierce determination on her face soon made him laugh. He was nude except for a drooping condom. She seized it, flicked it off his penis, waved it round her head.
‘Go!’ she cried. ‘Let us save the world!’
It was not easy, though. Morton, even at ten past nine, was nowhere to be found. The Whitehall switchboard was a model of inefficiency as usual, and it took twelve minutes to try the various rooms and people who might know. Hannele, perched on a chair in the lobby like a greyhound, grew more and more impatient.
‘It’s Monday morning! Hitler is due to march on Poland this weekend! Is this some English joke!’
It wasn’t. From what he knew of government, it was normal. He considered going to the House, or Whitehall, looking for Morton or someone else he knew. But he did not have an appointment. Nobody would see him.
‘Are you sure we can’t do it through Kordt? The Embassy? There are official channels. It’s very, very difficult.’
‘Absolutely not. Under no circumstances at all must the Germans know about it. Edward. Act!’
He rang Vansittart. He felt that he was making a mistake, but that was that. Please God he would remember him.
‘Who was that man?’ he asked Hannele, after asking for his offices. ‘The Goering man you said worked with Vansittart?’
‘Wohltat. Doctor Helmut Wohltat. Say you’re him.’
That wasn’t necessary. Edward gave his own name, mentioned the meeting with Morton, mentioned Wohltat. Within thirty seconds Van came on the line.
‘Yes? Don’t waste my time, young man.’
‘I won’t, sir. Those girls we talked about, the couriers. I think I’d better see you face to face. One of them has come back. May we come and talk to you?’
‘I have a meeting. Can’t Morton deal with it? I’ve got to see the PM.’
‘I’d rather not say on the telephone.’
‘Poppycock! Well damn you, then.’
‘Sir! It’s about … it’s about Doctor Wohltat’s superior. It really is important.’
There was a pause. Edward lifted a hand, the fingers crossed.
‘Quex Sinclair’s on this number. Take it down, memorize it, destroy it. Ring him now and tell him it’s from me. If you waste his time he’ll roast you, if you don’t you might just get that job. Don’t take the woman.’
‘Sir?’
‘Are you stupid, boy? Do you know who Quex is? Do you know who she is, more to the point? By the end of the week we’ll probably lock her up. Don’t let her know a thing.’
Quex Sinclair – also known as ‘C’ – was head of MI6, one of the great non-secret secrets of the intelligence machine. He did not tell Hannele that, but he told her he had to go alone,
and she took it calmly. She had expected no other outcome, even if he had. She stayed in the flat, while he took a taxi. She was prepared to meet an intermediary, anybody, any time. But she suspected it would not be necessary. There are other channels, she told him gravely. Edward, again, felt foolish.
Sinclair made him tell the story twice. He drew doodles on the pad in front of him, occasionally dabbing at his loose, wet lips with a handkerchief. Carrington was uncomfortably hot, but did not like to use his own in case it was insulting.
‘That’s all, is it? Goering means to come, and he wants us to give him clearance. Does he think we’d shoot him down? Going a bit far, eh?’
Hannele had given Edward a sheet of paper with names and numbers on it, which now lay on the desk. He indicated it. ‘My contact says—’
‘Yes, yes. And who is she? Johanne Malling, Swedish national, resident in Germany. Hhm. Do you know what the German girl brought? Last week. Simonis?’
‘As I understand, some dates. When Hitler intends to invade Poland.’
‘Good. Not good enough to bring Chamberlain back from his holiday until today, but good. Something else. A message from Count Ciano. Mussolini won’t necessarily support them. What d’you make of that?’
‘Oh. Well.’
‘Nothing? Very wise. Can’t trust any of them. This latest nonsense. Goering flying from Germany to keep the peace. Damn man’s too fat to fly a plane, I’d say. Too damn fat by far. Which university did you say?’
‘I beg pardon, sir? Oh, oh I see. Neither. I’m a colonial, actually. Father helps run India. I got my schooling on the hoof.’
‘Good, damned good! I don’t like Oxbridge men, don’t trust ’em, they don’t always play the game these days. Cambridge in particular. Nest of perverts, so they tell me, I won’t have ’em in my service if I can help it. Clubs?’
‘None, I’m afraid. I’m not in England much you know, sir. I’ve quartered Europe in the last few years. Had to make a living, actually.’
‘Good again. Novel. If you make a living, you’re not an intellectual. Not bad rule of thumb, that. Not, are you?’
Edward gave a deprecating smile.
‘I don’t believe so, sir.’
‘Want to join the service? Of course you do! If I don’t snap you up someone else will, won’t they? We’ll fix you up with something, avoid conscription, eh? Cover, or a regiment, no need to decide just yet. Welcome to the team.’
The old man stood with difficulty. As his face came close to Edward’s, his breath hit him in a shocking wave. His hand was gnarled and bony. Carrington was on his feet as well. They regarded each other.
‘Sir? Major Morton—’
‘Hah. He’s been at you, has he? He won’t mind, he can’t pay you, anyway. I’ll sort him out.’
‘And … and the Goering information?’
‘Leave it with me. Give your details to the girl outside, we’ll fix everything. That German girl?’
‘Swedish. Yes?’
‘Get rid of her. Quick. Whatever the wops say about not dying for Danzig, those dates that came were genuine. The engine driver says so too. Send her home.’
The engine driver? He did not ask.
‘If you want someone to talk to her—’
‘I don’t. Be nice to her, mind you. Thank her prettily, see if we can keep in touch somehow. The Swedish connection could be very useful when the war comes. Very useful.’
Outside in the corridor, his mind still easing itself in to the thought that he was now an agent, an MI6 man, Carrington met Desmond Morton. The major’s puffy face took on a look of deep suspicion.
‘So Quex has got you, has he? Damned nuisance, all this poaching. What did she want, the girl? Nothing new, I suppose? Just confirmation, or denial? Of the dates?’
‘That’s it. Confirmation, actually. But Sir Hugh—’
‘Quex.’
‘Quex knew already.’
Desmond Morton was pleased.
‘Of course he did. At least you’re on the payroll, though, remember who put you up for that, eh? Listen, just because you work for Quex, you understand, doesn’t mean we can’t liaise. It’s very much a team affair, intelligence. Don’t put this round, but when Ramsay Macdonald was PM, Quex used to keep a lot of stuff back from him, thought he was unsound. He passed it on to Winston. So bear that in mind, won’t you? You are on the payroll?’
Edward, reluctantly, nodded confirmation.
‘I knew it. So bear it in mind, there’s a good chap. Won’t you?’
‘I will,’ said Edward, truthfully. But the major struck him as an odd fish, rather. Strangely inferior, somehow, for Churchill to have placed so much trust in. He mused about it, as he hurried to the flat.
The Goering flight did not happen, but even as an agent, Edward Carrington was never able to find out why. Over the next days, he was taken round the various offices used by the SIS in London, and introduced to many men, and a few women, with whom he was to work. Most of the women were secretaries, models of deferential, under-educated Englishwomen who filed and typed and processed the enormous piles of bumph that came from many quarters. Some of them worked in the field, he understood, but these were the younger, smarter ones who had been trained as cipher clerks and radio operators, usually to serve a male agent. He quickly learned that he was to be used in Scandinavia, because of his languages, but at present – with no expertise of any sort in clandestine communication – he had to train.
His parting with Hannele had been low-key, and saddening. He had told her, as frankly as he could, that the person he had spoken to – ‘a person high in British Intelligence’ – had wanted her to return to Germany (or at least, to leave England) and would not allow her to meet anybody else. He passed on the thanks, and the remarks about the possibility of keeping in touch in the event of war. Hannele eyed him coldly.
‘I suppose you’ve not reconsidered, have you?’ he said, trying to ignore her expression. ‘We don’t want you to spy, exactly, but…’ He made a face, exonerating himself from such indelicacy.
‘You frighten me,’ said Hannele. ‘You are such amateurs, you English, such awful amateurs. It seems to me that I am exactly the sort of person that you need, that you should cultivate me, prime me, pay me, even. You could interrogate me, at least, and if you thought I was a double agent you could put a bullet in my head. But you pat me on the bottom and send me home, and hope I’ll “keep in touch”! Pfui!’
‘Rather more than that, I think,’ Edward replied. But he was uncomfortably aware that she was precisely accurate. ‘In any case, you did say you wouldn’t do it.’
He had hoped for better things than this. He had had visions, striding back to Bedford Square, of proper love-making, of tenderness, perhaps some tears. Then, obscurely, he had thought they’d work it through, he would recruit her, sort out a way in which they could communicate, even meet. His very own private source in Germany. Instead, contempt.
They were in the kitchen, where Hannele had been drinking milk when he returned. She drained her glass and stood.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I haven’t changed my mind, if that’s what you’re angling for. And if your Intelligence wants me out, I’d better go. I’ve checked the aeroplanes from Croydon, I used your telephone, this time I shall fly. I shall take a taxi to the aerodrome.’
‘But I’ll drive you! Hannele…’
He had a lot he wanted to say, but her face forbade it. She refused to let him drive, and she had no time – no inclination? – for making love with him. She moved round the flat like a whirlwind, and in minutes she was in her light raincoat.
He said miserably: ‘Let me at least come with you and hail a cab.’
‘And kiss me goodbye in the street? No, here.’
She moved towards him, smiling. Edward, utterly wretched, put his arms about her and she raised her mouth to his. Hers was open, but his lips stayed closed. She held him, stroked his back, laid her head, after a few seconds, on his chest.
‘Car
ruthers,’ she murmured. ‘Sometimes Edward, you really are Carruthers. Don’t grieve. I am immensely fond of you. Don’t grieve.’
Edward Carrington was grieving.
Goering did not fly, and Hitler’s first attempt at starting World War II was a failure. The orders were indeed issued, and the attack should have begun at 4.30 a.m. on August 26. Concentration camp prisoners dressed in German uniforms had been collected near the Polish border and were waiting, drugged, to be shot by their fellow German soldiers, real ones, and used as evidence of provocative atrocities that would justify invading Poland. Reinhard Heydrich had dreamed up this idea, and also the name for the unlucky decoys: Konserven, or, let’s say, tinned meat. When the plan fell through, he put them back into the larder till the next time.
Case White, as the invasion was codenamed, was aborted by a signal issued at about 7.30 p.m. on August 25, because Mussolini and Ciano, when it came to it, summoned up the courage to tell Hitler the truth at last. Pact of Steel or not, they could not support him physically without large injections of armaments and raw materials: if he went into Poland, and France and Britain sprang to her defence, Italy would collapse. Forced by Mussolini’s courage to be unusually clear-sighted in his turn, Joachim von Ribbentrop, the champagne salesman, advised his Führer to call it off, an undertaking that would take about eight hours. A few units, inevitably, were not warned in time, the radio messages and despatch riders did not get through, but nothing serious happened, a few more border incidents at dawn, adding to a list already long, was all. Later that day – the 26th – Hitler was still in command of his mental state sufficiently to send a telegram to Mussolini demanding a precise list of what he needed, but after that he almost snapped. The German people, too. On August 27 they awoke to find that food had gone on ration, as had petrol and many other necessities. In several towns rioting broke out, rioting for peace, and Nazis found themselves the victims of the kind of abuse and maltreatment they normally handed out to others. Party flags and posters were destroyed.
Carrington, on initial training in London, gleaned snippets from his colleagues, and from Desmond Morton, who remained clubbable and generous as long as there was gin in evidence. It emerged that Ribbentrop had accused Birger Dahlerus the Swede of being a British agent – which in a way he was – but that the Führer luckily had ignored it. There was hope of an Army rebellion to unseat Hitler, but firmer news that he had ringed himself with his most loyal SS units, doubling his personal security. There was an even stronger rumour that Herr Hitler had finally become unhinged, had gone bleating, weeping mad and would end his days – soon – dribbling and counting posies. Sadly, this turned out to be the standard stuff of innumerable intelligence reports, as Carrington got to know them better. A little fact, a lot of wishful thinking.
