The Game of Treachery

by Christopher Nicole

  She poured a hot bath and was about to get in when there was a knock on her door. She presumed it was the floor maid come to turn down the bed, and shouted, ‘It’s OK. Leave it.’

  But a man replied. ‘I have an urgent message for Fräulein Jonsson.’

  Joanna considered for a moment. Gestapo? They would hardly be so polite. Someone from James? James had never made any attempt to contact her before; he left her to her own devices. But there was a simple way to find out. She pulled on her dressing gown, stood against the door. ‘Sterling?’

  There was a moment’s hesitation, then the man said, ‘Pound Seven.’

  Joanna drew a deep breath, released the latch, opened the door and jerked it inwards, reaching though the aperture to grab the man by the lapels of his jacket and jerk him into the room. Taken entirely by surprise he gasped, and before he could regain his balance Joanna had kicked the door shut, released him, and swung her right hand, slamming the edge with all of her twelve stones of weight into his right kidney. He went down with a faint shriek of agony, hitting the floor with a crash. Joanna crouched above him, placing her right knee on has back. ‘Tell me when the pain starts to wear off and we’ll have a chat.’

  He continued to moan. ‘You have injured me.’

  ‘So be lucky. If I’d aimed that blow at your neck you’d be dead.’ While she spoke she ran her hands over his jacket and then under it, but did not discover any concealed weapon. Satisfied, she got off him, rearranged her dressing gown, and went to the sideboard, where there was a bottle of cognac. She filled a glass. ‘Come and get it.’

  Slowly he pushed himself to his knees, remained there for several seconds while he got his breathing under control, staring at her. She took him in as well. He was a youngish man, only a few years older than herself, she estimated, not as tall as she was either, slightly built, and shabbily dressed. But he was quite good-looking in a mousy fashion. ‘You’ll live,’ she assured him.

  ‘I used the password.’

  ‘You didn’t reply to mine.’

  ‘It has been changed.’

  ‘Is that a fact. No one troubled to inform me.’ The young man got to his feet and moved towards her, uncertainly. ‘You wouldn’t be thinking of trying anything stupid,’ Joanna said. ‘I could take you apart with one hand tied behind my back.’

  ‘I have been told this.’ He stood before her, and looked at the glass of cognac.

  ‘Drink it. It’ll put some colour in your cheeks.’ He took the glass and gulped it. ‘Have another,’ Joanna invited. His hands were still shaking, and the neck of the bottle clattered against the glass. ‘So the password is now Pound,’ Joanna observed. ‘Given to you by whom?’

  This time he was able to sip the drink. ‘By Pound One.’

  ‘And you’re not talking about Ezra.’ Her intellectual witticism was obviously over his head, for he merely looked bewildered. ‘You understand that you will have to identify yourself. What’s all this number thing?’

  ‘I know who you are. And the numbers are the new system. You are Pound Three.’

  ‘Say, that must mean I’m senior to you. You said you had an urgent message.’

  ‘London wants you back in England. Immediately.’

  ‘Is that a fact.’ She considered. ‘OK. I’ll go along with that. Are you in touch with them?’

  ‘I can communicate. But it is dangerous.’

  ‘Tell me about it. How long does it take you to get a message to London? You have a transmitter?’

  ‘Yes. But I have orders not to use it except in circumstances of imminent catastrophe.’

  Joanna considered, but she had to doubt if London would feel that the possibility of Liane being entrapped by the Gestapo a sufficient catastrophe to blow one of their so carefully planted agents. James, perhaps might think so, although she couldn’t even be sure of that cold fish, but that stuffy brigadier who was his boss … ‘So how do you communicate?’

  ‘I have a courier who travels to Switzerland, where he can use a radio safely. Three days.’

  ‘Um.’ If everything went smoothly, she would be in Stockholm the day after tomorrow, when she would be able to use a radio safely. But there was always the chance of a hitch. ‘Can he leave tomorrow?’

  ‘I think it can be arranged.’

  ‘Right. Have another drink.’ She went to the table, used the pad of paper waiting there. On my way. But best claret gone sour. Please abort all sales until I reach you. She tore the sheet off and handed it to him.

  ‘This is a code? I do not know it. And you have not used your signature.’

  ‘It’s a private communication between Pound One and me. You can send it in clear. It’s speed that matters.’ He folded the paper and put it in his pocket. ‘Now tell me how I can get in touch with you should I need you.’

  ‘It would be very dangerous.’

  ‘Don’t start that again.’ She indicated the pad. ‘Write it down. I’ll memorize it and then burn it. Promise.’ He hesitated, then obeyed. Joanna read the address and wrinkled her nose; he apparently lived in about the least salubrious part of Berlin.

  She raised her head and found him staring at her. ‘You are a very beautiful woman.’

  ‘What a charming thing to say.’

  ‘Would you like me to stay for an hour? I cannot meet my courier until later tonight.’

  ‘I’d love to, little man, but my bath water is getting cold. Besides, I might squash you.’

  *

  ‘One visitor all week?’ Reinhard Heydrich leaned back in his chair.

  ‘She seems to live a very quiet life,’ Oskar Weber agreed. ‘But the visitor was Joanna Jonsson.’

  ‘I know this woman. I have met her at several party functions. She is an American journalist. I believe she is quite well known over there. She is also the daughter of an extremely wealthy American woman and a member of the Swedish government. The parents are divorced, so she spends some time travelling between their two countries. We have a file on her.’

  ‘It does not appear to be very complete.’

  Heydrich frowned. ‘What do you mean? Her despatches are always submitted to the censors, and I am informed they are always pro-regime.’

  ‘And her friendship with Frau von Helsingen?’

  ‘I believe she knew the family before the war. There is nothing sinister in them visiting each other.’

  ‘Did you know that she and Liane de Gruchy were at school together in Switzerland?’

  Heydrich’s frown returned. ‘I did not know that. But surely that was some time ago?’

  ‘1928.’

  ‘And you think they are still friends?’

  ‘Old schoolmates often remain friends for life. Did you know that Liane de Gruchy was raped by some German soldiers in the first days of the invasion, when she rather stupidly ventured north of Paris?’

  ‘There was some such report. That does not excuse what she has done since.’

  ‘Of course it does not. But do you know that she was not alone when she was assaulted? There was another woman with her, who also suffered rape. That woman was an American journalist who was a friend of the family. Joanna Jonsson.’

  Slowly Heydrich sat up. ‘Who knows about this?’

  ‘The whole thing was hushed up as being bad for propaganda. The men were hanged for desertion, not for rape. But Kluck certainly knew about it. He was the senior Gestapo officer with Rommel’s panzer brigade.’

  ‘Who hushed it up?’ Heydrich asked.

  ‘Well, I have no doubt that he was acting on orders. And the matter was successfully brushed under the carpet. As far as I have been able to find out, Jonsson left France almost immediately and returned to America. It was apparently feared that she might publicize what happened, and cause us some embarrassment, but it seems that she either decided against it or was talked out of it. On the other hand, we know that she did not stay in America, but got her paper to give her an European assignment.’

  ‘This is splendid detective work,
Oskar. But it is all also very circumstantial. In fact, it makes it more reasonable for Jonsson to call on Frau von Helsingen, especially in view of such a shared experience.’

  ‘It was not Madeleine von Helsingen who shared the experience.’

  ‘All right. This woman was at school with Liane de Gruchy, and shared an unfortunate experience with her. Have you any evidence to suggest that she is still in touch with her? Or wants to be? It is often the case that two people who share a common but distasteful experience become estranged.’

  ‘I do not deal in psychology, Reinhard. I deal in facts, and the fact to which I would like to draw your attention is that this woman, who underwent a horrifying experience at the hands of German soldiers and left France in what we may assume was a distraught state, is back again, in Berlin, and has been back several times during the past six months, writing despatches extolling the virtues of Nazi Germany. I suggest you put that to one of your tame psychologists and obtain his opinion on the likelihood of any woman being that forgiving.’

  ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘I am suggesting that this woman is an enemy of the Reich. I am also suggesting that she has some means of being in contact with her old school chum and fellow rape victim Liane de Gruchy, and that she is acting as a go-between for the two sisters. Which must mean that she knows where Liane de Gruchy is, or at least how to get in touch with her.’

  Heydrich drummed his fingers on his desk. ‘Where is she living?’

  ‘She uses the Albert Hotel when she is in Berlin. But she is not there now.’

  ‘You said that she saw Madeleine von Helsingen only a couple of days ago.’

  ‘That is correct. But she left Berlin again the following day, for Sweden. This, incidentally, after arriving from Sweden only two days before that. Which is in itself suspicious.’

  ‘Do you expect her to come back again?’

  ‘Well, she has been doing that fairly regularly since last autumn. Do you mean to arrest her?’

  ‘How can I do that without causing a diplomatic row?’

  ‘What about the Helsingen woman?’

  ‘With her husband one of Hitler’s blue-eyed boys? But there is a glimmer of light there. You know that Barbarossa is definitely on?’

  ‘I know that we are forbidden to discuss it.’

  Heydrich gave a cold smile. ‘I issued that order. I also happen to know that Helsingen has volunteered, indeed he has insisted, on being given a field command. He dreams of military glory. So very shortly he will be leaving Berlin.’

  ‘But he will be coming back.’

  ‘Who can tell?’

  ‘Is it not going to be a pushover?’

  ‘Probably. But pushing over several million men, even if they aren’t resisting very hard, still takes time and effort. And some of them will certainly resist. But whether he stops a bullet or not, I do not think victory will be secured much before the autumn. Even European Russia is a very big country. The moment Helsingen is gone from Berlin, I wish you to start putting pressure on his wife. Be subtle, but ruthless. She is not a very strong character. She will very rapidly panic.’

  Weber stood up. ‘She is a handsome woman. I think I will enjoy doing this. And the other one?’ He grinned. ‘She is an even more attractive woman.’

  ‘Yes,’ Heydrich agreed. ‘I wish to know the moment she returns to Berlin.’

  Three - The Route

  ‘Well, look who’s here,’ Rachel remarked.

  ‘Pound Three,’ Joanna said. ‘For what it’s worth.’

  James got up and came round the desk. ‘Where in the name of God have you been?’

  ‘Aren’t you going to kiss me?’

  ‘I’m tempted to put you under arrest.’

  ‘Oh, well …’ She sat down, crossed her knees. ‘Mom was agitating, so I had to go home for a visit.’

  ‘Just like that? Without letting anyone know?’

  ‘I didn’t think you’d be interested in my domestic movements.’

  ‘Your domestic movements, everything about you, are my business.’

  ‘You say the sweetest things. So tell me when the code name was changed.’

  ‘Some time ago.’

  ‘Just like that, and nobody thought to inform me.’

  ‘Nobody knew where you were. But Joachim seems to have found you.’

  ‘So that’s what his name was. Funny little fellow. But kind of cute.’

  ‘Oh, my God! You didn’t …’

  ‘No, I did not. We had a small misunderstanding at first, because we were using different passwords, but once that was cleared up we got on very well. Now tell me, did you get my message.’

  ‘I got a message.’

  ‘And you’ve put Liane’s lot on hold?’

  ‘It wasn’t necessary. They’re on hold anyway. What was it all about?’ Joanna explained. ‘Would this be the same source as gave you that incorrect information of a German war with Russia?’

  ‘It was not incorrect information.’

  ‘Have you looked at a calendar recently?’

  ‘It’s been put back a month because of this business in the Balkans. It’s going to happen mid-June.’

  ‘Does he talk in his sleep,’ Rachel asked, ‘or only when he’s having sex?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you like to know.’

  ‘Let me put it to you straight,’ James said. ‘The brigadier feels you’ve been stringing us along, and he’s not happy. If this latest info isn’t correct …’

  ‘It’s me for the Tower. OK. But it’s correct. I’d stake my life on it.’

  ‘You may have just done that. Get the brigadier, will you, Rachel.’

  ‘What about the Gruchys?’ Joanna asked.

  ‘You’re positive it’s a trap? Your source tell you that?’

  ‘No. It’s a logical deduction. People don’t get released from concentration camps just because someone may feel they’re not guilty. Those camps aren’t concerned with guilt or innocence. They’re for getting rid of people the regime doesn’t like.’

  ‘And they don’t like the older Gruchys. Why?’

  ‘They’re Liane’s parents. And Pierre’s. And Amalie’s.’

  ‘But they’re also Madeleine’s parents. Isn’t her husband big with Hitler?’

  ‘Sure. That doesn’t mean he’s not keen on getting hold of Liane. And the fact is, Madeleine doesn’t count with her family anymore, or they with her.’

  ‘Have you seen her?’

  ‘I call on her whenever I’m in Berlin.’

  ‘And how is she?’

  ‘Still carrying a torch. She gives every impression of being a contented hausfrau.’

  ‘Does she have any idea what you’re doing?’

  ‘Shit, no! She thinks I’m the ultimate layabout, fiddling while Europe burns. So what are you going to do about the Gruchys?’

  ‘There’s not a lot I can do. As I said, Liane’s people have been stood down for the moment. Telling them about the return of their parents, with or without your suspicions, is likely to stir them up again, and we don’t want that right now.’

  Joanna stood up. ‘You mean you’re saving them for some big deal, and you don’t give a fuck about them as people. They’re not children. They’ll handle it, but they need to know. Liane does, anyway.’

  ‘I’m sure she’ll find out in due course.’

  ‘She’s in the Massif Central, isn’t she? Aren’t you in constant touch with her?’

  ‘Where Liane happens to be is classified. As for being in touch, we contact each other when it is absolutely necessary, or when there is an emergency.’

  ‘And you don’t call this an emergency?’

  ‘In the context of the war, no.’

  Joanna glared at him, and Rachel said, ‘I have the brigadier on the line.’

  *

  Liane stood on the street outside her apartment, looking up at the windows. She had the strongest temptation to go up and see what was left, if anything. But that would be crazy.
If she had made the journey without difficulty, thanks to her black-dyed hair, which Amalie had cut short, and her inconsequential grey suit, provided by one of the women in the village, her low-heeled shoes and her beret, not to mention her carefully forged papers and travel documents, she still knew that the slightest mistake could betray her. The apartment would still be there after the war. After the victory. She had to believe that. But it was still necessary to take calculated risks; she also had to believe that the average Frenchman would not betray her, certainly when he was an old friend.

  She turned away and walked towards the river, her heavy satchel bumping on her back. On the left bank she headed for her favourite bar. There were some men seated at a table in the corner; they all turned their heads to look at the pretty woman with the good legs. So did the barman, leaning on his counter; he was a big, roughly good-looking man with lank black hair who needed a shave. Liane leaned on the counter. ‘Hello, Achille.’

  He stared at her for several seconds; then his mouth sagged open. ‘Liane? My God, Liane!’

  ‘Softly. Can we speak?’

  ‘Of course.’ He poured Pernod, added water. ‘Jacqueline!’ he shouted. ‘Come in here.’ The girl, gauntly handsome with long dark hair, came in from the back. ‘Mind the bar,’ Achille said, and raised the hatch to allow Liane through.

  Jacqueline gave her a hard stare as she went into the back room. ‘She’s new.’

  ‘There has been a considerable upheaval. But she is all right. She is my sister.’

  ‘I did not know you had a sister.’

  ‘Well, when last you were here, she was a schoolgirl.’

  ‘You must not tell her who I am.’

  He grinned. ‘I will tell her you are one of my old mistresses.’ They gazed at each other, and he flushed; she knew he had always wanted to get his hands on her during those heady days before the war, but had never dared attempt it. That long-suppressed desire was one of her weapons. ‘But to see you here … You know there is a price on your head?’

  Liane sat at the table, drank some Pernod. ‘Do you wish to collect it?’

  ‘Of course I do not. I am just afraid of the danger you are in.’