‘There will be no need. Opa says we will have to fight the British and the French, and that this time we will destroy them and everyone will have to speak Deutsch!’
The soup, leftover broth made from beef scraps, bacon, leeks, carrots, swedes and cabbage with added onions, potatoes and a little thickening flour, was puddled, the bits of bread drowned as Karen fiercely muttered to herself, ‘Juden … Sie Sind alle Juden,’ Jews … They are all Jews. And then, loudly, ‘The Führer will destroy you people. He came to Opa’s great big house and told me that. He shook my hand, Fräulein Bowker-Brown, and patted me on the head, and I gave him the flowers I had picked, and I kissed his cheek. I did. I really did.’
Ach, what had she taken on? wondered Hilary. ‘The Führer isn’t a god, Karen. You can’t believe all that rubbish.’
She would fling the spoon at this Engländerin and tell her what had happened, thought Karen. She would spit it at her! ‘Herr Ewen and Frau Monica are not coming for me, Fräulein. Opa’s men have found out where they are and have killed them!’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Killed, Fräulein. Killed! Did you think I didn’t know why my father was hiding me in this stinky place?’
Neither David Douglas Ashby nor Ewen and Monica had told her everything, thought Hilary. ‘It’s not stinky. It’s really very clean, but Karen, what do you mean by saying that about Ewen and Monica?’
The girl plunged a fist of bread into the muck and shoved it down with her spoon. ‘That my grandfather will now come after you. That you will die here, you stupid Jewess. Die, Fräulein. Die!’
As the child raced from the cottage, Hilary paused on the doorstep. Badly shaken, she didn’t know what to do. The cottage was far too near the sea, the only road all the access they really had except by foot across the moor.
Going out to her, she said, ‘Karen, please don’t ever try to run away from me. It’s far too dangerous. The cliffs are bad enough, but there are other things you don’t know about. The pump shaft for one—it goes down and down into the mine. Then there’s the larger shaft the men once used to enter and leave. Neither is safe and you must never go near them. There are also large hills and long, high ridges of waste rock and they, too, aren’t safe, especially if you’re in a terrible hurry and wanting to escape.’
Out over the moor, the light was sharp, the green and purplish grasses looking as if they, too, with the heather, the gorse and the bracken, had all been forced by the prevailing wind to lean away. Certainly there were people about, not just the local fishermen and farmers. In summer, hikers would cross the moor or skirt the edge of the cliffs, often illegally trespassing. Cyclists and hikers used the road, as did the twice-daily omnibus to Zennor, Land’s End and return, and soon there would be the holiday makers, some with their motorcars, who would flock to the seashore at Saint Ives, the curious spilling over into the surrounding countryside, but it was lonely even then, and Captain David Douglas Ashby hadn’t told her everything, not by a long chalk.
When she saw the van, Hilary wiped her eyes and said, ‘Gott sei Dank! They’ve not been killed. Come on then, meine kleine Freundin. Let’s go and have a talk with them.’
‘Why were you crying?’
‘For a lot of reasons, but please don’t worry. I rather felt you and I might have become friends.’
But there wasn’t anything for it, was there? she thought. Writing had been a stupid, stupid notion. War was coming, and those who were fluent in Deutsch und Französisch would not only be in demand, but obligated to do whatever was needed.
‘Amongst other reasons, I came here to get away from some people,’ she said, facing Monica and Ewen now, as they stood beside the van. ‘They wanted me to join the Secret Intelligence Service and I … why, I thought I could hide myself in Cornwall and live my dream. What happened to Captain Ashby when he came down here and you sent him out to see me? Six pounds a fortnight, Monica. Six! And my life on the line, is that it?’
Ewen put an arm about his wife, then confessed, Monica adding, ‘They shot at him, but … but he got away.’
‘Then Karen was right,’ said Hilary. ‘Her grandfather does have people looking for her and it won’t be long until they succeed.’
Pratt’s was in Park Place, Saint James’s. The club, Ashby knew, had been here since the Duke of Beaufort had taken his friends to the house one evening in 1841, to the kitchen of his steward, Nathaniel Pratt. Going down into the basement, to that same kitchen/sitting room, he let the warmth and comfort envelop him and tried to ease his concerns over Daisy and what Sir John Masterson had insisted upon. There were several members and their guests, and he spoke briefly to a few. Morocco-covered armchairs and the green baize of the cribbage table complemented the deep red of the walls, the glossy black of the woodwork and the glow from the charcoal under the grill. Blue Delft tiles covered the grill and the stove, both of which were tucked into the fireplace beneath an imitation Roman frieze.
The membership had always been eclectic, a smattering of diplomats and members of Parliament, including that grand warrior, the belligerent Mr. Churchill. Several regiments were represented, the Blues, the Coldstream Guards. There were doctors, barristers, high court judges, writers … all came for the comfort and companionship. One didn’t have to dress for dinner or put on airs. Anthony had nominated him, and he had always been grateful.
‘Hello, George, any messages for me?’ he asked. George, like all the stewards here, carried only that name by custom.
‘Two, sir. A call from Mr. Anthony. Said it wasn’t urgent but would appreciate your ringing him up. He’ll be at home, at the school, and said he would wait up if you didn’t get in here early.’
Something must have happened at the school, or with the murder investigation. ‘And the other call?’
‘From Cornwall, sir, from a Mr. Ewen MacDonald in Saint Ives. He said there wasn’t any urgency, but that you had best ring the Pilchard Arms before closing. A pub, I believe.’
George looked away, forcing him to ask if there was anything else.
‘Well, er … yes, there is, sir. You see, there’s … well, there’s your wife. I told her the club was off-limits to women but she wouldn’t take no for an answer. She’s waiting upstairs, in the billiards room. I’ve given her coffee—she wouldn’t touch tea, whisky or gin. I’m sorry, sir. I know I should have sent her packing but … Well, sir, she simply refused to leave.’
Christina, but how had she known he would be in London? wondered Ashby. A sleeper, Masterson had said. A German agent who had lain dormant, but it couldn’t have been anyone at the school. It couldn’t.
‘Sir?’
‘It’s all right, George. Thanks for looking after her. If I could have a whisky and soda.’
‘It’s in your hand, sir. I’ve only just put it there.’
They both forgot themselves for a moment, then George said, ‘I’ve taken the liberty of ringing up the Dorchester over in Park Lane, sir. They’ve reserved a room for her and I’ve seen to her cases and things.’
Christina was sitting on the arm of a sofa, all alone and smoking a cigarette, her fourth or fifth no doubt. The long and shapely legs were crossed, one forearm resting on a thigh, the hand with the cigarette dangling over her knee, the dark blue heels, silk stockings and soft, dove-grey woollen dress with dark blue buttons looking well on her, the plain white collar complementing the stunning looks.
A matching cloche was tilted away from him over the right side of her head. She didn’t hear him come into the room, remained so lost and staring off into space at the carpet, he had to wonder what she was planning. Finally he said, ‘Hello, Christina.’
‘Ash!’ she brightened, her unexpected smile and delight at seeing him lasting for an instant, but had he been struck by her expression? she wondered. Had it carried him right back to Paris, to that moment when they had first set eyes on one another and had ins
tantly known?
‘How did you find out I’d be in London?’ he asked.
And wary of her now. ‘I didn’t. I simply took a chance. When they said you were here, I decided to do a bit of shopping. Otherwise I’d have taken the train to Taunton and then caught a bus out to the school.’
To a place she had never been, and a bus, thought Ashby. It simply didn’t wash.
‘Aren’t you glad to see me?’ she asked, giving him a faint and uncertain smile, he saying: ‘Why should I be?’
But wondering if she had lied about not knowing he was in London, thought Christina. Impatiently she stubbed out her cigarette and got to her feet. She would use Deutsch now, would not let him get away with Englisch. ‘Ach, it is as I feared. You’re still hating me for something that happened four years ago and was really not my fault. Why must you continue to take it out on me?’
‘There’s no use in our discussing it. You can’t have Karen, Christina, not with that father of yours wanting to make a diehard Nazi out of her, and not with the way things are going in the Reich.’
There was only one way to make him yield. ‘Vati told me that you had taken a lover and that the woman had been subjected to torture and then murdered. When I heard the news, I came straight over. I didn’t think, Ash. I just knew how upset you would be and I hoped … yes, I hoped the two of us could … well, could work something out so that no one else would be caught up in what you’ve done to me.’
‘Daisy didn’t know where Karen was, Christina. She didn’t know I had a daughter or even that I was still legally married. Those two who did that to her would have easily discovered this in the pub and really had no reason to have done what they did.’
In short, it had gone too far and still made no sense to him, but now, as Burghardt had insisted, it was up to herself and she would have to try. ‘Please don’t let us fight, mein Liebling. Let us talk quietly over a meal like two civilized people who were once so very much in love that every waking moment was shared, even though I was often alone with Karen.’
He looked thinner, slightly older than when Karen had been five and they had last seen each other. Distracted by something, and worried not just by her unexpected arrival, he said, when asked what it was, ‘Nothing. Just a couple of telephone calls I’ll have to answer.’
Two of them, but she would not reach out to him yet, would ask, ‘Do the police really know who killed your friend?’
‘As I’ve only just said, those two that father of yours sent over, or didn’t he bother to tell you he’d done that?’
But did Ash not believe they had murdered the woman? wondered Christina. ‘Ach, I know this must sound false, but could it have been someone else?’
‘Who? Hacker said …’
‘Hacker?’ she asked. ‘Who is this, please?’
‘A policeman. Well, not exactly, but he’s the one who first questioned me about Daisy when I found her body.’
She would close the distance between them now, thought Christina. She would reach out to him in kindness, would touch his cheek as she had so often, would touch the dimple in his chin and let her finger linger there a moment, and she would switch to English. ‘You’re hurting, my darling.’
Ashby felt her arms encircle his neck, felt her pressing herself against him, felt her lips against a cheek, her tears as she said, ‘Kurt Meydel and Martin Lund must be the two you want, but please, if you still have any feelings for me, don’t let anyone know I told you.’
Trembling, he caught her hands in his and kissed them, said, ‘Thanks, and I mean it, Christina. Daisy was my friend.’
But had she been as good in bed? she wanted so much to ask, letting him feel the brush of her lips against his own, knowing he couldn’t help but breathe in the soft, warm scent of her, she pulling away suddenly to say, ‘Forgive me, please. I … I shouldn’t have done that. I … I had no right.’ And when he held her from him, but gazed steadily at her, she said, ‘Darling, I know that you’re right about what’s been happening at home. I’ve still got my British passport and … and I want us to start over, if it’s possible for you to forgive that one drunken evening. I’ve even worn my wedding ring—see? I … I won’t go back if … if that is what you really want.’
Over Bremen, Friday’s sun had dipped at last, the sky streaked with orange and grey against which the dark shapes of aircraft were too distant to identify. Henkels, thought Burghardt.
Another training flight. Above them, there would be the night fighters. Messerschmitts, most probably, ME-109s.
Lost in thought, he continued to stroll along the quays, the Weser close, the sound of donkey engines ever-present. A child, he said to himself. A sleeper. Ach du lieber Gott, hadn’t something desperately been needed both to satisfy the General von Hoffmann, who had been making such a pain in the ass of himself, and the Old Man, for Canaris knew only too well of the general’s connections and liked nothing better himself than to indulge in intrigue, and didn’t one survive in war as in peace by not only protecting one’s agents and the whole of AST-X Bremen’s British network but by keeping one’s superiors happy and never ruffling the feathers of the influential?
Coming to a copse of willows, he thought of what could be made of them, most notably schoolmaster switches.
‘Osier,’ he said in English. But generals were known to talk indiscreetly, as were admirals when enthused, thus the identity of any such sleeper had to be protected further by using a number beside which that code name would lie in his office safe, should anyone think to open it unannounced.
‘Nummer 07392,’ he said to himself. ‘Osier, Frau Ashby, and may God help me if I am wrong.’
Fearing the loss not just of his granddaughter but also his daughter, the general had been far from happy. Snatches of their last telephone conversation came to him. ‘No, General, I did not, I repeat not, order your daughter to do such a thing. Fräulein von Hoffmann went over to Britain of her own free will. Yes … yes, daughters can sometimes be impetuous, General. There is no problem, why should there be? Things will proceed exactly as the admiral has instructed. Ein Schweigeagent, ja. Admiral Canaris was most insistent I awaken one who would be both very close to the task at hand and in whom we could place our utmost confidence, while at the same time minimizing any losses should such occur.’
Herr Ashby would be surprised to see his former wife but had there been an element of truth in the general’s concerns? Christina von Hoffmann had been twenty-two and crazy about that future husband of hers when the couple had secretly married in 1928, Ashby thirty-five. The general, never happy about the marriage, had tried to have it annulled and had threatened but in vain. That daughter of his had wanted Ashby and that had been all there was to it, but now? he had to wonder. Would that old craving come back to her?
When he found the Thule Sólarsteinn, the dusk had all but closed in on the superb fifteen-metre yacht Werner Beck poured his love into when not out on the Jardelunder taking eels and other things, including that general’s daughter. Thule meant ‘Iceland’ in the early Norse, and Sólarsteinn meant ‘sunstone,’ that translucent cleavage of Iceland spar that polarized the sunlight and had allowed those early seafarers to pinpoint the sun through overcast skies or even, they had claimed, when in dense fog.
Beck’s mother had been a Dane, hence the brooding spells that could, at times, be a worry, but her love of the outdoors and individualistic streak had made him a good choice for AST-X Bremen, though he would most certainly have to be taught his lessons.
Beck was in the bilges up to his elbows in grease, repacking the pump. ‘Well, at least it’s not another woman,’ said Burghardt. ‘Things have now moved into their next phase, and we must discuss how best for you to pluck that child out of England.’
The spanner was lowered. ‘Kapitän, you can’t have heard from Christina, not yet.’
The urge to wag a reproving finger was there, but he�
�d grin instead, thought Burghardt, and tell him, ‘She’s too busy, I suspect, seducing her schoolmaster.’
Stung by this, Beck angrily went back to work, muttering, ‘You’re a bastard just like she said.’
One could afford to be affable. After all, that splendid body would be being used by someone else, the enemy, and salt did help jealousy’s wounds. ‘Bastards always get things done, Werner. Just remember that you’ve been suspended from active duty pending the safe return of the child.’
At the Dorchester, the dance music came up to them, Ash having managed a balcony table. Using one of the candles to light her cigarette, Christina gazed questioningly at him, for he had noticed her hair, her dress, the jewellery—everything—even how the candlelight was caught in her eyes, reminding him of those times they had lain naked in each other’s arms in firelight, their shadows thrown large upon the walls and ceiling, but had he weakened?
Briefly giving him a shy and introspective smile, she seductively fingered the stem of her wineglass. ‘Karen cried a lot for you, David. There were times when I would find she couldn’t stop. Has it been the same over myself?’
She had reached out to touch his left hand, had let their knees rub, hadn’t moved her legs, had defied him to move his own, which he hadn’t, not yet. ‘She did and does miss you, Christina. I can’t deny that.’
Tilting up her chin, she blew tobacco smoke towards the ceiling, let him see the fullness of the throat he had loved so much to lightly finger and kiss while saying, When I’m in you, I feel as if we’re one, especially when you’re coming, and she saying, Deeper, my love. Deeper. Oh yes! ‘Darling, what is it you want to ask? Look, I know you well enough, David. My goodness, that expression! I’ve seen it a thousand times. It’s like we had never parted.’
Wanting to grin, Ashby told himself not to, that old times were old times and not the present. ‘Did that father of yours tell you I would be in London?’
The Sleeper Page 8
