‘They tried,’ Stefan pointed out. ‘And they failed.’ An Army officer called von Stauffenberg had orchestrated a plot to kill Hitler back in July. The Führer had survived, unlike Stauffenberg and his friends. He’d hung dozens of them from meat hooks in a cellar in Berlin, their slow deaths filmed in case anyone else had similar ideas.
Stefan pressed harder. ‘Who are these people? Who do they look to?’
‘Who do you think?’
‘Himmler. Has to be. Am I right?’
Erwin said nothing but his silence was all too eloquent. Stefan knew that he was from the SD. The Sicherheitsdienst was part of Himmler’s sprawling empire, led by the black-uniformed SS zealots who’d become a byword for terror across an entire continent. Huber, he thought, had been a fine specimen, so different in every respect from this urbane young Hamburger. For the first time he was glad he’d shot the bastard.
He tried one last time with Erwin. The regime was beginning to collapse from the inside. The people at the top would be jockeying for power. Goebbels. Bormann. Speer. Goering. Even Onkel Karl. Unthinkable, then, that the chicken farmer from some godforsaken Bavarian village, the pasty-faced apparatchik who’d crawled all the way up Hitler’s arse and given him the private army of his dreams, wouldn’t be in the running.
‘It’s Himmler, isn’t it? Just say it. The man with the funny glasses. Little Heine.’
Erwin smiled softly, shook his head, refused to be drawn any further. Then the door opened and Stefan half turned in his chair to find Otto standing behind him. Despite the lateness of the hour, he was still fully dressed. He beamed down at them, like a father calling time on his precious children.
‘Tomorrow we have much to do.’ He tapped his watch. ‘Time for bed, gentlemen.’
17
Gómez had never tasted soup like it. Grease blobs the size of dimes. The faintest hint of what might have been garlic. Tiny curls of onion. Plus grit at the bottom of the bowl that ground between his teeth. Only the fact that he was starving kept the spoon in his mouth.
Ramón watched him from the other plinth, just an arm’s length away. He was naked from the waist up, a slender man-child with a swollen face and livid bruising around his rib cage where he’d so nearly been kicked to death. Mid-morning in the tiny cell, it was already hot, the air stifling. Up at ground level and higher it would be even worse, the sun beating in through windows that probably wouldn’t open, prisoners panting like animals in the rankness of the air. Ramón spoke good English, certainly enough to want to make a friend of this big, Mexican-looking guy who’d probably saved his life.
‘You from round here? Only I never saw you at all.’
‘The States,’ Gómez grunted, ‘Land of the Free.’
‘But you’re Mexican up the line, right?’
‘A generation back, yeah.’
‘So you like it down here?’
‘I love it. Great cuisine. Nice accommodation. Agreeable company. You want the rest of my soup?’
Ramón declined the offer with a bark of laughter. Two teeth missing, probably from yesterday. When Gómez asked why he hadn’t soup, too, it turned out that he had a thing going with one of the warders. Yesterday evening, before Gómez’s arrival, it had brought a bag of fries to the cell.
‘And what did he get out of it? Let me guess.’
Ramón nodded, opening the wreckage of his mouth and blowing three fingers.
‘In here?’ Gómez was looking round at the cell.
‘Yeah. You too if you want. Call it a thank you.’
Gómez shook his head. No more sexual favours, he said. No more blow jobs. Not while he was in residence.
‘So what about the fries?’
‘Fuck the fries.’
Ramón pouted. Gómez was trying to guess his age. Thirty? Forty? Older? The thing about faggots, they knew the moves to make to keep the score down. Easy on the booze. Don’t eat too much. Stay in shape. Did this apply to Agard Beaman? Trouble was that nothing applied to Agard Beaman but just now he didn’t even care to hazard a guess. With his life marking time for a while, maybe it was best to forget about the outside world.
‘You from hereabouts?’ It was Gómez’s turn to ask.
‘Sí.’ Ramón grinned. ‘Ensenada. My family come from inland, from the mountains. My father is dead, muerto, killed in a fight. My mother has chickens and a donkey. She calls the donkey by my father’s name. Alvaro. I guess she knew a thing or two about him.’
Gómez laughed, in spite of himself. There was something naïve yet knowing about this career maricón. He remembered him hanging over the rail on the promenade watching the kids in the water. His delight in their bodies was undisguised, almost child like, and they – in turn – seemed happy to have him looking at them.
‘You make a good living doing what you do?’
‘Sure. I fuck only who I want to fuck. I’m very good. I only have clean clients. They pay me well. No one beats me up, not until yesterday. Sometimes they ask me to stay, pass me round their friends. I know lots of people who know lots of people. Sometimes that can help.’
‘So what are you doing in here?’
‘In here is only for today. And maybe tomorrow. Maybe they want us to spend a little time together, just to see what happens. It’s a game they play. In this country everyone is a child, especially the men.’
‘Nothing happens in this cell,’ Gómez said. ‘Nada.’
‘Sure. We know that but they never think nothing is for ever.’
‘Would it make a difference? If something did happen?’
‘It might.’
‘How?’
‘I don’t know. Like I say, they are kids. One moment, one thing. Another, something else. They get bored very quickly. Don’t despair.’
‘You speak good English.’
‘Of course. Many of my clients are Americans. They liked to be fucked in their own language. They say it helps.’
‘And you get more money?’
‘Of course. And in dollars, not pesos.’
Gómez nodded. At first, he’d assumed that Ramón was a plant or – at the very least – a rich joke at the gringo’s expense. Now he was beginning to sense there might be a way he could use this man. The coy boasts about his clientele were probably true. The guy looked good underneath all the bruises and probably earned every cent these people spent on him.
‘I need to talk to an American, someone with influence, or maybe a lawyer. Else a cop called Diego. You could make that happen?’
‘Probably, yeah. This is Diego La Paz?’
‘I dunno his second name. He has a sister called Yolanda. Tall guy. Thin. Shit complexion. Crazy hair.’
‘I know this guy. He’s OK.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘He’s honest. Maybe too honest. But you’re right …’ he tapped his head. ‘It’s not just the hair. The guy’s crazy inside, too.’
‘So you can get to him?’
‘I could try.’
‘How?’
‘The warder. The man with the fries. He has influence, lots of connections. Everyone in here knows him.’
‘And the price?’
‘He comes in here. We fuck. Then he goes. Ten minutes. Maybe five.’
‘How do you get him to appear in the first place?’
‘I shout. He knows my voice. It’s like calling a dog. No importa.’
‘Right …’ Gómez nodded, wondering exactly how much humiliation he was prepared to suffer to try and get himself out of this place.
‘Would the guy mind if I stepped out there into the corridor? Gave you people a little privacy?’
‘No se. I can ask him.’ He frowned. ‘What if he wants to fuck you, too?’
‘Then the deal’s off. He can go fuck himself.’
‘Impossible.’ The frown deepened, and Gómez sensed his professional pride was at stake. ‘That’s my job.’
*
Mid-morning in Coruña, Erwin took Stefan to the harbour. Ot
to had laid hands on a wheelchair and much to Stefan’s embarrassment he was obliged to use it. Erwin did the pushing and the two escorts, as ever, stayed five steps behind in case Stefan abused his new freedoms. They were talking about Hamburg again, the way the city had never really taken to the Nazis, the street battles with the Communists from the dockyards. As a kid at school those times were exciting. They carried the promise of change, of some alternative to the tide of Nazi diktats from Berlin that were throttling the country to death.
After a while, it began to rain. By now, they were beneath the city walls, on the very edge of the water. Pedestrians were hurrying for shelter and Erwin headed back towards the main road. Otto had recommended a café a couple of streets away that served excellent coffee. Somehow they’d laid hands on one of the new espresso machines. They had pastries, too, in case Stefan was hungry.
The café was packed. The escorts stood against the back wall, engrossed in newspapers, while Erwin commandeered the one remaining table. Stefan stayed in the wheelchair, beginning to relax now. Pre-dawn, had he made a different decision, he’d already have faced a firing squad. As it was, he was now obliged to decide between churros with hot chocolate or tiny squares of apple tart. Thank God for Sol Fiedler, he thought.
It was Erwin who brought up Trévarez. He said he’d been there, enjoyed his stay, appreciated the cooking and the extensive grounds.
‘This is recently?’
‘July. I only stayed a couple of days but it was thoroughly enjoyable. Wonderful weather. Wonderful setting.’
‘I agree. May I ask what you were doing there?’
‘Enquiring about you.’
‘Really?’ Stefan didn’t know whether to be irritated or flattered. Was there any corner of his life that these people hadn’t explored?
‘We needed a reliable Kapitän to get Huber and the rest of them down to Lisbon,’ Erwin said. ‘We had a short list of two. You were one of them.’
‘And the other?’
‘His boat went down in August. Bay of Biscay. And so the decision made itself. Still, these days there are always more questions to be asked.’
Stefan lost interest in his churros. Something in Erwin’s expression told him to tread carefully.
‘And Trévarez?’ he asked.
‘It was interesting.’
‘Meaning what?’
Erwin invited him to choose another pastry from the trolley. He agreed the churros looked a bit tired. Stefan declined. Trévarez was a château in Brittany, a couple of hours’ drive from the U-boat pens in Lorient. The Navy had commandeered the place to serve as a recreation centre for submarine crews resting up between voyages, and the prospect of a week or so of fresh food in the quiet of the Breton countryside was a welcome tonic after all the pressures at sea.
‘You were there on four occasions, I think. Anything you remember in particular?’
Stefan hesitated. He knows, he thought. He’s asked around and somebody’s told him.
‘Aurélie,’ he said softly.
‘Exactly so. French, I assume.’
‘Of course.’
‘I understand she worked in the vegetable garden.’
‘Yes. And loved it. You met her?’
‘Sadly not. Very pretty, from what I heard.’
‘To me, yes.’
‘Was this a serious affair? Forgive the question, Stefan, but I have to ask it.’
Stefan thought hard about exactly how much he was expected to divulge. A serious affair? No. Aurélie was married to a farmer in the village, an ox of a man twice her age. They had no children and evidently he gave her a good deal of licence. Stefan was by no means her only liaison among the visiting submariners and he knew it from the start because she’d told him so.
‘We were good friends,’ he said. ‘We made each other laugh. She was also a woman and, believe me, that matters after fifty-five days at sea.’
‘I’m sure. You made love from time to time?’
‘Often. Time was limited. You seized the moment. Carpe diem.’
‘Because tomorrow you might die?’
‘Yes. Or the day after that. Or whenever. Every time I kissed that woman goodbye I assumed I’d never come back.’
‘Did that make you a pessimist?’
‘It made me lucky.’
‘And she was pleased to see you again?’
‘Always.’
‘And it was always the same? You talked? You laughed? You made love?’
‘Yes.’
‘So …’ he nodded. ‘What did you talk about?’
This was the question Stefan had been expecting, no less offensive for being so obvious.
‘We never discussed anything operational,’ he said at once. ‘Nothing about what we did, where we’d been, how we’d done.’
‘I’m sure you didn’t.’ Erwin was laughing. ‘I can’t think of anything more dull.’
‘So why the question?’
‘I want to know what you did talk about. Intimate things? Family things? The English call it pillow talk.’
‘You mean Sol, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then I don’t understand. How could I talk about someone I didn’t even know existed? That’s impossible, isn’t it?’
‘Of course it is. I simply want to know whether you talked about everyone else in your family. Your parents. That brother of yours, Werner.’
‘I expect I did, yes.’
‘Anyone else?’
Stefan frowned, thinking back.
‘A friend of mine from school,’ he said. ‘An older boy. Dieter Merz. He was always a hero of mine.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes. He joined the Luftwaffe. Flew against the Republicans down in Spain. He was part of the Condor Legion. We were all very jealous, him getting into action so soon.’
‘And he’s still alive, this Dieter?’
‘I don’t know. I doubt it.’ Stefan was trying to remember exactly how he and Aurélie had passed their time together. ‘We had friends in common,’ he said at last, ‘other members of the crew. Aurélie knew them all and so did I. That gave us a family of our own. Does that answer your question? Put that mind of yours to rest?’
Erwin winced slightly. Then he called for the bill. Only when they were outside, hurrying back through the rain towards the legation, did he explain further. They were under a shelter of the tree, with Stefan back in the wheelchair, waiting for the traffic to part.
‘Your girlfriend turned out to be working for a local Resistance network,’ Erwin said. ‘It’s likely that everything you said went straight back to the British.’
‘Why would they be interested in me? In my family? My friends?’
‘Because intelligence people are interested in everything. Every last scrap of information. And you’re talking to someone who knows.’
‘I see.’
‘Soon you’re going to be meeting these people. You’ll have to be word perfect. They’ll set you traps. First you have to spot them. Then you’ll have to avoid them. Aurélie will be a trap. You should think about that. Ask yourself why you never talked about Sol. Be prepared.’
Stefan nodded. Erwin had spotted a gap in the traffic. Stefan was looking up at him.
‘What happened to Aurélie?’ he asked.
‘We shot her. The farmer, too.’
*
It was a piercing whistle from Ramón that brought the warder to the cell. For once, shouting didn’t work. The warder’s name was Montoro. Gómez had never seen him before. He opened the door with some care as if it might be booby-trapped. He was younger than Gómez had expected, clean-shaven, and wouldn’t have looked out of place in a respectable bar. Gómez could think of a number of women he knew who’d be only too happy to offer a man like this a perch in their lives.
Ramón was on his feet. He kissed the warder on the lips and then the two men conferred, head-to-head, a whispered conversation that Gómez didn’t begin to understand. From time to time Montor
o spared Gómez a cautious glance, checking him out. Ramón was nodding at the corridor. Then Montoro shook his head. His job was to keep prisoners behind locked doors. No way was he having Gómez prowling around outside.
Ramón turned to Gómez. Maybe he’d like to take a little nap, face to the wall? Gómez wanted to say no. He wanted this creep out of the cell. He wanted the door shut and locked. He wanted to be back safe with a guy who knew the rules he’d set down.
Instead he asked about Diego. He knows the cop? He’ll get him along for a conversation? Try and stir a little action?
‘Sí.’
‘You trust him to do that?’
‘Sí.’
‘And it happens today? This morning?’
‘Today, maybe. First he has to find this man. He has to make arrangements. Patience.’ Gómez was still sprawled full length on the plinth. ‘You want to turn over? Shut your eyes?’
Gómez didn’t but just now he could see no alternative. Ramón would never have been his favourite cellmate but at least the guy had pull. How else was he ever going to see the light of day?
‘Rápido,’ he growled. ‘Yeah?’
*
Stefan spent the rest of the day behind a locked door in the room where he’d slept. Erwin had found him a handful of German magazines from the legation’s library and he sat in an armchair beside the window, looking up from time to time to watch passers-by in the street below.
The fate of Aurélie had come as a shock, not just the realisation that she’d been working with the Resistance but the way Erwin had chosen to break the news about her death. You aid the enemy, you pay the price. So brutally casual, so matter-of-fact. Two more lives snuffed out. For what?
At the roadside, he’d tried to push Erwin further. Who’d betrayed her? How had she died? But the young diplomat appeared to have lost interest. Herr Schellenberg in Berlin was expecting a progress report on the telephone by lunchtime. Later he and Stefan would meet again to go over the Sol Fiedler story one last time before Schellenberg returned to put Stefan to the test. Then, God willing, would come the moment when they’d agree the next step.
Erwin was back in the early evening, knocking on the bedroom door and letting himself in. He appeared to be pleased with the news from Berlin. Schellenberg, caught up in yet another crisis, was unable to leave Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse. The consensus was that Operation Finisterre was now a matter of some urgency, and that measures to get Kapitän Portisch into the hands of the British should be expedited. Erwin had explained the progress that he and Stefan had made over the last twenty-four hours and on this basis Schellenberg was happy – indeed relieved – not to have to make the arduous flight back to northern Spain.
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