‘The other reason is that I am leaving the country within forty-eight hours, and I have a lot to do.’
‘You are leaving Germany? Again? You have been back less than two months.’
‘I seem to be popular.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘I am going to America.’
‘You are getting out?’
‘Chance would be a fine thing. Of course I am not getting out. I am going as an agent of the Reich.’
‘To kill somebody?’
‘No. To get information.’ But the warning beacons that always flickered in Anna’s brain were suddenly very bright. Himmler had insisted that her mission was solely to gain information as to American intentions. But she had been sent to England in 1938, also to get information. It was only after she had been there for nearly two years, and established herself on the London social scene, that she had suddenly been informed she was required to assassinate Winston Churchill. It had taken the combined efforts of the Special Branch and MI6 to get her out of that mess. And last year she had been sent to Moscow, again to ‘get information’, only to be informed, just two months ago, when once again she was established in the Russian social scene, that the Reich required her to kill Marshal Stalin, the day before the German invasion. That she had survived was thanks to Joe Andrews, to whom she was now being sent, to ‘gain information’. Who was going to rescue her from that terminal situation, when it arose?
Bartoli was gazing at her. She smiled. ‘Naturally, I wish London to know of it. So, write down the additional message, and make sure they both go off tonight. And then attend to Edda.’
Bartoli’s nerves seemed to have settled down. He copied down what Anna had to say, and then raised his head. ‘Is it blood you have in your arteries? Or iced water?’
Anna stood up. ‘You may believe, Luigi, that my blood is a good deal hotter than yours. Especially right now. Ciao.’
*
‘Despatch from Basle,’ Amy Barstow said brightly. ‘Out of Berlin. It is very interesting.’
She laid the original paper and the decoded translation on Clive Bartley’s desk and waited, nose twitching. It was impossible to work closely with someone in such a tension-filled and occasionally lethal – if usually for other people – business as secret intelligence, and not become at least mentally intimate. With her sharp features and slightly overweight figure, Amy knew the intimacy would never become anything more than imagined, but that made her even more interested in her boss’s undoubtedly chaotic emotional life. She knew he had what might be termed a close relationship with a high-powered London fashion editor. But she also knew that every time a despatch arrived from Berlin he became quite agitated. And she also knew the name, or names, of the lady involved. She personally had never met Anna Fehrbach, the Countess von Widerstand, the Honourable Mrs Ballantine Bordman, but she had seen photographs of her. The trouble with photographs, especially when they were in black and white and on the page of a newspaper, was that while they could portray extreme beauty, and in the case of Anna Fehrbach most definitely did so, they could convey nothing of the personality, the charisma, the charm, which the woman apparently exuded and could have almost all men grovelling at her feet. Nor could they indicate anything of the deadly purpose she could apparently reveal. To meet this reincarnation of the Gorgon one day was one of Amy’s great ambitions, providing they were on the same side.
But for the time being she had to see her through the eyes of her boss, whose reaction was entirely as expected. Clive Bartley snatched the paper, scanned it, and leaned back with a sigh. ‘She’s all right.’
Amy snorted. It bothered her to see Clive so emotionally at the mercy of a woman’s well-being. It did not fit the man. Clive Bartley was six feet two inches tall, with thinning dark hair and a big chin, which went with his generally craggy features. He was powerfully built, had a spectacular record in the field when it had been necessary, and had a few fatalities to his own credit, again when it had been necessary. Amy considered that to allow any single agent, however attractive, to get this far under the skin was positively obscene, if not dangerous. ‘One would like to think so, sir,’ she remarked. ‘It does sound a little far-fetched.’
Clive was studying the transcript again. ‘But not unbelievable.’
‘You mean you are going to accept it?’
‘I am certainly going to take it upstairs.’
‘And,’ she said, acidly, ‘as to the second half of the message, does this mean you will be going to New York in the near future?’
Clive grinned. ‘Do you know, Amy, I think that may be a very good idea.’
*
‘Good morning, Billy,’ Clive said brightly. ‘Despatch from Berlin via the Basle office.’
Billy Baxter raised his head to peer across the desk. ‘Don’t tell me your inamorata has surfaced?’
In the strongest contrast to Clive, Billy Baxter was a small man, and far from looking like a retired athlete, rather suggested a still hard-working academic, his clothes shabby, the patterned sweater he always wore under his jacket, even at the height of summer, embedded with strands of tobacco from his invariably absent-minded filling of his pipe. Clive had worked for him long enough to know that the façade was a deliberate sham; Billy Baxter possessed one of the most acute and ruthless brains he had ever encountered, and this bothered him, in the present instance, because he also knew that Billy had never been able to bring himself quite to trust his most glamorous double agent. So he said now, somewhat stiffly, ‘It is from Anna, yes. Frankly, I had not expected to hear from her again so soon. She had to recover from her Russian ordeal. But this is dynamite.’
Baxter had been studying the transcript. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘She was in the hands of the NKVD for a while, wasn’t she?’
‘Yes,’ Clive said grimly.
‘And they used their water torture on her.’
‘Yes,’ Clive said, even more grimly.
‘It would appear that some of it, quite a lot of it, must have got on to her brain and is still there.’
‘Just what do you mean by that?’
‘Oh, come now, Clive. This has to be absolute balderdash. There is no civilized government in history would conceive of such a plan.’
‘With respect, sir, aren’t you making a fundamental error in supposing that the Nazi regime is a civilized government?’
‘Have you any evidence that it is not?’
‘Well . . .’
‘Oh, I know they wage war with utter ruthlessness. But that is why they are winning. Did not an American national hero – and, incidentally, a president – say that moderation in war is madness? When we get around to adopting that philosophy we also will start to win. But to declare war on your own people simply because they practise a different religion, I mean, that is sheer barbarity.’
‘We did it, on the Roman Catholics, not four hundred years ago.’
‘We required them to keep a low profile and out of politics. Those who actually got burned at the stake had stuck their chins out.’
‘That is a matter of degree.’
Baxter peered at him. ‘I know you would like to believe this latest hysterical outburst, but . . .’
‘Billy, with the humblest possible respect, you are a male chauvinist pig of the worst kind. I have known Anna now for three years, and I have seen her in some of the tightest imaginable corners, and I have never found the slightest trace of hysteria in her make-up. You remember last year when we were just about to get her out of England and the Gestapo sent three thugs to arrest her? She was unarmed and alone when they got to her flat. When I arrived fifteen minutes later they were all dead and she was drinking a glass of sherry.’
‘I remember that very well,’ Baxter agreed. ‘I also remember that only a couple of months later she was in Prague and shot dead two of our agents who she thought were about to assassinate her current lover.’
‘I beg your pardon. She did not know they were our people, and she wa
s protecting Meissenbach, who at that time was her boss.’
‘All right, all right. I apologize. She is not hysterical. But she is also a young woman I would not like to get too close to when she is in a bad mood. And what we have managed to agree on is that she reacts very quickly and very positively to anything she doesn’t like. She may have overheard some conversation in which the concept of this “final solution” was thrown out – rather like Prince Hal when, at least according to Shakespeare, he was asked what would be the first thing he would do when he became King Henry V, replied, “hang all the lawyers”. No one took him seriously and, needless to say, he didn’t.’
‘So you don’t propose to take this any further.’
‘Not without a whole lot more proof than the opinion of a twenty-one-year-old girl, however valuable you may think she is. For God’s sake, Clive. We are trying to unite the world against Hitler. What do you suppose the reaction of presently confirmed neutrals would be if we started flying this kite? England must indeed be desperate if she is reduced to propaganda as low as this. I’d be laughed out of my job.’
‘So you need proof. The first thing we should do is talk to Anna and find out where she got this information from.’
‘Just how do you propose to do that?’
‘Well, she’s on her way to New York . . .’
‘Shit! I’d forgotten that. I suppose we had better warn Washington that a very lethal bomb is about to explode in their midst.’
‘I don’t think that is the least bit funny. However, the point is that this is a heaven-sent opportunity for us to contact her . . .’
He checked as Baxter leaned back in his chair. ‘Your effrontery takes my breath away. Us? You mean you! Is that all you can think about, getting your hand into her knickers?’
‘She doesn’t wear any. But I am the only one of us she trusts and will confide in.’
‘Listen. Go home and have sex with Belinda and straighten yourself out.’
‘Billy, you are letting your prejudices get in the way of your duty.’
Baxter sat up again and reached for his pipe; this was at least a sign that his brain was working overtime. ‘So you would like to be present at her execution, is that it?’
‘Say again?’
‘Doesn’t that fellow Andrews know she’s a German spy? A German assassin?’
‘He also knows she works for us.’
Baxter filled his bowl, slowly and messily. ‘And you think he’ll have kept that to himself?’
‘He gave me his word, and I believe he’ll keep that word.’
‘Until pushed. Which will happen when he discovers that Anna is in Washington on some secret mission for the Reich that invariably means someone is for the high jump!’
‘Listen, America and Germany are not at war, and if Anna is going to Washington as a member of the Embassy staff, she will have diplomatic immunity. If the State Department decides it does not like what she is doing, all it can do is put her on the next boat back to Europe.’
Baxter struck a match and puffed smoke. ‘Then she might even get torpedoed, and all our troubles will be over.’
‘I’ll overlook that,’ Clive said. ‘But all that nonsense you have just spouted makes it all the more important for me to get over there, to act as referee and to keep her out of trouble. Surely even you can see that.’
‘I can see a great many things.’ Baxter took his pipe from his mouth to point it. ‘You will complete your current assignment. Don’t bother to shake your head. Jerry is not going to send Anna to Washington and then call her back the next day. And if she gets into trouble and is thrown out, it is probably better that you should not be there. If she can survive for a couple of months, we can feel reasonably sure that she is behaving herself. And when you are free, I will allow you one month. A week to get there, a week to get back, and a fortnight in the States. And if you get torpedoed, you’re fired.’
*
Clive opened the door of his flat and inhaled. ‘That smells good.’
Belinda Hoskin emerged from the little kitchen. ‘Are you referring to the food or my perfume?’
‘Both.’ He crossed the room and swept her up off the floor. This was necessary if he was going to kiss her, as she was only five feet two inches tall, and slender with it. Pretty enough, with clipped features and crisp black hair which she wore cut just below her ears, her principal asset was her intense personality, although this could be exhausting.
But Clive knew that her main attraction, to him, was the total contrast she presented to Anna Fehrbach, which he knew made him several kinds of cad. His defence was that Belinda had been his on-and-off partner for several years; they had come together before either of them had had the faintest idea that anyone named Anna Fehrbach even existed. He had then found Belinda both compelling and attractive, so much so that he had asked her to marry him. She had declined.
As she clearly liked both his looks and his bed manners, she had had to come up with an explanation for her refusal, and this, or rather these, had been straightforward enough. She had then been thirty years old, and having just achieved the position of Fashion Editor of a leading London weekly, had not felt like giving it up to be a housewife. As this had not been an essential concomitant of his proposal, she had had to come up with a back-up, so her second reason had been his job, which he had felt obliged to reveal to her, without of course going into any detail.
But she could gather, certainly at that time when he had been less senior than now, that it entailed a great deal of field work, more often than not out of England, and that it also involved, from time to time, a certain amount of physical danger. She had told him that she did not feel like becoming a widow just then. But the message had been clear: ask me again when I’ve enjoyed my position for a few years and you are senior enough to stay at home.
Now she slid down him. ‘It’s only bangers, I’m afraid. It’s goddamned difficult to get anything else. I would have thought that now the Blitz is over things would improve.’
He followed her into the kitchen. ‘Is the Blitz over? Nobody tells me anything.’
Belinda blew a raspberry. ‘There hasn’t been a raid for a week.’
‘I think that’s probably because Jerry is a trifle occupied somewhere else, as you may have heard. Anyway, the situation in the shops doesn’t depend on the Luftwaffe. It’s a matter of the U-boats, and they certainly haven’t gone away.’
‘Well, I wish they would.’ She stood above the hob, turning sliced onions with her spatula. ‘Now tell me what’s on your mind.’
‘Is there something on my mind, except for sausages and a drink and a bit of nookie?’
‘Darling, I can always tell when there’s something on your mind. But you can pour us a drink.’
The real reason she had refused to marry him, Clive knew, was that she was a control freak. She ran her office with an iron fist, albeit usually in a velvet glove, and she intended to operate her domestic life in the same way, which was not a practical proposition when your husband has a job about which you can know nothing and can never discuss, and which is liable to remove him from your orbit for weeks or even months at a time. And so they had been overtaken by events. By one overwhelming event in particular, even if she was not yet fully aware of it.
Clive could remember as if it were yesterday the first time he had seen Anna Fehrbach, Countess von Widerstand. It had been October 1938, and he had been in Berlin as minder to the Honourable Ballantine Bordman, sent to finalize the details for the visit of Prime Minister Chamberlain the following month, which had turned out so disastrously. This could not actually be laid at Bordman’s door: it was now known that what would happen at that meeting had long been determined by the Nazis. His job was merely to rubber-stamp the agenda.
But as it had been recognized that Ballantine Bordman was both not very bright and regarded himself as God’s gift to the female sex – he had only got the assignment because he was the son of Lord Bordman – it had quietly be
en determined that instead of a simple detective, he should be accompanied by a senior MI6 agent, just to make sure he didn’t get into trouble. And that had been a complete failure, although Clive would argue to himself that the odds had been too great for even him to overcome. From that moment at the SS ball, to which they had been invited and which Bordman had insisted they attend, they had been lost.
They had been standing together on the edge of the dance floor, watching the array of brilliant uniforms and bare shoulders and flashing jewellery in front of them, when the Countess von Widerstand had entered the ballroom on the arm of an SS officer, rendering all the other previously beautiful women tawdry. Clive now knew that Anna had been born on 21 May 1920, and so in October 1938 had been just eighteen and a half years old. He had recognized at first sight that here was a girl of exceptional beauty, charm and charisma, even if he had not then known anything of her exceptional brainpower – or her lethal training. But neither had he doubted for a moment that she was there simply as a guest. She could not be.
What had followed had been both predictable, at least with hindsight, and too fast for his reactions. That Ballantine should require an introduction had seemed reasonable enough. That he should spend the rest of the night dancing with her had been over the top, but not immediately dangerous, even if the fact that no other man had dared approach her during that time must have been suspicious. That Ballantine should have been invited to a party at her apartment the next day had been disconcerting but not yet critical. That he had not returned that night had started alarm bells jangling. But when he had returned, the next morning, to announce that he was going to marry the girl, Clive had felt closer to a heart attack than at any time in his life.
It had transpired that Ballantine had spent the night in her bed, and too late had discovered, or been convinced, that she was a virgin, and had felt compelled to do the honourable thing and ask her to marry him. But he had been desperate to do so in any event; having got his hands on that body and his mouth on those lips he had had no intention of letting them go again. As Clive was now in a similar situation, he could understand that determination.
Angel of Vengeance_The thrilling sequel to Angel in Red Page 8
