Tam had stayed overnight in the Mayfair flat, having met Ballentyne for a final briefing at lunchtime. Ballentyne had given him a contact at the embassy in Berlin. Her name was Isobel Menzies. She was resourceful, well-connected, and had won the approval of diplomats Ballentyne respected. He also gave Tam the number for a secure line in London if he needed to get in touch in a hurry. Tam had committed the number to memory and enquired about the possibility of a weapon. Carrying his own gun, at the very least, might give him an option or two if he ran into more trouble. To his surprise, Ballentyne had rejected the request.
‘On balance I think not,’ he’d said. ‘You’ll be in good hands.’
*
Wilhelm Schultz was at Tempelhof Airport to meet the incoming flight from London. With him was another man, younger, whom he didn’t introduce. They were both wearing civilian clothes. Schultz, with his leather jacket and tight mouth, ignored Tam’s extended hand and nodded at a nearby door marked Privat. Beyond the door, a maze of corridors led to a small, bare office. The colours were beginning to fade on a souvenir poster for the ’36 Olympics and there was a waiting chair in front of the metal desk.
Schultz told Tam to sit down. The aide produced an ink pad and a folded sheet of white paper. Schultz opened the ink pad and took Tam’s fingers, one by one, pressing the tips to the pad and then the paper. The index print, he said, would form part of his ID card, to be delivered later to the hotel where he’d be staying, while the rest of the prints would be put on file.
Tam wanted to know where the file would end up.
‘That’s not a question you need to ask,’ Schultz said. ‘You have to learn to trust me.’
*
The Hotel Altmark lay in a side street off Wilhelmstrasse, a narrow-fronted, four-storey building with ruched pink curtains and a menu displayed beside the entrance. Abwehr headquarters, where Schultz had an office, was a five-minute stroll away. He’d be in touch later, once he had time for a proper conversation.
Tam took the stairs to his room on the fourth floor. In keeping with the rest of the hotel, it was spotless, if modest: single bed, handbasin, wardrobe, telephone and a new-looking radio on the table beneath the window. The room felt airless in the July heat and Tam opened the window. From here, he could see the back of another building beyond the tiny courtyard, almost close enough to touch. In this area of the city it might have been government offices or perhaps another hotel. The figure of a woman bent over a table caught his attention on the third floor, but the moment she turned towards the window he stepped back and pulled the curtain.
The room already felt like a cell. Tam slipped off his jacket and stretched full length on the bed. Ten short weeks ago he’d found himself in similar circumstances, except on that occasion the cell had been real, and he’d relied on a Czech inquisitor to keep him fed and watered. Here in Berlin, he had the freedom of the city. He could speak the language. He had support in the shape of Wilhelm Schultz. And over the coming days and perhaps weeks he might make some small contribution to the storm brewing on the Czech border.
Over sandwiches at the flat in Mayfair, Tam had pressed Ballentyne for more details on the rebel German generals he was likely to meet. The word ‘rebel’ had made Ballentyne wince. These were patriots, he kept insisting, men for whom loyalty was a blood debt to the Fatherland. Treat them as rebels, let the word slip into the wrong conversation, and Tam’s mission would be over. He was there to underwrite the gamble they were taking, not just with their careers but very possibly their lives. He was there to offer the reassurance that Paris and London stood four-square behind the Czechs.
This guarantee, Tam pointed out, might come more naturally from the lips of politicians but Ballentyne told him he was wrong. By the very nature of their calling, politicians became creatures of endless compromise. Ask a politician for a yes or a no and you got a maybe. What mattered infinitely more was the truth about British military resolve. And that would come with far more conviction from the lips of someone like Tam.
Even now, he wasn’t convinced. It was the politicians, after all, who made the decision to go to war or not. Or so he’d always believed. At this point, watching the faintest breeze stir the curtains in his hotel room, Tam had a sudden thought. In corners of this very city, men with power and authority and a great deal to lose were plotting to change the leadership. That’s why he was here. That’s what he’d come to encourage. What if something similar was happening in London? What if a bunch of renegade politicians, backed by the Army, had come to despair about appeasement? About the country’s elected leaders at the beck and call of Hitler and Mussolini? Wouldn’t the likes of Ballentyne and Sanderson fit neatly into a conspiracy like this? And wouldn’t they be looking for an envoy of their own, someone they’d schooled and tested, to go to Germany and grease the wheels of a bid to kill Hitler?
Tam closed his eyes, telling himself it was nonsense, but the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. He knew just enough about the workings of the intelligence world to understand that everyone was groping in the dark. That’s how you preserved secrets. And that’s how you minimised damage if parts of your organisation were compromised.
Even now, despite his best efforts, Tam knew very little about either Sanderson or Ballentyne. One was apparently a businessman. The other, it seemed, was a government servant. But where did they work from? And where, exactly, did they fit into the larger scheme of things? To both questions he had no answer and after his experiences in Czechoslovakia that realisation made him feel increasingly uncomfortable.
He got up on one elbow, eyeing the telephone. He had a Berlin number for his contact at the British Embassy but Ballentyne had been emphatic about use of the telephone. The Germans will be watching you, he said. And, more importantly, they’ll be listening. Expect a microphone in the room and some remote presence monitoring your phone calls. Wherever possible, make every contact face to face, ideally en plein air, where no one can bother you. Think enemy. Even where Schultz and his chums are concerned.
*
The British Embassy was in Wilhelmstrasse, a handsome, three-storey building that had once belonged to a railway baron. Near-neighbours included Hitler at the Reich Chancellery and Ribbentrop at the Foreign Ministry. Tam paused on the other side of the road, waiting for a break in the traffic. He needed an ally, a secure point of contact, and just now he had only one name.
‘Isobel Menzies?’
The suited functionary behind the reception desk had just come off the phone. He took Tam’s particulars and asked to see his passport.
‘Is Miss Menzies expecting you?’
‘No.’
‘May I ask in what connection you wish to see her?’
‘I’m afraid it’s personal. You might tell her that Andrew Ballentyne sends his regards.’
The name Ballentyne appeared to register. He spared Tam a second look and then disappeared into a side office, shutting the door behind him. A woman appeared from nowhere and took his place. She returned Tam’s passport and suggested he take a seat.
Tam waited and waited. From the banquette he had an excellent view of the street outside. Letters arrived, delivered by hand. A woman in overalls carried in a huge floral bouquet, followed by a sturdy young man in SS uniform. After a long conversation in German, he leaned over the desk and kissed the receptionist’s hand. Tam wasn’t sure about the details but he gathered they’d met last week at an embassy function. He watched the young man take a step back from the desk, his cap tucked beneath his arm, and offer the Hitler salute before making for the door. Half-turning on the banquette, Tam followed his descent to the street. The city was alive. Tam could feel it. The trams rolling down the broad boulevard. Well-dressed women on the pavement, handsome, purposeful. And that same young man pausing to adjust his cap before striding across the road. We haven’t got a prayer, he thought, against people like these.
‘Mr Moncrieff?’ The faintest Border accent.
Tam turned back. She was tall, almost
as tall as he was. The dress, emerald green, barely covered her knees. Her eyes were startling blue beneath a fringe of blonde hair and there wasn’t a line on her body that Tam would have changed. Mid-thirties? Older? Tam didn’t know.
‘Miss Menzies?’ He got to his feet.
She nodded and indicated a staircase beyond the reception area. Her high heels clack-clacked on the polished marble. Tam followed her up to the first floor, wondering how she got the time to acquire such a perfect tan. Her office lay at the very end of the corridor. Just the single desk. Impressive.
There was a moment of silence after Tam shut the door. Then she slipped behind the desk and lifted the phone.
‘We’ll have some coffee,’ she said. ‘And you can tell me everything.’
*
Early the following morning, Georg Messner took off from Tempelhof to fly the Führer to inspect the Reich’s defences. Hitler’s personal pilot Hans Baur was fighting a savage attack of mid-summer flu and had ordered Georg to take his place. Dieter, in his first taste of VIP flying, occupied the co-pilot’s seat.
The West Wall stretched from the Dutch border in the north to the town of Weil am Rein, within sight of the Swiss frontier, six hundred and thirty kilometres of concrete bunkers, smaller pillboxes, and a rich array of artfully designed tank traps. Lately, according to Georg, Hitler had been demanding improvements in depth against impossible deadlines and today’s flight was designed to check up on progress so far. The Führer, it was rumoured, needed to protect the Reich’s arse from dozens of French armoured divisions if Paris ever took up the cause of the Czechs in earnest. Otherwise the gate to the heartlands of industrial Germany would lie wide open.
Dieter had reported to the airfield at dawn. Georg was already out on the hardstanding, one of three long shadows deep in conversation beside the Führer’s tri-motor. The Ju-52 had just emerged from four days in the maintenance hangar and Georg was cross-checking Baur’s list of reported faults against the workshop’s schedule of repairs. Happy to accept the engineer’s assurance that the aircraft was as good as new, Georg did a final visual check before taking Dieter to the wooden hut that was serving as the squadron’s temporary mess.
A woman in a Luftwaffe uniform was serving coffee and pastries. It seemed that Hitler liked to pause here if time permitted and Dieter spotted a ribboned box put carefully to one side.
‘From the Café Flockner in Salzburg,’ Georg told him. ‘They fly them in specially overnight.’
Hitler and his party were due in less than an hour and from his table beside the window Dieter watched two women emerge from the Ju-52 and clamber carefully down the ladder to the hardstanding. Rain had cleared to the east, leaving near-perfect visibility, and a light wind ruffled a feather duster as the women hurried away.
Georg had spread a map of the western frontier on the table. Take-off was scheduled for 06.30 and the first leg of the journey would deliver them to a northern section of the fortifications. Georg had already pencilled in the aircraft’s track, circling diversion airfields en route in case of emergencies. He was estimating just over an hour in the air before they landed at the Luftwaffe base near the border. From here it was a short drive to where General Adam would be waiting to offer the Führer a personal tour of one of the West Wall’s strong points.
Dieter wanted to know whether Georg knew the general.
‘No.’ Georg shook his head. ‘He’s got an engineering background. That’s why he’s in charge of all this…’ Georg’s finger traced the line of the Wall as it headed south towards Switzerland. ‘I just hope he’s got a tongue in his head, as well, because there’s buckets of shit coming his way.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Hans Baur told me. Hans knows everything. He’s mad he’s not in the cockpit today. He was looking forward to it.’
The Führer arrived in a convoy of vehicles slightly ahead of schedule. A uniformed officer sprang out of the first car and opened the passenger door of the big Mercedes, standing back to offer a salute as Hitler emerged into the rich yellow spill of sunshine. Dieter had seen this man in countless newsreels and press photos but never in the flesh. He was slightly smaller than he’d imagined but the moment he’d adjusted the cap and stamped the stiffness from his legs the sense of presence was obvious. The way he looked across to his aircraft, the faintest anticipatory smile on his lips. The way he took in the rest of the airfield, his hands briefly on his hips. The moment when a single murmured word to his adjutant was enough to head the entire party towards the squadron mess. This man owned everything he laid his eyes on, Dieter told himself. There was nothing in Germany that wasn’t rightfully his.
The door of the shabby little hut opened to the adjutant’s touch. Everyone inside was already on their feet. A forest of outstretched arms and a muted Heil Hitler in recognition that it was still very early. Hitler went straight to the counter. He evidently knew the woman who served the coffee and cakes and they shared a brief conversation. She showed no sign of being intimidated by his presence and when he asked about her scoundrel of a husband, she said something Dieter didn’t catch and then laughed.
Hitler nodded, evidently pleased, but when she reached for the box of Salzburg pastries he shook his head.
‘Enough.’ He patted his belly beneath the raincoat. ‘Don’t tempt me.’
At this, the visit appeared to be over. Hitler offered the woman a courtly kiss on both cheeks, glanced in Georg’s direction, and then led the way out. Dieter noticed the adjutant seizing the box of pastries as he left.
‘He has them later?’
‘No.’ Georg was folding up his map. ‘We do.’
Beside the aircraft, Dieter waited for Hitler’s party to get settled. He’d yet to see the inside of the Ju-52 and when he finally stepped into the cabin he was struck by how similar it was to any other passenger aircraft: two rows of single seats either side of a central aisle. The only concession to Hitler’s status was a fold-down table for his personal use, plus a line of dials fixed to the bulkhead in front of him.
Dieter was following Georg up the narrow aisle towards the cockpit. Hitler motioned for Georg to stop and muttered something in his ear. Georg nodded, then introduced his co-pilot.
‘Oberleutnant Merz, Mein Führer.’
Dieter wondered whether he should salute. Instead, he shook the proffered hand, much softer than he’d anticipated. Hitler wanted to know about his air displays. One of his staff at the Berghof had recently been at an air show in Munich. She’d described Dieter as ‘the acrobat’. Fair or unfair?
‘Fair, Mein Führer. Maybe I should have joined a circus.’
‘Like Richthofen?’ Hitler smiled at his own joke, then hoped Dieter confined his circus tricks to weekends. They all had work to do. Straight and level, if you please.
It was Dieter’s cue to move on. He glanced at the instrumentation fixed to the bulkhead: clock, altimeter, airspeed indicator. All the information Hitler would need to satisfy himself that everything was going to plan.
In the cockpit, once Dieter had buckled in, Georg shot him a look.
‘You’re blushing,’ he said. ‘You look like a girl.’
They took off. Georg kept low over the south-western suburbs of Berlin, because Baur had told him that Hitler enjoyed the view. These were the haunts of the old Prussian kings. Previous masters of an earlier Reich had ridden here, hunted here. Now a new Führer could shrink the remains of the forest to one of the windows in his personal aircraft.
Beyond Potsdam, Georg began to climb, levelling out at three thousand metres beneath a coverlet of high cloud. Moments later, he assigned control to Dieter. Already, over the past couple of weeks, he’d flown the Junkers on at least three occasions, always with Georg, and always without passengers. Hitler, as it turned out, was his first VIP. He smiled at the thought, one eye on his compass heading. Compared to a single-seater, flying the tri-motor was like making conversation with a maiden aunt. You had to watch your manners. You had to avoid any po
ssibility of giving offence. Nonetheless, as he banked to port on Georg’s instruction, the aircraft felt light and responsive to his touch. The only problem was the noise. The cackle of three piston engines was close to deafening.
‘Down there!’ Georg’s shout drew Dieter’s attention to a tiny line of grey dots in the rich green pastureland below. Dieter loosened his harness and leaned closer to the cockpit side window for a proper look. Georg was motioning for him to lose height and as he started to nose down the dots began to resemble pimples. They went on and on, straddling hills and valleys, blemishing the landscape.
‘Der Westwall,’ Georg confirmed. ‘I have control.’
Dieter was looking for signs of an airfield but Georg, who’d been here before, found it first. He dipped a wing and began a silky turn to starboard. Flying from the airfield had already been suspended in expectation of the Führer’s arrival but Georg radioed ahead nonetheless. He expected to be on the ground within a couple of minutes. There’d be no need for any refuelling.
The landing was perfect, Georg nursing the Junkers to within metres of the grass runway and then lifting the nose and letting the aircraft settle gently on the racing turf. Delicate jabs on the pedals finally brought the plane to a halt in front of a line of biplanes.
Dieter recognised them at once. He hadn’t seen an He-51 since leaving Spain and he found himself watching a young-looking cadet perched in a front cockpit, listening to the instructor crouched on the wing beside him. That was me once, Dieter thought. Me learning about flying in the raw. About plunging into combat without a radio. About trying to figure out how to reload the machine gun one-handed while maintaining some kind of control. An age seemed to have passed since those days cheating death amongst the Asturian mountains and he was still trying to remember how to find the boost control when a uniformed figure appeared in the cockpit.
‘The Führer presents his compliments.’ It was the adjutant Dieter had seen earlier in the squadron mess. He asked Georg if he and his young friend would like to accompany them to take a look at the fortifications.
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