Georg and Dieter exchanged glances. Why not?
The base commander had already provided enough vehicles for the Führer’s party. Dieter and Georg rode in the third of three cars. The journey, through a succession of neat little villages, took less than half an hour. Finally the convoy swept through a checkpoint manned by soldiers in Wehrmacht grey and came to a halt in a clearing near the mouth of what looked like a tunnel.
Hitler was already exchanging salutes with a bent, ageing figure who’d stepped forward from the welcoming committee. His boots were highly polished and he wore the shoulder flashes of a General Staff Officer but building Der Westwall had written a different story on the paleness of his face. This was a man, Dieter thought, who must live the bulk of his life underground. And it shows.
‘Wilhelm Adam,’ Georg muttered. ‘Poor bastard.’
Adam led the way into the tunnel. It was warmer in here after the chill of the early morning and there was a faint smell of kerosene. Thick cables hung from brackets on both sides of the tunnel and lights disappeared into the far distance.
Dieter was several paces behind the lead group but he sensed that Hitler’s mood had already changed. He appeared to be half-listening to Adam’s careful explanation of progress on the West Wall to date but his face was a mask. From time to time he’d pause for no particular reason, gazing at some detail on the tunnel wall while Adam droned on, then shake his head and mutter something to his adjutant. His adjutant had a notebook readied and by the time the group finally came to a halt the first page of the notebook was full. To Dieter it was obvious that this little routine had been perfected elsewhere, in other circumstances, but with the same intention in mind. Hitler stalked easy game. And this was part of the ritual.
A crude table had been set up at a junction where two tunnels met, a pair of wooden trestles planked with what looked like railway sleepers. A large map had been unrolled, the edges weighed down with clips of small-arms ammunition. Hitler’s group gathered round the map. Hitler himself expressed a cursory interest, barely following Adam’s finger as it tracked along the line of fortifications. The Führer’s gloved hands were clasped in front of his raincoat and from time to time he seemed to stiffen, bracing his shoulders, throwing his head back, the actions of an actor waiting in the wings.
Dieter was watching his entourage, the adjutant in particular. Without attracting the slightest attention they were edging away from their leader, giving him the space he no doubt needed. Looking back, trying to remember, Dieter couldn’t pinpoint the moment the hapless General Adam lit the fuse. It might have been his mention of the French Army should it come to a shooting war with the Czechs. It might have been something more mundane, like the ongoing shortage of raw materials on which the upgrade of the West Wall depended. Either way, Hitler exploded.
A gloved hand was pointing at the map. It was a gesture of contempt or perhaps dismissal. His voice, low to begin with, began to echo back from the four tunnels, distorting the mad torrent of statistics Hitler seemed to have memorised by heart. How Germany produced no less than twenty-three million tons of steel a year, twenty-three million tons. How the French could barely manage a quarter of that. How the famous British Army could call on no reserves, none at all, and how the French spent most of their time chasing enemies at home.
‘Pitiful, General Adam. We deserve to be fighting against grown-ups, proper armies, not this rabble.’
He began to rant, his voice harsh, the Austrian accent unmistakeable. He wanted to know why progress underground was so slow, why deadlines were never met, why orders from Berlin were ignored, why a project as important as this should be so poorly managed. He rocked back and forth on his heels, the same gloved finger stabbing at the air, the wall lights painting his face a strange shade of yellow. His entourage stood to attention, waiting for the tirade to come to an end, and suddenly it was over, silence in the tunnels again, broken only by a distant drip-drip of water.
Hitler stepped towards the makeshift table. He put his hands on the edge of the map and rested his weight on his arms. To Dieter, he resembled an athlete at the end of a particularly gruelling race. Then his head came up.
‘Well? You have anything to say to me?’ He seemed to be staring into nowhere. The question was evidently meant for General Adam.
Adam stirred. So far his role had been to say nothing and he knew it. But from somewhere there appeared a flicker of courage or perhaps defiance.
‘If our enemies are so weak, Mein Führer, why do we need a wall at all?’
The silence was absolute. Even the water had stopped dripping. Down here, in the bowels of a project that Hitler clearly viewed as a disaster, someone had dared to answer back.
Slowly he turned to Adam. There was nothing in his eyes. Absolutely nothing. Then he nodded towards the tunnel so far unexplored.
‘Show me more,’ he said.
17
BERLIN, 28 AUGUST 1938
An early evening dinner at the restaurant out on the Wannsee was Isobel Menzies’ suggestion. To her regret, yesterday’s coffee at the embassy had been cut short by the urgent need for her to confer with one of Herr Goebbels’ aides. With profuse apologies she’d shepherded Tam to the door, the text of a message still in her hand, delivered by a lightly perspiring forty-something who’d stepped into her office without knocking. A place by the water called Der Hafen, she’d promised. Unforgettable views and brilliant food.
The restaurant was half-empty, a surprise in view of the glorious weather. The staff appeared to know Isobel well. They called her Fräulein Menzies with the kind of murmured politesse that suggested a long acquaintance but as far as Tam was concerned, she insisted on Bella. Already, in the taxi from Wilhelmstrasse, they’d swapped a clue or two about their separate life stories. Bella, as Tam had suspected, had Lowland Scottish roots. After a troubled adolescence at an Edinburgh boarding school for girls she’d spent three years at Oxford, reading German and Italian. University, she said, had been her salvation. The butterfly had emerged from the chrysalis and she’d settled greedily into a world she loved.
‘So what’s so loveable?’
‘That. Amongst one or two other things.’
Tam followed her pointing finger. Out on the lake, a rowing eight were making good progress in the beginnings of the setting sun. They moved as one, with a smoothness and a power that could only come from endless training. Tam watched them with envy as well as admiration. Then it dawned on him what she was really saying.
‘You do this? You row?’
‘I do.’
‘With them?’
‘Yes. That’s a men’s crew. My ladies train tomorrow.’
‘Germans?’
‘Most of them. Not all. There’s a French girl. She’s really good. And an Italian lady from Verona. But the training routines are German. We race as often as we can. And we always win.’
Tam was impressed and said so. He’d been a rower himself at university and afterwards he’d missed it. The Royal Marines, he said, weren’t slow to push you to your physical limits but there’d always been something about rowing that was special.
The fact that he’d been a Marine drew a nod from Bella which Tam took as approval. She said she’d once had a boyfriend who’d tried for selection. Totally mad but ludicrously brave and always good fun. Tam didn’t respond. He was still watching the rowers out on the lake. Their timing was truly impressive.
‘And is that why you’re so brown?’ He nodded at the fast-disappearing eight.
‘Of course. The days are long this time of year and the weather’s been beautiful. We wear as little as possible. But you’d know that.’
The comment was playful rather than flirtatious, but Tam sensed that some kind of relationship might be on offer. He wanted to know more about her life after Oxford.
‘Was it difficult getting into the Security Services?’
‘The what?’
‘The Intelligence world. MI5. MI6. Whichever bit you belong to.�
�
‘You think I’m a spy?’ She was laughing. ‘Here? In Berlin? Henderson can’t stand Intelligence people. He thinks they’re below the salt. He won’t give them houseroom. Untrustworthy, he says. Snakes in the grass.’
‘So what about me?’
‘He thinks you’re a journalist. That’s what I told him. Not that he’ll ever remember.’
Sir Nevile Henderson was the Ambassador in residence. According to Ballentyne, his closeness to the regime often amounted to fully paid-up membership.
Tam sat back for a moment, his eyes returning to the lake.
‘So what do you do?’ he said lightly. ‘In that embassy of yours?’
‘I meet people. I keep my eyes open. I make contacts across the city, often journalists, funnily enough. I try and keep my finger on the pulse of the place and I do my best to keep the Ambassador in the swim.’
‘That sounds close to spying.’
‘You’re probably right. Except I don’t carry a gun and lots of nice Germans make a fuss of me. If you want the truth, it’s a lovely job and I’m lucky to have it. You’re going to ask me next about all those entrance exams, how someone like me ever got into the Foreign Office in the first place, so here’s where we come to the shameful bit. I got the job because of my German and because of my dad. He knew the right people. Believe me, that helps.’
‘He’s some kind of diplomat?’
‘Never.’ She was laughing again. ‘Diplomacy and Dad were never best friends. He wouldn’t know where to start. He’s a businessman. He made a fortune in rubber and invested well. That buys you respect in certain quarters, believe me, and more than a little pull. He has friends in interesting places.’
Tam was gazing at her. Very slowly, the pieces were falling into place.
‘I know him, don’t I? Your father?’
‘You do.’
‘Oliver Sanderson.’
‘Yes. Actually he’s my stepfather. My real dad was killed at Mons. I barely remember him. Oliver came on the scene later. Swept my mum off her feet and dragged us all out East. I was in Malaya for the holidays. That hideous school in Edinburgh the rest of the time. As it happens, Dad’s in Singapore right now.’
‘You know Ballentyne as well?’
‘Of course. Andrew and Dad go back years. In fact, he used to spend Christmas with us when I was a kid. He and his wife. Out on the plantation. Lovely man. Nice wife, too. When I was back at school it was Andrew and Daphne who kept an eye on me. They’d come up to Edinburgh at half-term and we’d go off to a place they had on Skye for a week. They were kind of honorary aunts and uncles. If you want the truth, they probably understood me better than my own folks.’ She paused, aware of Tam’s renewed interest in the view through the window. By now the rowing eight was a speck at the far end of the lake.
‘You want me to get you a row? You’ve certainly got the build for it.’
‘Yes, please.’
‘How fit are you?’
‘Try me.’
She held his gaze for a moment longer than strictly necessary and then ducked her head, reaching for the menu. The fish, she said, was divine. Especially the halibut. When the waiter arrived, Tam ordered a bottle of Gewürztraminer and wondered how best to move the conversation on. To his relief, Bella needed little prompting.
‘You know about Runciman?’ she asked.
Tam nodded. Lord Runciman, a Tory stalwart, had been despatched to Czechoslovakia by the Prime Minister to try and hold the ring between President Beneš and the Sudeten Germans. According to Ballentyne, his mission was a bid to buy a little time while London and Paris tried to prevent another German lunge at the Czech frontier.
‘Am I right?’ Tam was pouring the wine.
‘That’s a generous interpretation. He’s there to twist arms and bang heads together. Chiefly Czech heads. London wants Beneš to give the Sudetens everything they’re after. The Czechs still have their pride, if little else. Runciman’s getting nowhere.’
It was a compelling if brisk analysis. Tam was impressed. He asked her about Henlein.
‘I know nothing about Henlein. He’s been in town recently to get his orders. There was talk of some private meeting at the embassy but I don’t think it ever happened.’
‘The Sudetens are lunatics,’ Tam said quietly. ‘You were probably spared.’
‘You’ve been there? You know these people?’
‘I do.’
‘You want to tell me more?’
‘Not really.’ Tam ducked his head, sought a change of subject. ‘What’s it like here? What’s the mood in the streets?’ He nodded out towards the lake. ‘What do your German friends really think?’
‘My rowers, you mean? I’m not sure they pay much attention. Everyone’s busy these days. There’s no problem with jobs. In fact, there’s too much to do. Most of the people I meet seem to assume the country’s in good hands and even if it wasn’t they wouldn’t know what to do about it. It’s summer. The sun shines. The Nazis have their fun but everyone knows they’re idiots and Untermensch so nobody really cares.’ She shrugged. ‘These are the best of times. So why look for trouble?’
‘The Jews?’
‘You look the other way.’
‘Vienna?’
‘It was German anyway.’
‘The Czechs?’
‘Next on the list. Definitely.’
‘As easy as that?’
‘Of course.’
‘And you? What do you think?’
‘I keep quiet most of the time. I’m a foreigner. This isn’t my country. But there are women in that boat out there who take Hitler at his word and it frightens them. If I was German he’d frighten me, too.’
‘So what would you do about it?’
‘Do about it?’ The question sparked a sudden smile. ‘Is that why you’re here? To organise some kind of coup?’
The question, so direct, so perceptive, alarmed Tam. He’d spent the morning waiting at his hotel for word from Schultz but nothing had happened. In the end, sick of the limbo to which he seemed to have been assigned, he’d stepped out into the sunshine and spent a couple of hours walking, first along Unter den Linden and later in the Tiergarten. From a bench in the park he’d watched the Berliners in the warmth of the late afternoon and he knew that Bella was right. Young mums pushing prams. Old men playing chess. Children chasing squirrels. In no time at all, these people had seen their country transformed. They were happy. They were well-fed. They had money in their pockets and decent prospects for their kids.
Now, in the restaurant, Tam began to talk about the freedoms the Germans had lost, the ways in which the Nazi state had tightened its chokehold on any form of protest. A free press? Gone. Unions? Barely a memory. The right to oppose the Nazis at the next election, supposing one ever happened? A death sentence.
The restaurant had filled up and some of these people might be speaking English but Tam didn’t much care. Individuals counted for nothing in this shiny new Reich and what had happened to Renata was only the start. He had no intention of sharing his experiences in Czechoslovakia but even now he couldn’t hide the anger triggered by those memories.
Bella was gazing out at the lake. Then she leaned forward over the table and gestured him closer.
‘Henderson flew home this morning,’ she said. ‘People much wiser than me think something’s brewing in London. Our Mr Chamberlain, God help us, may have a plan. Has that ruined your appetite?’ She sat back as the waiter approached. ‘Or can you still manage that wonderful fish?’
*
It was nearly dark by the time they left the restaurant. To Tam’s relief, Bella appeared to have forgotten her little joke about a coup. Thanks to her father, she obviously knew he had connections to the Intelligence world but with some deftness she kept the conversation light. Berlin, she said, had turned out to be the sweetshop of her wildest dreams, full of mouth-watering treats and unexpected surprises. It might not have the chic of Paris or the mischief of Italy but if yo
u looked hard enough there were clubs and bars and hidden corners of the city that definitely repaid a visit or two. If he was ever in the mood, she’d be very happy to show him around. Otherwise, she wished him good luck.
They took a taxi back. She lived in a block of apartments reserved for foreign personnel. Tam leaned across to open the door, then hesitated. He knew he’d talked too much, especially before the meal arrived.
‘That was a lovely evening,’ he said. ‘If I sounded gloomy, I’m sorry.’
She studied him a moment, then she extracted a small notepad from her bag and scribbled a number. Her face was very close.
‘Something’s happened to you.’ She tore off the sheet of paper and slipped it into his pocket. ‘Anything I can do to help, you only have to phone that number.’
‘You can get me into the rowing club?’
‘That’s not what I meant.’ She kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘And you know it.’
Moments later she was out of the car. Tam watched her crossing the pavement towards the entrance to the apartment block. Two uniformed soldiers flanking the entrance gave her the Hitler salute. Then she was gone.
Tam’s hotel was a two-minute drive away. He paid the driver, took a breath or two of the night air, and then climbed the stairs to his room. He could smell the presence of a stranger before he paused to insert the key. Cigar smoke. And a line of light beneath his door. For a moment he toyed with returning to reception. Then he inserted his key in the door and pushed it open. Half-expecting to find Schultz inside, the only person who knew his whereabouts, he found himself looking at a man who must have been in his sixties. He was fat. He was reading a newspaper, a copy of the Völkischer Beobachter. The cigar, still alight, lay in an ashtray on his lap.
He glanced up. He looked irritated by this sudden interruption. He had a thick Berlin accent.
‘You’re the Englishman?’
‘Yes.’
‘Come.’ He struggled to his feet and carefully folded the newspaper. Twice Tam asked him who he was, what he was doing in the room, but he didn’t seem to be listening.
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