‘Reichsminister Ribbentrop? You want a personal conversation, Herr Merz?’
Dieter bent to the telephone. Mention of Keiko Ayama sparked an abrupt change of tone.
‘Of course, Herr Merz. A moment, please.’
The line went dead, then Dieter found himself talking to an aide. He gave his name and mentioned Keiko again. He’d appreciate a little of the Reichsminister’s time. The matter in hand, he said, was personal. In the background there was a brief exchange of conversation, then the aide was back on the line.
‘The Reichsminister presents his compliments. He asks you to be at 73 Wilhelmstrasse at half-past six this evening. At the street door you are to ask for Herr Schiff.’
Dieter thanked the aide and hung up. He knew from Keiko that 73 Wilhelmstrasse was to be the new Foreign Ministry, once Ribbentrop’s alterations had all been completed. Georg, too, had mentioned the project. The sheer scale of Ribbentrop’s plans, he’d told Dieter, had made the Reichsminister a laughing stock the length of Wilhelmstrasse. Even Hitler had scoffed at the poor man’s pretensions.
Dieter drove into the centre of Berlin. He’d acquired the loan of a rather tired BMW from one of the squadron engineers who’d been posted away and it was nearly six when he presented his ID to the Luftwaffe sentry and headed down the ramp into the parking lot in the bowels of the Air Ministry. The Foreign Ministry was a five-minute walk away. Already, the moment he set foot on the pavement, he spotted a couple of heavy trucks parked at the kerbside.
Herr Schiff was a brisk thirty-something with the practised smile of a career diplomat. He gestured for Dieter to stand aside as two labourers manhandled a slab of marble between the glass double doors, and then followed them inside. The Reichsminister, he said, was undertaking one of his regular tours of inspection. By now, he should be on the upper floor.
Dieter gazed around. He was no architect but a first glance was enough to confirm that the space available was too small, too restricted, to permit the kinds of effects that Ribbentrop was bent on achieving. Everything gleamed and twinkled: the half-completed marble floor, the huge suspended chandelier, the over-wide steps ascending to the floor above. The tang of fresh plaster hung in the dusty air and a stack of framed paintings were propped against what Dieter imagined to be the reception desk, waiting to be hung. The biggest canvas was a recent-looking portrait of Hitler.
‘You approve, Herr Merz?’
Dieter recognised the bark at once. Ribbentrop had appeared on the upper landing. He was leaning on the balustrade, his arms folded, the pose of a proud proprietor. His Ministry, his taste, his vision, his Führer.
‘It’s wonderful,’ Dieter said. He had no idea whether Ribbentrop meant the building or the painting but in either case his response would have been the same. By simply appearing, Ribbentrop had taken Dieter by surprise. According to Georg, the Reichsminister made a habit of keeping people waiting, often for hours.
‘Komm…’ Ribbentrop beckoned him up.
Dieter took the stairs two at a time, wondering whether Ribbentrop would notice his agility. He did.
‘Remarkable.’ He nodded in approval. ‘I suspect we know who to thank for that.’
He led the way down the corridor towards an open door at the end, pausing to berate a suited individual who’d been checking a detail on the skirting board. The man got to his feet, embarrassed by Dieter’s presence, assuring the Reichsminister that everything would be attended to. Ribbentrop dismissed him with an imperious wave and showed Dieter into the nearby office.
‘It doesn’t belong to me, obviously. Mine is still under construction. As you might imagine, it’s somewhat bigger than this rathole.’
Dieter was looking round. The room was empty, the floor bare. From the window he could peer down into the courtyard that occupied the space behind the building. He regularly attended meetings in offices half this size.
‘I gather this is about our young Japanese friend.’ Ribbentrop might have been addressing some kind of public meeting. Clad in a beautifully cut three-piece suit, he was standing to attention, chest out, his hands clasped behind his back.
‘Keiko,’ Dieter confirmed. ‘You’re right.’
‘And you’re doubtless concerned.’
‘Of course I am.’ Dieter briefly described the pre-dawn bellow beneath their bedroom window, the way the Gestapo had behaved the moment they were inside the door, the lack of respect they’d shown.
Ribbentrop seemed to be half-following this account, his eyes straying to the view from the window.
‘They can be rough fellows,’ he said at last. ‘Best avoided.’
‘So why were they there? Do you mind me asking?’
‘Of course not. As you might imagine, I’ve made some enquiries of my own. That young lady has some remarkable gifts. You’re a lucky man, Herr Merz.’
‘I’m glad you think so.’
‘I do. I do. As I was saying to my wife last night, I miss her already. She’s made such a difference to this… and to this…’ His manicured hands fell briefly on his shoulder and the nape of his neck. ‘Life at my level in the Reich is never kind on the body. We must sustain the pace, all of us. And thanks to the likes of Miss Ayama, that might just be possible. To be frank, as I explained to Annalies, she’s irreplaceable. And you know something else? Three times a week might not be enough.’
‘They’re releasing her?’
‘Of course. Today? I doubt it. Tomorrow? Perhaps not. Our Gestapo friends need to be thorough. I understand that and doubtless you will too. But we need, all of us, to understand something equally important. That I have the unqualified backing of the Führer. As it happens, he’s met Miss Ayama on a number of occasions. And, dare I say it, he’s as impressed as I was.’
Dieter blinked. This was news to him. Keiko had never mentioned meeting Hitler. Did he have problems, too? Little knots of discomfort, or even pain, that only she could tease out? And had her little camera accompanied her visits to the Chancellery?
‘She’s at Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse?’
‘She is.’
‘And she’s well?’
‘So they say. To be frank, Herr Merz, there is absolutely no cause for concern. I have the Führer’s fullest backing in whatever I choose to do. Should the Führer no longer be in a position to help, of course, that might cease to be the case but as long as he leads our nation, Miss Ayama will be safe. I’m sure this whole business is a misunderstanding and I can assure you that the Führer shares my view. Might that ease your concerns?’ He glared at Dieter, then made a great show of checking his watch. Dieter took the hint.
‘I’m grateful, Herr Reichsminister,’ he said. ‘Will you be seeing her at all?’
‘I might. Reichsführer Himmler has been kind enough to allow us use of a room over on Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse. I fly to Nuremberg tomorrow afternoon with the Führer. If the current madness permits, I may find time in the morning for your good lady to administer a little more relief. I certainly hope so.’
‘And you’ll give her my best?’
‘I will. You have my word. Permit me to show you the way out.’
Ribbentrop left the office. At the head of the staircase he briefly surveyed the floor below. Progress, he said, had been much slower than he’d have liked but he’d had a word with the architect and now there was every prospect of his wife’s designs being completed on time.
‘Your wife was responsible for all this?’
‘Of course, Herr Merz. We owe our women everything. Don’t you agree?’
A formal bow, and Dieter was dismissed.
*
Tam spent the evening at Bella’s flat near the embassy. At the Ambassador’s insistence, the building had been examined yet again for hidden microphones by the specialist team from London, but the search had revealed no attempt to reinstall the surveillance system. For the time being, at least, he and Bella were free to talk.
Bella was in the tiny kitchen, preparing a veal dish soaked in milk. Tam stood i
n the open doorway, telling her about the plan to fly him south to Nuremberg for the Party Rally. He was to report to a Georg Messner at the Regierungsstaffel base at Tempelhof.
‘You’re flying Air Hitler? Who says?’
‘Schultz.’
‘Schultz doesn’t have that kind of clout. The Abwehr have their own set-up. Steerage all the way. Air Hitler?’ She shook her head in wonderment. ‘Who’d have thought?’
She reached for the shelf where she kept the spices. Tam watched how deft she was and how confident. No sign of a recipe.
‘I’ll be in Nuremberg myself,’ she said. ‘We go down every year to see who’s doing what to whom. On one level it’s grotesque but on another it’s rather wonderful. Say what you like about Goebbels, he’d make a fortune in Hollywood.’
‘You approve?’
‘Approval doesn’t come into it. You never get the time to make any kind of judgement. It’s like one of those huge tsunami waves you get in Japan. It’s music and searchlights and millions of marching soldiers and speeches that go on for ever. Mainly about motherhood and death. You just get swamped.’
‘And that’s good?’
‘That’s fun. That’s different. Is it dangerous? Well, yes. Do I buy any of this nonsense? Definitely not. But a girl can have a good time and still face herself in the mirror next morning. Where are you staying?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘They’ll put you somewhere ritzy. Maybe even the Deutscher Hof, though I doubt it.’
‘Deutscher Hof?’
‘Hitler’s favourite hotel. It’s small, though. And they always book the whole place.’ She sprinkled paprika on to the warming milk and checked the potatoes. ‘You really don’t know who you’re supposed to be seeing?’
‘No.’
‘Does that worry you?’
‘Not at all. I’m strictly the messenger. Whether these people take any notice is their affair. If you want the truth, I’m doing this for Edvard and for Renata. If we can keep Hitler out of the Sudetenland, so much the better.’
‘We won’t,’ she said, stirring the milk.
‘How do you know?’
‘We’re just not up to it. I’ve been in this city for long enough to know what’s possible. You haven’t met our Ambassador but he’s absolutely key to everything. He’s where Whitehall meets Wilhelmstrasse. He’s London’s eyes and ears. They must have put him in post for a reason but none of us can fathom what that reason might be. And you know why?’
‘Tell me.’
‘The poor man’s absolutely terrified of Hitler. Worse still, Hitler knows it. These people can sniff weakness at a hundred paces. And they’re seldom wrong.’
‘The age of the wolf,’ Tam said softly. ‘That’s what Churchill said when we met last week. He’s got Chamberlain down as a sheep. Maybe that applies to Henderson, too.’
‘That would be unkind, my love.’ Bella licked her finger. ‘On the sheep.’
*
After the meal, still mid-evening, they went to bed. They made love twice, the second time at some length. Bella moved sweetly on top of him and Tam let his mind wander back to special times in his life when the world, just for an hour or so, appeared to have stopped spinning on its axis. These moments of suspension, of surrender, of hanging motionless in deepest space, were rare as well as precious and afterwards he told her about crossing the dam in the middle of the night in the company of a bunch of hobbling recruits too exhausted to care what happened next.
‘Where was this?’ She was propped on one elbow, gazing down at him.
‘Scotland. Where else?’
‘You love it, don’t you?’
‘The dam? All that stuff?’
‘Scotland. It speaks to you. I can see it. Feel it. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. On the contrary. Close your eyes. Just relax.’
She began to explore his body, mapping the hollows, running her tongue across the flatness of his belly. If he’d been born a country, she decided, it would be Italy. Long and quite skinny, but blessed with the most wonderful bones. A body, in short, that could cope with anything.
Tam smiled at the thought. ‘You really think I’m like that?’
‘I do. You have really low blood pressure. It’s probably nothing you can measure on those silly instruments. It just is. You take things in your stride. You’re never moody. You know what’s important and what isn’t. That’s rare, believe me.’ She sat back a moment, looking thoughtful. Then she smiled. ‘You know something, Herr Moncrieff? One day I’m going to take you somewhere hot and sunny where no one wears a uniform. We’ll eat like kings and fuck like rabbits and if we’re really lucky, we’ll never see the point in coming back. You think you might be able to cope with that?’
24
BERLIN, 5 SEPTEMBER 1938
‘Hitler weather.’ Georg was on the hardstanding beneath the wing of his Ju-52, squatting beside a tyre that had drawn his attention. ‘How does the man do it?’
Dieter had just arrived from Potsdam. High summer this year seemed never-ending. Here at Tempelhof, even at eight in the morning, it felt like the middle of July.
Georg was fingering what looked like a small tear on the edge of the tyre tread. Changing a landing wheel on the big Ju-52s was the work of a couple of hours. If he commissioned the job now he could still meet his take-off time of 11.00. At least four of today’s passengers had important pre-Congress lunch appointments in Nuremberg.
‘I’d take the risk.’ Dieter was examining the tyre. ‘It’s superficial.’
George said nothing for a moment. Then he glanced at his watch.
‘There’s an Englishman on the passenger list and he needs a lift.’ He gave Dieter the address of a hotel off Wilhelmstrasse. ‘He’s expecting you around nine. Ask for Herr Moncrieff.’
Dieter drove into the city. The traffic coming the other way was already heavy for a Sunday, mainly families heading to the beaches around the Wannsee. Berliners were determined to enjoy what might be left of this glorious summer, to top up their sun tans and give their kids one last treat before the weather cooled and the Führer’s armies headed east.
Yesterday Dieter had seen Ribbentrop arrive at Tempelhof for his flight down to Nuremberg. He’d done his best to attract the man’s attention, to maybe raise some small indication that Keiko’s days with the Gestapo might be over, but the Reichsminister had simply looked through him. His concerns about Dieter’s private life, if they ever existed in the first place, had plainly gone. In the gallop to war, all he could hear was the thunder of hooves.
Back in the city centre Dieter found the hotel without difficulty. He’d stayed here himself before setting off to Japan, and he’d obviously made an impression on the woman behind the reception desk because she recognised him at once.
‘Herr Merz!’ Her face lit up. ‘So famous now!’
She got to her feet and stepped around the desk to accept a kiss on both cheeks. Beside her was a tall, lean figure taking an amused interest in the exchange. The receptionist turned to him and did the introductions. Dieter had lipstick on his cheek.
‘Dieter Merz, Herr Moncrieff. Dieter is our favourite pilot. He’s a film star. Women love him. If Dieter takes you to Nuremberg, I wish you luck. You like flying upside down?’
Dieter smiled. In the air, at least, life was still simple. He shook Tam’s hand and enquired about bags. Just the one? Perfect.
They left the hotel and got into the car. Seated, Tam’s head brushed the roof. Dieter eyed him for a moment. Strong, bony face, lightly freckled. Receding hair. Laugh lines around his eyes and an interesting scar along the line of his jaw. Late thirties? Early forties? Hard to judge.
‘You like flying?’ Dieter asked.
‘I love flying.’
‘Good.’
The traffic out of the city was even heavier now. Tam wanted to know whether Dieter had been performing over Berlin a couple of days ago. Early afternoon. Single aircraft. One of the new Messerschmitts.
; ‘Ja. That was me.’
‘Superb, if I may say so. Half the world was watching. You do this for a living?’
‘Sort of. I used to be a fighter pilot.’
Tam wanted to know more. Dieter told him about his days with Georg in the Asturian Mountains, freezing his arse off in a leaky tent while fighting someone else’s war. The mention of mountains sparked a story or two from Tam and by the time they joined the queue for the security check at the aerodrome gate, Dieter knew he had a friend in the making.
The flight was nearly ready by the time Dieter and Tam arrived at the squadron mess. Beside the waiting Ju-52, an engineer was making the final adjustments to a new tyre. Dieter, who was flying as co-pilot with Georg, had already had a look at the passenger list.
‘There’s normally a scramble for the best seats,’ he told Tam. ‘The man you want to avoid is Julius Streicher. He looks like Mussolini and everyone hates him. Georg thinks he’s the conscience of the Party, which is good news because it means Georg still has a sense of humour. What are you doing in Nuremberg, by the way? I never asked.’
‘I’ve come for the show,’ Tam said lightly. ‘Will that do?’
*
Half an hour later Tam was in the air. Julius Streicher, who was sitting across the aisle, spent most of the flight scribbling notes and pestering the uniformed adjutant for more coffee. On the descent towards Nuremberg, sudden turbulence spilled most of the third cup in his lap and he called loudly for a towel. The rest of the passengers were a mix of Wehrmacht and SS. One or two lowered their newspapers and watched Streicher’s efforts to clean himself up with quiet satisfaction.
Schultz was waiting at the airfield at Nuremberg, part of a gaggle of uniformed adjutants awaiting their superiors from Berlin. Passengers from the plane, after an exchange of Hitler salutes, disappeared into a fleet of limousines and headed for the city. Schultz and Tam were the last to leave.
‘I was hoping for tonight.’ Schultz seldom wasted time on small talk. ‘But it’s not going to happen. The man has other appointments. I told him you could wait at your hotel in case things changed but he said that was pointless. Later in the week, I’m afraid.’
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