Estocada

by Graham Hurley

  ‘You counted them?’

  ‘I read it in the paper.’

  ‘The Beobachter? Believe nothing.’

  ‘Of course. But you’re up there. Bird’s-eye view. Just you. So what’s it like?’

  The question put a smile on Dieter’s face. Georg was right, Tam thought, he really likes me. Dieter was studying a tiny cuticle of nail on his thumb. He picked at it, then looked up.

  ‘You want the truth? You make a high pass first, a really high pass. You don’t want anyone to see you, to hear you. You want to settle yourself down, nice and easy, take a look around, taste the wind, fill your lungs, clear your throat…’

  ‘Literally?’

  ‘God no, the cockpit opens sideways. You’d never get the thing closed again. It’s in here,’ he tapped his head, ‘you have to be ready.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘And then you start. You have a routine. One thing follows another. It’s like dancing in a way. Except you are the music.’

  You are the music. Perfect.

  Dieter hadn’t finished. There was something else he wanted to say. Not about the flying or the various elements in the display, or that mysterious kinship between his fingertips and the machine that every flier recognised. No. It was about Nuremberg, the city itself, the way it looked from ten thousand feet, and the difference the regime had made in five short years.

  ‘I came here the last year my father was alive,’ he said. ‘He told me it was the finest city in Germany and maybe he was right. It felt very old and very beautiful. I could see that. Even as a kid, even then.’

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘The Nazis.’

  ‘You’re a party member?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Your father, maybe?’

  ‘Never. He thought they were thugs, gangsters, and he was right. But what none of us knew, none of us realised, was how clever they were. And how ambitious.’

  He began to talk about the new cluster of monumental buildings to the south-east of the town, away beyond the Hauptbahnhof. Albert Speer’s Luitpoldarena. The Congresshalle. The fat arrow-thrust of Grossestrasse. And, grandest of all, the Zeppelinfeld. Tam had walked round these sites earlier. Most were promissory notes hidden behind scaffolding but collectively Dieter was right. They were real. They were enormous. They were totally different in scale to anything else that had ever been built, huge down payments in granite and reinforced concrete on a thousand year future only one man had glimpsed.

  ‘A thousand years,’ Dieter mused. ‘Will it ever happen? Should it ever happen? Who knows? But it exists. You can see it, touch it, feel it, be part of it. That’s the cleverness. That’s what my father never took into account. He thought they’d never last. He thought they’d be gone. And he was wrong.’

  ‘And from ten thousand feet?’

  ‘It looks like a cancer, a tumour, a growth, something that doesn’t belong. Get enough height and you can see exactly what they’re doing. That whole complex, it feeds off something that was once a thing of beauty. It’s so obvious. So clear. You needn’t be a surgeon. You just have to look. These people do terrible things. They’re sucking the life out of the old Germany. And in the end they’ll kill it.’ He stared at his empty glass and then glanced up at Tam. His eyes were moist. ‘More beer?’

  25

  NUREMBERG, 8 SEPTEMBER 1938

  Bella arrived midweek, the Wednesday, two days early. She’d phoned Tam at the hotel when he was still in bed. She was taking the train and would be in Nuremberg by late afternoon. It was important they met. Still half-asleep, Tam gave her the name of the café where he’d listened to the lone singer. He’d be there from four o’clock. He might be in the company of a friend.

  Bella arrived half an hour late, directly from the station. A taxi dropped her at the kerbside and it was Dieter who was first to his feet to carry her suitcase back to the table. She looked at him the way most strangers did. A face familiar from God knows where. Of the Watcher, for once, there was no sign.

  Tam had a chair ready on the tiny terrace. After yesterday’s rain it was sunny again and unseasonably warm. Hitler weather.

  ‘Dieter Merz,’ Tam said. ‘My guide and protector.’

  Dieter offered a courtly bow and extended a hand. Bella was still staring at the face.

  ‘You’re the flier,’ she said at last.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Wonderful.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I’ve seen the film. Twice as it happens. What a job.’

  Dieter nodded, said nothing. Then he bent quickly to whisper something in Tam’s ear, smiled at Bella and stepped out on to the street. Seconds later, he’d disappeared.

  ‘A pressing engagement,’ Tam explained. ‘Either that or he wants to leave us alone. Shame. I wanted you to meet him properly.’

  ‘Another time, maybe.’ Bella was already hunting through the contents of her bag. ‘You need to read this.’

  She produced a copy of The Times. Copies had been flown across from London on yesterday’s morning flight to Berlin.

  ‘Page seven,’ she said. ‘You can’t miss it.’

  Tam found himself looking at a leader addressing the subject of Czechoslovakia. He scanned it quickly. It expressed impatience with the slow progress of talks about Henlein’s demands for Sudeten independence and ended with a long-winded plea on behalf of ‘that fringe of alien population who are contiguous to the nation to which they are united by race’.

  ‘This is an argument for break-up.’ Tam was frowning. ‘Who wrote it?’

  ‘Geoffrey Dawson. He’s the editor.’

  ‘He’s doing Hitler’s work for him. This is the stuff of Henlein’s dreams. Independence on a plate.’

  ‘Exactly. The Russians are up in arms. Prague are demanding an explanation. Even the French want to know whether this represents the official view.’

  ‘And does it?’

  ‘The Foreign Office says no.’

  ‘And Halifax?’

  ‘Halifax had a couple of meetings yesterday with Masaryk. The man’s a Czech. He’s very emotional, a real patriot. He’s outraged, of course, and we understand there was a great deal of table-thumping. In the end Halifax had the grace to disown the piece. That means nothing, of course, and Masaryk knows it. As do this lot.’

  Tam sat back, folding the paper. Two streets away he could hear the blare of a band and the thump-thump of jackboots on the cobblestones as yet another parade swung through the Hauptmarkt. Hitler might be there, standing beside his gleaming Mercedes, ready to take the salute, or it might be any of the other chieftains who’d arrived in the city with their separate courts.

  Bella hadn’t finished.

  ‘Something else.’ She reached for the paper. ‘Hitler’s upped his demands. He wants Prague as well as the Sudeten. The Dutch and the Belgians have called up their reserves. And so have we.’

  ‘A good sign?’

  ‘Possibly. Maybe the penny’s beginning to drop.’ She smiled. ‘Maybe that trip to Chartwell wasn’t wasted. We can but hope.’

  Tam nodded. His conversation with Churchill seemed to belong to another life. After three days in this city, under constant bombardment from every quarter of the party machine, he was beginning to think like a Nazi, not a pleasant experience.

  ‘These people are frightening,’ he murmured. ‘Even Dieter Merz says so.’

  *

  The summons to meet Reichsführer Himmler had arrived at noon. For the last three days, through a variety of back channels, Dieter had been trying to secure ten minutes of the SS leader’s time. The overlord tasked with keeping the Reich safe had a suite in a grand hotel near the Castle. Merz was to report to reception at five o’clock and ask for Standartenführer Lindt.

  Lindt, to Dieter’s surprise, was waiting for him inside the big double doors. He offered a formal bow and the Hitler salute and complimented Dieter on Sunday’s display over the Zeppelinfeld. He’d lost count, he said, of the com
pliments from friends and comrades. Even the Reichsführer regarded the appearance of the 109 as the highlight of the afternoon. One could, he said with the suspicion of a smile, have just a little too much of horse-drawn artillery and massed armour.

  Himmler’s suite, heavily guarded, was on the hotel’s first floor. Pausing beside the sentries at the door, Lindt warned Dieter that the Reichsführer was in his bath. This evening he was hosting a reception for the domestic and clerical staff from Wewelsburg Castle, a social occasion that had become an important feature of the SS calendar, and the first guests would be arriving in less than an hour.

  Dieter nodded. Wewelsburg Castle was in the north of Germany and it had become a shrine for the SS. On Luftwaffe bases the length of the country mere mention of the place sparked the blackest of jokes but for true believers it had an almost religious pull.

  Lindt opened the door and stood aside to let Dieter in. The sitting room was huge and over-furnished – reproduction furniture, heavy drapes at the window, and a vast conference table with room for a dozen chairs. Through an open door at one end, Dieter had a glimpse of a bedroom.

  ‘Please,’ Lindt gestured towards the bedroom, ‘the Reichsführer is expecting you.’

  Dieter stepped inside. Yet another door, also open, led to the bathroom. Dieter could hear the splash of water and an occasional grunt.

  ‘You want me to go in?’ Dieter nodded at the open door.

  ‘No. Here, please.’ Lindt patted the coverlet on the bed. ‘The Reichsführer would like to conduct the interview from his bath but it would show respect to grant him a little privacy.’

  Lindt closed the door to the sitting room and settled himself at the table beneath the window. A pad had been readied. Two pencils, both newly sharpened, both black.

  ‘Merz?’ It was Himmler calling from the bathroom. ‘Are you there? Are you ready?’

  Dieter muttered his assent. All he could see through the open door was a pair of pink feet. One of them toyed with the hot tap, on-off, on-off. Bizarre, he thought.

  Himmler made a laboured joke about the presence of so famous a film star in his bedroom and then wanted to know his business. Unfortunately, he could give young Merz only a little of his time.

  ‘You have my full attention, Merz. An explanation, if you please.’

  Dieter tried to keep it simple. He was here to play the lovelorn victim, the patriot-flier who awoke one morning to find Himmler’s policemen at his door. For reasons he still couldn’t fathom, they’d arrested the woman with whom he intended to share his life. All he wanted to know was why this had happened and when Keiko Ayama might be released.

  From next door, there was silence. Then a big toe found the tap and more steam arose from the bath.

  ‘Ayama,’ Himmler mused at length. ‘You know about the family?’

  ‘Of course. They’re very successful.’

  ‘And rich, we understand.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Another silence. Then the toe turned off the tap and Himmler called for shampoo. Lindt got to his feet and disappeared into the bathroom. Moments later he was back.

  ‘Ribbentrop.’ It was Himmler again. ‘It appears he reported a number of missing documents. Might you know anything about that?’

  ‘No, Herr Reichsführer.’

  ‘And Miss Ayama? She knew?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge.’

  ‘But you’re aware the two of them used to meet a great deal?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you’re aware of the gravity of a charge like that? Assuming she had something to do with the missing documents?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘She’s a foreign national, Herr Merz. I hardly need to point that out. She comes to our country as a guest. Guests are expected to behave themselves. If they don’t, their lives could become difficult. Regrettable, I agree. But necessary.’

  Dieter said nothing. Behind him, Lindt was making notes. Then came a splash of water and a sigh. He’s washing his hair, Dieter thought, while a woman’s life hangs in the balance. Very SS.

  Dieter swallowed hard. He’d been toying with this question for days, aware that the answer might shape the rest of his life.

  ‘You really think she’s a spy, Herr Reichsführer? Please be frank with me.’

  There was no reply. Dieter stared at the open door. Then the feet disappeared and he caught a thump as Himmler struggled to his feet in the bath. Lindt fetched a dressing gown from a wardrobe in the corner of the bedroom and laid it carefully on the bed beside Dieter. Moments later, Himmler was standing in the open doorway, wiping the condensation from his glasses, his little pot belly and thin legs enveloped in a towel.

  He gazed down at Dieter. He was evidently in a good mood.

  ‘I understand you’re keeping interesting company, Herr Merz.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Here. The Englishman. The tall one.’

  Dieter nodded, said nothing. Himmler took another towel from Lindt and began to dry his hair. He wanted to know more about the Englishman.

  ‘His name’s Moncrieff, Herr Reichsführer. We flew him down from Berlin on Sunday.’

  ‘And he’s become a friend?’

  ‘Yes. In a way he has.’

  ‘You like him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Trust him?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’ He paused to put on his watch. Then he looked up. ‘You know about Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse? SS and Gestapo headquarters?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Your Miss Ayama’s been there for nearly a week now. Down in the basement.’ He smiled. ‘Good luck with your new friend, Herr Merz. Keep talking. And keep listening. We understand each other, ja?’ The pink ankles came to attention on the wet carpet, a gesture of dismissal. ‘Heil Hitler!’

  *

  Tam met Bella for the second time in mid-evening. Embassy staff had been summoned by the Ambassador, Nevile Henderson, after a longish meeting with Goering. The Luftwaffe chief’s patience with the diplomatic comings and goings over Czechoslovakia was exhausted and he was now broaching the possibility of direct face-to-face negotiations to sort the matter out. As a gesture of good intent, he was trying to tempt Halifax to the table with the offer of a hunting expedition at the end of the month, with four of the best stags in Germany guaranteed. This conversation was the subject of a detailed note dictated by Henderson and despatched by private plane barely an hour ago.

  ‘Has Goering read The Times?’ asked Tam.

  ‘Of course he has. They all have. They assume it’s written in Downing Street and in some respects they’re right.’

  ‘So where does that leave the Czechs?’

  Bella said she didn’t know. The feeling was growing that Hitler’s speech, now just days away, would offer the key to everything that might follow but just now that was the least of her problems.

  ‘It gets worse?’

  ‘It does. Hitler’s on again tomorrow. This time he’s talking about art. The great man’s thoughts. Where Michelangelo and Rembrandt and Picasso and the rest of them went wrong. Me? I made the big mistake of expressing an interest in some of this stuff and as a result I’ve got a ticket as a delegate. Front row. High visibility. Showing the flag for my beloved country. Believe me, it doesn’t get much worse.’

  ‘Sekt?’

  ‘Afterwards. They’re not fools, these people. We’ll all be asleep by then. And you?’

  They were sitting in the front window of a restaurant down by the river. There was a terrace at the back that overlooked the river Pegnitz but on the street side the view was restricted to a row of half-timbered houses rented out to top party officials for the duration of the rally.

  ‘Over there,’ Tam said. ‘Second lamp post on the left. Don’t make it too obvious.’

  ‘What am I looking for?’

  ‘Thunder.’

  ‘Description?’

  ‘Old grey suit. White shirt. All very shabby. I think he probably sleeps in
this stuff.’

  Bella took her time before stealing a look over her shoulder. Then she was back with Tam.

  ‘This is the same one you mentioned on the phone?’

  ‘Yes. There was a day when he didn’t turn up at all, but since then it’s like having a dog. He follows me everywhere. He’s very faithful. We’ve started nodding to each other. Yesterday he smiled at me. Tomorrow we might even get to talk.’

  ‘Schultz? Has he seen you and Schultz together?’

  ‘No. That’s probably why Schultz is keeping his distance.’

  ‘No contact at all?’

  ‘None. I’m starting to feel a bit of a fraud.’

  ‘I bet.’ Bella glanced out of the window again and then her hand stole across the table cloth and she leaned forward for a kiss. ‘Why don’t we give him something to keep him interested?’

  *

  Bella was staying at a hotel beyond the railway station, on the road out towards the Zeppelinfeld. Tam walked her home. It was true about Schultz. Without his one and only link to the conspiracy, Tam felt himself marooned in a strange limbo. Should he treat his week in this carnival city as some kind of holiday? Or should he be thinking day and night about the meeting which still might transpire? His single chance to stiffen these people’s resolve and point them in the direction that Schultz wanted them to go?

  He didn’t know and, worse still, he was fast losing faith in being able to make any kind of difference. Only now, in the very cradle of the regime, was he beginning to understand the sheer reach of Hitler’s Reich. Everything was listened to, monitored, noted, cross-referenced, and the thought of someone unseen trying to make sense of all this information was deeply unsettling. To find yourself under the gaze of a permanent Watcher, on the other hand, was almost a solace. In this instance the regime at least had a face and a physical presence.

  Tam said goodbye to Bella at the hotel door, promising to make contact in the morning, and set off back towards the railway station. The city was still alive, still busy, people everywhere, and twice he spotted what he assumed to be the Watcher but on both occasions he was wrong. Beyond the railway station the main road made a sharp turn to the right before penetrating the walls of the Altstadt. Tam assumed the car behind him was slowing for the bend but it came to a halt beside him. He glanced down, glimpsing the face in the back. Schultz.