The note was brief. She’d always had problems with Klimt’s beautiful handwriting but at least he’d written in French, which helped. Line by line, she managed to decipher it. At the end of the message he said she’d always be in his heart. He regretted nothing. The space they’d made for each other was the one thing he’d take to his grave. The rest, he wrote, was absurde. Without meaning.
Billy was looking over her shoulder. He wanted to know what Klimt had said, where the note might take them. She got up again and fetched a pencil from the escritoire. Another of Nathan’s precious heirlooms, she thought. Mercifully spared the attentions of Huber.
She rejoined Billy on the chaise. On the back of the note she wrote four words. Klimt thinks he’s finished. Billy stared at it. Then held his hands wide. Why?
‘I don’t know,’ Hélène shook her head. Then she turned the note over, her whole body beginning to rock, and she reread the final lines, Klimt’s meticulous hand blurring in front of her eyes.
Billy tried to comfort her again but it was hopeless. She began to howl with grief, with a bottomless despair that seemed to extend to everything she’d ever cherished. After a while, empty, she sat in the silence as the last of the daylight died over the rooftops.
‘It’s over,’ she said, not caring who might be listening.
Part Four
32
Next morning, Oberst Bjorn Klimt found himself delivered to an address in the 12th. He’d spent the last two days and nights at his stuffy office in the Hôtel Meurice waiting, he suspected, for just this summons. The note from the office of the Sicherheitsdienst had been typically lacking in detail. Dress in a decent suit and bring a change of clothes. Nothing more.
The SD were the coming force. Everyone in what remained of the Abwehr knew that. Brush fires on the margins of the sprawling Nazi intelligence empire had become a conflagration. The Abwehr, including Klimt himself, had long depended on their boss, the maverick Admiral Canaris, for a degree of protection. But Canaris, who was a wily old fox in every other respect, had never hidden his distaste for the new breed of Nazi zealots and when a couple of remarks about Hitler himself reached the wrong ears his days were numbered. Could a man who viewed the Führer as a carpet biter really be trusted to protect the Reich’s inner secrets?
The answer, as Klimt knew only too well, was to anoint someone else to stand guard at Hitler’s door. Heinrich Himmler, head of the SS, had been doing just that since the days when the Brownshirts were running riot. Years of obsessional manoeuvring had given him more power in the corridors of the Reich than anyone else except his beloved Führer. One more little push and Canaris would be history.
The address in the 12th lay behind high stucco walls near the Château de Vincennes. Wearing his best suit, Klimt was escorted to the front door. A pleasant young man in the uniform of an SS Sturmbannführer was waiting for him in the marbled hall. He introduced himself as Busch. He led the way up a flight of stairs to the second floor. The door at the end of corridor was already open. Busch knocked twice and stepped aside to admit Klimt. The figure at the window turned to greet him. They’d met twice before, once at an SD gathering in Munich, and once to celebrate Canaris’ birthday at a restaurant in Berlin. To Klimt’s certain knowledge this man at the window and the boss of the Abwehr had been good friends. They’d even met on crisp Berlin mornings to ride together in the Grosse Tiergarten.
‘Oberführer Schellenberg,’ Klimt saluted.
Schellenberg waved him into an armchair. There was no desk in the room, no filing cabinets, not a single sheet of paper to indicate Schellenberg’s standing in the SD. Since Reinhard Heydrich’s assassination in Prague, this man had been leading Himmler’s Sicherheitsdienst from one triumph to another, pecking at the carcase of the carefully discredited Abwehr. Not someone you’d ever underestimate, thought Klimt. Assume the winning smile and the gentle handshake were genuine and you were already in serious trouble.
Schellenberg wanted to apologise for a man called Huber with whom he understood Klimt was familiar.
‘I know him, yes.’
‘The man’s a clown. He doesn’t know the meaning of excess. I understand he’s helped himself to some paintings belonging to a friend of yours.’
This was news to Klimt. What paintings?
Schellenberg tallied them from memory. A study in charcoal. A rather nice watercolour. And a Cubist piece not altogether to his taste.
‘They will be returned intact,’ he said. ‘You have my assurance. My apologies to Madame Lafosse.’
Klimt accepted the gesture with a nod. Was that why he was here? To put Hélène’s life back together?
‘And what about the Mona Lisa?’ he enquired.
‘La Gioconda is another fantasy of Huber’s. He’s an asset in a number of ways but he knows nothing worthwhile about fine art and even less about believing rumours that might have …’ he permitted himself a tiny frown, ‘… repercussions.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning he heard that you were in attendance at a nightclub recently with Madame Lafosse. That you danced together. And that you sang to her in English. That never happened, Oberst Klimt. As I’ve had the pleasure of explaining to Sturmbannführer Huber.’
‘He took offence?’
‘He decided that you were unreliable. I have his correspondence on the matter. His reports run to far more pages than they should. Brevity and Huber were never best friends.’
He sighed and turned to gaze out of the window again. Klimt was trying to anticipate where this conversation might be headed next. Never take anything at face value, he told himself. Especially someone as subtle and gifted as this man.
‘We have a problem, Oberst Klimt. May I be candid?’
‘Of course.’
‘We’re in danger of losing this war. The Americans and the British will be knocking at the gates of Rome within months. Mussolini will fold. The Russians are feasting on our armies in the east. Winning a war on one front is enough for any nation. Winning a war on two is, to be frank, impossible.’
‘So what should we expect?’
‘A second front. Obviously. The Allies have the resources to cross the Channel and give us a bloody nose. Stalin can’t understand why it hasn’t happened already and in some respects neither can I. It’s getting a little late in the year for adventures like that so I’m guessing the spring of next year, as soon as the weather settles down.’ He paused. His fingers were drumming lightly on the arm of the chair. ‘Which brings us to Mr Angell, Oberst Klimt. Your thoughts?’
Klimt leaned forward. He’d filed his report in the aftermath of letting Dieter Merz have a sniff at the English flier. The report had been addressed to Abwehr headquarters in Berlin but somehow it had ended up on this man’s desk. Yet another sign that the days of Admiral Canaris were numbered.
‘I think Mr Angell is genuine,’ he said carefully. ‘I’ve taken the steps I described to check his story and nothing he said raised any problems.’
‘Story?’
‘His service background. The fact that he’s been flying with their Bomber Command.’
‘So why did he jump from the aircraft? When it was perfectly serviceable?’
‘Because he’d had enough of the war.’ Klimt gestured at the space between them. ‘Maybe he thinks the way you think, sir. Maybe he thinks the war’s already half over and that there’s no point spilling more blood.’
‘And what about his brother? You believe that, too?’
‘Yes.’
‘You really think they plan to give us a bloody nose at Dunkirk?’
‘I think it’s more than possible. The English can be tougher than you think. The evacuation hurt them. Where better to put the record straight?’
Schellenberg accepted the point with the faintest smile. Klimt was in the dark now. There was something else coming. He knew it.
‘Let’s assume you’re right, Oberst Klimt.’
‘Not me, sir. Billy Angell.’
�
��Of course. Let’s assume the boy really does have a brother. Let’s agree the English really do intend to land at Dunkirk. I can see every good reason why that might happen and so do my Wehrmacht friends. You might be interested in Erwin’s view in this respect.’
‘Erwin?’
‘Rommel. The Führer intends to place him in overall command in northern France. He will be our man on the ramparts. It’s not a job you’d recommend to anyone. Construction has been slow. The coastline is long. He’ll need thousands of mines. Millions of tank traps. And all this at a moment when we have other pressing demands to meet. More fighter aircraft. More U-boats. More special projects. Anything to pluck victory – or maybe survival – from the jaws of defeat. No nation, least of all ours, has a limitless supply of steel, of labour, of oil. And so we need to concentrate our forces. Make a decision on the invasion site. Take a gamble or two.’
‘And Rommel’s views?’
‘He thinks two landings. One in Normandy. Basically a feint, a diversion. Then the main thrust.’
‘Where?’
‘Calais. Because it’s closest. But you know something else? His worst nightmare?’
‘Dunkirk.’
‘Exactly. The terrain is better. The beaches are flat. It has port facilities. It’s closer to Antwerp, too. Port facilities will be the key to everything. Land a couple of armies and you have to keep them fed. We’re talking millions of tons of fuel, of ammunition, of replacement equipment. War is voracious. It eats everything in sight. And so you need somewhere to land all that stuff. Otherwise the beast will starve to death.’
Klimt began to relax. Thus far, he and Himmler’s favourite son appeared to agree on everything. Maybe there was room for him in the SD. Maybe his days at the Château de Neaune weren’t quite over. Maybe.
‘So what do you want me to do, sir?’
‘I want you to do a job for me, an important job. We could call it an errand. We could agree it’s a sort of favour. Whatever the word, it has to remain absolutely confidential. You’ve brought a change of clothes? As we requested?’
‘My suitcase is downstairs.’
‘Excellent.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘This afternoon we will fly you to Madrid. Tomorrow morning, you’re booked through to Lisbon. You’ll be staying at the embassy overnight. You’ll love the place. The views are sensational and the food’s even better. They’ll have another ticket for you. On Thursday morning you’ll fly to England.’
‘England?’ For a split second Klimt wondered whether this was some kind of code word. It wasn’t.
‘I know you speak the language, Oberst Klimt. More importantly, the people you’re going to be meeting are aware of your allegiance to Admiral Canaris. These are intelligence people, people like ourselves. The fact that you’re Abwehr makes you their kind of Nazi.’
‘And what do I do? What do I say?’
‘You enquire about the prospects for peace. Or, more precisely, you enquire about the possibility of opening unofficial negotiations.’
‘With whom?’
‘With whomever we decide to delegate. Don’t worry, Oberst Klimt. We’re not asking you to undertake the negotiations yourself. We‘re just asking you to test the water. You’ll be talking to fellow professionals, fellow spies if you like. You’ll have a great deal in common. They’ll take a long look at you and I daresay you’ll do the same.’
‘And afterwards?’
‘Afterwards you come back. Same route. Possibly the same flying boat. The arrangements are in place. You’ll have a laissez-passer. But only on the strict condition that no word ever leaks out. Do we understand each other?’
‘Perfectly.’ Klimt wondered whether this was a hint from Schellenberg to bring the conversation to an end. He decided to ignore it. ‘One question, sir.’
‘By all means.’
‘When would these negotiations take place?’
‘During the winter, Oberst Klimt.’ The smile again. ‘That way, with a successful outcome, the issue of the invasion will no longer matter.’
Both men got to their feet. There was an exchange of handshakes. Young Erwin Busch downstairs, said Schellenberg, would be accompanying Klimt to Lisbon. He had the authority of the SD to resolve any issues en route.
‘One last thing I ought to mention, Oberst Klimt.’ They were at the door now. ‘There is, of course, a possibility that you might not come back at all.’
‘You think they’ll arrest me?’
‘I think you might desert. It might be a temptation. I say no more than that.’
Klimt held his gaze. They had to talk this thing through.
‘And if that did happen?’
‘Then life would get extremely difficult.’
‘For whom?’
‘For Madame Lafosse, Oberst Klimt. Bon voyage,’ he extended a hand. ‘And good luck.’
33
The soldiers arrived several minutes before midday. Billy was still in the big double bed. He and Hélène had slept together for mutual comfort more than anything else, and now she’d gone to a neighbouring apartment to ask for milk and maybe something to eat. Billy lay back, hearing the stamp of boots on the staircase in the depths of the building below. The pillow and the sheets still smelled faintly of cigar smoke.
Hélène was the first into the apartment. She had two eggs in a bowl and a hunk of bread. Behind her came two soldiers. A taller figure lurked in the background: long leather coat, peaked cap, SS collar flashes. He followed the soldiers into the apartment and gave the bedroom door a gentle push. Billy, naked, was trying to clamber into his pants. He looked up. Huber.
A car was waiting at the kerbside below. From the window, Billy saw Hélène being escorted across the pavement. Once dressed, he was hustled down four flights of stairs and marched past the concierge’s desk. The concierge, once again, was on the telephone. Huber tossed him the key to the apartment and followed the soldiers onto the street. Two women across the road scarcely spared this small moment of drama a glance. Hélène was already in the back of the car. When Billy joined her, she took his hand.
‘Bad,’ she murmured.
Huber was in the front of the car. When Hélène asked where they were going he ignored her. They drove at speed towards the middle of Paris, the tyres thrumming on the pavé, the driver swerving to avoid thickets of cyclists. The Gare de l’Est, like all the mainline stations, was heavily guarded. The driver made for a side street and came to a halt beside an entrance that led directly onto one of the platforms. Another officer in SS uniform was waiting. He opened the rear doors and spoke to Huber. Huber nodded and then turned to Hélène.
‘Say your goodbyes, madame. Herr Angell is leaving us.’
‘Where are you taking him?’
‘Somewhere safe. Not pretty perhaps, but safe.’
Billy was staring up at him. He understood none of this. Then the other door opened and a gloved hand reached in and hauled him roughly out. Not a word of farewell. Not a kiss. Not a touch. Not even a glance. As he crossed the pavement he tried to look backwards but the car was already on the move, the paleness of Hélène’s face no more than a memory.
*
Klimt’s aircraft flew into the blinding sun. The pilot, who turned out to be a friend of Dieter Merz, had invited him to ride up front in the cockpit. The Ju-52 roared south, over the greenness of central France, the fields shadowed by a scatter of clouds. A third propeller at the end of the long silver nose of the aircraft played tricks with Klimt’s eyes and after a while the steady beat of the engines lulled him into drowsiness.
Somewhere below them, he thought, lay Hélène’s chateau. His eyes closed, he could picture the scurrying of pheasants beside the bridle path, hear the bark of a fox in the small hours of the night, feel her body beside him, watch the tiny rise and fall of her chest as she slept. One day, God willing, life might make another space like this for both of them. The thought made him smile.
The pilot woke him two hours later. He gestured at the blue shadows
on the far horizon. The roar of the engines was deafening.
‘The Pyrenees,’ he mouthed.
*
On the train Billy shared a compartment with two soldiers and a trio of passengers. Two of them, both men, were asleep but the woman between them kept stealing glances at Billy. He was handcuffed to the smaller of the two soldiers and his attempts to start a conversation with the man had taken him nowhere. The soldier was young and he’d made it plain that he didn’t speak English. When Billy nodded at his watch and tried to ask how long this journey might take he simply shrugged.
‘Ich verstehe nicht,’ he grunted.
After a while, the woman unpacked a packet of sandwiches from the wicker basket that served as a handbag. There was cheese in the sandwiches and Billy thought he caught the tang of mustard. She was well dressed and ate with a fierce concentration, staring out of the window as one village after another slipped by. Scruffy-looking brick-built houses. A chicken pecking in the dirt. A pair of pyjamas blowing on a washing line. Billy was thinking about his father again. Given any kind of choice, he was beginning to prefer his dad’s war to this one.
Finally the woman turned away from the view. There was one sandwich left. She leaned forward, offering it to Billy.
Billy was looking at his guard. The young soldier shrugged.
‘Essen Sie,’ he said. ‘Während Sie noch können.’
Billy was confused. The woman was smiling.
‘Eat,’ she said. ‘While you still can.’
*
The aircraft carrying Klimt landed in Madrid in the late afternoon. A change of planes in Barcelona had robbed him of his seat in the cockpit and he found himself wedged beside a fat businessman from Düsseldorf who picked his nose throughout the flight. Mercifully, the moment the aircraft came to a halt in front of the terminal building he struggled to his feet and made for the exit.
Aurore Page 27
