Aurore

by Graham Hurley

  Klimt watched him through the window as he stood on the tarmac waiting for his bag to be unloaded from the back, then his attention was caught by another figure hurrying towards the plane. It was Erwin Busch, Schellenberg’s young assistant.

  He climbed aboard and settled himself beside Klimt. A morning meeting at the German embassy in Madrid had meant an overnight flight down from Paris. As soon as they’d refuelled, they’d be off for the last hop across to Lisbon. The journey normally took three hours or so. Plenty of time to catch up on lost sleep.

  Klimt nodded. He wanted to know more about this young man.

  ‘We’ll be together tonight?’ he enquired.

  ‘Of course,’ he smiled. ‘My boss insists I look after you.’

  *

  It was dark by the time the train arrived. Billy peered out of the window, trying to make out the name of the station among the press of passengers waiting on the platform. The woman with the sandwiches had got off at Stuttgart, offering him a tiny nod of farewell as she gathered her possessions and left the compartment.

  Stuttgart, as Billy knew only too well, was in south-western Germany. A city full of factories, he’d bombed it on a number of occasions and had a healthy respect for its flak defences. Now, as the train finally came to a halt, he caught sight of another name on his list of ops. München.

  The station seemed enormous. Looking up, he could see the night sky through sizeable holes in the roof canopy. Bomb damage, he thought. I might have done that. The soldier was tugging him across the concourse. At the sight of the handcuffs, the crowd parted in front of them. Out of uniform Billy could have been anyone and he was glad to be spared the attentions of strangers.

  Back in England, he’d once met a Flight Engineer who’d bailed out of a crippled Sterling bomber on a trip to Duisburg. He’d survived the jump, only to find himself surrounded by angry German farmers. They’d given him a beating before handing him over to the local police. Manacled, like Billy, he’d been shipped east to a Stalag deep in Poland. He’d later managed to escape but his memory of that journey across Germany had never left him. The farmers had been bad enough, he’d told Billy, but I can’t abide being spat at.

  Now, they were out of the station. An Army van was parked at the kerbside. The young soldier saluted the officer waiting beside it and unlocked the handcuffs. To the best of Billy’s knowledge, all the POW camps lay much further to the east. So where were they going?

  He tried to put the question to the officer. He was an older man with tired eyes and a skin tone Billy had last seen in the mortuary in Bristol.

  ‘No one’s told you?’ His English was good.

  ‘No.’ Billy shook his head.

  ‘Then let it be a surprise.’ He bent to open the rear door. ‘Kommen Sie.’

  *

  Klimt and Busch ate on the waterfront in Lisbon. They’d walked down the hill from the embassy in the warmth of a velvet evening, and now a waiter Busch appeared to know well took them to a table in the depths of the restaurant.

  ‘I always ask for privacy,’ he told Klimt. ‘Hard to find in this city.’

  It was already late and the mid-evening diners had begun to drift away. Klimt didn’t bother with the menu. When he asked for recommendations, Busch didn’t have a moment’s hesitation.

  ‘Arroz de marisco,’ he said. ‘Rice with anything that swims. You want to taste the sea? These people make it happen.’

  The waiter brought a carafe of white wine. Klimt had never tried Alvarinho before. It was ice-cold and decidedly flinty. Huber in a bottle, he thought.

  Busch was talking about the chaotic Abwehr set-up in Madrid. He’d arrived at that morning’s meeting with a thick file of reports from SD agents in the field, information he’d need when it came to cutting out the dead wood at the heart of the Canaris operation. The real challenge, he said, was patrolling the fine line between negligence and corruption, but either way he had a list of placemen who’d soon be answering questions in Berlin.

  Lisbon, he said, was the Wild West, lawless, riddled with spies, full of rich pickings. If you didn’t mind who you betrayed you could make yourself very rich without a great deal of effort. People he’d once respected had fallen for what he called ‘the Lisbon handshake’ and the knowledge that their days were numbered had caused some consternation.

  ‘This city has grown fat on the war,’ he gestured out towards the busy street. ‘Our people like the sunshine, the women, the casinos, the nightlife. Money and influence buy you anything here. The place is a kasbah. The Arabs were here for longer than we ever think. They certainly left their mark.’

  Klimt could see the attractions. He was thinking of Hélène. Late afternoons on the beach, an hour or two in bed, then a gentle stroll in the last of the sunshine before finding a restaurant like this. If the war ever came to an end, he’d try and make it happen.

  Busch was pouring more wine. Klimt wanted to know why Schellenberg had chosen him for the mission to England.

  ‘I’m Abwehr,’ he pointed out. ‘It makes no sense.’

  ‘On the contrary. The Chief has a suppleness of mind. He hates to be trapped by convention. In my view that’s important. Good people are hard to come by. And he thinks you’re one of them.’

  ‘The Chief?’

  ‘Oberführer Schellenberg.’

  ‘You’ve worked for him for long?’

  ‘Fourteen months. Since Heydrich was murdered.’

  Klimt nodded. The Butcher of Prague had been the founding father of the SD. His Einsatzgruppen had left a trail of blood across Eastern Europe and a team of Czech and Slovak irregulars had finally shot him in an ambush.

  ‘Schellenberg must have come as a relief after Heydrich.’

  ‘He was. Is. It’s a pleasure to work for such a man. And an education, too.’

  He started to describe the chaos that was the Nazi administrative machine, the warring empires, the rival fiefdoms, the constant struggle for survival as reputations were lost and won.

  ‘Berlin is a jungle,’ he said. ‘A lot of these people are animals. They’re not stupid. Far from it. Underestimating them is the quickest way to earn a bullet. But most of them, up here…’ he tapped his head, ‘… live in the bunker. They’re underground people. They’re creatures of darkness. They never look outwards. Other countries are fair game for invasion but their interest stops once the shooting is over. The world beyond the Reich is a mystery.’

  ‘And your Chief?’

  ‘Oberführer Schellenberg is different. He’s aware. He has a taste for other countries, other cultures. He makes it his business to understand the enemy, not merely crush him. Which is why he’s so keen to open the channels to London.’

  Klimt was toying with his wine glass. There was another question here, and he was determined to raise it.

  ‘Schellenberg told me he thinks the war is lost. Was he serious?’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that. We know how war works. It’s not just a question of will, as some of our people believe, it’s also a question of figures, of computations, of resources, of drawing up a balance sheet and doing the sums, and taking a hard look at the figure on the bottom line. The Chief has done that. And the implications are troubling.’

  ‘He thinks the war has turned against us?’

  ‘He thinks there may be a peace to be had.’

  ‘Roosevelt is insisting on unconditional surrender. You know that.’

  ‘Roosevelt is a politician. These people bend with the wind. Just now they have the wind at their backs. That may not last forever.’

  ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘We have the best scientists in the world, the best engineers in the world.’

  ‘You mean secret weapons?’

  ‘Of course,’ Busch nodded. ‘You’ll know about the flying bombs. And soon, God willing, so will the English. But there are other toys on the shelf. And if we enter negotiations, we may have a stronger hand than you might think. This is conjecture, of course. But when d
id people like us ever speak a different language? Imagine the world you want to live in. And then make it happen.’

  Imagine the world you want to live in. And then make it happen.

  Perfect. The waiter had emerged from the kitchen with a bowl piled high with steaming rice. He deposited it carefully between them. Prawns and flakes of white fish swam in a tomato broth. Klimt could smell garlic and paprika and lemon. Two plates arrived, and an enormous spoon.

  The waiter asked Busch whether he needed to be served. Busch shook his head. They would help themselves. He smiled across the table and nodded at the food.

  ‘You’re ready?’

  Klimt nodded, and reached for his glass.

  ‘A toast,’ he said. ‘To the world we want to live in.’

  *

  They’d been on the road for nearly an hour when Billy felt the van begin to slow. Traffic had been light when they left the city and now nothing moved in the blackness of the night. There was thunder in the air and from time to time jagged forks of lightning speared the distant horizon.

  The driver had only the dim glow of the masked headlights to grope his way forward but he’d anticipated the turn that would take them off the road. They swung left. Billy sensed trees right and left. Then came a fence of some kind and up ahead, very faintly, a light in the darkness. The lightning was closer now and Billy could feel the thunder in his bones.

  The van was slowing again. They were among buildings, darker shapes against the night. Finally they came to a halt. The light was moving. A guard held a lantern to the driver’s window. At a shouted command, the doors were opened by unseen hands and Billy was dragged from the van.

  He stood in the darkness, gazing around. He could faintly make out a pair of iron gates. They seemed close enough to touch. One of the gates creaked open and he stepped towards it. Then his attention was drawn to lettering above the gate. He stared at it for a moment, trying to make sense of the shapes. Then came another flash, an explosion of light, and he had time to register three words.

  Arbeit Macht Frei.

  He turned to the officer who’d sat beside him throughout the journey. He wanted to know what the words meant. He wanted to know where they were.

  ‘Dachau, my friend. I wish you luck.’

  34

  Klimt landed on the grey waters of Poole Harbour shortly after one o’clock the following afternoon. The flying boat had been delayed by head winds over the Bay of Biscay and the American crew had distributed sick bags in anticipation of rougher weather ahead. Klimt gazed out of the window as the flying boat taxied towards the landing pontoon. He’d spent most of the journey in conversation with an English missionary returning from West Africa, and had been impressed by her tolerance. Her ministry, she told him, had taught her a great deal about what people the world over had in common. And one of the things they held most dear was a yearning for peace.

  Just so, thought Klimt. For reasons he didn’t understand, he was the first passenger invited to step onto the pontoon. There was a chill in the air and the strength of the wind filled the harbour with whitecaps. One of the American crew escorted him to the landward end of the pontoon where a car was waiting. Beside it stood a tall, raw-boned figure trying to control his flailing hair. The Abwehr had a pre-war subscription to a number of English magazines, all part of a bid to understand the enemy, and Klimt paused before accepting the outstretched hand. This man might have stepped out of the pages of Country Life, he thought. With his baggy trousers and tweed jacket he could have been a gamekeeper on some northern moor, or a giant ghillie in Scotland.

  ‘The name’s Moncrieff. A pleasure to meet you.’ The handshake was surprisingly light. ‘Call me Tam. Everyone else does.’

  Klimt followed him to the car. There was a woman behind the wheel and Moncrieff opened the passenger door before stepping back.

  ‘Meet Miss Barton. She’s German. Her first name is Ursula. She’ll make you feel at home.’

  Klimt settled himself in the seat. The car was tiny. Moncrieff had to crouch in the back to avoid the roof. Klimt asked the woman in German whether they were going far. She shook her head.

  ‘You know Bournemouth?’ she said.

  Half an hour’s drive took them around a bay thick with pine trees and Klimt caught glimpses of a long curve of beach that would have been golden in the sunshine. The road dipped briefly to sea level and then Ursula dropped a gear and the little car was grinding inland up a long hill. Houses on both sides of the road reminded Klimt of the wealthier Berlin suburbs and he was about to ask the woman which part of Germany she came from when she slowed for a tight turn into a drive.

  Invisible from the road, the house was enormous. Denied natural light by the surrounding trees, it seemed to brood. The overhang of the tiled roof shadowed the upper windows, and the oak front door, with its heavy iron hinges, belonged to a small castle. This is where a certain kind of owner might hide his family secrets, Klimt thought. Have the intelligence people moved in for the day? Or do they live here?

  The door opened without warning and Moncrieff led the way inside. Refreshments, he announced, would be available as soon as cook was happy that the scones were done. Would Klimt prefer jam or clotted cream or both?

  Klimt settled for jam. He’d never cared for cream.

  Moncrieff strode from the room. Ursula apologised for the chill and invited him to sit down. The room, wood-panelled throughout, was dominated by an enormous fireplace. All that was missing was a stag’s head and a stuffed fish or two.

  Ursula enquired about his journey. It was the briefest courtesy. Klimt had barely started telling her about his first taste of Lisbon when she interrupted him. She was still speaking German. Her accent suggested Bavaria, or maybe the Black Forest.

  ‘You’re Schellenberg’s man. Am I right?’

  The question took Klimt by surprise, so sudden, so abrupt. As with every conversation in the intelligence world, you were best advised to tread carefully. How much did she know already about Walther Schellenberg? Why might Klimt best avoid the traps she and her colleagues had doubtless prepared?

  ‘I’m Abwehr, as you probably know.’

  ‘Indeed, Herr Klimt. My question was about Schellenberg.’

  ‘Oberführer Schellenberg heads the SD. The SD are no friends of my organisation. You’re probably aware of that, too.’

  ‘Exactly, Herr Klimt. So you’ll excuse us for…’ she frowned, ‘… a little confusion in this matter. Schellenberg has a reputation for gamesmanship. He always thinks three moves ahead. He has an extensive network of contacts, people he counts as friends, people he appears to rely on. They used to include Admiral Canaris. Am I right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But no longer?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Doubt it, Herr Klimt? You’d know, surely.’

  Klimt was beginning to weary of this conversation. He’d come here to test the waters on behalf of Walther Schellenberg, not to find himself interrogated about his professional loyalties.

  ‘Schellenberg is in charge of the SD,’ he said again. ‘He has the backing of Himmler. That gives him exceptional power. Admiral Canaris is a man of honour. That can be a handicap in the regime I serve.’

  ‘So Schellenberg’s top of the heap? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘Of course. Even Canaris knows it.’

  ‘So I repeat my question, Herr Klimt. Why you? Why not someone from the SD? Someone home-grown? Someone from within the organisation?’

  Klimt didn’t have time to answer. Moncrieff was back with a tray of scones. Behind him, a smaller figure carrying a huge silver tea pot. He put the pot carefully on the hearth and extended a hand as Klimt got to his feet. Klimt had recognised the face the moment he’d walked in. Guy Liddell. Director of Counter-Espionage. A spytaker of acknowledged genius.

  His handshake was warm from the teapot. He was happy to speak German if Klimt insisted but he’d prefer to stick to English.

  ‘Kein Problem.�
��

  Moncrieff arranged the four armchairs in a loose circle. Klimt and Moncrieff sat down. Ursula distributed plates and scones while the Director poured the tea. The Director was the last to take a seat. Klimt could hear the wind howling down the chimney. There was an exchange of glances and then the Director cleared his throat.

  ‘We all know why we’re here, Herr Klimt. This evening we’ll take you to London for detailed discussions. In the meantime, there’s another matter we need to clear up. Tam?’ The Director turned to Moncrieff.

  Moncrieff produced a sheet of paper from his jacket. He needed spectacles to read.

  ‘Billy Angell is in Dachau.’ Moncrieff looked up. ‘Billy Angell? Name ring any bells?’

  Klimt was looking at the sheet of paper.

  ‘This is some kind of message?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where does it come from?’

  Moncrieff glanced at the Director.

  ‘SD headquarters in Paris, Herr Klimt,’ the Director said. ‘With the compliments of our old friend Walther. And he didn’t even bother to code it.’ He paused. ‘Now why would he send a message like that?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. Who was it addressed to?’

  ‘Me, Herr Klimt. Which is why it feels…’ the Director smiled, ‘… a little personal. We’re making enquiries, of course. Trying to find out who this man might be. But in the meantime we thought you might be able to shed a little light on the situation.’

  Klimt held his gaze for a long moment, then shook his head.

  ‘I’ve never heard of him,’ he said, reaching at last for a scone.

  *

  Billy lay in the bottom bunk, staring at the rough wooden planks inches above his head. The hut was enormous. There were four tiers of bunks. They stretched down one side of the hut and up the other. In the heat of high summer the stench was overpowering. Hundreds of bodies. Thousands of bodies. Millions of bodies. Mysteriously gone.