A Prince and a Spy

by Rory Clements

  ‘Fucking a maidservant, eh?’

  ‘These thoughts go through your mind.’

  ‘But he wasn’t.’

  ‘No. And then it occurred to me that he had either been abducted . . .’

  ‘Or had defected.’

  Philipp von Hessen nodded.

  ‘And this woman – Georgie’s assistant – where was she at this time?’

  The prince looked puzzled by the question. ‘I have no idea. Our people kept apart other than at the meetings.’

  ‘Because, my dear prince, there is an old French saying – cherchez la femme. You understand what I am saying, I hope? I already have information that she is the key to this. If anyone knows where Coburg is hiding, it is Harriet Hartwell.’

  ‘Then she is alive?’

  ‘Oh yes, she survived the crash. And I have information that she was a friend of Herr Coburg going back to school days in England.’

  ‘Good God, I had no idea.’

  ‘Did you not notice their eyes meeting across the table? A flicker of recognition, perhaps?’

  ‘No, nothing. My thoughts were elsewhere. Entirely on the matter in hand with Georgie.’

  ‘You know, Herr Prince, it is difficult not to wonder whether the whole Stockholm conference was a set-up designed for your aides to meet. Perhaps you and the royal duke were the bit-part players. Or maybe you knew this – maybe you were involved in the arrangement, Herr Prince?’

  ‘That is an outrageous suggestion!’

  ‘Really?’ Müller watched closely as the Prince shrank into his body and his soul shrivelled. ‘Now then,’ the Gestapo chief continued after a few moments, ‘I think we need to find our old friend Axel Anton. Because I am damned certain he will tell us what’s going on, if the price is right. And you, Prince Philipp von Hessen, had better hope that we find him quickly – and that he leads us to Rudolf Coburg or, at least, the British woman. Otherwise . . .’ He didn’t finish the sentence.

  *

  ‘I really think I need to get into that school,’ Wilde said.

  Harriet looked at him as though he were mad. ‘Why, Tom? Are you hoping to find a list of important Athels so we’ll know who to avoid? They’re not that stupid, you know – they don’t leave incriminating lists lying around.’ She sounded irritated.

  ‘No,’ he said, annoyed in his turn by her undisguised scorn. ‘Of course not. To be honest, I don’t know what I’m looking for – just that I want to know who and what I’m dealing with. The Athels, the school itself. The whole place reeks of a secret society.’ The sort of place he loathed. ‘Anyway, you’re the one who thinks they’re trying to kill you.’

  ‘Well, it’s pointless. You wouldn’t find anything. But I agree with you that we’ve got to do something – and quickly. I have told you what I want to do, but I don’t know how to do it.’

  ‘Then let’s go to the American embassy. Surely there aren’t any American Athels to worry about? If anyone can arrange a meeting with Churchill, the Americans can.’

  She shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well, without a better idea, it’s a risk I’m going to have to take. You can come with me, or you can stay here. Your choice.’

  She thought for two seconds. ‘I’ll come,’ she said.

  Chapter 26

  Alone on this outcrop, one little island among thousands, Rudolf Coburg wondered whether he was losing his sanity. The fuel for the generator had run out and he had no candles left, so at night he was all alone in a pit of darkness with the snakes.

  The island was called Huggorm, which also happened to be the Swedish word for adder, or viper. It was well named, for Huggorm was infested with adders. In the warmth of the day, he watched the snakes on the rocks by the sea, soaking up the sun, and his eyes followed them as they slithered slowly through the rough grass or slid silently into the waves that lapped at the shore.

  He wasn’t scared of them, but he was fascinated by them and began seeing them as individuals rather than an alien mass. From his early years, when other children shuddered, he had always rather liked snakes, admiring their sleek sinuousness and their dazzling, shimmering patterns.

  That admiration had always been from afar, but these ones were different; he gave them names. The one he knew as Himmler was always on the higher rock. He was large, active and dominant. Höppner stayed closer to the shoreline, a little diffident, sidling away for some space and seclusion. Eberl moved with sudden speed and showed his sharp, pointy teeth and his split tongue. Eichmann was more slender and graceful but his eyes were narrow and blank. Though Coburg couldn’t hear it, he somehow imagined an intermittent hiss on the lipless mouth. Kaltenbrunner was long and pitted and stayed close to Eichmann as though they were intimate companions. Wisliceny, fat and sly, remained slightly apart as though he wished to be their friend but knew he was not quite of their milieu.

  Müller exuded power and you just knew that his venom would kill you, slowly and with extreme pain.

  On the land between the cabin and the rocks lay the still one, the dead one, its scales shrivelled and empty. He called this one Heydrich. It might be dead, yet it remained malign.

  And then, finally, there was the half-seen one. The one always lurking in the shadows. This one he dubbed Hitler. He had seen it only once, side on, and had looked away because this one he feared. He didn’t see it, but he felt its presence and his instinct told him that it swam between islands, controlling its colonies. He knew, too, that its eyes alone could kill.

  Sometimes he wondered whether he should seek it out and accept his death. Would that end the nightmares? If he could be certain that death would be the end of his dreams, then it would be a price worth paying and he would happily gather all the adders together into his bed and join them naked, let them writhe over him and feast on his flesh. If only that would stop the dreams, but something told him it wouldn’t; that the dreams would be there for eternity.

  His eyes drifted up from the adders, across the sea. A boat was approaching.

  *

  William Phillips, chief of the nascent London bureau of the Office of Strategic Studies, shook his head in dismay.

  ‘Good God, Wilde, what in the name of all that’s holy have you got yourself into? And why have you deposited that woman outside in my waiting room?’

  ‘That is Harriet Hartwell. I told you about her, if you remember? You won’t hear it on the wireless and you won’t read it in the newspapers, but she was aboard the Duke of Kent’s Sunderland flying boat when it crashed and she, like the rear gunner, survived.’

  ‘And does she confirm your theories about the direction of travel of the Duke’s flight?’

  ‘She does.’

  It was late in the evening and Phillips had been about to return home after a long day. Whatever the occasion, his demeanour was never less than gracious, but he was not happy. Wilde had expected nothing else because he was aware that Phillips was disappointed in him; there was important work to be done getting the OSS operational and these meanderings by Wilde had, in his eyes, become entirely pointless and, indeed, counter-productive.

  Wilde’s physical journey here had been long and winding. He and Harriet had waited until it was almost dusk before making a move across the field in the direction of the farm. The buildings were on the edge of a village and from there they took a series of back roads, occasionally getting lost and asking for directions as they made their way to London, all the while avoiding major thoroughfares where they were likely to encounter road-blocks or police patrols.

  On the journey, he could not but be aware of her arms around his waist and her head resting against his back and shoulder. It was a warm, pleasurable sensation and he felt guilty for enjoying it, even though he had done nothing to encourage her and had no intention of straying. But perhaps the thought was there. Perhaps Harriet was right, that such instincts were there in all men, however much they might deny it.

  Phillips tapped the base of his fountain pen on the desk, a hab
it he had when thinking. As a diplomat it was second nature for him to examine Wilde’s story thoroughly and with precision, reserving judgement until he was persuaded on the correctness of a course of action. ‘No one else agrees, Tom. All the military personnel and ministry officials say the flying boat was leaving Scotland for Iceland.’

  ‘They say what they are told to say.’

  Phillips smiled. ‘Of course they do. Well trained, these Brits. They have to be efficient to run their dirty goddamned empire, I suppose. Well, I expect you want me to congratulate you on your investigative powers, Tom, but somehow I can’t really see why I should – because I honestly don’t know how any of this helps America.’

  ‘It’s not a matter of helping America, it’s about doing what’s right. And it’s about Harriet Hartwell needing our help.’

  ‘And give me a reason why we should accommodate her. Pretty thing, isn’t she? I don’t suppose that has anything to do with it.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Bill, you know me better than that.’

  ‘Do I? Then explain why I should help her.’

  ‘Because we’re on the same side.’

  ‘No we’re not, we’re on Britain’s side – and at the moment it sounds as if both you and Miss Hartwell are seen as the enemy!’

  ‘That’s not the case. You need to hear her story – from her lips, not mine. This is the untold story of Hitler’s gang – and it needs to come out.’

  Phillips sighed. ‘Well, I’m not convinced, but bring her in and let’s hear what she has to say for herself.’

  *

  Axel Anton moored his motorboat to iron rings driven into the rock wall at the side of the little bay, then clambered out and strode nonchalantly through the scattering adders. Coburg was standing waiting for him at the doorway to the cabin. Anton plonked down a basket of food and newspapers, then shook hands. ‘At least you’re not alone, Herr Coburg.’

  ‘The snakes are OK, but I think I could quite happily live without them.’

  ‘Must be just like old times back in the Party Chancellery, eh? Plenty of reptiles around there.’

  ‘The thought had occurred to me. What news, Anton? Has there been any movement? Word on a flight to England?’

  ‘Bad news, I’m afraid.’ Anton grimaced. He was a plump man of fifty but might have been handsome in his younger days when he would have been a good deal more slender. But he still had a sparkle in his eyes, clear skin and fresh, open features. He had fair hair that flopped across his brow. In another life, he often thought as he gazed into the mirror, he might have been a film star. Wouldn’t that have been something, to play a love scene with Zarah Leander, the Swedish siren?

  As it was, his face had played an important role in making his fortune. People trusted him. That is to say, they put their trust in him even though they might know or suspect that he was likely to do them down. He realised that both sides – all sides – were aware of his double-dealing, but that didn’t matter. Because he never betrayed the highest bidder. Once he had carried out whatever was required of him, however, all bets were off.

  ‘Bad news?’

  ‘Very bad.’ Anton ran his fingers through his thick crop of hair; it was more rakish like that than neatly combed. ‘The Duke of Kent’s plane crashed on its return to Scotland. Only one survivor – the rear gunner.’

  ‘That means Harriet is dead?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, although her death has not been reported. I have brought you Swedish and English newspapers – you’ll see that The Times of London and the Svenska Dagbladet have good reports. Food and drink, too, for another week.’

  ‘You mean I’m stuck here another week?’

  Anton shrugged. ‘Of course not. I can take you off now if you desire. But I have no way of getting you out of the country as yet. The prices would be crazy.’

  ‘You want more money?’

  ‘Everything costs so much in war.’

  ‘You have already brought me close to bankruptcy, Anton.’

  ‘Nonsense, you are as rich as Midas. Anyway, don’t complain. I got you out of Germany and into the company of Miss Hartwell, did I not? Can you even begin to imagine a more expensive and difficult operation than that?’

  ‘I’m sorry. Yes, you have been a good friend.’

  ‘Your only friend at the moment, Herr Coburg. And was it my fault that the Duke baulked at taking you on his flying boat? In fact, you should think yourself fortunate now that you were left behind!’

  ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t feel very fortunate.’

  ‘Don’t despair. I will find a way. Now then, you will notice that there are a couple of bottles of Italian grappa in the basket. What say I share a little glass with you before I take my leave?’

  Coburg’s eyes were elsewhere and Anton could see that he was in danger of falling apart.

  ‘Come on, my good fellow. A little glass to cheer us both . . .’

  ‘This island, though . . .’

  ‘I know, I know. The snakes. I don’t mind them. Stay clear of them and they’ll stay clear of you.’

  ‘They talk to me.’

  ‘And what do they say?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t understand them.’ Suddenly, as though realising he was in company, his eyes awoke and fixed on those of his visitor. ‘Look, Anton, would I not be as safe on the mainland somewhere?’

  Anton’s expression was pained. ‘Oh, how I wish it were so, if only for your sake. But you wouldn’t last twenty-four hours, dear friend. There are German agents everywhere and many collaborators. And I have worse news, I’m afraid – Heinrich Müller himself has taken charge of the search for you and has arrived in Stockholm.’

  *

  Pleasantries were exchanged, coffee was poured and seats were taken. ‘Professor Wilde has told me some of your story, Miss Hartwell. Perhaps you’d like to fill me in with the rest.’

  She didn’t look happy. ‘Do I really need to go through all this again?’

  ‘I want to hear it from you. Unvarnished.’

  The story came out slowly. It included her long-term work for the Duke of Kent at the Air Ministry and their close understanding and friendship. It did not, Wilde noted, include any acknowledgement of her other role as a member of the British secret services.

  ‘And how was it that the trip to Stockholm came about? Who mooted it?’ Phillips demanded.

  ‘That was Axel Anton. He came over to London via Gib with a proposal for a top-secret meeting between the two cousins – Georgie and Prince Philipp von Hessen. There would be no agenda, no publicity. Just two old friends meeting for a chinwag on neutral territory. The Duke put it to his brother, the King. He in turn put it to Churchill, who has no desire for peace but was intrigued to discover the state of morale in Germany.’

  ‘And what of FDR?’

  ‘It was thought better not to include him at this stage – word travels like wildfire around the Capitol.’

  ‘But something happened at this Stockholm meeting? Rudi Coburg went missing.’

  ‘Yes, he came to my room. He said he needed my help to get to England and told me the whole story of the Nazi crimes he had witnessed.’

  ‘Go on, Miss Hartwell.’

  She told him everything she had told Wilde, then her shoulders slumped with the emotional toll of her story. ‘Of course, I had no way of getting him out of Sweden, not then. Georgie wanted to help, but after talking to his aides, it became clear Rudi couldn’t be allowed on the flying boat. But I did have the means to wire an encrypted message through to Peter Cazerove in London. I hoped he might be able to help, to organise a separate flight – I couldn’t think of anyone else. I trusted him.’

  Phillips gave Wilde a meaningful look. ‘Your friend from the train, Tom? Anyway, carry on, Miss Hartwell. What happened next?’

  ‘Axel Anton had foreseen everything, of course, and already had a safe place prepared for Rudi. In the early hours he spirited him away to hide on one of the islands in the Stockholm Archipelago. He wo
uld never be found. Anton told me how to make contact when I had found a way to get Rudi to London or Washington. But of course I have no way of doing that on my own – which is why I need to contact Churchill. I don’t know who else to trust, you see.’

  ‘What of the documents Herr Coburg brought out of Germany?’

  ‘They are still in his possession. He will protect them with his life.’

  There were a few moments more silence, broken only by the tinkle of a cup as the OSS bureau chief finished his coffee. At last he spoke. ‘One thing doesn’t add up, I’m afraid, Miss Hartwell: the coincidence of you and your old friend Rudi Coburg just happening to be in the same room in a Swedish palace in the middle of a war.’

  ‘I can’t explain it. All I can think is that Axel Anton was somehow involved. He knows everyone who is anyone in Berlin and has important contacts in London.’

  ‘And the crash of the Duke of Kent’s plane?’

  ‘I don’t know. It is difficult not to think Peter Cazerove was involved, because he was an Athel.’

  ‘Ah yes, Tom has told me about them.’

  Wilde broke into the conversation. ‘Your instant fear was that Peter Cazerove betrayed you?’

  ‘Well, someone wanted us all dead. It had to be the Athels.’

  ‘Can you remember anything of the crash?’ Phillips demanded.

  ‘No, I think I must have been asleep. My last memory is crawling along the gangway towards the rear of the plane, and then nothing more. Or perhaps that was a dream.’

  ‘Could it have been lack of oxygen – hypoxia? Or some sort of gas?’

  She shrugged. ‘Again, I don’t know. Either might make you drowsy. I woke up on a hillside. My parachute was still strapped on but unopened. Perhaps that and my thick clothing and the angle of the slope saved me. It was cold in the plane and I was wearing thick clothes and a Mae West life jacket. I must have looked like the Michelin man. When I regained consciousness I had a ferocious headache. It didn’t take me long to realise that I was a marked woman.’ She met Phillips’s gaze full on. ‘Anyway, that’s my story. And I swear it’s true.’