He heard a footfall behind him and swivelled around. It was Anders Skoog in his pyjamas, standing bent and looking close to collapse, hand steadying himself against an old dresser.
‘What has happened, Mr Wilde?’
‘We had a visitor, Skipper. He’s gone now.’
‘And my window?’
‘I’m afraid I shot it out. I’ll pay for the repair, of course.’
‘I hope you haven’t woken the town.’
‘They’ll think it’s a car backfiring.’
‘Maybe. Anyway, we had better secure the window. Come, Mr Wilde, help me pull the dresser across. That will stop anyone trying to get in.’
*
Wilde didn’t fall asleep again and nor did Anders Skoog. They had coffee and talked more. The car came for him at 6.28 a.m. He clasped the old seafarer by his ancient hands and thanked him profusely. ‘Thanks, Skipper. I have no doubt that your assistance will help the Allies’ war effort.’
‘Good. To hell with the Nazis. They are shits – a word I would never use in church, but fine for you. I learnt worse words than that aboard the wool clippers, words not fit for your soft academic ears, professor. Look after your girlfriend.’
Wilde laughed. ‘I’m a married man with a young son, Skipper. Harriet Hartwell is not my girlfriend.’
Skoog raised his spidery eyebrows, his surprise evident, then smiled and patted Wilde on the shoulder. ‘Take care, professor. Come back and see me when this filthy war is over.’
Wilde peered both ways down the road. Satisfied, he climbed in the embassy car. The driver was Ted Bateman again. He introduced his colleague, James Ryder, who was lounging in the back, Thompson submachine gun in his lap.
‘You delivered Miss Hartwell and Coburg without incident?’ Wilde said as Bateman engaged gear and pulled away from the kerb.
‘Yes, sir. The guy didn’t seem too well, but there were no problems. Major Oldman has taken responsibility for them. By the way, the embassy high-ups weren’t too keen on us bringing the guns. You might get an earful when you’re back in London.’
‘Don’t worry about that. Let’s go.’
There was only one road from the quayside. Just past the last house, a car was parked at the side of the street – a different one to the smoke-belcher from the previous day. Even from a distance, Wilde knew what it was. The car had two occupants – the older German and one of the younger ones. Its engine was running.
‘Pull up alongside that vehicle, Mr Bateman.’
‘Are you sure, sir? My orders are to get you to the airfield directly.’
‘This won’t take a minute.’
Wilde climbed out of the passenger seat. Bateman immediately took one hand off the wheel and transferred it to the grip of his semi-automatic. Ryder behind him did likewise, firming up his grip on the Thompson. Wilde walked around to the passenger door of the other car.
The window slowly wound down.
‘I imagine you’re Müller,’ Wilde said in German, leaning his elbows on the sill and meeting the man’s wary eyes.
‘And you are Thomas Wilde, supposedly a professor of history from Cambridge University. I couldn’t place you at first, but then I recalled – I have seen your file. It is remarkably thick.’
‘I suppose I should be flattered, but I have also heard a bit about you and none of it good, I’m afraid. Anyway, feel free to follow us.’
‘We will.’
‘It’s probably only fair to mention, however, that you’re too late. Coburg left these shores hours ago. He’ll be having breakfast in London right now. And who knows what will happen then? Conversations with the Prime Minister and the President, newspaper articles, wireless talks. The world will be very interested in what he has to say. I’ll make sure you get a mention.’
‘And what will he say? He knows nothing. He is a nobody.’
‘Then why is an SS-Gruppenführer so keen to kill him?’
‘Because he is a traitor. Tell him that being in England or America will not save his life. Our reach is long and we have the will.’
Wilde couldn’t resist a grin and a shrug of the shoulders. ‘Maybe you will get him, but I doubt it. Anyway, in the meantime your vile regime will have been exposed in all its foulness to the world. Enjoy your trip back to Berlin, Müller. I hope your Führer is pleased with your work. Does he usually reward failure?’
He gave the SS general another smile. Müller stared at him without emotion for a few moments, then looked away and slowly wound up the window. Wilde walked back around to the other side of the car, removed his revolver and fired two bullets, one into Müller’s front off-side tyre, the other into the rear off-side tyre. He re-holstered the weapon and climbed back into the embassy car.
‘Drive, Mr Bateman.’
Chapter 35
The airfield was fenced off and had a sentry post, but the embassy car was quickly waved through after a cursory examination of papers, and motored at a steady speed along the track towards the administration buildings. Wilde thanked Bateman and Ryder for their work and made his way to the door to the main building.
In the near distance, to the left, he saw that the Mosquito was still there, parked well away from other warplanes. Wilde checked his watch and saw that it was 7.10.
He found Harriet and Major Chas Oldman as they emerged from the officers’ mess. This was a Swedish Air Force base. The Americans were allowed to use it on a case-by-case basis, covertly. No bombs, no machine guns, no records kept.
‘Tom, you’ve made it.’
He smiled at her. ‘I rather thought you’d have gone by now.’ He nodded to the USAF officer. ‘Morning, Chas.’
‘Good to see you, Tom. You’ve cut it fine.’
‘I’d call it being punctual.’
‘The major has an idea,’ Harriet said.
‘Tell me about it, but first – where’s Coburg?’
‘He’s in the Swedish Air Force sick bay, catching a little more sleep. But this idea . . . Chas believes it might be possible to get all of us home in one go.’
‘Really?’
‘Were you comfortable on the way here, Tom?’ the pilot asked.
‘It wasn’t as bad as I expected once I had got over the alarming prospect that you might use me to bomb a submarine.’
‘Well, I’m going to see if I can fit you and Harriet in the bomb bay this time. She’s short, you’re long. Neither of you is any great girth or weight. You can play sardines.’
Wilde looked at Harriet. ‘Are you up for this?’
‘It would be quite cosy. And Rudi would be better off up in the cockpit with the major.’
‘OK, let’s give it a go.’
*
With a bit of manoeuvring under the open bomb bay doors, they managed to fit in. They weren’t exactly huddled together, but their close proximity lent an intimacy that Wilde was pretty sure Lydia would not like to know about.
He tried to think about other things. In particular, the feeling that even if they got Rudolf Coburg to England safe and alive, their problems were a long way from solved.
For one thing, Wilde was still a wanted man, chief suspect in the murder of Harriet’s father, the Reverend Hartwell. She, too, was being hunted by someone who wanted her dead. He had many questions, but first there was the grave matter of Rudolf Coburg to be dealt with. Decisions had to be made about how to let the world hear his shattering, barely credible testimony that the Nazis were annihilating a whole race of people.
Major Oldman’s voice came through their headphones. ‘Time to take in a little oxygen, folks, we’re approaching 11,000 feet and rising. I want to go a lot higher over Norway. Are you keeping warm down there?’
‘Getting colder by the minute,’ Harriet said to her microphone.
‘Well, you’ll both be warmer if you just snuggle up like bears in a snowhole.’
‘I think he’s scared of me, Chas. Doing his best not to touch me.’
‘Man’s a strange thing, Miss Hartwell. He�
��ll walk into a hail of bullets, yet cower before a woman’s welcoming arms. Anyway, you two take care. And for your information, the patient is holding up well.’
Wilde switched on his torch. He could see that Harriet was laughing at him. He laughed back.
The intercom crackled to life again. ‘Two ME109s welcoming us to Norwegian airspace,’ Oldman said casually. ‘Let’s see what Hermann’s boys have got. My money’s on the Mosquito. You folks want to stake a few dollars?’
‘I think our lives are probably stake enough,’ Harriet said.
‘You keep us alive and I’ll buy you a beer,’ Wilde said.
‘That’s good enough for me. Turn up the oxygen and enjoy the ride.’
Nothing happened. The Mosquito continued to rise to over 30,000 feet and hold its westward course at 400 mph. Five minutes later, Oldman returned to the intercom. ‘The Luftwaffe has given up and gone home. Should be plain sailing from here on to Norfolk. We’re over the North Sea now, so I’ll take the speed down a few notches to conserve fuel.’
Wilde killed his intercom and indicated for Harriet to do the same. She complied.
‘So we’re agreed that our first move is to get him to Grosvenor Street. We have the papers translated and we get him to annotate copies to explain exactly what is happening and the significance. From my brief look, I can see there’s a rock-solid paper trail from the Reich Main Security Office to the death camps, with numbers, transport details, the whole kit and kaboodle. We will also extract a full and precise affidavit from Herr Coburg detailing everything and everyone he saw at the Treblinka camp, as well as a run-down on the workings of his department. Names of staff, operating methods – and where the orders come from.’
‘We have to get Rudi proper treatment before interrogating him.’
‘His recuperation could take weeks. We can’t wait that long.’
‘But at the very least he needs a couple of days before the questioning begins.’
‘Tell you what, we’ll play it by ear. But then what? You and I have to return to the real world at some stage. That isn’t going to be easy.’
She sighed. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Tom, put your bloody arms around me. I’m freezing to death! I promise I won’t bite and I won’t say a word to your beautiful wife – or whatever she is.’
*
The Mosquito landed early in the afternoon. Half an hour out, Oldman had radioed instructions through to the base and a large Cadillac was waiting for them with a driver. Coburg was able to take up most of the back seat with his head on Harriet’s lap. He remained silent on the long drive to London, except once when he screamed and then emitted a series of agonised groans. His eyes opened. ‘I’m sorry, I was dreaming. I can’t stop the dreams.’
Bill Phillips was in his office when they arrived at OSS headquarters in Grosvenor Street. With him were a doctor and nurse, both American and both attached to the embassy. A room had been set aside as a makeshift ward, with a metal-framed bed. Coburg was immediately made comfortable there while the medical team took readings of his vital functions and conducted a thorough examination.
’Well, Tom,’ Phillips said, ‘you and Miss Hartwell can stay here as you did before, or you can both come back to my apartment with me. The offices will be securely guarded as always and, in the event of an air raid, Coburg will be stretchered down to the shelter. Are you happy with all that?’
‘Harriet?’
‘He’s got here alive, so I suppose he’ll survive. A good night’s sleep will do us all good. We’ll come with you, Mr Phillips. But first we have to find out about Mimi . . .’
And Wilde had a phone call of his own to make, to home.
*
The call to Lydia did not go well. At times the distance between them seemed unbridgeable and he wondered about his own part in their problems. Was every relationship in Britain as troubled as this, with men going off to war, leaving wives and children at home? Would any marriage survive this insane conflagration? Perhaps it was inevitable that conflict between nations would always be accompanied by conflict on the domestic front.
He had to confess that she had not had an easy time of it herself. She told him she had had a visitor named Walter Quayle. ‘Ghastly man with dandruff all over his shoulders – and his fingernails were a disgrace.’
‘Yes, I know Walter Quayle. What exactly did he want?’
‘He said he had things to discuss with you. I told him you weren’t here. But he was more than a bit pushy, demanding to know your whereabouts. I took him for a secret service type.’
‘Yes, I’m sure he is. Calls himself a civil servant, but he has Five written all over him. He accompanied me to the crash site in Caithness, then got himself into a bit of bother. Ignore him, darling. Tell him to piss off if he bothers you again. He’s nothing.’
‘That’s all very well for you to say, Tom, but you know what’s going on – and Johnny and I are stuck in the bloody dark. People come looking for you, the police want to interview you about a murder and I don’t even know if you’re in the bloody country.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘And your bloody girlfriend? Is she with you?’
‘Harriet Hartwell is here,’ he said stiffly. ‘And I suggest you don’t take a blind bit of notice of what Eaton or anyone else has to say about her.’
‘It’s when you start denying things that we get worried. That’s what men never understand, you see.’
‘Well, what do you want me to say then?’
‘Nothing. I want you to come home. Any idea when that might be?’
‘Not too long, I hope.’
‘Tomorrow? Next week? When the war’s over? Nineteen fifty? What does “not too long” even mean?’
That was how they left it.
In the evening, Bill Phillips fed his guests good food and good wine. There were just the three of them, attended by Bill’s housekeeper, who had done the cooking. After the port, Bill left Wilde and Harriet alone, apologising that he had to go off to his study to work on some cables. On his way out, he stopped momentarily. ‘Just a cautionary word for you both. Those papers Coburg brought? In themselves, they prove almost nothing and will be denounced as forgeries. They have to be accompanied by a convincing narrative from Coburg. Likewise, his statement must be not only powerful but must accord with the paperwork in every detail. I have been in the world of diplomacy and politics long enough to know that one misstep, however minor, will be seized on.’
‘The story will hold up,’ Harriet said.
‘Good. Well, make yourselves at home and I will see you both at breakfast.’
Alone together, candlelight flickered between them on the polished mahogany table.
‘Mimi asked after you,’ she said.
‘That’s kind of her.’
‘She is recuperating well but she will have to take it easy, for she could suffer another heart attack at any time. The doctors prescribed no more smoking, no more alcohol, no more late nights at the Dada Club.’ Harriet raised a sceptical eyebrow. ‘As if any of that’s going to happen.’
‘It would be uncharacteristic.’
‘By the way, she was told that she had been carried to the hospital by a man named Wilde. I think she’s taken a shine to you. Her knight errant.’
Wilde smiled at the thought. The great Mimi Lalique, star of silver screen, taking a shine to an obscure history professor; it sounded like the fantasy of millions of men through the past three decades. ‘But I’m already taken.’
‘And that’s your tragedy, isn’t it, Tom? Mimi told me I was to hook my claws into you and not let you go. She said you were far too good a catch to be wasted on some dowdy provincial housewife.’
‘One day you will meet Lydia Morris and you will discover that she is neither dowdy nor provincial. Nor even a housewife for that matter.’
‘And that’s my tragedy.’
Wilde badly wanted to change the subject. There were times in a man’s life, however happy he might be with
what awaited him at home, that he was in danger of falling. ‘Have you ever heard of a man named Walter Quayle?’ he said.
Harriet frowned. ‘Of course I have. Why?’
‘He was assigned to me up in Caithness. Now he has been visiting my home in Cambridge.’
‘Walter was Peter’s mentor. He’s an Athel, an extraordinary scholar who went on to Trinity. Just missed Senior Wrangler in maths, then switched to classics. Double first.’
‘Are we talking about the same man?’
‘You tell me. Walter’s easy enough to spot – he’s as queer as a barking cat and makes no bones about it.’
‘And I suppose he’s MI5?’
‘Oh yes. Just the sort they love there.’
‘I must say his academic brilliance escaped me in the wilds of Scotland.’
‘But not his queerness, eh?’
‘No, he didn’t try to conceal that.’
She ran a hand through her lustrous hair. ‘When I said he was Peter’s mentor, there was actually rather more to it than that. It was Walter who put a stop to Smoake’s bullying and took Peter under his wing. Peter never said anything to me, but I felt that Quayle had some sort of Svengali-like hold over him. I loathe Walter Quayle,’ she added. ‘Always have.’
*
In the night, Wilde lay awake in the utter blackness in a comfortable bed in Bill Phillips’s Mayfair apartment, his mind churning with impossible thoughts. A nightmare, a vision, a rational explanation of things unseen? His mind was racing. Perhaps he was wrong; perhaps Walter Quayle wasn’t nothing.
The link to Peter Cazerove – how had he missed that? More importantly, what did it mean?
Wilde switched on the bedside light and glanced at his watch: 3.35 a.m. He had an idea in his head, fully formed from a thousand splintered nuggets of information, none of which seemed to make sense on their own. So what was it – rational deduction or commonplace paranoia?
A Prince and a Spy Page 29
