A Prince and a Spy

by Rory Clements

  ‘Stop there, Mr Wilde. This is all very painful for me.’

  ‘Of course. Forgive me.’

  ‘Because, you see, it is clear that you know exactly what you are talking about. Everything you have told me I know to be the truth.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Indeed. Do you imagine my husband would have kept me in the dark about such matters?’

  ‘But he could not have known about Coburg . . .’

  ‘Of course he did. It was the reason he agreed to go. And it was the reason that he took Miss Hartwell along.’

  ‘But how could he have known?’

  ‘Have you heard of a man named Axel Anton, Mr Wilde?’

  ‘Yes, I have met him.’

  ‘Apparently, he’s not a nice man, but he has his uses, and so there’s your answer. I haven’t met him myself but I know that his idea was that my husband would bring Herr Coburg back in the Sunderland with him. Of course, that was never on. It would have been misunderstood, you see – misunderstood by our friends. But at least the first part could be put in place: the separation of Herr Coburg from the delegation by Miss Hartwell so that he might be placed in hiding until a decision was taken about his future.’

  ‘Then Miss Hartwell knew about this before the trip?’

  ‘I believe not. No one but Georgie and his brother knew about Coburg. Oh and me, I’m afraid. Georgie could never keep a secret from me.’

  Wilde was silent for a few moments, his brow knitted in concentration. ‘Could I ask you a question, Your Royal Highness? Does Churchill know about this?’

  For a brief moment, a smile seemed to pass across the princess’s sallow features. Then she picked up a small bell from her desk and tinkled it. Her butler immediately came back in and gave a bow. ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘I’d like some coffee please, Jermyn.’ She turned to her visitor. ‘Would you care for some, Mr Wilde?’

  ‘That would be greatly appreciated. Thank you.’

  After the butler had gone, Marina began to walk slowly around the room. Wilde watched her. He had asked her a question and she hadn’t answered, and so he felt it right to wait.

  At last she stopped. ‘Where is Herr Coburg now? For that matter, where is Miss Hartwell? You say she is alive, yes?’

  ‘She is alive, as is Rudi Coburg.’

  ‘But you don’t wish to tell me where they are?’

  ‘I’d rather not for the moment. Their lives are in danger.’

  ‘Do you believe the crash of the Sunderland was an accident?’

  ‘I have my doubts. Do you?’

  She smiled wanly again, but this time the smile remained. ‘Everyone is losing loved ones in this war, Mr Wilde. Accident or enemy action, the outcome is the same – my three children have lost a father. And so I won’t dwell on it.’

  ‘I asked you whether Churchill knew all this.’

  ‘Yes, I heard you. And you will have noticed that I chose not to answer. You must remember that the King is head of state in this country.’

  ‘So the King knew what his brother was doing?’

  ‘Well, Georgie would not have undertaken such a mission without the knowledge and approval of the sovereign. I think it will always be difficult to be the brother of a king, don’t you? Well, be that as it may, my husband was always utterly devoted to his King and country.’

  Wilde took it as a no, that the Duke of Kent had not informed Churchill of his plans. Whether the King had done so was another matter.

  The butler returned with the coffee and poured cups for his mistress and Wilde, then exited the room again.

  ‘Now then, Mr Wilde,’ Marina said, stirring milk and sugar into her coffee. ‘It is clear to me that you haven’t come here merely to disclose these matters to me, interesting though they are. You have come because you want something from me. What might that be?’

  ‘I want Mr Churchill to meet Herr Coburg, to listen to his testimony. At the moment, he is declining to do so.’

  ‘Do you blame him?’

  ‘I see that it might be difficult to meet a German, yes. But this is different. I would hope you might be able to persuade him that the world needs to be told what is happening in Poland. Your husband died trying—’

  She cut him short with a flicker of her fingers. ‘Please, do not bring my husband into this. You do not need to tell me my duty to him.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Drink your coffee, Mr Wilde.’

  ‘Will you help?’

  ‘I will consider my options.’ She tinkled her bell and the butler reappeared. ‘Ah, Jermyn, Mr Wilde is just leaving.’

  Chapter 40

  They were in Phillips’s office and the chief was losing patience. ‘What are your plans now, Tom? We need to move on this.’

  ‘But Bill, you know what I’m waiting for – word back from Churchill. I take it he’s read my summation?’

  The OSS chief shook his head. ‘I don’t know. He’s a busy man.’

  ‘So what do we do? Can we get Coburg to America?’

  Phillips let out a long groan. ‘Tom, Tom, Tom – for pity’s sake, man! Why would America want him if Churchill doesn’t?’

  ‘Because he’s the messenger from hell. The world must listen to him, and the only way for that to happen is for FDR or Churchill to give the say-so. How many times does that need repeating?’ Even as he spoke, he knew he had gone too far.

  ‘Don’t take that tone with me. Coburg is a criminal who, by his own admission, has sent thousands of people to their deaths. Any jurisdiction in the world would have him hanged. And his protestations that he didn’t know what he was doing won’t sound too convincing to a lot of folks. They’ll say that he is yellow, that he sees which way the wind is blowing and just wants to get out of Germany while the door’s still open. And I’m not sure I’d disagree with them.’

  Wilde also found it hard to disagree. He had taken over from Harriet in interrogating Coburg further and harder than he had done before, particularly regarding the Wannsee minutes. She simply sat at his side and listened, having got nowhere in her attempts to pry more information about the Hitler sighting out of him.

  ‘This meeting or conference,’ Wilde said. ‘Heydrich was in charge, yes?’

  ‘Indeed, but I believe it was at Reichsführer Himmler’s command.’

  ‘And you were there?’

  ‘No, I was merely required to edit and copy the minutes to be sent to all who were present.’

  ‘You were subordinate to Adolf Eichmann, right?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So he was at the meeting, taking the minutes – and he chose you to work on them?’

  ‘No, it was Heydrich who selected me.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I had Reinhard’s trust. I suppose I was his golden boy.’

  ‘Reinhard? That’s a very familiar way to refer to one of the most senior men in the regime.’

  ‘Indeed yes, it is not the way I would have spoken to him on official business, but you see he was a very good friend of my mother’s – and she always referred to him as Reinhard. And I suppose because of that I became his favoured son. But then it was never the same for me after he was killed earlier this summer.’

  ‘Your mother is English, so you are half-English?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But your loyalties always lay with Germany?’

  ‘I spent most of my childhood there, except for visits to cousins and a short period at an English school. My mother insisted on it, you see, to improve my language skills and learn the ways of an English gentleman. But then my father wanted me back home and I was sent to a Hitler Youth leadership school.’

  ‘From what I have heard, you were a Hitler fanatic already. In fact, it sounds as though your family was Nazi to the core.’

  ‘Yes, it pains me now to admit it, but we were. Even my church-going mother, who still lives in Germany.’

  ‘So you must have had a thorough understanding of the Third Reich’s racial policy
– and therefore, in reading the original minutes you must have gained a very precise understanding of the purpose and outcome of the Wannsee meeting?’

  ‘That is so.’

  ‘And what was the purpose?’

  ‘To organise a solution to the Jewish question.’

  ‘You mean the murder of Europe’s Jewish population.’

  Coburg merely nodded.

  ‘Answer the question.’

  ‘Yes, that is so.’

  ‘This conference was in January – so in editing the minutes you knew about the murders and the true reason for the transports you organised long before you saw the operation at Treblinka.’

  ‘Yes, that also is so. But it is different when you see the reality . . .’

  ‘In what way is it different?’

  ‘Well, take your bomber crews. They kill innocent women and children, but they don’t see the results of their actions. It was the same for me.’

  Wilde gritted his teeth and struggled to refrain from pulverising the man’s face. He wanted to say, If you think there is an equivalence, then your mind is more diseased than I had imagined. Instead he said, ‘The bomber crews are waging war, trying to destroy important property and industry to disrupt the Nazi war machine. The death of innocents is, sadly, an unavoidable side-effect of such action. But your cause – the Nazi cause – had only one intention: murder. The destruction of a whole race. The deliberate slaughter of children. It was nothing to do with furthering Germany’s war aims.’

  Coburg was silent again for a few moments. ‘Then I am guilty,’ he said at last. ‘And that is why I have chosen to walk away. I will take my punishment, whatever it is.’

  Wilde had walked out of the room, leaving Harriet with the German, because he could no longer bear to look at the man’s face or listen to his weasel words. Now he was with Phillips and they were both angry. ‘Then what do you suggest we do with him, Bill?’

  ‘No, Tom – what do you suggest? You brought him and the girl here. They’re your responsibility.’

  ‘And I’m not trying to avoid it. But I need a little help. Before I went to Sweden you got the approval of Herschel Johnson in Stockholm and William Donovan in DC. Can’t they get through to Churchill or Roosevelt?’

  Phillips sighed. ‘Do you have any idea how much passes FDR’s desk each day? The same goes for Winston. They’re fighting this war on a hundred different fronts. Coburg will just have to wait in line.’

  ‘While Jews die . . .’

  Phillips glared at him for a few moments, then suddenly softened. ‘Forgive me – you’re right. I guess it’s just that I don’t like the Coburg bastard and now that he’s up from his sickbed I can’t stand having him around us. This place isn’t a hospital, it’s not a prison – and it sure isn’t a safe house.’

  ‘You’re right, too – we have to move on this. Can we at least get a steer from Washington? Can’t John Winant make some sort of progress?’

  ‘I’ll talk to him. In the meantime, I meant what I said about wanting Coburg out of here. This is an intelligence operation – not the sort of place a German should be hanging out.’

  *

  They left at dusk with Wilde acting as outrider on the Rudge and Harriet driving an embassy car. Coburg was stretched out on the bench seat in the rear of the car. It was a route Wilde knew well: the road from London to Cambridge.

  He felt ill at ease. Of all the places in England he would have chosen to take Coburg and Harriet, this was the last. And yet she insisted this was their best hope; this was where she had been hiding when she made her way down from Scotland.

  Are you sure? He had asked the question in Grosvenor Street and again when they took possession of the embassy car. Now, they were committed to the plan and here, on the open road, he knew they were at their most vulnerable since the flight from Sweden. He wasn’t convinced it would be any less dangerous when they arrived at their destination and found themselves cooped up in the home of a former Church of England bishop; nowhere could be as secure as the OSS bureau with its permanent armed guard.

  Before leaving, Coburg had spoken only once more. ‘The English side of my family,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I should contact them. It is possible they would give me asylum.’

  ‘Do you still know them?’

  ‘Only from childhood. But they would certainly remember my mother.’

  ‘Forget it,’ Wilde said. What he didn’t bother to say was that there was absolutely no chance that Coburg, a man employed by the most senior men in the Nazi regime, was going to be allowed to roam the land free. He could remain in American hands or British hands, but those were his only options. If the British got hold of him, he would almost certainly end up in the London Cage, where he would undergo hard interrogation and internment for the duration. What the Americans would do was, as yet, undecided, but it was unlikely to be any more comfortable.

  *

  The bishop’s home – Red Farm – was located in a couple of acres on the edge of a much larger estate. It had a variety of outbuildings, including a disused barn. All the windows of the house were blacked out as they drew into the short driveway. Wilde put the bike on its stand and joined Harriet as she got out of the car and approached the front door. The building was a Georgian-fronted farmhouse in a village just south of Cambridge. The occupant was the Right Reverend Oscar Fry. ‘He was Daddy’s oldest friend,’ Harriet had said. ‘Oscar would do anything for me. He is the sweetest man you could imagine.’

  The white-haired man who opened the door was exactly as Harriet described him. He was no more than five feet three inches tall and he wore heavy-rimmed bottle glasses that gave him an almost comical look, but his face beamed goodness. Wilde estimated him to be well into his seventies, perhaps eighty years of age. He stood with a stoop and peered up like a tortoise.

  ‘Come in, come in one and all,’ he said cheerily, shuffling down the steps and across the gravel to the car and motorbike to greet his guests. He looked at the large embassy car they had used. ‘Ah, that’s a shame,’ he said to Harriet. ‘I was rather hoping you’d arrive in my little Austin Seven. I miss the old dear.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s stuck in Suffolk, Oscar,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry.’

  Wilde was alarmed. ‘Are you saying the car came from here?’

  ‘Of course,’ Harriet said.

  ‘But they have details of it. They’ll know where it came from – this will be one of the first places they look. God in heaven, Harriet, why didn’t you mention this before?’

  Before she could answer, the former bishop stepped forward, an almost guilty smile on his beatific face. ‘I don’t really think there’s any danger of that, Mr Wilde.’

  ‘Our enemies have ways and means, sir.’

  ‘Indeed, but they won’t get very far in this case. The car used to belong to a young deacon in Ely, you see. He was about to scrap it after almost killing himself colliding with a tree. I took it off his hands for a fiver and have spent much of my retirement restoring her to her former glory. I’m ashamed to say I have neglected to register her in my name.’

  ‘But your friend the deacon – they’ll go to him, and he’ll send them on to you.’

  Oscar Fry shook his head sadly. ‘He died a few months ago, killed by shrapnel in the first dreadful raid on Norwich.’

  Wilde breathed a sigh of relief. There was a lingering doubt, but they were probably in the clear. And then he saw tears in the old bishop’s eyes as the old man folded Harriet into his arms.

  ‘Oscar?’ she said.

  ‘Oh, Harriet, here am I fretting about getting my silly little car home when you’ve lost your saintly father. My heart is broken, dear.’

  Fry lived alone at the house. A housekeeper came in during the day to do his cooking and cleaning but he assured his new visitors that she was completely discreet and Wilde found himself believing the man. The emotion he displayed over the death of the Reverend Hartwell, his friend, could not be dissembled. This was genuine
.

  ‘Supper just needs heating up,’ he said, wiping his eyes with his sleeve and trying to sound cheerful. ‘Enid’s wonderful beef casserole and dumplings with heaps of mashed potato. Not as much beef as one might like, of course – but there’s a war on. Shall we say half an hour, after I’ve shown you your rooms and you’ve all had time to refresh yourselves?’

  ‘Thank you, but I won’t be staying for supper,’ Wilde said. ‘I would however be grateful if you would give me a tour of the house. I know you understand how important security is.’

  ‘All has been explained by dear Harriet.’

  ‘And you know that you, yourself, could be in danger?’

  ‘So I believe. Well, I have always tried to live a godly life, so my fate – as always – is in His hands. What will be will be.’

  ‘Keep the doors locked. Be sure you know who’s outside before you open them. Say nothing about your guests if anyone phones.’

  ‘Message received and understood, Mr Wilde.’ He put a hand to his mouth as though he had misspoken. ‘Oh, dear me, I’m sorry, that should of course be Professor Wilde – I know very well that you’re a Cambridge don.’

  ‘Part time at the moment.’

  ‘I have admired your work from afar for quite a few years now, professor – your histories of Walsingham and Cecil are remarkable tomes. I have often wondered whether I might persuade you to come to dinner here, but then I couldn’t quite summon up the nerve to approach you and ask, because I know what a busy man you must be. No time for a rather dotty superannuated cleric.’

  ‘Never too busy for supper, Mr Fry. And I’m delighted to hear that you’re interested in the late sixteenth century.’