Midnight in Berlin (14 page)

Gertrude said suddenly, “Do our English guests really want to hear about your family's love of Bismarck and the army?”

“Quite right, dear,” said Koenig. He began talking of the ties that had once bound Germany to England, the shared
bloodlines of their royal families, the parallel rise of great writers such as Goethe and Dickens, and a common passion for sports, especially, among the upper classes, hunting and shooting.

“We don't hunt now the season is over, but there is an old stag on the far side of the lake in a valley. He's caught himself in barbed wire and has a nasty gash, which has become infected. We will go after him tomorrow,” he said, and turned to Primrose. “And tomorrow night, Mrs Macrae, to make sure you will not be bored so far from Berlin, some guests are coming to join us for a little dance.”

“A dance? Where?” she said.

“Here. There is a small ballroom at the back.”

“And who will come?” asked Macrae.

“I have asked some neighbours. Just a few of us.”

Primrose clapped her hands. “How exciting. Isn't that exciting, Mrs Koenig?”

Gertrude Koenig gave a wan smile by way of reply.

“Usually we ask local musicians to play, but they are so old-fashioned, they do nothing but the waltz, wouldn't you agree, darling?” said Koenig.

His wife looked at Primrose and Macrae in turn, as if reminding herself who these strangers were at her table.

“I like the waltz,” she said. “It reminds me of when I was young.”

“And what dance music do you like, Mrs Macrae?” Koenig asked Primrose.

“Primrose, please,” she said. “Oh, jazz, swing, something with a bit of life in it.”

“Now, that is my kind of music,” said Koenig.

The two of them began to talk about music for the dance. Primrose named her favourite American bands, Duke Ellington, Benny Goodman and Fletcher Henderson. Koenig knew
them all and had a collection of their records and what he called a squeaky-creaky gramophone. Primrose laughed. She loved the term “squeaky-creaky”. She and Koenig began to plan the order of the numbers they wished to play.

Macrae once again felt he was eavesdropping on a private conversation. He tried to talk to Gertrude about the gardens around the house and the estate beyond, but she had nothing to say on either subject and restricted herself to monosyllabic answers and the offer of more wine.

“I am sorry,” said Koenig. “We are being very rude. Gertrude dear, shall we have coffee next door?”

The next morning, Macrae and Koenig followed a gillie up into a line of hills to the north of the estate where the wounded stag had last been seen. With great pride, Koenig had shown his guest his Mauser rifle, a sporting version of the new gun that had only recently been issued to the army, he said. He loaded the magazine and snapped the bolt forward to chamber the first round, as if ready for an ambush.

Macrae kept his gun sheathed in its case slung over his shoulder. He had only brought it at Koenig's insistence and had no intention of using it. It was his old army rifle, a Lee–Enfield 1914 model issued at the outbreak of war to front-line infantry. His weapon had been specially adapted, with telescopic sights and a customised stock to fit his shoulder. That was why he had been allowed to keep it when he left France. His specialised role meant he would remain on the reserves, even when promoted to become a military attaché within the Diplomatic Service.

They had found the stag easily enough in mid-morning and later that day they took twelve-bore shotguns and walked around the state on a vermin hunt, shooting hawk, crows and
rabbit. A gamekeeper struggled behind with a bag of the fallen prey.

As they kicked off their boots at the rear of the house, Koenig said, “One of our neighbours will be coming to dinner tonight – Herman Schiller, a colonel like me, armoured division – I want you to meet him. You'll like him. Old school.”

Before dinner that night, the three men met for a drink in Koenig's study. He offered whisky or vodka, taking old crystal decanters from a small table and pouring generous measures into matching crystal tumblers. Primrose and Gertrude were upstairs. Colonel Schiller was wearing evening dress, which surprised Macrae. Koenig had told him this was to be an informal weekend.

The colonel was the image of a German officer, ramrod stiff, with a moustache that turned down at the corners of his mouth, and round rimless spectacles perched high on his nose. Macrae guessed he was in his early fifties, old enough to have fought in the war. He was an infantry officer and would have been in his twenties and very much in the front line.

“I wanted you to meet Colonel Schiller because he is of a like mind, and there are many more like him at all levels of the army,” said Koenig. “Less so in the Luftwaffe, because Göring has purged those he considers disloyal, then bribed the rest with new planes and given them the chance to try them out in Spain.”

He sipped his whisky.

“Herman, do you want to begin?” said Koenig.

“I think first we need some reassurance that this will be a private conversation,” said the colonel, staring hard at Macrae.

“You have my reassurance,” said Macrae.

“Ah, but do I?” The colonel raised his glass and drank, all the while keeping his eyes fixed firmly on Macrae. He seemed angry. He pointed at the curtained windows.

“Somewhere out there, miles away, Göring has his schloss. The Reichsmarschall loves hunting and likes showing off to his friends, especially his foreign friends. Do you know one of the people he invites to shoot with him? Your ambassador, Henderson. He is a frequent visitor, and not a bad shot, I am told.”

Macrae was well aware that Sir Nevile Henderson not only spent shooting weekends with Göring, but also accepted invitations to the opera and music evenings. The British ambassador had been photographed recently with Göring at a Mozart festival in Munich. The two had been pictured side by side laughing. Halliday tracked those meetings carefully. Macrae had no doubt that Stewart Menzies, the head of the Secret Intelligence Service in London, was aware of the close relationship between the British ambassador and the man who had assumed the role, if not the title, of Hitler's deputy.

“I'm sure that is just part of an ambassador's duties.”

“Duty be damned,” said the colonel, and he stood up, his face flushed with anger. “Henderson thinks Göring is a ‘jolly good chap', a gentleman who can be trusted.”

“I think you have made your point,” said Koenig.

“And what exactly is the point?” asked Macrae.

“Can we trust you not to repeat to the ambassador what we are going to discuss? Because I have a feeling that Sir Nevile Henderson would go to great lengths to ingratiate himself with Göring and that gang.”

Fair enough, thought Macrae. The ambassador placed the avoidance of war above all other considerations. He saw that as not just an official duty but almost a religious calling.
Henderson was a fervent churchgoer, so much so that junior members of staff were expected to join him at Sunday-morning service in the Berliner Dom. It was very likely that Henderson
would
pass on reports of unease among the senior military to his good friend Göring.

“I quite understand,” said Macrae, and he raised his glass slightly, prompting Koenig to refill. He paused, searching for the right words. He was a soldier, not a diplomat, and those words were hard to find, words that would encourage the confidences that he was sure were forthcoming, without making him party to a betrayal of his own ambassador.

The two men were watching as he sipped his whisky. Finally Macrae said, “I believe we have a shared view of the dangers facing Europe and the wider world if the German leadership continues its current course. And I do not believe those dangers can be averted if the British government continues its current policy of appeasement. I will do nothing to aid that policy – quite the reverse.”

He stopped and reached over for the whisky bottle. The colonel stared at the ceiling for a minute, then nodded at him.

“Very well,” he said. “Let me pose a question: when and where will the British draw the line? When will you make a stand? Hitler pushes forward and you step back; he moves again and you retreat. If this was a chess game, you would be off the board by now.”

“HMG's view is clear,” said Macrae. “The British government wants to negotiate a territorial arrangement that will satisfy Hitler without leading to war.”

“That is our point,” said Colonel Schiller. “War is coming whatever you do.” He sat forward and stared at Macrae. “Do you realise that plans are being drawn up now, at this very minute, for the invasion of Russia?”

“You surprise me,” said Macrae. “What about Poland?”

“Don't be naive. Poland is a foregone conclusion.” He paused. “I am sorry. I did not mean to be rude.”

Macrae was cautious. “And after Russia?”

“Oh, you stupid British! Sorry, forgive me, but really! You think you can sit in the mist and rain of that little island and do a deal with Hitler. You think he is going to let you keep your navy and empire while he turns Europe into a racially pure Aryan state. After Russia, he intends to conquer the world! And why not? Who is to stop him?”

“That is surely a gross simplification,” said Macrae.

“Really? Are you sure of that?” said the colonel.

“There are many people in the United Kingdom who are warning of German intentions. Winston Churchill makes the point all the time.”

“Churchill!” snorted the colonel.

Koenig got up, opened the door as if to check whether anyone was listening, closed it and returned to his seat.

“Gentlemen, let us get to the point and not argue about the details,” he said. “The point is if, and I repeat if, there were to be a move against the regime, where would the United Kingdom stand?”

“‘A move'?” said Macrae.

“You want me to spell it out?” said Koenig.

There was a silence.

“If the army removed him,” said the colonel.

“I can hardly speak for the government,” said Macrae, “but I think they would be relieved, as would the rest of Europe.”

“Ah, ‘relieved'. Yes, I am sure. But would you
act
?” said the colonel.

“In what way?”

“Recognise a military government until we had time to organise elections. That might take a year or two. It would be messy. The Nazis would fight.”

“Are you talking of a civil war?” Macrae could hardly believe he had asked the question.

“No, it would be faster than that,” said Koenig.

“Bloody but quick,” said the colonel. “But very bloody.”

An army coup against Hitler. Halliday had told him there were rumblings in the elite Prussian officers corps and that the men would follow them. But he had not heard anything so specific.

But Halliday had also told him something else: Himmler was a master of entrapment and would seek to embarrass any envoy deemed hostile. There were many ways, but involvement in an armed resistance to Hitler was most certainly one of them. These two men, Koenig and Schiller, had asked for reassurance. Perhaps he should do the same. Was this conversation being recorded?

He looked around the room and then at his host. Florian Koenig, with his two brothers dead in the war, holding the family estate together while his cadaverous wife clearly sickened for something. No, Koenig could never be part of any Nazi machinations.

“Do you have support for your plans?” Macrae asked.

“We would hardly be having this conversation if we didn't.”

“And the timing?”

“That is up to you,” said Koenig.

Koenig paced the study, describing the plan, while the colonel kept his eyes fixed on Macrae. Hitler's next move would be against Czechoslovakia, he said. The Führer would argue for the return of Sudetenland on the grounds that the German-speaking population were being mistreated, a familiar propaganda trick. But the Nazis had a problem. Czechoslovakia had a good standing army and big armament-manufacturing capacity. If Britain drew the line at Czechoslovakia and made clear it would join France in military
action to support the Czechs, Hitler would probably try to call their bluff. He would have to. Since assuming power, he had been driven by the political imperative of seizing territory in the name of
Lebensraum,
the code name for the creation of a new German empire. He had deliberately created the impetus for war and could not now draw back.

The crucial question was whether Britain would make an invasion of Czechoslovakia the red line. Would such an action, in defiance yet again of the Versailles treaty, finally persuade the government in London to abandon its appeasement policy and join France in meeting the threat of further aggression with a pledge to respond with full force of arms? If that happened, Hitler was finished.

It had been a long speech, delivered with passion. When Koenig finished, he and the colonel looked at Macrae. There was nothing meaningful he could say. He was mumbling a few words about the difficulty of responding to such views when Koenig knelt before him and gently took his hand. Such an intimate gesture after the stirring speech left Macrae almost speechless.

“Tell us the truth. It is better we know,” said Koenig.

“The truth is, I don't know. But I can promise you that what I have heard tonight will be relayed to those in London best placed to make use of the information you have given me.”

“Who are
they
?” snarled the colonel. He was half drunk and angry.

Koenig put a finger to his lips.

“Gentlemen. Enough. The ladies are waiting.”

There were just six of them for dinner that night. Two other neighbours had cancelled with apologies owing to illness.
The colonel's wife was almost exactly the opposite of Gertrude. She was called Henna, a large florid-faced lady with a loud laugh and two plaited pigtails that fell over a revealing black dress. Her English was not good but she insisted on speaking it, thus slowing the conversation as everyone tried to understand what she was saying or explain to her what they had just said.