To Catch a King (12 page)

Hannah looked bewildered. Connie said, “Do as you're told, kid, and whatever happens, keep real still.”

Billy Joe and Harry were stripping off their pants as Connie pulled back the blanket and shoved her down into the bottom bunk. He pushed her against the wall, pulled the blanket over her and put a pillow on her head.

The two boys were stark naked now. Harry lay back on the bunk against Hannah and Billy Joe sprawled across him. A second later, the handle of the door jerked, followed by a thunderous knocking.

“Come on, open up! Police!”

Connie opened the door on the chain and peered out at the sleeping-car attendant. “Hey, man, what's the beef? You've had our tickets. We'd like a little privacy.”

“There is a fourth reservation here in the name of Hannah Winter.”

“It wasn't taken up, man—last I heard she was in Berlin.”

“But you've no objection to us making sure.” Kleiber appeared behind the ticket collector.

“Oh, no,” Connie groaned. “Not you again. I thought we'd had all that.”

“Open the door or we'll break it in,” Kleiber said.

Connie slipped the chain. Kleiber pushed open the door, shoved him back across the compartment, and crowded in, followed by Sindermann and Ehrlich. The first thing he saw were four pairs of black legs intertwined on the right-hand lower bunk, Harry Gray's hands digging into Billy Joe's buttocks.

Harry said, “Whoops, we got company.”

Billy Joe turned, exposing his nakedness completely. “I thought the reason we paid first class was because privacy was guaranteed.”

Kleiber stood glaring at them, his face very pale. He kicked open the toilet door, gave one quick glance into the empty interior, then went out into the corridor. The others followed him, and Connie slammed the door behind them.

“May the train leave now, Sturmbannführer?” the steward asked.

“No,” Kleiber said. “Not until we have checked every passenger.”

They worked their way back toward the far end, inspecting each compartment, but finally had to admit defeat. As the whistle blew, Kleiber, standing by the gate, saw Connie lean out of one of the corridor windows.

“Any time, Major.”

He waved cheerfully and ducked back inside. The sleeping-car attendant was coming along the corridor and Connie took out his wallet and produced two one-hundred-franc notes.

“Let's make sure that berth stays empty for the rest of the trip, okay? My friends and I—well, we enjoy our privacy.”

The attendant accepted the notes with alacrity. “Certainly, monsieur, and if there is any other way I can be of service. These Boche.” He shrugged. “They are not men of the world, eh?”

When Connie went into the compartment, Harry and Billy Joe, with towels around their waists, were sitting on one bunk, Hannah opposite. All three were laughing helplessly.

“That guy's face,” Harry said. “I wish I had a picture.”

“Okay, children. Joke over.” Connie sat down beside Hannah and took her hand. “I got some bad news for you, kid. It's about your Uncle Max.”

The Ju-52 climbed to fifteen thousand feet and set course for San Sebastian, where they were to refuel. Kleiber sat opposite Schellenberg, the disgust on his face plain as he spoke.

“What decadence. The Führer is right. The inferiority of such races—the Negro and the Jew—is plain.”

“Interesting really,” Schellenberg said, lighting a cigarette.

“I don't understand what you mean.”

“That they should be like that, the two boys. Possible, of course, but the impression Fräulein Winter gave me was that they were spectacularly successful with the ladies.”

Kleiber glared at him, his face paler than ever as a dreadful suspicion began to form in his mind.

Schellenberg smiled. “If you'll excuse me, I think I'll join the pilot,” and he went out onto the flight deck.

8

T
he train had to stop at the border town of Hendaye for the carriages to be jacked up and the bogeys changed to suit the narrower Spanish railway lines.

There was a customs check on the Spanish side of the border at Irun. Hannah stayed in the toilet while a customs officer came around with the sleeping-car attendant to check passports.

There was a short delay before they moved off again. She came out and lay down on one of the lower bunks, her eyes red, swollen from her weeping. Billy Joe and Harry simply sat there looking troubled. After a while, Connie came in with sandwiches and coffee from the dining car and sat down beside her.

“Have something to eat. Do you good.”

“I couldn't.”

“You've got to pull yourself together,” he said.

“You just don't understand.”

“Is that so? Well, let me tell you something, little white sister. This nigger served with the Harlem Brigade on the Western Front in nineteen-eighteen. We were longer in the trenches than any other unit in the American Expeditionary Force. I lost my only brother, two cousins, and damn near every friend I had in the world, and you know what it taught me? That life goes on. Now your Uncle Max—those bastards killed him. Right?”

She nodded, hands clenched.

“You gonna let them get away with that? He gave you a job to do, girl. Are you gonna do it or are you just gonna sit on your ass and cry all day?”

She flung her arms around him. “Oh, Connie, what would I do without you?”

“That's my girl. Now hear me. I've spoken to the attendant, and it appears we arrive at Madrid at nine o'clock in the morning. There's a train leaves for Portugal at nine thirty-five from the same platform. In fact, it don't leave till we get in so you can't miss it even if we're late. You can get your ticket on board. Fifteen hours to Lisbon. You get in at six-thirty in the evening.”

“That's fine,” she said. “Couldn't be better.”

“There's the border,” Harry Gray pointed out. “Could be trouble there.”

“I don't see why,” Hannah said. “In any case, I'll use the false passport Uncle Max gave me, just in case.”

“When you get to Lisbon, if you need any help, go to Joe Jackson's American Bar. Any cab driver in Lisbon knows where it is.”

“Joe Jackson?”

“We're due to play there next week. He's an old friend and a really great guy. You name it and Joe's done it. Fought against Franco in Spain with the Lincoln-Washington Brigade, and he flew fighters against the Condor Legion. There's nothing happens in Lisbon that Joe doesn't know about.” “You make him sound like some kind of racketeer.” “Let's say he's a shrewd operator and leave it at that. Now get some sleep, kid. You're going to need it.”

She slept then, turning her face to the wall, trying to blot out every thought of Uncle Max. When she finally awakened to Connie's hand on her shoulder, they were in Madrid.

The Junkers had trouble in the port engine, and there was a delay of some five hours at San Sebastian, so that it was almost ten o'clock as they swung in over the old city of Madrid and landed.

There was a car waiting to take them to the Embassy. As they drove down into the city, Kleiber said, “When shall we be continuing our journey, General? Today or tomorrow?”

“Oh, sometime this afternoon, I think,” Schellenberg said. “It depends how long my business takes with the Ambassador.”

“With your permission, I'd like to check the railway station.”

“That train was due in an hour ago, Kleiber.” Schelienberg shook his head. “You're obsessed with the idea of that girl roaming across Europe when she's most probably holed up in some attic in Berlin.”

“Or she could be here in Madrid at this Club Flamenco where the blacks are to appear.”

The car turned into the courtyard of the Embassy and braked to a halt. “Very well,” Schellenberg said. “You can take the car. Be back here to pick me up no later than two o'clock.”

At Chamartin Station, Kleiber soon discovered that the Paris-Madrid Express had arrived on time, and a few moments' conversation with the stationmaster elicited the fact that a train had left the same platform for Lisbon at nine thirty-five. The stationmaster also telephoned the taxi rank to see if anyone had picked up three Negro passengers and came up with the interesting information that Connie and the boys had been delivered to a well-known night club called the Flamenco.

Half an hour later and Kleiber was closeted with Madrid's chief of police who, in line with his country's political stance at that time, was only too pleased to assist the Gestapo.

“I believe there could be a woman named Hannah Winter on the Lisbon Express, traveling on a false American passport. A German citizen, wanted for murder. Once she is in custody, we shall apply for extradition naturally.”

“The train crosses the border at Valencia al Cantara, but I can do better than that.” The chief of police glanced at the clock on the wall. “It stops at Talavera one hour from now. I will have the local police board and search for this woman. In the meantime, if you would care to wait, perhaps we can enjoy a glass of wine together, and you can tell me how it is in Berlin these days.”

* * *

The train had been stopped at Talavera for some time before Hannah looked out of the window and saw the police. She didn't panic, simply settled herself back in the corner and returned to her magazine. She was wearing dark sunglasses and a headscarf tied around her hair peasant-fashion. Connie had bought them for her at the station kiosk at Madrid.

There were only two other passengers in the compartment: a priest and a young woman with a baby. They all waited. Finally the door was pulled back.

Hannah kept on reading the magazine, aware out of the corner of her eye of the uniform legs.

“Señorita. Passport.”

She looked up at the young police officer as if startled, then produced her French passport and handed it over.

“Rose Lenoir. You are traveling to Lisbon, mademoiselle?” he asked in halting French.

“Yes,” she said.

“May I ask the purpose of your visit?”

“Business. I'm a singer. I'm to appear in a cabaret in Lisbon next week.”

She crossed one leg over the other, allowing the hem of her skirt to slide well above the knee. The young policeman swallowed hard and handed back her passport.

“Bon chance,
mademoiselle,” he said and went out.

The priest looked quite shocked, the young woman amused. Hannah smiled at her, replaced her sunglasses, and returned to her magazine.

The Club Flamenco was in a small square in the old quarter of the city. When Kleiber, Sindermann, and the Embassy driver went in, the place was deserted except for an old man swabbing the floor with a mop.

“We're closed,” he said in Spanish. “Open at eight o'clock tonight.”

“What about the new act, the Negroes?” the driver asked.

“They were here. Went off to find a hotel. Said they'd be back at two o'clock to rehearse.”

The driver relayed this information to Kleiber, who nodded in satisfaction. “All right—we'll wait.”

“If you don't mind, Sturmbannführer,” the driver said, “I'll phone in to the Embassy, just so they know where I am.”

He went out, and Kleiber went behind the bar and helped himself to a drink while Sindermann took up station by the door.

At the Embassy, Schellenberg found himself in impressive company. There was Von Stohrer, the Ambassador, and the Spanish Minister of the Interior, Ramon Serrano Suner, brother-in-law of General Franco. As his knowledge of German was limited, they spoke together in English, a language they all shared in common.

“Let's take our coffee on the terrace, gentlemen,” Von Stohrer said. “Much pleasanter out there.”

They sat around a small white-painted iron table while one of the servants served coffee. Von Stohrer waved him away. “So, now we can get down to business.”

He was not just a career diplomat, but a conventional Nazi with unquestioning allegiance to the Führer. His close personal contacts with the Spanish government at every level were of tremendous importance, especially at that time when negotiations between Spain and Germany about the further conduct of the war were at a most delicate stage.

“So—what is the present problem?” Schellenberg asked.

“Perhaps, Minister, you would care to say something?” Von Stohrer said.

Serrano Suner nodded. “Very well. So far, we have used as an emissary to the Duke, the Marques de Estella, Primo de Rivera, who has been a friend of the Duke for a long time. I think I should stress at this stage, that the Marques is,” here he hesitated, “how shall I describe it? A man of finest honor?”

“I take your point,” Schellenberg said dryly.

“To continue. The Marques has no idea of our mutual interest. He believes himself purely to be acting for the Spanish government in the matter and takes his instructions from me on behalf of our government.”

“Are you implying that he only has the welfare of the Duke at heart?”

“Exactly. They are old friends. The Duke has had to surrender his passport to the British Embassy in Lisbon. It is by now common knowledge that he doesn't relish his appointment as Governor of the Bahamas. A posting deliberately designed to get him as far away as possible. It would be understandable if he felt insulted at its lack of importance. It is more than probable that he is also under close surveillance by British Intelligence.”

“So, what has De Rivera suggested to him?”

“That he move to Spain where the Spanish government would gladly grant him asylum, there to await events.”

“And does De Rivera think the British would sit idly by while the Duke and Duchess pack their bags and move out?”

“No. He went to Lisbon again yesterday, to visit the Duke at Estoril. His intention is to arrange a day in the country at some convenient spot near the border. A hunting party with old friends. An obvious opportunity for the Duke and Duchess to step across before the British, or anyone else, knows what is happening.”

“And if they choose not to?”

“But that, my dear Schellenberg, is where you come in,” Von Stohrer said.

Schellenberg nodded. “I see. Abduction. And De Rivera is aware of this possibility?”

“No,” Serrano Suner admitted. “As I've indicated, the Marques is acting purely out of concern for what he believes to be the best interests of an old friend. I should also point out that there is a rumor, current in Spanish society circles at the moment, that it is the plan of the British Secret Service, once the Duke is in the Bahamas, to do away with him as soon as may be. Naturally, the Marques will convey this information to the Duke.”