To Catch a King (14 page)

“So they send the Secret Service to drag you off to the Bahamas by the scruff of the neck? How absurd.”

“De Rivera seemed more concerned about the possibility that I wouldn't get there at all. Over the rail one dark night and so on.”

“That's terrible. How could he think such a thing?”

“Now, Wallis, you must admit I've been a considerable nuisance in certain people's eyes for quite some time now.” He was teasing her and she knew it.

“I don't like it, David, this sort of talk. It isn't funny, not after France. I'll never forget that.” She shivered. “I'm not even sure that I like this place any more. Too many policemen around.”

“Well, we're going to change all that. You shall have an outing. A day in the country. De Rivera has a friend who owns a bull farm. You know what I mean? Fighting bulls for the ring. He says they'll stage a couple of fights for us and we can look the place over, have a picnic. That sort of thing. How does it sound to you?”

“Marvelous.”

“Good.” He smiled. “Let's go in now. Getting a little chilly and I smell rain on the wind.”

The Police Attache at the German Legation was named Egger and only too happy to assist in any way he was able when Kleiber was introduced to him. “How may I be of service, Sturmbannführer?” “How good are your relations with the police here?” “Excellent,” Egger told him. “There is a considerable amount of political sympathy for the ideals of National Socialism in Portugal at the moment.”

“There's a possibility that this woman could turn up here in Lisbon at any time. Here's her description.”

He pushed a sheet across with a photo of Hannah pinned to it. “Hannah Winter,” Egger said. “What has she done?”

“Shot three security men dead in Berlin, so we want her very badly indeed.”

“She is a citizen of the Reich?”

“Of course,” Kleiber said, “But she's been using an American passport.”

“That won't do her any good here. Not once I communicate these facts to the Security Police. They mount a guard on all foreign embassies. You must have noticed it on your way in here. If she tries to approach the American Embassy, they'll have her—as soon as I've given them these details, that is.”

As he reached for the phone, Kleiber said, “By the way, the Duke of Windsor at Estoril. I don't suppose anyone can get in to see him without passing through the Security Police also.”

“So I understand,” Egger said.

“Good. My thanks.” Kleiber got up. “I'll see you again, I'm sure, while I'm here.”

Sindermann was waiting for him in the anteroom. He had a black eye, his right cheek badly swollen and criss-crossed with adhesive where the flesh had split.

“Is everything in order, Sturmbannführer?”

“Fine, Gunter. Couldn't be better. The Portuguese Security Police are on the job now. The moment she shows her face, she's ours. Where's the General?”

“With the Ambassador. They've booked us rooms at a hotel just around the corner that most of the Legation staff use.”

“Good, then let's go and see what it's like. I'm hungry.”

Baron Oswald von Hoyningen-Huene, Minister to the German Legation in Lisbon, was a very different man from Von Stohrer, his Madrid counterpart. He was a genuine aristocrat, a man of considerable culture and refinement. He was also, as Schellenberg well knew, no Nazi. In fact, it was a standing joke in the Diplomatic Service that the legation in Lisbon was staffed by a considerable number of people who saw it as an easy jumping-off point to America if the day came when their lack of political conviction caught up with them.

Huene examined the Führer order which Schellenberg passed to him. “Naturally, I shall give you every assistance I can in this matter, General. The terms of the Führer's letter give me no choice.”

“Which means that you don't approve of this whole affair,” Schellenberg said.

Huene sat there, staring at him calmly for a moment. “General Schellenberg, what exactly are you trying to say to me?”

“That I don't think much of the idea myself. It's nonsense. There, I've said it, Baron. What happens now? Do you pick up the telephone and place a call to Reichsminister Ribbentrop?”

“No,” Huene said. “What I do is get a bottle of the cognac I keep in the cabinet over there and two glasses and we talk, completely off the record, of course.”

Schellenberg sampled the cognac. “Excellent; but to the Windsor affair. Do you honestly think the Duke is on our side in the present European situation?”

“Frankly, no,” said Huene. “Oh, he's not happy about this Bahamas posting they've given him. He'd hoped for more and he's made no secret of the fact and he is, I think, very bitter at what he sees as a continuing vendetta against him by certain elements in British society. He's certainly pro-German, but with his family background one would expect that.”

“Which is a very different thing from being in favor of National Socialism.”

“Exactly.” Huene shook his head. “No, if Ribbentrop and the Führer think differently, then they're much mistaken.” He poured Schellenberg another cognac. “So—where does that leave you, General? With only one choice, as I see it.”

“Abduction?” Schellenberg shook his head. “I don't think so. In my opinion, there would be nothing to be gained by such an action and it would be greatly to our discredit internationally. If I am wrong; if the Duke indicates a desire to go to Spain of his own volition, then I shall give him every assistance in the matter. But otherwise …”

“Good. I'm glad we are in accord on this thing,” Huene said. “I have to work here, remember. It's a constant battle for influence with the Portuguese between us and the British. The abduction of the Duke would hardly redound to our credit, however much the present government is in sympathy with us.” He stood up. “Will you have dinner with me tonight?”

“Another time, if I may,” Schellenberg said. “I've people to see. Old friends. What about accommodations?”

“There's a place around the corner where many of the staff live permanently. Rooms have been booked there for yourself and your two Gestapo associates. I've also provided a car and a driver for your personal use. A Buick.”

“Frankly, I should prefer somewhere different to stay.”

“I know a place, not too far away, kept by a Dutch-Jewish family. Quiet and very comfortable and the food is excellent. Duisenberg, the people are called.”

Schellenberg said, “Then if you'll be kind enough to give them a ring, I'll get the driver to take me there now.”

Just before the Madrid-Lisbon Express crossed into Portugal at Valencia al Cantara, Hannah threw the Walther pistol out of the toilet window in case of a body search by customs. There was an inspection on the Portuguese side at Marvao. She was carrying only a small suitcase that Connie had given her. He and the boys had filled it with an assortment of towels, toilet articles, and a few items purchased at the station kiosk in Madrid.

She used the French passport and explained her lack of luggage by telling the customs officer that her theatrical trunk was coming later by freight train. There was no difficulty—no difficulty at all—and she slept for the rest of the journey, arriving in Lisbon later than expected because of a lengthy delay near Ponte de Sor. It was after eight o'clock when she walked out of the station and approached the cab rank.

At her third attempt, she found a driver who spoke some English. “You know the villa of Dr. Ricardo de Esperito Santo é Silva in Estoril?”

“Yes, senhorita.”

“Take me there.”

God, but she was tired—so very, very tired. She leaned back against the seat and closed her eyes.

She came awake quite suddenly as the car braked to a halt. They had stopped outside an ironwork gate set in a high wall. A policeman was standing beside it, a carbine over one shoulder, and he sauntered forward and leaned down and spoke to the driver in Portuguese.

The driver turned. “He'd like to know what you want, senhorita?”

“To see the Duke of Windsor.”

“And now your papers.”

She produced her own passport and passed it across. The policeman took it to the gate and put it through the bars to a sergeant who had emerged from a small lodge. He, too, examined it then went inside. After a few minutes he came out again and passed the passport back through the bars to the first policeman, who returned it to Hannah.

“Can I go in now?” she demanded eagerly.

There was a further conversation in Portuguese and the cab driver said, “I'm afraid not, senhorita. They have a special concern for the Duke's safety. No visitors are allowed through without the permission of police headquarters. He has made the necessary telephone call. Now he must wait for a reply.”

“I see.”

“Shall I stay, senhorita?”

“No—I don't think so. I could do with some fresh air.”

She paid him off and he drove away. Through the trees, she could see lights in the villa and there was the sound of music. She walked some little way up the road, turned, and came back again.

Just after midnight, it started to rain and the young Portuguese policeman, the one who could speak no English, brought a cape from his sentry box and placed it around her shoulders without a word.

It was quite cold now and she walked a few paces along the road to keep warm, pausing to look back across the mouth of the Tagus to where the lights of Lisbon gleamed in the distance.

A long way; not as far as Berlin or Paris, but she was here now, finally, outside the pink stucco villa at Estoril. The final end of things, more tired than she had ever been in her life before, and suddenly she wanted it to be over.

She turned and walked back to the policeman. “Please,” she said in English. “How much longer? I've been here almost an hour.”

Which was foolish because he didn't understand her. At that moment, there was the sound of a car coming up the hill, headlights flashed across the mimosa bushes and a black Mercedes braked to a halt a few yards away.

Rain swept in across the Tagus and rattled the window of Joe Jackson's apartment as he threw another log on the fire.

“That's really quite a story. Will you excuse me for a minute? I'll be right back. Help yourself to another drink.”

She poured a little more brandy into her glass and sat there in front of the fire, nursing the glass between her hands, staring into the flames.

As he returned, she glanced up. “Do you believe me?”

“Those guys on the wharf, Kleiber and Sindermann? Let's just say I like you and I don't like them. That's as good a starting point as any. And the Duke of Windsor is up there in Santo é Silva's villa at Estoril. That's a fact.”

“But we must get to him somehow, don't you see that?” she said urgently. “We can't just stand by and let the Nazis take him. Not you especially. You fought against them in the International Brigade. Connie told me.”

“He should also have mentioned that these days I'm strictly a neutral, angel. Abyssinia, Spain—other men's wars. I've had a bellyful, believe me. At the moment, I run a nice quiet bar and that's enough.”

“For a man like you? I don't believe it.” She stood up. “Anyway, if you won't help me, I'll go to the American Embassy or the British.”

“And get picked up by the Portuguese police trying to get in? They now have an extradition warrant for your arrest for no less than three murders, and the Portuguese government is pursuing a policy of friendly cooperation with Germany at the moment, remember.”

“I'll tell them my story, then. They'll have to do something.”

“Why should they? They're already mounting a strong guard on the villa, and it all sounds pretty wild, you've got to admit that. The invention of a very frightened young woman who'd say anything rather than be sent back to Germany, where she'd certainly face the headsman. Did you know they make you lie face upward on the block so you see the axe descend? They think of everything, Himmler and friends, you've got to give them that.”

She sat there, staring up at him. “What can I do? How can I make you believe me?”

The telephone started to ring in the next room. “You can't, but Connie Jones might be able to. That'll be him now. I placed a call through to the Flamenco in Madrid.”

He smiled slightly, went out, and closed the door. She could hear the murmur of his voice for quite some time. Finally, he returned.

He grinned and spread his arms slightly. “So, it's all true. On top of that, according to Connie, you can sing like Billie Holiday. I give in. He'd like a word with you.”

She hurried into the other room, and Jackson lit a cigarette and stood frowning down into the fire. She was gone for quite some time and when she returned she looked as if she'd been crying.

“Did he tell you about what happened at the club?” she said.

“Sure. Three cracked ribs, but he told me it hadn't affected his playing. They've managed to borrow instruments for the time being. Don't worry, I'll have some new drums and a bass waiting for them when they get here next week.”

“But Schellenberg?” she whispered. “Why did he do what he did? I just don't understand him?”

“Yes, I thought that was one of the more improbable parts of your story—the way he helped you escape in Berlin. I mean, the guy was really putting his head on the block when he did that.”

“Then why?”

“I don't know. Maybe he doesn't even know why himself—maybe he just likes you, angel.” He smiled. “That's not hard to understand. But never mind that now. We've got to get you out of here, just in case those goons come back.”

“And the Portuguese police?” she said. “What if they do decide to bring them into it?”

“Ah, I can handle that.” He smiled crookedly. “Some of my best friends are policemen, especially the variety who patronize the downstairs gaming room. They seem to win pretty regularly, you see, so everybody is happy. Now get your coat and let's move.”

In 1938, one of Schellenberg's first pieces of active espionage had involved a visit to Dakar, to obtain as much information as possible about what was then the chief French naval station in Africa.

Most of his preparations for the task had taken place in Lisbon, where he had been introduced to a Japanese businessman, Kajiro Taniguchi. A genuine friendship had developed between the two men, and Taniguchi had been able to assist Schellenberg in many ways with the African adventure. He seemed to have a finger in all sorts of schemes, had close contacts with the local criminal fraternity, and Schellenberg had long ago decided that he was probably an agent of the Japanese government.