To Catch a King (15 page)

He tried phoning Taniguchi at home and was told by a servant that he was still at his place of business, an import-export agency on the Alcantara Docks. Schellenberg drove there himself in the Buick provided by the Legation, having told the driver who had been supplied, to take the night off. In these circumstances he much preferred to be on his own.

The offices themselves were in darkness when he got there, but when he drove into the yard of the warehouse adjacent, there was a light at an upper window. He parked the car and crossed to the warehouse door.

As he opened it, a voice called in Portuguese, “Who's there?”

The warehouse was crammed with bales and boxes of every description. High above was a glass-walled office reached by an iron staircase, and Kajiro Taniguchi stood at the top of it, a mountain of a man, built like a Sumo wrestler.

He peered down into the shadows and then a delighted smile appeared on his face. “Walter—Walter Schellenberg,” he said in English, for he spoke little German, “by all that's holy.”

“Business, Walter, it must always be so with you, I think?”

Schellenberg said, “The Duke of Windsor is staying at Santo é Silva's villa near Estoril.”

“Common knowledge,” Taniguchi said. “I saw the Duke and Duchess myself only two nights ago, dining at a well-known restaurant in the city.”

“I want to know everything there is to know about that villa. The layout of the place, the servant situation. Just how good the security is and so on. To have someone in the house itself, of course, to keep me posted as to comings and goings would be marvelous. I should stress that money is no object in this matter. I have unlimited funds. We can afford to pay very highly indeed for any useful information received.”

He paused, waiting. Taniguchi said, “Have another saki. It really is quite delicious.”

“Can you handle it?”

“But of course,” Taniguchi said tranquilly. “I know everyone, Walter—everyone in this town who matters, and in Lisbon money talks very loudly indeed, believe me.”

“When will you have something for me?”

“Tomorrow afternoon. Let's say two o'clock. But now, my friend, what of you? A general now, I hear. A major general at thirty. Remarkable.”

“I've been lucky.”

“But are you happy, Walter?”

“Happy?” Schellenberg said. “I don't even know what the word means. How do you define it? How do you find happiness?”

“By not looking for it. By sitting still, without going outside, you may know the whole world. Without looking through the window, you may see the ways of heaven. The farther we go, the less we know.”

“More of your Japanese philosophy?”

“Chinese, actually. You think you are going to win the war?” he asked with an abrupt change of direction.

“Let's look at the facts,” Schellenberg said. “We control more of Europe than Napoleon did; most neutral countries left tend to sympathize with our point of view and America, let's face it, doesn't want to know. Our sources in London indicate that the American Ambassador there, Joseph Kennedy, believes a German victory is certain and is considering resigning.”

“So, you think the Panzers will soon be driving along the Mall to Buckingham Palace?”

“It's up to the British. The Führer made it perfectly clear he's willing to settle for an Armistice. Of course, they may want to do it the hard way. For some perverse reason, they usually do.”

“Another theme of ancient Chinese wisdom,” Taniguchi said. “If men are not afraid to die, it is of no avail to threaten them.”

Schellenberg got up. “I must be off. I'll be in touch tomorrow.”

He went down the staircase. Taniguchi called softly, “My poor Walter, there is always an official executioner. What a pity it has to be you.” Then he went back into his office.

10

T
he agent known in Abwehr files as A-1416, and discussed by Canaris and Schellenberg during their walk in the Tiergarten, was a German industrialist named Erich Becker, now a naturalized Portuguese citizen. He had wide business interests which enabled him to cover a lot of territory and lived well on the profits, inflated by contributions not only from the Abwehr, but also from British Intelligence. He had a superb apartment near the Jeronimos monastery with views down to the Tagus.

He was unmarried, which left him free to amuse himself with a wide variety of women. In fact, he was entertaining one in bed when his doorbell rang. He tried to ignore it, but whoever it was simply wouldn't go away. He pulled on a robe and leaned over to kiss the girl who sprawled there in his bed, her long blonde hair spread across the pillow.

“I won't be long, my sweet,” he said.

He opened the door on the chain. “Who in the hell is it? Don't you know what time it is?”

“Yes, ten minutes past midnight,” Walter Schellenberg said.

Becker's mouth gaped in astonishment. “My God—you!” He got the door open quickly.

Schellenberg glanced around the room. “You are doing well for yourself these days.”

Becker went to the bedroom door and closed it. “It's—it's good to see you again, General.”

“I was talking about you with Admiral Canaris the other day. Told him I was coming to Lisbon, so he suggested I get in touch with you if I needed assistance. He did signal you to that effect, did he not?”

Becker smiled nervously. “I'm afraid you have me at a loss.”

“The Windsor affair? The reason I'm here? Admiral Canaris told you all about it in that nice long signal he sent you, didn't he?”

“I'm sorry, General,” Becker said, “but I really don't know what you're talking about.”

Schellenberg's hand emerged from his right hand pocket holding the Mauser; it coughed once, and a rather pretty China dog on the coffee table at the other end of the room disintegrated.

“Good, aren't they?” he said pleasantly. “Handguns are usually such nasty loud things, whereas if I shot you in each kneecap with this, the only thing the young lady you undoubtedly have in bed in the next room would hear would be your screams.”

Becker sweating, said, “What do you want from me?”

“The truth,” Schellenberg said. “You received a signal from Admiral Canaris telling you I'd be in town and why, didn't you?”

“Yes, I heard this morning.”

“And what were your instructions?”

“To keep an eye on you. Report back on your activities.”

Schellenberg almost laughed out loud. What an old fox Canaris was.

Becker said, “I need a drink.” He walked over to a cupboard in rosewood, with an intricate Moorish design inset in brass, and opened it. “Whiskey all right for you?”

“You know in Abwehr files you're known as A-1416. Were you aware of that?”

“Yes,” Becker said.

“Typically German,” Schellenberg told him. “To reduce a man to a number on a file—our greatest failing. The English, on the other hand, are much more imaginative. Hamlet—I like that. What a perfect name for a double agent. To be or not to be.”

Becker stood staring at him, a tumbler of whiskey in each hand, despair on his face. “That's right,” Schellenberg said. “The jig's up, so let's be sensible. You did pass on to our English friends the information you received in that signal from the Admiral? That I was on my way and why? Am I right?”

“Yes,” Becker whispered and emptied one of the tumblers of whiskey.

“Yes, I thought you would and so did the Admiral. Does that surprise you? The only reason you've survived this long is because he found you useful to shovel false information across to your friends in London. Of course, on this occasion, the information is a hundred percent correct, mainly because, like a lot of people, he can't make his mind up which side he's on.”

Becker gulped down the contents of the other tumbler. “What are you going to do with me?”

“That depends how sensible you are. Who's your contact with British Intelligence?”

“A Major Frear.”

“Here in Lisbon?”

“Yes.”

Schellenberg put the Mauser back in his pocket and lit a cigarette. “Get him on the telephone. Tell him I'm here.”

Becker looked bewildered. “But why?”

Schellenberg stood there, hands in the pockets of his open leather trench coat, the cigarette drooping from the corner of his mouth.

“Well, I
am
here, which is an indisputable fact he'll discover for himself, sooner or later. If you tell him first, he'll be inclined to believe anything else you tell him later, which could be rather useful to me.”

Becker hesitated, then shrugged, went to the dark rosewood desk at the other end of the room, sat down behind it, and reached for the telephone. At the same time he slipped open a drawer on his right and took out a revolver.

“And now, General!” he said.

Schellenberg, the Mauser ready in his right hand under the trench coat, shot him twice in the heart. Becker went over backward with a crash, taking the chair with him.

Schellenberg waited, facing the bedroom door, but there was no sound. He walked around the desk and looked down at Becker. The holes in the bathrobe over the heart covered no more than the width of two fingers. There was very little blood.

“If you intend to kill a man, do it, don't start making speeches,” he said softly. “You learned that too late, didn't you, my friend?”

He let himself out, closing the door softly behind him. In the bedroom, the young blonde stirred in her sleep, reached out, and found nothing there.

“Erich?” she called, “come back to bed.” Then she turned, cradling the pillow, and slept again.

The run along the coast road in Joe Jackson's Mercedes sports car seemed to be taking them back toward Estoril and Hannah said, “Where are we going?”

“A fishing village named Cascais,” Jackson told her. “A friend of mine has a house just outside, near the beach in a pine wood. Nice and quiet and secluded. She's away at the moment, but I've got the key.”

“She won't mind?”

“I shouldn't think so.”

It was a fine night now, the rain long gone, and there was a full moon in a clear sky. Far out to sea, dozens of lights bobbed in toward the harbor of the small village down below.

“Lanterns on the prows of the fishing boats,” he said. “It attracts the fish in great shoals, rather like moths to a flame. An interesting place, Cascais. It was a fisherman from here who discovered America ten years before Columbus.”

“I don't believe you.”

“True. He was called Afonso Sanches, and during a voyage to the East Indies his boat was carried off to the coast of America by contrary winds in a great storm. He finally made it back to Madeira with a few companions, all in a terrible state. Columbus was living in Madeira at the time and got hold of Sanches' log.”

“It's a good story,” she said.

“I wouldn't scoff at it in Cascais, if I were you. They take it very seriously here.”

They were close to a wide beach with sand dunes backed by pine trees, and he swung the car into a narrow track, finally halting at a gate in white walls. He got out and unlocked it, then got back into the Mercedes, and they drove through into an enclosed courtyard.

The house was single story with a red pantile roof and a veranda, L-shaped and surrounded by a garden; she was aware of that because of the perfume of mimosa on the night air.

He unlocked the front door, switched on the light, and led the way into an enormous living room which was furnished with startling simplicity: white-painted walls, a huge stone fireplace, the wooden floor polished and scattered with oriental rugs.

“Bathroom, kitchen. Bedroom—the only one. The room in the other part of the house is a studio. Lots of canvases around and so on, so I'd stay out of there if I were you. Plenty of canned food in the kitchen. I'll be back tomorrow with a few other things. If you'd like to make some coffee, I'll light a fire for you, then I'll get back.”

She did as she was told. When she finally returned to the living room, a log fire burned brightly on the hearth. The door was open and Joe Jackson was standing on the veranda. Somewhere in the distance, she heard music, sad and strangely exciting.

“What is it?” she asked as she gave him his coffee.

“Local café. Somebody's playing a
fado
record.”

“Fado—
what's that?”

“Can't be explained, only experienced. Part of the Portuguese way of life. I'll take you to hear some one night.”

The trees around were heavy with olives. She could smell them in the night. There was something quite incredible in the realization that two nights before she had been in Berlin and now, here she was on the most westerly edge of Europe, facing out into the Atlantic to America, three thousand miles away.

“So, what happens now?”

“You get a good night's sleep and leave the rest to me.”

She put a hand on his arm. “You will do something, won't you? Promise me?”

“Sure, I will. Look, we can't go marching you in personally, not with this extradition thing hanging over your head. I'll see your story gets to the right people myself.”

“When?”

“Tonight—in Lisbon. I think I know the man to speak to.”

She stood there, staring up at him, and suddenly kissed him on the cheek. Then she went in without a word. Jackson stayed there for quite some time after the door closed, before turning and going back to the car.

Without doubt, the most beautiful district of the city of Lisbon is Alfama. The high walls of the Castelo de São Jorge tower above it, in whose moats swim swans, ducks, and flamingos.

Below is the old Alfama quarter, and Joe Jackson parked the Mercedes and plunged into the maze of narrow alleys, most of them wide enough to allow two donkeys to pass and no more.

Usually it was like a rabbit warren, teeming with the rich life of the old city, but at that time in the morning it was silent, a place of shadows with the occasional pool of light on some street corner from huge iron lanterns bracketed high on the ancient walls.

Below, through narrow openings, he caught a glimpse of the Tagus, the lights of the docks. There was a freighter in mid-channel moving out to sea.

Finally, he turned into a square at the back of the cathedral and paused outside what, in other days, had been a nobleman's house. There was a coat of arms set in stone above the archway, and the oaken door was very old and bound in iron.