To Catch a King (17 page)

“Mr. Jackson?”

Jackson didn't need to be told who he was. He said, “Walter Schellenberg, I presume?”

“Stanley meets Livingstone, or the other way about,” Schellenberg said. “Is she well?”

“She's doing all right.”

Schellenberg walked to the rail and gazed into the fog. “Would it surprise you to know I wish her no harm, Mr. Jackson?”

“Why?”

“I can't explain, not even to myself. The instinct to help her has been quite unavoidable, that's all I know.” He laughed without humor. “She could be the death of me yet, that girl.”

“So what do you want with me?”

“There's nothing more she can achieve here. My presence, and the reason for it, has been conveyed to the British by another source entirely. Let her leave well enough alone now, for her own sake.”

“And why should she believe you?”

“Why indeed?” Schellenberg lit a cigarette and for a moment the match illuminated his face. “There are occasions when I have difficulty in believing myself. Good night, Mr. Jackson.”

He walked away, and even after he had faded into the fog his footsteps continued to boom hollowly on the boardwalk.

Fernandes da Cunha was small, but powerfully built with a flat, peasant face and a heavy black mustache. His father was a peasant farmer near Oporto and still alive at eighty-three. He had raised six children—five daughters and his son, Fernandes. His dearest wish was for the boy to enter the priesthood.

Fernandes had tried. Had studied hard. Had learned to speak English and Italian as well as his own language. Had given four years of his life to a Jesuit seminary outside Lisbon until a certain cold morning when he had awakened to the absolute certainty that God did not exist.

And so, he had become a policeman and in spite of, or perhaps because of, that Jesuit training, had risen steadily through every rank until he now held one of the most powerful posts of its kind in the country.

He was at his office promptly at eight o'clock that morning as was his custom. At eight-thirty he received a summons to the Presidential Palace, where he waited now for audience.

Antonio de Oliveira Salazar, President of Portugal, was fifty-one years of age. A one-time doctor of law and professor of economics, he had been virtual dictator of Portugal since 1932 and his greatest achievement had been to keep his country out of the Spanish Civil War.

He received Da Cunha alone in a small office, simply furnished, for he was a man who shunned publicity and lived a life of Spartan simplicity.

“Not for the first time, I have called you here because I have a problem of some delicacy, Colonel.”

“At your orders, my President. In what way may I serve you?”

* * *

“The Duke of Windsor. A tiresome business. You may have heard that the English wish him to take up the post of Governor of the Bahamas. The Germans, on the other hand, would prefer him to stay in Europe. If they successfully invade England, they may have a use for him.”

“And the problem?”

“The English seem to think it likely the Germans might try to spirit the Duke away before he leaves for the Bahamas. The German counterintelligence chief, Schellenberg, is here in person. It's all very embarrassing.”

“Indeed, President.”

“Especially as I've had a message from Churchill in which he says he has every confidence in our ability to see to the safety of the Duke. On the other hand, there are certain political pressures from Germany, and let's face it, it does rather look as if they're going to win.”

“But if the Duke were abducted from our soil, the repercussions in America and elsewhere in the world would hardly be favorable,” Da Cunha said.

“Exactly. So, what I have decided is this. If the Duke comes to a private and personal decision which takes him to Spain, well and good, but I cannot permit any act of force in the matter. I make you, Colonel da Cunha, personally responsible for his safety. You will contact the British Ambassador this morning, accompany him to the villa of Dr. Ricardo de Espirito Santo é Silva, and satisfy yourself as to the security arrangements.”

“At your orders, my President.” Da Cunha saluted and went out.

“You know, Sir Walford, this whole affair is really beginning to take on all the elements of a farce.” The Duke of Windsor and the British Ambassador were seated together in the library. “Primo de Rivera brings me this nonsensical story from Madrid that the British Secret Service intend to take me off to the Bahamas whether I want to or not. Now you give me the same sort of yarn with the Nazis as the villains.”

Sir Walford Selby tried to contain his exasperation. One of the most brilliant members of the Diplomatic Corps, he had known the Duke previously during his time as British Ambassador in Vienna in 1937.

The Lisbon posting was, by its very nature, the most crucial held by any British Ambassador outside Washington at that time, which was precisely why he had been appointed. And now, to make things even more difficult, he had the presence of the Windsors to deal with.

“I have already indicated to you my belief that your host Dr. Santo é Silva is sympathetic to the German cause, and with all due respect, sir, the presence in Lisbon of General Schellenberg should give us pause for thought.”

“But good heavens, man, I'm no good to the Germans as a prisoner. Even Goebbels couldn't make much propaganda out of that situation.”

“There are those who might suggest that in the context of an England under occupation, a position would be suggested to Your Royal Highness that you might feel compelled to accept, in the belief that it was in the best interests of the people.”

The Duke stood up, his face dark. “That, Sir Walford, is a Judas Gate through which I would never enter.”

He turned away angrily, took a cigarette from a silver box, and lit it. After a moment, he was in control again.

“Anyway, what's the time schedule?”

“There's a suitable boat leaving on the first of August, sir. For Bermuda. American. The
Excalibur.”

“Which gives us what, three days or is it four? You'll just have to see that our Secret Service people here keep a jolly good eye on me.”

“At the present time, sir, the sole representative in Lisbon of the Secret Intelligence Service is Major Frear. In the situation in which our country finds itself at the moment, Portugal is of relatively little importance from an active intelligence point of view. Major Frear merely acts as a channel for double agents and paid informants.”

“So what do you want me to do? Sleep with a gun under my pillow?”

There was a polite cough, and they turned to find Colonel da Cunha standing in the open French windows.

“No, sir,” Sir Walford said. “The Portuguese government, being acutely aware of the dangers inherent in the situation, have assigned Colonel da Cunha to take personal charge of all arrangements for your security until the
Excalibur
leaves.”

“I have inspected the grounds,” Da Cunha said. “Extra men will be drafted in. I foresee no problem. Of course, it would assist if Your Royal Highness would stay within the walls.”

“Now there I really can't oblige,” said the Duke. “Having a day in the country tomorrow.”

“May I be permitted to ask where?”

“Place called Nina. Bull farm.”

Colonel da Cunha glanced at the Ambassador. “Sir, may I point out that you would be within ten miles of the Spanish border.”

“The whole affair's being laid on by my good friend Primo de Rivera, the Marques de Estella. You're surely not trying to suggest that he's going to try to run away with me!”

“No, Your Royal Highness,” said Da Cunha diplomatically.

“Good. Of course, I don't mind your sending a few of your chaps along to keep us company if that will make you happy, but now, you really must excuse me. The Duchess is waiting.”

He went out and Sir Walford turned to Da Cunha. “As I said, it isn't going to be easy.”

As soon as he returned to his office, Da Cunha phoned Egger at the German Legation and at ten-thirty saw Schellenberg, by appointment, in a small café near the Belem Tower. He was in civilian clothes. Egger, who was with Schellenberg, made the introductions.

“General, I'll come right to the point,” Da Cunha said. “Our relations with the Reich are of the friendliest at the present time, and you are a welcome guest in our country.”

“But?” Schellenberg said.

“The Duke of Windsor is a special case. We desire nothing more than to see him board ship on the first of August and sail away to Bermuda. Until then, President Salazar has made me personally responsible for his welfare. I have increased the guards at the villa and they have orders to shoot any intruder. Do I make myself clear?”

“As crystal,” Schellenberg said. “And now, my dear Colonel, a cognac to sweeten your coffee.”

“My pleasure,” Fernandes da Cunha told him.

Joe Jackson telephoned Frear at his apartment just after ten. It was some time before he got an answer, and Frear sounded annoyed, as if he'd just been awakened from a sound sleep. “It's Jackson. What's happening?” “What do you mean, what's happening?” “About what we discussed last night!” “Nothing new in that, old boy. Thought I made that clear. I've reported it to my people, of course. I'm sure they'll take appropriate action.”

“If they're anything like you, they couldn't find their way to the men's room,” Jackson said.

“Now look here, Joseph,” Frear told him angrily. “This is none of your affair, so stay out of it. If you want my advice, that girl friend of yours had better keep her head down as well or she might get it knocked off.”

He put down the receiver. Jackson sat there, thinking about it for a while, then dressed and left quickly. It was raining when he went downstairs and got into the Mercedes. He turned into the main road and started along the waterfront. Behind him, a Buick pulled out from behind a large produce truck. Schellenberg said to Zeidler, the driver whom the Legation had provided, “Take your time, stay well back. If you lose him, I'll have your balls.” He leaned back in the seat and lit a cigarette.

There was no sign of Hannah in the house at Cascais. Jackson left the car in the courtyard and walked back down the track to the beach. The Buick had pulled into the pine trees a good hundred yards away, and Schellenberg watched through field glasses.

It was a fine, warm day, and down below the village the beach was stacked with fishing boats painted in vivid hues of every description.

Fishermen sat mending their nets, children playing around them, and beyond, the long Atlantic combers rolled in.

Jackson saw her walking toward him barefoot, carrying a bucket, men, young and old, looking up at her in frank admiration as she passed. She saw him and started to run.

“What a marvelous day,” she said. “And this place. The people are wonderful. So friendly and courteous, and the boats.” She turned to look at them. “Why do some of them have eyes painted on the prows?”

“That's debatable,” he said. “Some say to ward off the evil one. Others, so the ship can find its way through any storm. I see you've been buying fish.”

“Yes, have you eaten?”

“No.”

“Then you're in luck. As my mother raised me to be a nice Jewish girl that means I'm a wonderful cook.” She took his arm and as they walked back toward the house said, “You told me you'd see the right people—did you?”

“Yes, and when I got back to the club your friend Schellenberg was waiting to see me.”

“My friend? Why do you say that?”

“Because in a strange kind of way, I think he is.”

“What did he want?”

“He said the British knew why he was here so there was no reason for you to continue to get involved. That he wanted you to stay out of it.”

She was troubled now, he could see it on her face, and they walked the rest of the way in silence.

And she was indeed a good cook. The fish was delicious, but she didn't do more than pick at it herself and stared down into her coffee, her face moody.

“All right, what is it?” he asked.

“It just doesn't seem right. I don't get the feeling that anyone's taking the thing seriously enough.” She leaned across the table. “It's no good, Joe. I want to see him myself. Tell him to his face. What he does then is his affair, but unless I do it that way, I'll always feel that somehow I let Uncle Max down.”

“Okay.” He sighed. “There's someone I can try. A man I know called Taniguchi who can fix most things. I'll go and see what he can do, but it could cost money.”

“I've got an American Express credit letter for two thousand dollars.”

“For that he'd probably kidnap the Duke himself. I'll see what he says.”

“Now?” she said.

“You mean right this minute?” He shook his head in mock resignation. “Women. My old granny always warned me against them. Okay. I'll take a run into town. You keep your head down. I'll be back when I can, but it could take most of the day.”

She watched him drive away and, on impulse, went down the track, kicked off her shoes, and walked on the beach again. The sun was very warm now. She flung herself down in the sand next to a fishing boat and closed her eyes.

She heard footsteps approach. A familiar voice said, “Hello, Hannah.”

When she opened her eyes, Walter Schellenberg was standing beside her.

“I must say you're really looking very well indeed, all things considered.”

She said, “What do you want with me?”

“Cigarette?” He offered her one, and she took it without thinking. When he gave her a light, there was a curious intimacy to the gesture. She drew back as if to put distance between them.

“I asked you what you wanted.”

“Nothing,” he said. “Or rather, I wish you to do nothing from now on. You can no longer alter the course of events, Hannah. The game is in progress, and the players on both sides know the score—isn't that your American phrase?”

“Is that how you see it? Just a game?”

“Of course it is—a great and terrible game that, once started, is impossible to stop. The game controls us, Hannah, we don't control the game. It's like a fairground carousel. Once it's in motion, that's it.”

“You could always try jumping off.”