To Catch a King (2 page)

Jackson said, “All right. I'll buy it.”

She said, “Have you ever heard of a man called Dr. Ricardo de Espirito Santo é Silva?”

“Portuguese banker. Has a villa at Estoril.”

“Would you happen to know who his house guests are at the moment?”

“Common knowledge. The Duke and Duchess of Windsor.”

“But not for much longer,” she said. “Not if the Nazis have anything to do with it.” She started to shake.

“Okay,” Joe Jackson held her arms for a moment, then drew her down on the couch beside him in front of the fire.

“Now calm down. Just take your time and tell me about it—everything there is to tell.”

2

I
t began, if it began anywhere at all, with a man called Erich von Mannstein, who at the beginning of 1940 was chief of staff to General Gerd von Rundstedt.

Von Mannstein, who was to become the most brilliant commander in the field that the German Army produced during the Second World War, was a superb tactician who constantly challenged the views of his superiors, particularly their plans to invade France and the Low Countries.

Faced with demotion, his career threatened, chance took him to a dinner party given by Adolf Hitler on the 17th of February, 1940. At that meeting he took the opportunity of outlining to the Führer his own alternative plan, an audacious drive to the Channel by Panzers through the Ardennes, aimed at separating the British and French armies.

Hitler became so obsessed with the idea that, in time, he came to believe that it was his own. On the 10th of May, it was put into action with incredible effect. Within a matter of days, the Allied armies were in a headlong retreat.

By the 2nd of June, thanks to Hitler's decision to halt his Panzers on the Aa Canal, most of the British Expeditionary Force managed to escape from the beaches of Dunkirk. On the afternoon of the 22nd, the French signed an armistice document in the forest of Compiegne in the old wooden dining car in which Marshal Foch had dictated terms to the Germans in November, 1918.

Early the following morning, Hitler, accompanied by Keitel and a few hand-picked companions, landed at the Le Bourget airport and was driven into Paris. The most devastating campaign in modern warfare was over.

In the chaos that was the rest of France, particularly in the south, the roads were crowded with refugees pushing desperately for the Pyrenees and the Spanish border, many of them British citizens who had lived on the Riviera for years.

Among them was a convoy of cars headed by a Buick towing a loaded trailer. At a small town west of Aries, a barricade had been erected by gendarmes to prevent any further passage to refugees.

As the Buick slowed to a halt, the small, rather slight-looking man seated beside the dark-haired woman in the back, stood up so that he could be clearly seen. He smiled with considerable charm, but the authority there was unmistakable.

“I am the Prince of Wales,” he said in excellent French. “Let me pass, if you please.”

The statement was not strictly accurate, but to millions of Europeans it was the title by which they still remembered him. The officer in charge gazed at him in astonished recognition, then saluted and barked a quick order to his men. The barricades were hastily removed and the Duke and Duchess of Windsor and their party passed through.

In Berlin on the following Friday it was raining as Hannah Winter left her apartment in Koenigstrasse. It was eight-thirty, an hour before the first cabaret of the evening at the Garden Room, which was a good mile away near the Unter den Linden. Not much chance of a taxi these days so she'd have to hurry. There was a Mercedes parked across the street. She glanced at it hopefully, then realized it was a private car and started to walk.

Two young men came around the corner and moved toward her. They were in Nazi Party uniform of some sort, although what it signified she had no idea. There were so many uniforms these days. They paused, blocking the pavement, the faces beneath the peaked caps hard and cruel, ripe for mischief. She was in trouble and knew it.

“Papers,” one of them said.

She remembered Uncle Max's first rule:
Never show fear.
“I'm an American citizen,” she replied calmly.

“So?” He snapped his fingers. She produced her passport from her bag and handed it over.

“Hannah Winter—twenty-two. That's a good age.” His companion sniggered and he returned the passport. “And your pass.”

The other one moved closer, enjoying this, his eyes stripping her. She took out her pass reluctantly and handed it over.

He laughed delightedly. “Well, would you look at this. A Yid.” He moved closer. “Where's your star, Jew? You know it's a serious offense to be out without it. We're going to have to do something about that.”

He was very close to her now, forcing her back toward the mouth of the alley behind. There was the sound of a car door slamming and she saw a man emerge from the rear of the Mercedes and start across the street.

“That's enough,” he called softly through the rain.

He was of medium height, wore a slouch hat and a black leather coat. A cigarette dangled from the left-hand corner of his mouth.

Her interrogator scowled ferociously. “Clear off, if you know what's good for you. This is police business.”

“Is that so?” the man said calmly. “Fräulein Winter, is that right? My name is Schellenberg. I heard the exchange sitting in my car over there. Are these men annoying you?”

“She's a Yid, out on the street without her Star of David.”

“And an American citizen, if I heard correctly. Is this not so, Fräulein?”

His smile had a kind of ruthless charm that was accentuated by the dueling scar on one cheek, and her stomach was, for some unaccountable reason, hollow with excitement.

“Yes,” she said.

A hand grabbed Schellenberg's arm and shook him furiously. “Clear off—now. Unless you want your face kicked in.”

Schellenberg wasn't in the least put out. “Oh dear, you are a nasty little boy, aren't you?”

He waved his right hand casually. Two men in uniform as black as the Mercedes got out of the car and hurried across. Their cuff-titles carried the legend
RFSS
picked out in silver thread:
Reichsführer der SS,
the cuff-title of Himmler's personal staff.

Schellenberg said, “A lesson is needed here, I think.” He took the girl by the arm. “Fräulein.”

As he guided her firmly across the road toward the car, there was the sound of a blow, a cry of pain, but she did not look back.

It was fifteen minutes later when the Mercedes pulled in to the curb in front of the Garden Room. Hans, the doorman, came forward hesitantly, a look of astonishment on his face when he saw who was inside. He opened the door and Schellenberg got out and turned to assist her.

“So, this is where you work?” He examined the photographs in the glass case beneath the poster. “ 'Hannah Winter and the Connie Jones trio, direct from the Albany Club, New York.' Sounds interesting. I must come one night.”

She said calmly, “I'm Jewish, as you very well know, and as you can see from the photo, Connie is a Negro. I hardly think we'd be of much interest to a member of the master race.”

He smiled gently. “Shall we go in?”

“I use the stage door.”

“And I, on the contrary, always go in by the front.”

He had her by the arm again and she went without protest. Hans hurriedly got the door open for them. Her uncle was at the front desk talking to the hat check girl. He was a shrewd, kindly-looking man, with a shock of gray hair and steel-rimmed glasses, who always managed to appear untidy in spite of his dinner jacket.

At the sight of his niece and Schellenberg, the smile was wiped instantly from his face and he hurried forward.

“Hannah, my love, what's happened? You are in trouble?”

“I was, but not any more, thanks to Herr Schellenberg. This is my uncle, Max Winter.”

“Herr Winter,” Schellenberg said amiably and turned back to Hannah.

She was at that time just twenty-two, a small, rather hippy girl with good legs; a face that was handsome rather than beautiful, with high cheekbones, dark eyes, and black hair worn unfashionably long.

He took her right hand, holding it for a moment. “And now, Fräulein, after seeing you in a better light, I am more determined than ever to catch your act—isn't that the American phrase? But not tonight, I regret to say.”

He raised her hand to his lips, and again she was conscious of that unwanted hollow excitement.

“Herr Winter.”

He went out, and when Hannah glanced at her uncle she found that he had turned quite pale. “Uncle Max—what is it?”

“That man,” he whispered. “Where did you meet him? Don't you know who he is? That is Walter Schellenberg, SS Brigadeführer and Major General of Police. Heydrich's right-hand man.”

Hannah Winter had been born in November, 1918, two days before the Armistice was signed to end that most terrible of all wars. Her father, Simon, once a violinist with the Berlin Philharmonic, emigrated to New York in 1920 and opened a small restaurant on Forty-second Street in partnership with his wife's father. During the years of Prohibition, the establishment developed into a highly successful night club, but his health had never been good because of chest wounds received while serving as an infantryman on the Somme, and he died in July, 1929.

The club, after Prohibition, once again became a restaurant and prospered under the shrewd direction of his wife. Hannah she had raised to be a nice Jewish girl who would one day make a good marriage, have kids, do all the right things.

It might have worked, except for one important point. Hannah Winter had been blessed with an extraordinary singing voice. She discovered her talent by chance, singing with a student jazz band at high school. From that time on, she had never seriously contemplated any other way of life.

At seventeen, she had appeared at the Paloma Ballroom in Hollywood with Benny Goodman. As a straight band singer she had toured with Artie Shaw and Tommy Dorsey.

But she was at her best always in the more enclosed world of club and cabaret, preferably backed by a good trio. It was then that she was able to bring an intensity to her performance of the average popular song that perhaps rivaled anything Bessie Smith had been able to do with the blues.

And she could have been at the Paramount Studios in Hollywood now doing a film with Bing Crosby if it hadn't been for Uncle Max, her father's younger brother, who, in spite of the fact that he had been a naturalized American citizen for twenty-five years, had horrified them all by returning to the city of his birth in 1937 to open a night club.

Which was why Hannah was here. To persuade him that it was time to get out. But events had overtaken her with frightening rapidity. The Phony War was over and the Nazis were poised on the Channel coast, with England next stop and nothing standing in the way.

She was applying her make-up when there was a knock at the door and her uncle entered. He pulled a chair forward and lit one of the small cigars he favored, watching her in the mirror.

“All right—what happened?”

She told him quickly, continuing the work on her face, then went behind the screen to change.

“Not good,” he said. “Perhaps it would be as well if I explained a few things to you. In Germany today the SS is all-powerful, but within the organization they have their own secret service department—the SD. Heydrich is Director General, although still under the authority of Himmler.”

“And Schellenberg?”

“He's in charge of the counterespionage section, but more important, he's Heydrich's favorite. His right-hand man.” She made no reply as she slid a long black dress over her head, taking care not to spoil her make-up. “Do you understand any of this?”

“Not really,” she said, emerging from behind the screen and turning so that he could button up the back of the dress. “So many titles—so many names. It's all very confusing. And the uniforms—every second person you meet seems to have one.”

He took her hand. “This isn't Forty-second Street, Hannah.”

She sat down facing him. “All right, Uncle Max. Then let's go home.”

“You are,” he said. “All arranged—tickets and everything.”

“I don't understand?”

“Connie and the boys leave Monday morning by train for Paris. The same night they've got berths on the sleeper to Madrid, and so have you.”

“And when was all this decided?”

“Today. The boys have got a week at the Flamenco Club in Madrid. You knew that.”

“But I haven't.”

“No, but you can carry straight on to Lisbon from there. Plenty of boats going to New York. You might even get a seat on the Clipper.”

“And you?”

“I've got things to do here.”

“Then I'm not going.”

“Oh, yes, you are, Liebchen.” She had never heard quite that tone in his voice before. He patted her hand and got up. “We've got a lot in tonight. I'd better go and see how the food's working out.”

As he reached the door she said, “Uncle Max, you're mixed up in something, aren't you? Something serious?”

He smiled gently. “I'll see you later. Slay the people, Liebchen.”

The door closed softly behind him and she sat there, staring into the mirror, her mind in turmoil. A moment later, there was another knock and Connie Jones glanced in.

“Are you ready?”

She managed a smile. “As much as I ever will be.”

Connie was a large, rugged-looking Negro of forty-five with close-cropped graying hair. Born and raised in New Orleans, he had been playing the piano like a dream since the age of seven and couldn't read a note of music.

“Trouble?” he asked, sitting on the edge of her dressing table.

“Uncle Max tells me I leave with you on Monday.”

“That's it. Twelve hours to gay Paree, then the night express to Madrid from Austerlitz station, and I can't shake the dust of this town soon enough.” He lit a cigarette. “You're worried about the old man, aren't you?”

“He says he isn't coming, Connie, but if he stays here …”

“If ever a man knew what he was doing, it's your Uncle Max, kid. I'd leave it to him.” He took her hand. “You worry too much and that ain't good because we got a show to do, so let's get with it.”