To Catch a King (22 page)

“So, you think we should meet the Duke's demand.”

“My dear von Ribbentrop, it is you to whom the Führer entrusted the Windsor affair, in the confident expectation of a successful conclusion. I, of course, can only advise you, but I must say that I don't see how you can go far wrong under the circumstances.”

It was just after five o'clock when the signal was received at the Legation, and Huene sent for Schellenberg and Kleiber at once.

“From Reichsminister von Ribbentrop. It simply says: ‘Demands acceptable. Details requested follow.'”

Kleiber turned to Schellenberg, his eyes ablaze with triumph. “So, you see, General, I knew my man. Better than you did, I knew my man. I'll go to the communications room and wait for the signal to come through.”

When the door had closed behind him, Schellenberg lit a cigarette and laughed out loud. “This isn't just Ribbentrop, you realize that? It's Himmler as well. A champagne salesman and a chicken farmer. That is really an unbeatable combination, you must admit.”

“General Schellenberg,” Huene said. “I can listen to no more of this. I have a family to consider. Relatives back home.”

“Of course,” Schellenberg said. “Stupid of me to allow emotion to take over. The trouble is that one remembers occasionally that one is a human being and not just a zombie walking through the canebrake. I detest stupidity.”

The door opened and Kleiber entered with a sealed envelope. “They put it through the encoder, General, so that even the coding clerk didn't see it. It was marked for your eyes only.”

Schellenberg weighed the envelope in his hands. “And for the Duke of Windsor's also, I presume?”

“Shall I get hold of Da Cunha?” Huene asked.

Schellenberg nodded. “Better tell him to arrange another meeting with the Duke. The same time and place as last night will do.”

He slipped the envelope into his inside pocket. Kleiber went out, and Schellenberg followed. At the door, he paused and turned to Huene. “I leave you with one happy thought. I think we've just lost the war.”

Walter Monckton heaved a sigh of relief as Primo de Rivera was shown to his car. He stood on the steps beside the Duke, waving cheerfully.

“I really must protest, sir. I don't think I've ever heard such nonsense in my life as I've taken from that gentleman tonight. I asked him for some sort of documentary evidence, and he can show me nothing. He then had the infernal cheek to inform me that within ten days he'll have all the evidence we'll need.”

“And asked you to postpone any sailing tomorrow? Poor Walter. You've earned a drink, and I really am most grateful.”

As they went in, Monckton said, “And now, sir, may I be permitted to know the object of the exercise?”

“Perhaps tomorrow,” the Duke said as they went into the drawing room, where the Duchess was sitting by the fire with Dr. Ricardo de Espirito Santo é Silva and his wife. “Now, who's for a drink?”

There was a discreet knock at the door, and a footman came in. “Colonel da Cunha to see Your Royal Highness.”

“Do please excuse me, everyone. Security arrangements for tomorrow. See to the drinks, there's a good chap, Walter.”

He sat in the summerhouse, a coat around his shoulders, and examined the documents the envelope contained, by the light of a small flashlight. Schellenberg and Kleiber waited by the door.

“Very interesting,” the Duke said finally. “Quite brilliant. I can't fault it.”

He put the two sheets of paper back into the envelope, and Schellenberg said, “You are satisfied then, sir?”

“Yes.”

“And the sailing tomorrow?”

“Simply can't take place. The Duchess isn't at all well. I should think we'll have to get the doctor first thing in the morning. The
Excalibur
leaves at noon. After she's gone, we can make other arrangements.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Good, then I'll say good night, gentlemen.”

Da Cunha, who was standing by the gate, let them out. Joe Jackson, on the wall, waited, then dropped to the ground.

The Duke took the envelope from his pocket. “You'd never believe what's in there, Mr. Jackson.”

“I could hazard a guess, sir.”

“Wait here for me, in the summerhouse. I'll be back as quickly as I can with something of supreme importance, I assure you.”

“Very well, sir.”

The Duke turned to Da Cunha. “If you'd keep him company, Colonel, I'd really be most grateful.”

He hurried away along the path.

The Duchess found him in the library, the two signal sheets open on the desk before him.

“What are the others doing?”

“Playing cards. What have you got there?”

“The most astonishing thing you ever read in your life, Wallis. Operation Sea Lion—the German plan for the invasion of England, supplied by Von Ribbentrop in the fond hope that it might make me see which side my bread is buttered on.”

She locked the door and came back to the desk. “Look at this,” he said. “Eagle Day, August the thirteenth. The Luftwaffe launches a devastating strike on the airfields of the south of England aimed at destroying the RAF.”

“And the invasion?” she said.

“Must take place between the nineteenth and the twenty-sixth of September. A question of the kind of moon and tide times. After that, it's no good because they'll be into the autumn and much more unpredictable weather. Imagine a thousand barges halfway across the Channel and a force-eight gale springing up.”

“But what does it all mean?” she said. “Can anything be done about it?”

“Yes, I think something can. The whole thing hinges on air superiority. As long as the RAF still functions, the Royal Navy commands the Channel and no invasion can possibly succeed. But here on sheet two, Directive 17. The Luftwaffe have orders to eliminate the RAF as a first priority. Goering says here that he estimates accomplishing this in two weeks.”

“My God.”

“Which brings us to the flaw in the whole plan,” the Duke told her. “The contingency section. If for any reason the Luftwaffe have not succeeded in crushing the RAF by the seventeenth of September, then Operation Sea Lion will be canceled. The plan is quite specific on that point.”

“And what happens then?”

“He'll turn on Russia, and that, my love, will be the end of him. I'm sure I saw a typewriter in the cupboard over there the other day. Not that I'm any expert, but two fingers should suffice.”

“For what, David?”

“To make a copy of this little lot, Wallis. For Mr. Jackson.”

It was forty minutes before he was back at the summerhouse where Jackson and Da Cunha still waited.

“So very sorry, Mr. Jackson, but I had to copy what was in the envelope Schellenberg gave me, and my typing isn't what it should be.”

“That's all right, sir.”

The Duke gave him the envelope. “What that contains is of supreme importance to the British Government at this time. I've addressed it to Mr. Winston Churchill and marked it for his eyes alone. After I've sailed tomorrow, I'd be obliged if you would pass it to Sir Walford Selby at the British Embassy with my compliments. The original, I shall give to my good friend Walter Monckton to pass on to Mr. Churchill personally when he returns to London.”

“A case of hedging your bets, sir?”

“Accidents do happen. You know, Mr. Jackson, once, in France during the First World War, I got out of my staff car and walked forward to view a trench. A few minutes later, the car was riddled with machine gun bullets, killing the driver. I've often wondered, over the years, why I was spared on that occasion. I've never looked upon myself as a religious man, but perhaps tonight provides some sort of answer.”

“Sir, it's been a privilege to know you.”

“And you, Mr. Jackson.”

The Duke shook his hand. Da Cunha opened the door and showed him out. As he locked it, the Duke said, “Not long now, Colonel, and you'll be rid of me.”

“A new world, sir, new plans. Something to look forward to.”

“Yes, of course,” the Duke said. “Surf beating on the shore, palm trees swaying, and three thousand miles away from the war. Who could ask for more? Good night to you, Colonel da Cunha,” and he walked away quickly.

When Joe Jackson went up the back stairs to the apartment an hour later, Hannah was waiting anxiously.

She felt his sweater. “My God, you're wet through. Joe, I was so worried. What happened?”

He put the envelope the Duke had given him on the table and sat down wearily.

“Nothing much,” he said. “I just had to hang around, waiting for a while for a very remarkable man.”

15

W
alter Monckton and Dr. Ricardo de Espirito Santo é Silva waited in the library. It was almost ten o'clock and Monckton paced up and down anxiously. The door opened, and the Duke entered, his face grave.

“Well, sir?” Monckton asked. “How is she?”

“Not too good, I'm afraid. Some sort of virus, the doctor thinks. There can certainly be no question of her traveling, not until we've fully sorted out what the problem is.”

“But sir,
Excalibur
leaves in two hours. We cannot possibly delay its sailing. Your luggage is already on board.”

“There will be other boats, Walter. A delay of a few days, a week or two, even, is not going to matter one way or the other.” He turned to Santo é Silva. “I really must apologize for this last-minute contretemps, Doctor. We've imposed enough on your generosity as it is.”

“Your Royal Highness, I am entirely at your disposal, as always. My house is yours for as long as need be. If you will excuse me now, I will go and make sure that the household staff are made aware of the change of plan.”

As the door closed behind him, Monckton said, “Really, sir, I must ask you to think again. Is the Duchess so ill that an ocean voyage wouldn't prove beneficial?”

“To tell you the truth, Walter, she's as fit as a fiddle.” The Duke took him by the arm and led him out to the terrace.

“But I don't understand.”

“You will, Walter, but tell me. Is Da Cunha on hand?”

“No, sir, he's at the docks. I didn't wish to alarm you, but police headquarters had an anonymous phone call saying there was a bomb on board
Excalibur.
The work of some crank perhaps. He told me they were searching the ship from stem to stern. Look, what is going on, sir?”

The Duke leaned on the balustrade with both hands. “Walter, I reminded you yesterday that we'd always been completely honest with each other.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Well, I'm afraid that's no longer true. I had a meeting with Schellenberg here in the garden last night.”

“Good God.”

“Yes, Walter, they think I'm on their side now. That I'm not going to the Bahamas after all. In return, I gain this.” He took the buff envelope from his inside pocket. “A present for Winston,” he smiled. “With my love, of course.”

Monckton held the envelope in both hands, a slightly dazed look in his eyes. “But what happens now, sir? What are your intentions?”

“To sail on the
Excalibur.
Now this is what you do. Tell our esteemed host you're going down to the docks to inform Colonel da Cunha we won't be sailing and to retrieve the luggage. Oh, and take Mrs. Fryth, the new maid, with you. That will seem normal enough.”

“Then what?”

“Return here at precisely eleven-thirty. The moment you arrive, Wallis and I will join you, and we'll make a dash for the ship. If the timing is right, we should arrive just as they're taking up the gangplank.”

“And you wish me to inform Colonel da Cunha of this plan?”

“Yes—most certainly.” The Duke smiled. “We're into the home stretch, Walter, three lengths clear of the field. We'll beat them, you'll see.”

When he went into the bedroom, the shades were drawn and the room was in half-darkness.

“Wallis?” he whispered and sat on the edge of the bed.

“David, is anything wrong?” She pushed herself up against the pillows.

“Not a thing, my darling, we're exactly on course. I thought your performance with the doctor was perfection itself. I'm sure that by now the news has reached the German Legation that we're not leaving. In other words, that I'm doing exactly as promised.”

“And what happens now?” He took one of her hands in his and explained quickly.

Schellenberg had slept late for once. It was almost ten-thirty when the phone rang at the side of the bed.

“Huene here.”

“Good morning,” Schellenberg said. “How are things?”

“We had a report that a car turned up at the docks half an hour ago with all their luggage. It was loaded on board immediately.”

“Good God!” Schellenberg pushed himself up on one elbow.

“No need to panic. I've just heard from the house that the Duchess is unwell. The doctor's confined her to bed. They definitely won't be sailing.” There was a silence. “Are you still there, General? Will you be coming in?”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Schellenberg said. “There's the next move to work out now, isn't there? When to get them out and how.”

He put down the phone, lit a cigarette, and leaned back against the pillow. Strange, but he felt curiously disappointed.

Just before eleven-thirty, the Duke was waiting at the bedroom window, the Duchess at his shoulder, fully dressed.

“Come on, Walter,” the Duke whispered, glancing at his watch again. “Don't let me down now.”

A moment later, the Buick came up the drive and braked to a halt at the front door. Walter Monckton got out and looked up at the bedroom window.

“Here we go, Wallis.” The Duke took her by the arm. “Don't stop for anything.”

They hurried down the stairs, and a surprised footman ran to open the front door for them. At that moment, Santo é Silva came out of the library. He paused, a look of astonishment on his face.

“But Your Royal Highness …”

“So awfully kind of you to have put up with us for so long. Sincerely regret the inconvenience,” the Duke said and kept on moving.

“But Her Grace …”

“Is feeling much better now. Sea air will do her a world of good.”

They were into the rear of the Buick in an instant, Monckton followed, slamming the door, and called to the driver. The wheels spun, churning the gravel, and they were away.