To Catch a King (23 page)

Dr. Ricardo de Espirito Santo é Silva turned, hurried into the library, and picked up the telephone.

When Kleiber went into Huene's office, he found the Ambassador pacing up and down, obviously very agitated indeed.

“Ambassador. You sent for me?”

“I've tried to get hold of General Schellenberg, but it seems he's already left his hotel. Bad news, I'm afraid. I've just heard from the villa that the Duke and Duchess left in a considerable hurry for the
Excalibur
some ten or fifteen minutes ago. He's tricked
us.
He's sailing for the Bahamas after all.”

“But he can't do that.” Kleiber was very pale.

“He gave his word, made a bargain. We kept our part.”

Huene said, “A disastrous situation, but there's nothing any of us can do about it.”

Kleiber turned, tight-lipped, and went out. Sindermann was waiting outside and could tell at once from Kleiber's face that something was seriously wrong.

“Sturmbannführer?”

“The Duke,” Kleiber said grimly. “He's sold us out. They're sailing on the Excalibur after all.”

“So—we've lost, Sturmbannführer? He must be laughing all over his face.”

“I'm sure he is, Gunter, so let's make sure he dies laughing, shall we? You go downstairs and get the car started. I'll be with you in a few minutes.”

“And General Schellenberg?”

“To hell with General Schellenberg.”

He burst into the armory and the startled sergeant in charge leaped to attention.

“Sturmbannführer. May I help you?”

“I want a rifle.” Kleiber went around behind the counter. “Any decent rifle will do. What's this, for instance?”

“A new development by Walther. Semiautomatic.”

“Is it loaded?”

The sergeant opened a cupboard, revealing an assortment of magazines, took one out, and rammed it into place.

“It is now. Ten-round, staggered-row box magazine. A really excellent combat weapon and astonishingly accurate on rapid fire at up to a thousand yards.”

“Good, I'll take it.” Kleiber made for the door.

“Please, Sturmbannführer,” the sergeant called. “You must sign for it.”

But Kleiber was already gone. The sergeant started toward the door, paused, then went back to the counter. He picked up the internal telephone and asked to be put through to the Ambassador.

As Schellenberg's Buick entered the gates of the Legation, Zeidler had to wrench the wheel sharply to one side as a black Mercedes sedan hurtled toward them. Schellenberg had a brief glimpse of Sindermann at the wheel, Kleiber beside him, and then they were gone.

“A close thing, General,” Zeidler said as he pulled in at the bottom of the steps leading up to the entrance. “I wonder where they were going in such a hurry?”

“So do I,” Schellenberg said.

As he got out of the car, Huene appeared on the porch. “General Schellenberg. Thank heavens you're here.”

“What's happened?” Schellenberg demanded.

“The Duke,” Huene said, “is leaving on the
Excalibur.
He's fooled us. Fooled us all.”

“And where was Kleiber going in such a hurry?”

“I've just been informed he's drawn a rifle from the armory.”

Walter Schellenberg turned and ran down the steps to the car. “The Alcantara Docks,” he told Zeidler. “The pier the
Excalibur
is leaving from, and drive like you've never done before!”

* * *

The entrance to the docks was heavily guarded, so much was obvious. All vehicles were being closely inspected as they entered. As the Mercedes coasted past, Kleiber noticed Da Cunha standing by the gate. The gangplank had already been pulled in and lines were being cast off.

“What are you going to do, Sturmbannführer?” Sindermann asked. “We'll never get past the gate and soon it will be too late.”

“I've just had a thought, Gunter. Wasn't that the American's bar we passed a couple of minutes ago?”

“Yes, Sturmbannführer.”

“Then let's see if he's at home. He could be the solution to all our problems.”

Joe Jackson and Hannah were standing on the wooden balcony of the apartment above the club, looking upriver towards the Alcantara Docks and the
Excalibur,
whose funnels towered above a jumble of dock buildings.

“We'll get a much better view when the tugs have pulled her out into midstream,” Jackson told her.

The door of the living room was flung open, and as they turned Kleiber and Sindermann entered, both holding Walther automatics.

Kleiber said, “What I say, I will say only once, Herr Jackson.”

Jackson had an arm around Hannah's shoulder. “Okay, get on with it.”

“I desire to gain entrance to the Alcantara Docks, but unfortunately the gate is very heavily guarded by Security Police.”

“So?”

“Colonel da Cunha is on duty there personally. It occurs to me that he will allow you to pass through the gate on the excuse that you wish to watch the
Excalibur
leave. Only natural after your part in the affair. I shall be under the canvas cover of the bucket seat of your Mercedes sports car, crouched behind you. Now, I could say that I'll blow your spine out if you attempt to give me away at the gate, but there's no need. Sindermann will be here with Fräulein Winter in his charge. You follow me?”

Sindermann grabbed her by the hair and rammed the muzzle of his Walther under her chin.

“Five seconds,” Kleiber said. “That's all you have to make up your mind.”

“Okay.” Jackson raised his hands defensively. “We play it your way. What do you want me to do?”

As the Buick neared the docks, Joe Jackson's bar coming up on their left, Zeidler braked suddenly so that Schellenberg was thrown forward.

“See, General?” He pointed at the black Mercedes parked at the end of the wharf. “It's them. I know the car. It has the Embassy plates on it.”

“Pull over behind it,” Schellenberg told him.

There was no sign of life in the car, but when he tried the side door of the club it opened to his touch. He paused for a moment, then went upstairs cautiously, his hands in his pockets.

Sindermann sat on one side of the table, Hannah on the other. She reached for the coffee pot.

“Careful,” he warned her.

“I only want a cup of coffee,” she said, then hurled the scalding contents of the pot into his face and started for the door. As he cried out in anguish, she tripped over one of the oriental rugs and fell. A second later, he had her by the hair, jerking her to her feet.

“Now then, you bitch, I'll make you pay.”

“I don't think so,” Schellenberg said softly.

He was standing just inside the door, the Mauser with the bulbous silencer in his right hand. Sindermann slipped behind her, ramming the Walther into her side.

“Drop it,” he ordered. “Now—or she dies.”

Schellenberg's arm swung up and he shot him through the head instantly. The top of Sindermann's skull fragmented and the force of the bullet sent him back out across the balcony and over the rail into the river below.

Hannah had fallen to one knee, blood across her hair and face. As he helped her to her feet, Schellenberg said urgently, “Kleiber? Where is he?”

“The docks,” she said. “He forced Joe to take him there, hidden in the back of the sports car.”

He took her hand, turned, and hurried down the stairs.

As the Buick swerved in at the gate, several soldiers ran forward to block its way. Colonel da Cunha was standing in the entrance of the gatehouse, talking to Walter Monckton. He came over at once, frowning at the sight of Hannah Winter, who sat beside Schellenberg, blood on her face. “What's happened? Explain yourself, General.” “Has Joe come through in the silver sports car?” Hannah demanded.

“Why yes, several minutes ago. He told me he wished to catch a last glimpse of the Duke.”

“Kleiber was with him,” Schellenberg said. “Hidden in the back, and he has a rifle.”

Walter Monckton, who had appeared behind Da Cunha, said in horror, “Good God, what can we do?”

There was a sudden cheer. As they turned, the Duke and Duchess appeared on the upper deck and waved to the dock workers below.

Monckton ran forward, shouting frantically. “Go back, David! For God's sake, go back!”

The Duke and Duchess, unable to hear a thing he was saying, waved, smiling.

It was Hannah then who, looking wildly about her, saw the silver Mercedes parked outside the warehouse a hundred yards away.

“There!” she cried, pointing. “Joe's car.”

As Zeidler gunned the motor, Da Cunha jumped on the running board and the car surged forward, a dozen or fifteen armed police running behind.

The sports car was parked beside a green door marked
Fire Exit.
Schellenberg flung it open and found stone steps ascending into darkness. He pulled out his Mauser and went up on the run.

Willi Kleiber stood behind Jackson at the parapet. The
Excalibur
was even farther out into the stream now. As she sounded her whistle, the Duke and Duchess entered a railed-off enclosure in the stern that had obviously been specially set aside for them.

“Beautiful,” Kleiber said. “I can get two for the price of one.”

“Don't be a fool, man,” Jackson told him. “There's nothing to be gained now.”

“He made fools of us—all of us,” Kleiber answered. “The Führer himself, even. Now, he pays.”

He rammed the butt of the Walther into Jackson's side. The American went down with a groan and Kleiber knelt, resting the Walther on the parapet, taking careful aim at the Duke.

As he squeezed the trigger, Jackson, half unconscious as he was, grappled with him. The ship's whistle roared again at that moment, drowning the sound of the shot, and the bullet plowed into the deck several feet to one side of the Duke and Duchess, who were totally unaware of the fact in the noise and confusion of their departure.

Kleiber kicked out at Jackson, pushing him away, and took aim for the second time. The door to the stairs behind burst open, a familiar voice cried, “Kleiber!”

Kleiber turned, hate taking complete possession of him now, the rifle coming up, and Schellenberg shot him in the right shoulder, the heavy bullet turning him in a circle. The next two shattered his spine, driving him against the parapet, the rifle flying into space.

Colonel da Cunha knelt down beside him, but no examination was necessary. He glanced up. “You are a difficult man to understand, General Schellenberg.”

“Something I live with every day of my life.”

“You will be going home soon, I trust, back to Berlin?”

“Today, if I can manage it.”

“Good,” Da Cunha mopped sweat from his face with a handkerchief. “One episode like this is enough in any policeman's career.”

Hannah arrived and dropped to one knee beside Jackson, who was trying to sit up.

“Did he make it?”

“Yes,” she said. “Thanks to General Schellenberg.”

Schellenberg pocketed his Mauser, turned, and moved toward the door. As he started down the stairs, she caught up with him, grabbing him by the sleeve.

“You're going back to Berlin, aren't you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because I have no choice, and I think, in your heart, you know this. For me, it is too late.”

He started down the stairs again. She called, “Walter!” and there was desperation in her voice, a kind of rage at life and the cruelty of it.

“Did I ever tell you that when you sing, you sound like Billie Holiday on one of her better days?” he said.

His footsteps echoed hollowly for a while as he descended, the door banged, and he was gone.

As the
Excalibur
moved out to sea from the mouth of the Tagus, the Duchess went in search of the Duke and found him still standing in the stern.

“I've brought you a scarf,” she said.

“Why, thank you, Wallis.”

She took his arm and they stood there at the rail together. “It could be worse, David, the Bahamas, I mean. We'll make it work, you'll see, so try not to be too disappointed. After all, we have each other.”

“Of course we do, and I'm not the slightest bit disappointed.” He smiled that wonderful smile that illuminated not only himself, but everything about him. “In fact, to be perfectly honest, Wallis, I feel rather pleased with myself.”

“But will anyone ever know, David?” she said.

“I will, my love.” He kissed her gently on the brow. “And so will you. That's all that matters.”

When Schellenberg entered his office at Prinz Albrechtstrasse at three o'clock the following afternoon, he had been traveling for just over twenty-four hours with only the occasional nap to keep him going. His tweed suit was crumpled and he badly needed a shave.

He had been in the room for only a couple of minutes when the door was opened without ceremony and Heydrich entered.

“You look as if you haven't slept for a week.”

“I only feel that way.”

“He knows you're here, Walter. Wants you upstairs right away. What a mess this thing turned out to be, but I'm sorry. I can't help you now. This time, you're finished.”

“Oh, I don't know,” Schellenberg said. “Let's wait and see, shall we?”

He delivered his report, standing in front of Himmler's desk, holding nothing back of any consequence.

When he had finished, there was silence for a moment, then Himmler said, “You were right to execute Kleiber as you did. He was a fool. There was nothing to be gained from assassinating the Duke at that stage in the affair.”

Schellenberg said, “There is, of course, the question of the information passed on to the Duke…”

“By order of von Ribbentrop.” Himmler sighed. “Yes, I do feel the Reichsminister has been a little injudicious in that respect.”

“Will you inform the Führer?”

“On another occasion, perhaps. One that is more suited to my purposes.”

Which boded ill for Ribbentrop.

Schellenberg said, “And the details of Sea Lion, Reichsführer? What can we do about that? The Duke will certainly have passed them on to the Prime Minister, probably using Walter Monckton as his messenger.”

“But to what avail? There are only two periods before the autumn gales when the tide is right for a landing. The British know that as well as we do. The important point is that there will be nothing they can do about it. In the same way, the fact that they now know the date of Eagle Day makes little difference when they're hardly in a position to defend themselves against the might of the Luftwaffe.”