To Catch a King (7 page)

“Go on!” Heydrich said. “The truth.”

She whispered. “The phone rang and I went to answer it. She actually brought the copies in and put them on my desk.”

Heydrich slammed a clenched fist against the desk. “Out of my sight. You're finished—finished. Do you hear?”

She hurried from the room weeping. As the door closed, he said, “So, the Neumann woman could have run off an extra copy of the Windsor report.”

“Almost certainly,” Schellenberg said.

“So it's curtains for that damn Jew, Winter,” Heydrich said viciously. “And that niece of his.”

“Oh, I don't know.” Schellenberg had spoken as a reflex more than anything else. “There's no necessary connection between her and her uncle's activities. Why should there be? I had her under surveillance as a matter of course, naturally, but …”

“Is that so? Well, I'm afraid I don't share your opinion.” Heydrich quickly read through the file on Irene Neumann and shook his head in disbelief. “Clean as a whistle. Look at that background. Her father was a major of artillery, killed on the Somme in nineteen sixteen. Iron Cross, First Class. And her uncle, for heaven's sake. A fighter pilot with Richthofen. Awarded the Blue Max in nineteen seventeen.”

“And died of tuberculosis four years after the war. She's forty years of age. A practicing Catholic. Lives alone with her mother.”

“Full security clearance, as one would expect with such a background.” Heydrich was bewildered. “I don't understand.”

The internal phone rang and he answered it. “At once, Reichsführer.” He replaced the receiver with a sigh. “He wants both of us—now. And he wants her file.”

Himmler examined Irene Neumann's record in silence while Schellenberg and Heydrich stood before his desk like schoolboys awaiting their headmaster's verdict.

Heydrich said, “I just can't understand it, Reichsführer. Full security clearance, as you can see. An impeccable record.”

“Which is hardly relevant,” Himmler said. “That her father and uncle served their fatherland so gallantly only adds fuel to her shame.” He closed the file. “And the fact that she was given full security rating shows a lack of intelligence on the part of the clearance officer concerned that I find astonishing. You will find out who it was, have him stripped of rank and transferred to a penal unit at once.”

“Of course, Reichsführer,” Heydrich said eagerly.

“Yes, the flaw in the woman's background is instantly clear to anyone with the slightest perception. According to the file, she went to Paris to do a postgraduate degree in French in nineteen twenty-one. Remember what a hotbed of Communism the Sorbonne was at that time? All that student agitation?”

“I see now,” Heydrich said. “Of course. She could be a sleeper for our Moscow friends.”

“I should have thought it obvious.” Himmler turned his attention to Schellenberg. “She'll deny it, of course, but do you think she took a copy of the Windsor report?”

“I believe so, Reichsführer. Logic would indicate that.”

“Explain.”

“We've had a surveillance unit working on the Garden Club for some months, and she's never shown up before, which makes sense. An agent like her, so importantly placed, must be used with care. The reason for her appearance last night had to be one of supreme urgency.”

Himmler said, “I agree entirely. So, Winter may now be taken into custody. And this niece of his, of course.”

And again, Schellenberg spoke too impulsively. “I must point out, Reichsführer, that on the basis of my own experience, I believe the young woman to be entirely innocent in this affair. There is also the difficulty that she is an American citizen.”

Himmler interrupted, “But it was my understanding that she was born in the Reich, as was Winter himself.”

“Yes, but …”

“Which makes them German citizens, Schellenberg. The Führer has been most explicit on this point.”

There was quiet in the room for a while and he sat there, staring down at the file. Finally he looked up.

“Wait outside. I wish to speak to Obergruppenführer Heydrich alone.”

Schellenberg went out. When the door had closed behind him, Himmler said, “He has formed an attachment for this girl, am I right?”

“Reichsführer, Walter Schellenberg is the most able officer under my command.”

“I did not ask you for a reference. I asked whether in your opinion he has formed an attachment for this Winter girl.”

“Very well, Reichsführer. I regret to say that I think he has.”

“I thought so. I have a nose for these things. Under the circumstances, he must, of course, take no further part in this affair. I would suggest that you handle it personally, Reinhard.”

“With the greatest of pleasure, Reichsführer.”

Heydrich hesitated. Cold and calculating by nature, his most marked characteristic a total inhumanity, he seldom cared about anybody—yet Schellenberg was different. Irritating, but true.

“Reichsführer, I trust this doesn't indicate any change in your attitude toward Schellenberg. His loyalty is unquestioned, believe me, and he has been of great service to the Reich.”

“Undoubtedly.” Himmler leaned back. “General Schellenberg has all the qualities. A brilliant intellect, gallant soldier, cultured, witty. Humane by nature. In the field of counterespionage, one of the most able minds in Europe. He is also a romantic fool.”

“But his record, Reichsführer, is impeccable. A good party member.”

“Which means nothing. Anyone can pay that kind of lip service. Frankly, I doubt his devotion to National Socialism considerably.” He raised a hand. “Don't worry, Reinhard. He's too good a man to discard—yet,” he added. “Now let's have him back in.”

A moment later, Schellenberg was once again in front of the desk. “I've decided you will start for Spain tomorrow,” Himmler said. “Under the circumstances, you will hand all relevant information concerning the Winter affair to Obergruppenführer Heydrich.”

“As you say, Reichsführer.”

“Good. You may go.”

Back in his office, Schellenberg stood at the window, smoking a cigarette, trying to control his anger. But the truth was, however unpalatable it might be, that he could not do anything for Hannah Winter now.

He turned and noticed a box on his desk. When he opened it he found it contained the Mauser he had asked the armorer for, plus the additional ammunition. There was also a requisition slip for him to sign. As he slipped a round into the magazine, the door opened and Heydrich came in.

He paused on seeing the Mauser. “I suppose you'd like to use that on me?”

“She's clean,” Schellenberg said. “I'm certain of it.”

“Then she's got nothing to worry about. Good God, man, I've done you a favor, don't you see that? I knew we were in trouble when I heard you actually left her at the door of her apartment last night. Walks through the streets in the rain in the early morning. Like something out of one of those absurd films UFA are always churning out. What were you trying to do—commit suicide?”

Schellenberg put the Mauser back in the box. “All right. What now?”

“You'll fly to Spain tomorrow by special courier plane. Paris, San Sebastian, Madrid. All fixed up. Your Gestapo bully boys will be provided later today.”

“Thanks very much.”

“And now I must interrogate Irene Neumann. Only don't interfere, Walter, promise me that?” He sounded almost plaintive. “It really would be something of an improvement if you started doing as you were told for a change.”

Irene Neumann sat on a chair in front of Heydrich's desk, her hands folded firmly in her lap, her face expressionless. Two SS men guarded the door.

She was not afraid. The shock effect of her sudden arrest had had a numbing effect so that she was not really capable of taking anything in. This was a moment she had always known might come—and yet, now that it was here …

Heydrich entered. He sat down behind the desk, opened her file, and sat there reading it, totally ignoring her.

“So—Fräulein Irene Neumann?”

“Yes, Obergruppenführer.”

“You know why you are here?”

“I have no idea. If there has been some mistake in my work …”

He pushed the surveillance photos across the desk. “You, coming out of the Garden Room last night.”

For a moment only, her iron reserve failed and what she felt showed on her face.

“Yes, you might well look dismayed. This is the day your chickens come home to roost. The day you've dreaded the thought of all these years.” He got up and stood at the window, looking out, his back to her. “The copy of the Windsor report which you stole. You showed it to Winter, of course. That was the object of your rather injudicious visit, but was his niece with him at the time?”

“I have nothing to say.”

“It doesn't matter. They'll be joining you shortly, both of them.”

She made no reply.

He came around the desk and took her chin gently in one hand tilting her face. “You will tell me, Fräulein, in the end. I promise you.”

Hannah went shopping during the morning and had her hair done. When she returned to the apartment, the porter had a telephone message for her asking her to meet Uncle Max at the club, which surprised her, for during the day it was locked up tight. There was seldom anyone there before six o'clock in the evening.

She found the stage door open. As she went in his voice called, “Is that you, Hannah?” and he looked out of his office. “Close the door and lock it, will you?”

She did as she was told, then followed him into the office. “What did you want to see me about?”

“Arrangements for your trip. What have you done with the report?”

She patted the top of her thigh. “Still in my stocking. I didn't like to leave it at the apartment. I spent a couple of hours memorizing it during the night. Do you want me to destroy it?”

“I don't know,” he said. “It's the sensible thing to do, but on the other hand such a story might not be taken seriously without the evidence. Let me think about it some more.”

“Have you got my passport?”

“Of course.” He took a large envelope from his inside breast pocket and produced a passport. “There. You'd better check it.”

“But this is French,” she said. “There must be some mistake.”

“Take a look.”

She opened it. The usual photo stared out at her, the personal details were as always, except in two important respects. Her name was given as Rose Lenoir, born in Paris. She was still described as a singer.

“I don't understand.”

“I had it made up for you. If you have any trouble trying to cross into Spain or Portugal as Hannah Winter, you switch identities. Your French is good enough if you keep it short, the conversations, I mean. I have a friend who specializes in such things. It's a real work of art. Dozens of immigration stamps, see? German, Belgian, French, Spanish, Portuguese. Some nice and clear, some carefully smudged so you can't make out the date properly. It's okay. Your real passport is in here as well, plus contingency money in francs and pesos. Enough to get by on and a letter of credit for two thousand dollars on American Express at Lisbon.”

He put the false passport back into the envelope.

“You seem to have thought of everything,” she said.

There was a knock at the stage door. Uncle Max slipped the envelope back in his breast pocket, opened the desk drawer, and took out a Walther automatic pistol. He moved to the window and peered out. A young man wearing a tweed cap and blue overalls stood there whistling cheerfully. He was carrying a bulging leather Gladstone bag of the type used by tradesmen.

Max slipped the Walther into his pocket and went out into the passage. “Who is it?” he called.

“Herr Vogel?”

Uncle Max opened the door, leaving the security chain in place. “He isn't here. What is it?”

“Mansteins—plumbers. Something wrong with the hot water supply in the number two kitchen, wherever that is. I wouldn't know. Haven't been before. Herr Vogel rang this morning.”

Max undid the chain and let him in. “First door on your left is the main kitchen. Straight on through and you'll find the number two.”

“All right, leave it to me.” The young man had very bright blue eyes. He winked impudently at Hannah and disappeared into the kitchen.

Max followed her back into the office. There was the sudden roar of an engine outside in the alley, the squeal of brakes, pounding feet.

“Oh, dear God,” he said and grabbed her by the shoulders. “If anything happens, if we get separated, I'll be at a firm of monumental masons called Hoffer Brothers in Rehdenstrasse. It's close to the zoo. Now follow me and do everything I say.”

As they went into the passage the young man with the bright blue eyes emerged from the kitchen. He was holding an Erma police submachine gun.

“All right, Dad, against the wall, nice and slowly. Nothing foolish.”

Pounding started on the door, he glanced briefly toward it, and Uncle Max flung himself at him. The young man reversed the Erma and struck him under the ribs and Max went down with a cry of pain.

The young man stood over him, back turned to Hannah. “You know, I'd kick your head in for that if you weren't so valuable.”

There was a heavy porcelain lamp on top of the filing cabinet by the door. Hannah picked it up in both hands and brought it down with all her strength. It smashed across his head and he went down on his knees.

The battering on the door had risen to a crescendo. As her uncle looked up at her, face still twisted in pain, she said desperately, “Uncle Max, what are we going to do?”

He was breathing with some difficulty. “The wine cellar. Help me to the wine cellar, and bring that thing with you.”

He nodded to the Erma and she picked it up gingerly and helped him to his feet. They reached the end of the corridor, and he started to unbolt the grill leading to the wine cellar steps. Behind them, the stage door fell from its hinges, and the entrance suddenly seemed jammed with SS.

Hannah turned and swung up the Erma instinctively, her finger tightening on the trigger. She had never fired any kind of weapon in her life before, and the Erma was like a living thing in her hands, ripping plaster from the passageway walls, driving the men in the doorway into the alley.