To Catch a King (8 page)

She kept on firing convulsively, the Erma bucking so violently that she fell back against Uncle Max as he got the grill open. He lost his balance and slid down the wooden stairs to the cellar below.

Hannah had dropped the Erma. She was on her knees now and screamed, “Uncle Max—are you all right?”

She saw him get to his feet. “Quickly!” he called.

A hand grabbed her right ankle as she tried to get up. She half turned and found the young man with those bright blue eyes crawling toward her, his blond hair sticky with blood.

“Oh, no you don't, you bitch.” He punched her in the stomach. Behind him, other SS men poured into the passage and ran to help him.

As for Max, there was nothing he could do except turn and stagger into the next cellar, thankful to be able to walk. He closed the stout oaken door and rammed home two steel bolts, then moved on between rows of wine bottles.

Behind him, a furious pounding sounded on the door, but they were too late, for he had anticipated this situation for some time and had made every preparation.

Against the end wall of the third cellar, there was a wooden cupboard. Inside were a hat, a raincoat, a large flashlight, and a briefcase containing various false documents and a supply of money in several currencies.

He put on the coat and hat, then pushed the cupboard to one side, disclosing a neat hole in the brickwork. He picked up the flashlight and the briefcase and clambered through, turned, and pulled the cupboard back into place.

He was in the cellars of a disused warehouse at the rear of the club, which had been standing empty, ready for demolition for three years now.

A couple of minutes later he was unbolting a door revealing a flight of steps leading up into a small yard, crammed with the rubbish of years.

He opened the gate and peered out. The alley outside was completely deserted. He closed the gate behind him and walked rapidly away.

At that same moment in Estoril, the Duke and Duchess of Windsor were entertaining Miguel Primo de Rivera, the Marques de Estella, who had driven over from Madrid especially to see them.

As the servants cleared the remains of luncheon from the table beside the pool, De Rivera took out his watch.

“Time passes so quickly in good company, but I'm afraid I must leave soon. I must start back for Madrid today. I've an important official engagement tomorrow.”

“What a shame,” the Duchess said.

De Rivera smiled and said to the Duke, “I wonder whether Your Royal Highness could spare me a few moments' conversation before I go? In private.”

The Duke looked faintly surprised, but smiled as courteously as always. “Yes—why not. We shan't be long, Wallis.”

It was, in fact, half an hour before they returned and then only for De Rivera to take his leave. He kissed her hand, promising to come again soon, and departed. The Duke lit a cigarette and moved to the edge of the terrace, leaning on the marble balustrade, frowning as he looked out to sea, an expression of intense preoccupation on his face.

“And what was that all about?” she demanded.

“I'm not sure. It was really most extraordinary. He'd heard of my Bahamas appointment from official sources in Madrid. Had even discussed it with Franco.”

“But why, David?”

“Do you know, Wallis, he urged me not to go. Said I could still have a decisive role to play in English affairs. He actually said we'd be better off going to stay in Spain. Would be made officially welcome.”

“Would you rather do that?”

“Too complicated. You see, present indications are that the Spaniards don't intend to enter the war on the side of the Nazis, but they might well use England's present plight as an excuse to demand the return of Gibraltar. I certainly don't want to become a pawn in that kind of game.”

“So you don't trust De Rivera?”

“I trust the Madrid Falangists no more than I would any Fascists. There could be more to this than meets the eye, Wallis. Much more.”

His eyes crinkled in that inimitable smile and he put an arm about her waist. “There's a certain excitement to it all, though, I must admit that.”

6

T
he cell was quite small, the concrete walls whitewashed. Almost antiseptic in its cleanliness. There was a light recessed into the ceiling, a small iron cot with no mattress. A cold, white concrete womb.

Hannah sat on the edge of the cot, her mind still so numbed by events that she was unable to take any of this in. There was a dreamlike quality to everything. It was like one of those nightmares half-remembered in the morning and fast fading. That desperate scramble in the passageway at the club, the machinegun bucking in her hands, the smell of cordite. And Uncle Max? Where was he now?

Her stomach still hurt from the blow, and when she touched it bile rose in her throat so that she had to get up and move to the bucket quickly.

Heydrich, watching through the spyhole, nodded to the SS guard and the Gestapo interrogation expert he usually used on such occasions, Major Berg.

“All right,” he said to Berg. “Open up.”

The sound of the bolts being withdrawn was of no significance to Hannah. She still sat there, staring at the wall, so that Berg had to drag her to her feet.

Heydrich lit a cigarette and stood facing her, legs apart. He was wearing dress uniform, a devil in black, but his voice when he spoke was dispassionate.

“You're quite a girl, aren't you? Two of my best men dead. Three more in the hospital—one on the critical list. They trained you well, your people. The fluent German. Just like a true Berliner, very convincing.”

“I was born in Berlin. So were my mother and grandfather. You know this. We always spoke German at home in New York when I was a child.”

He turned to Berg. “Strip her. Thorough search. I'll be back in a few minutes.”

He went out into the corridor and along to the main guardroom, where he telephoned through to the Charite hospital to find out how the survivors of the debacle at the Garden Room were doing.

When he returned to the cell, Hannah was standing in the center of the room, quite naked, her hands folded in front of her. Her clothes were laid out neatly on the bed.

The purpose of such an exercise, the use of male interrogators, was part of a psychologically devised procedure designed to induce feelings of guilt and shame in the victim and to increase the alienation syndrome. Hannah, however, showed no emotion and simply stared at the wall.

“We've struck gold, Obergruppenführer,” Berg told him. “I found this in the top of one of her stockings.”

Heydrich unfolded the copy of the Windsor report. “Excellent. Now we're really getting somewhere.” He tapped her gently on the face with the folded report. “Didn't know what I was talking about, eh? I've just been in touch with the hospital and you know what they told me? A third man, the one of the critical list, has just died.” He grabbed her hair savagely and swung her head from side to side. “Bitch—that's murder three times over.”

But she felt no pain—no pain at all. It was as if this were happening to someone else—as if she were standing outside looking in.

“Your uncle—where did he go?”

Her voice seemed to come from a great distance away like a faint echo. “I don't know.”

Heydrich pushed her away. “Get your clothes on,” he said harshly.

Berg said in a low voice, “She's still in shock. I've seen it often enough before with people like her. They live with the thought of it for years—being caught, I mean. When it comes, they try to reject the fact. Pretend it isn't happening. It's a kind of withdrawal.”

“Then we'll have to shake her out of it, won't we? You go and see how they're getting on with the Neumann woman. I'll be along in a moment.”

Berg went out and Heydrich stood there watching as she dressed slowly and methodically, still with that strange vacant look on her face. She really did have an excellent body, he told himself. As she sat down to pull on her stockings, he felt the excitement rise in him.

Himmler was in uniform for once when Schellenberg went into his office. The Reichsführer glanced up. “So—I did you a service by removing you from further active participation in the Winter affair.”

“So it would appear, Reichsführer.”

“In normal circumstances, you would almost certainly have been in charge of the special action group which went to the Garden Room. Whoever was will be severely disciplined. A deplorable business.”

“I must agree.”

“Three dead. Two wounded. A surprising young woman. You were obviously wrong about her.”

Schellenberg gave him the reply he was seeking. “I'm afraid so, Reichsführer.”

Himmler said, “A little humiliation is good for the soul on occasion, but I didn't bring you here to discuss that. I have selected the two Gestapo men I wish to accompany you to Lisbon as your bodyguards.”

He spoke briefly on the internal telephone. A moment later the door opened and two men entered. They were large and powerfully built and wore rather nondescript gray suits of conventional cut. One was bald and the other wore glasses. Schellenberg recognized the type instantly, for all the Reich security services were full of them. Ex-police officers, more used to moving among criminals than anything else.

“Sturmbannführer Kleiber,” Himmler said and the one in the glasses clicked his heels. “And Sturmscharführer Sindermann. General Schellenberg, you know.”

“A pleasure, Brigadeführer.” Kleiber didn't bother to put out his hand.

“I have already explained the purpose of your visit to Lisbon to Major Kleiber,” Himmler said. “In fact, I have specially selected him for this task, as he does speak Portuguese. He was stationed at our Embassy in Lisbon with the security staff for three years before the war. His local knowledge will be most useful to your purposes.”

“I'm sure it will be,” Schellenberg said.

“And now I suggest you show Major Kleiber the Führer order under which you are acting so that he knows exactly where he stands.”

Schellenberg produced it from his wallet and passed it to Kleiber. The major read it, face expressionless, showed it to Sindermann, then handed it back.

“So you see, gentlemen. Any order you receive from General Schellenberg is an order from the Führer himself.”

“Understood, Reichsführer.”

“Excellent.” Himmler smiled up at Schellenberg. “No need for you to stay. I'm sure you have your desk to clear before leaving. Arrangements to make.”

Schellenberg withdrew, aware that it was simply a polite way of getting rid of him so that Himmler could give Kleiber his special orders. Not that it mattered, for he could well imagine what they must be.

“Are you a religious man, Kleiber?”

“Not really, Reichsführer.”

“General Schellenberg is. He had a strict Catholic upbringing. People like that tend to a rather moralistic attitude which can cloud their judgment on occasion. They see people as being more important than causes—that sort of thing.”

“I see, Reichsführer.”

“I wonder if you do? In this Winter affair, as I have explained to you, the General seems more concerned with the young woman involved than with the damage her uncle's activities have caused to the Reich. To be blunt, Kleiber, General Schellenberg is a most excellent officer. In the field of counterespionage there is probably no one in Europe to excel him. However, it seems to me that on occasion he lacks a certain conviction, and I'm not entirely happy about his attitude to the Windsor business.”

“I see, Reichsführer.”

“There are times, Kleiber, when one must be prepared to go for the throat if necessary. I'm relying on you to see that Schellenberg does. As your Reichsführer I have a right to demand your unquestioning loyalty in this.”

“You have it, Reichsführer, I swear it,” Kleiber said.

There was a knock at the door, and Heydrich entered, a smile of triumph on his face. He put the copy of the Windsor report on the desk in front of Himmler.

“Hidden in her stocking.”

Himmler examined the document. “So, Schellenberg
was
wrong about her?” He looked up at Kleiber. “You see what I mean?”

Heydrich opened the door of the cell and moved in. She was sitting on the edge of the bed again, fully clothed. He said, “All right. On your feet. Follow me.” She hesitated, and he lost patience, grabbing her by the arm, and pulling her out through the door. He pushed her along the white-painted corridor. It was quiet enough and seemed to stretch into infinity, and then she became aware of a dull rhythmic slapping, strangely remote as if it came from a long way away. Heydrich paused outside a cell door and slid back a metal gate. He pushed Hannah's face against it so that she had to look inside. Irene Neumann, her dress ripped to the waist, was sprawled across a bench while a couple of heavily muscled SS men beat her systematically across back and buttocks with rubber truncheons. The woman arched in agony. Berg stood watching.

Hannah came back to life then, the horror of it like a blow in the face. “You see?” Heydrich said. “All she has to do is tell us the truth about the Windsor affair. Answer a few questions about your uncle. It would appear she prefers to die.”

He pushed Hannah's face against the metal gate again, and she struggled to free herself. “No, let her go! Make them stop.”

“All right, you answer my questions for her.”

“No—I don't know anything.”

“We'll see, shall we?” He opened the door and said to Berg, “Hold it.” He turned to Hannah. “Now—each time you fail to answer, we start again. So you see, you will be the instrument of her pain.”

She was terrified now, and it showed clearly in her face.

He said, “You and your uncle—have you been working together ever since you arrived from America?”

“No,” she said.

“Then how do you explain the copy of the Windsor report?”

“It was an accident. I overheard Fräulein Neumann talking to him.” Her mind roamed desperately, seeking the right way to frame her answers. What to give and what to hold back.

“You weren't aware before then that your uncle was working against the Reich?”

There was no need to inject fear into her voice, it was already there. “I swear it.”