Authors: Michael Ridpath
He held out his hand to Conrad.
Squatting behind a tea chest only three metres from the two men, Neuser had heard and understood every word, since they were fortunately speaking in German. He was astounded. He only hoped he could remember it all.
It was absolutely clear that Hertenberg was a traitor. The slight qualm Neuser had felt when first ordered to kill a fellow officer was gone. Hertenberg had to die. They both had to die.
He was glad he had waited to hear so much of the conversation, but now it was time to move. He risked a peek from behind the chest, and saw the Englishman moving towards his German friend, hand outstretched. Neuser ducked back behind the chest and raised his pistol, ready to act.
Just before Theo shook his outstretched hand, Conrad noticed a flicker of movement in the glass of a framed photograph behind his friend. Then it was gone. In the reflection he could see his own legs and the fuzzy silhouette of the tea chests behind him. Something thin and rounded briefly appeared above the tea chest and then it too was gone.
Was that the barrel of a gun?
Possibly. Possibly not.
He would take no chances.
Theo let go of Conrad’s hand. Conrad had lost track of what Theo was saying.
‘Conrad?’
He had to play for time. Give himself time to think. Toss something to make whoever was behind the tea chest pause and listen.
‘Göring,’ he said.
‘Göring?’ said Theo, puzzled.
In similar situations when dealing with Nazis in Berlin the year before, Conrad had alighted upon Göring as the perfect name to intrigue and confuse them. The fat Luftwaffe chief was one of Hitler’s oldest allies, but he had his own power base and the SS did not trust him.
‘I should have told you before. About Göring.’
‘What about Göring?’
Good question, Theo, Conrad thought. ‘I’ve got a message I need to show you. Van gave it to me in London.’ Conrad put his hand in his jacket pocket. There was nothing there. ‘But we’ll need a little more light.’
It was gloomy in the attic.
‘That’s all right. I’m sure I can read it,’ said Theo, holding out his hand for the non-existent message.
Conrad ignored him and turned away back towards the door and the light switch. He was now facing the tea chests. He couldn’t see any sign of anyone lurking, but that didn’t mean someone wasn’t there.
When he reached the door he yelled: ‘Down, Theo!’ and dived at the tea chests.
There was a cry, and a muffled crack. Conrad found himself on top of the legs of a man holding a pistol with an attached silencer pointing towards Theo. Conrad stretched out and struck the man’s elbow as he pulled the trigger for a second time. Both shots seemed to have missed Theo.
The man struggled to his feet and turned to face Conrad, bringing his gun around in a wide arc. He was short, almost completely bald, broad-shouldered and tough. Conrad dived at him again, hitting him full in the chest, and the gun was sent spinning. The man writhed and wriggled and broke free of Conrad’s grasp. He scrambled to his feet.
‘Freeze!’
It was Theo. He had the gun and he was pointing it at the man.
The man froze.
‘Kill him, Theo,’ said Conrad.
‘We don’t know who he is,’ said Theo. ‘Who are you?’
The bald man didn’t reply.
‘Kill him!’ said Conrad. ‘Doesn’t matter who he is. You know what he heard. Pull the damn trigger!’
The man’s eyes were wide. He turned and ran, away from Theo deep into the attic.
‘Shoot him, Theo!’ Conrad shouted and then set off after the killer. Whether because Theo had doubts who the man was, or was struck by indecision, or just hadn’t fired a gun in anger before, there was no shot.
A short flight of wooden steps led up to a small door. The bald man leaped up the stairs, threw open the door and climbed outside on to the roof. Conrad followed him.
The Academy roof had a double gable with a valley in the middle, on to which the door opened. The bald man slid down a couple of feet and then into the bottom of the valley, which consisted of two feet of lead where the two roofs met. He turned, saw Conrad following him, and set off along the valley.
But there was nowhere to go. Beyond the end of roof was air. The building was one of the highest in Leiden, and Conrad could see countryside, windmills and, beyond that, the North Sea.
Conrad slowed, ready for a fight. The bald man stopped and faced him. Conrad was tall, but the other man had muscles and looked like he knew what to do with them.
Theo emerged from the doorway on to the roof and took aim with the pistol. The bald man saw him and launched himself at the roof, clambering up it crabwise, sending slates clattering. This time Theo let off a couple of shots, but he missed. The angle was difficult and the silencer didn’t help accuracy.
Conrad set off up the slope of the roof after the bald man. He got into a rhythm and was gaining. At that point, a slip wouldn’t be fatal: he would just end up back in the valley.
But the bald man reached the ridge of the roof before Conrad. Gingerly he stood upright and began walking back towards the bell tower.
Conrad hauled himself up on to the ridge. The ridge was narrow, perhaps two inches wide, and it was a long way down on the outer side. Now a slip in that direction
would
be fatal. The Academy building was high, at least sixty feet, and there was nothing to break a fall down to the street below.
Conrad stood upright. He had done some mountain climbing in Switzerland and Scotland with his older brother Edward when he was a boy, so he had a good head for heights, but nevertheless it was difficult not to look down.
He saw there was a small door in the side of the bell tower leading out on to the roof. The man was heading for it, stepping gingerly, arms outstretched for better balance. If the door was unlocked he would be through it and away. Given what the man had overheard, Conrad and Theo would be in big trouble, Theo especially.
Conrad couldn’t let him get away.
So he began to run slowly along the ridge. The speed gave him some balance, although he wasn’t quite sure how he would eventually slow down. He also wasn’t sure what he would do if he caught up with the man – perhaps drag him off to the left down into the valley where Theo had his pistol?
He didn’t look down, just kept his eyes looking steadily forward.
The man turned. Saw Conrad jogging towards him. Lengthened his steps into strides, and then he too broke into a run.
And slipped. The wrong way.
With a cry he slid down the roof, rolled twice, and then bounced into the air and fell out of sight. If he made a thud when he hit the ground, Conrad didn’t hear it, but he did hear the shouts of passers-by.
Conrad almost lost his own balance as he watched the body fall. He carried on running until he reached the bell tower and grabbed hold of the door handle for support. He twisted it; it was unlocked and opened inside on to a ladder.
He scrambled down it into the attic and then back to the other doorway leading out into the roof valley. He beckoned to Theo.
‘Time to go!’
The Dorchester Hotel, Park Lane, London
‘Cheers, Henry!’
They were at the bar. Freddie Copthorne raised his glass and gulped his beer and Alston sipped his pink gin. It irritated Alston that Freddie insisted on drinking beer in the most inappropriate of places. All right, his family’s fortune was based on the stuff, but Freddie’s loyalties seemed to stretch to any old brew.
‘Do you think we will hear back from Herr Langebrück?’ he asked.
‘I expect so, somehow or other,’ said Alston. ‘The important thing is that Rib knows we are ready to talk. It’s a shame Constance couldn’t have stayed longer in Holland to get a reply.’
‘I can’t get over what happened to Millie de Lancey,’ Copthorne said. ‘Poor old Oakford.’
Alston didn’t answer. He too couldn’t get over what had happened to the de Lancey girl, but for very different reasons. Of course it was a shame that she had had to die, but he had come to realize that Constance was absolutely right: the girl was a war casualty, and when you thought about it, she was a casualty for the enemy. Alston was on the side of peace and sanity. Millie de Lancey had declared herself to be on the side of war.
Alston would have liked to explain all that to his friend, but he couldn’t. Freddie wouldn’t understand. He didn’t have the balls.
Whereas he, Alston, did have balls. He suppressed a smile.
‘Sir Henry! Lord Copthorne! It’s great to see you!’
The French-tinged American accent was instantly recognizable. The two men turned to see Charles Bedaux holding out his hand. He looked like a spruced-up boxer, Alston thought. His face was battered, his ears verged on the cauliflower, but his thick dark hair was brushed back with brilliantine and he was wearing a smartly buttoned double-breasted blazer and two-toned brogues. Not exactly the way one would dress in the dining room of a City merchant bank, but Bedaux was certainly not a City merchant banker. Alston smiled and shook the American’s hand.
‘Do you mind if we go straight in to lunch?’ Bedaux said. ‘I’m not in the country for long, and I have a lot to do.’
‘Of course not,’ said Alston. Some might have found Bedaux’s direct manner rude, but Alston liked it. The man had energy, and energy was good. It got things done. And it was Bedaux who had asked to see Alston. They knew each other from mutual business acquaintances before the war. There were quite a few British firms who used the Bedaux System in their factories and Gurney Kroheim’s money to finance them.
Alston had arranged that the three men should have a discreet table in the corner of the dining room. Freddie ordered lamb chops and Alston and Bedaux both went for the grouse. Alston ordered a bottle of Montrachet ‘24.
‘Friends in Germany tell me you have been in touch with my old friend Otto Langebrück,’ said Bedaux.
‘You are very well informed,’ said Alston.
‘Oh, I am,’ said Bedaux. ‘Always.’
‘We passed him a proposition,’ Alston went on. ‘Through an intermediary in Holland. Unfortunately the intermediary wasn’t able to hang around long enough to get a reply.’
‘So I understand,’ said Bedaux.
‘Have you seen Herr Langebrück yourself?’
‘I knew him when he was in Paris,’ Bedaux said. ‘I haven’t seen him since war broke out. But I was in Berlin a couple of weeks ago.’
‘Oh. Did you meet Herr von Ribbentrop?’ Alston remembered Bedaux mentioning in his letter that he knew the German Foreign Minister.
‘I did. I also saw the big man himself.’ Bedaux beamed. ‘The Führer.’
‘Good God!’ said Freddie, choking on his beer, which he had uncouthly brought with him into the dining room.
‘And how is Herr Hitler?’ asked Alston with ironic politeness.
‘Mighty relieved not to be blown to hell in Munich. I saw him the day after the bomb went off. He seemed to think that God had saved him. Or Providence. Or someone.’
‘The devil?’ Freddie volunteered.
Bedaux laughed. ‘Probably.’ His expression became serious. ‘Anyway, I became aware of your proposals and your willingness to countenance an end to this stupid war, and I thought it made sense to fill you in on the Führer’s thinking. About Britain.’
‘Go on,’ said Alston.
‘He doesn’t know your country very well, but he has plenty of respect for it. He admires Britain’s traditions and its history, and places Englishmen in the same racial category as Germans. He would like Britain to leave Germany in control of Europe, in return for which Germany would leave Britain in peace to run the rest of the world through her empire.’
‘What did I tell you?’ said Alston to Copthorne.
‘He is also a great admirer of your former King Edward,’ Bedaux said. ‘He met him when Edward visited Germany in 1937. Hitler feels that if the Duke of Windsor were to become king again, Germany would be able to do business with Britain.’
‘I’m not sure that could ever happen,’ said Copthorne.
‘Couldn’t it?’ said Bedaux.
Alston met the American’s eyes, which didn’t flinch. Bedaux seemed unperturbed by Alston’s ravaged face.
‘Not with the current government,’ Alston said. ‘But there will never be peace as long as Chamberlain is Prime Minister. Probably not if Halifax was PM either.’
‘What about Sir Oswald Mosley? Hitler knows him.’
‘Oswald Mosley will never lead Britain,’ Alston said. ‘The British people are simply not fascists. The uniforms, the parades, the histrionics: they might suit the Germans or the Italians, but the average Englishman would run a mile. No, a government for peace in Britain would be very different. It would be pragmatic, sensible, patriotic in a low-key way, doing what is best for Britain. I also believe that the duke would make a good king for that kind of country. He has charm, much more than George, and a real connection with ordinary people.’
‘But what about the government? If not Oswald Mosley for Prime Minister, who?’
‘Lloyd George, probably. He is less fiery now he is an old man. He has stature in the country and he would promote peace with Germany in the right circumstances. Of course, he is in his late seventies, so he would need to have men around him to run the government.’
‘Men such as yourself?’ Bedaux asked. ‘I have heard good things about you.’
Alston smiled. ‘Possibly.’
Bedaux looked around the restaurant. No one was in earshot. ‘Something would need to change for such a government to come to power, wouldn’t it?’ he said.
‘Yes. Chamberlain would have to go.’
‘At some point – maybe next week, maybe next month, maybe next year – Germany will launch an offensive against France through Belgium and possibly Holland. It seems to me that there are two possible outcomes.’
Alston was listening closely.
Bedaux leaned forward, his boxer’s face animated. ‘One. The French and the British stop the Germans like they did in the last war, and there is a long, bloody stalemate. Chamberlain and his friends dig in; the war lasts for years. Not an ideal state of affairs.’
‘No.’
‘Two. The Germans punch through a weak spot in the French lines. The Allied armies crumble. The French are defeated. The British people realize they must get rid of their prime minister and their king, and make peace with Germany. The Germans make a fair peace with the British and a tough one with the French. The war is over. The killing stops and people like me can go back to peace and prosperity.’