Authors: Michael Ridpath
Extract from Lieutenant Dieter von Hertenberg’s Diary
22 May
Ordered to head north. Advanced on Boulogne. Heavy fighting.
Hampstead Garden Suburb, London, 22 May
Anneliese got up at five-thirty to get an early bus back to her home in Hampstead Garden Suburb. She was frightened for Conrad, and a little concerned for herself. She was worried about the war, about Alston’s plan, and about what would happen to her own family if he succeeded. It was hard to imagine British anti-Semitism at the level of what was occurring in Germany. Yet in the 1920s Germany had been the most accommodating country in Europe for Jews. Things had changed there; they could change here.
But despite her worries, her fears, she felt
alive
. She could face this. Especially if she had Conrad she could face this.
It was a lovely morning. The birds were singing and a paper boy gave her a cheery greeting. She walked down the road to her little white cottage, thinking how similar this seemed to the tidy suburbs of Berlin. She passed an empty police car and two bicycles leaning against a hedge. The police in this country were just not as threatening as those in Germany, let alone the Gestapo. Despite what she had said to Conrad she couldn’t imagine a British Gestapo.
She noticed a group of four policemen ahead of her walking down the pavement looking at the houses. Perhaps one of the neighbours had had a burglary.
They stopped outside her house. Went through the gap in the hedge where the iron gate used to be. Rapped on the door.
It was only then that Anneliese realized what was happening. She halted. One of the policemen glanced up the street and saw her.
She turned and ran. There was a shout as they followed.
But this wasn’t Soho in the dark. This was an empty suburb in broad daylight. She darted to the left into a small wood, hoping to find somewhere to hide. But one of the policemen was young and very fast.
She reached the wood, but the trees were thinned and there were no bushes. She heard footsteps and panting closing in on her, and then hands on her shoulders knocking her to the ground.
She looked up to see a tall bobby several years younger than her getting to his feet. ‘Madam, you are under arrest,’ he said politely.
Bloomsbury, London
Conrad couldn’t get back to sleep after Anneliese had left. The fact that it hadn’t bothered him that he had stabbed his attacker twice the night before bothered him. The first thrust was understandable, unavoidable. The man was about to hit Veronica. But the second? With the second he had been trying to kill. Like it or not, he was a killer now. So much for all that pacifism. In 1940, if you turned the other cheek, your enemy would blast your head off from close range.
That’s just the way it was.
Had the attacker survived? It was possible; Conrad had no way of knowing. But he thought it highly unlikely that the man would finger Conrad as the person who had stabbed him. Unless he was some kind of officially sanctioned killer.
Which also seemed unlikely. Far more probable was that the man had been working for Alston. Alston had killed Freddie Copthorne and Millie. Why not Conrad? But had he had help? Help from ‘the authorities’, ‘the powers that be’, ‘the high-ups’?
Who were these people? Right-wing aristocrats like Freddie Copthorne? Confused pacifists like his father? The army? The police? The secret service?
Van?
Van was an old school friend of Lord Oakford. From what Conrad knew of him, he was famous for his anti-appeasement, anti-German foreign policy. But could he have been got at in some way?
And then there was the secret service. Naturally, Conrad knew next to nothing about them. In November his father had let slip that the head of the SIS had died and they were looking for a successor. Who was he? It couldn’t be McCaigue, could it?
Conrad had met four members of the SIS: Foley in Berlin, Payne Best and Stevens in Holland, and McCaigue in London. Foley was impressive. Payne Best and Stevens unimpressive. McCaigue seemed trustworthy, but could Conrad really be sure even of him?
And even if Alston had had no help, he was still dangerous. He could find himself another killer to go after Conrad. McCaigue had suggested Conrad return to his unit. Ironically, that would be the safest place to lie low. Conrad could leave it to McCaigue to wrap up Alston and his friends. But that was a tall order. Perhaps McCaigue could manage it, or perhaps the major himself would be the next victim: arrested, sidelined or even murdered. And if that happened, there would be no one to stop Alston.
Apart from Conrad. But what could he do? See his father for a start. Anneliese was right that he shouldn’t try to confront him with his treachery. But if Conrad approached him with the right degree of innocence, he might discover when Lord Oakford was leaving for France. Maybe McCaigue had already arrested him? Dreadful thought though that was, it was the best outcome to hope for.
Then he should go to see McCaigue. Tell him what had happened the night before and see if there was anything more constructive Conrad could do to help. Perhaps he should see Polly Copthorne himself, or telephone her, to find out more about the mysterious Parsons. And he should also drop in at the War Office to discuss armoured Bedford lorries, for Colonel Rydal’s sake as much as his own.
Conrad arrived at his family’s house in Kensington Square just before nine.
Williamson answered the door, with surprise and pleasure. ‘We weren’t expecting you, sir.’
‘Leave is becoming more and more unpredictable, Williamson. Is Father in?’
‘No, sir. He left for Paris this morning.’
‘Did he really?’ said Conrad. ‘What is he doing there?’
‘Government business of some kind, I believe. It all came up rather suddenly.’
‘Do you happen to know where he is staying?’
‘Presumably the Meurice, sir. If he gets a room. It’s where we usually stay. He promised to let me know.’
So Lord Oakford had left his valet behind and Williamson had missed out on a trip to Paris. Given what the newspapers were saying about the situation in France, he probably didn’t mind this time.
‘Is my mother here?’
‘No, her ladyship is at Chilton Coombe. Will you be staying?’
‘I don’t know, Williamson. But I’ll come in for now.’
Conrad thought he had done a reasonable job of registering only mild surprise in front of Williamson, but he was troubled. His father was already on his way to fetch the Duke of Windsor.
And what was Conrad going to do about that?
He went out into the garden at the back of the house. It was looking lovely; the wisteria was just popping out, as was the climbing rose on the back wall.
His father had to be stopped. And Conrad couldn’t trust anyone else to stop him.
If McCaigue could wrap up the plot in London, arresting Alston and whoever else was necessary, all well and good. Conrad couldn’t do much more about that. But he could stop his father. If he could get to Paris.
He went back into his father’s study and telephoned Thomas Cook’s. There were no seats on any commercial flights to Paris and the agent seemed to think he was a bit of a fool for thinking there might be. He would need official help, of the kind his father had no doubt had.
Who could get him a seat on an aeroplane? That day, preferably.
Van?
No.
McCaigue?
Possibly. Probably not. In fact McCaigue would be much more likely to forbid him from going to France.
Who then?
Conrad had an idea. He dialled a number in Suffolk, and asked to be put through to Colonel Rydal.
‘Rydal.’
‘Lieutenant de Lancey here.’
‘Ah, Mr de Lancey. Are you having any success?’
‘I’m making progress. But I need to get to France urgently. And I thought you might be able to help me.’
‘How could I do that?’
‘I don’t know. Send me as an advance party. Liaison officer. Or something.’
‘I will be in trouble enough for sending you to London as it is.’
‘It’s vital I get to Paris.’
‘Mr de Lancey, you told me it was vital you get to London.’
‘And it was!’ Conrad realized he was going to have to tell Rydal the truth. Or at least most of the truth. ‘Look, sir. An envoy has been sent to France to invite the Duke of Windsor to return to England and lead a new regime to make peace with Hitler. I know that envoy and I can stop him. But only if I fly to Paris today.’
‘Good God,’ said Colonel Rydal. ‘You are not exaggerating, are you?’
‘No, sir. These are desperate times.’
‘You are damn right there.’ There was silence for a few seconds. ‘I might have an idea. Give me your number and I’ll ring you back in half an hour.’
Conrad gave him the telephone number of the house in Kensington Square and waited, staring at the phone. As he sat there, his whole being focused on how to get to France. How to stop his father.
Half an hour passed. Thirty-five minutes. Then the phone rang.
‘De Lancey,’ Conrad answered.
‘This is Rydal.’ The name was familiar, the voice less so. ‘I’m with the Air Ministry. I understand you have been speaking to my brother.’
‘I have,’ said Conrad.
‘All right. Go straight to Hendon Aerodrome, taking only a light bag and your passport. When you get there ask for Squadron Leader Ebsworth and tell him who you are. He will put you on an aeroplane to Paris – there is a spare seat but it’s leaving at eleven-thirty so you will have to be quick. On no account tell anyone at all why you are going. If they ask, just say you are not at liberty to answer. That usually works.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘When you get to Paris, you’re on your own. And you will have to make your own way back.’
‘I understand. Thank you so much, sir.’
‘Thank my brother. He told me what you were doing, he had to, to get me to agree to help you.’
‘Of course.’
‘Good luck, de Lancey.’
It was just before ten. Conrad didn’t have much time to get to Hendon. No time to tell McCaigue, who would probably only try to stop him anyway, and certainly no time to go to the War Office. He would tell Williamson he was going back to his battalion. But he dialled Mrs Cherry’s telephone in Hampstead Garden Suburb.
The English voice at the other end was colder than usual. The German voice that replaced it a minute later was distraught. Anneliese’s mother.
‘Ach, Conrad,’ she said. ‘The police came and arrested Anneliese this morning. We don’t know why.’
Conrad felt cold. This was all too familiar. London was becoming Berlin.
There was nothing he could do for Anneliese, certainly not in the few minutes he had before he went to Hendon Aerodrome. This news just made it more important that he go to Paris. He gave Frau Rosen Major McCaigue’s telephone number, and told her to make sure Anneliese asked to speak to him. McCaigue should be able to get her out; Conrad was glad that he had introduced her to the intelligence officer the day before. With any luck she might not even spend one night behind bars.
At first Conrad assumed he knew why Anneliese had been arrested – because of her association with the Russian Tea Rooms. But then he wondered whether it had anything to do with the attempt on his own life the night before. Perhaps Alston and Constance had discovered that she was on to them.
Either way, the best thing Conrad could do was foil Alston. He ran upstairs, changed into a suit, packed a couple of shirts into a small bag and set out for the High Street in the hope of finding a taxi.
Hendon Aerodrome, Middlesex
Squadron Leader Ebsworth watched the de Havilland Flamingo transport plane bearing its collection of VIPs and hangers-on heave itself off the runway at RAF Hendon into the skies, bound for Le Bourget. This was the second flight to Paris so far that morning. There was a lot of toing and froing between Hendon and France these days. The Prime Minister himself was due to return from Paris that afternoon after a two-day trip to see his French opposite number.
The panic was palpable. It was in the faces of the politicians and the staff officers. It was in the papers carried in the briefcases that they clutched so tightly. At times they seemed to Ebsworth like hens in a chicken run running back and forth with nowhere to hide from the fox outside, who was rapidly digging his hole underneath the wire.
‘Message from the ministry, sir.’
‘Thank you, corporal.’ Ebsworth took the piece of paper and examined it. It was from Rydal at the Air Ministry: Please tell Lieutenant de Lancey to cancel his mission and travel to Southampton docks immediately to join up with his unit.
Too late. Ebsworth scribbled out a quick reply informing Rydal de Lancey was already in the air. He wondered briefly what the lieutenant’s mission was, and why he was in mufti, not uniform. It was a secret of course, but then wasn’t everyone’s business these days?
Just another chicken.
Regent’s Park, London
Alston strolled through the park, trying to maintain his nonchalance. He had telephoned Constance earlier that morning; she hadn’t heard back from Joe Sullivan, but she was sure that Sullivan would have successfully dealt with de Lancey.
Arthur Oakford was on his way to France. He had dined with his old friend Edward Halifax the evening before, and Halifax had intimated that he was ready to press Churchill on making overtures to Hitler for peace, probably via the Italians. Oakford was confident the issue would split the Cabinet, leaving it vulnerable to the shove which the Duke of Windsor’s arrival in the country would provide.
Not long now.
But long enough for the British Expeditionary Force in France to be destroyed.
Alston was approaching the rose garden and once again saw the Swedish banker. He realized that that was probably a mistake. For them to bump into each other several times in the same park was possible, for it to be in the same place in the same park was too much of a coincidence.
They spent the obligatory minute smiling, shaking hands and moving off together.