Authors: Michael Ridpath
‘I have an important message for Joachim,’ Alston began.
It only took three minutes for Alston to convey what he wanted to convey, and then, after agreeing a different spot to meet in the park next time, the two men split up.
Alston walked briskly south to Pall Mall and his club, where Major McCaigue was waiting for him. Armed with a sherry each, they found a corner of the library.
‘Your man was Joe Sullivan, wasn’t he?’ said McCaigue.
Alston nodded imperceptibly.
‘Sullivan was found stabbed in Mayfair last night. He died before they could get him to hospital.’
‘That’s unfortunate,’ said Alston. Damned unfortunate! ‘Any news of de Lancey?’
‘Yes. We have been following him. He is currently on his way to Paris on a flight from Hendon.’
‘How the devil did he manage that?’
‘Special orders from the Air Ministry. There can only be one reason why he has gone to Paris.’
‘To catch up with his father and try to stop him,’ said Alston. ‘Is there anything you can do about it?’
‘I can’t do anything obvious,’ said McCaigue. ‘But I can get someone on to him.’
‘Good. Do that. I wish Sullivan had done what he was paid to do. De Lancey should be dead.’
‘Quite so,’ said McCaigue.
Three hours later, Alston poured Constance a cup of tea at his flat. She was uncharacteristically quiet; Sullivan’s death had shaken her.
‘De Lancey has to be stopped,’ said Constance. ‘Before he gets to his father.’
‘I know,’ said Alston.
‘Can’t your friend in the secret service do something?’
‘He says he can keep an eye on him, but if he were to use his contacts to get de Lancey killed it would raise questions. At the moment his colleagues think de Lancey is a Russian spy and they aren’t listening to him. If they become suspicious of McCaigue it might blow the whole plan.’
On balance, Alston believed McCaigue’s caution was justified. It had been useful to have a man on the inside in the SIS and his support had been valuable. Pinning Millie de Lancey’s death on the German spy Hertenberg. Calling the police off their investigation into Freddie’s street accident. Keeping de Lancey out of the way. And numerous useful titbits of information that had come the SIS’s way and that McCaigue had passed on to Alston.
Alston owed McCaigue. When he became a leading member of a sensible pro-German government he would be happy to make good that debt.
But he couldn’t make McCaigue kill de Lancey.
‘Do you know anyone else who would do it?’ he asked Constance. ‘Any other ex-Nordic League thugs?’
‘Not really,’ said Constance. ‘Joe was always the best bet. I don’t know how we can get hold of someone, tell them to drop everything and get over to Paris immediately. You must have contacts in Paris?’
‘Yes. Bankers. Businessmen. The odd politician. No one who could organize what we want done.’ Except Charles Bedaux; that was just the kind of thing he might well be able to deal with. But Alston knew Bedaux had left Paris on a mission for the French government in Spain and North Africa, and was now in Madrid. ‘It would take a while to set up. A few days at least. And we don’t have a few days.’
Alston was finding the tension difficult to control. On the one hand success seemed so close. On the other, Conrad de Lancey seemed about to ruin everything. At least he was able to share his frustration with Constance, to let his habitual mask of impassive confidence slip for a few moments.
They sat in silence, Constance sipping her tea with a look of intense determination. ‘I’ll do it,’ she said. ‘Get me to France and I’ll stop de Lancey.’
Madrid
Theo and Otto Langebrück waited in the opulent lobby of the Ritz Madrid. Langebrück had turned out to be a much more congenial travel companion than Theo had imagined. He was a Rhinelander, about Theo’s age, widely read, and a Francophile – much more intelligent than his boss, Ribbentrop. This last was a good and a bad thing. Mostly a bad thing.
Theo had never been to Spain before. Like Holland until very recently, Spain was a neutral country, but there the similarities ended. Holland had enjoyed over a century of peace and prosperity. Spain, and Madrid in particular, had been torn apart by years of civil war. Half-destroyed buildings were everywhere, and the people still had a haunted look about them, even in the spring sunshine. Theo wondered whether Berlin would ever look like that; he couldn’t imagine it would.
Conrad had been involved in fighting around Madrid, Theo knew, although he had never got to grips with the intricacies of the civil war and who had fought whom where. The whole city was humbling; a reminder of what war, real war not the
Sitzkrieg
, could do.
‘Theo! How good to see you!’ Theo stood up to greet the familiar, ebullient person of Charles Bedaux. He introduced Langebrück. ‘Can we find somewhere more discreet to talk?’ Bedaux asked.
‘I know a place,’ said Theo, who led Bedaux to a quiet café he had reconnoitred earlier, over the Paseo del Prado in a side street a hundred metres from the hotel. It was a while since he had seen the Franco-American, who had been spending time in Spain securing steel supplies for French armaments factories, and in Morocco finding coal for the Spanish steel mills.
The three men sat in a rear corner of the café and ordered wine. ‘I was pleased to see that your general staff took notice of my friend’s observations on the state of the French lines,’ said Bedaux.
Theo smiled. ‘They did. With extraordinary results.’
‘It looks as if my time here will prove to be a waste,’ said Bedaux.
‘I hope so,’ said Theo. ‘But I am sure that if France is defeated your talents will still be of use to my country.’
‘As you know, I am always willing to make things work better,’ said Bedaux. ‘It’s what I do.’
‘After France comes England,’ said Langebrück. ‘And that is what Hertenberg and I have come to speak to you about.’ Since Langebrück had never met Bedaux, Theo’s role was to introduce him. And to listen to what was said and report back to Canaris.
‘Very good,’ said Bedaux, lighting a cigar.
‘You know my boss, Herr von Ribbentrop, I believe?’
‘Very well.’
‘I understand that you have discussed the Duke of Windsor with him before?’
‘I have indeed. In fact I met with him and Herr Hitler to discuss the duke in November in Berlin.’
‘Well, following our successes in France, both the Führer and Herr Ribbentrop think the time is right for a change in the government in Britain. They know that there is a significant element of the British people, especially those in the higher reaches of society, who believe that the time has come for peace. Further, they believe that the Duke of Windsor would provide these people with the leadership they need to give their cause legitimacy. If he were king again, Germany could work with Britain as an ally rather than an enemy.’
‘That was the point I made to Herr Hitler in November,’ said Bedaux.
‘What we are not sure of, is how the duke himself would react to such a suggestion. You know him well. What’s your opinion?’
Bedaux puffed at his cigar. ‘That’s a good question. I have discussed it with him in the past, indirectly. The duke is well disposed towards Germany and Herr Hitler, but he loves his country and would not dream of doing anything that seemed to be betraying it. Which means that the impetus to do what you are suggesting must come from the British and not from Germany.’
‘Could you persuade him?’ asked Langebrück.
‘I could suggest it, but no more than that,’ said Bedaux. ‘Do you know Sir Henry Alston? He’s a British politician.’
‘Herr Ribbentrop knows him well,’ said Langebrück. ‘We have been communicating with him through intermediaries.’
‘I believe that Sir Henry’s intentions are that the duke should be invited to return to England.’
‘Like William of Orange in the seventeenth century?’ said Theo. ‘Invited by Parliament to become king?’
‘Something like that,’ said Bedaux. ‘I heard from Alston yesterday that they are sending an important figure in the House of Lords to Paris to talk to him.’
‘Do you know who that is?’ said Theo.
‘Lord Oakford. A former Cabinet minister.’
Theo couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Conrad’s father? He knew the old soldier was a pacifist, but surely he couldn’t have thrown his lot in with Alston.
‘You look surprised, Theo,’ said Bedaux. ‘Do you know Lord Oakford?’
‘Yes. I think I met him several years ago,’ said Theo, doing his best to recover his composure. Bedaux was sharp; he noticed everything.
‘I’m glad to hear that,’ said Langebrück to Bedaux. ‘I understand what you say about the invitation coming from the English. But is there anything we can do to make his decision easier? Money perhaps? Anything else he wants that we can promise him?’
Bedaux considered a moment, savouring his cigar. ‘The duke is always concerned about money,’ he said. ‘His wife has expensive tastes, and the duke no longer has a kingdom to rely on.’
Langebrück nodded. ‘Anything else?’
‘He is always worried about Wallis. Her safety. Her material comfort. And particularly her status. For example, I believe that what most upsets him about his treatment by his brother is King George’s refusal to allow Wallis to be called Her Royal Highness.’ Bedaux grinned. ‘As a good American citizen, I cannot understand it, but I never underestimate it.’ He nodded. ‘Yes. Money and Wallis. Those are the keys to the duke.’
Paris
Paris was oddly quiet, as though it were an early Sunday morning rather than a Wednesday afternoon. There were few cars in the streets, and of those many were stuffed full of people and their worldly goods, refugees from the north. Several bore the red-and-white number plates of Belgium. People walked fast, faces taut, hurrying from place to place, making arrangements, gathering possessions, preparing to flee. The sun was shining, but in the cafés few if any of the patrons were sitting back watching the world go by, as was their habit. They leaned forward over their cups of coffee, puffed at cigarettes, frowned, conversed earnestly. A good number of the city’s population had left already, and the rest were thinking about it.
But when Conrad walked through the doors of the Hôtel Meurice on the rue de Rivoli, it was like entering another world of hushed, unhurried calm. Conrad had stayed there a couple of times with his parents when he was growing up. It was grand, in a restrained way, without the opulence or the
joie de vivre
of the Ritz.
Conrad strode up to the reception desk. ‘Good afternoon,’ he said in English. ‘I’d like to see Lord Oakford, please.’ They liked to speak to their English guests in their own language at the Meurice.
‘I am afraid that Lord Oakford left the hotel an hour or so ago, sir. Is he expecting you?’
‘No, he isn’t. But I heard he was in Paris and I thought I would drop by. Will he be here for dinner, do you know?’
‘And who are you, may I ask?’
‘I’m his nephew,’ said Conrad. This seemed less likely to scare his father than admitting that he was his son. Puzzle him, perhaps. Lord Oakford had two nephews: Stefan in Hamburg currently serving in the Wehrmacht, and Tom who was seventeen and living in Shropshire.
‘Ah, I see.’ The clerk checked a book. ‘No, he doesn’t have a reservation for dinner here this evening, but he is staying with us tonight. Shall I tell him you were looking for him?’
‘No, don’t do that,’ said Conrad with a smile. ‘I’d like to surprise him. I’ll try him later.’
It sounded as if Lord Oakford had gone straight to the Meurice, taken a room and headed out again. Presumably to see the duke. But where?
If the duke worked normal hours, then he would be at the British Mission at French general headquarters at Vincennes, a few miles to the east of Paris. Or he could be at home. It seemed unlikely that Oakford would try to approach the duke at the British Mission – much too public. Better to see him at home. Conrad had taken a note of the address when he was in Paris the previous November: 24 boulevard Suchet, out by the bois de Boulogne.
He decided to head out there. If he was lucky, he would find his father waiting for the duke. If he was unlucky he would be too late and Lord Oakford would already have spoken to him. No time to lose then.
The Métro was working well, and boulevard Suchet turned out to be a long road stretching along the edge of the bois de Boulogne from the Porte d’Auteuil Métro station. It was nearly a mile to number 24. Conrad strolled past, checking for signs of his father lurking in a vehicle or on the street, but he couldn’t see any. The house itself looked quiet.
Conrad hesitated. Should he wait for his father to show up? He might get a chance to intercept him before he reached the front door. But what if the duke wasn’t at home? Or was out for the whole day and evening? What if his father met him somewhere in the middle of town? Conrad would have wasted valuable time.
Somehow he needed to find out the duke’s movements.
So he climbed the steps to the imposing front door and rang the bell.
A very tall, very English-looking butler answered the door.
‘I wish to speak to my uncle, Lord Oakford,’ said Conrad in English.
‘Lord Oakford is not here, sir,’ said butler. ‘He called this morning to see His Royal Highness, but I informed him that His Royal Highness is not in residence at the moment, and so he left.’
‘Pity,’ said Conrad. ‘Where is the duke, might I enquire?’
The butler raised his eyebrows. ‘I am not at liberty to say, sir.’
The man did not look bribable, but Conrad was desperate. He reached into his pocket for his wallet.
The butler glared down his nose at Conrad, turned and shut the door in his face, leaving Conrad on the street feeling like a heel.
Where to now?
It was possible that the butler would have been more forthcoming to Lord Oakford, a peer of the realm and a former Cabinet minister. In which case, his father would know where the duke was, and would be heading there now. So Conrad had to find out the whereabouts of the duke, and quickly.
Fruity Metcalfe! Of course there was a good chance he might be with his master, but there was also a chance he might not, and it was the only chance Conrad had. So he retraced his steps to the Métro and headed for the Ritz.