Authors: Michael Ridpath
‘No! So isn’t McCaigue really in the secret service? You told me to go and see him.’
‘He is,’ said Conrad. ‘But I shouldn’t have trusted him.’
‘Oh,’ said Veronica. She glanced at Conrad. ‘I’m sorry, Conrad.’
Up ahead, a group of men had manhandled the van off the road and into a ditch, ignoring the remonstrances of its driver. A few minutes later the traffic began to move.
‘I can understand why you came over to Paris to find me,’ said Conrad. ‘But why did you persuade Isobel to give us her car?’
‘Major McCaigue told me to prevent you from getting to your father. He didn’t tell me why, he just said it was a question of utmost importance to the war effort. But actually I was worried about that man attacking us too. I wondered whether there was something in what you said. I mean, I know you, Conrad. You are about the most honest person I’ve met. So I thought I would help you get the car and keep a close eye on you to see what happened.’
Conrad stared out of the window over the flat green farmland, empty and peaceful compared to the clogged road on which they were stuck.
‘Conrad? What now?’
Strangely, Conrad didn’t feel anger towards Veronica. She had done what she thought was her duty. She had been pro-German, even pro-Nazi in her time, but now her country was at war, she was doing what she thought was the right thing. Wasn’t she?
‘I’ll give you the choice, Veronica,’ Conrad said. ‘If you believe that Hitler is evil, that Nazism is wrong and that Britain should fight it to the bitter end, then stay in the car and help me. If you think it would be wiser for our country to make peace with the Germans, if you think Hitler isn’t so bad really, then get out and go back to Paris. It’s your choice.’
He watched Veronica as she drove. To his amazement, a tear ran down her cheek. Veronica never cried.
She sniffed. ‘You were right all along, Conrad,’ she said. ‘You and people like Anneliese. And Winston Churchill. We were all so blind, people like me and Diana Mosley, and Unity Mitford and Freddie Copthorne and my father. We thought that Hitler was a little over-excitable and didn’t do things the British way, but he gave Germany just the kind of leadership it needed, and he was stopping Europe from becoming communist. And the uniforms were just divine.
‘The Nazis are horrid, beastly people, and I feel horrid and beastly for not realizing that before. So yes, I want to help you. I want to stop Sir Henry Alston. And I want to stop your father.’
Conrad looked at his former wife. She meant what she said.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘Now, let’s find him.’
They drove on, slowly, oh so slowly, rarely getting above walking pace. The verges were littered with broken-down cars, or vehicles that had simply run out of petrol. They passed one elderly and impeccably dressed couple eating a picnic lunch out of the boot of their Rolls-Royce. What was much more distressing were the old people, sitting or lying on the grass, exhausted. Conrad hoped their families hadn’t just left them there, but it appeared that they had.
There was a ripple of excitement in the column of traffic as a detachment of French tanks came barrelling along, heading for Paris. One way or another, everyone managed to get off the road to let them by, including the cows.
They had planned to stop in Chartres for a late lunch, but the city was crowded to overflowing. After an hour of battling through medieval streets, they emerged on the far side. Conrad examined the Michelin map that Marshall had provided them with. ‘Let’s get off the main road,’ he said. ‘I know these lanes are narrow and don’t go in a straight line, but they must be quicker than this.’
And they were. Not much quicker, but Conrad and Veronica were zigzagging their way south towards Tours, like a dinghy tacking against a stiff breeze. They stopped for half an hour for a pleasant picnic next to a small stream.
Conrad took over the wheel of the Cadillac. Afternoon turned to evening. ‘Shall we stop in Tours, or carry on?’ said Veronica.
‘I’m not sure,’ said Conrad. ‘I wonder where Father is staying.’
‘He can’t have gone much faster than us. But of course we don’t know what route he has taken.’
‘I bet there aren’t any hotel rooms free in Tours,’ said Conrad.
‘Do we sleep in the car, then?’ said Veronica.
Conrad looked again at the map. A hamlet caught his eye: Blancou. He had stayed at the Abbaye de Blancou once with his parents when he was a boy. It was the family home of a French banker whom his father knew well. It was a fair bit south of Tours, but not too distant from the main road.
If his father couldn’t find anywhere to stay en route, then he may well have decided to try his luck there. Worth a shot. Even if Lord Oakford wasn’t there, Conrad and Veronica might be able to beg a room. Conrad resigned himself to sleeping with his wife that night.
Conrad explained his idea to Veronica, who agreed they should give it a try. The problem was that the broad River Loire, with its limited number of bridges, created bottlenecks.
It was nearly midnight when they crossed. They decided to sleep in the car in a wood for a few hours and get up at dawn to continue their journey.
Veronica curled up on the back seat under a travel blanket. Should Conrad trust his ex-wife? Frankly, he didn’t have much choice. Slumping in the front of the car, Conrad listened to her gentle breathing, a familiar sound from a much simpler time.
Northern Spain
Theo examined the woman sitting opposite him in the second-class carriage through one slightly open eye. She was very attractive, dark – Theo usually preferred blondes – slim, but with a full bust under her black dress. Mid twenties, he would guess. A small girl was asleep on her lap. A widow, no doubt; there were plenty of young widows in Spain.
It was dark in the carriage, but he was pretty sure he saw her open one eye and study him.
Theo shut his own eye and told himself not to be so stupid. What would she want with a Yugoslav businessman named Petar Šalić who was travelling to France in search of his own wife?
The train journey from Madrid had been interminable. He was involved in a slow-motion pursuit of Otto Langebrück, who was travelling in a similar train under the name of Georges Braun, a Frenchman from Mulhouse in Alsace. Both Otto and Theo had brought false identities with them to Spain in case they were needed to travel to France. Otto spoke fluent French and could mimic a convincing Alsatian accent. Theo’s cover was much less secure. Theo’s French was not nearly good enough to pass as a native of any description, so he had used a Yugoslav passport. But he spoke no Serbo-Croat; he was sunk if by chance he came across a French official who did.
He was nervous about entering France in wartime. It was rare for German officers in the Abwehr, or any other agency for that matter, to operate on enemy territory. That’s what neutral countries and neutral agents were for. But France was in chaos, and Ribbentrop had decided that it was imperative that someone approach the Duke of Windsor immediately. Otto Langebrück was the man he had in mind. Theo had tried to insist that he travel with Otto, since at least he had training in espionage, but their covers were not compatible, and it was felt, rightly, that Otto would arouse less suspicion if he travelled alone. What clinched it was the news that the Duke of Windsor had left Paris for Biarritz, only a few kilometres over the Spanish border with France.
Theo’s bosses in the Abwehr were unhappy at the idea of the Duke of Windsor being persuaded to return to England, so Theo had been dispatched two hours after Otto, with instructions to dissuade him from talking to the duke. The hope was that if Otto and Theo could get to Biarritz before the duke, then Theo might be able to tell Otto he had been sent to warn him that the duke was travelling to his house at Antibes instead. If the Spanish trains had followed their timetables, that might have been possible, but it was becoming clear that Spanish trains never followed their timetables.
In which case Theo would have to think of another way of stopping Otto Langebrück.
Which would be a pity. Theo was growing to like the Rhinelander.
Extract from Lieutenant Dieter von Hertenberg’s Diary
24 May
Direct order from the Supreme Command. Halt. ‘Dunkirk to be left to the Luftwaffe. Should the capture of Calais prove difficult, this too should be left to the Luftwaffe.’ The order comes from Hitler himself and there is no explanation. When I handed the order to Guderian he couldn’t believe it. He wants to argue, but since there is no explanation, there is no logic to argue against. It makes no sense! The British Army are trapped and demoralized; we could capture the whole lot of them if only the Führer would let us.
I have seen Guderian’s
Achtung Panzer!
doctrine in action over the last couple of weeks. Keep moving, keep the enemy off balance. Well, the British are well and truly off balance, and now we are staying put and giving them time to regroup and reorganize!
At least it means some rest for some of us, although there is still fighting in Boulogne.
The Loire Valley, 24 May
The first bird woke Conrad. It was still dark, with just a glimmer of grey peeking through the trees to the east. He stretched and nudged Veronica, curled up on the back seat of the Cadillac. It was cold.
They shared some bread, cheese and Evian water for breakfast and were soon on their way. They made reasonable speed along the main road south of Tours. There were plenty of cars pulled over on to the verges for the night, and as dawn came, more and more of them started back on the road. But Conrad and Veronica were definitely making better progress than they had the day before.
‘Maybe we should keep going,’ said Veronica, who was driving. ‘Perhaps we could make Biarritz by tonight after all.’
‘Let’s check Blancou first,’ said Conrad. ‘It’s not too far out of our way.’
So they turned off the main road, but it took them half an hour of tiny country lanes before they came to a sign to the hamlet.
They turned left and descended into a wooded valley. Ahead of them, they could see the house, which was actually a small stone medieval abbey, clad in thick green ivy. A number of semi-ruined buildings lined one side of a dark fast-flowing stream. An ancient footbridge crossed the water to a lush green meadow dotted with a dozen or so cows. It was difficult to believe that this particular corner of France was at war.
‘It’s beautiful,’ said Veronica. ‘You came here as a boy?’
‘Just once when I was about twelve,’ said Conrad. ‘There are supposed to be wild boar in those woods. Father’s banker friend used to hunt them. Very exciting.’
‘Someone’s there,’ said Veronica. ‘And they are awake. There’s smoke coming out of that chimney.’
It was just after six. Early. Conrad’s hopes rose. If Lord Oakford was staying there, he would no doubt want an early start.
The road plunged down the side of the valley and they lost sight of the house. Five minutes later they came to a pair of ancient stone gateposts with no gate, and drove along a track past a lodge, which seemed to be inhabited. They turned a corner and there was the abbey. A large American car was parked in front of it, and in an open courtyard off to one side, by an open door, stood a table covered with a white tablecloth, around which three people were having breakfast.
They turned to stare at the approaching car. There was an old lady in a high-necked black dress and a shawl, whom Conrad didn’t recognize. There was his father. And there was Constance.
Conrad remembered that the concierge at the Meurice had mentioned a woman was present with the American picking up his father. That must be her.
‘What do we do?’ asked Veronica.
‘Just park the car and follow me,’ said Conrad.
Veronica pulled up next to the Packard, and they both got out. Conrad approached the table with a smile. In the quiet courtyard so early in the morning, the birdsong was extraordinary, like a welcoming overture. ‘Good morning, Father. Constance.’
‘What the devil are you doing here?’ Lord Oakford barked.
Conrad approached the old lady. ‘Madame de Salignac, I presume,’ he said in French. ‘We met many years ago, when I came to stay with you as a boy. I’m Conrad de Lancey, Lord Oakford’s son. And this is my wife, Veronica.’ For once, Conrad was not eager to disown Veronica as his ex-wife.
‘Delighted to see you again,’ said the lady, who was very old, very wrinkled, but had clear blue eyes. ‘Forgive me if I don’t get up.’ She indicated a walking stick. ‘But please join us. Cécile!’
A woman, just as old as her mistress but quite a bit fatter, shuffled out of the house, breathing heavily. ‘Please fetch these people some coffee.’
Lord Oakford glared at his son, his manners just getting the better of his desire to shout at him. ‘I thought you were in England,’ he said, in French.
Conrad continued the introductions, this time in English. ‘Veronica, this is Constance Scott-Dunton. Mrs Scott-Dunton murdered my sister last November.’
Constance, who had been playing along with the polite charade and had held her hand out towards Veronica, froze at this.
‘Don’t be absurd!’ snapped Oakford.
‘Excuse me for speaking English, Madame,’ said Conrad in French to his hostess. ‘But my wife doesn’t speak French.’
The old lady looked at Conrad sharply; her bright eyes seemed to be staring right into his soul. Conrad held her gaze. She nodded slightly.
‘That is absolute rot!’ said Oakford. ‘Your German friend Theo von Hertenberg killed Millie. You know that, you are just unwilling to accept it!’
Conrad sat down at the table, as did Veronica. ‘That’s not what Constance says,’ said Conrad.
Constance glared at Conrad. ‘I don’t what you mean.’
‘You told Anneliese Rosen that you had been to Holland on an errand for your lover, Sir Henry Alston. And you told her that you had killed someone there. That someone was my sister, Millie.’
‘Your Anneliese?’ said Oakford.
‘She’s certainly not my Anneliese,’ said Veronica.
‘You also told Anneliese about Alston’s plan to form a new government to discuss peace with the Germans. And that my father was on his way to France to fetch the Duke of Windsor.’