The Quality of Mercy (5 page)

Edward was taken aback though he ought not to have been. Verity was always seen as his weak link, at least as far as secrecy and his patriotism were concerned. As a Communist and a journalist, she would always be suspect but Edward would never contemplate giving her up on that account. In his book, loyalty to one’s friends stood above any other loyalty.

‘She knows I undertook an investigation for Special Branch.’

‘Did she give you her blessing?’ Liddell asked sarcastically.

‘She understood that I had to do what I could to defend my country. She
is
a patriot but her idea of what is good for this country may not always be the same as the government’s.’ He knew he sounded pompous but it was the truth. ‘She takes the view that Special Branch has a particular bias against Communists while ignoring the danger from the right.’

Liddell coughed. ‘It is true we needed to combat subversive Bolshevik activities in Britain – still do for that matter. I had better tell you, in the strictest confidence of course, that we have just arrested Percy Glading, the CPGB’s National Organizer. He was working directly for the Kremlin. You know the Communist Party has a clandestine wireless station in Wimbledon? No? Well, believe me when I say that the Party is acting under direct instruction from Moscow.’

‘But . . .’

‘I know. I am sure Miss Browne is quite unaware of it. It’s for you to decide whether you want to open her eyes to what the Comrades are up to but, of course, there must be no mention of your source. Anyway, you can tell her that for the last three years most of our energies have been devoted to preparing for the war with Germany.’

Edward cheered up. ‘Why has it taken so long? Why has Mr Churchill been a lone voice warning of German rearmament?’

Liddell shrugged. ‘The politicians posture but our duty is to plan for the worst.’

Throughout the conversation, Edward realized, Liddell had assumed that he would do what he was asked to do and it came to him that he was no longer an amateur – a dabbler – choosing what he would or would not investigate but a government agent. His orders might be phrased as requests but they were in reality commands. The knowledge pleased him as much as it surprised him. Quite without meaning to, he had drifted into a line of work for which he had a taste and, he was beginning to think, a gift.

Liddell was still talking about Verity. ‘Did you know that she will be back in England by the end of the week?’

‘I didn’t but, from what I hear on the wireless, the situation in Austria is very tense. I assumed her days in Vienna were numbered. I mean,’ he corrected himself, ‘as a known Communist she will be in considerable danger when the Nazis take over and the sooner she is back in London the happier I will be.’

‘Lord Weaver has ordered her to leave, at least until her safety can be assured.’ Lord Weaver was the proprietor of the
New Gazette
and Verity’s employer. ‘As soon as the Nazis establish themselves in the city, the Jews will be rounded up and sent to camps and the Communists with them, if they are not shot.’

Liddell sounded so matter-of-fact it chilled Edward’s blood but not for one moment did he doubt that what he said was true.

‘I’m told she’s bringing an interesting young Jew with her – a man called Georg Dreiser. Find out if he has anything of interest to tell us. I rather doubt it, but you never know.’

‘Yes, Miss Browne asked me to write a letter promising to support him financially until he could support himself. You know that thousands of Jews are being condemned to death because the British Embassy won’t give them visas without such letters?’

For the first time Liddell looked uncomfortable. ‘We could be swamped if we let in everyone who wanted to come here.’

‘If by some miracle we win this war, we shall not easily be forgiven for our indifference.’

‘We are doing our best,’ Liddell said coldly. ‘Relief measures are being discussed.’

‘So, that’s all? You simply want me to find out what Miss Browne’s Jew knows?’ Edward spoke scathingly but he was angry and ashamed – for his country and for himself. He would continue to live his comfortable life while men, women and children were thrown into concentration camps and murdered. It was intolerable. He had to do more but he felt so impotent.

‘Not quite. There’s someone else I want you to get to know. I want you to find a way of meeting a German called Heinrich Braken. He was until recently one of Hitler’s intimates but he seems to have disgraced himself and is now in London – at Claridge’s.’

‘Braken? I’ve never heard of him.’

‘He was a friend of Hitler’s back in the twenties and although he has never been given any political power, for a long time he was intimate with the great man.’ Liddell’s voice was acid. ‘You might say he was Hitler’s court jester. Then he was put in charge of the foreign press. He spent time in America and speaks perfect American. But now he has fallen out of favour. We don’t quite know why. He could be useful and it would certainly annoy Hitler if he were to come over to us.’

‘I see. How will I meet him?’

‘That’s up to you but he has friends in London – the Mitfords, Harold Nicolson, Randolph Churchill – that set. Oh, and that young American, Stuart Rose, knows him.’

‘And what exactly do you want from me that you can’t ask Rose to do?’

‘Rose is American, homosexual and a Communist. To be any one of those rules him out,’ Liddell reproved him. ‘Find out Braken’s intentions. Make him feel safer in London than he would be in Berlin. He could be very useful to us. He knows – if anyone does – what makes Hitler tick.’

‘What can I promise him?’

‘You can tell him we’ll look after him. Find out what he wants.’

‘How do I report to you?’

‘You don’t. I will make myself known to you when I want to.’

‘But in an emergency . . .?’

‘There won’t be an emergency but, if you have to, ring this number.’ Liddell scribbled on the back of an envelope and gave it to Edward. ‘Just say “Putzi” and then ring off without waiting for an answer. Someone will contact you.’

‘Putzi? Why Putzi?’

‘Didn’t I say? It’s Braken’s nickname. By the way, how’s your German?’

‘Not fluent yet.’

‘Putzi’s not.’

‘Not what?’

‘A little fellow – that’s what it means – Putzi. He’s built like a carthorse.’

‘Is there anything else I ought to know about him?’

‘We know for a fact that he slept with Joan Miller – but who hasn’t? You’ve met her?’

‘I’ve seen her but we’ve not yet been introduced.’ Edward was puzzled. ‘She was Putzi’s mistress in Vienna while she was married to Mandl?’

‘Yes, do I shock you?’ Liddell sounded amused. ‘But it was in Berlin, not Vienna.’

‘Does her husband know?’ Edward thought it might account for Mandl’s look of discontent.

‘Mandl permitted it, I think. I’m not sure why. Perhaps because he wanted to get close to the Führer.’

Edward shook his head in mock concern. ‘What will it do for my reputation if I befriend Putzi? I don’t want to shock my friends. They think it’s bad enough . . . Well, be that as it may . . .’

‘No, you are right. It is important you do not act out of character. You mustn’t “like” Putzi too obviously. You’ve got to make him want to know you. Show him you despise him. He’s the most awful snob so it shouldn’t be difficult. Whatever you do, don’t act “furtive”. The mysterious manner engenders distrust. A frank, open approach gains confidence. You can joke and talk a great deal and still say nothing. Now you must get back to the party before you are missed.’

‘May I ask how much Mountbatten knows?’

‘Dickie’s a good man but he likes to talk. Tell him nothing. Tell no one anything. The curse of this job is that you are on your own. It’s a lonely life.’

After lunch, at which Liddell did not appear, Edward slipped out of the drawing-room and went on to the terrace to smoke. The air was fresh but there was some warmth in the sun. He leant on the balustrade and contemplated the scenery. Beyond the lawn, the Test shimmered in the sunshine decorated with several pairs of swans. It was a sight, he thought, to calm the most troubled soul. ‘Capability’ Brown had laid out the grounds and in the process had altered the course of the river so that it would flow closer to the house. For a keen fisherman the Test was holy and Edward was wondering if he could ever get himself invited to take a rod when he caught a glimpse of a figure in a fur coat at the other end of the balustrade. It was Joan Miller. She, too, was staring at the view but, Edward guessed, seeing nothing of it. Her beautiful face was expressionless but for some reason he pitied her. Maybe it was her almost palpable loneliness.

She was smoking a cigarette through a long white holder and the faint scent of Balkan Sobranie wafted towards him. She ignored him. He had no wish to break into her reverie and, tossing away his cigarette, prepared to go back inside. A husky, dark voice redolent of the soft Austrian of her native land halted him.

‘How do I escape this world?’ she demanded of no one in particular with all the drama of Garbo.

For a moment Edward wondered if she was considering suicide. ‘Escape? Why do you need to escape? Most women would envy you and most men . . .’

‘Lust after me? Is that what you would say?’

‘You are very beautiful,’ Edward found himself admitting.

‘But you did not know who I was? I saw you asking your friend.’

‘I’m afraid I rarely go to the pictures, Miss Miller.’ He knew he sounded sententious if not censorious. The actress gave a little shrug of dismissal as if to say this was his loss not hers.

‘What right have I to be sad, you ask?’ Though he had not. ‘It is true I am not rich but my husband is. My jewels belong to Madame Mandl the hostess, not to me. My husband does all his business at the dinner table – that is why he is here, making himself pleasant to Lord Louis. He thinks that even now – on the eve of war – he can sell armaments to the British navy. Have you heard of the Oerlikon gun?’

‘No.’ Edward was surprised to find her so communicative.

‘It’s Swiss. Mandl says it’s much superior to the half-inch Vickers. I tell him the British navy will never buy from him and, if they did, the Führer would not be best pleased but he is so greedy. Apparently the Oerlikon fires a shell which can penetrate the armour of a U-boat and it fires at a rate of five hundred rounds a minute.’

‘You seem to know a lot about it.’

‘I’m not a fool, Lord Edward,’ she said sharply.

‘I never thought you were but . . .’

‘I’ve had to listen to him trying to sell it at so many dinner tables, I could repeat his whole spiel word for word but I’ll spare you.’ She smiled thinly.

‘Is it your husband you wish to escape? Does he treat you badly?’

‘If you mean does he hit me, no, he does not. He could not afford to have his beautiful wife appear with a bruise on her cheek. The bruise is on my heart.’

Despite the drama in her voice, Edward was surprised to find that he believed her.

‘He keeps you captive?’

‘Yes. He wants me to return with him to Austria – or rather the new German Reich. Mandl is useful to Hitler.’

‘But you don’t want to go?’

‘When I was in Hollywood last year, Mr Mayer . . . you have heard of him . . . ?

‘Louis B. Mayer – the MGM mogul?’ Edward was rather pleased to recognize the name.

‘It was Mr Mayer who changed my name to Joan Miller. He promised me a film contract but Helmut insists I return with him to Vienna. He hopes I will fascinate Herr Hitler but I hate the lot of them. Do you know, in Vienna we eat off solid gold plates? But the food tastes of dust and ashes.’

Edward was tempted to laugh, but he again felt that, behind the language of some cheap Hollywood film, a genuine passion lurked. She turned on him for the first time the full force of her beauty. He thought he understood why she so rarely looked directly at a man because, when she did, there was something in her eyes which transfixed him. He was not in the least attracted to her sexually but he would, he knew, do anything he could to please her.

‘So, why not leave him? Walk away.’

‘I cannot. My little girl is in Vienna. You understand? She is surety for my good behaviour. If I walked away, as you put it, I would never see my baby again.’

‘Why are you telling me all this, Miss Miller – I mean Frau Mandl?’ he demanded, a trifle resentfully.

‘You can call me Joan,’ she commanded him with regal benevolence.

‘Why tell me all this, Joan? You don’t know me. I might report this conversation to your husband.’

‘I don’t know you but I know of you. I know you are a friend to my friend Georg Dreiser . . .’

‘You’re a friend of his? I have never met him but I was happy to support his application to come to England. I repeat, why tell me all this?’ Edward was suddenly angry. He did not need to hear this strange woman’s sob story.

‘I saw you and knew you were an English gentleman,’ she answered coldly. ‘Was I wrong?’

He relented enough to say, ‘I promise I’ll think about what you have told me and how I can help. I suppose you can’t go to Lord Louis?’

‘No, he and Helmut are business associates. I could not expect him to help me. I don’t imagine he will want to – what is it you say? – rock the boat.’

‘No, quite. By the way, before you were married, what was your name?’

‘Hedwig Kiesler.’

‘You are sure your husband does not love you? Before lunch I saw him looking at you. His gaze was so intense.’

‘He does not love me. He loves to
possess
me. He has mistresses but I don’t mind that. He hates me. He uses me to impress his friends and business colleagues. I am – what do they call it? – a trophy of his success and if I humiliated him by running away . . . I think he would hunt me down and kill me. I could not leave my baby in his care. You understand?’

‘When you get back to Vienna you must hire a lawyer . . .’

‘He
owns
lawyers . . . I could never get away that way. But you are right, what can you do? An English gentleman . . .’ The scorn in her voice made him wince.

‘Let me think about it . . .’ Edward repeated, not wanting to get involved in what was by no stretch of imagination his business but compelled against his will to do her bidding. ‘Tell me – how did you meet him?’