Shadows of War (8 page)

Bedaux was always fizzing with ideas, and he had a good one. A great one. Which was why he had had a number of discreet conversations in Holland over the previous few weeks, and why he had travelled to Berlin.

An enormous supercharged black Mercedes with two little swastika flags fluttering on its front fenders pulled up outside the hotel, disgorging uniformed lackeys on to the pavement. The elegant, trim figure of Joachim von Ribbentrop stepped out of the vehicle, wearing a uniform now war had started. Bedaux thought Ribbentrop was a pompous ass, but he was also Bedaux’s best friend in the Nazi hierarchy. Ribbentrop had been a champagne salesman before becoming a Nazi politician and, like all salesmen, he just wanted to be loved. Bedaux was good at giving him the love.

‘Great to see you, Joachim,’ said Bedaux, pumping the Foreign Minister’s hand. Ribbentrop was proud of his English, which was much better than Bedaux’s German.

‘I’m glad you could make it,’ said Ribbentrop. ‘How did you get here?’

‘Via Brussels and Cologne,’ said Bedaux.

‘Hop in,’ said Ribbentrop. It was no distance to the Chancellery, but Bedaux hadn’t been about to turn down a lift from Ribbentrop, and he guessed that Ribbentrop wanted the credit for producing his star American contact.

‘I heard about the bomb last night,’ Bedaux said. ‘I was expecting Herr Hitler to cancel our meeting.’

‘Not at all,’ said Ribbentrop. ‘He is very eager to speak to you. In fact, it is thanks to this meeting that he had to leave the beer hall early. So you could say he has something to be grateful for.’

‘I think he will find what I have to say interesting.’

‘I am sure he will,’ said Ribbentrop.

They drove the short distance down Wilhelmstrasse in two minutes: other vehicles were quick to make way for them. Bedaux had never been inside the new Reich Chancellery building before, which dominated the smaller, older Chancellery next door, abandoned a year earlier. The Mercedes nosed its way into a courtyard and the car doors were swiftly opened. Bedaux and the Foreign Minister climbed some steps and then passed through massive bronze doors to a series of reception rooms and a very long corridor. It was quite a hike to Hitler’s office, and their footsteps echoed on the marble floor as they strode past columns, statues, mosaics, tapestries and rigid black-uniformed and white-gloved SS guards. By the time he had reached Hitler’s outer office, Bedaux was in awe. Which he realized was exactly the effect the building was supposed to have on a visitor.

They were ushered straight into a massive room, at the far end of which was an oversized desk under a portrait of Prince Otto von Bismarck, the Prussian who had unified Germany.

The Führer himself was walking towards Bedaux, clad not in the brown tunic which he had habitually worn before the outbreak of war, but in a simple field-grey uniform with a swastika on his arm and an iron cross at his chest.

Bedaux stood to attention and thrust out his right arm. When in Rome salute as the Romans do. ‘
Heil Hitler!
’

Hitler acknowledged the American’s salute, and smiled. ‘Welcome to Berlin, Mr Bedaux. Thank you for coming. I am most anxious to hear what you have to report.’

Leiden

Theo sat in the café and ordered his third cup of coffee. At least they still had decent coffee in Holland, compared to the muck that had been served in Germany for the last couple of years. He had the perfect seat, back to the wall with a clear view through the window to the Rapenburg Canal and the gates of the old Leiden University Academy on the other side.

He should spot Conrad approaching the building. More importantly, in the five minutes or so it would take Conrad to find Professor Hogendoorn and be guided back to the café, Theo would be able to check whether Conrad was being followed.

If Conrad showed up. Theo would be patient. Professor Hogendoorn was trustworthy, in his way. He was pro-German and, although he was not actually a member of the Dutch National Socialist Party, pro-Nazi, which was why he was willing to help the Abwehr. Theo would have to be very careful that Hogendoorn never overheard Theo or Conrad’s true views on the Party.

It was vital that Theo get to Conrad before he met Schämmel. Conrad hadn’t specified the timing of his rendezvous with the fake captain, and Theo just had to hope that the British hadn’t betrayed Theo’s fellow conspirators already. Ironically, Conrad himself was the most vulnerable to Schellenberg’s stratagem. Neither Payne Best nor Stevens would know anything about the real Wehrmacht officers’ conspiracy against Hitler, whereas Conrad probably knew as much as anyone in Britain. He knew names, and he knew many of the details of the carefully planned coup of the previous year. Theo was glad that he had warned Conrad about the leaks in the British Embassy and Passport Control Office. Indeed the Abwehr had just received a report about the arrival of Conrad in Holland via their man in the British Embassy.

But Schellenberg was a wily operator, at least according to Canaris, who should know. Until Theo had the opportunity to warn Conrad that Schämmel was bait, he couldn’t be sure that Schellenberg wouldn’t tempt something out of him. Theo wondered what the British would do once they knew they were being played by the Gestapo. The obvious thing would be to break off negotiations right away. But intelligence services didn’t often do the obvious thing. If Canaris were in charge, he would probably entice Schellenberg to London, and then expose him as a Gestapo spy there. Theo smiled. Schellenberg was dangerous: that would be the perfect way to get rid of him.

It was good to be working with Conrad again. They had had a lot in common when they met at Oxford. Theo came from a long line of soldiers who lived in a rural corner of Prussia where honour and duty to the Fatherland were paramount. But rather than go straight into the army, he had won a Rhodes Scholarship to Oxford. He had loved it there: he was a social success; he charmed men and women alike. With Conrad he had argued late into the night about social injustice, Indian independence and peace. After the crash of 1929 it was clear that the world was broken and Conrad and Theo were determined to fix it, once they had thrashed out exactly how.

After Oxford their paths had diverged. Although they were both disillusioned by the idealism they saw all around them, be it Nazism in Theo’s case, or socialism in Conrad’s, those long discussions into the night at university gave them a common sense of what was right and what was wrong. Which was vital in a world gone mad.

In less than a week, perhaps General Halder would do what he should have done the previous year, and restore sanity. Then, careful plans had been drawn up, with Theo at the heart of them. This time Theo hadn’t been involved, but from what he could see, there had been much less preparation. That might be because Halder was assuming that those who had been involved before would know what to do from their earlier instructions. Or that in wartime a conspiracy was more obviously treachery.

Or it might just be that Halder didn’t really intend to go through with it after all. It was amazing how paralysed even the best generals could be without anyone to give them orders.

Where was Conrad? It was past noon. Students on foot and on bicycles passed back and forth along the Rapenburg, but none of them was his English friend. Perhaps Conrad hadn’t got the message. He could easily be meeting Schämmel at that very moment. Perhaps he had received Hogendoorn’s message and ignored it. Or perhaps he had been ordered back to London.

There was nothing Theo could do about any of those eventualities but wait. And have some lunch. He asked the waiter for a menu.

Venlo, Holland

Payne Best relinquished the wheel to Conrad, who drove along winding roads through a thick pine forest from the town to their destination: Café Backus, just a few yards from the frontier. The other three had met Schämmel and his colleagues there before, so they knew the place.

There was silence in the car as each man focused on the same thought, the same hope: that what was about to happen that afternoon might herald the end of both Hitler and the war. Yet there was anxiety as well as hope. Would Schämmel be there? Would he finally bring along his general? Would the German officers agree to fly to London for proper discussions? And despite what Payne Best had said about his exploits in the last war at Limburg, the German border was uncomfortably close.

They were a little late; it was three-twenty by the time they rounded a corner and Conrad saw a straight stretch of road to two barriers. The nearer, Dutch barrier was down, but the German barrier was raised. The frontier.

It was quiet. No movement around the two customs houses, and a single German soldier slouched by his barrier. A little girl was playing with a big black dog in front of the customs house.

Café Backus was a substantial white building with a verandah on the first floor, on which stood tables with folded umbrellas. A figure was leaning on the railings, looking out towards them.

‘That’s Schämmel,’ said Payne Best.

The man stood up, waved and pointed into the restaurant.

‘I think the general’s there!’ said Stevens.

‘Finally,’ said Payne Best.

Conrad pulled up outside the restaurant and reversed around the corner to park in the little car park on the far side of the building from the frontier. The plan was that Conrad, in his guise as Payne Best’s driver, would take a seat at another table in the café and listen to the conversation between Schämmel, his general and Payne Best and Stevens.

Conrad switched off the motor. Stevens got out of the car, looking up towards Schämmel.

As he opened the driver’s door, Conrad heard the sound of engines in the road, growing swiftly from a hum to a roar, and then the sharp reports of shots being fired.

He reached for the ignition of the Zephyr, but it was too late. Two large vehicles sprouting half a dozen armed men in rough civilian clothes swerved around the corner. One of them screeched to a halt bumper to bumper with the Zephyr. A machine pistol rattled. Conrad pushed open his door and jumped out. He saw one of the men grab Stevens and hold a pistol to his head.

Conrad rushed for the undergrowth beside the car park, but he was knocked to the ground by another German. As Conrad fell, he saw Klop running across the road, firing as he did so, and heard the shattering of a windscreen.

Conrad wriggled to try and break free of the man holding him, but the German stuck a Luger against Conrad’s temple. ‘
Keine Bewegung!
’ he growled.

Conrad froze. He stared at the scene unfolding before him. The Germans had hold of both Payne Best and Stevens and were firing at Klop, who was in the open, but dodging from right to left, firing back wildly. The German holding Conrad jerked and let out a curse. He had been hit in the thigh. From the corner of his eye, Conrad saw the man’s pistol waver, so he spun and hit him hard across his neck with the side of his hand. The pistol went off harmlessly into the air. The man dropped to the ground, and Conrad ran for the woods.

As Conrad ducked into the trees, he saw Klop crumple in the roadway. Conrad crashed through the thick undergrowth for about ten yards. He realized he was out of sight of the Germans, so he dived under a holly bush and lay flat. Running, he would be a target, like Klop. Hidden, he would be safe as long as the Germans didn’t take the time to search the woods. He was gambling they wouldn’t; they had almost certainly got Payne Best and Stevens, and from the Germans’ point of view the sooner they were back over the border the better.

He heard the two vehicles accelerate off.

He looked up, couldn’t see any Germans in the wood, and so, at a crouching run, scurried to the edge of the trees to take a look.

One of the cars was speeding to the shattered Dutch barrier. The other car halted next to Klop’s body lying in the road. Two men slung him into the back. Payne Best and Stevens were being frogmarched towards the border with Germans holding machine pistols at their backs. Schämmel accelerated past them in his own vehicle. The big black dog stood in the road barking.

Shouting came from the Dutch customs house, but no sign of armed soldiers yet. Within a few seconds, all the Germans and their captives were under the black-and-white German barrier, which swished downwards.

The often-uttered words of Colonel Rydal ran through Conrad’s head.
What a shambles.

Whitehall, London, 10 November

Conrad sipped the cup of coffee thoughtfully provided by Mrs Dougherty as he sat and waited outside Sir Robert Vansittart’s office. He was tired and hungry.

‘You don’t happen to have a biscuit, by any chance, Mrs Dougherty?’ he asked.

‘I’m afraid not, Mr de Lancey,’ said the Chief Diplomatic Adviser’s secretary, with a look that suggested horror at his temerity and determination to take decisive action if he tried to question the Foreign Office’s policy on biscuits. Didn’t he know there was a war on?

It was sixteen hours since the Germans had snatched Payne Best and Stevens, sixteen disorienting hours. After being interviewed by Dutch military intelligence, Conrad had been bundled on to an RAF Lysander at The Hague and flown to Hendon Aerodrome, from where he had been driven straight to Whitehall and the doors of the Foreign Office.

The telephone on Mrs Dougherty’s desk buzzed and she picked it up. ‘Sir Robert will see you now.’

Van looked harassed. Sitting in one of the two chairs in front of his desk was a large man with a florid face and hair brushed back over a wide, shining forehead. His eyes were small and bright blue.

‘Lieutenant de Lancey, this is Major McCaigue of the Secret Intelligence Service. Major McCaigue is responsible for counter-espionage. As you can imagine, he is very interested in this affair.’

Conrad saluted the major and took the seat offered by Van.

‘Who is responsible for this fiasco, de Lancey?’ Van asked.

‘I don’t know, Sir Robert. It was a mistake to meet Schämmel so close to the border when we were not sure he was genuine.’