For my daughter, Sarah, from one

unashamed romantic to another …

Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

Lisbon—1940

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Epilogue

About the Author

Also by Jack Higgins

Copyright

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

In July 1940 Walter Schellenberg, SS Brigadeführer and major-general of police, was ordered by Hitler to proceed to Lisbon to kidnap the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, then staying in a villa at Estoril after fleeing the German occupation of France. This story is an attempt to recreate the events surrounding that astonishing episode. Most of it is documented historical fact although certain sections must obviously be fictional. The person who emerges from the whole bizarre affair with most credit is the Duke of Windsor himself. For that reason I offer this book as a tribute to a gallant and honourable gentleman.

LISBON—1940

1

Just after midnight it started to rain, and the Portuguese policeman brought a cape from his sentry box and placed it around her shoulders without a word.

It was quite cold now and she walked a few paces along the road to keep warm, pausing to look back across the mouth of the Tagus to where the lights of Lisbon gleamed in the distance.

A long way; not as far as Berlin or Paris or Madrid, but she was here now, finally, outside the pink stucco villa at Estoril. The final end of things, more tired than she had ever been in her life before and, suddenly, she wanted it to be over.

She walked back to the policeman at the gate. ‘Please,’ she said in English, ‘how much longer? I’ve been here almost an hour.’ Which was foolish because he didn’t understand her.

There was the sound of a car coming up the hill, headlights flashed across the mimosa bushes, and a black Mercedes braked to a halt a few yards away.

The man who got out of the rear was large and powerfully built. He was bare-headed and wore glasses and his hands were pushed into the pockets of a dark mackintosh.

He said something briefly in Portuguese to the policeman, then turned to the girl. His English was quite excellent.

‘Miss Winter, isn’t it? Miss Hannah Winter?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’

‘Could I see your passport?’

She got it out quickly, her hands fumbling in the cold so that the cape slipped from her shoulders. He replaced it for her politely, then took the passport.

‘So – an American citizen.’

‘Please,’ she said, a hand on his sleeve. ‘I must see the Duke. It’s a matter of the gravest urgency.’

He looked down at her calmly for a moment, then nodded to the policeman who started to open the gate. The car rolled forward. He held the door for her, and she climbed inside. He followed.

With a sudden burst of power, the Mercedes jumped forward, the driver swinging on the wheel, taking them round in a circle and back down the hill towards Lisbon.

She had been thrown into the corner and now he pulled her upright roughly and switched on the light. He was still clutching her passport.

‘Hannah Winter – American citizen? I think not.’ He tore it apart and flung it into the corner. ‘Now this, I think, would be a much more accurate description.’

The passport he pushed into her hands was German. She opened it in fascinated horror. The picture that stared out at her was her own.

‘Fräulein Hannah Winter,’ he said. ‘Born in Berlin on November the ninth, nineteen-eighteen. Do you deny this?’

She closed the passport and pushed it back at him, fighting to control her panic. ‘My name is Hannah Winter, but I am an American citizen. The American embassy will confirm this.’

‘The Reich does not acknowledge the right of its citizens to change nationalities to suit their inclinations. You were born a German. I confidently predict you will die one.’

The streets were deserted and they drove very fast so that already they were into the city and moving down towards the river.

He said, ‘An interesting city, Lisbon. To get into any foreign embassy it’s necessary to pass through a Portuguese police checkpoint. So, if you’d tried to get into either the British or American embassies, we would still have got you.’

She said, ‘I don’t understand. When I asked to be admitted the man on the gate said he’d have to check with headquarters.’

‘It’s simple. The Portuguese police have accepted an extradition warrant to be served on Hannah Winter on a charge of murder – murder three times over. In fact, they’ve agreed to expedite the matter.’

‘But you – you’re not the police.’

‘Oh, but we are. Not the Portuguese variety, but something rather more interesting.’ He was speaking in German now. ‘Sturmbannführer Kleiber of the Berlin office of the Gestapo. My colleague, Sturmscharführer Gunter Sindermann.’

It was like something out of a nightmare and yet the tiredness she felt was overwhelming so that nothing seemed to matter any more.

‘What happens now?’ she asked, dully.

Kleiber switched off the light so that they were in darkness again. ‘Oh, we’ll take you home,’ he said. ‘Back to Berlin. Don’t worry. We’ll look after you.’

His hand was on her knee, sliding up over the silk stocking to her thigh.

It was his biggest single mistake for the disgust his actions engendered galvanized her into life again. She fumbled for the handle of the door, holding her breath as his hand moved higher. The Mercedes slowed to allow a water cart to pass. She shoved Kleiber away with all her strength, pushed open the door and scrambled into the darkness, losing her balance, rolling over twice.

The shock effect was considerable and when she got to her feet, she had to lean against the wall for a moment. The Mercedes had pulled up further along the street and started to reverse. She had lost one of her shoes, but there was nothing to be done about that. She kicked off the other, plunged into the nearest alley and started to run.

A few moments later, she emerged on to the waterfront. It was still raining heavily and a considerable fog rolled in from the Tagus and street lamps were few and far between. There seemed to be no shops, no houses, simply tall gaunt warehouses rising into the night.

As the fog closed in around her, it was as if she was the only person in the world, and then she heard the sound of her pursuers echoing between the walls of the alley behind her.

She started to run again, lightly in stockinged feet. She was cold, very cold – and then a light appeared dimly in the fog on the other side of the street backing on to the river. A red neon sign said Joe Jackson’s and underneath American bar.

She hurried across, filled with desperate hope, but there was no light inside and the glass doors were locked. She rattled them furiously in helpless rage. There was a wharf at the side of the building, another door with a light above it marked Stage. She tried that too, hammering on it with her fists and then Kleiber ran round the corner, a Luger in his left hand.

‘I’ll teach you,’ he said softly. ‘Little Jewish bitch.’

As Sindermann arrived she turned and ran along the wharf into the fog.

Joe Jackson had dark, wavy hair, pale face, hazel-green eyes and a slight, ironic quirk that seemed to permanently lift the corner of his mouth. The weary, detached smile of a man who had found life more corrupt than he had hoped.

He always closed Mondays. For one thing, it gave everyone a night off and, for another, there was little trade to be had at the beginning of the week. It gave him a chance at the books in peace and quiet, which was what he was doing when Hannah first rattled the front door.

A drunk, he thought, looking for another drink, and returned to his accounts. A moment later, he heard her at the side door. He was aware of a murmur of voices and then a sharp cry. He opened the right hand drawer of the desk and took out a Browning automatic, got to his feet and moved out of the office quickly.

He was wearing a navy-blue sweater, dark slacks. A small man, no more than five feet five or six, with good shoulders.

He unlocked the stage door and stood, listening. There was a choked cry from further along the wharf. He went forward, taking his time, silent on rope-soled sandals.

There was a lamp on a pole at the end of the wharf. In its light, he saw Hannah Winter on her back. Sindermann crouched over her body. Kleiber stood above them, still holding the Luger.

‘And now, Miss Winter,’ he said in English. ‘A lesson in manners.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Jackson called softly.

He shot Kleiber in the left forearm, driving him back against the rail, the Luger jumping into the dark waters below.

Kleiber made no sound – simply stood there, gripping his arm, waiting for what was to come.

Hannah Winter, still pinned beneath Sinder-mann’s weight, gazed up at Jackson blankly. He tapped the German on the back of the head with the barrel of the Browning.

Sindermann stood up and raised his hands. There was no fear on his face, simply a sullen rage. Jackson helped the girl to her feet. For the briefest of moments his attention was diverted as she sagged against him. Sindermann charged, head down.

Jackson swung the girl to one side and stuck out a foot. Sindermann tripped and continued head first over the rail. They could hear him floundering about in the waters below.

Jackson had an arm about her again. ‘You all right?’

‘I am now,’ she said.

He gestured with the Browning at Kleiber who stood waiting, blood oozing between his fingers. ‘What about this one?’

‘Let him go.’

‘No police?’

‘It’s not a police matter,’ she said wearily.

Jackson nodded to Kleiber. ‘You heard the lady.’

The German turned and walked away rapidly. She started to keel over. He pushed the Browning in his belt at the small of his back and picked her up in both arms.

‘Okay, angel, let’s get you inside.’

She stood under the hot shower for twenty minutes before towelling herself dry and putting on the robe he’d given her. The apartment was on the third floor at the rear of the club and overlooked the river. It was neat and functional and sparingly furnished, with little evidence of any belongings of real personal worth. The present resting place of a man who had kept on the move for most of his life.

The sliding windows stood open and she found him standing on the broad wooden verandah, a drink in one hand, looking out over the river. A foghorn sounded somewhere in the distance as a ship moved out to sea.

She shivered. ‘The loneliest sound in the world.’

‘Trains,’ he said gravely. ‘According to Thomas Wolfe. But let me get you a cognac. You look as if you could do with it.’

His voice was good Boston American. ‘Where are you from?’ she asked.

‘Cape Cod. Fishing village called Wilton. A long, long time ago.’ He handed her the cognac. ‘And you?’

‘New York, although it’s a matter of dispute in some quarters,’ she said and sipped a little of the cognac.

He lit a cigarette. ‘Those friends of yours out there? You said it wasn’t police business.’

‘True,’ she said. ‘You see, they are police. A variety peculiar to the Third Reich, known as the Gestapo.’

He was no longer smiling now. He closed the window and turned to face her.

‘You’re Joe Jackson, aren’t you?’

‘That’s right, but we’ve never met.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘But I know all about you. My name is Hannah Winter. I’m a singer. Born in Berlin, but my parents took me to America when I was two years old. I returned to Berlin to sing at my uncle Max’s club two months ago. You know a piano player called Connie Jones?’

Jackson smiled. ‘I certainly do. He’s in Madrid at the Flamenco with his trio right now. Due to appear here next week.’

‘A fortnight ago, he was backing me at my uncle’s place in Berlin. The Garden Room. He was the one who told me about the great Joe Jackson who runs the best American bar in Lisbon. Who fought with the International Brigade in Spain and flew fighters against the Nazi Condor Legion.’

Jackson said, ‘All right. I’ll buy it.’

She said, ‘Have you ever heard of a man called Dr Ricardo de Espirito Santo é Silva?’

‘Portuguese banker. Has a villa at Estoril.’

‘Would you happen to know who his house guests are at the moment?’

‘Common knowledge. The Duke and Duchess of Windsor.’

‘But not for much longer,’ she said. ‘Not if the Nazis have anything to do with it.’

She started to shake.

‘Okay,’ Joe Jackson held her arms for a moment, then drew her down on the couch beside him in front of the fire.

‘Now calm down. Just take your time and tell me about it.’

2

It began, if it began anywhere at all, with a man called Erich von Manstein who at the beginning of 1940 was chief of staff to General Gerd von Rundstedt.

Von Manstein, who was to become the most brilliant commander in the field that the German army produced during the Second World War, was a superb tactician who constantly challenged the views of his superiors, particularly their plans to invade France and the Low Countries.

Faced with demotion, his career threatened, chance took him to a dinner party given by Adolf Hitler on 17 February 1940. At that meeting he took the opportunity of outlining to the Führer his own alternative plan, an audacious drive to the Channel by Panzers through the Ardennes, aimed at separating the British and French armies.

Hitler became so obsessed with the idea that, in time, he came to believe that it was his own. On 10 May, it was put into action with incredible effect. Within a matter of days, the Allied armies were in a headlong retreat.

By 2 June, thanks to Hitler’s decision to halt his Panzers on the Aa Canal, most of the British Expeditionary Force managed to escape from the beaches of Dunkirk. On the afternoon of the 22nd, the French signed an armistice document in the forest of Compiègne in the old wooden dining car in which Marshal Foch had dictated terms to the Germans in November 1918.

Early the following morning, Hitler accompanied by Keitel and a few hand-picked companions, landed at the Le Bourget airport and was driven into Paris. The most devastating campaign in modern warfare was over.

In the chaos that was the rest of France, particularly in the south, the roads were crowded with refugees pushing desperately for the Pyrenees and the Spanish border, many of them British citizens who had lived on the Riviera for years.

Amongst them was a convoy of cars headed by a Buick towing a loaded trailer. At a small town, west of Aries, a barricade had been erected by gendarmes to prevent any further passage to refugees.

As the Buick slowed to a halt, the small, rather slight-looking man seated beside the dark-haired woman in the back, stood up so that he could be clearly seen. He smiled with considerable charm, but the authority there was unmistakable.

‘I am the Prince of Wales,’ he said in excellent French. ‘Let me pass, if you please.’

The officer in charge gazed at him in astonished recognition, then saluted and barked a quick order to his men. The barricades were hastily removed and the Duke and Duchess of Windsor and their party passed through.

In Berlin on the following Friday it was raining as Hannah Winter left her apartment in Königstrasse. It was eight-thirty; an hour before the first cabaret of the evening at the Garden Room which was a good mile away near the Unter den Linden. Not much chance of a taxi these days so she’d have to hurry. There was a Mercedes parked across the street. She glanced at it hopefully, then realized it was a private car and started to walk.

Two young men came round the corner and moved towards her. They were in Nazi Party uniform of some sort, although what it signified she had no idea. There were so many uniforms these days. They paused, blocking the pavement, the faces beneath the peaked caps hard and cruel, ripe for mischief. She was in trouble and knew it.

‘Papers,’ one of them said.

She remembered Uncle Max’s first rule. Never show fear. ‘I’m an American citizen,’ she replied calmly.

‘So?’ He snapped his fingers. She produced her passport from her bag and handed it over.

‘Hannah Winter – twenty-two. That’s a good age.’ His companion sniggered and he returned the passport. ‘And your pass.’

The other one moved closer, enjoying this, his eyes stripping her. She took out her pass reluctantly and handed it over.

He laughed delightedly. ‘Well, would you look at this. A Yid.’ He moved closer. ‘Where’s your star, Jew? You know it’s a serious offence to be out without it. We’re going to have to do something about that.’

He was very close to her now, forcing her back towards the mouth of the alley behind. There was the sound of a car door slamming and she saw a man emerge from the rear of the Mercedes and start across the street.

‘That’s enough,’ he called softly through the rain.

He was of medium height, wore a slouch hat and a black leather coat. A cigarette dangled from the left-hand corner of his mouth.

Her interrogator scowled ferociously. ‘Clear off, if you know what’s good for you. This is police business.’

‘Is that so?’ the man said calmly. ‘Fräulein Winter, is that right? My name is Schellenberg. I heard the exchange sitting in my car over there. Are these men annoying you?’

‘She’s a Yid, out on the street without her Star of David.’

‘And an American citizen, if I heard correctly. Is this not so, Fräulein?’

His smile had a kind of ruthless charm that was accentuated by the duelling scar on one cheek and her stomach was, for some unaccountable reason, hollow with excitement.

‘Yes,’ she said.

A hand grabbed Schellenberg’s arm and shook him furiously. ‘Clear off – now. Unless you want your face kicked in.’

Schellenberg wasn’t in the least put out. ‘Oh dear, you are a nasty little boy, aren’t you?’

He waved his right hand casually. Two men in uniform as black as the Mercedes got out of the car and hurried across. Their cuff-titles carried the legend RFSS picked out in silver thread. Reichsführer der SS, the cuff-title of Himmler’s personal staff.

Schellenberg said, ‘A lesson is needed here, I think.’ He took the girl by the arm. ‘Fräulein.’

As he guided her firmly across the road towards the car, there was a sound of a blow, a cry of pain, but she did not look back.

Fifteen minutes later the Mercedes pulled in to the kerb in front of the Garden Room. Hans, the doorman, came forward hesitantly, a look of astonishment on his face when he saw who was inside. He opened the door and Schellenberg got out and turned to assist her.

‘So, this is where you work?’ He examined the photographs in the glass case beneath the poster. ‘“Hannah Winter and the Connie Jones trio, direct from the Albany Club, New York.” Sounds interesting. I must come one night.’

She said calmly, ‘I’m Jewish, as you very well know and, as you can see from the photo, Connie is a Negro. I hardly think we’d be of much interest to a member of the master race.’

‘Oh, I don’t know. I understand you get excellent audiences.’ He smiled gently. ‘Shall we go in?’

‘I use the stage door.’

‘And I, on the contrary, always go in by the front.’

He had her by the arm again and she went without protest. Hans hurriedly got the door open for them. Her uncle was at the front desk talking to the hat check girl. He was a shrewd, kindly looking man, with a shock of grey hair and steel-rimmed glasses who always managed to appear untidy in spite of his dinner jacket.

At the sight of his niece and Schellenberg, the smile was wiped instantly from his face and he hurried forwards.

‘Hannah, my love, what’s happened? You are in trouble?’

‘I was, but not any more, thanks to Herr Schellenberg. This is my uncle, Max Winter.’

‘Herr Winter,’ Schellenberg said amiably and turned back to Hannah.

She was at that time just twenty-two, a small, rather hippy girl with good legs; a face that was handsome rather than beautiful with high cheekbones, dark eyes and black hair worn unfashionably long.

He took her right hand, holding it for a moment. ‘And now, Fräulein, after seeing you in a better light, I am more determined than ever to catch your act, isn’t that the American phrase? But not tonight, I regret to say.’

He raised her hand to his lips and again she was conscious of that unwanted hollow excitement.

‘Herr Winter.’

He went out and when Hannah glanced at her uncle she found that he had turned quite pale. ‘Uncle Max – what is it?’

‘That man,’ he whispered. ‘Where did you meet him? Don’t you know who he is? That is Walter Schellenberg, SS Brigadeführer and major general of police. Heydrich’s right-hand man.’

Hannah Winter had been born in November, 1918, two days before the Armistice was signed to end that most terrible of all wars. Her father, Simon, once a violinist with the Berlin Philharmonic, emigrated to New York in 1920 and opened a small restaurant on 42nd Street in partnership with his wife’s father. During the years of Prohibition, the establishment developed into a highly successful nightclub, but his health had never been good because of chest wounds received while serving as an infantryman on the Somme and he died in July 1929.

The club, after Prohibition, once again became a restaurant and prospered under the shrewd direction of his wife. Hannah she had raised to be a nice Jewish girl who would one day make a good marriage, have children, do all the right things.

It might have worked, except for one important point. Hannah Winter had been blessed with an extraordinary singing voice. She discovered her talent by chance, singing with a student jazz band at high school. From that time on, she had never seriously contemplated any other way of life.

At seventeen, she had appeared at the Paloma Ballroom in Hollywood with Benny Goodman. As a straight band singer she had toured with Artie Shaw and Tommy Dorsey.

But she was at her best always in the more enclosed world of club and cabaret, preferably backed by a good trio. It was then that she was able to bring an intensity to her performance of the average popular song that rivalled anything Bessie Smith had been able to do with the blues.

And she could have been at the Paramount Studios in Hollywood now doing a film with Bing Crosby if it hadn’t been for Uncle Max, her father’s younger brother, who, in spite of the fact that he had been a naturalized American citizen for twenty-five years, had horrified them all by returning to the city of his birth in 1937 to open a nightclub.

Which was why Hannah was here. To persuade him that it was time to get out. But events had overtaken her with frightening rapidity. The phoney war was over and the Nazis were poised on the Channel coast with England as the next stop and nothing standing in the way.

She was applying her make-up when there was a knock at the door and her uncle entered. He pulled a chair forward and lit one of the small cigars he favoured, watching her in the mirror.

‘All right – what happened?’

She told him quickly, continuing the work on her face, then went behind the screen to change.

‘Not good,’ he said. ‘Perhaps it would be as well if I explained a few things to you. In Germany today the SS is all-powerful, but within the organization they have their own secret service department – the SD. Heydrich is director general although still under the authority of Himmler.’

‘And Schellenberg?’

‘He’s in charge of the counter-espionage section, but, more important, he’s Heydrich’s favourite. His right-hand man.’ She made no reply as she slid a long black dress over her head, taking care not to spoil her make-up. ‘Do you understand any of this?’

‘Not really,’ she said, emerging from behind the screen and turning so that he could button up the back of the dress. ‘So many titles – so many names. It’s all very confusing. And the uniforms – every second person you meet seems to have one.’

He took her hand. ‘This isn’t Forty-Second Street, Hannah.’

She sat down facing him. ‘All right, Uncle Max. Then let’s go home.’

‘You are,’ he said. ‘All arranged – tickets and everything.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Connie and the boys leave Monday morning by train for Paris. The same night they’ve got berths on the sleeper to Madrid and so have you.’

‘And when was all this decided?’

‘Today. The boys have got a week at the Flamenco Club in Madrid. You knew that.’

‘But I haven’t.’

‘No, but you can carry straight on to Lisbon from there. Plenty of boats going to New York. You might even get a seat on the Clipper.’

‘And you?’

‘I’ve got things to do here.’

‘Then I’m not going.’

‘Oh, yes, you are, Liebchen.’ She had never heard quite that tone in his voice before. He patted her hand and got up. ‘We’ve got a lot in tonight. I’d better go and see how the food’s working out.’

As he reached the door she said, ‘Uncle Max, you’re mixed up in something, aren’t you? Something serious?’

He smiled gently. ‘I’ll see you later. Slay the people, Liebchen.’

The door closed softly behind him and she sat there, staring into the mirror, her mind in turmoil. A moment later, there was another knock and Connie Jones glanced in.

‘Are you ready?’

She managed a smile. ‘As much as I ever will be.’

Connie was a large, rugged-looking Negro of forty-five, with close-cropped greying hair. Born and raised in New Orleans, he had been playing the piano like a dream since the age of seven and couldn’t read a note of music.

‘Trouble?’ he asked, sitting on the edge of her dressing table.

‘Uncle Max tells me I leave with you on Monday.’

‘That’s it. Twelve hours to gay Paree, then the night, express to Madrid from Austerlitz Station, and I can’t shake the dust of this town soon enough.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘You’re worried about the old man, aren’t you?’

‘He says he isn’t coming, Connie, but if he stays here …’

‘If ever a man knew what he was doing, it’s your Uncle Max, kid. I’d leave it to him.’ He took her hand. ‘You worry too much and that ain’t good because we got a show to do, so let’s get with it.’

She took a deep breath, stood up and followed him out, immediately aware of the club noises. People talking, the laughter, the hustle. It had an electricity to it that never failed in its effect on her.

Two other Negroes waited in the shadows beside the small stage, both younger than Connie. Billy Joe Hale, the bass player, and Harry Graf, the drummer. They dumped their cigarettes and moved on stage with Connie.

Hannah waited and then the spots bathed the stage in white light and Uncle Max’s voice boomed from somewhere at the rear of the room. ‘And now, the Garden Room proudly presents direct from New York, the one and only Hannah Winter.’

And as Connie and the boys moved into a solid driving arrangement of ‘St Louis Blues’, she walked on stage to thunderous applause and started to sing her heart out.

Reinhard Heydrich, unlike most Nazi party members, had been born a gentleman. Cashiered from the navy he had joined the SS and had been quickly chosen by Himmler as his deputy. His rise to the position of head of the Reich Main Security Office, one of the most powerful positions in the state, was a tribute as much to his total lack of any kind of humanity as to his qualities of leadership and superior intelligence.

When Schellenberg entered he was seated at his desk in his Prinz Albrechtstrasse office and was wearing the full dress uniform of an SS Obergruppenführer for he had just returned from dining with Hitler at the Reich Chancellery.

‘Ah, there you are, Walter,’ he said amiably. ‘You’ve been having a busy evening, I hear, playing Galahad to the Winter girl.’

‘Is there anything you don’t know?’ Schellenberg said. ‘It’s only just happened, for God’s sake.’

‘One survives, Walter, in this wicked old world of ours by knowing everything there is to know about everything and everybody.’

‘Which in this case would seem to mean that the people who work for me report to you first.’

‘Of course,’ Heydrich smiled. ‘Tell me about her. How long has she been under surveillance?’

‘Since she arrived. Two months now.’

‘And she really fell for this little drama of yours tonight?’

‘I think so.’

‘What exactly do you hope to achieve? Access to her bed or information?’

‘It’s her uncle we’re after, remember,’ Schellenberg said. ‘The fact that he’s an American citizen makes things difficult.’

‘But he was born a German,’ Heydrich said impatiently. ‘I’ve seen his file and the Führer has stated often enough that citizens of the Reich do not have the right to change nationality.’

‘The Americans might have a different viewpoint on that one,’ Schellenberg pointed out. ‘And this is hardly the moment to antagonize Washington.’

‘So – are we any further forward with this Winter affair?’

‘Not really. As you can see from his file, he attended the University of Berlin as a youth and was a member of the Communist Party. It is my belief that he is a Soviet agent. He’s certainly involved with the Socialist Underground and probably also the illegal transfer of Jews from the Reich.’

‘Then what are you waiting for? Arrest him.’

‘Not just yet,’ Schellenberg said. ‘If we wait a little longer we get not only Winter, but his entire organization. And he is under surveillance at all hours.’

Heydrich sat there frowning, then nodded. ‘Very well, Walter. You can have another week. Seven days and then …’ He stood up. ‘What are you going to do now?’

Schellenberg knew what was coming. ‘Go home to bed.’

‘Nonsense.’ Heydrich grinned. ‘The night’s still young. We’ll make the rounds at a few nightclubs. Help yourself to a drink while I change.’

He went out and Schellenberg sighed, moved to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a Scotch.

He had been born in Saarbrücken – in 1910, the son of a piano maker. Cultured and intelligent by nature and with a gift for languages, he had entered the University of Bonn at the age of nineteen in the faculty of medicine, but changed to the study of law after two years.

Well qualified, but penniless, he saw opportunity in the rise to power of the Nazi Party in 1933 and accepted the suggestion of one of his professors that he join the SS. His gift for languages brought him to the attention of Heydrich who had recruited him at once into the SD where his rise had been meteoric.

A number of successful intelligence operations had combined to consolidate his position, culminating in the Venlo incident in 1939 during which he had posed as a resistance agent to gain the confidence of three British MI5 agents in Holland. This had led to their kidnap by SS troops on neutral territory.

Decorated by the Führer himself he had been promoted SS Brigadeführer and major-general of police and was still only thirty years of age.

Of course, he had his enemies, but Heydrich and his wife liked him so that he moved socially in the very best circles in Berlin. But there was a price to pay, including the occasional night out with Heydrich whose sexual appetite was insatiable and who was never happier than roaming the cabarets and clubs of the Kurfürstendamm and Alexander-platz.

Greatest irony of all, of course, was that Walter Schellenberg was no Nazi. Heydrich, Himmler, even the Führer, all came to trust his judgement implicitly on intelligence matters and yet, always in his mind, he stood on one side, a spectator of the whole sorry charade, as contemptuous as much of himself as of them.

The rain beat against the window and he raised his glass to his reflection, in mock salute.

3

On Thursday morning just before noon, Schellenberg was working at his desk in his Prinz Albrechtstrasse office when the phone rang. He recognized the voice at once – von Ribbentrop.

‘Schellenberg, are you free? I’d like you to come over to see me at once.’

‘Anything special?’ Schellenberg asked the foreign minister.

‘A matter of the utmost importance to the Reich. I can’t discuss it on the phone.’

Schellenberg called Heydrich at once and reported the situation, always aware of his rage at even the slightest suggestion of his personal authority being usurped. For once, Heydrich was more intrigued than anything else and told him to get on with it – with the promise of a detailed report later.

Von Ribbentrop received Schellenberg in his private office at the Reich Chancellery.

‘Good of you to come, my dear fellow. Sit down and I’ll get straight to the point. I am speaking to you on behalf of the Führer himself on this matter, by the way, so we are talking of something with the highest security rating.’

Schellenberg was immediately intrigued. ‘I see. Please continue.’

‘Did you by any chance meet the Duke of Windsor during his German tour in nineteen thirty-seven?’

‘No, I didn’t have that pleasure.’

‘What is your personal opinion about the way in which the English dealt with the crisis surrounding his abdication?’

‘It seems to me they handled the whole problem very sensibly. Tradition and responsibility had to take precedence over personal emotions.’ Schellenberg shrugged. ‘I don’t really see how the British government could have acted any differently.’

Von Ribbentrop looked extremely put out. ‘I can see this is one matter about which you have been completely misinformed. The real reasons behind the pressure for the Duke to abdicate were political. He was too socially aware; too determined to change the decadent English society into something forceful and forward-looking. Something more suited to modern needs.’

‘I see,’ Schellenberg said dryly. ‘He told you this?’

Von Ribbentrop didn’t seem to hear him. ‘He was much impressed with everything he saw in Germany. The Führer received him at Berchtesgaden. They talked together for an hour.’

He paused at the window. ‘At the moment the Führer is totally immersed in the planning of Operation Sea Lion – the invasion of England – which is why he asked me to handle this most important matter for him.’

‘I see.’

‘The Duke, as you know, was serving as a major-general with Allied forces in France. During the débâcle that followed our magnificent victory, he and the Duchess, with a few friends, managed to cross into Spain. They were in Madrid until recently. In fact the attitude of the Spaniards in the matter may be best summed up by this telegram I received from our Madrid ambassador, von Stohrer. I have a copy here.’

He passed it across and Schellenberg scanned it quickly.

The Spanish foreign minister requests advice with regard to the treatment of the Duke and Duchess of Windsor who were to arrive in Madrid today, apparently in order to return to England by way of Lisbon. They assume we may be interested in detaining the Duke here and possibly in establishing contact with him.

Schellenberg handed the paper back. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘It’s really very simple. The English are racially a part of our Germanic brotherhood. The Führer has no wish to destroy them. They could have an important part to play in the greater European ideal. He is convinced that, any day now, the British government will see this and will sue for peace. After all, they don’t have much choice. They’re finished.’

‘There’s still the Channel to cross,’ Schellenberg pointed out.

‘But there won’t be any need, don’t you see? And once a peace treaty has been concluded, there would be the question of the throne to consider. Much better for all concerned to see it occupied by a man loved by his people, who was also a good friend to Germany.’

It was with difficulty that Schellenberg stopped himself from laughing out loud. ‘Are you really serious, Minister?’

Von Ribbentrop seemed mildly surprised. ‘But of course. I have here a copy of a report sent to the American secretary of state on the second of July by their ambassador in Madrid in which he states that in a conversation with a member of the embassy staff, the Duke declared that the most important thing now was to end the war before thousands more were killed or maimed to save the faces of a few politicians.’

‘Which hardly makes him a National Socialist,’ Schellenberg said.

Von Ribbentrop rolled on relentlessly. ‘The Duke and Duchess arrived in Lisbon recently and are staying at Estoril in the villa of a Portuguese banker, Dr Ricardo de Espirito Santo é Silva. On their arrival they found two British flying boats waiting to take them to England. The Duke sent them back. Refused to go. Don’t you find that interesting?’

‘Did he give a reason?’

‘According to our information, he insisted on the offer of a worthwhile post and assurances that the Duchess would be treated in future in full accord with her status as his wife.’

‘That seems reasonable,’ Schellenberg said. ‘They’ve hardly made the best use of his talents so far in this war. Has he had a reply?’

‘Apparently Churchill is offering him the governorship of the Bahamas.’

‘Clever,’ Schellenberg said. ‘And practical. Three thousand miles from the war. Has he accepted?’

‘Not yet. Quite obviously, he’s stalling for time. We feel he would probably far rather stay on in Spain or possibly even in Switzerland. Naturally that gangster Churchill and his clique wouldn’t like this and we may assume that the British Secret Service would take a hand.’

‘In what way?’

‘Oh, I should imagine the obvious ploy would be to make sure the Duke got on the boat to the Bahamas whether he wanted to or not, which is where you come in, Schellenberg. The Führer feels you would be the ideal man to speak to the Duke on our behalf. Offer any assistance he may need. Financial, for example, if that is necessary. Whatever happens, the Duke must be given help to reach the country of his choice.’

‘Even if that proves to be the Bahamas?’

Von Ribbentrop glanced at him. ‘My dear Schellenberg, as I’ve told you before on many occasions, that facetiousness of yours could well be the death of you one of these days.’

‘My apologies, Minister.’

‘To continue. If the Duke should prove in any way hesitant the Führer would have no objection to your helping him reach the right decision.’

‘By force?’

‘If necessary. Naturally, it will also be your responsibility to see that the Duke and his wife are not exposed to any personal danger. A hunting trip into Spain is all it takes. Once you have them over the border, the rest is simple.’

Schellenberg said, ‘And this is a direct order from the Führer himself?’

‘But of course.’ Von Ribbentrop passed an envelope across. ‘You’ll find everything you need in there. Total authority. I can only wish you well and envy your inevitable success in this matter.’

Heydrich sat by the window in his office holding the document in his hand.

FROM THE LEADER AND CHANCELLOR

OF THE STATE

MOST SECRET

General Schellenberg is acting under my direct and personal orders in a matter of the utmost importance to the Reich. He is answerable only to me. All personnel, military and civil, without distinction of rank, will assist him in any way he sees fit.

Adolf Hitler

‘Nonsense!’ Heydrich said. ‘Sheer bloody nonsense and all built on totally false assumptions.’

There was a knock on the door and a young secretary entered with a file which she placed on his desk. She went out without a word and Heydrich tapped it with a finger.

‘In here, Walter, is everything you need to know about the Duke of Windsor – everything recorded about him, but what have I taught you to be the first and most fundamental principle of intelligence work?’

‘As the Jesuits put it; by the small things shalt thou know them.’

‘Exactly. It is not what a man says or what people say about him that is the truth. It is how he behaves, for character is action.’ He tapped the file. ‘And nowhere more so than with this man. How would you describe him – in the world’s eyes?’

‘A contradiction. Concerned about his fellow men – his attitude to the English working classes proved that – and yet fond of luxury and pleasure. A difficult man; reserved.’

‘Perhaps. Certainly stubborn.’

‘Because of his stand on the question of marrying the Duchess? Some people might find that admirable. In the past, the hypocrisy of many kings of England in sexual matters is a fact of history. Perhaps the Duke was actually taking a moral stance on this occasion as a matter of principle. To do otherwise, to humiliate the woman he loved might have seemed to him the most contemptible thing he could imagine.’

‘When he was serving with the British Military Mission in France in what was meant to be a dead-end job, he managed to make several tours of the Maginot Line.’ Heydrich opened the file. ‘There is a copy here of a letter sent to the War Office by Major General Vyse. He gives details of a report by the Duke after an inspection of the French First Army and summarizes it as follows:

1 There is little attempt at concealment.

2 The revetment of the anti-tank ditches is weak. Other anti-tank obstacles do not seem to be adequate.

3 Wiring against infantry coincides on location with anti-tank obstacles so that the same bombardment would destroy both.

4 Anti-tank crews seem insufficiently trained.

5 Work does not seem to be carried out intensively and very few troops were seen.

‘You see?’ Heydrich said. ‘Every evidence of a first-class military mind. Anyway, take it away. Go through the whole file. Get to know the man and then at least you’ll know what you’re talking about.’

‘You wish me to take on this task?’

‘I’m not certain. I’ll let you know this evening. In the meantime, do me the usual departmental report. Everything von Ribbentrop said. I want it all down on paper.’

When Schellenberg reached his own office he called in Frau Huber, Heydrich’s confidential secretary. She was thirty-eight, a sensual, rather fleshy-looking woman with no make-up, her hair pulled back from her face in a tight bun. She was a war widow already; her husband, a Sturmscharführer in the Leibstandarte SS Division, had been killed during the French campaign. In her simple white blouse and skirt, she was surprisingly attractive.

Schellenberg quickly dictated an account of his meeting with von Ribbentrop. ‘As soon as possible, please.’

She went out and he opened the Windsor file and started to work his way through it. It didn’t take long, just under half an hour. As he finished, Frau Huber returned with the completed report. He checked it over and signed it.

‘The usual copies?’ she asked.

‘Yes, one for the Reichsführer, one for me and one for the file.’

She went out. He sat there frowning for a moment, then picked up the phone and asked for Admiral Canaris at Abwehr Headquarters on the Tirpitz Ufer.

The admiral, it seemed, was not available. Schellenberg smiled. That probably meant that as it was Thursday afternoon, Canaris would be riding in the Tiergarten. He picked up the telephone, ordered a car and left quickly.

When Frau Huber went into the copying room, there was only a middle-aged woman on duty who was unfamiliar to her.

‘Who are you?’ she demanded.

‘Irene Neumann, I usually work in Central Office.’

‘I see. Run this through the machine now. Three copies. One for the boss, one for General Schellenberg and one for me. I’ll wait.’

The other woman set the machine up quickly. For your eyes only – most secret. She took in that much and then the phrase Duke of Windsor seemed to jump right out at her.

Frau Huber lit a cigarette and paced about the room restlessly. ‘Hurry up, for God’s sake.’

As the machine started, the phone rang in her office and she hurried to answer it. It was a routine matter taking only three or four minutes to handle. As she finished writing a memo, there was a nervous cough and she turned and found Irene Neumann standing there.

‘Three copies, you said, Frau Huber?’

‘All right. Put them on the desk.’

The other woman did as she was told and went out. Back in the copying room she closed the door carefully, then opened a drawer and took out the extra copy of the Windsor report that she had made. She folded it carefully, raised her skirt and slipped it inside the top of her stocking.

A moment later, the door opened and a young woman in SS auxiliary uniform entered. ‘Have you been busy?’

‘Not particularly.’

‘Good. You can go now.’

She started to unbutton her uniform jacket and Irene Neumann took down her coat from behind the door and left.

Admiral Wilhelm Canaris was fifty-two. A U-boat commander of distinction during the First World War, he was now head of the Abwehr, the Intelligence Department of the German Armed Forces High Command. Although a loyal German he, like many of the officer class, loathed most aspects of the Nazi regime, an attitude that was to lead to his downfall and execution towards the end of the war.

Schellenberg was on close personal terms with him and they frequently rode together in the Tiergarten. As he waited beside his car, he could see the admiral now, cantering along the ride between the trees followed by his two favourite Dachshunds who were obviously experiencing some difficulty in keeping up with him. He saw Schellenberg when still some little distance away, waved and turned towards him.

He reined in and dismounted. ‘Business, Walter, or conversation?’

‘Interchangeable, I usually find.’ Schellenberg called to his driver, ‘Come and hold the Herr Admiral’s horse.’

They walked amongst the trees, the Dachshunds waddling at their heels.

‘How goes the war then, Walter? From your point of view, of course.’

‘Well, Herr Admiral, I think we could agree on that.’

‘And Sea Lion?’

‘Only the Führer has the facts there.’

‘And expects the British to sue for peace any day. Do you think they will?’

‘Not really.’

‘Neither do I. Not with the Channel to cross. And they always do so damned well with their backs to the wall. You heard the gist of Churchill’s speech? Fight on the beaches, in the streets. Blood, sweat, tears.’

‘There’s still the Luftwaffe to come.’

‘I know,’ Canaris said scornfully. ‘Fat Hermann boasting again. Reduce London to ashes, bomb them into submission. Wasn’t that what he was supposed to do to the British army at Dunkirk? Instead, the Luftwaffe got all hell knocked out of it by a handful of Spitfires.’

His face was stiff with anger and Schellenberg watched him closely. He genuinely liked Canaris; admired him as a man. On the other hand, the admiral was undoubtedly indiscreet. He was already suspected by Heydrich and Himmler, as Schellenberg well knew, of having leaked the date of the attack in the west to the Allies, which, if it was true, had certainly done them little good.

‘Well, what is it, Walter? What do you wish to discuss? I know that devious mind of yours by now. Spit it out.’

‘I was wondering,’ Schellenberg said, ‘whether you had an opinion on the Duke of Windsor.’

Canaris roared with laughter. ‘Has von Ribbentrop gone crazy at last? Don’t tell me he’s dropped that one in your lap? My God, he really does have it in for you, doesn’t he?’

‘You know all about it then?’

‘Of course I do. He approached me personally yesterday. He knows we have an organization in Lisbon. He seemed to think we could handle the whole affair.’

‘And why don’t you?’

‘Our man there is a German industrialist who operates under the cover of a flourishing import-export business. In Abwehr files he is called A 1416.’

‘Yes, I met him when I was last in Lisbon.’

‘The British Secret Service know him, I believe, as Hamlet.’

‘A double agent? Then why don’t you have him eliminated?’

‘Because he serves my purposes. Feeds them the kind of information I want them to have on occasion. It’s a “we know that you know, that we know that you know” situation. Needless to say I couldn’t possibly give him the Windsor affair. He’d put the British straight on to it.’

‘And is that your only reason?’

‘No – I think the whole thing a nonsense. A number of incidents concerning the Duke have been hopelessly misconstrued. To give you an example; a speech he made some years ago at a British Legion rally suggesting that the time had come for British veterans of the First World War to hold out the hand of comradeship to German veterans, is taken by some of the more fatuous amongst our leaders to be an indication of his approval of National Socialism. Wishful thinking. I also believe the Führer mistaken in seeing in the Duke’s tour of our country in nineteen-thirty-seven any evidence of similar approval. May I remind you that a distinguished list of world leaders has visited the Reich. Does that make them all incipient Nazis?’

‘So – your opinion of the Duke is that he wouldn’t have the slightest interest in our overtures?’

‘He has a considerable amount of German blood in him, he speaks our language fluently and I believe he likes us. But it is my opinion, for what it’s worth, that this liking does not extend to the Nazi Party. There, have I shocked you?’

‘Not at all, Herr Admiral. I asked for your opinion and you have been good enough to give it to me. I shall respect the confidence.’

They started back towards the car. Canaris said, ‘My final word. Examine the Duke’s record in the First World War. Gallant in the extreme. In spite of his father’s orders that he was to be kept out of action when on the Western Front, he loved nothing better than being with the Tommies, which was why they knew him and came to love him. A basic reason for his extraordinary popularity. He always made straight for the trenches. Did you know that his aides once made an official complaint? They said it was all right for him, but the trouble was they had to follow him into the shellfire too.’

‘Now that, I like,’ Schellenberg said. ‘That tells me more about the man than anything.’

‘Walter, in this matter the Führer is hopelessly wasting his time. Here is a man who renounced a throne rather than betray the woman he loved. Do you really imagine that such a man could betray his country?’

At Estoril, in the pink stucco villa above the sea, the Duchess of Windsor sat beside the swimming pool. She was reading Wuthering Heights, one of her favourite novels, and was so absorbed in the action that she was not immediately aware that the Duke had emerged from the house on to the terrace and was standing beside her.

She glanced up and removed her sunglasses. ‘Why, David, you startled me.’

‘What are you reading?’

‘Wuthering Heights.’

‘Good God, that Bronte woman again. How many times is that?’

‘It’s like an old friend. Extremely comforting in times of travail.’ He sat down in the deckchair opposite and she reached for the glass jug on the tray. ‘Lemonade?’

‘I could do with something a little stiffer, but why not?’

‘Nonsense, David, you know you never drink before seven o’clock. What’s happened?’

She reached across the table and took his hand. He forced a smile. ‘You always know, don’t you, Wallis? I’ve had a telegram from Winston. He’s finally found me a job. Governor of the Bahamas. Nicely tucked away three thousand miles from the action.’

‘Will you take it?’

‘I’ll have to. I won’t have them push us into a bottom drawer. It must be the two of us together. Man and wife with the same position. They don’t seem to be willing to offer us that in England. So, the Bahamas it is.’

‘My dear David,’ she said. ‘There’s a war on and I’m sure the question of my position doesn’t loom very large on the agenda.’

‘But it does with me, Wallis, don’t you see? I can never alter on that score.’ He shrugged. ‘It hurts a little, that’s all, that they can’t find anything of more importance for me to do.’

He got up and walked to the terrace and stood there gazing out to sea. As she watched him, the sense of waste was so overwhelming that she had to fight to hold back the tears.

4

Schellenberg was back in his office within half an hour. As he was taking off his coat Frau Huber entered. She was considerably agitated.

‘We’ve been looking for you everywhere. You didn’t give any indication of where you’d gone. General Heydrich is very angry.’

Schellenberg said calmly, ‘I thought he knew every move I made before I did. Where is he now?’

‘With Reichsführer Himmler. I phoned through the moment you came in. They’re waiting for you.’

She was trembling a little for she liked Schellenberg more than she dared to admit; for some strange reason admired the fact that nothing seemed to matter to him.

‘Calm yourself, Ilse.’ He kissed her gently on the mouth. ‘I’ll manage. Not just because I’m cleverer than they are, which I am, but because I don’t take it seriously. I’ll be back for coffee within the hour, you’ll see.’

When he was ushered into the ornate office on the first floor at Prinz Albrechtstrasse, he found Himmler seated behind a large desk, a stack of files in front of him, a surprisingly nondescript figure in a grey tweed suit. The face behind the silver pince-nez was cold and impersonal, and it was difficult to imagine what went on behind those expressionless eyes. In many ways he was a strangely timid man who could be kind to his subordinates, loved animals and was devoted to his children and yet a monster, responsible for almost all of the terror and repression which the Reich visited on its victims.

Heydrich was standing by the window and he turned, his face angry. ‘Where on earth have you been, Walter?’

Before Schellenberg could reply, one of the several telephones rang. Himmler answered it, then said, ‘I’m not to be disturbed now,’ and replaced the receiver.

He removed his pince-nez and rubbed a finger between his eyes, an habitual gesture. ‘So, General, your conversation in the Tiergarten with the Herr Admiral Canaris was interesting?’

‘So that’s where you’ve been?’ Heydrich said. ‘Playing cat and mouse with that old fool again? I gave you a certain task, Walter, as you well know.’

‘Which I was following through.’

Himmler said, ‘The Windsor affair, I presume? You may talk freely. General Heydrich and I are as one in this matter.’

‘Very well,’ Schellenberg said. ‘I made out a report of my meeting with Foreign Minister von Ribbentrop as you suggested.’

‘Yes, I’ve already received it,’ Heydrich said impatiently.

‘Then I worked my way through the Windsor file to form an opinion in the matter.’

‘And?’

‘It was not enough,’ Schellenberg said. ‘It occurred to me that it would be a good idea to sound Admiral Canaris on his view. I happen to know that most Thursday afternoons he goes riding, so I went to the Tiergarten and found him there.’

‘You had no authority to do such a thing,’ Heydrich exploded.

Himmler stilled him with a wave of the hand. ‘What was your primary reason for doing this?’

Schellenberg took his time in replying, playing it very carefully indeed. ‘A difficult question, Reichsführer. A matter of some delicacy.’

‘My dear Schellenberg, I respect your tact in this matter, but within the walls of this office there is nothing you cannot say. Not only because I am your Reichsführer, but also because we are all three men of the SS. Members of a common brotherhood.’

‘Come on, Walter,’ Heydrich said. ‘Speak out.’

‘Very well. I suspected that Reichsminister von Ribbentrop had not been entirely honest with me. It seemed logical that he would have approached the Abwehr first and yet he made no mention of the fact.’

‘I see.’ Himmler’s voice was very soft now and he smiled in a strangely satisfied way. ‘And had he?’

‘I’m afraid so, Reichsführer.’

‘The rotten little bastard,’ Heydrich said.

‘Leave it, Reinhard. Another nail in his coffin. But continue, Schellenberg. What did the admiral have to say?’

Schellenberg told them, holding nothing back for there was no need to do so. Himmler made occasional notes on a memo pad. Finally, he put down his pen.

‘So – the Herr Admiral sees no good in this affair?’

‘So it would seem.’

‘And you?’

There was a silence as they both waited for his reply and Schellenberg knew that he was on dangerous ground now. Choosing his words with care, he said calmly, ‘Herr von Ribbentrop made it clear that the whole business was to be carried through at the Führer’s express command. He has even provided me with the necessary written authority. The Reichsführer must see that I cannot possibly question an order from the Führer himself. My personal opinion doesn’t enter into the matter.’

Heydrich turned away abruptly to conceal his smile, but Himmler was positively glowing with approval. ‘I could not have put it better myself. He carries the burden for all of us. The destiny of Germany rides on his shoulders.’

Schellenberg said, ‘So, you also wish me to proceed in this matter, Reichsführer?’

‘Most certainly. You will travel to Lisbon as soon as arrangements can be made, by way of Madrid, I think. A consultation with our ambassador there, von Stohrer, would be useful.’

Heydrich turned from the window. ‘One point, Reichsführer. Lisbon is alive with secret agents of every nationality and Brigadeführer Schellenberg will be known to many of them. I have every faith in his ability to defend himself from the front, but I think it essential to have someone to protect his back. With your permission, I’ll assign two or three of my best men.’

‘Not necessary,’ Himmler said. ‘I’ll take care of it personally. The Gestapo, I’m sure, will be able to provide exactly the operatives we’re looking for.’

‘As you say, Reichsführer.’

‘Good. You may leave us now, General Schellenberg. I’m sure you have many preparations to make. I’d like a further word with you, Reinhard, on another matter.’

Schellenberg went out quickly and returned to his office. He was sweating slightly and lit a cigar-ette. A moment later Frau Huber came in with a cup of coffee.

‘See, Ilse?’ he smiled. ‘I told you there was nothing to worry about.’

As he raised the cup to his lips his hand was trembling.

As always after such an episode Schellenberg needed action and went down to the firing range in the basement which was presided over by an SS Sturmscharführer named Reitlinger. The targets against the sandbags at the far end were of charging Russian soldiers, not Tommies, an affectation of Himmler who still cherished the hope of some sort of compromise with a people who were, after all, an Aryan race.

‘Action, Horst. That’s what I need,’ Schellenberg said. ‘What have you got?’

‘The new Erma police sub-machine gun, General. Just in this morning.’

Schellenberg emptied it in short bursts, firing from the waist, cutting a couple of the targets in half. The noise was deafening.

As it died down, he placed the weapon on the firing bench. ‘A butcher’s gun. What I need is something more subtle – a silent killer, if you like.’

Reitlinger smiled and moved to the armourer’s cupboard for he knew very well what Schellenberg, who was a superb pistol shot, meant. He returned with a Mauser 7.63 mm Model 1932, with the latest adaptation, a bulbous silencer, a weapon specially developed for German counter-intelligence operatives.

‘Now this is more like it.’

Schellenberg hefted the weapon in his hand. It held a ten-round magazine which he emptied fairly rapidly, putting two shots squarely in the middle of five of the targets. The only sound was a series of dull thuds.

‘Very neat,’ Heydrich said, appearing behind him, ‘but surely you’re losing your touch, Walter? Two shots each instead of one?’

‘A wounded man can always shoot back,’ Schellenberg said. ‘A second shot will almost invariably finish him off. I like to cover my bets.’

‘You said that as if it were a stage direction.’ Heydrich held out a hand. Reitlinger rammed a fresh magazine into the Mauser and passed it to him. ‘Yes, Walter, I am more than ever inclined to believe that is what you are – an actor. Rather a good one, by the way.’

He emptied the magazine, aiming each shot carefully. ‘That was an outstanding performance you gave just now in the Reichsführer’s office. Quite brilliant. Exactly calculated to please.’

Reitlinger had moved to a position by the door which placed him out of earshot.

‘And what did you expect me to say – the truth?’

‘Which is?’

‘That this whole thing is a waste of time. I’ve read that file, I’ve talked to Canaris and they’ve completely miscalculated their man. The reports from von Stohrer in Madrid about the Duke’s sympathetic attitude. Cocktail gossip by Spanish aristocrats with fascist sympathies who want to believe he thinks as they do. That’s the whole trouble. Everyone wants to believe he’s on our side and they manufacture the evidence by a kind of wishful thinking. If the Duke of Windsor said Beethoven was his favourite composer, some idiot, even in his own country, would take that to be an endorsement of the Nazi party.’

‘So, you don’t think he’ll be interested?’

‘Not in the slightest.’

‘Then you’ll have to persuade him, won’t you?’

‘And what on earth is that supposed to achieve?’

Heydrich said, ‘When we occupy England he would have to do as he’s told for the simple reason that it would be the best way he could serve the interests of his people.’

He looked down towards the targets. ‘I haven’t done very well, have I?’

‘Not really.’ Schellenberg rammed in another clip. His arm swung up, he fired twice without apparently taking aim and shot out the eyes of the centre figure.

‘And now you’re angry,’ said Heydrich. ‘I wonder why?’

Schellenberg put down the gun. ‘We all have our off days. Do you mind if I go now? I’ve work to do.’

‘Not at all. You can pick me up at eight-thirty.’

‘What for?’

‘This Winter girl. I’d like to see her in the flesh. The Garden Room, I think you said?’

‘All right,’ Schellenberg walked to the door which Reitlinger opened for him. ‘I’ll want one of the silenced Mausers during the next couple of days. One hundred rounds in ten clips. Make up a pack for me and deliver it to the office.’

‘ Jawohl, Brigadeführer. ’

Schellenberg went out and when Reitlinger turned he found Heydrich examining the centre target.

‘Astonishing,’ he said. ‘Both eyes at fifty paces. Could you teach me to do that, Sturmscharführer?’

‘I’m afraid not, General,’ Reitlinger said. ‘It is not a talent which can be taught. You’ve either got it or you haven’t.’

‘Ah, well,’ Heydrich said. ‘He is on my side.’ He opened the door and smiled. ‘At least, I hope he is.’

Lina Heydrich was away for the summer at the charming thatch-roofed chalet on the Baltic coast on Fehmarn Island which Heydrich had built for her in 1935. He himself continued to live, with the help of a cook and housekeeper, at their Berlin house which was in the exclusive Zehlendorf quarter bordering on the Grünewald forest.

Schellenberg picked him up there at eight o’clock in one of the special department Mercedes with two uniformed SS men up front on the other side of the glass partition. One to drive and the other to ride shotgun, an expression coined by Heydrich himself who was fond of a good Western film.

As they drove down towards the centre of the city Heydrich seemed morose and out of sorts.

‘Uncle Heini,’ he said, referring to Himmler by the disrespectful nickname by which he was known throughout the SS, ‘was not exactly being solicitous when he jumped in on my suggestion about providing you with bodyguards. Unless I’m very much mistaken, you’ll have a couple of hand-picked Gestapo goons breathing down your neck.’

‘And reporting every move I make three times a day by long-distance telephone to the Reichsführer personally. Yes, I’m well aware of the implications,’ Schellenberg told him.

‘I don’t know why, but at a time when things have never looked better, I have a feeling that they are beginning to go wrong for us – for all of us.’

‘And why should that be?’

Heydrich hesitated, then leaned forward to check that the glass panel which divided them from the driving compartment was firmly closed.

‘This is in confidence – total confidence, Walter, but the truth is, I have personal doubts about Sea Lion.’

‘You mean you don’t think the invasion of England will take place?’

‘I have a nasty feeling the moment has already passed. To be frank, the Führer’s decision to halt the Panzers on the Aa Canal in Belgium and thus allow the remnants of the British Expeditionary Force to escape from Dunkirk, was a military error of the first magnitude.’

‘And now?’

‘Russia. I think that is the way his mind is increasingly turning. I have reason to believe he already has a contingency plan in mind.’

‘And you don’t think it such a good idea?’

‘Do you?’

Schellenberg shrugged. ‘Happily, I don’t have to make that kind of decision. If you want my opinion, I’d say that the trouble with a Russian campaign is not particularly the Russian army. It’s the limitless distances, supply lines thousands of miles long, ferocious winter weather. Look what happened to Napoleon.’

‘I know,’ Heydrich said. ‘I have nightmares about that.’ They were travelling along the Kurfürstendamm now and he wound down the window and peered out. ‘Not what it was in the old days – nothing is. I was at the Gloriapalast Theater for the premiere of The Blue Angel in nineteen-thirty. What a sensation and when Dietrich appeared in person on stage, the crowd went wild. Believe me, Walter, those legs of hers were the eighth wonder of the world.’

‘I can imagine,’ Schellenberg said.

‘You’ve no idea what this town was like. There was the Ring Club which only allowed membership to those who’d served at least three years in jail. The Silhouette, the Always Faithful and the Paradise which was filled with the most glorious transvestites in gorgeous dresses, high heels, lipstick. Not that my own tastes ever ran in that direction.’

Schellenberg said nothing, simply lit another cigarette and let him ramble on.

Heydrich said. ‘One can only hope this Garden Room and your Hannah Winter can supply us with a decent evening’s entertainment. It would make a nice change.’

Hannah had already changed, ready for the first show, and went in search of Uncle Max whom she had not seen since the previous evening. She found him in his office doing the books.

She kissed him on top of the head. ‘Had a good day?’

‘Not too bad. And you?’

‘I stayed in bed most of the morning. Did some shopping this afternoon.’

He took both her hands in his. ‘What we talked about last night, liebchen? You’ll do as I say? Leave with Connie and the boys on Monday.’

‘And you?’

‘I’ll follow as soon as I can.’

‘Uncle Max, you’re a Jew in a city where Jews are treated as badly as at any time in the last two thousand years. I don’t even understand why you came back when any Jew with sense was trying to get out.’

‘I’m American, liebchen. And so are you. They don’t want trouble with Uncle Sam – they’ve got enough on their plate, so they treat us a little differently. I don’t say they like it, but that’s how it is.’

She shook her head. ‘There’s more to this than meets the eye. Much more.’

‘Twenty minutes to show time,’ he said. ‘Make us some coffee, like a good girl.’

She went into the small kitchen off his office, leaving the door ajar. She lit the gas and filled the coffee pot with water, then lit a cigarette and sat on a high kitchen stool and waited for the water to boil.

There was a knock on the office door, it opened, then closed again violently. She heard her uncle say in German, ‘Irene, for God’s sake! Haven’t I told you never to come here?’

‘I’d no choice, Max. Something happened today that was rather special.’

Hannah stood up and moved so that she could see through the partially open door into the office. Irene Neumann unbuttoned her coat, raised her skirt and took the folded copy of the Windsor report from her stocking.

‘I was put on temporary duty in the copying room today. I had to make copies of this for Heydrich. It’s a report of a meeting between Schellenberg and von Ribbentrop concerning a plot to kidnap the Duke of Windsor.’

The kitchen door swung open and Hannah stepped into the room. Irene Neumann turned pale, ‘Oh, God!’ she said.

‘No, Irene – it’s all right.’ Max squeezed her hand reassuringly. ‘This is my niece, Hannah. Completely trustworthy, I assure you. Now, let me have a look at this.’

He read it quickly, then passed it to Hannah. ‘So – now you know. Go on, read it. This is the sort of thing that keeps me here.’

Her brain seemed to be dulled with the shock of it. She started to read the report and at the same time was aware of Irene Neumann and her uncle speaking in low tones.

As she finished, she heard the woman say: ‘Will Moscow be interested?’

‘Perhaps. On the other hand, I might be able to pass it on through the American embassy. Difficult, though. The Gestapo have forty or fifty men watching the place constantly. You’d better go now. How did you come in?’

‘By the stage door.’

‘Leave the same way.’ He kissed her on the cheek. ‘Look after yourself, Irene. I’ll be in touch.’

When Irene Neumann left by the stage door it had started to rain. She paused to button her overcoat and found an old beret in one pocket which she pulled on.

There was a street lamp bracketed to the wall at the end of the alley, giving the SD man on surveillance duty inside the delivery truck parked on the corner a clear view of her as she walked towards him. He managed to take several photos of her before she turned into the main street and disappeared into the evening crowds.

‘Unde Max – you’re a Communist?’

‘Labels,’ he said, ‘are meaningless these days. The only question that matters is which side you are on. Look, try and understand. In New York, after twenty-five years, I owned a hotel and two nightclubs. Everything paid for and I had half a million dollars in the bank I didn’t know what to do with. I was bored. So, I got involved with a Zionist organization that was trying to do something about what was happening to our people in Germany. Your mother knew nothing about it. I came back here in thirty-seven to help organize an escape line for Jews. I gradually got drawn into the other side of things. The only people who are really doing anything worth doing are the Socialist Underground and, by their very nature, their links are with Moscow.’

‘And Frau Neumann?’

‘Irene is a dedicated Communist. Not a card-carrying member. What they call a sleeper. Available to Party orders since she was a seventeen-year-old student. She really believes Karl Marx walked on water and she loathes the Nazis. She’s a clerical worker at Gestapo Headquarters. There are people like her in positions of trust all over the country. You’d be surprised.’

‘And this?’ She held up the report.

‘I told you Schellenberg was important, didn’t I?’

‘But this business about trying to win the Duke of Windsor over to their cause. It’s nonsensical. He’d never do such a thing.’

‘I agree, but Schellenberg’s instructions seem real enough. If necessary, he’s to kidnap the Duke and Duchess. It’s as simple as that.’ He smiled. ‘You see, liebchen, it’s now more important than ever that you leave here Monday and make your way to Lisbon.’

‘Taking this with me?’

‘You’d probably do better to memorize it.’

Suddenly she was filled with a fierce exhilaration. ‘You know, Uncle Max, being a Jew never really meant all that much to me until I came here and saw how Jews were treated. It was all right for me. Good clothes, position, an American passport, but I’ve had to walk on while old ladies with yellow stars on their coats have been kicked into the gutter by animals in uniform. God, but it would be nice to hit back for a change.’

‘You’ll do it, then?’

‘Why not?’ She folded the report, raised her skirt and slipped it into her stocking as Irene Neumann had done. ‘I’ll read it again later.’

There was a knock at the door and Vogel, the head waiter, looked in, holding a bunch of red roses. ‘I thought you’d like to know we’ve got distinguished company tonight.’

‘And who would that be?’ Max Winter asked.

‘Heydrich himself and General Schellenberg.’ Vogel handed the roses to Hannah. ‘These are for you with General Schellenberg’s compliments, and will you join them after the show?’

The Garden Room was nothing like as busy as usual. Vogel gave Heydrich and Schellenberg a booth that was usually reserved for guests of the management.

‘Champagne,’ Heydrich said. ‘Krug. Two bottles and put more on ice.’

‘Certainly, Herr General.’

Vogel bustled away and Heydrich looked the place over. As usual with such clubs, there were a number of pretty young hostesses available, seated at the bar. He looked them over with the eye of the true connoisseur.

Vogel appeared with the champagne and Heydrich said, ‘The blonde, third from the end of the bar. Tell her to come over.’

The girl came immediately. Heydrich didn’t ask her name. Simply told her to sit down and poured her a glass of champagne. Then he pulled back her skirt and stroked her silken knees while he talked to Schellenberg.

Connie and his boys were playing ‘Some of These Days’ and Heydrich drummed out the tempo on the edge of the table with the fingers of his free hand.

‘Excellent – really quite excellent. You know, Walter, one of the more fatuous requirements of our present system is that it expects me to consider Negroes my inferior, which is rather unfortunate in my case as I adore Louis Armstrong, the music of Duke Ellington and the piano playing of Fats Waller.’

Schellenberg said, ‘The Jewish situation creates the same personal difficulties, don’t you find? I mean, almost every mathematician, or musician or scientist of note seems to be a Jew, and rather large numbers of them have left. I wonder just how long we can stand that?’

Heydrich frowned, which hardly surprised Schellenberg. He was well aware of his superior’s dark secret which was that his maternal grandmother, Sarah, had been Jewish.

‘That kind of talk will get you into nothing but trouble, Walter. There are times when I despair of you. Times when a definitely suicidal strain shows through.’ He refilled Schellenberg’s glass. ‘Here – drink up and shut up!’

The trio started to play a little louder, Uncle Max’s voice boomed out and a moment later, Hannah emerged on stage and started to sing.

A great many of her numbers were in English, which was what the crowd expected. She worked her way through a number of popular songs of the day including ‘The Continental’, ‘That Old Feeling’, ‘Time on My Hands’, a Noël Coward number, ‘Mad About the Boy’, and ended with a really beautiful rendition of ‘These Foolish Things’ that had the diners standing up and cheering.

Schellenberg had been totally absorbed and was on his feet applauding madly when he glanced to one side and noticed Heydrich still sitting down, one arm around the young girl, frowning up at him in a strangely calculating way.

As the applause died down, he said, ‘Careful, Walter, you’re letting your enthusiasm run away with you. I think you like this one – too much, perhaps.’

Schellenberg nodded to Vogel who went and spoke to Hannah who had stopped beside the piano to talk to Connie. She came across, pausing here and there to speak to well-wishers.

He stood up. ‘You were marvellous – truly.’

He held her hands tightly for a moment and she responded in spite of herself. ‘Thanks – I enjoyed doing it and that’s usually good for the audience.’

‘General Heydrich, may I present Fräulein Hannah Winter?’

Heydrich didn’t bother to get up. ‘Excellent, Fräulein. Really very, very good.’ His manner was cool enough to border on the offensive. He said to Schellenberg, ‘Actually, Walter, I’ve decided to have an early night. I’ll take the car and send it back for you, if you want to stay on, that is.’

‘Yes, I think I will.’

‘Suit yourself.’ Heydrich got up, clutching the blonde girl firmly by one arm. ‘Fräulein – a pleasure.’

Hannah and Schellenberg watched them go. He poured her a glass of champagne. ‘You have another show?’

‘Yes, in an hour.’

‘May I escort you home afterwards?’

She put a hand on her thigh, aware of the folded report that she had pushed into her stocking. It gave her a strange feeling of power over him so that she smiled and said yes and was aware of that familiar hollow feeling of excitement.

‘Your General Heydrich,’ she said. ‘Does he usually take bar girls home with him?’

‘Frequently.’

‘He should beware of young Lotte. The word I heard was that she was having to see the doctor.’

Schellenberg laughed. ‘We have a saying in the SS. A soldier’s pay – a soldier’s risks.’

She leaned forwards, a sudden urgency in her voice. ‘You’re not like him – like the rest of them. I don’t understand.’

He took her hand and said gently, ‘Are you familiar with a song called “Moonlight on the Highway”?’

‘Yes.’

‘I have a record of it sung by the English crooner, Al Bowlly. It is an especial favourite of mine. Will you sing it for me?’

‘If you like.’

‘I love good jazz singing. Billie Holliday was my favourite – until now. Your trio are really quite excellent.’

‘Connie and the boys. Oh, yes – terrors with the girls. Women seem to be their main spare-time interest.’

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