BARBARA TAYLOR BRADFORD
The Women in His Life

Copyright

Published by HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by Grafton Books 1990

Copyright © Barbara Taylor Bradford 1990

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2013

Cover photograph © Shutterstock.com

Grateful acknowledgement is made for permission to reprint lines from the following songs:

‘There’ll Always Be an England’ (Parker/Charles) Copyright © 1939, Dash Music Co. Ltd, 8–9 Frith Street, London, W1V 5TZ Used by permission. All rights reserved.

‘The White Cliffs of Dover’ (Kent/Burton) Copyright © 1941, Shapiro Bernstein & Co. Inc., USA Reproduced by permission of B. Feldman & Co. Ltd, London WC2H 0EA.

‘I’ll Be Seeing You’ (Fain/Kahal) Copyright © 1938, Marlo Music Corp., USA Reproduced by permission of Francis Day and Hunter Ltd, London WC2H 0EA.

Extract from Rich: The Life of Richard Burton by Melvyn Bragg is reprinted by kind permission of Hodder & Stoughton Ltd.

Barbara Taylor Bradford asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

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Source ISBN 9780586070352

Ebook Edition © AUGUST 2013 ISBN 9780007401550

Version 2017-11-14

Dedication

This book is for Bob, who means all the world to me, and without whom it could not have been written.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Part Two

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Part Three

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Part Four

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Part Five

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Part Six

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Part Seven

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Keep Reading

Bibliography

Glossary

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by the Author

About the Publisher

Part One
Maximilian, London – New York 1989

A man who stormed and captured so many citadels which in his boyhood and youth must have seemed as fantastical and unobtainable as Ali Baba’s cave. A man of many lives.

Rich: The Life of Richard Burton

by Melvyn Bragg

Chapter One

He came out of the imposing house on the corner of Chesterfield Hill and Charles Street and stood for a moment poised on the front step. It had rained earlier and the dampness lingered and the air was raw on this chilly Thursday evening in January.

Normally oblivious of the weather, he found himself shivering and turned up the collar of his black trenchcoat. The weather underscored his morose mood, his sense of desolation. For a long time there had been a deep sadness inside him; tonight, for some reason, it seemed more acute than usual.

Pushing his hands in his pockets, he forced himself to stride out, heading in the direction of Berkeley Square. He walked at a rapid pace along Charles Street, his step determined, his back straight, his head held erect. He was dark-haired with dark-brown eyes, tall, lean, trimly built. There was an athletic hardness about his body, which was echoed in his lean and angular face, its raw-boned sharpness softened by a deep tan. He was an exceptionally handsome man, in his early fifties: his name was Maximilian West.

He cursed mildly under his breath, wondering at the heaviness he felt and suddenly regretting that he had agreed to this meeting set for such a late hour. He had done so impulsively – he who was rarely impulsive – out of deference to his old schoolfriend, Alan Trenton. Alan had made his presence sound so vitally important. But eight-forty-five was late even for him, renowned as he was for being ready to do business at any time of day or night, any day of the week, especially since he had another appointment that evening. What saved the situation for him was the fact that Alan’s office was only a stone’s throw away from the late-night dining club where he had a table booked for nine-thirty.

He circled Berkeley Square, dodging the traffic as he made for the far side, wondering why Alan needed to see him, what this was all about. When Alan had telephoned the house earlier his voice had vibrated with urgency, yet he had been curiously reticent. Intrigued, Maxim had agreed to stop by, but now he was acutely aware of the time, reminding himself that Alan was talkative, could be a bit long-winded on occasion. He would have to keep his eye on the clock, move the meeting along quickly if he was to stay on schedule.

Oh what the hell, he thought, as he reached the corner of Bruton Street. Alan’s been special to me most of my life. I owe him … we go back so far, he knows so much – and he’s my best friend.

Crossing the street, his eyes focused on the Jack Barclay showroom on the opposite corner, and when he reached the plate-glass windows he paused to admire the sleek Rolls-Royces and Bentleys gleaming under the brilliant spotlights. He was always promising himself one of these super-deluxe models, but he never seemed to get around to buying it. On the other hand, he did not have much need for a car for his personal use anymore. Corporate jets that sped around the world were more his style these days, and when he was on the ground there were always company limousines at his disposal.

He walked on past the Henley car showroom and Lloyds bank, and pushed through the doors of Berkeley Square House, the best commercial address in town and a powerhouse of a building. Here, floor upon floor, were housed the great international corporations and the multi-nationals, companies that had more financial clout than the governments of the world. Maxim thought of it as a mighty treasury of trade, for it did hundreds of billions of dollars’ worth of business a year. And yet the buff-coloured edifice had no visible face, had long since blended into the landscape of this lovely, leafy square in the very heart of Mayfair, and most Londoners who walked past it daily were hardly aware of its existence. But it was the British base for an amazing number of mega corporations and the spot where the big bucks stopped.

Maxim crossed the richly-carpeted, white-marble hall, and nodded to the security guard who touched his cap in recognition. He stepped into the elevator and rode up to Alan Trenton’s offices on the sixth floor. Trenton’s secretary of many years responded to his knock and opened the door. She smiled warmly when she saw him standing there. ‘Good evening, Mr West. Oh dear, I’m so sorry, do excuse me. I mean, Sir Maximilian.’

He swiftly brushed aside her apologies, flashed a dazzling smile. ‘Hello, Evelyn,’ he said, stepping inside briskly, shrugging out of his trenchcoat.

She took it from him, ushered him towards Trenton’s inner sanctum. ‘He’s waiting for you.’

Maxim nodded, went in.

Alan Trenton was standing next to a carved mahogany console of Chippendale design, pouring Roederer Cristal Brut into a silver tankard. He was Maxim’s age, yet appeared older. His figure was stout, he was of medium height, fair of colouring, and slightly balding above a ruddy face.

‘Maxim!’ he exclaimed, his pale-blue eyes lighting up with the most obvious pleasure. He put the bottle of Cristal down with a clatter, hurried across the faded but highly valuable Aubusson carpet, grasped Maxim’s hand, put an arm around him, half embraced his oldest and dearest friend.

Maxim returned the gesture.

‘It’s good to see you,’ Trenton said.

‘And you, Alan. It’s been too long this time. My fault.’

‘No problem. I understand.’ Alan’s face filled with sudden glee, and he beamed. ‘I know I’ve said it on the phone, but I feel I must say it to you in person … congratulations, Maxim, on your great honour.’

‘Thanks, Stubby,’ Maxim said, reverting to his old nickname for Trenton from their schooldays. He grinned hugely, punched Alan lightly on the arm. ‘Who’d have thought it, eh?’

‘I would, Duke, that’s who,’ Alan shot back, following Maxim’s lead, using the name he had bestowed on the other man some forty-seven years before. ‘And thanks for coming at such short notice, I know how pressed you are.’

‘And why am I here?’ Maxim’s gaze turned quizzical. A dark brow lifted.

Trenton did not at first respond. He stepped over to the console, lifted the bottle. ‘A drop of bubbly, old chap.’

‘Thanks, but not really,’ Maxim said, then instantly changed his mind, realising the champagne was in his honour. He added quickly, ‘Of course, why not? But do make it a drop. A quarter of a tankard, please, not a full one like yours, Stubby.’

Maxim watched Trenton dispensing the champagne, waiting for him to open up, but when nothing was said about the reason for his presence, he casually strolled into the middle of the room and glanced around.

Alan had recently finished redecorating his office and Maxim liked the new ambience. A sense of elegance and warmth had been created with pine-panelled walls, fine English antiques and bucolic landscapes of the English countryside hanging in elaborate carved and gilded frames. All bespoke Trenton’s life-long predilection for ancient objects and artifacts, which had developed into a very serious and consuming hobby. He had become a well-known collector, an avid bidder at mighty auctions. All that oil money to spend, Maxim commented to himself. North Sea oil money. Big Texas oil money. He had encouraged Alan to pursue his own ideas, to expand the family business after he had taken over from his father, had backed him to the hilt in every way, giving him moral and financial support. The combination had worked, and Alan’s great prosperity over the past fifteen years pleased him greatly.

A moment later Trenton joined Maxim, handed him the champagne. They clinked tankards. Alan said, ‘Here’s to your title. Wear it in good health, old chap.’

Maxim couldn’t help laughing. ‘Thanks. And here’s to you, Stubby. Your good health.’ Maxim savoured the icy Cristal, liking its dryness. He took another sip, then said, ‘So, Alan, what is this all about?’

Trenton eyed him speculatively. ‘How would you like to be a white knight?’

Maxim stared. A dark brow lifted again. This was the last thing he had expected.

There was a small silence.

‘To come to the rescue of Lister Newspapers, I presume,’ Maxim said at last.

Trenton was taken aback. ‘Someone else has already approached you!’ he exclaimed, managing to make his words sound like both statement and question.

Maxim shook his head emphatically, the expression in his dark eyes denying. ‘Not at all. But that’s the only company in London facing a hostile takeover bid, at least that I’m aware of. Anyway, how come you’re involved?’

‘Actually, I’m not,’ Trenton was quick to say. ‘I’m sort of –’ he paused, half laughed, groped for a word, came up with ‘– a go-between. It’s John Vale, my merchant banker, who is the one involved. The merchant bank acts for Lister Newspapers and John is very close to the chairman, Harry Lister, and is seeking to help him. He’s aware we’re old friends and asked me to arrange this meeting.’

‘But it’s hardly my bailiwick, I’m not interested in –’ Maxim abruptly broke off, looked towards the door as it flew open.

‘Ah there you are, John,’ Trenton said, hurrying to greet the newcomer, his genial hand outstretched. ‘Come in! Come in!’

‘Hello, Alan,’ John Vale said, shaking Trenton’s hand. He was in his late thirties, of average height, wiry, very English in appearance, with a fair skin, streaky blond hair and light grey eyes behind thick tortoiseshell glasses. He allowed Trenton to propel him across the room to its centre, where Maxim stood.

‘Maxim, I’d like to introduce John Vale of Morgan Lane,’ Trenton said. ‘And, of course, this is Sir Maximilian West, John.’

‘Glad to meet you.’ Maxim thrust out his hand.

‘It’s my very great pleasure, Sir Maximilian,’ John Vale responded, almost wincing at Maxim’s vice-like grip, staring at him, yet trying to conceal, as best he could, his avid curiosity. Maximilian West was one of the world’s most brilliant tycoons, a buccaneer like Sir James Goldsmith and Lord Hanson, both shrewd operators in the takeover game. West more than outmatched them, at least in John Vale’s considered opinion.

Leaving the two men standing together, Alan went over to the console, exclaiming, ‘Champagne coming up immediately, John.’

‘Thanks,’ Vale replied. He turned to Maxim and smoothly began to make small talk, all the while studying him surreptitiously. West had the effluvium of power; it seemed to emanate from him. Vale had not expected such a good-looking man, though. There was something rather spectacular about that wide engaging smile, the very white teeth, the dark eyes filled with vivid intelligence. And that tan! It was the golden tan of a playboy garnered in some exotic winter playground, not that of a workaholic conglomerateur who spent the majority of his time cooped up in boardrooms and circling the globe in his private jet. The clothes were equally unexpected, hardly the usual drab garb of a typical businessman. More like movie star clothes, Vale thought, eyeing the grey, pure-silk shirt, the pearl-grey silk tie, the superbly-cut black gabardine suit that hung on West with such precision that it had undoubtedly been engineered by the world’s greatest tailor for a large quantity of money. John Vale recognised at once that there was an intense glamour about Maxim West which had just as much to do with his personal magnetism as his dashing appearance.

Trenton’s voice, booming out suddenly, interrupted Vale’s thoughts and the discussion he was having with Maxim West about the filthy English weather and other trivialities.

‘Here you go, John, a drop of the old bubbly for you,’ Alan cried. ‘And now we can get down to business. At least the two of you can. Although I’ve brought you and Sir Maximilian together, I intend to sit back and be the observer. The silent observer.’

Maxim chuckled. ‘The day you do that I guarantee it’ll snow gold bricks. You haven’t drawn breath since you uttered your first word,’ he said, but there was no hint of criticism in his voice, only warmth and great affection.

Alan threw back his head and roared. ‘I suppose there’s some truth in what you say. And you should know – after the years we’ve been together.’ He ambled across the floor, brought the tankard of champagne to Vale. ‘Good health,’ he said.

The three men drank, and Trenton gestured to a group of chairs around a Georgian occasional table. ‘Shall we sit?’

Once they were settled, Trenton again glanced at John Vale, and continued, ‘I told Maxim why I asked him to come over this evening. I think you should elucidate further.’

Vale nodded, gave his attention to Maxim. ‘Firstly, I’d like to know whether you would be interested in being the white knight for Lister Newspapers?’

Maxim frowned. ‘I honestly don’t know. Just as you were arriving, I had started to say to Alan that I didn’t think a newspaper empire was my bailiwick exactly.’

‘But why not, Maxim?’ Alan demanded peremptorily, forgetting his vow of silence of a moment ago. ‘Surely it’s a perfect acquisition for you at this stage of your career. Think of the added power and influence you would have if you controlled Lister. A national daily, a national Sunday newspaper, and a galaxy of prestigious magazines.’

Maxim threw Alan a swift look but did not respond. Instead he addressed John Vale. ‘What makes you think I’d be acceptable to the stockholders?’

‘Harry Lister is certain of it; so are the other members of the Lister board. I agree with them, as do the directors of Morgan Lane.’ Vale perched precariously on the edge of his seat, leaned forward, fixed his bespectacled, earnest gaze on Maxim. ‘You have the name, a formidable reputation, and an extraordinary track record. You’re not an asset stripper, far from it. The companies you have taken over have flourished under your good management. These things are tremendous points in your favour. Quite frankly, you’re impressive, very impressive indeed, and that’s why we’re absolutely positive you’d be acceptable to the stockholders. Incidentally, so are Birch, Rider, stockbrokers for Lister Newspapers. They’re as enthusiastic about you as we are, in point of fact.’

‘Those are very kind words. Thank you,’ Maxim murmured, and paused, steepled his fingers, brought them up to his mouth. He was thoughtful, then continued, ‘Arthur Bradley’s International Publishing Group has tendered an offer of five hundred million pounds for Lister Newspapers. As a white knight I would have to top that offer by at least two hundred million pounds.’

‘Not necessarily,’ Vale shot back. ‘It could be less.’

‘Two hundred million pounds, one hundred million pounds, what’s the difference … it’s still a big ticket,’ Maxim remarked coolly.

‘True,’ John Vale agreed, nodding his head. ‘But look at it this way, you stand to make a lot of money.’

‘I don’t always consider how much I might make,’ Maxim replied in a quiet voice. ‘Rather, I ask myself how much can I lose?’

‘Oh I’m certain you wouldn’t lose,’ John asserted, sounding confident. ‘I would like to give you some relevant information regarding Lister Newspapers, a few facts and figures.’

‘Go ahead.’ Maxim settled back in the chair, ready to listen.

At this juncture, Alan Trenton rose.

‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ll attend to a bit of my own business,’ he murmured and went to the far side of the office where he sat down behind his desk. He studied the faxes and telexes from New York, which had come in earlier, wrote succinct replies to be dispatched in the morning, perused other urgent papers, making notations on them.

Once he had finished, he looked at Maxim and John Vale. He saw they were still deep in conversation, decided to leave them to their own devices for a short while longer. There was nothing pertinent he could say, little he could contribute to their discussion. It was best he remain out of it altogether.

Swivelling the desk chair, Alan sat gazing out of the window which overlooked Berkeley Square. His thoughts drifted aimlessly for a few seconds, and then inevitably they settled on Maximilian West, as they generally did when Maxim was in close proximity. It was difficult not to focus on him, so powerful was his charisma and his presence.

It delighted Alan to see him in such great form, such good spirits. If one judged him by his appearance, Maxim looked as if he led a life of ease and pleasure in one of his many beautiful houses or on his floating palace of a yacht. Nothing was farther from the truth. He worked around the clock, was never off a plane, kept up the most killing pace – and yet somehow managed to remain remarkably unscathed. In fact, Alan often thought that Maxim thrived on it all. In the past nine years Maxim had been under excessive pressure and not so readily available socially, travelling the world at large as he did. Also, London was more of a stopping off point for him these days, even though he had his head office here and the house in Mayfair. Greener fields, in the shape of Manhattan, beckoned most beguilingly.

And Alan sorely missed Maxim.

He wished he saw more of him. They spoke frequently on the telephone, grabbed a quick bite or a drink together occasionally, but this was not quite the same as lunching and dining in a leisurely fashion, the way they had in the past. They had been inseparable as boys, equally close in their teens, and their friendship had continued into full manhood.

Best friends ’til the day we die, they had sworn at boarding school, and curiously enough this boyhood vow was holding true. And that’s all that matters in the long run, Alan thought. To know in our hearts that we’re always there for each other, that we can rely on each other no matter what the circumstances.

Spinning the chair again, Alan peered the length of his office, fixed his eyes on Maxim, observed him carefully for a few seconds. His old friend appeared to be quizzing John Vale, asking some hard questions, no doubt. Vale was responding alertly, looking suitably impressed by his inquisitor. But then there was nothing unique about that. Everyone was impressed by Maximilian West. Startled, too, more often than not, when they first met him. He was never what anyone expected him to be. Nor did he ever do what people anticipated he would do. He had always been a maverick.

In his mind’s eye Alan suddenly saw Maxim as he had been at fifteen, remembered that ghastly day when two boys from another school, bullies both, had picked on Maxim, sneered at him, called him filthy names, been immeasurably cruel as only the young can be cruel. Maxim, ashen-faced, his dark eyes blazing with rage, had instantly turned combative, had raised his hands like a boxer about to go on the attack. Ready to do battle for his best friend, he had brought his hands up too, wanting to fight at Maxim’s side. And then the unexpected, the unanticipated, had happened, startling the crowd of boys, and him most of all. Maxim had dropped his arms to his sides and had walked away without uttering a word, his head held high, his immense pride, his uncommon dignity forming an unassailable shield around him. The group of boys who had been watching and jeering had fallen silent, had parted ranks with docility to let him pass, intimidated by the cold, implacable expression on Maxim’s face, his lofty demeanour.

Alan recalled how he had run after Maxim, wanting to give him comfort, to make him feel better. But Maxim had not needed sympathy; he had even refused to discuss the matter, had turned morose and moody for the rest of the day. It was only later that night, after lights-out in the dormitory, that Maxim had finally mentioned the incident. As if in answer to Alan’s unspoken question, he had hissed in the dark, ‘I walked away because those cowards weren’t worth fighting! I didn’t even want to soil my hands by touching them!’ He had expressed his contempt and disgust for the likes of the two bullies, and had gone on to proclaim, ‘One day I’ll be cock of the walk, just you wait and see, Stubby.’ And then in a fierce whisper he had added vehemently, ‘I’m nobody now! I have nothing now! But no matter how long it takes, I promise you I’m going to be somebody. And I’m going to have everything.’

He was. And he did. He had made it come true, perhaps beyond even his own wildest dreams.

Maximilian West was a man with the world in his arms.

Consequently he was envied by most men. Alan did not envy him. He was filled only with admiration for Maxim. He knew what a hard and difficult road he had travelled, the enormous leaps he had made, the chances he had taken. His was an extraordinary success story, an epic story, really, quite fantastical. He was a great magnate, his name was one to be truly reckoned with on the international business scene, and in the last fifteen years he had gone from millionaire to multi-millionaire to billionaire.

And only a couple of weeks ago, on the last day of December, the Queen’s New Year Honours List had been announced. Among those titles and honours put forward by the Prime Minister for the Queen’s approval was a knighthood for Maxim. It was for his enormous contributions to British industry at home and abroad, and he was now Sir Maximilian West, and could be thus addressed, even though his investiture at Buckingham Palace was not for three more months to come, in March.

Cock of the bloody walk indeed, Alan thought. And smiled. It was a deep smile, one of genuine pride and the greatest satisfaction. He revelled in Maxim’s successes and triumphs, was always there on the sidelines, applauding. Maxim had been his hero at school. In a way, he still was. Alan supposed he always would be.

He glanced at Maxim again, and admiringly so. How wonderful his dear old friend looked. No, he doesn’t, Trenton suddenly thought, startling himself, sitting up with a little jolt. He peered harder at Maxim. The dazzling facade was intact, but now, instinctively, he knew there was something terribly wrong. It was not possible to be close to a man for nigh on forty-seven years and not know him inside out. There was a shadow at the back of Maxim’s eyes that he had not seen there for years; he wondered why he hadn’t noticed it when Maxim first arrived. Perhaps because he’d been too busy congratulating him on his knighthood. Maxim’s got trouble, serious trouble, Stubby decided. Is it the women? I hope to God not, he’s had enough trouble with women to last him a lifetime. Well, whatever’s wrong, and there is something, I’ll offer to help. That’s what a best friend is for.

Now Alan looked quickly at the watch on his wrist, the gold Patek Philippe which Maxim had given him last year for his fifty-fourth birthday. He saw that it was exactly nine-fifteen. Earlier, on the phone, Maxim had said he would have to leave by nine-twenty. Alan knew that in one second, certainly not much longer, Maxim would stand up, make his goodbyes and be gone. He was precise in many ways, and punctuality was one of his strongest suits.

Anticipating Maxim’s imminent departure, Alan rose, went over to join him and Vale, as Maxim was saying to John Vale, ‘The figures you’ve given me are interesting. However, I’m still uncertain whether or not I want to jump into the fray, make a counter offer for Lister. I really will have to give the matter some thought.’

Vale swallowed hard, striving to hide his deep disappointment that this meeting had not been more conclusive. ‘Yes, of course, I understand perfectly, and I’m sure you understand that speed is of the essence. Lister are wide open right at this moment, exposed in so many ways. They’re a sitting target for other corporate raiders. That’s what worries us the most, that someone else, another company, might enter the bidding and go after Lister.’ Vale exhaled heavily. ‘You know what that could mean.’

‘Only too well. A bidding war.’ Maxim stood. ‘If you drop the documents off at my house tonight, as you suggested, I’ll study them later.’

Vale also rose, nodded. ‘Yes, I will. And thank you very much for your courtesy and for listening.’ He extended his hand, added, ‘I’m most appreciative, Sir Maximilian.’

Maxim took Vale’s hand. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me I really must leave.’ He glanced conspiratorially at Alan, winked, said as an afterthought, ‘I have a dinner engagement and I would hate to keep the lady waiting.’

‘I’ll walk you to the lift, Duke,’ Alan said, taking hold of Maxim’s arm in a proprietary fashion, ushering him out. He wanted to get Maxim alone, to ask him what was the matter, what he could do to help.

When Alan Trenton returned to his office a few seconds later, John Vale peered at him myopically. Anxiety underlined his voice, as he asked with some urgency, ‘Well, what did he say?’

‘Nothing. At least not about Lister Newspapers and his intentions. He wouldn’t, you know, not even to me. He’s very secretive about his business, always has been. I can tell you for a fact that he shreds every document that passes through his hands. Afraid of leaks, I suppose.’

‘Nobody knows him better than you, Alan. What is your assessment? What do you think our chances are?’

Trenton pursed his lips, pondered briefly. ‘I honestly don’t know.’ He sat down heavily and looked off into the distance, a reflective expression invading his face.

John Vale followed suit, sat across from Alan Trenton, waiting patiently.

At length Trenton said, ‘If it feels right to him, he’ll go with it.’

‘What do you mean exactly?’

‘That’s what Maxim has always said to me … that a deal’s got to feel right. He goes on instinct. Gut instinct. He ignores analysts, reports, valuations, advisers. Gut instinct, that’s what guides him.’

‘Do you really believe that?’ Vale sounded doubtful.

‘Oh yes, I do! More importantly, Maxim believes it. But what he really means, of course, is that he relies on his experience, his expertise, his great knowledge. Plus his instinctive feel for the particular deal, the particular situation.’

Trenton picked up his silver tankard, swigged the last of his champagne, looked as if he was mulling something over.

‘You asked me what my assessment is, John,’ he went on at last, ‘and it’s this. If Maximilian West feels right about making an offer for Lister Newspapers he will do so. And if he feels wrong, or if he has no feeling about it whatsoever, then he’ll pass. That’s the way he is. Very cut and dried. Precise. It’s his nature. Certainly he won’t keep you dangling. You’ll get a decision, and an answer, very quickly.’

‘That’s good to know at least. And by the by, Alan, whatever the outcome is, I’m indebted to you. I don’t know how to thank you for arranging this meeting.’

‘Very easily, old boy. Take me to dinner as you promised. Now. I’m starving.’

John laughed. ‘That makes two of us. I booked a table at Mark’s Club. Let’s stroll over there, and after we’ve dined I’ll leave the papers at Maxim’s house in Chesterfield Hill. He said you’d give me the exact address.’

‘Of course.’ Alan pushed himself up. ‘I’ll clear my desk, then we can be off.’

Vale followed him across the room, hovered about.

At one moment, he remarked, ‘I hadn’t expected him to be such a handsome man. I’ve seen photographs of him in newspapers and magazines and none of them do him justice.’

‘No, they don’t. But then a lot of Duke’s appeal lies in his personal charisma. I don’t suppose you can take a photograph of that.’

‘Why do you call him Duke?’ Vale asked curiously.

‘After Archduke Maximilian of Austria who became Emperor of Mexico in 1864,’ Alan explained. ‘Maxim was being a bit imperious with me one day at prep school, and I dubbed him that. He thought it was hilarious … anyway, the name stuck.’

‘I see. Is it true what they say about him?’

‘They say a lot of things … what in particular are you referring to?’

‘That Maximilian West cares about only four things. The Prime Minister. The United States. Making money. And screwing.’

Alan glanced up, started to laugh. Recovering himself after a brief moment, he said, ‘I know he holds Mrs Thatcher in the highest regard, is a great admirer of her policies, especially when it comes to business. And let’s face it, old chap, he’s flourishing under her regime. She’s just had him knighted. Most certainly he loves the United States, he’s been straddling the Atlantic for a decade or so. He spends as much time there as he does here, you know.’

A mischievous gleam entered Alan’s eyes. ‘And for as long as I can remember, Maxim’s been very intense about making money, and making love to the ladies. Oh yes, he’s a bit of a lady-killer, our Maxim is. As for the ladies, they, of course, find him quite devastating. Drop like ninepins at his feet.’

‘All those wives, all those mistresses,’ Vale murmured, a hint of awe echoing. ‘How on earth has he managed to juggle them, and apparently with such adroitness?’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘Haven’t you ever asked him?’

‘Good Lord, of course I haven’t! I’ve never had the nerve,’ Alan lied. He had no wish to discuss Maxim’s unorthodox personal life any further with John Vale. He had said enough as it was. Certain things must always remain private. There had been a great deal of gossip about Maxim over the years and he was hardly going to add to it. That would be the worst kind of betrayal.

I know far too much, Alan thought, dropping his eyes, locking the top drawer of his desk. All those confidences Maxim has shared over the years. And continues to share. But his secrets are safe with me. And he knows that, knows I will take them with me to the grave.

Chapter Two

For the second time that evening Maximilian West found himself shaking off a feeling of heaviness as he traversed Berkeley Square, heading back in the direction he had walked earlier.

Directly opposite Alan Trenton’s office building, on the other side of the plane trees in the park in the middle of the square, was number forty-four. This was his destination. Here, in the basement of the beautiful old house, was one of the most exclusive nightclubs in Europe – the famous Annabel’s.

Founded in the summer of 1963 by Mark Birley, and named after his wife Lady Annabel, from whom he was now divorced, it was the chicest of watering holes for the rich and famous, where the international jet set rubbed shoulders with movie stars and magnates and members of the British royal family. For the past twenty-six years it had remained very much the in spot, yet it had now gone beyond being merely fashionable. It had become legendary. And it was Maxim’s favourite place to dine in London.

Within minutes of leaving Alan’s office, Maxim was nodding to the uniformed doorman who hovered outside, ducking under the green awning and hurrying down the flight of steps into the club.

A bevy of familiar, smiling faces greeted him as he entered, and after shedding his trenchcoat he went over to the reception desk where Ted was waiting to welcome guests, as he was most nights of the week.

Maxim accepted Ted’s quietly-spoken congratulations, exchanged pleasantries with him, signed the book, sauntered through into the bar-sitting room. Glancing quickly about, he saw that it was still relatively empty, and he took a small table in the corner, to one side of the brightly-burning log fire.

A waiter was instantly by his side, and he ordered vodka straight with ice and a chunk of lime, then settled into the squashy sofa, enjoying the comfort and warmth and the sense of ease that always came to him here.

He had been a member since the club had first opened its doors, and he liked the atmosphere, the intimacy that sprang from the blazing fire, the soft lights and deep sofas, the cheerful feeling created by the masses of fresh flowers in antique containers, the dark-red Oriental rugs and the pumpkin-coloured walls covered with a diversity of paintings. Wonderful dog portraits, cartoons by Landseer, Munnings and Bateman, oils of elegant women, some nude, some clothed, hung cheek by jowl, and at first glance seemed to have been put together with some sort of careless abandon. Yet there was nothing haphazard about their placement, if one looked a second time and a bit more carefully. They never ceased to delight his eye, to amuse him, and they were a source of constant pleasure, frequently brought a quick smile to his face.

To Maxim, Annabel’s was more like an extension of Mark Birley’s own house than a restaurant and nightclub, and perhaps this was the key to its enormous success. The bar area had the feeling of a country drawing room in a manor house, could never be mistaken for anything but an English drawing room at that, what with its mixtures of chintzes and paintings and flowers, its mellowness and charm. Quite aside from the inimitable and inviting ambience, there were the gracious staff to be thankful for, the excellent service they gave, and finally the type of unpretentious food Maxim preferred to eat. For the most part, English cooking at its best with a few continental dishes thrown in.

In his opinion there was nowhere in the world quite like Annabel’s, and it was one of the things he sorely missed about London when he was away. He had not been in town for some weeks and he was glad to be back in his special haunt. Invariably, the tensions of the day left him the instant he stepped through its portals. He felt insulated against the world when he was at the club, cocooned within the familiar, pleasant surroundings, attended to by the discreet and congenial staff. A home from home, he thought, then added sardonically to himself: Except that I prefer this place to home. But I don’t have a home any more, do I?

Reaching for the drink, he took a quick swallow, leaned against the cushions, forced himself to focus on the meeting he had just had in Stubby’s office.

He was curiously ambivalent about going after the Lister newspaper empire, and he wondered why. Before he had a chance to focus on this properly, ponder the reasons further, he saw Louis, the manager, coming through the bar-sitting room, heading in his direction. Louis’s face was wreathed in smiles. They were old friends, had known each other for over thirty years, ever since the days Louis had been the maitre d’ at the Mirabelle Restaurant in Curzon Street, just around the corner from the club. There was a camaraderie between them that sprang from the past, many shared experiences, the genuine affection they held for each other.

Maxim jumped up, beaming.

They greeted each other warmly, shook hands. Louis congratulated him on his knighthood, and they stood chatting, catching up with each other’s news. After a few minutes, Louis was summoned to take a phone call in the dining room, and he excused himself. Maxim sat down on the sofa and picked up his drink, but no sooner had he done so than he found himself rising once more as his personal assistant came floating into the bar-sitting room on a cloud of perfume.

Graeme Longdon was an American, thirty-seven years old, tall, bean-pole thin, with curly brown hair shot through with a hint of auburn and the brightest of green eyes. Not classically beautiful in the given sense of the word, she was, nonetheless, a lovely young woman, very arresting, with a broad brow, high cheekbones above rounded cheeks, and a full, wide mouth that was forever smiling. She was from Richmond, Virginia, was independent, feisty, and outspoken.

Maxim considered her to be one of the smartest people he had ever known, and she was his good right hand.

Tonight she was dressed in a superlative black velvet suit, which to his discerning eye was most obviously an haute couture number from Paris. The excellently-styled jacket above the pencil-slim skirt was trimmed across the shoulders and yoke with jet-bead embroidery and silk tassels. Her long, shapely legs were encased in sheer black hose, her feet elegantly shod in a pair of black satin pumps. The only jewellery she wore were large diamond earrings shaped like flowers, and, on her wrist, a narrow diamond watch designed by Cartier in the thirties.

Maxim went to meet her, took hold of her elbow, guided her over to the corner table.

‘You look lovely,’ he said, forever appreciative of a pretty woman, always full of genuine gallantry, ready with a compliment.

‘Why thank you,’ she said, turning to him, widening her smile. It lit up her face. ‘I always feel I must get myself done up in my best fancy duds to come to this place. So I dashed back to the Ritz to change. That’s why I’m late. Sorry, Boss,’ she said with her usual breeziness and casual style.

‘There’s no need to apologise,’ he replied, returning her smile, as usual faintly amused by her irreverent manner, her persistence in calling him Boss. When she had first come to work for him and had started to address him in this way, he had been irritated, had tried to make her stop. But she had ignored his protests, or they had flown over her head, he wasn’t sure which, and Boss it had remained since then. He had grown used to it by now, no longer minded. It was of no consequence to him, really. And he admired her for being herself, for not compromising her personality to suit somebody else’s idea of the proper corporate image. She was honest and forthright and rather blunt, unnervingly so at times. He laughed to himself. Graeme had nicknames for everyone in the company, at least those she dealt with on a day-to-day basis. Most of the names were highly appropriate, and some disconcertingly so.

‘What’s a few minutes between us,’ Maxim remarked as they sat down. ‘In any case, you’re worth the wait, Graeme. You’re positively blooming tonight. Let’s settle down, relax, have a drink before dinner and you can tell me what happened after I left the office. What would you like? A glass of champagne, as usual? Or something else?’

‘Champagne, Maxim, please.’ Graeme put her black velvet evening purse on the table, made herself more comfortable on the chair opposite him, crossed her legs, adjusted her skirt. There was an air of expectancy about her; it was as though she could hardly contain herself.

Once he had ordered her drink, she bent forward, her manner suddenly grown confidential, her vivid eyes more alive and eager than ever, her intelligent face aglow, flushed pink with excitement. ‘I’ve come to a conclusion about the Winonda Group, after being on and off the phone with Peter Heilbron in New York for the last couple of hours,’ she exclaimed, her tone rising slightly. ‘I think we should go for it, Boss, make a bid! It’s a cinch for us. The perfect company for a takeover despite what appear to be certain problems. I’ve studied the last two faxes I received from Peter and –’

‘If they’re sensitive, I presume you’ve shredded them,’ Maxim cut in swiftly.

‘Of course! How can you think otherwise!’ She sounded astonished, looked at him askance. ‘Am I not your clone, Boss?’

Maxim bit back a smile, made no response.

Graeme rushed on, ‘Winonda has a number of unprofitable divisions, but these would be easy to liquidate. We would keep the profitable divisions, of course, and simply reorganise them, give them a bit of the West International streamlining.’

She paused when the waiter brought the flute of champagne to her, waited until they were alone before continuing, ‘What makes the deal so attractive to me is the real estate Winonda owns just outside Seattle. It looks worthless at first glance, and especially so on paper. Undervalued, actually. It’s run down, and it’s in a very bad area. However, I know it has great value, that it’s a big asset.’

Maxim raised a brow.

Graeme explained. ‘It’s an asset because a Japanese company wants to buy it. They’re in the process of buying up the entire area, actually, and they want the Winonda real estate so that they can tear down the existing buildings, redevelop the land by constructing a hotel, a shopping mall, and offices on it.’

‘Then why hasn’t Charles Bishop sold?’ Maxim’s brow furrowed. ‘That strikes me as particularly odd. He’s extremely shrewd, usually very fast on the draw.’

‘He turned them down flat. Didn’t want to know, apparently. And not because they weren’t offering plenty. I believe they went as high as two hundred and seventy million dollars.’

‘What’s the catch?’

‘There isn’t one. At least, not for us. If we owned Winonda we could sell the real-estate holdings tomorrow. And to the same Japanese company. They’re standing in the wings. Waiting. They’ll wait in vain, of course, as long as Bishop’s the president of Winonda. You see, his father died in a Japanese prisoner-of-war camp, that’s why he won’t strike a deal with them.’

When Maxim said nothing, Graeme remarked in a low voice, ‘Put very simply, he’s letting his personal feelings get in the way.’

Maxim was thoughtful. After a moment he glanced at her. ‘You have good vibes about this deal, don’t you?’

‘Absolutely, Boss!’

‘So do I. And I have from the beginning, ever since you put forward Winonda as a possibility for us. Call Peter tomorrow, tell him to get the acquisition team moving at once. And good for you, Grae. I’m impressed. You must have done a great deal of research.’

Graeme shook her head. ‘A little, but not as much as you probably think. By one of those odd coincidences, my cousin Sara lives in Seattle now. She’s with a bank. I asked her about Winonda, after you’d told me to go ahead and analyse the situation. She mentioned that some Japanese company had been sniffing around. She’d heard about their interest in the Winonda real estate through her boyfriend, who’s a partner in an accounting firm. There was a nasty leak from somewhere, I suspect.’

She grinned at Maxim. ‘I guess you’re right about shredding machines, Boss. You can’t be too careful. In any event, I ran with the information Sara had passed on to me and had it checked out. It proved to be correct.’ Graeme stopped, cleared her throat. ‘The stockholders of the Winonda Group might not be too happy to learn that their president passed up millions of dollars for a parcel of real estate that nobody else seems to want. Poor judgement on Bishop’s part, wouldn’t you say?’

‘I can understand his reasoning in some ways. But yes, I suppose in the final analysis you’re right, Graeme.’

‘As the president and CEO of a public company he ought to have put personal sentiments aside,’ she stated in a voice that was surprisingly cold and deliberate.

Maxim gave her a swift look. He knew how tough, even ruthless, she could be at times. But her assessment of Bishop seemed harsh. Fleetingly, a faint shadow crossed his face. He frowned. ‘Yes,’ he said laconically, having no wish to continue this conversation, and reached for his glass.

Graeme sat back, gazed at him through appraising eyes. A muscle twitched on his cheek and he appeared strained all of a sudden and she wondered why. She was about to ask him if something was wrong and then changed her mind immediately. He was a very private man, never revealed much about himself or his feelings, and he hated anyone to pry, to try to winkle their way behind that powerful facade of his.

She lifted her flute of untouched champagne. ‘Cheers,’ she said. ‘Here’s to the Winonda Group. May it soon be ours.’

Maxim said, ‘To Winonda.’

She took another long swallow of the Dom Perignon, began to relax for the first time that day. They fell silent for a short while, both caught up in the complexity of their own thoughts. It was Graeme who spoke first, breaking the momentary lull. ‘How did your meeting with Alan Trenton go?’

‘It wasn’t with Alan. Oh, he was there, of course, but he wanted me to meet his merchant banker, John Vale of Morgan Lane, who had a proposition for me.’

‘What kind of proposition?’ she asked, her eyes instantly lighting up. Like Maxim she was excited by business, and the prospect of cutting a new deal thrilled her. It gave her a high in much the same way it did him.

‘To come to the rescue of Lister Newspapers,’ he said.

Graeme let out a long, low whistle that was audible only to Maxim. ‘My, my, that is something,’ she said in a soft voice. ‘And?’

Maxim began to tell her what had transpired earlier that evening, leaving nothing out.

Graeme listened avidly, giving him her full attention, not once interrupting him, knowing how he detested interruptions, but at the same time wondering what he would do, asking herself whether he would go after the Lister empire. Her mind raced. He was tough-minded, fearless when it came to business, but not really a gambler. He was too cautious to be that. And Lister might well prove to be something of a gamble. Rectitude and prudence he had in abundance, and she admired those traits in him. Yet, when she looked back over the seven years she had worked for him, there had been times when he had taken chances, and now, on reflection, it occurred to her that they had been rather big chances at that. Would he consider Lister Newspapers worth the risk? One never knew with him. He was so hard to read accurately – and to second guess. He might do anything, jump either way. He called her his good right hand. The problem was, most of the time she never knew what his left hand was doing.

Perhaps it was the contradictions, the unexpected in him that she found so fascinating – and irresistible. She stifled a sigh. She had always been a little bit in love with him, even though he had never displayed one iota of interest in her. Not as a woman, at any rate. Oh, he paid her lovely compliments about her appearance, said flattering things about her work, but that was as far as it went. She was his executive assistant, and therefore forbidden. He was far too involved with his business ever to mix it with anything that remotely smacked of pleasure, sex or love.

And besides, he was married – of course! And there were hints of another woman.

Still, there were times, like now, when they were not in a work environment, when she sat looking at him, listening to his mellifluous voice, enjoying his company, that she fell completely under his spell, became hopelessly vulnerable to him. He was the most dangerously attractive man she had ever met. It was not only his face, his powerful dark gaze, his elegance and distinction, but the enigma of him. For there was something extremely mysterious about Maximilian West.

And of course there was his charm. Maxim had fatal charm, the kind that makes women commit terrible indiscretions. He was a natural born lady-killer who, without doing one single thing, had women flinging themselves at him. Then again, on yet another level, there was the intellect, the brains, the drive, the energy, the ambition and the success. It was a combination that spelled one thing – power. And power was exciting to her, an extraordinary aphrodisiac like no other she had ever known.

‘You look as if you’re drifting off into Never-Never Land with Peter Pan and Wendy,’ Maxim exclaimed somewhat sharply for him, giving her a hard stare.

‘I’m right here and standing to attention, figuratively speaking that is,’ she said, forever swift on the draw and ready with a riposte. ‘If I appear to have a glazed expression it’s only because I’m concentrating on your words, Boss. And truly, I have heard everything you’ve just said.’ She offered him a bright, reassuring smile. ‘Let me sum up for you – John Vale of Morgan Lane wants you to be the white knight for Lister. Everyone involved wants it.’

‘That’s right,’ he said more mildly, sounding mollified.

‘And you’re not interested, are you?’ she went on, hoping to prove to him that she had indeed been listening, had picked up the nuances implicit in his voice. Her eyes held his.

‘No, I don’t think I am,’ he admitted.

‘Are the figures that poor?’

‘On the contrary, they’re quite impressive. In fact, the company’s in great shape.’ He let out a sigh. ‘It’s me, Grae. I’m just not excited about it, I guess. Not enough excited, anyway. No fire in my gut. I don’t believe I want to pick up my sword and go into combat for a newspaper empire. That’s more up Rupert Murdoch’s alley. Come to think of it, John Vale ought to have asked Rupert to be the white knight, not me.’

Maxim stopped, laughed ruefully. ‘Vale is dropping the Lister accounts off at the house later, and I suddenly wish he weren’t. I don’t think I can summon up the energy to look at the wretched things, never mind study them.’

‘Do you want me to do it for you, Maxim?’

‘We’ll see.’

He motioned to one of the waiters, ordered two more drinks, then turned to her, put his hand on her arm. ‘I’m not staying in London for the weekend after all, Grae.’

‘That’s no problem. I can be ready whenever you say. I’m half packed. When are we leaving? Tomorrow or Saturday?’

‘I’m leaving tomorrow. On the morning Concorde.’

From his emphasis on his first word she knew he was leaving alone. He rarely did that when they were together on business, and unable to disguise her surprise she stared at him. ‘Oh,’ was about the only word she could muster.

‘Normally I would say come back on Concorde with me, but I’d like you to stay in London this trip, to follow through on a few things for me, Grae. You should be able to finish up by the end of the day tomorrow. You can fly back to New York on the company jet whenever you wish. Tomorrow night, Saturday, Sunday or even Monday. The plane’s at your disposal.’

‘London at the weekend doesn’t appeal to me especially,’ she murmured, ‘but maybe I will stay in Europe. I could go to Paris for a couple of days. It might be fun.’ There was a moment’s hesitation on her part before she leaned across the table and said in a low conspiratorial voice, ‘No problems at the New York office, I hope, Boss?’

‘No, no, of course not! You’d be the first to know. I’m going back a little earlier than I’d planned because there’s a personal matter I must attend to, and I want to get it out of the way this weekend.’

Instantly she thought: It’s a woman and he’s got trouble with her. She said, ‘What is it you want me to do for you here in London?’

‘There’re a couple of banking matters you’ll have to attend to, also, rather than cancelling it, I’d like you to take my place at the meeting with Montague Reston and Gerald Sloane. There’ll be no problem, you’ll handle yourself well.’ A faint smile touched his mouth. ‘And handle them well, I might add.’

‘Okay, whatever you say, Boss. But I’d like a briefing about the Reston deal.’

‘Of course. We’ll discuss it later. Now, shall we order dinner? I see Louis heading in our direction.’

Chapter Three

It was one-fifteen in the morning by the time Maxim got back to his house on the corner of Chesterfield Hill and Charles Street.

He had escorted Graeme to the Ritz Hotel after their dinner at Annabel’s, and had then walked home, crossing Piccadilly and heading through Half Moon Street into Mayfair. There was no longer any hint of rain, the air was crisp and dry and usually he would have enjoyed the short walk. Yet all evening he had been fighting this feeling of weight, almost of oppression.

He let himself in, locked the front door behind him, hung his black trenchcoat in the hall cupboard, and paused for a moment, listening.

Nothing stirred. The house was quiet, perfectly still. The staff had gone to bed, were no doubt already fast asleep, and the only sound was the hollow ticking of the antique grandfather clock in the imposing marble foyer where he stood.

Turning off the light, Maxim went up the curving staircase more slowly than usual to the second floor. He crossed the landing, went into the master bedroom where he shed his clothes and put on pyjamas and a dressing gown. He did everything with swiftness before hurrying through into the study which was part of the master bedroom suite, wishing he felt better.

Marco, the butler, aware of Maxim’s nocturnal habits of working late, studying documents and balance sheets well into the early hours, had turned on the lamps and banked up the fire before retiring to his own quarters. The silk-shaded lamps cast a roseate glow throughout and the logs burned brightly in the grate behind the mesh fire screen, threw off welcome warming heat. Maxim seated himself at the French bureau plat, glanced at the telephone messages Marco had placed under a glass paperweight and put them to one side. None were of any great importance, could be dealt with before he left for the airport in a few hours or so. Picking up a pearl-handled paper knife, he slit the manilla envelope which John Vale had dropped off earlier and took out the sheaf of papers.

It was with only the smallest degree of interest that he looked over the accounts of Lister Newspapers which he had fanned out on the desk in front of him. One of Maxim’s greatest assets was his ability to read a financial statement well, and to size up a company quickly with his own special brand of business acumen. This he did now, understanding at once that Lister Newspapers was indeed a good buy, by anybody’s standards. Excellent, in fact. And yet he felt no quickening of his pulse, no excitement in his veins, no thrill at the thought of going after it. Indisputably, his attitude had not changed since the meeting in Alan Trenton’s office. He simply was not interested in making a play for this company. Or was that true for any company?

It struck Maxim, with some force, that he was not particularly interested in the Winonda Group either, and this brought him up in the chair with a small start, instantly made him scrutinise his sudden change of mind.

He had told Graeme to go ahead earlier for a variety of reasons. It was one of her bigger deals; he knew how much it meant to her, he had no wish to disappoint or discourage her. Also, right at the outset he had recognised that Winonda would be an important acquisition for them, an enormously valuable asset to West International when it came to the overall picture of the conglomerate. But he had to admit that he much preferred her to handle the deal herself – with the help of Peter Heilbron and the financial team in the New York office. Certainly he did not want to be the chief combatant in the actual battle, had no interest in being out there on the front line. He would give advice from the trenches. His troops would have to do the hard hand-to-hand fighting.

Maxim frowned intently, wondering about his reluctance to put himself in the middle of the action. He had always been a big part of it in the past, the pivotal point. Surely business wasn’t beginning to bore him, was it? How could that be? Business was his life, wasn’t it? Anastasia had always said so. He winced at the thought of his first wife

A weary sigh escaped, and he ran his hands through his hair distractedly, conscious that he had not been himself of late. He kept up the facade, of course, the facade of charm and magnetism that the world had come to expect. But inside, at the very core of his being, he felt empty. There was a bleakness in his soul, he was joyless for most of the time, and increasingly he was held in the grips of a terrible melancholia he could not fully comprehend. Nor, indeed, explain.

A peculiar feeling began to settle over him, one of claustrophobia. No, oppression. He felt as if he was gagging, suffocating, and he had the most pressing urge to get out of the room, a compulsion to run and not stop running until he had put great distance between himself and this place. He wanted to be far, far away.

A chill coursed through him, and he shivered; it was as though someone had walked over his grave. With this strange thought, goose flesh speckled his arms and his face and he was startled at himself, unaccustomed as he was to feelings of discomfiture, of uneasiness.

Maxim swung his head, glanced around the study, asked himself why he wanted to escape this room. He did not understand. It was his favourite spot in the entire house, filled as it was with treasures from which he had constantly drawn enormous pleasure. Each item had been so lovingly placed here by Anastasia and himself, and he recalled the satisfaction they had derived when they were searching out the antiques, the objects of art and the paintings in England and on the Continent.

The ancient oak boiserie that panelled the walls had been found in an old manor house in Normandy. The French writing desk where he now sat was discovered in an antiquaire’s shop in the Rue du Bac on a weekend trip to Paris. The wall sconces were picked up when they had been travelling through Tuscany, while the remarkable horse paintings by Stubbs had been bought from a peer of the realm whose country seat was in Yorkshire. Altogether it was an eclectic mixture that somehow worked, mostly because the pieces were compatible with each other and shared one important quality, that of excellence.

Although the possessions in his study were beautiful, not all of the items were of great value. Yet they had always meant a lot to him. Now, seemingly, they no longer mattered, since, for some reason he could not understand, he was regarding them through jaundiced eyes.

Irritated with himself, and also baffled, Maxim rose, walked over to the handsome William and Mary inlaid chest under the window, opened a bottle of carbonated water and poured himself a glass. He took a long swallow, carried the glass back to a chair in front of the fire, and sat staring into the flames, a look of abstraction settling on his face.

After a while, as if his mind had been flooded by bright light, he began to see things as they actually were. With a rush of clarity he understood the change in himself, understood his dilemma.

He was a man in crisis.

This sudden self-knowledge came from the deepest, innermost part of his psyche and it gave him a bitter jolt. He sat up straighter, his eyes flaring, and then he closed them convulsively, momentarily stunned.

But it was true. There was no point in denying it anymore, as he had been doing for so long. He was at the most critical point in his life … he could not go on any longer … could not live the way he had been living … and yet he did not know what to do about himself … or about his life.

He was immobilised by uncertainty. Rendered helpless by indecision. Hamstrung by the situations he himself had created. Held in limbo by the people who populated his life.

Placing the crystal tumbler of water he was clutching on the small table next to the chair, Maxim dropped his head into his hands. He was brimming with dismay, completely at a loss. For once he had no solutions for his problems. After a few minutes he lifted his head, smoothed back his hair with one hand, forced himself to relax. And he began to ruminate on his life.

His dear old friend Stubby truly believed he had everything. The world believed he had everything. In reality he had nothing. Oh yes he had immense success, immense power, fame of a kind, money to burn and houses galore and a luxury yacht and a slick private jet and the other grand accoutrements of privilege and great wealth. And he hobnobbed with those who were as rich and renowned as he was. There was his knighthood, a great honour bestowed on him by the highest in the land, an honour he had never sought, nor tried to buy, but which had come to him through his own merit. And whilst he would never belittle its importance to him, was proud of it, in fact it did not fill the terrible void in his life.

He was alone. And lonely.

He was estranged from the women he was involved with, who no longer brought him the remotest bit of joy. His children were lost to him: perhaps only temporarily, but nevertheless they were lost at this moment. And now he was facing the possibility that his work, the most enduring of all his passions, and his greatest pleasure, was beginning to pall on him. The idea was insupportable. He balked at the mere thought of it. In all truth, it frightened the hell out of him.

And when he added up all of these points, the bottom line was very telling indeed. Dismal. He was in the red on every personal level … emotionally bankrupt.

He was an unhappy man, flailing around in an over-abundance of misery. That was the crux of it. But then had not happiness been an elusive stranger for the best part of his life, transient at best?

A cynical laugh rose in Maxim’s throat and he choked it back, thought: What an overworked word it is, happiness. And who the hell is happy? At least for very long, anyway? Some fortunate people did know contentment, others gained a certain peace. But that was about it. Unluckily he was not blessed with either state of mind.

Rising, he began to pace the floor restlessly, his mind careening around in dizzying circles.

Eventually he was able to calm himself sufficiently in order to look at things as clearly as he possibly could. He regrouped his thoughts and redirected his focus, concentrated on the women in his life.

Two women to be exact.

Adriana. His wife. Blair. His mistress.

Blair was pushing for marriage. Adriana would not acknowledge that such a word as divorce even existed. And he was caught between the two of them, like a fly trapped in amber.

He was not so sure he wanted to continue living with Adriana. On the other hand, did he really want to divorce her? What were his true feelings about Blair? And would marrying her solve his problems? He remembered something, and it made him laugh out loud. A famous wit had once said that when a man married his mistress he created a job vacancy. If he married Blair would he then be tempted to fill the vacancy? Find himself a new mistress to replace the one who had become his wife?

What a cynical thought that was. He laughed again, but still without a trace of mirth. Was he the kind of man who would always need a mistress whatever the circumstances in the marriage? Perish the thought, he added under his breath.

In his mind’s eye, Maxim pictured the people who occupied his life, who were important to him. How did they view him? He did not have to ponder that for more than a split second.

To Adriana I am the faithless husband wanting to escape the marital bonds.

To Blair I am the lover grown ambivalent, distracted, less caring, in my preoccupation with my business.

To Anastasia I am her best friend, but only a friend, nothing else.

To my children I am the busy tycoon who has no time for them. I have been cast in the role of the heavy. I am important because I pay their bills, but in their eyes I am no longer the loving father they once adored.

To my mother I am the son she is the most proud of, her favourite perhaps, and yet half the time she is disapproving of me because she cannot condone my private life, my personal behaviour.

But I am not the person they think I am, he said to himself. None of their perceptions of me is accurate. They don’t really know me. On the other hand, I don’t know myself. Not anymore. I have no sense of my own identity. I don’t know who I am, why I’m here, what my purpose is on this planet, or what it’s all about in the last analysis. I’m confused, lost, adrift, floundering.

These admissions were so staggering, so unacceptable to Maxim that they made him catch his breath in surprise, and he paused in his pacing, endeavouring to squash them. He had no wish to validate them by giving them any kind of credence whatsoever.

Ultimately, though, he was unable to banish these unprecedented and shattering self-revelations. All were inescapable truths. And no matter which way he twisted and turned everything around in his head he finally had to admit to himself that he would have to face up to them, tackle them head-on sooner or later.

It was three o’clock by the time Maxim went to bed.

He did not really sleep, merely dozed fitfully on and off for several hours. Finally, around six, he got up, went into the bathroom to shower and shave. Once he was dressed, Marco brought him a pot of coffee and toast, and whilst he had his light breakfast he wrote a detailed memo to Graeme, explained what he wanted done in London, and outlined strategy for the meeting she was to have with Montague Reston.

At exactly eight-thirty he left the house carrying his black trenchcoat and a briefcase, his only piece of luggage, and was driven off to Heathrow in one of West International’s limousines. At the airport he was swiftly checked in, and went immediately to the Concorde departure lounge, where he sat reading the morning newspapers until he and the other passengers were boarded at ten o’clock.

Fastening his seat belt and settling down, Maxim glanced around and was relieved to see the plane was not as jam-packed as it had been on the last few occasions he had flown it. He had chosen to go on to New York by Concorde rather than travel on his personal Grumman Gulfstream jet because it was much faster, only three hours and forty-five minutes, even less time if there were no strong headwinds.

Maxim opened his briefcase, took out a sheaf of papers and buried his head in them for the first hour of the flight. He accepted a cup of tea, refused all other drinks and snacks, and gave his entire attention to his business papers, hardly glancing up, so intense was his concentration. When he had done as much work as he could, he locked the folders in his briefcase, pushed this under the seat, made himself comfortable and closed his eyes. He found it impossible to sleep, but did manage to relax sufficiently enough to rest his tired body. Half an hour later Maxim roused himself, sat up, looked out of the window.

They were floating through a vast stretch of cumulus clouds, soaring higher and higher above the Atlantic. He stared into the infinite space, contemplated Alix, his daughter. She was the reason he had decided to return to New York a few days earlier than he had originally planned. He wanted to see her, to talk to her, to spend the weekend with her. He desperately needed to put things right with his first-born child. They were both at fault, she more than he in so many ways. Nevertheless, he was quite prepared to take full blame for the rift that had developed between them. He would apologise, ask her forgiveness, if necessary. In fact, he would do just about anything to win her trust again, to have her back in his life.

Chapter Four

A female voice he did not recognise answered the telephone. ‘Alix West’s office. Can I help you?’

‘I’d like to speak to Miss West, please,’ Maxim said.

‘I’m sorry, but Ms West isn’t in today,’ the young breathy voice went on to inform him. ‘May I ask who’s calling?’

‘This is her father. To whom am I speaking?’

‘Oh good morning, Sir Maximilian,’ the voice said in a tone that now sounded a little awed. ‘This is Geraldine Bonnay, her new assistant. Alix flew to California this morning. On business.’

‘I see. When will she be returning to New York?’

‘Hopefully on Monday, Sir Maximilian. It’s a quick trip. She has a meeting with a client in Beverly Hills tomorrow and is flying right out again on Sunday. Unless there are unexpected problems, of course. She will be calling me sometime tomorrow. Can I give her a message?’

‘No, not really,’ Maxim began, and paused, thought quickly. ‘As a matter of fact, Miss Bonnay, I’d rather you didn’t say I telephoned today. I have something special for her … a surprise,’ he improvised. ‘So please, not a word, it would only spoil everything.’

‘Of course I won’t tell her!’ Geraldine Bonnay assured him, her genuine sincerity echoing down the wire, ‘and just in case you do change your mind and want to talk to her tonight, or on Saturday, Alix is staying at the Bel-Air Hotel.’

‘I think not … the surprise, you know. But thank you for the information anyway.’

‘Oh it’s my pleasure, and it’s been lovely talking to you, Sir Maximilian.’

‘Likewise, Miss Bonnay. My thanks again. Goodbye.’

‘Goodbye.’

Maxim let his hand rest on the phone for a moment, fighting back his disappointment that Alix had left New York the very same day he had arrived. He had so wanted to see her, to spend time with her. He ought to have checked with her about her plans, he supposed, made sure she was going to be in the city for the weekend. Obviously that would have been the most intelligent and sensible thing to do. On the other hand, if he had phoned from London he would have alerted her to his arrival and she, more than likely, would have fled. Or found innumerable reasons why she was not able to see him. Surprise was always the most successful technique to use with her he had discovered long ago.

He sighed under his breath. There was no doubt in his mind that Alix still harboured all manner of grudges, even though she persisted in denying this. He was equally convinced that her smouldering dissatisfaction with him was more than likely being fanned into a roaring bush fire by her brother. Michael had always had enormous influence over her, ever since their childhood, more so than anyone else and in an infinite number of ways. Furthermore, his son had his own axe to grind these days, filled with grievances and resentment as he was, and not a little anger. Maxim was patently aware of that anger, and the frustration in Michael, even though he, too, denied there was anything wrong just as his sister did. Children, Maxim muttered to himself. Why do they want to make things so difficult? As if life isn’t hard enough without having them inventing problems and blowing things out of all proportion.

Shifting slightly in the chair behind his desk, Maxim turned his head, allowed his gaze to rest on the photograph of Alix that stood framed in silver on the ebony table near the window along with other family portraits. This had been taken six years ago to commemorate her twenty-first birthday, and it struck him yet again what a lovely young woman the tomboy of a child had grown up to be, so fair and creamy of skin, with delicate bone structure in a face whose expression was invariably so serene, so calm it made him catch his breath. But most beautiful and striking were her eyes. Widely spaced and enormous, they were an unusual pale grey-green and filled with pellucid light. Alix was tall, as he was, and lissome, with a fine athletic body, and she moved with considerable grace and elegance. Aside from her great looks, his daughter had a quick, intelligent mind, and was extremely clever, most especially when it came to business and finance. In fact, she was as smart as her brother, perhaps even a fraction more astute than he, which was saying a great deal for her since Michael was brilliant.

Alix had wanted to come and work with him since her teens. He had been thrilled at the idea of having his daughter in the business, and everything had been planned most carefully. And then four years ago, just before she started at the New York office, they had quarrelled badly. It had been about her entanglement with a man whom he considered to be highly disreputable, amongst several other things which now seemed too petty to recall, and she had gone off in a huff and started a business of her own.

Without as much as batting an eyelash, she had opened an office in the middle of Manhattan, had set herself up as an art and antiques broker, working primarily with English and European dealers and leading art galleries.

She bought and sold only the most sought-after items, the kind of rare, precious and costly objects and paintings that generally made it to the auction floor of Christie’s and Sotheby’s. Some few years earlier she had taken several courses at Sotheby’s in London, and her knowledge of paintings and objets d’art was considerable. Also, she had been gifted with the beady, critical eye of a true expert who recognises excellence instantly and can just as quickly and easily spot a fake. These attributes, plus her extraordinary taste and natural head for business, had proven to be an invaluable combination. She had been successful right from the start and he was inordinately proud of her. Nonetheless, he still hankered after her presence at the office, wished she worked alongside him.

Perhaps it was not too late. Maybe he could still lure her into West International – once they had made their peace. And he was determined to do that. He heard his mother’s voice reverberating in his head … ‘It’s never too late to repair the damages of the heart, Maxim. It’s never to late to start over again, to come back to a loved one by mending a quarrel.’ His mother had said that to him countless times over the years and he had always believed her. He still did. He had to, because that belief reinforced his hope that he would win Alix back, that they would be as close as they were before their ghastly row.

He had never missed anyone as much as he missed his daughter.

Alix’s absence from his life was so acutely felt it was a genuine physical pain in the region of his chest. A savage ache that rarely if ever dissolved. He hurt in a way he never had before. No, that wasn’t strictly true. He had once experienced this same kind of longing, this yearning for someone a long, long time ago.

It had been for Ursula.

Once again Maxim’s eyes strayed to the photograph of Alix.

She had the same fine blonde hair and flawless complexion as Ursula, the same lovely, luminous eyes full of dreaminess and tranquillity.

Ursula. He had thought of her so often recently; he began to wonder why she had been so much on his mind of late. Was it because his painful feelings about Alix echoed his feelings about her, the other one he had loved with such intensity and so completely? These feelings had been buried for so long, and buried so deep at that, he had been momentarily startled a few weeks ago when her face had sprung wholly formed into his mind for the first time in years. His memories of Ursula were very clear … unalloyed.

Maxim unlocked the top drawer of his desk and reached into the back, took out the black leather wallet which he kept there for safety. He opened it and gazed at the picture of Ursula held therein. It was a black and white shot, faded now, but time had not dimmed the lustrous eyes, the bright curving smile so full of trust and hope.

The wallet was worn, the leather cracked in places. He smoothed his hand over it, remembering. It had belonged to Sigmund …

Eventually he slipped it back into the drawer and he was surprised at the tightness in his throat, the way his eyes smarted, were unusually moist.

Resolutely pushing away this unexpected rush of profound emotion, Maxim stood up and walked across the cream-coloured stretch of carpet. He stood gazing out through the metal-mesh curtain that covered the plate-glass window of his office high up in the Seagram building, focused his attention on Park Avenue far below, but he hardly saw anything, so puzzled was he. The troubled mood that had beset him in London in the early hours of the morning seemed somehow to persist, and now, to cap it, he found himself dwelling on his past. Tearing his mind away from Ursula, Maxim brought his concentration to bear on the present. He had come to New York for the weekend hoping to see his daughter. But Alix was not available until Monday, perhaps even Tuesday. Today was Friday. The whole weekend stretched ahead.

What to do? More precisely, where to go?

He had a variety of choices. None appealed. There was his beautiful apartment on Fifth Avenue. If he went there he would undoubtedly be confronted by Adriana, whose sole purpose in life these days was to fight with him. He could go to the house he owned in Sutton Place, where he had installed Blair. If he did he would be exposing himself to a weekend of Blair’s nagging and veiled threats, except that they were not particularly veiled any more. There was his bucolic farm in Connecticut, but Adriana might conceivably get wind of his arrival in New Preston and come rushing out – to fight with him in the country instead of the city. She was certainly combative enough at the moment.

What he really wanted was to be alone.

Entirely alone.

There was only one place for that, and it was the perfect place. His beach house in East Hampton. Closed for the winter though it was, the house was more or less kept ready for his sudden arrival at any moment. It was a year-round house, proofed for the cold weather, and in the winter months the heat was kept on a low temperature at all times. Elias Mulvaney, his gardener and handyman, watched over the house, checked on it every day or so. And Mrs Mulvaney went in to dust once a week. All he had to do was telephone Elias and instruct him to go over to the house later that afternoon to turn up the heat, and arrange for Mrs Mulvaney to come in on Saturday and do a few chores. It couldn’t be simpler.

Maxim swung away from the window, strode back to his desk, well pleased with the idea of driving out to East Hampton for a couple of days. He would be able to indulge himself in that rare commodity – solitude. And do nothing except listen to music, take long walks on the beach. Mostly, though, he would do some very serious thinking, endeavour to bring a semblance of order to the chaos in his head.

He had an unconventional private life. It had long needed to be put in order. Yet he had not been able to commit himself to any action. Perhaps the time had come to do this, to normalise things. Also, he must make some decisions about Adriana and Blair. Only then would he be able to take himself in hand, get to the root of the personal crisis that threatened to engulf him, and in so doing solve his own inner conflicts.

The decision to go to the Hamptons for the weekend galvanised him, brought him out of the introspection that had held him in its grip since the previous night.

He opened his address book, picked up his private phone and dialled Elias Mulvaney’s number on Long Island. It rang and rang. No one answered. Maxim glanced at the clock on the desk. It was just turned eleven. No doubt Elias was making his daily rounds, checking on other homes, doing odd jobs for the permanent residents in the village who also employed him on a part-time basis. And Mrs Mulvaney was more than likely out marketing for the weekend groceries.

No problem, Maxim murmured to himself. I’ll reach one of them sooner or later. He pressed the intercom. ‘Douglas, would you come in, please.’

‘Right away.’

Within a couple of seconds, Douglas Andrews, Maxim’s private secretary at the New York office, hurried in carrying a sheaf of papers. A New Yorker born and bred, Douglas was about thirty-three, short, fresh-faced, dark-haired, with a pleasant, outgoing disposition and a willingness to work around the clock for Maxim. He had been his private secretary for five years and was devoted, loyal and fiercely protective.

‘Here are the legal documents on the Mystell deal which you asked me for. Peter Heilbron’s secretary just dropped this memo off for you. It’s regarding the Blane-Gregson takeover,’ Douglas said. As he reached the desk, he placed the papers in an empty chromium tray on the right-hand corner, then seated himself in the chair facing Maxim, his notebook in his hand, his pencil poised.

‘Thank you,’ Maxim said, glancing at the pile in the tray. ‘I’ll attend to those shortly. There’s a couple of things I’d like you to do, Dougie. Rent a car for me, please, and have it outside at four o’clock, and send one of the secretaries over to Bloomingdale’s food department to buy some provisions for me. A cold chicken, potato salad, a piece of Brie, some French bread and a carton of milk. That should do it. Okay?’

‘Yes, I’ll get on it right away.’ Try though he did, Douglas could not quite keep the surprise out of his voice, and he gave Maxim a curious stare. ‘Are you going somewhere?’

An imperceptible smile flicked onto Maxim’s face. ‘Obviously, Dougie. To my beach cottage in East Hampton, to be precise. For the weekend. Alone. I want a bit of peace, some quiet time to think. And I don’t want anyone to know where I am. Understand?’

Douglas nodded. ‘I do. Absolutely. I’ll deal with the car and send Alice over to the store, but are you sure that’s enough food for you? Maybe she should buy more.’

‘No, no, the chicken and the salad will do me fine for tonight. I can easily pick up some groceries in East Hampton village on Saturday morning.’

‘You’re pretty brave, leaving at four o’clock,’ Douglas volunteered, frowning. ‘You’ll have all that commuter traffic on the Long Island Expressway to contend with. It might be a better idea to drive out to the Hamptons later, say around six or so.’

‘Oh it’s not all that bad in winter, Dougie.’

‘I guess not. Still …’ Douglas’s voice trailed off. He could see that Maxim was already thinking about something else, and so he got up, headed for the door.

Maxim reached for the documents in the chromium tray, and called across to Douglas, ‘Please ask Peter if he can have a quick lunch with me. And if he is available, you might let the Four Seasons know that I’d like my usual table today, if that’s possible. Around one.’

‘Yes, Sir Maxim,’ Douglas murmured, opening the door, closing it quietly behind him, wondering if Maxim really was going to spend the weekend alone. Or did he have an assignation with some new lady love? Lucky devil, Douglas thought, he’s got it all. And then some. What I wouldn’t give to be in his shoes.

But would I really? Douglas asked himself as he sat down at his desk a moment later. Would I want that bitch Adriana for a wife? And as for the girlfriend over on Sutton Place, she’s not much better. More than once he had seen a look in Blair Martin’s baby blues that had immediately alerted him to her scheming ways. Graeme Longdon called her Miss Greedy Guts behind her back. Spot on, Graeme was.

How did such a lovely guy, such a prince of a guy, like Maxim West get hooked up with those two barracudas? Douglas sat shaking his head in bafflement. He came to the conclusion, as he had so often in the past, that men who were brilliant in business were not necessarily very smart when it came to the women in their lives. Fools rush in, he thought.

Still shaking his head, Douglas lifted the phone, dialled Peter Heilbron, head of West International’s acquisition team.

The phone was answered after one ring. ‘Heilbron here.’

‘It’s Dougie. The boss wants to know if you can have a quick lunch with him today. Downstairs. At one. I hope you can, because he seems a bit down in the mouth to me.’

‘I’m free … at least I’ll make myself free,’ Peter said quickly. ‘And what exactly do you mean by down in the mouth, Dougie?’

Douglas heard the concern in Peter’s voice, the anxiety surfacing. He said, ‘When the boss walked in off the Concorde this morning I thought he looked really lousy. Preoccupied. No, troubled is a better word, and a bit sad, or so it seemed to me. And that’s not like him. You know what an expert he is at veiling his feelings.’

‘Yes, I do. Business? Or personal, Dougie?’

‘I’m not sure … personal most probably.’

‘It has to be. There are no problems here, or at the London office that I know of … and I’d know –’ Peter bit off the end of his sentence. I hope to God those two women are not on the rampage again, he thought, dismay rising. He cleared his throat and said carefully, ‘Whatever it is, it can’t be too serious, Dougie. He would have mentioned it to me, if only in passing. I’m sure it’s merely tiredness.’

‘Yes,’ Douglas agreed, deeming discretion to be the wisest policy when it came to the subject of the boss. He had no intention of speculating, gossiping with Peter. ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ Dougie continued. ‘He has been travelling a lot these past few weeks. By the way, nobody knows he’s in town except you and me and your secretary. I have a feeling he wants to keep it that way.’

‘I get your drift, Douglas, my boy,’ Peter responded. ‘That’s my other line ringing. Please tell the boss I’ll pick him up in his office just before one.’

Chapter Five

It took Maxim two and a half hours to drive from Manhattan to East Hampton.

By the time he reached the charming old village on Long Island the bleak January sky, so cold and remote and colourless, had long since deepened into curdled grey then quickly turned the colour of pitch. Only a few stars littered the horizon far out over the black and endless sea, and the orb of a moon, clear, high-flung, and silvered, was constantly obscured by scudding dark clouds.

Maxim glanced at the clock on the dashboard as he turned off Ocean Avenue into Lily Pond Lane, noted that it was almost six-forty-five. Not bad going, he thought, as he drove on, heading towards the Georgica Beach end of the lane where his cottage was located.

He had bought the house twelve years earlier. It was his private little retreat. At least that is the way he thought of it, and referred to it, and apparently his message had been clearly received by Adriana and Blair, both of whom knew better than to descend on him without an invitation, and these he rarely issued. He mostly stayed there by himself, or with his colleagues from West International.

Within a few minutes he was pulling up outside.

The cottage had grey shingles, white-painted shutters, a black door, and neat, squared-off chimneys. Set a little back from the road, it was fronted by sloping lawns, now covered with a sprinkling of hoary frost, along with a number of giant oaks which offered privacy the year round and plenty of cool leafy shade in the heat of the summer.

Although it was not a large house by Maxim’s standards, it more than adequately suited his needs, the type of bachelor life he led when he came out to the island. It was spacious without being sprawling, and the layout was well planned; the hall, big family kitchen, dining room and study were at the front of the house, the living room, which flowed into a library, was at the back. These two adjoining rooms overlooked the swimming pool, a small pool house and flower gardens; nestling at the far end of the rear lawn, beyond the flower beds, was a copse of trees that afforded the property additional privacy on this side of the house.

The upstairs consisted of two floors. On one were Maxim’s bedroom, bath and dressing rooms; on the other, two guest rooms with their own bathrooms, plus a third, larger bedroom which had been converted into an office, equipped with two modern desks, a typewriter and a computer, plus fax, xerox and shredding machines, as well as a battery of telephones.

Because of this super-efficient office, which Maxim thought of as a command post, he could come to the cottage whenever he wished, yet still be in touch with his business empire around the world. Often he brought along Douglas Andrews and Graeme Longdon, sometimes Peter Heilbron, to work on pending deals, especially in the summer months when they were glad to escape from the sweltering heat of the city for a few days at a stretch.

After parking against the kerb, turning off the ignition and the lights, Maxim took the Bloomingdale’s shopping bag from the back seat and alighted from the rented Jaguar.

It was a bitter night, with an icy wind blowing in from the Atlantic. He glanced about. The lane was in total darkness; there was not the slightest glimmer of friendly light from any of the other houses. But as he strode rapidly up the path between the lawns, the moon came out from behind the banked-up clouds, bathed the cottage and the path with silvery radiance. For a few moments it was like daylight.

Out of the corner of his eye Maxim noticed the station wagon parked a bit further along, wondered who it belonged to, instantly dismissed it as he hurried around to the side entrance of the cottage. He let himself in through the kitchen door, retrieved the bag of food he had dumped on the back step, and switched on the lights. Pushing the door closed with his foot, he carried the bag over to the circular table which stood in the centre of the floor.

The blue-and-white tiled kitchen was spotless. Everything gleamed brightly, was in its given place, and the room looked as if Mrs Mulvaney had only just cleaned it.

Perhaps she did do it today, Maxim thought. He had not succeeded in reaching either of the Mulvaneys before leaving the office, and aware of their diligence and reliability it now struck him that they might easily have been here when he was ringing their home.

Maxim shivered, became conscious of the chill in the air. The heat was on as usual but he realised that it needed to be turned up on a cold night such as this. Still shivering, he headed in the direction of the front hall, where the controls for the heating system were located in a cupboard under the stairs.

Pulling open the door leading into the hall, Maxim suddenly stopped in his tracks, one foot poised on the step. There was a faint noise, a pinging sound like metal hitting metal. It was barely discernible, but because Maxim’s hearing was extremely acute he always picked up the slightest sound wherever he was.

Puzzled, he stepped out into the hall.

Light from the kitchen streamed around him, and he could not fail to miss the television set standing on the floor, along with various pieces of equipment from the office upstairs.

Once more there was that odd pinging sound, then a small crash, a muffled curse.

The noises were coming from the living room, and immediately all Maxim’s senses were alerted to trouble. There was apparently someone in the house beside himself, an intruder, no doubt about that.

Moving with stealth, noiselessly crossing the hall, Maxim opened the door a crack. The living room was dark, as was the adjoining library. The latter was in his clear line of vision and he instantly saw the pinspot of light from a flashlamp, which was being trained around the room.

Deciding that surprise was his best bet, Maxim struck the master switch on the wall. Instantly, six table lamps in the two rooms blazed fully to life, flooding the area with brilliance.

Startled, the intruder swung around, saw Maxim. He was not very tall and slightly built, dressed entirely in black. He was holding a large black nylon laundry bag that bulged and was obviously filled to the brim with loot.

The burglar stood gaping at Maxim.

‘Drop that bag!’ Maxim yelled irately, his expression one of furious anger. The man did nothing, continued to gape. There was a dumbfounded look on his face, and he appeared to be momentarily paralysed.

With a rush, Maxim sprinted across the floor, heading directly for the intruder, confident he could tackle and overpower him before calling in the police to apprehend him.

Just before Maxim reached him, the burglar pulled a gun and fired.

Maxim heard the report, felt the bullet slam against his chest. He went down at once with a thud, sprawling between the living room and the library. The look of astonishment on his face changed to one of stunned shock.

Maxim thought: This can’t be happening to me … it can’t be ending like this … not after all I’ve been through … I can’t be dying at the hands of a petty thief …

The burglar stood stock still, listening.

He wondered if anyone had heard the shot, then dismissed this idea at once. There was nobody around. These houses were summer places. That’s why he had headed for the area earlier. He’d already pulled two other jobs down the block. Easy pickings they’d been. He hadn’t had to waste anybody in the other houses though. No one had walked in and surprised him, that’s why. Shame about the guy who just had. But he’d had to protect himself. The guy was big, powerful, could’ve taken him easy.

The burglar walked over to the body, looked down at it dispassionately. The man he had shot was lying on his side. He did not stir. Blood stained the front of his pale blue shirt, was already seeping onto the grey carpet, turning a patch of it a funny rust colour.

Shoving the gun back into the waistband of his trousers, he pivoted swiftly, returned to the library, grabbed a few more silver trinkets, threw them into the laundry bag. There was a pinging sound as they struck the items he had stolen from other homes in the vicinity. Glancing about, satisfied that he had ripped off the best of the small stuff here, he left the living room, switched off the lights as he headed out. He went through to check the kitchen, doused the lights there, returned to the hall.

He stood listening again.

The darkened house was as silent as the grave. So was the street. Nothing moved. No cars drove past. Methodically, he began to carry the pieces of equipment and the television set to the front steps. Once everything was outside, he dropped the latch on the door and pulled it tightly shut behind him. Still moving with speed and expertise, he went up and down the path until all of his booty had been stowed in the station wagon. Sliding in behind the wheel, he drove off without a backward glance.

He did not see one solitary person, nor any traffic, as he sped down Lily Pond Lane. He knew he was safe. Nobody ever came out here in this kind of freezing weather in the dead of winter. The body would not be found for weeks. And anyway, he couldn’t be linked to the man’s death. He had been smart, cool. He’d not left a single fingerprint, not even half of one. He knew better than that. He always wore gloves when he pulled jobs.

Elias Mulvaney sat at the kitchen table in his small, comfortable house behind the railway station in East Hampton. He was enjoying the warmth of the blazing fire, his second cup of coffee and a jelly doughnut on this icy night, and thinking about the afternoon he and Clara had just spent at their daughter’s house in Quogue.

It had been a red-letter day for them, visiting their first grandchild, revelling in her good health and prettiness, and in Lola’s happiness. She and Mickey, her husband of ten years, had been waiting a long time for this baby. Yep, it’s been the grandest day, Elias thought, and it has given Clara a real boost, made her forget her rheumatism. Clara had stayed on in Quogue for the weekend. Elias was certain she would be fussing and bustling, playing mother hen to the child and Lola, but he didn’t think there was any harm in that. None at all. Do her good, he decided, and picked up his mug, drank the rest of his coffee.

The shrilling of the telephone broke the silence in the kitchen, made Elias sit up with a small start. He rose, ambled across the floor to answer it.

‘Mulvaney here.’

‘Good evening, Elias, this is Douglas Andrews.’

‘Hello, Mr Andrews!’ Elias exclaimed warmly, his grizzled, weatherbeaten face lighting up. Douglas Andrews had been a favourite of his for several years. ‘How’ve you been?’ he asked, genuinely interested.

‘Very well, thanks, Elias. And you?’

‘Can’t complain,’ Elias replied.

‘I’m calling you because I’ve been trying to reach Sir Maximilian at the cottage, but there’s no reply. I was wondering if you’d heard from him this evening?’

‘Well, no I haven’t,’ Elias said, sounding surprised. ‘Been in Quogue all day, didn’t get back until seven. I didn’t even know Sir Maxim was out here.’

‘He did try to get hold of you several times today. Obviously, since you were in Quogue, there was no answer. Sir Maxim left the city around four-fifteen. I rented a Jaguar for him and he was driving himself. I figured it would probably take him about three hours, or thereabouts, and I started to call him around seven-thirty. I have a number of messages for him. I don’t understand why he’s not there, since it’s now turned eight already.’

‘Yes, Sir Maxim should have reached East Hampton by this time,’ Elias agreed. Because Douglas Andrews sounded so worried he tried to reassure him. ‘Mebbe the line is wonky in some way or other, it’s been mighty cold and windy out here these last few days, and we’ve had a lot of rain.’

‘Yes,’ Douglas said and paused. He took a deep breath, then continued, ‘I must admit, I’m growing concerned. I hope he hasn’t had an accident on the road.’

‘Oh I’m sure he hasn’t!’ Elias exclaimed. ‘Sir Maxim’s a careful driver, you know that. Now don’t you worry none, there’s more’n likely a good explanation.’

‘It’s very important that I speak with him tonight, Elias, and I wonder if you’d mind going over to the cottage, checking things out for me?’

‘Sure, I’ll go immediately, that’s no problem. Just give me your number so I can call you the minute I get there.’ As he was speaking Elias picked up the pencil near the message pad, licked the end, quickly scribbled down Douglas’s number as it was reeled off to him.

‘Thanks, Elias, I’m very appreciative,’ Douglas finished.

‘I’m glad to be of help, Mr Andrews. Now remember what I said, don’t you worry none, you hear?’

‘I’ll try not to,’ Douglas replied, knowing that he would.

They hung up, and Elias hurried out into the passageway. He opened the top drawer of the chest, took out his bunch of house keys and slipped them into his trouser pocket. Hanging on a coat stand near the door were his down-filled parka, a woollen scarf and a cap with ear flaps, and these garments he took down and put on. He picked up his gloves and left at once, anxious to get over to Maximilian West’s place as fast as he possibly could.

The pickup truck Elias used for running around the village was parked in front of his house, and he clambered in more agilely and swiftly than he usually did, and drove off down the street with a screeching of tyres.

Once he had crossed the railway tracks he sped through the village, heading for Lily Pond Lane, driving through streets unimpeded by traffic this evening. East Hampton was deserted, and it looked as if every one of the locals had left along with the summer residents. Within minutes Elias arrived at the grey-shingled cottage.

Alighting from the pickup truck, he walked briskly to the Jaguar parked immediately in front of him, shone his flashlight on the windows, peered inside. The car revealed nothing.

Elias swung around, began to walk up the path between the frost-covered lawns. As he approached the house he suddenly experienced such a strange sense of apprehension he was startled, and he stopped, taken aback at himself. He had been born and brought up in East Hampton, and in all of his sixty-five years of living here he had never felt uneasy or afraid.

But at this moment he was filled with a certain trepidation, and he did not understand why. It was eerie.

Elias looked up at the house.

The moon was high, a great chunk of silver shining vibrantly, casting its bright glow across the lines of the roof, the chimneys, the towering trees. The cottage was thrown into relief against the dark backdrop of the sky and the copse, and it looked unnaturally gloomy and sombre, almost sinister. No welcoming lights winked in the windows as they normally did when Maximilian West was in residence.

If Sir Maxim is inside then why are all the lights turned off? Elias asked himself, and continued to stare at the house worriedly. He knew Sir Maxim had arrived because of the Jaguar parked in the street next to his pickup truck. He wondered if Sir Maxim had had a heart attack or a stroke, and was lying somewhere in the house stricken and unable to phone for help. Sir Maxim was a young man, and he looked healthy enough, but you never knew about anybody these days. On the other hand, he could have gone for a walk. Elias dismissed this idea the moment it entered his mind. Who would go wandering around the neighbourhood on a freezing, bitter-cold night such as this? It then occurred to him that someone driving their own car could have picked Sir Maxim up and taken him out to dinner.

This last theory was the most reasonable explanation so far, and a feeling of vast relief washed over Elias. He hurried up the path, strode purposefully around to the side of the house and halted at the kitchen door.

Even though he was now convinced that Sir Maximilian West had gone to dinner with a friend, Elias nevertheless rang the doorbell several times. When there was no answer he took out the bunch of keys, found the right one, and let himself into the house. He switched on the lights, closed the door behind him, and, walking into the middle of the floor, he called out, ‘Hello, hello, anybody home?’

His question was greeted by total silence, but this did not particularly surprise him. He swung his eyes around the kitchen, spotted the Bloomingdale’s shopping bag, went and looked inside, saw that it was filled with provisions for the weekend. Nodding knowingly to himself, he then strolled over to the door leading into the main entrance hall, determined to investigate further on the off chance that Sir Maxim had been taken ill.

When Elias opened the door, such a strong sense of foreboding assaulted him again, the hackles rose on the back of his neck, and he shivered. Telling himself he was being a stupid old fool, and clamping down on this unexpected feeling of dread, which he considered to be ridiculous, he put the light on, glanced about, saw that there was nothing untoward here in the hall.

Reassured, Elias walked across to the double doors leading into the living room, flung them open, and flicked down the master switch. Instantly he saw the body on the floor.

He gasped, then exclaimed out loud, ‘Oh my God!’ His chest tightened, and for a split second he was rooted to the spot, unable to move, his eyes staring, the expression on his face one of mingled horror and alarm.

After a moment or two Elias managed to take hold of himself and he walked over to the body. The shock he experienced was like a violent punch in the belly, and he gazed down at Maximilian West disbelievingly, feeling as though his legs were turning to jelly. He thought he was going to keel over, and he gripped the back of a chair, took several deep breaths, trying to steady himself.

Eventually he was a little calmer and he stepped closer, saw the blood, the gunshot wound, and his heart sank with dismay. The injury was serious. He knelt down, peering into Maxim’s face worriedly. It was ghastly, the colour of bleached bone. Elias searched for signs of life, brought his head nearer to Maxim’s chest. He was breathing. Just barely. Elias took hold of his wrist, felt for a pulse. It was faint but it was there.

Elias straightened, his face stark, his eyes glassy with shock. Who had done this? And why? Rage flooded him, and he thought of searching the house looking for clues. Instantly he changed his mind. Whoever had shot Sir Maxim had doubtless fled without leaving any telltale evidence. Besides, it was vital that he get help immediately, act with speed if he was to save Sir Maxim. He went to the desk, picked up the phone and dialled.

‘East Hampton Village Police. Officer Spank speaking.’

‘Norman, it’s Elias here. I’m at the West house out on Lily Pond Lane. Sir Maximilian West has been shot,’ he said in a voice that was both shaky and shaken. It faltered slightly as he continued, ‘I just found him. Call Southampton Hospital for an ambulance. He’s alive but he looks as if he’s lost a lot of blood. So tell them to hurry. And you’d better get here as fast as you can.’

‘As soon as I’ve contacted the hospital I’ll be over,’ Norman Spank said. As an afterthought, he added brusquely, ‘Don’t touch anything, Elias,’ and promptly hung up.

Elias sat down heavily in the chair near the desk, fumbled in his pocket, pulled out the piece of paper on which he had written Douglas Andrews’s phone number in Manhattan. He dialled it, and as the number began to ring he braced himself to give the young man the terrible news.

Maxim floated in space … in a great white void … in a vast nothingness.

He wanted to open his eyes. He could not. He felt as if they were permanently sealed. It was as if the top and bottom lashes were glued together.

Where was he?

He did not know. He hardly cared. His body, which a moment ago had seemed weightless, now felt as heavy as lead, and immovable.

Gradually he became aware of voices. A man’s voice, clear, resonant, a voice he had never heard before. The man was saying something about blood transfusions, a bullet which had lodged near the heart.

And then Maxim heard a woman speaking. Her voice filled the air … it was light … musical … and it seemed familiar, yet he could not quite identify it.

‘He’s not going to die, is he, Doctor Morrison?’ the woman asked.

‘We’re doing everything to save his life,’ the man replied. His tone was sombre. ‘He lost a lot of blood at the time of the shooting, and, as I have explained, the operation to remove the bullet has been delicate, complicated. He is in a very serious condition, I’m not going to mislead you about that.’

‘But he does have a chance, doesn’t he?’ the woman persisted.

The doctor did not answer immediately. Then he said, ‘Fortunately, Sir Maximilian is a healthy man, strong, robust. That’s an important factor. And he is in the best of hands here at Mount Sinai. He’s getting superior care and treatment, and he is being monitored night and day.’

Maxim made a supreme effort and finally he managed to lift his eyelids. He blinked, adjusted to the light.

The room where he was lying was quite large.

He saw a man in a white coat. That must be the doctor.

Then he became aware of the others standing at the bottom of the bed.

The women.

They were grouped in a semi-circle. He was conscious of five pairs of female eyes focused on him intently, watching him, waiting. His mother. His first wife. His third wife. His mistress. His daughter Alix.

All of the women in his life were assembled here, keeping vigil over him.

He snapped his eyes shut. He did not want to see them, nor deal with them.

Everything suddenly came back to him. He remembered driving to Long Island in the rented Jaguar, going into the cottage in East Hampton, surprising the intruder. Then the man had pulled a gun and shot him. He could not remember anything after that.

The doctor in the room had just mentioned Mount Sinai. So he had been brought to New York. How long had he been here? He had no idea.

He wondered if he was going to die. He didn’t want to die. He wanted to live.

Teddy. Where was Teddy?

Maxim tried to open his eyes but the effort to do so was far too great.

He wanted Teddy. She could save him. She had always saved him in the past.

He could not die now. He must live. He had so much to do. So much to put right.

Maxim tried to speak but the words would not come out of his mouth.

Teddy. Oh Teddy where are you? Help … help … me …

He felt himself drifting back into the vast white nothingness, that great vaporous void that had engulfed him before, and he fought it, but it was too strong for him in his weakened state and it overwhelmed him.

And finally he succumbed to it, fell into a deep unconsciousness once more.

Part Two
Ursula, Berlin 1938

Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day; Nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness; nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday. A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand; but it shall not come nigh thee.

Psalm 91: The Bible

Chapter Six

The woman stood before the Empire-style cheval mirror in the bedroom, staring hard at her reflection.

Slowly she turned, studying the gown. She had bought it on a trip to Paris three years ago and it was by Jean Patou, her favourite couturier. She had worn it only once since then and now she saw that it had retained its incomparable style and elegance, as had the other Patou creations she owned.

Tonight she had wanted to wear a simple dress, which was why she had chosen this particular one, a floor-length column that fell in fluid lines from shoulder to hem. The sleeves were long, the bodice plain, the neckline high, skimming across the throat, while the back was worked into a draped-cowl effect. Made of matte crepe and cut with superb skill, it was the colour, nevertheless, that caught the eye. Called Patou Blue, it was almost, but not quite, violet.

This vibrant shade was the ideal foil for the woman’s Nordic colouring. Her hair was a shining silver gilt, her skin creamy, her eyes a misty grey-blue, luminous, fringed with thick blonde lashes. She was of medium height, but her slender figure and long coltish legs made her look taller. Her feet and ankles were delicate, well shaped, and she had aristocratic hands, slim, with tapering fingers. It was the combination of her physical attributes, her ability to wear clothes well and her inherent good taste that gave her an elegance of appearance that was quite singular. Gentle of manner, the overall impression she projected was a mixture of femininity, great breeding, and intelligence. Her name was Ursula Westheim. She was thirty-four years old.

Satisfied that the gown was appropriate not only for the reception and dinner at the British Embassy, which she was to attend that evening, but that it also suited her mood of reserve, her sense of restraint, she slowly walked across the floor in the direction of the dressing table. But when she came to the white marble fireplace she paused, stood warming her hands at the huge log fire that blazed up the chimney and took the chill out of the air on this cold winter night.

After a moment she found herself turning inward, sinking down into her myriad thoughts, as she was wont to do of late. Introspective of nature though she was, this characteristic had grown and magnified, become more pronounced in the past year. She had to watch herself rigidly, particularly at social functions, since she had developed a habit of drifting off, carried along by her thoughts into a place known only to her, and where no one else could follow. Her husband Sigmund endeavoured to understand; he was infinitely patient with her and gentle, but she was conscious that his family, most especially his mother and his sister Hedy, found her remote, impenetrable. She could not help this. Her thoughts were like inchoate monsters in her mind, forever present yet not wholly formed and therefore all the more troubling.

She lived with a nagging anxiety that never seemed to leave her these days. Moreover, she no longer felt safe anywhere, except perhaps when she was in this house. It was her haven, her place of beauty, her bastion against the ugliness in the world outside its doors, her strong citadel. There were moments when she truly wished she did not have to leave it, and, in a certain sense, there was very little for her beyond these walls.

The Berlin she had been born in, and where she had grown up, no longer existed. Today it was a city of fear, of brutality and thuggery, of treachery and betrayal, of grimness and virulent rumour. It was teeming with the Gestapo, the Secret Police who stalked the streets, the beer halls and the cafés; frozen-faced SS men were everywhere one looked, as were Hitler’s unholy gang of thugs, posturing and ridiculous in their operetta uniforms, screaming shrilly and striking theatrical poses, for all the world like toy soldiers playing war games. Except that their games were deadly, dangerous, and of course they were not toy soldiers, not even soldiers, but murderers with evil intent in their hearts.

Last year she had been at a reception at the French Embassy on the Pariserplatz when Hitler had walked in suddenly, flanked by Göbbels and Göring and several of his other cronies. She had been startled to see how small they were, unimpressive rather ordinary little men who looked quite different in reality than they did in their photographs in newspapers, which made them seem invincible. She had thought they appeared a bit foolish in their fancy-dress uniforms, and it was, for a brief moment, difficult to take them seriously as they hurried past, strutting, arrogant, vulgar, and bloated with self-importance. But that moment had been fleeting, and indeed she took them seriously. Very seriously. The power they embodied was only too real. And it was a terrifying power.

She was forever asking herself how such a large number of people had allowed themselves to be led by the nose by a man like Hitler, a former vagabond and derelict who wasn’t even a German, but a jumped-up, uneducated Austrian corporal who could not speak the German language properly. Yet, amazingly, many believed he had only the welfare of the German nation at heart, had fallen under his spell, had been duped by him, considered him to have extraordinary brilliance and ability, not to mention great magnetism, and they were mesmerised by him and by his demagoguery. Weren’t they aware of the frighteningly ruthless aspects of his terrible creed? How could they possibly think he was their saviour? He was leading them down a road to hell.

She had voiced these thoughts to her dearest friend Renata von Tiegal recently, and Renata had said, ‘The Germans have a tendency to love false Gods, to worship false idols. And don’t let any of us forget that.’

And then Renata’s husband Reinhard had remarked in a regretful voice, ‘Hitler should have been stopped years ago. The Western Alliance could have done it. But they didn’t, and now I’m afraid it’s too late. For us. For them.’ Kurt von Wittingen, who was also present that evening, had finished softly, ‘The British, the French and the Americans failed to understand one basic fact. That the Nazis didn’t want power because of the economic situation. They wanted power.’

Well, they had power, didn’t they? Ultimate power. Ursula shivered involuntarily, gripped the mantelpiece, and rested her forehead on her hands. She closed her eyes. What to do? What to do? This question was her constant companion, endlessly reverberating in her head. Panic flooded through her, but after only a moment she got a grip on herself. What she would do, what they would all do, was simply keep going. That was the only answer. There was no alternative. One day at a time, she told herself, I’ll get through one day at a time.

After a short while she lifted her face, and her eyes swept the room. How normal it looked and therefore so reassuring. Her bedroom was truly beautiful, such a tranquil setting with its mixtures of pale greens in the watered silks that splashed over the walls, hung at the windows, covered chairs and a chaise longue. The furniture was French, finely-scaled antiques from her favourite Louis XVI period, and here and there were scattered elegant and exquisite trinkets and small objects which she had collected over the years or had inherited from her family. Rose-quartz boxes, miniature watercolours, antique porcelain snuff boxes and vinaigrettes, Meissen figurines, and silver-framed photographs of family and friends, those dearest to her and whom she loved the most.

And everywhere there were bowls of fresh, hot-house flowers spilling their bright colours and fragrant scents into the room, which glowed at this hour with the muted light from crystal lamps shaded in pink silk.

The superb bedroom was made all the more superb by the art. Her eyes came finally to rest on the paintings by Auguste Renoir, and she admired them yet again, and as usual she was awed. How magnificent they looked against the pale green walls. Two were paintings of nudes, another was a portrait of a mother with her two daughters, and the fourth depicted a garden in summer. To Ursula their tints were breathtaking: shell-pink and pearl, deep rose and lustrous gold, soft pastel blues and greens and the most glorious of yellows. All were light-filled, warm and sensuous, quite wondrous to behold. They were part of the Westheim Collection which had been started by Sigmund’s grandfather Friedrich in the late nineteenth century, immediately following the historic first Impressionist showing in Paris in 1874, and she considered it a privilege to have them hanging here in her home.

Sighing under her breath, Ursula roused herself, aware that Sigmund had returned from the bank some time ago, and that he was already dressed in his evening clothes and waiting for her downstairs. Now she must hurry. Punctual himself, he disliked tardiness in others. She went to the Venetian mirrored dressing table positioned between two soaring windows that floated up to the high ceiling, opened the black leather case resting on top of it, glanced at some of the magnificent jewels which lay glittering on the black velvet.

Automatically, almost without interest, she put on a pair of simple, diamond earrings, slipped on her diamond engagement ring next to her gold wedding band, and closed and locked the case. She would wear nothing else, none of her important pieces. She loathed ostentation at the best of times and these were the worst. And why encourage the envy of others, she added under her breath.

Stepping away from the dressing table, Ursula gave herself a final cursory glance, smoothed one hand over her short, wavy blonde hair before turning, walking over to the wardrobe where her coats and capes were kept.

There was a knock on the door, and before she could respond it flew open and her personal maid Gisela hurried into the room. ‘You are ready to leave, Frau Westheim? Which fur will you wear?’

Ursula’s smile was as lovely as her face, and in her low, cultured voice she said, ‘I’m not taking a coat. The velvet wrap will do nicely, Gisela. If you would be good enough to get it out for me, please. Oh, and I will need a pair of white kid gloves. If you’ll excuse me for a moment, I’ll be right back.’

‘Yes, Frau Westheim.’

Ursula stepped out into the bedroom corridor, pushed open the door exactly opposite hers and went inside. A night light on the bedside table glowed faintly in the dim and shadowy room. She tiptoed over to the bed, looked down at the small boy sleeping there so peacefully with one of his small chubby hands resting under a pink cheek. Bending over him, she stroked his blond hair, gave him a light kiss.

The boy stirred. A pair of eyes opened and a sleep-filled voice murmured, ‘Mutti? I’ve been waiting for you, Mutti.’

Ursula filled with a rush of surging warmth, and she smiled inwardly. She experienced such infinite joy when she was with this child. There was a chair near the bed and she pulled it closer, sat down, took his other hand in hers. ‘I was dressing, Mein Schatzi. Papa and I have to go out this evening.’

‘Papa came to kiss me. He’s buying me a pony next summer,’ her small son confided, suddenly wide awake. His brown eyes gleamed brightly with excitement as they fastened so intently on hers.

Ursula leaned forward to kiss him again. He nuzzled his warm little face against her cheek and a pair of tender young arms went around her neck and he clung to her. She held him close, stroking his head with one hand. She loved this four-year-old boy so very much. Her only child. Her heart. She was so afraid for him. Nothing must happen to him. She must protect him with her life.

Pushing away the troubled thoughts with which she now lived on a daily basis, she took a deep breath and said, ‘Your pony will be waiting for you when we go to the villa in the Wannsee next summer. Papa will have it taken there for you.’

‘Mutti?’

‘Yes, Maxim?’

‘Will Papa show me how to ride it?’

‘Of course he will,’ she said, smiling.

‘What’s the pony’s name?’

‘I don’t know. We haven’t found the right one for you yet. But we will. Come now, it’s time to go to sleep.’

Still holding her child in her arms she leaned forward, laid him against the snowy linen pillows, but he did not want to let go of her, clung to her more tightly than ever, almost fiercely. Gently she unclasped his arms, straightened her back, and sat up. Touching his face lightly with her fingertips, she spoke to him with great tenderness. ‘You’re such a good little boy, Maxim, a sweet boy, and I love you very, very much.’

‘I love you, Mutti.’

‘Goodnight, Mäuschen, sweet dreams,’ she murmured against his cheek.

‘Night.’ He yawned and his eyelids began to droop, and Ursula knew he would be fast asleep before she even reached the door. She crept out on silent feet, returned to her bedroom where she collected her wrap, gloves and evening bag from her maid.

‘Goodnight, Gisela,’ she said, pausing in the doorway and turning around. ‘And please don’t wait up for me.’

‘But Frau Westheim, I always help you to –’

‘No, no, it’s not really necessary,’ Ursula interrupted softly. ‘I can manage by myself, but thank you anyway.’ With these words she walked along the corridor to the staircase.

This swept grandly down to the vast baronial entrance foyer of the Westheim house, a mansion on the Tiergartenstrasse, near the Tiergarten, in a charming residential area of Berlin.

Halfway down the stairs, Ursula stopped, stood stock still listening, her head on one side.

Sigmund was playing the piano in the music room, and the melodic strains of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata came wafting to her on the warm air. It was beautiful … delicate … but so ineffably sad. Her throat ached with unexpected emotion, and inexplicably tears sprang into her eyes. And she realised that tonight for some reason this particular piece of music seemed to move her especially, perhaps more than it ever had before.

She stood for a moment longer, composing herself and marvelling at Sigmund’s touch. It was magical. If he had not been an investment banker she believed he could easily have become a classical concert pianist, such was his talent. But banking was in his blood. Centuries of it. Passed down from father to son, ever since Jacob Westheim, the founding father of the dynasty, had opened the original merchant bank in Frankfurt in 1690. The entire family had moved to Berlin over a hundred years ago, and the Westheim private investment bank in the Gendarmenmarkt, Berlin’s financial district, dated back to 1820. Like his father and their illustrious forebears, Sigmund had a brilliant financial brain, and he loved the bank and his work, but had he been born into any family other than the Westheims he might easily have turned out to be a musician by profession.

The clock in the foyer began to chime and the pendulum struck six times, announcing the hour and cutting into her thoughts. She hurried down the stairs, deposited her things on an antique loveseat underneath a Gobelin tapestry, then crossed the black-and-white marble floor, heading in the direction of the music room. Here she paused in the doorway, stood regarding her husband, thinking how handsome he looked in his dinner jacket and black tie.

The moment he saw her, Sigmund stopped playing, sprang up, came swiftly to meet her. Brown-haired with bright blue eyes and a warm, sincere smile, he was about five foot eleven, slender, compact of build, a good-looking man with a strong, well-defined face. He was thirty-six years old, and he had been married to Ursula for fifteen years.

Ursula walked towards him.

They met in the middle of the room.

He took hold of her hands, pulled her to him, put his arm around her, brought his lips to her cheek. They had known each other all of their lives, and their parents had always hoped they would marry; when they had, two elite German families had been united. But it had not been an arranged union. Theirs was a true love story. They had fallen in love as children and they had never wanted anyone but each other. It was a perfect match.

Sigmund broke their embrace, held her away from him and looked down into her face. ‘You are very beautiful tonight, Ursula.’

A faint smile touched her lips and her eyes signalled her deep love for him, but she made no response, merely inclined her head graciously.

He put his arm around her, walked her back towards the foyer. ‘I was going to have a glass of champagne with you before we left, but I’m afraid that’s no longer possible. I think we must leave. I promised Irina we would meet her at the reception, and I don’t want to keep her waiting since she’s going there alone.’

Ursula nodded. ‘Of course, I understand.’

Her voice was so low it was barely audible and Sigmund came to a standstill, glanced at her swiftly, then tilted her face to his. He frowned when he saw the worry in her eyes and the gravity which had suddenly settled on her face. ‘What’s wrong? What is it?’

‘I wish we didn’t have to go, Sigmund.’

‘But you were enthusiastic when the invitation came. Why this change of heart at the last minute?’ He sounded puzzled.

‘I was never that enthusiastic,’ she replied. ‘Not really.’

‘It’s important that we make an appearance, you know. The Ambassador is expecting us.’

For a moment she did not speak, and then she said slowly, ‘There will be Nazis there.’

‘That’s true, yes. But then there are Nazis everywhere these days. You mustn’t let it concern you.’

Again she was briefly silent before saying, more vehemently than was usual for her, ‘But it does concern me, Sigi. We’re Jews.’

‘And Germans, Ursula. Real Germans, just as our forefathers were for centuries before we were born. Remember, we are both from great and ancient families, and furthermore, as an investment banker, I am extremely important and useful to the Government and State, as I have so often pointed out to you. You know they need me to help them build the economy, and for my foreign connections, the bankers and industrialists I’m acquainted with, and also for the foreign currency and gold the bank deals in.’ He put his arm around her again, held her close to him, finished confidently, in a reassuring voice, ‘We are not at risk, Ursula, please believe that.’

She leaned away from him, looked up into his face, gave him a penetrating stare. ‘The Nazis fill me with dread. I detest being anywhere near them, or having to even breathe the same air.’

‘I know, I know. But, Ursula, many of our good friends will be present this evening, and you’ll be with them. Renata and Reinhard, Kurt and Arabella von Wittingen, and Irina …’ His voice trailed off. He was not sure how to make her feel better at this moment.

‘Yes, many of our friends will be there, Sigi,’ she concurred softly, ‘including those who are now members of the Nazi Party. I’m uncomfortable with them, too, these days.’

His swift nod indicated that he acknowledged the truth of her comments, and he grimaced, then cleared his throat. ‘But I’m afraid we can’t possibly cancel at this hour, and we really must leave. Now, darling. Quite aside from not wishing to keep Irina waiting, I don’t want to offend Sir Nevile Henderson by being late.’

‘Yes, of course,’ she said at once, forcing a smile, putting on a bright face, instantly trying to change her demeanour. There was nothing to be gained by upsetting him further. ‘I’ll be fine, Sigi, please don’t worry about me.’

Looking relieved, he smiled into her eyes, took her arm, squeezed it, and together they hurried out of the music room into the foyer, where Sigmund picked up her wrap. He was placing it around her shoulders when Walter, the butler, came through from the servants’ quarters at the back of the house. When he saw his employers, to whom he was devoted, he inclined his head respectfully, went immediately to the clothes cupboard, took out Sigmund’s overcoat and brought it to him.

‘Thank you, Walter, but I think I’ll carry it,’ Sigmund said.

The butler nodded, carefully folded the coat, handed it to him, then ushered them out.

Chapter Seven

The car was waiting in front of the house.

Karl, the chauffeur, greeted them cordially, held the door open for them, and helped them inside. Sigmund told him they were going to the British Embassy, and a second later Karl pulled away from the kerb and headed along the Tiergartenstrasse in the direction of the Hofjägeralle.

Ursula glanced out of the window as the car sped past the Tiergarten, the lovely public park which had once been the private hunting forest of the Brandenburg princes several hundred years ago. How forbidding it looks tonight, she thought, bringing her face closer to the glass. The trees were stark, bereft of leaves, skeletal black images silhouetted against the cold and fading sky of early evening. She felt suddenly chilled and nestled deeper into her velvet wrap.

And then in her mind’s eye she pictured the park as it was in the summer months. At that time of year the Tiergarten was breathtaking in its beauty, the rolling expanses of grass, the abundant weeping willows, the limes and the horse chestnut trees lushly green, the planted beds bordering the paths bursting with flowers of every hue, the flowering bushes in full bloom. The lilacs were her favourites, dripping their plump May blossoms of pink and white and mauve, filling the air with a delicate, evocative fragrance.

Laid out in the manner of a natural English park, landscaped in parts, and scattered with artificial ponds and flowing streams, the Tiergarten had majesty and serenity; it was a place of happy memories for her. She had gone riding through it as a child and a young girl, still rode there when the weather was good, and she had always been partial to walking along its winding paths beneath the panoply of cool and shady trees. In the past it had been with Sigmund; now she went there with Maxim and his nurse; occasionally she would stroll through this gentle green enclave by herself, when she wanted to be alone or to think. It was, for her, still a place of peace and safety amidst the turbulence of life in Berlin today, always a refuge. And the beauty and simplicity of nature soothed her, were a balm to her troubled spirit.

Sigmund made a remark to her about his mother, and she turned to him at once, searched his face in the dimness of the car, put a hand on his arm lovingly, knowing how concerned he was about her. For a few seconds they discussed the senior Frau Westheim, who had been in precarious health since her husband’s death two years before. They went on to talk about his sisters Hedy and Sigrid and their relationship with their mother, and chatted briefly about the happenings of the day, before lapsing into silence again.

For a short while they were caught up in the intricate webs of their own private thoughts.

Ursula, who adored Sigmund, and respected him, wanted desperately to believe that he was correct in his assertions about their situation, as far as the Nazi regime was concerned. On the other hand, her intelligence and her woman’s intuition were at odds with his assurances. They were saying entirely different things to her, were alerting her to trouble. Her deepest instincts told her that something horrendous was coming, although what this was, what form it would take, she could not say. She sat up straighter in the corner of the car, stiffening slightly. Was it this awful foreboding that was at the root of her anxiety and apprehension? She was convinced it was. She felt an overwhelming sense of anticipatory despair and her blood ran cold. She sank down into herself and her gaze turned inward.

For his part, Sigmund’s thoughts were also somewhat troubled. It was perfectly true that he felt reasonably secure in Berlin, despite the climate of the times, for although measures had been taken against Jews, the entire Westheim family had been left alone. This was also the case with other prominent and wealthy Jewish families who were important, and useful to the State. Then again, not one piece of Westheim property had been touched and the bank had not been closed down. Nor had he been forced to take on Aryan partners, as some Jewish businessmen had. And yet, lately, he had been assailed by worry, had started to harbour a disturbing suspicion that the situation was going to change for every Jew living under the rule of the Third Reich.

Only a few minutes ago he had been reassuring his wife, speaking brave words to her, having no wish to underscore her smouldering anxiety. But he must confront the possibility that they might soon be in danger. Not to do so would be sheer folly. Perhaps it would be wise to leave Berlin, to leave Germany, as so many already had. He was a wealthy man. Conceivably he might be able to buy their way out, purchase exit visas and new passports. But he would need assistance to do that, the right introductions to those who could produce the necessary documents. He was fully aware that bribery, graft and corruption were commonplace in the Third Reich; it was only a question of knowing exactly who to go to in order to get what he needed. He had friends who could probably guide him in this, ease the way for him. But would they? And whom could he trust? He ran a few names through his head, pondered them carefully.

Karl swept off the Hofjägeralle, took the car around the circle that was the Grosser Stern, passed the Siegessäule, the winged victory column that dominated its centre, and headed down towards the Brandenburg Gate.

Ursula stared in front of her as they drove under the triumphal arch of the gate, focused her eyes on the Unter den Linden ahead. The Nazis had defaced this wide and stately avenue, the most glorious and beautiful of all the boulevards in Berlin, by erecting rows of soaring columns down its centre and along its sides. Each one of these columns was surmounted by a giant Nazi eagle, and because the columns were floodlit they were thrown into relief, stood out dramatically against the darkening night sky.

Typical Nazi theatrics, Ursula thought, loathing what she saw. To her the columns were towering reminders of the domination, tyranny and menace the Third Reich represented. She averted her eyes.

They were passing the Pariserplatz. Her parents had owned a house on that elegant square, and she had grown up there, had been married to Sigmund from that house, and it was there that her mother had died in 1935, and then her father, only last year. The square had played such an important part in her life: it evoked a time past, the Berlin she loved and which, tragically, was now gone forever.

She sighed under her breath and tried to shake off her despondency. Karl had turned right and was driving up the Wilhelmstrasse where the British Embassy was located at number seventy. They were about to arrive at their destination, and she adjusted her expression, fixed a smile on her face as she had learned to do.

There was a lineup of cars in front of theirs. Some were official and from various ministries, others were diplomatic and bore stiff little flags on their bonnets; she recognised the colours of Italy and America and Spain.

A moment later Ursula was alighting from the car, and in the split second she waited for Sigmund to come around from the other side, she glanced up the Wilhelmstrasse. Only a few doors away from her stood the Reich Chancellery where Hitler was ensconced around the clock with his sinister henchmen, and she could not help wondering what diabolical schemes they were hatching at this moment. Her insides shrivelled at the thought, and a shudder ran through her.

And then Sigmund was by her side, smiling down at her, and she tried to smile back, but it was rather faltering. If he noticed this he showed no sign of it, simply took hold of her elbow firmly and led her forward through the huge doors above which the Union Jack fluttered in the cold wind.

The sight of the red, white and blue flag lifted her spirits. It was not merely a banner of coloured cloth that was the national emblem of Great Britain, but a symbol of freedom, democracy and justice.

Sir Nevile Henderson, His Britannic Majesty’s Ambassador in Berlin, stood in the hall situated between the two reception rooms at the top of the broad staircase, greeting his guests as they arrived. He was his usual smiling self, debonair and full of charm.

Sigmund and Ursula edged along slowly behind the other guests, until at last Sir Nevile was shaking her hand and warmly welcoming her, before turning his attention to Sigmund. Ursula stood by, waiting. The two men exchanged pleasantries for a few moments, and then together she and Sigmund stepped away, and headed for one of the two rooms where drinks were being served before dinner.

The reception was already in full swing.

The room was thronged and there was a sense of glamour about the gathering, a feeling of tension and excitement in the air, as there generally was at such affairs in Berlin these days. This was especially so at the foreign embassy parties which tended to be international in scope and peopled with interesting characters.

Shimmering crystal chandeliers blazed from the high ceiling, masses of flowers were banked around the room, adding to the festive mood, and a small string quartet played quietly in a corner. White-gloved waiters in tail coats were fleet of foot amongst the crowd, expertly balancing immense silver trays which held either glasses of champagne or assorted canapés. And gazing down on the scene was the life-size portrait in oils of King George VI, newly crowned last year, who had stepped into the breach after his weak and shallow brother, Edward, had abdicated and rushed off to marry Mrs Simpson, the American adventuress.

‘It’s quite a turnout this evening,’ Sigmund murmured in Ursula’s ear, escorting her into the room, glancing about as he did.

Instantly, a waiter came to a standstill in front of them, offered them champagne. Sigmund thanked him, took two flutes, handed one to Ursula and clinked his glass to hers. He looked about. ‘I don’t see Irina, do you?’

Ursula followed his gaze, swiftly surveyed the gathering. ‘No, I’m afraid not, Sigi. Perhaps she’s in the other reception room. And you’re correct, it is a crowd tonight.’

She saw that the diplomatic corps was present in full force, spotted several ambassadors she knew by sight, as well as the familiar faces of two British foreign correspondents who were talking to their American colleague, William Shirer. Mingled in amongst them were Government ministers, military officers, high ranking Nazis, members of the German aristocracy and prominent Berliners.

Some of the young internationals who lived in Berlin were also present. She knew from Irina that they were popular with the staffs of the British and French Embassies because they were charming, entertaining and good looking, and enlivened these formal diplomatic functions. The majority had titles and were Hungarians, Slavs, Lithuanians, Austrians, Poles, Rumanians, or White Russians like Irina. With their families, they had been displaced from their homelands by the erratic swings of political power in a shifting Europe inexorably changed some twenty years ago, first by the Russian Revolution and then the collapse of the Austro-Hungarian empire.

Ursula’s eyes roved the room and she noticed how well dressed everyone was. Elegance was the order of the evening, it seemed. The men wore dinner jackets or military uniforms; the women were decked out in their finery, and most of them boasted a certain chic, a stylishness that was eye-catching. A few women clinging to the arms of some of the Nazis looked out of place, flashy in their gaudy dresses splattered with sequins or diamanté, their hands, arms and throats plastered with vulgar jewellery.

In the crowd she saw a familiar burnished head, a piquant smiling face in which vivid blue eyes danced, a small hand waving in greeting to her.

Ursula’s face instantly lit up. ‘Sigi, Irina’s over there!’

‘Yes, I just saw her myself. Come on, darling.’

He took hold of Ursula’s arm and they hurried over to their friend. Irina came to meet them half way, her black lace dress of ballerina length swirling around her slim ankles, and a moment later they were hugging and kissing each other, and laughing.

Irina had a gay effervescent personality and was full of joie de vivre, and again it struck Ursula that her extraordinary life, marked by tragedy, upheaval and turbulence, had done little, perhaps nothing, to scar her. Princess Irina Troubetzkoy and her mother Princess Natalie had fled Russia after the Bolsheviks had murdered Prince Igor Troubetzkoy in 1917, when the Romanov autocracy fell. Irina had been six years old, her mother twenty-five, at the time. The Troubetzkoys had lived as refugees in Lithuania, Poland and Silesia before journeying to Berlin and settling in the city ten years ago, which was when Ursula and Sigmund had first met them. Recently Princess Natalie had married a widowed Prussian baron, and for the first time in their twenty-one years of exile from Russia the two women had a real home at last.

Irina, Sigmund and Ursula were talking about her mother and the change for the better in her fortunes when Irina began to chuckle.

Sigmund stared at her, raised a brow, asked in perplexity, ‘What is it? Have either of us said something which amuses you?’

Irina shook her head. ‘No. I was just thinking that my mother has now acquired a degree of respectability since her marriage to the Herr Baron.’ She looked around, then dropped her voice. ‘As far as the Nazis are concerned, that is. How ridiculous when one considers that she has always been a woman of rectitude and impeccable moral character, with a spotless reputation, quite aside from the fact that she’s of royal blood and is a cousin of the late Tsar.’ Irina leaned closer to them, confided softly, ‘Incidentally, Göbbels just attached a label to us foreign exiles. International garbage he calls us.’

‘Ah yes, Doctor Göbbels –’ Sigmund began, and bit off the rest of his sentence.

A pair of SS officers, very typical of their breed, cold-faced and blue-eyed with short-cropped blond hair and ramrod-straight postures, were drawing to a halt in front of them. They clicked their heels together, made elaborate bows and focused their penetrating eyes on Irina. Both flashed her smiles, and one of them said, ‘Guten Abend, Prinzessin.’

‘Good evening,’ Irina responded, repeating his greeting politely, even proffering a smile. But her eyes, which were the colour of violets, turned almost black and they were glacial.

The officers inclined their heads courteously, and moved on, perfectly in step like carefully programmed robots.

‘And that’s Nazi garbage,’ Irina whispered. ‘A couple of Heydrich’s hatchet men. I felt like spitting in their faces.’

Ursula put a gentle hand on her arm, murmured, sotto voce, ‘Please, do be careful what you say, Irina, you never know who’s listening.’

‘Yes, informers are all over the place,’ she muttered in agreement. ‘One doesn’t know who to trust these days.’ Irina now spoke in a voice so inaudible the Westheims had to draw closer to her in order to hear what she said as she added, ‘But a foul regime such as theirs needs informers in order to function, to flourish.’

Renata von Tiegal, who had been scanning the reception room from the entrance, saw them and hurried over. She was always dramatic looking, and tonight more than ever, gowned in scarlet silk, this vivid colour most effectively setting off her inky-black hair and ivory skin.

‘Hello!’ she cried. ‘I was looking for you. How is everyone?’ Her dark eyes and her wide smile radiated affection.

‘We’re all well,’ Sigmund said, answering for the three of them. ‘And you look superb this evening, my dear.’

‘Why thank you, Sigi,’ she said.

Ursula slipped her arm through Renata’s and asked, ‘And where’s Reinhard?’

‘In the other reception room.’ Renata glanced about her with quickness, brought her gaze back to her friends. ‘What a happy crowd it appears to be tonight.’

‘But everyone is happy in Berlin,’ Irina said very, very softly, her voice dripping sarcasm. ‘They’re full of relief that Hitler averted war when he signed the Munich Pact with the British Prime Minister and the French Premier in September.’

‘Berliners have their heads stuck in the sand,’ Renata responded, and made a sour face. ‘How can anyone think that that odious little man has stopped a war?’ she asked in an even lower key, sounding scornful. When Irina was silent, she turned to Sigi. ‘Do you believe he has?’

‘I’m hoping against hope,’ Sigi answered.

Irina looked over her shoulder to make sure no one was eavesdropping on their conversation, saw that they were quite isolated where they stood, then remarked quietly, ‘Hitler might have duped Chamberlain and Daladier, bluffed them into thinking that he wants peace as they do, but he hasn’t convinced me and my mother, or the baron for that matter. Helmut thinks he aims to go against the Western democracies next year.’

Renata said, ‘I suspect your stepfather’s not far from the truth.’

‘I pray that Helmut is wrong.’ Sigmund’s voice was as sombre as the expression on his face.

Renata began to shake her head. ‘I tremble at the thought of the poor Czechoslovakians. When Hitler marched into the Sudetenland last month they were finished.’

‘Please, don’t let’s talk politics tonight,’ Ursula whispered. ‘Not even here in the relative safety of the British Embassy. It makes me nervous.’

‘You’re absolutely right,’ Sigmund agreed. ‘It’s a dangerous game anywhere these days.’ Out of the corner of his eye he noticed that the von Wittingens had just arrived, and wanting to bring this conversation to a close, and needing an excuse to speak privately to Irina, he said, ‘Come along, Irina my dear, let’s go over and have a word with Kurt and Arabella, and find ourselves a drop of champagne on the way.’

Irina nodded in consent, and they both excused themselves and sauntered off in the direction of the prince and princess.

Left alone together, Renata faced Ursula, frowning slightly. ‘Are you feeling all right, Ursi?’ she asked, peering at her friend. ‘You look so very pale tonight.’

Ursula was silent for a moment, and then she gave Renata a direct look and, suddenly wanting to unburden herself, she confessed, ‘I live with the most corrosive anxiety, Ren. It’s perfectly awful. So debilitating. And although I try desperately to control myself, I’m filled with terrible apprehension most of the time.’

Renata’s face reflected her sympathy and her understanding. ‘We all feel the same way, and with good reason. We’re in the hands of criminals. Let’s face it, the German Government is being led by a bunch of gangsters.’

‘Keep your voice down,’ Ursula cautioned in a whisper, ‘the Gestapo’s everywhere. Even at this party, I’m sure.’

‘Yes, you’re probably right,’ Renata replied dully, adopting the same whispering tone.

Automatically they both edged further into the corner, and Renata stared at Ursula in dismay and let out a weary sigh. ‘I wonder why we bothered to come here tonight, knowing the place would be seething with them and the SS-and God knows who else?’

‘To be together in a friendly atmosphere at a friendly embassy where there are still a few civilised people left to talk to, and to have a pleasant evening with each other, I do believe,’ Ursula murmured, and squeezed her arm, wanting to reassure her friend.

‘Hello, you two,’ a husky, very cultured, very English voice said, and knowing that it was Arabella von Wittingen standing behind them they swung around and greeted her lovingly.

She was an English aristocrat, the former Lady Arabella Cunningham, and the sister of the Earl of Langley. Tall, slender, and elegant this evening in a bottle-green brocade dinner suit composed of a long skirt and a tailored jacket, Arabella had light-blue eyes and a skin like a peach.

Her manner was insouciant, and her pretty mouth twitched with amusement when she said, ‘I can hardly believe my eyes! A member of the Ambassador’s staff must have gone slightly mad. What an invitation list! Some of the raciest ladies in Berlin are present this evening, not to mention those cuties over there, the ones draped all over the Nazi officers.’ She laughed uproariously. ‘The three of them look as if they’ve just stepped out of Madam Kitty’s front door,’ she continued, referring to the most famous brothel in Berlin. ‘Out of several beds in Madam Kitty’s, I should have said,’ she added as an afterthought, and laughed again.

Renata also laughed. ‘You are wicked.’

Ursula chuckled with them, and exclaimed softly, ‘And you’re as irreverent as ever and brutally honest, but then that’s why we love you, Belle darling.’

Ursula spoke the truth.

These three women did love each other; they had been devoted friends for the past eighteen years. They had met in 1920 when, at the age of sixteen, they were pupils at Roedean, the famous English girls’ school near Brighton. In the two years they had attended the school they had been considered a daunting trio – intelligent, confident, self-assured, independent and, at times, rebellious. The friendship had continued after their schooldays, and Renata and Ursula had gone frequently to stay with Arabella at Langley Castle in Yorkshire, which was the family seat; Arabella had journeyed to Berlin to visit both girls at different times. In 1923 she and Renata were bridesmaids at Ursula’s marriage with Sigmund. After the wedding, Arabella had gone with Renata to stay at the home of her fiancé, Graf Reinhard von Tiegal, at his Schloss on the edge of the forests of the Spree in the Mark Brandenburg, a country area outside Berlin. It was there that she had met Prince Rudolf Kurt von Wittingen, with whom she had fallen in love, and he with her. They had been married a year later, after which Arabella had come to live in Berlin permanently. The three women had drawn closer than ever, and from this day forward were as inseparable as they had been at school in England in their teens.

Their irrepressible laughter broke the tension Ursula and Renata had been experiencing a few moments ago, before Arabella’s arrival. Now Renata motioned to a waiter. ‘Let’s have another glass of champagne,’ she suggested to her closest friends, her expression brightening considerably.

‘That’s a good idea,’ Ursula said, and after helping herself to a flute of the wine, she went on, ‘It’s ages since we’ve had a quiet moment together without our children. Why don’t we go and sit over there and talk for a few minutes.’

‘Splendid thought,’ Arabella said, and Renata agreed with her. They strolled over to a group of chairs arranged in front of a window, where they made themselves comfortable and began to talk about inconsequential things. Each of them wanted desperately to create a sense of normalcy about their lives in these most abnormal times, and they drew comfort from each other, and a feeling of greater security from being together.

They did not move until their husbands came to escort them in to dinner. And later they agreed that for them this short interlude had been the best part of the evening at the British Embassy.

Chapter Eight

‘I’m glad you told Henrietta we had to leave,’ Theodora Stein said, looking across at her boyfriend Willy Herzog, who stood on the other side of the small foyer, putting on his overcoat. ‘I have to get up early tomorrow.’ She made a face at the thought.

Willy nodded as he reached for his hat. ‘We’ll only get a few hours’ sleep, that’s true, it’s an early start for me, too. It was a grand party and I enjoyed myself, but it’s going on a bit too long.’

‘Yes, I agree, Willy.’

Theodora glanced at the door which led into the living room and through which could be heard varied sounds – voices raised in revelry, and laughter, and gramophone music. She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. ‘But then, how often are you twenty-one, Willy?’ Since this was a rhetorical question she did not expect an answer, and she rushed on, ‘I suppose Henrietta wanted to make the most of this very special birthday. And I don’t blame her. I know I will when I’m twenty-one. I plan to have a fancy party too.’

Willy flashed her a wide grin. ‘Will I be invited?’

‘If you’re still around, Willy Herzog. If you haven’t sailed off to America as you keep threatening to do,’ she shot back, giving him a flirtatious look. ‘Are you still planning to go over there to join your Uncle Nathan in Brooklyn and study to be a dentist?’

‘Doctor,’ he corrected. He frowned. ‘It’s the getting of the American visas, Theodora. Very difficult it is. They’re extremely hard to come by, I think I told you that before. Anyway, my father has a friend in Frankfurt who has a friend who knows a consular official who might be able to help us. For the right price. That’s why my father went to Frankfurt yesterday, hoping to bribe this man and get the three visas we need. For himself, and for my sister Clara and me.’

Willy cleared his throat. ‘I’d like to go to America … want to go … but …’ He hesitated and cleared his throat again, looked down, studied his shoes. When he looked up he fixed his gentle, hazel eyes on Theodora. ‘I don’t want to leave you,’ he announced, surprising himself and startling her. There, it’s out at last, he thought. He had finally said it, had had the courage to tell her what had been on his mind for weeks. Relief surged through him as he stood gazing adoringly at Theodora.

Stupefied, and totally at a loss for words, she gaped back at him, amazement registering on her face.

Willy flung down his hat, leapt across the foyer, pulled her into his arms and held her close. ‘I love you, Teddy,’ he said against the top of her head, kissing her silky fair hair. ‘I do, I love you.’

‘Oh … Oh … Is this a proposal then?’

There was a small silence.

He said at last, ‘Do I want to marry you? Yes … yes … and yes, it’s a proposal.’

‘Oh Willy! I don’t know what to say, I’m only nineteen and you’re only nineteen. We’re so young and –’

‘Don’t you love me?’

Now it was Theodora’s turn to be silent.

She wondered if she did love him. She wasn’t sure. Perhaps she did. He was very nice looking and quiet and studious, and serious about studying medicine, and he had lovely manners. Mrs Mandelbaum, Henrietta’s mother, was always saying Willy was a real mensh. And it was true, he was a haimisher mensh, so easy to be around, very comfortable. Yes, Willy was a good man, and he went to shul regularly, and in the year she had known him he had never done a thing to upset her, had never put a foot wrong. But marriage? She hadn’t thought about that before. But she could do worse. Much worse. Besides, she didn’t mind it when he kissed her. In fact, she liked it. He had soft warm lips and sweet breath and he always smelled fresh and clean, of soap and Kölnisch Wasser. And he was gentle with her, never tried to force her, or make her do anything wrong. When he kissed her she always got a funny feeling inside, and her heart pounded, and she grew warm and flushed. Yes, Willy was special, now that she really thought about it. She didn’t want to lose him. Quite suddenly she knew she would never find anybody who was better than Willy.

She said slowly, ‘I think I love you, Willy.’ There was a little pause, and she said more firmly, ‘Yes, I do love you.’

‘Oh Teddy! That makes me so happy. And will you marry me?’

There was another fractional pause before she acquiesced. ‘Yes, Willy Herzog, I will.’

He put his hand under her chin and lifted her small heart-shaped face to his, kissed her pretty upturned nose, her eyelids and finally her sweet lips. They held the kiss, making it last, and they clung to each other tightly until they had to break away to catch their breaths.

Willy pressed her head against his shoulder and stroked her hair and in silent communion they lingered in their embrace. They knew that a commitment had been made, by the one to the other, and it was a serious moment, very meaningful and precious to them both, and they did not want to let it go.

Finally Theodora gently pushed Willy away, extracted herself from his arms. ‘Look at the clock, Willy, it’s almost midnight. We must leave. I’ll hardly get any sleep before I have to be up to take care of Maxim. The little one’s always awake early.’

‘Yes, we had better go. Come on.’

‘Let me put my hat on first. It’s a cold night, and even colder on the back of your motorbike.’

Turning to the coatstand, Theodora took down her green-and-blue tartan tam o’shanter and looked at herself in the Biedermeier mirror as she put it on, then tightened her matching scarf around her neck. She fished a woollen glove out of each pocket of her navy-blue winter coat, and said, ‘I’m ready then.’

They let themselves out of the Mandelbaums’ apartment and Willy closed the door behind them; pausing on the landing, he took hold of Theodora’s shoulders and gently turned her face to him. ‘So, we have an understanding, Theodora? You will meet me under the chuppa and become my wife?’

She nodded solemnly and her expression was serious, but her light green eyes were shining and they danced with happiness. ‘Yes, Willy. Yes to both your questions, and I shall write to my Aunt Ketti to tell her. As my only living relative she’d want to know that I’m … engaged … to be married.’

‘That’s true. And I shall inform my father, when he gets back from Frankfurt, and I shall also tell him that I can’t go to America. Not without you. We’ll have to get a visa for you, Teddy. I’ll stay in Berlin until we can both go to Brooklyn to my Uncle Nathan’s.’

She smiled and nodded and took his hand in hers and together they went down the steep flight of stairs and crossed the vestibule of the apartment building.

As Willy opened the door leading into the street, Theodora stiffened alertly, grabbed hold of his arm. ‘Listen! Isn’t that the sound of breaking glass?’

‘You’re right, it is. I hope it’s not a burglar trying to get into Mr Mandelbaum’s jewellery shop. I’d better go and see. Wait here.’

‘No! Don’t go out, Willy! It’s dangerous!’ she cried.

He paid no attention to her warning, hurried into the narrow street, where he immediately collided with a stormtrooper who stood staring up at the building.

The stormtrooper grabbed Willy by the shoulder and swung him to one side. ‘Hey you! Watch it! Watch where you’re going, you clumsy dolt!’

‘I’m very sorry, sir,’ Willy said politely, struggling to break free from the man’s grip, but it was tenacious. ‘Please, let go of me.’

On hearing this request the stormtrooper tightened his hold, peered at Willy in the pale light coming through the door’s transom from the vestibule. ‘Why should I let go of you? You might be a Jew for all I know. Is this a Jewish house? Are you a Jew?’

Theodora, who had been listening with growing alarm behind the door, could no longer contain herself. She rushed outside before Willy had a chance to answer – and perhaps unwittingly say the wrong thing altogether.

‘Let him go!’ she yelled, drawing to a stop right in front of the stormtrooper. ‘Let him go at once!’ she repeated, her voice rising shrilly. ‘We haven’t done anything.’

‘You have if you’re Jews. Are you stinking shitty Jews?’ He grinned sadistically and twisted Willy’s shoulder back so far Theodora cringed and sucked in her breath.

Willy was stoic. He gritted his teeth and he did not cry out once, despite the sharp pain.

‘Come on, confess it,’ the stormtrooper snarled, ‘this is a Jewish house, and you’re both Jews.’

‘We are not Jews! What kind of a thing is that to say!’ Theodora exclaimed. And with immense hauteur she drew herself up to her full height of five foot five, and glared at him. She was as bold as brass as she faced him down unflinchingly.

‘My name is Theodora Marie-Theresa Schmidt and this is Wilhelm Braun, and we’re both good Catholics and good Germans.’ She gulped, took a deep breath. ‘And good Nazis, yes, we are indeed that. Heil Hitler!’ She thrust her arm straight out in front of her in the Nazi salute. ‘Heil Hitler! Long live our magnificent Führer! Long live the Third Reich!’ She saluted again.

The stormtrooper gaped at her in astonishment.

And so did Willy. When she had rushed out into the street his heart had almost stopped and he had been terrified, more for her than for himself. But now he knew she was going to get away with this act because of her insolence, her aggressiveness and her effrontery. He’ll believe her, Willy thought, because he’s certain no Jew would dare to confront him like this, or shout at a Nazi stormtrooper the way she is shouting at him. Her anger and her arrogance were so perfectly simulated, and she spoke with such conviction, who could doubt that she was telling the truth? It was quite a performance she was giving. Willy marvelled at it, and at her audacity.

Theodora continued to rail at the man. ‘You’ve got a flashlight in your hand,’ she bellowed. ‘Shine it on us. Shine it on Willy. Go on, do it! You’ll see he’s not a Jew!’ Before the stormtrooper could stop her she leaned forward and snatched the flashlight out of his hand, turned it on and levelled it at Willy.

Willy held his breath, once again petrified for her, for them both.

‘Take your hat off, Willy!’ She spoke so authoritatively, he did as she said, pulling off his hat with his free hand, whilst praying under his breath.

‘Look at him!’ she ordered the stormtrooper. ‘Look at him! Willy has sandy-red hair and more freckles than you’ve ever seen on anybody, and hazel eyes. Is that a Jewish face? No, it’s an Aryan face.’

Dramatically, she turned the flashlight on herself.

‘And just look at me. I’m the Nordic type personified.’ She pulled her long hair over her shoulder. ‘See, I have fair hair and green eyes and skin the colour of a rose. Do I look semitic? Of course I don’t, because I’m not.’

At last the stormtrooper found his voice. ‘Looks can be very deceptive,’ he snapped. Nonetheless, some of the harshness and bluster had gone out of him, and he seemed uncertain in the face of her anger and her torrent of words uttered in such superior and confident tones. But he continued to hold on to Willy, even tightening his grasp.

Theodora drew closer and said with icy imperiousness, ‘What you say is true. Looks can deceive. And perhaps you are not all you appear to be. I said Heil Hitler before. Why didn’t you respond in the same way, as you’re supposed to? I hope you’re a loyal Party member.’ She threw back her shoulders proudly, and tossed her head, spoke more arrogantly than ever. ‘My father is SS Gruppenführer Schmidt. He is a good friend of Reichsführer Himmler. He knows him very well.’ Summoning every ounce of her nerve, Theodora now waved the flashlight in front of the startled stormtrooper’s face. She stared at him, as if committing his face to memory. ‘What’s your name, corporal?’ she asked, her eyes narrowing.

The stormtrooper reacted as she had expected he would, furiously pushing her arm away. ‘Get that light out of my eyes!’ he yelled, and leaning towards her he grabbed the flashlamp from her with great roughness.

Unperturbed, Theodora said, ‘Did you hear me, corporal? My father is a friend of Himmler’s, and he’s a powerful man in the SS. He’s not going to be happy when he knows we’ve been detained by you in this way. I asked you your name, corporal. So, what is it?’

It was apparent the stormtrooper had believed everything Theodora had said thus far, and this second reference to Himmler, who was head of the SS, seemed to both frighten and galvanise him. Abruptly he let go of Willy.

Instantly Theodora took hold of Willy’s arm and pulled him close to her side. ‘Come on, let’s go,’ she said.

‘Yes, you’d better get off,’ the stormtrooper exclaimed sharply, stepping back. ‘Go on, go home! A lot’s about to happen. Soon it won’t be safe on the streets. We’re after Jews tonight.’ As he said this he laughed raucously and slapped his thigh, as if it was a huge joke, and, without so much as another word or a glance, he turned from them indifferently, walked on down the narrow street, shining his flashlight on other shop windows.

Willy gasped, ‘Look what he did to Mr Mandelbaum’s store front –’

‘Hurry, Willy! Hurry!’ Theodora hissed, and catching Willy’s hand in hers she turned, dragging him with her, and together they ran in the other direction, away from the apartment building and Mandelbaum’s jewellery shop, and out into the Kurfürstendamm.

As they hit this street they immediately saw that havoc was starting to break loose everywhere, and so they went on running as fast as they could, their feet pounding the pavement until they reached the lamp post where Willy had parked his motorbike earlier. They were thankful and relieved to see that it was perfectly secure and had not been touched, but they knew they had reached it just in time. The two of them clambered on, their breathing laboured as they settled themselves on the saddle.

‘Hold tight!’ Willy ordered, and she wrapped her arms around his waist as the bike leapt forward and headed down the Kurfürstendamm at breakneck speed.

Vans and trucks were now pulling up all along this wide avenue lined with shops and cafés and apartment buildings. Stormtroopers, rowdies and thugs were spilling out, brandishing hatchets, guns, clubs and truncheons. Like fevered maniacs they were rushing in every direction, smashing the windows of Jewish-owned stores, throwing goods out into the street, destroying the fronts of cafés and hacking at the doors of apartment buildings. Combined with the ear-splitting noise of shattering glass were the sounds of splintering wood and the blood-curdling cries of triumph from the frenzied mob led by stormtroopers.

Theodora was shaking. Holding onto Willy tighter than ever, she shouted in his ear, ‘Faster! Faster! Get us out of here!’

He did not bother to respond, simply gunned the bike forward with a screeching of tyres, and within minutes they were leaving the Kurfürstendamm behind them. Willy was making for the Stülerstrasse, which flowed into the Tiergartenstrasse where the Westheim mansion stood. It was there that Theodora lived and worked as the nanny to young Maxim.

They were on the Fasanenstrasse now.

Just ahead of them was the lovely old Central Synagogue, and as they approached it they were horror-struck. The building was being completely demolished by thugs and stormtroopers, who were breaking all the windows and setting it alight with flaming torches.

Willy accelerated his speed considerably, dangerous though this was, and shot ahead, racing through the mêlée and away from this scene of violent wholesale destruction. But not before they had seen the scrolls of the Torah and the ark of the covenant lying amongst the debris in the street. And alongside were torn prayer books and shawls, and all were being trampled underfoot by the wild mob who were shrieking with hysterical laughter, and shouting obscenities about Jews to each other.

‘I can’t believe they’re burning down the synagogue,’ Theodora wailed in Willy’s ear, and she began to sob and pressed her face into his back.

Willy desperately wanted to stop in order to comfort her, but he did not dare, not until they were out of this area and in a safer part of Berlin. With a terrible relentlessness he pushed the motorcycle harder, as hard as he could, and eventually he was cutting across the Kantstrasse and speeding down the Budapesterstrasse. This was a long and curving avenue which led directly into the Stülerstrasse. With enormous relief he saw that the latter was quiet, entirely deserted as he entered it; in fact, it might well have been on another planet, so peaceful was it. And so he slowed his speed at last, finally came to a stop. After braking, he parked by the side of the road in the shadow of some trees and jumped off the bike.

Theodora was still weeping, now shaking her head from side to side, her hands pressed to her streaming eyes. ‘God forgive me! God forgive me for denying my heritage, for denying my religion, for denying myself and all that I am!’

Willy took her to him, and she sobbed uncontrollably in his arms, cleaving to him. He stroked her back, trying to calm her.

Eventually, he said with great gentleness, ‘God does forgive you. I know He does. You saved us, didn’t you? With your quick thinking and your cheek. You’ve got a good Jewish kop on your shoulders, Teddy. And chutzpah. A lot of chutzpah. That’s what saved us.’

‘I shouldn’t have denied we are Jews,’ she whimpered. ‘It was wrong, Willy.’

‘It saved us. And that’s all that counts.’

She drew away from him slightly, looked up into his grave face, asked tearfully, ‘Why, Willy? Why? Why are they doing this? And why are they burning down the synagogue?’

He was briefly silent, and then he said in a voice that was anguished, ‘The Nazis have turned prejudice into hatred, and tonight we are witnessing a Nazi rampage against us and our homes, our businesses and our places of worship. They are torching, vandalising and desecrating everything that belongs to Jews, because they hate us with a terrible, terrible vengeance.’

‘Oh Willy.’

He held her close to him again so that she would not see the sudden tears misting his eyes.

Theodora was trying to stem her sobs, heaving and catching her breath in little spasms, and after a short while she was quieter, in control. ‘Willy?’

‘Yes, Teddy?’

‘They want to murder us all,’ she whispered against his shoulder.

He did not respond. He knew she was right. And he was afraid.

Chapter Nine

Theodora felt considerably safer once she was inside the Westheim mansion on the Tiergartenstrasse.

She locked and bolted the door behind her, and then leaned against it, trying to compose herself. She was no longer wracked by sobs, the tears had dried on her face, but, nonetheless, she was still disturbed and upset. The violence she had just seen on the streets, the ferocity of the attack on the synagogue, were indelibly imprinted on her mind forever. And, like Willy, she was frightened.

After taking several deep breaths and steadying herself, she walked quickly across the black-and-white marble foyer, the metallic click of her heels against the marble floor the only sound in the huge and silent house. Obviously everyone was sleeping soundly, unaware of the riots outside. The mobs had stayed away from this exclusive residential district, occupied mostly by wealthy Gentile families, and had apparently concentrated their attacks around the area of the Kurfürstendamm, at least as far as she knew.

An antique porcelain lamp on a chest to one side of the Gobelin tapestry had been left burning for her, by Frau Westheim, upon her return from the dinner at the British Embassy, she had no doubt about that. It illuminated her way up the grand staircase.

When she reached the landing at the top of the stairs, she turned on the lights and made her way along the main corridor. She stopped at Maxim’s door, stood listening, then opened it gently and peeped inside.

The tiny night-light on the bedside table made a faint glow, and it comforted her to see that the child was sleeping so peacefully. Closing the door carefully, so as not to awaken him, she swung around, and, rather than going to her own room which was next to Maxim’s, she stepped over to his parents’ bedroom instead. Lightly, she rapped on the door.

She waited several moments, and was about to knock again, when the door was opened by Sigmund dressed in his pyjamas and a dark silk robe.

Taken by surprise that it was she, and not one of the servants, he stared at her, frowning. ‘Theodora! What is it? What’s wrong? You’re as white as chalk.’ He squinted at her worriedly in the dimly-lit corridor.

He was about to say something else, when Theodora put her finger to her lips, shook her head, and glanced over at the child’s room. ‘Shhhh,’ she whispered, ‘we don’t want to awaken Maxim.’

Sigmund nodded his understanding, opened the door wider, and ushered her into the bedroom.

Ursula was out of bed and slipping on her peignoir, worry clouding her smoky-blue eyes.

When she saw Theodora’s white face and the shock in her eyes, the girl’s distress instantly communicated itself to her. ‘Teddy, whatever is it? Why, you’ve been crying. What has upset you so?’

Theodora stood in the centre of the extraordinarily beautiful bedroom with its green watered-silk walls and many exquisite objects and great works of art, and wondered where to begin, how to tell this refined and aristocratic couple about the hideous violence and destruction she had just witnessed out there in the centre of the city. And for a second she could not find the words.

She stared at Ursula. Her mouth trembled.

Ursula returned the girl’s unblinking gaze, her eyes puzzled, her expression one of concern. Theodora was her charge, whom she had taken into her home three years ago, after the death of Frau Rosa Stein, Teddy’s mother and widow of Doctor Johann Stein. Until his death in 1933, the doctor had been the Westheim family’s physician for many years, and devoted to them. When Teddy had come to live with them at the age of sixteen, Ursula had been fulfilling a death-bed promise to Teddy’s mother to look after her until she came of age, or got married. Ursula took this promise seriously, and although Teddy was Maxim’s nanny, the girl was treated with great kindness and consideration, and was almost like a member of the family. Her welfare was of importance to Ursula and Sigmund.

Now Ursula said gently, ‘Teddy dear, please tell us what has happened to you.’

Theodora nodded, and words began to tumble out of her, a little breathlessly and in a great rush. ‘Out there. In the streets. The Nazis have gone crazy. They’re doing terrible things. Demolishing Jewish property. Smashing store windows, café fronts. Battering their way into apartment buildings. And they’ve burned the Central Synagogue. Burned it to the ground. I saw them doing it with my own eyes!’

‘Oh dear God! Dear God!’ Ursula cried. Her face lost all of its colour. She turned ashen, and an internal shaking seized her. Reaching out, she got hold of the back of a chair to steady herself, and that sense of dread, which she had pressed back for weeks, rose up in her and lodged like a stone weight in her chest.

Anxiously she looked at Sigmund. They stared at each other disbelievingly. They were appalled and aghast at what they had just heard, and considerably alarmed.

Turning back to Teddy, Ursula said, ‘Thank God you weren’t hurt. You’re not, are you?’

‘No, I’m not, Frau Westheim.’

‘You weren’t out alone tonight, were you, Teddy?’ Sigmund interjected.

‘I was with Willy, Herr Westheim.’

‘Willy?’ he repeated, his gaze quizzical.

‘Professor Herzog’s son,’ Ursula cut in swiftly. ‘He’s studying at the university, and he’s been taking Teddy out on her days off for about a year.’

‘Yes, of course, now I remember.’ Sigmund focused his bright blue eyes on Teddy again. ‘How did you get home? How did you manage to get through the demonstrations unscathed?’

‘On Willy’s motorcycle. He drove like a maniac. But he had to. It was awful, frightening, especially on the Ku’damm and the Fasanenstrasse.’

‘Oh Teddy, Teddy,’ Ursula said, her voice low and strained, ‘I’ve warned you not to stay out late at night. These are terribly dangerous times we’re living in.’

‘I know. And I’m sorry, Frau Westheim. I know you worry about me. But Henrietta’s birthday party went on much longer than we expected. We kept trying to leave. Finally we got away around midnight. The havoc was just starting to break loose.’

Ursula frowned, thinking that their unimpeded journey across the rioting city was something akin to miraculous, and she probed, ‘No one bothered you? Stopped you? Shot at you?’

‘No, not when we were riding the motorbike. But … well … there was a little incident as we left the apartment. Willy accidentally barrelled into a stormtrooper outside the Mandelbaums’ building, and he grabbed hold of Willy, started to question –’

‘Stormtrooper!’ Ursula’s eyes opened wider. She brought a hand up to her mouth. Civilian mobs were one thing; the involvement of stormtroopers meant something entirely different – and much more threatening.

‘Yes, a stormtrooper,’ Theodora said, and speaking swiftly and graphically, she recounted exactly what had transpired between herself and the Nazi when she had rushed out to confront him on the street. And she did not leave out one single detail.

Ursula was aghast throughout this recital, and when Teddy had finished, she exclaimed, ‘What you did was terribly, terribly dangerous! The consequences for you and Willy could have been disastrous. Horrendous. The stormtrooper could have beaten you up, or killed you. What’s perhaps even worse to contemplate, he could have dragged you both to Gestapo Headquarters for questioning. People who have been made to take forced trips to the Prinz Albrechtstrasse haven’t always come out of there alive. And if they have, they’ve often been mindless wrecks because of the torture inflicted on them.’

Teddy went cold, realising that everything Ursula Westheim said was true. She bit her lip, responded quietly, in a chagrined voice, ‘I just reacted … without thinking. I was certain my insolence and superior manner would convince him I was not Jewish. I was right about that, Frau Westheim, and he really did believe my father was in the SS, and that he was a friend of Himmler’s.’

‘Teddy did what she thought was the best thing, I’m absolutely sure of that, and certainly she used her wits,’ Sigmund said to Ursula. Then he glanced across at Theodora and shook his head. His kindly eyes were grave when he murmured, after a slight pause, ‘I don’t think you should tempt providence again. It might not work a second time.’

‘Yes, now I realise that,’ Teddy admitted. ‘Willy was scared when I was shouting at the stormtrooper. Scared for both of us, he told me later.’

‘And where is Willy?’ Sigmund asked. ‘Is he downstairs?’

‘No, he went home. His father’s away and he was worried about his sister Clara being alone in their flat.’

‘But it’s dangerous out on the streets,’ Sigmund responded with a show of concern. ‘You should have insisted that he stay here tonight.’

Ursula said, ‘I’m certain Willy is all right, Sigi. He lives not far from here, just behind us, near the Landwehrkanal.’

‘Willy must be safely home by now,’ Teddy asserted, and explained, ‘It would only take him a few minutes on the motorbike, and everything was quiet in the neighbourhood when he dropped me off.’

Sigmund went across to one of the windows, parted the silk draperies and anxiously looked down into the Tiergartenstrasse. He saw that the street below was indeed empty, and this reassured him that the boy had undoubtedly made it home easily and without running into trouble. Nevertheless, he swung around, and gesturing to the phone on Ursula’s writing desk, he said, ‘I think we will all feel much better, Teddy, if you ring Willy.’

‘Yes, Herr Westheim,’ Teddy replied and did as he asked, walking over to the small desk and dialling. The phone in the Herzogs’ apartment was picked up after only two rings, and Willy was on the line. ‘Yes?’ he said warily.

‘It’s Teddy here,’ she answered. ‘Herr Westheim asked me to ring you up, Willy, to check that you’d arrived home all right.’ He told her that he had done so without any sort of incident and without seeing one single person, then they said goodbye.

Teddy replaced the receiver, turned to Sigmund. ‘He’s fine, he said he got home in a few minutes. The streets around here are quiet, Herr Westheim.’

Sigmund nodded. His immense relief showed on his face.

‘Stormtroopers,’ Ursula said and looked at Sigmund, then addressed Teddy. ‘So apparently the Government is no longer simply turning a blind eye to these anti-semitic demonstrations. Now, seemingly, it is actively involved in them.’

‘That’s the way it looks,’ Teddy responded. ‘I saw a lot of stormtroopers on our way home. They were leading the mobs –’ Theodora broke off as a wave of nausea unexpectedly swept over her and she brought her hand up to her eyes. She swayed slightly on her feet, and wondered if she was going to faint.

Ursula ran to her immediately, put an arm around her to give her support. ‘Come, Mein Kind,’ she murmured, ‘come, my child, take off your things and let’s sit down until you feel better.’ She helped Teddy remove her coat and tam o’shanter, mothering her as she would Maxim. Taking hold of her hand, Ursula led her over to the fireplace where a few embers still glowed in the grate. Glancing over her shoulder at Sigmund, she said, ‘I think a glass of cognac would help Teddy. Her hands are icy.’

‘Of course. I’ll get it right away.’

Sigmund strode into the adjoining room. This was his upstairs study where he sometimes worked, and where there was a small but well-stocked liquor cabinet.

Meanwhile, Ursula and Teddy seated themselves on the chaise and Ursula continued to hold the girl’s hands, rubbing them between her own, trying to warm them.

Theodora looked at her suddenly, and exclaimed, ‘They were so vicious when they smashed the synagogue, set fire to it. I couldn’t believe such a dreadful thing was happening.’ This scene stood out with such agonising clarity in her mind that she began to weep, and the tears rolled down her cheeks unchecked.

Ursula brought her hand up to Teddy’s face, and gently wiped the tears away with her fingertips, and endeavoured to comfort her.

Sigmund was back within seconds, carrying a silver tray upon which there were three liqueur glasses of brandy. ‘I think we all need a drop of this,’ he said, coming over to the chaise, offering the tray to his wife and Teddy.

Theodora took a big swallow of the brandy and she felt the warmth of it in her throat at once. She took another swallow, and put the glass on a nearby table, looked from Ursula to Sigmund. ‘Thank you,’ she said softly, her expression one of deep gratitude. ‘Thank you for being so kind to me always.’

Sigmund had tossed back his small glass of cognac in one quick gulp, and now he said, ‘I must go and make several phone calls … to Hedy, to make certain she and my mother are all right. I’m absolutely positive they are, out there in the Grunewald. Sigrid, of course, is in Hamburg with Thomas on business, so we don’t have to be concerned about them. And then I must reach the night guard at the bank, check out the situation in the Gendarmenmarkt.’

‘Yes, you had better do that,’ Ursula concurred.

Sigmund nodded, and disappeared in the direction of his study.

Theodora, who had been fumbling around in the pocket of her blue wool dress, pulled out her handkerchief and blew her nose. ‘I’m sorry I broke down before, Frau Westheim. But I couldn’t help it. This has been the most terrifying experience. I know one thing … I’ll never forget the ninth of November … Henrietta Mandelbaum’s twenty-first birthday and the night the Nazis torched the Central Synagogue. No, I’ll never forget it,’ she finished vehemently. ‘Not as long as I live.’

‘I don’t think anyone will,’ Ursula replied.

She rose, walked over to a window, drew open the draperies and stood looking out at the sky. It was jet black and littered with bright stars, and on the horizon she could see a jagged patch of red flaring upwards. Fire, she thought. They’re burning something else in another part of the city. Another synagogue perhaps. Or someone’s home. Or both. Where will this end? Dear God, where will this end? She felt chilled to the bone, icy.

Sigmund did not remain on the telephone for very long, and he soon returned to the bedroom, saying with obvious relief, ‘I spoke to Hedy. The Grunewald is as peaceful and sleepy as it always is, and the night guard at the bank tells me nothing untoward is happening down there in the financial district. So perhaps the demonstrations on the Ku’damm and the Fasanenstrasse are simply isolated incidents, started by the rowdies and thugs who are so frequently out of control –’

‘I doubt that,’ Ursula remarked in the softest of voices. ‘Not when there are stormtroopers involved. This is much more serious than anything we’ve ever seen before.’

‘Perhaps,’ Sigmund muttered noncommittally. Privately he agreed with her, but he did not want to foster her alarm; nor did he wish to frighten Theodora further, who had been through enough as it was this night.

Abruptly, Ursula said, ‘It’s the beginning.’

‘The beginning of what, Frau Westheim?’ Theodora asked.

There was a silence before Ursula replied. ‘The beginning of the end of the Jews in Germany.’

After Theodora had gone to bed, Ursula and Sigmund sat together on the chaise, talking quietly, sharing their thoughts, trying to analyse the dramatic events of that night, trying to understand what they meant, and what they predicted for the future.

At one moment, Ursula turned to him, and said slowly, ‘Stop trying to protect me by not telling me what you truly think, Sigi. I’m far too intelligent to be duped, especially by my own husband, a man I’ve known since childhood.’

‘Yes, you are,’ he said with a faint sigh. ‘And I only meant the best for you.’

She tried to smile, unsuccessfully. ‘As always, my dearest Sigi, as always.’

Taking hold of his hand she held it very tightly in hers and after a while she said in a voice choked with emotion, ‘We have to leave, Sigi … leave this house … leave the villa in Wannsee … leave the bank … leave the art collection … leave all of our possessions … and go. We have to leave Berlin, Sigi. We have to get out of Germany.’

‘Yes, I know,’ he said with resignation. ‘I’ve known it for a long time, really, but I suppose I haven’t wanted to face it.’ He sighed again. ‘The entire family must get out. And Theodora. We cannot leave her behind, that would be unthinkable. She will come with us, and I must get exit visas for everyone, and entry visas for another country.’

‘How?’

Indeed how, he thought, but said, ‘To be honest, Ursula, I don’t know … yet. But I will. And very soon. Certainly I’ve got one thing in my favour.’

‘What is that, Sigi?’

‘Money.’

Chapter Ten

‘Entschuldigen Sie, gnädige Frau,’ the butler said, excusing himself for disturbing her.

Ursula looked across at him from the Louis XVI writing desk at the far end of the bedroom, where she sat working on some papers. ‘That’s perfectly all right, Walter. What is it?’

‘Die Gräfin von Tiegal ist da, gnädige Frau.’

Ursula was momentarily startled. ‘The Countess von Tiegal is here?’ she repeated, making it sound like a question.

Walter nodded, ‘Ja, gnädige Frau.’

‘Please show her into the library, and I’ll be down in a moment. Offer her coffee, and I’ll have a cup, too. Thank you, Walter.’

‘Gnädige Frau,’ he murmured, inclining his head, backing out, and quietly closing the door behind him.

Ursula slid her papers into the top drawer of the desk, locked it and pocketed the key. She rose, smoothing down the skirt of her dark-grey woollen dress with both hands as she walked over to the dressing table, where she glanced at herself in the mirror. Her face was drawn, her mouth pale and tense, and there were dark circles under her eyes. This hardly surprised her, in view of the events of the previous night. She had not slept, had lain awake until the first light, worrying and pondering their predicament and their future. Sigmund had not slept either; he had risen at six and gone off to the bank very early. He had already spoken to her on the telephone several times since leaving the house, keeping his promise to stay in touch, to inform her of any new developments after the night of havoc in the city.

She ran a comb through her short blonde hair, smoothed a hand over it abstractedly, then walked to the door, looking at her wristwatch as she did. It was still early, not quite nine o’clock. There was no question in her mind why Renata was downstairs, asking to see her. She had come out of genuine concern for them, and Ursula was immeasurably touched by the gesture.

A moment later she was hurrying down the stairs, crossing the vast hall and pushing open the double doors which led into the library.

Renata was standing looking out of the window, and she swung around when Ursula entered and ran to meet her. She caught hold of her almost roughly, hugged her close, saying, ‘Oh, Ursi, Ursi,’ several times before releasing her. ‘Forgive me for bursting in on you like this, unannounced,’ Renata went on, ‘but I wanted to speak to you urgently, and our phone isn’t working. For some reason, it seems to be out of order this morning.’

‘It was good of you to come, Ren, and I’m glad you’re here. You always make me feel better. Walter is bringing us coffee. Come.’

Arms linked, the two of them walked over to the Biedermeier sofa, where they sat down. Drawing back and looking at her closely, Renata said, ‘Of course you know that last night’s riots were not only in Berlin, but took place all over Germany and Austria as well. Yes, I can see from your face that you do.’

‘The whole thing is incredible. Hard to believe.’

‘And even harder to stomach! You’ve seen the newspapers? Heard the radio?’

‘The papers yes, but I haven’t listened to the radio.’ Speaking quickly, Ursula explained how they had learned about the demonstrations from Theodora in the middle of the night, and recounted the girl’s experiences.

Renata had paled as she listened, and she exclaimed, ‘Teddy and her friend were extremely lucky, they could easily have been killed. Quite a few people were.’

Ursula stared at her. ‘Jews were killed.’

‘Yes.’ Renata leaned closer. ‘Listen to me, Ursula, you must –’ She broke off as Walter knocked, opened the door, and came gliding in with the coffee tray.

‘Danke schön, Walter,’ Ursula said.

The butler deposited the silver tray on the occasional table in front of the sofa and discreetly withdrew.

In hushed tones, Renata continued, with some urgency, ‘You must make plans to leave Germany. It’s not safe for you here anymore.’

‘I don’t think it has been for a long time. We should have gone last year, even the year before, perhaps. But we believed in German law and order, and we thought we were safe. We also drew comfort from the belief that Hitler couldn’t last, couldn’t possibly stay in power. Many Germans did, and not all of them Jews, you and Reinhard included. But we were all wrong. Now I don’t think there is any turning back. This is the end. For Jews anyway.’

‘For us all.’ Renata looked at her intently, her dark eyes very bright, and blazing with sudden anger. ‘That damned megalomaniac Hitler is leading us into a dark abyss of brutality and murder. Germany is being destroyed from within by him and his depraved cohorts. Why, they’re nothing but terrorists, for God’s sake!’

‘I read in the papers that the Nazis are saying last night’s demonstrations were spontaneous. That they were provoked,’ Ursula said. ‘And all because of that seventeen-year-old German Jewish refugee living in Paris, Herschel Grynszpan, who shot and killed Ernst vom Rath, the third secretary at the German Embassy in Paris. You see, Renata, they’re blaming the Jews yet again.’

‘We read that story, but Reinhard is convinced the riots were not spontaneous, that they were cleverly and expertly orchestrated by Heydrich and the SS. And he’s right, I’m certain. What’s more, we both believe there are bound to be additional demonstrations, and many other acts of brutality directed against Jews.’ Renata shook her head, finished in a worried voice, ‘We think Hitler wants to kill every Jew in the land, Ursi.’

‘But that’s inconceivable,’ Ursula stammered. ‘How can Hitler kill an entire people? Millions of people. No one could do that …’ Her voice trailed off helplessly.

‘He aims to try.’ Renata’s tone was more apprehensive than ever. ‘Read Mein Kampf again. And believe it this time.’

‘We are Germans,’ Ursula began, and stopped abruptly.

She clenched her hands together and took a deep breath. ‘Our families, Sigi’s and mine, have been here for hundreds and hundreds of years …’ Once more she came to a halt as her voice cracked, and she looked away, steadying herself. ‘But we must leave our country … yes … we must leave this country we love … if we are to survive …’

Feelings of compassion and loving friendship washed over Renata, and she reached out, put her hand on Ursula’s arm consolingly. Ursula turned, stared into her face, and they shared a look that was very direct and intimate and full of truth.

Tears welled up in Renata when she saw the anguish casting a deep shadow across Ursula’s face, the profound sorrow darkening her soft, grey-blue eyes. ‘I don’t want anything to happen to you!’ she cried fiercely, her voice choked with anxiety. ‘I love and care for you, and for Sigi and little Maxim. So does Reinhard. We will help you in any way we can, do anything to help you leave Germany safely. And you must leave, darling, you know you must … to save yourselves.’

‘Yes.’ Ursula sat staring into the distance, her eyes focused on the pale blue sky outside the tall window, and with an unexpected rush of clarity she finally came to understand what it was that had haunted her for so long a time. For a while she was unable to say anything, so shaken and alarmed was she, but at last she turned her head and looked deeply into Renata’s eyes once more.

Renata felt as if Ursula was staring into her soul, and she shivered slightly, and said, ‘Why are you looking at me like that? Whatever is it?’

‘A moment ago I said that it was inconceivable … that Hitler cannot kill an entire people. But he can. Oh yes, he can. I know that now. The knowledge is deep within me, in my bones, in the very pores of my skin. For months I’ve had desperate feelings gnawing at me … the ones I’ve spoken to you about. I thought they were feelings of apprehension and dread, but they weren’t. What I’ve harboured within me all this time is an overwhelming sense of doom. We are doomed, my family and I.’

‘My dearest, my most beloved friend –’ Renata found she was unable to continue, so overcome was she by the pain she felt for Ursula. What she was facing was monstrous: upheaval, flight, exile. But if she and Sigi and little Maxim stayed they would be hounded, persecuted and ultimately harmed. The evil and injustice of it filled Renata with rage, and the rage swamped her and she cried passionately, ‘Those Nazi bastards! This shouldn’t be happening! It shouldn’t! It’s wrong!’

‘Don’t, darling. Please don’t. We’ll be all right. Somehow.’

Renata reached for Ursula’s hand and clasped it in hers; they sat quietly, neither of them able to continue the conversation for a while.

Eventually Ursula cleared her throat and said in a voice that was oddly calm, ‘Sigi does have a plan of action, you know. He’s working on it right now. He has a good contact, apparently. He’s hoping to buy exit visas for us. And new passports.’ She paused, then went on, ‘You see, last month we had to take our passports to be stamped … with a J … for Jew.’

Startled and shocked, Renata looked at her in consternation. ‘How ridiculous! What evil nonsense!’

‘Yes, but the Nazis have made this a law, and we had to comply.’

Renata made a supreme effort to suppress her immense anger, control her flaring emotions, thinking that if Ursula could be so brave, so contained, then so must she. She even managed to push a smile onto her face, when she said, ‘Reinhard and I want you to come out to the Mark Brandenburg and stay at the Schloss. Until you leave Germany it will be much safer for you at our country estate than in Berlin.’

When Ursula did not immediately respond, Renata said, ‘Look,’ and took hold of her arm, brought her face closer to her friend’s, ‘it could take Sigi several weeks to get the necessary documents together, to arrange everything to facilitate your departure.’

‘It might, that’s true. And thank you for inviting us to the Schloss. It’s so kind and thoughtful of you. But I can’t leave Sigi alone here in Berlin. You know how much he needs me. We’ve never really been apart since we were children, except when I was at school in England with you and Arabella.’

‘He can see you at weekends. He can drive down to the Mark with us every Friday afternoon. Please say yes.’

Ursula remained uncertain. ‘Let me think about it, and I’ll discuss it with Sigi.’

The telephone began to ring and Ursula rushed to answer it, wanting to pick up before the butler did.

‘Hello?’ she said, fully expecting to hear her husband’s voice, but it was Arabella von Wittingen at the other end. She listened for several moments, then murmured, ‘Thank you, Belle, and I’m all right, really.’ She listened again, then quickly explained, ‘Their phone is out of order. Ren is here. Do you wish to speak with her?’ Ursula stood with the receiver pressed to her ear, nodding her head several times before she said, ‘Yes, Arabella, that’s fine. Goodbye.’

‘She’s coming over here, isn’t she?’ Renata stated as Ursula put down the phone.

‘Of course. I suppose we both knew she would. And I’m sure you’ve gathered that she’s been trying to telephone you.’

Renata nodded.

‘Arabella is in her most Bolshy and defiant mood this morning,’ Ursula confided. ‘She insists that the three of us go out to lunch. To the Adlon Hotel.’

Straightening up on the sofa, Renata threw her a questioning look. ‘Are you up to it? And do you think we should?’

Ursula was thoughtful, wondering whether or not it would be a wise thing to do. And then she, who of late had sometimes been fearful about going out, suddenly had no qualms at all. Her own sense of defiance and her pride made her say, ‘Of course I’m up to it. And why shouldn’t we go to lunch at the Adlon? We’re as entitled as anyone else, aren’t we?’

‘Indeed we are!’ Renata agreed. ‘Let’s do it!’

Ursula walked back to the sofa, stood looking down at the silver tray, shaking her head. ‘We’ve been so busy talking we never drank the coffee, and now it’s probably quite cold. Shall I ask Walter to brew some more?’

‘Not right now, thanks. Let’s wait until Arabella gets here. You know what she’s like about her morning tea. She’s bound to ask you for a pot, so we might as well share it with her.’ Renata rose, strolled over to the window, glanced out into the Tiergartenstrasse, then swung to face Ursula. ‘I heard on the radio earlier that the Nazis have already given last night a name. They’re calling it Kristallnacht … crystal night. Because of all the broken glass, I suppose.’ Renata shuddered, and grimaced in utter disgust. ‘How despicable the Nazis are! Imagine using a pretty and poetic name like that to describe a night of such unspeakable savagery!’ She shuddered again. ‘It’s beyond comprehension.’

‘Everything that’s happening is beyond comprehension,’ Ursula said.

Chapter Eleven

The Tiergarten was deserted.

As Sigmund walked down the path he realised it would not be anything but deserted in bitterly cold weather such as they were having in Berlin this December. And that was precisely the reason it had been chosen for the rendezvous. A park without people was a safe park.

He had no idea whom he was to meet.

Irina had slipped a note to him two nights ago, during drinks at the von Tiegals’ house, where he and Ursula were attending a small dinner party. Within seconds of pocketing it he had excused himself, hurried to the bathroom in order to read it, impatient to know what it said.

The note had been brief and to the point.

Tiergarten. Saturday. 11 a.m. Hofjägeralle side. For identification your contact will say: The blue gentians are not in bloom today. Destroy this note.

After reading the note a second time, he had set fire to the bit of paper with his cigarette lighter, held it until it was almost burnt through, then dropped it into the toilet bowl and flushed it away. Returning to the living room, he had found Irina in conversation with Reinhard, and he had simply touched her elbow, as if by accident, to let her know he had read the note and destroyed it. He knew better than to discuss anything in front of others, even their closest and most trustworthy friends. A slip of the tongue might put others in grave danger.

Sigmund had asked Princess Irina Troubetzkoy for help the evening he and Ursula had attended the reception and dinner at the British Embassy, which had been the ill-fated night of the Nazi riots – Kristallnacht – as it turned out.

Without ever having been told, he knew intuitively that Irina was closely tied to one of the secret movements which aided Jews, Catholics, Protestants, dissidents, and so-called ‘political offenders’ of all kinds, who sought to flee Germany and the persecution of the Third Reich. From a few things he had picked up, here and there and at different times, he was aware that there were several such movements operating in Berlin; all were run by German aristocrats, for the most part, although some of the young international émigrés were also apparently involved. All were opposed to Hitler and his regime, and violently anti-Nazi.

When he had approached Irina four weeks ago he had not made any reference to the various resistance movements, deeming it wiser not to do so, and had merely asked her if she could put him in touch with someone who might help him get exit visas. She had replied that she would see what she could do, and a week later she had invited them to dinner with her mother Natalie and the baron, at the baron’s house on the Lützowufer. She had found an opportunity to get him alone for a moment, had murmured that the matter was in hand, and that there was no need for him to approach anyone else. ‘Patience, Sigi. Trust me,’ she had said softly, before gliding away to speak to another guest. Three more weeks had gone by until she had finally passed the note to him on Thursday. He had been vastly relieved, and had hardly been able to contain himself until today.

As he continued along the same path that ran parallel with the Hofjägeralle, walking in the direction of the Siegessäule, Sigmund saw a man coming towards him. He was tall and thin, dressed in a dark-green loden coat and a Tyrolean hat, and he was striding out purposefully, swinging a walking stick. He seemed oddly familiar to Sigi, who within seconds was filled with dismay. He had recognised the man; it was Kurt von Wittingen. The last person he wanted to run into when he was on this kind of delicate mission was a friend who would engage him in conversation, and in the process most probably scare off his contact. But Sigmund knew there was nothing he could do. He was trapped. He could not turn around and walk in another direction because Kurt had already seen him, was raising his stick, waving it in greeting. There was nothing for it but to act in the most normal way, chat for a few minutes and then walk on. Fortunately the weather played in his favour. It was so icy he was sure Kurt would not wish to linger.

A moment later the two men were drawing to a standstill, greeting each other warmly, and shaking hands.

After the initial greetings were over, Kurt said, ‘It’s far too bitter to stand here chatting like this.’

Relieved to hear him make this comment, Sigmund instantly agreed. ‘Yes, it is. Very nice running into you, Kurt, give my love to Arabella, and we’ll see you next week. I must be on my way.’

Kurt said, ‘I’ll walk with you.’

Sigmund’s dismay spiralled into alarm. When his contact saw him with a companion, he or she would not dare to approach him, but would simply disappear, he was quite convinced of that. For a split second panic rendered him speechless. He stood staring at Kurt, desperately wondering how to get rid of him courteously, and without giving offence.

‘It’s all right, Sigi,’ Kurt said. ‘Relax. The blue gentians are not in bloom in the Tiergarten today.’

Sigmund was not sure that he had heard correctly, and he continued to stare at Kurt, looking slightly dumbfounded.

‘Let’s start walking,’ Kurt said swiftly, and set off at a brisk pace.

Recovering himself immediately, Sigi fell into step. ‘Why didn’t Irina tell me you were my contact?’

‘She wasn’t sure it would be me. So why risk exposing me unnecessarily, albeit to a very old and reliable friend?’

‘I understand.’

‘The eight exit visas you require are for Ursula, Maxim and yourself, and your immediate family. And Theodora. I am correct am I not?’

‘Yes. I would like to get new passports for all of us. Passports not stamped with a J.’

Kurt threw him a quick glance and frowned. ‘I am positive I cannot get new passports, Sigi. Does it really matter that they’re stamped with a J?’

‘No, I don’t suppose so.’ Sigmund cleared his throat. ‘But I was hoping that if you could get them, they could be issued under a different name. At least, for the Westheims.’

‘Why a false name, Sigi?’

‘Look, I’ve not been touched so far, nor has the bank been taken over by them, because I’ve been extremely useful to the Government in various financial transactions, notably those to do with foreign currencies and such. And I’m still very useful to them. Frankly, I just don’t think they’d like it if I tried to leave Germany at this time. They might even try to prevent me from going, if they got wind of it. And so obviously if I were travelling out under a different name I would not be so easily spotted.’

‘Yes, of course, I see what you mean. But I know I cannot get you the new passports. I’m so sorry, but that’s not something my contact could pull off.’

‘All right, never mind.’

‘Arabella tells me that you and Ursula are coming to supper on Monday night. You must bring the eight passports with you then. I will need them for the exit visas. Put them in the inside breast pocket of your overcoat. I will take them out of your coat at some point during the evening.’

‘No problem. I’ll collect the passports from my family tomorrow.’

The two men walked on in silence for several seconds and then Sigmund said worriedly, ‘Are you sure you can procure the exit visas?’

‘I won’t lie to you, Sigi, I don’t know that I can,’ Kurt said. ‘It won’t be easy. But I have a good source and I am extremely hopeful. Let’s just say that I’m ninety per cent certain.’

‘I have money on me, in my overcoat pocket. A great deal of cash. Do you want it now?’

‘No, I don’t, but thank you for offering.’

‘What about entry visas to another country?’

‘They’re not going to be easy to get either.’

‘Have you any idea which country we might be able to go to?’

Kurt shook his head. ‘Not at this moment. I doubt that it will be America, though. The US Congress doesn’t seem willing to modify the immigration laws, to allow any more Jewish refugees from Germany to enter the country. Nor does Roosevelt seem prepared to act.’

‘What about England?’

‘I believe that’s your best chance, since the British have been very generous about taking in Jewish refugees from Europe for some time. And anyway, my influence and contacts are much stronger with the British diplomatic service. Never fear, I will pull every string available to me.’

‘I know you’ll do your damnedest. Where will we actually go when we leave Berlin?’

‘To one of two cities, Lisbon or Paris. But more than likely it will be Paris, where you could pick up your entry visas from the British Embassy, if you didn’t have them in your hands when you left Germany.’

‘Have you any idea when that will be?’ Sigi asked.

‘I daren’t promise anything, or give you a specific date. But I don’t think it will take much longer than a month to get the documents. Let’s say early January.’

Sigmund nodded. ‘I can tell Ursula, can’t I? Just to alleviate her awful worry about Maxim’s safety.’

‘Yes, but do warn her not to discuss your plans with anyone outside the family. And don’t tell her who is helping you. The less you say, and actually the less you know, the safer it is for me, Irina and our friends. And for you too, in the long run,’ Kurt said.

‘You have no cause to worry, Kurt. I will be discreet, and so will Ursula. And not one member of my family will know any of the details, only that we are going to leave. I realise that there will be hefty pay-offs involved, and I would simply like to add that money is no object.’

‘I know that, Sigi. I also know that it is now impossible for Jews to transfer any assets abroad. I hope you took care of that some time ago.’ Kurt gave him a questioning look.

Sigmund nodded. ‘I managed to get some money out.’

‘But not enough, perhaps. You must have Ursula sew her most valuable jewellery into the linings of the clothes she will be travelling in, such as a suit jacket and its skirt, her top coat, even under the lining of her hat. That is the best way to get valuables out undetected. And have your mother and sisters do the same thing.’

‘I will.’

‘Oh, and one other thing, they must do this themselves. I’m not suggesting for one moment that your servants are disloyal, but it’s wise to be cautious. One never knows about anyone these days. Brother is informing on brother, so just be careful in front of the servants. The last thing you want is the Nazi guards at the border alerted that you are carrying valuables. They would confiscate everything.’

‘I am quite positive our servants are trustworthy, they have been with the family for years. However, I will naturally heed your advice,’ Sigi promised.

‘And also be careful what you say on the telephone … at home and at the bank. Phone-tapping has become a favourite Nazi pastime,’ Kurt remarked in a disdainful tone.

‘Do you think my phones are tapped?’ Sigmund asked swiftly.

‘I’m not sure. Possibly they are at the bank. Just be aware, that’s all.’

‘I have been for a long time.’

‘Good. That’s it for now. We will go our separate ways. And when we meet again socially we will obviously not discuss this meeting, or anything else pertaining to the matter.’

‘Absolutely not,’ Sigi concurred.

‘Once I have the documents in my hands, I will arrange a rendezvous for us. We will meet somewhere exceptionally safe,’ Kurt said, then went on to explain, ‘And you must be prepared to travel immediately, of course. So be ready. And you must travel light. Take only one suitcase each, if possible. If it’s not, then do not take more than two each, at the most.’

‘I understand.’ Sigi came to a halt, turned to face the other man. ‘I don’t know how to thank you, Kurt, I really don’t. I am overcome with gratitude for what you’re doing for me and my family. The words thank you somehow don’t seem to be quite enough.’

‘Thanks are not necessary, my dear old friend. I am glad to help you. And for your own sakes, I’m glad you’re going. It’s obvious, after Kristallnacht, that this country is in the hands of mass murderers.’ Kurt’s sensitive, gentle face filled with a terrible sadness and he sighed heavily. There was a slight pause before he went on quietly, ‘Stay calm. Try not to worry. Everything is in hand. With a bit of luck you’ll soon be out of Germany. In the meantime, just continue to go about your business in the most natural way.’ He thrust out his hand.

Sigi took it, clasped it strongly. ‘Thank you again, Kurt, and from the very bottom of my heart. I will never forget this, never as long as I live. You are a true friend.’

The two men parted company.

Sigmund stood for a moment watching Kurt’s retreating figure. Then he turned up the collar of his overcoat, thrust his hands in his pockets, swung around and walked in the direction they had just come. He could not wait to get back to his house on the Tiergartenstrasse to tell Ursula the good news.

His thoughts turned to Prince Rudolph Kurt von Wittingen as he hurried along the path. He trusted Kurt implicitly. And if anyone could pull this off, then he could.

For several years Kurt had been a senior consultant to Krupp, the German armaments king. As such he roamed all over Europe, frequently travelled to England and the United States, handling top-level negotiations, entertaining foreign dignitaries and acting as a sort of roving ambassador for the Krupp organisation.

Sigi now realised that this job was the perfect cover for Kurt. He was able to come and go almost as he wished. He had access to all kinds of important people, who in turn were extraordinary sources of information, and probably privileged information at that.

This aside, Sigmund knew for a fact that Kurt was an anti-Fascist, an idealist who happened to be a realist, in that he viewed the totalitarian dictatorship that was Germany through clear, unblinkered eyes. Naturally he would be involved in some sort of resistance movement because of his convictions.

Sigmund wondered why he had never thought of this before. Perhaps because of the Krupp connection, which was undoubtedly the real reason why it existed in the first place. It was a red herring to throw people off the scent. A protection for Kurt. He was above suspicion as Krupp’s envoy.

And then there was Graf Reinhard von Tiegal. Sigmund considered his other close friend. The count was also an aristocrat, from an ancient Prussian family of Junkers, the conservative landholders who were descended from the Teutonic knights. And so by reason of birth and upbringing Reinhard also detested everything the Nazis stood for, and believed them to be criminals of the worst kind.

Was Reinhard involved in the resistance to Hitler? Sigi asked himself. More than likely, he decided after only a moment’s thought. And although he knew how dangerous it was for both men, the knowledge that they were fighting the Nazis with whatever means they had was immensely comforting to him.

As long as there were men of honour and humanity in Germany then Hitler and his evil regime would eventually be overcome and ultimately destroyed.

Ursula looked up quickly as Sigmund walked into the library and angrily threw the newspaper she had been reading down on the floor.

‘I don’t know why I bother with the papers anymore!’ she exclaimed, gesturing to the pile of discarded journals at her feet. ‘They’re only full of Hitler’s vile lies and propaganda, courtesy of Göbbels!’

Sigmund sat down on the sofa next to her. ‘I suppose we all keep reading the newspapers hoping against hope that we’ll glean a little bit of real news.’

‘Yes, you’re right, darling,’ she agreed.

Sigmund took her hand in his and smiled into her drawn face. ‘I have some news, Ursula,’ he said softly. Moving closer to her, he kissed her cheek, then whispered against her hair, ‘I saw my contact a short while ago. The plans are progressing. We’re getting out. Hopefully within the next four to five weeks if all goes well.’

‘Thank God! Oh thank God!’ she gasped, holding onto him tightly. ‘Maxim’s going to be safe. Our little boy is going to be safe, and that’s all that matters, Sigi.’

Chapter Twelve

Maxim stood outside the library, listening.

The door was open a crack and he peeped through it. Just as he thought, his grandmother was sitting near the fireplace in her favourite chair, the one in which she always sat when she came to visit them. She preferred its straight back, he had heard her say that to Mutti and Papa many times. She sat staring into the fire, her hands resting on top of her black cane with its polished silver handle that gleamed brightly in the firelight.

He liked her cane. It had belonged to his grandfather.

His Grandfather Westheim had died two years ago. He remembered many things about him, and he missed him very much. When his Grandfather Westheim used to come to visit them he would lift him up on his knee and tell him stories, and sometimes he would take him for a drive in his big black motorcar with Manfred, the chauffeur, at the wheel. They would sit on the back seat together and talk of many Important Things, like The Bank, where he would work with his Papa when he grew up, and which would be his one day. After their drive they always stopped at Grandfather’s favourite Konditorei and had an ice cream and sometimes cake as well, and his Grandfather Westheim would smoke a cigar and sip a small cup of strong coffee, very black and very sweet, which he was not allowed to have.

He wished his grandfather would come back. But dead people never came back. Not ever. Being dead meant that you had gone to Heaven to live with God, his Papa had told him that. His Grandfather Neuman was dead, too. He had died last year, and Mutti had been very sad and had cried a lot, and he had cried too, partly because she was crying and that made him sad. But he had loved his Grandfather Neuman as much as he had loved his Grandfather Westheim.

Suddenly he wondered if the grandfathers ever met each other in Heaven and sat and smoked their cigars and drank cognac and talked about Important World Matters, as they had when they had not been dead. He hoped they did. He wouldn’t like them to be lonely in Heaven. His Grandmama Neuman was another dead person, but he had never known her. At least, he had only been one year old when she had died, just a little baby, not grown up like he was now that he was four, and so he couldn’t remember much about her, not really. There was only Grandmama Westheim left. ‘We must treasure her,’ his mother kept saying.

Maxim bent over and pulled up his sock which had slithered down around his ankle.

As he straightened he heard the rustle of silk and a small sigh, and he smiled inside, waiting. Then he heard it … the low whistle like a bird chirping in the Tiergarten. He pursed his lips and gave a little whistle himself, and waited again.

The trilling response came almost immediately, and he pushed open the big double doors with both hands and bounded into the room, laughing as he rushed to her, exclaiming, ‘I am here, Grandmama! I am here!’

She laughed, too, as he drew to a standstill in front of her and leaned forward, proffering her cheek to him.

He gave her a big kiss, then stood back regarding her, rocking on his heels. His grandmother was dressed in a black lace and silk dress, as she usually was, with the long string of shiny white pearls like fat peas hanging around her neck and the sparkly clips on her ears. She had lots of silky white hair piled on top of her head, with tortoiseshell combs pressed in at each side to hold it there. Her skin was funny, all wrinkly like scrunched-up paper, but she had smooth, pink apple cheeks and bright shining eyes that reminded him of round blue pebbles.

He loved her a lot.

‘Don’t do that, Maximilian. Don’t rock backwards and forwards in that fashion,’ his grandmother scolded, but her voice was gentle.

‘Sorry, Grandmama.’

She took the box which lay on her lap and handed it to him. ‘This is from Auntie Hedy. She wasn’t able to come tonight, but she sent this to you and many kisses as well.’

‘Oh thank you, Grandmama!’ he cried, taking the box from her. Excitedly he tore off the fancy coloured paper, lifted the lid and looked inside.

‘Oooh!’ he cried when he saw the six candy pigs lying side by side in the box. They were plump and rosy, with beady eyes and yellow bows, and they looked delicious. His mouth watered.

‘They’re made of your favourite marzipan,’ his grandmother said, smiling at him indulgently. ‘But you’re not to eat even one before dinner. Your mother will be cross with both of us, if you do.’

‘I won’t, I promise, Grandmama,’ he said, as always a polite and obedient boy. After putting the lid back on the box, he placed it on a nearby table, picked up the torn paper from the floor, crumpled it in a ball and threw it into the fire.

Then he stepped closer to his grandmother, put one of his small, chubby hands on top of hers and began to pat it. ‘Gangan,’ he said, reverting to his babyhood name for her. ‘Can I ask you something?’

‘Anything in the whole world, Maxim.’

He held his head on one side and wrinkled his nose. ‘How do you know when to whistle?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘How do you know I’m there, outside the door?’

Her mouth twitched in amusement but she kept a serious face and said, ‘Well, I don’t really know that you’re there. I hope you are … I suppose I sort of feel that you are … because I love you.’

He nodded solemnly. ‘I like our game, Grandmama.’

‘So do I.’ Margarete Westheim leaned back in the chair and studied her only grandchild for a moment. She loved him so much she sometimes thought her heart would break from it. The knowledge that she would have to leave him was an agony. Her only regret about dying, and die she must one day in the not-too-distant future, was that she would miss all those years of his growing up, the wonderful years. He was such a beautiful boy, full of life and laughter and mischief, and so bright, and intelligent beyond his years. She prayed to God every night that Sigmund would succeed in getting the child out of Germany. Like her son and daughter-in-law she was terribly afraid for him. A pestilence stalked this land. A shiver ran through Margarete, and she wondered where God was in this Godless nation. But then what could He do? Evil was man’s invention, not God’s.

‘Is something hurting, Gangan?’

Startled out of her brief reverie by his piping child’s voice, Margarete looked at him quickly. ‘No. Why do you ask that, darling?’

‘You have a funny look on your face, a puckery look, like you’re going to cry.’

‘I’m fine,’ she reassured him with a swift smile, suddenly aware of the worry in his child’s eyes. She opened her black beaded evening bag, reached inside, took out a small item wrapped in silver paper and handed it to him. ‘Here you are, Maxim, here is your Friday pocket money.’

‘Oh, Grandmama, thank you, thank you.’

He unwrapped the silver paper, his eyes shining as he stared down at the coins in his hand. Four marks. His Gangan always gave him four now. Last year he had received three. Next year she would give him five. She had told him that. One mark for every year he had been born. He leaned closer to her, kissed her cheek, and beamed into her face as he slipped the coins in his pocket, playing with them for a moment, liking the way they jingled.

The door opened and Maxim turned his head. When he saw his father standing in the doorway he flew to him at once, crying, ‘Papa! Papa!’

His father caught him, swung him up and kissed him, and carried him in his arms as he strode across the floor.

‘Good evening, Mother,’ Sigmund said.

‘Good evening, Sigi,’ she responded, her clear blue eyes so like his lighting up at the sight of him. He was her youngest son, the third one she had borne. His two elder brothers were both dead over twenty years now. Killed in the trenches of the Somme in the Great War when only boys. Two sons she had sacrificed for the Fatherland.

Sigmund put Maxim on the sofa, went to kiss his mother before sitting down next to his small son. He said to her, ‘I understand from Ursula that Hedy is not coming this evening, that she’s not feeling well. Nothing too serious, I hope?’

‘A cold, Sigi, that’s all.’ Frau Westheim sighed. ‘There’s always something with Hedy these days. That girl would be better off living in a warmer climate, I do believe.’

‘Wouldn’t we all,’ Sigmund murmured, and continued, ‘She’s not seemed well since she broke off her engagement to Paul.’

‘No, she hasn’t,’ Frau Westheim agreed, and turned her head, looked into the fire, a faraway expression flicking onto her face.

Watching her, Maxim thought: Gangan looks unhappy. I wonder why? He glanced up at his father, his wonderful Papa, and smiled at him adoringly.

Sigmund stared down into the small, bright face upturned to his, smiled back, and said, ‘Do you remember what I told you last Friday evening? When I was speaking to you about the standards I want you to have when you are a big boy, and when you are a man?’

‘Yes, Papa, you said a gentleman never tells a lie.’

‘That’s correct, Maxim, but now I’m afraid I must amend that statement.’

‘Oh.’ Maxim looked surprised. He was not sure what the word amend meant, but he was reluctant to admit this, so he kept silent.

‘I don’t suppose you know what amend means, do you?’ Sigmund said, as if reading his mind.

‘No.’

Sigmund took his child’s hand lovingly. ‘I thought as much. It means to change or revise. And I wish to revise what I said to you last week, change my opinion … I believe it is perfectly all right for a gentleman to tell a lie, if it is a matter of life and death … if it is to save his life. Or the lives of others, of course.’

Maxim nodded.

‘Do you understand me?’

‘I think so, Papa.’

‘Very good, Maxim. You’re a clever boy, I know that, and you are learning quickly. Now … there is something else I want to tell you, and it is this. A man must have valour, honour and nobility if he is to be of great character. I want you to remember that when you grow up.’

‘Yes, Papa, I will.’

His grandmother said, ‘Your father’s brothers Heinrich and Peter had valour … they were very courageous … they went to fight for their country in the Great War and they were not afraid. That is what valour means.’

‘The dead uncles … they were brave,’ Maxim said with a little frown.

‘Yes, the dead uncles were,’ his grandmother answered. ‘And your grandfathers were both men of honour because they never did anything that was cruel or wicked, unjust or dishonest –’

‘Dinner is ready everyone,’ Ursula announced from the doorway. ‘Marta is waiting to serve.’

‘We shall come at once, my darling,’ Sigmund said, rising immediately. ‘Now, Maxim, run along with your mother. We will follow.’ He lifted him down from the sofa, then reached into his pocket and took out a slip of paper. ‘Here you are. I have written out the new words for you, as well as their meaning.’

Maxim took it, put it safely in his pocket. He kept all of these pieces of paper which his father had been giving him for the last few weeks. ‘Thank you, Papa, and I will remember. Always.’

Sigmund gazed down at him, marvelling at the beauty and brightness of the boy. He really was exceptional, highly intelligent and articulate for his age, an extraordinary child. He smoothed his hand over Maxim’s blond head, and then went to help his mother out of the chair, escorted her slowly across the room.

Maxim ran ahead to Ursula, who stood waiting in the doorway.

She took his hand in hers and together they crossed the baronial marble entrance hall, walking in the direction of the dining room.

‘And what was Papa telling you tonight, my darling?’

‘He said that when I grow up I must be a man of valour, honour and nobility.’

Ursula said, very softly, ‘If you are, then you will be exactly like your father.’

Maxim shut his eyes tightly and listened as his mother performed the ritual of blessing the shabbat candles.

‘Baruch-ata Adonai Elohaynu, melech ha-olam asher kid’shanu b’mits-votav v’tsivanu l’hadlik nayr shel Shabbat,’ she said slowly in her light clear voice which he always loved to listen to, and most especially when she spoke Hebrew. She made the words sound like music.

‘Amen,’ he sang as she finished, joining in with everyone else. And then he opened his eyes.

They all sat down around the large table with its snow-white cloth and silver candelabra and crystal goblets which sparkled in the candlelight. Papa was at the head, Mutti at the other end facing his father, and he and Theodora sat together opposite Grandmama.

Now it was his father’s turn to perform the ritual.

He blessed the red wine in a little silver cup and said the Kiddush in Hebrew, and then he murmured another blessing, this time over the chollah, the two twisted loaves of bread in the silver basket under the embroidered linen napkin.

Once the blessings were finished, his father lifted the napkin, made a little ceremony of breaking the bread, and passed it around to everyone at the table. And at last Marta was allowed to serve the food, which Frau Müller had been cooking all afternoon in the big kitchen. Marta always served the dinner on Friday because it was Walter’s night off, when he went to see his daughter and her children. He knew a lot about the butler’s grandchildren. Walter told him many things when he sneaked into the kitchen on baking days. Walter would sit him at Frau Müller’s baking table and give him a Berliner Pfannkuchen, oozing jelly, and a glass of milk, and talk to him, and slip him another jelly doughnut when no one was looking. Except that Frau Müller always noticed. ‘You spoil that child,’ she would tell Walter, who fortunately never paid any attention to her. Walter and he were very good friends.

Maxim settled back in the chair, waiting.

Everything always happened the way he knew it would, and as it had for as long as he could remember. ‘The rituals of the sabbath are important to us all, and should be properly observed,’ his mother had often told him. He liked rituals and looked forward to them. They were special, somehow.

Friday was his most favourite night of the week, and for lots of reasons. For one thing, he and Teddy were permitted to have dinner with his mother and father in the grand dining room, instead of eating alone together in the nursery as they generally did, except on Teddy’s day off. For another, he was with Mutti, Papa, Teddy and Grandmama, the four people he loved the most in the whole wide world; also, he got to stay up late; and finally the things he enjoyed the most were served. Piping-hot chicken soup, then a roasted chicken, all golden and crisp on the outside and juicy on the inside, or beef flanken or perhaps steamed carp, and there would be little potato pancakes and apple sauce, or sweet shredded carrots and potato dumplings. And at the end of the meal there was always something wonderful, such as apple strudel which melted in his mouth.

Yes, Friday was the best night of the week. It was like the beginning of a holiday. His father did not go to The Bank on Saturday and Sunday, and so they did many things and had such a lot of fun together. Friday night was … was … festive. Yes, that was it exactly. Except that tonight no one seemed very festive. His mother was quiet, so very still. She had been like this for ages, and he kept wondering why. He had asked Teddy, just the other day, and she had not really given him an answer. All she had said was that his mother had things on her mind, and even though he had pestered her a lot she had not told him anything else.

Mutti did not laugh very much any more, and her beautiful face was sad, like when Grandfather Neuman died. He thought she was cross with him, but Teddy said this wasn’t so, and he believed Teddy. She always told him the truth. Besides, he hadn’t been a bad boy. In fact, he had been an angel lately, so Teddy said.

The tantalising aroma of chicken soup floated delicately on the air, and Maxim’s nose twitched when Marta placed one of the steaming porcelain bowls in front of him.

‘Danke schön, Marta,’ he said, and picked up his silver spoon. He dipped it in the clear golden liquid, scooped up a sliver of carrot and a curly bit of noodle, and took his first mouthful. It tasted delicious. This was definitely the soup he liked the best. He wished they had it every day.

His father and his grandmother talked non-stop about this and that, and occasionally his mother joined in, but he and Teddy were as quiet as mice, as they always were, not speaking unless they were spoken to, when they had to reply.

After they had all finished the soup, Gerda, the other downstairs maid, took the bowls away and Marta came gliding in from the kitchen carrying a silver platter on which there lay a huge steamed carp.

Maxim could see the fish if he sat up really straight in the chair and craned his neck. Marta showed the fish to his mother, who nodded and said, ‘It looks wonderful, Marta. My compliments to Frau Müller. Please be kind enough to serve it.’

‘It seems to me that it would be a nice change for you if you went to stay with Renata at the Schloss for a few days,’ Sigmund said, looking down the long stretch of table at Ursula as the dessert was being served. ‘And I’m sure Maxim and Teddy would enjoy it too.’

At the mention of his name, Maxim sat up in the chair and looked from his father to his mother alertly. His dark eyes gleamed, and before he could stop himself, he exclaimed, ‘Oh yes, Mutti, please let’s go!’

Ursula glanced at him. A faint smile touched her mouth. ‘Would you really like to do that, Mein Schatz?’

‘I would, Mutti, and so would Teddy. Wouldn’t you, Teddy?’ He turned to Theodora, gave her a pleading look.

Teddy said, ‘I think Maxim would benefit from a change of air, a few days in the country.’

Sigmund smiled. He was delighted to have his son and Teddy as his allies. He had been quite certain that Ursula would object, that she would not wish to go away, although in his opinion she truly needed a break from Berlin and its tensions. Maxim’s enthusiasm would undoubtedly sway her, he now believed.

Just as Sigmund had thought, Ursula nodded her assent. ‘All right, Maxim, we’ll go in the middle of next week, let’s say on Wednesday.’ She focused her gaze on Sigmund, and added, ‘But only if you promise to join us on Friday, Sigi.’

‘I do promise,’ Sigmund said at once. ‘I understand from Reinhard that Renata is going to invite Arabella and the children if you accept, so it will be nice for Maxim to be with them.’

‘Yes, it will,’ Ursula agreed. The thought of the trip to the Mark Brandenburg and being with her two best women friends cheered Ursula, and she suddenly felt lighter in spirit. Turning to Maxim, she said with a loving smile, ‘It’s been snowing in the Mark so we’ll be able to play outside with the other children. We’ll go toboganning and perhaps we can even skate on the lake.’

Maxim nodded excitedly. The prospect of this trip thrilled him and it showed on his animated little face. Laughing gaily, he cried, ‘And I will build you a beautiful snowman, Mutti, and one for you too, Teddy.’ He looked from one to the other, and his mother smiled at him as Teddy murmured her thanks, and this made him glow inside.

As he picked up his fork and cut into his apple strudel, he thought he was going to burst with happiness. Friday night had been extra special this week. They were going to stay at the big old castle where he always had fun with Gretchen, Diana and Christian, and his mother was smiling again, which was the most important thing of all.

Chapter Thirteen

The forests of the Mark Brandenburg, once the domain of the conquering Teutonic knights, stretch for miles in the marshy region of Prussia where they are located. Drained by three rivers, the Havel, the Spree and the Oder, this area has many lakes and is also crisscrossed by countless canals and little waterways which connect its quaint villages.

At the edge of one such old and charming village stands the great Schloss of Graf Reinhard von Tiegal. The back facade of this ancient and picturesque castle faces sloping lawns and formal gardens, and beyond these are the pine forests which are part of the immense von Tiegal estates, owned by the family since the sixteenth century.

On this Sunday morning, early in January of 1939, these forests looked quite magical, completely garbed in white. Snow and dripping icicles covered the trees, weighted their branches down in places, and underfoot the narrow, winding paths were obscured by new layers of snow which had fallen during the night and then frozen. In the brilliant, golden sunlight streaming in through the trees everything glistened as if it had been dusted with silver.

The only sound in this vast and silent white wonderland was the crunch of heavy boots sinking into the crisp snow as Sigmund and Kurt ploughed forward through the forest on their morning walk. Both men had come to the Schloss to join their wives for the weekend, Sigmund driving down to the Mark from Berlin on Friday evening, Kurt on Saturday afternoon.

Heavily bundled up though they were, in thick green loden coats, Tyrolean hats, woollen scarves and gloves, and with their trousers tucked inside their ski boots, they nevertheless moved at a relatively brisk pace since there was an icy, cutting wind.

Neither of them spoke for a while, wrapped in their own thoughts yet perfectly comfortable in their mutual silence, as old friends frequently are.

It was Kurt who finally broke this silence when he said, ‘I have news for you, Sigi.’

Sigmund looked at him alertly. ‘You do? Please, tell me quickly.’

‘I will have the exit visas for you tomorrow or on Tuesday. However, there has been a slight snag. I can only get three.’

‘Oh no!’ Sigmund’s heart sank. He came to an abrupt standstill and stared at Kurt, unable to keep the dismay from showing on his face. ‘What happened? What went wrong?’

‘Nothing went wrong. Very simply, my contact feels he must move carefully. For the moment, at least. To avoid arousing suspicion.’ Kurt took hold of Sigmund’s arm. ‘Come, let’s keep walking. We don’t want to freeze to death out here.’ The two men set off again, and the prince continued, ‘Eight visas are a lot to get all at once, Sigi, and especially since only a week or two ago my contact managed to help a large family leave, after numerous delays. Nine people, actually. But quite aside from his own sense of caution, his contact at the Foreign Ministry is somewhat nervous just now. Nonetheless, my friend promises to have three more exit visas for you in a couple of weeks, and the last two by the end of the month. No later. Please don’t worry, it’s going to be all right. Now, we need to know who will be using the first three visas. I presume you want to get Ursula and Maxim out immediately. Will you go with them?’

‘Ursula and Maxim must go at once. But I cannot,’ Sigmund said without hesitation. ‘I must stay behind until everyone else has left.’

‘I rather thought you’d say that,’ Kurt murmured. ‘So who will accompany Ursula and Maxim? Your mother?’

Sigmund shook his head. ‘My mother wouldn’t go, not without my sisters. She would never leave her daughters behind, I can assure you of that. She will tell me that she is an old woman, that her life is virtually over anyway, and she’ll refuse. Adamantly. And so I think it will be best if Theodora travels with Ursula and Maxim. In two weeks, when you have the second set of visas, Sigrid, her husband, and Hedy can leave. I will take my mother out with me at the end of the month.’

‘I guessed you wouldn’t even contemplate leaving Germany until the entire family was safely in another country,’ Kurt said. ‘I should have the three relevant passports back in my hands by Tuesday, Wednesday at the latest. I will bring them to you at the house.’

‘Thank you very much, Kurt. Ursula is prepared, and she can leave immediately. Your contact –’ Sigmund broke off, hesitating, then said, ‘Your contact is fairly certain he can get the other visas, isn’t he?’

‘Yes.’ Now it was Kurt’s turn to stop, and he swung to face Sigmund. The look he gave him was one of great directness. ‘He is absolutely sure, I promise you, Sigi.’

Sigmund returned his friend’s gaze unwaveringly.

Their eyes locked and held.

For a fleeting moment Kurt thought he saw a flicker of doubt or worry, or perhaps a mingling of both, at the back of Sigmund’s light blue eyes, and he said, ‘You must believe me, my source is extremely reliable. He wouldn’t say he could get the visas if he thought he couldn’t, if he had any reservations whatsoever.’

There was a small silence; finally Sigmund nodded. ‘As long as you have confidence in him, Kurt, that is good enough for me.’

Even though they were now in the depths of the forest, Kurt dropped his voice to a lower pitch, more from habit than anything else, and said, ‘Look, to make you feel more secure about everything I will tell you who is helping me. And you. It’s Admiral Canaris.’

Sigmund’s jaw dropped. He was thunderstruck and he gaped at Kurt. ‘Wilhelm Canaris! But he’s head of the Abwehr.’

‘Yes. As head of German Military Intelligence he is invaluable to me. And in many more ways than I can ever tell you.’

‘Canaris,’ Sigmund repeated wonderingly.

It was patently obvious to Kurt that Sigmund was genuinely stunned by what he had just told him, and he said, ‘By birth, upbringing, tradition, instinct and conviction, Admiral Canaris detests Hitler and all that he stands for, as do many of the men who work under him. And, incidentally, there isn’t one ministry in the entire Government that doesn’t have two or three men, sometimes even more, who feel the same way.’

‘Like the admiral’s contact in the Foreign Ministry?’

‘Exactly.’

‘I must admit, you startled me, took my breath away, when you mentioned the admiral,’ Sigi said. ‘Who would guess he is an anti-Nazi?’

‘His hatred of them is quite known … in a select circle. You could say it’s a sort of … well, it’s an open secret really. And there happens to be a number of generals who think exactly as he does. But it would be useless for them to work openly against Hitler, not to mention extremely foolhardy. Each of them would find himself swinging at the end of a rope if he did.’

‘So Canaris and the others are fighting Hitler from within … on the inside,’ Sigi asserted.

‘That’s correct. Canaris believes that Hitler will eventually bring about the total collapse of Germany. I happen to agree,’ Kurt said with a heavy sigh. ‘And he and I are both convinced that Hitler will definitely go to war with Britain sometime this year … a lot of people believe that, actually. He wants to engulf the West.’

‘You sound ominous, Kurt.’

‘I feel very ominous.’ The prince shook his head. ‘The future looks bleak, very bad; war is inevitable. And Germany must lose that war if it is to survive as a nation, and regain its humanity.’

‘Yes,’ Sigi said laconically, in the quietest of tones.

They walked on together, each of them momentarily preoccupied with dire thoughts, but after only a few seconds Sigi volunteered, ‘If Hitler forces Chamberlain’s hand and Britain does go to war, France will join in the fray as England’s long-standing ally, and co-signer of the Munich Pact.’

‘Undoubtedly.’ Kurt shook his head and cursed mildly under his breath, before exclaiming, ‘That fool Chamberlain! He always buys Hitler’s talk of appeasement … empty words … of no value. There’s only one politician in England who genuinely understands Hitler’s warlike intentions, his eventual aims, and the overall situation, and that’s Winston Churchill.’

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