Black Roses (41 page)

She was still laughing. ‘Sorry. I don’t know anything about Ovid. I hardly know who he is.’

‘He was a Roman poet writing at the time of Christ. He wrote a series of poems about the Greek myths. They’re all about human motivations and human delusions. People changing shape and adopting disguises.’

‘So what about the terrible affair then?’

‘It changed the whole course of his life. He was all set for a brilliant political career, he was going to be a senator, but he got involved in a scandalous love affair. The Emperor Augustus exiled him to Constanţa on the Black Sea. He hated it. The ghastly climate, the bleak terrain, the lack of any civilized company. He described the landscape as a grey sea, patched with wormwood, where there was no birdsong, no vines, and wine was broken off and sold in frozen chunks. He lasted ten years there before he died.’

Clara liked the rhythm of his voice. It was like being told a story. Thinking of Ovid in exile, isolated among the barbarians, transported her far from Berlin, with its frenetic streets and clanging trams. Perhaps it was the same for Leo. Maybe that was why he spent his evenings immersing himself in poems about transfiguration and disguise.

‘The local people were under constant siege from rivals who sent poisoned arrows across the roofs. There was a pitiless local wind which ripped the skin. You can’t help but feel for Ovid, a civilized man, fallen among savages.’

Clara shifted a little in his arms, pressed herself back into the unfamiliar contours of his body and looked around the room. It was utterly impersonal. There was only the bed with a chair by the side and a chest of drawers. A picture of a German alpine landscape, a worn Persian rug over the floor-boards. Outside, against the tessellated rooftops, lines of pigeons shuffled and puffed their chests like army generals. Clara felt a powerful urge to stay there for as long as possible, shut off from the world of politicians and films, without need of dissembling, without fear, making love with Leo, having him tell her stories. She marvelled at the beauty of his body, the way the muscles moved beneath the skin of his back like the ripple of piano keys. The ridges of his chest, the strong line of his jaw and the dark tufts beneath his arms.

After a while he climbed out of bed, tied a towel round his waist and went into the kitchen. He returned carrying two white china cups and a bag containing two rolls.

‘I got these from the bakery before it shut.’

They sat up against the pillows, sipping hot tea, and Clara pulled the sheet around her.

‘Does anyone live here?’

‘No. People stay here occasionally. We could use it.’

She wondered if they could stay the night. She had no clean clothes, of course, or toothbrush, or anything belonging to the mundane, everyday world. All she had was this burning excitement that came from being with him, and having her feelings reciprocated and despite having just made love, a tingling feeling of anticipation at the pulsing, male nakedness beside her. She was about to ask him what they should do when he put down his cup, drew her back into his arms and kissed her again.

Later, when the sheets were tangled and the sky was violet and the room lit only by the wash of the streetlight outside, Clara grew suddenly serious.

‘On the subject of ill-advised love affairs, that’s what I was going to tell you. Magda is having one too.’

‘An affair?’ The information caused Leo to sit up with a start.

‘That’s what I was trying to tell you at the Schloss. She wants me to deliver a letter to the man who used to be her lover.’

‘Are you serious? Who is he?’

‘No one I’d heard of before.’

‘Do you know his name?’

‘Victor Arlosoroff.’

Arlosoroff He knew that name. It was the name Heinz had written on the piece of paper in that same apartment just a few weeks ago. “A big fish is about to swim into your net.” When Leo had briefed Archie Dyson and the others on the meeting, the name of Arlosoroff had caused a palpable ripple of excitement. Even Dyson, who prided himself on his Etonian sang-froid, had uttered an excited curse before explaining the reason.

Victor Arlosoroff, also known as Chaim Arlosoroff, was already well known to the Foreign Office. A powerful man with a magnetic personality, he was an ardent Zionist, associated with the dominant Jewish political party in Palestine. Though he had held many confidential meetings with British officials, he was also known to bear a special grudge against Britain on account of its Palestine policy. The British, he complained, always sided with the Arabs. There had long been a suspicion, said Dyson, that Arlosoroff might have “something up his sleeve” and recent events seemed to have borne that out. Just a few weeks ago a letter had been intercepted from Arlosoroff to Chaim Weizmann, the former president of the Zionist World Congress, suggesting an armed uprising against British authorities in Palestine. Everyone at Head Office was on the alert for his next move.

As Dyson explained, Arlosoroff was heading up a plan to encourage the Germans to fund Jewish emigration to Palestine. If, as Heinz now claimed, Arlosoroff was also in league with the Reds, it was entirely possible that some of the money funnelled out of Germany might also be going to the Communists. This was something that needed to be conveyed to the highest authorities.

None of this Leo mentioned to Clara.

‘What do you know about this man?’

‘He and Magda were engaged, but they broke up because he wanted her to leave with him and settle in Palestine. Now he’s back in Berlin, he’s got in touch again and she wants to respond.’

‘Good God.’

‘She’s asked me to deliver a message to him. She’s frightened to meet him herself and she doesn’t trust anyone else.’

‘I’m not surprised. She must assume anyone else would be bribed by agents of her husband to give up their information. Or, at the very least, be followed.’

‘Would I be followed?’

‘It’s a possibility, though I don’t think they have any doubts about you.’

‘But I might be?’

‘If you are, I’ve told you what to do. You’re observant. You know how to check for surveillance and how to escape it. You know to keep your wits about you. Did you say you’d do it?’

‘I haven’t told her yet. I just don’t know.’ Clara bit her thumb and gazed out at the fading sky. ‘Perhaps it’s too risky.’

‘It’s your choice.’

‘You mean you think I should do it? You think I should see Arlosoroff?’

He traced a finger down the side of her cheek. ‘You know I can’t tell you that.’

‘She wants me to collect the letter next Wednesday and take it the following day.’

‘How clever of her.’

‘Why?’

‘Next Thursday is the 20th. April 20th is Hitler’s birthday. The whole of Berlin will be swarming with devoted followers. You won’t be able to move for screaming citizens waving flags. It’s the ideal distraction. She’s obviously given it some thought.’

‘Probably because she’s frightened.’

‘She’s right to be.’

He hesitated a moment, then got out of bed and reached over to where his jacket hung. She saw the dull glint of metal and, to her alarm, realized he had drawn a pistol. He placed it on the sheet between them.

‘It’s a Beretta. A semi-automatic. It’s very simple. Here’s the safety lever on the back of the slide. Pull the slide back to chamber a round and only put your finger on the trigger when you’re ready to fire, then squeeze it, don’t pull it, it gives a steadier shot. I’ll give you a holster so you can carry it inside your coat.’

‘No, Leo!’ She recoiled in shock. ‘I don’t want to shoot anyone. Not for any reason.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Of course.’ She pushed the gun from her. ‘Put it away.’

‘All right.’ He replaced the Beretta, then reached out a hand and pressed it against her cheek. ‘If you do it then, Clara, you’re going to need to be careful. Very careful. Remember everything I’ve told you. And come here afterwards, so I know you’re safe.’

It was late when she reached home and she felt glad that Frau Lehmann had furnished her with a key. She tiptoed up the stairs, desperate not to disturb the little dog, whose bark could wake sleepers as reliably as a Gestapo arrest squad. But the following morning, as she was sipping the bitter, over-brewed coffee that was always served at breakfast, Frau Lehmann approached her tight-lipped.

‘That friend of yours telephoned again, Fräulein Vine. Repeatedly. I think she had recently had a drink.’

‘Did she leave a name?’

‘She said you would know who it was. She wanted you to get in touch.’

Helga. She must be dying for a talk. But Clara was expected at the studio by nine o’clock. She’d make it up to her at the weekend.

‘Enjoy golf, do you, Quinn?’ asked Hitchcock.

‘Loathe it, actually,’ he replied.

It was Saturday and the pair of them were driving out in Hitchcock’s cabriolet to Wannsee, the leafy area outside Berlin where the ambassador and his wife rented a villa next to the lake. This was their holiday sanctuary, the place they could relax, entertain, play tennis and sail their small motor boat with its Union Jack flag fluttering at the stern. Sir Horace’s favourite recreation, however, was golf. He was a good golfer, having spent much of his life in the diplomatic service on the links, yet for safety’s sake any embassy staff who received an invitation to a game were quietly instructed to lose.

‘You know he hates being beaten,’ grumbled Hitchcock, narrowly overtaking a family of cyclists at speed.

‘That’s not going to be a problem.’

‘For you, maybe.’ Hitchcock considered himself a superior sportsman. He had been tennis champion or something at Charterhouse and then a boxing blue and was almost congenitally incapable of losing at any game.

‘Look on it as a challenge,’ said Leo mildly.

Hitchcock frowned. He was wearing regulation golfing attire of plus fours, argyle stockings, open-necked shirt and windcheater. His personal set of clubs in a stitched cream leather holdall sat in the back seat of the car. Leo, by contrast, had on his Saturday flannels, a sleeveless sweater and his worn tweed jacket. Hitchcock had lent him a pair of shoes, white and purple monstrosities with tassels. They were two sizes too big, like clown’s shoes, but there didn’t seem to be much choice.

‘It is a fairly decent course. Excellent greens. I’ve played there a couple of times. Won, actually.’

‘He’s probably heard. Perhaps that’s why he’s asked us.’

‘I assume that’s supposed to be a joke, Quinn. You know the only reason he’s asked us is because of your girlfriend.’

Leo knew it was best not to react. Hitchcock was always jumping to conclusions where the opposite sex was concerned. He had that boorishness mixed with a dash of desperation that was common among ex-public school boys. The first night they had met, Hitchcock had insisted on drinking himself silly, then tried to persuade Leo to visit a brothel.

‘Indeed,’ he said quietly.

It had been forty-eight hours since his night with Clara and he had barely slept. His nerves tingled with a mixture of exhilaration and anxiety. He was half dazed with pleasure, half stymied by fear at what might be yet to come. Clara’s information about Arlosoroff was obviously important, but the nagging worry that she would undertake Magda’s mission and place herself in even greater danger made him desperate to protect her. He cursed himself for not being more forthright and telling her not to involve herself. But what guarantee did he have anyway that she would follow his instructions?

He had, of course, relayed the information about Magda’s affair the very next day. They were interested, but when he revealed that the man in question was Victor Arlosoroff, the room had suddenly reverberated with excitement. That the man they had just been warned of, the very Zionist agent whom the British were intent on tracking, should be having an affair with the Propaganda Minister’s wife, well, it beggared belief But so did many things that were happening in Berlin just then.

A few hours later had come Sir Horace’s invitation to an unwelcome game of golf.

The Wannsee Golf Club was everything Leo distrusted, a vista of silky grass, rich weekenders and sunlit greens. Sir Horace waited until he had teed up at the first hole, a simple par three, sent the ball arcing high over the fairway and landing straight on the edge of the green, before turning to the matter in hand.

‘I’m glad we had that little conversation the other week, Quinn,’ he remarked as they strolled ahead of Hitchcock along the shaven turf. ‘You followed up very well. Your news about Arlosoroff is a gift.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘We know what he’s doing here, of course. He’s aiming to negotiate with the Nazis over Jewish emigration to Palestine.’

‘Something we’re broadly in favour of, I take it.’

‘Sure. Though the Nazis, as you know, are making it fiendishly difficult. They don’t want the Jews to take their money with them, but they don’t like the alternative, which is a boycott of German goods round the world. So Arlosoroff’s plan is to hammer out a deal in which they would set up a special bank account, get the German Jews to deposit all their money there, and then use that money to purchase German goods, for export to Palestine. Germans happy, Jews happy, is the idea.’

‘Do you think it could work?’

‘Not a chance. It’s a pact with the devil. At best optimistic, at the worst naïve. Once the National Socialists realize the Jews will surrender the threat of a boycott, they’ll play fast and loose. A lot of Arlosoroff’s colleagues are already condemning him for even trying to fraternise with them. However . . .’ he paused, ‘that issue is not what’s concerning us right now. As far as we’re concerned, just now it’s very much in British interests that Arlosoroff should be discredited.’

‘Discredited?’

‘Perhaps side-lined is a better way of putting it.’

‘Because of the Communist ties?’

‘Because we can’t trust Arlosoroff as far as we can throw him. As you know, we recently intercepted a letter he sent, outlining plans for an armed uprising against the British mandate in Palestine. That was not entirely unexpected, there are rumblings like that going on all the time. But this looked like a serious threat and it could be extremely troublesome. Add on your friend from the Red Fighters’ Front and his warnings about Arlosoroff’s possible Communist links and it would be terrifically useful right now if the fellow was off the scene. Or even just compromised. And thanks to you, Quinn, it seems the perfect excuse has presented itself. Fancy a gasper?’