Flight from Berlin (25 page)

‘Did you get me released?’ he asked.

‘Uh-huh.’ She nodded with a sleepy smile.

‘Did they really kill Roland?’

Her face fell. ‘You know about that?’

‘I heard the broadcast.’

She sat up and began to tell him what had happened. The murder of Roland at Haeckel’s hands. Hannah’s victory and the broadcast.

She explained how Sir Eric Phipps approached no less a person than Heydrich himself, sitting behind Hitler at the Olympic stadium, and demanded Denham’s release, or to see him the same day.

‘Some people in high places like you, buddy. This SS big shot Heydrich told him there was an espionage charge against you, but it sounded so vague that Sir Eric asked if it wasn’t really a crock o’ shit—but in diplomatic language, of course. Meanwhile your old friend Rex Palmer-Ward and others in the press corps put pressure on that prize asshole Greiser to confirm what I’d told them about you being held in the Gestapo cells for talking to Liebermann . . . The Germans panicked, afraid of another scandal hot on the heels of Liebermann while the Games were still on. But it seems they were also worried about upsetting you Brits. Eric Phipps is the brother-in-law of Sir Fancy-Tart . . .’

‘Sir Robert Vansittart?’

‘Yeah, tall fellow, talks with a potato in his throat. Apparently he has a hell of a sway over your foreign policy. So the krauts made a snap decision to deport you, and I got on the same flight.’

‘I’m nothing but trouble.’

‘Hey . . . ,’ she whispered, smoothing his hair.

‘And Tom . . .’

‘We’ll find him.’

They sat, holding each other’s hands for a while in silence, before Denham said, ‘Did anyone mention a dossier?’

Eleanor shook her head. ‘A dossier?’

He peered out into the darkness, but could see nothing but the reflection of his own face in the glass.

Part II

Chapter Twenty-five

I
t was after midnight when their taxi arrived at Primrose Hill. That had been a problem: where to go. He hadn’t lived in London for nearly six years, and he doubted that Anna would open her house to a neglectful former husband and his much-younger American companion.

‘How are your breaking-and-entering skills?’ he’d asked.

‘I can smash a window with a brick.’

A light rain fell as he looked up at the three-storey terrace house on Chamberlain Street, reminding him that he had no coat or, indeed, any luggage. With luck there would be some clothes in the house, albeit superannuated by moths and fashion.

‘Who lives here?’ Eleanor said, looking up at the peeling gloss and the pale-brick walls overgrown with Virginia creeper and wisteria. The windows were dark and sightless, with heavy wooden shutters behind the glass.

‘It’s been closed up since my father died. Couldn’t bring myself to sell it.’

The front door was too sturdy an obstacle to break without waking the street, so Denham carefully descended the narrow steps that led to the basement door. At the foot of the steps he trod on a piece of buttered bread lying on the gravel. It was dusted with splinters of glass that glittered in the light from the streetlamp, and he saw that it had been employed, recently it seemed, to break the glass of the basement door noiselessly.

‘We’ve been burgled,’ he called up. Gingerly he put his hand through the broken glass and opened the door, his shoe crunching on the shards that lay on the floor inside. ‘Have you got a match?’

Together they crept into the basement. Years ago his father had used it as a workshop. Now it resembled some long-ransacked tomb. The detritus of small motors covered the table, ghostly in the match light, and the air smelled musty with damp and diesel oil. Technical drawings furred in dust were scattered over the floor.

‘Holy
crap
,’ Eleanor cried, startled when Denham kicked a fuse box in the dark, sending it thumping across the floor.

In the hall Denham lit another match and entered the kitchen. Silhouettes played behind the old iron stove and the rows of enamelled plates. It was like having the pages of a half-remembered childhood book opened for him again.

‘I think our burglar stayed for dinner,’ Eleanor whispered, pointing to a plate with crumbs and smeared butter. On the table were two curling crusts of brown bread, some sour-looking green apples, and an empty tin of corned beef. On a chair was a purple kite Denham recognised, and a comic book opened to a strip featuring Corky the Cat.

‘I think I know who came calling,’ he said. He lit another match, walked across the hall, and, putting two fingers in his mouth, made a loud whistle up the stairs.

Silence for a few seconds, then a thudding commotion from somewhere at the top of the house, as if someone were erecting a barricade of chairs and mattresses.

A boy’s voice, terrified. ‘Who’s there?’

‘Come and say hello to your dad.’

Another moment’s silence, then the sudden sound of running feet, and Tom came bounding down the two flights into his father’s arms. He was clasped so tightly against Denham’s wounds that the pain shot orange stars through his eyes. He didn’t care.

‘Oh, Tom.’

The match went out, and in the darkness Denham smelled earth and bark and liquorice in his son’s hair, and when his small voice spoke it was with a soft whistle. He had lost his two front teeth, like the apparition in the cell. Maybe it was Tom’s spirit that had come to him after all.

‘Are you going to stay this time?’

‘Yes,’ said Denham, struggling under the emotion in his voice. ‘Daddy’s not leaving again.’

Tom’s voice fell to a whisper. ‘Who’s in there?’

It was easier to see in the kitchen, where the city glow of the clouds shone through a window over the sink. Beyond it was a garden, dark and overgrown. Eleanor stood tall and graceful in the spectral light. A figure from a dream.

‘Her name’s Eleanor,’ Denham whispered. ‘She’s from New York.’ He led Tom by the hand into the kitchen. ‘She’s a special friend of mine.’

‘Thomas Denham, how d’you do?’ said Tom, stiffly offering his hand.

‘Great to meet you, kid.’ Eleanor took his hand and pulled him into a hug. ‘Mind if we stay at your hideout?’

Denham found a penny in a drawer in the hall and went out to call Anna from the telephone box on Regent’s Park Road. She wailed when he told her; her tragedy salved in an instant by the news. ‘He’s safe and well,’ Denham said. ‘I’ll bring him up first thing in the morning.’

When he returned, Eleanor was chatting with Tom, who was helping her make corned beef sandwiches in the light of a paraffin lamp. The bread was stale, but with a few slices of sharp green apple as relish, and Tom’s obvious joy, the meal felt like a treat. Denham tried abridging their adventures for an eight-year-old’s consumption as he explained about his injuries to a concerned son, telling him the police challenged him to a boxing match, but one question led to another in the boy’s eager mind, as he listed all of the ploys Charlie Chan would have used, until it was very late and his father was exhausted.

‘We’ll tell you the rest over breakfast,’ Denham said. ‘But now to bed. Your dad has to sleep.’

‘Will Eleanor be here for breakfast, too?’ Tom whispered.

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’

The mattress in the master bedroom might have been a century old and not aired in just as long. Denham sat on the edge, his hands resting on the springs, and watched Eleanor undress in front of him without a word, standing amid the shadows and the cobwebs.

She took out a hairpin, gave her head a small shake, and her hair fell around her neck. She reached beneath her hem, undid her garters with a secret movement of her fingers, and slowly slid her stockings down over her smooth, long legs. He hesitated, shyness yielding to desire, then took her hand and held it to his face. They kissed, lips and tongues just caressing, breath quickening. She undid her blouse, holding his gaze as it shimmered from her shoulders to the floor. Pale breasts in a white-silk bra.

Gently he touched them, running his thumb under the silk strap. Then she reached behind her back, and the bra, too, came away.

Getting out of his own clothes was a challenge, and he winced as she helped him out of his shirt.

They lay back on the bed. The house seemed to creak, as if turning over in its sleep. She had on only her white-silk panties. Her skin was translucent, as if she were absorbing the faint lamplight from the street. Their faces in shadow, he whispered in her ear. She gave a soft, complicit laugh, then slipped the panties off.

N
one of the men noticed him crouching in the corner of the control car. They were flying blind: rain and hail dashed the windows from the darkness outside. Their faces were illuminated by the radium glow from the dials on the instruments. The propeller engines were making every surface tremble. One of the men turned and saw him. It was his father, who smiled in the apologetic way he had. A slide rule and pencils in his top pocket. Denham tried to call out but couldn’t be heard over the roar of wind and engines. His father winked at him sadly, opened his hand to reveal the pocket watch, and Denham understood that everything was lost. Suddenly the engines started making a violent hammering sound, and he awoke to realise that the hammering was at the front door.

He lay still, breathing fast. Tiny rays filtered through the tattered curtains. He heard the milk horse clopping down Regent’s Park Road. Eleanor was still in a deep sleep next to him, her arm linked in his. The hammering sounded again.

He heard Tom running down the stairs to the hall, talking to himself.

Denham shouted, ‘
No,
’ and started to get up but the pain in his ribs forced him back onto the mattress. Eleanor stirred.

Moments later Tom called up the stairs from the hall.

‘Dad, a man wants you.’

‘Who is he?’

‘He’s got a bowler hat.’

Chapter Twenty-six

D
avid Wyn Evans was waiting in the Hole-in-the-Wall café near the bridge on Regent’s Park Road. He got up when Denham entered, took off his hat, and muttered something, which may have been an oath in Welsh, on seeing Denham’s face.

‘You’re getting that seen to, I hope?’

‘How did you find me?’

‘Ah.’ Evans smiled with regret, as if he were a magician being asked to reveal his tricks.

They sat down just as the waitress placed a fried breakfast on the table. ‘Full English?’ Evans said to him. ‘They do kidneys here, and kedgeree.’

‘Just tea,’ Denham said to the girl, reaching into his jacket for cigarettes and finding with a shock the full packet of HBs Rausch had given him in the cell.

He and Evans were the only patrons. The sign on the door had been changed to CLOSED without him noticing, and Bowler Hat Man stood guard outside next to a black government car.

‘I’m glad to see you at liberty,’ Evans said, giving his plate a liberal sprinkling of salt. ‘Sir Eric kicked up quite a fuss to get you out of there, I can tell you.’

‘They thought I had something that they want as much as you do.’

‘Ye-es, that’s what worried us.’ He heaped scrambled egg onto a slice of fried bread and took a bite, watching Denham as he chewed. ‘Let’s hear it.’

Denham explained what had happened in the interrogation, and what little he’d learned of the resistance group. The Welshman listened with keen attention.

When he’d finished, Evans said, ‘So, evidently you weren’t the chosen reporter . . .’

‘Good God, man. D’you think I’d have gone through this’—he pointed at his face—‘if I could have told them where it was after the first blow?’

‘Hmm . . . quite so,’ Evans said, and gestured for the bill.

‘I think I’ve earned the right to know what’s in this bloody thing . . . this dossier.’

Evans dabbed his mouth with his napkin, his cheek bulging as he probed his teeth with his tongue, trying to dislodge some bacon. ‘What we know is only from hearsay and rumour. Nothing precise. But forgive me, Mr Denham—it’s best if I don’t tell you even that. People with knowledge of the List Dossier have a habit of dying.’

The List Dossier.

‘So you’re not even sure what it is?’

‘It’s valuable intelligence all right. That much we know. A unit within the SD has been going to extraordinary lengths to track it down, and in secrecy, without using the police apparatus. That alone gives an idea of its worth . . .’

He paid for his breakfast and stood up. ‘I thought you might like Saturday’s newspaper,’ he said, passing a folded copy of the
Daily Mail
across the table. A photograph of Hannah’s nonsalute on the podium filled most of the front page. ‘Goodbye, Mr Denham.’

‘Before you go—I’d like to ask . . .’

Evans stopped, standing over him, lean and angular in his wing collar and black homburg, like a Mafia undertaker.

‘ . . . Would you find out what’s happened to Hannah Liebermann and her family?’

He studied Denham for a moment and gave a curt nod. ‘I’ll do what I can,’ he said, making towards the door. He put his hand on the door handle, then turned and said, ‘A word of advice. The press think you were detained for interviewing Liebermann, so leave it at that. Mention the dossier to no one. If Heydrich still believes you know something . . . you are not beyond his reach.’

W
hen Denham got back it was still early. Eleanor’s shoulders rose and fell gently in sleep, the hair across her cheek golden in the dusty light. He looked around the room, with all its reminders of his father. A pile of technical manuals, drawers filled with odds and ends. But it was the picture above the nightstand that sent a tingle over his scalp. He hadn’t noticed it last night: a framed photograph of the project engineers at Cardington, posing beneath the control car of the R101, one of two gigantic airships built to link the capitals of the empire by air. Must have been taken sometime in 1929. His dad, hands behind his back, neat and trim with his Fairbanks moustache. His colleagues with serious smiles. The mighty ship behind them nearing completion.