Woman in the Shadows (15 page)

“Oh no. That part's true. I've always been keen on aircraft, since I was a boy.”

The streetlights threw their shadows ahead of them, and she watched them, his tall and broad, her own slender and shorter, leaning into his and merging with it, as though the shadows, unlike their owners, were lovers out on a stroll. He spoke softly and intently, staring straight ahead.

“I was born into an ordinary family. We lived in a village in Surrey. Chintz sofas, roses in the garden, tea at four, that was our life. What you might call an archetypal Englishness. I wasn't especially bookish, but I did like planes. Model ones, of course, to start with. When the war broke out I ditched school and enlisted in the Royal Flying Corps, much against my mother's wishes, because I wanted to fly. I'm a group captain, as it happens. Unfortunately my plane was shot down by Goering's chaps and I was taken prisoner in 1917. I spent a year in a prison camp, down in the southwest of Germany. You can't imagine the tedium of that, stuck in a camp, playing endless games of chess. For a long time my family thought I was dead.”

“That must have been hard.”

“Yes. Great wails and gnashing of teeth all round.” He chuckled. “I never knew what a fine fellow I was until I read the obituary they'd printed of me in the local newspaper.”

She couldn't see his face well. Between the streetlamps the darkness was thick and impenetrable, the texture of soot or oil. A harsh wind cursed in the trees. His tone turned serious again.

“There were, however, two good things about being stuck in a prison camp in the middle of nowhere. The first was that I learned perfect German. And the second was I gained a lot of respect for their air force. It was clear to me that the Germans had thought much harder about air strategy than we had.”

“It didn't win them the war.”

“That's true, fortunately. Anyway, after the war was won I went back to England and lounged around with no real direction. I went up to Cambridge for a while, but it was difficult. I couldn't think what I wanted to do. The idea of putting on a hat and taking my briefcase into an office every day was anathema. I didn't want to be tied down. Then, by sheer chance I met up with a friend who had flown with me in the war. He recommended I contact the air section of the Secret Intelligence Service.”

“And did you?”

“The truth was, I didn't even know they existed. At first I didn't waste much energy on it. I was off on a walking holiday in the Alps. I thought whatever it was could wait a couple of weeks. In the event, they called me.”

“And you agreed to work for them?”

“In a manner of speaking. It's a complicated situation.” For the first time he turned to face her, and she saw his expression was sober. Perhaps he really was risking as much as she was.

“I agreed to gather information on the development of military aviation in Germany. Even back then there was a serious concern in some quarters about the growth of the Luftwaffe. The idea was that I should come over in a business capacity and collect as much information as I could about the buildup of the air force and in the process recruit some friendly parties and create a network of contacts. I discovered that the Nazis were keen to cultivate high-level contacts in Britain. They seemed to believe that as we were an imperial power we would share their views on conquering other races. Perhaps, regarding certain quarters, they were right.”

Clara thought of her own father and said nothing.

“Anyway, as soon as I got here I decided to act as a channel by immersing myself fully in National Socialist circles. I got to meet everyone who mattered, Hitler, Hess, Rosenberg, General von Reichenau, General Kesselring, Erhard Milch. And I was able to patch together meetings between Nazi bigwigs and our own RAF. So far, it's worked quite well.”

“That must take some courage.”

“I'm sure courage is something you know all about.”

She cast a glance about her at the deserted street. Then she asked: “So you're a spy?”

“I'm what you might call a freelancer. Deliberately so. It was my own idea and I'm a loner here. I don't have contact with any other agents. At least, I haven't had.”

“Why?” she asked impulsively, remembering the sharp loneliness of the path she had chosen.

“It's safer that way. Everything's in flux at the moment. Everyone has their own agenda. It's a complicated place, the intelligence world.”

Although they were talking in English, he gave a quick, instinctive look behind him.

“There are parties in the British government who resist any warnings about Germany as alarmist. The people you've been cooperating with, Dyson and his friends, have to deal with those men. My Nazi associates are full of praise for our new ambassador, Mr. Henderson. They tell me he's ‘sympathetic to rightful German aspirations.' I fear some parts of the British government have turned a deaf ear to what people like us might say.”

His casual phrase “people like us” did not go unnoticed. Yet Clara was still uncertain how much he knew about her and how much she should reveal. Her deep, instinctive caution warned her not to let down her defenses. Not yet.

He continued. “There are other factions, of course, who believe a war is just the thing that's needed to persuade the Germans to overthrow Hitler.”

“If everyone has an agenda, what's yours?” she asked.

“I want my information to get through to people with a real appreciation of the threat the Nazis pose. It's plain to me that the Germans intend to build the most powerful air force in the world,” he answered bluntly.

Clara had long ago learned never to take a story at face value. The part of his story about being captured in the war sounded plausible. Sommers had the kind of upright bearing that suggested military training. Yet he had professed admiration for the German air force. And he had made quite clear he was acting outside normal boundaries.
A loner,
he'd called himself. Like her.

“Why should they give you any access? Why should they trust you? What are you offering them?”

He smiled at her, broadly, as though she was a good student.

“All excellent questions, and ones which I assure you have run through my mind a thousand times. I think they trust me because I was lucky enough to have met some of the senior Nazis before the regime was in power. My British associates wanted me to pursue those relationships, and while my first response was revulsion, I was also genuinely excited by the possibilities of being up close.”

“You felt revulsion?”

“Is it possible to look at the face of the Nazi regime and feel any other way?”

They had come to a small park. He looked around in the gloom and saw there was no one else nearby. That was hardly a surprise. No one in their right mind would be walking in the park on a night like this. A shiver of raindrops needled her face.

“Shall we sit a moment?” Without waiting for a reply he settled on a bench, lit two cigarettes, and gave her one. Clara inhaled deeply, then asked, “If you feel revulsion, what do they feel about you?”

He shrugged proudly. “I think they've taken rather a shine to me. The Nazis believe I'm a conduit to the British authorities. They think they can use me to sound out British intentions and to send any kind of message they want. So I act as an intermediary.”

“And how exactly do you do that?”

“I put them on to people who have been talking or writing favorably about Germany in Britain, and they invite them over. Not just politicians—industrialists, journalists, and novelists too. Some of those guests at the Goebbelses' house were suggestions of mine.”

Clara was glad she had worn her fur-collared coat. She drew it more closely around her in a vain attempt to shut out the biting cold. The rain was like ice on her cheeks. She felt the warmth of Sommers beside her, and longed to edge closer to him, but it was far too risky to abandon her guard. Sommers seemed quite happy to go on talking, there, in that freezing park. It was as though he had a need to unburden himself. Which might be the case, but why had he chosen her?

“I'm not sure why you're telling me all this, Captain Sommers.”

“I'm coming to that. The fact is, I need your help.”

“My help?” She gave a short laugh. “I really don't think…”

“Wait. Listen to me. You're working with Ernst Udet.”

“Only a few days' filming.”

“Udet's fascinating. He's completely unsuited to be part of a war machine. He's a good fellow, even if he was indirectly responsible for one of the most unpleasant episodes of recent time. You know about the German activities in the Spanish Civil War, I take it? The Legion Condor?”

“I've heard about it.” An image came to her of the navy armband worn by Arno Strauss, embroidered with the words
Legion Condor.

“Udet bears some responsibility for that bloodbath. The dive-bombing that he pioneered was the centerpiece of the blitzkrieg, you know, the aerial bombardment. He even designed a special siren called a Jericho Trumpet, which emits a wailing shriek as the planes approach, to terrify the poor wretches on the ground all the more.”

“But Udet's back here now. His time in Spain is in the past.”

“Precisely. And it's the future I'm concerned with.”

“So what is it you want from me?”

“It's to do with something new. Something that could make a great deal of difference to the way that wars are fought.”

“
If
wars are fought.”

“Your optimism does you credit, Clara. However, I'm afraid I can't share it. What I have discovered is something that could drastically change the outcome of any future European conflict. To the German advantage.”

Clara finished her cigarette and ground the stub with her shoe.

“And what makes you think you're not taking a huge risk, Captain Sommers, in telling me all this?”

“I am. As I said, I know all about risk. This is a calculated one.”

The park was utterly quiet, except for the patter of thin rain on the ground. From the left came the dim, continuous sound of traffic. Her nerves strained for sounds of entrapment.

Quietly he said, “Listen, we can't talk here. I don't want to put you in any danger, but everything I hear about you makes me think you might be able to help me.”

Everything he heard about her?
That remark, so casually uttered, terrified her. They knew who she was, obviously, and they were aware of her work. But it was still a shock to learn that she was being discussed somewhere, far away, in offices in central London, by military types in three-piece suits whom she had never met.

“You'll need to get in contact,” he continued, matter-of-factly.

“You want me to telephone you?”

A little snort. “Of course not.” Most telephones belonging to suspect foreigners were monitored. Whenever a foreigner arrived in Berlin, telephone repairmen would arrive on the pretext of checking the connections. Thereafter, making a call was like performing a two-handed play for the benefit of a large, invisible audience.

“I want you to come and see me. Flat 2, 58 Duisburger Strasse. It will have to be soon. Any evening in the next week. Repeat that address to me.”

“Flat 2, 58 Duisburger Strasse.”

She thought of Archie Dyson saying
Lie low. Do nothing
. Work and eat and sleep and do nothing else that anyone could consider suspicious.

Sommers was still gazing out into the darkness. “I hope you'll decide to come, Clara. It is a matter of great importance. I'd go so far as to say it could change the course of an approaching war.”

He stood up and said more loudly, “Now, I trust you'll excuse me if I leave you here.”

Clasping her hand, he gave her the swift, dazzling smile, then turned on his heel. She stood and watched him walk away down the path, until the shadow of the wet, looming trees enveloped him like a glove.

T
he policemen merely wanted a word with her, that was all.

The day before, Ilse had turned the lighter in. She had been down to the end of the garden, to the place where Anna was killed, to put a bunch of edelweiss on the spot and say a little prayer. To show she cared, even if nobody else seemed to. Far from remembering Anna, everyone here just wanted to forget. No one wanted to draw attention to the fact that a woman could go to a Reich Bride School and end up murdered, so the patch beneath the trees had been tidied up, just like everywhere else at school. The grass had been smoothed over and the leaves raked, and there was no sign of blood or scuffed earth or anything else to suggest that only a couple of weeks ago a woman standing there had been brutally shot.

Ilse's religion wasn't complicated. Her parents were Lutherans, but she supposed God would not mind the absence of ceremony. She checked over her shoulder, then closed her eyes and said her simple prayer, very quickly, under her breath. “Please, God, bless Anna and welcome her into your eternal band of angels.” And then, when she opened her eyes, fighting tears, she caught sight of a tiny speck of silver, glinting at her from between the roots of the pine tree, deep in the grass. It was like a message, which said that her prayer had been heard. She rubbed her damp eyes and looked closer. It was Anna's silver lighter. She bent down and dropped it hastily into her apron pocket. And there it had stayed all morning, burning a hole, until she had a chance to go back to the dormitory at lunchtime and slip it into one of her spare shoes.

Ilse was torn about the lighter. She didn't want to give it to the instructors because she knew it would be donated to the Winterhilfswerk campaign, and she couldn't bear the thought of Anna's precious silver lighter being melted down with all the razor blades and toothpaste tubes and tin cans to be turned into airplanes. On the other hand, what if someone found it? Fräulein Kampfner, the dormitory supervisor, was always raking through the brides' belongings, ostensibly for reasons of “tidiness” and “hygiene compliance.” What if she unearthed the lighter and accused Ilse of being a thief? She would know it was Anna's because of the initials. What would Otto say? Ilse might even be asked to leave the Bride School. After a couple of hours of these terrible thoughts thumping through her brain, Ilse had taken the lighter down to Fräulein Kampfner and handed it over.

The next morning the men from the Reichskriminalpolizei—the Kripo—turned up.

They just wanted a word with her, that was all, said Fräulein Wolff, showing them into the music room. She provided coffee and a plate piled with ginger biscuits, and the men were very nice. Inspektor Hans Kuckhoff was a fat, avuncular sort with a white mustache, smelling strongly of cigars, and Inspektor Ule Georg was a smiley little man who kept making jokes about finding a bride for himself here.

“These are respectable ladies, Georg,” his colleague corrected him. “Too good for the likes of you. Besides, they're all spoken for.”

Both of them insisted there was no way on earth that Ilse was in any trouble. Inspektor Kuckhoff said she had been very responsible to turn in the lighter and it was an action worthy of a Reich bride.

“After all, it's a nice-looking object. Engraved and everything. It's probably worth a bit. Another girl might have tried to keep it for herself. But you were honest, Fräulein Henning. That's the kind of honesty the Führer wants in a German woman. It may well be rewarded.”

Ilse wondered if he was suggesting that she might have wanted to profit from it.

“I would never have sold the lighter. Anna was my friend. I just wanted to help find her killer.”

The inspector spread his hands. “Of course you did, Fräulein. My apologies.”

After draining his coffee and fitting several biscuits one after the other into his capacious mouth, Inspektor Georg mentioned the visit from the
New York Evening Post
journalist and confided that Fräulein Wolff had tried to cover it up initially because she did not want to be blamed for authorizing an interview. He laughed.

“But if you could help us, Fräulein, we would like a few details of what happened when this journalist visited. Just for the record.”

So that was when Ilse had told them. She had to, really, and besides, they had commented on her honesty with the lighter, so she explained that she had passed on Anna's case to the lady because she said she was a friend of the family.

“What friend of the family?”

“I'm not sure. In fact, Fräulein Harker said she
knew
a friend of the family. So you'd have to ask her.”

Inspektor Georg knitted his brows and brushed some crumbs off his trousers.

“This case,” he said. “What did it look like?”

“It was just a little stationery case. It wasn't important or valuable. Anna used to keep her letters in it. That's all.”

After that Inspektor Kuckhoff made a few notes in his book and slapped his thighs in a satisfied manner, and Inspektor Georg commented on how lucky Fräulein Henning's fiancé was to have such a pretty young bride, and the two men left.

That might have been the end of it, apart from one curious thing. It was late afternoon and Ilse was in Sewing class, where she was embroidering a pair of knitted gloves for Otto, with
HEIL
on the back of one hand and
HITLER
on the back of the other. They were to be his Christmas present. She pictured Otto standing guard in some freezing outpost, his breath in clouds, clapping his hands together and thanking God for his fiancée and her thoughtful gift. That thought led to an extended reverie of the married life that awaited them, and how she would welcome Otto when he returned, cold and tired from service, with the stove lit and a fragrant stew bubbling, after which he would fold her into his arms and…

This daydream was interrupted by the crunch of gravel outside and the weighted
thud
of a car door slamming. Casting a glance down from the window, she saw the strangest thing. She was absolutely certain of it. The sleek black Mercedes-Benz 540K exiting the gates was one that nobody could mistake. Not just because it was the size of a small tank, with bulletproof glass and armor plating. But also because it had a personalized license plate that identified it as the property of Joseph Goebbels, the Reichsminister of Enlightenment and Propaganda.