Beaverbrook always reminded Alex of a monkey. He had a monkey’s round face, wide mouth. A monkey’s stature. A monkey’s sense of mischief. Most people bore passing resemblance to their own caricature – Beaverbrook was the spitting image of David
Low’s cartoon – no caricature, no exaggeration seemed too grotesque. The big head on the little body, the grin that seemed to split it like a watermelon struck with a shovel.
He was in the foyer of the Garrick, being helped out of his overcoat when Alex arrived.
‘You missed a good lunch,’ said the Beaver.
‘No, I missed a free lunch. And I find I can never afford your free lunches.’
Beaverbrook laughed at this and let Alex, by much the older, slower man, set the pace as they went upstairs to the bar, a panelled room lined with portraits of long-dead hams, a patina of age and cracked glaze across most them – indeed, as Alex often thought, across most of the members too. He was not a club man. It was too English a notion. But since one had to belong somewhere, this was better than most, oblique as it was to his own calling. When he was seated, had got his breath and ordered a drink, he said, ‘What was the occasion?’
‘Hess. What else?’
‘I suppose you told Fleet Street to dampen it down?’
‘No, quite the opposite. Winston wanted to make a statement. I talked him out of it last night. I think we should all speculate, each paper with a different angle. Make as much of this as possible, throw out every possible reason Hess could have for what he did. Get the maximum possible propaganda value out of it.’
‘A licence to lie, Max?’
‘I wouldn’t put it that way. Shall we say a licence to gild the lily?’
‘Words, words, words. You were still asking them to lie. You’re asking me to lie now.’
‘Think about it, Alex. Why do you think he’s come? Don’t you think that’s an honest question? Don’t you think that’s an honest question to put before your readers?’
‘No. I do not. It’s no more honest than the German papers. On Tuesday they all carried the same headline to the letter – Hess in Tragic Accident. The accident being the long-awaited onset of madness.’
‘Do you think he’s mad?’
‘I’ve no idea. I met him just the once and that was years ago. But it does seem that until he finally tells someone what he’s up to, then both sides will find equal cause to dismiss him as mad.’
There was a pause. Alex could almost hear the Beaver timing it like the true ham he was.
‘I asked Winston if I could see Hess, you know.’
Ah. At last the nub. Beaverbrook was rubbing his nose in it.
‘Did he say yes?’
‘He didn’t say no.’
At the back of his mind Alex felt vaguely certain he’d heard this repartee before somewhere.
‘What did he say?’
‘Later. He said later. When the Foreign Office are through with him.’
‘Well Max, there you are, another scoop.’
Beaverbrook did not react to the sarcasm.
‘Who have they sent?’ Alex asked.
‘Kirkpatrick.’
For a second all Alex could think of was a young American journalist who’d been in London covering the war for one paper or another – Helen? Hannah? H-something Kirkpatrick. Then he remembered – Ivone Kirkpatrick, the diplomat at the Berlin embassy who’d come to the attention of the British press when he’d been stuck with the unenviable task of translating for Chamberlain at Munich.
‘He’s not the man for the job.’
‘Do you know him? He’s considered an expert on Berlin.’
‘No, I’ve never met the man. But it’s not a job for a career diplomat. It’s an expert in interrogation they need, not an expert on Berlin. They should send in the toughest nut they have. An English Yezhov or a Beria, if there is such a beast. Ernie Bevin on a bad day. And if that doesn’t work I would not be at all surprised if Winston didn’t just put the bugger up against a wall and have him shot.’
Beaverbrook grinned, Beaverbrook chuckled, Beaverbrook guffawed. The monkey face split from side to side – head back, eyes popping. It was unthinkable – but Churchill might just do it. The wave of laughter subsided in him. He wiped the corner of one eye and indulged in another meaningful pause.
‘If you were interrogating Hess now, what would you want from him? If you could ask him just one question, Alex, what would it be?’
And yet more – Beaverbrook was rubbing his nose in it at the same time as he sought to pick his brains. Alex saw no point in lying to the little sod. There could only be one plausible answer.
‘I would want to know the intentions of the Third Reich towards Russia. To be precise, I would want the date and the battle formation for Hitler’s invasion of the USSR. I would want to know when the lunatic proposes to lead his country into mass suicide.’
‘Do you really think it would be that? Most of my Cabinet colleagues seem to think Russia would last three weeks. A month at the most.’
‘Have a little faith, Max. Think of Russia’s power to resist. Almost a passive quality. But what a power! Remember Napoleon. Read War and Peace. It will be suicide on the grand scale. If Russia comes into this war, then Germany is doomed. And Russia will pay the price in suffering that we British seem to have been spared thus far.’
‘We British,’ said Beaverbrook, grinning. ‘A Canadian and a Russian.’
It seemed to Old Troy to be neither statement nor question. He answered in kind.
‘We British. A couple of wogs. A baron and a baronet – rewarded for nothing more significant than our wealth and influence. What a curious country this is.’
Sarcasm was so often wasted on the Beaver.