8

‘Ah…’ Hess shook his head, ‘… die Roten…’

Dieter Merz was sitting in the Deputy Führer’s study at his home in Munich. Hess was drinking boiled water. Downstairs, his wife had poured a glass of wine for Merz. He’d just flown in from Berlin, summoned by his new pupil.

Die Roten meant the Reds. Dieter assumed Hess was talking about Communists.

‘You’re right, Merz. This was after the war. Some days it feels like a lifetime ago. It’s hard to put it into words sometimes. You fight them night after night. You get yourself injured. You see your comrades perish around you. For some reason you’re chosen to survive. And then, when you think you’ve got them on their knees, there’s only more fighting. Not because you want to. Not because you’ve become some kind of animal. But because you have to.’ The flat of Hess’s palm descended on the desk. ‘No choice. Not if you care.’

Merz didn’t know how far to take this conversation. Days at Georg’s bedside and nights trying to get through to Beata had been exhausting. In both cases, neither party really wanted to talk. Georg because the physical act of talking was still beyond him; Beata because she’d turned her back on the world. Then had come the summons to Munich. Hess had a mission for Merz. Might der Kleine be good enough to fly south and discuss it?

‘Der Kleine’ Merz took as a compliment. Hess, as a shy man, hid behind a certain formality. Only very recently had he begun to use Merz’s nickname. It meant, thought Dieter, that he was beginning to let his guard down. In the cockpit and on the ground he knew he’d won Hess’s respect. Beyond respect lay trust, and maybe even friendship. Friends with Hitler’s Deputy? Merz would never have believed it. Yet here he was, listening to a man desperate to share long-ago moments in his past.

‘You fought the Reds in Spain,’ Hess said. ‘You know about Communists.’

‘I know about shooting them down. I’m not sure I ever met any.’

‘Then let me tell you, young man, that makes you lucky. We broke heads, looked them in the eyes, fought hand to hand. No quarter. Not in those days. We shed blood for the cause. Die Blutfahne didn’t happen by accident.’

Die Blutfahne was the Blood Flag, a relic from the failed Nazi attempt to seize power in Munich back in 1923. Wrapped around a Party trooper who’d died in the abortive putsch, it had become an object of reverence and had featured at Party rallies ever since. Merz, along with most of his friends, regarded this piece of Nazi theatre as mawkish but was careful not to say so.

‘Do you miss those days?’

‘Never. They were necessary. They brought us to power. Communists only understand the language of violence. Remember that.’

He nodded, looking Merz in the eye, and Dieter caught a glimpse of the ruthless self-belief that lay behind the Nazis’ climb to power. Nothing mattered. Except their ever-tighter grip on the German soul.

‘You were in prison with the Führer after the putsch? Am I right?’

‘Yes. Nine months in Landsberg. I had the adjoining cell. The people who ran the prison made life easy for us. Every day the Führer and I had use of another room where we could work.’

The Führer, Dieter thought. The Leader. Even then.

‘And that’s where you wrote Mein Kampf?’

‘Yes.’

‘Both of you? Is that true?’

‘Not quite. The force, the inspiration, came from Hitler. I was the clerk, the housemaid, keeping things nice and tidy, making sure it read well. We worked every day, chapter after chapter. I was happy to contribute an idea or two. Lebensraum, for instance. The need for us to move against the east. That came from my teacher at the university here in Munich. Professor Haushofer. The Führer, I’m glad to say, needed no persuading. He saw at once why Russia was wasted on the Soviets. We need the living space, the wheat, the oil and a thousand other things. One day, young man. And not a moment too soon.’

‘We invade?’

‘Of course.’

‘But the Russians are our allies. We have a pact, an agreement.’

‘The Russians are Slavs. We have a duty to kick down their door and take what we need. My admiration for the Führer is boundless. It knows no limits. No one else in this country could have crushed the Communists and worked such miracles since. But even he has moments of weakness. At Dunkirk, I was frankly dumbfounded. Stop the Panzers to spare the English their blushes? Madness. And I told him so.’

Dieter nodded. Hitler had ordered his generals to pause in sight of Dunkirk to let the Luftwaffe finish the job. To the bewilderment of the tank commanders, the order had lasted three days.

‘You never thought the English would get their men away?’

‘Never. And neither did Hitler. But that’s not the point. In war, you always fight the battle to the finish. The English were there for the taking. We could have played the policeman and arrested them all. Instead, God help us, they still have the remains of an army. So now there has to be another way.’

‘Of what?’

‘Of keeping them quiet. Of making them understand their proper role in the world. The British Empire commands the Führer’s respect. It’s there in Mein Kampf. All they have to do is mind their own business, look after their own affairs, and leave everything else well alone. It’s a rule that any child can understand. So why is that man Churchill so difficult?’

Merz heard footsteps on the staircase. Frau Ilse appeared at the open door. She had the bottle of wine in one hand and a plate of biscuits in the other. Albrecht, she said, had arrived and was downstairs playing with young Wolf.

Hess asked her to show Albrecht up. Then he gestured at the bottle. Merz was to help himself. Dieter didn’t move.

‘Is this the Albrecht I met at Augsburg? Albrecht Haushofer?’

‘Yes.’ Hess was on his feet. ‘You don’t speak English. Am I right?’

‘You are.’

‘Gut.’

Albrecht appeared at the door. Tieless in a rumpled linen jacket, he looked a great deal more relaxed than the man Merz had met at the Messerschmitt factory. Hess found him a chair. Albrecht tapped his watch and began to explain, in German, that time was short. He had to be at his father’s house across the city within the hour. Regrettably, they had fifteen minutes to agree arrangements.

Hess nodded and said something in English that Dieter didn’t understand. Then the two men were speaking German again.

‘Tomorrow I want you to fly Haushofer to Lisbon,’ Hess was looking at Merz. ‘You will refuel at Barcelona. At Lisbon you will accompany Haushofer at all times unless he decides otherwise. Accommodation has been arranged and paid for. Please keep a note of all other expenses you incur.’

‘We’re staying at the embassy?’

‘No. And neither will you have any contacts beyond the people Haushofer deems necessary to meet. In this respect and all others during the trip Haushofer has my complete authority. Is that clear, Merz?’

Dieter could only nod. Over the previous weeks, Hess had been softening towards him. Now, for whatever reason, this sudden show of teeth.

‘Understood, Herr. Hess.’

There was a brief discussion of the take-off time. Haushofer needed to be in Lisbon by dusk. According to Hess’s calculations, they should therefore be in the air no later than mid-morning.

‘I’m taking your 110?’

‘No. Another machine has been readied.’

All being well, Merz should expect to be back in Germany within a couple of days, though provision had been made to extend the accommodations, should that prove necessary.

‘Any questions, Merz?’

‘None, Herr. Hess.’

‘Excellent.’ A rather stiff bow. ‘I wish you fair weather and a safe flight. Take care of my friend here. His is work of some importance.’

Hess turned back to Haushofer and began to speak in English again. Dismissed, Merz made his way downstairs. Half expecting an invitation to stay the night again, he found himself being conducted towards the front door.

‘My husband has made arrangements for you to stay at the Drei Mohren.’ She sounded apologetic. ‘They keep a good table. If you like wild boar, you won’t be disappointed. But please don’t tell my vegan husband.’

*

Late that same afternoon, Guy Liddell drove out to Northolt airfield to take the long flight to Halifax, Nova Scotia. Ursula Barton was at the wheel of the Humber Super Snipe, and they conferred for several minutes in one of the RAF briefing rooms before Ursula slipped her notes into her bag and returned to the car. The following morning, she mounted the stairs to Tam Moncrieff’s third-floor office, entered without knocking, and carefully shut the door behind her.

‘All well?’ Moncrieff was in the middle of a particularly tricky report on a Polish agent he’d recently managed to turn. He didn’t look up.

Ursula ignored the question. The Director, she said, would be away for at least five days. He’d managed to coax a handful of luminaries from the American intelligence establishment to meet him on the very edge of the continent. She hinted that their deliberations might pave the way for the day when Washington finally entered the war but in the meantime the management of certain ‘B’ Section operations was in her hands. These included developments surrounding Agent Souk.

‘Delighted to hear it.’ Moncrieff put his paperwork to one side. ‘How can I help?’

Ursula at last sat down, her hands in her lap, her legs crossed. Moncrieff knew that every corner of her life was meticulously organised but even so he marvelled that she never wore stockings that had been laddered. These days, that spoke of powerful connections, almost certainly in the black market.

‘Souk will be delivering the letter tomorrow. In Lisbon. This is a copy. You should read it with some care.’

She handed him two sheets of paper. The letter was typed. The signature at the end was difficult to read.

‘This comes from Hamilton?’

‘Not exactly,’ she nodded at the scribbled Duglo at the foot of the letter. ‘That was as close as we could get. According to Registry it’s near perfect.’

‘And it’s going to Albrecht Haushofer?’

‘Yes. Souk already has a copy.’

‘And Haushofer knows he’ll be meeting Souk?’

‘That’s the message we passed. Gordon Millord Hesketh. A name you wouldn’t forget.’

Moncrieff bent to the letter. Hamilton thanked Albrecht for his letter of 23 September last year and apologised for the long delay in replying. He’d been extremely busy seeing to the prosecution of the war, and to dealing with a number of other responsibilities. As Albrecht might imagine, life had become extremely complicated and, like so many other of his family, friends and colleagues, he longed for the return of peace. Such a profligate waste of treasure, he’d written. And such a needless spilling of blood.

In the second paragraph, Hamilton directly addressed the proposition that the two of them might meet up on neutral territory, perhaps Lisbon, in order to talk about matters in general and perhaps one or two issues in particular. While he, Duglo, could think of nothing more agreeable than seeing his old friend again, in all conscience he could visualise no immediate prospect of such a meeting coming to pass in the very near future. For one thing, his service obligations precluded such a commitment. And in another, he suspected that it might be wise to take soundings among like-minded patriots before embarking on such a trip.

In the latter instance, the letter went on, it would be immensely helpful if Albrecht could be a little more specific about what he had in mind. Time spent in reconnaissance, he reminded his old friend, is time seldom wasted.

Moncrieff looked up. ‘Who wrote this?’

‘You don’t need to know that.’

‘Liddell?’

She smiled, said nothing. Moncrieff went through the letter again. He especially liked the sentence that referred to ‘like-minded patriots’.

‘Very clever,’ he said. ‘Very deft. It’s a fishing expedition, isn’t it? A fly to tempt Haushofer onto the hook.’

‘Nicely phrased.’

‘Because we need to know who these people are?’

‘Because we need to know how serious they might be.’

‘About?’

‘Mounting some kind of peace initiative. These people can see no end to the war and that disturbs them.’

Moncrieff nodded. For a Security Service charged with safeguarding the country’s elected leadership, this made perfect sense.

‘So how do we make sure this doesn’t get back to Hamilton?’ he asked.

‘Everything has to go through Lisbon. To date, that’s meant Violet Roberts’ Post Box address. Souk, as you know, claims he knows Haushofer already. That might turn out to be a godsend. We can only hope it’s true.’

‘And does Souk also know the letter’s a fake?’

‘God, no.’

‘And he’s going to be spending time with Haushofer in Lisbon?’

‘Yes.’

‘So what happens if Haushofer takes it upon himself to make direct contact with Hamilton?’

‘He can’t. That can only happen through Souk. For the time being we’ve closed down the other Post Box.’

‘And Souk himself? What if he goes freelance? Makes some kind of approach to Hamilton?’

‘He won’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you’re going down there. Tomorrow. Once Haushofer’s gone back to Germany, we want you to make contact with Souk. We need to know what Haushofer had to say. Once you’re satisfied you know exactly what happened you have to make it worthwhile for Souk to bide his time in Lisbon, to maintain contact with Haushofer, but to otherwise keep his mouth firmly shut. I’ve read the transcripts from Latchmere. Hesketh’s a self-important little man. Appeal to his vanity. Make him feel part of the operation. We’ve intercepted the letter from Duglo and we need to know where it leads. That’s the script. That’s the legend. Make him feel wanted. Money will undoubtedly help. Depending on the way things go, you’re authorised to double his retainer and perhaps hint at more largesse as events unfold. Does that make at least a modicum of sense?’

Moncrieff didn’t answer. This whole operation depended on Hesketh already knowing Albrecht Haushofer. The interception of his letter to Duglo Hamilton had happened within a week of Hesketh’s appearance on MI5’s radar. All his life Moncrieff had mistrusted coincidences. And he’d rarely been proved wrong.

‘Well?’ Ursula wanted an answer.

‘Souk remains in the dark about the letter being a fake?’

‘Of course he does.’

‘And we really believe he’s known Haushofer for a while?’

‘I’ve no idea, Tam. But he’s been your Kleines Säugling from the start.’ Kleines Säugling. Little baby. She glanced at her watch. ‘You’re booked on tomorrow’s flying boat. You need to be at Poole by half past ten. The tickets and everything else you’ll need are in my office.’ She got to her feet, adjusted her skirt. ‘Do I detect just a flicker of enthusiasm?’

*

Dieter Merz took off from the long concrete strip adjoining the Messerschmitt works at 10.05 the following morning. In the seat behind him was Albrecht Haushofer, his leather briefcase stowed securely in the rear gunner’s space. At Haushofer’s request, Merz had plotted a route that skirted Switzerland to the south, offering a grandstand view of the Austrian and Italian Alps. Haushofer, who’d skied many of these slopes before the war with his father, was on first-name terms with many of the peaks, blinding white in the bright sunshine. Weisshorn. Signalkuppe. Matterhorn. The list read like a monument to a world that was now beyond reach.

‘You miss St Moritz? Klosters?’

‘I do,’ Haushofer acknowledged. ‘But those days will be back. And very soon, I hope.’

With the blueness of the Mediterranean ahead, and the grey sprawl of Marseilles on the nose, Dieter wondered what clues an answer like that might hold. Both Hess and Haushofer himself had been tight-lipped about the purpose of today’s mission. Merz’s job was to get Haushofer to Lisbon and back. He assumed that some kind of rendezvous awaited his charge in the Portuguese capital, but he had no idea who Albrecht might be meeting.

Merz had never been to Lisbon but it was common knowledge in most squadron messes that this city on the very edge of Europe had become a playground for spies, black-marketeers, and anyone else with the nerve to cash in on a war that had brought blockade and rationing to every corner of occupied Europe. Were Albrecht Haushofer and the Deputy Führer part of this demi-monde? He rather doubted it.

At Barcelona, with Haushofer translating, Merz bought more fuel and kept an eye on the Catalan mechanic in charge of refuelling. A hour later, after coffee of a quality he hadn’t tasted since the outbreak of war, Merz was in the air again, routing south-west over the yellowing body of Spain. From the border it was forty minutes to the Atlantic coast and, as they lost height over the broad estuary of the River Tagus, it was Haushofer who gazed down at the waterside city that was Lisbon.

‘Magnificent,’ he murmured.

The airfield, in the neighbouring town of Sintra, was busy. The Controller directed Merz to join the line of aircraft parked on the hardstanding and after he’d climbed down from the cockpit Merz stood in the spring sunshine for a moment or two, letting the warmth seep into his bones. Two men in white overalls were loading mail sacks into a nearby Ju-52 with Reich markings. Beyond stood a DC-3 in the colours of a British airline, while ground crew were refuelling a battered Potez in the colours of Air Afrique. In Portugal at least, he thought, commerce trumps war.

In the terminal building Haushofer led the way to a cubicle that served as the information desk. The woman in charge spoke good German and recognised the proffered name at once.

‘Herr Hesketh has arranged a car for you. Herr Haushofer? Am I right?’

She summoned another woman who led the way out of the building. Parked nearby was a rusting Mercedes. Haushofer bent to the open window. Behind the wheel was a swarthy half-caste with the whitest teeth Merz had ever seen. The two of them were welcome in Sintra. Please get in the back. The journey will take perhaps an hour.

They drove north, leaving the broad reach of the Tagus behind them. The driver, to Haushofer’s visible irritation, was keen to practise his German. He lived in Lisbon. He had a Portuguese wife and three children. Portuguese women were the best mothers in the world. Also the best cooks. Were his honoured guests staying long? Might they like to sample his wife’s sopa de cação?

‘No,’ said Haushofer, staring out at the fields ablaze with early spring flowers.

The long dusty road led to a low line of what looked like fortifications, stretching left and right into the misty distance: raised earthwork ramparts, grassed-over strongpoints, footpaths winding in between. Then came the outskirts of a small town.

‘Torch Verdsh,’ the driver said.

The sound was incomprehensible. An invitation? A question? The name of something important?

‘Torres Vedras,’ Haushofer muttered. ‘I’m guessing this is where we stop.’

He was right. The dense cluster of red roofs was dominated by the ruins of a castle atop a hill. Within the castle walls stood a white church. The driver had slowed. He was consulting a scrap of paper on which someone appeared to have scribbled directions. Finally, in the middle of the town, he pulled into the side of the road where an old man was tethering a donkey. Shown the directions, the old man shook his head. He couldn’t read. Try the shop. The driver disappeared into the darkness behind the open door. Merz was gazing at knobbly, misshapen potatoes spilling out of a big wicker basket. A minute or so later, the driver was back, waving the directions in triumph. Nearly there.

In the shadow of the castle, where houses lapped up against the yellow sandstone walls, he finally came to a halt. No. 49. He pumped the horn several times. At length the front door opened and a small, neat figure stepped into the sunshine. He was wearing a baggy black suit and the open white shirt beneath badly needed a wash, but the greying beard was neatly trimmed and there was a smile of open anticipation on his face. Merz judged him to be middle-aged, maybe older, and the moment he opened his mouth he knew where he came from. Only the English spoke German like this.

‘Herr Haushofer?’ The face was peering into the rear of the car through the open window.

There was a moment of indecision while the stranger’s eyes flicked from face to face. Then Haushofer opened the door and got out.

‘Mr Hesketh?’

‘Indeed. Please call me Gordon.’

There was an exchange of handshakes and a word of introduction for Merz before Hesketh bent to the driver’s window. The driver had no problem with his Portuguese. He grinned at Hesketh and tapped his watch. Seconds later, he’d gone.

‘It’s been a long drive, gentlemen. My apologies. Come. The exercise will be good for us.’

Without waiting for an answer, Hesketh led the way through a narrow alley that in turn led to a breach in the encircling castle walls at the foot of the hill. From here, the path steepened through rocky scrub. Within seconds, conversation was difficult, then impossible. Merz brought up the rear of the column, his feet sliding on the loose dirt, his balance threatened at every step, his head tipped occasionally backwards, aware of the bulk of the castle above them.

At last they made it to the top. Entry to the castle itself was through a medieval arch that led to a paved courtyard beyond. The courtyard was empty. From its edge the town sprawled below. Beyond the town, in the middle distance, Merz could make out the pattern of the defence works.

Hesketh and Haushofer had been speaking in English. Already, they appeared to be friends. Now, Hesketh switched to German.

‘You know about the wars?’ He was looking at Merz. ‘Napoleon? Messéna? The Duke of Wellington?’

Merz shook his head. He could tell the Englishman a great deal about the Messerschmitt 109, and moments of exaltation in the Kanalkampf, but Napoleon had always been a mystery.

‘A shame, Herr Merz, because history does nothing but repeat itself. Over there, for instance.’ Merz followed the pointing finger north, towards the far horizon. ‘That’s where Napoleon’s army turned up. That’s as far as it got. You know why General Messéna was here? Because the Portuguese refused to close their ports to the English. And you know what the English did to return the favour? With the help of the locals, they built all this. They built it over a period of months. They built it for the sake of Lisbon. They kept it a secret from the French and when the conquering army finally arrived it was far too late. The English kicked their arses and Napoleon never recovered. This was his high-water mark. He wanted the whole of Europe but he couldn’t get further than here. Thanks to the Duke of Wellington. And the English. And, of course, our Portuguese friends.’ He produced a packet of cigarettes. One each. ‘We should always listen to history,’ he smiled, and struck a match. ‘Because history never lies.’

*

Tam Moncrieff’s departure for Lisbon was delayed by two days. When Moncrieff asked why, Ursula Barton told him that negotiations in Lisbon were taking rather longer than anyone had anticipated, a development which was, in her view, deeply promising.

‘Why?’

‘Because they’ve obviously got a great deal to talk about.’

‘Who says?’

‘Souk,’ she held Moncrieff’s gaze. ‘Which is all we have to go on until you take a view.’

Accordingly, Moncrieff busied himself with a tangle of other commitments – all of them wearisome – until, forty-eight hours later, the moment came to leave for Poole. Of Cathy Phelps, a little to his disappointment, he’d seen very little. The one occasion they’d managed to share a brief weekend together, she’d spent most of the time sleeping. Royal service at the Palace, she’d mumbled, was bloody hard work. Memories of life at the Glebe House seemed rosier and rosier.

Poole, in late February, was umpteen shades of grey. Grey for the limitless expanse of the harbour. Grey for the open water beyond. Grey for the heavy overcast sky and the threat of imminent rain. Half close your eyes, and even the Empire flying boat, rocking gently at her moorings beside the long pontoon, was grey. A landscape in tune with the times, thought Moncrieff. Spiritless. Monochrome. Infinitely depressing.

Departure fell victim to an abrupt fall in oil pressure in one of the engines. The captain abandoned the take-off run moments before lift-off and returned to the pontoon for checks. More than two hours later, after mechanics had found the ruptured lubrication line, the captain tried again. The roar of the engines stilled conversation in the cabin and, in the thickening dusk, the big flying boat finally lifted clear of the harbour. Transit to Lisbon was nearly six hours. By the time Moncrieff awoke to find the lights of Lisbon beneath the port wing, it was nearly midnight.

Hesketh was waiting in the arrivals hall at the end of the pontoon. A light tan told Moncrieff that the weather in Lisbon had been far from grey. When Hesketh offered to take him to the hotel he’d booked, Moncrieff shook his head. He’d slept on the plane. If Hesketh cared to find them a café, a discreet table and a decent bottle of wine, he’d be very happy to pick up the bill.

‘Done, sir.’ Hesketh was beaming. ‘Exactly what I expected. Bem vindo a Lisboa.’

The café was deep in a working-class area a fifteen-minute taxi ride from the flying boat terminal. Stepping into the crowded little space beyond the half-closed door, Moncrieff was reminded of Stockholm: the colour, the fug of cigarette smoke, the swirl of a dozen conversations, a lone guitarist on a stool in the corner, the promise of fresh ingredients and a woman’s touch at the stove. The only problem was privacy.

‘Upstairs,’ Hesketh nodded at a door in the corner at the back. ‘Maria’s a good friend. Trust me.’

The room was perfect: small, intimate, insulated from the world outside. One of the two tables was bare. On the other was an uncorked bottle of wine and two glasses. Beside the wine was a basket of bread and a bowl brimming with olives.

Moncrieff realised he was starving. He tried the bread. Even at this time of night, it was warm from the oven.

Hesketh watched him eat. Then he poured the wine and pushed one glass gently towards Moncrieff.

‘This is a red I ordered specially. It comes from the Alentejo. If you’re sensible enough to order Maria’s goat stew we’ll have another bottle and you’ll sleep a happy man.’

Moncrieff tasted the wine and smiled. If the rest of whatever Hesketh had to offer was as good as this then MI5 had acquired an asset of genuine value.

If.

‘Haushofer’s gone?’

‘This morning. I’m glad to say he arrived in some style. Personal plane, his own pilot. The Reich know how to look after their own.’

‘And we don’t?’

‘I didn’t say that. It was a pleasure to catch up with Albrecht. And, I must say, something of a surprise.’

Moncrieff wanted to know about the letter Hesketh had been sent from London.

‘You gave it to him?’

‘Of course I did.’

‘And?’

‘Albrecht was delighted. I think he’d assumed the friendship was dead, or at least shelved for the duration. He holds Duglo very close to his heart. I suspect he was disappointed that they won’t be getting together down here but, as I tried to explain, there might be other ways.’

‘Of what?’

‘Of achieving the same ends.’

Hesketh let the sentence hang in the air. Then came the clatter of footsteps on the wooden stairs and the door opened. Hesketh was on his feet and for a split second Moncrieff assumed the worst. After the long flight, his defences were down. He’d been here before. Police, probably armed. A hand on his shoulder, a rough descent to the restaurant below, a windowless van parked outside, and the beginnings of a long journey to God knows where. Instead he found himself looking at a woman in late middle age with burn marks on the plumpness of her arms.

‘Maria.’ Hesketh did the introductions.

Moncrieff got to his feet, hoping the relief didn’t show. After an awkward conversation, fathered by Hesketh, he seemed to have agreed to a dish of chanfana.

‘Chanfana?’ Maria had disappeared.

‘Goat stew, my friend.’

They’d sat down again. Two middle-aged Englishmen, Moncrieff thought, perched above an artists’ café in the depths of Lisbon. The door was an inch or so ajar and the conversation below had stilled to make way for the guitarist. He strummed a couple of mournful chords before a woman began to sing. Her voice was bold, almost incantatory, swelling and dying as the guitarist played on.

‘Fado,’ Hesketh said. ‘The music of fate. The Portuguese adore melancholy. They call it saudade. They set out to discover the New World and ended up missing the old one. Maybe that’s the price of empire, though our lot seem untroubled.’

‘Our lot?’

‘The English. It’s something that Albrecht’s always remarked upon. We painted half the world pink and it never crossed our mind it might belong to someone else. No guilt. And absolutely no melancholy. Personally speaking, he’s honest enough to find that rather admirable. I suspect someone in his bloodline got fucked by an Englishman. Male or female, it probably doesn’t matter. Either way, that might explain his passion for Duglo.’

‘You think…?’

‘I’m making no assumptions. Albrecht is extremely good-looking in a rather un-German way and judging from photographs Duglo more than holds his own. Here and now you want me to report on what happened over the last couple of days and that’s very sensible. I just offer the thought im Vorbeigehen.’

In passing? Moncrieff reached for his glass. Nothing Hesketh brought to the table was by accident.

‘You think they had some kind of relationship?’

‘It’s possible. Duglo’s a man of action. Boxing champion. Record-breaking aviator. Fighter pilot. In fact a true Corinthian.’ He smiled. ‘And you know what those Greeks got up to.’

‘Proof? Evidence?’

‘None. As I just said, they’re good-looking chaps. They have lots in common. He and Duglo shared times together back in the thirties. Which I suspect is rather the point.’

‘So what did he have to say? Haushofer?’

‘Probably more than might have been wise.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I wined and dined him. Not here. I took him to a hotel in the Baixa. Proper tablecloths, silver service, and some seriously expensive wines. Please don’t blame me when you see the bill. This was last night, by the way. Bear in mind the man’s always trusted me. Most Germans, especially nowadays, like to think of themselves as locked doors. It goes with the uniforms and all the Blood Flag nonsense. Not our Albrecht. He’s subtler than that.’

‘You got him drunk?’

‘Very.’

‘And?’

‘More wine?’ Hesketh was reaching for the bottle. He was plainly enjoying this. Moncrieff shook his head and covered his glass with his hand.

‘Explain,’ he said. ‘Tell me what happened.’

Hesketh paused a moment, then shrugged and refilled his own glass. Haushofer, he said, had arrived as an envoy. From his father, he’d inherited an understanding of what bound nations together. From his connections in Berlin, he understood the inner workings of the Reich. And his knowledge of history had given him an extra insight or two.

‘Last night Albrecht put it rather well. At this point, he was still sober, still cogent. We were talking about the earthquake that flattened this place, back in the eighteenth century. It’s 1755. It’s All Saints’ Day. It’s mid-morning. One minute you’re at your window looking out at a medieval city. Six minutes later most of those buildings are rubble. But one escaped and the clinching evidence, which Albrecht understands only too well, is that the building is still there.’

‘Where?’

‘At the top of the hill. Where you’ll always find them.’

‘You mean a castle?’

‘The castle. Castelo de São Jorge. I’ll show you tomorrow, but you don’t have to see it to understand.’

‘About the earthquake?’

‘About Albrecht. He understands fortifications, buildings designed to protect, buildings designed to last. That, dare I say it, is what history teaches us, and it’s a lesson that applies equally to nation states. Some, like France, fall over. Others, like ours, don’t. Lisbon surrendered herself to an earthquake. France lay down in front of the Wehrmacht and spread her shapely legs. Hitler had something similar in mind for us but I gather he’s now decided that it isn’t going to happen.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning there has to be another way. By and large, Hitler is a man without weaknesses. Except for one. He loves the English, he counts them as Blutsbruder, and, worse still, he thinks he understands them. He’s wrong, of course, but life is all about opportunity and here, dare I say it, is the perfect example.’

Blutsbruder. Blood brothers.

Moncrieff nodded. After the first couple of sips, he’d barely touched his wine.

‘Go on,’ he said.

‘Hitler, of course, has other things on his mind. History is full of pleasing little ironies and here’s one of them. Albrecht’s father, as you may know, planted the seed of Lebensraum in Hitler’s fertile little brain. It came via Hess, Hitler’s Deputy, and it stuck there among all the other rubbish. Living room in the east. The prospect of ceaseless plunder, of limitless blood and untold treasure. Hitler needed no prompting. If I was a Russian I’d have taken a good look at Mein Kampf before I had anything to do with Ribbentrop, but now it’s probably too late. In certain circles in Germany they’re laying bets on exactly when the men in grey will roll east. Albrecht’s bet the family fortune on late May. Hitler always invades on a Sunday. It’s become a habit. Barring accidents, that means either the eighteenth or the twenty-fifth. A war on two fronts, if you’re sane, would be unthinkable. No one’s quite sure about Hitler’s sanity but everyone assumes he can count. Heading for Moscow with Churchill up his arse conjures all kinds of nightmares. So there has to be a better way.’

‘According to Hitler?’

‘Emphatically. Horse’s mouth.’

‘Says who?’

‘Our Albrecht.’ Hesketh reached for his glass. ‘And we hadn’t even started on the third bottle.’

*

Moncrieff slept at a hotel elsewhere in the city. Before turning out the light, he made notes on the evening’s discussions with Hesketh and awoke twice in the middle of the night to add one or two afterthoughts. Next morning, he made his way downstairs to the hotel’s restaurant to find Hesketh already at a table beside the window. He was enjoying a cigarette and crumbs on his plate suggested he’d already had breakfast.

‘Try the pastéis de nata.’ He gestured towards a pile of golden tartlets on the table beside the door.

Moncrieff preferred to wait for coffee. The view from the window seemed to take in half the city: a tumble of red roofs falling towards the startling blue of the water. Tiny yellow trams rumbled up the hill towards the hotel and from the river came the distant parp-parp of a departing freighter. Watching the sheer busyness of the city, Moncrieff was reminded of Napoleon’s luckless attempts to throttle Portuguese trade. These people lived to barter, he thought. Much like Hesketh.

After breakfast, at Hesketh’s insistence, they left the hotel to make for a nearby park. The park was huge, acres and acres of carefully tended grassy slopes that offered yet more views of the city. Near a soaring greenhouse towards the top of the park lay a pond full of lazy carp. Children, often in the care of much older women, fed the carp with scraps of bread before running off to a play area shaped like a galleon in full sail. Hesketh found a bench. It was already mid-morning, and Moncrieff could feel a thin warmth in the early spring sunshine.

‘I should take you to the Jerónimos Monastery. Vasco da Gama’s buried there. And we ought to pay the Belém Tower a visit. That’s where the imperial story begins and ends.’

Moncrieff shook his head. He hadn’t come here as a tourist with a list of must-see locations. He was more than content to let the city grow on him, street corner by street corner. It was a scruffy place and he liked that. Every time they’d stopped en route to the park he’d noticed faces at the tram stops, housewives shopping for bread and pastries, huddled in endless conversations, queues of refugees seeking visas outside the foreign consulates, an old man with a pigeon on his shoulder gazing thoughtfully into a fountain. The city was full of these little glimpses. What the Portuguese seemed to treasure above all was peace.

Moncrieff asked where Hesketh lived. He’d just lit yet another cigarette. He waved vaguely across the city beyond the castle.

‘There,’ he said. The gesture meant nothing.

‘An apartment? A whole house?’

‘The former. Nothing grand but perfectly serviceable. Everyone here lives in layers, floor by floor. Fundamentally it’s a balance between privacy and neighbourliness. It’s a trick you learn when you stop being so poor that you rely entirely on others. They’ve spent centuries practising and now they’re very good at it.’

‘And it’s cheap?’

‘Extremely. That’s one of the charms of the place. In case you’re wondering, I have a modest trust fund. I owe my dear pa for that. This far south it buys you everything you need. Not that a little extra wouldn’t be more than welcome.’

They spent several minutes wrangling about money. Moncrieff made it plain that he could authorise a supplementary payment but it had to be against results. So far he knew that Haushofer was representing powerful elements within the Reich and seemed to carry authorisation from the very top. It seemed that Berlin was in the process of finalising a peace offer and Moncrieff was now relying on Haushofer’s intelligence contacts to nominate the British faces they wanted to see at the table.

‘Last night you told me anyone but Churchill or those warrior chums of his,’ Moncrieff said. ‘As it happens, they wouldn’t be interested anyway. Churchill won’t let anyone in his circle close to a German. House rules.’

‘So I gather,’ Hesketh was smiling. ‘Which leaves us spoiled for choice. Senior businessmen, perhaps? A handful of backwoods aristocrats? And a sprinkle of the haute juiverie to add a little savoir faire?’

‘You mean bankers?’

‘I do.’

‘And Duglo?’

‘I’m not sure. That’s a personal view, of course. Albrecht believes the good Duke is aching for an outbreak of sanity and, God knows, he might be right. Duglo is Albrecht’s key to lots of doors.’

‘You know he’s Lord Steward of the Household, now? The King’s representative in Scotland?’

‘Of course I do, and so does Albrecht. These people are highly intelligent. They have the finest army in Europe. They eat entire countries for breakfast. But they have very strange ideas about the way we run our constitution. Albrecht and his father are the same. They both think that real power rests with the monarch. All you have to do is to gain Bertie’s ear. Remind him what happened to the Romanovs. Assure him that Berlin will put the Communists out of their misery. Do that, they say, and we’ll all be watching the ink dry on the peace treaty. I do my best to point out that we English live in a democracy. That power lies in Parliament. And that Churchill, as Prime Minister, wants nothing to do with peace treaties. But all this tiresome detail falls on deaf ears. The Germans assume that Bertie can snap his fingers and Churchill will be gone. Sadly, they’re wrong.’

Moncrieff nodded. ‘Bertie’ was Palace-speak for King George VI. He’d heard Cathy Phelps use the same nickname.

‘They have a meeting place in mind? For these negotiations?’

‘Albrecht mentioned Sylt.’

‘That’s where it happened last time. Is this Goering’s little party?’

‘Albrecht wouldn’t say. Sylt’s an island, of course. It’s part of the Reich now but Berlin would guarantee safe passage. And there’s something else that might please your lords and masters.’

‘What, exactly?’

‘Hitler would be there. As long as we’re in good faith.’

Good faith. Moncrieff had no idea whether Hesketh was bluffing. He was both plausible and fluent but there was absolutely no proof that any of these stories were true. A well-spoken fantasist, he thought. Relaxing in the Lisbon sunshine.

‘Well?’ Hesketh still wanted to know about the money.

‘I need more detail from Haushofer.’

‘In what respect?’

‘I need to know exactly where we go from here. I need an assurance that Haushofer can deliver what he’s promising. And I need sight of the terms of the German offer.’

‘And after that?’

‘We have another conversation.’

‘About a bigger fee?’

‘Yes.’

‘I see.’

There was a long silence. Hesketh tapped ash onto the grass, and then tipped his face to the sun. Moncrieff was looking across at the pond.

‘Over there,’ he said. ‘Beside the water.’ Hesketh opened his eyes and followed Tam’s pointing finger. ‘Did you ever come across the parable of the dog with the bone?’

‘I’m afraid not. Is this something I need to know?’

‘It might be. Just listen. A dog is standing beside a lake. It’s a sunny day, much like this one. The dog has a big meaty bone in its mouth. The water is totally still, mirror-still. The dog looks at his reflection in the lake. He sees another dog. With another bone. And so he snaps at it. And what happens? He drops the bone in his mouth,’ Moncrieff smiled. ‘Might I assume you get the point?’

‘Of course. The dog’s greedy. And pays the price.’

‘You’re right. But it’s more than that. The other dog was a mirage. It never existed.’

Moncrieff left Lisbon late that afternoon. Hesketh, as urbane and opaque as ever, accompanied him to the flying boat terminal. They exchanged handshakes in the sunshine outside the departures hall and Hesketh confirmed that his personal PO Box was still the best way of staying in touch.

Moncrieff thanked him for his time. He’d given Hesketh a confidential telephone number at St James’s. Should anything happen over the next couple of days, he’d welcome a call and a conversation.

‘Are you happy with that?’

‘Sim. Perfeito. Boa viagem.’

Moncrieff held his gaze for a moment and then turned to leave. The pontoon stirred on the outgoing tide beneath his feet. When he next checked the departures hall, Hesketh had gone.

*

The flight back to Poole filled up quickly. Seats were preassigned and Moncrieff found himself sitting beside a suited figure in his early thirties with carefully parted hair and a light stammer. Deep in a novel, he looked up when Moncrieff eased his long frame into the adjoining seat.

‘Bit of a squeeze, I’m afraid,’ Tam smiled. ‘Think on the bright side. Only six hours to go.’

The stranger nodded. He agreed that conditions were foul. Pre-war, he said, everyone had time. Time meant three days at sea, possibly more, but pay a little extra and you could expect service in your cabin and a choice of champagnes at dinner. He returned to his book. His English accent was wedded to a strangely deferential charm.

The flying boat, exactly on schedule, took off at a quarter to five. The captain carved a path across the waters of the Tagus and then hauled the aircraft into a shallow climb. Above a thin layer of cloud, the sun was already beginning to settle in the west.

Thanks to Hesketh, Moncrieff had laid hands on a copy of The Times before embarkation. The newspaper was three days old but after briefly scanning the headlines he settled down to the crossword. It was hot in the cabin, the air still thick with cigarette smoke, and within minutes Moncrieff’s head began to nod. Seconds later, he was asleep.

By the time he awoke, three and a half hours later, it was dark outside the half-curtained window. His companion, his book still open on his lap, was nursing a glass of what looked like Scotch. Aware of Moncrieff stirring beside him, he reached inside his jacket and produced a silver flask.

‘Fancy a snort? It’s only Laphroaig, I’m afraid.’

Moncrieff liked the single malt and said so.

‘You have to be north of the border with an accent like that.’

‘I’m afraid so. Scots through and through.’ With some awkwardness in the confined space, Moncrieff offered a hand. ‘Tam Moncrieff.’

‘Philby. Say when.’ He’d found another glass. Moncrieff watched him pour.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘More than generous.’

They settled down again. Even at cruising speed, the thunder of the four engines didn’t encourage conversation. Moncrieff, back with his crossword, sipped at the malt. Seven across. Four letters. Coarse person, unknown character becoming top.

Spiv? Caid? Tam shook his head, looked at the clues for the surrounding spaces. Nothing seemed to fit. Three pages earlier, he’d noticed a lengthy review for a book on the Highland Clearances. The fate of Scottish crofters had always fascinated him and he took his time reading the piece. Then he returned to the crossword, hoping the malt might have summoned a little inspiration.

‘Apex,’ said a voice at his elbow. ‘And I rather think that makes six down Marxism. Do you mind terribly? Or should I be reading my book?’

‘Not at all. I’m grateful.’

Moncrieff pencilled both words in. His companion, to his slight irritation, was right. He gazed at the crossword a moment longer. Should he persevere? And invite further humiliation? Or should he just fold the paper and call it a night?

‘He’s a little shit, you know.’ Philby again, his mouth close to Moncrieff’s ear. ‘The man Hesketh. If he told you he went to Lancing College, he’s right, but what he won’t tell you is what happened after they caught him with his sticky little fingers in the till. And as for the Balliol tie, he’s never been near the place. I’m afraid he’s a bottom feeder. Lisbon’s full of them. They pick up all the rubbish and simply sell it on. If you’ve got deep pockets by all means go ahead but when it comes to product you’ll find the stuff stinks. Just a thought, old boy.’ He smiled, tipping his glass. ‘Here’s to crime.’

Moncrieff said nothing. His mind was racing. He had to assume that Philby, too, lived in the shadows of the intelligence world. Had he seen Hesketh at the departures hall? And drawn his own conclusions? Or did he know a great deal more?

Moncrieff reached for his pencil. Most of the crossword was still empty.

‘SIS?’ he wrote. The Secret Intelligence Service. MI6. The Broadway-based agency charged with gathering intelligence abroad.

Philby nodded, and beckoned Moncrieff closer.

‘I head the Iberian Station,’ he said. ‘A small parish but intensely interesting. Madrid? Gib? Tangier? Lisbon? A man could do worse.’

‘And Hesketh?’

‘We used him for a while. He’s good at what he does but what he does, alas, has very little connection with the truth. Those history books earn him peanuts. He should recognise his own talents and write fiction. I told him once, back in the early days when we thought he was some kind of prospect, but he just laughed. That was when the courtship was still young. He’s getting older now, and it shows.’

Moncrieff nodded, said nothing. Albrecht Haushofer? Some kind of peace offer from the very top of the Reich? How much did this man know? Where, exactly, had he been these last two days? Had the pair of them – Souk and his lanky handler – been under surveillance? Had MI6 agents been watching them at the restaurant? At the hotel? On the bench in the park? And if so, why?

The aircraft droned on. Philby had returned to his book. Feigning sleep, Moncrieff badly wanted the flight to end. Hours later, an abrupt change in the roar of the engines signalled the beginnings of a descent. At the same time, a uniformed sergeant advanced down the aisle, checking left and right. Seat belts on, please. Landing in fifteen minutes.

The flying boat touched down with a series of jolts. Moncrieff, peering past Philby into the darkness, saw dancing crescents of sea spray in the throw of light from the cabin. Minutes later, the aircraft nudged the pontoon as the pilot finally throttled the engines back.

Passengers were already on their feet, plucking at stowed luggage. Moncrieff joined them, elbowing his way into the queue that had formed in the aisle. Only Philby hadn’t moved.

Moncrieff gazed down at him.

‘Not joining us?’

‘Alas, no,’ Philby shook his head, ‘I’m flying back tonight. Line of duty, old boy. And just for the record, we think you might be straying off the reservation.’