The Blitz on London, the carnage it caused, was so terrible that the red glow in the sky at night could be seen by Luftwaffe planes taking off in France, and by day, the sky seemed full of bombers, the contrails crisscrossing the horizon of hundreds of RAF and Luftwaffe planes fighting it out.
The Knight’s Cross was awarded to those who shot down more than twenty planes. Galland already had it, plus the Oak Leaves for a second award. Max got the Cross on 10 September, although by then he’d taken care of at least thirty planes.
Harry and Hawk Squadron engaged in all the battles, six or seven sorties a day, flying to the point of exhaustion and taking heavy losses. It finally reached a point where he was the only surviving member of the original squadron. And then came the final huge battles of 15 September: 400 Luftwaffe fighters over the South of England and London against 300 Spitfires and Hurricanes.
In a strange way, nobody won. The Channel was still disputed territory and the Blitz on London and other cities continued, although mainly by night. Hitler’s grandiose scheme for the invasion of England, Operation Sealion, had to be scrapped, but Britain was still left standing alone, and the Führer could now turn his attention to Russia.
In Berlin in early November, it was raining hard as Heinrich Himmler got out of his car and entered Gestapo headquarters in Prinz Albrechtstrasse. A flurry of movement from guards and office staff followed him as he passed through to his office dressed in his black Reichsführer SS dress uniform. He wore his usual silver pince-nez and his face was as enigmatic as ever, as he went up the marble stairs to his suite of offices, where his secretary, a middle-aged woman in the uniform of an SS auxiliary, stood up.
‘Good morning, Reichsführer.’
‘Find Sturmbannführer Hartmann for me.’
‘Certainly, Reichsführer.’
Himmler went into his palatial office, put his briefcase on the desk, opened it, then extracted some papers, sat down and looked them over. There was a knock at the door and it opened.
‘Ah. Hartmann.’
‘Reichsführer.’
Hartmann wore an unusual uniform, consisting of flying blouse and baggy pants Luftwaffe-style, but in field grey. His collar tabs were those of a major in the SS, although he wore the Luftwaffe’s pilot’s badge and sported an Iron Cross First and Second Class. He also wore the German Cross in gold. The silver cuff title on his sleeve said RFSS: Reichsführer SS. This was the cuff title of Himmler’s personal staff. Above it was the SD badge indicating that he was also a member of Sicherheitsdienst, SS Intelligence, a formidable combination.
‘In what way can I be of service, Reichsführer?’
At that time, Hartmann was thirty, almost six feet with a handsome, craggy face, his broken nose – the relic of an air crash – giving him a definite attraction. He wore his hair, more red than brown, in close-cropped Prussian style. A Luftwaffe fighter pilot who had been badly injured in a crash in France before the Battle of Britain, he’d been posted to the Air Courier Service, to transport high-ranking officers in Fieseler Storch spotter planes, when a strange incident had occurred.
Himmler’s visit to Abbeville had been curtailed and, due to bad weather, the Junkers which had been due to pick him up had been unable to get in. As it happened, Hartmann was at the airfield with his Storch, having dropped off a general, and Himmler had commandeered him.
What had happened then was like a bad dream. Rising above low cloud and rain, Hartmann had been bounced by a Spitfire. Bullets shredding his wings, he’d had the courage to go back to the mess below, with the Spitfire in on his tail. A further salvo had shattered his windscreen and rocked the aircraft.
Himmler, incredibly calm, had said, ‘Have we had it?’
‘Not if you like a gamble, Reichsführer.’
‘By all means,’ Himmler told him.
Hartmann had gone down into the mist and rain, 2000, 1000, broken into open country at 500 feet, and hauled back on the control column. Behind him, the Spitfire pilot, losing his nerve, had backed away.
Himmler, a notoriously superstitious man, had always asserted that he believed in God and was immediately convinced that Hartmann was an instrument of divine intervention. Having him thoroughly investigated, he was enchanted to discover that the young man had a doctorate in law from the University of Vienna, and the upshot was that Hartmann was transferred to the SS on Himmler’s personal staff to be his pilot and goodluck charm, but, in view of his legal background, he was also to serve with SS intelligence as the Reichsführer’s personal aide.
Himmler said, ‘The Blitz on London continues. I’ve been with the Führer. We will overcome in the end, of course. Panzers will yet roll up to Buckingham Palace.’
With personal reservations, Hartmann said, ‘Undeniably, Reichsführer.’
‘Yes, well, we let the English stew for the time being and turn to Russia. The Führer has an almost divine inspir-ation here. At most, six weeks should see the Red Menace overcome once and for all.’
Hartmann, in spite of serious doubts, agreed. ‘Of course.’
‘However,’ Himmler said, ‘I’ve spoken to Admiral Canaris about the intelligence situation in England and frankly, it’s not good.’ Canaris headed the Abwehr, German Military Intelligence. ‘As far as I can judge, all our Abwehr agents in Britain have been taken.’
‘So it would appear.’
‘And we can do nothing.’ Himmler was angry. ‘It’s disgraceful!’
‘Not quite, Reichsführer,’ Hartmann said. ‘As you know, I’ve taken over Department 13, after Major Klein died of cancer last year. And I’ve discovered that he recruited a few deep cover agents before the war.’
‘Really? Who would these people be?’
‘Irish mostly, disaffected with the British establishment. Even the Abwehr has had dealings with the Irish Republican Army.’
‘Ach, those people are totally unreliable,’ Himmler told him.
‘With respect, not all, Reichsführer. And Klein also recruited to his payrolls various neutrals – some Spanish and Portuguese diplomats.’
Himmler got up and went to the window. He stood, hands behind his back, then turned. ‘You are telling me we have, in the files, deep cover agents the Abwehr doesn’t know about?’
‘Exactly.’
Himmler nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, this is good. I want you to pursue this matter, Hartmann, in addition to your usual duties, of course. Make sure they are still in place and ready when needed. Do you understand me?’
‘At your command, Reichsführer.’
‘You may go.’
Hartmann returned to his own office, where his secretary, Trudi Braun, forty and already a war widow, looked up from her desk. She was devoted to Hartmann – such a hero, and a tragic figure besides, his wife killed in the first RAF raid on Berlin. She was unaware that Hartmann had almost heaved a sigh of relief when it happened; his wife had chased everything in trousers from the start of their marriage.
‘Trouble, Major?’ she asked.
‘You could say that, Trudi. Come in and bring coffee.’
He sat behind his desk and lit a cigarette, and she joined him two minutes later, a cup for her and a cup for him. She sat in the spare chair.
‘So?’
Hartmann took a bottle of brandy from a drawer and poured some in his coffee, mainly because his left leg hurt, another legacy of that plane crash.
‘Trudi, I know our esteemed Reichsführer believes God is on our side, but he now also believes Operation Sealion will still take place.’
‘Really, sir?’ Trudi had no opinion on such matters.
‘So, that list of Klein’s you told me about. You worked for him – give me a full rundown on it, particularly the Spanish or Portuguese that were on his payroll.’
‘They still are, Major.’
‘Well, now it’s pay-up time. Come on, Trudi.’
She said, ‘Well, one of the contacts, a Portuguese man in London named Fernando Rodrigues, has actually passed on low-grade information from time to time. He works at their London embassy.’
‘Really,’ Hartmann said. ‘And who else?’
‘Some woman called Dixon – Sarah Dixon. She’s a clerk at the War Office in London.’
Hartmann sat up straight. ‘Are you serious? We have a clerk in the War Office and she’s still in place?’
‘Well, she was never Abwehr. You see, if I may talk about how things were before your arrival, Major, only the Abwehr were supposed to run agents abroad. Major Klein’s operation for SD was really illegal. So, when the Brits penetrated the Abwehr and lifted all their agents in England, ours were left intact. They were never compromised.’
‘I see.’ Hartmann was excited. ‘Get me the files.’
Fernando Rodrigues was a commercial attaché at the Portuguese London embassy and his brother, Joel, was a commercial attaché at the Berlin embassy. Very convenient. Hartmann read the files and recognized the two of them for what they were: greedy men with their hands out. So be it. At least you knew where you were with people like that and you could always cut the hand off.
Sarah Dixon was different. She was forty-five, the widow of George Dixon, a bank clerk who’d died of war wounds from 1917. Originally Sarah Brown, she’d been born in London of an English father and Irish mother. Her grandfather, an IRA activist in the Easter Rising in Dublin against the British, had been shot.
She lived alone in Bayswater in London, had worked as a clerk at the War Office since 1938. She had originally been recruited as an IRA sympathizer by an IRA activist named Patrick Murphy in 1938 during the bombing campaign in London and Birmingham and Murphy had worked for Klein and the SD. She’d agreed to co-operate and then Murphy had been shot dead in a gun fight with Special Branch policemen.
Hartmann looked up. ‘So, she’s still waiting?’
‘So it would appear, Major.’
‘Good. Get this Joel Rodrigues at the Portuguese embassy here. You handle it. Tell him to contact his brother in London by diplomatic pouch. He’s to link up with this Mrs Dixon, make sure she’s still available if we need her. Any trouble with these Rodrigues brothers, let me know and we’ll put the fear of God in them.’
‘Very well, Major.’
Trudi went out and Hartmann lit another cigarette. ‘What a way to run a war,’ he said, softly.
‘So you see,’ Trudi Braun said to Joel Rodrigues as he sat across the desk from her, ‘it’s quite simple. Your brother contacts this woman and cultivates her. Her work at the War Office in London should be worth something, plenty of juicy information to be obtained there. Nothing too heavy, mind you. He can keep it low key. We don’t want her compromised. There may come a time when she’s going to be really useful.’
Rodrigues was upset and it showed. ‘I don’t know, Frau Braun. Perhaps my brother, Fernando, won’t be happy about this.’
Hartmann, listening in the adjacent room, door ajar, entered at once. Joel Rodrigues took one look at that magnificent uniform and started to sweat.
‘Your brother has no option and when you write to him, care of your embassy’s diplomatic pouch,’ Hartmann said, ‘you will remind him that he has been on a monthly retainer for three years now and has done little to earn it.’
Rodrigues was on his feet. ‘Please, Major, I didn’t mean to imply there would be a difficulty here.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. I would remind you that you also have been well paid for rather minuscule services to the Reich, so get on with it.’
‘Of course. You may rely on me.’
Rodrigues got to the door fast. As he opened it Hartmann said, ‘I know everything about you, Rodrigues. Personally, I consider your sexual orientation your own affair, but I would remind you that in the Third Reich homosexuality is an offence punishable by a term in a labour camp.’
Rodrigues was trembling. ‘Yes, Major.’
‘Of course, if you behave yourself …’ Hartmann shrugged.
‘I’m very grateful, Major.’
‘Good. That was a nice villa you bought your parents in Estoril. They must be very happy in their retirement. A pity to disturb them.’ He smiled coldly. ‘I have a long arm, my friend. Now get out.’
Rodrigues exited and Trudi said, ‘Sometimes I don’t recognize you.’
‘Sometimes I don’t recognize myself, my love, but if I hadn’t been as hard as I was, he wouldn’t have been scared out of his wits. It’s all play-acting, Trudi, in this wonderful production we call the Third Reich.’
He turned and went back to his office.
Later that evening, he accompanied Himmler to a reception at the Adlon, held in the ballroom. The Führer held court, with his entourage hovering. There was Josef Goebbels, Reich Minister of Propaganda and Minister of State for Total War, Admiral Wilhelm Canaris, Chief of Military Intelligence, von Ribbentrop, Foreign Minister.
‘The only one missing appears to be that fat fool Goering,’ Himmler said acidly, waving away a waiter with glasses of champagne on a tray, much to Hartmann’s regret. ‘Although he should be ashamed to show his face after the failure of his fighters over Britain.’
Truly angry, Hartmann contained himself by lighting a cigarette because he knew Himmler could not abide smoking. Before Himmler could comment, however, Goering entered.
‘The woman on his arm,’ Himmler said. ‘Isn’t that the Baroness von Halder?’
‘I believe so,’ Hartmann said.
‘Is she his mistress?’
‘My information is that she is not, Reichsführer.’
‘She had an American husband, did she not?’
‘Died years ago.’
‘Interesting. So are her diamonds. How does she manage?’
‘Her late husband’s father is an American Senator, a millionaire many times over. He set up a trust for her in Sweden. She receives substantial sums from there.’
‘You are singularly well-informed.’
‘We have a file on her.’
‘And who are the two Luftwaffe officers with Goering?’
‘The one in the white dress jacket is Major Adolf Galland, the highest scorer in the Battle of Britain – and that includes both sides.’
‘And the Captain?’
‘Baron von Halder, her son. They call him the Black Baron.’
‘How theatrical.’
‘A brilliant flyer. Spain, Poland. He shot down twenty there and twenty-nine over the Channel. He received the Knight’s Cross back in September. He’s one of those who’s been flying against London. His total score as of last week was sixty.’
‘Impressive. You like him?’
‘We flew together for a while before my crash.’
‘Friends, then?’
Hartmann shrugged. ‘In a way, but Max Kelso is a strange man and difficult to get close to.’
‘Kelso?’
‘His father’s name. And one thing more. He has a twin brother – who flies with the RAF.’
‘Good God.’ Himmler frowned. ‘Is that true?’ He stared across the room for a moment. ‘Make sure you keep the file on the von Halders open. I smell something I don’t like here.’
At that moment, Goering called for silence and turned to Hitler. ‘My Führer, you have decorated Major Galland twice and you know Baroness von Halder well. But her son here, Baron von Halder, received his Knight’s Cross from me in France during the attacks on England. Only two days ago he was flying over London helping to protect our gallant bomber crews. I had him flown here for a special reason. His score of enemy planes now stands at sixty and for this, he has been awarded the Oak Leaves for the Knight’s Cross.’ Goering nodded to Galland, who passed a red leather box to him. ‘I beg you, my Führer, to honour this brave officer personally.’
There was silence while Hitler gazed at Max with that strange penetrating look and then he nodded gravely and held out his hand.
‘You are wrong, Reichsmarschall. The honour is mine.’ Goering handed him the medal and Hitler in turn presented it to Max. He shook his hand. ‘The Reich is proud of you, Baron.’ He turned to Elsa. ‘And you, too, Baroness, like all mothers, honour the Reich.’
The entire crowd burst into applause. The Führer nodded then, seeing Himmler, beckoned and the Reichsführer moved to join him. Hartmann seized his chance and reached for a glass of champagne.
‘Well, that went well,’ Elsa von Halder said.
‘Yes, you must be proud of your boy here,’ Goering told her. ‘I only wish he’d dress up. Look at him. Straight out of a cockpit.’ He thumped Max on the shoulder. ‘Mind you, the public loves it.’ He took a glass of champagne from a waiter and then Hitler beckoned him also. ‘Duty calls,’ he said, put his glass on the nearest tray and left them.
Hartmann appeared, slightly diffident. ‘Dolfo – Max,’ he said.
‘My God, it’s Bubi.’ Galland laughed.
Max shook Hartmann’s hand. ‘You old bastard. We thought you were finished after the crash.’
‘They made me a courier pilot in a Storch. I had to pick up the Reichsführer one day in France, a Spitfire tried to bounce us. I bounced him instead – and here I am.’
‘In a Storch?’ Galland said. ‘A considerable feat.’
‘Anyway, Himmler decided I was lucky and made me his personal pilot, only he insisted I be transferred to the SS.’
‘Well, you can’t have everything.’ Max turned to his mother. ‘Mutti, this is an old comrade, Bubi Hartmann.’
‘Sturmbannführer,’ she said. ‘What a pretty uniform.’
‘I am, alas, Baroness, but a poor player.’ He kissed her hand. ‘May I add to your pride in your son here? I am told that your other boy was awarded his second Distinguished Flying Cross last week.’
‘My God,’ she said.
‘Are you sure about this?’ Galland demanded.
‘Oh, yes. The Reichsführer makes me spend my spare time helping out in the SD. Our intelligence sources are very good.’ He turned to Max. ‘The Biggin Hill attack, 30 August? He had to bail out over the Channel off Folkestone.’
Max turned to Galland. ‘The day I made my beach landing.’
‘He was picked up by an RAF crash boat. The week before, he bailed out over the Isle of Wight. He was awarded his first DFC flying over France before the Battle.’
‘And the second?’
‘As I said, last week. It was in the London Gazette. We get it regularly courtesy of the Portuguese embassy. ‘Sustained and gallant action’ and shooting down an ME 109 and four Dorniers on the same day, all confirmed kills.’
Elsa turned to Max. ‘He’s as bad as you, as bad as your father. You all have the same death wish.’
‘Never mind, Mutti.’ Max waved to a waiter. ‘Champagne for all of us and let’s drink to Harry.’
‘And gallant pilots everywhere,’ Adolf Galland said. ‘Whoever they are.’
On the following day, Harry Kelso had an appointment in London. It was raining, St James’s Park shrouded in mist as his taxi drove up Pall Mall to Buckingham Palace. Harry smoked a cigarette, his cheeks hollow, his face pale.
‘Here, guv, you up for a medal or something?’ the cabby demanded. ‘I mean, that’s the DFC you got there already, isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, well they’re giving them away at the moment,’ Harry said. ‘It’s that sort of day.’
‘Christ, you’re a Yank, guvnor. What are you doing in the RAF?’
‘Oh, there are a few of us around,’ Harry told him.
A policeman waved them through the gates into the courtyard of the Palace. Harry got out his wallet and the cabby waved it away. ‘You must be bleeding mad, guvnor. You don’t even have to be here.’
‘Oh, yes, I do,’ Harry Kelso said.
He went through the main entrance and mounted the stairs to the picture gallery, following the crowd. Court officials seated people, a military band played light music. After a while they struck up ‘God Save the King’ and King George and Queen Elizabeth came in and sat in chairs up on the dais.
Awards were called in ascending order. There hadn’t been time in the midst of the Battle of Britain for Kelso to go through this for the first award. He was not nervous, but tense and then his name was called.
‘Flight Lieutenant Harry Kelso, Finland.’
Somehow he was there, the King in front of him. He pinned on the DFC. ‘Finland by way of Boston, I believe, Flight Lieutenant? We’re very grateful.’
‘My privilege, your Majesty.’
Later, he walked rather aimlessly through the crowd, strangely lonely. He had no one because there was no one. He turned out of the gate and was immediately hailed.
‘Harry. Over here,’ and there was an RAF staff car, West leaning out of it.
‘Air Commodore now, I see,’ Harry said.
‘Fast promotion, Harry, it’s a fast war. I knew you were up for your gong today. Thought I’d take you to my old club, the Garrick. They still do a decent lunch. Basic, but sustaining.’
‘Sounds good to me.’
‘Off we go then.’
At the Garrick, they sat in the corner of the bar and enjoyed a whisky and soda and Dougal Munro and Jack Carter came in wearing uniform.
‘Dougal,’ West called. ‘Join us.’ They came over and he added, ‘You remember Brigadier Munro and Captain Carter, Harry? They were at Downfield when you tested the 109 for us.’ He smiled. ‘Harry’s just been to the Palace for a bar to his DFC.’
‘Splendid,’ Munro said. ‘Let’s split a bottle of champagne on it.’ He called to the barman. ‘Veuve Cliquot, 31 and don’t say no. I know you’ve got some.’ He offered Harry a cigarette. ‘Actually, you could do me a favour, old boy.’
‘And what would that be, sir?’
‘Oh, don’t call me sir. I was a professor of archaeology before the war. They made me a brigadier so that I can, what I believe you Americans describe as, kick ass.’
Harry laughed. ‘Pretty succinct, Brigadier. What can I do for you?’
‘Same as last time only this time a Fieseler Storch spotter plane. Are you familiar with it?’
‘Certainly. We used them in Finland. How did you get it?’
‘The compass malfunctioned. Flying by night from Holland, the pilot landed in Kent and thought he was in France. Would tomorrow morning suit you? Downfield again?’
‘My pleasure.’
‘Good. I’ve got a treat for you. My niece is joining us. Molly – Molly Sobel. American actually. Her father’s a colonel at the War Department. The parents parted, so she came here in ’35 when she was seventeen to live with her mother and go to medical school.’
‘Did she qualify?’
‘Oh, yes. In 1939. Brilliant girl, a surgeon at the Cromwell Hospital at the moment. Sad though, her mother was killed in the bombing two months ago.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Harry Kelso told him.
‘Aren’t we all,’ Dougal Munro said and then Molly Sobel entered the bar, hesitantly, for by tradition, it was men only. Munro ignored that and got up.
‘Molly, my love, let’s go to the dining room.’
She was, at that time, twenty-three, three months older than Harry. She was a small girl, around five feet four or five, with fair hair, blue eyes and a determined and rather stubborn face. Introductions were made and they all had shepherd’s pie with a bottle of hock.
‘A German wine. That’s ironic,’ she commented.
‘Nothing wrong with a good German wine,’ Harry said.
‘I thought you were a Yank in the RAF,’ she replied.
‘Sure I am, by way of Boston. But I also have a German mother in Berlin right now, and a twin brother who’s a captain in the Luftwaffe.’ He grinned when he saw he’d left her speechless. That was the usual reaction.
‘Doing very well, the Baron,’ Munro told him. ‘Just awarded Oak Leaves to his Knight’s Cross. They’ve certainly made him wait. His score is sixty at the moment, I understand.’
‘And how would you know that?’
‘Oh, I run that kind of department.’ He stood up. ‘Got to go. Got a place to stay tonight?’
Harry shook his head no.
‘I have a flat in Haston Place, only two minutes’ walk from my headquarters. Molly stays there when she’s not at the hospital. Plenty of room. You can stay overnight, if you like.’ Munro patted her on the shoulder. ‘Take care of him, my dear.’ He turned to West. ‘Lift, Teddy?’
‘No, got my own car.’
Off they went, and West lit a cigarette. ‘Listen to me. With more of you Yanks arriving and the numbers already in the RAF, the powers that be are forming what’s going to be known as the Eagle Squadron. All Yanks together. You’ll want to transfer, I imagine.’
‘Not particularly.’ Harry stood and said to Molly, ‘I’m sure you’re busy. If you give me the address, I’ll turn up this evening.’
‘I haven’t had a break in forty-eight hours, so I’ve got the rest of the day off. What do you want to do? Go dancing at the Lyceum? They have an afternoon session.’
‘Walk,’ Harry Kelso told her. ‘I’d just like to walk.’ He turned to West. ‘I’ll see you in the morning, sir.’ He walked to the door with Molly and turned. ‘And do me a favour. Keep me out of this Eagle Squadron thing. I started RAF and I’ll finish RAF.’
‘Actually, Harry, you started Finnish.’
‘Same difference,’ Kelso told him and went out with Molly.
They walked through the city, smoke hanging in the air from the bombing. After a while it started to rain and she put up the umbrella she was carrying.
‘It must have been rough for you, all this,’ he said. ‘Thousands killed, death, destruction. Your hospital must be overflowing.’
‘Most nights are pretty rough, but we get by. People are wonderful. London pride, Noël Coward called it in that song of his.’
‘Your father. Munro told me he was a colonel at the War Department.’
‘That’s right. A flyer like you, bombers.’
‘And your mother was killed in the Blitz two months ago? That was rough.’
‘I didn’t have time to mourn. Too busy in the casualty department.’
They reached the Embankment and looked out at the river, the boats passing up and down, then the rain got heavier and they made for a small shelter. He took out his cigarettes.
‘Do you use these?’
‘The only thing that gets me by.’ She took one, he lit it for her and they sat on a bench. ‘What’s all this about your brother in the Luftwaffe?’
‘My brother Max. Our father was American. Died years ago, but then, Munro being what he is, I’m sure he’s given you all the gory details about my mother, the baroness.’
‘And your brother, the baron.’
‘The Black Baron. A real ace, Max.’
‘But so are you. Doesn’t it bother you?’
‘Max over there and me over here? Same difference. If I’d been born ten minutes earlier, I’d have been over there and he’d have been over here.’
‘No, it’s not the same. Your brother was in Germany. He didn’t have a chance, but you did. You’re an American, but you chose to be here. There’s a difference.’
‘Don’t imply noble motives. I fly, that’s what I do. I flew for the Finns. Now I fly for the Brits. Look, most of those Luftwaffe pilots are just like the young guys back in my squadron at Farley Field. Flyers are flyers.’ He stood up. ‘Anyway, let’s go. I like walking in the rain.’
She took his arm. ‘You look tired.’
‘Tired?’ he laughed. ‘I’m exhausted. We all are. Those left, anyway.’
‘What’s your casualty rate then?’
‘Fighter Command as a whole, fifty per cent. My squadron? I’m the only one left from what we started with at the beginning of the Battle. You’re walking with a ghost, doctor. Look, there’s a pub across the road. I hear they’ve varied the opening hours because of the Blitz. Let’s grab a drink.’
‘You’ll find Scotch in short supply.’
‘Anything for our gallant heroes.’ He smiled, took her arm and they ran across the road.
Later in the afternoon they walked up and had a look at the bomb damage in the West End and generally wandered around. It was early evening when they reached Haston Place. It was a pleasant old square with a central garden.
‘Nice,’ Harry said. ‘Munro told me it’s only a ten-minute walk from his headquarters.’
‘That’s right. SOE in Baker Street.’
‘And who might they be?’
‘Oh, some sort of intelligence unit.’
The house was Georgian, the flat spacious and pleasant. A fire burned in the grate in the sitting room and there were a great many antiques on display, most of them Egyptian.
‘Your uncle was an archaeologist?’
‘Egyptologist, to be exact. Let me get you a drink.’ She poured whisky from a decanter into two glasses. ‘A small one for me. I’m supposed to have a break, but I’m on call if things get rough tonight.’ She toasted him. ‘I’d like to say one thing. You told me your brother was an ace. Well, so are you and, one half Yank to another half Yank, I’m damn proud of you.’
She swallowed her whisky, tears in her eyes and Harry put down his glass and put his hands on her shoulders. ‘Molly, my love, don’t let that shell crack that’s kept you whole. Death night after night, then your dear mother. You’ve been to hell and back.’
‘Still there.’
‘Not you. A soldier’s daughter and a real trouper. You’ll survive, only don’t waste good living time on me. I shouldn’t be here.’
‘That’s a terrible thing to say.’
‘But true. Could I see my room? I’d really appreciate a shower.’
She was sitting by the fire reading The Times when Munro appeared, Jack Carter limping behind. ‘There you are, my dear. Interesting afternoon?’
‘You could say that.’ She folded the newspaper. ‘How are you, Jack?’ She kissed his cheek warmly.
‘All right, old girl.’
‘Any problems with the leg?’
‘Well, it hurts like hell on occasion, but so what?’
‘You’re a lovely man, Jack Carter.’
‘All right, enough of all this mild erotic by-play and give me a Scotch, Jack,’ Munro said and sat down. ‘Find out anything that we didn’t know, Molly?’
‘Not much and I wish you wouldn’t pull me into these devious schemes of yours, Dougal. We spoke about his past, his brother. If you want a doctor’s opinion, he loves his brother, admires him. A real ace, he called him. He didn’t refer to himself that way.’
‘What rubbish,’ Carter said. ‘Don’t believe what you read in the papers. There are so-called aces getting not only the DFC but the DSO as well and believe me, some of the highest scorers are men the public haven’t even heard of. We’ve checked Kelso out. Half the time, he doesn’t even claim a plane down, even lets some youngster in his squadron claim it.’
‘Youngster?’ she said. ‘He’s only twenty-two himself.’
‘Don’t get worked up. All I’m saying is he must be close to top scorer in the Battle. Dammit all, my love, he does have two DFCs.’
‘A man who thinks he shouldn’t be here.’
‘Rather melodramatic, but perhaps apt.’
Harry, having heard most of this on the stairs, came in smiling. ‘Well, here we are. What delights have you got for me tonight, Brigadier?’
‘The River Room at the Savoy. Decent meal, though expensive.’
‘You do have influence.’
‘Not me, Jack. Tell me, if your brother died in action, would you become Baron von Haider?’
‘That’s right.’
‘Well, you and Jack have something in common. Jack’s father is not only a major-general of artillery, he’s also Sir William Carter, Baronet and filthy rich. So, in the right unfortunate circumstances, Jack becomes Sir Jack.’
‘Okay, so he pays for dinner tonight,’ Harry said.
The dinner at the River Room was superb. Smoked salmon, Dover sole, salad, champagne.
‘You wouldn’t know there was a war on,’ Jack said.
The band was playing, Carrol Gibbons and the Orpheans. Molly said, ‘Well, isn’t anyone going to ask me to dance?’
‘I’m too old and Jack’s not up to it any more. Your turn, Flight Lieutenant,’ Munro said.
So Harry took her to the floor and they danced to ‘A Foggy Day in London Town’. ‘Very apt,’ he said. ‘Only make it smoky for foggy.’
‘God, but this is good,’ she said. ‘I feel alive for the first time in weeks. Do you feel alive, Kelso?’
Before he could reply, the head waiter moved towards her through the dancers. ‘I’m sorry, Doctor Sobel. The Cromwell have been on. They want you back as soon as possible.’
They returned to the table. ‘The hospital?’ Munro asked.
‘I’m afraid so.’
He nodded to Carter. ‘Send her in my staff car and tell him to get back as soon as possible.’
She picked up her purse and Carter helped her into her coat. She smiled. ‘Take care, Kelso.’
He didn’t reply, and she turned and went out, Carter limping after her.
Harry and Munro had a brandy, and the Brigadier said, ‘Seventy-one will be the first Eagle Squadron and I believe they want to have two more. They’ll be after you, Harry.’
‘Not if I can help it.’
‘May I ask why?’
‘I told West. I started RAF and I’ll finish RAF. It’s what my old man did in the First World War, but then you know that.’
‘Yes … Harry? I don’t suppose you know, but I handle an outfit that’s putting agents into France by air, usually by Lysander. I don’t suppose you’d be interested?’
‘I’m a fighter pilot.’
‘Fair enough, but there’s a lot of protection in a special duties squadron. Especially from … hungry Eagles, shall we say?’
Harry smiled, but shook his head again.
‘No? Well, all right. Still, you know where I am.’
‘Yes, you could say that,’ Harry told him. ‘Anyway, I’ll fly the Storch for you tomorrow, but I can tell you now. The Lysander is good, but the Storch is better.’
Munro smiled. ‘You know, somehow I thought you’d say that.’