The passport control officer at Tempelhof aerodrome spent an age studying his photograph.
‘Your face is fuller in the picture, Herr Esser,’ he said at last.
‘I’ve lost some weight.’
‘It seems from the stamps that you have travelled extensively – particularly South America: Rio, Montevideo, Santiago, Buenos Aires . . .’
‘My company has business interests in those countries, among others.’
‘What of England, Herr Esser? Have you ever been there?’
‘No.’ He spoke the lie with a straight face. ‘We don’t trade with Britain.’
‘And you have not been to Germany before?’
‘Once, in childhood, that’s all. My parents took me home to meet long-lost relatives, mostly in Krefeld.’
‘But you speak German?’
‘After a fashion. My father insisted I was taught.’
‘You are not related to the Führer’s old comrade Hermann Esser?’
‘Not to my knowledge. I’m afraid I have not heard of the man.’
‘And do you know where your German relatives are now, sir?’
‘No. We lost touch before the last war.’
‘I would like their names, if I may.’
‘Well, I’ll tell you what I remember. But you know, I was six years old. I have little recollection of that time. Now let’s see . . . There were two uncles – Sebastian and Johann, both engineers like my father, I believe. And some cousins, whose names escape me. No, hang on, I remember one little girl about my age – Petra, that was her name. Petra Esser. They were all Essers.’
‘Very well. Do you have non-Aryan blood in your lineage?’
‘You mean Jewish? No, we’re not Jews.’
‘Or Slav, or Gypsy?’
‘German. Pure-bred German. Just like the Führer himself.’
The official stiffened visibly. ‘Please, Herr Esser, do not compare yourself to the Führer.’
He inclined his head. ‘Forgive me.’
The official signalled to a man in a suit standing in a doorway to the right of the passport hall. As he stepped forward, Wilde saw that it was Anton Offenbach.
‘Everything fine?’ he asked.
‘Jawohl, Herr Offenbach. He is all yours now.’
Wilde gave the passport officer a farewell nod and turned towards Offenbach.
From behind him, a last rejoinder from the passport man.
‘And may I wish you a happy birthday, sir.’
Wilde turned back. ‘Oh that was last month.’
You don’t catch me that easily.
‘Indeed, Herr Esser. I hope you had a party and nice gifts.’
‘I’m far too old for all that sort of stuff.’
Wilde turned his attention to Offenbach. After meeting him in Lisbon, he had not expected to see him again. Now he studied him intently and saw the sort of clean, well-groomed young man he had often met in diplomatic circles, both in America and London. Brushed-back hair, smooth shave with a light tan from the Portuguese sun, bright eyes and a ready smile that didn’t need to be genuine in his line of work, but managed to charm nonetheless. He might have been a spy, but he looked exactly what he claimed to be – a young attaché in his country’s foreign service.
‘I am to be your guide and interpreter, Herr Esser.’
‘That sounds like menial work for someone of your seniority, Herr Offenbach.’
‘Not at all – you are a very important person. I must see that your every need is catered for.’
‘I guess I should be flattered.’
‘Of course, we would not wish to hinder you in any way, but I must do my duty. You come from the peaceful streets and fields of America; here we are engaged in the greatest war in history. Which means precautions are needed. I am sorry to say that relations between your country and mine are not as good as they might be. Also, the British are making air raids. We wish to take care of you. We would not want anything to happen to our esteemed American visitor . . .’
Was that some kind of threat? If so, Offenbach managed to conceal it with a warm smile and the briefest touch of his delicate fingers on Wilde’s shoulder. Wilde decided that Anton Offenbach was either an artist or a pianist in his spare time. He also found himself wondering about the man’s time at Oxford; it brought up all sorts of unpleasant possibilities. What if Wilde were to run into someone who had studied at Cambridge recently? The thought didn’t bear thinking about.
‘And I can tell you, sir,’ Offenbach continued, ‘that Reichsminister Todt himself is very much looking forward to meeting you tomorrow morning. He spends much time with the Führer at the Wolfsschanze, but by good fortune he is in Berlin for a day or two and you are at the top of his appointments list.’
Wilde felt his stomach churning. God, how could he – a history professor – talk technical detail with a man of such renown as Fritz Todt? This was the man who’d built the autobahns and now had total control over Germany’s war machine. He affected a dubious expression.
‘To be honest, Offenbach, I’m more interested in meeting your industrialists – they’re the ones who will understand what I can offer. As I’m sure you’re aware, I am a great admirer of Herr Hitler and the National Socialist ideology, but this mission of mine is pure business. Money, not politics.’
‘Please, do not underestimate Herr Doktor Todt. He is a highly qualified engineer and will understand you perfectly, however intricate your explanations. And, of course, as armaments and munitions minister he holds the purse strings and is answerable only to the Führer himself.’
‘But I’ll be able to meet the industry men, too?’
‘Of course.’
‘OK, but before meeting Herr Doktor Todt I intend to visit the US embassy.’
Offenbach was clearly shocked. ‘Why would you wish to do that, Herr Esser?’
‘To pay my respects. I am not here illegally, and just because I wish to trade with Germany, that does not make me a traitor to America, even if I have to bypass certain embargoes. My company . . . we are not politicians or crusaders. Profit is paramount.’
‘I will have to take advice on this.’
‘Take all the advice you want, buddy. The fact is I hate Roosevelt’s guts, as do all decent right-thinking Americans. He’s gone way too far down the wrong road with his Lend-Lease Bill. But still, I am a patriot and it is a custom of mine to make my presence known to the local mission or consulate wherever I travel. More than that, I have an old friend in what remains of the embassy – James Vanderberg. Used to go sailing together on Lake Michigan. I don’t want him thinking I came here in any sort of undercover capacity.’
Offenbach seemed at a loss, clearly discomfited.
Wilde put an overfamiliar arm around his shoulders.
‘Cheer up, Offenbach. I’ve only just arrived – but with my ancestry, I’m one of you and I’ll shout Sieg Heil with the best. In the meantime, I could do with a long bath, a hot meal and a couple of drinks.’
He thought back to the words of Philip Eaton, the evening before he boarded the corvette for the Azores.
‘Whatever you do, Wilde – don’t overdo it. Yes, you’re supposed to be a Nazi sympathiser, but don’t make yourself a fanatic. A good intelligence officer – and the Germans have those – will spot you a mile off if you’re too zealous.’
Wilde took note.
At last the German relaxed.
‘Well, Herr Esser, your personal comfort is easily arranged. A car is waiting – and you have a suite booked at the Adlon. Everything has been laid on at our expense. But first, you must pass through customs.’ He picked up Wilde’s suitcase and steered him towards a doorway. ‘They will wish to inspect your luggage. A mere formality, of course.’
*
Wilde was impressed by his hotel suite. It had every comfort, including a fine shower and separate study and dining room. Bottles of Henkell Sekt and Margaux were waiting for him, along with a box of Swiss chocolates and a bowl of fresh fruit which, he guessed, must be like gold dust in 1941 Berlin, especially this late in the year.
Offenbach had invited him to join him for dinner in the Adlon’s restaurant, but Wilde had declined, saying he was tired and would take some food in his room. They would meet instead at breakfast.
Now he was alone. Glass of red wine in hand, he took his time examining the undersides of the tables and the wall sconces, trying to find the microphones. He couldn’t find any, but he was certain they must be there – perhaps buried in the walls or behind the skirting. One way or another, the Gestapo would be listening to him. Perhaps he should snore, just to keep them awake. At the airport, they had certainly gone through his bag with scrupulous care, taking note of the labels, asking him searching questions about the provenance of certain items, such as his razor and notebook.
Offenbach had noted the lack of any technical papers. Wilde had laughed at his surprise.
‘I’m not giving this away, Herr Offenbach. It’s all in my head. If you want it, then you must pay.’
The more he thought about it – and he had thought about this insane mission a great deal – the more he realised that his only hope of survival lay in the overconfidence of the all-conquering Third Reich. They could surely afford to give him the benefit of the doubt. They occupied most of Western Europe and were busy crushing the Reds in the east. Why, as undisputed masters of a rapidly growing empire, wouldn’t they trust a German-American bearing the promise of a great gift for their war effort? Their country was already overrun by guest workers who threatened to outnumber the locals. What could one Yankee with scholarly glasses and an academic air do to hurt them? Why not just let him go about his business and hope he gave them what they wanted? And if they treated him graciously, he would return to America with a fat contract and would speak highly of the new Germany, and denounce the interventionists and the lend-leasers.
Wilde pulled back the curtain an inch and saw only pitch-dark night. The blackout was in force here, too. Just like England.
*
Romy Dietrich knew she would die soon. She was sure that poor, foolish Father Huber had already been killed and that the men who did it would find her too. They would torture her – and when she broke and revealed Klara’s whereabouts, they would kill her. And then they would kill Klara.
She knew this as certainly as she knew her face in the mirror. An attractive, well-preserved Aryan face, wide-eyed, intelligent and afraid. Too old to call herself young; too young to die.
She was scared of dying, but even more than that she feared pain; she knew she would never withstand it. If – when – she was tortured, she would do or say anything required to put an end to it.
Romy wanted to warn Klara and her guardians. But she could not go to them in case she was already being watched. She could not write because everyone’s post was monitored; likewise the telephone exchange, which had surely already been the downfall of Father Huber.
This stinking guest house in the northern part of Charlottenburg in Berlin, close to the Plötzensee prison, would not protect her for long. The landlady was already suspicious of her. Most of those who roomed here were factory workers from France, the Netherlands and Bohemia, employed at the Siemens plants around Spandau. Why, the good Frau wanted to know, would a respectable middle-aged woman with a rural dialect that clearly marked her down as Austrian be seeking shelter here? From what was she hiding? Was she, perhaps, Jewish?
Romy denied it scornfully.
‘Look at my colouring, dear lady, do I look like a Jew?’
‘Many Jews do not look like Jews. Berlin is full of these dirty U-boats.’
‘Well, I am not one of them.’
The landlady, Frau Schlegel, looked with disdain upon her guest.
‘Others will decide that, not you. Perhaps you are Roman Catholic, which is as bad in my book. Who knows? It is the religion in Ostmark, is it not? We shall see in due course, Frau Dietrich – if that is your real name.’
Of course it was her real name. She had fled her flat in a leafy but unremarkable street in Kreuzberg within an hour of the call from Father Huber. Nor had she been back to the Friedrichshain municipal hospital where she worked as a midwife. With such haste, she had had no way of securing false papers.
She knew what the damned Schlegel woman would do next: denounce her to the district council leader, the winter relief collector or a local SA member, any one of whom would then pass on the information to the Gestapo. These were dangerous days for anyone suspected of having unsound politics or, worse, of being a Jew. Since September, they had been forced to wear the yellow star, and everyone was aware of the dawn raids around the city as increasing numbers were deported eastwards. No one intervened, of course; they were just grateful if they had been left alone.
What was less certain was who exactly was after her. Was the Gestapo even involved, or was this a private operation by men reporting to Bormann? She had no proof, of course. No evidence even that she was being trailed. She just knew. Intuition based on ten long years of waiting for this to happen.
She needed to move again, and move fast. But where could she go? She feared she could be traced anywhere in Germany. If only she could stay hidden with friends or family, but she could not put that burden on them; it would be a death sentence.
One more night, then. She would stay in this filthy hovel just one more night, and then she would move on and never set eyes on the contemptible Schlegel woman again. Her only plan was to catch a train into the heartland of Germany and see where it stopped. Take a chance on some small town, spend a few days there and then move on again. Thank God she had some money.
Later that night, when Kalt and Brunner took her, she cursed herself for not leaving earlier. What she did not know was that they had found her several days ago, that they had been watching her and waiting, all the time hoping to lull her into a belief that she was safe, so that they could follow her if she went to the girl. The option of escape was never open to her.
*
Kalt had decided he could wait no longer. His last phone call with Bormann had been bad. It was as if the Reichsleiter’s spittle and venom could travel along the wires into his ear, so that he had to hold the phone away from his head. And so the days of waiting for Romy Dietrich to lead him to the girl were over. They would extract the information from her by less subtle means.
*
She woke at midnight to light flooding in through the open door to her attic room. Two men she had never seen before stood there, standing either side of Frau Schlegel. One of the men was huge, the other small and bespectacled.
‘That’s her,’ the landlady said. ‘She owes me money.’
‘Send your bill to Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse,’ Kalt said dismissively. ‘Now leave us.’
‘What is she, then – a filthy Jew? I did my duty and informed the authorities that she was trying to hide out here. The least I deserve is the money I’m owed.’
Kalt hustled the woman away without bothering to answer and the two men stepped into the room. Romy was in her nightgown, sitting up against the pillows, fully awake now, clutching the thin blankets to her chest. Brunner grabbed her by the hair and dragged her from the bed. She hit the floor hard.
‘Get up!’ Kalt barked.
‘Who are you? What do you want? I’m not Jewish,’ she managed to say through teeth chattering with fear.
‘We know who you are and what you are. You are Romy Dietrich and you are a midwife. You are coming with us. Get dressed. Don’t bother to struggle or to argue. It will only make it more painful for you.’
*
At the bottom of the narrow staircase, they encountered Frau Schlegel again. Brunner was bundling Romy towards the door. Kalt gestured to the landlady to approach.
‘Tell me what you know of this woman.’
The woman’s shoulders stiffened proudly, like a soldier on parade.
‘I knew she was hiding from something, sir.’ She glared at Romy. ‘I was right, sir, wasn’t I? Is she a Jew?’
‘You spoke with her?’
‘Yes, sir. I wanted to discover the truth.’
‘And she gave her name as what?’
‘Frau Dietrich. Romy Dietrich.’
Leave no trace. Those were the Reichsleiter’s words. Maybe Frau Schlegel knew nothing about the girl – but what if Dietrich had let slip some information? Unlikely, perhaps, but still . . .
Kalt nodded to Brunner and shifted his grey eyes sideways to indicate the landlady. Brunner immediately released his grip on Romy and turned his attention to Frau Schlegel. He was twice her size and it was easy for him to grasp her neck in his powerful hands and snap it. Like a farmer despatching a chicken.