Wilde’s hand went to his pocket, to the carving knife he had stolen from the house. Two young SS guards were emerging into full view. They were tall, straight-backed, with holstered pistols at their belts. Wilde’s grip tightened on the hilt of the blade.
Then he saw Sunny. A head shorter than the men, and walking a little behind them, she had been almost invisible, but now he saw her talking amiably with them.
Wilde’s eyes met hers and she smiled. She touched the arm of the officer nearest to her.
‘Ah, here they are, Herr Major,’ Sunny said in quick German. ‘My driver, Sable, and my niece Klara.’
The officer ignored Wilde but bowed towards Klara and held out his gloved hand to her.
‘Fräulein, it is a pleasure to meet you.’
She took his hand and smiled at him, then took a step back and gave a smart straight-arm salute. He laughed out loud and he and his companion saluted her back. At last the senior man seemed to notice Wilde.
‘Herr Sable – Monsieur Sable – vos papiers, s’il vous plait.’
Wilde’s heart sank; the officer spoke French. He would be found out in an instant. Wilde glanced at Sunny, whose eyes were wide with apprehension but whose mouth was smiling. He looked back at the officer and gave a sharp, submissive bow of the head, loosening his grip on the knife and removing his hand from his pocket. He brought out his papers and handed them over for inspection. The officer studied them carefully, then handed them to his junior officer, who took an age comparing the picture with Wilde’s face. At last he nodded and passed them back.
‘You understand we have to be sure of these things,’ the officer said, reverting to German. ‘I believe Frau Somerfeld has told you whose estate you are entering?’
‘Yes,’ Wilde said, happier at the language switch and the realisation that the two men were not SS after all, but Luftwaffe officers – air force. The winged insignia on their uniforms made that clear. Still frightening, yes, but the Luftwaffe was not renowned for employing the callous cruelty of the SS.
‘And you speak a little German? Good, good. Come, let us get you to the house. You all look as though you need food and rest. Frau Göring has said you are to be looked after.’
*
Was this really happening? Were they being escorted into the centre of Hermann Göring’s country estate by two amiable air-force officers? Wilde began to wonder if he had fallen down a rabbit hole and entered a particularly alarming dreamworld. The walk was only ten minutes, but in that time, he spotted a sniper in a camouflaged tree house, covering the small group with a high-powered rifle, and saw a small herd of bison that looked as though they would have been more at home on the Great Plains of North America than the forests of northern Germany.
Sentries were on guard at the entrance, stationed inside two massive gatehouses, both twenty feet high and decorated with a coat of arms comprising crossed hunting horns, befitting Göring’s title as Reich Master of the Hunt, one his many honorifics. The sentries saluted the two officers, took a perfunctory look at their papers, a slightly longer look at Wilde’s and Sunny’s – and then waved them all through. Another ten-minute walk followed. Neither officer tried to engage Wilde in conversation, much to his relief. Foreign workers were like furniture; they were there, because they were needed, but they did not merit attention. And as for a Frenchman, from one of the conquered territories, such a man was to be tolerated, but nothing more. Sunny also ignored him, as though she, too, considered him nothing more than a worthless flunkey, fit only for driving and carrying out her orders. Instead, she walked with Klara, holding her hand, laughing and joking with her Luftwaffe friends.
That suited Wilde fine.
Now they were at the broad-fronted house, perfectly situated on a narrow strip of land between two beautiful lakes. As someone who thought of a hunting lodge as some sort of wood hut in the forest, Wilde was astonished by the grandeur of Carinhall. A woman with a small girl at her side was standing outside the house as though waiting to greet them as guests.
Good God, that must be Emmy Göring, First Lady of the Third Reich. The nightmare was getting more bizarre by the moment.
*
In the trees, Otto Kalt slammed his fist on the ground. For a brief moment, he had had the girl in his sights – but then she had jumped up, and been whisked away by two Luftwaffe officers.
He thought of trying to take them all out with one sweep of his MP 40 machine pistol, but he couldn’t be sure how Bormann would react to news that two senior German officers had been killed. One girl killed and buried and no one would know; they would just shrug their shoulders and get on with the war. But five people – including two members of the bloody Luftwaffe – that would raise questions. And who could tell whether there weren’t other men close by. The officers’ presence suggested they must be close to an airfield.
He could have killed the girl with a single shot, but then what? He could not have disposed of the body, and Bormann had been clear about that – no trace must be left that she ever existed. Otherwise questions would be asked. Awkward questions.
These computations had taken little more than a couple of seconds, but the hesitation had been enough. Now all he could do was follow them.
It was not easy. He and Brunner had to stay well back from the party of five, and Hans was not light on his feet.
Very soon, he realised that they were not alone in this forest. The place was crawling with soldiers and armed guards and it was a miracle that he and Brunner had not yet been spotted.
What the hell was this place? He had to talk with Bormann again, get new instructions.
*
Wilde sat at a table in the kitchen quenching his thirst with a large stein of cold, frothy beer. The cook and a couple of maids bustled around, smiling at him when he caught their eye. They brought him a plate of two large pork chops with a delicious gravy and fresh bread to mop it up. Wilde ate it with relish; he very much doubted whether the rest of the populace were able to consume such fare on a daily basis.
But what now? What were Sunny and Klara doing elsewhere in this palatial building, with its vast halls replete with tapestries, paintings and ancient statuary? All he could do was wait here and hope that Sunny somehow persuaded her hostess to provide them with a car.
‘Herr Sable?’
He looked up. The cook was standing by him with another plate, this time of small cakes.
‘Danke schön.’
‘Bitte schön,’ she replied and put down the plate in front of him.
The cook nodded and gestured to him to eat. She held up the empty stein inquiringly.
‘Noch ein bier?’
‘Nein, danke. Das war sehr gut.’
‘Ah, sprechen Sie Deutsch?’
‘Ein bisschen.’
The cook looked the part. She was about thirty, well-built and sweaty. Her hearty smile said she was one of those people who considered it their God-given purpose in life to fill people’s bellies with good food. Having no idea how long it would be until his next meal, Wilde was more than happy to satisfy her desire and eat.
Sunny arrived at the door and the cook backed away. Sunny spoke in slow German.
‘Frau Göring has asked us to stay the night, Sable. You will be given the use of the quarters of Herr Göring’s valet, as they are both away in East Prussia. We will leave first thing in the morning.’
Sunny nodded briskly to Wilde and to the cook, and then was gone.
So, that was that. No discussion. Whatever lay behind the decision, it could not be talked of here in front of this cook and the maids. Wilde assumed that they had been invited to stay the night because Emmy Göring simply wished to spend time with her old friend Sunny.
Nothing to worry about, then. So why did he get the horrible feeling that his initial instinct had been correct? That this was a trap.
And then a large man who looked like a gardener – with untamed hair and trousers tied with string – sauntered into the kitchen and demanded, ‘Òu est le français?’
*
Bormann did not like to be called here at the Wolfsschanze, but there was no alternative. He picked up the phone, his voice was cold.
‘Yes?’
‘I found them, Herr Reichsleiter . . .’
‘But, Kalt? You are about to say “but”, are you not?’
‘Two Luftwaffe officers arrived and took them away.’
‘Luftwaffe? What has this to do with the Luftwaffe? Where are you?’
‘The Schorfheide.’
‘Where exactly? That is a sizeable forest.’
‘Towards the west. Beyond that it is difficult to say.’
‘South of Templin?’
‘I would say so. I suppose there must be an air base nearby, for why else would they have chanced upon Luftwaffe officers? And I believe I saw other guards in various positions in the woods. I would say it has to be a military camp or a KZ.’
‘Idiot! Do you not realise where you are? You have stumbled upon Carinhall – Fat Hermann’s country estate. Thousands of hectares, all patrolled by marksmen and foresters who will slaughter you like game. Do nothing. Just find a guest house and call me with the telephone number. Do you understand, Kalt?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Bormann slammed down the phone. This was spinning out of control. Kalt and Brunner were out of their depth. And the name of Göring did nothing to dispel his unease.
*
‘Òu est le français?’The words, clearly spoken by a native Frenchman, sent a chill down Wilde’s spine.
There was only one thing for it. Speak German; refuse to speak French.
‘Ja,’ he said, remaining seated in front of his food. ‘Ich bin ein Franzose. Thomas Sable.’
Using very basic German, he told the man he would continue to speak in German as it would be rude to exclude their hosts from the conversation by speaking French.
Pulling up a chair, the Frenchman sat down opposite Wilde and signalled to one of the maids for beer. He gave Wilde a searching look, then laughed and switched to German.
‘And I am Guillaume – but maybe you should call me Wilhelm.’ He reached over and shook hands. ‘Guest worker, yes?’
‘Yes. I’m a driver.’
‘And I am one of the foresters. Where are you from?’
‘Toulouse.’
‘Lyon.’ He patted his belly. ‘The city of food. Look, perhaps we could speak a little French if we went outside. Good idea, huh? I don’t get much chance, you see.’
‘No. It’s warm in here.’
After finishing his beer, the Frenchman tired of Wilde’s refusal to engage in conversation and wandered off towards the door, kissing each of the maids on the cheek, which they did not seem to enjoy, then squeezing the cook’s buttocks. She gave him a look of loathing and hit him on the offending hand with a spatula, hard. He shrugged, and then he was gone.
Wilde breathed again. But what now? Was he just supposed to stay here in these kitchens? He supposed that’s what chauffeurs did when they took their masters and mistresses to great houses – either polished the car or sat in the kitchens being fed and watered. Not a bad job, perhaps, but a lot of waiting around. For a while he tried to converse with the German staff, but it was stilted and unproductive.
Outside it was getting dark. On December days the light was barely there before it had gone. He stood up, thanked the cook for her hospitality and stepped outside. He could feel the chill off the lakes and felt certain it would rain before the evening was out. He had visions of Sunny sipping expensive wine with Frau Göring in one of her enormous reception rooms. Perhaps Klara was playing with Emmy Göring’s little daughter. The child was only three or four, a great deal too young to be a proper playmate for Klara, but perhaps she might enjoy teaching her new games.
At least Hermann wasn’t there. Off in East Prussia with the Führer, directing the war in the east.
He felt a touch on the shoulder. Guillaume the forester and gamekeeper was standing with his hands in his pockets.
‘Vous n’êtes pas français.’ He spoke with a snort of derision.
Wilde said nothing.
The gamekeeper was silent for a few moments.
‘English, perhaps? You look English – or American. What are you?’
Wilde was considering his options. The gamekeeper was now speaking heavily accented English himself. What were his intentions? Where did his sympathies lie? Some Frenchmen had welcomed the Nazis with open arms and might have been more than happy to travel here to work.
A knife to the throat? That wouldn’t solve anything; he was still caught fast in this trap. Even if he abandoned Sunny and Klara, he would be utterly lost in Germany alone. His only hope would be to get back to Berlin somehow and find his way to the American embassy. But the chances of succeeding in that were vanishingly slim.
‘Do you have American cigarettes?’
‘Zigaretten? Ich rauche nicht.’
‘Oh, give it a rest, Mr Sable. We both know you’re not French or German.’
No, Wilde, don’t fall for it, he told himself. Keep up the pretence, even if it seems hopeless. He simply shrugged and said, in German, that he didn’t understand him.
‘Ich nicht verstehe Sie.’
Then he turned away towards the edge of the more northerly of the two lakes.
But before he had taken more than a few steps, Guillaume’s hand was on his shoulder again, this time gripping hard.
‘Don’t turn your back on me – I can help you or I can destroy you, mister.’
The grand door at the front of the house was opening. Sunny, Emmy Göring and the two children were emerging into the cool, late afternoon air. One of the Luftwaffe officers was with them and, a couple of steps behind them, another man, whose face was in shadow.
Wilde looked more closely and the blood drained from his face. The other man was Anton Offenbach.
What in God’s name was Anton Offenbach doing here?
The only blessing was that it was getting dark and he had not yet been spotted by the little group. Wilde turned away hurriedly, moving deeper into the shadows. He affected a smile for the benefit of Guillaume. There was no time for games now, so he spoke in clear American English.
‘OK, buddy, you got me. Your choice – whose side are you on?’
Guillaume grinned back. ‘That depends, Monsieur Sable. That very much depends on what you can offer me.’
‘I’ve got no cigarettes, but I’ve got money. Is that what you want?’
‘Well, it’s a start.’
‘But first, we need to avoid those people – if any of them finds out I am English I truly am done for.’
Gillaume took his arm. ‘Come with me.’
*
Jim Vanderberg was distracted as he walked through the Tiergarten back to his apartment. Two significant events had happened in the past few hours. The first of these affected him personally; his exit visa had come through and he’d be on the train to Basel in a day or two. His heart leapt at the prospect of going home to America and seeing Juliet and the boys again, but he also felt reluctant to leave his friends and colleagues – and Berlin itself – at such a critical time, both for the diplomatic mission itself, and for the history of the world.
Word had come through of an attack on the US fleet in Pearl Harbor, Hawaii, and on Americans in Manila. Many ships had been destroyed and the United States was now at war – though not yet declared – with Japan. What that would mean for US–German relations was, so far, unclear. But the implications were obvious.
With his thoughts fixed firmly on the uncertainties ahead, he did not notice the figure following him. It had become so commonplace to be tailed by the Gestapo – men in raincoats with hats dipped over their brows – that he no longer paid any attention to them. On this day, however, his shadow was not a member of the Gestapo.
It was late, well after midnight, and raining. The wires had been red-hot with rumours. Everyone in the mission had stayed at their posts, even the typists. The attack on Pearl Harbor had started about five hours earlier and at first the news coming through had been sketchy and confused. Now, though, it was all becoming clear. Roosevelt would be declaring war on Japan within the next twenty-four hours, unless Hirohito got there first.
Under the Berlin Pact, Germany was supposed to take Japan’s side in any war with America. Would Hitler keep his promise? If so, then the world would explode.
The few people out at this time of night moved like ghosts through the steady rainfall. There were no street lights and the waning moon was obscured by cloud. Someone had, however, marked some of the pavement edges with luminous paint, the sort used on watch faces. And that helped him find his way.
Vanderberg was exhausted and soaking when he arrived home. As he put the key in the lock, he was still on edge. He was turning the handle when he heard a voice. As he pushed open the door, a little yellow light streamed out from a single low-wattage bulb, just enough for him to see a pitiful figure emerge from the dark. It was the woman who had come to him before, the midwife Romy Dietrich. But it couldn’t be Frau Dietrich, could it? She had been murdered in her block of flats.
‘My God,’ he said. ‘I thought you were dead.’
He pulled her inside the front hall and quickly shut the door after them. She was bent and shaking, one hand in the pocket of a grey, outsized coat that was so stained and worn, it looked as though it had been stripped from a dead soldier. Her fair hair was lank, wet and thin. Her face was drawn, her forehead had an angry bruise and her eyes were flickering and fearful.
‘I am so sorry.’ she said. ‘I followed you from the embassy . . . I did not know what else to do. I have nowhere else to turn.’
‘Hush, let me take you up to my rooms.’
He helped her up the staircase and was relieved that the landlady did not poke her nose around her door to see who he was bringing home; she must be asleep, he thought.
‘Come in, Frau Dietrich,’ Vanderberg said. ‘Sit down. I’ll get you some coffee – perhaps with a little rum.’
‘Thank you.’
‘I’m just relieved to find you alive. I went to your apartment and was told there had been a murder. I feared the worst.’
‘They killed my landlady, Frau Schlegel. They broke her neck in front of my eyes – and then they forced me into a van.’
Slowly and painfully she removed her left hand from her coat pocket. The bandage, a strip of cotton rag, was streaked with dried blood.
He sucked in a breath. ‘What did they do to you?’
‘They wanted to find Klara. They ripped out my fingernails one by one to make me reveal her whereabouts. They would have killed me, but I . . . escaped.’
She couldn’t continue. She was thinking of the wall in the piggery, of the pliers, of the blank-eyed farmwife. She started weeping, her chest heaving.
He knelt at her side. ‘Take your time, Frau Dietrich.’
She took a deep breath, wiping her eyes with her good hand.
‘Oh, Herr Vanderberg, I am so ashamed – I told them. I told them everything. I even told them I had come to you in the embassy. I couldn’t take the pain.’
Vanderberg put an arm around her. ‘Come on, let’s get you that rum.’ He went to the sideboard and returned with the bottle and two glasses. He poured them each a shot. ‘Drink up,’ he said.
She took a sip, then downed the rest in one.
‘Is that better?’ he asked in his most reassuring voice.
Inside he was wondering what this meant for Tom Wilde and Sunny Somerfeld? He needed to discover a great deal more from Frau Romy Dietrich. The timing of her revelation to whoever had tortured her was crucial to Wilde’s chances. He desperately hoped Tom and Sunny were already on the boat to Sweden and freedom with the girl; perhaps they had already arrived.
But perhaps they had been too late.
Here in Berlin, though, he had Romy Dietrich to worry about. Perhaps himself, too, if Bormann decided US diplomats were now fair game. But that wasn’t for Frau Dietrich’s ears.
‘You’re safe with me,’ he said.
Was she, though? There was a very good chance that a Gestapo agent – or Bormann’s assassins – would have seen her entering the block.