Charlie Jung barely recognised his parents. He sat in a stiff-backed chair in their parlour, a room stuffed with the usual detritus of empire: the tiger-skin rug, its teeth bared, its eyes dead; the finely carved juggernaut panel; the faded photographs of men with solar topis sitting atop elephants; silver salvers and cigarette boxes donated at the end of a posting by colleagues at the club or regiment; ivory ornaments and gold trinkets bought for a song in Indian bazaars.
If his parents were looking at him with bemusement, he was looking at them with corresponding amusement. They hadn’t seen each other since 1911, when he was seven years old. His father wore an ancient blazer with a soup-stained tie. He looked eighty and doddery, but Jung knew he could not be more than sixty-five and his mother fifty-nine. She was dumpy and frumpy with two strings of pearls and a tweed skirt, looking rather like Queen Victoria.
Jung sat smiling at them, enjoying the awkwardness, deliberately allowing the silence to stretch out between them. What was there to say? They could always ask each other how they had filled in the intervening thirty years, but that wasn’t really going to happen.
‘Would you like a cup of tea, Charles?’ His mother’s voice sounded rather regal.
‘Is it time for tiffin? I say, how splendid.’
If his parents spotted the mockery in his choice of words and tone of voice, they didn’t acknowledge it. His mother simply summoned the maid, while his father picked up a silver cigarette box from a side table and leant forward, opening the lid invitingly.
‘Do you smoke, young man?’
‘Don’t mind if I do.’
He took a cigarette; his father took one, too, then looked around for a match.
Another long silence as they smoked their cigarettes.
‘So tell me, Charles,’ his father said eventually. ‘What do you do these days?’
‘Oh, this and that.’
His father nodded, as though Jung’s answer explained everything.
‘Married?’
‘Actually I was, but the poor darling was murdered in her bed.’
‘Dear me. Dear, dear me.’
‘Frightful to-do.’
‘How simply shocking,’ his mother said.
‘You can’t imagine the laundry bills. Blood everywhere.’
His mother went even more rigid and the silence echoed until the maid returned with a tray full of tea things and poured out three cups, bobbed neatly and departed.
‘How’s Sevenoaks?’ Jung asked. ‘Not quite Simla? Rather deficient in the houseboy department, I imagine.’
‘Indeed,’ his father said.
‘But Mavis is a treasure,’ his mother said.
‘She looks it. Do you think she’d like to go to the flicks with me? Should I ask her?’
‘No,’ his father said. ‘No, I don’t think that would do at all.’
‘Does she not have an afternoon off? Pretty little thing and, well, you know, having lost my wife in such unfortunate circumstances, I’m keeping half an eye open for another one. Do you think Mavis might be the one for me?’
‘Mavis has a young man,’ Jung’s mother said stiffly. ‘We believe he is presently serving in North Africa. I trust you’re doing your bit for the war, Charles.’
‘Why yes, I am, mother. I’m spying for Germany.’
‘Spying for Germany?’ His father spluttered tea.
‘Jolly good chaps, the Nazis, don’t you think, Daddy? Herr Hitler’s an awfully decent fellow. Deserves our support, what?’
His father rose from his chair.
‘That’s it, young man. You might think you’re damned funny, but I don’t. I won’t listen to that sort of thing, not in my house.’
‘But I haven’t finished my tea. I was hoping for biscuits.’
‘Out. I want you out.’
‘Are you turning me away again, Daddy?’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘1911 – don’t you remember? You sent me off on a boat so I could get thrashed and buggered at prep school. Don’t you remember that, Daddy?’
‘Damned pup! I won’t have that sort of language. Get out.’
‘I was rather hoping for some money, actually. Think of it as an advance on my inheritance. I’m a bit strapped for cash at the moment. Came over from Germany at a moment’s notice, you see. Didn’t have time to go to the bank.’
His mother was shaking. ‘Give him some money, Henry. Anything. Please.’
‘Thank you, Mummy. I’m so glad one of you still loves her little creature. You must have missed your creature all these years.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I’m the creature, am I not? Isn’t that what you called me?’
‘Ten pounds,’ Henry Young said, his red face turning puce. ‘I can give you ten pounds, but I want you out of this house – and I never wish to see you again.’
Jung stood up and walked to the fireplace. He drew his forearm along the mantelpiece, knocking a lifetime’s collection of ornaments down onto the hearthstone, sending shards of glass and porcelain spraying onto the carpet. He walked over to his mother, who was struggling to get out of her chair, and slapped her cheek hard.
‘Please don’t get up, Mummy,’ he hissed, baring his teeth.
His father was hobbling to her assistance. ‘What do you think you’re doing!’
In answer he grabbed his father by the balls and squeezed hard.
‘Let’s say five hundred, shall we? And then we’ll call it quits. What do you say to that, Daddy? You don’t want me to cause a scene, do you? Think of the laundry bills . . .’
*
Wilde was dismayed. He had been played for a fool.
‘What do you hope to gain from this, Cashbone?’
‘Peace, Wilde. That’s what we all want, isn’t it – peace for the children of the world. Peace for your own little boy.’
‘What’s that got to do with Klara?’
‘Think it through. We now have the means to reveal the truth about Geli Raubal and her affair with Hitler, the truth about the birth of Klara and Geli’s murder. None of this could have been done inside Germany with the Nazis in control of the press and wireless. But we can provide detailed evidence, with photographs and scientific comparisons of features, dates and locations of conception and birth. It’ll be all over the world’s newspapers and airwaves. There will be leaflet drops over Germany and the occupied territories. The German people will know the truth soon enough.’
‘And then what?’
‘The godlike Führer will be seen to have feet of clay. No more will he be able to hold himself above the common man without base needs and desires. He will be no better than the man in the Bierkeller with a stein of lager in one hand and a busty waitress in the other. He will be utterly discredited – and his henchman Martin Bormann will be seen as the filthy murderer he is.’
‘And you think that will bring peace?’
‘No, Wilde, we’re not so naive to think we can bring down the Nazi regime in one fell swoop. But we can shift the balance of power to Reichsmarschall Göring. If he can displace Hitler – and we realise it’s a big if – then we’ll have a man in power with whom we can do business. We know Göring’s a vile anti-Semite, the founder of the concentration camps and the Gestapo – a Nazi of the worst sort – but he’s never wanted this war. He believes that it will lead to the destruction of Germany and the end of European civilisation. So if we can help him into power, we will be able to treat very favourably with him. We believe he will give up the occupied territories in the west in return for a cessation of hostilities.’
‘And the east?’
‘That will no longer be our concern. Few tears will be shed where we come from if Nazism and Bolshevism destroy each other.’
Wilde met Eaton’s gaze. ‘Do Churchill or Roosevelt know about all these fanciful plans of yours?’
‘I can’t discuss that.’
‘But Göring, he knows, doesn’t he? He has been involved from the start – probably organised the whole darn thing, paid for the trawler, everything? It was a power grab – but somehow Bormann got wind of it.’
‘Hermann wants peace,’ Sunny said. ‘What you need to understand is the power that resides in the women of Germany. They are in a majority after the slaughter of so many millions of men in the Great War. They are the ones who urge men to take courage and fight to protect them.’
‘So what?’
‘The women of Germany love Hitler. He is untainted, a single man, unmarried, no children, no mistress. These are special attributes, and he knows it – which is why Eva Braun is a closely guarded secret and why Geli Raubal was hushed up. Women of all ages have adored him from the very beginning. They are a constituency he has played to all his political life – and one he daren’t lose. For if he lost the affection of Germany’s women, he would lose the country.’
Wilde had had enough.
‘Measure the girl’s face, then – just don’t tell her why you’re doing it. Tell her it’s a health check or something. And don’t tell her about her father, not yet. If it’s all the same to you, I need some fresh air – so I’m going for a walk to clear my head.’
*
Wilde strode out into the brisk morning air. The sky was overcast again, threatening rain or even snow. When he reached the corner of the street, he glanced back to see if anyone was following him.
Well, the scales had fallen from his eyes all right. Klara was to be thrown to the wolves, and he, Wilde, was the only adult in her world who thought that might not be a good idea.
It was a working day, a Tuesday, and the village was coming to life. He wandered past the pub, the Cock Inn, and noticed a telephone kiosk. He looked around again, stepped inside, put coins in the box and called home.
‘Lydia?’
‘Tom, darling – where are you?’
‘I’m nearby. Village of Harkham. I haven’t got long – so listen to me. Pack small bags for you and Johnny – toothbrushes, nappies – along with a basket of food. Tell Doris to stay away until further notice – then lock up Cornflowers and drive over here, to Harkham. Park in the little road to the side of the pub. There’s only one pub, the Cock Inn. Wait for me. I can’t tell you how long I’ll be. Make sure the tank’s full, and don’t breathe a word to anyone. Please, trust me on this.’
‘That’s a lot to take in.’
‘My money’s about to run out. Try to think of somewhere safe. Not relatives – too easily traced. Can you do that for me, Lydia?’
The coins ran out before she could reply. He replaced the phone and slipped out of the kiosk.
*
They were still there when Wilde returned. Bromley was measuring Klara’s nose with the calipers. She looked close to tears. Eaton shifted uneasily as Wilde appeared.
Wilde gave Klara what he hoped was a reassuring smile and spoke to her in German.
‘It will soon be over, Klara – we’re just trying to make sure you’re healthy and well after our difficult journey here.’
‘I told them I was well. They wouldn’t listen.’
‘I’m sorry.’ He turned to the American intelligence officer. ‘And Cashbone, please forgive me. I sounded off a bit back there.’
‘Forget it, buddy.’
‘I was out of order – been under considerable stress these past few days and, like you all, I only have the child’s best interests at heart. Having thought it through, I can see that your scheme actually has a lot to be said for it.’
Cashbone beamed. ‘Glad to hear it. Nothing more to be said.’
‘All I ask is a little sensitivity and a little patience.’
‘Of course,’ Eaton said. ‘We understand that. The excitement of getting you home safe . . . Well, perhaps we weren’t thinking clearly ourselves.’
‘Are you nearly finished with her? I think I could do with another coffee and a quiet word or two about the best course of action – and, importantly, the timing – to bring your plan to fruition.’
‘Certainly,’ Eaton said. ‘Let’s retire to the kitchen and leave Professor Bromley to his deliberations.’
*
‘You understand, don’t you, Cashbone? Eaton? You’ve got a plan that might just work, but we’ve also got to do our best for the girl. I think it’s possible to get your publicity out there without ever telling her what’s going on. Ten-year-old girls can be steered clear of the wireless and newspapers. If necessary, she can be given a false identity so that she doesn’t get bullied at school. It wouldn’t look good for America or Britain if we paraded her like a prize catch.’
‘Point taken,’ Eaton said.
‘But we need photographs,’ Cashbone said. ‘Our photographer will be here tomorrow. Astonishing what you can do with light, shade and the perfect angle. He’ll bring out the similarities between our two subjects.’
‘We’ll make sure she has a good night’s sleep, then. Fresh as a daisy so she looks her best. But she doesn’t need to know what you’re doing with the pictures, does she?’
‘She’ll find out one day, whatever happens. We can’t protect her from the truth for ever,’ Eaton cautioned.
’No,’ Wilde agreed. ‘But hopefully she’ll be better able to deal with it in a year or two’s time. And if the plan works as we hope, we might be able to present her to the public as something of a heroine – the girl who helped bring peace, tragic victim of the Nazis who slaughtered her mother. That sort of thing.’
‘I like the way you’re thinking, Wilde.’ Cashbone grinned.
Eaton said nothing. He was looking at Wilde in that quiet way that he often used when analysing information.
‘But in the meantime,’ Cashbone continued, ‘I want the three of you to stay here. Mr Eaton has told you the Germans have sent someone after the girl?’
Wilde nodded.
‘Then this is the safest place for you for now. Mrs Kemp will see you have everything you need.’
‘Thank you. And I think some decorations would be in order, don’t you?’ Wilde added. ‘Nothing like a Christmas tree to bring some cheer to a house with a child in residence.’
*
Eaton, Cashbone and Bromley left before lunch. Cashbone said he would be in touch within the next twenty-four hours to keep Wilde updated.
‘We’ll have Professor Bromley’s report by then. His initial findings are very promising, but he needs to double-check the figures. Must be seen to be scientific – it’s the detail that matters. Can’t allow Goebbels to lie his way out of this.’
Wilde nodded. Scientific. Bromley was about as scientific as a newspaper horoscope merchant.
Eaton looked uneasy and, once again, gave Wilde a thoughtful look as he said goodbye.
‘If you need to contact me, talk to Mrs Kemp. She’ll get a message through. And be careful, old boy.’
‘I’m always careful, Eaton – learned everything I know from you.’
*
Wilde ate a lunch of bread and soup with Sunny and Klara, who still wasn’t eating much. Sunny chivvied her along with little success.
‘We need to talk, Tom,’ Sunny said as the girl retired to her room to read and Mrs Kemp cleared away the plates. ‘You say you understand why we’re doing this, but I’m not convinced – and I don’t think Mr Eaton is either.’
‘Oh, you’ve got me all wrong, Sunny. I think it’s a fine idea – just came as a surprise, that’s all. I thought I was just saving a child, you see – now I know I was saving the world, too. Bit of a shock . . .’
‘Don’t be flippant, Tom. This isn’t easy for anyone. I hated seeing that ghastly man with his calipers measuring the child’s face.’
‘Well, yes, that’s what did for me. Look, I know you’ve been through a hell of a time, Sunny – and you still have a lot of grieving to do. This has been tough for you.’
Sunny shrugged. ‘That’s what happens in war. You lose people you love. As for Klara, don’t you think she might actually be quite proud to discover the truth about her father? She seems pretty keen on the mad bastard.’
‘Well, we don’t know for sure that she is his daughter – and I doubt Bromley’s calipers will make us any the wiser.’
‘Oh, come on, Tom – you know she’s his kid.’
‘Then prove it. Tell me everything you know, Sunny. How did this all start? You can tell me now, can’t you? Everything about Romy Dietrich. You knew her all along, didn’t you? Did she come to you first – or did you hear the story and go to her?’
‘OK, Tom, those are fair questions. Let’s start at the top, shall we? You know Hitler has a sister called Angela, Geli Raubal’s mother?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, she is still alive and has remarried. She is now Frau Professor Hammitzsch, wife of a renowned architect. They live in Dresden.’
‘Jim mentioned that to me.’
‘Well, Hitler disapproves of the marriage – and Frau Hammitzsch, in turn, despises Eva Braun. She thinks Eva has taken her place in her brother’s life. So they now have little to do with each other.’
‘I see.’
‘Emmy Göring is also jealous of Eva, though she has never been allowed to meet her. She feels her position as First Lady of the Reich has been usurped by this silly girl from the photographic shop.’
Wilde was intrigued; this was a story of intertwined domestic rivalries far removed from the thunder of war and international politics, but conceivably its influence would be felt around the globe.
‘By chance, Hermann Göring ran into Hitler’s sister and her new husband on a visit to Dresden. He invited them to Carinhall, and they accepted with enthusiasm. A few weeks ago – at the end of October – they duly arrived, and Angela enjoyed a few glasses of Schnapps. She drinks rarely, but when she does, she doesn’t fare well – this has always been her curse.’
Wilde sipped his coffee.
‘She told the Görings all about the events of ten years ago – her daughter’s pregnancy, her own indiscretion in drink when she revealed too much to the up-and-coming Martin Bormann, her certainty that Bormann then killed Geli. From there, you can work it out for yourself, Tom.’
‘But how did Bormann get wind of these recent events?’
‘Who knows? A mole in the Göring camp, perhaps? A bug in the wall at Carinhall? They all spy on each other, these top Nazis. Or perhaps it was another indiscretion by Hitler’s simpleton sister?’
‘But in the meantime, Hermann Göring saw an opportunity?’
‘Yes, for peace.’
Wilde wanted to laugh, but managed to restrain himself. The very thought of it! Hermann the great warrior desired peace, did he? No, Hermann Göring wanted nothing more than to do down his arch-enemy Martin Bormann. It was clear: Hermann Göring, fat and slippery as a whale, had used the British and American secret services for his own ends. And Sunny Somerfeld had been his conduit.
Wilde looked pensive, as if Sunny’s story had finally convinced him.
‘Well, that helps a great deal. I’m beginning to understand things. Look, I think I’ll take Klara for a walk. She needs some fresh air – and it’ll give me time to do some more thinking.’
She frowned. ‘Is that wise?’
‘Why not?’
‘I think I should come, too.’
He managed a smile. ‘Fine by me.’
But it wasn’t. Somehow he needed to lose her.
And there was something else. Before Cashbone left the house, Wilde had seen something which sent an electric current racing through his body, though it lasted only a second. It was the way he took Sunny’s hand and seemed to give it a little squeeze. Had Wilde been mistaken in what he saw? If not, then formality had turned to familiarity at a remarkable pace.