The office was on the first floor of the US embassy in Grosvenor Square. A coolly efficient secretary immediately alerted her boss on the intercom.
‘Professor Wilde is here, sir.’ She put the phone down. ‘He says to go straight through, professor.’
Bill Whitney was sitting behind his desk in one of the more cramped offices in the embassy, a building Wilde knew well from his many visits when Jim Vanderberg had been posted here. Whitney stood up with a shiny American smile of welcome, and they shook hands.
‘Professor Wilde, I’ve heard a heck of a lot about you. You’ve been running poor Bodie Cashbone ragged from what I hear.’
‘Pleased to meet you, too, Mr Whitney. As for Mr Cashbone, I’d have to say the reverse is true.’
‘Well, he’s on his way up, so I can hear both sides of the story. Take a seat, won’t you. Sorry there’s not a great deal of room but we’ll find better quarters soon. Coffee?’
‘Coffee would be good.’
‘Shirley’ll bring it through in a couple of minutes.’
The door opened and Bodie Cashbone made another of his grand entrances. He nodded to his boss, the head of the COI in London, then turned his attention to Wilde.
‘So, do you have her with you?’
Wilde didn’t bother to answer the question.
‘Mr Whitney, I haven’t come here to be interrogated. I have questions of my own to put. First off, how closely have you been involved in Cashbone’s plans for Klara Rieger?’
Whitney sat back and regarded Wilde coolly. ‘Are you suggesting I don’t know what’s going on in my own outfit?’
‘I’m suggesting nothing. I’m merely posing a question. Has Cashbone gone rogue or is he operating on your orders?’
Whitney had a glass paperweight in his right hand and slammed it down on the desk.
‘What in God’s name is this? Bodie told me you were a piece of work – and it looks like he was right.’
Wilde pressed on. ‘He pushed you into this, didn’t he? The information somehow came directly to him from Germany and he wanted an operation to have the girl extricated, which is where I came in. I was the useful idiot. Is that how it was?’
‘No, not at all. The State Department heard from your friend Jim Vanderberg that Bormann was about to kill the girl – and Bill Donovan got on to me. Seems like the president had made a special request for your services.’
‘Are you saying that Cashbone didn’t tell you anything before that?’
Whitney was silent, his jaw tight and grim.
‘Bodie, help me out here,’ he said. ‘You did mention something about the girl before Donovan ordered us to act, didn’t you?.’
Cashbone shrugged, but he didn’t look comfortable.
‘Sure, come to think of it, I did mention it to you in passing that there was a rumour from our boys in the Berlin embassy that Hitler had a secret daughter.’ He tilted his double chin at Wilde. ‘So what, professor? What are you trying to suggest? And I’ve got a question for you – where is she, goddamn it?’
Wilde had a briefcase with him. He clicked it open.
‘I’ve been doing a bit of research on you, Cashbone. Actually, some friends in America have been doing the work for me. Easier that way.’ Juliet Vanderberg, to be precise. But he wasn’t going to tell Cashbone that. He had called her from Philip Eaton’s office. Oh, she had been more than happy to delve. The daughter of a celebrated lawyer and the granddaughter of a senior judge, Juliet Vanderberg knew where to dig for bodies.
‘Here, let me read you a couple of things, Mr Whitney. You know who Sunny Somerfeld is?’
Whitney scowled. ‘Of course I do, Wilde. She helped you get the girl out of Germany. Now she’s dead.’
‘And you knew she was American by birth?’
‘I did. You’re not telling me anything.’
‘Did you know her father was a man called Berthold Falken?’
Whitney seemed momentarily taken aback. ‘No, and the name means nothing to me.’
Wilde turned to Cashbone. ‘But it means something to you, doesn’t it, Cashbone?’
Cashbone looked uneasy. ‘Not that I can recall, no.’
‘Well, it should do. He ran your family’s oil business for the best part of a quarter century. Look here . . .’ He tossed a paper on the desk. ‘Berthold Falken, chief executive officer Cashbone Oil International.’
Cashbone feigned ignorance. ‘You mean Berthold was Sunny’s father? Hell, I never knew that.’
‘Bullshit, Cashbone. You’ve known her all your life. I saw the closeness between you at the house in Harkham. That little squeeze of the hand? You weren’t strangers.’
‘You know nothing, Wilde.’
‘Well, I certainly know that your family firm has been trading heavily in Germany for years, particularly since 1933 when the Nazis came to power.’ Wilde flung another sheet of paper on the desk. ‘That’s from the Internal Revenue Service. Details of payments made to various organisations in Germany and written off as expenses. You see that one? Carinhall Gesellschaft, two hundred thousand dollars for services rendered. There’s plenty more like that. Germany under Hitler was making up more than sixty-five per cent of all your trade, and Berthold Falken was doing the deals. And who, in Germany, had oversight and control of the ministry of economics and the Reichsbank for most of these years? Hermann Göring. He authorised the cheques and he accepted the kickbacks.’
Cashbone was speechless.
‘But then,’ Wilde continued, ‘it all ground to a halt with the war. Cashbone Oil profits went through the floor.’
Whitney had half-risen from his chair and was leaning forward across his desk.
‘Is this all true, Bodie?’
Cashbone growled like a cornered animal. A grizzly at bay.
‘You don’t know what you’re talking about – there are other markets.’
‘But not as lucrative, maybe.’
‘God damn you, Wilde.’
‘This whole plan involving Klara was nothing to do with ending the war, Cashbone,’ Wilde said. ‘You’re just Hermann Göring’s lapdog. As was poor Anton Offenbach, I’m sorry to say. Mr Eaton’s reliable sources have revealed to me that he was not only attached to the Abwehr but was, primarily, a senior officer in the Forschungsamt, the intelligence department of the Reich Air Ministry. But whereas Offenbach served out of loyalty to Göring, you helped him out in his internecine power struggle with Bormann, hoping there might be some scraps for Cashbone Oil when Germany had conquered the world. And Göring the peacemaker? More horse-shit. He was always just in it for himself, and Bormann needed to be got out of the way. Getting Hitler’s daughter across the sea to you – to use in your filthy propaganda campaign – was his way to achieve his ends. As for you, Cashbone – you were just a money-grubbing mercenary.’
The big American swung at Wilde, but Wilde saw it coming and ducked the blow with ease, pushing himself up from his chair. His own punch connected with Cashbone’s paunch, instantly stopping him in his tracks. Cashbone stumbled back, regained his footing and lunged again. This time Wilde expertly tripped him and the giant American sprawled forwards to the floor.
Wilde looked down on him contemptuously.
‘Anyway, Cashbone, you’re too damned late. Klara is free of you now – beyond your reach. You’ll never see her again. And if I ever hear that you’re so much as looking for her, I swear I’ll come after you.’ He brushed himself down and picked up his briefcase. ‘I’ll leave him to you, Mr Whitney.’
*
Martin Bormann was out of cigarettes. He yelled through the open door.
‘Heidi, get me cigarettes. Now!’
‘Yes, Herr Reichsleiter.’
‘And I want to know as soon as a message comes through from Jung.’
‘Yes, Herr Reichsleiter.’
‘Run, Heidi!’
He ran his hand lightly over his head, smoothing down his oiled-back hair.
Everything in his life was perfect. The Führer relied on him more than ever. Even here at the Wolfsschanze, he could order the chiefs of staff to do his bidding, and none dared countermand him. Even Keitel, chief of the Wehrmacht high command, took orders. When Bormann needed a fast navy boat for his man Jung, it was made available. Without question and without explanation.
The enemy, he now knew – the real enemy – was Göring. Well, he would get his comeuppance in time. However long it took, Bormann did not allow such things to go unavenged. But first, he had to be sure the child had been disposed of; that the last trace of evidence had been destroyed. And he wasn’t sure.
Everything in his life would be perfect if it were not for this doubt that crawled like a worm through his brain at night and stopped him sleeping. Was the girl dead? Why had Jung not made contact since that first transmission from England?
Heidi was back, out of breath, in under two minutes. She slammed the pack of Swiss cigarettes down on the table.
‘No more Luckies?’
‘I’m told they are no longer allowed, sir. Perhaps because we are at war with America?’
He tore at the wrapping, ignoring her impertinence; several cigarettes tumbled out. He fumbled for the gold swastika-embossed lighter that he prized so highly and cursed as it failed to make a flame.
‘Matches, Heidi, matches – then fill this lighter. And keep it filled!’
‘Sir,’ she said, catching her breath. ‘A message has started coming through. Just this very moment . . .’
*
Wilde stood beside Eaton and an MI5 officer whose name he hadn’t caught – perhaps because the man hadn’t offered it – keeping his eyes firmly fixed on Charlie Jung, as he had learned to call him. He was sitting at a table in a spacious loft. They had driven here to the former home of Mrs Felicity Vickery, deceased, from Kensington Palace Gardens where Jung was being held and interrogated.
Jung’s fingers were working slowly on the neat little German transmitter, which had been found hidden in a second property belonging to Mrs Vickery. The man was not well trained in Morse code, but that didn’t matter – because it was what Bormann would expect.
‘Don’t forget to tell him Vickery is dead or he’ll wonder why she isn’t sending the message,’ Wilde said.
Jung looked up with a frown. ‘I’m doing it just as we agreed.’
‘Two bluffs, yes? Misspell the girl’s name. Insert the word beer. That’s all? Because if you try any tricks,’ Eaton said, ‘your days are numbered. Your miserable life is already hanging by a very slender thread. One false move and you’re for the gallows.’
‘Believe me, I understand.’
‘Then carry on, Mr Young, and you might just live.’
*
‘What does it say, Heidi?’
‘This takes time, Herr Reichsleiter. Jung is like a tortoise, he makes mistakes.’
He ripped the fresh decrypt from her hand and read it at speed.
KARLA DEAD, BURIED IN LAKE. VICKERY DEAD. TIME FOR BEER. ADVISE METHOD OF RETURN.
Bormann read it, then read it again. Then he burst out laughing, struck a match and burned the message to a cinder. He was in the clear. Nothing could stop him now. Not Goebbels, not Göring, not Himmler. He was untouchable.
*
‘My locket, my locket!’
Klara clutched at her throat, just visible above the collar of her new coat.
Lydia and Romy looked at each other. Romy put her arm around Klara’s shoulder and whispered in her ear.
‘Not too loud, Klara darling. Now then, where did you leave it.’
‘It was taken off at the hospital. I was told it would be brought back to me.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Lydia said. ‘I’ll send it on to you as soon as I can. I’m sure it will be fine.’ She unclasped a fine gold necklace and heart pendant from around her own neck and handed it to Klara. ‘Here, this is for you in the meantime – from Tom, Johnny and me. A little token of our love for you.’
Klara took the pendant. There was still a tear in her eye, but she brushed it away.
‘Thank you, Frau—’
‘Lydia. I must always be Lydia to you. And be sure that you will find a lovely puppy as soon as you arrive in your new home.’
‘Like Bismarck?’
‘The prettiest one you can find. And you must know that our home will always be your home if you can ever get back to England.’
She gave her a huge hug, and then Johnny demanded one too.
They were on the dockside at Liverpool. Boarding had begun and everyone was excited – but nervous too. No ship was safe from the U-boat wolf packs in the Atlantic these days. Lydia and Romy had discussed the locket before they left Cambridge.
‘She must never see it,’ Romy had said. ‘She must never have the slightest inkling of her true parentage.’
‘No,’ Lydia said.
‘But what if . . . ?’
‘Romy?’
‘I’m just thinking, what if AH stands for someone other than Hitler?’
‘But who else could it be?’
‘Of course, I haven’t told you about Sasha Heine – Geli’s Jewish singing teacher in Vienna. They were very close.’
‘Sasha?’
‘A diminutive of Alexander. I told Jim Vanderberg all about Sasha Heine. There was a time in 1930 when he and Geli spent a little time together. The dates are just possible. But we will never know, will we?’
Lydia smiled. ‘No, we will never know – but I think I know which father I would prefer for her.’
‘It doesn’t matter. Klara is who she is – and I love her as though she were my own daughter.’
*
An hour later, as the moorings were loosened and the tugs began to pull the liner away from the pier, Klara and Romy leant over the railings, smiling and waving to Lydia and Johnny, who were waving back even more vigorously.
Johnny and his mother watched until the figures of the two Germans became indistinguishable from the crowd of passengers at the rail. Then Lydia walked to the edge of the dock, removed the silver locket from her handbag and let it slide through her fingers into the dark, oily depths.