Light of the Moon, page 4
‘Paul,’ said Ingrid. ‘What about dinner?’
‘I said I would join you at eight thirty.’
Ingrid was aware that Paul hated to be disturbed at work and she hesitated. ‘If you wish,’ she said doubtfully. There was a pause while Paul crossed out a word and made a neat substitution. Her voice carried down the line. ‘I think we should attend Count von Hummel’s reception. It would be wise.’
Ingrid was not going to give up. Paul looked at his watch. Ever vigilant over what she perceived to be his interests, Ingrid was constantly reminding him that he needed to be seen if he was to keep his contacts oiled. She was, of course, right.
‘Paul,’ she said with a hint of reproof. ‘Are you listening?’
‘I am,’ he replied and put down his pen.
As Count von Hummel was fêted for the manner in which he mixed the political, financial and artistic coteries of Berlin at his lavish receptions, Paul knew it was not sensible to ignore an invitation. He smiled at the image of Ingrid’s quivering social antennae, just as his secretary, Fräulein Mitter, put her head round the door. The Fräulein allowed herself to think that Paul’s smile was intended for her, and then realised her mistake. She advanced into the room, picked up the pile of papers in Paul’s OUT tray and retreated hurriedly.
‘Will you pay attention, Paul. Shall I meet you there?’
The telephone had the effect of deepening Ingrid’s voice and Paul, lulled by its sleep-inducing timbre as she described the people they would be likely to meet, closed his eyes. Then he roused himself. ‘Yes. All right, Ingrid, I’ll see you there.’
‘Don’t forget: dress uniform.’
‘Ingrid!’ he said with some exasperation and controlled his urge to put down the telephone. As usual she was pushing at the boundary between intimacy and possessiveness – and in their case, between the possible and the impossible. Paul understood the emotional time-bomb ticking in Ingrid and recognised it as a symptom of war. ‘I will see you there,’ he said.
But the phone had gone dead. He replaced the receiver, knowing that she would be disappointed by his lack of enthusiasm. The phone rang yet again. Paul picked it up and replied briefly before replacing it and getting up.
He looked round the door to Fräulein Mitter’s office. She was typing hard, surrounded by piles of paper coded into different colours. Unclassified. Need to Know. Secret.
Never a beauty and well past the age of romance, Fräulein Mitter had arranged her plaits in a coil around her head. She looked, and was, a perfect product of the local branch of the women’s National Socialist organisation, and, as such, he did not trust her. Nevertheless, Paul went out of his way to be kind to her as he pitied what he imagined was a dreary existence.
‘You look very charming today, Fräulein Mitter,’ he said. She handed him some additional messages and Paul went over to the window to read them. The Tiergarten lay below and he glanced at it as he read, wishing he was outside, strolling past the statue of Empress Augusta Viktoria.
He replaced the messages on the desk and left the room. Fräulein Mitter gazed after him. She always knew when Fräulein Sturmbakker had been bothering him on the phone and she relished a dart of hatred before returning to her typewriter.
*
Number 76–8 Tirpitzufer, nicknamed the ‘fox hole’ by its intimates, was not the most suitable building for the headquarters of the Intelligence Service of the Supreme Military Armed Forces Headquarters, the Abwehr. Nevertheless, it was the wish of the Abwehr’s head, Admiral Canaris, to remain there and, in one important respect, the Admiral’s obstinacy was justified. From the Tirpitzufer it was possible to reach the Wehrmacht headquarters in neighbouring Bendlestrasse without crossing the street, and it was also strategically placed for access to various foreign and civil bureaux.
Paul knew better than to try the antiquated elevator in the ‘fox hole’ (the Admiral refused to modernise his headquarters). Instead, he made for one of the badly lit staircases that ran up through the building. Except for a slight limp, he was more or less fit again from a determined programme of summer hikes but by the time he had negotiated the warren of passages, which seemed designed to confuse even those who knew the building well, he was out of breath.
Lieutenant-Colonel von Bentivegni was head of the Abwehr’s Section III, responsible for counter-sabotage, counter-espionage and security in matters relating to the armed forces. His brief included the recently formed Group II-N, the detection and prevention of sabotage in all areas of communication, such as the radio, telegraph and postal services. He looked up as Paul entered. He was, as usual, immaculate.
‘I apologise for calling you up,’ he said, removing his monocle, ‘but I wished for a private word.’
Paul waited. Von Bentivegni was an old friend of his father, and theirs was a friendship that never ceased to amuse those who knew them. On the one hand, his father, an outspoken liberal, utterly opposed to Adolf Hitler, on the other, von Bentivegni, a Potsdamer with substantial military connections and a Prussian’s sense of duty.
It was a friendship that yielded practical results, in that it benefited Paul, who at twenty had taken his father’s advice and set about establishing a military career. Von Bentivegni was able to put in a word for him after he passed out from cadet school close to the top of his class, and ensured that his protégé was sent to train in wireless and radio communications. It had been astute planning. Paul had chosen to specialise in the area where the greatest developments were taking place.
After the course he was assigned a post under the command of General Guderian. An innovator and military genius, the general, by grasping the simple truth that communications were the key to victory in a modern army, transformed the strike power and the effectiveness of the new German army. By now a junior officer in a Panzer division of the general’s 19th Corps, Paul witnessed just how devastating was a division of fast armoured tanks in constant radio contact.
When Germany invaded Poland on 1 September 1939, Paul was commanding a Panzer tank in one of Guderian’s ten divisions, which struck hard across the base of the Polish corridor towards Kulm. The Poles fought like gladiators, suicidally brave, defending their border on horseback and on foot but were no match for the flexible radio-controlled units that harried and wheeled, encircled and destroyed.
One evening, the corps had halted near a cornfield whose late crop was still standing. The waist-high corn was beginning to rot. Behind it lay the remains of a farmhouse. Paul climbed out from the Panzer and walked a little way up the road to make a reconnaissance when the explosion occurred.
The Pole had used the corn to hide his progress as he inched his way forward, belly down and clutching a grenade. At the last moment he leapt to his feet and ran towards the tank. He threw his missile into the open turret and in the resulting explosion was himself blown to bits.
One minute Paul was checking a map reference. The next he was on the ground, his head pillowed in his corporal’s lap. Stranger still, his mind was crystal clear. He knew who he was and where he was; he knew his head was covered in blood and that something serious had happened to his leg.
Poor Father, Paul often reflected as he convalesced. How will he reconcile himself to the flaws in his beloved sons? First Otto, with a weak chest that left him unable to fight, and now himself. At least he had the Iron Cross to show for it.
‘You have received your orders?’ Von Bentivegni had now finished what he was doing and was ready to talk to Paul.
‘Yes, sir. I am going to France at the end of the week.’
‘Are you happy about that?’ Von Bentivegni was shrewder than he sometimes looked. He understood very well Paul’s disappointment at no longer being active.
‘Sir, I’m delighted.’
‘Never mind the waffle,’ said the colonel. (Paul had always admired his lack of humbug.) ‘I know you’re disappointed that you are no longer an officer in combat.’
Von Bentivegni was not a man to waste time over regrets. When it became clear that Paul could not return to his old post, he summoned him to dinner, lectured him on making the most of what there is, and recruited him into the Abwehr. ‘Why ever not?’ he had said to Graf von Hoch. ‘The boy has a first-class brain and natural logic. He should get on with it and stop moping.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Paul.
‘I expect some good results from you, Paul,’ said his mentor. ‘There will be plenty to do. You understand that it is unlikely that all the French will settle down and say “thank you for coming”. In fact, quite the reverse. Lots of them will be plotting away in their garlic-smelling cottages and châteaux to make life as difficult as possible. If by any chance these types know what they are doing, they will go for the obvious targets – railways, etc. But they will also consider targets in your brief – radio communications. Naturally, your cover as officer in charge of radio communications for the garrison in Ribérac will allow you to keep an eye on these potential dangers. I realise you might have wanted Paris but I need a first-class man in the centre of France. You are to be promoted to major.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The colonel went over to the cabinet by the wall and extracted from it a bottle and two glasses. ‘In memory of a fine Moselle I drank with your father, we will share this bottle. Congratulations, Paul.’
The wine was bitter yellow in the glass but tasted magnificent. Von Bentivegni poured himself a second glass. ‘Loyalty is the primary duty, wouldn’t you agree, Major von Hoch?’
Paul hesitated. ‘Yes, Colonel, but it is not so simple. I am loyal to my country and to my commanding officer. But as a patriot—’
‘I see.’ Von Bentivegni cut him short. He was not going to allow Paul to voice dangerous sentiments. ‘In my opinion there is a distinction to be made between “positive” intelligence, such as we in the Abwehr specialise in – the gathering of information about armed forces and in wartime about foreign political and economic affairs – and “negative” intelligence, such as monitoring the activities of the civilian population. Intellectuals, Jews . . . Ours, I would say, is the more legitimate work for a German patriot.’
‘Of course,’ said Paul. Von Bentivegni was giving him a warning: coded, oblique, but insistent none the less. It said: we in the Abwehr must beware the SD, the Sicherheitdienst, created as the security section of Himmler’s SS with particular responsibility for promulgating Hitler’s National Socialism in the Third Reich. Primarily concerned with controlling the private thoughts of citizens, it acts in conjunction with the Gestapo as a guardian of Germany’s moral well-being. It is also destined, in the ambitions of SS-Obergruppenführer Reinhard Heydrich, the Reich’s Central Security Department chief, to become the all-embracing intelligence service of the Third Reich.
‘Our colleagues in the SD,’ Paul said carefully, ‘are not our natural allies.’
‘Quite,’ said von Bentivegni. ‘The SD are watching us. It is my opinion that they wish to take control of all foreign intelligence matters, swallowing the Abwehr in the process. I wished you to know that.’
Ingrid had been waiting in the ballroom of the Kaiserhof Hotel for well over half an hour before Paul arrived. To all appearances she was engaged in flirting with a couple of admirers but she was waiting all the same.
As Paul was taller than most, it was easy to catch sight of him as soon as he arrived. He stood in the doorway looking round him and she was reminded for the hundredth time of a drawing she had once seen but could not remember where. She had searched for it in books and in galleries. Its memory, tantalising and elusive, haunted her for she had the extraordinary conviction that it contained the key to Paul.
Ingrid was the sort of person who held many such superstitions: ‘If I wear this dress, I’m bound to win at cards.’ ‘If I find this picture, Paul will marry me.’
Tonight Paul looked blond and tanned from a holiday at home in Koblenz to which she had not been invited. Ingrid’s hand strayed to the gold embroidery on her dress (Strassner’s black crêpe with a sweetheart neckline, bought in an extravagant moment and at the cost of her coupon supply), and rubbed the thread between her fingers until they smarted.
As she was born into circles where beautiful interiors were commonplace, the magnificence of the setting was of secondary interest. She was far more interested in assessing the social composition of the evening. While she chatted to an aspiring novelist who was trying to impress her, her attention focused on who else was in the ballroom tonight: the Metternichs, Loulou de Vilmorin, Gottfried von Bismarck, Ulrich von Hassell. Ingrid possessed superlative and predatory social skills – a word here, introduction there, flattery precisely aimed – and she deployed them instinctively. Few could resist the combination of her seductive voice and fragile blondeness when she turned her attention on them. Her name was seldom absent from the best guest lists. The older, married men liked her and told her stories, insisting on inviting her to their dinners. Their wives tended to concur at Ingrid’s sweetness. The younger set invited her skiing, to weekends in Schlosses and sought invitations to her informal parties at her chic apartment.
Ingrid had only once made a big mistake, which was to fall in love with a married man. The liaison had been public and stormy. Her lover had not wished the affair to end but Ingrid, sensing shrewdly that time was not on her side if she wanted to make a good marriage, had been adamant. The episode had left her considerably more wary.
Her peace of mind had been further shattered when she met Paul. She knew instantly that he was the man she would like to marry.
‘Fräulein von Sturmbakker.’ A voice broke into her conversation. ‘You look ravishing.’
Ingrid automatically deepened the hollows at her collarbones by pushing forward her shoulders. Then she saw who it was. ‘Hauptsturmführer Gehrbrandt! How nice. Are you well?’
‘In excellent health, Fräulein. I was hoping I would see you.’
Ingrid repressed her distaste and kept on smiling with practised ease. She did not want to see Siegfried Gehrbrandt. His glacial presence visibly deflated the would-be novelist, who withered and bowed himself out of the conversation. Ingrid turned to Gehrbrandt. ‘That was unkind.’
‘Speak for yourself, Ingrid. You were obviously not enjoying the poor man’s company, and I thought I would rescue you. You should be grateful.’
As he spoke, the insignia on his black uniform caught her eye and reminded Ingrid that the young man whom she had once helped with a timely introduction to a member of the Nazi Party was now a rising member of the SS. In days gone by, Ingrid would have shaken him off with a curt dismissal, but now it was different. Instead she asked, ‘Have you seen Paul? I was about to go in search of him.’
‘Aha,’ said Gehrbrandt. ‘A dinner arrangement, no doubt, and I was about to ask—’
‘À deux, Siegfried, I’m afraid.’
‘Poor Ingrid,’ said Gehrbrandt, who divined many of Ingrid’s wishes and was malicious as well as ambitious. ‘Ever hopeful.’
Paul brought out the worst in Gehrbrandt. Even so, Ingrid put all her art into maintaining her smile and prayed that he would not see that his words had found their mark. Gehrbrandt, however, was in a mood to tease.
‘A second son, Ingrid, and not much money. Some brains I grant you, but only a staff officer. It won’t do, dearest girl. Now look at me. Money,’ he was the recent beneficiary of the estate left by an aunt, ‘a trusted member of the Party and an SS officer with prospects. Wouldn’t you rather it was me you were seen dining with?’
‘No, she wouldn’t,’ said Paul, appearing at Gehrbrandt’s elbow. ‘Shall we go, Ingrid? I’m hungry.’
Gehrbrandt did not appear to hear what Paul said for he hailed a waiter and handed them both fresh glasses of champagne. ‘Then we must drink to the progress of the war. May the best man win.’ Paul raised an eyebrow at the crudeness of Gehrbrandt’s challenge and slipped his arm through Ingrid’s. ‘Of course,’ went on Gehrbrandt, after he had drunk half his wine, ‘it’s no contest. Look at the war in the west. The French are too venial to resist us and the British have been neutralised and have no allies. Anyway, it’ll take them a long time to recover after their poor showing at Dunkirk.’
‘Actually,’ remarked Paul quietly, ‘I think the Führer admires the British. Tell me, Siegfried, what do you think about Soviet Russia?’
Gehrbrandt shot him a look. ‘My dear Major von Hoch, the Russians are our enemy. Untermenschen. We will soon beat them.’
‘Yes,’ replied Paul. Hitler’s attack on Russia, his former ally, in June of that year had been a surprise to everybody as well as to Stalin. Ingrid gave his hand a warning pinch which said: Don’t go on.
‘We all have faith in the Führer.’ Gehrbrandt was alert and fox-like beside Paul’s slightly rakish elegance.
‘You know as well as I do, Siegfried, that we have to consider the practical aspects of war. Germany will have to supply her armies, maintain her fronts, fuel her tanks and machinery and still keep the factories running and feed her population. Our resources will be at full stretch – particularly as we no longer obtain supplies from Russia.’
Ingrid broke in. ‘Paul, it is getting late.’
Gehrbrandt knew precisely why Ingrid was trying to finish the conversation. He was quite used to people becoming nervous in his presence. With a snap of his heels, he bowed over her hand. ‘I trust he is taking you somewhere suitable, my dear.’
They left Gehrbrandt standing in the colourful crowd, his black uniform etched against the gold and white of the elaborate Kaiserhof interior.
‘I don’t like him,’ said Ingrid in the vestibule as Paul draped her evening wrap around her shoulders.
‘Why should you? Just because you helped to advance his career doesn’t mean you should like each other.’
‘It’s more than that.’ Ingrid snuggled into the wrap and checked that no one was listening. ‘I think he’s dangerous.’
‘Don’t worry about him,’ said Paul, who understood Gehrbrandt. Almost certainly the man was looking for an eligible wife who would help him in the realisation of his ambitions. ‘Incredible though it may seem to someone as beautiful and well connected as yourself, one does encounter hostility from time to time.’
