Katastrophe, page 19
He needn’t have worried. Half expecting to meet someone in a black uniform with a fetching bonnet, he found himself exchanging a rather formal handshake with a tall woman he would later describe to Ursula Barton as ‘handsome’. She was wearing skiing trousers and a pair of rugged boots. A heavy pullover that looked hand-knitted reached down to her knees, and Moncrieff counted the line of scarlet reindeer that stretched across her chest. There were seven. A tangle of blonde curls escaped the woolly cap, and her breath clouded on the cold night air when she asked about the journey.
‘It was fine, Fraulein De Vries,’ Moncrieff murmured. ‘Might I ask you a favour?’
‘Of course. Ursula still calls me Clover. You can, too.’ Her English was flawless, just a tiny shiver of Dutch vowels.
‘Thank you,’ Moncrieff stepped a little closer. ‘There’s a man coming towards us. Black leather coat. Glasses. Nothing obvious, please, but might you know him?’
De Vries returned his smile, then covered her nose, confected a sneeze and turned her head away in time to catch a glimpse of the stranger from the train before he hurried towards the ticket barrier.
‘Well?’
De Vries held his gaze for a moment, then linked her arm through his. ‘I have a little car outside,’ she said. ‘He’ll never keep up.’
It was a Fiat Topolino, tiny, black. Moncrieff squeezed himself into the front, still looking for any sign of his shadow, but the street in front of the station was empty. A five-minute drive took them down to the edge of a lake. The streetlights along the promenade danced on the blackness of the water but, once again, there was no sign of life.
Moncrieff had been here once before, in high summer, twenty years ago. Then, as a young university student eager to put his French and German to the test, he’d spent a very happy five days swimming in the lake and hiking in the nearby mountains until his precious stock of Swiss francs ran out. Barely six months earlier, the town had been full of diplomats putting the finishing touches to the treaty that would cement the gains of the last great war, and it had been easy to believe in the promise of an enduring peace, but now mere decades later, this tidy little Swiss lakeside resort was sheltering itself from a very different world.
‘This is your car?’
‘It belongs to the Army. I call it the Tank.’ De Vries was slowing to a halt in front of a biggish building beside the water. ‘This is home. Chez moi.’ She touched him lightly on the arm. ‘You’re very welcome.’
A plaque beside the door announced the premises as the Club d’Aviron de Locarno.
‘You live in a rowing club?’
‘Sort of. Don’t be frightened. It’s not as bad as it sounds.’
She produced a key to open the door, and then stood back as Moncrieff stepped inside. Every rowing club, he thought, must smell the same: a damp bouquet of sweat and effort spiced with the smell of oil and the tang of white spirit used to thin the varnish for the hulls. He stood for a moment in the darkness, then De Vries found the light switch and he was looking at a modest fleet of singles, doubles and quads, all of them nested on wooden launch trollies. Blades were stored on racks on the walls, and in the silence he could hear the soft lap-lap of water beyond the wide double doors at the end.
Moncrieff stepped towards the nearest of the boats, ran his fingers down the curve of the hull, tested the swivel in the rigger.
‘You know about rowing?’
‘I do, yes. I rowed at university, Edinburgh. Bloody cold this time of year.’
De Vries laughed. She said she had the run of the place. The right word in the right ear, and he could borrow one of the singles any time.
‘Stay for ever,’ she said. ‘Forget this wretched war.’
She led him upstairs. Beyond an area the club used for social events was another locked door. On the other side lay a roomy apartment, two bedrooms, with a lounge at the front that looked onto the water. De Vries wanted to know whether Moncrieff had eaten. He shook his head, telling her he’d had something at Lucerne between trains, and she studied him for a moment before taking off her woolly hat and shaking out her blonde curls.
‘You lie badly,’ she told him. ‘Which surprises me.’
She disappeared into the kitchen and Moncrieff caught the pop of a gas flame and the clatter of crockery as he toured the lounge, sampling the bookshelves and inspecting the art on the wall. The framed photographs were all black and white, mainly close-up shots of birds against landscapes that Moncrieff judged to be Dutch, but there was one oil painting tidied into a corner of the room. It was abstract, a mad, jagged collage of blacks and scarlets and a vivid burned ochre that seemed to speak of a deep anger. To Moncrieff, it had no place in this room. It was an intruder with rough manners and the loudest of voices who’d somehow barged in through the door and insisted on catching the eye. He was still studying it, still wondering, when De Vries returned with a bowl of soup and thick slices of buttered bread.
‘Here, please.’ She was nodding at the biggest of the three armchairs.
‘Where did this come from?’ Moncrieff nodded at the painting.
‘Me.’ She was waiting for him to take a seat. ‘It’s crude, I know, but it felt important at the time.’
Moncrieff nodded, settling in the armchair.
‘And Nevil Shute? Upton Sinclair? Robert Tressell? Don’t the Dutch write books? The Germans? The Swiss? I’ve brought you some more. They’re presents from Ursula but I suspect your tastes might have moved on.’
‘Ursula was a wonderful friend.’ De Vries was laughing now. ‘But she never quite got me right.’
‘How? Do you mind me asking?’
‘Not at all. Ursula was my boss. In fact, she was everyone’s boss. And I wanted her to think I was a lot more serious than I really am.’
‘The Salvation Army sounds serious. Are you telling me she was wrong?’
‘The Army was a gift from God.’ Her gaze had strayed back to the oil painting. ‘I wasn’t very well at the time.’
‘And the Army helped?’
‘It did. It does. And so did that canvas. One way or another I had a lot to get off my chest, and a good friend told me what to do with the paints. Does that make any sense? I’m not sure I care.’
Moncrieff nodded, not knowing quite what to say, and then tasted the soup.
‘Potato?’ he looked up. ‘Barley? Onion?’
‘And paprika. It’s OK?’
‘It’s marvellous. So how come you live here?’
‘That’s the Army, again. They support the club, they helped get it built in the first place. There are kids in this country, believe it or not, who have real problems. We send them here and the club looks after them, which is nice for me because I get to live with a wonderful view.’
‘You row, too?’
‘I ski. And swim. And ask the nosiest questions. That man on the station, by the way, the one you pointed out.’
‘Yes?’
‘He’s a Slav. His uses the codename Crusader, and he works for anyone who’ll pay the fees he demands.’
‘You know this? You’re sure?’
‘Absolutely certain, I’m afraid.’ There was a hint of mischief in the smile. ‘Old habits die hard.’
*
Moncrieff woke late, gone nine in the morning, disturbed by voices from below. Rowers, he thought. Preparing to launch. He got out of bed. De Vries had left an ancient dressing gown on the back of the door, and he put it on. The faintest scent of perfume told him it must be hers, and he was surprised by how well it fitted.
The little kitchen next door was empty but there was a scribbled note telling him to help himself to coffee and the bag of fresh pains aux raisins she’d acquired from the bakery across the street. She’d be out until late morning, leading a service in the local citadel. Any of the rowers would supply directions if he was interested in taking a look. ‘No obligation,’ she’d written at the end. ‘Why would you need God?’
Good question. Moncrieff retired to the bathroom, realising it was Sunday. He soaped himself all over with water from the handbasin, then returned to the kitchen to brew coffee. With a plate of pains aux raisins on his lap, he settled in an armchair and watched the rowers slipping their hulls into the water. The conditions were perfect, not a breath of wind. The lake was ringed with mountains, and the snow glistened in the sunshine against a near-cloudless sky.
Moncrieff watched one of the rowers. He was older than the rest, and the way he sat the single scull, his body bent while he fiddled with adjustments on the footplate before he came vertical again, spoke of a great deal of experience. His back straight, the sun on his face, his blades extended, his legs began to flex as he slid forward to take the first stroke. This movement, which Moncrieff so well remembered, could have a singular grace, and in the hands of this rower the shell slipped effortlessly forward, scarcely troubling the mirrored surface of the lake.
He took another stroke, and then a third, the scull picking up speed, and Moncrieff followed his progress, aware that he’d been right about the man’s pedigree, and aware as well of the truth of a metaphor like this. On assignment, as on the water, you had to rely on yourself, on your own talents, on your own artfulness. You had to leave no trace, you had to balance your little craft against every eventuality, and you had – above all – to understand the importance of stealth. Take the enemy by surprise. Always.
Agent Crusader? He sat back in the armchair, the plate empty, his eyes closed in the warmth of the sunshine through the big window. He knew he had to take De Vries’s intelligence, her warning, on trust. Quite how she stayed in the game while saving souls was beyond him but what little he’d seen of her so far had been deeply beguiling. She had a confidence, a sense of her own presence, that was – in his experience – very rare. She’d teased out life’s tougher knots, lifted her head, cocked a listening ear, accepted a calling, and was happy with the results. Not her life, not any more, but God’s.
Moncrieff found himself nodding. Not because he was envious, or wanted something similar for himself, but because he thought he understood. There was nothing otherworldly or semi-divine about his own trade, far from it, but he’d suffered a great deal from time to time and recognised the door you’d try and open if you were in real trouble. De Vries had done exactly that, and he guessed it was serving her extremely well. Gut gemacht. Well done. God bless.
Of De Vries, at least, Moncrieff thought he had the measure. But Agent Crusader? As a freelance agent, if he was to believe his new hostess, this man would be working for anyone who’d put money in his pocket, but his tradecraft, on the evidence of a single journey, was hopeless. Moncrieff’s first instinct was to suspect the hand of Broadway in the very fact that he’d been followed at all, but somehow he doubted that even MI6 would hire someone so hapless. Unless, of course, they simply wanted to mark his card. This is abroad, they were telling him. This is our territory. Please repack your bags and go home.
The link with Broadway, if true, was troubling. He never doubted for a moment that coming to Switzerland like this was an act of trespass, that he had ventured onto their turf, but his encounters with the likes of Kim Philby had taught him that MI6 were in the business of survival in a rough old world, and that they could be ruthless as well as clever in defending their precious turf. Nonetheless, he was still a servant of the Crown, employed by King and Country, and he had legitimate business of his own to transact.
In the file he was carrying was a list of other senior Nazis housed in Camp 165, and now he needed to talk to the Americans to offer a substitute for Sturmbahnnführer Wuensche, someone St James’s Street could pledge to deliver, but first he needed a much longer conversation with De Vries. Last night, she’d promised to share what she knew about Operation Sunrise, but she was meeting a contact at the citadel before the service began and preferred to parcel this latest intelligence with everything else.
Moncrieff at last opened his eyes. There were half a dozen boats out on the water, jockeying for position on some kind of start line, but away in the distance he could barely make out the single sculler he’d been watching earlier. Alone, he thought. Dependent on no one but himself.
*
The Salvation Army citadel turned out to be a slightly shabby looking building, several hundred metres away from the town centre. There was a school across the road, with a caretaker sweeping the playground, and Moncrieff paused for a moment or two, watching a couple of pigeons inspecting the sweepings he’d left in his wake. According to Moncrieff’s calculations, Officer De Vries’s service should have come to an end by now, and a thin trickle of worshippers emerging into the sunshine told him he was right.
He found her inside the hall that served as the body of the citadel. Last night, she’d looked like a refugee from the ski slopes. Now, in her dark uniform, sensible shoes and fetching bonnet, she was definitely on active service.
‘You found the coffee? The pains aux raisins? Made yourself at home?’
‘Yes to all three. You should be running a hotel.’
They were alone in the hall. Rows of wooden seats stretched back from a raised stage. An open bible lay on the lectern at the front of the stage, and the entire hall was dominated by an enormous wooden cross, hanging on the rear wall.
They were sitting in the front row. Moncrieff gestured at the seats behind.
‘Good turnout? Big congregation?’
‘Meagre, I’m afraid. Locarno has always had a clean conscience. Either that, or most of the town’s still in bed. We must talk about Sunrise.’
Moncrieff nodded. He loved conversations that immediately settled on the matter in hand. Few of his colleagues could manage it, but Ursula Barton had exactly the same talent. Small talk to business in a matter of seconds.
‘I understand you know about the first meeting with Wolff?’ she said.
‘March the 8th? Ten days ago? Am I right?’
‘Yes. That took place in Zurich. An American called Allen Dulles seems to be in charge. He heads the Swiss branch of OSS and lives in Bern. He met Wolff that night and they talked in the OSS apartment in Zurich for an hour before Dulles took the train back to Bern. Wolff stayed the night in Zurich and had further discussions with a man called Gaevernitz next morning.’ She paused. ‘How much do you know about this man?’
‘Gaevernitz? Assume nothing.’
‘Fine. His first name’s Gero. His father was a celebrated professor in Germany. The family are liberal, one reason why Gero decided to sit the war out here in Switzerland. He has his father’s looks, and his father’s convictions, too. I’ve met him a number of times. He’s a lovely man. He’s sincere, and he’s principled, and he’s clever, and in this country he can speak his mind. He thinks all the Nazi nonsense goes only skin deep in Germany and wants to lend a hand when the time comes to bring this whole thing to an end.’
‘You mean Hitler?’
‘I mean the war, though it may turn out to be the same thing. Dulles and Gaevernitz see a great deal of each other. A source of mine is a very close confidant of Gaevernitz and knows more or less what happened after Dulles left him with Karl Wolff in Zurich. Wolff, it seems, believes the war is lost. He’s always had faith in Hitler but now he must persuade him to sue for peace. Hitler, of course, won’t hear of it. The Allies are still insisting on unconditional surrender and Hitler knows that will be the end of Germany. Gaevernitz says he’s leading the country to its grave, and he’s probably right.’
‘And Wolff?’
‘Wolff is a patriot. This is Gaevernitz again, not me. Wolff leads the SS in northern Italy but General Kesselring is in charge. Kesselring is old school. He’s taken the soldier’s oath, total allegiance to the Führer, and that kind of loyalty has got into his bones. Gaevernitz has an undertaking from Wolff that he will talk to Kesselring about a local surrender south of the Alps – that’s hundreds of thousands of troops – but there are no guarantees that Kesselring will agree. He’s the only undefeated senior General left in the Reich. He has a reputation to protect.’
Moncrieff nodded. He’d read a great deal about Kesselring, mainly thanks to interview transcriptions with senior Nazi commanders taken prisoner, and he knew that De Vries was right. Even a commander of Kesselring’s standing had a great deal to lose in any offstage dealings with the Allies including, in the current mayhem, his head.
‘So these talks will go nowhere, surely? Kesselring is the only one who can sign a proper surrender, and that’s the last thing he’ll ever do.’
‘Gaevernitz thinks otherwise. Believe me, he reads these situations well. The word he uses is “fluid”. Things change all the time, and he thinks that could be to our advantage.’
‘Our?’
‘Yours. Dulles has been in touch with Allied headquarters in Caserta. You know about the setup there?’
Moncrieff nodded. The Allied advance into northern Italy was under the control of a British General, Sir Harold Alexander. The Field Marshal held court in some splendour at the Palace of the Bourbons, at Caserta, north of Naples. In intelligence circles, Alexander had a reputation as a reserved man, difficult to read, but he appeared to have fallen out with Montgomery. This was an easy thing to do, thought Moncrieff, but was greatly to Alexander’s credit.
‘So what does Caserta think?’
‘It appears that Alexander’s interested. He’s sending two aides, one American, one British, to meet Wolff the next time he turns up.’
‘Here, you mean?’
‘Yes.’ She leaned forward. ‘But I understand there’s a problem. Wolff was never supposed to come to Switzerland in the first place. For whatever reason, he was happy to take the risk, but he told none of his SS bosses in Berlin. If you think that was reckless, you’d be right. Alas, he was caught out. While he was here talking to Dulles, his immediate boss phoned wanting to meet him in Italy but obviously couldn’t. His name’s Kaltenbrunner. Only Himmler outranks him. Kaltenbrunner made enquiries and in the end he found out about Wolff spending the night in Zurich. Naturally he’s demanding a face-to-face interview and an explanation. So far Wolff’s managed to avoid the first, but he’s had to explain what on earth he was doing on the wrong side of the border.’
