Düsseldorf
Somehow, in the depths of a heavy slumber, Schellenberg heard the insistent ringing of the telephone. His body was thick with sleep; he had taken a pill to make sure he was rested for the morning. He checked his watch — 3.30 a.m. He climbed out of bed in his pyjamas and picked up the receiver.
‘Hello?’
‘What’s that?’
Schellenberg didn’t recognize the voice, but it sounded shaken. ‘I haven’t said anything,’ he said. ‘Who is speaking?’
The reply was clear and direct now, all nervousness gone. ‘This is Reichsführer Himmler. Finally you answer. Is that you, Schellenberg?’
‘Yes, Herr Reichsführer.’
‘Have you heard the news?’
‘No, Herr Reichsführer.’
‘There was an explosion at the beer hall in Munich. Miraculously the Führer had just left the room, but several Party comrades were murdered. There is no doubt that this is the work of the British secret service. The Führer is convinced of this. He orders you to arrest the two British agents you are meeting tomorrow in Holland and bring them back over the German border. Use the SS detachment that arrived to protect you today. Do you understand?’
‘Yes, Herr Reichsführer, but—’
‘No buts. This is an order from the Führer. Do you understand now?’
Schellenberg realized there was no point arguing.
‘Yes, Herr Reichsführer!’
Schellenberg put the phone down. It was going to be a long and dangerous day.
9
The Hague, 9 November
Conrad was waiting in the small lobby of his hotel in his freshly crumpled suit. He was nervous. There were a number of things that bothered him: the fact Theo didn’t know this Major Schämmel, the leaks in the British operation in The Hague and how to get the message about the planned German offensive to Van. He hadn’t agreed a means of communicating with Van directly, and the date of the offensive was less than a week away. He had just lost a day; he couldn’t afford to lose another. After he had met Schämmel he would insist on returning to London to report to Van directly.
He had spent most of the last twenty-four hours kicking his heels in the hotel, lying low as Payne Best had suggested.
‘Mr de Lancey, I have a telephone message for you, from a Professor Hogendoorn,’ said the woman behind the reception desk in German, handing him a note. It too was in that language, with some spelling errors; not surprisingly, the hotel receptionist’s German was not perfect. Please meet me on Sunday if you can. Prof. Madvig with me. Ask for me at the university.
That must be Theo, perhaps with some information on Schämmel. By ‘Sunday’, Theo meant that day, Thursday; he would be using the ‘subtract three’ code. But there was no chance of Conrad getting to Leiden that day. ‘Did Professor Hogendoorn leave a telephone number?’
‘I am afraid not, Mr de Lancey.’
Just then Payne Best’s long low car drew up outside the hotel. Conrad had no time to find a Leiden telephone directory and leave a message with the professor that Conrad would be unable to see Theo that morning. It was a shame: it would have been extremely useful to hear what Theo had to say about Schämmel before Conrad met him for the first time.
Conrad folded the note, stuffed it in his pocket, and went outside to greet Payne Best.
‘Not cancelled again?’ he said.
‘No. We’re on. Hop in.’
They drove through the centre of The Hague. The city was full of peacetime bustle: trams, cars and swarms of bicycles fighting for road space, with policemen expertly directing things. The frantic traffic contrasted with the sedate, quietly opulent mansions that lined the city’s streets. They passed the old Binnenhof, a complex of brown turrets and courtyards that housed the Dutch Parliament, and headed north through narrow streets to a peaceful little canal lined with bare trees and elegant townhouses.
Payne Best pulled up outside one of these, bearing a brass plate on which Conrad read the words Handelsdienst voor het Continent. They entered the building, which seemed to be a discreet office. Payne Best nodded to the man at reception, said something in Dutch to him, and led Conrad up a flight of stairs. ‘This is my business in Holland,’ Payne Best said. ‘Continental Trading Services. Pharmaceuticals mostly these days.’
He greeted a secretary sitting at a desk outside an open door. Payne Best’s office was large and comfortable with a good view down on to the canal and its little bridge outside. Bookcases and traditional Dutch landscapes lined the wall, together with a striking portrait of Payne Best himself.
A mild man with a trim, greying moustache was sitting in a leather chair by Payne Best’s desk, reading The Times. He put down the newspaper and rose to his feet.
‘De Lancey? I’m Major Stevens, the Passport Control Officer here in The Hague.’
Conrad shook Stevens’s proffered hand. So this was the head of the British secret service in Holland Theo had warned him about.
‘Major Stevens will be joining us,’ said Payne Best. ‘Isn’t Klop here yet?’
‘No sign of him,’ Stevens said. ‘In the meantime, I’ve got something for you, Best.’ Stevens produce two Browning automatic pistols from a briefcase at his feet, and gave one to Payne Best, keeping the other for himself. ‘Sorry, de Lancey, I don’t have one for you.’
‘We won’t need them, will we?’ Conrad said.
‘We shouldn’t,’ said Payne Best. ‘But we are going to be very close to the frontier, so it makes sense to be careful. Mind you, during the last show I used to meet people in a café in Limburg that was half in Holland and half in Germany. Can’t get closer than that.’
Payne Best’s secretary stuck her head around the door and said something to her boss. A moment later a tall, dashing Dutchman of about thirty appeared: Lieutenant Klop. Payne Best introduced him to Conrad in English. Klop’s accent was indeed very good; he could easily pass for a British Army captain to a non-native speaker.
The four men climbed into the Zephyr and set off for Venlo, a small town 180 kilometres away on the German border. Payne Best was driving, and he drove fast. But there was a whole series of checkpoint and tank barriers to pass through. Given what Theo had told him, Conrad was pleased to see that the Dutch were expecting visitors. Klop sat in the front with Payne Best, and Conrad in the back with Major Stevens.
‘I have a question for you, de Lancey,’ Stevens said.
‘Yes?’ said Conrad. There was something about Major Stevens’s tone that made him wary.
‘Where did you go after Best dropped you off on Tuesday?’
‘Leiden,’ said Conrad.
‘And why did you go there?’ Stevens asked.
‘To see an old friend.’
‘An old friend?’
‘Yes,’ said Conrad, keeping his voice as natural as possible.
‘And who was this old friend?’
‘Someone I went to university with. I’d rather not say his name.’
‘That’s tosh,’ said Stevens, staring hard at Conrad. ‘His name is Lieutenant von Hertenberg of the German secret service.’
So that explained the man with the long nose Conrad had spotted in the Diefsteeg. On balance Conrad was happier that it was the British and not the Germans who had been following them. But there was no point now in trying to claim that Theo was a Luftwaffe officer.
‘It’s not tosh, actually. Hertenberg and I were good friends at Oxford.’
‘You were seeing an enemy agent, de Lancey.’
‘I’d rather not say any more.’
‘In that case I’ll get Best to stop the car at the next railway station and you can take the train back to The Hague.’