‘They have a witness. A walker who saw Theo running out of the dunes with blood on his hands and his shirt. He identified him by the scar on his jaw. I’m sorry, Conrad. There is no doubt now that Theo killed her.’
Conrad refilled his glass from the port decanter and sat in his father’s armchair in front of the embers of the coal fire in the drawing room. It was just past midnight: the others had all gone up to bed.
The decanter was almost down to the dregs; Conrad had already helped himself to quite a few glasses. There was something about drinking port that reminded Conrad of Theo, of those long nocturnal conversations at Oxford.
He fixed his eyes on the fireplace, as if an answer would be revealed somewhere in the dying orange glow of the coals, if only he stared long and hard enough.
How could he do it? How could Theo kill Millie?
Had he really killed Millie?
Ever since he had heard about the new witness in Holland, Conrad had been torn between fury and disbelief. Fury that Theo had killed his sister and disbelief that he actually had done so. He tried to cling to the disbelief, but all the time he was afraid he was just hiding from the truth, denying the evidence.
Conrad had known Theo since the age of eighteen. During that time they had shared much: ideas, drink, friendship and, more recently, a sense that the only way to stop global catastrophe was to stop Hitler. They loved and respected their own countries and each other’s. They had faced danger together; together they had worked to overthrow the German dictator. It was bad enough for Conrad to learn that Theo had been negotiating with his sister and his father behind his back. To be told that Theo of all people had actually killed Millie was unbearable. Unthinkable.
It was unthinkable. Apart from anything else, Theo was not a killer, or not yet. Unlike Conrad, who had killed in Spain and then in Berlin. Chivalry was bred deep into Theo; Conrad could not imagine him stabbing a woman, especially not Conrad’s sister.
But the unthinkable had happened.
Why would Theo do it? Conrad couldn’t think of a reason, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t one. In the world of espionage he was beginning to realize that few people if any ever had the whole picture. And the other trait that was bred deep into his friend was loyalty to his country. For the right reason, if there was no other alternative, and if his country demanded it, perhaps Theo could kill, in much the same way his Prussian ancestors had killed, ever since the Seven Years War two hundred years before.
Conrad hoped he would find out something more in Holland, either from the Dutch authorities, or from Theo himself. But deep down he knew he should stop fooling himself, accept the unacceptable.
His friend had killed his sister.
26
Gestapo Headquarters, Berlin, 21 November
Schellenberg examined the short memorandum on his desk, and frowned. When you worked for the Gestapo, there were certain moments where taking the wrong decision, following the wrong path, could be career-threatening. Even life-threatening. Survival came from recognizing those moments; they were not always easy to spot.
Schellenberg’s instinct told him this was one of them.
The memorandum came from one of the Gestapo officers detailed to keep an eye on Lieutenant von Hertenberg in Holland. The officer had approached a Dutch professor at the University of Leiden, W. F. Hogendoorn, who was a firm believer in National Socialism and felt that his own country’s future would best be served by friendship with Germany. The professor had occasionally been used in the past by Hertenberg as a means of contacting foreigners in Holland. One of these was an Englishman named Conrad de Lancey. Hogendoorn told the Gestapo officer he had his doubts about Mr de Lancey, and by implication about Hertenberg. He wondered whether what they were doing was above board.
It was a good question and Schellenberg didn’t know the answer.
The choices facing Schellenberg were the same as before: he could keep the information to himself, he could check with Canaris, or he could inform Heydrich. Schellenberg preferred the first option, but he knew that if he chose not to inform Heydrich now and his decision came to the notice of his superior, he would be in trouble. Possibly terminal trouble. And his instinct was that de Lancey and Hertenberg were likely to cause more difficulties, the kind of difficulties that would get them noticed.
He dug out the de Lancey file from his desk drawer, picked up the telephone and called Heydrich’s secretary, telling her he had to see him as soon as possible.
The Gruppenführer was only a few years older than Schellenberg, a tall man with blond thinning hair brushed back over a high forehead. His eyes were small and crafty, and his nose and lips suggested the cruelty of a predator — a hawk perhaps, or even a vulture. Yet there was something feminine about him: his high-pitched voice, his wide hips, his delicate hands. The whole effect was disconcerting, disorienting, a warning. In Schellenberg’s opinion, it was sensible to be disconcerted by Heydrich.
Schellenberg remained standing as he passed his chief the memorandum.
Heydrich scanned it quickly, and then waited, his eyes on the paper. Schellenberg knew he was thinking, not reading.
He tossed it to one side, and leaned back in his chair. ‘So?’ he said.
Heydrich was asking how much Schellenberg knew. This was Schellenberg’s chance to tell him he knew very little.
‘This is the second time I have come across de Lancey’s name,’ he said. ‘It first came up during the interrogation of Major Stevens a couple of days ago. Stevens claimed that his men in Holland had followed de Lancey, and saw him meet Hertenberg in Leiden. That was probably the seventh of November. I retrieved de Lancey’s file and discovered that he and Hertenberg were old friends from Oxford University. In fact they had seen a lot of each other last year, when de Lancey visited Berlin.’
‘And what did you do with this knowledge?’
‘Much of the file was put together by Kriminalrat Schalke, whom you may remember was murdered in the Tiergarten last year. Having read the file, it seemed to me prudent just to watch Hertenberg and wait to see what he did.’
Heydrich smiled. ‘You have good judgement, Walter.’
‘I was tempted to continue just to watch and wait, but I thought it was better to inform you.’
‘Another good decision. Let me see the file.’
Schellenberg handed it over and Heydrich flipped through it. The Gestapo chief grunted and a small smile crossed his lips. Schellenberg guessed that he was pleased to observe the obvious gaps. Heydrich stood up, walked over to the window, and stared across the Wilhelmstrasse to the new Reich Chancellery. Schellenberg waited.
‘Klaus Schalke was a good officer. I’m sorry he died, and I am quite sure that de Lancey had something to do with it. I met him once, next door.’ Heydrich meant the Gestapo building around the corner in Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse. There had been nothing in the file about Heydrich interrogating de Lancey, another deliberate omission no doubt. ‘I didn’t like him. And I have severe doubts about his friend Lieutenant Hertenberg.’
Schellenberg remained silent.
‘Get Naujocks to put one of his men on to it. When de Lancey comes to Holland I want him dealt with. And tell Naujocks that it would be most unfortunate if an accident were to befall Hertenberg at the same time.’
Schellenberg knew that when Heydrich used the word ‘unfortunate’ he meant the opposite. He had no objection to de Lancey’s death, but he thought Heydrich was going too far with Hertenberg.
‘But Hertenberg is an officer of the Abwehr! Shouldn’t we check with Canaris to see whether he knows about the meeting?’