The Buick cruised down the wide avenue du Président-Wilson towards the centre of Paris. Headlights of oncoming motor cars were barely covered; strips of light spilled out between inadequate blinds in the cafés. Where London was battened down under a grim black cloak, Paris at night was lifting its hem to show some garter.
The Little Man might have to rush back to Mrs Nibs after dinner, but that didn’t mean Fruity had to.
‘How was Bedaux?’ the duke said. ‘I haven’t seen him for nearly two years now.’
‘Back to his old self,’ Fruity said. ‘Has a finger in every pie. Knows everything. Dashing about the place: Holland, England. I even got the impression he was going to Germany.’
‘Really? How the devil does he manage that?’
‘He’s a Yank, isn’t he? Neutral passport.’
‘He’s a man of the world, if ever there was one,’ the duke said. ‘I look forward to seeing him again. That man certainly has imagination. And energy.’
‘And he was very keen to see you.’
Very keen. Fruity was staying at the Ritz, and a few days before he had been accosted by Charles Bedaux, a fellow resident of the hotel. Bedaux was a Franco-American businessman, frightfully rich, who had amassed his pile from time-and-motion studies or something. He was a friend of a friend of Wallis’s and had made his chateau available for her wedding to the duke. It was a fine place on the Loire, and Bedaux and his American wife Fern had been the perfect hosts.
It wasn’t their fault that the wedding itself had been a cringe-making disaster. Almost no one from England had accepted their invitations, and those who had had pulled out once they had recognized their error. The disapproval of the new king and queen, and of society, was powerful and pervasive.
Of course, Fruity had done his duty to his old friend. He had been best man.
They pulled into the place Vendôme and drew up in front of the Ritz. The doorman recognized the car and leaped for the duke’s door. Inside, the hotel was buzzing, but the chatter subsided a little as the former king entered the glittering lobby.
‘Your Royal Highness!’
Fruity and the duke turned to see a short, powerfully built man with jug ears and thick black brilliantined hair bustling towards them.
‘Charles! Good to see you again!’ said the duke, holding out his hand. ‘You’re looking well.’
‘I am well, sir, I am well,’ Bedaux said in his European-film-star American accent, before turning to Fruity and shaking his hand. ‘I’ve organized a private dining room. A lot has happened in the world since we last saw each other. There is much to discuss.’
6
Schiphol Airport, Amsterdam, 7 November
Conrad found no difficulty spotting the Englishman waiting for him in the passenger terminal at Schiphol Airport. He was tall, wearing a check suit, a monocle and spats.
‘Captain Payne Best?’
The man reached for Conrad’s hand and shook it. ‘The very same. Lieutenant de Lancey, I assume. Welcome to Holland. The car’s right outside. Can I take your bag?’
‘I’m all right,’ said Conrad, gripping his suitcase.
‘Follow me.’
Payne Best led Conrad out of the building to a car park and a sleek black American car.
‘Good to be back?’
‘Back?’ said Conrad. ‘I haven’t spent much time in Holland. Once on holiday when I was a child. Other than that just en route to Germany.’
‘But you do speak Dutch?’ Payne Best said.
‘Not as such, no,’ said Conrad.
‘I was told you speak Dutch.’
‘Danish.’
Payne Best shook his head. ‘Typical of them not to know the difference between Dutch and Danish.’
Conrad decided not to ask who ‘they’ were. The onset of war had led to a mushrooming of bureaucratic screw-ups, and this one didn’t surprise him. ‘Does it matter?’
They climbed into the car. ‘My plan was that you should be my chauffeur when we go to see the Hun officers. But if you don’t speak Dutch, I’m not sure what we will do.’
‘Teach me the Dutch for “yes, sir” and “certainly, sir”,’ said Conrad. ‘I’m a good mimic.’
‘Sprechen Sie Deutsch?’ asked Payne Best.
‘Oh, yes,’ said Conrad in that language. ‘My mother is from Hamburg and I was actually born there just before the last war.’
‘Your accent is perfect,’ said Payne Best, whose German was also pretty good. ‘All right, we’ll stick to the plan.’ He guided the car out of the car park and followed a sign to ‘s Gravenhage, The Hague’s official name. He glanced at Conrad’s own suit. ‘Savile Row?’
‘Yes. Norton.’
‘We must get you something much cheaper and more obviously Dutch. I have a man who drives for me occasionally, and we’re going to make you look like him.’
Payne Best put his foot on the accelerator of the powerful car, a Lincoln Zephyr, and they roared past lesser vehicles on the highway.
‘Can you tell me something about this Major Schämmel?’ Conrad asked.
‘We’ve met him three times,’ Payne Best said. ‘He seems genuine to me. Rhineland accent, I think. Intelligent. My only question is what someone of his calibre is doing in the Transport Division.’
‘Transport is important for a modern army,’ Conrad said. ‘Especially a mobile one.’ That was one thing that his regiment had drummed into its officers. Their battalion had been ‘motorized’ two years before, and had embraced mobility with enthusiasm.
‘Perhaps,’ said Payne Best. ‘We have been supposed to meet a general, but Schämmel has some excuse about why he can’t make it. Of course the excuses may be valid; I can understand how it is difficult to smuggle a general out in wartime. We were meant to meet him tomorrow, but Schämmel has postponed again until Thursday. The idea is to get the general to agree to fly to London.’
‘Does this general have a name?’ Conrad asked.
‘Not yet,’ said Payne Best. ‘Look here. I’m not entirely sure of your role in this operation, de Lancey. I was told you would just be watching. You won’t be involved in the negotiations, will you?’
‘No, I’ll leave that to you,’ said Conrad. ‘My job is to make sure that Major Schämmel is real.’
‘Have you had contact with these generals, then?’
‘Some,’ said Conrad. ‘But we don’t want Major Schämmel to know that.’
‘Where? In Germany?’
‘Rather not say, if that’s all the same to you,’ said Conrad with a smile.
‘Fair enough,’ said Payne Best, nodding to himself with what looked like approval. ‘Or, as we say in Holland: Zeker, meneer.’
They spent the remaining half-hour driving very fast towards The Hague going over the kind of phrases that a taciturn chauffeur might say to his boss. Dutch pronunciation was tricky, but Conrad quickly picked up Payne Best’s accent. How good that was, he didn’t know, but to Conrad’s ear it sounded the genuine article.
The countryside reminded Conrad a little of the levels near his family’s home in Somerset, which he knew had been shaped by Dutch engineers a few centuries before. Green, flat, waterlogged, criss-crossed with ditches and dykes, only the odd barn or copse broke the monotony. And the windmills. Somerset didn’t have the windmills.
Once they reached The Hague, Payne Best drove to the C&A department store in the centre of the city and found Conrad a cheap off-the-peg suit and a flat cap. Not an actual chauffeur’s uniform, but rather the kind of thing that a mechanic might dress up in to look smart on a driving job. Payne Best paid.