Theo shut his own eye and told himself not to be so stupid. What would she want with a Yugoslav businessman named Petar Šalić who was travelling to France in search of his own wife?
The train journey from Madrid had been interminable. He was involved in a slow-motion pursuit of Otto Langebrück, who was travelling in a similar train under the name of Georges Braun, a Frenchman from Mulhouse in Alsace. Both Otto and Theo had brought false identities with them to Spain in case they were needed to travel to France. Otto spoke fluent French and could mimic a convincing Alsatian accent. Theo’s cover was much less secure. Theo’s French was not nearly good enough to pass as a native of any description, so he had used a Yugoslav passport. But he spoke no Serbo-Croat; he was sunk if by chance he came across a French official who did.
He was nervous about entering France in wartime. It was rare for German officers in the Abwehr, or any other agency for that matter, to operate on enemy territory. That’s what neutral countries and neutral agents were for. But France was in chaos, and Ribbentrop had decided that it was imperative that someone approach the Duke of Windsor immediately. Otto Langebrück was the man he had in mind. Theo had tried to insist that he travel with Otto, since at least he had training in espionage, but their covers were not compatible, and it was felt, rightly, that Otto would arouse less suspicion if he travelled alone. What clinched it was the news that the Duke of Windsor had left Paris for Biarritz, only a few kilometres over the Spanish border with France.
Theo’s bosses in the Abwehr were unhappy at the idea of the Duke of Windsor being persuaded to return to England, so Theo had been dispatched two hours after Otto, with instructions to dissuade him from talking to the duke. The hope was that if Otto and Theo could get to Biarritz before the duke, then Theo might be able to tell Otto he had been sent to warn him that the duke was travelling to his house at Antibes instead. If the Spanish trains had followed their timetables, that might have been possible, but it was becoming clear that Spanish trains never followed their timetables.
In which case Theo would have to think of another way of stopping Otto Langebrück.
Which would be a pity. Theo was growing to like the Rhinelander.
51
Extract from Lieutenant Dieter von Hertenberg’s Diary
24 May
Direct order from the Supreme Command. Halt. ‘Dunkirk to be left to the Luftwaffe. Should the capture of Calais prove difficult, this too should be left to the Luftwaffe.’ The order comes from Hitler himself and there is no explanation. When I handed the order to Guderian he couldn’t believe it. He wants to argue, but since there is no explanation, there is no logic to argue against. It makes no sense! The British Army are trapped and demoralized; we could capture the whole lot of them if only the Führer would let us.
I have seen Guderian’s Achtung Panzer! doctrine in action over the last couple of weeks. Keep moving, keep the enemy off balance. Well, the British are well and truly off balance, and now we are staying put and giving them time to regroup and reorganize!
At least it means some rest for some of us, although there is still fighting in Boulogne.
The Loire Valley, 24 May
The first bird woke Conrad. It was still dark, with just a glimmer of grey peeking through the trees to the east. He stretched and nudged Veronica, curled up on the back seat of the Cadillac. It was cold.
They shared some bread, cheese and Evian water for breakfast and were soon on their way. They made reasonable speed along the main road south of Tours. There were plenty of cars pulled over on to the verges for the night, and as dawn came, more and more of them started back on the road. But Conrad and Veronica were definitely making better progress than they had the day before.
‘Maybe we should keep going,’ said Veronica, who was driving. ‘Perhaps we could make Biarritz by tonight after all.’
‘Let’s check Blancou first,’ said Conrad. ‘It’s not too far out of our way.’
So they turned off the main road, but it took them half an hour of tiny country lanes before they came to a sign to the hamlet.
They turned left and descended into a wooded valley. Ahead of them, they could see the house, which was actually a small stone medieval abbey, clad in thick green ivy. A number of semi-ruined buildings lined one side of a dark fast-flowing stream. An ancient footbridge crossed the water to a lush green meadow dotted with a dozen or so cows. It was difficult to believe that this particular corner of France was at war.
‘It’s beautiful,’ said Veronica. ‘You came here as a boy?’
‘Just once when I was about twelve,’ said Conrad. ‘There are supposed to be wild boar in those woods. Father’s banker friend used to hunt them. Very exciting.’
‘Someone’s there,’ said Veronica. ‘And they are awake. There’s smoke coming out of that chimney.’
It was just after six. Early. Conrad’s hopes rose. If Lord Oakford was staying there, he would no doubt want an early start.
The road plunged down the side of the valley and they lost sight of the house. Five minutes later they came to a pair of ancient stone gateposts with no gate, and drove along a track past a lodge, which seemed to be inhabited. They turned a corner and there was the abbey. A large American car was parked in front of it, and in an open courtyard off to one side, by an open door, stood a table covered with a white tablecloth, around which three people were having breakfast.
They turned to stare at the approaching car. There was an old lady in a high-necked black dress and a shawl, whom Conrad didn’t recognize. There was his father. And there was Constance.
Conrad remembered that the concierge at the Meurice had mentioned a woman was present with the American picking up his father. That must be her.
‘What do we do?’ asked Veronica.
‘Just park the car and follow me,’ said Conrad.
Veronica pulled up next to the Packard, and they both got out. Conrad approached the table with a smile. In the quiet courtyard so early in the morning, the birdsong was extraordinary, like a welcoming overture. ‘Good morning, Father. Constance.’
‘What the devil are you doing here?’ Lord Oakford barked.
Conrad approached the old lady. ‘Madame de Salignac, I presume,’ he said in French. ‘We met many years ago, when I came to stay with you as a boy. I’m Conrad de Lancey, Lord Oakford’s son. And this is my wife, Veronica.’ For once, Conrad was not eager to disown Veronica as his ex-wife.
‘Delighted to see you again,’ said the lady, who was very old, very wrinkled, but had clear blue eyes. ‘Forgive me if I don’t get up.’ She indicated a walking stick. ‘But please join us. Cécile!’
A woman, just as old as her mistress but quite a bit fatter, shuffled out of the house, breathing heavily. ‘Please fetch these people some coffee.’
Lord Oakford glared at his son, his manners just getting the better of his desire to shout at him. ‘I thought you were in England,’ he said, in French.
Conrad continued the introductions, this time in English. ‘Veronica, this is Constance Scott-Dunton. Mrs Scott-Dunton murdered my sister last November.’
Constance, who had been playing along with the polite charade and had held her hand out towards Veronica, froze at this.
‘Don’t be absurd!’ snapped Oakford.
‘Excuse me for speaking English, Madame,’ said Conrad in French to his hostess. ‘But my wife doesn’t speak French.’
The old lady looked at Conrad sharply; her bright eyes seemed to be staring right into his soul. Conrad held her gaze. She nodded slightly.