The Secret of Spandau (11 page)

‘Do you hear anything familiar?' he asked her.

She listened through the shouts of the bathers and the children playing. ‘It sounds like table-tennis.'

‘Or ping-pong?' said Valentin, with a smile.

They presently saw three tables where play was in progress in the open air, just off the promenade. It was ping-pong stuff, for sure; small boys and giggling schoolgirls. A couple of guys were sitting on the edge of the promenade nearby, dangling their legs over the edge. They were speaking in English, with American accents. One of them had a good bat beside him.

‘We're a little early,' said Valentin. ‘We'll walk on for ten minutes and come back.'

‘Why? I don't want a game here,' said Heidrun. ‘I get plenty of practice.'

He tightened his grip on her arm and walked her past the tables.

A small crowd had collected around one of the tables when they returned, and the two Americans were playing. Heidrun was prepared for the fast, flashy stuff you expect from guys who fancy themselves as players, and one was dishing it up. He was the typical beach-bum who wanted everyone to know how brilliant he could be at any sport he cared to try – from surfing to throwing a frisbee – without, of course, really trying at all. He was barefoot, with tattered sawn-off jeans, copper medallion on a leather thong, long, sun-bleached hair fixed with a rubber band, and a cigarette in his free hand.

He was not the player he imagined himself to be. Certainly he was striking the ball hard and keeping it on the table, but only because the other player was setting it up for the smash.

‘What do you think of him?' Valentin murmured in her ear.

‘Not much.'

‘And the other one?'

‘I can't see him. Let's move to the other end.'

She instantly preferred what she saw. He was less flamboyant, meeting the ball with a variety of defensive shots, deliberately giving nothing back in aggression, though it was clear from the speed of his reactions that he could have switched to attack if he had wished. He was not even testing the beach-bum with artfully placed returns. He was using the play to practise dropping the ball across the net on a preselected spot. Naturally it flattered his opponent, but there was no question who was the player of class.

‘He's better,' said Heidrun.

‘How would he compare with Ritter?'

‘I'd have to see him extended. The other one is rubbish.'

‘Why don't you offer him a game?'

She turned to look at Valentin. ‘Why should I? I don't know anything about him.'

‘I can tell you a few things. His name is Cal Moody, and he doesn't belong to any table-tennis club.'

She continued to study Moody, trying to fathom why Valentin had been so eager for her to see him. From his short haircut, she guessed he was one of the US servicemen stationed in Berlin. It was light brown hair, with a slight wave. On his chest the hair formed small, tight curls. He had pale blue eyes without the dreamy look that often went with them.

Valentin said, ‘He's probably better than the other Charlottenburg man.'

‘Frank Hennige? Yes, very likely,' Heidrun responded. ‘But he might not be any use at doubles.'

‘Is Hennige?'

There was a fifteen-minute limit on each session. The Americans went through theirs without scoring a game. Heidrun joined in the applause when they left the table. Her throat was dry with nervousness or excitement. A pulse was beating in her neck. Suddenly she was aware that Valentin had released her arm. She looked around and could not see him in the crowd. The sense of liberation surged inside her. She stepped forward and asked Cal Moody, ‘Have you had enough, or would you give me a game?'

He looked at his companion, who already had his arm around a girl. ‘I guess if no one else wants to use the table …'

They didn't score. They simply knocked up, testing each other's play. His return of service was certainly better than Frank's, probably better than Erich's.

At the end, he said, ‘You've got to be a Berlin league player, at the very least.'

She smiled, and told him about Sportclub Charlottenburg. She found they were walking towards the beach café where they sold ice-cream soda in tall glasses. He just sat down with her at one of the tables outside and ordered a couple.

She liked Cal. He was relaxed and he made her feel relaxed. After a bit, she asked casually, ‘Have you ever played doubles?'

‘Men's doubles, yeah, back in the States. I played in a club in Philadelphia, mainly singles, but there were times … you know?'

‘Yes. I used to play singles, too.'

‘And now doubles, huh?'

‘Until my partner was injured.'

‘Really? Too bad! What happened?'

‘He broke his ankle. Cal, I suppose you wouldn't consider … just for a short time, six weeks or so … filling in for my partner in league matches?'

He looked uncertain. ‘Nice of you to ask me, Heidrun, but it's difficult. You see, my work times are a little irregular. I work shifts. It would depend when the games came up. We'd need some practice, too.'

‘I'm at the sports hall every evening.'

‘At Charlottenburg? I guess that isn't so far from me.' He rubbed his chin speculatively. ‘About six weeks, you said?'

‘Yes.'

‘Maybe I could move my shifts around if they clashed. I could speak to the other guys.' He gave a wide grin. ‘Yeah, why not? Let's give it a go.'

She put her hand over his as if to seal the agreement. ‘Thank you, Cal.'

‘Better leave the thanks until we win a game.'

‘All right,' said Heidrun. ‘When will you know about the shifts? Can I call you at work?'

He grinned again. ‘No, that would be difficult. You see, I'm a prison officer in Spandau Jail.'

If anyone had breakfast that morning, it was not mentioned. Jane lingered in bed long after Red had gone, reflecting on what had happened. This was the first time she had treated a man as a stud, without a shred of emotional involvement. The few words that had passed between them had been to encourage each other. Rather to her surprise, she felt no adverse reaction after it was over. He had been good and she was satisfied, and no less independent for the experience.

Cedric appeared towards noon, enquired about hangovers and then suggested an
al fresco
salad lunch. ‘I'd offer you a pub meal,' he informed his guests, ‘but I want to outline the plan of action, and we can't run the risk of being overheard.'

So Dick and Red put up a trestle table on the sunny side of the clearing, and soon it was stacked with food from the fridge, a selection of meats, bread and salad, with two bottles of
vin rosé
and the last of the lager.

They were grouped around the table in an assortment of canvas chairs, with the exception of Cedric, who had wisely opted to entrust his weight to wicker. He leaned forward cautiously to say, ‘I take it that you all still want to work on the story?'

Jane told Cedric, ‘I think we're all with you.'

‘You believe it now?'

Jane pointed to the wedge of Gruyère on the cheeseboard. ‘I believe it's as full of holes as that.'

‘Ah. But you're staying with it?'

‘To find out the truth.'

Cedric nodded amiably. ‘That's good enough for me. No prizes for guessing what I want you to research, Jane.'

‘The far right of the Conservative Party in the first years of the war?'

‘Spot on. There were people openly advocating a deal with Hitler. The Marquess of Tavistock was one. Lord Halifax pressed the case in the War Cabinet itself. Follow up the names in the Haushofer correspondence – Sir Samuel Hoare and Lord Lothian.'

Jane frowned. ‘When you say “follow up”, do you mean compile dossiers, or what?'

Cedric shook his head. ‘I'm not looking for a rehash of
Who's who.
Get me the stuff that has never appeared in print, Jane. Use your contacts on the Diary. Talk to the families. Get them to tell you what Grandad was up to in 1941.'

‘Heavy on mileage,' Jane warned him.

‘My dear, leave me to worry about the expense.'

Interested glances were exchanged around the table.

‘Does that go for all of us?' Red tentatively enquired.

‘Sorry to disappoint you, but I want you to work the patch you know: Berlin,' Cedric told him. ‘Have another crack at Wolf Hess. Press him for chapter and verse.'

‘I already have.'

‘Try harder.'

‘Anything else?'

Cedric gave Red a long look across the table. ‘There is something, yes. What we are going to need is a line into Spandau Prison. If this story is to mean anything at all, we have to try it on the one man left alive who knows what happened.'

There was a moment's stunned silence.

Red began to laugh. ‘You think we can speak to Hess?'

‘You
can,'

‘For Christ's sake, Cedric, Spandau isn't an old people's home. I can't walk in there with a bunch of grapes and ask to see my Uncle Rudolf.'

Cedric made it plain that he was unamused and unimpressed. ‘One way and another, some three hundred people are hired to run that place. If you can't find one of them willing to earn a few Deutschmarks on the side, you're not the intrepid journalist I took you for.'

‘Yea, but how many of the three hundred ever get near to Hess?'

‘Find out.'

Dick was eager to come in. ‘Aren't we overlooking something? Hess lost his memory at Mytchett Place. There's no guarantee that it ever came back. He's probably senile by now.'

Cedric said firmly, ‘My information is that he is not. Can't you people see that this will make our story the biggest thing since Watergate? The authentic voice of Hess from inside Spandau confirming that he was in league with half the British establishment. Imagine the sensation that will cause.'

‘It's a
voice
now,' said Red, squaring up for the counter-offensive. ‘You mean you want him on tape? You wouldn't like me to smuggle in a couple of TV cameras and Sir Robin Day while I'm at it?'

‘All we want is his confirmation that our story is true,' Cedric responded. ‘Have you read that book I gave you last night?'

‘
The Loneliest Man in the World
? I haven't got around to it yet,' Red was forced to admit.

For the first time that weekend, Cedric barked out his annoyance. ‘What the hell have you been doing with your time? Do you think I flew you over from Berlin for the pleasure of your small-talk? So far as I'm concerned, that book is the Michelin Guide to Spandau. Eugene Bird was the American commandant of the place. Everything you want is in there: prison routine, numbers of staff, a description of the layout, pictures of the cell-blocks, even an aerial photo. Plus, of course, the only interviews with Hess in nearly forty years.'

‘Did the truth about the peace deal come out?' asked Dick.

‘We wouldn't be sitting here if it had,' Red commented, quick to turn the fire on someone else.

‘True.'

‘Did Hess reveal
anything
of significance?' asked Jane.

Cedric pondered the question. ‘His loyalty to Hitler has never wavered, even though he admits that his Führer would probably have stood him against a wall and shot him if he had flown back to Germany. He repeats
ad nauseam
that the flight was his own initiative.'

‘Is it important?'

‘It obviously is to Hess. He was shown photocopies of the Haushofer correspondence and he stressed that even his friends the Haushofers didn't know what he was planning.'

‘What about his intentions when he got to Britain? Does he say much about that?' asked Dick, joining in the conspiracy to coax Cedric into a more genial frame of mind.

‘The usual stuff about being an emissary of peace. He admits that it was a mistake to try to overthrow Churchill.'

‘Nothing about the people he planned to contact?'

‘No. He confirms that he had never met the Duke of Hamilton. There was no reply from Hamilton to the Haushofers' feelers. Time was running out for a peace deal, because the Germans knew America might line up with Britain any time.'

‘Not to mention the fact that Hitler was about to attack Russia,' put in Jane.

Cedric's expression relaxed a little, as if somewhat reassured that his team was not entirely unreceptive. ‘Operation Barbarossa. Yes. Quite a lot is made of this in the book. For a long time, Hess insists that he knew nothing about Hitler's invasion plan. Then, one evening in his cell when he has been reading through the manuscript of
The Loneliest Man
, he admits to Colonel Bird that he
did
know about Barbarossa. Later, he retracts the statement, but a day or two later, he wants it reinstated.'

‘Are you sure he isn't gaga?' asked Jane.

Cedric shook his head. ‘Colonel Bird describes him as a very intelligent man, well read, and with a most inquiring mind.'

Red cupped his beer-glass in his hands and stared into it. ‘Leave it with me,' he said. ‘I'll work on it.'

‘Discreetly,' Cedric cautioned him. ‘And that goes for all of you. Be aware of the sensitive ground we're about to disturb: over here, the security services and the establishment; over there, the most famous prisoner in the world, guarded by four nations. When Bird's book was in preparation, the CIA got to hear about it. His home was put under twenty-four hour surveillance, his phone was tapped, he was placed under house arrest, interrogated for hours, asked to resign his job as commandant and flown to Washington to appear before a board of the State Department.'

‘Yet the book was published?' said Jane in surprise.

‘Yes – with a signed statement from Colonel Bird that he was required to testify under oath.'