Woman in the Shadows (16 page)

S
ince the extraordinary episode of Thursday night, Clara couldn't get Ralph Sommers's face out of her mind. The smile, slightly mocking, and the patrician voice with its perfect command of German. The faint crinkling of skin around his eyes. And those eyes themselves, at once sensual and serious, with splinters of darker green around the edges. Why should she trust him? She had met him in the thick of the Nazi elite, after all. He had stalked her with the skill of a professional, though just what sort of professional, she couldn't judge. He had described himself ambiguously as a freelancer, whatever that meant, yet he had asked for her help. She didn't imagine that she could be any help to him. If his approach was a trap, then it was a most elaborate one. Surely, by confiding in her, he was taking as great a risk as she was. No, she decided. It was essential she remain on her guard.

Duisburger Strasse in Wilmersdorf was a row of solid, nineteenth-century, high-ceilinged houses with filigree wrought-iron balconies protruding like lace on a heavy bosom. The street door was open, so Clara entered and knocked several times on the door of apartment 2, but there was no answer. She would have left, but the faint strain of music coming from behind the dense oak door told her that someone was at home. Eventually it opened and Sommers stood there, unshaven and wearing a dark blue silk dressing gown, which gaped at the neck to reveal a line of tawny hair. She wondered if she had disturbed him with a woman. He stood aside.

“You'd better come in.”

He seemed entirely unsurprised to see her. And unembarrassed at being only partially dressed. He led the way into a drawing room and gestured at a sofa. “Sit there for a moment, will you? I'll get some clothes on.”

While he went into the bedroom across the hall, she looked quickly around for anything the room might reveal about him. Nothing about the place, no glass ringed with lipstick, no flowers on the mantelpiece, suggested the presence of a woman. The only female to be seen, clipping roses in a wooden-framed photograph, was the age to be a mother or an aunt. There was a blue flask with the label
EXTRACT OF LIMES, GEO. F. TRUMPER, CURZON STREET, MAYFAIR
. A pair of gold cuff links on the desk, engraved with the initials RGS. A globe-shaped cut-glass lighter, a heavy brass ashtray, and an open bottle of Johnnie Walker whiskey on the table. A pair of brogues stowed neatly beside the armchair with the inscription
CHURCH'S OF TURL STREET, OXFORD
on the inside sole. A tweed jacket hung on the back of the door. The furniture suggested a long-term tenancy, rather than a man living out of a suitcase. There was the desk, with a lamp and a leather-backed chair and an open copy of an Edgar Wallace thriller. It was almost as though someone was attempting to project an idea of utter Englishness.

There was a Bach sonata on the gramophone. The music hung in the air, the notes twisting up, delicately rippling, and declining, like something infinitely sad. Sommers returned, lifted off the needle, then walked across the room and detached the telephone from the wall.

“I hoped you'd come.”

He tilted the whiskey bottle towards her in inquiry, and when she shook her head he poured a finger for himself.

“The telephone's just a precaution. Don't worry. It's quite safe.”

She took the armchair closest to the door, and Sommers sat opposite. As he leaned back, his glance traveled involuntarily to her stockinged legs in a way that surprised her. Agents should know to keep their gaze steady. Not to give their thoughts away with telltale glances. The eyes were the first things to betray you.

“I assume, given that you're here, you feel you might be able to help?”

“You'll need to explain a bit more,” said Clara, neutrally.

“Of course.” He stroked an eyebrow thoughtfully. “Perhaps a bit of background might help.

“Earlier today two Panzer tank regiments were dispatched from Neuruppin, about an hour north of here, to Spain. Nothing unusual about that, but it's a sign that the German involvement in the Spanish war is not letting up. There are men and machines being sent out there constantly.”

“Go on.”

“Everyone should be asking themselves what the involvement in Spain actually means. And the answer is, it's a preparation. The Luftwaffe was mobilized at the start of this year. Since then, they've undergone a vast expansion. They have seventy military airfields around the country. They've increased aircraft production to unprecedented rates. The Germans possess the fastest bomber in the world—the Do 17. They've a production line at Heinkel's factory on the Baltic coast turning out dive-bombers in enormous numbers. To date they've amassed thirty bomber squadrons, six dive-bomber squadrons, and twelve fighter squadrons. Two thousand three hundred and forty aircraft in all. Your Ernst Udet's Technical Division is coming up with new design ideas all the time. The only thing that's holding them back from producing ever more machines is the shortage of steel and aluminum. This matters because everyone accepts that air numbers are going to be vital in the coming conflict…”

“The coming conflict? Then you
have
made your mind up.”

“Clara, it's right in front of your eyes. They're preparing for war on a major scale. The German army is growing stronger by the month. All the munitions factories are working overtime, and they won't stop until they've turned every saucepan in Germany into a dive-bomber. Even before Hitler got involved in Spain, the rest of the high command assumed war was coming, though not before 1941. Now it seems we're looking at sometime sooner. Maybe even as early as next year. Britain badly needs to get up to speed.”

“Is Britain not, then?”

“Sadly, we've spent too long listening to the pacifists, who are determined to prevent rearmament. Those people who say that there's no point defending ourselves because the next war will wipe out mankind. Or the others who say let Hitler have his way with Europe, as long as he leaves England alone. They're fools, the lot of them, if they think Hitler can be trusted. We need to match Germany's achievements right now. In heavy bombers, for a start. Just think of what a five-hundred-pound bomb or even a thousand-pounder could do if it was dropped on London.”

“No one in their wildest dreams is talking about bombing London!”

“There's no telling with the wild dreams of some people.”

She shuddered. His sense of quiet alarm was contagious.

“When I met you, the other day, you mentioned that many English people agreed on an alliance. Surely Hitler hasn't ruled that out?”

“You're right. And for what it's worth, I think that's still what Hitler would prefer. In the past he's favored a grand alliance, with England being superior on the sea, Germany on land, and equals in the air. It makes a lot of sense. If he achieved that, he would be able to concentrate all his force eastwards, towards Russia, in search of that living space he obsesses about. He would absorb Poland and White Russia. In the meantime the regime has decided that a German-Italian alliance will be crucial, so for Mussolini's visit the other week they put on a huge display of military power. But Hitler is still listening to powerful English voices who would like to see England and Germany as brothers in arms.”

There was no doubt to whom he was referring. Sir Ronald Vine. The image of her father, with his craggy figure and penetrating blue eyes, tirelessly giving dinners and making speeches to serve fascism in England, rose up between them, and Clara felt a faint, defensive stab of loyalty. She might hate everything he stood for, she might have devoted the past four years to undermining the Nazi regime in every way she could, but it still pained her to hear her father spoken of with contempt. Family loyalty was deep and instinctive and one of the toughest ties to sunder.

“Why not just say it? You're talking about my father, aren't you? Well, he's not the only one.”

“That's true, and it's what I fear. Powerful men like your father ensure that the case for an alliance is heard at the highest levels. And—this is what concerns me—any information from here which puts an alliance in doubt may get quietly suppressed by those factions in the government who would prefer not to cross swords with Herr Hitler. People who favor appeasement ahead of action.”

Clara looked away, to hide the film of tears that had suddenly misted her vision. Was it the mention of her father, or the fact that she was speaking English in the room of an archetypal Englishman, that brought a sudden, painful nostalgia for her homeland? Her home in Ponsonby Terrace, her friends, the theater school, the parties and plays, even the BBC programs on the wireless—all seemed so far away. Another life. For an instant, her mind traveled back up the railway line through Kent, past embankments blowing with wildflowers and horses gazing peaceably over the fences, then slid into dingy, busy London, with its parks and squares and sooty spires.

“I wonder…what an alliance would really mean.”

It was something she had often thought about, but she had never before allowed herself to wonder out loud.

“If you want to know what England would look like, take a look around you. Don't imagine that England's Jews or her free press or her politicians would be safe for long in an alliance with Hitler. How could they possibly defend themselves? Anyone who imagines that the English Channel is enough to secure their freedom is a fool. The Nazis would start immediately, ensuring their placemen were in positions of power, and those men would be increasing the power of the police, banning demonstrations, unless they happened to be marches by our friend Mosley's people, curbing the trade unions, locking up the churchmen. Then it would be the turn of the social structures, schools and universities, the treatment of women. Books, plays, films—nothing cultural would escape scrutiny. Before long, a thousand years of English parliamentary democracy would be undermined. Britain would be a shadow of itself. And all the ugly, divisive passions that lie beneath the surface would be brought to the fore. That's why it matters so much, Clara. The appeasers can't know what Hitler has in store for them. It's a deal with the devil.”

Sommers was no longer smooth and genial. The façade of bonhomie she had seen at the Goebbelses' party had entirely vanished, to be replaced by something deeper, grimmer.

“You seem to know an awful lot—about the airplane numbers and so on. Why do the Nazis give you so much detail?”

“They want me to know: I told you, they regard me as a useful channel. Goering wants me to relay it to the people back home because he thinks knowing the strength of the Luftwaffe will make the English realize there's no point in putting up any resistance. They give me an astonishing level of performance data, reports on each airplane's engine, manufacturing levels. We share information with them too. Their chaps were shown round some RAF stations this month, though they were only shown outdated aircraft, of course. Just the old crocks, nothing important. But there's pressure of time. We have a deadline approaching.”

“A deadline?”

“A crucial one. Next month Lord Halifax, a government minister, is coming to visit. What do you know of Halifax?”

Clara racked her brain for details of the cadaverous earl, with his homburg hat and icy, aristocratic manner. “I know he welcomed the reoccupation of the Rhineland. He said it was only Germany's backyard.”

“Halifax has been deputed to open a dialogue with the Germans. Officially he's here as Master of the Middleton Hunt, to visit Goering and shoot foxes with him. Unofficially, he's sounding out German intentions. Goering intends to entertain him along with the new ambassador, Mr. Henderson. As I said, Henderson is already predisposed to admire the Nazis. He claims to admire all the regime leaders, even Goebbels. The man's willfully blind. He swallows everything the Nazis tell him about wanting closer ties between our two great nations. Halifax, I'm less sure about. But he has been heard to use the phrase ‘alterations in the European order' to refer to Hitler's plans for Lebensraum.”

“You mean he thinks any aggression will be confined to Poland and Czechoslovakia?”

“Exactly. And the Nazis smell weakness. So it's vital that before Halifax arrives I get accurate details of the extent of the Luftwaffe buildup. Halifax—and others—have to know what we're up against.”

“What exactly are we up against?”

He took a long, slow pull on his whiskey and frowned at her.

“I'd say England is at the most important crossroads she has faced in her history. Appease fascism, or face up to it. The future of the entire continent of Europe will depend on what happens in the next couple of months.”

“I can see that.” Clara braced her shoulders. “But I still fail to see how the future of Europe can have much to do with me.”

He flipped open a packet of Senior Service cigarettes and tilted it towards her. “I'm getting to that. Your friend Oberst Strauss.”

Strauss.
She thought of the ramrod figure at the Tempelhof aerodrome, with a tip of his hat, turning on his heel.

“He's not my friend.”

“That may be. But it was when you mentioned meeting Strauss that I decided I had to confront you. I was of two minds before then. Even when I asked you to the café I hadn't quite decided. I didn't want to compromise you in any way. I didn't see that you could really be useful to me. And you're Dyson's find.”

She bridled at that. “I'm not anyone's
find.
”

He smiled apologetically and nodded. “Of course not. You're independent. Like me. But you are immensely valuable. The problem with many British agents is that their accent is appalling. People can't forget they're not German. But your German is perfect.”

“Really, Captain Sommers…”

“Ralph. Do please call me Ralph. Anyway, Arno Strauss: how well do you know him?”