To Catch a King

‘New York, although it’s a matter of dispute in some quarters,’ she said and sipped a little of the cognac.

He lit a cigarette. ‘Those friends of yours out there? You said it wasn’t police business.’

‘True,’ she said. ‘You see, they are police. A variety peculiar to the Third Reich, known as the Gestapo.’

He was no longer smiling now. He closed the window and turned to face her.

‘You’re Joe Jackson, aren’t you?’

‘That’s right, but we’ve never met.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘But I know all about you. My name is Hannah Winter. I’m a singer. Born in Berlin, but my parents took me to America when I was two years old. I returned to Berlin to sing at my uncle Max’s club two months ago. You know a piano player called Connie Jones?’

Jackson smiled. ‘I certainly do. He’s in Madrid at the Flamenco with his trio right now. Due to appear here next week.’

‘A fortnight ago, he was backing me at my uncle’s place in Berlin. The Garden Room. He was the one who told me about the great Joe Jackson who runs the best American bar in Lisbon. Who fought with the International Brigade in Spain and flew fighters against the Nazi Condor Legion.’

Jackson said, ‘All right. I’ll buy it.’

She said, ‘Have you ever heard of a man called Dr Ricardo de Espirito Santo é Silva?’

‘Portuguese banker. Has a villa at Estoril.’

‘Would you happen to know who his house guests are at the moment?’

‘Common knowledge. The Duke and Duchess of Windsor.’

‘But not for much longer,’ she said. ‘Not if the Nazis have anything to do with it.’

She started to shake.

‘Okay,’ Joe Jackson held her arms for a moment, then drew her down on the couch beside him in front of the fire.

‘Now calm down. Just take your time and tell me about it.’

2

It began, if it began anywhere at all, with a man called Erich von Manstein who at the beginning of 1940 was chief of staff to General Gerd von Rundstedt.

Von Manstein, who was to become the most brilliant commander in the field that the German army produced during the Second World War, was a superb tactician who constantly challenged the views of his superiors, particularly their plans to invade France and the Low Countries.

Faced with demotion, his career threatened, chance took him to a dinner party given by Adolf Hitler on 17 February 1940. At that meeting he took the opportunity of outlining to the Führer his own alternative plan, an audacious drive to the Channel by Panzers through the Ardennes, aimed at separating the British and French armies.

Hitler became so obsessed with the idea that, in time, he came to believe that it was his own. On 10 May, it was put into action with incredible effect. Within a matter of days, the Allied armies were in a headlong retreat.

By 2 June, thanks to Hitler’s decision to halt his Panzers on the Aa Canal, most of the British Expeditionary Force managed to escape from the beaches of Dunkirk. On the afternoon of the 22nd, the French signed an armistice document in the forest of Compiègne in the old wooden dining car in which Marshal Foch had dictated terms to the Germans in November 1918.

Early the following morning, Hitler accompanied by Keitel and a few hand-picked companions, landed at the Le Bourget airport and was driven into Paris. The most devastating campaign in modern warfare was over.

In the chaos that was the rest of France, particularly in the south, the roads were crowded with refugees pushing desperately for the Pyrenees and the Spanish border, many of them British citizens who had lived on the Riviera for years.

Amongst them was a convoy of cars headed by a Buick towing a loaded trailer. At a small town, west of Aries, a barricade had been erected by gendarmes to prevent any further passage to refugees.

As the Buick slowed to a halt, the small, rather slight-looking man seated beside the dark-haired woman in the back, stood up so that he could be clearly seen. He smiled with considerable charm, but the authority there was unmistakable.

‘I am the Prince of Wales,’ he said in excellent French. ‘Let me pass, if you please.’

The officer in charge gazed at him in astonished recognition, then saluted and barked a quick order to his men. The barricades were hastily removed and the Duke and Duchess of Windsor and their party passed through.

In Berlin on the following Friday it was raining as Hannah Winter left her apartment in Königstrasse. It was eight-thirty; an hour before the first cabaret of the evening at the Garden Room which was a good mile away near the Unter den Linden. Not much chance of a taxi these days so she’d have to hurry. There was a Mercedes parked across the street. She glanced at it hopefully, then realized it was a private car and started to walk.

Two young men came round the corner and moved towards her. They were in Nazi Party uniform of some sort, although what it signified she had no idea. There were so many uniforms these days. They paused, blocking the pavement, the faces beneath the peaked caps hard and cruel, ripe for mischief. She was in trouble and knew it.

‘Papers,’ one of them said.

She remembered Uncle Max’s first rule. Never show fear. ‘I’m an American citizen,’ she replied calmly.

‘So?’ He snapped his fingers. She produced her passport from her bag and handed it over.

‘Hannah Winter – twenty-two. That’s a good age.’ His companion sniggered and he returned the passport. ‘And your pass.’

The other one moved closer, enjoying this, his eyes stripping her. She took out her pass reluctantly and handed it over.

He laughed delightedly. ‘Well, would you look at this. A Yid.’ He moved closer. ‘Where’s your star, Jew? You know it’s a serious offence to be out without it. We’re going to have to do something about that.’

He was very close to her now, forcing her back towards the mouth of the alley behind. There was the sound of a car door slamming and she saw a man emerge from the rear of the Mercedes and start across the street.

‘That’s enough,’ he called softly through the rain.

He was of medium height, wore a slouch hat and a black leather coat. A cigarette dangled from the left-hand corner of his mouth.

Her interrogator scowled ferociously. ‘Clear off, if you know what’s good for you. This is police business.’

‘Is that so?’ the man said calmly. ‘Fräulein Winter, is that right? My name is Schellenberg. I heard the exchange sitting in my car over there. Are these men annoying you?’

‘She’s a Yid, out on the street without her Star of David.’

‘And an American citizen, if I heard correctly. Is this not so, Fräulein?’

His smile had a kind of ruthless charm that was accentuated by the duelling scar on one cheek and her stomach was, for some unaccountable reason, hollow with excitement.

‘Yes,’ she said.

A hand grabbed Schellenberg’s arm and shook him furiously. ‘Clear off – now. Unless you want your face kicked in.’

Schellenberg wasn’t in the least put out. ‘Oh dear, you are a nasty little boy, aren’t you?’

He waved his right hand casually. Two men in uniform as black as the Mercedes got out of the car and hurried across. Their cuff-titles carried the legend RFSS picked out in silver thread. Reichsführer der SS, the cuff-title of Himmler’s personal staff.