Michael Ridpath - Shadows of War

That troubled him. It troubled him deeply.

The Hague

‘ Zijn deze plaatsen nog vrij ?’

Millie looked up at two Dutchmen, both about thirty, both good-looking. She and Constance were having a cup of coffee in the Passage, an elegant shopping arcade just opposite the Binnenhof parliamentary citadel.

‘We do not speak Dutch. We are English,’ she replied in that language.

The shorter of the two men smiled. ‘No matter. I can speak English and I can translate for Jan.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Millie smiled politely. ‘We are waiting for someone. He will be here any moment.’

‘I understand,’ said the English speaker, his face regretful. ‘I apologize for troubling you.’ They withdrew and found themselves a seat in the opposite corner of the café.

‘Pity,’ said Constance. ‘They looked rather nice.’

‘Better than some of the oafs that have approached us over the last couple of days,’ said Millie.

It was hardly surprising that she and Constance had drawn attention. Constance was an attractive woman, and Millie was used to dealing with strange men wanting to start conversations with her. Actually, Constance had proved to be a more amusing travel companion than Millie had expected. She and Millie were very different, but Constance had a general zest for life that was catching. They had spent a couple of days wandering around The Hague, and Constance had been bowled over by the paintings in the Mauritshuis. Millie had the impression that Constance’s enthusiasm for the Rembrandts and Vermeers was all the more rapturous because this was the first time she had ever ventured into an art gallery.

They had talked a lot, but Constance’s background remained sketchy. She had grown up in Cheshire and then moved to London with her mother to stay with relatives after her father had died, but beyond that Constance had revealed little. She gushed about her handsome husband, a naval officer, but then she also gushed about handsome Dutchmen they bumped into in The Hague.

‘So who is this man we are meeting?’ asked Millie.

‘Otto Langebrück,’ said Constance. ‘Works for Herr von Ribbentrop, who is an old friend of Henry’s.’

‘And Foreign Minister, isn’t he?’ said Millie.

‘That’s right.’

Millie frowned. ‘Should we be negotiating with the enemy’s government? I mean, shouldn’t that come through official channels?’

‘Official channels?’ Constance snorted. ‘You know what Chamberlain is like. He’s too stubborn to negotiate with anyone. That’s why we are here, Millie. That’s why Sir Henry and your father sent us.’

‘Yes, but Chamberlain is Prime Minister, isn’t he? I’m not sure we should be going behind his back.’ Millie realized she was beginning to sound like her brother.

‘I loathe Chamberlain,’ said Constance, her eyes alight. ‘He’s the one who got us into this stupid war. Have you read Rogue Male ?’

‘I’ve heard of it. Came out in the summer, didn’t it?’

‘You should read it. It’s brilliant. There’s just one problem. The hero at the beginning is trying to shoot a European dictator who is obviously supposed to be Hitler. He should have been trying to shoot Chamberlain. Now that would have been worth doing.’

‘You are not serious?’ Millie said.

‘I certainly am,’ said Constance. ‘I’d do it. Especially if it would stop this war.’

Millie glanced at her companion. She didn’t seem exactly fanatical, more matter-of-fact. An odd girl, Constance.

‘I think this must be him,’ whispered Constance as a well-dressed man of about thirty approached them.

‘Mrs Scott-Dunton? Miss de Lancey? Permit me to introduce myself. My name is Otto Langebrück. May I join you?’

‘Please do, Mr Langebrück,’ said Millie.

The man oozed charm as he took the third chair around the table. His English was very good. ‘Herr von Ribbentrop sends his compliments to you and to Sir Henry.’

‘Would you like some coffee?’

‘Sadly, not. I do not have much time. I believe you have a message for Herr von Ribbentrop?’

‘I do,’ said Constance. She opened her bag and pulled out an envelope, and handed it to Langebrück, who slid it into his breast pocket without opening it.

‘We will be staying here for three days more if there is a reply,’ Millie said. ‘As I’m sure you know, my father is Lord Oakford. I would be happy to pass on any message to him or Sir Henry Alston.’

‘That’s all right,’ said Constance. ‘You’d better speak directly to me. I know Sir Henry a little better than my friend.’

Langebrück glanced at the two women. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I will leave a message at your hotel if I have anything. Where are you staying?’

‘At the Kurhaus in Scheveningen.’

‘I will be in touch.’

‘Sorry about that, Millie,’ said Constance with an embarrassed smile when Langebrück was safely out of the café. ‘But Henry did give me strict instructions what to say when we hear back from him.’

Millie didn’t answer. She now knew why Constance was with her: to act as an envoy for Sir Henry Alston with the Nazi government. Presumably Father knew about this. But the guilt weighed down on her. What would Conrad think if he found out what she and Constance had done? Or Theo, for that matter?

That she should be torn between what her brother and her father expected was nothing new for Millie. But she cared what Theo thought. She cared very much.

Paris

The bar was warm, smoky and crowded. It had been a long train journey from Holland and Conrad was tired. He was also late.

He scanned the tables and saw the man he was looking for wedged in a corner reading a book, an almost empty carafe of red wine next to him. Conrad made his way over to him.

‘Hello, Warren. I’m glad I didn’t miss you.’

The American looked up and shot to his feet, pumping Conrad’s hand. He was shorter than Conrad with floppy hair that hung down over his eyes, and a wide amiable smile that showed off gleaming teeth. ‘No chance of that. I can keep myself amused here for hours. We need more wine.’ He waved a waiter over.

‘It’s good to see a friendly face,’ said Conrad. And Warren’s was a very friendly face. Conrad had met him at Oxford almost ten years before. Warren’s ambition had always been to become a novelist, but after a couple of years floundering in Paris, he had secured a job as a junior foreign correspondent for a Chicago newspaper. He had spent the last few years in Berlin and Prague, and had now returned to Paris, covering the war.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Warren asked. ‘I thought it was impossible for British officers to get leave in Paris?’

‘It may be,’ said Conrad. ‘I wouldn’t know. My unit is still in England.’

‘That explains nothing,’ said Warren.

Warren’s inquisitiveness didn’t surprise Conrad; he was a journalist after all.

‘I’m here on some semi-official business,’ said Conrad.

‘Ah,’ said Warren. ‘I understand.’

Conrad realized that Warren had immediately assumed he was doing something in intelligence. Which he supposed was true, sort of. The good thing about Warren’s assumption was that he wouldn’t expect further explanation.

‘How’s Paris?’ Conrad asked.

‘It’s great to be back,’ Warren said. ‘Although I’m getting a bit sick of this drôle de guerre . It would be good to report on some real fighting. Still, it has given me time to work on my novel.’

Conrad noticed that the book Warren was reading was To Have and Have Not by Ernest Hemingway, Warren’s hero. Rereading it, probably.

‘Have you read Scoop yet?’ Conrad asked. ‘It’s brilliant.’