Michael Ridpath - Shadows of War

Was there anyone he knew who could or would just up sticks and get on an aeroplane to Holland? Someone he could trust and so could Theo?

Anneliese? No. Insurmountable border-control difficulties. His father? Definitely not. His brother Reggie? Worse. Veronica?

Veronica.

He found a telephone and gave Veronica’s number to the operator. Amazingly, she was already awake. Must be the war and the driving job.

‘Darling! How lovely to hear from you!’

‘Veronica, can you do me a tiny favour? It would involve dropping everything and getting on an aeroplane right away. The ticket’s about eleven pounds. I’ll pay.’

‘Oh, is it something cloak-and-dagger?’

‘As a matter of fact it is.’

‘How divine! Tell me.’

Ten minutes later Conrad composed a telegram back to Herr Hubert Berger in Liechtenstein: ‘SORRY CANT MAKE TRIP STOP WIFE WILL COME INSTEAD STOP DE LANCEY’.

Clapham, South London, 8 May

Constance found the pub easily enough, just off Lavender Hill in Clapham. She ignored the hubbub coming from the public bar, and pushed open the frosted glass door of the saloon bar, which was empty, with the exception of a big man perched on a stool, accompanied by a half-empty pint of beer.

He grinned when he saw her. ‘Hello, Connie, my love! Good to see you!’

‘Nice to see you too, Joe,’ said Constance. Normally she hated people calling her Connie, but it somehow seemed all right coming from Joe Sullivan.

‘What will it be?’ asked Joe.

‘A glass of sherry, please.’

‘Ada!’ Joe yelled through towards the public bar. ‘A sherry for the lady.’

They sat down at a table. Joe Sullivan was a big man with a broad chest, a thrusting jaw and two distinct bumps on his nose. He was probably about thirty: old enough not to be called up yet. Constance had met him at a Nordic League rally and, despite his tough appearance, she found him remarkably easy to talk to. They shared an enthusiasm for the literature of the movement, and had become experts on the various theories of Jewish, Freemason and communist conspiracies. Constance knew that Joe had done some bodyguard work for the Nordic League and the British Union of Fascists. He could be firm. The truth was he liked a fight. And he believed in the cause. So, the right man to come to.

Within a couple of minutes they became involved in an intense discussion of a pamphlet they had both read: The Rulers of Russia by an Irish priest, which demonstrated that fifty-six of the fifty-nine members of the Central Committee of the Communist Party in Russia were Jews.

‘Why can’t people see what’s right in front of their faces?’ said Joe. ‘This war is being run by the Jews for the Jews.’

‘You’re right there,’ said Constance. She glanced at the bar. Empty. They were alone. The time had come. ‘Joe? Could I ask you a favour?’

‘Course you can, Connie. What is it?’

‘Have you ever killed someone?’

Joe froze, his blue eyes coolly examining her. For a dreadful moment Constance thought she had made a mistake, but it was too late. She ploughed on.

‘Would you kill someone for me?’

Still no response from Joe.

‘I’d pay you.’

‘Who is he?’ said Joe. ‘A lover? Or is it a she? Your husband’s mistress?’

‘Nothing like that,’ said Constance. ‘There’s something going on. Something I can’t tell you about at the moment, but it will change the government and end the war. In a good way, a way you would approve of. But only if we can get rid of this man. His name is Conrad de Lancey.’

‘Is he Jewish?’

‘No,’ said Constance. Then she had an inspiration. ‘But his father works for a Jewish merchant bank.’ Henry had told her that Gurney Kroheim’s roots were actually Quaker, but there was no need for Joe to know that.

‘How much?’

‘Five hundred pounds. I have two hundred and fifty with me to give you now, and two hundred and fifty afterwards.’

‘And I’m supposed to take it on trust that this will help stop the war?’

‘Yes,’ said Constance. ‘

Joe smiled. ‘Who would have thought it? A nice well-brought-up lady like you?’

Constance stared at him. ‘I’m deadly serious, Joe. This has to be done.’

Joe laughed. ‘I know you are. All right. I’ll help you. Do you have the money with you?’

‘Yes,’ said Constance, reaching into her bag.

‘Not here,’ said Joe. ‘Somewhere more private. And you’ll need to tell me something about this Lancey bloke. Come back to my place and we can talk some more about it.’

He was smiling. Constance knew what he wanted.

‘Where’s Ivy?’ Ivy was Joe’s pretty wife.

‘At work. Peter Robinson in Oxford Circus. Works all hours, my missus. Won’t be back till late.’

For an instant, Constance felt guilty about betraying Henry. It was possible that Joe would still do the deed if she didn’t sleep with him. But if she did sleep with him his help was guaranteed.

And that would keep Henry safe and his plans intact.

She finished her sherry and smiled at the big man. ‘Yes. Let’s go back to your place.’

Leiden

Theo lit his third cigarette as he dawdled over his coffee in the little café in the Diefsteeg, a Dutch newspaper open on the table. Just as they were parting, after the Gestapo agent had slipped off the roof of the Academy building, Theo had suggested the café to Conrad as a future rendezvous. Although the British agent had spotted them there before, the Gestapo hadn’t, and it was somewhere they both knew.

Theo was enjoying his coffee. Almost reason enough to come to Holland, a neutral country which still served decent coffee. Not for long, though. Maybe he should have another cup while he could.

Theo was not happy that Conrad wasn’t going to meet him himself. He wondered who ‘his wife’ was. It could be someone from the British secret service, in which case Theo wasn’t sure yet what he would do. The British were blown in Holland, and approaching one of them with his message would be foolish. Yet perhaps he should risk his own safety, given the importance of what he had to say.

Or perhaps Conrad meant his real wife, or ex-wife, Veronica. Theo had never met her. She belonged to the five-year period between 1933 and 1938 when Conrad and Theo hadn’t seen each other.

Just then the door opened and a tall Englishwoman entered the café. She was striking: red hair, pale skin, high cheekbones, long legs, wearing an expensive tweed suit. Theo was sure the woman was British: she had that air of cool arrogance of the English upper classes. She scanned the small café. There were only three customers: two old men drinking beer in companionable silence, and Theo.

For a moment Theo caught her eye. The Englishwoman raised a carefully plucked eyebrow. Theo smiled vaguely and turned back to his newspaper. Out of his peripheral vision he could see the woman hesitate, clearly deciding whether to approach him. Then she ordered a cup of tea in English, and sat at one of the other tables, lighting her cigarette. Theo was confident she wasn’t a professional; she had no tradecraft at all. She must be Veronica de Lancey.

The four customers sat together in silence for half an hour; then the two old men left and a couple of male students dropped by for a cup of coffee and a slice of cake.

Eventually, at four o’clock, Veronica gave up, paid her bill and went out on to the narrow lane.

Theo followed her rapidly. He glanced up and down the alley: it was empty. She turned and saw him.

‘Theo?’

‘Yes,’ Theo replied in English. ‘Who are you?’

‘Veronica. Conrad’s wife.’ She looked angry. ‘Why did you let me wait for so long looking like a chump?’