Michael Ridpath - Shadows of War

People laid the blame in two places: the French and Churchill.

Only the day after Churchill had taken over as PM, many Tory backbenchers wondered what they had done. At just the time when the country needed a cool rational brain, they had plumped for a leader who seemed to be struck by bizarre ideas at random, and who wrapped himself in sentimental bombast.

The party had made a mistake and they knew it. Constance was right. Between them, the French and Churchill were losing the war. Peace was the only rational alternative. But this time Alston would make sure he was in control of how that peace was achieved.

He spotted the plump Swede sauntering towards him. They ‘bumped into each other’ at the prearranged spot at the stone pillars by the rose garden where a splendid wrought-iron gate used to stand before it was melted down.

‘Ah, Lindfors, fancy seeing you here!’ said Alston loudly, holding out his hand and smiling. Karsten Lindfors was a Swedish banker whom Alston had met a number of times before the war in London and Berlin. Alston did not know him well enough to trust him, but in March Lindfors had approached Alston with a message from Joachim von Ribbentrop, who it appeared did trust him. Since then they had met twice. Lindfors was a much better intermediary than Constance and Millie de Lancey had been. Alston knew exactly where the Swedish banker’s loyalties lay. The opportunities for profitable trade finance, given all the raw materials and ordnance that were flowing from Sweden to Germany, would be extraordinary. A neutral banker’s dream.

After a few words of greeting, Alston turned to join Lindfors on his stroll, as if they were acquaintances who had met by chance, and had decided to walk together and chat for a few minutes.

‘I have a message for Joachim,’ Alston said. ‘Churchill is vulnerable; it won’t take much of a prod to topple him. It’s likely that this will happen within the next two weeks, especially if the news from France gets worse.’

‘And then what?’

‘Then we need a new regime. We have plans. But it’s vital that Herr Hitler refuses to deal with the existing British government and insists on a new regime of leaders who are sympathetic to Germany. That will give the ditherers enough of an excuse to give way to us.’

‘Who are the ditherers?’

‘Churchill. Chamberlain. Halifax.’

‘And who will be in this new regime?’

‘Lloyd George. Myself. Sam Hoare. Rab Butler. Other sympathetic souls. And be sure to tell Ribbentrop that we will invite back a king whom he can deal with.’

‘The Duke of Windsor?’

‘King Edward. Or Edward the Eighth Part Two as Shakespeare would call him.’

The Swede smiled quickly. ‘How confident are you that you can achieve this?’

‘Very confident. As long as the German government refuses to deal with Halifax and Churchill. It’s all planned.’

‘I’ll tell Joachim.’ He shook Alston’s hand again. ‘Somehow I suspect we will be seeing each other again very soon.’

Alston nodded, and turned back towards the rose garden.

Mayfair, London

‘All right, can you see anyone?’ hissed Constance.

‘No. The coast is clear,’ Anneliese replied. They were on Grosvenor Street. There were no clouds and some moonlight, just enough for them to see what they were doing. They were following Anna Wolkoff’s detailed instructions. Keep on the dark side of the street. Look out for doorways in the shadows where policemen liked to lurk.

They passed a bus stop. Always a good spot.

In a practised movement, Constance whipped the poster out of the shopping bag she was carrying, and unfurled it. The back was already covered with glue, and both women pressed it down over the timetable.

Printed on it was a little ditty written by Captain Maule Ramsay beginning:

But this time perhaps they had had a little too much to drink. The coast wasn’t clear after all.

‘Oi! What are you two doing?’

‘Run!’ shouted Constance, and they ran. Both women were fast and had avoided heels for just such an eventuality. Anneliese turned to see a helmeted silhouette after them. A bulky silhouette. The policeman blew his whistle.

They shot across Regent Street and into the warren of alleys that was Soho.

A quick left and a quick right and they thought that they had lost him.

‘Here! Let’s go in here!’

Constance pulled Anneliese down some stairs, past a doorman, into what was clearly a nightclub. As they penetrated the heavy blackout drapes over the entrance they were hit by a fug of smoke, alcohol and piano music in a dim blue light. The tables had shiny black tops, the chairs were red wicker and fake plaster columns propped up the walls, or were propped up by them. The lighting changed to red.

‘This brings back memories of Berlin,’ said Anneliese.

‘I need a drink!’ said Constance. ‘Have you got any money?’

Anneliese had. She had kept some of the cash Conrad had given her in November for just such an eventuality.

The manager found them a table in the back, and at Constance’s suggestion they ordered black velvets. Immediately, two men in army uniform approached them, bearing lopsided smiles of charm and alcohol, but Constance told them the women were waiting for someone.

She laughed as she raised her glass to Anneliese. ‘Cheers!’

‘ Prost! ’ said Anneliese. Then ‘ Heil Hitler! ’ in a whisper.

Constance giggled. ‘ Heil Alston! ’ she said.

‘That’s a good one,’ said Anneliese.

They were already both tipsy. They had been taken out to dinner at La Coquille by Captain Maule Ramsay, Tyler Kent and a diplomat from the Italian Embassy. Anna Wolkoff and Joan Miller, the model, had been there as well. Much alcohol had been consumed and Tyler Kent and the Italian diplomat, who was a count, were at their most charming. It was clear that Anna Wolkoff was acting as some sort of intermediary between Jock Maule Ramsay and the American Embassy employee.

‘Did I see Tyler give Jock something?’ Anneliese said.

‘You did,’ Constance said. ‘And it’s very secret. I persuaded him to keep a copy for Henry.’

‘A copy of what?’

Constance looked around the room. No one was listening to them, but two men dressed in dinner jackets were staring. ‘Tyler works as a cipher clerk in the American Embassy. He has been deciphering correspondence between Churchill and President Roosevelt. It shows Roosevelt is sympathetic to the British.’

‘Isn’t that obvious?’ asked Anneliese.

‘No, it isn’t at all.’ Constance turned to two more men approaching them. ‘Go away!’ she snarled before they had even got to the table. They went away.

‘Apparently the American public don’t want to go to war with Germany.’

‘Very sensible,’ said Anneliese.

‘Precisely. And Roosevelt must be seen to be keeping his distance.’

‘Which he isn’t, according to Tyler.’

‘Quite right. So Henry’s plan is to pass the correspondence on to an isolationist US senator he knows. The senator will publicize the messages, and Roosevelt will be forced to disown them. It should stop America from coming in to the war.’

‘Wonderful!’ said Anneliese, trying to make herself believe that the news was indeed wonderful, and succeeding. She had developed a technique when she was with Constance of persuading herself that she was in fact a loyal Nazi stuck in a foreign country. She had known enough of them in Berlin, and she tried to react to whatever she saw and heard in that role, blanking out all thoughts of the true implications until later.