Simon Tolkien - Orders from Berlin

Trave nodded. It was the last subject he would have brought up, but he couldn’t help it if Churchill had read his mind.

‘I read the lad’s diary,’ Churchill went on. ‘And it made me ashamed of myself — for having failed him and for having forgotten him. Everything was so quick and dark in Flanders that winter. I can’t really describe it to you. And there wasn’t any option but to find him guilty. He had deserted and he wouldn’t say anything in his defence. Or maybe he couldn’t, I don’t know. But I do remember his right arm shook all the time he was in the room, and I should have mentioned that to Haig when I sent in our verdict. I should have recommended him to mercy, and I didn’t. It probably wouldn’t have made any difference. The field marshal was a cold-blooded man and he liked nothing better than to set an example. But that’s not an excuse. Alistair O’Bryen was under my command and I failed him, and I understand why his brother hated me for it. I’d probably have felt the same.’

Churchill was silent and his watery eyes were far away, as if he’d gone back in time to a place they could not follow. And then unexpectedly he reached for the champagne bottle and refilled their glasses. ‘To Alistair O’Bryen, who deserved better,’ he said, raising his glass and touching theirs. ‘God rest his soul …

‘And now,’ he added after a pause, ‘let us see what Mrs Landemare has prepared for us. I am lucky to have one of the best cooks in all England, and so I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.’

Churchill was right. The lunch was good, far and away the best that either Trave or Ava had enjoyed since the beginning of the war. And Churchill worked hard to make it a success, asking them questions and listening with interest to their answers and discoursing on subjects as diverse as French food and the landscape of Morocco, which he loved, and strikers and secessionists, whom he didn’t. And it seemed that hardly any time had gone by when his private secretary appeared in the doorway at half past two to summon him away to a Cabinet meeting in the bunker war rooms below.

‘Thank you again,’ he said. ‘Thank you for saving my life. It is because of people like you and Thorn that we will win this war. You are the heart of the lion. All I do is provide the roar.’ He smiled, shook their hands, and was gone.

Back outside, as they walked away through the falling autumn leaves on Birdcage Walk, the day seemed like a dream to Trave and Ava — the last act of a past they were both leaving behind forever.

‘What will you do now?’ Trave asked.

‘Not will, I already have,’ said Ava, smiling. ‘I’ve joined the Army. And if I do well, I’ll get to winch up a barrage balloon or load an AA gun, which is a lot more useful than sitting at home. And there’s a khaki uniform and driving lessons thrown in, which can’t be bad. Whatever happens, I’ll try to make sure I don’t turn out to be as crazy a driver as you!’

‘I’m sure you won’t,’ said Trave, laughing. ‘What does Bertram say?’

‘He doesn’t have a say. He accepts that we shouldn’t be together, which is a relief, and he’s very grateful to us for getting him out of gaol. Without the documents we found in Seaforth’s safe he’d probably still have a fight on his hands. And I think he does genuinely want to do the right thing — a divorce eventually and a fair financial settlement. Of course, I still don’t know why he got into all that debt, and I don’t suppose he or you are ever going to tell me,’ she said, looking quizzically up at Trave, who shook his head.

‘Privileged information,’ he said. ‘My lips are sealed.’

‘That’s all right. He said that whatever it was is over, and that’s what matters. Did that have anything to do with you, by any chance?’

‘Perhaps,’ said Trave, with a smile.

They stopped to cross the road, and Trave looked at Ava. He thought he could already see a change in her — a greater purpose in the way she walked, a sparkle of new life in her bright green eyes. ‘You’re going to be fine,’ he said suddenly, as if realizing a truth for the first time.

‘I know,’ she said, and her face lit up as if she’d just walked into a shaft of sunlight. ‘But what about you, Detective? Where do you go from here?’

‘Onwards and upwards, apparently,’ Trave said wryly. ‘I’m a detective sergeant now.’

‘Congratulations,’ said Ava. ‘You deserve it. But there’s something else on your mind, isn’t there?’ she added, looking at him curiously, noticing the frown on his face. ‘Something you’re not saying. What is it?’ she asked. ‘You can tell me.’

‘It’s nothing, really. Just frustration, I suppose — a feeling like I started a book and want to know how it ends, but that I can’t because my role in it is over. I often think of that man Heydrich in Berlin, the one who controlled Seaforth, and I wonder what he’s doing now. Thorn showed me a picture of him when we were in your father’s flat that night before the bomb fell, and the image has stayed in my mind, like those pictures you can see even better with your eyes closed.’

Trave gave a rueful grin, as if reproaching himself for being foolish. They had reached the station and the time had come to go their different ways.

‘Goodbye, William Trave,’ she said, standing on tiptoes to kiss him on the cheek. And then, as if deciding that that wasn’t enough, she put her arms around his neck, hugged him, and whispered in his ear: ‘Turn the page. That’s what I’m going to do.’

She turned and went down the escalator, looking back at him all the time until she disappeared from view, as if trying to stamp his image on her mind, in the same way that the image of the Gestapo chief was engraved on his.

BERCHTESGADEN

Eight hundred miles away on that same October afternoon, Heydrich sat rigid in the back seat of the staff car that was taking him to Berchtesgaden. He was passing some of the most beautiful scenery in Germany as the road climbed into the Bavarian Alps, but he might as well have been in his office back at Gestapo headquarters in Berlin for how much notice he was taking of it.

His mind was entirely concentrated on the approaching interview with the Fuhrer, who had sent orders that morning for him to present himself at the Berghof at precisely three o’clock. Two weeks of total silence since their last meeting in the Reich Chancellery and now this. No questions about what had happened in London, no reprimand, nothing, although Heydrich wouldn’t have been able to tell Hitler anything concrete even if he’d asked. There had been no word of any kind from D. Heydrich knew from the news that Churchill was still alive, and by now he presumed the worst. He had been able to verify from his agent in the Portuguese embassy in London that D had collected the package nine days earlier — more than enough time for him to have reported back on any problems he’d encountered with executing the assassination plan. No, Heydrich was certain that D was dead, and he feared that soon he would suffer the same fate. As Hitler’s executioner, Heydrich knew only too well that death was the price of failure in the Third Reich.

His worst suspicions were confirmed when he was met at the foot of the steps leading up to the residence by an SS major and two soldiers from Hitler’s personal bodyguard.

‘You will please come with us,’ said the major after saluting Heydrich, and they set off away from the Berghof in the direction of the Fuhrer’s teahouse on the Mooslahnerkopf Hill.

The major stopped as they came to the beginning of the path through the woods and demanded that Heydrich hand over his Walther P38 pistol. Heydrich had no choice but to comply when the major told him that he was acting on the direct orders of the Fuhrer, but he felt stripped and defenceless without his weapon.