David John - Flight from Berlin

‘How do you know that?’

He gave a discreet cough. ‘The worrying question-to which my sources found no answer-is what they want with him.’

‘Isn’t it about Liebermann?’

Sir Eric shook his head thoughtfully. ‘No. It must be something bigger than that…’

‘Meine Damen und Herren…’

A voice booming from the far end of the hall was making an announcement, which it repeated in French and then in English. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Your Excellencies, honourable guests, please now extinguish your cigars and cigarettes. There is no smoking in the presence of the Fuhrer.’

An excited murmur swelled around the hall.

‘My word. We’re honoured,’ said Sir Eric. ‘He’s not normally much of a partygoer.’

Two gigantic bronze doors swung open and some twenty helmeted SS in white parade gloves entered the hall. Spreading out, they positioned themselves along the walls and among the crowd. Eleanor noticed with some unease that one had stationed himself only a few feet behind her.

The guests waited, facing the doors. The orchestra fell silent. Ambassador Dodd came over to stand with Eleanor and Sir Eric, as far away from the doors as possible, and he and the Englishman exchanged a look of bemused tedium. She considered slipping away to powder her nose, but there was no chance now.

At last he entered, accompanied by an interpreter and two Olympic officials wearing chains of office. He looked awkward and ill at ease, Eleanor thought, in his white tie and tails, which didn’t fit him well: the coat was slipping off his shoulders.

‘He looks like a flea circus master,’ she whispered to Dodd.

The face was pale, with bags under the eyes. The moustache wasn’t as ludicrous as it seemed in caricature. Yet there was something outlandish about him, something about his gaze, which was expressive, hypnotic even.

Slowly he moved through the crowd, being introduced to various diplomats and ambassadors for sport. He nodded and listened, making it hard for her to connect him with the raving demagogue she’d seen on the newsreels. She wondered whether the Liebermann incident had sparked one of his famous tantrums earlier. It seemed impossible to imagine he’d taken the news calmly.

‘You don’t think he’ll come over here, do you?’ she asked Sir Eric. She felt the palms of her hands begin to sweat.

‘I fear he will, if he knows I’m here. The Germans are proffering their fishy hand in friendship at the moment.’

Eleanor shifted on her heels. She had a strong sense of something malefic at work in the room. Irrational, yes, but she noticed how most of the guests stood in silence, in thrall to some mystical will emanating from this man. She could see it in their eyes, including Martha’s: a type of rapture.

They waited, watching him come nearer. He gave a short bow when presented to a woman, kissing her hand; with the men he said hardly a word but looked into their faces with a pale blue beam. Every few seconds his hand would smooth the curious lock across his forehead, as if by nervous compulsion.

And then he was in front of them.

He recognised Sir Eric, took the ambassador’s hand in both of his, and fixed him with an intense stare. The translator at his elbow leaned in to hear.

‘Sir Eric Phipps,’ he said. ‘The Anglo-Saxons are much in my thoughts.’

‘And you in ours, Your Excellency.’

Hitler nodded slowly. ‘Do you know that today, for the second time, I watched the film Lives of a Bengal Lancer? My bid to discover how England gained her empire.’

‘How extraordinarily interesting.’

Still he held Sir Eric’s hand. ‘India, a nation of half a billion people, ruled by only four hundred English public servants? Erstaunlich. ’ Astonishing.

It occurred to Eleanor how wrong-footed most people would have been by such remarks, but Sir Eric was an old hand.

‘Lives of a Bengal Lancer… My wife’s seen that only once, I think,’ he said. ‘She’s a Gary Cooper fan, too.’

The gaze swept across Sir Eric’s poker face, but nothing could be read.

Dodd was next, and made a remark about the American team being mightily impressed with the Olympic village. At that, a bothersome memory seemed to pop into the dictator’s head.

‘Yes-sy Oh-vens,’ he said, looking straight through Dodd.

It was at that moment that Eleanor understood with a shock that she was about to be introduced. She had not expected this at all and suddenly felt a powerful aversion to the thought of those lips kissing her hand. There was no backing out, but was there a moment to be seized? Surreptitiously she prised open her handbag.

No one realised what she was doing until the very last moment, when the guard standing behind her darted forwards.

But it was too late.

There was an audible gasp from the people around her.

She had lit a cigarette in the Fuhrer’s face.

Denham was woken from a dreamless state by the voice of a man sitting at the end of his cot. He had no idea how long he’d been asleep under the harsh electric light.

‘They’ve patched you up, I see.’

He opened one swollen eye and saw the sheen of a jackboot. Fear surged through him, and he shrank against the wall with a moan.

‘It’s all right,’ Rausch said, reaching over and putting a hand on his arm. There was a stink of wine on his breath. His hair was dishevelled and his uniform was undone at the collar. ‘I’ve come to say a friendly hello, that’s all. Just a friendly hello.’ The man’s nails were bitten to the quick, Denham saw, and stained yellow from those noxious Murads.

Rausch leaned back, his head hitting the wall with a soft thud. ‘Do you know what trouble this is bringing me, Denham?’ he said, almost to himself. ‘Have you any idea what could happen to me? I’ll be thrown down here with you, that’s what. The Obergruppenfuhrer is most displeased. Wants to have a go at you himself. Wants to twist it out of you. You wouldn’t want that, believe me, Denham. You wouldn’t want that.’ The blue eyes dilated, struggling to focus.

‘This started so well. Outstanding intelligence work. That’s what he said. Should have got me decorated…’ Rausch folded his arms and started shaking gently, so that whether he was crying or laughing Denham couldn’t tell. Spittle foamed at the sides of his mouth, and when he spoke again his voice was ill-controlled. ‘I was this close

…’ He held his thumb and forefinger with a tiny space between them. ‘And then you entered the picture.’

Denham thought of protesting the truth once more, but getting the words out would have cost him too great an effort. And what was the point?

‘You’re one of those types, aren’t you, whom beatings only make silent. Isn’t that so? I’ve seen it before.’ He sighed. ‘You and I both, Denham. We’ll hang for this…’ His face reddened but he suppressed the rising sob.

A strange silence opened between them for a while.

‘This dossier…’ Denham whispered. ‘Why?’

Rausch slumped forwards and cupped his forehead in his hands so that Denham thought he was about to vomit, but then he said in a distant voice, ‘Wish I knew.’

He sat up, remembering something, fumbled in his tunic and pulled out a cigarette packet. ‘HBs,’ he said, opening it and offering one. ‘Your brand, I believe.’

‘Water,’ Denham croaked.

Rausch struggled to his feet and opened the cell door, swaying. ‘Water in here.’ Seconds later he was handed a jug. Denham sat up despite the hot knives stabbing at his ribs, and reached for it. It sloshed over the rim and onto Rausch’s hands, dripping to the floor. Cool, clear water.

But Rausch didn’t give it to him.