David John - Flight from Berlin

‘But Richard is waiting for you at the border in Holland tomorrow afternoon,’ Eleanor said, struggling not to shout, the questions beginning to cluster in her head. ‘And Heydrich-he agreed you could keep your fortune…’

‘I think you know the types we’re dealing with,’ Jakob said, sounding infinitely tired. ‘Clearly, you have been deceived. As to the money, I have no choice, and have accepted as much. The authorities demand extortionate sums each month in fees for Hannah’s confinement at a sanatorium in Frankfurt. I am turning over some accounts to them in compensation for the cost of her treatment,’ he said with a feeble attempt at irony. He knocked back his cognac and sighed, staring into the lamp. ‘So… the dossier found you in the end…’

‘But there is one good thing,’ Ilse said. ‘We will be allowed to visit her on the way there. We are breaking the journey at Frankfurt. We have not seen her since last summer.’

Eleanor swirled the cognac around in her glass. She got up and paced the room, looking into the ghostly spaces where the pictures had been. She picked up china ornaments and put them down again carefully. When she turned back to Jakob and Ilse, they were watching her with an odd expression, she thought, almost with a kind of humour and admiration. Perhaps she’d done something to remind them of their daughter.

‘All right,’ she said firmly. ‘We’re going to try something. To put a stop to this. You say you’re being driven to Frankfurt on Saturday, the day after tomorrow. How many hours is that from here?’

A n hour later she was riding through the warm Berlin night, her taxi speeding through the deserted streets of the Grunewald, along the Konigsallee to the floodlit Hotel Kempinski on the Ku’damm, still swarming with traffic, diners at cafe tables, departing movie-theatre crowds, and smart girls linking arms with men in epaulettes. She flashed a smile at the hotel commissionaire and was directed by the receptionist to a room on the fourth floor. A puzzled Dr Eckener opened the door in a long silk bathrobe and slippers. The butt of a cigar was wedged into the side of his mouth.

‘Dr Eckener,’ Eleanor said, with the adrenaline singing in her chest. ‘May I talk to you?’

The morning light exposed the devastation wrought by the storm. The Venhoven road was strewn with branches and litter, and what little hedge and vegetation there was on the farmland along the frontier had been flattened. The proprietor apologised. There would be nothing hot for breakfast, as power was still cut. The telephone lines were down, too.

Denham checked that the Morris Oxford had come through the night unscathed, cleaned the windscreen, filled the tank with a petrol can from the filling station, then took the blankets from the boot to make the backseat comfortable for the arrivals. After that he returned to the hotel cafe to wait until the appointed hour. Five p.m. allowed plenty of time for the SD to bring Hannah from Frankfurt and the Liebermanns from Berlin. He wanted to know how far the storm had reached and whether it would stop them getting there, but there was no radio and no news.

‘T he operator says the lines are down,’ Martha said, turning to Eleanor in the hall at Tiergartenstrasse. She still had the telephone to her ear.

Eleanor felt her panic rising. How the hell was she going to warn him? Her first thought had been that the SD wouldn’t turn up for their meeting with Richard. A half second later she’d realised with a sickening jolt that they certainly would. They thought he had the damned dossier.

‘Look at you, you’re a nervous wreck,’ Martha said, sounding irritable. Again she pressed a cold flannel to her forehead. Martha had a hangover, and Eleanor’s crisis was probably the last thing she needed. ‘I don’t know what is going on but I wish you’d tell me. If you and Richard are in some sort of trouble-’

‘There must be a radio mast at Venhoven,’ Eleanor said, her breath fading from her voice.

She sat down on the hall chair and felt herself crumple. When she looked up, Martha was handing her the cold flannel. She took it and dabbed her eyes and swollen face, breathed in, and slowly composed herself.

‘How about a walk in the zoo,’ she said. ‘You’re right. I’ve got some explaining to do.’

B y lunchtime the rain had started again, coming down in even strokes. Denham paid the hotel bill, retrieved his belongings from the safe, and paced the deserted cafe, watching the road to the frontier while Friedl sat at a table reading Hemingway’s latest, To Have and Have Not.

‘What’s it like?’ Denham asked.

Friedl glanced up. ‘A lot better than No Parts for Stella. ’

Every two minutes Denham rose from his chair in agitation.

Finally, with less than an hour left before the appointed time, he could bear it no longer.

‘Let’s wait outside,’ Denham said. ‘Sitting in here is trying my nerves.’

They stood on the wet gravel forecourt next to the car, all packed and ready to go. Denham had a mounting sense of dread and returned to the hotel to use the lavatory.

At a few minutes before five they spotted a large black Mercedes-Benz, sleek with rain, approaching the frontier from the German side.

They watched as the striped barrier was raised and the Mercedes proceeded, pausing at the Dutch customs house. With a flutter of nerves Richard opened the car and took out the old satchel in which he’d placed the bogus dossier. They could see the tiny figure of a customs official speaking into the passenger window, taking the passports to check-another minute-then waving the car on. Now it sped on down the road towards them, a flash of sun catching the chrome of its fender.

Behind them was the sound of someone panting.

They turned to see a lad getting off a bicycle. He had been cycling into the wind. He took his cap off, wiped his brow with his sleeve, smiled, and said something to them in Dutch, then walked up to the hotel, taking an envelope from his shoulder bag.

The Mercedes was about two hundred yards away. They could hear the growl of its engine descending through the gears.

‘Hallo.’

The proprietor was waving from the steps of the hotel and pointing at them, and the lad was ambling back in their direction, pushing his bicycle and holding out the telegram envelope. Denham took it from him and tore it open. The printed words struck a series of hard chimes in his head.

ITS A TRAP CONTACT DODDS URGENT

‘Get in the car,’ he shouted. ‘Now.’

Friedl didn’t ask questions. They jumped in.

Too late.

The black Mercedes was turning into the gravel forecourt. By instinct both of them slunk low into their seats, hiding behind the rain-beaded windscreen. The Mercedes’ long running board, polished bodywork, hubcaps, and taillights passed slowly in front of them like a hearse, purring towards the hotel building. It came to a halt, and all four doors opened at once. Four men in black leather coats jumped out and ran to the door of the hotel. The one in the lead, leaping up the steps, held a Luger in his hand.

Denham turned the key in the ignition. The starter motor whined and died.

‘Go, go, go,’ Friedl shouted, hitting the dashboard with the palm of his hand.

Another attempt, and a metallic strangle.

Denham tried again. The engine fired twice and spluttered into life. He revved, then released the hand brake, and the car shot forwards. Swinging the steering wheel they slewed out of the forecourt, throwing up a hail of gravel, and started turning right, towards Venhoven.

Suddenly a thundering blast of horns and a heavy goods truck was heading right at them. The car was too far into the road to brake and stop. In a reflex action Denham pulled the steering wheel left, swerving the car round with a screech of the tyres.