XPD, Page 31

  They would have seen a Staffel of Messerschmitt Bf 109 Es flying close escort on Churchill’s unarmed Flamingo. The aircraft, from Jagdgeschwader 51, had been ordered to this task by direct order to Luftflotte 2 headquarters from the Führerhauptquartier. These German fighters circled the airfield until Churchill’s aircraft was in the air, and then protected him across the German lines into French airspace.

  Significantly, it was the Luftwaffe high command in Berlin (Ob.d.L.) which had issued the special instructions for this small tactical mission. Stuart turned the teleprinter message over in his hands. The cryptic language of the signals unit at Luftflotte 2, which passed the secret message to IX Fliegerdivision HQ, did little to hide the nature of the instruction. No routing was mentioned in the message but HQ insisted that all pilots must be specially briefed that the Sonderflug must be kept safe at all costs. No fighter pilot must leave the escort formation to attack enemy targets no matter how tempting. The Geschwaderkommodore, the message continued, was to lead the mission in person. Failure to carry out the terms of this ‘commander-in-chief’s order’ would mean court-martial for all concerned.

  Adolf Hitler had done everything in his power to ensure that no ghastly calamity mar this chance of the British Commonwealth’s giving up the struggle so that he could become the undisputed master of Europe.

  Boyd Stuart closed the file, and pressed the buzzer to summon the duty archive clerk. Suddenly he felt tired and rather old.

  * * *

  * Assignment to Catastrophe, Vol. 2. The Fall of France, page 159 (Heinemann, London, 1954).

  * Spears, Vol. 2, page 172.

  Chapter 36

  There were plenty of larger boats to be seen on Lake Geneva that summer but Die Zitrone was a fifty-foot motor yacht with factory-fresh diesels, modern radar and a powerful launch swinging from the stern davits. Die Zitrone cruised very slowly along the south side of the lake, keeping close to the shore, but not dangerously so. On the afterdeck two men were seated at a table with a Campari in one hand and Zeiss binoculars in the other. From time to time they would raise the binoculars to look at the shoreline.

  It was a warm day, the first Saturday of August. One of the men was dressed in dark trousers and a white shirt with a neat monogram on the pocket flap – as used to mark expensive made-to-measure garments. A blue yachting cap completed the sort of informal outfit favoured by owners who chartered and sailed their own yachts for their clients and was calculated to indicate superior skills while maintaining social equality.

  The second man wore a striped shirt and grey shorts. It was hot and he was sweating. From time to time he ran his hand through his closely cropped hair. On the table in front of him there was a tape recorder. From it came a thin black lead which ended at his shirt collar where a tiny microphone was clipped close to his mouth. ‘The first boatload of men must stay at the lake shore until all the boats are secured,’ Willi Kleiber said into the microphone. ‘The Pitman house is one hundred and fifty metres from the landing stage. Any boats found at the landing stage must be totally disabled by the landing party from boat one. No one will move from their position until all boats are secured and contact has been made with the party arriving by road. The two advance men of the road party will use red flashlights to identify themselves. The two advance men of boat one will use only green flashlights.’ He switched the tape recorder off and took one last look at the big lakeside house of Colonel John Elroy Pitman the Third, before Die Zitrone steered away northwards to cross the lake.

  It was a hot, cloudless day. The mountains were crisply drawn against the blue sky and very close, or so it seemed. The two men put down their binoculars and put on their sunglasses. They sat for a moment, still dazzled by the harsh reflection of the sun off the flat water.

  ‘It will be easy,’ said Willi Kleiber.

  ‘I don’t like it,’ said Max Breslow. ‘We still don’t know what the documents are like. If they are all contained in those metal filing cases, it will take all night to get them out of the house and loaded on to the trucks.’

  ‘Of course it will,’ said Kleiber. ‘At least it would … if that’s what I intended to do.’

  ‘When then?’

  ‘We’ll take possession of the house, I’ve told you so. Do you think I’ve changed my mind?’ said Kleiber. ‘We’ll hold it for two or three days … ,’ Kleiber saw that Max was about to argue, ‘a week, if it takes a week. We’ll stay there as long as we have to.’

  ‘My God, Willi. You don’t know what you are saying.’

  ‘I’m a gambler, Max. I always have been.’

  ‘Stay there? Holding those Americans captive?’

  ‘You saw what it’s like, Max. There will be no difficulty in embarking our people from the lakeside. It will be quiet and discreet. They only have to come from Coppet on the far side of the lake. One carload of our best people will arrive at the Pitman house by road. No one in the village will hear shooting, there will be no lights.’

  ‘I’ve heard of such plans before,’ said Max Breslow dryly. ‘Have you told the Americans that there will be no shooting, no shouting and … and what was the other thing you’ve forbidden?’

  ‘You should know me better than that, my friend,’ said Kleiber. ‘In the boats we are wearing party clothes. If the Americans get rough and the neighbours get nosy, we’ll be there in fancy dress to explain the commotion and apologize for the disturbance.’

  ‘How many?’

  ‘Fifteen men should be sufficient,’ said Kleiber. ‘They are all well-trained people from my own security company. These are fellows I use only on the most dangerous assignments: kidnap threats, murder threats and so on. They know what to do.’

  ‘Can they keep their mouths shut?’

  Willi rubbed a finger on the side of his nose. ‘These are all men who depend upon me to keep my mouth shut,’ he said, and smiled. ‘These are good men, Max. These are all men like us.’

  When Die Zitrone reached Coppet on the Swiss side, it followed the coast until it reached a curious-looking mansion with a well-kept lawn which came down to an ornate wooden boat house.

  The main building was fifty yards away. Finished in a hideous shade of yellow, its stucco was stained and peeling, and the wooden balconies were warped and weatherbeaten. But the inside of the house had been cleaned up and redecorated in plain colours. Most of the lights were unshaded bulbs and the seats were new and of a folding type more commonly found in schools and lecture halls. Max Breslow shuddered. There could be no doubt that this was all done to Willi Kleiber’s taste. Kleiber took a great personal pride in choosing things that he described as practical and without frills.

  ‘There is everything we are ever likely to need in here,’ said Kleiber, his voice echoing slightly against the bare walls. ‘Guns, machine-guns even, handcuffs, other types of restraints, cutting tools and a thermic lance that will carve through solid steel.’ He looked at Breslow and smiled. ‘You mentioned such devices. Downstairs we have extra inflatable boats and enough food to feed a company of soldiers for a month.’

  Max Breslow did not answer. He followed Kleiber through the first room and downstairs. A man was sitting on a hard chair in the hallway. Kleiber motioned to him and he unlocked a wine-cellar door to show them inside. Kleiber waved his arm. ‘Look!’

  Inside there was an array of guns. Fitted into wall racks were a couple of dozen HK 54 machine pistols, of the sort issued to the German border police. There were also some Swedish Carl Gustaf 9-mm machineguns, and two sniper’s rifles with infra-red sights and lights. Glass-fronted cases contained hand guns and there was a wooden box of concussion grenades.

  ‘MACE,’ said Kleiber tapping another box. ‘Still the best disabling weapon I know. And it contains no toxic apart from the tear gas.’ His low voice was resonant in the tiny windowless strong room.

  ‘You are crazy, Willi.’

  ‘Where have you been living for the last few years? Venus? Saturn? Mars?’ said Kleiber. ‘I’m the virtual ow
ner of the best damned security company in West Germany, even if we are not yet the biggest. All of this material is legitimately owned and operated by our Swiss associate, of which I am a vice-president. The company is licensed to have the weapons you are looking at, Max. Our only undertaking to the government is to have them under proper safekeeping, so that they are not stolen by terrorists.’

  ‘It’s all legal for you to have this stuff?’

  ‘The police turn a blind eye to me. My company undertakes some dangerous work, Max. I have contracts to provide protection to many members of the government, as well as to very wealthy businessmen. I’ve helped to plan the security of some international conferences. We’re hoping to get the job of protecting the next OPEC meeting in Europe.’

  Willi Kleiber stepped back into the corridor again, and Max Breslow was relieved to follow him. As they left, Kleiber watched the guard double-lock the armoury, and then took down a clipboard and signed the day sheet with a flourish.

  ‘We’ve got to hit them suddenly and hard,’ said Kleiber. ‘That’s one thing I learned in the war, Max. We’ve got to get into the Pitman house and let them see a lot of men and a lot of firepower. That’s the way to save lives, and save ourselves a lot of trouble.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Max.

  ‘I wish you would shake off this negative attitude, Max. I wish you’d tell me that you are committed.’

  ‘I read in the Los Angeles papers about more Germans being deported,’ said Breslow.

  ‘I read it too,’ said Kleiber. It was not something he wished to discuss.

  ‘Did you know that the Americans deport men back to the place where the supposed war crime was committed?’

  ‘Are you worrying about that old woman in Boston again?’ said Kleiber.

  ‘I was at Lyubomi, Willi. I wasn’t there when the massacre took place but I did go there. I wonder if that is where she saw me; I’ve stayed awake night after night thinking about it.’

  ‘Poland?’

  ‘That town is now inside the USSR borders, Willi. I’d be deported to Russia. You know what they do with anyone who was in the SS.’

  Kleiber drew a map using his stubby finger on the plastic table top.

  ‘Would you go in the gate with the road party, Max?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Max almost as if he had been waiting for the question.

  Kleiber was caught off balance for a moment; he had been preparing all kinds of arguments to persuade Breslow. ‘That’s excellent. I need someone who knows the true situation on that side. I will be with the boats, of course. If something went badly wrong I want someone who can talk himself out of trouble and extricate the truck and the road party. For us in the boats it will be easier to disappear.’

  ‘Are you arming the road party?’

  ‘I can’t decide yet. There’s every reason to hope we’ll go right into the house and need nothing more lethal than a finger in a coat pocket. But we have to remember that the Amis are ex-soldiers, just as we are. They might be the sort of men who conduct their affairs in a proper military style. They might have sentries posted. They might be armed to the teeth, Max.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Max Breslow. He couldn’t think of anyone less military than Charles Stein.

  ‘And so do I. I doubt it very much. Let’s go upstairs. I want to take a shower and change my clothes.’

  ‘When we get the documents, what then, Willi? Do we take them to Dr Böttger?’

  ‘I will handle it,’ said Kleiber. ‘It is all arranged.’

  ‘Suppose you are hurt, Willi, or even killed?’

  Kleiber stopped suddenly and turned to face his friend. Like all brave soldiers, he had never truly faced that prospect. What a catastrophe it would be if Max gave the Minutes to Böttger. Kleiber had no doubt that in such a case Moscow would keep to the threat of sending all Kleiber’s war-crimes evidence to the West. That would kill his mother with shame, and certainly mean the end of his father.

  ‘No, Max,’ said Kleiber. ‘If anything happens to me, you must telephone Chicago, a man named Edward Parker.’ Kleiber scribbled the phone number on a page of his notebook and passed it to Max Breslow.

  ‘Does he know about Charles Stein?’

  ‘He knows about everything, Max. He knows about everything.’

  ‘I feel sorry for Stein,’ Max confided. ‘He’s not so bad as I once thought him.’

  ‘You’ve changed your attitude,’ Kleiber chuckled. ‘I remember you telling me you couldn’t abide him.’ They went upstairs, Kleiber leading and taking the steps two at a time to demonstrate how fit he was. ‘What sort of man is he, this Stein?’ Kleiber was not even short of breath. ‘We’ve more or less finished his bank. They’ll lose a hundred million dollars … Böttger’s plan was faultless.’

  ‘Or they will run,’ said Breslow.

  ‘But why didn’t he offer you the papers for whatever he could get for them? Do you think he understood the offer?’

  ‘He understood all right,’ said Breslow. ‘I told him I’d arrange to sell the documents to a big corporation which would give him cash up front and a percentage too.’

  ‘So why does he turn down the chance to salvage his business affairs? Doesn’t he realize his life is in danger?’

  ‘The other way round,’ said Breslow. ‘I told you not to underestimate him. He knows that nothing will happen to him until we get our hands on the Hitler Minutes. After that, as you’ve already told me, his life will be forfeit. He’s no fool, Willi. He’s frightened, but he’s not so frightened that he will hand over those damned papers.’

  ‘Well, now we do know where the papers are,’ said Kleiber. ‘He’s missed his chance.’

  ‘Poor Stein,’ said Max Breslow, but if Kleiber heard him, he gave no sign of it.

  Chapter 37

  On that same Saturday of August the director general arrived in his office at 9.25 A.M. He sent for Stuart. He had done that for the previous three mornings, so Stuart was ready for the call. The DG was seated at his desk reading the Daily Telegraph’s account of the PM’s speech to the conference in Lusaka. He put down the newspaper when Stuart entered and got to his feet.

  ‘Nothing fresh, Stuart?’ The DG was not wearing his usual black jacket and pinstripe trousers but a hound’stooth check suit. It was a startling transformation which made the director look like a prosperous bookie, Stuart thought.

  ‘Geneva just made contact,’ said Stuart.

  ‘Is he a good man?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Excellent.’

  ‘Koch, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The old man never lost the capacity to supervise.

  ‘I spent a lot of time in Switzerland,’ said the DG. ‘As you probably know from Jennifer, my wife and I go there every year … although nowadays I’m a little too old for climbing. I had a fall when half a dozen of us tried our luck on the Zmutt ridge of the Matterhorn. That was ten years ago. I said, Ryden old chap, you’re too old for this sort of thing. Never mind all these modern contraptions – pitons, snap links and stirrups – the fact is that sleeping one night at that sort of altitude could kill an old man.’

  ‘You fell, sir?’

  ‘Damn near fifty feet, Stuart. Into soft snow, thank God. But it was a lesson. A man ignores such signs at his peril.’ The DG moved across the room with a restlessness that Stuart found distracting.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Stuart wondering if the DG was trying to tell him something. The director was rather fond of imparting suggestions by means of such parables.

  ‘I go there regularly and smell the air, Stuart. Know what I mean?’ The DG didn’t wait to hear if Stuart knew. ‘Good people, the Swiss. God-fearing, industrious and logical. I like them, and they have helped the department a lot from time to time. Yet what do you ever hear about the Swiss intelligence service – nothing! That’s what I like about them, Stuart.’

  Stuart noted it. He inferred that fear of God, industry and logic were probably the virtues the DG would have claimed for himsel
f, had he not been saddled with that old-world reticence of which he made so much. ‘They seem to have taken your bait, sir,’ said Stuart. ‘Geneva reports a lot of activity at the lakeside house, opposite the one owned by the American colonel. One neighbour says that security company cars arrived with boxes of guns …’

  ‘Boxes of guns?’ The DG was amused. ‘You mean boxes with the word “guns” stencilled on the outside?’

  Stuart did not rise to this provocation. ‘It’s one unconfirmed report, sir. From a neighbour … and we know how unreliable neighbours can be.’

  ‘Guns, you say?’ The DG smacked some invisible speck of dust from his fine new trousers.

  ‘Security company cars – armoured cars by the sound of it, wire netting on the windows and so on. It’s not the sort of van that delivers groceries, sir. It was driven to the back of the house to unload … heavy crates …’

  ‘Very well, Stuart. You make your point. No need to labour it. Yes, it sounds like guns. And Stein knows about his son? We’ll have to release him soon. I’m coming under considerable pressure from the Home Office.’

  ‘The Los Angeles controller put it all to Stein senior yesterday morning – they are eight hours behind us, of course.’

  ‘Yes, eight hours behind us, Stuart. I’m not quite senile.’

  ‘No, sir. Well, Stein drove down to Sunset Boulevard and bought an airline ticket, we don’t know where to yet.’

  ‘Why don’t we?’

  Stuart suppressed a sigh. ‘We’ll have to get it off the airline computer, and that means several different airlines. A direct approach to the travel agency is very likely to get back to Stein.’

  ‘And do we care if it gets back to him?’

  ‘The field agents have to live in that town,’ said Stuart. ‘It’s all very well to sit in London critical of everything the field men do, and impatient to close the dossier, but our man who goes to the travel agent might be storing up trouble for himself, dangerous trouble.’