Dominion

Chapter Eight

GUNTHER HOTH ARRIVED IN London early on Friday afternoon. He had taken the daily Lufthansa shuttle from Berlin. A large black Mercedes with embassy plates was waiting for him at Croydon; the driver, a sharply dressed young man, greeted him. ‘Heil Hitler!’

‘Heil Hitler!’

‘Good flight, Herr Sturmbannführer?’

‘Fairly smooth.’

‘I am Ludwig. I will be assisting you today.’ The young man spoke formally, like a tour guide, but his eyes were keen. He was probably SS. Gunther sank gratefully into the comfortable upholstery of the car. He felt tired and the sore place in the middle of his back hurt. Last night he had gone straight from the meeting with Karlson to pack and get some sleep, then risen early to get the plane. He looked out of the window as the car drove smoothly through the grey London suburbs. England was just as he remembered it, cold and damp. Everyone looked pale, preoccupied, the clothes of working people worn and shabby. Many of the grimy buildings seemed in poor condition. There were lumps of dog dirt everywhere in the gutters; on the pavements too. Things had barely changed since he was last here seven years ago; in fact they looked much the same as when he first came to England as a student, back in 1929.

He was glad, though, for this assignment. He was weary of his Gestapo job, tired of interviewing informers whose eyes shone with malice or greed, tired of searching through the endless file cards. Even the payoff when, through one of his intuitive leaps, he found one of the few remaining hidden Jews, was less rewarding these days.

For over twenty years he had been full of anger at the Jews, at the terrible things they had done to Germany. He knew they were still a threat, with their power in America and what was left of Russia, but in recent years it was as though his rage, his strength, was wearing out as he got older – he would be forty-five soon. Yesterday he had arrived at a home in a prosperous Berlin suburb at daybreak with four policemen, banging on the door and shouting for entry. They had found a family of Jews, a mother and father and a boy of eleven, in a damp cellar. Bunks and armchairs and even a little sink had been installed there. They hauled the three upstairs, the mother yelling and screaming, and took them into the kitchen where their hosts, Mr and Mrs Muller, waited with their children, two little blonde girls in identical blue nightshirts, the younger one clutching a rag doll.

Gunther’s men shoved the three Jews against the kitchen wall. The woman stopped screaming and stood weeping quietly, head in hands. Then the little boy, crazily, attempted a run for it. One of Gunther’s men grabbed his arm, banged him back against the wall, and gave him a punch that sent blood trickling from his mouth. Gunther frowned. ‘That’s enough, Peter,’ he said. He turned to the German family. He knew Mr Muller was a railway official with no political record. ‘Why have you done this?’ he asked sadly. ‘You know it will be the end of you.’

Muller, a little balding stick of a man, inclined his head to a small wooden cross on the wall. Gunther nodded. ‘I see. Lutherans? Confessing Church?’

‘Yes,’ the man said. He looked at the captive Jews, and added, with sudden anger, ‘They have souls, just like us.’

Gunther had heard that stupid argument many times before. He sighed. ‘All you have done is bring trouble on yourselves.’ He nodded to the Jews. ‘Them too. They should have gone for resettlement like all the others. Instead they’ve probably spent years running from house to house.’ People like Mr and Mrs Muller were so stupid; they could have lived normal quiet lives but now they would suffer SS interrogation and then they would be hanged.

Mrs Muller took a deep breath. ‘Please do not hurt our little girls,’ she pleaded, her voice trembling.

‘Shouldn’t you have thought of them before you did this?’ Gunther sighed again. ‘It’s all right, your girls won’t be harmed, they’ll be sent for adoption by good German families – who’ve probably lost sons fighting in the East,’ he added bitterly, looking the woman in the eye.

Her husband said, ‘Do I have your word on that?’ Gunther nodded. The woman said, ‘Thank you,’ then lowered her head and began to cry. Gunther frowned; no-one he had arrested had ever thanked him before. He looked at the little cross on the wall. He had been brought up a Lutheran himself, and was aware the cross was supposed to be a symbol of sacrifice. Gunther knew about real sacrifice. Hans, his twin brother, had been killed eight years ago by partisans in the Ukraine. Sitting in the comfortable car crossing London he remembered his brother’s first leave, after the invasion of Russia in 1941. Hans had gone into Russia as part of an SS Einsatzgruppe, liquidating Bolsheviks and Jews. Hans was thirty-three when he came back that December, but he looked older. He had sat in Gunther’s house, after Gunther’s wife had gone to bed, his face pale and drawn against the black of his SS uniform. He said, ‘I’ve killed hundreds of people, Gunther. Women and old people.’ Suddenly he was talking fast. ‘A whole Jewish village once, a shtetl, we got them to dig a huge pit, then kneel naked on the edge while we shot them. It was so cold, they began shivering as soon as we got them undressed; it was fear as well, of course.’ Hans took a deep, shuddering breath, then braced himself, squaring his shoulders. ‘But Himmler says we have to be utterly hard and ruthless. He addressed us before we went into Russia. He said we must do this for the future of the Reich. For the generations unborn.’ He looked at his brother, a desperate fierce stare. ‘No matter what it costs us.’

After the arrests Gunther had spent the rest of the day back at Gestapo headquarters in Prince Albrechtstrasse, dealing with the paperwork. He signed the documents transferring the Jewish family to Heydrich’s Jewish Evacuation Department, the Mullers to interrogation. Then he went wearily down the wide central staircase, past the busts of German heroes, and walked home to his flat. His route took him through the vast, endless works being carried out in the city centre to build Germania, Speer’s new Berlin, in time for the 1960 Olympics. The buildings they planned were so huge the sandy soil on which they would be built could never support them without concrete foundations hundreds of feet deep. A special railway line had been laid to take away the sand. On a cold, clear day like this the air was full of dust; sometimes the pall hung so heavy that Gunther, like other people susceptible to it, wore one of the new little white facemasks from America. Thousands of Polish and Russian forced labourers swarmed round the giant pits that made up the largest building site on earth. A few always died during the day and Gunther saw the hands and feet of corpses sticking out from underneath a tarpaulin to one side. Police patrolled with their rifles; they were vastly outnumbered by the labourers but one man with a gun can command many without.

He noticed that fewer passers-by wore their Nazi Party badges these days. The streets that weren’t being rebuilt looked increasingly shabby. Cheap imports from France and the occupied east had kept German living standards up until a couple of years ago, but they were falling now as the Russian war ground on; five million Germans dead and more announced each week. It was daily talk in Police Intelligence that morale was falling; many citizens didn’t even give the German greeting ‘Heil Hitler’ to each other any more.

Back home in his flat he ate his usual lonely dinner at the kitchen table, then sat and listened to the radio. He opened a beer and began thinking of his wife and son. Four years ago Klara had left him for a fellow police officer; they had taken his son, Michael, and gone to live as subsidized settlers in Krimea, the only part of Russia that had been completely cleared of the original population and, an easily defensible peninsula, it was deemed safe for Germans. Gunther knew, though, that the thousand-mile-long railway the Germans had built to it was under constant partisan attack.

He switched off the radio – Mozart was playing and he found his music effete and irritating – and put on Tchaikovsky’s 1812 Overture. He liked the confident, crashing beat, even though Tchaikovsky was Russian and disapproved of. The music stirred him but when it was over the sad empty bleakness that came over him sometimes crept back. He told himself it was the times; those who believed in Germany had to pay a hard price for the future.

The telephone’s ring made him jump. The call was from Gestapo headquarters. He was to come in at once, to see Superintendent Karlson.

Karlson had a large office on the top floor of the building on Prince Albrechtstrasse. There were thick carpets and pictures of eighteenth-century Berlin on the walls, little figurines on the desk and tables. They had probably been taken from Jews; Karlson had been in the Party since the twenties and enjoyed all the privileges. He was one of the ‘golden peasants’. He was large, with an air of cheerful bonhomie, and like many old Party men he was coarse but clever. Another man sat beside the big desk, under the portraits of Himmler and the Führer. The stranger was tall and slim, in his forties, with black hair and sharp blue eyes, immaculate in his SS uniform, the swastika in its white circle on his armband standing out against the black uniform. Karlson, too, wore his uniform today, though usually he wore a suit; as did Gunther, whose work involved moving in the shadows, unnoticed. Gunther saw the stranger had a file open on the knees of his immaculately creased trousers.

Karlson greeted Gunther warmly and waved him to a chair in front of the desk. He said, ‘Thank you for coming at such short notice.’

‘I wasn’t doing anything particular, sir.’

Karlson then turned to the stranger, a deferential note in his voice. ‘Allow me to introduce Obersturmbannführer Renner, from Division E7.’ Gunther thought, an SS Brigadier from the section of the Reich Security Office responsible for Britain; they’re after someone important. Karlson continued, ‘Sturmbannführer Hoth is one of my most prized officers. He is in charge of ferreting out the Jews still left in Berlin. He caught three today.’

The dark-haired man nodded. ‘Congratulations. Are there many left, do you think?’

‘Not many in Berlin. We’re near the end now. Though I hear that Hamburg still has a few.’

‘Maybe more than we know,’ Karlson said. ‘They’re like rats; you think you’ve got rid of them, and then back they come, gnawing at your toes with their little sharp teeth, right?’ He’s playing to the gallery, Gunther thought.

‘No,’ Renner answered quietly. ‘I think Sturmbannführer Hoth is right, there are not many left here now.’ He looked at Gunther with interest. ‘I believe you have met Deputy Reichsführer Heydrich.’

‘A few times only. When I first joined the Hitler Youth.’

Renner nodded thoughtfully. He still seemed to be weighing Gunther up. He asked, ‘What do you think you will do, Sturmbannführer Hoth, when the Jews are all gone from Germany?’

‘I don’t know, sir. I’ve some years before I retire. I thought I might go to Poland, I hear there is still work to be done there.’ He had thought, maybe if he did that the spark of energy would return; if not, perhaps the partisans would get him, as they had Hans, and the family sacrifice would be complete.

Renner said, ‘You have an interesting history, Hoth. A university degree in English, a year spent living there, then when you returned Party membership and five years serving in the Criminal Police Department.’

‘Yes, sir. My father was a policeman, too.’

Renner nodded, the silver skull-and-crossbones badge on his black SS cap glinting as it caught the light. ‘I know. In 1936 you were recruited to Gestapo Counter-Intelligence, under Brigadeführer Schellenberg as he then was, and worked on intelligence matters involving England, including the blueprint for its occupation, although fortunately as it turned out that was not needed.’ He smiled coldly. ‘Then five years in England after 1940, working from our embassy with the British Special Branch, helping build up their counter-subversion programmes.’ As he spoke he glanced at the folder on his knees and Gunther realized he was referring to his own personnel file. Renner looked up at him with a puzzled expression. ‘And yet in 1945 you applied to return to Berlin, to join Department III. And here you have remained ever since, working on ethnic matters and, for the past few years, tracing hidden Jews. Never seeking promotion.’

Gunther said, ‘I had had enough of England, sir. My wife more so. And my current rank is enough for me.’

‘Your wife left you, I see.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Renner’s expression softened. ‘I am sorry, I sympathize. Your work record is exemplary, you have done a great deal for the Reich. It says here you have a great gift for analysis, for noticing patterns other officers miss.’ Renner looked at Gunther again for a long moment, weighing him up, then turned to Karlson.

‘Yes,’ Karlson said. He sat back in his chair, examining Gunther with his large, red-veined eyes. ‘Obersturmbannführer Renner’s section has had a request from some very senior people at the London embassy. They need someone there for a –’ he smiled – ‘a task, of some importance. You speak English, you went to university there and you worked in Police Liaison at Senate House for five years. They would like you to go over for a week, perhaps two.’

Gunther hesitated, then said, ‘Of course. If I can be of use.’

‘Though you are not fond of England?’ Renner asked.

Gunther answered, ‘I know Britain is our ally but I don’t like or trust the British. I’ve always thought them – decadent.’ Renner nodded. ‘And Beaverbrook is a joke,’ Gunther added.

Renner nodded again. ‘I agree. But Mosley’s not strong enough to take over yet. Though being Home Secretary in England gives him great power. The English are Aryans, yet despite their achievements they do not really think racially. And yes, they are decadent, they cannot even keep control of their Empire any more. And Churchill’s people are making more and more trouble.’

‘So I have heard.’

‘Beaverbrook’s in France now, talking to Laval.’ Renner gave a wintry smile. ‘Then he comes to Berlin. He wants closer economic links with Germany and to recruit more troops for India. The British cannot make their Empire pay so now they seek crumbs from our table. They will have to pay a price for that.’ He looked at Karlson, who linked his pudgy hands together on the desk and leaned forward.

‘The operation we wish you to assist with is SS. We know you are loyal to us. You will work with our Intelligence man in London. You will say nothing to Ambassador Rommel’s staff, nor to any of the people you used to know, nor any of the army people the embassy is crawling with.’

So it’s part of the SS–army secret war, Gunther thought, a war that has been going on for years. The army saw themselves as the historic guardians of Germany while the SS believed they were the men of the future, the ones who would police the lesser races of Greater Germany until they died off, and who would guard and preserve the future of the race. Hitler had favoured the SS, had raised them up from nothing, but now he was ill, some said seriously, and neither the army nor the SS seemed able to bring victory in Russia. The rumours in the Gestapo were that the army wanted to end the Russian war, keep Ukraine and Western Russia and the Caucasus and let the Russians set up a ragtag corrupt country of their own to the east. But Himmler knew that for Germany to be secure, the war had to be fought to the end. With Göring dead, most of his economic power had passed to Speer, whom the army favoured but whom Himmler and the SS regarded as little better than a Bolshevik with his great state enterprises and contempt for free markets. Goebbels, Hitler’s chosen successor after Göring’s death, held the balance between them, but no-one was quite sure where Goebbels stood these days.

‘So Rommel’s people aren’t involved?’ Gunther said carefully.

‘Rommel knows nothing about it. This operation is entirely SS.’ Renner added, ‘If that creates a problem for you, Hoth, you must say so now and then this interview will never have taken place.’

‘It’s not a problem, sir.’

‘Good.’ Renner sat back.

‘You will take a flight from Templehof to London at nine tomorrow morning,’ Karlson said. ‘You will be driven to the embassy where you will be told more about your assignment. In the meantime, tell no-one.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Gunther thought, I’ve nobody left to tell.

Karlson said, ‘Bring me back some English tea, will you? Earl Grey.’ He laughed and looked at Renner. ‘An old woman’s drink. My wife likes to serve it when she gets together with her aunts.’

As the car approached central London the traffic increased. The big Mercedes halted at a set of lights, surrounded by little snub-nosed English cars. Gunther saw a shadowy reflection of his face in the window. His features were beginning to sag; he was starting to look jowly, though his mouth and chin were still firm. He should take more exercise; Hans had always kept himself fit. A light drizzle began spotting the windscreen as they drove down the wide Euston Road.

Gunther had first come to England as a student at Oxford for a year, in 1929. Even then he had found the English effete. He had returned to London to work though, after the Treaty of Berlin, and spent five years liaising with the British police, helping train them in how to deal with riots, civil unrest, terrorism. The British had already learned a good deal themselves, from Ireland, but had grown complacent in the peaceful forties.

They turned left, past large old buildings and green squares, the trees bare. The car drove to the back of Senate House, where the embassy area was protected by twenty-foot high concrete walls patrolled by British police. A German soldier opened the steel gates that led into the car park at the back. Gunther got out stiffly. He looked up at the nineteen-storey building, stepped like a tall, narrow pyramid, the huge swastika flags hanging limp in the cold, heavy air. He had always admired its proportions, its functionality.

The driver led Gunther into the building, through the familiar stone corridors to the wide central vestibule where a marble bust of the Führer, ten feet high, stood on a great plinth. It was as busy as he remembered, the wide space echoing with footsteps and voices: men in uniforms, women typists in smart suits, files under their arms, clacking along in their high heels. He was led to the lifts. The driver showed a pass to the attendant, another soldier. They were the only ones inside as the lift rose smoothly to the twelfth floor. Ludwig said, ‘How does it feel to be back, sir?’

‘Depressingly familiar. At least the air isn’t full of dust like Berlin.’

‘Yes. Though the British fogs can be bad.’

‘I remember them well.’

The doors opened. Ludwig’s manner became formal again. ‘Your appointment, sir, is with Standartenführer Gessler. Afterwards I will show you to your flat. It is in Russell Square, very comfortable.’

‘Thank you.’ An Intelligence colonel, Gunther thought, one of the senior SS officers at the embassy. He felt a twitch of excitement, such as he hadn’t had in a long time.

The office Gunther entered was small, painted white, with a panoramic view from the window of London under its pall of grey cloud. There was a globe of the world on a table under the window, the German Empire shown extending to the Urals, obligatory photographs of Hitler and Himmler behind the desk. The Hitler photo was the last one, taken in 1950, showing him grey-haired, cheeks fallen in, shoulders stooped. He glared out miserably at Gunther, a striking contrast to Himmler’s cold confidence.

The man who rose to greet him wore full SS uniform. Gessler was in his early fifties, small and neat, thinning dark hair combed across his head to hide a bald spot. Round pince-nez and a severe face with stern lines round the mouth reminded Gunther of his old headmaster in Königsberg. He was one of the stiff, colourless technocrats Himmler and Heydrich favoured for senior office. Yet, as Gunther knew, such people could be brutal too; like his old headmaster, they often had a temper. Gessler raised his arm in the National Salute and said, ‘Heil Hitler.’ Gunther followed. He was invited to sit down. Gessler looked at him. He laid his hands flat on the desk; they were short and stubby. The desk was very neat, pens and pencils pointing the same way in a little tray, papers lined up precisely.

Gessler spoke sharply, without any pleasantries. ‘Inspector Hoth, I am told your absolute discretion can be trusted. That you know the British, their ways, their police. That you can be diplomatic when needed. That you are a Gestapo officer to your bones.’ For the first time he smiled, suddenly confiding. ‘And that you are a good hunter of men.’

‘I hope all that is true, sir.’

‘Repeat that in English.’

Gunther did so. Gessler nodded briefly. ‘Good. They said you spoke almost without accent.’ He paused. ‘I understand your brother joined the SS when he was quite young. Died heroically in Russia.’

‘He did.’ Gunther wanted a cigarette, but saw no ashtray in the room.

Gessler continued quietly, ‘And I understand you believe, like him, that Germany must be committed to the uttermost to destroying our enemies, so that future generations of Germans may live at peace and be secure.’

‘I have done for over twenty years, sir.’

‘You and your brother joined the party in 1930.’

‘Yes, sir. During the Weimar chaos.’

Gessler crossed his legs. ‘And yet, unlike your brother, you never applied to join the SS. You are automatically subject to Deputy Reichs-führer Heydrich, of course, as a member of the Gestapo. But you are not SS. That did not seem to concern my colleagues in Berlin, but I think it requires – some explanation.’ He smiled again, but without warmth now.

Gunther took a breath. ‘My brother Hans was always drawn to – to an idealist’s life. Whereas I was drawn to police work, like my father. It is where my skills lie. It is how I serve Germany.’

Gessler gave a sharp little grunt. ‘I can see a life of physical fitness has not appealed to you.’ He himself was trim and fit in his spotless black uniform. ‘It is strange. I thought identical twins always behaved alike.’

Gunther suspected Gessler was trying to provoke him. He answered quietly, ‘Not in every way.’

Gessler considered a moment. Then he stood abruptly and crossed to the globe. He laid a hand on Europe. ‘This globe, as we both know, is a fiction. Much territory west of the Volga remains in Russian hands. They still have the Volga oilfields and new ones they’ve found in Siberia, while most of the territory we do hold is crawling with partisans. Poland, too. Our settlements there are increasingly unsafe. There are those who say we should end the war, settle with Khrushchev and Zhukov or some of the little capitalists sprouting up behind the Volga now the Communist Party shares power with them. What is your opinion?’

Gunther knew the answer Gessler wanted, which was the answer he believed. ‘If we did a deal with the Russians, left any large Russian state that might threaten us again, that would be a poor reward for the lives of five million German soldiers. And our weapons technology is advancing all the time.’

Gessler swung the globe round, pointing at the United States. ‘But not as fast as America’s. And in a few weeks President Taft will be gone, and this liberal Adlai Stevenson will be in charge. They say he’s cautious, he’ll be careful, but he’s not our friend.’

‘The Americans have always been unpredictable.’

‘Yes. And have coupled a policy of isolationism with the development of fearful weapons. Look at their claims to have an atomic bomb, a wonder weapon that dwarfs any we possess.’

‘We’re told it’s a fake, those films are a Hollywood trick,’ Gunther said, though he had never been quite sure about that.

‘No, it exists,’ Gessler countered in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘Those films of the mushroom clouds in the desert were not faked. The sand turned to glass.’ He raised his heavy dark eyebrows. ‘We have agents, sympathizers, in America. We have done since Roosevelt’s day. And at the US embassy in London too, I will tell you a little more about that. But to return to us. We have our nuclear programme, that is no secret. Yet it hasn’t progressed well. We believe the Americans are ahead of us in all sorts of weapons research. Biological weapons. Even in rocketry it seems they may be catching up.’ He laughed, with unexpected nervousness. ‘Maybe the science-fiction writers are correct, and we will have a war on the moon one day.’

He came and sat behind his desk again. ‘We have found it impossible to get any real intelligence about the American weapons programme because their security there, as you might imagine, is watertight.’ He smiled again and his eyes widened a little. ‘But now a chink may have opened. Just maybe.’

Gunther felt the excitement again, a slight inner trembling. ‘Is this to do with my mission?’

Gessler leaned back in his chair. He suddenly looked tired. ‘Things are not good. I wish the Führer would broadcast again, speak to us as he once did. Another winter has started in Russia, the supply trains we need to keep our armies up to strength are being attacked again. The Russians know how to live off the land, what grasses to eat, what to wear to keep out the cold and how to survive in temperatures of minus 40. We’re sure they are about to launch another winter offensive, supplied from those factories they’ve built in deep forests far behind the Urals. Our rockets are little more than useless, we don’t know where to aim them. And these Resistance movements in Spain and Italy, Britain and France . . .’ He shook his head, then looked hard at Gunther. ‘To win the Russian war we need to know what the American scientists know.’

Gunther shifted uneasily in his seat. If even an SS Intelligence colonel could talk with this sort of pessimism, what were Speer and the army people saying? Gessler saw his look and sat up straight, frowning, formal again. ‘Have you ever heard of the Tyler Kent affair?’ he asked sharply.

‘Kent was a sympathizer of ours in the American embassy just before victory in 1940.’

‘Yes. He passed on useful information about Churchill’s contacts with Roosevelt before he was arrested. He knew some of the British Fascists, like Maule Ramsay, the present Scottish Secretary. The British secret services found out about him. Ambassador Kennedy – he’s been there a long time, he’s got lax, he’s sympathetic to us. We have agents in the embassy, new Tyler Kents, and a few weeks ago one of them told us something very interesting.’ Gessler sat forward, lacing his fingers together. ‘An American scientist – there are reasons why I can’t tell you what area he was working in, except that it was at the edge of their weapons research – came over to England for his mother’s funeral. His name is Edgar Muncaster. He’s British by birth, though he’s been an American citizen for nearly twenty years. A man we have in the US embassy found out the security people at Grosvenor Square were worried about him going around London on his own.’

‘Does he have Resistance sympathies?’

Gessler shook his head. ‘Far from it. Committed to an isolationist and powerful America. That’s not the problem. But after a recent divorce, he has become an unpredictable drunk. He stayed in London for a while, as he wanted to sell his mother’s house. He seemed more or less in control of himself. Then one day he went AWOL. He was watched, but he didn’t register at the embassy in the evening as he was supposed to do. Then there was a phone call from him; he was in a hospital in Birmingham, with a broken arm.’

‘How?’

‘He went to visit his brother. A geologist who works at Birmingham University. There was an argument, which ended in the brother pushing our American friend out of a window.’

‘Was he badly hurt?’

‘Just the broken arm. But the Americans hauled him out of the hospital, smashed arm and all, arrested him and put him on a plane back to the States. Destination, according to what our man at the embassy saw, Folsom Prison in California; isolation, maximum security.’

Gunther said, ‘So he did something.’

Gessler nodded vigorously. ‘Or said something. We don’t know what. Our spy doesn’t have that level of clearance.’

‘Were the British involved?’

‘No. This is something the Americans don’t want them to know about. They were told the Americans were just taking an injured citizen home.’

Gunther considered. ‘Who does our man at the US embassy answer to?’

Gessler smiled. ‘Not to Rommel’s people. He works for us, for the SS. And we’ve kept hold of this information. We’ve made enquiries with some of our friends in the British Special Branch, though – we have some good people there. We asked them to look into the brother’s background. I think you know the present commissioner.’

‘Yes,’ Gunther agreed. ‘From when I was here before. A strong believer in Britain and Germany working together. A good anti-Semite, too.’

Gessler nodded. ‘We can work with some of them on this, if we’re careful. Not the British secret services, what’s left of them since we found out about all their Communist moles when we took over the Kremlin. It’s just a few death-or-glory patriots left there now.’

‘Yes,’ Gunther agreed again. While posted in England he had watched the Special Branch grow from a specialist section of the Metropolitan Police dealing with spies and subversives to a whole Auxiliary Police force supplemented with informers and agents in anti-government organizations.

‘What did Special Branch find?’ he asked.

‘That the brother, Frank Muncaster, was arrested for attempted murder. He smashed up his own flat and when he was arrested he was raving about the end of the world. Screaming at his brother that he shouldn’t have told him what he did.’

Gunther laughed, but uneasily. ‘The end of the world?’

‘Yes. Helpfully, the charge was reduced to causing serious bodily harm. His behaviour was so bizarre that he wasn’t put in prison, but committed to a local mental hospital. Where he sits now. This we know from local police files in Birmingham. We’ve told the Special Branch people we think brother Frank may have undesirable political connections in Europe. When they told us he didn’t, we said thank you very much and went away.’

Gunther considered. ‘The Americans will be interested in this man, if the brother has told them what happened.’

‘Yes. Certainly they were very keen to get Edgar Muncaster back to the States. They could try to kill the brother. But they can’t go through official channels, they don’t want the British finding out their weapons secrets. If that’s what Edgar told Frank about.’

Gunther thought for a moment. ‘So, forgive me, sir, but we don’t know whether this – lunatic – actually has any secrets.’

‘No, we don’t. But it is very much worthwhile finding out.’

‘Has he said any more while he’s been in hospital?’

‘We simply don’t know. They may have just drugged him up to keep him quiet. They usually do, with the violent ones. Unfortunately getting to him in the mental hospital will need a certain amount of delicacy and local knowledge.’ He shrugged. ‘You know the British, all sorts of bureaucratic complications, different parts of the system sealed off from each other. The Medical Superintendent, a Dr Wilson, is related to a civil servant in the British Health Department.’

‘They’re putting through a sterilization bill, aren’t they?’

Gessler waved his hand in a gesture of contempt. ‘Pussyfooting, trivial. They should just gas the lot, as we did. But they won’t.’

‘Yes,’ Gunther reflected. ‘It’s even taken them over ten years to establish a sort of authoritarian government.’

‘Well, they’re on the right path now.’ He smiled. ‘The British will have another matter to preoccupy them very shortly.’

‘Will they?’

Gessler smiled again, the smirk of a man with secret knowledge. It made him look suddenly childish. ‘They will.’ Suddenly he was all business again. ‘I want you to go to Birmingham. Get into the flat where Muncaster lived, see if there is anything of interest there. Visit Muncaster. Later we may ask you to lift Muncaster, bring him back here. But first I want you to try and find out what state he’s in, whether he’s talked. You’ll have Special Branch help.’

Gunther nodded. The excitement in him was steady now, focused.

‘Of course,’ Gessler said, ‘this may well be a mare’s nest. But the instruction to undertake the investigation comes from very high up, from Deputy Reichsführer Heydrich himself.’ Gunther saw a little gleam of ambition in Gessler’s eyes

‘I’ll do all I can, sir.’

‘You’ll have an office here, and you’ll be assisted by a British Special Branch police inspector called Syme. He’s a good friend; he’s spent time in Germany. He’s young but he’s clever and ambitious. Recommended by your successor here, in fact. Use him to get through the hoops.’ Gessler jabbed a finger at Gunther, reminding him again of his old headmaster. ‘But so far as Syme is concerned, and anyone else who asks, we still want Muncaster because of suspected political links. I wish we could have gone straight to the top and asked Beaverbrook for him, but in the circumstances we must fly beneath the radar, as the Luftwaffe people say. For now at least.’

‘Do you think there’s anything in this, sir?’

‘I know a little more than you.’ Gessler couldn’t stop that annoying smirk appearing again. ‘About what Edgar Muncaster might have been working on. Enough to realize this could be important. I can’t tell you, Hoth, because to be blunt what you don’t know you can’t tell anyone else. The point is, Himmler and Heydrich want this done.’

Gunther was already thinking about how to navigate his way through the British authorities, the bureaucracy, without them learning what he was doing. He thought, if Heydrich’s hunch was right – and it was only a hunch – he might do something important with his life after all.