That summer in berlin, p.16
That Summer in Berlin, page 16
“My name is Graham.”
“Still,” Alex MacCann said with an easy shrug.
Tom waited for him to say why he was in Berlin and why he’d come here today. Instead, he crossed to pour himself a glass of whisky when Tom didn’t offer. He sipped and grimaced. “I’ll send ye something better. This rot is worse than bloody schnapps.”
“I like it well enough.”
“You’re like your da in that, too—a man of few words. Why use three when one will do? He said you were stubborn—independent was the word he used, actually.”
“Is he checking up on me?”
“No. I’m your contact, so I suppose I’m checking up on you. The gentlemen in London thought it would look less suspicious if a relative dropped in to call on you from time to time, since we’re both in Berlin and the Nazis have their eye on you. I wasn’t unhappy with the assignment. I’ve wanted to meet you for some time. Do you have any questions?”
“About you or this job?” Tom asked.
Alex MacCann grinned. “Aye, independent,” he muttered. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a tourist guidebook for Tom. “There are a few places we’d like you to get to during the Olympics if you can manage. We think the Germans will be a bit distracted with so many people to keep an eye on. You’ve already done well, earned a reputation with the Nazis as a reliably sympathetic correspondent.”
Tom couldn’t see it as a compliment.
“Now we want you to ask to do more. There’s a list of places in the guidebook, mostly factories. They’re building airplanes, you see, better than anything we have, and we need to know more about them.”
“You’re an aircraft engineer, are you not?” Tom asked. “Wouldn’t you know better what you’re looking at than I would?”
“Oh, I’ve been on all the tourist junkets. They proudly show visitors modern assembly lines turning out perfectly innocent steel widgets or the kind of parts most people wouldn’t recognize. If they’re told it’s a radiator or a new motor for an automobile or a housing for a household appliance, why wouldn’t they believe it?”
“But?”
“They aren’t automobile parts or appliances. They’re airplane components. They’re building hundreds of airplanes, even thousands, hiding them in plain sight, so to speak. Each factory makes a single part, then those parts are shipped to another factory and put together until there’s a whole fleet of airplanes. They’re doing it with other things, too, like tanks and guns. And they’re training pilots. Most recently they’ve been sending pilots and planes to Spain to support the Fascists and to test their designs.”
Tom had read about the brewing civil war in Spain. The Russians supported one side, the Fascists the other, and ordinary people were caught in the middle.
“The Nazis can’t resist showing off. Charles Lindbergh, the American flyer, is coming to Germany. He’s a sympathizer as well, a real one, unlike you. They’ll welcome him with open arms, take him around, and show him their latest aircraft designs just to thumb their noses at the Americans. They’re counting on Lindbergh to go home and gush about the marvels of German engineering, let everyone know just how formidable the new German war machine will be. They’ll likely take their favorite journalists along on the tour. Ask to be assigned to cover his visit. Keep your eyes open. There’s a list of the kind of parts we want you to look for in that guidebook.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of sheer fabric, decorated with a random spray of embroidered dots and tiny flowers. “Looks like a lady’s hankie, doesn’t it? It’s even perfumed. No one will question a romantic keepsake carried close to your heart.” He opened the guidebook and folded out the enclosed map of Germany and laid the sheer silk over it. “The wee dots and flowers correspond to the important places we want a look at. If you go to any of these places, pay close attention. We’re trying to get a photographer assigned to work with you, but so far the Nazis haven’t approved our choices. You can’t by chance use a camera, can you? We’d rather you didn’t. It’s too risky to do everything, and it’s hard to hide a camera if you’re not supposed to have one.” He handed Tom a German phrasebook designed for tourists. “There’s the code for communications so you can include sensitive information in a newspaper piece, and make it look like nothing more than a glowing report on the magnificence of the Third Reich.”
Tom left the phrase book on the desk. “There’s a young woman in Germany now, a photographer. I asked her to take pictures.”
Alex frowned. “A woman? Who is she?”
“Miss Viviane Alden. Her father was Sir Arthur Alden of Kellyn.”
Alex stared at him. “And her stepfather is the Earl of Rutherford. He’s an appeaser at best, a sympathizer at worst. Are you sure you can trust her?”
“Yes. She’s in Germany with her stepsister. I asked her to take pictures of exactly what you’re looking for. The Germans might wonder why I’m taking photographs, but they’re not likely to question a girl tourist, the guest of a well-connected German family.”
“Is this sex or duty?” Alex asked baldly.
“She’s smart, and she wants to stop a war as badly as anyone else.”
“Aye, well, young debs have been coming over to Germany in droves, hoping to find husbands. Quite a number go home smitten with Hitler. Will she?”
“She blames the Germans for her father’s death. He was gassed during the war, died after a number of years as an invalid,” Tom said. She may have changed her mind, he thought. She’d been in Germany for almost a month, and they hadn’t spoken, had agreed not to until she arrived in Berlin with her hosts.
“Aye, I know the story. They trotted poor Major Lord Kellyn out at parades and unveilings as a hero for a short while after the war.”
“My uncle—my maternal uncle—was at the battle. He knows the truth, what really happened,” Tom murmured. A kernel of doubt suddenly lodged itself in his throat. What if Viviane Alden failed and was caught? What if she did fall for the German illusion of peace and joy, or was lured astray by the charms of a handsome Nazi? Would she give Tom up to her new friends? The possibilities for disaster, things he hadn’t considered before, loomed large now. He’d assumed he knew her back in England, what she wanted, what she’d do. Being in Berlin, amid spies and subterfuge and shifting loyalties, had made him realize he didn’t really know anyone. He regarded Alex, wondered how far he could trust his uncle, this new and unknown relative.
The game was more dangerous now, very dangerous. The Nazis didn’t want anything to spoil the illusion of the Olympic idyll, break the spell. They’d be even more watchful now, the stakes higher. Anyone who dared question the German regime simply disappeared without a trace, was arrested on a pretext, or was bustled off in the night to one of the new concentration camps.
Tom was diving into a bottomless pool of intrigue and suspicion. He was working for the shadowy men behind men like Alex, and he was doing his damndest to convince the Nazis he was on their side.
Tom was also playing his own game, because his conscience wouldn’t allow him to lie, not without finding a way to tell the truth at the same time. Doing that was complicated and dangerous, a bit of subterfuge all his own.
Independent, his uncle said. He had no idea.
His uncle stood, waiting for an explanation or assurance that Tom was truly on board. There was flat concern in his gray eyes—not for Tom but for the mission. Tom raised his chin and frowned back.
“My kin in Glasgow are convinced I’m a Fascist. They don’t like it. I may never be able to go home again,” he said.
Alex’s brow cleared. “Is that all? I know the truth. So does your father, and there are others—”
“Not family,” Tom said sharply. “The kith and kin who have always welcomed me, the ones I care about.”
Alex raised one brow at the rebuke. “Can you do the job or not?”
For a moment they stared at each other. Tom picked up the map, then crossed to the desk and took out a label and a pen. “Darling, think of me while you’re away.” He wrote it in a slanting script. He wrapped the sheer fabric around the label and tucked it between the pages of the phrase book. He met Alex’s bemused look. “Best give them a reason why a bloke is carrying a perfumed silk hankie in his pocket.”
His uncle laughed out loud. “I think ye’ll be good at this.”
He’d better be. The alternative was deadly. “I’ll get the information you want.” He paused. “I want something in return.”
Alex’s brows rose. “Oh? And what is that?”
Tom set his jaw, hating to ask for a favor but needing to all the same. “If something happens to me, I want someone to go and see my mother, tell her the truth. Tell her . . .” What? That he was leading a double life, lying and telling the truth, and trying his damndest not to slip on the knife edge he was walking on? He didn’t want her to be ashamed of him. He settled for “Just tell her.”
Alex merely nodded. “I’ll see to it. In the meantime, I’m at the Eden. Like it or not, I’m your favorite uncle for the next few weeks, your nearest and dearest kith and kin. I’m not your father, so take the chip off your shoulder.” He looked at Tom again, noting the family resemblance, perhaps, or wondering if he could trust this offshoot of illegitimacy, but his carefully guarded expression revealed nothing concrete. Now that was another family trait Tom was familiar with. He knew his own face mirrored that same canny look, his thoughts closed and private.
“I’ll leave you to it, then.” Alexander MacCann picked up his hat without another word and left as suddenly as he’d arrived.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Dresden
Viviane Alden was a fascinating puzzle, Felix decided as they traveled to Berlin.
He’d wondered since the day in the village if she might be something other than what she seemed, a pretty foreigner on holiday. She was so serious at times, and even when she was smiling, there was a controlled edge to her gaiety. She’d said she spoke very little German, though she conversed with his mother in Ilsa’s native tongue.
And ever and always, there was the constant click of her camera.
She was interested in everything she saw—mountains and flower gardens, castles and countryside, and even factories, trucks, and swastikas. She posed her lovely sister by mountain lakes and against the backdrop of a convoy of lorries loaded with crates. She seemed fascinated by rail hubs and factories. If Klaus were here, he’d be able to recite all the facts about Germany’s industrial capacity, steel production, and assembly-line output, and all the rest of the lessons and indoctrinations he’d learned at school. But Klaus had gone to join his Hitler Youth troop for a summer rally. His little brother had just been made some kind of junior leader, which meant he could order his playmates around, and he got to carry the flag when they marched. It would make the little pest an even bigger prig than Otto. Ilsa was so proud of her sons—her youngest and her oldest, at least. Felix had always perplexed her.
She couldn’t understand why he was content in a laboratory, closeted away out of the limelight, researching pesticides. Vermin, he might have told her, came in so many forms, but she wouldn’t listen. He remembered the horror on her lovely face when as a child he’d made her the gift of a mounted display of butterflies. It had taken him weeks to gather them, gas them, and pin them so they were as vivid and lifelike as possible, even in death.
She didn’t understand how important his work was. She simply hated the fact that he worked with the great Nobel Prize–winning chemist Solomon Hitzig, his boss, his teacher, his mentor, and a friend—and also a Jew.
Felix quirked a smile. Sometimes he’d tease poor Mutti with “Heil Hitzig,” just to annoy her.
Hitzig was the top man in his field, a genius, his work world-renowned, but Ilsa saw only that her son was subordinate to a Jew.
The Reich wasn’t so picky. They might detest Jews enough to remove them from positions of responsibility or power—stripping great minds from the universities, sciences, and the arts—but they knew when someone was irreplaceable. Even the Nazis could not deny that Solomon Hitzig was one brilliant mind they could not do without. There were a scant handful of such rare birds. Those useful Jews were given special status, and the honor and privilege of working for Hitler, whether they wanted to or not.
He looked out the window of the car and saw that they were approaching Dresden, an ancient and lovely old city. Viviane was also gazing out the window at the ancient spires and domes, her eyes darting over the vista, pausing as if she was framing a photograph, then moving on. His mother had insisted that they bring both cars on the trip north so they’d have more space, and Otto and Julia were with Mutti in the other Daimler, while Felix and his father traveled with Viviane. Georg smiled at her rapt expression. “You are impressed, I see. We call Dresden Florence on the Elbe,” his father said to her. His smile faded a little, and he turned to look at the old city, looking at it the way a man might look at a woman he’d once loved, changed now, and no longer charming in his eyes. “It used to be a place of culture, learning, and modern art.”
“And now?” Viviane asked.
His mouth tightened, and his expression hardened. “And now our government has no love for modern art, and so they made it disappear. Many things have disappeared of late. Stop near the bridge,” he ordered the driver. He smiled at Viviane as he helped her out of the car and pointed out the perfect vantage for a photograph—a purely tourist photo, of course, Felix noted. She dutifully raised the Leica to her eye. “This is one of my favorite views of the city, looking across the spans of this bridge, gazing at the spires. It reminds me of Oxford. Have you been to Oxford?” Georg said.
“Yes. It still holds a fond place in my stepfather’s heart.”
“Like all graduates.” Georg smiled.
“What is this bridge called?” she asked, pointing.
“This is the Augustus Bridge. It has been here since the twelfth century. Napoleon crossed it with his armies in 1813. Shall we walk across it?”
“Yes, please,” she said, and took the count’s arm. Felix walked on her other side, admired her shapely, delicate limbs, her pretty summer frock and her fashionable hat, the stylish shoes with one ever-so-slightly raised sole on one side, designed to even her gait. Her cheeks were flushed by the sun, her eyes keen on the river, the birds, the people strolling past. Still her eyes flicked over every detail, paused, and moved on, as if she had a second camera in her brain. She did not look like a happy tourist.
To Felix, she looked like a spy.
Ah, but the day was sunny, and the Elbe flowed with gamboling gaiety, brightly blue under the summer sky. The golden sandstone of the city gleamed, and a surge of patriotic pride went through his breast at the beauty of his country, the history, the dignity. His father’s face reflected the same emotion.
It was time, Felix thought, for a little scientific experiment. He nudged Viviane. “Now we’ve seen the old architecture, perhaps we should see the new. There are a number of new industrial plants near the rail station, and the modern, efficient design of those buildings is quite marvelous,” he said.
He watched a spark of intense interest kindle in her eyes, and he let his smile widen.
He had her.
PART III
Berlin Games
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Berlin
“We could spend the day at Wannsee. We could go to the beach.”
Tom watched the lovely Trude Unger, model and aspiring actress, pace his hotel room with restless impatience. She went to the window, flicked aside the curtain, and looked out at the Kurfürstendamm, one of Berlin’s liveliest streets, frowning at the view. “Or we could find you a better hotel.”
“I like this one just fine,” he replied through the open door of the bathroom as he lathered his face to shave.
“You could choose whatever you like, short of the Adlon, of course.”
“I doubt my paper would pay for that.”
She came to lean on the doorframe, posing, to watch him. Her expression suggested impatience; her folded arms confirmed it. “You need not concern yourself over that. You have friends here. Very important friends.”
“Other than you?” he asked lightly.
“Oh, but I am just your faithful interpreter and guide,” she said, though they both knew she was more than that. She worked for the Gestapo, and he was her assignment. She’d probably been told to seduce him, to engage him in a little pillow talk, find out if he had any secrets and help him spill them. He’d resisted her charms, but he played along with her, and they’d come to an unspoken agreement. He didn’t want to risk losing her and being reassigned to a more determined operative, so he fed her harmless gossip from the press corps, things she could report to her bosses to let them think she had Tom Graham in her pocket, that if anything truly important came up, that she’d be the first person he shared it with. In return, Tom behaved himself for the most part, didn’t give her any trouble, and gave her time to pursue her true ambition, which was to become an actress, no, a star. He was an easy job for her, if a trifle dull. He suspected she found trying to charm him a challenge she couldn’t resist. She liked being adored.
There was a knock on the door. “I ordered coffee,” she said as she went to answer it. He heard her speaking in German to the waiter who wheeled the cart into the room. He could smell eggs and sausage, a good, hearty breakfast, as if he were going to work a full day on the Glasgow docks instead of doing nothing more strenuous than conducting a few interviews arranged for him by Trude. She was urging him to write a few lighthearted pieces about the beauty of Germany, the thoroughly modern and carefully ordered gaiety. That meant, of course, that someone had ordered her to steer him toward such stories, see that he wrote them, told the world how much he liked Germany and how marvelous every bloody thing about it was.
