are,’ he said. ‘All arranged – tickets and everything.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Connie and the boys leave Monday morning by train for Paris. The same night they’ve got berths on the sleeper to Madrid and so have you.’
‘And when was all this decided?’
‘Today. The boys have got a week at the Flamenco Club in Madrid. You knew that.’
‘But I haven’t.’
‘No, but you can carry straight on to Lisbon from there. Plenty of boats going to New York. You might even get a seat on the Clipper.’
‘And you?’
‘I’ve got things to do here.’
‘Then I’m not going.’
‘Oh, yes, you are, Liebchen.’ She had never heard quite that tone in his voice before. He patted her hand and got up. ‘We’ve got a lot in tonight. I’d better go and see how the food’s working out.’
As he reached the door she said, ‘Uncle Max, you’re mixed up in something, aren’t you? Something serious?’
He smiled gently. ‘I’ll see you later. Slay the people, Liebchen.’
The door closed softly behind him and she sat there, staring into the mirror, her mind in turmoil. A moment later, there was another knock and Connie Jones glanced in.
‘Are you ready?’
She managed a smile. ‘As much as I ever will be.’
Connie was a large, rugged-looking Negro of forty-five, with close-cropped greying hair. Born and raised in New Orleans, he had been playing the piano like a dream since the age of seven and couldn’t read a note of music.
‘Trouble?’ he asked, sitting on the edge of her dressing table.
‘Uncle Max tells me I leave with you on Monday.’
‘That’s it. Twelve hours to gay Paree, then the night, express to Madrid from Austerlitz Station, and I can’t shake the dust of this town soon enough.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘You’re worried about the old man, aren’t you?’
‘He says he isn’t coming, Connie, but if he stays here …’
‘If ever a man knew what he was doing, it’s your Uncle Max, kid. I’d leave it to him.’ He took her hand. ‘You worry too much and that ain’t good because we got a show to do, so let’s get with it.’
She took a deep breath, stood up and followed him out, immediately aware of the club noises. People talking, the laughter, the hustle. It had an electricity to it that never failed in its effect on her.
Two other Negroes waited in the shadows beside the small stage, both younger than Connie. Billy Joe Hale, the bass player, and Harry Graf, the drummer. They dumped their cigarettes and moved on stage with Connie.
Hannah waited and then the spots bathed the stage in white light and Uncle Max’s voice boomed from somewhere at the rear of the room. ‘And now, the Garden Room proudly presents direct from New York, the one and only Hannah Winter.’
And as Connie and the boys moved into a solid driving arrangement of ‘St Louis Blues’, she walked on stage to thunderous applause and started to sing her heart out.
Reinhard Heydrich, unlike most Nazi party members, had been born a gentleman. Cashiered from the navy he had joined the SS and had been quickly chosen by Himmler as his deputy. His rise to the position of head of the Reich Main Security Office, one of the most powerful positions in the state, was a tribute as much to his total lack of any kind of humanity as to his qualities of leadership and superior intelligence.
When Schellenberg entered he was seated at his desk in his Prinz Albrechtstrasse office and was wearing the full dress uniform of an SS Obergruppenführer for he had just returned from dining with Hitler at the Reich Chancellery.
‘Ah, there you are, Walter,’ he said amiably. ‘You’ve been having a busy evening, I hear, playing Galahad to the Winter girl.’
‘Is there anything you don’t know?’ Schellenberg said. ‘It’s only just happened, for God’s sake.’
‘One survives, Walter, in this wicked old world of ours by knowing everything there is to know about everything and everybody.’
‘Which in this case would seem to mean that the people who work for me report to you first.’
‘Of course,’ Heydrich smiled. ‘Tell me about her. How long has she been under surveillance?’
‘Since she arrived. Two months now.’
‘And she really fell for this little drama of yours tonight?’
‘I think so.’
‘What exactly do you hope to achieve? Access to her bed or information?’
‘It’s her uncle we’re after, remember,’ Schellenberg said. ‘The fact that he’s an American citizen makes things difficult.’
‘But he was born a German,’ Heydrich said impatiently. ‘I’ve seen his file and the Führer has stated often enough that citizens of the Reich do not have the right to change nationality.’
‘The Americans might have a different viewpoint on that one,’ Schellenberg pointed out. ‘And this is hardly the moment to antagonize Washington.’
‘So – are we any further forward with this Winter affair?’
‘Not really. As you can see from his file, he attended the University of Berlin as a youth and was a member of the Communist Party. It is my belief that he is a Soviet agent. He’s certainly involved with the Socialist Underground and probably also the illegal transfer of Jews from the Reich.’
‘Then what are you waiting for? Arrest him.’
‘Not just yet,’ Schellenberg said. ‘If we wait a little longer we get not only Winter, but his entire organization. And he is under surveillance at all hours.’
Heydrich sat there frowning, then nodded. ‘Very well, Walter. You can have another week. Seven days and then …’ He stood up. ‘What are you going to do now?’
Schellenberg knew what was coming. ‘Go home to bed.’
‘Nonsense.’ Heydrich grinned. ‘The night’s still young. We’ll make the rounds at a few nightclubs. Help yourself to a drink while I change.’
He went out and Schellenberg sighed, moved to the drinks cabinet and poured himself a Scotch.
He had been born in Saarbrücken – in 1910, the son of a piano maker. Cultured and intelligent by nature and with a gift for languages, he had entered the University of Bonn at the age of nineteen in the faculty of medicine, but changed to the study of law after two years.
Well
