Gessler tapped the photograph of the group at Oxford. ‘Would you trust him to look into this, find out the identities of the people in this picture? The names the visitors gave at the asylum were fake, of course.’
‘Yes. But I’d watch him; if it came to a conflict between British and German interests, I’m not sure which way he’d jump. He’s a good Fascist, but, as I say, with a chip on his shoulder. The question of reward would be important.’
‘You don’t like him, do you?’ Gessler asked.
‘No. But that doesn’t matter. I think he can be very useful.’
‘Then let’s play on his greed.’ Gessler smiled. ‘It works often enough.’ He was his old confident self again, as though the conversation about Hitler’s illness had not taken place. ‘I’ll speak to his superintendent. Ask for him to contact Oxford, find out who was in that photograph. Take Syme to a top restaurant tonight, say the Cafe de Paris; we can arrange the booking. Thank him for his help, talk about a grateful German government opening a Reichsmark account for him.’ He looked at the clock on the wall. ‘And now, I have a call from Berlin due shortly. Go back to your flat, contact Syme, butter him up. Apart from that, wait in for the telephone.’ He looked at Gunther sharply again. ‘But be ready now, for anything. And remember this, Heydrich himself wants Muncaster in our hands. And if it comes to it, Syme is dispensable.’
That night Gunther took Syme to dinner at the Cafe de Paris as arranged. When he got back to the flat he had telephoned Syme’s office, put on an artificially jovial voice. Then, as he was not supposed to go out, he phoned the embassy to ask if they could get him a dinner suit. They delivered one an hour later, just the right size, with a crisply ironed shirt. They had booked places for them at the restaurant, too, which couldn’t have been easy at a few hours’ notice.
He turned what Gessler had said over and over in his mind. He had known, objectively, that Hitler was ill and might die, and that the politics then could become difficult, but being told it was a strong possibility now was different. For over twenty years Gunther had believed the Führer was something more than human, delivered to a broken Germany by Fate. He remembered the posters on the streets in the thirties, All This We Owe to the Führer. He knew Martin Bormann was Hitler’s right-hand man, but also that he was a nonentity. Gessler was right, Goebbels was the key figure. Which way would he jump, towards the SS, or the army? Gunther sat and calculated, but underneath it all was cold fear at the thought that Hitler, the keystone of everything, could soon be gone.
Eventually, worn out with thinking, he went and lay down on the bed. He fell into an uneasy doze, and had a dream about his young son. Michael was walking through a field of stubble, and Gunther knew there were mines in the field but somehow he was powerless to call out to the boy. Then he saw someone else crossing the field, walking towards Michael. It was his brother Hans. He knew that Hans and Michael were both about to be blown up, but though he tried to shout to them he couldn’t speak, could only utter a little croak. He woke up gasping for breath.
There were no calls from the embassy and at seven he phoned Gessler’s office where his coldly efficient secretary confirmed they would contact him at the Cafe de Paris if need be. He walked up to Euston Square tube; there was fog in the air, a sulphurous tang that made him cough as London fogs always did. If it persisted he would have to get one of those facemasks. He remembered his nightmare. He felt full of emptiness and fear. He must show Syme no trace of it.
On the tube platform he saw a huge garish poster: a man in a clown’s outfit with a painted face holding up a big flaming hoop through which a lion jumped. Billy Smart’s Circus Christmas Spectacular. He wondered if there were any circuses in Krimea.
The Cafe de Paris was a huge basement room. Gunther had been there when he was posted in England before, usually for boring embassy functions. He had heard that in 1939–40, when the British were terrified of German bombs, it had been advertised as the safest restaurant in London. The lighting was low, little shaded lamps on the tables. Gunther had hoped for a place in the balcony area that surrounded the ballroom – somehow he always felt safer watching things from above – but he was led to a table near the dance floor, with a view of the band. They were playing loud, discordant jazz music.
Gunther looked at his watch; he was early. He glanced over at the people at the other tables. Some older women wore ballgowns but most of the younger women had short dresses, some wide and flouncy, others daringly tight. Many had expensive mink stoles over their bare shoulders. Four Wehrmacht colonels sat together, probably military advisers from the embassy, Rommel’s people, part of the clique who wanted to cut a deal with the enemy. They looked cheerful and confident. At a big table nearby a group of middle-aged Englishmen accompanied by younger women who looked like prostitutes were getting cheerily, noisily drunk. From their shouted conversation he gathered they were from ICI, celebrating a possible new contract with Siemens. A waitress came and he ordered an orange juice. He didn’t want to drink too much alcohol tonight.
Syme arrived a quarter of an hour later, in a dinner suit that was too big for him. Gunther sighed inwardly, then rose to shake his hand. They took their seats. Syme looked round, his expression appreciative. ‘Quite a place, eh? I’ve heard of it, but never been.’
‘We wanted to show our appreciation.’ A waitress appeared. ‘What will you have to drink?’
‘A brandy if that’s all right. Push the boat out. What’s that you’ve got?’
‘Orange juice. But I’ll have a brandy now.’
Syme said, quietly, ‘I got called in by the superintendent today.’
‘Did you?’
He smiled conspiratorially. ‘They want me to carry on helping you.’
‘And what do you think about that, William?’
‘I’ll be glad to.’ A serious expression came over his thin face. ‘Sounds like you put in a good word for me. I’m grateful.’
‘Whatever we can do.’ The drinks came. Gunther raised his glass. Syme shifted in his chair; Gunther wished again that he wouldn’t twitch about all the time.
‘Let me know what you need.’ Syme laughed. ‘We’ll be like Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson, solving the great crimes.’
Gunther smiled, though he had always thought the Sherlock Holmes stories contrived and moralistic, not like the real world. The band finished their number, to Gunther’s relief, but then an exaggeratedly handsome, Latin-looking man in a suit with sparkly lapels walked onto the stage. Everyone clapped, and Syme gave a little whistle. ‘Wow, that’s Guy Mitchell.’
‘Who?’
‘American singer. He’s big, not like Crosby or Sinatra but pretty good. They’re always playing him on the radio.’ He laughed with pleasure. The man sang a couple of numbers; he had a good voice but the lyrics were nonsensical. Syme had turned to watch, foot jigging in time to the music. Gunther was relieved when the singer bowed and left the stage; his stomach was grumbling and he wanted to order. Syme, who was on his third brandy now, turned back to him.
‘Good stuff, eh?’ He looked speculatively at the girls with the businessmen’s party. ‘There’ll be dancing later. Those tarts look taken but there might be others who aren’t.’ He raised his eyebrows. Gunther noticed his Cockney accent had returned as the drink loosened his tongue. How foolish, this English obsession with class. As a Fascist Syme should know it was race and nationality, not class, that mattered. He said, straight-faced, ‘Your voice has changed.’
Syme smiled sardonically. ‘You need to try to talk a bit posh if you’re aiming to reach the top of the Service. Don’t drop yer bleedin’ aitches. Now, what about lookin’ for some nice juicy tarts?’