Famous Last Words (33 page)

Alan Paisley, the only man who could tell him how the

British had come to know of the German kidnap plot—and from this man he must discover whether there was even the slightest chance that Penelope’s role in that plot had come to light in England.

Retreating into the inner sanctum of his private office at the Eden Hotel, von Ribbentrop placed his call. The trunk lines led from Germany through Luxembourg and France

into Switzerland—and from Switzerland to London. The call was scrambled.

Though brief, the conversation revealed far too many hints of danger. To make matters worse, Paislev was forced to be maddeningly terse and not a little ambiguous. “Winston, across the hall you see. Why in hell did you call me here?

Do make it short.” von Ribbentrop asked about how the

British had been tipped to the Windsor kidnap and was told; “can’t say in detail. Simply don’t know, you see. ‘cepting this—seems the original word came through to Buster in Madrid. Got that?”

“Yes.” Madrid.

“And it was Buster passed it on to Teddy in Lisbon. Got that?”

“Yes.” Lisbon.

“Teddy got it up to Ml-6 and that’s really all I can say.

‘cept…”

“Yes?”

“Well. Seems if you go back to Buster in Madrid, St. Teresa says…got that?”

M.

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“Yes.” St. Teresa was the Duke of Avila.

“St. Teresa thinks Buster heard it from a woman. An’ that’s all I know, you see. Sorry.”

von Ribbentrop then asked whether or not the Duke and

Duchess of Windsor had in fact been kidnapped by the men from B.M.I.—and what sort of state the Duke was in. What did it mean that he had been shot?

“Shot. you say?”

“That’s right. Shot in the face by one of your men.”

“No. No. Not shot. Bleeding fool walked straight through a mirror. Gashed himself terribly. Lost a whole world of blood, but he’s alive. Just walked straight through a mirror.

Bloody fool.”

“But I’m told there was a gunshot.”

“Yes. There was. One of our men. Dreadful fright it gave him. Thought he’d killed the Duke.”

“And were they kidnapped?” von Ribbentrop said.

“Well—put it this way, you see. They have been persuaded.”

And the line went dead.

In Berlin Rudolf Hess, who was Hitler’s Deputy, was behaving badly.

von Ribbentrop hadn’t dared do more than indicate the

barest bones of what had taken place at the Villa Cascais and what it might be that Schellenberg knew. Hess was all too easily frightened; the greatest care must always be taken not to alarm him. He was the kind of man who would jump from his window if someone shouted fire in the building next door. Nonetheless, the Deputy Fuhrer must be cautioned.

The fact was, betrayal might come at any moment

and the only way to handle it was to be prepared. The word Penelope scribbled on that sheet of paper “crested” with von Ribbentrop’s personal symbol of the eagle and the globe could be explained away, perhaps. But only if everyone told the same story. Only if everyone treated it as a joke. And Hess had never told a joke in his life. Or laughed at one.

Consequently, von Ribbentrop would withhold all news

of the piece of paper from the Flihrer’s Deputy. The rest.

unfortunately, must be told. But the word. the word. It haunted him. What could the Duchess have been thinking of—writing it there on that piece of paper?

And wouldn’t it be the supreme irony if, when that knock on the door were to come in the middle of the night—as von Ribbentrop had so often imagined—the man on the other

side were to be Walter Schellenberg, the pride of Himmler’s hyenas? Grinning, no doubt. “Ah, yes,” Schellonberg would say, “that word you were so worried about. Excellency. I think I have tracked its meaning down.” And the axe would fall.

But it mustn’t. And it wouldn’t. Not if von Ribbentrop

could pull himself together and act so decisively everyone would be stopped in the tracks. And first he had to discover who it was in Madrid who had passed on the word to the

British agent. A woman.

Hess was stony afraid and deathly still when he received the news the Windsors had been whisked away from Europe.

He stood at attention, just like a man receiving the penalty of death. He had been outside in his garden when von Ribbentrop arrived. His son, his only child, was playing there

still and the sound of laughter came in through the open windows.

von Ribbentrop skipped the bloodier details regarding the Duke of Windsor and his injuries. He forced himself to sit down. He looked away when he said that Schellenberg was poking around and that Hess was not to be alarmed. But

Hess was not taken in. von Ribbentrop could see this in his eyes. He knew immediately Hess had gone to the depths of panic, just as he himself had gone to the depths when the news had first sunk in. They were both so afraid of Hitler.

They remembered all too well the Night of the Long Knives.

And Schellenberg was too ambitious to retreat from his pursuit, if he could prove there was any hint of a conspiracy.

Hitler’s vengeance had grown more awesome than Caligula’s.

His enemies were now strangled with piano wire,

which separated their heads more slowly from their necks.

Other victims were suspended from meat hooks while they died. And there were deaths far worse than these… .

235

“And what are we to do?” said Hess.

“Jump faster,” said von Ribbentrop, regretting the analogy the minute he’d uttered it.

Hess gave his wellknown hangdog look, with the eyebrows almost obscuring the eyes. “Jump where?” he asked.

“Forward,” said von Ribbentrop. “Forward—faster—more

decisively. And with greater calm than ever.”

“Calm… .” The word had no meaning for Hess.

von Ribbentrop watched him carefully.

Hess was looking into the garden. A child’s voice rose and fell. And a woman’s voice, after it.

von Ribbentrop had not been chosen to play his important role in the cabal for the simple reason of his high office alone. Or for his name—or for his charm. He had been chosen because he was a craftsman in a field that was thought of more as an art than a craft. Diplomats must, of course, be prone to inspiration as artists are—and daring enough to rely on it from time to time. But most of von Ribbentrop’s work was performed with the same honed skill of the practised craftsman who must eschew inspiration altogether for

nine-tenths of his professional life. There is too much at stake from moment to moment to sit back and give a mere “performance”.

Such a moment had now arrived with Hess. If only the

upper echelons of Penelope could have been persuaded to minimize Rudolf Hess’s role, von Ribbentrop’s job would have been made a good deal easier. But the upper echelon had made its decision and von Ribbentrop must abide by

it. So he leapt in now with all the skills at his command to pull Hess back from the edge of his paranoiac despair.

He did this by bolstering Hess’s confidence in the larger schemes and the wider activities of the cabal. He told of what great successes were being achieved abroad. And at the end of it all, he came around through the word “success”

to the child and the woman in Rudolf Hess’s garden.

Pointing through the window at Hess’s laughing son and

wife, he said, “And what greater hope for all our futures could there be than our desire for the success of everything we do in behalf of the new generations?”

234

unfortunately, must be told. But the word, the word. It haunted him. What could the Duchess have been thinking of—writing it there on that piece of paper?

And wouldn’t it be the supreme irony if, when that knock on the door were to come in the middle of the night—as von Ribbentrop had so often imagined—the man on the other

side were to be Walter Schellenberg. the pride of Himmler’s hyenas? Grinning, no doubt. “Ah, yes.” Schellenberg would say, “that word you were so worried about, Excellency. I think I have tracked its meaning down.” And the axe would fall.

But it mustn’t. And it wouldn’t. Not if von Ribbentrop

could pull himself together and act so decisively everyone would be stopped in the tracks. And first he had to discover who it was in Madrid who had passed on the word to the

British agent. A woman.

Hess was stony afraid and deathly still when he received the news the Windsors had been whisked away from Europe.

He stood at attention, just like a man receiving the penalty of death. He had been outside in his garden when von Ribbentrop arrived. His son, his only child, was playing there

still and the sound of laughter came in through the open windows.

von Ribbentrop skipped the bloodier details regarding the Duke of Windsor and his injuries. He forced himself to sit down. He looked away when he said that Schellenberg was poking around and that Hess was not to be alarmed. But

Hess was not taken in. von Ribbentrop could see this in his eyes. He knew immediately Hess had gone to the depths of panic, just as he himself had gone to the depths when the news had first sunk in. They were both so afraid of Hitler.

They remembered all too well the Night of the Long Knives.

And Schellenberg was too ambitious to retreat from his pursuit, if he could prove there was any hint of a conspiracy.

Hitler’s vengeance had grown more awesome than Caligula’s.

His enemies were now strangled with piano wire.

which separated their heads more slowly from their necks.

Other victims were suspended from meat hooks while they died. And there were deaths far worse than these… .

235

“And what are we to do?” said Hess.

“Jump faster,” said von Ribbentrop, regretting the analogy the minute he’d uttered it.

Hess gave his wellknown hangdog look, with the eyebrows almost obscuring the eyes. “Jump where?” he asked.

“Forward,” said von Ribbentrop. “Forward—faster—more

decisively. And with greater calm than ever.”

“Calm… .” The word had no meaning for Hess.

von Ribbentrop watched him carefully.

Hess was looking into the garden. A child’s voice rose and fell. And a woman’s voice, after it,

von Ribbentrop had not been chosen to play his important role in the cabal for the simple reason of his high office alone. Or for his name—or for his charm. He had been chosen because he was a craftsman in a field that was thought of more as an art than a craft. Diplomats must, of course, be prone to inspiration as artists are—and daring enough to rely on it from time to time. But most of von Ribbentrop’s work was performed with the same honed skill of the practised craftsman who must eschew inspiration altogether for

nine-tenths of his professional life. There is too much at stake from moment to moment to sit back and give a mere “performance”.

Such a moment had now arrived with Hess. If only the

upper echelons of Penelope could have been persuaded to minimize Rudolf Hess’s role, von Ribbentrop’s job would have been made a good deal easier. But the upper echelon had made its decision and von Ribbentrop must abide by

it. So he leapt in now with all the skills at his command to pull Hess back from the edge of his paranoiac despair.

He did this by bolstering Hess’s confidence in the larger schemes and the wider activities of the cabal. He told of what great successes were being achieved abroad. And at the end of it all, he came around through the word “success”

to the child and the woman in Rudolf Hess’s garden.

Pointing through the window at Hess’s laughing son and

wife, he said, “And what greater hope for all our futures could there be than our desire for the success of everything we do in behalf of the new generations?”

Hess was very moved by this.

“We mustn’t give up,” Hess said. “We mustn’t.”

Hess turned. His hands shook.

“Hitler must be killed,” he said. “He must. And we must do it… .”

“We will.”

“But when?”

“When it’s time. When all our men and women are in

place.”

“You always sound so calm,” said Hess.

von Ribbentrop smiled. If he was calm, he did not know

it.

Hess said, “When I was afraid in the old days as a child, I would say to my mother ‘will the hammer fall?”—whatever the hammer was—an illness or whatever…and just like you she would say to me: “I doubt it’. It used to give me such reassurance. And it meant she never had to lie to me.”

“And I won’t lie to you either,” said von Ribbentrop.

“Never.”

Liar.

“I believe you,” said Hess.

But he didn’t.

von Ribbentrop rode away in his chauffeured Mercedes,

clutching his walking stick between his knees, putting his homburg over it and looking at it as if it were a severed head.

His own.

A woman in Madrid. It would drive him mad. And the

Duke and Duchess of Windsor riding away from him aboard the S.S. Excahbur. Where would it take them first? he wondered.

The Azores? And then Bermuda? He tried to draw

an imaginary line between the coast of Portugal and the Bahamas. Yes. The Azores and then Bermuda. Such a long, long way away.

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Excalibun August, 1940

On the ship, Excalibur, the Duke went into a decline. He seemed in constant need of something or someone to hold him upright. He began to walk with his shoulder or elbow pressed against the walls of the corridors. He developed a phobia for edges and if Wallis (or anyone, for that matter) started across the decks in the direction of the railings, he would whisper: “stop!” He sat with his mouth shut tight, jaws clenched and his throat constricted, not even able to swallow his saliva. His eyes were in constant motion, darting everywhere like two blue fish that were trapped in his head, coming back and back to the same two holes to peer through the glass—alarmed and wary, least some hand or hook or

claw break through and pluck them out.

His favourite place was the corner of his private salon, where he could sit with each of his shoulders touching a separate metal plate while the ship made a purring noise that hummed up through the hull and seemed to give him