Traitor's Gate Read online

  He had gone about ten yards when he heard the sound he was dreading: ‘Halt!’

  He kept moving, but then there was a sharp crack and the whine of a bullet as it ricocheted off a lamp-post in front of him. The sound brought back the dusty battlefields of Spain. He stopped, turned and raised his hands.

  Dressel ran up to him, panting and waving a pistol. ‘Now you are coming with me!’

  He was handcuffed, shoved down the street and bundled into the back of the green van. Fifteen minutes later he was dragged out on to the pavement beside a grandiose grey Wilhelmine building. There was no sign advertising what lay within, but Conrad could see a number eight beside the imposing entrance.

  It was 8 Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse, the headquarters of the Gestapo.

  2

  The entrance hall was a large room with a vaulted ceiling and high domed windows, watched over by two SS guards and a pair of crimson swastika banners. As Conrad climbed the stairs he was told to keep to the wall with his escort on the outside, presumably so that he wouldn’t throw himself over the banisters. On the third floor he was taken along a corridor and shown into a tiny waiting room. He sat on a bench, and a tall guard took a seat beside him. He waited.

  Exhilaration that Joachim had escaped faded. Now Conrad was inside their notorious headquarters, his initial certainty that the Gestapo would have to release him untouched seemed optimistic. He had no idea what the Gestapo would do to him; he tried to dismiss images of torture chambers and concentration camps from his mind.

  He pulled himself together. It was Joachim they wanted, not him. He was innocent, he was no spy; they would release him – as long as he could maintain an aura of confidence. He would deny everything, and they would have to let him go. After all, His Britannic Majesty requested and required it.

  At least Joachim was free.

  After about three-quarters of an hour a large, ungainly man appeared, wearing steel-rimmed spectacles and a scruffy, ill-fitting suit. ‘Herr de Lancey?’ he said to Conrad, holding out his hand.

  ‘Yes.’ Conrad rose to his feet and shook it.

  ‘My name is Kriminalrat Schalke.’ He smiled. It was a strange, lop-sided grin, which exuded what seemed to be genuine friendliness. ‘Come through.’

  Conrad followed Schalke into an office, or rather interview room. Schalke sat on one side of the desk and Conrad sat on a chair a few feet back on the other. A female stenographer came in and settled herself at a machine on a table just behind Conrad.

  Schalke leaned back, smiled and opened his hands. ‘Herr de Lancey. It was very foolish of you to assault two of my officers.’

  ‘I know,’ said Conrad. ‘And I am sorry.’ The time for uncontrolled histrionics was over; he needed to be cooler now. ‘But they were arresting me without cause. I objected. I still object.’

  Schalke smiled again, that appealing uneven grin. ‘Without cause? Surely the cause is obvious.’ The man had the slow adenoidal twang of a Saxon, Conrad noticed. He also had a very slight stutter.

  ‘Not to me,’ said Conrad.

  ‘You were discussing a plot to overthrow the Führer with a member of our diplomatic corps.’

  ‘I was doing no such thing,’ said Conrad. He made no attempt to hide his surprise.

  ‘You were. Our man saw you.’

  ‘The man with the buck teeth? The man who was pretending to be deaf? He was too far away, even if he could hear.’

  ‘Oh, he wasn’t pretending,’ Schalke said. ‘He is deaf. He’s an accomplished lip-reader.’

  Schalke smiled again.

  ‘In that case he will know that we didn’t discuss Hitler at all,’ Conrad said.

  ‘But you did discuss General von Fritsch.’

  ‘We did.’ A thought occurred to Conrad. ‘Does your man speak English? Or rather lip-read in English? It must be very difficult to lip-read in a foreign language.’

  Schalke seemed to accept Conrad’s point. ‘So, what did Herr Mühlendorf tell you?’

  ‘I demand that you let me go,’ Conrad said as evenly as possible. ‘I’m a British citizen. I demand to see someone from the embassy.’

  ‘I think you are a spy,’ said Schalke, reasonably. ‘It is quite possible to be a British citizen and a spy.’

  ‘I am no such thing!’

  ‘Then why were you discussing a plan to overthrow the Führer? And for that matter why do you speak such perfect German?’

  ‘I am good at languages,’ Conrad said.

  ‘Very good,’ Schalke said. He picked up Conrad’s passport and opened it. ‘It says here you were born in Hamburg. The seventh of March 1911.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Conrad admitted. ‘My mother is German: Joachim Mühlendorf is my cousin. But the family moved to Britain in 1914.’

  Schalke frowned. ‘A family of traitors.’

  Conrad ignored the insult.

  ‘And what is this? The Hon. Conrad William Giles de Lancey?’

  ‘My father is a peer. A viscount.’

  ‘Noble traitors.’ Schalke put the passport down. ‘Will you tell me what you and your cousin were discussing?’

  ‘No. Absolutely not.’

  ‘And who is Johnnie von Herwarth?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  There was silence as the Gestapo officer studied Conrad through his wire-rimmed glasses. His blue eyes were not cold or cruel, but intelligent, warm, almost friendly. Conrad sat in silence. Then the big man rose to his feet. ‘Joachim Mühlendorf was brought in ten minutes ago. He didn’t get far; they caught him hiding behind some dustbins. A cat gave him away, a good National Socialist cat.’ Schalke laughed at his little joke, a high-pitched giggle that seemed incongruous coming from such a large man. ‘Some of my colleagues are just making him comfortable now. You can wait in here while I go and ask him some questions. I am sure he will be more forthcoming than you. An hour or two of intensive interrogation should suffice.’

  ‘I demand that you inform the British Embassy of my presence here!’ Conrad called after the man’s back as he left the room. The stenographer rapidly typed out these last words and then followed her boss.

  After all that, they had caught Joachim! Conrad shuddered as he thought of what his cousin would be going through somewhere else in the building. Joachim wasn’t exactly tough. Once the Gestapo put pressure on him, he would talk, Conrad was sure of that. And after he had talked, there was not much Conrad could do for him.

  He thought about his own interrogation. Would they torture him? If they did, what kind of torture would they use? How good was his protection as a British citizen?

  He had no idea who on earth Johnnie von Herwarth was, nor about a plot to overthrow Hitler. If that was what Joachim had discussed with Theo at the Kakadu, no wonder Theo had been concerned. He just hoped that the Gestapo would believe in his own ignorance.

  And what about Joachim’s message to Theo, that he wanted to see him and that he had friends who could help him? Joachim was hardly tough: if his cousin cracked under interrogation, which was very likely, he would tell the Gestapo all about it. Conrad decided there was no point in denying the message if it was raised by the Gestapo, but he wouldn’t volunteer the information until that point.

  It sounded as if Theo himself would be in trouble pretty soon and there was not much Conrad could do about it.

  Conrad had been loath to tell the Gestapo who his father was, he always hated to do that, but in this case, once they realized his father was not just a peer of the realm but a former Cabinet minister, they would have to release him. Wouldn’t they? The key thing was to convince them that he was not a spy.

  Because if he failed, there would only be one outcome. Somewhere he had read that they beheaded spies in Germany.

  As Klaus Schalke walked along the familiar corridor from one interrogation room to the other, he considered the British prisoner. He had not expected a full and frank explanation; there would be plenty of time to extract that. What he had been seeking in the interview was a preliminary
assessment of the man. He discounted the bluster: it disguised a calm intelligence. De Lancey could be a spy. His fluency in German and his mother’s background would be convenient for an agent.

  There would be time enough to find out. For the moment he had to consider Mühlendorf. He paused outside the interview room. Inside he could hear grunts and muffled screams. Unlike most of his colleagues, Klaus did not enjoy the physical aspects of interrogation. Despite his size, he was not particularly strong, and he was known more for his clumsiness than usefulness with his fists. That was Dressel’s talent.

  When he had first joined the Gestapo Klaus had avoided interrogations and focused on the organization and collation of information, something at which he excelled. For this he had been appreciated, not least by Reinhard Heydrich, the head of the Gestapo, who understood that the organization’s effectiveness relied on its ability to gather information about any and all of its citizens, not its skills in beating them senseless.

  But it was impossible to steer clear of the interrogations altogether, and, much to his surprise, Klaus found that he was quite effective at conducting them. Not only that, but he enjoyed them. It wasn’t the blood and the screaming and the broken bones that pleased him, although he was getting used to that, it was the feeling of power. To see someone who had been in a position of authority – a university professor, a civil servant, a policeman, a priest – sitting before him steady and dignified, to assess him, to identify his weak spot, to press hard on that weak spot until the man was cowering in front of him, debasing himself in any way he could think of to make Klaus like him, gave Klaus a thrill that was almost sexual.

  Mühlendorf should not be difficult. They had a fair amount of information on him, from the Gestapo informers in the embassy in Moscow, from sources in Berlin and also from Department II-H, which dealt with homosexual affairs. Meisinger, the Kriminalrat in charge of the department, had given Klaus some useful information. These pansies were usually easy to break. Often they were accomplished gossips who knew a lot and were eager to impart that knowledge to avoid a concentration camp. Klaus could see no reason why Mühlendorf should be any different. Which was why he had brought him in.

  The noises in the interview room had ceased and Klaus walked in. Joachim was lying on the floor, groaning. A strong light from the desk illuminated him. His face was pale and there was blood on his cheek, but from that angle Klaus could not see how much damage had been done to him. Klaus glanced at Dressel, who had been assisted by two muscular black-uniformed sadists. Dressel shook his head; the prisoner had not yet said anything of interest. Klaus and Dressel had a good working relationship. Dressel enjoyed beating the shit out of prisoners, but never went too far. He knew of Klaus’s squeamishness, but he was careful not to comment on it: he was intelligent enough to realize that Klaus was rising fast in the Gestapo hierarchy.

  Klaus seated himself at the desk. ‘Get up, please, Herr Mühlendorf,’ he said quietly.

  The man on the ground groaned and hauled himself up on one elbow to stare at Klaus. He blinked; the light was too bright for him to see his interrogator properly. The two uniformed thugs lifted him to his feet and pushed him backwards on to the chair. He screamed as his backside touched the seat, and tried to stand, but the guards forced him down again. Unseen by the guards, Klaus winced. Why was it that when dealing with homosexuals these men could not leave their prisoners’ arses alone?

  ‘You may stand if it is more comfortable,’ Klaus said.

  The prisoner stood up. They had stripped off his tailcoat, but his white bow tie still hung loose around his neck: one half of it now soaked a deep red. His face was a mess. Nose broken, blood streaming down his upper lip, which was split, and a front tooth missing. It almost made Klaus sick to look at him.

  Klaus glanced down at the Department II-H file in front of him.

  ‘Now, Mühlendorf, on the fifteenth of March 1936 do you remember meeting a man known as Bayern Seppl in the Viktoriapark at about ten-fifteen at night?’

  ‘That’s a long time ago,’ the prisoner replied, his words slurred by the split lip. ‘I can’t possibly remember what I was doing on that day.’

  ‘Let me make it easier for you,’ said Klaus. ‘It was your second night in Berlin on leave from Moscow. Does that help?’

  Joachim hesitated, and then spoke quietly. ‘I didn’t know that was his name, but I do remember that meeting.’

  ‘And did you indulge in unnatural acts of a homosexual nature with Bayern Seppl?’ Klaus asked. According to Meisinger’s file, he had been spotted by a former male prostitute and blackmailer who had been happy to talk.

  Joachim nodded. ‘Yes, I did.’

  Klaus smiled to himself. This was going to be easy. He ran through three other hurried liaisons that Joachim had been involved in during his brief periods of leave from the Moscow embassy. Klaus had to admire Meisinger’s thoroughness. Joachim denied none of them.

  ‘Excellent,’ said Klaus. ‘Now, tell me about this plot to overthrow the Führer.’

  Joachim licked some blood from his split lip. ‘Certainly. I heard a rumour in Moscow that a plot was afoot. I was curious, so when I returned to Berlin, I asked my friends.’

  ‘I see,’ said Klaus. ‘And from whom did you hear this rumour?’

  ‘From Vassily Dashkov in the Soviet Foreign Office.’

  ‘Not from Johann von Herwarth?’

  ‘No. Certainly not. I never discussed the matter with him.’

  ‘Do you have any details about this plot? Who would be involved?’

  ‘None,’ said Joachim. ‘And I don’t know who would be involved. The army, presumably, upset by the way the Gestapo set up General von Fritsch.’

  ‘General von Fritsch was not set up by the Gestapo,’ Klaus corrected him.

  ‘Forgive me,’ said Joachim. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Who in the army?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ said Joachim. ‘That was why I was asking Hertenberg the other night. I thought he might know something, but if he did, he wouldn’t tell me.’

  ‘What are the army planning to do?’

  ‘Once again, I have no idea.’

  Klaus raised his eyebrows. ‘You realize that given what you have admitted about your activities over the last few years, we can place you in “protective custody” for violating Article 175 of the Reich Penal Code?’

  ‘Protective custody’ was the legal mechanism whereby the Gestapo could lock someone up without formally charging him. The fiction was that the suspects had to be taken into custody to prevent them from committing future crimes. The prisons of the Third Reich were full of convicted criminals, the concentration camps with citizens in protective custody. All in all it was probably better to be a convicted criminal.

  ‘I know that,’ said Joachim, somehow managing to inject a note of defiance in his voice.

  Klaus was puzzled. This was not going as he had expected. By now Joachim should have been willing to cut a deal. He should have been eagerly explaining exactly who had told him what, and probably throwing in some useful titbits for Meisinger’s files at the same time.

  But he wasn’t doing that. He was holding out. And from the look of defiance on his face he would hold out for some time longer. He was hiding something – something more than a rumour, Klaus was sure of it.

  Klaus asked more questions, about the Moscow embassy, about the rumoured plot against Hitler, about Johnnie von Herwarth, about General von Fritsch, about Conrad de Lancey, about Theo von Hertenberg, with no result. The guards on either side of Joachim were itching to hit him again, but they knew Klaus wouldn’t let them, at least not yet.

  Klaus realized the time had come to exert more pressure. ‘Can you swim, Mühlendorf?’

  ‘Yes,’ the prisoner answered cautiously.

  ‘Excellent. Have you ever found yourself in trouble – you know, out at sea, or in the middle of a large lake far from the shore?’

  ‘No.’ Still cautious.

  ‘So you don’
t know what it’s like to drown?’

  ‘No,’ said Joachim, and Klaus thought that he caught just a hint of fear.

  ‘Well, now’s the time to find out.’ He signalled to the guards, who dragged a metal bathtub over to the prisoner. It was heavy – it was full of water.

  They stripped off Joachim’s blood-spattered dress shirt exposing a flabby, battered torso, and forced him to kneel over the tub.

  Klaus moved around the desk until he was standing over him. ‘Look at me!’ he commanded.

  The guard pulled back Joachim’s hair so that they were staring at each other. Klaus saw hatred, defiance, and that hint of fear. Good. He nodded to the guards, who plunged Joachim’s head into the water for about thirty seconds. When they pulled him out, Klaus shouted a question: ‘Who else is involved in this plot?’

  Joachim gasped for air, but before he had a chance to answer he was back under water. This was repeated three times, until they paused to allow Klaus to shout more questions. Joachim coughed and spluttered but didn’t answer.

  Next he was under for a minute at a time. At the third plunging he swallowed water. Still no answer. Now two minutes, longer than a man in Joachim’s state could possibly hold his breath. He writhed, stiffened, bubbles rose to the surface and then he went still.

  ‘Get him out,’ Klaus ordered. He wasn’t worried; this was all part of the procedure. The guards lay Joachim on the ground and began mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. It didn’t usually take long to revive a prisoner, and once he had drowned once he was normally reluctant to drown again.

  The guard was blowing hard into Joachim’s lungs. After half a minute or so, he glanced up at Dressel. ‘There’s something wrong.’