gone,’ she wailed.
‘Anna, try to keep calm. Any idea where he’s gone?’
Denham was standing now, wishing he could pace, but the telephone cord wasn’t long enough, so he had to settle for scratching his head.
But as she continued her account, he felt himself relax. The motive for Tom’s little adventure seemed plain enough, and he’d almost certainly come home when his bread and corned beef ran out, his protest made and his tail between his legs. All the same, where could he be hiding this time?
‘I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about,’ Denham said. ‘Remember when he planned a long-haul expedition from the potting shed and you wondered where all the candles and Banbury cakes had gone? Or that time he spent the night in the Prendergast kid’s garage with my army knapsack?’
Anna said nothing, which Denham knew better than to take as a sign of mollification. The line whistled and buzzed. ‘I’ll telephone again tomorrow,’ he said, ‘to see if there’s any news.’
‘You’re not coming over?’
‘Of course, but I’ll be very surprised if the boy isn’t back for breakfast. I’ll call in the morning. There’s a story here I’m investigating-’
‘A story?’ Her tone was sharp and accusing.
‘It’s a very big story, about a Jewish athlete who’s-’
There was a rattle as she hung up.
Denham had blamed himself for the breakup of his marriage, although hearing Anna’s reproachful tone made him doubt that things could have been different. He remembered her face when he told her he was leaving on a long trip to Brazil. Tom was only two, and she was right to be angry. But Germany was the last straw. He’d taken an assignment in Berlin-and when most foreigners began deserting it, had decided to stay. Anna had finally realised that he preferred to be alone and had cast him out. She couldn’t understand him. But he had a sense that Tom did. Tom had a child’s insight into his old man. He understood that his dad had to be by himself and that it wasn’t anyone’s fault.
I n the morning he tried calling again but was told by the operator that he’d have to book his call for later. With so many foreigners in Berlin the lines were jammed. He didn’t want to antagonise Anna by failing to make contact, so he popped into the post office on the Bergmannstrasse and sent a telegram asking her to cable him with any news.
At the kiosk outside the station he spotted a five-day-old copy of the Daily Express. He jumped onto the U- Bahn and read the paper’s coverage of the Olympic opening ceremony. Gushing descriptions of Berlin en fete filled the columns, with no mention of the brutalities that had been swept out of sight. But it was the lead article that dismayed him the most. It was of the view that the British athletes had let the side down by not giving the Hitler salute. ‘It would not have done the British any harm if they had made a gesture to the country housing the Games by following the unexpected example of the French…’ He would have to tease Pat Murphy about that.
E leanor was waiting for him as arranged: next to the flower stall of Berlin Zoo Station. He saw her first and smiled to himself. She wore a light raincoat and a black beret-an attempt, he supposed, at looking incognito-but coupled with her red lipstick, heels, and round sunglasses with white frames, the drab coat and hat only seemed to heighten her glamour.
‘Sorry I’m late,’ he said, and explained about Tom. Eleanor looked concerned.
‘Aren’t you worried?’
‘I’ll take the evening flight from Tempelhof if he doesn’t show up today, but the odds are he’s already come home for his toast and eggs, with dirt behind his ears.’
The morning sun streamed into the station, casting dusty shafts of light onto the tiled floor and long shadows among the scurrying rush-hour commuters. Denham led Eleanor up the steps to the platform. Trains disgorged passengers in a disorderly bustle; the station echoed with announcements. He and Eleanor were the only people embarking, and a minute later their deserted carriage was juddering out of the station and heading southwest to the suburbs.
‘We’re going to a smart address,’ Denham said. ‘Grunewald is the playground of Berlin’s filthy rich.’
‘Well, that figures. He’s head of an international bank, apparently, but discreet, you know? Not like Rothschild with foundations and charities, splashing his money all over town…’
‘Who is?’ said Denham.
Eleanor took off her sunglasses and looked at him with exasperated amusement. ‘Don’t you research your victims, Mr Reporter? Jakob Liebermann is who. He’s a multimillionaire, so no wonder he lives in a swell neighbourhood. Over breakfast I asked Ambassador Dodd all about it. Hannah’s dad is some secretive art collector and head of this Jewish private bank with interests all over the place. The US would welcome him with open arms, but he’s been denied an exit visa. Martha says that’s because the Nazis want to strip his wealth from him before they let him out, and there’s nothing the State Department or anyone else can do about it…’
The carriage door slid open and the beat of the rails came loudly in.
‘Ihre Fahrkarten bitte.’ They presented their tickets. ‘Danke. Heil Hitler!’
Eleanor inspected her lipstick in her compact mirror. ‘Okay, now it’s your turn. What exactly is the story here?’
‘Hannah’s family has been threatened. She’s being forced to compete.’ Denham turned to watch the city roll past the window. ‘The trouble began when she told them no-to representing Germany in the Olympics, I mean. If it became public that she’d refused the invitation in protest over the Nazis’ hate laws against the Jews, it could have finished these Games. Dozens of wavering nations might have pulled out, with a tremendous blow to German prestige. That could not be allowed to happen. So they had to act quickly, and resorted to the methods they know best.’
‘Roland…?’
Denham shrugged. ‘My guess is that the Gestapo took her brother into “protective custody,” worked him over, and kept some of his fingers as souvenirs. After that Hannah was on the next ship home to Germany.’
‘And they made old Jakob’s exit visa conditional on his daughter’s good behaviour…?’
‘Most likely. And if they ever do let him out, like you say, they’ll denude him first of every penny he’s ever earned. Jews lucky enough to leave can take only a few marks in their pocket. It’s the law.’
After a minute of silence Eleanor said, ‘Jesus Christ.’ She was staring at the trees and chimneys passing but didn’t seem to be seeing anything. ‘They torture people,’ she mumbled. ‘They rob them…’ She looked at Richard. ‘But it’s too late to make any difference. The Games are taking place.’
‘There’s more than a week still to go. Plenty of time to get the story out there and ruin the show for them.’
‘Isn’t she taking a big risk seeing you?’
The train began to slow, emitting a great hiss of steam.
‘We’re all taking a big risk.’
W inklerstrasse was in the heart of what seemed like a social housing development for the overprivileged. Huge, polished cobblestones, mature horse chestnuts lining the avenues, and set back from the road, the great houses in their grounds, shuttered against the heat of the day and secluded by pines and magnolia in bloom. A green light filtered through the leaves. The place was in a deep hush, exuding an air of privacy and wealth; the only sounds were of birds calling among gardens.
As they walked Denham kept glancing back to see if they’d picked up a shadow. But he knew it was impossible to be sure. Heydrich, the head of the SD, the Nazi intelligence agency, had turned the whole country into an espionage state. Who was watching? Who was following? That gardener? The elderly couple walking a dog? The woman sitting in the parked car? Millions of willing informers.
They reached the high gates of number 80, fashioned in a design of wrought iron leaves, flowers, and ribbons. On either side two tall stone gateposts held iron carriage lamps in yellow glass.
‘Think we should ring the bell?’ Eleanor said.
Peering through the bars, they saw a gravel driveway that curved out of sight behind rhododendron bushes, over which a fairy-tale turret could be glimpsed.
‘The gate’s open,’ said Denham. It yielded with a deep, ferrous groan, and they entered the grounds. Behind the foliage stood a tall house of glazed yellow bricks, with a pointed roof, arched Gothic windows, and two towers, one cylindrical, the other crenellated like a medieval keep. Beyond the building were mown lawns and a pier giving
