and a string orchestra took its place.
‘Just look at the dimensions of this room,’ Martha gushed. ‘You know it was designed by Hitler himself?’
Eleanor looked around. Rows of red marble pillars lined each side, drawing the eye up to a coffered ceiling, where eagles and swastikas were set into mosaics of pale blue and gold. ‘I guess some bachelors have a flair for interior design,’ she said.
It struck her that the people who looked out of place in this illustrious company were the Nazis. She began scanning the crowd for the dapper figure of Sir Eric, and listening for mentions of the now highly charged name Liebermann.
Within minutes of Hannah’s broadcast the wires from the stadium press box to the capitals of Europe had been jammed. And at the packed-out upstairs bar in the Adlon later that afternoon, Eleanor heard talk of nothing else. Word spread that Willi Greiser would give a statement at a press conference; then it turned out he was unavailable for comment.
Eleanor accepted an orange juice from a passing tray and handed a glass of champagne to Martha. ‘Can you see Sir Eric anywhere?’ she said.
Martha gave a wistful sigh, and again Eleanor sensed the reserves of jealousy just below the surface, like groundwater.
‘I have to get Richard released, Martha.’
‘All these available men here this fortnight,’ she said, ‘and you fall for the only one who’s in serious trouble.’
The string orchestra was playing something upbeat and jaunty, and some couples were dancing. Eleanor threaded her way among the chattering groups and twice heard Liebermann’s name spoken. She passed the broad back of Ambassador Dodd, who was stooping to hear the elderly German official who’d given the long-winded address at the opening ceremony. The old man seemed to be pleading with Dodd, who looked decidedly unimpressed.
Eleanor smiled to herself. The Liebermann Effect was spreading like a benign virus, giving these bastards a debilitating attack of shame.
At last she saw Sir Eric with a small group in the far corner of the hall, his monocle glancing from one speaker to the other. With his sash and glittering crosses he resembled some Ruritanian admiral. The pencil moustache twitched, but the poker face gave nothing away.
She was making her way towards him when a rough hand gripped her elbow.
‘I don’t think I properly made your acquaintance…,’ said a man’s voice.
The hand spun her round, and she was faced with Willi Greiser.
‘… Mrs Emerson. I do hope the sight of me this time doesn’t send you into screaming hysterics.’
‘Oh.’ Eleanor gave a tight little laugh to hide her alarm. ‘I am sorry about that. The culprit must have been someone else. It was really hard to tell in that crowd.’
His duelling scar flushed purple, she noticed.
‘Would you permit me this dance?’
‘Some other time-’
‘Indulge me,’ he said, clutching her wrist tightly and propelling her towards the orchestra, his other hand forming a fist in the small of her back. ‘It’s the least you could do.’
‘Stop it. You’re hurting me.’
Immediately he pulled her close and left her no choice but to join him in foxtrotting to the music, caged by his embrace.
‘So, our friend Denham’s checked into the Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse Hotel,’ he said, smiling with genuine pleasure. ‘I do hope they’re giving him the full hospitality.’
‘I expect you put them onto him.’
Greiser laughed. ‘I had nothing to do with it,’ he said. ‘It’s true. I didn’t.’
‘We were eager for your press conference at the Adlon earlier,’ she said with acid innocence. ‘What made you cancel it?’
‘You didn’t hear?’ He swung her around to the music, screwing her hand hard into his grasp. ‘I had to attend to an athlete who suffered a mental seizure during a radio interview. I fear she may spend years recovering in a secure institution.’
She tried to release herself from his arms, but he yanked her back, slipping his hand lower. ‘What’s the matter? Afraid I’ll touch you somewhere you don’t want to be touched…? You’d be wise to treat me a little more sweetly.’
‘Or what?’ she almost shouted. ‘You’re gonna put me in an asylum, too?’
She pulled away her hand. Again he tried to hold her tight around her waist but hadn’t reckoned on her swimmer’s strength. She slung off his arms and shoved him backwards, sending him bumping into a dancing couple. Her face was flushed and hot as she strode from the floor.
Outside the light was dimming, and stewards entered carrying tall candelabras, placing them around the hall so that the flames were reflected in the red marble. To Eleanor’s eyes they created a hellish glow.
Finally, she reached the British ambassador.
‘Sir Eric, may I have a word?’ she said, stepping into the man’s circle. He was listening to a tall patrician gentleman adorned with medals and ribbons, and a younger, elegant lady with waved hair. The tall man spoke in that potato-laden Brit voice she’d heard only in movies.
Sir Eric bowed to kiss Eleanor’s hand. ‘She walks in beauty like the night…,’ he said. The trace of a smile played beneath his moustache as the taller gentleman was thrown off his stride by her appearance. Sir Eric introduced the couple as Sir Robert Vansittart, permanent undersecretary at the British Foreign Office, and Sir Robert’s wife, Sarita, who turned to her politely.
For five agonising minutes they solicited Eleanor’s opinion on the low cloud that had dogged the Games so far, and enquired after the comfort of her crossing, until finally their attention was drawn away, and she spoke quickly into the ambassador’s ear.
‘Sir Eric, it’s about Richard Denham, the English reporter you spoke to at that Goh-balls party earlier this week…’
‘Of course. I know Denham.’
She told him of the warning not to go near Liebermann, their defiance of Greiser’s injunction, and of Richard’s arrest by the Gestapo.
‘Extraordinary,’ Sir Eric said, his face as unfathomable as the Sphinx.
‘You’ve got to help me get him released, sir. His son has gone missing in London. He has to get home. And now that Liebermann herself has told the world what happened to her, why would they need to keep him? The facts are public knowledge.’
Sir Eric looked at her carefully. The difficulty of gauging him wasn’t helped by his monocle, which caught the light and appeared as a blank disc on his face.
‘How did you become an interested party?’ he asked, picking his words.
‘We’ve grown… close,’ she said.
The ambassador paused, as if choosing what to impart. ‘The Gestapo don’t have him,’ he said. ‘He’s in the hands of the SD, the intelligence service.’
‘How do you know that?’
He gave a discreet cough. ‘The worrying question-to which my sources found no answer-is what they want with him.’
‘Isn’t it about Liebermann?’
Sir Eric shook his head thoughtfully. ‘No. It must be something bigger than that…’
‘Meine Damen und Herren…’
A voice booming from the far end of the hall was making an announcement, which it repeated in French and then in English. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, Your Excellencies, honourable guests, please now extinguish your cigars and cigarettes. There is no smoking in the presence of the Fuhrer.’
An excited murmur swelled around the hall.
‘My word. We’re honoured,’ said Sir Eric. ‘He’s not normally much of a partygoer.’
Two gigantic bronze doors swung open and some twenty helmeted SS in white parade gloves entered the
