the war had to be fought to the end. With Goring dead, most of his economic power had passed to Speer, whom the army favoured but whom Himmler and the SS regarded as little better than a Bolshevik with his great state enterprises and contempt for free markets. Goebbels, Hitler’s chosen successor after Goring’s death, held the balance between them, but no-one was quite sure where Goebbels stood these days.
‘So Rommel’s people aren’t involved?’ Gunther said carefully.
‘Rommel knows nothing about it. This operation is entirely SS.’ Renner added, ‘If that creates a problem for you, Hoth, you must say so now and then this interview will never have taken place.’
‘It’s not a problem, sir.’
‘Good.’ Renner sat back.
‘You will take a flight from Templehof to London at nine tomorrow morning,’ Karlson said. ‘You will be driven to the embassy where you will be told more about your assignment. In the meantime, tell no-one.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Gunther thought,
Karlson said, ‘Bring me back some English tea, will you? Earl Grey.’ He laughed and looked at Renner. ‘An old woman’s drink. My wife likes to serve it when she gets together with her aunts.’
As the car approached central London the traffic increased. The big Mercedes halted at a set of lights, surrounded by little snub-nosed English cars. Gunther saw a shadowy reflection of his face in the window. His features were beginning to sag; he was starting to look jowly, though his mouth and chin were still firm. He should take more exercise; Hans had always kept himself fit. A light drizzle began spotting the windscreen as they drove down the wide Euston Road.
Gunther had first come to England as a student at Oxford for a year, in 1929. Even then he had found the English effete. He had returned to London to work though, after the Treaty of Berlin, and spent five years liaising with the British police, helping train them in how to deal with riots, civil unrest, terrorism. The British had already learned a good deal themselves, from Ireland, but had grown complacent in the peaceful forties.
They turned left, past large old buildings and green squares, the trees bare. The car drove to the back of Senate House, where the embassy area was protected by twenty-foot high concrete walls patrolled by British police. A German soldier opened the steel gates that led into the car park at the back. Gunther got out stiffly. He looked up at the nineteen-storey building, stepped like a tall, narrow pyramid, the huge swastika flags hanging limp in the cold, heavy air. He had always admired its proportions, its functionality.
The driver led Gunther into the building, through the familiar stone corridors to the wide central vestibule where a marble bust of the Fuhrer, ten feet high, stood on a great plinth. It was as busy as he remembered, the wide space echoing with footsteps and voices: men in uniforms, women typists in smart suits, files under their arms, clacking along in their high heels. He was led to the lifts. The driver showed a pass to the attendant, another soldier. They were the only ones inside as the lift rose smoothly to the twelfth floor. Ludwig said, ‘How does it feel to be back, sir?’
‘Depressingly familiar. At least the air isn’t full of dust like Berlin.’
‘Yes. Though the British fogs can be bad.’
‘I remember them well.’
The doors opened. Ludwig’s manner became formal again. ‘Your appointment, sir, is with Standartenfuhrer Gessler. Afterwards I will show you to your flat. It is in Russell Square, very comfortable.’
‘Thank you.’ An Intelligence colonel, Gunther thought, one of the senior SS officers at the embassy. He felt a twitch of excitement, such as he hadn’t had in a long time.
The office Gunther entered was small, painted white, with a panoramic view from the window of London under its pall of grey cloud. There was a globe of the world on a table under the window, the German Empire shown extending to the Urals, obligatory photographs of Hitler and Himmler behind the desk. The Hitler photo was the last one, taken in 1950, showing him grey-haired, cheeks fallen in, shoulders stooped. He glared out miserably at Gunther, a striking contrast to Himmler’s cold confidence.
The man who rose to greet him wore full SS uniform. Gessler was in his early fifties, small and neat, thinning dark hair combed across his head to hide a bald spot. Round pince-nez and a severe face with stern lines round the mouth reminded Gunther of his old headmaster in Konigsberg. He was one of the stiff, colourless technocrats Himmler and Heydrich favoured for senior office. Yet, as Gunther knew, such people could be brutal too; like his old headmaster, they often had a temper. Gessler raised his arm in the National Salute and said, ‘
Gessler spoke sharply, without any pleasantries. ‘Inspector Hoth, I am told your absolute discretion can be trusted. That you know the British, their ways, their police. That you can be diplomatic when needed. That you are a Gestapo officer to your bones.’ For the first time he smiled, suddenly confiding. ‘And that you are a good hunter of men.’
‘I hope all that is true, sir.’
‘Repeat that in English.’
Gunther did so. Gessler nodded briefly. ‘Good. They said you spoke almost without accent.’ He paused. ‘I understand your brother joined the SS when he was quite young. Died heroically in Russia.’
‘He did.’ Gunther wanted a cigarette, but saw no ashtray in the room.
Gessler continued quietly, ‘And I understand you believe, like him, that Germany must be committed to the uttermost to destroying our enemies, so that future generations of Germans may live at peace and be secure.’
‘I have done for over twenty years, sir.’
‘You and your brother joined the party in 1930.’
‘Yes, sir. During the Weimar chaos.’
Gessler crossed his legs. ‘And yet, unlike your brother, you never applied to join the SS. You are automatically subject to Deputy Reichs-fuhrer Heydrich, of course, as a member of the Gestapo. But you are not SS. That did not seem to concern my colleagues in Berlin, but I think it requires – some explanation.’ He smiled again, but without warmth now.
Gunther took a breath. ‘My brother Hans was always drawn to – to an idealist’s life. Whereas I was drawn to police work, like my father. It is where my skills lie. It is how I serve Germany.’
Gessler gave a sharp little grunt. ‘I can see a life of physical fitness has not appealed to you.’ He himself was trim and fit in his spotless black uniform. ‘It is strange. I thought identical twins always behaved alike.’
Gunther suspected Gessler was trying to provoke him. He answered quietly, ‘Not in every way.’
Gessler considered a moment. Then he stood abruptly and crossed to the globe. He laid a hand on Europe. ‘This globe, as we both know, is a fiction. Much territory west of the Volga remains in Russian hands. They still have the Volga oilfields and new ones they’ve found in Siberia, while most of the territory we do hold is crawling with partisans. Poland, too. Our settlements there are increasingly unsafe. There are those who say we should end the war, settle with Khrushchev and Zhukov or some of the little capitalists sprouting up behind the Volga now the Communist Party shares power with them. What is your opinion?’
Gunther knew the answer Gessler wanted, which was the answer he believed. ‘If we did a deal with the Russians, left any large Russian state that might threaten us again, that would be a poor reward for the lives of five million German soldiers. And our weapons technology is advancing all the time.’
Gessler swung the globe round, pointing at the United States. ‘But not as fast as America’s. And in a few weeks President Taft will be gone, and this liberal Adlai Stevenson will be in charge. They say he’s cautious, he’ll be careful, but he’s not our friend.’
‘The Americans have always been unpredictable.’
‘Yes. And have coupled a policy of isolationism with the development of fearful weapons. Look at their claims to have an atomic bomb, a wonder weapon that dwarfs any we possess.’
‘We’re told it’s a fake, those films are a Hollywood trick,’ Gunther said, though he had never been quite sure about that.
‘No, it exists,’ Gessler countered in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘Those films of the mushroom clouds in the desert were not faked. The sand turned to glass.’ He raised his heavy dark eyebrows. ‘We have agents, sympathizers, in America. We have done since Roosevelt’s day. And at the US embassy in London too, I will tell you a little more about that. But to return to us. We have our nuclear programme, that is no secret. Yet it hasn’t progressed well. We believe the Americans are ahead of us in all sorts of weapons research. Biological weapons. Even in rocketry it
