the field but somehow he was powerless to call out to the boy. Then he saw someone else crossing the field, walking towards Michael. It was his brother Hans. He knew that Hans and Michael were both about to be blown up, but though he tried to shout to them he couldn’t speak, could only utter a little croak. He woke up gasping for breath.
There were no calls from the embassy and at seven he phoned Gessler’s office where his coldly efficient secretary confirmed they would contact him at the Cafe de Paris if need be. He walked up to Euston Square tube; there was fog in the air, a sulphurous tang that made him cough as London fogs always did. If it persisted he would have to get one of those facemasks. He remembered his nightmare. He felt full of emptiness and fear. He must show Syme no trace of it.
On the tube platform he saw a huge garish poster: a man in a clown’s outfit with a painted face holding up a big flaming hoop through which a lion jumped.
The Cafe de Paris was a huge basement room. Gunther had been there when he was posted in England before, usually for boring embassy functions. He had heard that in 1939–40, when the British were terrified of German bombs, it had been advertised as the safest restaurant in London. The lighting was low, little shaded lamps on the tables. Gunther had hoped for a place in the balcony area that surrounded the ballroom – somehow he always felt safer watching things from above – but he was led to a table near the dance floor, with a view of the band. They were playing loud, discordant jazz music.
Gunther looked at his watch; he was early. He glanced over at the people at the other tables. Some older women wore ballgowns but most of the younger women had short dresses, some wide and flouncy, others daringly tight. Many had expensive mink stoles over their bare shoulders. Four Wehrmacht colonels sat together, probably military advisers from the embassy, Rommel’s people, part of the clique who wanted to cut a deal with the enemy. They looked cheerful and confident. At a big table nearby a group of middle-aged Englishmen accompanied by younger women who looked like prostitutes were getting cheerily, noisily drunk. From their shouted conversation he gathered they were from ICI, celebrating a possible new contract with Siemens. A waitress came and he ordered an orange juice. He didn’t want to drink too much alcohol tonight.
Syme arrived a quarter of an hour later, in a dinner suit that was too big for him. Gunther sighed inwardly, then rose to shake his hand. They took their seats. Syme looked round, his expression appreciative. ‘Quite a place, eh? I’ve heard of it, but never been.’
‘We wanted to show our appreciation.’ A waitress appeared. ‘What will you have to drink?’
‘A brandy if that’s all right. Push the boat out. What’s that you’ve got?’
‘Orange juice. But I’ll have a brandy now.’
Syme said, quietly, ‘I got called in by the superintendent today.’
‘Did you?’
He smiled conspiratorially. ‘They want me to carry on helping you.’
‘And what do you think about that, William?’
‘I’ll be glad to.’ A serious expression came over his thin face. ‘Sounds like you put in a good word for me. I’m grateful.’
‘Whatever we can do.’ The drinks came. Gunther raised his glass. Syme shifted in his chair; Gunther wished again that he wouldn’t twitch about all the time.
‘Let me know what you need.’ Syme laughed. ‘We’ll be like Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson, solving the great crimes.’
Gunther smiled, though he had always thought the Sherlock Holmes stories contrived and moralistic, not like the real world. The band finished their number, to Gunther’s relief, but then an exaggeratedly handsome, Latin- looking man in a suit with sparkly lapels walked onto the stage. Everyone clapped, and Syme gave a little whistle. ‘Wow, that’s Guy Mitchell.’
‘Who?’
‘American singer. He’s big, not like Crosby or Sinatra but pretty good. They’re always playing him on the radio.’ He laughed with pleasure. The man sang a couple of numbers; he had a good voice but the lyrics were nonsensical. Syme had turned to watch, foot jigging in time to the music. Gunther was relieved when the singer bowed and left the stage; his stomach was grumbling and he wanted to order. Syme, who was on his third brandy now, turned back to him.
‘Good stuff, eh?’ He looked speculatively at the girls with the businessmen’s party. ‘There’ll be dancing later. Those tarts look taken but there might be others who aren’t.’ He raised his eyebrows. Gunther noticed his Cockney accent had returned as the drink loosened his tongue. How foolish, this English obsession with class. As a Fascist Syme should know it was race and nationality, not class, that mattered. He said, straight-faced, ‘Your voice has changed.’
Syme smiled sardonically. ‘You need to try to talk a bit posh if you’re aiming to reach the top of the Service. Don’t drop yer bleedin’ aitches. Now, what about lookin’ for some nice juicy tarts?’
Gunther shook his head. ‘I don’t seem to have the energy these days. And I must get up early tomorrow.’
A waiter came and they ordered. The food was good but the band started again and they had to raise their voices to talk. Syme said, ‘Don’t you like the music?’
‘No. It is like all the American influences I see over here. Loud and brash, tuneless.’
Syme looked at him with amusement. ‘What do you prefer, German classical stuff?’
Gunther shrugged. ‘Anything but this.’
‘Our Arts Ministry’s trying to encourage traditional folk music, morris dancers waving silly twigs around village greens, blowing penny whistles.’ He laughed. ‘I prefer something with a bit of a swing.’
‘Negro music. I thought you didn’t like blacks.’
Syme leaned across the table. He said seriously, ‘You know, mate, I like you, but you should take the chance to enjoy life a bit. Let the old juices flow.’
Gunther smiled ironically. ‘I have given my life to duty.’
‘The generation that has sacrificed everything to save Europe?’
‘And you for your Empire, too.’
Syme leaned further forward. ‘Listen, I know the Russkies aren’t completely sorted out yet, but they will be. And everywhere else, we’re top dogs. We’ve got everything. All the Jew money, like you got when you carved up Switzerland with the Frogs and the Wops in 1940.’ He laughed. ‘That was a masterstroke. You got all the Swiss banks, confiscated all the assets the German Jews put there after you came to power. Russian assets too. Germany and us together, we call the shots, so we get the goodies. We should take advantage of it.’
Gunther smiled and inclined his head. ‘If things go well with this,’ he said, ‘grateful people in Germany might open an account in Basel for you.’
Syme’s eyes sparkled. ‘That would be – great.’ He grinned. ‘I’ve already been promised that if things go well there’s a four-bedroomed house in Golders Green earmarked for me, a Jew’s house, full of expensive furniture.’ He took a drink of the fine wine he had ordered. ‘Live a little, mate,’ he said, a half-friendly contempt in his voice. ‘I plan to.’
FRANK STAYED IN THE QUIET ROOM after David and Geoff left with Ben. He turned his chair round to the window again, so he couldn’t be seen from the half-open door to the ward.
David had promised to help, look into the legal position, and Frank told himself he should cling onto that. It had been so strange to see him and Geoff after all this time; David didn’t look much older although his face had been full of uncomfortable anxiety, as had Geoff’s. Geoff had aged all right; his face looked strange with that fair moustache. Frank realized he must have looked terrible to them; he was used to his baggy, ill-fitting clothes and clumsily shaven head, he didn’t think about his appearance any more, but had been aware of how alien he must look to his old friends.
There was something that had worried him, though, about the interview, something in a look David had exchanged with Ben, as though they shared some secret. And Ben hadn’t wanted David to talk to him on his own. Why was that? And they had asked him about his brother, just like those wretched policemen earlier. He told
