He flicked his fingers at the door and sauntered away.
The library door was closed and cigar smoke wafted from within. I raised my hand to knock but paused, hearing the low hum of their voices.
‘Rome, of all places,’ Schüller was saying. ‘You were right about the Allies landing in Sicily – fucking Martin – but bombing Rome?’
The clinking of ice on crystal filled the silence, and then a second, unfamiliar voice.
‘It is the Italian capital, Herr Major. And thus a target. I expect there’s worse to come.’
‘What will they bomb next? The Vatican?’
‘Not unless His Holiness declares war on the Allies.’ Graf sounded amused. ‘I don’t see that happening, Herr Schüller, do you?’
‘You must admit it was a clever gambit,’ the second voice drawled. ‘No one, excluding yourself, Herr Graf, questioned the gold mine of intelligence handcuffed to a waterlogged corpse.’
‘Fucking spooks. No honour in it.’ Schüller said.
‘My dear Major,’ the second voice continued. ‘If that’s your opinion, you’re in the wrong line of work.’
‘Don’t be daft. I find a convoy, and sink the bastards. All by the book. Do let your friend Köhler know that, will you, Graf?’
So Schüller was behind the air attacks – fed by information from men like Bertie’s Pires – but who was Köhler, and why the enmity from Schüller? I stored the name for future use and leant closer to the door.
‘The only difference, Haydn,’ Eduard explained, ‘is that they drew us away from their trap, whereas you drew them into ours.’
‘What is more astonishing is that we fell for it.’
The smug, sardonic voice was unfamiliar, but the other pieces of the puzzle came together. The mysterious Major Martin wasn’t a German agent; the poor fellow was a decoy used to lure the troops to Sardinia, leaving Sicily open to the Allied attack ten days ago. Mission accomplished, and may he rest in peace.
There was a snort and the glugging sound of glasses being refilled.
‘Not that it matters any more. The only hope is to recover from this. And we will, gentlemen.’
‘Hear, hear!’ Schüller’s voice slurred.
It was as good a time as any. I knocked and peered around the corner.
‘Am I interrupting?’
Three men sat around a small table, each exhibiting exhaustion in different ways. Eduard was pale under his tan, but his calm demeanour gave little of his thoughts away. Schüller sprawled out in an armchair, his booted feet resting on an ottoman. Dark circles ringed his normally bright cat’s eyes, a fat cigar clamped between his teeth.
The third man looked as if he expected me.
‘Frau Verin.’ He came to his feet and closed the distance between us, moving gracefully for an older, overweight man. ‘It is delightful to finally meet you.’
If he was trying to catch me off guard, he had another think coming. I extended my hand.
‘A pleasure. I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage, Herr . . . ?’
Eduard’s face remained impassive as the man raised my hand to his lips.
‘Frau Verin, may I present Herr Kapitän Bendixen?’
Hans Bendixen. Finally, a face to match the name. He wasn’t attractive, wasn’t even memorable, except for those eyes. Dark, clever eyes.
‘Monsieur Reilly said you were hiding away in here. I didn’t mean to interrupt.’
‘My fault, my dear Frau Verin,’ Bendixen interjected. ‘I needed to pick the Herr Major’s brain for a few moments. But on a happier note, I’m hosting a small soirée tomorrow night. Do tell me you’ll come.’
‘On a Sunday?’ I raised an eyebrow, and Bendixen laughed as if it were a joke.
‘Why not? It’s just a few friends.’ He leant over my hand in a half bow. ‘I shall expect to see you gracing Major Graf’s arm.’
And with a wolfish smile, the captain left the room.
Chapter Twenty-seven
The talk was banal, and stilted. Eduard and Schüller might be colleagues, and professionals, but they weren’t friends. Andreas Neumann’s knock on the open door was almost a relief.
Schüller rolled his eyes as the lieutenant limped into the room. The good side of his face held a tinge of sadness beneath its usual professionalism.
‘You asked for an update, sir.’
He waited for Eduard’s nod before handing him a folded piece of paper. He opened the flimsy note, frowning. A crease appeared, and then deepened between his brows.
‘What is it?’ Schüller asked.
For a moment Eduard looked like he wanted to ignore the question, then handed him the note. Schüller read aloud.
‘“RAF bombing of Hamburg commenced 00.57. Rubble blocked passage for firefighters. Fires raging.”’ Schüller frowned at Graf. ‘I thought you were from Munich?’
‘I am.’ He flicked his hand in the keep reading sign.
Schüller grunted and complied. ‘“Second attack at 16.40. USAF targets U-boat pens and shipyards.” Fucking Yanks.’ He crumpled the note into a ball and threw it in the corner. ‘I’m going down to the harbour.’
He brushed past Neumann, slamming the door behind him. For a few moments there was an uncomfortable silence until Neumann cleared his throat.
‘I apologise for the Herr Major’s rudeness, Frau Verin.’
‘Never apologise, Lieutenant, for things that aren’t your fault.’
I looked down for a moment, not sure how to feel, but knowing that the flames wouldn’t be limited to the docks. I’d been in London during the air attacks of ’40 and ’41. The Blitz. Knew what it felt to survive systematic attacks, day and night. Knowing that you weren’t safe wherever you went. Going to bed with shoes pointing towards the door; skirt and cardigan and handbag nearby. To carry all the important things with you, because your home might not be there when you returned.
Did I wish that on the Germans? No. I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.
‘Any news of them?’
Eduard’s voice was calm, but his face was taut. There was something wrong, something that went beyond the sadness for the people of Hamburg, or the strategic loss this would entail. Something . . . personal.
‘No, sir. Too early for that.’
Eduard nodded, his eyes on the wall above the lieutenant’s shoulder.
‘Dismissed,’ he murmured.
Neumann didn’t linger. I
