They flew into Los Angeles from the bleak North Atlantic weather into the shimmering heat of California. Again, like Martha’s Vineyard, she found herself alone, staying in his immense secluded villa overlooking the glittering azure Pacific Ocean. The Philippine staff ignored her and for most of the time she sat on the veranda reading magazines and watching the surf spill over the rocks below to the music on the radio.
Kincaid started his day by quaffing his first shot glass of whiskey and taking her to his private screening room in the basement. To get her up to speed on the role she was being tested for, they watched the first reels of his latest epic about a knight from the court of Richard the Lion Heart taking refuge in a forest and avenging his fall from grace. 'Sounds like Robin Hood,' Eva observed. Kincaid had merely scowled. 'Yeah, well our leading man's a leap ahead of that drunken whoremonger Flynn! '
Kincaid's studios — Liberty Belle Studios off Sunset Boulevard — were a cavernous warren of sound stages laid out in all manner of guises, South Sea islands, mediaeval castle interiors, an English forest and a Wild West fort. Powerful lights lit up the sets and actors lolled on tables and chairs, smoking or reading scripts, waiting for their cue. Two Sioux Indians, resplendent in war paint, were playing Texas-hold-'em with three knights. The Indians were winning.
This morning was her screen test and despite herself she was nervous. She was being screen tested for the role of a 'plucky handmaid who helps the knight return to favour' — or so the top of her script read.
She was dressed for the part in a shimmering silver gown nipped in tight to her waist with a virgin white wimple framing her perfect cheekbones. The cameraman gave a thumbs-up. Lighting and Make Up made their final adjustments. The director, a rotund man with a horrific greying comb-over, yelled, 'Action!'
Eva immediately slipped into character, taking her naturally husky tone up in pitch and getting some 'pluckiness' into her risible dialogue. The extra, posed where the hero knight would stand, had his back to the shot and openly gawped at her breasts. When she finished her lines, he looked her in the eye and winked.
And that was the end of her test. The lights went off and the sound stages began to hum to the production teams preparing for the days filming.
Kincaid had spent most of his time during the day on the phone in his study, in meetings or hunched over his ticker tape machine. He would turn the air blue with his outbursts should a stock value drop several points. On particularly bad days he would sit sullenly at the dinner table drinking heavily. On more than one morning she would find him sprawled across the table at breakfast in a stupor, clutching ribbons of ticker tape.
Eva was wheeled out when it was party time, which meant every night, dressed in stunning gowns from plush studio wardrobes off set. Her hair and make-up was professionally done by studio staff and she was carefully hidden amid his entourage. In the media glare she would stay three of four paces back from him on the red carpet.
The parties in the villa were wild and Eva, inured to the cabaret life of Germany, was unfazed by the antics of Kincaid and his cronies, the night always ending up with someone overdosing on cocaine or some other substance. Kincaid’s personal physician, Dr Harry Gold, would be summoned in the dead of night and either administer a cure or load a body into his car.
Despite his chaotic lifestyle, she always felt safe on Kincaid's arm. He never let her out of his sight when the younger dashing actors milled around her at the parties and, to his credit, could always hold his drink when he had to. She kept her own drinking to a minimum and within a fortnight she had met an intimate circle of men about Kincaid's age. Some were oil men in California here to enjoy the pleasures of starlets; others were clearly military men in civilian clothes and Eva recognised another man from the party in Berlin. He was a large wheezing man, a pharmaceuticals magnate, full of bonhomie with an unbridled lust for skinny actresses. She only caught a glimpse of him coming into the villa and he hadn’t seen her. She didn't catch his name, but Kincaid was in thrall to him and almost a little fearful.
During the long empty afternoons in the mansion, she would write letters to Diana Mosley, knowing full well they would be intercepted and read. Eva, keeping the correspondence as light as possible, would slip in names, descriptions and the status of the men she met. Despite her best efforts, Kincaid refused to give her the name of the big man; he was simply known as ‘The Big Fellow’.
Four weeks into her stay, Kincaid burst into her room one morning with a telegram. 'I told you doll, I told you! It’s all starting to fall into place. Start packing. We're flying to Berlin tonight!'
Chapter 6
Berchtesgaden 1939: The Kehlsteinhaus
The Tea House sat 183 metres at the top of the Kehlstein mountain, accessed either by the 131 metre elevator bored into the mountain or the specially commissioned road. Hitler chose the road. As the motorcade swept up through the winding tunnels, its progress was observed by Martin Borman and Albert Speer from the sun terrace,
The head of Hitler's security detail strode up, 'He wants to look around.'
‘Let’s hope he likes it,’ said Speer, taking in the view. The clouds danced beneath them around the peak of the nearby Hochter Goll,
‘He’d better,’ replied Borman, his eyes never leaving the road. ‘It cost enough to build.’
The motorcade, all black with red flags fluttering, pulled into the main driveway. Hitler’s Mercedes was flanked by SS outriders on powerful motorbikes. Borman rose from leaning against the terrace balcony. They walked through the lavishly decorated main dining area to the reception. An SS honour guard was preparing to greet the entourage. The head of Hitler’s personal bodyguard, Schaedle, strode up to them.
Hitler ascended the steps to where Borman, Speer and Goebbels stood waiting in the doorway. The alpine air was refreshing and he stopped to admire the Alps. Removing his fedora, he closed his pale blue eyes, enjoying the sensation of sunlight on his face. He breathed deeply, his throat tingling from the crisp tang of the air. As he started toward the reception, a wave of vertigo swept over him. He steadied himself, inwardly furious that his followers could see this.
Once inside, the Fuhrer marvelled at its craftsmanship. They walked as Speer explained its construction in detail. ‘As you can see, mein Fuhrer, from the two windows here in the main dining area you can observe the Watzman and Hochkalter mountains.’ They paused to admire the peaks. Speer then guided Hitler through each room, some panelled in rare cembra pine or sand-blasted oak. Hitler was impressed; nodding quietly, stopping, examining, and inquiring, with hands clasped firmly behind his back when he wasn't shaking the hands of each of his household staff, beaming and joking awkwardly in the main reception area.
Then he was ushered to his private chamber off the main dining room. Speer's scaled model of New Berlin, moulded according to Hitler’s vision, almost filled the entire room. Hitler leaned into it closely, holding his breath in wonder.
Das Museum von gebesiegt — The Museum of the Vanquished — caught his eye and made him smile. He envisioned the British Crown Jewels, French Impressionist works, Faberge eggs and Mozart’s manuscripts. And in pride of place, Lenin’s mausoleum.
‘Perhaps,’ Goebbels suggested, ‘Stalin’s head in a jar of formaldehyde or mounted like a hunter’s trophy?’ They all roared with laughter.
The rest of the guests arrived and the four men left the room to attend Hitler’s 50th birthday party. Goebbels paused, looking back at the model citadel. Eradicating Communism was a personal crusade for Hitler; what if they managed to snatch Lenin's body sooner rather than later? It would be a sensational bargaining chip. He began to hatch a plot, an idea so brazen that, if it was pulled off, it would change the world. But before that could happen, there would have to be a war.
The following morning, Himmler drove directly to his new headquarters in Berlin, SS Hauptampt. The city had a freshness to it he hadn’t noticed before. The population moved about their business around the thriving Potsdamer Platz, the facades gleaming and the skies a cloudless blue. Everywhere around the capital gave the sense of success and order. He nestled himself deeper into the leather depths of his seat.
Across from him were two Waffen SS: General Rolf Metzger and a young impossibly beautiful Aryan Captain, Thor Schenker. All three were perusing a manila folder stamped at the highest level of confidentiality.
