Journey to Munich (2 page)

“Oh, all right—you can take me to Bond Street.”

“That's the spirit, lass. And we can have a wee chat while we're about it. After all, your country needs you.”

“Who's your friend in the motor car?”

“Well, I think you've met Harry, the driver. And you've met Mr. Huntley too.”

“Brian Huntley?”

“Yes, the very man.”

MacFarlane nodded to Harry, who stepped back as MacFarlane held the door for Maisie. She took a seat next to the man who waited inside. MacFarlane climbed in, flapped down the extra seat in front of them, and closed the door. He rapped on the glass partition, and the motor car eased away into Warren Street in the direction of Tottenham Court Road.

The man next to Maisie turned to face her. His dark gray pinstripe suit seemed brand-new, the creases in his trousers sharp. He wore a white shirt, and his tie, bearing the insignia of a Guards regiment, seemed to stand out even in the dim light. He removed his Homburg and smiled.

“You're looking well, your ladyship.”

“I do not care to use the title, if you don't mind, Mr. Huntley.”

“As you wish. If
you
don't mind, we'll take a little diversion on the way to . . . Bond Street, was it? I am sure Mrs. Partridge will still be shopping. In fact—” He leaned toward the window to consult his watch. “About fifteen minutes ago, she was still in Selfridges.”

Maisie sighed and closed her eyes, opening them again a few seconds later. “How long have you been watching me?”

“Oh, come now, Maisie—may I call you Maisie? We know each other quite well by now, don't we?” Huntley didn't wait for an answer. “There's something that you can help us with, Maisie. I understand very well what you have endured in recent years, but you are the very person we need for a particular job.” He looked down at his hands and pushed the signet ring on his little finger back and forth toward the knuckle. “Maurice held you in high esteem, Maisie, and he knew our work inside out. He was my mentor as well as yours—and you've done good work for us in the past.”

“I don't know that I'm up to my old work.”

“I believe you are. And this is an important task for a woman. It involves a little travel, however.”

Maisie did not respond. She wiped a gloved hand across the window and looked out at people walking along the pavement, heads bent, scarves pulled up, hats tugged down. At tram stops they stamped their feet, and others ran into shops as if to gain respite from the cold. She turned and looked at MacFarlane, who had said nothing.

She met Huntley's eyes. “Where to?”

“Munich. Of course it is a little cooler there at this time of year.”

She was quiet again. Huntley and MacFarlane allowed her the silence.

Perhaps it was time. Perhaps one small job wouldn't cause any harm. What would she do otherwise? Sit in the Dower House nursing her broken heart? Allow the past to simmer up to a rolling boil again? Perhaps it was the right thing to do.

“All right, Mr. Huntley—tell me why my country needs me.” She looked at MacFarlane. He was smiling.

M
aisie spent a sleepless night in Priscilla's guest room. The deep, soft mattress that usually made her feel as if she were a cygnet nestled under its mother's wing now seemed hard and lumpy, as if horse hair had been stitched into pillow ticking and laid across concrete. She turned one way and the other, unable to find any semblance of the comfort that would lead to sleep.

Without doubt, part of her felt a sense of excitement and worth—though when she considered what was being asked of her, she wondered if she were not biting off more than she wanted to chew. In truth she had become used to being part of the family, staying at Priscilla's home. The boys delighted her, and Priscilla's ebullience energized her. As friends they knew each other's history, knew the twists and turns that had brought them to this place in the world. And they understood each other's fears and frailties; nothing had to be explained. Now, in the space of a day—a day that seemed to be whirring around in her mind as if it were a film running back and forth on itself in an endless loop—another landscape had been spread before her.

And Maisie knew, as thoughts contradicted each other, conspiring to exhaust her into sleep, that with one short assignment she could test the water. She could find out how it felt to be working again.

D
uring the circuitous journey to Bond Street, the two men had revealed the bare bones of the assignment the Secret Service had in mind for Maisie. The more detailed briefing took place the following day. Arriving at an address in Whitehall, she was escorted along a labyrinthine web of corridors until she reached the department presided over by Brian Huntley. She had first met Huntley some years before, when he was a field intelligence agent sent to follow her and bring her to the Paris headquarters of his department. She'd felt shock, and no small amount of betrayal, when she realized that his superior was none other than Maurice Blanche, her longtime mentor. Following Maurice's death, the house in Paris became part of her inheritance, and though it was leased to the British government, an apartment on the upper floors originally kept for Maurice's personal use was now where she stayed in Paris.

I
n the meantime, here she was, about to meet Priscilla for a shopping expedition, feeling as if she were straddling two different worlds. In a final letter to Maisie, Maurice had written, “You will be called to service as I was prior to and during the last war. I believe you are ready and suited to any challenges that come your way.” He had closed his note with the words, “And I predict that they will be the making of you.”

As she walked along Bond Street, she sensed tears welling. A few years earlier, as a new bride in Canada, she had thought that motherhood would be the making of her. Now she felt quite alone.

“A
h, Maisie—let's take a more comfortable seat.” Huntley extended his hand toward a table set alongside the far wall of
the spacious room. The chairs were of solid dark wood, with padded leather seats. An envelope marked with her name indicated her place. She picked up the envelope and moved to another seat, this one facing across the room to the window, which looked out across Whitehall. From this position she could just see the top of the Cenotaph, Sir Edwin Lutyens' memorial to the dead of the Great War.

“Interesting move, Maisie,” said MacFarlane. He'd taken a second look at Maisie as she entered, his eyes glancing from the magenta two-piece costume Priscilla had persuaded her into buying to her short hair, which was partially covered by a neat black narrow-brimmed hat in the fashionable Robin Hood style, embellished by a single gray feather.

“I'd like to be reminded of the reason I'm doing this,” she replied as she pulled out her chair.

Huntley cleared his throat. “Right. Let's start by going over a few points from our little chat yesterday.”

MacFarlane looked at Maisie and raised an eyebrow. The “little chat” had taken them down to Covent Garden, along the Strand, around Buckingham Palace, up toward Piccadilly, along Regent Street, to Oxford Circus, and finally to Bond Street. The most crooked taxicab driver could not have taken a more rambling route. But that was the informal conversation. This was the formal briefing.

Huntley opened his manila folder, removed the green tags securing one document to another, and pushed a photograph of an older man toward Maisie. She estimated him to be in his mid-sixties.

“Leon Donat. Engineer and man of commerce. Age at the time of the photograph—taken by his daughter—sixty-five. He's now almost seventy years of age. Mother was French; father British, by way of Italy. Donat took over his father's machine-tool factory in Birmingham at age twenty-five. No wartime service. On paper he was obviously too
old for service in 1914, but he was very useful to us anyway because his factories—he'd expanded the business considerably—were requisitioned for the manufacture of essential parts required for the production of munitions. He expanded into France following the war, as well as Germany, plus he diversified. In France he went into production of foodstuffs from imported raw materials. His wife, incidentally, passed away four years ago. Donat is known for inspiring great respect among his employees, which has led him to achieve quite enviable production records. He provides educational grants for children of staff, and he will never see an employee sick without paying for medical attention. It has paid off. He has channeled a good deal of money toward worthy causes and is a respectable and respected man—a man in the mold of a Victorian paterfamilias. His foray into publishing academic texts in the areas of engineering, mathematics, and physics seems to have been born of a desire to diversify—and of course the business was not profitable, so it became advantageous with regard to taxation.”

He paused, passing another sheet of paper to Maisie. “Well, as we know, it seems parties are the places to meet people. Lawrence Pickering was invited to a reception at an engineering conference, where he was asked to speak about the role of academic publishing in the education of young technically minded students, and there he met Leon Donat. Donat, as ever, was on the lookout for investment opportunities, and he realized that Pickering's fledgling company could do with some help. He took an interest, which in turn led to a partnership. Donat was just the person Pickering needed, at just the right time. Initially Donat was the silent partner behind the Pickering Publishing Company, but his involvement increased, though it appears he took care not to tread on young Pickering's toes. Donat did not run his businesses like a dictatorship, but preferred to nurture talent. By way of information, as you know, Lawrence Pickering met Douglas Partridge at a party, and that's how he also met your former secretary, Mrs. Sandra Tapley, who subsequently became an employee of the company.”

Huntley paused and flicked over a page. “During the years of your absence, Leon Donat became increasingly involved in the company, enthusiastically supporting Pickering's plans for expansion. From a commercial standpoint he was right to do so; there were ideal opportunities to secure publication and translation rights in Europe, given the number of academic institutions. Donat is fluent in German, so he took over the task of making connections with German publishers—and until a few years ago, there was more publishing in Germany than in any other country in the world.”

“And now Donat is in prison in Germany.”

“Specifically, just outside Munich.” Huntley nodded at MacFarlane, who handed Maisie a bound sheaf of papers.

“This is a full report on the circumstances of his arrest and incarceration at a camp in a place called Dachau. I'd call it Hitler's torture chamber for Communists, free thinkers, journalists, those of Jewish extraction, and anyone else who dares to have an opinion that isn't held by the man they call the Führer.” MacFarlane paused. “It was opened for business in 1933 on the site of an old wartime munitions factory, and has built itself a fine reputation for brutality.”

Maisie nodded as she opened the report.

“While in Munich,” MacFarlane continued, “Leon Donat decided to pay a visit to the son of an old friend, formerly of Berlin, who is now living in Geneva, and with whom he wanted to discuss the representation of his list of books. The son, name of Ulli Bader, is a writer, and the friend had expressed to Donat a fear that the young man would never make a mark—in monetary terms or by reputation—so he put in a good word for his boy. On the face of it, it appeared to be a match—Bader seemed the right candidate to take on locally as a
representative. But our little writer just happened to be involved in an underground rag. He also wrote for other magazines and newspapers on the fairly dull topics that young reporters starting out are usually given—obituaries, meetings, falls on the pavement, that sort of thing—and we believe he plowed every penny he earned into this paper. As you will see from our report”—MacFarlane handed Maisie another clutch of papers—“the Nazi Party have clamped down on any newspapers, any artists or writers, or any individual who does not reflect and support their manifesto.”

Having turned to the concluding paragraph, Maisie sat forward, her hands clasped on the table. “So, while in Munich, Donat gave his friend's son—a young man who cannot at present be accounted for—a financial contribution to keep this underground journal running, and he did this out of the goodness of his heart after the young man explained his situation. Donat was observed making the payment, and he was arrested at a location believed to be the home of the illegal press, just one day before he was due to board a train for Paris. Now he is in this Dachau place—a British citizen incarcerated against his will. And for how many years?”

“Two.” Huntley did not flinch from Maisie's gaze.

“And all Foreign Office attempts to broker his release have failed.”

“You would not believe the paperwork, Maisie,” said MacFarlane.

“I think I would.” She sighed, and resumed reading through Huntley's notes before looking up. “The situation has not been helped by Donat's competitors here at home, who've been rubbing their hands with glee, believing that with him out of the way, they could move in on his business. I can see here that thus far it hasn't happened, given that his staff are working doubly hard in his absence.” She placed the papers back on the table. “But according to what you said yesterday, an agreement has been reached with the Nazi authorities.”

“Herr Hitler feels like being friends with us, and we're taking advantage of the situation. Though we realize it is the preamble to more aggressive action on his part—buttering us up before the fray with this and other measures—we cannot allow this opportunity to slip through our fingers.”

“Gentlemen.” Maisie looked from Huntley to MacFarlane. “You gave me a brief summation of the role you envisage for me yesterday, so perhaps you would be so kind as to fill in a few gaps.”

Huntley nodded toward the envelope with her name on it. “There, Maisie, are your marching orders. It appears the German authorities have gone soft on us, and instead of a member of our diplomatic staff, Mr. Donat must be released into the care of a family member. We're not sure what has brought on this little element of cozy-cozy, but it stands. We suspect they believe a family member is not available. And to some extent, they would be correct. Donat's wife is dead—as you know—but he has a daughter. A daughter whom he adores, not least because she was strikingly like her mother, and—”

“Was?” Maisie met Huntley's eyes.

“Sadly, she no longer bears a resemblance to her former self. She suffers from consumption contracted overseas, and is ensconced in a fever hospital in Kent. Fortunately, because she rather lived in the shadows—Edwina was not an outgoing person and had not married—it is not widely known. She had been in a convalescent home in Bexhill-on-Sea before being brought to the hospital. I think it is fair to say she is failing—the illness seems to have taken her in a very aggressive manner, and it's likely her days are numbered. She was never a social butterfly, and suffered from melancholia following the death of her fiancé in the war—her lack of exposure, so to speak, serves us well.”

Maisie nodded, staring out the window toward the Cenotaph. She
turned her attention back to Huntley and MacFarlane. “And now you want me to assume the identity of Miss Donat, so that a family member might receive the prisoner when he is released.”

“A new passport bearing the name Edwina Donat has been prepared for you, and the necessary documents are in the envelope. We understand you would not wish to travel via aeroplane, so all transportation will be by train—though if you could change your mind and return by air, we would all breathe a sigh of relief.”

“I wouldn't,” said Maisie.

“Yes—Robbie predicted your response with some accuracy.” Huntley referred to his papers once again. “A representative from the diplomatic service will meet you—he is a member of the consul general's staff. I should add that the consulate is not privy to the exact reason for this prisoner's importance.”

“Hmmph!” MacFarlane folded his arms. “Never mind Smallbones—should be Small Brains!”

Maisie looked from MacFarlane to Huntley.

“Our dear friend here,” said Huntley, “is referring to our consul general, Robert Townsend Smallbones. Smallbones believes the German people to be very honorable, and has stated that they are kind to animals, children, and the aged and infirm. Thus he concludes that they have no cruelty in their makeup.”

“Well, as far as the bloody Führer is concerned, he concludes wrong,” added MacFarlane.

“A fairly accurate response, I will concede, though we are fortunate in that you are not the only one holding that opinion; others see good reason to doubt the integrity of the chancellor.”

“So there will be no brass to meet me, no one of importance, just a diplomatic services junior? That's good.”