just anger. ‘In future, Gerald, could you photograph and file intelligence of that nature?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then send the originals on to the Americans. We owe the cousins a favour – they do so much for us.’
After Miss Greenwood went on leave, Catesby was surprised how flawlessly Gerald had taken over her clerical duties. He dealt with routine correspondence efficiently and typed replies in Catesby’s own style for signature – and sometimes forged that too.
‘Sir.’
‘I wish you wouldn’t call me that.’
‘How should I address you?’
‘Just say what you want to say.’
‘You have an invitation to dinner.’ Gerald smiled. ‘And it’s addressed to “Your Excellency” – so maybe my calling you “sir” is too modest.’
‘Is it to some arty thing?’ Catesby’s dip cover, third secretary in the cultural attaché’s section, meant he had to go to a lot of concerts and exhibitions.
‘I don’t know. The address appears to be a Rhineland Schloss .’
‘From a baron, I hope?’
‘Indeed it is. Baron Roman Nikolai Maximilian von Ungern-Sternberg. Oddly, he signs his name in Russian. Look.’
Catesby took the letter and smiled. ‘Have you never heard of Baron Roman von Ungern-Sternberg?’
‘No. Is he famous?’
‘Infamous, I should say – and very dead.’ Catesby went over to a bookcase and found a history of the civil war that tore Russia apart after the Bolshevik Revolution. He turned to the appropriate page and handed the book to Gerald.
‘It sounds,’ said Gerald, ‘that he was a bad guy.’
Catesby shrugged. ‘We shouldn’t make moral judgements in our business.’
‘But you always do.’
Catesby smiled. ‘That’s top secret.’
Catesby decided it wouldn’t be a good idea to drive a British Humber emblazoned with Corps Diplomatique number plates to the castle. His section had access to a few German cars with ordinary plates. Catesby chose a rather grand Opel Kapitän six-cylinder saloon – the sort of car a bloated black market profiteerwould have wrangled for calling on an ex-SS general who wanted to fence a looted work of art. A lot of the reborn Germany stank. At times, Catesby thought the gallows at Nuremberg and Hamelin hadn’t been busy enough. On one occasion, just after the Hamburg Ravensbrück trial, he had met Albert Pierrepoint in the Officers’ Mess at Celle. Pierrepoint went on to swing 202 German war criminals – and that day had just executed three women; the oldest sixty-one, the youngest twenty-seven. The hangman sipped his whisky and looked at Catesby. ‘It doesn’t make any difference, you know?’
‘What doesn’t?’
‘Hanging them. It doesn’t deter people.’
‘But it punishes them.’
‘It certainly does that.’
The road to the castle was winding and when it turned east there were stunning views of the Rhine reflecting the full moon. It was deliciously spooky and a bit corny. The builders of Rhineland castles didn’t aim at subtlety and understatement. It was, Catesby thought, the very opposite of his native East Anglia. When the castle finally silhouetted itself against the darker night sky, Catesby counted five turrets. There was also a wall with battlements.
The final approach was across a drawbridge that spanned a deep gully. There was a gatehouse that guarded entry to the outer bailey. A cast-iron gate with spikes had been winched up and Catesby tried not to imagine it crashing through the roof of the Opel Kapitän and impaling him like a kebab. As he drove into the bailey he spotted a Rolls-Royce and decided to park next to it.
As soon as he got out of the car, Catesby heard muffled footsteps approaching – a swishing sound, as if the person were wearing velvet boots. A slight figure appeared out of the shadows wearing a calf-length leather tunic with a high collar and wide cup-shaped sleeves. The dress, thought Catesby, seemed somehow Asian – and the face, when illuminated by the moon, was that of a
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then send the originals on to the Americans. We owe the cousins a favour – they do so much for us.’
After Miss Greenwood went on leave, Catesby was surprised how flawlessly Gerald had taken over her clerical duties. He dealt with routine correspondence efficiently and typed replies in Catesby’s own style for signature – and sometimes forged that too.
‘Sir.’
‘I wish you wouldn’t call me that.’
‘How should I address you?’
‘Just say what you want to say.’
‘You have an invitation to dinner.’ Gerald smiled. ‘And it’s addressed to “Your Excellency” – so maybe my calling you “sir” is too modest.’
‘Is it to some arty thing?’ Catesby’s dip cover, third secretary in the cultural attaché’s section, meant he had to go to a lot of concerts and exhibitions.
‘I don’t know. The address appears to be a Rhineland Schloss .’
‘From a baron, I hope?’
‘Indeed it is. Baron Roman Nikolai Maximilian von Ungern-Sternberg. Oddly, he signs his name in Russian. Look.’
Catesby took the letter and smiled. ‘Have you never heard of Baron Roman von Ungern-Sternberg?’
‘No. Is he famous?’
‘Infamous, I should say – and very dead.’ Catesby went over to a bookcase and found a history of the civil war that tore Russia apart after the Bolshevik Revolution. He turned to the appropriate page and handed the book to Gerald.
‘It sounds,’ said Gerald, ‘that he was a bad guy.’
Catesby shrugged. ‘We shouldn’t make moral judgements in our business.’
‘But you always do.’
Catesby smiled. ‘That’s top secret.’
Catesby decided it wouldn’t be a good idea to drive a British Humber emblazoned with Corps Diplomatique number plates to the castle. His section had access to a few German cars with ordinary plates. Catesby chose a rather grand Opel Kapitän six-cylinder saloon – the sort of car a bloated black market profiteerwould have wrangled for calling on an ex-SS general who wanted to fence a looted work of art. A lot of the reborn Germany stank. At times, Catesby thought the gallows at Nuremberg and Hamelin hadn’t been busy enough. On one occasion, just after the Hamburg Ravensbrück trial, he had met Albert Pierrepoint in the Officers’ Mess at Celle. Pierrepoint went on to swing 202 German war criminals – and that day had just executed three women; the oldest sixty-one, the youngest twenty-seven. The hangman sipped his whisky and looked at Catesby. ‘It doesn’t make any difference, you know?’
‘What doesn’t?’
‘Hanging them. It doesn’t deter people.’
‘But it punishes them.’
‘It certainly does that.’
The road to the castle was winding and when it turned east there were stunning views of the Rhine reflecting the full moon. It was deliciously spooky and a bit corny. The builders of Rhineland castles didn’t aim at subtlety and understatement. It was, Catesby thought, the very opposite of his native East Anglia. When the castle finally silhouetted itself against the darker night sky, Catesby counted five turrets. There was also a wall with battlements.
The final approach was across a drawbridge that spanned a deep gully. There was a gatehouse that guarded entry to the outer bailey. A cast-iron gate with spikes had been winched up and Catesby tried not to imagine it crashing through the roof of the Opel Kapitän and impaling him like a kebab. As he drove into the bailey he spotted a Rolls-Royce and decided to park next to it.
As soon as he got out of the car, Catesby heard muffled footsteps approaching – a swishing sound, as if the person were wearing velvet boots. A slight figure appeared out of the shadows wearing a calf-length leather tunic with a high collar and wide cup-shaped sleeves. The dress, thought Catesby, seemed somehow Asian – and the face, when illuminated by the moon, was that of a
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