Journey to Munich

  The man blew out his cheeks. He did not seem interested in anything more than the necessary details.

  “Who’s the pilot?”

  “I am.”

  It was a man’s voice. Maisie turned around and paused only for a second before extending a welcome.

  “Ah, yes, Mr. Leslie. Very good. Now we can get going.” She looked at Elaine and pointed to the door. “Help me with Papa.”

  In perfect German, Gilbert Leslie presented his papers. The man stood up a little straighter, as if the appearance of a man who appeared to take over had rendered his job more important—better at least than dealing with women. Maisie suspected the process of logging their details and proposed route would proceed with greater speed now.

  She looked at the black windup telephone on the wall and at the clock. “We must be in Zurich in time for Papa to eat again. Let’s go now.”

  As she helped Leon Donat limp toward the aeroplane, she heard the motor car that had brought them to the airfield rumbling along the road. She did not ask who had brought Leslie, but assumed he would have taken the precaution of being dropped at a distance, and then walked the rest of the way. And she thought of the woman in her farmhouse kitchen, wringing a dry cloth while the man she’d risked her life to harbor and care for prepared to leave. Now, as he leaned on her, that man was in turn wringing out every last ounce of his will to reach and board the vessel that would bear him home.

  Elaine clambered into the pilot’s seat, passing her coat to Maisie. As if each person had practiced for a performance, their movements seemed to fit together like a jigsaw puzzle. Leslie helped Donat into the rear passenger seat, then stepped back for Maisie to climb aboard. She leaned forward to tuck Elaine’s woolen coat around Donat’s shoulders and legs, and folded his mackintosh to use as a pillow.

  Now the engines were running; the man who had taken their details had started the propellers, without appearing to notice Elaine’s position in the pilot’s seat.

  “Your turn,” said Leslie. “I’ll sit up front, if it’s all the same to you.”

  Maisie looked at him, and at Leon Donat, his eyes now closed, waiting for the journey to commence. And she met Elaine Otterburn’s eyes as the aviatrix turned to see why there was some delay in her passengers boarding, why she had not heard the door slam shut.

  “No,” she said. “My work here’s not over. Go without me. Go on.”

  “But Miss . . . Miss Donat, I—damn and blast!” Leslie looked beyond Maisie to the road alongside the aerodrome.

  Maisie followed his gaze.

  “You have to leave, Mr. Leslie. Don’t worry about me. Now go!”

  Leslie took one last look at Maisie, climbed into the passenger seat, slammed the door, and gave Elaine the thumbs-up. Elaine did not look back, but steered her aircraft toward the runway. As Maisie felt her legs begin to move, carrying her into the shadows at the side of the hut, she heard the Messerschmitt rumble along the stretch of concrete. Then the reverberation changed and soon, with her back against the wall so she could not be seen, she looked up into the sky. Her eyes misted and her cheeks felt hot as she watched the aircraft become ever smaller, making its way toward the horizon and into passing clouds, like a vessel hidden by whitecaps on a rolling sea.

  “Godspeed, Elaine Otterburn. Godspeed.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Maisie could just hear the sound of men at the back of the hut. She was vulnerable, her body flat against the side of a white building. Ahead some low trees might offer cover, but only if she could reach them unseen. She’d heard the screech of tires as vehicles approached the airfield at speed, then the slamming of doors and men calling to each other. There was shouting now. One voice in particular was louder than the others, and she recognized it straightaway: Hans Berger. She felt sweat bead on her forehead. She was in danger, of that she had no doubt. There was more yelling from the direction of the airfield, and a scream. She seized the advantage and ran toward the trees. There was no sound of men running toward her, and no one appeared to notice her—but now she had a view of what was happening from her hiding place.

  It appeared Berger had demanded the young aviators be brought out, so that they could take to the air in pursuit of the aeroplane carrying Elaine Otterburn and her passengers. The man who had checked the papers was holding out a book toward the officer. Berger took it from him, slammed it shut, and smacked it against the side of the man’s head. He fell to the ground. Maisie held her hand to her mouth. She thought of Ulli Bader again. Had he and the driver passed the SS vehicles on the road? Or had they taken another route along winding roads that only they knew, across country where they were safe? She prayed that they were now well on their way to Munich.

  A shot rang out, and Maisie saw one of the pilots fall to the ground. She could only make out a word here and a word there, but without doubt their crime was that they were barely able to walk, let alone fly an aircraft. Berger stepped in front of the second man, who was being held up by guards on either side of him. He struggled to free himself, yet his efforts only rendered him more helpless. Berger laughed as he thumped his revolver into the side of the man’s head, causing him to stumble forward, then screamed at the guards to hold up the man, threatening them with death if the young aviator fell. He laughed and, reaching forward, pinched the man’s nostrils—Maisie saw him struggle to breathe through his mouth, choking back blood. And then, with his free hand, the SS officer put his revolver in his pocket so he could hold the man’s lips together. At first the struggle became more violent, but Berger held on until the man’s eyes rolled back and his frame became limp. Even as his almost lifeless body was supported in place by the two soldiers, Berger continued to clasp the nose and mouth of the dying man until his body shuddered. Then he let go. He nodded to the guards, who dropped the body. He removed his black leather gloves, threw them on top of the dead man, spat on the ground, turned, and walked away, followed by his entourage. She heard doors slam and vehicles drive away at speed.

  Maisie watched as the man in charge of the hut came to his feet, staggered, then fell to his knees and vomited. Then he wept.

  She knew she could not go to him, could not help him remove the dead. Her own life would be in grave danger if it was known she’d been at the airfield. Her name had been on the manifest, had been logged and documented—but then, it wasn’t her name. She was Maisie Dobbs.

  If she used her own passport, she could present herself under yet a different name—Margaret, wife of the late Viscount James Compton. Since she began traveling—before marrying James—she’d always kept her passport with her. It was a habit, something to attach her to home, a legal document that gave her a sense of belonging. Though at the outset of her journey to Munich she had been instructed to leave anything connecting her to her real name in England, she had found a place for her passport. But it was hidden in a pocket within her case, which was still in her room at the hotel. And now she wasn’t sure how she would get back there or, indeed, the route to the city. In any case, she knew she would have to wait some time before setting out on her own to walk to the road.

  It was mid-afternoon, the sun low in a cloudy sky, when Maisie stepped out from her hiding place. In that time she had watched as the Gestapo departed, and as other men came to the airfield and dragged the bodies onto a lorry. The man who had overseen the aircraft’s departure left with them, his clothing soiled, his gait unsteady. Two men in blue overalls—they appeared to be mechanics—were left at the hut.

  Holding her coat around her, Maisie walked with speed toward the road. There she listened for approaching vehicles and then, keeping close to the verge, began to make her way in what she assumed to be the direction of Munich.

  Few motor cars passed her as she walked. It was fortunate that the road was not given to heavy traffic; she could hear a vehicle coming in time to step into the shadow of a tree, or run into a field and hide behind a hedge. On several occasions she thought she might have been seen, when a motor slowed down and th
en went on its way again. As dusk began to fall, she accepted a lift from a man with a horse and cart, to whom she wove a story about having yet another argument with her husband, who had—yet again—told her to get out of the motor car and walk. But she assured the man that her spouse would be along soon, and then he would be sorry: this ride on the cart had brought her farther than she might otherwise have come on foot, and she might yet be home before him.

  “Er ist ein sehr dummer Mensch, wenn Sie sich kümmern mich sagen nicht,” said the man, placing his hand on Maisie’s knee. He’s a very stupid man, if you don’t mind me saying.

  Maisie picked up the man’s hand and placed it on his own knee, reached for the reins, and stopped the horse, smiling at him. “I think so too,” she said in German, “but I should start walking again here. I think I can hear his motor car, and it’s about time he picked me up.”

  She stood waving to the man as he tapped the horse’s rump with his whip, and went on his way along the road, slowing to allow a motor car to pass. Afraid the driver might have seen her, Maisie stepped back onto the verge, leaning toward the hedge as the headlamps illuminated the driver’s route ahead.

  She began walking again, and then stopped. It sounded as if the vehicle was turning; she could hear the back-and-forth of gears changing, and the sound of the engine grew louder again. Only a single tree offered any protection.

  “Blast!” She uttered the word as if in disgust at her own incompetence, and ran for the tree. “All that training for nothing,” she whispered.

  Holding her breath as the motor car approached, she heard it slow down as it passed; then the gears changed again as it reversed until it was parallel with the tree. A door whined as it opened. She waited for it to slam shut, but the sound didn’t come. Only footsteps toward her hiding place. She reached into her bag, felt the smooth pistol in her hand, and brought it out, readying it to fire.

  “I wouldn’t kill the knight in shining armor if I were you.”

  Maisie closed her eyes, slipped the revolver back into her bag, and stepped out from behind the tree.

  “You’re like a nest of ants, Mr. Scott—seen once, and then you’re everywhere.”

  Mark Scott opened his mouth to speak.

  “And don’t you dare say anything about the number six,” she added.

  “Come on,” said Scott. “You’re in real danger now. We’d better be on our way.”

  Maisie ran to the passenger side of the motor car without comment, seating herself as Mark Scott closed his door, opened the throttle, and drove into the darkness, on toward the city of Munich.

  “I suppose you found out where I might be from one of your informants. Was it Ulli Bader?”

  “Not something you want to know, Fräulein D. Let’s just say that I learned about your intended departure from sources in Munich, and it occurred to me that you might not make it up into the skies.”

  “I wasn’t afraid,” said Maisie.

  “I didn’t say you were—you would have to be braver to stay, if you want my opinion, though you probably don’t. But you had to remain behind for the same reason that Elaine Otterburn will only go as far as—where? My guess is Zurich. She wants to have the last say, and so did you, Fräulein D.”

  Maisie looked out of the window, by instinct keeping her head low whenever they passed another motor car. “This is not the time to want the last word, Mr. Scott.”

  “I thought there might be another reason.” He lifted one hand from the steering wheel to pat his coat. “Would you look in there? I could do with a smoke.”

  Maisie reached into the glove compartment, took out a packet of cigarettes, and shook one out toward Scott. She found a box of matches, struck one, and held it toward him. He leaned in to light the cigarette and inhale. She nipped the match’s flame with her finger and thumb, throwing the end out of the window.

  Scott opened his window, blowing smoke into the wind. “No, I think you wanted to face nasty Hans Berger, the monster, didn’t you? I think you wanted to leave him with the realization that you knew very well who he was—a cold-blooded killer. But if he can take the life of his own without compunction, who else can he murder? He’s a monster, a man of many faces—an artist, a gentleman, a killer, a torturer, and a man who can shed tears because it’s a pretty day in the Hofgarten. Nice combination, don’t you think?”

  Maisie was silent, gathering her thoughts. Then she spoke as if to the dark night before her.

  “Perhaps fear had begun to get the better of me, but in the moment, I know I remained on the ground because I felt I had not finished. So yes, you’re right there. In truth, I think I wanted to confront Hans Berger—I wanted to face him. I wanted him to know that I had seen through his shiny veneer into the evil essence inside, and what it represents on a broader scale, here in Germany and beyond its borders. I didn’t know I’d pull back from climbing aboard the aircraft until the last moment—but there was something there inside me—as if I wanted to bear witness to Berger’s response when I challenged him. Idealistic, I know—but after witnessing his brand of savage evil at the airfield, I would never have crossed him. I’m not brave enough or stupid enough for that kind of showdown.” She paused. “A showdown? That’s what they call it in the cowboy pictures where you’re from, isn’t it?” She waited for Scott to say something in reply, but he was silent. “I just watched him kill two men—one of them brutally, stopping air from entering his lungs until he suffocated. The same way he killed Luther Gramm.”

  “Because of Elaine,” said Scott.

  “Yes, because of Elaine. But the question is, was it because he wanted to stop the flow of information from Gramm to Elaine and then on to you—if he knew about you, specifically, that is? He couldn’t kill Elaine—well, he could, but the murder of the daughter of a wealthy, influential industrialist would be a problem even for the SS at this point. Or did Berger kill Gramm because he was Elaine’s lover? Perhaps Berger loved her from afar, and could not bear seeing another man with her. He wouldn’t be the first man drawn to her light.”

  “You know what I think?” said Scott. “I think you could make yourself crazy, working it all out. Berger’s a crazy killer, a calm, cool murderer, and he found himself in the right place to get a thing called job satisfaction. That’s all we need to know about him.”

  Maisie pinched the top of her nose. “I always need to know more, Mr. Scott. It’s the way I work, just in case I come across a person of the same ilk again. I want to know what makes the boy into a man like that.” She took a breath, about to speak, and then stopped.

  “What?” said Scott.

  “I was thinking about his actions—and those of the guards at Dachau. They remind me of something I was taught by an old friend. He was my teacher—I’ve told you about him. I’ve been thinking of him a lot lately.” She looked out of the window, into the darkness, seeing only shadows where her reflection met the outline of trees and hedges. “He told me, during a particularly troubling . . . assignment, let’s say . . . that everyone has a capacity for evil. And we’ve all seen it, and done it, even if we think we haven’t—there’s the slight in conversation that wounds another person, the words we know will cause pain to a loved one but we utter them anyway, and the unkindness that could have been avoided. But then there are people in another league, if you will, people who are capable of so much more, who harbor an evil so deep it scars all our souls. That kind of darkness can lie dormant, as if in a barren desert, but then . . . but then circumstances change to allow their evil to become truly, truly terrible, a boiling storm that encompasses all in its wake.” She pressed her hand to her eyes and fought to stop her voice cracking. “And though I knew what I was walking into, it seems that in coming here I fear that I have seen the tip of an iceberg, a mountain of opportunity for evil to envelop the people not only in this country but far beyond her borders.” She paused again. “It’s one thing to know—in a conversation, let’s say—that something is happening. But it’s another to see it, to be
close to it, and feel helpless to change it.”

  After a long pause, Scott replied, his voice low, his tone modulated, as if he had chosen honesty over his usual easy wit. “Ma’am, though my ways are different from yours—and believe me, I’m looking at your guys all the way to see how it’s done—it’s why I’m doing what I’m doing. It’s why I fought in the war.” He shook his head. “Dirty work, but someone has to do it.”

  “Mr. Scott—Mark—we’ve said too much to each other already. You know too much about me, and I believe I know too much about you. But you can help me. I have to leave very soon, and it cannot be by train—that much is clear, for the same reasons I wanted Elaine and Mr. Donat to fly. There are too many opportunities to be intercepted. I must get my case from my room at the hotel. You’re pretty good at breaking into hotel rooms. Could you get it for me?”

  “Piece of cake,” said Scott.

  Maisie laughed.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

  And as the lights of Munich shone in the distance, she hoped that Elaine Otterburn’s journey had been a piece of cake—for by Maisie’s reckoning she, Leon Donat, and Gilbert Leslie should be safe in Zurich by now.

  Following her arrival at the American embassy—her presence in the building authorized by Mark Scott—Maisie was taken to a small room to await the return of her belongings from the Hotel Vier Jahreszeiten. A woman knocked and entered, giving Maisie a broad smile as she held up the case, raising her eyebrows as if to applaud the accomplishment. She placed the case on a table set against one wall and asked Maisie if she would like to check the contents.

  “Thank you so much for this,” said Maisie.

  “Oh, the thanks should go to our Mr. Scott. He’s busy right now, but I’ve made a reservation for you at the small hotel along the street. It’s nothing like the accommodation you’ve been used to—the French would call it a ‘pension’—but there was a room available there, and it’s all been booked in the name of Mrs. M. Compton. Is that right?”