Journey to Munich

  “Don’t worry—I want to get back as soon as possible too.”

  “Are you sure you won’t agree to an aeroplane out of Munich, hen? You only have to say, and it’s done—we can make arrangements now, and believe me, Maisie, we would rather you—”

  Maisie smiled. MacFarlane was almost going soft, she thought, calling her “hen.”

  “If my remit is as straightforward as you’ve described, the train will be as good as flying, and before you know it we’ll have crossed the border into France. After that, it’s only a quick hop to the finish line.”

  MacFarlane nodded. Then he opened a small attaché case he had brought with him. He reached into it and took out a revolver.

  “This is for you. My own personal kit. Same revolver, slightly modified. It’ll feel lighter in your hand, but handle it the same and you’ll be all right. It’s been lucky for me, and I expect you to return it personally. I’ll see you in Paris. On Thursday. All right, Fräulein Donat?”

  Maisie laughed. “Paris. On Thursday. And you’d better have more than just a wee dram waiting for me.”

  “Hen, I will have a bloody great bottle of a good eighteen-year-old malt and a couple of glasses at the ready. Now then . . .” He faltered. “Now then—do your job and come home.”

  “Leave now, Robbie, before you go soppy on me.”

  MacFarlane gave one more nod and left. Maisie was on her own—except, perhaps, for the assumed character of Edwina Donat.

  Maisie thought she might try to sleep for a couple of hours before she had to leave for Victoria Station to catch the Night Ferry train service to Paris. She lay down on top of the bed and closed her eyes, thinking of the journey ahead. The sleeper train would transport her across the Channel and to the French capital, where she would undergo a swift final briefing from Huntley, perhaps with new intelligence, before setting off again on the express train to Munich.

  Sleep evaded her. She rose earlier than needed, walked across to the window, and looked out onto the street, where smog rising from the river swirled around the lampposts. A single policeman was pacing up and down—not a common sight in a small mews, but he was there to keep an eye on the flat, making sure the coast was clear when a plain black motor car arrived to take Maisie to the station.

  She looked both ways along the street. One more hour, and she would be locking the front door and handing the keys to the driver to return to whoever was responsible for Secret Service properties in London. She turned away from the window and reached for her bag. Taking out MacFarlane’s revolver, she lifted the weapon and aimed the barrel at a portrait hanging on the wall over the fireplace. She narrowed her gaze and then lowered her arm, looking at the gun in her hands. The barrel seemed shorter, and MacFarlane was right—it was lighter than the one she’d used in training. It bore the scars of use, scratches and a tiny dent, but there was not a speck of dust anywhere on the revolver.

  She remembered something Strupper had said. Look after your weapon. I’m sure your father taught you that you get to know a horse first by grooming it, by laying your hands on the creature, not just using the brush—that’s how you form a bond. Same with your gun. Clean it, oil it, get used to it in your palm; finger every part of it. That familiarity might save your life. And she’d wondered, then, how much he knew about her. Had he known she was the daughter of a man who had worked with horses?

  Looking at the clock now, she hurried to get ready. She’d deliberately left little time, so there would be no lingering and waiting, no butterflies, no time for regret. She bathed, dressed in clothing that Leon Donat’s daughter might have chosen, and, following the instructions she’d been given, pulled the wig over her own dark cropped hair. “Good job you’ve not got a lot of hair there,” the wig mistress had said. “The difficult ones have long hair and don’t want to chop it. We have to pack it in and hope for the best.” MacFarlane had looked at the woman. She didn’t say another word except to bid Maisie good-bye as she left the flat.

  Hearing a motor car rumble at a slow pace across the cobblestones, drawing to a halt outside the front door, Maisie picked up a small leather case, along with a new leather shoulder bag, and left the flat. She handed the keys to the driver as the policeman held open the door for her.

  “Good luck, miss,” the policeman said as he closed the door, and she could have sworn he winked at her. He tapped the roof, and the driver maneuvered the motor car out of the mews and on toward the station. There he stepped from the vehicle and opened the passenger door for Maisie, nodding acknowledgment of her thanks. As she set off toward the platform, she looked back once. The driver touched his peaked cap in her direction and pulled away from the curb.

  Soon Maisie—now Edwina Donat, she reminded herself—was making her way along the platform, carrying the small leather case she’d been given years earlier by Andrew Dene, the man with whom she’d had a love affair, before breaking off the courtship. She had been issued with a new, nondescript case to take with her to Munich, but had left it at the flat with her own clothing inside, and on top a note asking that it be delivered to the Dower House at Chelstone Manor in Kent. There was a comfort in bringing her new belongings to Munich in a case that was part of her real life. Dene was now happily married with two children and doing well in his profession as a leading orthopedic surgeon, teaching at two medical schools. A perfect life, thought Maisie. Each year she received Christmas cards from Dene, always with a note bringing her up to date with events in his growing family. As she came alongside the first-class compartments she felt a not unfamiliar sense of isolation, of loneliness. If she were a wife and mother, a woman with a home, husband, and children, she would not be traveling from one dangerous situation to another. Her family would be all she wanted and needed. Instead, she was a widow—fair game, as far as those who needed her to work for them were concerned. Still, she could only look to herself. She had agreed to take on the assignment.

  Having been shown to her private compartment, Maisie placed her case and coat in the stowage above her head, unbuttoned her jacket, removed her hat, and settled into her seat with a newspaper she’d bought from a vendor at the station. The wig had begun to itch, but she could not tamper with it in case she altered her physical appearance. In truth, she was rather afraid of the wig, perhaps more so than the revolver in her handbag. Both changed who she was; both challenged how she might conduct herself in the world. With both in her possession, she was another person—a woman on her way to claim her father from a prison known for brutality in the name of a regime that, according to Huntley and MacFarlane, threatened peace in the world. But she would have to become accustomed to the sweaty discomfort of the wig, and the gun she would only fire if her life or that of Leon Donat was in danger.

  The wild card, of course, was Elaine Otterburn. Maisie hoped the young woman—if she located her—proved less wild than her reputation suggested.

  The sojourn in Paris was just for a few hours, enough time for a final meeting with Brian Huntley, lunch, another check of her papers, and another briefing with an expert on the “German situation” and what she could expect when she presented her papers at the Nazi Party headquarters. She was cautioned regarding her available time in Munich, and instructed to conduct herself with care—only a little sightseeing. She might take a book with her, sit in a park, act as if she were the anxious daughter of a man about to be released following years of incarceration.

  Given that the house the Secret Service used in Paris was part of Maurice Blanche’s estate, and therefore now part of Maisie’s property portfolio, she felt more on a par with Huntley. But she could not escape the memories of her first visit, when Huntley—then reporting to Maurice Blanche—had brought her there, after following her during her work on a case. The investigation had revealed many things, not least the intelligence work Priscilla’s brother was engaged in during the war, before his death. Maisie had also discovered the truth about her beloved mentor’s subterfuge in his recruitment of intelligence agents, and
how he had effectively used her to gain information without her knowledge. The information had led her to feel responsible for Peter Evernden’s death. That she had not been taken into Maurice’s confidence earlier had pained her for a long time, though in time she came to understand his motives.

  Now she was here with Huntley again—but this time, she was the agent.

  “There is nothing more to say to you, Maisie. You have done well in your training, and you are prepared for as many eventualities as we could imagine. Your past—your training with Maurice, and your subsequent work—will stand you in good stead. This task should be straightforward, but it has to be said—if some aspect does not go according to plan, you must do all you can to save yourself. We have other people in Germany—in Munich, especially—who might be drafted in to help you, but this operation has thus far been conducted in circumstances of extreme confidence. Given the agreement leading to the release of Leon Donat, only a few have been brought into the circle, as I am sure you understand.”

  “Yes, I understand. For diplomatic purposes, if this goes wrong, I don’t exist.”

  “That’s the measure of it.”

  There was an awkward pause. It seemed Huntley did not know what to say next. Maisie came to her feet and held out her hand. “You were held in high esteem by Maurice, Mr. Huntley. I have every confidence in your planning and the preparation you’ve . . . subjected me to.” She smiled. “Now I must leave.” She picked up her coat and walked to the door, whereupon she turned back. “And you know that, should this plan not proceed as we hoped, Mr. Klein has my will and all instructions pertaining to this property, should they be required.”

  Huntley inclined his head to signal his understanding, but added, “Oh, we don’t expect the Secret Service to be bothering Mr. Klein, Maisie. You’ll be back soon enough.”

  CHAPTER 6

  A driver took Maisie to the Gare de l’Est to board the evening express train to Munich, leaving at 10:40 via Strasbourg and Stuttgart, where she would transfer from the wagons-lits—the sleeping cars did not go farther than the terminus at Stuttgart—to a first-class carriage. She made her way along the train, accompanied by a porter, until they reached the wagon-lit where her sleeping quarters were situated. She gave instructions that she was not to be disturbed until just before arrival in Stuttgart, when she would like coffee and a croissant served in her berth. She did not want to see anyone, or anyone to see her. She wanted only to sit and think, and—perhaps—to sleep.

  She dreamed that night of James, of their apartment in Toronto, and of sailing on Lake Ontario. It was a strange dream, as if a moving picture were being shown in her subconscious mind. Upon waking, she thought she could recount the conversation they’d had as they prepared to go out for the day. James had asked if she felt well enough, if she might strain herself in some way. She was carrying their child and, because she was not in the first flush of youth, had been advised to take care. The dream seemed to leap from the apartment to the lake, and the point where she felt buoyed along by the gentle lapping of small waves alongside the yacht, a sound that reminded her of thirsty dogs taking water. In the dream James decided to go for a swim, and soon she was alone on board, looking toward him as the vessel moved away—not with any speed, but as if the water itself were slowly bearing her back toward the harbor. She had called to him, but he had only waved and said, “Don’t worry, Maisie. You’ll be all right. I’ll see you later.” And then he was gone, and she was awake, the side-to-side motion of the train willing her to fall asleep again. She turned on her side and felt tears seep onto the pillow.

  The knock was not urgent, but it woke her immediately.

  “Madame. Madame!”

  She stepped from the narrow bed, pulled on her dressing gown, and wrapped a towel around her head—she had removed her wig before getting into bed—before opening the door.

  A waiter with blond hair and blue eyes, his uniform immaculate, gave a short bow. “Madam, we arrive in Stuttgart in three quarters of an hour. You ordered coffee and a croissant. May I offer you something else—a little fruit, perhaps?”

  Maisie shook her head. “No, thank you. Here, I’ll take the tray.”

  The man seemed put out that he was not able to discharge his duty properly by setting the tray on the small table, but he acceded to Maisie’s wishes with a brief nod and closed the door. She placed the tray on the bed before reaching to open the curtains. As the train clattered along, Maisie looked out, wondering when the villages, fields, forests, and then factories flanking the route would give way to the beauty she expected to behold when they entered Bavaria. She shivered. Yes, it would indeed be beautiful, but she knew she would see little of that majesty as the next few days unfolded. She would see the darker side of Bavaria from the moment she arrived in Munich.

  The coffee was good and strong, reminding her of Maurice, and the croissant was light, with flakes that dropped onto the napkin in her lap as she took a bite. She dipped it in her coffee and took another bite. She would have to hurry—it would take her a good ten minutes to get the wig in place. The clock was ticking; her countdown had begun. This time next week, she thought, she’d be back in England, safe and sound. In just an hour she would be in Munich, and then in a few days her journey would be over. She would be safe in Paris, then London. As that last thought occurred to her, she heard the echo of words unspoken. God willing. And she remembered her dream, and James calling to her. Don’t worry, Maisie. You’ll be all right.

  The final part of the journey, through Stuttgart and on to Munich, passed with ease. Soon the train was slowing, entering the railway station. Steam obscured Maisie’s view from the window. People who had made the long journey were already anxious to be on their way, perhaps to be met by family or friends not seen for a long time—a woman reuniting with her lover, parents with their child. Maisie knew one man would be waiting for her: Gilbert Leslie, a foreign service official from the British consulate. To him she was simply Miss Edwina Donat.

  Stepping off the train, Maisie tried to hide her discomfort. Guards wearing the uniforms of Adolf Hitler’s Nazi Party patrolled the station. Her papers had been checked as the train passed from France to Germany, and now she showed them again before moving out into the waiting throng. A young man—she thought he might only be about thirty years of age—approached her there. He wore a gray mackintosh and a darker gray hat, the brim still dripping from sleet outside.

  “Fräulein Donat?” He smiled when she nodded and came closer. “I thought it was you, Miss Donat. My name is Gilbert Leslie; I’m from the British consulate here in Munich. Do you have everything?” He nodded to a porter behind Maisie, took the case, fumbled in his pocket for a coin, and pressed it into the man’s hand. Turning back to Maisie, he added without waiting for a reply, “Right, come this way. I’ve a motor waiting, and we can take you to your hotel straightaway.”

  The man did not speak again until they were in the backseat of a black motor car. “I am here to brief you before you go to the headquarters of the Nazi Party. You are expected to present yourself and your papers tomorrow morning at ten o’clock on the dot. I will accompany you, representing His Majesty’s government, and to see that our claim to secure the release of one of His Majesty’s subjects is free and clear of any impediment. Much work has already been done, Miss Donat; otherwise your father would not be anywhere close to release.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Leslie.”

  “It should be fairly smooth, though these boys are a bit intimidating, all leather boots and black uniforms. And of course they are running torture chambers and calling them prisons.” He looked at Maisie. “I tell you this so you know that your father will likely not resemble the man you last saw, though I am sure they will have tidied him up a bit.”

  Maisie was careful to look suitably crestfallen.

  “Miss Donat,” added Leslie, “I have to ask you one question. Please do not be offended. But your coloring . . . Your father has a British passport, British papers, and w
as born in Britain—but are you of the Hebrew faith?”

  Maisie shook her head. “My father comes from Italian stock—our name was, according to my grandfather, originally Donatello. It was my great-grandfather who came to England and set up a business. We are most definitely British.”

  “Not Hungarian Jews, then? Or French of the same persuasion?”

  Maisie laughed, though inside she was bristling. “No—rather we are very lapsed Catholics, which would horrify my great-grandmother, who set great stock by the Virgin Mary.”

  Leslie nodded. He ran a finger around his collar.

  “If it’s that bad, Mr. Leslie, why haven’t you been transferred back to London? For surely you’re at risk here, if places like Dachau are filling up with Jews.”

  Leslie shook his head. “I am an officer of the consular service, a loyal British subject. I am at no risk.”

  Maisie said nothing. Given all Huntley had told her about Leslie, the fact that he was here at all, and in Munich, demonstrated either a lack of attention or complete complacency on the part of his superiors. Or perhaps they wanted to annoy someone, and Leslie provided the means.

  The motor car pulled up in front of the imposing and somewhat austere Hotel Vier Jahreszeiten on Maximilian Strasse, only a few minutes’ walk from the Residenz, the grand and ostentatious seat of kings and dukes for over four centuries. The familiar red flag with the black swastika insignia flapped in the wind above the entrance. A porter came to help with Maisie’s luggage, such as it was, and as he approached, his hand shot up in salute.

  “Heil Hitler!” he said, glancing sideways at two men in uniform walking toward them.

  Gilbert Leslie lifted his hand just a little and repeated the words, while Maisie fumbled with her shoulder bag, deliberately dropping it on the ground.