Prague Fatale

  I nodded. ‘Except that I haven’t had any of the pleasures of the world out of the deal. I didn’t even get to seduce a beautiful and innocent girl. Gretchen, isn’t it?’

  ‘No. Arianne.’

  ‘You’re hardly innocent.’

  ‘But I am beautiful.’

  ‘Yes. You are beautiful, angel. There’s no doubt about that.’

  CHAPTER 11

  An hour later we were moving again and quickly through Bohemia, although, from the number of Nazi flags and banners and German troops we saw, you would scarcely have been aware of this. And almost every Czech town we passed through had a new German name, so that it felt less like visiting a foreign country, or even an autonomous territory – which, strictly speaking, is what a ‘protectorate’ amounts to – and more like a colony.

  We reached Prague in the late afternoon. According to my 1929 Austrian Baedeker – for some reason this edition included a section on Prague, as if it was still a city in the old Austro-Hungarian Empire – the hotel was just around the corner from Masaryk Station, so we decided to walk there and, holding Arianne’s bag and mine, I led the way through a tall archway and short colonnade of Doric pillars into a square entrance hall with a glass roof and a peeling maroon and gold plaster architrave that resembled something out of an abandoned villa in Pompeii. The hall was full of field-grey uniforms, some of which eyed Arianne hungrily, like wolves. I didn’t blame them in the least. She had a figure like a snake charmer’s pipe. Arianne herself was not unconscious of this effect and, smiling happily, she put an extra couple of notes into the swaying and seductive melody of her walk.

  It was less than a hundred metres to the end of the street where the Imperial Hotel was situated. The outside of the building was grey and quite unremarkable, but inside the place was a shrine to art nouveau. On the face of it this seemed at odds with the hotel’s obvious popularity with the German Army, which isn’t well known for its interest in art except of course when it’s stealing it from some poor Jew for Göring’s personal collection. On the walls of the small but impressive entrance-lobby was a creamy-coloured ceramic relief featuring six classically dressed ladies exercising their pet lions. I knew they were classically dressed because they were wearing little gold circlets with asps on their heads and because they had bare breasts – a fashion of which generally I approve.

  The breasts of women are a little hobby of mine; and while I know why I enjoy looking at them and touching them, it continues to elude me why I seem to like looking at them and touching them so much.

  As soon as I saw the hotel entrance-lobby and the huge café with its temple-tall mosaic pillars I thought of the Ishtar Gate at Berlin’s Pergamon Museum, and I suppose this might have been one reason the Imperial was a local favourite with the German Army. Then again, it might just have been because the hotel was also expensive. The Wehrmacht likes expensive hotels and, if it comes to that, so do I. Since I first worked as the hotel detective at the Adlon, I have come to realize that I am very easily pleased: usually the best is good enough. Either way, the Imperial’s café was full of soldiers and their off-duty laughter, their off-colour jokes, and their better-quality – better than Berlin – cigarette smoke.

  Our fifth-floor corner-room had two windows. From one side there was a fine view of the south-east of Prague, which was mostly spires and smoking chimneys; from the other, to the west, you could see the rooftop immediately opposite, which had one of those pepper-pot domes made of oxidizing copper. It looked like a large green samovar.

  Almost immediately we went to bed, which seemed like the sensible thing to do, as I had no idea of how soon Heydrich would summon me to his country house or for how long, and strenuous sex was something that had been on our minds ever since the train had left Berlin – although, to be more precise, it had probably been on my mind more than hers. Either way she didn’t have to be persuaded, very much. It was love, or at least a good imitation of it, on my part at least.

  And then there was life, which of course is love’s nemesis, sliding under the door in the shape of a brown envelope.

  I rolled off Arianne’s naked body and walked across the room to collect it.

  Arianne rolled onto her belly, lit only her second cigarette of the day and watched me read the note.

  ‘Mephistopheles?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. His driver will collect me first thing tomorrow morning, in front of the hotel.’

  ‘That certainly gives us plenty of time to do all kinds of things. Who knows, we might even find time to see the sights. I hear the Charles Bridge is worth a look.’

  ‘Is that what you’d like to do?’

  ‘Not right now.’ She blew smoke at the ceiling and then gave me a narrow-eyed look. ‘Right now I just want some more of what I came for.’ She put down her cigarette and, lying back on the bed, opened her arms and then her thighs. ‘Everything else, you know, is just tourism and I can do that on my own.’

  I threw Heydrich’s note aside, climbed back onto the bed and crawled between her thighs.

  ‘But for this,’ she said. ‘I need help.’

  CHAPTER 12

  The General’s driver was an SS sergeant who told me his name was Klein. He was a large, heavy man with fair hair, a high forehead and an expressionless face. I soon learned he was also tight-lipped. Working for the Reichsprotector of Bohemia and Moravia, there was a lot to be tight-lipped about.

  The car was a dark green Mercedes 320 convertible, and with its less than discreet number plate – SS-4 – it was what Klein drove when Heydrich was not on official or state duties. For those, I soon learned, there was a larger model, a Mercedes 770. The 320 had an extra spotlight mounted on the front fender in case the General had to stop and interrogate someone at the side of the road. There was no flag on the wing but that hardly made me feel any less obvious or insecure. Both of us were in uniform. The top was down. There was no armed escort. We were in enemy territory. To me it felt like visiting an Indian Thuggee village wearing a red coat and whistling ‘The British Grenadiers’. And noting with some amusement my obvious discomfort, Klein explained that the General scorned any escort as a sign of weakness, which was why he preferred him to be driven around Prague with the top down.

  ‘And how often do you drive him around Prague?’

  ‘Between Prague Castle and the General’s country house? Twice a day. Regular as sunrise.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘With one of the Three Kings at liberty, that seems unwise to me.’

  We set off and I shrank back into the front passenger seat as a tall man standing beside the road snatched off his battered felt hat out of respect for who – but more probably what – we were. There was a lot of that in Prague. Because the Nazis liked this kind of thing. But I didn’t like it at all, any more than I liked driving around with a three-colour target painted on my chest; and taking out my pistol, I worked the slide and dropped it into the leather pocket on the inside of the car door, from where it might be easily and quickly retrieved in an emergency.

  Klein laughed. ‘What’s that for?’

  ‘Just ignore me, Sergeant. I was in the Ukraine until the end of August. In the Ukraine there are lots of Ivans who want to kill Germans. I assume the same holds true for almost any conquered country. Except perhaps France. I never felt unsafe in France.’

  ‘So why feel unsafe here?’

  ‘To my ignorant ears at least, the Czech language sounds a lot like Russian. That’s why.’

  ‘Then let me reassure you, sir. To attack this, or the General’s other car, SS-3, would be to risk the most severe retribution. That’s what the General says. And I believe him.’

  ‘But what do you think?’

  Klein shrugged. ‘I think this is a fast car and the General likes me to drive fast.’

  ‘Yes, I noticed.’

  ‘I think you’d have to be damned lucky to ambush this car. And that, in the long run, would be very unlucky for th
e Czechos.’

  ‘And for the General, I’d have thought. Possibly you, too, Sergeant. Really yours is not much of a threat, because it seems to me as if their bad luck is predicated on yours. It’s like saying that if you drown you’ll make sure you take them with you. When they’re dead, so are you.’

  We drove about fifteen kilometres north-east of the city centre to a small village called Jungfern-Breschan. The Czechos called it Panenske-Brezany, which is probably Czech for a very quiet village that’s surrounded by a depressingly featureless landscape – just a lot of flat, recently ploughed and very smelly fields. The village itself was rather more quaint and picturesque as long as your idea of what was quaint and picturesque included a few checkpoints and the odd detachment of motorized SS. Anyone foolish enough to have attacked Heydrich’s car would have discovered that the countryside afforded them little cover from these soldiers. A team of assassins at Jungfern-Breschan would have been caught or killed within minutes. Even so, I had to wonder why Heydrich had chosen to live out here, in the middle of nowhere, when he had at his disposal in the centre of Prague a castle the size of the Kremlin, not to mention a handful of elegant Bohemian palaces. Maybe he was worried about defenestration. There was a lot of that kind of thing in Prague. I wouldn’t have minded pushing Heydrich or any number of Nazis out of a high window myself.

  We turned off the main highway and Klein steered the Mercedes down a gently sloping road that wound around to the right and then the left. There were trees now and the air was strong with the smell of freshly mown grass and pine-needles, and after the grey misery of Prague this felt like a place where it might be easier for Heydrich to escape from the cares of the world, even the ones he himself had inflicted or was planning to inflict. At Jungfern-Breschan, he might get away from it all, just as long as he didn’t mind the several hundred SS stormtroopers who were there to protect his privacy.

  A handsomely baroque pink stucco house came into view on our right. Behind a gated and guarded archway I counted six windows on the upper floor. It looked like a hunting lodge but I couldn’t be sure. I’d rarely been hunting myself, and never for anything more elusive than a missing person, a murderer, or an errant wife, and it was hard to comprehend how anyone wanting to shoot a few pheasants also needed a matching Russian Orthodox chapel and a swimming pool in the grounds to be able to do it. Of course, it’s always possible that if I’d prayed a bit more and learned to swim a bit better I might have bagged the odd snipe or two myself.

  ‘Is that General Heydrich’s new house?’

  ‘No. That’s the Upper Castle. Von Neurath continues to live there. For the moment, anyway.’

  Konstantin von Neurath had been the Reichsprotector of Bohemia until Hitler decided he was too soft and gave the job to his blond butcher; but before that von Neurath had been the German Foreign Minister – a job now held by the most unpopular man in Germany, Joachim von Ribbentrop.

  ‘There’s an Upper Castle and a Lower Castle,’ explained Klein. ‘Both of them were owned by some Jewish sugar merchant. But when the Jew bastard took off in 1939 the estate was confiscated. The main house is the Lower Castle, further down the hill. It’s a nicer house.’

  ‘Doesn’t the General mind? That the place used to be lived in by Jews?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You’ve seen the propaganda films,’ I said. ‘Those people carry diseases, don’t they? Like rats.’

  Klein shot me a look as if he wasn’t quite sure if I was serious, and decided, wrongly, that I was. To be fair to him, my sarcasm had a cautious ambivalence about it since coming back from the Ukraine.

  ‘No, it’s all right,’ he insisted. ‘This merchant, he only owned the house since 1909. Originally, the house was owned by a German aristocrat who lost the place to the bank, who sold it to the Jew at a knock-down price. And before either of them, the estate was owned by Benedictine monks.’

  ‘Well, you can’t be less Jewish than a Benedictine monk, now can you?’

  Klein grinned stupidly and shook his head.

  I was toying with the idea of asking how a man with a name like Klein got to be in the SS at all, let alone driving for Heydrich, when the larger gates of the Lower Castle came in sight. In front of the gate posts were a pair of stone statues that would have given any animal-lover a moment’s pause. One statue depicted a bear being torn to bits by a pair of hunting dogs; and the other, a similarly beleaguered wild boar. But you could see how that sort of thing would have been appreciated by Heydrich, who was certainly the incarnation of Nature red in tooth and claw.

  Beside the wild boar an SS soldier stepped out of his sentry box and came smartly to attention as our car turned into the gateway. At the end of a drive about fifty metres long was the Lower Castle itself. It was a modest little place, but only by the standards of Hermann Göring, or Mussolini, perhaps.

  This ‘castle’ was actually a late nineteenth-century French style chateau, but no less impressive for that, with sixteen windows on each of two well-proportioned floors, front and back. Unlike the pink stucco Upper Castle, the Lower Castle was canary-yellow with a red roof, a square-tower portico painted white, and a central arched window that was about the same size as a U-Bahn tunnel. On the immaculate lawn was yet another piece of stone statuary: an enormous stag and two deer who were running away from the house. I took one look at the number of SS patrolling the grounds and felt like galloping away myself. With a couple of females in season for frolicsome company I might even have made it over the high wall.

  Klein drew up at the front door and switched off the 320’s three-litre four-stroke engine. As it cooled, it ticked away like there was a family of mice living underneath the 2½-metre long hood.

  For a moment I just sat there looking up at the house, listening to the soothing coo of some pigeons and, it seemed, to the sound of someone not too far away who was shooting at them.

  ‘Executions?’ I said, retrieving my pistol from the door pocket.

  Klein grinned. ‘Hunting. There’s always something to shoot around here.’

  ‘Something, or someone?’

  ‘I can get you a gun if you’d care to go out and bag something for the pot. We eat a lot of game here at the Castle.’

  ‘Well, I always say, if you can’t play the game properly, eat it. That reminds me. Who do I give my food coupons to?’

  The Lower Castle didn’t look like a food coupon sort of place, but I said it anyway, just for the fun of it.

  ‘You can forget about that sort of thing for a while. This is not like Berlin. There are no shortages of anything. The General lives very well out here in the countryside. Cigarettes, booze, chocolate, vegetarian. Anything you want. Just ask one of them.’

  Klein nodded in the direction of an approaching SS valet wearing a white mess jacket who opened my door and came smartly to attention.

  ‘I’m beginning to see why he lives here. We’re not just outside Prague. We’re outside what counts as normal as well.’

  I stood up, returned the Hitler salute, and followed the valet inside the house.

  The main hallway was two storeys high with a wrought-iron gallery and a large, ornate brass chandelier that looked like Dante, Beatrice and the Heavenly Host of Angels waiting around for an appointment with Saint Peter. Behind the heavy oak door was a long-case clock the size of a beech tree and which I quickly learned was about as good at keeping time. There was a big round walnut wood table with a bronze of a mounted Amazon fighting a panther. The panther was wrapped around the horse, which looked like a mistake when you took into account the Amazon’s breasts. Then again, the Amazon had a spear in her hand, so maybe the panther knew what he was doing. There are some women who, no matter how good-looking they are, it’s best to leave well alone.

  Across the hall and down a short flight of marble steps was a large room with tie-side Knoll sofas and a hardwood coffee table that might once have been a small Caribbean island. The only reason you might have assumed this was a room was if you als
o assumed that somewhere further than the human eye could see there were more walls and windows and a door or two. There was a big empty fireplace with brass firedogs and a cast-iron screen that belonged on the door of a gaol. Above this was a mantelpiece with a muscle-bound Atlas at each corner and on the mantel itself several framed photographs of Hitler, Heydrich, Himmler, and a strongly featured blonde I assumed was Heydrich’s wife, Lina. In another picture she and Heydrich were wearing Tyrolean costume and playing with a baby; they all looked very German. And it was difficult not to think of those Atlases as two poor Czechs groaning under the burden of their new masters. Above the mantel there was a large and unnecessarily well-painted portrait of the Leader, who seemed to be staring up at the Lower Castle’s gallery as if he was wondering when on earth someone was going to come down and inform him exactly what he was doing there. I had exactly the same feeling myself.

  As my eyes gradually adjusted to the size of the place I saw, in the distance, a set of French windows and through them a lawn, some shrubberies and trees, and the clear blue sky that was the inevitable and very pleasant corollary of having no neighbours.