The Second Midnight

‘Hitler wants to carve us up like a big sausage,’ Spiegel said on one afternoon, early in March. ‘Our minorities rush to join the feast. They do not realize that they will be eaten too.’

The rape of the Sudetenland, Spiegel claimed, was but a symptom of what he regarded as a wider evil – Hitler’s perversion of the sacred traditions of nationalism.

‘With all the means at his disposal, that foul little man has encouraged the separatist nationalist movements in our Slovakian and Ruthenian provinces. Quite simply, he plans to undermine Bohemia and Moravia, which form the core of Czechoslovakia.’ Spiegel raised a trembling hand and hammered it down on the arm of his chair. ‘Once he invades us, Hitler will be exposed as the fraud he is: all his previous conquests could be justified, if only speciously, on the grounds that they brought Germans into the Reich. But Bohemia and Moravia are chiefly inhabited by Czechs, not Germans. You grasp my point, my dear Kendall?’

Hugh nodded; what puzzled him was his tutor’s uncharacteristic vehemence.

A few hours later he discovered the answer. Madame Hase had dined with the Kendalls at the Palacky. She was in a confidential mood after the better part of a bottle of wine and several brandies. Hugh was puzzling his way through an illustrated magazine when he heard his tutor’s name.

‘You would not believe that Spiegel was once a friend of President Masaryk, would you?’ Madame Hase was saying. ‘Today he is nothing more than a political fossil. At one time my father believed he would succeed him as professor of history, but he destroyed his career when he wrote that pamphlet about Nazi tactics in the Sudetenland. So foolish – what did he hope to achieve? He lost all sense of proportion after his wife disappeared. Jewish, you know. She went to visit relatives in Berlin in the spring of ’thirty-eight and never came back. He spent thousands of crowns trying to find her. We thought he was going insane.’

As March progressed, Dr Spiegel’s behaviour became more erratic. He developed a craving for the news. Hugh gathered that the government had proclaimed martial law in some parts of the country; but in Prague life went on much as before.

On 14 March, they heard that Slovakia had declared itself to be an independent state.

‘The fools have changed masters,’ Spiegel said. ‘They prefer Berlin to Prague.’

Later the same day, the Czechoslovak president took the train to Berlin. The following morning, the German Army flooded smoothly across the border into Bohemia and Moravia.

As usual, Hugh reached his tutor’s apartment at nine o’clock. For the first time in their acquaintance the old man was unshaven and he forgot to shake hands. He stumbled back to his chair. The brown bottle was already within reach.

‘It is the Ides of March,’ he murmured as if to himself. ‘Today a country has been murdered.’

Four

Colonel Dansey continued writing when Michael came into his office; with his free hand he pointed to the chair in front of his desk.

Michael rubbed his bloodshot eyes and sat down, grateful that there was no immediate need for him to make intelligent conversation. He had spent most of last night in the company of Betty Chandos, proving yet again that lack of sleep and an almost exclusive diet of champagne cocktails created a five-star hangover. Up here, on the eighth floor of Bush House, the rush-hour traffic in the Aldwych was mercifully muted.

Dansey capped his pen and used his blotter on the letter before him.

‘No news from your man Kendall yet?’

‘No, sir. I can’t understand—’

‘It doesn’t matter now. You can forget him.’

‘I don’t follow you, sir.’ Michael’s tongue seemed too large for his mouth. ‘If Hitler – I mean, since yesterday – we need …’

‘If I were you, I’d start again,’ Dansey said.

Michael flushed. ‘Bohemia and Moravia are now part of the Reich. More than ever we need all the Czech allies we can find. I admit that Kendall and Hase have probably failed, but there’s still an outside chance.’

Dansey picked up a newspaper and tossed it to Michael. It was yesterday’s Times. A small news item, ringed with pencil, announced the arrival of several unnamed Czechs at Croydon Airport.

‘Someone blundered,’ Dansey said sourly. ‘There was even a photograph in some of the papers. Not that it really matters.’

‘Who are they?’

‘Colonel Moravec and fourteen of his intelligence officers. We chartered a Dutch plane for them. They left Prague just before the Germans arrived, with the cream of their files and all the money they could lay their hands on.’ Dansey permitted himself a prim smile. ‘Which happened to be quite a substantial sum. SIS handled the operation through Gibson and the embassy.’

Michael felt himself beginning to sweat. What Dansey had told him seemed to have no bearing on Kendall and Hase.

Dansey took off his glasses and polished them with his handkerchief. ‘Neither Z nor SIS has much interest in Czech communists at present. They’re a disorganized rabble with little access to useful information; they’re too far away for us to control with any degree of certainty; and in any case they’ll always give Moscow right of way over London. But Moravec naturally sees them from another angle. He’s spent half his career fighting the Bolsheviks and of course he wants to know what they’re doing in his own country.’

‘Do you mean we were just going through the motions to oblige Moravec?’

‘Precisely. That was the sole purpose of the exercise. Your godfather and I knew the Deuxième Bureau would have to transfer its headquarters abroad sooner or later. Moravec had two choices – London or Paris. The Hase business was designed to woo him over here. Now he’s here, he’ll find it very difficult to move on.’ Dansey restored his glasses and looked directly at Michael. ‘Which means, of course, that we have achieved our real goal – direct access to A-54.’

A-54?

Michael knew he was now expected to ask who or what was A-54. But Dansey’s reply was unlikely to be very informative: either he would yet again have the pleasure of reminding Michael of the need-to-know principle; or his answer would lead to a bewildering vista of further questions that would leave Michael no better informed than he had been in the first place.

Michael mulishly decided to say nothing. He pulled out his case and lit a cigarette with a great show of concentration. As he looked up, exhaling a cloud of smoke, he caught an unfamiliar expression on Dansey’s face, just before it vanished.

On another man’s face it might have been a smile of approval.

Dansey stood up; and Michael obediently followed suit.

‘So, Stanhope-Smith, from now on you may leave Czechoslovakia to SIS and the Deuxième Bureau. In the meantime—’

‘But, sir, what about Kendall? I recruited him and I do feel to some extent responsible. And it was my idea that he took his son.’

Dansey clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. ‘You and I no longer have any responsibility for the Kendalls. You didn’t compel Captain Kendall to take the job. He knew there were risks: he must take the consequences.’

‘We could at least alert Gibson and the embassy. And what about—’

‘Stanhope-Smith,’ Dansey snarled with a ferocious hiss of sibilants, ‘will you be quiet? I want you to spend the rest of your valuable time this morning compiling a brief political and economic analysis of Poland, using the material in the B files. By brief, I mean about five hundred words. And make it not only succinct but simple enough for even a politician to understand. If it helps you, imagine you’re writing for the eyes of our revered prime minister. I want it on my desk by lunchtime.’

‘Poland?’ said Michael dully. His mind was still full of the Kendalls.

‘Yes, Poland. It may interest you to know that, according to A-54, Poland will be Hitler’s next target.’

On the evening of 15 March, twelve SS officers moved into the Hotel Palacky and the Kendalls moved out.

Most of the officers were young. They tipped well, smiled a lot and went out of their way to be pleasant to the other guests. Hugh secretly thought they looked rather heroic.

Later that evening Madame Hase came to their room unexpectedly; most people, both staff and guests, were watching Hitler’s imperial entry into Prague. She was flushed with excitement and looked happier than Hugh had ever seen her.

‘You must leave the hotel at once. The staff will have registered your arrival with the police. Checking on foreign visitors is one of the first things the Gestapo will do.’

Alfred Kendall shrugged. ‘Does it matter? Britain’s not at war with Germany. My papers are all in order. I’ve a perfectly legitimate reason for being here.’

‘Fool!’ Madame Hase drew herself up to her full height of five foot two. ‘Half the staff in this hotel are Nazis. If they weren’t before, they will be now. Servants talk, my friend, and my name is bound to come up. Have you never heard of guilt by association?’

Her urgency infected Kendall and Hugh. While Kendall paid their bill, she helped Hugh pack; they were out of the hotel within ten minutes of her arrival.

She directed the taxi across the river to Mala Strana, a part of Prague that lay just south of the castle; Hugh had never been there. On the way, she explained that she could not take them to her home – that would be too dangerous. They would go to the house of one of her cousins; the cousin was away but the servants knew her and would do whatever she asked.

The house came as a surprise to Hugh. It was built round a cobbled courtyard and covered an area of roughly the same size as the entire apartment block where Dr Spiegel lived.

There were only two servants, an old man and his wife, who grudgingly agreed to open up a few rooms for Madame Hase and her guests. The palace had been shut up since the previous autumn. The furniture was shrouded in dustsheets and cobwebs. Candles were the only form of light available, which made the huge rooms seem still larger.

They ate an impromptu supper in a dining room whose ceiling was so far away that it might just as well not have been there. Scratches and rattles came from the walls.

‘Rats,’ said Madame Hase. ‘One gets used to them in an old barn like this.’

Shortly after the meal, Hugh was sent to bed. He lay there, trying not to listen to the sounds behind the skirting boards and wondering whether there were many more communists like Madame Hase.

They spent the whole of the next day at the palace. In the afternoon, Jan and Bela arrived in the butcher’s van at the tradesmen’s entrance. They joined Kendall and Madame Hase in a large room that had been a library before part of the ceiling collapsed. It was not a comfortable place to sit but its windows covered the whole of the courtyard, including the great entrance gates, and it had the additional advantage of a small staircase which led down to a side entrance. As Madame Hase said, they could not afford to be careless.

Without consulting Kendall, she sent Hugh to sit in the anteroom before the library. Kendall stood in the doorway and watched as she settled him down on a tiny chair upholstered with dusty velvet. Opposite them was a grimy, twelve-foot-high mirror. Their reflections swam in the murky world behind the glass. For an instant Hugh’s eyes met his, and then looked away. Kendall felt an inexplicable sense of loss; since it was inexplicable, he ignored it.

As if by prearrangement, the four adults veered away from the easy chairs around the smouldering fire and sat round the table in the centre of the room. Above their heads a chandelier creaked and tinkled faintly in the draught.

Kendall tried to seize control of the meeting. ‘We must review the situation,’ he began. ‘Events have moved so quickly that—’

‘Perhaps I should do it, Alfred,’ Madame Hase interrupted. ‘I am the only person here who is fluent in both English and Czech.’

Kendall winced. It was the first time she had called him by his Christian name. He was both offended and thrilled by the careless intimacy it implied. He was the natural person to chair this meeting; but, on the other hand, Madame Hase was the cousin of the Slovakian countess whose husband owned this immense place.

Madame Hase briskly reviewed the military and political situation. Bohemia and Moravia were solid with German troops, particularly in the major cities and along the frontiers. Slovakia, now nominally independent, had asked for Hitler’s ‘protection’; the Wehrmacht, ever obliging, was already crossing the border. A new government had been announced which consisted solely of Nazis from Berlin or the Sudetenland.

‘And you, my friend,’ she said to Kendall, ‘are going to find it very difficult to leave the country. It will be just like Austria after the Anschluss. Foreigners will be one of the first targets the Gestapo choose. And you have already compromised yourself by your activities in the last few weeks.’

As she translated what she had said to Jan and Bela, Kendall gnawed his lower lip. He felt a pleasant sense of superiority: the others were so afraid of the Germans – and of the Gestapo in particular. No doubt they posed a problem, but there was no need to be theatrical about it. When Madame Hase had finished, he leaned forward, tapping the table to draw their attention.

‘Look here, it’s about time you decided whether or not you’re going to trust me. You can’t dither any longer. You need funds and England can supply them. But we must have cooperation in return. And that means information, not to mention a way of getting me out of your blasted country.’

Madame Hase blinked. She talked rapidly in Czech for a moment.

Jan shrugged his heavy shoulders and said slowly in the same language, ‘We need money now, not promises, Pan Kendall. I trust you as far as I can see you. Maybe we can get you out of the country – but how do we know you will come back?’

‘Very well.’ Kendall had only one thing left to offer. ‘I can give you three more diamonds. And I give you my word as an English gentleman that I will be back within a few weeks.’

Jan’s head was lowered. He shook it slowly from side to side. Bela glanced quickly round the table and then out of the window.

‘Good faith – that’s what it comes down to.’ Madame Hase’s beringed hand wrapped itself around Kendall’s wrist. ‘Alfred! I have an idea. There’s only one way you can prove to our friends that you really mean to return. Leave the boy behind in Prague.’

High above him, from the ridge of Hradcany, the great bell of St Vitus’ Cathedral tolled midnight. In the still air, he could hear other bells broadcasting the same message. Tomorrow had already become today.

Kendall shivered and stepped from the balcony into his bedroom. He closed the window with difficulty – the wood was warped – and drew the heavy curtains. The room seemed as cold as the outside world. He knew he should try to sleep but the bed, despite its imposing appearance, was as hard as concrete; he had already discovered that the sheets were damp.

It was hardly worth going to bed in any case – Bela would be collecting him at four-thirty. Kendall preferred not to think about the journey ahead of them. For the first time in his brief secret service career, he would be adopting a disguise and actually breaking the law.

For the first time, he was afraid.

The plan was very simple. Bela, though he had lived and worked in Prague and Brno for many years, was a Slovakian. The authorities were used to him paying regular visits to his family in Presov. Kendall, suitably equipped with false papers, was to play the part of Bela’s half-witted cousin. Once they reached Presov, Bela would be in his home territory; he had access to the smuggling routes through the mountains into Hungary.

It was obvious that the faster they moved, the better their chances would be. Germany’s control over its new Protectorate and its Slovakian satellite was not yet complete. In a way, Kendall was glad that they had to hurry – it left less time for reflection.

Time and again, he told himself that he had no option but to leave the boy behind. Stanhope-Smith had strictly forbidden him to contact the Prague Embassy. If the Kendalls tried to leave the country under their own names, the Gestapo would pick them both up at the border. Kendall was left with a choice between two evils: either he stayed with Hugh, in which case his mission would be a failure and the two of them would be fugitives in Prague; or he returned to England, in which case the mission would succeed. Hugh would be in good hands and he would only be alone for a few weeks. Kendall was sure that Stanhope-Smith would send him back to Czechoslovakia in the circumstances. In the meantime Hugh would be safer than if he and his father tried to escape on their own initiative.

He imagined how he would put it to Stanhope-Smith and possibly even to Muriel: It wasn’t an easy decision, of course. But when one took a common sense view, patriotic duty and one’s paternal responsibility really left one with no alternative. Perhaps he would add as a casual afterthought: I left Hugh at the Michalov Palace – the Countess is Madame Hase’s cousin, you know.

Kendall felt a little more cheerful. He removed his jacket, tie and waistcoat and put on his dressing gown. His clothes and the rest of his luggage would have to be left behind – Bela would be bringing him the clothes and possessions appropriate to a labourer at a Brno munitions factory. Madame Hase had assured him that his own belongings would be safe in the cellars of the palace.

A wing armchair in front of the empty fireplace looked more comfortable than the bed. He settled into it with a pillow and a couple of blankets, intending to smoke a last pipe before blowing out the candle. Just as he had succeeded in insulating himself from the main draughts, there was a tap on the door.

His instinctive reaction was to panic. But, even as he was struggling to free himself from the blankets, it occurred to him that the Gestapo would be unlikely to knock.

‘Alfred!’ Madame Hase rattled the handle. ‘Let me in.’

Kendall unbolted the door. She burst into the room, despite his half-hearted attempt to keep her on the threshold. His sense of propriety was outraged: what would the servants think?

Madame Hase had discarded her fur coat, for the first time in their acquaintance; she wore a pink quilted dressing gown and a pair of pale blue mules with two-inch heels. The smell of musk was stronger than usual.

She put down her candle next to his on the wine table and settled herself into the armchair.

‘Sit down.’ She pointed to a footstool. ‘We must talk – there will be no time in the morning.’

‘It is the morning,’ Kendall pointed out. ‘Where have you been all evening?’

‘Making arrangements about Hugh. He can’t stay here – the servants would talk and it might be difficult if my cousins return. But Ludvik Spiegel is willing to take him for a month.’

‘What about his neighbours? They must know that Hugh is an English boy.’

Madame Hase shook her head. ‘Spiegel sees very little of his neighbours. Most of them are young, working-class couples and they’re out to work when Hugh is there. Besides, if we give Hugh a haircut and another set of clothes, he won’t look English any more.’

‘But he’ll need identity papers and so forth, won’t he? The Boche run a tight ship.’

‘True. Jan may be able to help with that. I think he knows a clerk in the Ministry of the Interior. But there might be an easier method. Hugh could become my nephew.’

Kendall sucked angrily on his pipe. He said, with exaggerated patience, ‘But everyone would know—’

‘It’s not so foolish as it sounds. My sister married a Hungarian, a banker. They had a son – he was born in ’twenty-seven. The whole family died in a car crash last year – near Budapest, where they lived. The shock of it killed my father.’

‘So the boy’s dead?’

Madame Hase patted his knee. ‘The point is, Rudi had dual nationality. His death was never registered in this country. It was done in Hungary, of course, but not here. With my father dying, I had too many things on my mind. Hugh could use Rudi’s identity. I have all the papers. Perhaps Jan’s friend at the Ministry could help bring them up to date.’

‘Anyone who talked to the boy would immediately see he was English.’

‘Foreign, yes; but not English necessarily. If everyone thinks he spent most of his life in Hungary, that would be quite understandable. It may not arise – Ludvik says that Hugh is making very rapid progress in Czech.’

‘Hugh? Nonsense – the boy’s as thick as two short planks.’

‘As you say. But you must not worry: we will equip him well enough to pass a street check, if need be. It will only be for a few weeks.’

There was a moment’s silence, during which Kendall fervently wished his hostess would leave. But she settled herself deeper in the armchair and fumbled in the pocket of her dressing gown.

‘Here.’ She passed a silver flask to him. ‘It is cognac. We must drink a toast to your safe return.’

Kendall’s face brightened. ‘I’ll get you a glass. I’ll use the cap.’

They drank to a safe return; they drank to England and Czechoslovakia; Kendall poured another drink and they drank damnation to the Nazis.

Then Madame Hase proposed another toast: ‘To us.’

Kendall blushed and drank.

The conversation took a personal direction. Madame Hase talked about her husband, a young German of good family whose political career had been cut short with tragic finality by tuberculosis in 1931. Had he lived, she implied, neither Germany nor Czechoslovakia would be in its present appalling condition. She dropped tantalizing hints about her own family’s connections with the old nobility of Bohemia and Saxony.

‘The trouble with people like Jan and Bela,’ she said confidentially, ‘is that they cannot appreciate what was good in the old values; and that means they don’t understand the poetry of communism.’

Kendall didn’t understand it either, but he nodded nevertheless; it seemed to be expected of him. In any case he was watching her rather than listening to what she was saying. The candles were kind to her: her skin lost its pallor; the lips were no longer flabby but sensuous; her plumpness might almost be described as voluptuous.

Desire stirred within him, engendered by the sheer romance of his surroundings. What would it be like, he wondered, with a beautiful aristocrat in a Bohemian palace?

Madame Hase leaned forward, holding out her glass. ‘Is there more in the flask?’

‘Of course, Madame.’ As he took her glass, her hand brushed his. He nearly dropped the glass.

‘I call you Alfred,’ she said with a touch of petulance. ‘Why do you not call me Josefina?’

‘I – very well.’ Kendall cleared his throat and took the plunge. ‘Your glass, Josefina.’

When she took the glass, her hand again touched his. She put it untasted on the table. Kendall refilled the cap. He was very conscious of her presence; out of the corner of his eye, he could see that a tendril of black hair was swaying only inches away from the sleeve of his dressing gown.

‘Tell me, Alfred,’ she whispered huskily. ‘Are you really a senior officer of SIS? The head of the Central European Section?’

‘Of course.’ Kendall sipped his cognac. At this moment he almost believed he was. In any case, it was essential to maintain the pretence, both to Madame Hase and to Jan and Bela. His safety – and Hugh’s – depended on him being able to play the part convincingly. ‘Do you really think a job like this would be handled at a lower level?’

‘Ah.’

Madame Hase suddenly slumped forward on to her knees. Her dressing gown fell open, revealing a nightdress of black silk, trimmed with lace. She clasped Kendall’s legs and rubbed her body against him.

‘Love me, Alfred.’

‘Good God!’ Kendall leaped to his feet and broke away from her. She tried to seize him again, but he palmed her away. ‘Alfred, milacek—’