The Red Zeppelin: Hilary Manningham-Butler, #2

Chapter One

Monarchy is the bedrock of a civilised society. Even a congenital idiot on the throne provides stability, allowing the politicians to happily knife each other in the back without any fear that they may be undermining the fabric of society. That being said, I must confess a certain admiration for the sombre young republican with the Charlie Chaplin moustache who was waiting patiently, cap in hand, outside the polling station on the opposite side of the street. There he was, standing determinedly in line, all set to cast his vote and give the Dago establishment a well deserved kick in the teeth.

The Spanish nation had recently ridded itself of a particularly loathsome dictator and it was no surprise that the lower orders had now developed an appetite for change. Peering down at the assembled mass of unwashed voters from the comfort of my hotel room on the Pagés del Corro, however, it seemed unlikely to me that they would want to take that extra step and vote in a republican government. Throwing out a dictator was one thing, getting rid of the monarchy quite another.

The man with the cap pulled out a rolled up copy of El Socialista from his jacket pocket and began to read it, in full view of the police. I could not help but admire his nerve. Just the sight of a group of Spaniards queuing politely was a novelty. The buildings on the opposite side of the street were plastered with election posters and the two policemen were eyeing the crowd suspiciously; but even they could not misread the cheerful enthusiasm of the voters. The republican was engrossed in his paper but the rest of the crowd were chatting happily among themselves in that infuriatingly over-exuberant Mediterranean way. It was their first opportunity to vote in almost eight years and they were intending to make the most of it.

A few women were passing the time of day among the men, their light but rapid-fire voices floating easily up to the window on the third floor. They were not allowed to vote in this election, much to my annoyance, though they were permitted to stand for public office. It was a small step forward, I supposed. As a woman myself, I have always understood the value of a universal franchise. I may have spent the better part of my life masquerading as a man, but I am not a hypocrite. Whenever possible, I have tried to champion the rights of my sex. Women may be as susceptible to popular sentiment as the male of the species, but a truly democratic election cannot take place without them.

I stepped back from the window and pulled the wallet from my trouser pocket. The telegram was folded neatly in one corner and I pulled it out to take another look. The printed message was virtual gibberish, apart from a handful of numbers and the word ‘STOP’ in plain text at the end. I had annotated the other characters with a pencil back in Gibraltar using the agreed book code. It had taken me almost half an hour. I have never been much good with ciphers. The encryption key was a paragraph from chapter thirteen of Bleak House. Someone back in London had a peculiarly warped sense of humour. The message, when I had finally deciphered it, was barely more than an address:

HOTEL LA CAVA PAGES DEL CORRO SEVILLE SUNDAY 12 1230

A more direct summons it would be hard to imagine.

And so here I was, ensconced with my man Maurice in a drab hotel room in the centre of Seville, waiting to discover just what it was all about.

The valet was brushing down my jacket and preparing to hang it up on the outside of a bare cupboard. A hastily packed suitcase was resting on the bed behind me. I was in my shirt sleeves now. It had been a long journey from Gibraltar and a change of clothes was in order before I thought about doing anything else. Maurice was a tall, thickset Frenchman in his mid fifties with a grim, weather-beaten face and a permanently pained expression. He had been my valet for almost a year now and in all that time his expression had never changed. His clothing was immaculately turned out but his manner bordered on the surly.

‘Did you find a place to park the car?’ I asked him.

‘Yes, Monsieur,’ he responded, without elaborating. He was a man of few words and, no matter how many times I told him, he refused to address me as ‘Sir.’ He moved around the bed and began unfastening the front of my shirt. He did not bat an eyelid at the bandages wound around my chest as they came into view. He had seen far more than that of me without passing comment.

Having a Frenchman as a valet was not ideal, but I’d had little choice in the matter. He had been recommended to me by another Frog of my acquaintance whose judgement, for various reasons, I had good cause to trust. This man, I had been assured, was the absolute soul of discretion and as, at this point in my life, discretion was more important than nationality, I had reluctantly taken him on. It was either that or buying a frock and hiring a ladies maid. Maurice was a taciturn fellow, meticulous but inscrutable. I never had the faintest idea what was going on in his head. In the four or five years he worked for me, I rarely heard anything more from him than ‘Yes, Monsieur’ or ‘No, Monsieur’. His previous employer had been something of an eccentric, I gathered, so he had not been at all perturbed by my peculiar lifestyle. He also knew how to keep his mouth shut, which was the most important thing. I never did understand why he insisted on addressing me as ‘Monsieur’. It was probably a matter of Gallic pride (the average Frog is stubborn to the point of immobility) but it was a source of irritation nonetheless. I was used to asserting my authority with servants. Thankfully, in his case, I had found the perfect weapon with which to retaliate.

‘So tell me, Morris,’ I asked, as my trousers dropped to the floor and I stepped out onto the threadbare carpet. ‘Have you given any more thought to the Americas?’

His face wrinkled up as I wriggled my toes. ‘No, Monsieur.’

I gave him a sour look. ‘Time’s ticking, Morris,’ I said, mispronouncing his name a second time. I had been offered a new position at the beginning of May, on the other side of the Atlantic. I needed to know if the Frenchman was willing to accompany me there. ‘I’ll have to book the tickets by the end of the –’

A loud rap at the door interrupted my words. I tensed instinctively but Maurice did not blink. He bent down to pick up my trousers and laid them out neatly on the bed; then he gestured across to the bathroom. I nodded. It might provoke all kinds of awkward questions if a porter caught sight of me in a state of undress. I made my way quickly across to the bathroom and locked the door behind me. I had had my fair share of close shaves over the years but I had never got used to the experience. I do have a fairly masculine aspect – broad shoulders, square jaw, deep voice – but even with the bandages to flatten down my chest I could not pass myself off as a man in nothing but my undergarments. It was lucky for me that the room had facilities en suite. I perched for a moment on the edge of the wash basin and closed my eyes.

It had not been my decision to live my life this way; at least, not at first. It was all my father’s fault. He hated women. When my mother had died giving birth to me, Sir Frederick Manningham-Butler had been mortified. He had wanted a son to take on the family name and a son he was determined to have, whatever the biology asserted to the contrary. My father was long dead now and I had abandoned my inheritance when I had fled England at the tail end of 1929. But now, a couple of weeks shy of my forty second birthday, with no reason whatever to continue the charade, I found I was too settled in my ways to contemplate a change.

I listened as Maurice moved towards the door. He exchanged a few words with some idiot out in the corridor and then closed it up. A moment later he tapped lightly on the bathroom. I opened the door and peered out at him. The pained expression on his face told me nothing, but I didn’t really need to ask. ‘A message, Monsieur,’ he said.

I grabbed the piece of paper from his hand and moved back into the bedroom. I glanced at the far door, to make sure it was properly secured, and then looked down at the message. This time, there was no code. Gran Café, Plaza de Andalucía, 13:00. It was signed CL. I recognised the initials. I had thought it would probably be him.

‘I’d better finish dressing,’ I told Maurice. ‘It looks like I have an appointment to keep.’

––––––––

Charles Lazenby was seated comfortably at a small metal table in front of the Gran Café. He was a handsome fellow in his mid thirties, with a smooth, rounded face and a tasteful pencil moustache hovering just above his lip. He had been attacking a folded up newspaper with the stubby remnants of an HB pencil. He looked up as I arrived. I was red-faced, bedraggled and at least five minutes late. Lazenby set aside his newspaper and rose smoothly to his feet. ‘Afternoon, Bland,’ he said, with an outstretched hand. ‘Good to see you again.’

Reginald Bland. I was still getting used to the name, even after all these months. It was not a title I would have chosen for myself; another demonstration of the adolescent sense of humour of my superiors back in London. My real name was Hilary Manningham-Butler, a far more imposing and respectable moniker. Sir Hilary, no less. I had inherited the baronetcy from my father when he had passed away and that had placed me just a whisker short of full-blooded aristocracy. Strictly speaking, of course, such a title cannot be passed to a daughter; but my father’s bloody-mindedness, which I had been forced to collude in, had served to ensure the title had not fallen into disuse. And Sir Hilary had an authoritative ring to it that had always appealed to me. Now, though, much to my dismay, I had become plain old Reginald Bland. I scowled every time I saw the name emblazoned on the front of my passport.

It had taken me some time to walk to the café from the hotel. The receptionist had marked out the route on a map and assured me it would only take fifteen minutes. But his idea of fifteen minutes was markedly different from my own. If I had known it would take closer to half an hour I would have hopped on one of the box shaped trams that rattled across the Puente de Triana; or got Maurice to break out the car. As it was, I had to make my way on foot across the bridge and along the river front, in the blazing midday sun, picking my way through the sweating multitudes in the direction of the Plaza de Andalucía. Even on a Sunday afternoon, with all the shops shut up, the streets were chock full of people. The happy faces of the working poor were everywhere, fresh from church or the polling booths, and their presence, cluttering up the pavements, only added to my sense of irritation. It was with some relief that I had arrived at the plaza, though the bells of the cathedral had long since chimed one o’clock.

‘Thank you for coming,’ Lazenby said, as I took his hand. He had a solid grip and a clipped, efficient manner; friendly but formal. We had met a couple of times before in Gibraltar but I didn’t really know him. He resumed his seat and gestured to another chair on the opposite side of a small cast iron table. A large mushroom shaped sunshade afforded us both some protection from the glare of the afternoon.

I collapsed into the seat and gesticulated at a waiter to bring me something cold. The young Spaniard regarded me with some amusement. I couldn’t really blame him. The people who know about such things claim a white linen suit keeps you cool in a hot climate but I had discovered otherwise. Sweat was pouring down my face.

‘I’m sorry to call you here at such short notice,’ Lazenby apologised, taking note of my poor shape. ‘I only got the train down here myself last night.’

The waiter returned with an ice cold glass and a bottle of Cruzcampo. I waited impatiently as he poured out the beer and then downed half the glass in one. I am not much of a beer drinker as a rule – I have always preferred spirits – but even I am prepared to make concessions to the Mediterranean climate. The waiter raised an eyebrow but departed without comment.

Lazenby seemed to be coping much better with the heat than I was. He was dressed in a rigid blue blazer and had a wide brimmed hat on his head. He had been based in Madrid for some years now and his skin had darkened to the point where a turban would not have looked out of place. But his accent, like his clothes, came straight from the playing fields of Eton.

‘So what’s this all about?’ I asked.

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a couple of small photographs, which he handed across to me.

I peered at the first of the fuzzy black and white images. It was a portrait of a man in early middle age. He was balding, with dark, narrow eyes and a heavy beard. I had never seen him before. I looked up and shrugged. I was none the wiser.

‘Gerhard Schulz. An Austrian journalist. On his way to Seville this afternoon.’

The name meant nothing to me. ‘That’s nice for him,’ I said. I peered at the second photograph. This fellow was in his mid fifties, a plump face and rounded spectacles peering out from beneath a large felt hat. I looked up again. The waiter had returned with some tapas and was peering speculatively at the photographs. I pressed the pictures to my chest and glared up at him. The man placed the snacks down on the table between us and made a hasty retreat.

‘Walter Kendall,’ Lazenby informed me, as I resumed my examination of the second image. ‘Another journalist. An American this one.’

‘On his way into Seville?’

‘Already here, so I understand. Flew in this morning. He’s booked a room at the Hotel Alfonso XIII.’ Lazenby gestured across the plaza to a rather grand looking building on the far side of the fountain. Two pedestrian doorways flanked a short driveway which led up to the entrance and, sure the enough, the words Hotel Alfonso XIII were carved out respectfully at the front. Alfonso, of course, was the current King of Spain. Lazenby glanced at his wristwatch. ‘Kendall hasn’t checked in yet. He must be running a bit late. But once he’s booked in at the Alfonso, he’ll head off to meet up with the other chap.’

‘The Austrian?’

‘That’s right. Unfortunately we have no idea where the two of them are planning to meet. That’s where you come in.’

‘You want me to follow the American and see where he goes?’ The thought of traipsing through the streets of Seville a second time that afternoon was not a pleasant one. It had to be ninety five degrees in the shade and I knew from experience that it would get steadily hotter as the afternoon progressed. Perhaps this time I could find a taxi.

‘Actually, no. I’m going to keep an eye on Kendall. Your job is to meet the first chap. Gerhard Schulz.’ Lazenby frowned for a moment. ‘I would have preferred to keep tabs on that one myself. Bit of a tricky customer.’

‘What’s so important about him?’

‘It’s not him. It’s what he’s carrying with him.’

Now we were getting to the meat of it. ‘And what is that?’

Lazenby grimaced. It was clear he didn’t want to tell me too much. That’s the trouble with spies. They are never prepared to pass on any useful information. ‘We believe he is carrying some documents of an extremely sensitive nature.’

‘What kind of documents?’

‘I’m afraid I can’t go into details. The fewer people who know about this the better. I have only been given the broadest outline myself.’

‘But information the government doesn’t want made public?’

Lazenby nodded seriously. ‘That’s about the size of it. It’s vital we recover these papers before Schulz has a chance to pass them on.’

‘And you say he’s some kind of journalist?

‘That’s right. We believe he’s intending to sell the documents to this American, Walter Kendall.’

My eyes widened in surprise. ‘What, you mean for publication? In a newspaper?’

‘Yes.’ Lazenby gave out a short sigh. ‘We have to prevent that at all costs.’

I was intrigued. ‘But why would an Austrian journalist want to sell state secrets to the American press?’

‘For money. What else? That seems to be the chap’s main motivation. And he’ll get a lot more from the Americans than from anyone back home.’

‘But if these documents are as important as you say, surely he wouldn’t be selling them to the newspapers. He’d be on the first train to Moscow. The Russians would pay a fortune for military secrets or anything of that sort.’

Lazenby pursed his lips. ‘It’s not that kind of information.’

‘Well, what then?’

‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say.’

I growled quietly. I hated working in the dark like this, but I was getting used to it by now. It was the nature of the job, sadly. Officers on the ground were rarely given anything more than the most basic information. ‘But he’s offering to sell this American fellow a cache of documents purloined from the British government?’ It was as well to get that point clear at least.

Lazenby shook his head. ‘Not the originals. A photographic copy. The original file is back in London.’

‘Photographic? But...’

He waved a hand. ‘It’s not important. All you need to know is that Schulz is in possession of a copy.’

‘Right.’ I sat back in my chair. ‘But if it’s nothing military, then why all the fuss?’ What kind of information would interest a US newsman and get the British establishment in such a lather? Lazenby wasn’t about to tell me but that didn’t stop me trying to work it out for myself. ‘What is it? Evidence of corruption?’ That might get the attention of the media. ‘Double dealing at the highest levels?’

Lazenby regarded me sourly. ‘I don’t think it’s helpful for you to speculate. The important thing...’

‘Or some august personage caught with their pants down?’ That would be more like it, I thought. The American media had a reputation for prurience and there was nothing they enjoyed more than seeing some revered aristocrat brought low by their own stupidity. ‘It’s not the Prince of Wales, is it?’ I asked. ‘Again?’ I chuckled at the idea. The heir to the throne was notorious for his bed-hopping. But no, the British government would not go to all this trouble to recover a few dirty pictures. ‘Or something to do with the Prime Minister perhaps?’

Lazenby gritted his teeth. I had a feeling I was getting close to the truth but my companion was not about to confirm anything. ‘All I can tell you is that it is a matter of national security. It is vital that these documents are recovered before they fall into the wrong hands. To be frank, I would rather have brought my own men in to deal with this.’ The necessity of relying on an outsider clearly irked him. ‘But we couldn’t spare anyone else just now. Not with all this going on.’ He gestured vaguely to the posters plastered across the square. Men in republican colours were waving banners not ten feet away from us. I nodded. It was understandable that London would want to keep a close eye on events in Madrid, on this of all days. ‘I was reluctant to come here myself, if I’m brutally honest,’ Lazenby confessed. ‘But our lords and masters insisted. That’s the importance they are placing on this.’

I nodded. ‘So what time is this...Schmidt arriving?’

‘Schulz. Gerhard Schulz.’ Lazenby glanced at his watch. ‘I’m not altogether sure. But some time in the next couple of hours. I would rather have followed him myself, but there’s a chance he might recognise me. We do know he left Friedrichshafen yesterday evening.’

Friedrichshafen. That was in Germany somewhere. ‘Is he coming by train?’

‘Not exactly.’ Lazenby smiled. He was holding something back and he didn’t care if I knew it. ‘Shall I order us a spot of tea? There might be a bit of a wait, I’m afraid.’

––––––––

People always imagine spies lead glamorous lives but the reality is often quite dull. I had spent most of the past eighteen months kicking my heels on the Rock of Gibraltar, doing a bit of low grade surveillance work for MI5. The old firm had been thinking of establishing a regular outpost on the Med and, since I was in the area and in need of work, I had been enlisted as their guinea pig. The task was a simple one: turn up, test the water, see what useful intelligence you can uncover. The answer, as it turned out, was not very much. And now, after fourteen months of hobnobbing with various admirals and spending far too much time observing the comings and goings of merchant ships, I was rapidly losing the will to live. I had never much warmed to the notion of paid employment and, after a decade of fine living, being back in the saddle had proved something of a shock to the system. I had a budget, of kinds, but barely enough to keep me in whisky, let alone to satisfy my creditors. Not that I had any right to complain – I had left England under a bit of a cloud – but when the telegram arrived from London, asking me to assist our colleagues in the senior service with a rather delicate matter, I had been more than happy to oblige. A nice jaunt across Andalucía in a rented motor car with my new man was just what the doctor ordered. Now I was beginning to have second thoughts. The prospect of following some bald idiot around Seville in the heat of the afternoon did not fill my heart with joy. I had already spent over an hour sat at the café waiting for the elusive Mr Kendall, who was still refusing to put in an appearance. It was not my idea of an agreeable afternoon. At least on the Rock they knew how to brew a decent cup of tea.

Lazenby was doing his best to distract me but the conversation was proving as tepid as the refreshment. ‘How are things going in Gibraltar?’ he asked, as if to prove the point. He had told me precisely nothing of his own work. According to my contacts, he had been with the SIS – the Secret Intelligence Service – for three or four years, and Special Branch before that, but everything else was a blank to me and Lazenby did not seem inclined to fill in the details. I had to admire his nerve, though, sitting out on the street in full view of the hotel entrance, wearing a blue blazer and a panama hat and doing the Times crossword. He couldn’t have looked more English if he had tried. In fact, he was so conspicuous, I doubted anyone would pay him any attention whatsoever.

‘The whole thing’s winding down now,’ I admitted, in reply to his question. ‘Budget cuts, you understand.’ Everyone was tightening their belts in the aftermath of the Wall Street Crash. And, despite my best efforts, Gibraltar had been a complete wash out. There was not enough useful intelligence to be gathered there to justify the expense of a permanent post and there was nothing to be gained from prolonging the operation. ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve been offered a new position. Across the pond, as they say. Not with Five. With your lot. The foreign service in America.’

‘Sounds interesting,’ Lazenby said.

‘I’m not so sure about that. Passport Control Officer in some banana republic, apparently. At least, that’s the cover story. Same sort of thing as you do, I would imagine.’

‘A bit of a step up,’ Lazenby observed, without rancour. ‘C doesn’t usually take on anyone sight unseen. You must have made a good impression back home.’

‘The Colonel’s a good friend of mine.’ Sir Vincent Kelly, the head of MI5, had taken something of a personal interest in my career. I had worked for him briefly before the war and we had always got on. He had offered me the post in Gibraltar – more as a favour than anything else – and now that it was being wound up it was considerate of him to recommend me to the head of the foreign division.

‘Have you accepted the job?’ Lazenby asked.

I nodded. ‘Been trying to persuade my man to come with me. But he’s dragging his heels a bit. Not altogether keen on boats. I think I might have managed to persuade him, if it hadn’t been for that ridiculous business with HMS Glorious the other week.’

Lazenby suppressed a smile. ‘Yes, I read about that.’

‘Damn fool of a captain,’ I muttered. The accident had taken place at the beginning of April, about sixty miles off the coast of Gibraltar. I had compiled a report on the matter for London. It had made grim reading. ‘I appreciate it’s difficult to navigate in fog, but hitting a passenger liner. The man ought to be shot.’

‘They rescued most of the passengers, didn’t they?’ Lazenby asked. He must have read about it in the Times.

‘Yes,’ I grunted. ‘But hardly a good advertisement for the Royal Navy is it? And it does rather put one off the whole idea of sea travel. I was going to book our passage from Lisbon later this month but Maurice is refusing to commit himself.’

‘Maurice?’

‘My valet. I have to call him Maurice. His surname’s unpronounceable. Useful fellow but a bit surly. French, you understand. Hasn’t been with me long.’

Lazenby was intrigued. ‘Yes, I’d heard you had a valet. Bit odd, in our line of work.’

‘Surprisingly useful, though. A good distraction, if nothing else. He has been fully vetted by London. Not sure I’ll get him on a boat, though. Have you finished with that paper?’

Lazenby smiled indulgently. ‘It’s all yours. Last Thursday’s, I’m afraid.’

‘I usually get the weekly one.’

‘It’s not always available in Madrid. I like to have a go at the crosswords.’ He glanced down at the paper as he handed it over. ‘Just one I couldn’t get today. Six across. "One of three, and often one more".’

I shook my head and opened the paper. ‘Haven’t the foggiest.’ The crossword craze had largely passed me by, though it had been going for some time when I had left England. It was rather a shock when the Times had succumbed to the craze the previous year. What next? I wondered. News on the front page?

A cab was pulling up on the far side of the square, just outside the entrance to the Hotel Alfonso XIII. A short, serious looking man in spectacles and a felt hat was bending down at the window to pay the driver. I flipped over the Times and pointed a finger. I couldn’t tell from this distance, but it might well have been one of the men in the photographs. ‘Do you think that’s your man?’

‘Don’t point at him, you fool!’ Lazenby hissed. He peered across the plaza as the fellow made his way up the steps and into the lobby of the hotel. ‘Yes, that’s him.’ He lifted his wrist and glanced at his watch. ‘Later than I expected. The plane landed at eleven thirty. So, let’s say...half an hour to check in and change, perhaps. Then off to the meeting.’

‘Assuming Mr Schulz is on his way. You didn’t say where I’m supposed to meet him, when he does turn up.’ Lazenby had been annoyingly vague on the details so far. ‘Or how we’re expected to know he’s on his way.’ There had certainly been no telephone call at the café, nor any