8
THE THREE OF THEM left 44 Eaton Square at different times during the morning, but they all ended up at the same destination.
Luis was the first to appear. He walked to Sloane Square underground station and boarded a Circle line train to Hammersmith, where he crossed platforms to the Piccadilly line. Corporal Crann was never far behind.
Diego took a cab to Victoria coach station, and climbed on board a bus for the airport; a moment later he was joined by his shadow.
Luis made it easy for Captain Hartley to follow his every move, but then, he was doing no more than his father had ordered. At Hounslow West he exited the underground and took a taxi to London Airport, where he checked the departures board to confirm that his flight would be leaving in just over an hour. He purchased the latest copy of Playboy from W.H. Smith and, as he had no bag to check in, made his way slowly towards gate 5.
Diego’s bus dropped him outside the terminal a few minutes before ten. He also checked the departure board, to find that his flight to Madrid had been delayed by forty minutes. It was of no consequence. He strolled across to Forte’s Grill, bought a coffee and a ham sandwich, and took a seat near the entrance so that no one could miss him.
Karl opened the front door of number 44 a few minutes after Luis’s flight had taken off for Nice. He headed in the direction of Sloane Street, carrying a Harrods bag that was already full. He paused to window-shop on the way, not to admire the goods on display, but to look at the reflections in the glass; an old ruse to check if you’re being followed. He was, by the same shabbily dressed little man who’d been shadowing him for the past month. By the time he reached Harrods, he was well aware that his pursuer was only a few strides behind him.
A doorman in a long green overcoat and wearing a top hat opened the door for Karl and saluted. He took pride in recognizing his regular customers.
The moment Karl stepped inside the store he began to walk quickly through haberdashery, speeding up as he passed leather goods, and he was almost running by the time he reached the bank of six lifts. Only one of them had its gate open. It was already packed, but he squeezed in. His shadow almost caught up with him, but the lift attendant pulled the grille shut before he could jump in. The pursued couldn’t resist smiling at the pursuer as the lift disappeared out of sight.
Karl didn’t get out until the lift reached the top floor. He then walked quickly through electrical goods, furniture, the bookshop and the art gallery, before reaching the rarely used stone staircase at the north end of the store. He took the steps in twos, and only stopped running once he was back at the ground floor. He then cut through menswear, perfume, pens and stationery until he reached a side door that led out on to Hans Road. Once he was on the pavement, he hailed the first available cab, climbed in and crouched down, out of sight.
‘London Airport,’ he said.
He waited until the cab had passed through two sets of traffic lights before he risked glancing out of the back window. No sign of his pursuer, unless Sergeant Roberts was on a bicycle or driving a London bus.
Karl had visited Harrods every morning during the past fortnight, going straight to the food hall on the ground floor and purchasing a few items before returning to Eaton Square. But not today. Although he had shaken off the SAS man this time, he knew that he wouldn’t be able to pull off the Harrods stunt a second time. And as he might have to travel to today’s destination fairly often, it wasn’t going to be difficult for them to work out where he was heading, so in future they would be waiting for him as he got off the plane.
When the taxi dropped him off outside the Europa terminal, Karl didn’t buy a copy of Playboy or have a coffee, he just headed straight for gate number 18.
Luis’s plane touched down in Nice a few minutes after Karl’s took off. Luis had a wad of new five-pound notes secreted in his washbag, and instructions that could not have been clearer: enjoy yourself, and don’t come back for at least a week. Hardly a taxing assignment, but all part of Don Pedro’s overall plan.
Diego’s plane entered Spanish airspace an hour behind schedule, but as his appointment with one of the nation’s leading beef importers wasn’t until four that afternoon, he had time to spare. Whenever he travelled to Madrid, he always stayed at the same hotel, dined in the same restaurant and visited the same brothel. His shadow also booked himself into the same hotel and ate in the same restaurant, but he sat alone in a coffee shop on the opposite side of the road whenever Diego spent a couple of hours at La Buena Noche. Not an expense claim he felt Colonel Scott-Hopkins would be amused by.
Karl Lunsdorf had never visited Belfast, but after several ‘drinks on me’ evenings at Ward’s Irish House in Piccadilly, he left the pub for the last time with almost all of his questions answered. He also vowed never to drink another pint of Guinness in his life.
On leaving the airport, he took a taxi to the Royal Windsor Hotel in the city centre, where he booked himself in for three nights. He told the receptionist that he might have to stay longer, depending on how his business worked out. Once he was in his room, he locked the door, unpacked his Harrods carrier bag and ran a bath. Afterwards he lay on his bed thinking about what he planned to do that evening. He didn’t move until he saw the street lights go on. He then checked the city road map once more, so that by the time he left the hotel he would not need to refer to it again.
He left his room just after six, and took the stairs to the ground floor. He never used the hotel lift – a tiny, exposed, over-lit space that would make it far too easy for other guests to remember him. He walked quickly, but not too quickly, across the foyer and out on to Donegall Road. After a hundred yards of window-shopping, he was confident no one was following him. He was, once again, on his own behind enemy lines.
He didn’t take the direct route to his destination, but doubled back down side streets so that a walk that normally would have taken him twenty minutes took just under an hour. But then, he wasn’t in a hurry. When he finally reached the Falls Road, he could feel the beads of sweat on his forehead. He knew that fear would be a constant companion while he remained in the fourteen blocks occupied only by Roman Catholics. Not for the first time in his life he found himself somewhere where he wasn’t quite certain he would get out alive.
At six foot three, with a mane of thick blond hair and weighing 208lbs, mostly muscle, it wasn’t going to be easy for Karl to melt into the background. What had been an advantage when he was a young SS officer was going to be the exact opposite for the next few hours. He only had one thing going for him, his German accent. Many of the Catholics who lived on the Falls Road hated the English even more than the Germans, although sometimes it was a close-run thing. After all, Hitler had promised to reunite the north and the south once he’d won the war. Karl often wondered what post Himmler would have given him if, as he’d recommended, Germany had invaded Britain and not made the disastrous mistake of turning east and heading for Russia. Pity the Führer hadn’t read more history. However, Karl didn’t doubt that many of those who espoused the cause of Irish unity were no more than thugs and criminals who regarded patriotism as a thinly disguised opportunity to make money. Something the Irish Republican Army had in common with the SS.
He saw the sign swinging in the evening breeze. If he was going to turn back, it would have to be now. But he didn’t hesitate. He would never forget that it was Martinez who had made it possible for him to escape from his homeland when the Russian tanks were within firing distance of the Reichstag.
He pushed through the peeling green-painted door that led into the bar, feeling about as inconspicuous as a nun in a betting shop. But he’d already accepted that there was no subtle way of letting the IRA know he was in town. It wasn’t a question of who you know . . . he didn’t know anyone.
When he ordered a Jameson’s whiskey, Karl exaggerated his German accent. He then took out his wallet, removed a crisp five-pound note, and placed it on the counter. The barman eyed the money suspiciously, not even sure there was enough change in the till to cover it.
Karl downed the whiskey and immediately ordered another. He had at least to try and show he had something in common with them. It always amused him how many people imagined big men must be big drinkers. After his second whiskey he glanced around the room, but no one was willing to make eye contact. There must have been about twenty people in the bar, chatting, playing dominoes, sipping their pints, all of them pretending they hadn’t noticed the elephant in the room.
At 9.30 p.m. the barman rang a bell and hollered last orders, which caused several customers to rush up to the counter and order another drink. Still no one gave Karl a second look, let alone spoke to him. He hung around for a few more minutes, but nothing changed, so he decided to return to his hotel and try again tomorrow. He knew it would take years before they would treat him like a native, if ever, and he only had a few days to meet someone who would never have considered entering that bar, but who would have been told by midnight that Karl had been there.
As he walked back out on to the Falls Road, he became aware of several pairs of eyes watching his every move. A moment later, two men, more drunk than sober, swayed across the road whenever he did. He slowed down to make sure his pursuers couldn’t fail to see where he was spending the night, so they could pass the information on to a higher authority. He strolled into the hotel, turned around and spotted them hanging about in the shadows on the far side of the road. He climbed the stairs to the third floor and let himself into his room, feeling that he probably couldn’t have done much more on his first day in the city than make them aware of his presence.
Karl devoured all the complimentary biscuits that had been left on the sideboard, as well as an orange, an apple and a banana from the fruit bowl; quite enough. When he’d escaped from Berlin in April 1945, he’d survived on water from muddy rivers recently disturbed by tanks and heavy vehicles, and the luxury of an uncooked rabbit; he’d even eaten its skin by the time he crossed the border into Switzerland. He never slept under a roof, never walked on a road, and never entered a town or village during the long, circuitous route to the Mediterranean coast, where he was smuggled aboard a tramp steamer like a sack of coal. It would be another five months before he stepped off the boat and set foot in Buenos Aires. He immediately went in search of Don Pedro Martinez, carrying out the last order Himmler had given him before committing suicide. Martinez was now his commanding officer.