The Secret of Spandau Read Free Page A

and asking for a British initiative to forestall it. Clydesdale had shown it personally to Winston Churchill and the Foreign Secretary, Lord Halifax, and had then passed it to Lord Dunglass to put before the Prime Minister, Neville Chamberlain.
    More than a year had passed – a year of war – before Albrecht had next penned a letter to his friend. It was a strange letter and the Duke had received it in curious circumstances. In the middle of March 1941, he had visited the Air Ministry in London, at the request of a Group Captain, who was ‘anxious to have a chat about a certain matter’. The matter had turned out to be a photostat of a letter signed by ‘A’, who, evidently from the contents, was Albrecht. It was dated 23 September. A Mrs V. Roberts had sent it on from Lisbon. It had been intercepted by the Ministry of Information Censor on 2 November 1940, photocopied, and sent to MI5. It was almost six months old when it had finally reached the Duke in this photocopied form.
    By Albrecht’s standards, it was a short letter. He had begun, as usual, with the salutation, ‘My dear Douglo’, and had gone on to offer condolences on the recent deaths of the Duke’s father and brother-in-law. Then he had referred to the previous letter of July 1939, and the significance that the Duke and his ‘friends in high places’ might find in an invitation for him to meet with ‘A’ in neutral Lisbon. The reply was to be enclosed in two sealed envelopes and sent through another address in Lisbon.
    British Intelligence had decided – after all those months – to ask the Duke to reopen contact with Albrecht Haushofer. He had been called for a second interview in April and asked to go to Portugal, to learn whatever Albrecht could tell him. This, the Duke had realised, amounted to working as a British agent. He had been told that it was the kind of mission for which one volunteered, rather than acting under orders.
    After consideration, the Duke had written agreeing to carry out the mission, subject to two safeguards: he wanted the British Ambassador in Lisbon to be informed, as well as Sir Alexander Cadogan, of the Foreign Office. This had led to a distinct cooling in MI5’s enthusiasm for the project, but it was still under discussion. In fact, the Duke had just written suggesting an alternative procedure for arranging the meeting with Albrecht. His letter, dated 10 May 1941, had not yet reached its destination when the mysterious Hauptmann Horn had parachuted into Britain.
    â€˜Shall we go in and see him?’
    The prisoner was sitting up in bed, dark, morose and staring.
    The duty officer announced the names of the visitors, and the prisoner’s face lit up.
    â€˜I would like to speak to you in private,’ he told the Duke. ‘It is most important.’
    The Duke turned to the other officers. ‘Would you have any objection, gentlemen?’
    Flight Lieutenant Benson and the Army officer agreed to withdraw, leaving the Duke alone with the prisoner.
    The prisoner’s eyes glittered triumphantly under the thick, black brows. He said, ‘Yes, I can be sure you are the Duke of Hamilton. I saw you in Berlin in 1936, when we held the Olympic Games. You had lunch in my house. I do not know if you recognise me, but I am Rudolf Hess.’

4
    A tall man with flame-coloured hair came out of the telex room of one of Britain’s national Sunday newspaper offices, shoulders hunched and shaking his head, and passed into the labyrinth of the newsroom. He was Dick Garrick, the deputy sports editor.
    â€˜Bad news, Dick?’
    Garrick stared across the copy paper and plastic cups and saw that the enquiry came from Cedric Fleming, the editor-in-chief. It was 10.35 on Saturday evening, and the top brass were gathered at the back bench, checking the first edition.
    â€˜We just lost our only world boxing title.’
    â€˜Already?’ said Fleming.