office, and set off by tram to the Friedrichstrasse to deliver it. If he was going to find Hannah Liebermann and tell her story to the world, he’d be wise to play things safe with Greiser in the meantime. Do nothing to upset the bastard.
Berlin’s transformation was complete—as though a long siege had been lifted. The streets were colourful and welcoming, with garlands hanging from every lamppost and shopfront along the Leipzigerstrasse. The Olympic rings billowed from the flagpoles of the Wertheim department store, and the JEWS NOT WANTED signs had disappeared from shops, cafés, and parks.
With the state’s sadism hidden from view, the Reich Labour Front had ordered a week of ‘jollity and cheerfulness’ prior to the Games, fearing that foreign visitors might be disheartened by the Berliner Schnauze— the surly local manner. Only in a tyranny, Denham thought, are citizens ordered to be happy.
He delivered his article at the reception to Greiser’s office and emerged through the glass doors back onto the Friedrichstrasse, thinking he’d walk home. As he made his way along the shopfronts, tilting his hat against the sun, feeling for his matches in his jacket pocket, it was a few moments before he noticed the dark vehicle in the reflection of the windows. A forest green Humber Pullman with fat whitewall tyres was keeping pace alongside him in the street. A British car? He turned to look at it. A blind in the rear side window was pulled down, concealing its passenger. The car pulled over next to him; the back door opened, and a man in a bowler hat got out. He spoke in English.
‘Gentleman in the car would like a word, sir.’
Denham hesitated.
His expression blank, the man stood to the side of the door and gestured for him to step in.
With as much curiosity as suspicion he climbed the running board and into the back. There was enough headroom to wear top hats, and such a wide seat that he might have mistaken the tall, bony man sitting to one side for a discarded coat and hat. Another seat faced the rear, like a London cab’s.
‘Mr Denham? Get in,’ the tall man said, smiling. ‘Can we give you a lift somewhere?’ A light South Wales accent.
‘I was on my way home.’
Bowler Hat Man got into the backseat facing Denham, and the car purred into the southbound traffic before he’d given his address.
‘Sorry to ambush you like that,’ the tall man said, ‘but no one’s going to overhear us if we have a little chat in the car, you see. My name’s Evans. I’m attached to the embassy here.’ He offered Denham his hand across the seat, releasing a faint smell of mints. His long face was framed by white sideburns, and there was something lugubrious about his black homburg and wing collar. He paused, his eyes falling on the darkening wound on Denham’s cheek.
‘A chat about what?’ Denham said.
‘Yes, of course. You may like to know that your printed articles have been read with satisfaction in our embassy here, and in certain offices of Whitehall.’
This was news to Denham. ‘But . . . most of my pieces are published in American weekend newspapers and magazines.’ He glanced at Bowler Hat Man, who observed him without expression.
‘Quite so, quite so,’ said Evans, ‘which is why Sir Eric Phipps takes an interest in them. It is vital that the wider American public is not kept in the dark about the way things are heading in Europe. Things you capture very well in your features.’
‘I see.’
Evans looked out of the window as the car sped past buildings decked with long white pennants displaying the Olympic rings. ‘With so many of the American press here for the Games, one might hope their eyes would open, although you’ll have noticed that the scale of the cover-up is impressive . . .’
‘Yes . . . I’ve noticed.’
Still looking out of the window, Evans said, ‘Which leads me to the purpose of our little chat.’
Denham felt himself squirming. ‘May I smoke?’
Evans
Berlin’s transformation was complete—as though a long siege had been lifted. The streets were colourful and welcoming, with garlands hanging from every lamppost and shopfront along the Leipzigerstrasse. The Olympic rings billowed from the flagpoles of the Wertheim department store, and the JEWS NOT WANTED signs had disappeared from shops, cafés, and parks.
With the state’s sadism hidden from view, the Reich Labour Front had ordered a week of ‘jollity and cheerfulness’ prior to the Games, fearing that foreign visitors might be disheartened by the Berliner Schnauze— the surly local manner. Only in a tyranny, Denham thought, are citizens ordered to be happy.
He delivered his article at the reception to Greiser’s office and emerged through the glass doors back onto the Friedrichstrasse, thinking he’d walk home. As he made his way along the shopfronts, tilting his hat against the sun, feeling for his matches in his jacket pocket, it was a few moments before he noticed the dark vehicle in the reflection of the windows. A forest green Humber Pullman with fat whitewall tyres was keeping pace alongside him in the street. A British car? He turned to look at it. A blind in the rear side window was pulled down, concealing its passenger. The car pulled over next to him; the back door opened, and a man in a bowler hat got out. He spoke in English.
‘Gentleman in the car would like a word, sir.’
Denham hesitated.
His expression blank, the man stood to the side of the door and gestured for him to step in.
With as much curiosity as suspicion he climbed the running board and into the back. There was enough headroom to wear top hats, and such a wide seat that he might have mistaken the tall, bony man sitting to one side for a discarded coat and hat. Another seat faced the rear, like a London cab’s.
‘Mr Denham? Get in,’ the tall man said, smiling. ‘Can we give you a lift somewhere?’ A light South Wales accent.
‘I was on my way home.’
Bowler Hat Man got into the backseat facing Denham, and the car purred into the southbound traffic before he’d given his address.
‘Sorry to ambush you like that,’ the tall man said, ‘but no one’s going to overhear us if we have a little chat in the car, you see. My name’s Evans. I’m attached to the embassy here.’ He offered Denham his hand across the seat, releasing a faint smell of mints. His long face was framed by white sideburns, and there was something lugubrious about his black homburg and wing collar. He paused, his eyes falling on the darkening wound on Denham’s cheek.
‘A chat about what?’ Denham said.
‘Yes, of course. You may like to know that your printed articles have been read with satisfaction in our embassy here, and in certain offices of Whitehall.’
This was news to Denham. ‘But . . . most of my pieces are published in American weekend newspapers and magazines.’ He glanced at Bowler Hat Man, who observed him without expression.
‘Quite so, quite so,’ said Evans, ‘which is why Sir Eric Phipps takes an interest in them. It is vital that the wider American public is not kept in the dark about the way things are heading in Europe. Things you capture very well in your features.’
‘I see.’
Evans looked out of the window as the car sped past buildings decked with long white pennants displaying the Olympic rings. ‘With so many of the American press here for the Games, one might hope their eyes would open, although you’ll have noticed that the scale of the cover-up is impressive . . .’
‘Yes . . . I’ve noticed.’
Still looking out of the window, Evans said, ‘Which leads me to the purpose of our little chat.’
Denham felt himself squirming. ‘May I smoke?’
Evans
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