Brandenburg Gate

Chapter 6

* * *

Friday, November 2nd, 1945
1:15 p.m.
His Britannic Majesty's Embassy
35, Rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré,
Paris

"Hello … I'm to meet a Mister Ian Grey, here — ? My name is Van Doern."

The man behind the desk didn't even pretend to consult his notebook; instead, he looked up at me, with interest.

"Certainly, Captain. You are expected. If you will please follow me — ?"

Down one hushed, elegant corridor, then, with waist-high wainscoting of gleaming, polished wood; then another, lined with glass-enclosed bookshelves, with antique hunting prints and august-looking portraits on the walls, some of them in powdered wigs … our footsteps echoed on the parquet floors.

My mind was, of course, going in about six different directions at once, spinning fast from one thought to the next, one fear to the next. My heart hammered in my chest.

Okay, so it was 'encouraging' news. That was good. That was good. But it was encouraging, 'taken as a whole', and only just 'rather encouraging', or so Mister Grey 'hoped' … the qualifiers seemed to sound a loud, firm warning.

But, and this was the big 'but'; this 'encouraging' news meant Rhys was still alive. It must mean that Rhys was still alive. It must … 

Didn't it — ? Unless the 'encouraging news' was wrong, or stale, and perhaps Ian, Mister Grey was setting me up gently for, well, further news, yet to come … 

 

Stop it. Just, stop it.

I tried to stop it.

 

Around one last corner, to an elegantly-carved door. My guide knocked twice, discreetly; then he opened the door for me, and ushered me in, without following.

The room was about as far from the decor of the Passport Control Office I'd been in previously, as it was possible to get. The carpets were plush; the walls were lined with yet more bookshelves, floor-to-ceiling. A small, bright coal fire burned in an ornate fireplace. It reminded me of the smoking-room in my father's club, back home.

Two men were standing up, from armchairs facing each other across the fire.

"Captain," from Ian — Mister Grey — with a smile. He set down his short, squat glass on the end table. "Thank you for coming, on such short notice. May I present my colleague, Mister MacLaughlin — ? MacLaughlin, Captain Van Doern."

"George MacLaughlin," from the second man, in an unmistakably Scottish accent. He transferred another squat glass to his left hand, and held out his right hand to shake. I took it, automatically. "The pleasure is all mine," he said. He was about my own age, I guessed, and height; but dark-haired, thick around, and muscular, he looked like an American football player. I had the impression that he kept himself fit.

"Jack Van Doern," I returned. I looked a little helplessly over at Mister Grey.

"Would you — ?" he started; with a motion towards a small cart set with bottles and decanters. Then he looked at me closely, and stopped. "Well. Perhaps later. Please, sit down, Captain."

He gestured towards one of the armchairs. I sat in it; he settled onto the couch, that separated the armchairs.

Mister Grey took a breath.

"We have managed to locate Rhys," he began, simply enough. "He is still in Berlin; and he is alive, and well."

I blinked at him, as the world shifted under my feet. My heartbeat pounded up again, and then began to subside.

"You're sure."

"We are," he said. "Although under the circumstances, we cannot tell you exactly how we know. We hope you'll understand." This last, with just a hint of a dry twitch of a smile at one corner of his mouth.

"Captain Williamson was detained by the Soviets early in the morning of the 25th," from MacLaughlin. "For 'conduct incompatible with his diplomatic status', which is the usual polite way of phrasing such things." He swirled the amber liquid in his glass, a little. "He is under house arrest, in a middling hotel in the Soviet sector, pending exchange. But that is close to all we know; and there is something going on, here, that we do not understand."

 

I looked my incomprehension at Mister Grey.

 

"Perhaps just a little bit of background is in order," he said, gently. He picked up his glass. "You are of course aware, that Berlin is deep in the Soviet zone of Occupied Germany. But as the capital city of the Third Reich, it is at least temporarily and formally occupied by units of the four victorious Powers; you Americans, we British, the French, and of course our Gallant Soviet Allies." He raised his glass in an ironic salute, and then took a sip from it.

"Yes." That much, at least, was in the newspapers, and the newsreels. The devastation shown in the newsreels was sickening.

"The city," supplied Mister MacLaughlin, "has been divided into zones, or sectors, corresponding to the Allied forces in question; and that is where our respective forces are stationed. But they are not clearly posted; there are no checkpoints, and there is complete freedom of movement between sectors, for the German population. And the respective Allied forces are in turn free to operate in each other's sectors as well. Vienna is similarly divided, and operates under a similar régime."

"I see." This I had not known. It hit home; I'd spent enough time bombing targets in and around Vienna, before I was shot down.

"So you can see," from Mister Grey, with a shrug, "how things can become — a bit complicated." He glanced sideways at MacLaughlin. "Our Gallant Soviet Allies have taken full advantage of their relative freedom of movement. Many, many Germans have … disappeared … into the Soviet sector, within the last few months. It is a state of affairs which our friends in the NKVD find quite convenient."

I connected the dots. I felt chilled.

"And that is what happened to Rhys." I said it as a statement, not a question.

A candid look from Mister Grey.

"Yes. Rhys was staying in a hotel in the British sector, when the NKVD arrested him, and took him away."

"And that is a stroke of luck, for us," from Mister MacLaughlin. "A damned good one. You see, that Rhys was lodging in the British sector, gives us grounds to get involved in his status."

A flick of eyes, between Mister Grey and me. It wasn't luck; I knew it. Rhys had chosen his hotel very deliberately, for just this reason.

A pause, for a moment, as I digested all this.

"I still don't understand," I said, at last. Dreading, that I did. "Where does our government — the U.S. government — fit in all of this? Dixon, at the American Embassy, still denies that they know where Rhys is."

This time, the flick of eyes was between Mister Grey and Mister MacLaughlin.

Mister Grey cleared his throat.

"We have also established that that is, in fact … not quite true," he said, gently. "And we are confused over it."

I had a momentary vision of Dixon's oily face, and a short, savage urge to smash it with all my strength. The urge was almost overwhelming. I put it aside, for now.

"You see," from Mister MacLaughlin, "there is a standard procedure which is followed, in cases such as this. The arresting Government informs the Government of the detainee of the circumstances; and an exchange of personnel is arranged. Or in cases of such comparatively lower-ranking persons as Captain Williamson, it might just mean releasing him into the custody of the American authorities. In Berlin, it might be the American representative of the Allied Control Council, the committee that governs the city. Or it might even mean just putting Captain Williamson on the train to Paris, under escort. It is a routine matter."

"And in fact," went on Mister Grey, "we know that officials in the American Embassy in Paris were notified the same day Rhys was arrested … but we also know that no representations about him have been made by your American side. At least, not yet." A pause, from him, then. "We do not know why this should be."

 

A heavy silence, then, for a moment.

 

Well, I thought. We might not know the 'why' of Rhys' disappearance. But we knew what it meant.

Rhys had been right, to be suspicious of his orders. To suspect that he'd been set up. And he'd been right, about his own superiors, his own chain of command, being … untrustworthy.

American diplomats, American military officers — if his Special Services Unit was at all involved — untrustworthy. Maybe even hostile to Rhys' well-being.

Maybe even to his continued existence.

 

I felt, right then, very alone, and very scared; and cold, in spite of the fire I was half-facing.

 

In the silence, Mister Grey stood up, and stepped over to the bar cart. I heard the tinkle of ice in a glass, and then the sounds of liquid being poured from bottles. Some stirring, then; and then Mister Grey stepped back to the fire, with a fresh glass of clear liquid for himself, and a heavy, crystal glass with a small quantity of a fragrant brown liquid, for me. He handed it to me, silently.

"Thank you," I managed.

Mister Grey shrugged, once; and took a sip from his own glass, before setting it down again.

"And so, we come now, to the matter of the difficult decisions we have to make … or, more accurately, to the difficult decisions you have to make."

"Me." I said it flatly, not looking at him.

"Yes … you see, we propose to get Rhys back. There are several different ways we can approach this. All are risky to a greater or lesser extent, and there are no guarantees of success. Someone has to make the final determination of what to do. You are, I'm afraid, the obvious candidate; the next of kin, as it were … "

I was suddenly deeply aware of Mister MacLaughlin, watching us from the other armchair.

Well, that made one more person who was aware of our true relationship, Rhys' and mine, then. He probably had been aware, all along. Did it really make a difference? Under the circumstances — ?

I took a cautious sip of my drink. It went down like fire, without me really tasting it.

I took a breath.

"What are our choices — ?"

Mister Grey regarded me, for a moment; with a look that I thought was sympathetic.

"We can, of course," he began, "always kick the matter upstairs. So to speak. We can have our Ambassador here, Duff Cooper, raise the issue more-or-less informally with your Ambassador Caffery. Or, we can do so much more formally; we can have Bevin, our Foreign Secretary, contact your Ambassador Winant in London, or have Lord Halifax speak to your Secretary of State Byrnes in Washington." He paused, to pick up his glass again, and take another sip. "This would be going public with Rhys' plight rather spectacularly, of course."

I blinked at him; stunned. These were household names, famous and powerful men on both sides of the Atlantic.

"You could do that — ?"

A sideways look, from him.

"Me, personally — ? Certainly not. But my Service could; or at any rate, my Service could, and would, request it. And that would be enough; we are rather well-respected, just now." Another, deliberate, sip of his drink. "However; I would not necessarily recommend this approach; at least, not as a first resort. Until we know more about the players in this charade, and their motives, we can't be certain that such an open move might not backfire, placing Rhys in greater danger, or out of our reach … no."

"And at any rate," offered Mister MacLaughlin, "we can always keep high-level diplomacy as a last resort. To be used if all other options fail."

I did not like the idea of our options failing.

"Yes," from Mister Grey, with a glance at his colleague. "And if we do choose that path in the end, it's as well to bear in mind that Rhys' family connections would be extremely helpful. His father served with distinction in an important position in the Treasury Department, during the war; and of course, Rhys' grandfather is … well known. Rhys' plight would, in the end, draw some attention from the right people."

Rhys' maternal grandparents were Beresfords, and very wealthy, and I knew they were on friendly terms with at least one British Ambassador. I let that thought comfort me, for a moment.

"All right," I said, after a moment. "So, what are our other options, then — ?"

Another, expectant glance at his colleague, from Mister Grey. Mister MacLaughlin took a sip from his own glass, and cleared his throat.

"As it happens," he began, "I have been working in Berlin since July, when our occupation troops were first permitted to enter the city." He looked across at me, directly. "I have taken part in more than a few low-level exchanges, of this nature; as I said, they tend to be routine. My own recommendation, would be that we treat Rhys' case as one such."

"We could," offered Mister Grey, "contact Our Gallant Soviet Allies, and request Rhys' return; under the principle that Rhys was arrested while staying in the British Sector of Berlin. And in fact, we have a very likely candidate for exchange in our own custody, just now."

A wry look from Mister MacLaughlin. "Yes, we do. And the sooner we're shed of him, the better it suits me."

 

A moment's pause, then; and I looked from one of them to the other, thinking hard.

 

"If we go with your recommendation, sir," I said, looking at Mister MacLaughlin — "won't it seem a little, well, suspicious, or odd, that the exchange will be an all-British operation, on our side? Even given that Rhys was arrested in the British Sector. I mean, wouldn't the Soviets expect someone from the American side to be there? From the Foreign Service, maybe — ?"

Another shared look, between the two of them.

"Yes." Mister MacLaughlin picked up his glass again, and took another slow sip. "It certainly would seem odd. And that is where you come in … "

*

In another hour or so, we had it worked out.

 

We — the three of us — would leave the next day, on an RAF flight to Berlin.

I was to pose as the U.S. liaison to the British mission; the official U.S. representative.

Although, given that we did not understand what was going on behind the scenes on the American side, it might not actually be a pose. I was a serving United States Army Air Forces officer, and my loyalty was to my country. I did not know if I could assume the same about whomever had engineered Rhys' arrest.

And then — with some luck — arrangements with the Soviet side could be made relatively quickly. If all went well, if there were no circumstances we didn't fully understand, we might get Rhys back as early as the day after tomorrow.

We might.

 

"Are we agreed, then," from Mister Grey at last, looking between the two of us, "that this is the course we shall pursue — ?" He focused on me, closely. "Think carefully. The final decision remains yours. Should you change your mind now, we can arrange an interview with Ambassador Duff Cooper today, or this evening; and he could conceivably speak confidentially to your Ambassador Caffery tomorrow. A word from the American Ambassador to France might resolve Rhys' predicament very quickly, and safely. It is a valid possibility."

I thought hard, again. I was almost sick, with dread; I hadn't known I could feel like that, again, after everything I'd been through.

"What do you think Rhys would choose, sir, if our circumstances were reversed — ?"

The faintest ghost of a smile, from him, then. It wasn't entirely a happy one.

"Trust is a commodity in rather short supply, in this business of ours — MacLaughlin's and mine, and Rhys'. But he does trust the three of us, here, fully. I believe he would want us to go to Berlin tomorrow, as we have planned."

Another silence, then; as they waited for me to speak.

I had one, nagging doubt, one question, that I needed to address, before I said the word that would set all this in motion. I did not like it, a bit. But Rhys' life was potentially at stake.

"Mister Grey, Mister MacLaughlin, sirs … " I breathed out, for a moment, then went on. "I think I need to know something."

A raised eyebrow, from Mister Grey.

I paused, to choose my words carefully.

"I know that you, sir, and Rhys, are friends of long standing … "

This, to Mister Grey. I pointedly ignored Mr. MacLaughlin, for the moment.

"And I also remember what you said at our first meeting; about your organization, and your government, having an interest in Rhys' well being … "

Another, careful pause. Me, still not looking at Mister MacLaughlin.

"And I am very grateful for that, believe me. Sir. But I think before we set out tomorrow … I need to have a better idea of exactly why your people are so well-disposed towards him."

Another pause.

"I think I especially need to know, if there is any reason why my people — the Americans — might be, well, less well-disposed towards him. Whether someone on my side might want to … cause him harm."

 

A fraught, and pregnant silence, at that.

 

What I was trying to ask, in so many words, was — had Rhys done something, somewhere along the line, that might be considered a betrayal, by his American superiors — ?

I specifically wondered, if Rhys might have spied for the British, at some point? Maybe when we were just young men, before the U.S. entry into the war — ?

No, I corrected myself. That hadn't happened; he would have told me. That was an absolute certainty. But maybe sometime after — ?

Not that I would judge him, if so. I trusted him absolutely. If he'd done anything even remotely like that, it would have been for very good reason.

But I needed to know. Now.

 

The silence was broken by Mister MacLaughlin. He set his glass down on the table, hard.

"Christ, Grey! Haven't you told him — ? Of all of the people in the world, of all the people in the world, shouldn't he be the one who deserves to know — ?"

Another reference to our true relationship. I didn't even wince. Instead, I took in the genuine anger in his voice, and his face.

Mister Grey opened his mouth … and then, closed it again. A long second passed, and then two, then three. He breathed out, and then he looked at me, directly.

"MacLaughlin is correct. Secrecy can grow to be a habit, a useless and corrosive one. I am sorry." His expression was solemn, and contrite. He shifted his gaze back to MacLaughlin. "Go ahead," he said, simply.

 

A long moment, as MacLaughlin gazed at him; then, at last, he shifted his gaze to me.

 

"In early '44, my Service began parachuting squads of special operatives — commando units, really — into Southern France. They were to make contact with several specific, well-established local maquis groups, French Underground groups, and operate with them; conducting guerrilla warfare against the German Occupation."

I blinked at him. My mind leaping ahead, already.

Mister MacLaughlin took up his glass again, and sipped. A slightly bigger sip, this time.

"What we did not know, in the beginning, was that the Underground groups with whom we had intended to operate, and with whom we had intended to shelter, were gone. Fictitious. They had long since been penetrated by the SD, the Sicherheitsdienst, and the Gestapo, and been completely rolled up." A pause, by him. "And so, the first squad we parachuted in was taken immediately by the SD and SS. They were, to a man, interrogated under torture, and then executed."

Oh, God.

Mister MacLaughlin went on, relentlessly.

"And that should have been the end of that. However. Owing to the really rather criminal stupidity of our high command, it was not. Radio messages were sent back, reporting that everything was going well. Our command ignored the absence of the necessary keywords in the messages, that would have indicated them to be authentic; they ignored these protocols, even when this was pointed out to them. To this day, I sometimes wonder if indeed it was criminal stupidity … or possibly something worse."

MacLaughlin was not looking at either of us, as he said this.

"And so, a second commando squad was sent in. And then a third. The same fates met both of them."

Horror.

I was beginning to guess the outlines of what happened next.

Mister MacLaughlin looked to each of us, in turn.

"As it happened, Captain Williamson — he was Lieutenant Williamson, back then — caught wind of this. He was, at the time, operating the only truly successful maquis group in that part of France … And so, without orders, under his own initiative, and at extreme risk to himself and his people, he set out to intercept the next of our insertions, before they could be captured."

A wry look at us, from Mister MacLaughlin.

"It might be pointed out, that Captain Williamson only learned of these parachute drops, from his own sources, his moles, inside the Milice, the Vichy French version of the Gestapo … far be it, that we in my Service should have been coordinating operations with our American counterparts … "

He shrugged.

"And so, Captain Williamson's first effort to intercept our commando drop was successful. He managed to hide the squad, and eventually to have them smuggled out over the Pyrenees, and to Lisbon, where they were in due course extracted. In the meantime, he began sending frantic messages to his own command, telling them to tell us of the situation … which was an act of extreme heroism. German RDF was very efficient, at that time; any transmissions of any length were dangerous to the sender, and the longer the message, the greater the danger. Nonetheless, he persisted."

Another exchange of looks, with the both of us.

"My own Service, of course, ignored the warnings. Another squad, followed. Captain Williamson's maquis succeeded — just barely — in intercepting them, once again; and in getting them away to safety."

Another sip, from his glass.

"Unaccountably, however, the SD did not suffer from the same mental deficiencies as my own Service. They reached the very sensible conclusion that they were being got at. They changed tactics. When the next squad was dropped, the SD and the SS were much closer by, and in force."

Oh, no. Oh, God.

A shrug, from Mister MacLaughlin.

"To make a longer story short — there was, in fact, something of a firefight. Captain Williamson's people took casualties. He, himself, was wounded. But thanks to some thorough advance planning, and a really rather brilliant bit of misdirection towards the German rear, he and his people, and our people, just managed to slip away." He smiled, briefly, and without humor. "I believe I am justified in describing Captain Williamson's tactics as 'brilliant', because I witnessed them. I was the commanding officer of this last squad to be dropped. It was, believe me, a very confusing and extremely unpleasant night."

I blinked at him; my mouth open.

He'd served with Rhys — ? He'd been in combat, with Rhys — ?

And then, oh, God. Of all the people to go through an experience like that — ground combat, a firefight, with casualties, deaths — Rhys should have been the very last one. The very last one. With his sensitivity, his innately gentle nature, he should have been analyzing intelligence behind a desk in Washington …

An appraising look, from Mister MacLaughlin, directly at me.

"As you can perhaps imagine, all of these events made Captain Williamson's area a bit too warm, in which to continue to operate. A rather larger SS contingent was brought in to track us all down. Captain Williamson managed to keep us out of their hands, for a solid month. We moved every night. And then, finally, he and some core members of his group walked with us all the way down to the Spanish border, where he handed us off to — well, the first in a series of friends, shall we say — who managed to eventually get us to Lisbon."

A pause, from him. He looked down, and then back up, at me.

"It was my very great privilege and good fortune to get to know Captain Williamson rather well, over time. And I will be grateful to him, and his people, for saving the lives of my men, to my dying day."

He said this last, very quietly.

 

A long pause, then.

 

Mister Grey cleared his throat.

 

"Yes. Well." A shrug from him; and then it was his turn, to look at me, candidly.

"It is perhaps the case, that there is very little honor among thieves, and Intelligence Services. But there is, in my organization at any rate, a certain institutional memory." The slightest flicker of a smile, an ironic one, at the corner of his mouth. "It is recognized in my Service, that Rhys is — owed, shall we say. Owed quite a bit, actually. And you should know, that this little escapade of ours, over the next few days, will in no way balance the books. Far from it."

"Hmmph," from Mister MacLaughlin, in agreement.

"I see, sir," I managed to say. My head was whirling. I looked over at Mister MacLaughlin.

"Does that answer your question, then — ?" from him. He said it, gently. I could see that he understood the need for it.

"Yes. Yes, it does." I paused, for a moment. "Thank you, very much, for telling me all this." I tried to put my feelings, into the words, even as I kept grappling with what I'd heard.

"And, have you any other questions — ?" from Mister Grey; with real sympathy.

I thought for a moment.

I took a breath.

"Just … what time should I be here, tomorrow — ?"

I watched the slow smile bloom across his face.

"Oh, there is no need for that … shall we pick you up at your flat, at, say, nine o'clock tomorrow morning? I just happen to know there is a flight leaving to Berlin tomorrow at ten." I saw the faintest trace of a wince, as he said it; and I remembered what Rhys had said years earlier, that Mister Grey did not like flying, one bit. Under the circumstances, I didn't even smile.

"That would be fine, sir. Thank you."

 

A few last details followed. We finished our respective glasses, and set them down. My mind was already on packing … in truth, my mind was way beyond that, and was already racing ahead hundreds of miles away, to Berlin. We stood up, to go.

"Oh, one other matter, Captain," from Mister MacLaughlin.

"Yes — ?"

"Do you by any chance have your sidearm with you?" He looked at me, his face carefully expressionless. "You see, the American forces in Berlin have a rule; no personnel are allowed to carry weapons, except when on official business."

I understood what he was trying to delicately say, in a flash.

I was not, of course, going to Berlin on official business. Far from it. My leave papers were for Paris, and the vicinity of Paris, only. I would be out of bounds, AWOL, and in twenty kinds of trouble, if I were stopped and questioned by an American MP … And without a sidearm to show I was under orders, I would be utterly conspicuous.

"I … " I started to say.

Of course I didn't have my pistol, the replacement pistol they'd issued me, after I was released from the hospital; it was stored with the armorer back at my base in England, and I never particularly wanted to see or touch it again.

Then I thought for a moment. And it came to me, in a flash.

"That won't be a problem," I said. "At least, I think." And I tried not to smile, at the idea of it. At that moment, Rhys seemed very close; I felt it, with a rush.

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