The rain was torrential as, minutes later, we drove through an area where every house had been demolished, creating a no-mans-land protected from the West by barbed-wire fences. Of course, the Berlin Wall had not been built in those days. There was a red and white barricade, two Vopos in old Wehrmacht raincoats, rifles slung. I lay back in the seat and closed my eyes.
Konrad braked to a halt and one of the men, a sergeant, came forward. In and out, Konrad, he said. Whos your friend?
My cousin from Ireland. Konrad offered my Irish passport. Pissed out of his mind. The aroma of good cognac proved it. Ive got those American cigarettes you wanted. Marlboros. I could only manage a thousand, Im afraid.
The sergeant said, My God!, thrust my passport back and took the five cartons Konrad offered. Come again.
The bar lifted and we drove forward into the bright lights of West Berlin.
In my uncles flat, Konrad helped himself to whisky and held out a hand. Give me the envelope.
I did as I was told. What is it?
You dont need to know.
I started to get indignant but then decided he was right.
Look, I said. Ive been meaning to ask. You told me I was a bagman for the SAS. I was given the job by a Major Wilson, but by a strange coincidence, youre involved. Why is that?
Its no coincidence grow up! Everything fits like a jigsaw. Let me fill you in on the facts of life. Twenty-one SAS is comprised of weekend soldiers, everything from lawyers to cab drivers and most things in between. A hell of a range of languages. Twenty-two Regiment, the regulars, spends its time shooting Chinese in Malaya and Arabs in the Oman and things like that. People in Twenty-one are odd-job men like you. You were coming to Berlin, it was noted. You were useful.
And expendable?
Exactly, and a coincidence that I was lurking in the family background.
You probably saved my life.
Oh, you managed. He laughed. Youll be back at that favourite ballroom of yours in a few days, picking up girls, and none of them will know what a desperate fellow you are.
So thats it, I said. I just go back?
Thats about the size of it. Wilson will be quite pleased. He finished his Scotch. But do me a favour. Dont come back to Berlin. Theyll be waiting for you next time.
He moved to the door and opened it. I said, Will there be a next time?
As I said, Twenty-one uses people for special situations where they fit in. Who knows? For a moment he looked serious. They turned you down, but that was from the flashy bit. The uniform, the beret, the badge that says: Who Dares Wins.
But they wont let me go?
Im afraid not. Take care, and he went out.
He was accurate enough. I went through a totally sterile period, then numerous jobs, college, university, marriage, a successful teaching career and an equally successful writing career. It was only when the Irish Troubles in Ulster really got seriously going in the early seventies that I heard from Wilson again after Id written a successful novel about the situation. He was by then a full colonel, ostensibly in the Royal Engineers when I met him in uniform, although I doubted it.
We sat in the bar of an exclusive hotel outside Leeds and he toasted my success in champagne. Youve done very well, old chap. Great book and so authentic.
Im glad you liked it.
Not like these things written by television reporters and the like. Very superficial, whereas you well, you really understand the Irish, but then you would. I mean, an Orange Prod, but with Catholic connections. Very useful that.
I was aware of a sense of déjà vu, Berlin all over again.
I said carefully, What do you want?
Nothing too much. Youre doing an appearance in Dublin next week, book signings, television?
So?
It would be very useful if you would meet one or two people for us.
I said, Nearly twenty years ago, I met someone for you in Berlin and nearly got my head blown off.
Another side to that. As I recall, it was the other chap who took the flak. He smiled. Interesting that. It never gave you a problem, just like the Russians.
Theyd have done worse to me, I said. They shouldnt have joined. I took out a cigarette and lit it. What am I supposed to do, repeat the performance, only in the Liffey this time instead of the Spree?
Not at all. No rough stuff. Intermediary, thats you, old chap. Just speak to a few people, thats all.
I thought about it, aware of a certain sense of excitement. Youve forgotten that I did my ten years in the Army Reserve and that ended some time ago.
Of course it did, but you did sign the Official Secrets Act when you joined Twenty-one.
Which threw me out.
Yes, well, as I said to you a long time ago, its more complicated than that.
You mean, once in, never out? I stubbed out my cigarette. Konrad said that to me in Berlin. How is he, by the way? I havent seen him for some time.
Fine, he said. Very active. So, I can take it youll co-operate?
I dont seem to have much choice, do I?
He emptied his champagne glass. No need to worry. Easy one, this.
No rough stuff? Easy one, this? Five trips for the bastard, bombs, shooting, glass on the streets, too many bad Saturday nights in Belfast until that eventful day when men with guns in their pockets escorted me to the airport with the suggestion that I not come back. I didnt, not for years, and interestingly enough, I didnt hear again from Wilson, although in a manner of speaking, I did, through the obituary page in the Daily Telegraph, his photo staring out at me, only he was a brigadier, not a colonel and his name wasnt Wilson.
Dawn came over the Cornish coast with a lot of mist, as I stood on the little balcony of the bedroom at the Hanged Man. A long night remembering. My wife still slept as I dressed quietly and went downstairs to the lounge bar. Shed been right, of course. The German connection was what I needed on this one and that meant Konrad Strasser. I hadnt spoken to him for a few years. My uncles death, and my German aunts, had tended to sever the connection, but I had his number on what I called my essential card in my wallet. Damp but usable. I got it out and just then the kitchen door opened and Zec Acland looked in.
Up early.
And you.
Dont sleep much at my age. Just made a pot of tea.
Ill be in shortly. Id like to make a phone call. Hamburg. Dont worry, Ill put it on the bill.
Hamburg. Thats interesting. Early there too.
Another older man. He probably doesnt sleep much either.
Acland returned to the kitchen, I sat on a stool at the bar, found my card and dialled the number. As I remembered, Konrad had been born in 1920, which made him seventy-seven. His wife was dead, I knew that. A daughter in Australia.
The phone was picked up and a harsh voice said in German, Now who in the hell is that?
I said in English, Your Irish cousin. Hows Hamburg this morning?
He lived at Blankenese on the Elbe. Fog on the river, a couple of boats moving out. He laughed, still calling me boy as he always had. Good to hear from you, boy. No more of that damned Irish nonsense, I hope.
The phone was picked up and a harsh voice said in German, Now who in the hell is that?
I said in English, Your Irish cousin. Hows Hamburg this morning?
He lived at Blankenese on the Elbe. Fog on the river, a couple of boats moving out. He laughed, still calling me boy as he always had. Good to hear from you, boy. No more of that damned Irish nonsense, I hope.
No way. Im an older guy, now, remember.
Yes, I do and I also remember that when you first met your present wife and told me she was twenty-five years younger, I gave you a year.
And that was fifteen years ago.
So, even an old Gestapo hand cant be right all the time.
He broke into a terrible fit of coughing. I waited for him to stop, then said, Are you okay?
Of course. Blood and iron, thats us Germans. Is your wife still Wonder Woman? Formula One, diving, flying planes?
She was Wonder Woman yesterday, I said. Saved our lives.
Tell me.
Which I did.
When I was finished he said, My God, what a woman.
An understatement. She can be infuriating, mind you.
And the rest of the time?
Absolutely marvellous.
He was coughing again and finally said, So, whats it all about? A phone call out of the blue at the crack of dawn.
I need your expertise. A rather astonishing story has come my way. Ive got brothers, twins, born 1918, named Harry and Max Kelso. Father American, mother Baroness Elsa von Halder.
He grunted. Top Prussian aristocrats, the von Halders.
The twins were split. Harry, the youngest, stayed in the States with his rich grandfather, who bankrolled the Baroness to return to Germany in 1930 with Max after her husband was killed in a car crash. Max, as the eldest, was automatically Baron von Halder.
Ive heard that name.
You would. The Black Baron, a top Luftwaffe ace. The brother, Harry, was also a flyer. He flew for the Finns against Russia, then was a Yank in the RAF. Battle of Britain, the lot. More medals than you could shake a stick at.
There was a silence, then, What a story, so why isnt it one of the legends of the Second World War?
Because for some reason, its classified.
After all these years?
Ive been talking to an old boy whos past caring at eighty-eight so hes given me a lot of facts, but the German side is virtually missing. I thought an old Gestapo hand might still have access to classified records. Of course, Ill understand if you cant.
What do you mean if I cant? He started to cough again. I like it, I love it. It could give me a new lease of life, not that it matters. Im on limited time. Lung cancer.
God, but that hurt, for he was a man Id liked more than most. I said, Jesus, Konrad, leave it.
Why should I? Ill have such fun. Im old, Im dying, so I dont care about classified information. What a joy. For once in a lengthy career in Intelligence, I can turn over the dirt and not give a damn. Youve done me a favour. Now just lets go over a few facts, whatever you know about the Black Baron, and then Ill get on with it.
A little while later, the aroma of frying bacon took me to the kitchen, where Zec had made sandwiches. I sat at one end of the table, drank tea you could have stood a spoon up in and ate the sandwiches and felt on top of the world.
Phone call okay? he asked.
Oh, yes, I told him. A relative of mine. If anyone can find out the German side of things as regards Max Kelso, he can.
You seem pretty certain.
Oh, I am. Hes a lot like you, Zec. Seventy-seven, seen it all, has the right connections. I poured another cup of tea. He was in the Gestapo during the war.
He almost fell out of his chair laughing. Dear God.
I said, Youve told me everything you can?
Of course not. Lets see what you come up with, then well look at any missing pieces. He got up. Must check the beer kegs. Ill see you later.
After breakfast. I went to the end of the jetty, lit a cigarette and stared out into the fog, thinking about it all. Denise turned up about ten minutes later, in a huge sweater and jeans obviously intended for a man. She was holding two mugs of tea.
I thought you might like a wet. Ive been on to Goodwood Aero Club. Bernie Smiths flying down to pick us up.
Thats good. I drank a little and put an arm about her waist. Thanks!
Bad night?
The German connection. Things you never knew about. The border a long, long time ago. Ireland, the Troubles. It all went round and round. I hesitated. You mentioned that cousin of mine in Hamburg, the one whod been in the Gestapo.
So?
I phoned him earlier. Hes still in Hamburg. He has the kind of past that gives him access to things.
Was he willing to help?
I gave a deep sigh. Absolutely delighted. Turns out hes got lung cancer. He said the problem would give him a new lease on life, but not for long, I should imagine.
She held me tight. How rotten for you.
How rotten for me? I said, Lets go back to the pub. You could do with some breakfast. Konrad will come up with something. Hot stuff, the Gestapo.
He did, of course, performed magnificently and also died six months later. Pieced together from what he uncovered, and from what Zec told me, and from some researches of my own, this is what we found out: the true and remarkable story of the brothers Kelso.
THE BEGINNING
1917
3
August 1917. At 10,000 feet over the lines in France, Jack Kelso was as happy as any human being could be. Twenty-two years of age, and the scion of one of Bostons finest and richest families, he could have been doing his final year at Harvard, but instead, he was working through his second year with the British Royal Flying Corps.
The aircraft he was flying was a Bristol fighter, one of the great combat aircraft of the war, a two-seater with an observer-gunner in the rear. Kelsos sergeant, who had taken shrapnel the day before in a dogfight, had been hospitalized and Kelso, a hotshot pilot with a Military Cross and fifteen German planes to his credit, had illegally taken off on his own. Well, not quite on his own, for sitting in the bottom of his cockpit was a bear called Tarquin in leather helmet and flying jacket.
Kelso tapped him on the head. Good boy, he said. Dont let me down.
At that period, the British War Office still banned parachutes on the argument that their use made cowards out of pilots. Jack Kelso, a realist and a rich young man, sat on the very latest model, his private possession.
He was a realist about other things as well: Always watch for attacks out of the sun. Never cross the line under 10,000 feet on your own.
The great von Richthofen once shot down four Bristols in one day and there were reasons. The pilot had a fixed machine-gun up front, a Vickers. The observer carried two free-mounting Lewis guns in the rear, which meant the man in the back did all the shooting. After a series of disasters, it had been pilots like Kelso whod discovered that the plane was so manoeuvrable that she could be handled like a single-seater.