To Catch a King
July 1940. England prepares for invasion, all eyes focused on its borders.But such focus inevitably leaves gaps elsewhere, and Hitler sees an opportunity to carry out an audacious plot that would change the course of the war…The Duke of Windsor, brother to King George VI and former ruler of the United Kingdom in his own right, is a target.Hitler’s intention: to kidnap him and hold him ransom - the ultimate leverage against an embattled and beleaguered British government.But can it really be done? And who amongst the German secret services is audacious enough to set a trap to catch a king?
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For my daughter, Sarah, from one
unashamed romantic to another …
Table of Contents
PROLOGUE
In July 1940 Walter Schellenberg, SS Brigadeführer and major-general of police, was ordered by Hitler to proceed to Lisbon to kidnap the Duke and Duchess of Windsor, then staying in a villa at Estoril after fleeing the German occupation of France. This story is an attempt to recreate the events surrounding that astonishing episode. Most of it is documented historical fact although certain sections must obviously be fictional. The person who emerges from the whole bizarre affair with most credit is the Duke of Windsor himself. For that reason I offer this book as a tribute to a gallant and honourable gentleman.
1
Just after midnight it started to rain, and the Portuguese policeman brought a cape from his sentry box and placed it around her shoulders without a word.
It was quite cold now and she walked a few paces along the road to keep warm, pausing to look back across the mouth of the Tagus to where the lights of Lisbon gleamed in the distance.
A long way; not as far as Berlin or Paris or Madrid, but she was here now, finally, outside the pink stucco villa at Estoril. The final end of things, more tired than she had ever been in her life before and, suddenly, she wanted it to be over.
She walked back to the policeman at the gate. ‘Please,’ she said in English, ‘how much longer? I’ve been here almost an hour.’ Which was foolish because he didn’t understand her.
There was the sound of a car coming up the hill, headlights flashed across the mimosa bushes, and a black Mercedes braked to a halt a few yards away.
The man who got out of the rear was large and powerfully built. He was bare-headed and wore glasses and his hands were pushed into the pockets of a dark mackintosh.
He said something briefly in Portuguese to the policeman, then turned to the girl. His English was quite excellent.
‘Miss Winter, isn’t it? Miss Hannah Winter?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘Could I see your passport?’
She got it out quickly, her hands fumbling in the cold so that the cape slipped from her shoulders. He replaced it for her politely, then took the passport.
‘So – an American citizen.’
‘Please,’ she said, a hand on his sleeve. ‘I must see the Duke. It’s a matter of the gravest urgency.’
He looked down at her calmly for a moment, then nodded to the policeman who started to open the gate. The car rolled forward. He held the door for her, and she climbed inside. He followed.
With a sudden burst of power, the Mercedes jumped forward, the driver swinging on the wheel, taking them round in a circle and back down the hill towards Lisbon.
She had been thrown into the corner and now he pulled her upright roughly and switched on the light. He was still clutching her passport.
‘Hannah Winter – American citizen? I think not.’ He tore it apart and flung it into the corner. ‘Now this, I think, would be a much more accurate description.’
The passport he pushed into her hands was German. She opened it in fascinated horror. The picture that stared out at her was her own.
‘Fräulein Hannah Winter,’ he said. ‘Born in Berlin on November the ninth, nineteen-eighteen. Do you deny this?’
She closed the passport and pushed it back at him, fighting to control her panic. ‘My name is Hannah Winter, but I am an American citizen. The American embassy will confirm this.’
‘The Reich does not acknowledge the right of its citizens to change nationalities to suit their inclinations. You were born a German. I confidently predict you will die one.’
The streets were deserted and they drove very fast so that already they were into the city and moving down towards the river.
He said, ‘An interesting city, Lisbon. To get into any foreign embassy it’s necessary to pass through a Portuguese police checkpoint. So, if you’d tried to get into either the British or American embassies, we would still have got you.’
She said, ‘I don’t understand. When I asked to be admitted the man on the gate said he’d have to check with headquarters.’
‘It’s simple. The Portuguese police have accepted an extradition warrant to be served on Hannah Winter on a charge of murder – murder three times over. In fact, they’ve agreed to expedite the matter.’
‘But you – you’re not the police.’
‘Oh, but we are. Not the Portuguese variety, but something rather more interesting.’ He was speaking in German now. ‘Sturmbannführer Kleiber of the Berlin office of the Gestapo. My colleague, Sturmscharführer Gunter Sindermann.’
It was like something out of a nightmare and yet the tiredness she felt was overwhelming so that nothing seemed to matter any more.
‘What happens now?’ she asked, dully.
Kleiber switched off the light so that they were in darkness again. ‘Oh, we’ll take you home,’ he said. ‘Back to Berlin. Don’t worry. We’ll look after you.’
