Free Traitor's Gate by Michael Ridpath Page A

prefer jockeys, myself,’ said a voice on Conrad’s right in German.
    In relief, Conrad turned to the woman sitting on his other side, a friend of Sophie’s named Anneliese. ‘And why is that?’
    ‘They must have empathy with an animal, not just a machine. That seems a greater skill.’
    Maria snorted in disagreement, and turned to Theo.
    ‘That’s a very good point,’ said Conrad, unable to keep the gratitude out of his voice.
    ‘I take it you and Mr Linaro don’t get on,’ said the woman, with a smile in her eyes. She was dark with short curly hair, a snub nose and a pretty, lively face.
    ‘Very perceptive.’
    ‘Not so very. You would have to be blind not to see the dis­comfort you were in.’ Her eyes flicked towards Maria and back to Conrad. They were green, intelligent, ironic. ‘Despite your great culture and perfect manners you couldn’t quite hide it.’
    Conrad smiled. ‘Was it that obvious?’
    ‘So what did he do? Crash your car? Get your sister pregnant? Steal your last bottle of whisky?’
    ‘He did steal something, actually.’
    ‘Oh,’ said the woman, understanding. ‘Wife or girlfriend?’
    ‘Wife.’
    ‘Oh.’ A look of genuine sympathy flashed across her face. ‘That’s not much fun.’
    ‘No.’
    Conrad had the impression that Anneliese was examining him. It was a sensation he rather enjoyed, especially since she seemed to like what she saw – although a hint of mischief flick­ered in her eyes, so he could not be sure.
    ‘You’re not really English, are you?’
    Conrad laughed. ‘I am, actually.’
    ‘What do you mean? You speak German without an accent and de Lancey sounds French to me.’
    ‘Huguenot. My ancestors left France a couple of hundred years ago. And I am pretty good at languages. But I can assure you I am English.’
    ‘Well, you look German. An Aryan Übermensch if ever I saw one.’
    Conrad looked for irony in her eyes and found it. It was true: he did look German. He was tall, square-shouldered with fair hair, although his eyes were grey rather than blue.
    ‘My mother is German,’ Conrad admitted. ‘And I was born in Germany, although I only lived here a couple of years. But I don’t think I’m exactly what Nietzsche had in mind.’
    ‘What did I tell you?’ Anneliese said. ‘You’re German.’
    Conrad was needled. He felt English. He was English. He opened his mouth and then closed it, suddenly infuriated by the way she was enjoying his discomfort. She smiled and touched his arm.
    ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘You would probably be better off speak­ing to Fräulein von Tiefenfeld.’ She sipped her wine, sud­denly serious. ‘Theo told me what happened to your friend Herr Mühlen­dorf. I’m sorry.’
    ‘Cousin.’
    ‘Was he your cousin? Oh, yes, Theo did tell me that. Appar­ently he had a heart attack in Gestapo custody.’
    ‘I’m sure his heart didn’t stop unaided,’ Conrad said bitterly.
    ‘I’m sure it didn’t,’ said Anneliese. Her expression was full of sympathy, so much sympathy that Conrad suddenly felt uncom­fortable. He hadn’t lost all of his English reticence. ‘I met him only a couple of nights before.’
    ‘At the Kakadu?’
    ‘That’s right. He seemed very nice. But he was a bit drunk.’
    ‘That sounds like Joachim. We were actually there together the night we were arrested.’ Conrad decided to do some gentle digging. ‘He said that he had talked to you about Johnnie von Herwarth,’ he said, stretching the truth slightly.
    ‘Yes. Do you know Johnnie?’
    ‘No. Do you?’
    ‘I only met him once. He’s an old friend of Theo’s. It was a couple of months ago. He was on leave from the embassy in Moscow; he works there with Herr Mühlendorf.’
    ‘Of course. Joachim also said that he discussed some other things with Theo?’
    Anneliese frowned. ‘They did have a conversation in English,’ she said carefully. ‘I didn’t understand it.’ Conrad realized he had gone too far. This was the Third Reich