Free To Catch a King by Jack Higgins

deserted. He closed the gate behind him and walked rapidly away.
    At that same moment in Estoril, the Duke and Duchess of Windsor were entertaining Miguel Primo de Rivera, the Marques de Estella, who had driven over from Madrid especially to see them.
    As the servants cleared the remains of luncheon from the table beside the pool, De Rivera took out his watch.
    “Time passes so quickly in good company, but I'm afraid I must leave soon. I must start back for Madrid today. I've an important official engagement tomorrow.”
    “What a shame,” the Duchess said.
    De Rivera smiled and said to the Duke, “I wonder whether Your Royal Highness could spare me a few moments' conversation before I go? In private.”
    The Duke looked faintly surprised, but smiled as courteously as always. “Yes—why not. We shan't be long, Wallis.”
    It was, in fact, half an hour before they returned and then only for De Rivera to take his leave. He kissed her hand, promising to come again soon, and departed. The Duke lit a cigarette and moved to the edge of the terrace, leaning on the marble balustrade, frowning as he looked out to sea, an expression of intense preoccupation on his face.
    “And what was that all about?” she demanded.
    “I'm not sure. It was really most extraordinary. He'd heard of my Bahamas appointment from official sources in Madrid. Had even discussed it with Franco.”
    “But why, David?”
    “Do you know, Wallis, he urged me not to go. Said I could still have a decisive role to play in English affairs. He actually said we'd be better off going to stay in Spain. Would be made officially welcome.”
    “Would you rather do that?”
    “Too complicated. You see, present indications are that the Spaniards don't intend to enter the war on the side of the Nazis, but they might well use England's present plight as an excuse to demand the return of Gibraltar. I certainly don't want to become a pawn in that kind of game.”
    “So you don't trust De Rivera?”
    “I trust the Madrid Falangists no more than I would any Fascists. There could be more to this than meets the eye, Wallis. Much more.”
    His eyes crinkled in that inimitable smile and he put an arm about her waist. “There's a certain excitement to it all, though, I must admit that.”

6
    T he cell was quite small, the concrete walls whitewashed. Almost antiseptic in its cleanliness. There was a light recessed into the ceiling, a small iron cot with no mattress. A cold, white concrete womb.
    Hannah sat on the edge of the cot, her mind still so numbed by events that she was unable to take any of this in. There was a dreamlike quality to everything. It was like one of those nightmares half-remembered in the morning and fast fading. That desperate scramble in the passageway at the club, the machinegun bucking in her hands, the smell of cordite. And Uncle Max? Where was he now?
    Her stomach still hurt from the blow, and when she touched it bile rose in her throat so that she had to get up and move to the bucket quickly.
    Heydrich, watching through the spyhole, nodded to the SS guard and the Gestapo interrogation expert he usually used on such occasions, Major Berg.
    “All right,” he said to Berg. “Open up.”
    The sound of the bolts being withdrawn was of no significance to Hannah. She still sat there, staring at the wall, so that Berg had to drag her to her feet.
    Heydrich lit a cigarette and stood facing her, legs apart. He was wearing dress uniform, a devil in black, but his voice when he spoke was dispassionate.
    “You're quite a girl, aren't you? Two of my best men dead. Three more in the hospital—one on the critical list. They trained you well, your people. The fluent German. Just like a true Berliner, very convincing.”
    “I was born in Berlin. So were my mother and grandfather. You know this. We always spoke German at home in New York when I was a child.”
    He turned to Berg. “Strip her. Thorough search. I'll be back in a few minutes.”
    He went out