war.”
Steed went up to his room. It overlooked the lake and as darkness fell he was reminded of all those gothic fairy tales and the Grimm scenery that children are thought to love. The gentle slopes of the Mendip Hills seemed a long way away. A peaceful period cottage is one thing, but in this inn Steed half expected to go downstairs and find that the thirty years war was still raging.
At half past seven that evening Steed heard Herr Goldberg leave his room and go downstairs. Steed watched him leave the inn and vanish along the cobbled street. He smiled. Journalist writing a series of articles indeed! The fellow was obviously up to something, and in this part of the country that could only mean one thing.
Steed slipped along the passage to Goldberg’s door. It was locked, but he wasn’t visible from the bar so he took his time in picking the lock. When he got in he locked the door again behind him. The window was open, so if anybody came in he could make a quick exit. He flicked on his pencil torch and began the search.
The fellow was, as Steed had deduced, an imposter. He had twelve rounds of .38 ammunition in his case. At the bottom of his brief case there was a bottle of genuine Scotch whisky, which under the circumstances....
An Israeli passport confirmed that Goldberg was a journalist and gave his origin as German. He was 35 and unmarried. He had no particular blemishes. But Steed was still unconvinced. Only a spy carries so little on his travels that you can learn almost nothing about the man from his luggage. He left a spike microphone in the wall behind a notice giving the hotel regulations in four languages, took the bottle of Scotch and climbed out of the window.
He inched his way slowly along the narrow ledge to his own room and climbed in feeling rather pleased with the success of his mission. He smoked a panatella and drank a large Scotch before going downstairs to meet the locals.
Conversation became easier as the night wore on and the beer overcame their suspicion of strangers. Before nine o’clock three different people had said to him, “Journalist? You won’t find the Hitler treasure in these mountains.” But after nine o’clock they became willing to boast about the German economic recovery even though it had little to do with Bavaria.
It was no accident, it seemed, that Hitler had gained his first support from this part of Germany, and that the N.P.D. had gained the most ground here. These were the thinkers and the philosophers; they didn’t mind the Ruhr valley providing the economic strength and Bonn the administration. This was where three men in braces had the vision. One of them was a Burgomaster and the other two were shopkeepers. They spoke, they told Steed, for Germany.
By the end of the evening Steed realised that the Second World War had really been about the unification of Europe, and that this was now being brought about by the common market. Unfortunately Germany was again a divided nation as she had been after the First World War, and that would have to be put right. The other point that roused them to fury was that she was an occupied country, occupied by the Russians in one half and the Americans in the other. They banged their empty mugs on the wooden table until Steed had them all refilled.
Beer was not a civilised drink, Steed reflected as he picked his way gently upstairs to bed. He decided to have a decent British drink before retiring for a good night’s sleep. But when he reached his room he found that the bottle of Scotch had been stolen. You can’t trust anybody in these foreign hotels.
The following morning he discovered a Continental “bug” fastened to the inside of the windowsill. He frowned. He had a long day ahead of him and he couldn’t be late to meet Heinrich Toppler, otherwise he would have taught Herr Goldberg a lesson in professional etiquette.
Steed drove out for seven miles towards Herzogstandhaus and then left the car by the side of the
Steed went up to his room. It overlooked the lake and as darkness fell he was reminded of all those gothic fairy tales and the Grimm scenery that children are thought to love. The gentle slopes of the Mendip Hills seemed a long way away. A peaceful period cottage is one thing, but in this inn Steed half expected to go downstairs and find that the thirty years war was still raging.
At half past seven that evening Steed heard Herr Goldberg leave his room and go downstairs. Steed watched him leave the inn and vanish along the cobbled street. He smiled. Journalist writing a series of articles indeed! The fellow was obviously up to something, and in this part of the country that could only mean one thing.
Steed slipped along the passage to Goldberg’s door. It was locked, but he wasn’t visible from the bar so he took his time in picking the lock. When he got in he locked the door again behind him. The window was open, so if anybody came in he could make a quick exit. He flicked on his pencil torch and began the search.
The fellow was, as Steed had deduced, an imposter. He had twelve rounds of .38 ammunition in his case. At the bottom of his brief case there was a bottle of genuine Scotch whisky, which under the circumstances....
An Israeli passport confirmed that Goldberg was a journalist and gave his origin as German. He was 35 and unmarried. He had no particular blemishes. But Steed was still unconvinced. Only a spy carries so little on his travels that you can learn almost nothing about the man from his luggage. He left a spike microphone in the wall behind a notice giving the hotel regulations in four languages, took the bottle of Scotch and climbed out of the window.
He inched his way slowly along the narrow ledge to his own room and climbed in feeling rather pleased with the success of his mission. He smoked a panatella and drank a large Scotch before going downstairs to meet the locals.
Conversation became easier as the night wore on and the beer overcame their suspicion of strangers. Before nine o’clock three different people had said to him, “Journalist? You won’t find the Hitler treasure in these mountains.” But after nine o’clock they became willing to boast about the German economic recovery even though it had little to do with Bavaria.
It was no accident, it seemed, that Hitler had gained his first support from this part of Germany, and that the N.P.D. had gained the most ground here. These were the thinkers and the philosophers; they didn’t mind the Ruhr valley providing the economic strength and Bonn the administration. This was where three men in braces had the vision. One of them was a Burgomaster and the other two were shopkeepers. They spoke, they told Steed, for Germany.
By the end of the evening Steed realised that the Second World War had really been about the unification of Europe, and that this was now being brought about by the common market. Unfortunately Germany was again a divided nation as she had been after the First World War, and that would have to be put right. The other point that roused them to fury was that she was an occupied country, occupied by the Russians in one half and the Americans in the other. They banged their empty mugs on the wooden table until Steed had them all refilled.
Beer was not a civilised drink, Steed reflected as he picked his way gently upstairs to bed. He decided to have a decent British drink before retiring for a good night’s sleep. But when he reached his room he found that the bottle of Scotch had been stolen. You can’t trust anybody in these foreign hotels.
The following morning he discovered a Continental “bug” fastened to the inside of the windowsill. He frowned. He had a long day ahead of him and he couldn’t be late to meet Heinrich Toppler, otherwise he would have taught Herr Goldberg a lesson in professional etiquette.
Steed drove out for seven miles towards Herzogstandhaus and then left the car by the side of the
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