as Burkinshaw leapt from frying pan to pigeon loft remained unfilled. Rod had put it to his father that he could and would fill the gap until a new man was hired. Alex had
argued for three weeks but the day before Herschel Grynszpan shot vom Rath he had relented. Rod had arrived in Vienna, checked into the Meissl und Schadn hotel on Kärtnerstrasse –
because Hugh Greene had told him it would be stuffed with the Nazi hierarchy – rather than his father’s recommended Imperial, to find the place buzzing with the assassination of a
complete nonentity who wasn’t even dead yet.
On the evening of the ninth – or, to continue to be precise, the small hours of the tenth – he sat in the bar, alone, quiet, eavesdropping, and heard the news that the nonentity had
finally expired. He had a street map of Vienna and spread it out on the table in front of him. So far he’d reported nothing back to London. While his father might think it appropriate to talk
to the new rulers of Vienna, Rod didn’t. He had walked the city centre for a couple of days, taken a tram ride out to the Prater and viewed Vienna from the wheel, got, as he told himself, a
bit of a feel for the place, found it evoked no memory, dunked no cake, and was now feeling a bit stumped. Whatever was going to happen could happen anywhere. All he wanted was a bit of a clue.
Where to go and who to follow. Something was going to happen. The sheer glee with which the Germans spoke of the death of Ernst vom Rath told him that. It was a godsend, the very excuse the buggers
had been waiting for for just one more rampage.
He was just thinking that perhaps he should not wait for news of any disturbance, and that he should actively go out and seek it, when he saw a waiter pointing in his direction, and a small man
in a grubby macintosh and a grubby trilby, looking very different from the customary clientele of the Meissl bar, came over to him.
‘Herr Troy?’
‘Yes . . . I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure . . . ?’
The little man opened a small leather wallet he had been clutching in the palm of his hand, held it up just long enough for Rod to read, and said, ‘Oskar Siebert, Detective-Sergeant,
Vienna HQ.’
So, the little scruff was a copper. Certainly looked like a copper.
‘Am I under arrest?’
Siebert smiled, pulled out a chair uninvited and sat down.
‘Far from it, Herr Troy. I’m here to protect you.’
‘Protect me?’
Rod could not help feeling that if the Vienna police wanted him protected they would have sent someone bigger.
‘Surely you have heard?’
‘Of course I’ve heard. I’d be a pretty poor excuse for a journalist if I hadn’t.’
‘We – that is the Kripo – fear there may be consequences beyond our control. Naturally you, as a reporter, will wish to see whatever happens tonight. And, as I said, I am here
to . . .’
‘See, that I don’t see.’
‘As I said . . . to protect you.’
‘I think I get the message.’
Siebert gave Rod a nervous little smile, picked up a book of hotel matches from the ashtray, fished around in his pockets and pulled out a crushed packet of Astas. He held it out to Rod, Rod
declined and he lit up a bent cigarette and inhaled deeply. For the first time Rod noticed the deep nicotine stains on the fingers of his right hand – the hand waved the match out, wafting
across his words as he did so.
‘Herr Troy, I am just a simple police sergeant.’ Siebert paused, lowered his voice to the not-quite-confidential-but-the-certainly-discreet, ‘We’re not all Nazis you
know.’
Was this deliberately disingenuous? Greene had told him for a fact that most of the Vienna police were Nazis.
‘My brother’s a police detective.’
‘Then perhaps we have something in common?’
‘I doubt that, and the purpose of me telling you is that while there might be such a thing as a simple copper – and trust me, I come from a village in the English Home Counties and
they’re full of
argued for three weeks but the day before Herschel Grynszpan shot vom Rath he had relented. Rod had arrived in Vienna, checked into the Meissl und Schadn hotel on Kärtnerstrasse –
because Hugh Greene had told him it would be stuffed with the Nazi hierarchy – rather than his father’s recommended Imperial, to find the place buzzing with the assassination of a
complete nonentity who wasn’t even dead yet.
On the evening of the ninth – or, to continue to be precise, the small hours of the tenth – he sat in the bar, alone, quiet, eavesdropping, and heard the news that the nonentity had
finally expired. He had a street map of Vienna and spread it out on the table in front of him. So far he’d reported nothing back to London. While his father might think it appropriate to talk
to the new rulers of Vienna, Rod didn’t. He had walked the city centre for a couple of days, taken a tram ride out to the Prater and viewed Vienna from the wheel, got, as he told himself, a
bit of a feel for the place, found it evoked no memory, dunked no cake, and was now feeling a bit stumped. Whatever was going to happen could happen anywhere. All he wanted was a bit of a clue.
Where to go and who to follow. Something was going to happen. The sheer glee with which the Germans spoke of the death of Ernst vom Rath told him that. It was a godsend, the very excuse the buggers
had been waiting for for just one more rampage.
He was just thinking that perhaps he should not wait for news of any disturbance, and that he should actively go out and seek it, when he saw a waiter pointing in his direction, and a small man
in a grubby macintosh and a grubby trilby, looking very different from the customary clientele of the Meissl bar, came over to him.
‘Herr Troy?’
‘Yes . . . I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure . . . ?’
The little man opened a small leather wallet he had been clutching in the palm of his hand, held it up just long enough for Rod to read, and said, ‘Oskar Siebert, Detective-Sergeant,
Vienna HQ.’
So, the little scruff was a copper. Certainly looked like a copper.
‘Am I under arrest?’
Siebert smiled, pulled out a chair uninvited and sat down.
‘Far from it, Herr Troy. I’m here to protect you.’
‘Protect me?’
Rod could not help feeling that if the Vienna police wanted him protected they would have sent someone bigger.
‘Surely you have heard?’
‘Of course I’ve heard. I’d be a pretty poor excuse for a journalist if I hadn’t.’
‘We – that is the Kripo – fear there may be consequences beyond our control. Naturally you, as a reporter, will wish to see whatever happens tonight. And, as I said, I am here
to . . .’
‘See, that I don’t see.’
‘As I said . . . to protect you.’
‘I think I get the message.’
Siebert gave Rod a nervous little smile, picked up a book of hotel matches from the ashtray, fished around in his pockets and pulled out a crushed packet of Astas. He held it out to Rod, Rod
declined and he lit up a bent cigarette and inhaled deeply. For the first time Rod noticed the deep nicotine stains on the fingers of his right hand – the hand waved the match out, wafting
across his words as he did so.
‘Herr Troy, I am just a simple police sergeant.’ Siebert paused, lowered his voice to the not-quite-confidential-but-the-certainly-discreet, ‘We’re not all Nazis you
know.’
Was this deliberately disingenuous? Greene had told him for a fact that most of the Vienna police were Nazis.
‘My brother’s a police detective.’
‘Then perhaps we have something in common?’
‘I doubt that, and the purpose of me telling you is that while there might be such a thing as a simple copper – and trust me, I come from a village in the English Home Counties and
they’re full of
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