Oswald Mosley was in his element, surrounded by journalists, hangers on and well-wishers. Despite the waning fortunes of the British Union of Fascists, he still managed to be newsworthy and pull a crowd. It was more of a banquet than a rally, with long benches and tables stretching the length of the converted cellar down along the London’s docklands. It reminded Eva of a German beer hall.
A podium stood on a stage at one end, flanked by the red, white and blue flags of his party. Granite-faced Blackshirts formed a line in front of the stage, with matching black batons resting between their hands, a necessity after the last rally was broken up by rampaging Jews, Communists and Irish Dockers in protest at his extreme right wing manifesto.
Eva and De Witte were introduced to him by Diana Mosley and Eva noted that he and Peter had similarities. Mosley was dashing, rake thin and with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. He appraised Eva in a single glance, slowly exhaling his cigarette smoke as he did so.
'Hello again,' he smiled. 'Munich a few weeks ago? I never forget a pretty face.'
She held his gaze to Diana’s discomfort and allowed him to kiss her hand which he did as smoothly as a libertine. In his black uniform, webbing and jodhpurs, he resembled a lounging fighter pilot or suave Hollywood leading man. Eva produced her camera, a German Leica, and took a few shots. He posed gallantly, his eyes never leaving her.
De Witte cleared his throat and pushed his way through the press corps. He held a leather-bound board with blank paper clipped to it. A long stylus chained to it made grooves into the paper as he jotted in shorthand. Discreet wires running across the board allowed him to ensure straight lines as he wrote, using his thumb to tell him where to place the next line.
Mosley observed he, like most of the aristocrats attending, was sympathetic to King Edward’s plight in Spain, that he might in fact be the rightful King of England.
De Witte retorted, ‘So if war was declared, a more sympathetic monarch to the Fascist crusade may be more acceptable to the British population?’ He then followed on, ‘How do you plan to depose the current monarch? A French or Russian style revolution perhaps?‘
Ignoring De Witte, Mosley introduced his Italian and German SS guests beside him who saluted straight armed in the flash of bulbs. He told the press he believed that the United Kingdom, Germany and Italy were potential allies against the rise of Communism. His Fascist brothers from Europe were here tonight attending the dinner in solidarity with the BUF and the people of the United Kingdom. They shared his belief that Germany and England would not go to war against each other again, citing the willingness of Westminster to appease Hitler.
Then in a sudden flare of anger Mosley launched into a diatribe against the Soviet Union, the Communists and repeated the ‘fact’ that he, Hitler and Mussolini were bulwarks in Europe against this menace.
Bounding athletically onto the stage as he spoke and striding to the podium, he gripped it in white-knuckled rage. The microphone carried his voice, giving it a tinny quality. Eva removed the flash from her camera and, clipping on the customised B5b wide angle lens, took discreet photographs of those attending. The room offered sufficient light she judged as she captured the German and Italian delegates speaking to the assembled guests. Lords, ladies, businessmen, some from the munitions industries, and bankers were captured on film. Some openly posed for her, believing their faces would be in periodicals across Europe the following week.
De Witte enquired as to how the BUF was being funded, the rumour being Mussolini was their big backer. Mosley laughed this off as ‘Communist propaganda’, saying it was the British working man in the street funding them, with generous private donations.
Some of the journalists scoffed out loud and Mosley’s smile, though broad, slipped smoothly to a sneer. Eva noted that’s where the similarities with De Witte ended. De Witte again raised a question as to the whereabouts of William Joyce, whether or not he was still a party member returned to America or now living in Nazi Germany? Mosley stared evenly at De Witte who inclined his head to improve his hearing. Joyce hadn’t left the BUF but was actively liaising with the German High Command on behalf of the party, replied Mosley.
There was a growing sense of suspicion creeping into his voice in his replies toward De Witte.
De Witte continued, ‘As in the case of Ernst Rohm, right hand men have a habit of coming to a sticky end in Fascist movements. Is Joyce possibly floating in the Thames somewhere?’
Some of the press laughed again. Mosley insisted that Joyce was alive and well and working with Dr. Josef Goebbels. As he spoke, several Blackshirts moved in toward De Witte, summoned with a nod from Mosley. Eva tapped De Witte’s knee with a warning code and he flashed a smile to Mosley that was both immediately disarming and charming. Naturally it’ll be off the record, he assured him. Mosley grunted into his pewter tankard and waved the men away. They dumbly obliged.
Diana and Unity Mitford stood beside her in breathless admiration of Oswald, his coconut oiled fringe flying free with every head shake. He held his audience in thrall and, at the end, all the guests raised their right arms in straight-armed salutes. Taking a deep breath he expanded his arms out in welcome and the assembly sat down to the meal. Diana was in raptures at the table and whispered into Eva’s ear like a breathless schoolgirl, ‘Please, please, Eva, come with us. Berlin is so beautiful, Adolf has done such wonders to the city. He has shown Oswald and me his plans for the New Berlin he plans to build. Really, really quite breath-taking,’
She studied Eva, a truly beautiful young woman and clearly in thrall to her older, handsome, blind companion. Eva had approached her weeks earlier asking to photograph her for a Dutch periodical. She had driven to Wooten Lodge through the rolling, beautiful countryside of Staffordshire and Diana had met her at the doorway personally. Eva glanced around at the tasteful furnishings and followed Diana into the drawing room.
Eva got the impression this frail girl spent a lot of time alone. Diana had warmed to her instantly, making her feel comfortable and remarked that she was surprised such a beautiful woman hadn’t tried for the movies. With a blush, Eva had confided she had been studying for theatre and had toured Europe and was trying to break into the German film industry.
She had sent her portrait photo and resume to Dr Joseph Goebbels in Berlin, reading that he was planning to establish a European film industry to match Hollywood. He had screen-tested her a few years earlier and her resume was ‘on file’.
The magazine shoot had gone well and in the process Eva and Diana had developed a friendship.
‘Leave it to me, dear. I’ll get Unity to talk to Adolf. They’re very close,’ She leaned in toward her, patting her knee. ‘You belong on the silver screen, Miss Molenaar.’
Eva noted that Diana clipped the vowels in her name short. It sounded like ‘Milner.’ Eva decided she would use that as a pseudonym at some later stage.
Diana became a dedicated pen pal, sending letters to Eva regularly, the address a PO Box set up by M15 and B5b section. Once her letters were reviewed by Chainbridge, Eva would reply and would, where possible, slip in a direct query as to Oswald’s whereabouts and plans. Diana knew she was being monitored, so little or no new information ever featured in her replies.
Eva felt guilty using Diana like this. She was drawn to the eccentric girl and found her fun to be around. Being an only child, Eva sometimes found it hard to build friendships, especially with women. Those who weren’t intimidated by her beauty could be counted on one hand.
She watched the Mitfords with a hint of envy. She would have loved to have had a sister, be part of a big family. In time she vowed she would have one of her own as she watched the Mitfords laughing at a private joke.
Eva realised at that point she was lonely. Suddenly she wanted to flee home, a growing feeling she couldn’t shake.
The banquet finished with Mosley and his men standing to attention, straight arm saluting and singing ‘God Save the King’ at the top of their lungs.
To Eva and De Witte it meant nothing; they had seen this scene across Europe. Diana was singing the loudest with tears in her eyes. Her sister Unity ran up to her and they hugged and cried together. Wiping away the tears, they turned to Eva and pleaded with her to fly to Berlin.
Amid the chants and shouts and belligerent songs Eva told them she would. The two girls posed for a photograph for Eva, two shimmering beauties amid the sea of black, red, white and blue.
Once she had the photographs she needed, Eva left, driving the car assigned to her and De Witte, handing the camera directly to Chainbridge’s chambers for processing.
They flew into Berlin on a private charter funded by the BUF. Mosley sat a few rows ahead, flanked by his bodyguards, two beefy, shaven-headed Blackshirts. They stared straight ahead mutely while Mosley was reading the Financial Times, enjoying a brandy and a cigar. He was dressed in an immaculately cut black Saville Row herringbone double-breasted suit, French tailored shirt and patent leather shoes. In profile he resembled a hawk, with the same merciless eyes skimming the rise and fall of the money markets.
The three women had gone shopping for the visit two days earlier. Eva had enjoyed the whirl of dress shops, shoe shops and restaurants, and had to admit she got swept up in thrill of flying with such wonderful companions.
They were chauffeur driven through London and, as the streets glided past, Eva noted that sand bags had started appearing at the doorways and windows of certain government buildings.
Being in the company of the Mitford sisters, Eva got to see a world beyond her wildest dreams. First to Harrods, with fawning shop assistants and sections of the store closed off for their personal use. Then Oxford Street boutiques presenting them with haut couture gowns, day wear and evening wear, and offers to alter their creations for Eva and the Mitfords.
Trays of champagne and canapes were given to them between showings, whether or not they wished to purchase anything. Every sales assistant told Eva her figure was perfect for modelling and the Mitfords admitted they were jealous of her elegant build. Eva replied that she just wanted to be taken seriously as a photographer, and was envious of their gamine shape. Clothes seemed to hang much better on them.
Despite her protests, Diana wanted to buy Eva a shimmering silver evening dress as a gift, arguing the party they were going to was one of the biggest ever held in Germany.
Eva looked at her reflection in the dressing room. The gown was cut deep at the back, just stopping above her hips. The front wasn’t cut as deep, but flattered the shape of her cleavage. The gloves had a matt silver look to them and Eva stopped Diana buying her accompanying jewellery, insisting she had complimentary accessories.
Eva had inherited a small fortune after her parents had been killed which she had transferred out of Poland to London on Chainbridge’s advice. She insisted on paying for the dress and gloves. After a lot of persuasion, she accepted a clutch bag as a gift. Eva put her hair up and looked at her profile. The gown was exquisite, flattering her figure. She stepped out of the dressing room for the girls. They gasped and applauded with warm smiles and tilted champagne glasses.
‘Why, dear, you could have your pick of the men if you wanted,’ observed Unity, curious that Eva was enthralled with a much older blind man, albeit a handsome one, who was clearly much less enamoured of the Fascist cause than Eva was. In Unity’s free hand dangled a pair of silver strap-up shoes with a modest heel. They complemented the dress perfectly.
Driving back through London where the chauffeur was going to bring her home, they asked Eva had she travelled much. She replied her work took her all around Europe, mostly freelance articles focusing on the rich and famous and their lifestyle. She then told them about her recent personal meeting with General Franco.
They offered to arrange an interview with Hitler for her magazine. He was very agreeable around pretty girls, Diana said, nudging Unity with a grin.
Diana spoke at length about the ‘Strength through Joy’ cruise she had taken last year with Eva Braun, Hitler’s mistress. It was a pet project of Hitler, and Diana and Oswald had been privileged to have been invited on the maiden voyage along with high ranking members of the Nazi party
They had sailed around the Norwegian fjords, meeting their Aryan brothers and sisters. On board, the Propaganda Ministry had recorded the scenes in colour film to show across the cinemas of Germany, representing the Nordic countries as mountainous Aryan paradises.
The voyage had been a propaganda success and there was another voyage being planned. Eva was invited to join the sisters as their special guest and perhaps run a feature in one of the magazines she worked for.
Now they were descending through the clouds into the city that had driven her out five years ago, a city run by a maniac and his henchmen. The night before they had departed, she had dreamed of Jonas, not uncommon, but this time more realistic.
She was in the morgue again, looking for him. She could hear him calling out to her from beneath the shrouds and she was pulling the sheets off to find him. Beneath every sheet removed was someone she knew; Papa, Mamma, Grampy and Aga, then Theo, Dariusz, De Witte — which disturbed her — and eventually she uncovered Jonas.
He was, as she remembered; dead, bloodied and broken, still on the gurney, but now dressed in a German Army uniform. Then suddenly his eyes opened wide, staring right at her, through her, his ruined mouth trying to talk.
She woke in a sweat, screaming.
The residue of the dream haunted her thoughts for the flight, putting her in a different world from the sisters who were chatting excitedly about the visit. Composing herself with a deep breath, she joined in and feigned joy at travelling around the most modern city in Europe.
Templehof Airport was busy as she descended the steps of the aircraft. Eva and the Mitfords watched the lines of international flights arriving and departing. Luftwaffe escort fighters taxied idly in lines, their pilots and crews lounging and standing in knots.
In the main terminal, she could hear British accents, French accents, and Swiss High German and Eastern European voices through the bustling arrivals area. Security was tight, with SS and Gestapo working alongside the police, everyone departing or arriving being subjected to questioning and identity checks. Once through the checks, they were greeted by a plain clothes party member who saluted them.
Mosley swept past him with barely a recognition; leaving it to Diana to make the introductions. His name was Otto Gottlieb and he had the careworn, nervous manner of an underling. Outside, a sleek plush Mercedes waited, with Nazi party flags flapping from the mudguards.
Mosley and the women sat in the back, the others following in a taxi behind. Eva’s eyes glanced around the city. Humbolt University where Jonas had been thrown off a balcony swept past. It brought a sudden unexpected stab to her heart. Within minutes they were at the Chancellery.
They were ushered into Hitler’s private chambers. He was regrettably unable to meet Herr Mosley, they were informed by his secretary, as he had an urgent matter to attend to. From beyond the door, there heard a man yelling, extolling and screaming out words, the door muffling what was being shouted.
‘The Fuhrer’s practising for his speech tomorrow. He’s spent hours rehearsing,’ she explained with a cold but effective smile.
Mosley, momentarily wrong-footed, spun on his heel and barked over his shoulder as he strode from the room, ‘I’ll talk to him tonight!’
The door opened and a tall, grey-haired man of about sixty, dressed in Donegal tweed and knee-high brown boots, appeared. He looked flushed as if he had been doing all the shouting.
‘You! Yeah you, miss. Get me tea, tea understand? — t-e-a with lots of honey. There’s a honey!’ He laughed at this.
The secretary turned, her face anxious.
‘Quickly, doll! Adolf thinks he’s losing his voice!’
She stepped back to her desk and phoned for tea to be delivered to the chambers. Eva held the man’s gaze as he stared at her. ‘Hello, Donald, we meet again. You don't remember me?’ she made her smile very enticing and Donald T Kincaid returned the smile, ''fraid not, doll.' He clapped his hands louder. 'Schnell, schnell. Christ what's keeping you guys!'
Unity enquired gently, 'Is everything alright with Adolf?'
‘Voice coaching. Giving him a little razzamatazz!’
‘Gosh,’ breathed Unity as Kincaid clapped his hands at the seething secretary. ‘Schnell! Schnel, doll!’
As quickly as he appeared, he disappeared back into the room slamming the door.
Hitler's bodyguards glanced at one another then ushered the party out into the hall.
That night Eva struck up a longer conversation with Kincaid, enticing him away from their table to the bar. Hitler had cried off, complaining of laryngitis, sending his apologies for not attending, trying to save his voice. Eva Braun and her sister Gretl took the roles of hostess, a role they took to with relish.
Mosley’s fury knew no bounds at being jilted a second time. His relationship with Hitler was strained at best. Hitler didn’t speak English; Mosley didn’t speak German. He sat at the table getting progressively more and more drunk and sullen. Diana, doing her best to lift his mood, was glancing mournfully at the churning dance floor.
Mosley’s former right-hand man William Joyce joined them, a livid scar running from his lip to his ear, giving his smile an unnatural sneer, resplendent in full SS regalia. His American — Irish accent roared out to Kincaid who acknowledged him with a wave. Joyce was already drunk, sliding off his seat from time to time and rising up onto the table, clutching it like a drowning man, ordering another whiskey from any passing waiter.
The party was to celebrate the annexation of Austria, welcoming a lost people back into the fold, Hitler’s kith and kin reunited with the German people. The room was festooned with Nazi flags and the flag of the Austrian Eagle. An orchestra was playing a number of up-beat polkas and waltzes beneath them.
The dance floor was thronged with swirling skirts and rigid uniforms, all moving to the beat of the music. Eva scanned the room as Kincaid roared into her cleavage about himself.
There were a number of high profile guests. She noted the British and French attaches from Munich, their staff, the Italian ambassador and surprisingly Russians — Molotov sitting with Von Ribbentrop’s staff — Americans too. A group of businessmen, immaculately attired, were speaking to Speer and Hitler’s deputy Rudolf Hess in a discreet huddle. It was the first party Eva had been at where there were no journalists or representatives of the ever-pervasive Propaganda Ministry mingling with the guests.
What she was witnessing was a series of high-level meetings happening sub rosa to the sound of an orchestra.
‘Who are those men, Donald?’ she enquired, proffering a cigarette to be lit. Kincaid fumbled around his pockets and found a lighter, gold plated with a swastika embossed on it. He cranked it a couple of times, swaying through the booze.
‘Those? Bankers, financiers, heads of pharmaceutical companies. We’re all looking for a piece of the action. Once Hitler and his boys start taking their Lebensraum, there’s going to be a lot of money to be made out of it. I have several of my people here negotiating newsreel, film and publishing rights.’
Kincaid’s expression altered momentarily, his eyes glazing over like the night he first spotted her. It was a look of unbridled lust.
She made a note of the men’s faces before he took her by the arm to dance. Despite being six sheets to the wind, Kincaid was an accomplished dancer which surprised her.
His moves were assured and she could suddently see how he was a successful womaniser — rich, funny and charming. She looked back at Unity and Diana. Unity was holding court with several SS junior officers, enjoying their attention. Further back, Diana stared out miserably as Mosley and Joyce leaned in close, drowning their sorrows.
The piece came to an end and everyone applauded in a mannerly fashion. Kincaid turned to Eva, planting a wet whiskey-smelling kiss on her cheek. ‘Come to America with me tomorrow. Let me show you around my studios. I could organise a screen test for a motion picture I’m planning to produce.’
Eva was taken aback at the suddenness of the request. She stared into his magnified eyes behind wire lenses, dropped her eyes and, in a voice Madame Yvette would’ve been proud of, breathed, ‘I’d love to.’ She then excused herself.
Kincaid was in an ebullient mood, mingling with his associates and filling glasses. Mosley and Diana had left earlier. Diana touched Eva's arm in concern when she told her she’d be flying out to America with Kincaid.
‘Don’t worry, Diana. I can take care of myself,’ Eva assured her with a wink.
Diana hugged her and told her to mind herself and stay in touch.
Unity had met an SS officer and was remaining behind, waving to the three of them that she was in control of the situation. This was indicated with a jolly thumbs-up.
Eva produced her camera, and catching Kincaid’s eye, held it up asking would they like to have a photo taken. Never missing an opportunity for his face to be on film, Donald T Kincaid lined up with a group of drunken men who posed for the shot. Pretending to be drunk, Eva tried several times to take the photo to the jeering shouts of the men. Shrugging in apology, she squeezed the shutter just as the group broke apart, the men reeling toward the bar, capturing them perfectly in profile.
Now she had to think of a way to get the camera to Chainbridge before she left for California.
Diana answered almost immediately after the second knock. Eva whispered into the gap of the hotel door that she was staying at Kincaid’s place in Berlin and his car was waiting outside. Eva handed the camera to Diana, telling her she’d dropped it, it had broken and could she drop it into a camera shop in Leicester Square, the address written down on a piece of Kincaid’s stationery? The shop would repair it.
‘Of course, dear,’ whispered Diana. ‘Are you sure you’re ok?’
‘Yes,’ grinned Eva. ‘He’s out cold. How’s Oswald?’
‘Despondent,’ said Diana looking back into the darkened room. She had a careworn air about her but seemed to pull out of it. She turned to Eva. ‘You be careful, dear… Promise me?’
Eva touched the delicate hand, marvelling at the length of Diana’s finger tips. ‘I promise.’
Eva turned and headed back to the car waiting outside.
Oswald flew back to London the following day, his limousine calling by Eva’s camera shop. His meeting with Hitler had been brief but unsuccessful. The Reich was not prepared to fund the BUF and Mosley had left empty-handed and out of options.
Unity had remained on as a guest of Eva Braun and Hitler, planning to travel Germany for a few weeks. Diana handed the camera over and the man in the shop coat accepted it with a smile.
Within a few hours, the photograph of Kincaid’s associates were sitting on Chainbridge’s desk. He spread the photograph and intelligence out across his desk and made phone calls to Kell and Liddle. Looking up at De Witte sitting in the shadows feeding lengths of Braille correspondence through his fingers, he informed them that Eva had established contact and had photographed a veritable rogues' gallery; including British Nazi sympathisers.
De Witte stopped feeding the intelligence through his fingers momentarily. ‘Good.’ He started feeding the information again, his face showing no emotion. He was impressed with her.
Eva had developed her friendship with Kincaid through the Goebbels’ screen-test reels. It had taken a while, using the auspices of a bogus London casting agent to feed her details through the Hollywood system. Once headshots and film reels were requested, the agent had contacted Berlin.
Kincaid’s staff in Burbank, California, saw the reel can with the German Eagle stencilled onto it and jumped at the opportunity. A meeting in New York followed and Kincaid took the bait like a greedy schoolboy.
Chainbridge, along with the F.B.I., had a substantial dossier on him. Kincaid’s influence was enormous. Apart from a private film studio in Hollywood, he owned a mansion in Martha’s Vineyard and numerous European properties. Although married and a father of nine children, he boasted openly about having several high-profile mistresses.
In Boston circles he had the Chief of Police, the Attorney General and various teamster organisations in ‘his pocket’. A fervent anti-communist, he and a number of American anti-communists had arranged functions for Hitler and Mussolini in Berlin in the 1930s. Grandiose with his largesse, he had written large cheques for their fledgling political parties, all in the glare of the media.
This wealth had come allegedly through boot-legging during prohibition. He used this money to help break a Boston longshoremen’s strike and take control of the docks. His pay-off from City Hall was under-the-counter and siphoned offshore into various trusts. This money reappeared as armament sales to the Fascists in Spain. He was spotted in Madrid in 1936 along with German ‘advisors’ shipping in guns, bombs and gold bullion to fund Franco’s forces.
His campaign for Mayor of Boston two years earlier ended abruptly after three weeks without explanation. His campaign manifesto used the longshoreman’s strike as an example of Communism creeping into ‘Freedom-loving America’. Rumours of a young actress overdosing on cocaine at his mansion had clung to him like a smell. Nothing was proved and the story buried, the girl’s family dropping a law suit within days of it being issued. The journalist who broke the story was sacked and his card rescinded after pressure from Kincaid’s attorneys.
It was this same self-made man that Eva flew with from Berlin to London on a German diplomatic flight, collected by his private chauffeur and stopping at his studio offices near Piccadilly Circus.
Eva remained in the office’s reception area as Kincaid presided over several production meetings. She attempted a few times to strike up a conversation with the dour receptionist, a very pretty but disappointed looking brunette. After a while Eva gave up. Glancing around the room, she noted the offices' windows were small. Poor light filtered in on framed photographs of actors and actresses. She spotted the receptionist’s head-shot amid them with a hopeful twinkle in her eye.
The other thing she noticed was the phone hardly rang during her time there and the receptionist turned the pages of a magazine slowly, occasionally letting out a sigh. She was no doubt a conquest recently discarded, thought Eva.
By 3pm Kincaid was finished. He swept out into the reception, donning his beige cashmere coat and chomping on a cigar. He barely acknowledged the receptionist who seemed to come to life at the sight of him striding by. ‘Let’s go, Eva,’ he barked. The receptionist almost seemed to slump into her chair in pain.
They descended the stairs, and as she stepped into the limousine, the afternoon bustle of the city was split open by the sound of air-raid sirens. It chilled her to the bone. She had been caught up in a bombing raid by Franco’s air force in Valencia in 1937. She flinched involuntarily,
‘It’s fine, honey, they’re just practice drills. Mind you, once Goering throws his bombers at them, we’ll be glad we’re in California.’
They flew by flying boat from his private jetty at Chelsea Reach along the Thames, banking out over the city; the metropolis flowing below them in a constant motion. Waiting on board for them was a silver service dinner with champagne, American magazines and newspapers.
A young already care-worn male assistant was waiting for Kincaid with documents, among them the schematics of an aeroplane. Kincaid chuckled when he folded out the aircraft's blueprints. It looked like a warehouse with wings to Eva. She noticed that when he was concentrating, he would produce a golf tee from his jacket pocket and chew on its tapered point. If he was stressed, he would move it around his mouth with his teeth, gnawing on it. If he became furious, it would be hurled at his assistant.
Kincaid authorised by telegram money transfers as down-payments for the aircraft to the tune of ten million dollars. He tipped her a wink as he said it aloud to his assistant. She in turn pretended to be dazzled by this amount, opening her mouth and blinking.
He enjoyed that reaction.
The rest of the flight he was signing off paperwork, contacting his lawyers in Boston via the aircraft’s radio, and then putting his long legs up on the facing seat and sleeping. Eva felt a pang of isolation which she decided suited her. She was just a trophy ready for polishing and putting up for display, but otherwise disposable.
She accepted the situation. It gave her the necessary leeway to watch everything and report anything useful. She felt for the receptionist she met a few hours earlier. That girl had probably been sitting on this flight a few months earlier.
The assistant, O'Dowd, went back to the rear seats and sat up writing reports and chewing on a thumb nail the way a dog worries a bone.
They landed in a small cove near Martha’s Vineyard which was overlooked by Kincaid’s faux-Georgian mansion. The flying boat turned around and departed back to Europe, its vast wings glinting in the morning sunlight.
It had been two days since they arrived and Eva had exchanged no more than three or four words with Kincaid before they retired to bed. She was standing in the dining room drinking coffee, watching a seal bobbing its head up through the waves. The room had large bay windows that gave a panoramic view of the bay. Apart from a few pleasure yachts further up the cove, the scene probably hadn’t changed in millennia.
Her eyes tracked the seal’s sleek back as it dipped and slid through the waves like a playful dog. The sun was struggling to penetrate the cloud cover that had parked itself over the cove. Fitful beams shone further out to sea past landfall like veins of a fan; rich blue waves danced like an electric shock over the grey waters.
The mansion was deserted apart from a maid who appeared at random during the day and, to Eva’s displeasure, the house was bereft of anything to read. Somewhere in a room upstairs Kincaid’s voice boomed out a stream of invectives at some poor minion on the end of a phone. He slammed the phone down with such force she could hear the device clatter off the floor of the room above. She looked around. The room was decorated like an English hunting lodge — heavy curtains, mahogany panelling, various oils depicting fox hunting scenes and an enormous elk’s head over a black marble fireplace.
On the mantel piece was a series of framed photographs, children at various ages grinning or frowning with a young Kincaid and plain Shaker-looking Mrs Kincaid. As the family increased in size, she seemed to age at a faster rate than Donald until her last image made her look like an embittered old crone.
A log fire sputtered and spat sparks out and yet seemed incapable of heating the room. She could hear doors banging and the heavy footfall of Kincaid descending the staircase. He strode in and, without breaking his stride, swept her up in his arms planting a kiss on her lips. ‘Your screen test is the day after tomorrow.’
They flew into Los Angeles from the bleak North Atlantic weather into the shimmering heat of California. Again, like Martha’s Vineyard, she found herself alone, staying in his immense secluded villa overlooking the glittering azure Pacific Ocean. The Philippine staff ignored her and for most of the time she sat on the veranda reading magazines and watching the surf spill over the rocks below to the music on the radio.
Kincaid started his day by quaffing his first shot glass of whiskey and taking her to his private screening room in the basement. To get her up to speed on the role she was being tested for, they watched the first reels of his latest epic about a knight from the court of Richard the Lion Heart taking refuge in a forest and avenging his fall from grace. 'Sounds like Robin Hood,' Eva observed. Kincaid had merely scowled. 'Yeah, well our leading man's a leap ahead of that drunken whoremonger Flynn! '
Kincaid's studios — Liberty Belle Studios off Sunset Boulevard — were a cavernous warren of sound stages laid out in all manner of guises, South Sea islands, mediaeval castle interiors, an English forest and a Wild West fort. Powerful lights lit up the sets and actors lolled on tables and chairs, smoking or reading scripts, waiting for their cue. Two Sioux Indians, resplendent in war paint, were playing Texas-hold-'em with three knights. The Indians were winning.
This morning was her screen test and despite herself she was nervous. She was being screen tested for the role of a 'plucky handmaid who helps the knight return to favour' — or so the top of her script read.
She was dressed for the part in a shimmering silver gown nipped in tight to her waist with a virgin white wimple framing her perfect cheekbones. The cameraman gave a thumbs-up. Lighting and Make Up made their final adjustments. The director, a rotund man with a horrific greying comb-over, yelled, 'Action!'
Eva immediately slipped into character, taking her naturally husky tone up in pitch and getting some 'pluckiness' into her risible dialogue. The extra, posed where the hero knight would stand, had his back to the shot and openly gawped at her breasts. When she finished her lines, he looked her in the eye and winked.
And that was the end of her test. The lights went off and the sound stages began to hum to the production teams preparing for the days filming.
Kincaid had spent most of his time during the day on the phone in his study, in meetings or hunched over his ticker tape machine. He would turn the air blue with his outbursts should a stock value drop several points. On particularly bad days he would sit sullenly at the dinner table drinking heavily. On more than one morning she would find him sprawled across the table at breakfast in a stupor, clutching ribbons of ticker tape.
Eva was wheeled out when it was party time, which meant every night, dressed in stunning gowns from plush studio wardrobes off set. Her hair and make-up was professionally done by studio staff and she was carefully hidden amid his entourage. In the media glare she would stay three of four paces back from him on the red carpet.
The parties in the villa were wild and Eva, inured to the cabaret life of Germany, was unfazed by the antics of Kincaid and his cronies, the night always ending up with someone overdosing on cocaine or some other substance. Kincaid’s personal physician, Dr Harry Gold, would be summoned in the dead of night and either administer a cure or load a body into his car.
Despite his chaotic lifestyle, she always felt safe on Kincaid's arm. He never let her out of his sight when the younger dashing actors milled around her at the parties and, to his credit, could always hold his drink when he had to. She kept her own drinking to a minimum and within a fortnight she had met an intimate circle of men about Kincaid's age. Some were oil men in California here to enjoy the pleasures of starlets; others were clearly military men in civilian clothes and Eva recognised another man from the party in Berlin. He was a large wheezing man, a pharmaceuticals magnate, full of bonhomie with an unbridled lust for skinny actresses. She only caught a glimpse of him coming into the villa and he hadn’t seen her. She didn't catch his name, but Kincaid was in thrall to him and almost a little fearful.
During the long empty afternoons in the mansion, she would write letters to Diana Mosley, knowing full well they would be intercepted and read. Eva, keeping the correspondence as light as possible, would slip in names, descriptions and the status of the men she met. Despite her best efforts, Kincaid refused to give her the name of the big man; he was simply known as ‘The Big Fellow’.
Four weeks into her stay, Kincaid burst into her room one morning with a telegram. 'I told you doll, I told you! It’s all starting to fall into place. Start packing. We're flying to Berlin tonight!'