'I have decided that it is time for you two to get to know each other,' Christian said. Otto smiled and rubbed his hands.
'You seem very happy,' Luis remarked.
'I believe this could be a great combination,' Otto said. 'The Rolls-Royce of German espionage.'
'That makes me Henry Royce," Ryan said, 'because you, Luis, must obviously be the young Lord Rolls, who died at the sadly early age of thirty-three.'
Everybody laughed.' Ryan spoke so easily and unaffectedly that he was irresistible.
'Let's make it Mercedes and Benz,' Luis said.
'Make it Donner and Blitzen, Castor and Pollux, or cheese and pickles,' said Christian, 'but just make it work. You'll both be going to England at the same time. I want you to co-operate and help each other. From now on you'll train together.'
'Splendid,' Ryan said. 'At last I have someone to talk cricket with.'
'I said training,' Christian told him sharply, 'not gossip.'
'My poor fish, understanding the gossip is part of the
training,' Ryan replied, and Luis saw how confidently the
Englishman countered. 'It's no good tapping a British general's line if you don't know what he means when you hear him say he's going to open his shoulders.' Ryan blinked three times. 'For instance.'
Christian looked at the dots of dust eternally wandering through the bars of sunlight. Otto breathed deeply and held his breath as if waiting for orders. 'What does it mean?' Christian grunted.
'Oh, it means he's going to try to collar the bowling and biff it for six,' Ryan said, smiling gently. Otto exhaled. Christian frowned at him. 'You might say it means he's thinking of stepping down the wicket and using the long handle,' Ryan added. 'Wouldn't you say?' he asked Luis
'Possibly,' Luis said. 'An awful lot depends on what school the chap went to.'
'That's enough of that,' Christian said. 'Now go and work.' He looked stiff and uncomfortable.
'Damned huns have absolutely no sense of humour,' Ryan remarked as they walked down the corridor. 'Isn't that right, Otto?'
'I expect so.' Krafft was checking through some typewritten papers. 'If all goes well, you will finish your training at the end of next week and leave for England as soon as possible.' He folded the papers and put them away. 'Until then, you are not to meet outside the embassy.'
'What rubbish,' Ryan said.
'Colonel Christian's orders.'
'Christian's an ass. Of course we shall meet outside. Come and have a game of tennis at my club, Luis.'
'A pleasure, Frederick.'
They looked at Otto. 'I shall have to report this to Colonel Christian,' he muttered.
'Well, tell him he can come too: we'll need a ball-boy. This place is quite extraordinary," Ryan said to Luis. 'I haven't met so many buffoons under one roof since I was cashiered from the Royal Horse Artillery.
Luis enjoyed the next few days enormously. They were busy, funny, well paid, and laced with sex. He had never slept so soundly nor woken with such an appetite. Everything gave him pleasure, because it involved being with either Freddy Ryan or Julie Conroy, and they were delightful companions. Different, but delightful.
With Freddy the work was always fun. He treated the embassy tutors with a kind of cheerful contempt, as if they were tradesmen of low intelligence, or distant relatives who had to be discouraged from trying to borrow money. Franz Werth in particular did not know what to make of him. Freddy usually took charge of their Morse-buzzer lessons after the first two minutes: just long enough for Franz to start sounding authoritative, for instance on the subject of consistency:
'This cannot be overemphasised. Never rush your transmission, no matter how long the message, no matter what pressures you may feel. The first essential--'
'What have you got there?' Freddy asked.
Franz looked at the sheaf of papers with which he was gesturing. 'Today's test messages. They--'
'Don't be a complete idiot, Franz, we did that lot last week.'
'No, these are new. I--'
'Chuck 'em over.' Freddy stretched out a hand.
'You cannot have seen them before.' Franz tapped the papers nervously against his palm. 'It is impossible.'
'Soon tell you that. Come on, let's see the evidence.' Freddy's critical tone, steady gaze and outstretched hand were too much for Franz. He surrendered the papers.
'Hmm . . .' Freddy gave half to Luis. They glanced through them in silence. .;,-: Franz began: 'I assure you--'
'Hush!' Freddy collected the papers again. 'What do you think, old chap?' he said. 'Deadly dull, isn't it?'
'I never thought much of it the first time,' Luis replied.
Freddy got up, dumped the papers in a waste basket and dusted his hands. 'Now then!' he said briskly, 'let's see what else you have in stock.'
'Why . . . nothing.' Franz headed for the waste basket but Freddy stepped into it and began trampling the papers. 'Those were new messages,' Franz insisted, 'I chose them myself--'
'Don't try and deceive us, you dreadful hun. We're professionals at the game, remember? Fortunately for you ..." Freddy, still casually trampling, pulled a book from his pocket: Lady Chatterley's Lover. '. . . I have a humorous novel which should fill the gap nicely. Will you wash or dry?' he asked Luis.
'Dry,' Luis said. He opened the message-pad. Freddy sat down at the buzzer. 'Chapter 17 is pretty fruity,' Luis suggested.
'I shall make a real effort to stop my hand trembling.' Freddy began transmitting. 'You're too immature for this stuff, Franz,' he said without looking up. 'Go and get some coffee.'
Franz's chubby features sagged with guilt and worry.
'And doughnuts,' said Luis, scribbling and dough before he caught himself and crossed it out and got back to the transmission.
'This cannot--'
'For God's sake stop interrupting.' Freddy paused, and pounded the book flat with a sudden angry thunder. 'What do you want? Money?'
'No, no--'
'I should bloody well think not. Luis, you haven't been lending him money, have you?'
Luis sucked his breath in and shook his head.
'Damn right, old chap.' Freddy rapped out an indignant stutter of Morse. 'Damn right.' Franz walked away and looked out of the window while they got on with the lesson. After a while he went out and came back with coffee. "The thing you have to understand about the English,' Freddy was saying, 'is they're all snobs. Even the meanest, sorriest, most wretched of them'. They looked up. 'No doughnuts,' Franz said. They looked at each other, eyebrows raised in silent disapproval. 'And that is the last time I ever bring you coffee!' Franz shouted. He put the tray down so violently that he spilled the stuff.
'If that's your attitude, my good fellow,' Freddy said quietly, 'I don't care to have any.- Take it away, it's interfering with our work. And I warn you: if you ever ask me for money. I shall report you to Colonel Christian.'
'I have never asked for money!'
'I should think not. You don't get people in British intelligence,' Freddy told Luis, 'borrowing money from the agents. They wouldn't dream of it.'
Franz Werth was relatively easy meat: he was just a signals technician, blinkered by his work, nervous of straying outside it. But Freddy manipulated all their tutors, varying his approach according to each man's character and interests. Otto's weakness, Luis discovered, was humour. He could not resist jokes. Freddy knew dozens. In the middle of a lecture on the Abwehr's safe-house system in southern England, Otto mentioned a building called 'Abbey Gates' near Swindon. Freddy raised a finger. 'Extraordinary coincidence. Last time I was in Swindon-- which, incidentally, is often described as the arsehole of England, and frankly, having visited Swindon several times, I think that remark is an insult to the British rectum-- anyway . . . What was I saying?'
'Extraordinary coincidence,' Otto said, already hooked.
'Yes, This man Delahaye, Major Delahaye, they say he introduced the head-on attack when he was in the Royal Flying Corps. He flew head-on at the stinking
enemy -- that was your chaps, Otto-- and the first man to give way presented an easy target.'
'Evidently Delahaye never gave way,' Luis said. He swung his feet onto Otto's desk.
'Never, "De-constipate or bust", that was Delahaye's motto. According to his adjutant Delahaye never knew the meaning of fear. I doubt if he knew the meaning of many other words, either, but that's not the point.'
'This has something to do with Swindon?' Otto inquired, as a gesture to responsibility.
'Patience, Otto, patience. The trouble with these Prussians,' Freddy said to Luis, 'no self-control. Headstrong, impetuous fellows. Awfully good at hacking each other about the face with sabres, but I sometimes ask myself: is that the way to get on in the world? Is it, Luis?'
'It's a beginning, I suppose,' Luis said. 'Unless one of them hacks too hard, in which case it could be an end.'
'Could indeed. That sort of thing wouldn't have appealed to Delahaye, especially when they put him in charge of security at the Spitfire factory . . . Otto, you're looking rather pale. Isn't he looking rather pale, Luis?'
'I think it's all this unarmed-comb at training.' Luis was rapidly learning how to pick up Freddy's clues. 'You've been overdoing it, Otto.'
'Why don't you send for some nice cold beer?' Freddy suggested. 'My God, you've certainly earned it.'
Together they stared with concern at Otto's paleness.
'You stay there, old chap,' Freddy said, half-rising, 'I'll get them to--'
'Please!' Reluctantly Otto picked up the telephone and ordered three cold beers.
'I don't think he's been getting enough sleep,' Luis said to Freddy.
'I'm sure he hasn't. How much sleep have you been getting, Otto?'
'Please. I feel fine. You were talking about the Spitfire factory in Swindon.'
'The beer will do him good,' Freddy murmured. 'Anyway,' he went on, 'Stubby Delahaye-- he was only five-foot-four, you know -- Stubby bought me a drink one day and told me a remarkable story about the wife of his managing director. While the chap was at work building lots of lovely Spitfires to play havoc with the poor bloody Luftwaffe-- that's your crowd, Otto -- she was being unfaithful. Committing rather a lot of adultery, which is the sort of thing you get stoned to death for in Arabia, but not in Swindon. The soil's all wrong, very little stone, lots of rather sticky clay which clings to the fingers, you can't chuck it more than about seven feet and even then it has very little impact.' Freddy made feeble throwing gestures.
'Extraordinary the way geography shapes people's manners,' Luis remarked.
'She was unfaithful, you say,' Otto prompted.
'With any man who would lie still for five minutes. The lady was rabid, absolutely rabid with lust. It's not an uncommon thing in certain sectors of the British middle class, Luis. Chaps like us have to be damned careful. You get invited round for sherry and the next thing you know the bank manager's wife whips your bags off and seizes you warmly by the origin of species. Terrifying.'
'Good God . . .' Luis whistled. 'Still, I expect they do things differently in Prussia, don't they, Otto? More formality?'
Otto said: 'We seem to be losing the point.'
'Exactly what the bank manager's wife told me on more than one occasion.' Freddy said. 'An extremely impatient lady.'
'You know, for the risks we run,' Luis remarked. 'I really think the Abwehr ought to pay us more, don't you, Freddy? I mean, dash it all . . .'
'Swindon,' Otto insisted. 'Spitfires, adultery.'
'Oh yes.' Freddy shook his head sadly. 'Tragedy, really. Shows just how corrupt and degenerate the British have become. Even the Catholics, and this was a Catholic family. What happened was their little boy, a precocious brat, noticed what was going on, and after each infidelity he pedalled off on his tricycle to pay a call on the lucky man, looked him straight in the eye, and offered to sell him his teddy-bear for five pounds.'
'A lot of money,' Luis said. 'That's a week's pay.'
'It's incredible,' Otto said.
'Government statistics,' Luis protested.
'Five pounds,' Freddy repeated firmly. 'Every time his mum wandered off the straight and narrow path, sonny followed through and sold the man his teddy-bear for a fiver. Well, dad was fully occupied at the Spitfire factory, mum was keeping herself amused, and sonny was getting rich quick selling teddy-bears -- so much so that his mother began to suspect. She noticed all the banknotes stuffed inside his rompers.' Freddy stopped and looked away.
'Well, go on,' Otto demanded. 'What happened?'
Freddy sighed. 'I had a very unhappy childhood, you know,' he said. 'People were rotten to me. I'd rather not be reminded of it, if you don't mind.'
'But I do mind. I want to know what happened.' Otto was half-pleading, half-threatening.
'All right. All right, if you insist. It's very tragic, it really is. The kid wouldn't tell his mother how he got the money so she packed him off to confession. The priest said "What d'you want?" And the kid said, "I've come to confess." "Thank God for that," the priest said, "I thought you were going to sell me another bloody teddy-bear." '
Otto stared for a moment, and then burst out laughing. 'Very good!' he cried. 'Excellent! I must remember ...'
'And today,' Freddy added firmly, tapping his forefinger on the desk, 'that boy is Governor of the Bank of England and plays inside-right for Tottenham Hotspur.'
Otto, by now well alight, went off into further fits of laughter. 'He hasn't the vaguest idea what Tottenham Hotspur is,' Freddy said. "Tottenham Hotspur is in fact a first-class football team.'
'Well, that's never been completely proved,' Luis said.
Otto got his lungs under control. 'And now, to get back to the Abwehr's safe-house system,' he began.
'I haven't finished yet,' Freddy said. The beer came, the picaresque adventures of the Swindon Spitfire factory's managing director's wife continued to grip Otto; and Luis marvelled at Freddy's fluent, effortless dominance.
He seemed to know something about everything. He could talk about aircraft with Wolfgang/Pongo (who, Luis discovered, was an ex-pilot), about journalism with Richard Fischer, about short-wave radio with Dr Hartmann. Luis was fairly sure that Freddy made up half of everything he told them, but he was never sure which half it was. 'Funny thing,' Freddy told Wolfgang, 'seven out of nine murderers in the state of Michigan have brown eyes. And sixty per cent of them are lefthanded. And threequarters are unemployed.'
'That is quite remarkable,' Wolfgang agreed.
'When I was over there, the Michigan police did an experiment. They rounded up all the lefthanded brown-eyed unemployed they could lay their hands on. The murder rate fell almost to zero.'
'What happened when they set them free?'.Luis asked.
'Total carnage,' Freddy said. 'Look here, Wolfgang: can't you get hold of some better detonators than this? The Mexican guerillas stopped using this rubbish twenty years ago.'
Wolfgang, who was supposed to be coaching them in sabotage techniques, began defending the quality of his detonators.
'They're junk,' Freddy scoffed cheerfully. 'I remember we used to use them as firelighters in Manchuria in '34. They're not bad firelighters provided you soak them in paraffin overnight . . . Still, if this is the best the Third Reich can do, I suppose ...'
'Give me a chance, Freddy, for heaven's sake,' Wolfgang said. 'I'll try to get something better. What were you doing in Manchuria in '34?'
Freddy was equally brisk with Fischer's secret inks and Dr Hartmann's radios. 'It's gnat's-piss, old boy,' he said to Fischer. 'And what's more I'm pretty sure the gnat was glad to be rid of it.' Dr Hartmann was halfway through his talk on the repair and maintenance of Abwehr transmitters when Freddy exclaimed: 'Dundonald!' and slapped his thigh. Hartmann and Luis stared, 'jock Dundonald at Cambridge!' Freddy explained eagerly. 'I've been trying to remember his name all day. Now he could get one for me.'
'One what?' Hartmann asked.
'A Shoebox. The American miniature version of the Russian's Obolens
ky ultra-long-range transmitter. Jock works for GPO research, they're bound to have a few going spare, and Jock owes me a favour or two . . . Yes, of course. The very man.'
'I am not familiar with anything by anyone called Obolensky,' Hartmann said warily.
'Oh, old Obo's dead,' Freddy said. 'In any case he pinched the idea from Beiderbecke.'
'Ah.' Hartmann polished his glasses. 'Beiderbecke. Now his name is familiar to me, but I cannot quite place his work.'
'Not surprising. Bix Beiderbecke, bit of a recluse, not the sort of chap to blow his own trumpet.'
Luis's brow cleared. 'Of course!' he said.
Freddy hurried on. 'They call it the Shoebox because that's about the size of it. Nice and compact.'
Hartmann replaced his glasses, 'Ultra-long-range, you said?'
'Fairly ultra. They used to experience slight distortion above ten thousand miles, but Jock Dundonald was working on that, he's probably got the answer by now . . . Sorry, doctor. Didn't mean to interrupt your lesson.'
'It's not possible, a shoebox.' Hartmann looked unhappily at the standard Abwehr equipment. It filled a large suitcase. 'How can it be possible?'
'Jock explained it to me once, but I'm afraid I wasn't paying much attention.' Hartmann threw up his hands in shocked dismay. 'The crucial thing, I seem to remember,' Freddy went on, 'is the way the Shoebox sort of kidnaps the local electricity network and converts it into an enormous free antenna for transmitting signals and things.'
'I say, that's clever!' Luis said, not understanding a word of it. Hartmann's head swung and stared at him, heavy with anxiety.
'It cannot be done,' he said, in the voice of a non-swimmer trapped on a raft. 'It is a scientific impossibility.'
'Well, all I know is I saw Jock unplug his Hoover, plug in his Shoebox, and start talking to some bloke in British Columbia,' Freddy said.
'I must inform Berlin of this.'
'Not that they had much to say to each other,' Freddy added. 'What's-the-weather-like-with-you, that sort of thing.'
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