'What really happened to him, anyway?'
'He got shot down,' Luis said. 'They invoked the law of gravity. No appeal against that, is there?'
She joined him on the balcony. 'Hey, let's keep it simple,' she said. 'Tell me what it is you don't care if I don't believe.'
Far below them, a chunky woman dressed in black wool from her shawl to her ankle-length skirt was tramping up the steep and narrow street. She carried a basket of fish on her head. 'That's what they call a wanna,' he said. 'She sells fish.'
'You don't say. Looks more like the king of Albania in drag.' She nudged him in the ribs. 'Come on.'
'Okay, I'll tell you. When the British Embassy kicked me cut I decided there was only one way to make them change their minds, and that was to get myself recruited by the Germans. You understand? Once I was working for the Abwehr I'd be much more useful to the British. That was :he whole damn idea.'
'Gee whiz.' She was genuinely impressed. 'I would never have thought of that. I'd never have dared think of that.'
'It seemed like a good idea at the time. I mean, I didn't know I was going to meet you,and Freddy.'
'But why didn't you go to England?'
'Because to make it work, I must send information to the Abwehr. I must be able to prove to the British that the Abwehr really trusts me.'
'Well, you could do that from England. You'd be far less likely to get found out by the Abwehr. I mean, what you're doing here is pretty dangerous, Luis.'
He gave her a sharp, sideways glance. 'And if the British caught me in England, transmitting secret information,' he said, 'would they believe it was all for their good in the long run?'
'Urn. Well,' she said. 'Yes. I see what you mean.'
'They hang people by the neck for doing that sort of thing.'
A tiny money-spider sailed across the balcony on its shining thread and crash-landed on her arm. She let it scramble over the downy slopes to her hand, and gently blew it away. 'What a brutal bloody business,' she said.
' Of course it is,' Luis told her. 'That's why it pays so well.'
They went inside. 'I still think you should go to the British,' she said.
'Yes.' He made a face. 'It's a great pity to interfere with an enterprise which is working so smoothly and earning so much money, but . . . If it has to be done . . .'
'Would you like me to arrange it?'
'Yes. Thank you.'
Colonel Christian didn't boot Wolfgang Adler off the Eldorado team; he let him drop, slowly, day by day and bit by bit. He gave him all the routine paperwork to do: filing, cross-referencing, summarising. Meanwhile the other Abwehr personnel got the exciting jobs as controllers of Eldorado and his sub-agents, and by the time their information reached Wolfgang it was stale. He was being sidetracked, and he knew it, and the knowledge fed his sense of grievance, of being cheated. What made this worse was Otto's sudden perkiness. Eagle had filed his first report. Compared with Eldorado's material it was no better than worthy: Eagle analysed the isolationist mood of American big business and did a short round-up of British rearmament in the year since Dunkirk. But Otto was delighted. 'He's making an effort, that's the main thing,' Otto told Wolfgang over breakfast. 'It's a start. You wait till he earns his first bonus. Then you'll see Eagle lay some golden eggs.' Wolfgang chewed his toast and looked away.
As it happened, the next delivery came from Eldorado; and as usual Wolfgang was not invited to share its contents.
It was a lengthy report, and it arrived only twenty minutes before Christian had to leave for Madrid's Barajas Airport. He rounded up Fischer, Werth, Krafft and Hartmann, packed them into the biggest Mercedes the embassy could provide, and farmed out pages for them to read on the way.
By the time they tramped onto the bright and breezy runway, every word had been read by at least two men. Otto Krafft had his notebook open for their comments. Richard?' Christian said.
'Well, sir, Knickers has been hanging around the pubs
near the R.A.F. bases again,' Fischer reported. 'I suggest
draw especial attention to his information about a new four-engined bomber; about an improved Spitfire with extra fuel-tanks; and about some special kind of radar code-named "Jam Tart". That's all he knows about it but he's digging. Also he says there's a serious shortage of aluminium because of the U-boat sinkings, and use of alternative materials in aircraft has led to several crashes. Nothing absolutely startling, sir, but I'd rate it all valuable and reliable stuff.'
Christian nodded. 'Franz?'
'Seagull also provides evidence that the U-boat war is really hurting the enemy, sir,' Werth announced. 'When the last convoy reached Liverpool, the port was sealed off in order to keep all news about the losses from the civilian
population; crews were not allowed ashore; and when the authorities ordered them to sail again, many mutinies broke out. That seems to me of major importance, sir. The only other item worth studying is a remarkable plan which Seagull has heard about. It involves towing a huge iceberg to mid-Atlantic and keeping it there as an R.A.F. airstrip, so that convoys can be given air cover throughout their voyage.'
Good heavens,' Christian said. 'Can that be done?' It's technically possible, yes.'
'You amaze me. Dr Hartmann? What do you make of Eldorado's own discoveries?'
'As usual, sir, the sheer quantity is impressive.' Hartman riffled the pages with his thumb. 'I recommend three topics which should repay special examination. The first is the marked increase in Commando training, with clear implications for coastal security throughout northern Europe. The second is the secret arrival in London of a purchasing commission from Soviet Russia; Eldorado has some interesting information on that. The third is an outbreak of sabotage in certain aircraft factories in Yorkshire; Eldorado links this with the employment of French refugees from a nearby camp. There is obvious propaganda potential there. Of course it goes without saying that Eldorado's entire report is a pleasure to read, sir, but those are the three main points.'
'Good.' Christian took the pages, and Otto's notes, and stuffed them all into his briefcase. 'Did they miss anything, Otto?' he asked.
'Nothing important, sir. There's just one small point worth noting.'
'Cough it up, then.'
'I don't know whether you remember the Canadian Lowflying Bombardiers, sir?' The aircraft was ready for boarding; they strolled toward the steps. 'Eldorado sent us a few lines on them, two weeks ago.'
'Yes . . . Didn't he meet an officer, in Oxford? In a bar, wasn't it?'
'The Randolph Hotel, yes. Eldorado got into conversation about his shoulder-badge, which bore the initials C.L.B. It seems that the man must have been joking. Eldorado has discovered that he is in fact a major in the Church Lads' Brigade. That's an organisation rather like the Boy Scouts, only godlier.'
Colonel Christian laughed so much that he stumbled on the aircraft steps and banged his shin. 'That's the cherry on the cake!" he called down, rubbing his leg vigorously. 'Give that man a bonus!'
He disappeared into the cabin. Ten minutes later he was in the sky, heading for Germany, a conference with the head of the Abwehr, Admiral Canaris, and a deserved promotion to brigadier.
Chapter 47
Walter Witteridge looked as if he should have been the headmaster of some minor cathedral school. His build was angular, his face suggested skin uncomfortably stretched over a thrusting skull, and his large teeth flashed frequently in an apprehensive smile. Even in the heat of a Lisbon summer, he wore a tweed suit. Luis Cabrillo had never been inside a school commonroom but he had read enough English novels to know how people were supposed to sound in them; and as soon as he heard Walter Witteridge speak, he recognised those tortured vowels: sometimes stretched thin as if to see if the words would snap; sometimes over-inflated, as if the statements were trial balloons, sent up only to be shot down. Luis found it difficult not to twitch and grimace in imitation of the man.
'May I tell you what I find most frightfully intriguing?' Walter Witte
ridge said, hunching and twisting his body as if his underwear chafed. 'It's this. How, Mr Cabrillo, did you come to ask for an appointment with me? That is to say, with me specifically?' He suddenly scratched the very top of his head, fluffing up the sandy hair. 'How impertinent that sounds! You are fully entitled to ignore it. Let it be stricken from the records. Stricken? Struck?' He glanced longingly at his bookshelf. 'I am an idle fellow, Mr Cabrillo. Pray forgive me.'
'My secretary did it,' Luis said.
'Ah.' Witteridge widened his eyes. 'But then how--'
'She called a friend in the American Embassy in Madrid. He called a colleague in Lisbon, who suggested we should approach you.'
'Fascinating. When one is nominally a member of the Secret Service, you see, these little glimpses have a certain piquancy . . . It is as if one were a voyeur upon oneself.'
'I think he met you at a cocktail party.'
'I'm sure he's absolutely correct. Americans are so blindingly efficient, aren't they? One suspects that their efficiency is a byproduct of their constantly-repeated faith in a Divine Providence. D'you know, before all this unpleasantness broke out I was tempted to write a book called When God Dies, Will He Go To America?
'How interesting,' Luis said.
Witteridge coiled his arms around his head and peered at Luis from behind his splayed fingers. 'My dear fellow,' he said, 'I have been boring you.'
'Not at all.' Luis sat back. 'You must be that Walter Witteridge, the journalist and writer and so on.'
Witteridge nodded glumly. 'Currently I seem to be in my so-on phase. Have you read my book, There's No Future In Progress?'
Luis nodded.
'How awfully gratifying.' But Walter Witteridge seemed saddened.
'I have read all your books,' Luis said.
Witteridge slowly looked up. 'Have you really?' he said. 'Really all?' Now he seemed thoroughly depressed. There was a long pause while he stared past Luis's left ear. Then he braced himself, and engineered a brave, tormented smile. 'I expect you'd like some tea,' he suggested.
'No,' said Luis, firmly. 'I want to tell you why I'm here.'
Witteridge opened his arms wide, and appealed to an invisible audience. 'Why not?' he asked.
Luis told him.
'How fascinating,' Witteridge said, 'And how totally admirable.'
'Well . . . thank you.'
'Not only have you duped the Abwehr in a commendably skilful manner, but you have contrived to make a comfortable living out of it.'
'I suppose so.'
'Then I must congratulate you.' Witteridge came around the desk and shook his hand. 'I do congratulate you.' He completed the circuit and got back into his chair.
'You're very kind,' Luis said. 'I was rather hoping that you would give me some help.'
'My dear chap, I doubt if the British Secret Service could negotiate better terms with the Abwehr on your behalf. My advice is to carry on.'
Luis explained his concern about the risk of inventing information which might accidentally benefit the German war effort.
'Oh ..." Walter Witteridge squeezed and squashed his face into an expression of intense thought. 'Frightfully remote possibility, don't you think? I mean, you would have to be jolly good, wouldn't you? I know you are jolly good. What I'm saying, I suppose, is you'd have to be jolly jolly pood, quite phenomenally jolly good.'
'It could happen, all the same.'
Witteridge entwined his legs, and hooked an arm over and under the arm of his chair. 'If it did ever happen,' he suggested, 'you could always pop round and tell us about it.'
'How could I? I've no way of knowing whether it's happened or not. That's why I thought it was time I started working with your people.'
'My dear boy,' Witteridge said, 'if you think our chaps are going to supply you with dummy information so that you can stay in business with the enemy--'
'No, no. I'm proposing to come and join you, work for you.'
'While continuing to take money from the Germans?.
Luis gestured helplessly. 'There's no alternative to that. They've got to pay me, otherwise--'
Witteridge was shaking his head. 'I don't think the British Secret Service goes in for the sort of thing, old chap. I mean, we're still very oldfashioned about loyalties: if you come to work for us, then you really ought to resign from the competition. Frightfully stuffy and Victorian, I agree, and frankly I very much question the value of it, but there you ire.'
'But if I leave the Abwehr,' Luis said, 'what use will I be to the British Secret Service?'
Walter Witteridge sucked his lips while he considered the question. He slid open a drawer and took out a typewritten paper. 'How willing are you,' he asked, 'to be parachuted into Occupied Europe?'
'Not at all.'
'Then I'm afraid that settles the matter.' Witteridge put the paper back. 'At the moment, so I'm told, we're only looking for chaps who don't mind leaping into the night over France. I wouldn't do it, either; not in a million years.'
Luis stared at him. Witteridge grinned reassuringly. 'So you don't need me at all, then,' Luis said.
'Isn't it more a case of your not needing us? Let me be wildly indiscreet, Mr Cabrillo. I honestly don't believe you would benefit terribly from contact with the people here. Most of them, I've found, are rather dense.'
'Dense?'
'Unimagina'tive. I may say I was disappointed. I certainly expected better things when they recruited me. Brighter things.'
Luis stood. 'All the same,' he said, 'I wish there were some way of eliminating that risk.'
'Put it out of your mind, dear boy,' Witteridge assured him. 'Your little business will obviously go bust within six months, so your anxiety is redundant.'
'Six months, you reckon?' Luis said.
'At the absolute extreme. Nothing lasts in wartime, old chap; nothing. Come back in six months and I doubt very much if even I shall be here.'
Luis returned to the office. Julie stopped typing. 'What did they say?' she asked.
'Buzz off,' Luis said.
She waited. 'Was that all?'
'All that mattered. By the way, I called at the bank afterwards.' He showed her the bank statement. 'See? Another fat bonus. Somebody appreciates us.'
Chapter 48
Eagle, at his third attempt, laid a golden egg. It made Otto Krafft, his contoller, quite proud.
'Operation Bandstand,' Christian (now a brigadier) read aloud. 'The invasion of Norway by an Allied force of not less than six divisions including airborne troops, supported by major elements of the British Home Fleet and ..." He fell silent, and raced through the rest of the report with only an occasional muttered comment: '. . . massive mine laying in the Skagerrak . . . co-ordinated civilian uprising . . . decoy attack on Stavanger . . . main bridgehead south of Bergen . . .'At the end he sat for a moment, staring at the final words while his fingers made a little ripple of sound on the paper. He looked up. 'Good for Eagle,' he said.
'I think he deserves an extra bag of birdseed, sir,' said Otto.
'Yes indeed. Send the man buckets of birdseed. I told you Canaris approved my budget proposals? Well, that's what money is for: to keep people like Eagle happy and productive. Chuck the stuff at him with both hands. This is excellent, isn't it? A lot better than his other efforts.'
'I don't think he quite got the hang of it at first, sir,' Otto said. 'But now that he's in London on a long visit, I expect we'll hear a lot from him.'
Christian glanced at the date on the front. 'Only four days old,' he said. 'That's fast.'
'Airmail via Oporto. Eagle's branch office.'
'Yes, of course. Every eagle needs a branch.' Christian flipped through the pages again. 'Norway is a very attractive target for the British, you know. Not far from Scotland, lots of sea for their great big navy to play in, and a chance to cut off supplies of whatever-it-is we get from Scandinavia.'
'Iron ore, sir.'
'Yes. You know, I might prepare a few deft observations on the subject, for
Berlin.'
'Don't forget the Russian aspect, sir. I mean to say, with Leningrad about to fall, Stalin must be screaming at the British to do something to relieve the pressure. Operation Bandstand could well be it.'
'Very good, Otto!' Christian bounced to his feet and thrust Eagle's report into his hands. 'By the time you've got that coded I'll have the covering signal ready. Schnell, schnell! He sent Otto trotting happily from the room.
It was •early evening, and the light was as soft as honey. Luis Cabrillo was paging through the 1923 Michelin Guide, looking for Derby, because he thought Rolls-Royce had a factory there, when Stalactite Caverns caught his eyes. According to Michelin they were something to see in Cheddar (Somerset), population 1,975, market day Wednesday. How interesting.
He left Derby and looked up Somerset in Jasper Stem-bridge. Jasper knew all about Cheddar and its limestone. He said the rain ran into cracks, dissolved the limestone, and hollowed out caves. There was even a photograph of one, looking very cold. Luis turned to the GWR Holiday Haunts. It went on at some length about the famous Cheddar caverns that run for more than 600 yards, and included a smart backhander at unthinking people who condemned their exploitation without appreciating how much It cost to install the electric lighting.
'Damn right,' Luis said, making a note of the page. Julie looked up from the latest Abwehr briefing letter. 'Caves,' he explained. 'I can use caves.'
'Oh yes,' she said. 'I remember the picture. They look kind of like railroad tunnels, don't they?'
Luis went back to the photograph. The cave interior looked more like a heap of coal, and there was definitely only one of it. 'Railroad tunnels?' he said. 'This?'
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