“I’m assuming Frain’s told you about us,” Masterman began.
“Yes, sir,” Hugh replied. “About how MI-Five has been capturing German agents and turning them to our side.”
“There haven’t been that many, but when we do pick them up, they’re taken to the London Cage or Camp 020 at Latchmere House. Then we see if we can turn them.” Masterman gave one of his dour smiles. “We even take their pay and put it toward the war effort.”
“What about those who won’t turn?” Hugh asked. He knew about one captured German spy in particular, Josef Jakobs, who had parachuted into Ramsey in Huntingdonshire in January. Jakobs had been picked up by the Home Guard, who found that he’d broken his ankle when he landed. When arrested, he was still wearing his flying suit and carrying forged papers, a radio, British pounds, and a German sausage.
“He was tried in camera and found guilty under the Treachery Act of 1940. He was sentenced and executed by firing squad in the Tower of London only a week or so ago.”
“I see,” Hugh said.
“One of the other captured spies, hearing of Jakobs’s fate, has proved much more amenable. We’ve been able to persuade him to work as a double agent for us.” Masterman grimaced. “The key word to remember with double agents is disinformation. We feed them disinformation to send back to their contacts at Abwehr in Berlin. However—and this is a big however—we must also include some true information, to make the false seem credible. So it’s a game, really. A very, very high-stakes game.”
A seagull flying overhead shrieked. “Yes, sir.”
“Our prisoner’s a German, name of Stefan Krueger. You’ll be working with him.”
“Sir?”
“Krueger was an Abwehr S-chain agent—parachuted into Britain at the end of 1940, with the task of blowing up a factory producing Spitfires. However, he was picked up immediately and turned himself over to MI-Five. He was sent to Latchmere House and interrogated at length by Lieutenant Colonel Robertson. Do you know Robertson?”
“I know of him, sir.”
“Robertson’s a good judge of character. And he pegged this one immediately. Called him vain—said he thought of himself as something of a ‘prince of the underworld.’ ”
Hugh’s lips twisted into a sardonic half smile.
“But he’s more of a mercenary. Krueger has no scruples and will stop at nothing. He plays for high stakes and would like the whole world to know it. He himself knows nothing of fear, and no feeling at all of patriotism—which is all to the good, actually. He feels no loyalty to Hitler or the Nazis. Right now he works with us because it suits him and because he’s getting perks and extras that he wouldn’t normally get in prison, like being able to live under room arrest at the Queen’s House at the Tower of London.”
Hugh’s gaze went to the medieval fortress they were heading toward. Now the meeting place made sense. “What’s he involved with?”
“Krueger has duped the Germans into believing—with the help of faked photographs provided by MI-Five—that he carried out a successful sabotage attack on the Spitfire factory, at the Supermarine facility in Woolston, Southampton.” Masterman gave a bark of a laugh and opened his large black umbrella as heavy drops of rain began to fall. “MI-Five agents dumped rubble around the site and we planted a story in the Daily Express about the so-called raid. His handlers at Abwehr bought everything.”
“Fantastic, sir.” Hugh had forgotten his own umbrella and was getting soaked. “That’s quite a coup,” he said, ignoring the water drops drenching his best suit.
“Glad you think so,” Masterman replied. “Because you’re going to be in charge of his next ‘mission.’ It’s been sent via code.” The older man pulled out a piece of paper. “This is what we intercepted.”
Hugh accepted the scrap of paper, raindrops splattering it, making the ink bleed. The letters and numbers made no sense to him.
NAF9H20
51649900161
515700247
51604700350
51595000479
51588900466
51588480049782
5158165005055
515804570056176
515764560058494
He memorized it, then handed it back to Masterman, who tucked it into his breast pocket. “Code, sir?”
“Yes. And although we have his cipher disk, it hasn’t helped at all. So we’ll show it to Krueger, but we’ll also need to have one of our best men at Bletchley working on it. I suggest Edmund Hope. He’s done some work with Frain. You’ve worked with him, too, correct?”
“Uh, yes,” Hugh said. He tried not to grimace.
“You’ll need to get him on this.” Masterman looked closely at Hugh’s face. “I hope that won’t pose a problem, Mr. Thompson?”
“No, sir,” he lied. “Of course not, sir.”
Just as the rain eased up, the two men arrived at the Tower of London.
A former Norman keep, surrounded by thick stone walls, the Tower wasn’t actually a single tower but a cluster of buildings—Norman, medieval, Tudor—topped with ornate weathervanes and gruesome gargoyles. Over the centuries, it had been an infamous prison: Queen Elizabeth I, Sir Walter Raleigh, Samuel Pepys, and countless unknowns had been kept there; many of them—including Queen Elizabeth’s own mother—had left minus their heads.
The Tower had been closed to the public in 1939, just before Parliament had declared war on Germany. It was now being used for military purposes under the name the Tower Prisoner of War Collection Center. It had sustained some bomb damage but was still basically intact.
Hugh and Masterman showed their identification to the Yeoman Warders at the East Drawbridge entrance, then were met and taken inside by the Constable of the Tower, Sir Claud William Jacob. “Welcome to His Majesty’s Royal Palace and Fortress, gentlemen.”
Together, the three men walked through the rain to the Queen’s House, a row of Tudor buildings with their decorative half-timbering on a square green. A few ravens strutted through the lush grass.
They went to one of the Tudor doors, guarded by two Yeomen Warders, and were let in by yet another Yeoman. He led them up the narrow stairs to the top floor, and opened a multitude of locks. The men then walked inside the chamber.
The walls were thick and the windows narrow. There was an empty fireplace built into one wall, and a sink and toilet on the other. An unmade bed stood on one end, and a makeshift desk piled high with papers and books sat near the windows.
A young man with a full head of dark hair and a small pencil mustache looked up from reading at his low desk. “To what do I owe this honor?” he asked in perfect English.
“Good morning, Krueger,” the Constable said. “You know Masterman. And this is—”
Masterman took over the introduction. “This is Agent Hugh Thompson. Thompson, meet Mr. Stefan Krueger.”
Hugh nodded, not quite sure what Tower etiquette was. The Constable withdrew, but the Yeoman kept guard with the door open.
“Please, gentlemen—sit down,” Krueger said. Hugh and Masterman sat on the thin mattress of the bed.
“Time for another mission, Herr Krueger,” Masterman said.
“Yes,” Krueger said, looking pleased, glancing at Hugh. “I thought it might be. My handlers get nervous when I don’t check in for a while.”
“And they’ve been in contact.” Masterman handed Krueger the piece of paper. “I assume you’ve tried using the disk?”
“Yes.” Krueger shrugged. “It doesn’t work, and these letters and numbers don’t mean anything to me, I’m afraid.” He handed the paper back.
“We’re going to get our people on it,” Masterman told him. “When we’ve broken it, we’ll come back to you.”
Hugh cocked his head. “Who’s your handler at the Abwehr?”
“Why?” Krueger grinned. “You have friends in Germany?”
Hugh was silent.
“Mr. Krueger,” Masterman said, warning in his voice.
“All right, all right,” t
he German said. “I work with two agents, named Ritter and Krause.” Hugh didn’t recognize the names. Then Krueger continued. “They work under someone they call The Boss. Have you heard of him?”
A wave of hatred hit Hugh with full force. He nodded a silent yes, but he knew more than Krueger—that The Boss was actually a woman. That she was, in fact, Maggie’s mother.
And yes, Hugh had heard of her, knew her all too well, in fact—because years ago she had assassinated his father.
He felt hate stir in him, hot and bitter. Hugh wasn’t the kind of man who acted rashly. He didn’t shout, he didn’t slam, but what he did do was obsess in silence, until his anger grew to incandescence.
The train came to a stop at Lehrter Bahnhof in Berlin with the hiss of steam and the screech of brakes. Maggie grabbed her suitcase from the overhead luggage shelf. I’m here! she thought, her heart racing. Berlin!
Maggie’s ideas of Germany had always been informed by the country’s famous mathematicians—Friedrich Bessel, Bernhard Riemann, and David Hilbert—and its famous schools—the Universities of Göttingen, Munich, and Würzburg. And the Berlin of her imagination was the city of the golden thirties—a film directed by Ernst Lubitsch, starring Marlene Dietrich, with Bauhaus sets, and a score by Kurt Weill.
Of course, that Germany, that Berlin, was long gone—replaced by the Third Reich.
And her immediate mission? To find Gottlieb Lehrer. Pretend you’re in love, pretend you’re in love, she admonished herself, which only seemed to make her more nervous. Love was one thing she didn’t want to think about. And certainly not about Hugh. Or John. They told you at Beaulieu—stay in the present. Don’t think of the past or the future—you’ll just get in trouble that way.
Lehrter Bahnhof was the largest railway station in Europe, called “the palace among stations.” But all the terminal’s neo-Renaissance grandeur was lost on Maggie as she sat on a hard wooden bench in the thick, humid heat. She resettled her hat, pulled at her gloves, and kept a close eye on the handbag on her lap and the suitcase at her feet. Gottlieb would be wearing a boutonniere of blue forget-me-nots, she’d been told, to match the forget-me-nots on her own specially made hat. To give herself something distracting to do, she pulled out her knitting. Better practice before meeting Berlin’s Madame Defarge.
As Maggie began a row of stockinet stitch, she was approached by two police officers. “Good morning, gnädiges Fräulein,” said the taller one, sporting a thick white mustache. He was older, too old for the army most likely, as was his shorter and leaner partner.
“Good morning, officers,” Maggie said brightly, slipping the knitting back into her handbag. She’d hoped that, as a woman, she would pass through Berlin unobtrusively. Apparently not.
“Where are you coming from?”
“Hannover Hauptbahnhof,” Maggie answered, forcing herself to smile.
“And what are you doing in Berlin?”
A few people stopped and watched her being questioned. There was too much attention on her. Maggie’s heart began to beat faster. “I’m meeting a friend.”
“A friend?”
She felt light-headed. The fluorescent overhead lights suddenly seemed blinding and the wooden bench beneath her very hard. Well, here goes nothing. “A special friend.” Maggie tried her best to look coquettish.
The two officers exchanged a look. “And what do you have in your suitcase?”
If they opened her suitcase, they would find both the crystals and the transmitting device. Some instinct, raw, primal, and strong, took over.
“Explosives!” She cocked her head to one side, batted her eyelashes, and gave them a sparkling smile.
The two officers looked at her, then at each other for a long moment. And then they began to laugh. They laughed loudly, and so heartily that even some of the onlookers began to smile and chuckle, before turning to go about their business once again. The tension dissipated—crisis averted.
“Well, just make sure the timer’s working, gnädiges Fräulein,” the taller one said, slapping his partner’s back.
“Have a good visit in Berlin,” added the other, dabbing at his forehead with his handkerchief. “He’s a lucky fellow, your young man is.”
As they walked away, she saw Gottlieb. She was as sure as she could be, given the description: medium height, athletic build, close-cropped blond hair—almost albino white—and green eyes, emerald like a stained-glass window. His face was long—too long to be handsome. It was the face of a knight on a medieval tombstone, and his ears stuck out. He was sporting an unmistakable sky-blue forget-me-not boutonniere and a fedora with a knife-sharp crease. His posture was impeccable.
Then he saw her and their eyes met. “My dearest Margareta!” he called, across the station’s waiting room.
Maggie made herself jump up, careful to take the suitcase with her. She ran to him and threw her arms around him, banging him in the back with the case.
“Ooops.” She laughed. “Sorry.” All right, she thought, at least he doesn’t smell bad. More like shaving soap and 4711 cologne than anything else. “Dearest Gottlieb!” she exclaimed.
“Let me take a look at you,” he said, placing his hands on her shoulders and moving her back so he could see her. He studied her as though he were trying to absorb her all at once. “I’ve missed you so much,” he said, using the more intimate form of you, “du,” as he kissed her hand.
Maggie looked back at him just as intently. He might have stepped off a German propaganda poster, she decided, ears notwithstanding. She felt hysterical laughter beginning to rise in her throat—the culmination of sleeplessness and nerves. She tried to turn it into a winsome smile.
When it seemed as though that might fail as well, and laughing was inevitable, she threw her arms around him and clamped her mouth onto his. After a few seconds of what looked like passion, but actually felt awkward and absurd, Maggie drew away. She felt ridiculous, but at least her urge to giggle had passed.
“Yes, just as beautiful as ever, my little Schatzi,” Gottlieb said finally, catching his breath. “You must be tired and hungry after your long train journey. Come, let me show you home to freshen up, and then you can have something to eat and rest. Sound good?” he asked, picking up her suitcase in one hand and offering his arm.
Maggie wrapped her arm around his and smiled. “Of course. Whatever you say—Schatzi.”
Maggie and Gottlieb left the Lehrter Bahnhof and took the trolley to his apartment in Berlin-Kreuzberg, passing by the massive buildings of Berlin-Mitte, the civic center. Unlike London, there was little bomb damage here, she noticed, although when she did see one bombed-out building, its façade blown off and interior curiously intact, like a doll’s house, she couldn’t help but think of John. He might have done that. He, or Nigel, or one of our friends. It was an unsettling thought—that after living through the Blitz in London, people she actually knew were dropping bombs on others.
Gottlieb’s flat was on the seventh floor of an older building on a tree-lined street. On the door’s handle perched a tiny wrought-iron mouse. Above the mouse, watching its prey intently, was an iron cat. “Charming,” she remarked.
Gottlieb held open the door for Maggie and she stepped in.
Inside, the building smelled of floor polish and age. A worn tiled staircase wound around an elevator cage. “After you,” he said, holding her suitcase in one hand while opening the elevator’s outer door and then pulling aside the brass grate with the other.
“You’re sure this is safe?” Maggie asked warily. She hadn’t come all the way to Berlin to die in an elevator.
“Absolut sicher sein,” he said, which Maggie roughly translated to the British expression “safe as houses.” She smiled.
The elevator ground to a squeaky halt on the seventh floor. “This is ours.” Gottlieb opened both doors, then led Maggie down the dim hallway. It smelled as though someone was cooking liver and onions and, from behind closed doors, she could hear a dog bark.
She foll
owed him to black-painted double doors marked 7B. “And, here we are!”
Across the hallway, a door creaked open. A tiny, elderly German woman with piercing eyes appeared in the shadows.
“Good morning, Frau Keller,” Gottlieb said. “May I introduce Margareta Hoffman? A good friend from Rome.”
“How do you do?” Maggie said.
Behind the woman, a miniature schnauzer appeared, still yapping. “Quiet, Kaiser!” the old woman said, ignoring Maggie.
She spoke directly to Gottlieb. “I want you to know, Herr Lehrer, that I don’t approve of unchaperoned female guests. I don’t believe in these new morals, or these so-called Brides of Hitler.”
Gottlieb gave her his most charming smile and took out his key. “Yes, Frau Keller.”
“And I don’t want any noise. Do you understand? No late-night drunken comings and goings. Ordnung muß sein!”
There must be order! Maggie translated.
“Yes, Frau Keller,” he said, turning the key in the lock.
She gave a sigh. “When you took the apartment, they told me you were a quiet young man, studious. Wanted to be a priest someday. Now you’re bringing home”—she looked Maggie up and down—“women.”
“Just one woman, Frau Keller,” he corrected serenely, opening the door. She was about to reply when he hurried Maggie inside.
“Intrusive old bat,” he muttered.
“I’ll report you!” they heard, as he closed the thick door.
Maggie’s first impression was that the room was clean and almost empty. Spartan, in fact. “You live here?”
“My humble abode,” Gottlieb replied.
The walls were bare. The only furniture was an old, moth-eaten sofa and a brass floor lamp. Next to the sofa was a stack of newspapers. There was a card table with a VE 301 People’s Receiver radio. Plate-glass windows with ancient-looking blinds looked over Hannover Square.
She walked to the window and looked out. Sure enough, on a bench in the square sat a gray-haired woman, hunched over her knitting, silver needles flashing in the sun. Ah, my Madame Defarge.
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