by Leo Kessler
For an instant the Count seemed to return to the world of the sane as he recognised the look. ‘You killed a man, my boy, but it couldn’t be helped. You can’t make an omelette without cracking eggs. It was an act of war.’
‘But we’re not at shitting war with Belgium!’ Otto blurted out hotly. ‘Are we?’
The Count wouldn’t be drawn, just like the uniformed Abwehr official from Berlin. The Berliner had taken the seemingly precious uniforms from him half an hour before and had disappeared heading east at high speed, revealing nothing. Instead the Count said, his voice its normal fruity self once more, ‘It was a stroke of genius to disguise your accomplice as a woman. That really set the cat among the pigeons. According to our informants on the border, the whole eastern part of the country is in an uproar. They’re stopping women on the streets everywhere and making them strip in public to prove their gender. There’ll be questions asked in the Belgian Senate tomorrow morning, you mark my words, Otto.’ He haw-hawed and beamed at a morose Otto. ‘By the way where is the chap now?’
‘Oh, he’s all right,’ Otto replied reluctantly.
‘Gone to ground no doubt!’
‘Something like that,’ Otto agreed, remembering Madame Lejeune’s own phrase. ‘I’m gonna take a dive, Otto,’ she had said after he had told her to keep the five thousand francs, using that pseudo-gangster slang borrowed from the pictures which she now affected. ‘This cabbage will keep me nicely holed up in the hills with my sister beyond Eupen for a good while. The bulls’ll never find me up there.’ He shook his head with consternation at the memory. It seemed everybody touched by this shitting spy business went slightly crazy, even the damn fool cop who had tried to stop him in that cobbled backstreet. Any person in his right mind would have simply jumped out of the way; he knew he would have done.
‘I see,’ the Count said, mistaking the sombre look on Otto’s face for something else. ‘You don’t have to tell me any more. You’re protecting your operatives, I know.’ He nodded his silver-grey head in approval. ‘I’d do the same.’
Otto dismissed a confident Madame Lejeune with her new slang and her new tough manner of talking out of the side of her mouth, and waited numbly for what was to come next.
‘And now, Otto, I’ve got a very big surprise for you,’ Count von der Weide said excitedly.
‘Don’t tell me the Führer has turned out to be a male impersonator?’ Otto quipped.
The Count didn’t seem to hear. ‘Otto, my boy, this evening you will be given the great honour of meeting the head of our service. He wishes to give you your well-earned bonus personally, congratulate you, and discuss our next little scheme.’ There was an uneasy look in the Count’s eyes which Otto nearly missed, but before Otto could remark upon it, the Count hurried on with, ‘Tonight, Otto, you will meet old Father Christmas himself!’
Otto hardly recognised the spy-school mess. Everything had been painted fresh and bright seemingly overnight and there was only the faintest smell of burnt wood from the fire. The spy-school personnel must have worked like the devil to get the place presentable so quickly for the surprise visit of their mysterious chief. On all sides there were great vases of expensive flowers, the silver gleamed in the warm yellow light cast by the candelabra which ranged the length of the long festive table, and everywhere those of the staff who were officers wore their gala uniforms complete with decorations. They bowed, toasted and chatted animatedly amongst themselves, as if it were weeks not hours since they had last seen one another.
Even old faux-Italian Hirsch, one of the civilians, had changed his usual baggy blue suit for what appeared to be some sort of Italian peasant costume, complete with large gold earrings under the flowered scarf wound round his head. Maps seemed quite restrained and normal for once, save for the fly-swatter he carried. Occasionally he swatted something seen only by his crazed eye.
Otto accepted a drink from one of the white-coated mess waiters and idly watched Brass Eggs in his immaculate uniform talking animatedly with what looked like a North African, dressed in a funeral black suit and holding the leads of two expensive-looking dachshunds, one of which had just made a puddle against the gleaming riding boot of Major Haase, though as yet the red-faced Commandant had not become aware of that particular fact. Why is his face so red, wondered Otto. Is he still wearing the garters?
Otto's bright blue eyes moved back to the man with the dachshunds. He was the only man in the room he did not know. Was he the mysterious Father Christmas? He looked important enough, and Brass Eggs was laying on the soft-soap very thick, as if the unsmiling North African might be the one. But would Germany’s world-wide spy organisation be run by a foreigner? Otto asked himself. He shrugged. In the Abwehr anything was possible.
‘You, Tedesci, really have a sense of occasion, Otto.’ Hirsch, who had been born not more than five hundred metres from where Otto had in Berlin, said at his side in a thick Italian accent. He thrust out his hand at the glittering table. ‘Molto bene,’ he breathed in admiration. ‘Unfortunately, we Italians lack your German talent for organizatione.’ He shook his head and his gold earrings rattled noisily. ‘But our beloved Duce is trying, Otto. One day he will make us as the Romans of old.’ His hand shot out and he clicked to attention. ‘Eviva il Duce.’
Presuming that some toast had been given, officers everywhere snapped to attention and raised their glasses in salute. The air was suddenly full of ‘Heil Hitler’ and ‘Long live Italy’.
Otto downed his drink in one go and seized another one from a passing waiter; he needed it tonight.
Five minutes later the room was alerted by the sound of a gong being struck in the anteroom. Dinner was about to be served. All conversation ceased immediately and every gaze concentrated on the little group poised at the entrance to the mess.
The Count was in front, resplendent in what appeared to be a white silk hussars’ uniform, complete with slung cloak, edged with fur, and dangling sabre, though for the life of him Otto couldn’t identify the uniform’s origin. Perhaps the Count had created it for himself; I wouldn't put it past the madman, thought Otto.
Behind the Count there was a little man, dressed in a white apron and tail cook’s hat, ready to push the dumb-waiter into the room upon which rested a great silver salver from which the hot steam curled. He was flanked by two kitchen assistants, who towered above the diminutive, middle-aged cook, both armed with great carving knives. The Count nodded and with himself in the lead, moving forward ceremoniously by means of a strange little mincing step, half-dance, half-walk, the little procession filed to the table. As they passed along the line of diners, the officers clapped politely with white-gloved hands.
Next to Otto, Hirsch, presumably carried away by his Latin temperament, cried, ‘Eviva!’ He was clapping at twice the speed of anyone else.
The little cook smiled at the excited Jew and assuming that he was speaking Spanish, called out the menu to Hirsch in that language, ‘Pastel de patatas con aceitunas negras, con habas a la catalana y polio relleno ingles.’
Hirsch looked puzzled, then whispered to Otto, ‘I don’t like that rich French food. Plays havoc with my stomach.’
Otto laughed softly. ‘It smells good at least,’ he said and followed the Count’s order to be seated. Immediately there was a burst of excited chatter as the lids covering the silver dishes were lifted and the officers were able to see their contents. Standing next to the dumb-waiter the middle-aged cook flushed with undisguised pleasure.
Swiftly the two assistants got to work carving the stuffed chicken and heaping on the creamed potatoes, decorated with black olives, ladling out portions of steaming beans, resplendent with much garlic, then handing each gold-rimmed plate to the red-faced, hot cook, who hurried down the table to place it in front of the guests with an extravagant flourish.
Finally each guest had been served and was staring down at his steaming heaped plate in hungry anticipation, save Maps who was turning over his chicken gingerly, as if he half expected
to find a little green man hidden beneath it. The cook beamed at them, obviously happy that the prospect of eating his food gave the assembled company such pleasure.
The Count rose to his feet at the bottom of the table. ‘Herr Admiral, darf ich bitten?’ he requested very formally. Otto followed the direction of his gaze, puzzled. He seemed to be talking to the cook!
The cook smiled. As if to a royal fanfare, he removed his cook’s tall hat and handed it to the man with the dogs who had appeared, as if in response to some signal, and who had taken up his position behind the cook. He then whipped off the rest of the cooks clothing to reveal the dark blue uniform, heavy with gold braid on the sleeve, of a full admiral in the Kriegsmarine. Adjusting his tie slightly, the Admiral strode to the head of the table and took his place there, bowing his snow-white head that gave him the look of a benign Father Christmas in spite of his dark, mysterious eyes.
Otto took a frantic swig of his Moselle. This must be the head of the Third Reich’s world-wide espionage system, and he had just cooked Otto’s dinner!
‘Monsieur Stahl, Admiral Canaris,’ old Father Christmas said solemnly, while outside the study the drunken singing that was dying away indicated that the party was finally over. ‘In Berlin the Führer has made an irrevocable decision.’
Otto said nothing. He couldn’t; he was still too bemused by the events of that evening. Even the fact that the little spy-master seemed to take him for a Belgian, (although there was no mistaking Otto’s Berlin accent) did not move him to speak.
The Admiral nodded to his North African servant. ‘Mohamed, take the dogs out now.’
‘As my master wishes,’ the body-servant said and gave a low, ceremonial bow, touching his dusky hand to his forehead before leaving with the suddenly excited, yelping dachshunds.
At the study door, Brass Eggs, his face flushed with drink and his collar ripped open, said, ‘I’ll look after him, sir.’
‘Thank you, you are very kind,’ Canaris said.
Brass Eggs thrust his arm eagerly through the North African’s and they went out, rather too hurriedly, Otto couldn’t help thinking.
The Admiral waited till the door had closed behind them before turning to Otto once more. ‘It is an unfortunate decision for your brave little country, Monsieur Stahl,’ he said, ‘at least at first. Perhaps later on it will prove a blessing in disguise. ‘The world will thrive through Germany’,’ he quoted the old Imperial saying, with a smile on his thick lips, though those dark hooded eyes of his did not light up.
‘Yessir,’ Otto said woodenly.
From outside there came little excited gasps of delight and a small, quickly suppressed moan of pain. Idly Otto wondered just exactly how Brass Eggs and Mohamed were exercising the Admiral’s sausage-dogs.
‘Stahl,’ the Admiral continued, ‘the Führer has decided that it is necessary that German forces invade and occupy your Fatherland in order that we can outflank the Maginot Line. It is unfortunately the only way that we can overcome that great French obstacle and defeat our Anglo-French enemies.’
‘I see, sir.’
The little Admiral nodded his approval. ‘You are taking the news well, Stahl,’ he said. ‘But it is only what I expected from an agent of your calibre.’ His dark eyes winked at Otto and beamed across at the Count, quietly seated in the study's corner. ‘Now, we of the Abwehr have an important part to play in this new operation,’ he said, back to Otto. ‘Not only will our brave Brandenburgers take part in the initial frontier attacks, but a brave few of us have a significant role to play in preparation for those attacks.’
He looked firmly at Otto and with a sinking feeling Otto half-guessed that the little Admiral was referring specifically to him.
‘Monsieur Stahl, after that recent coup which you pulled off so spectacularly, who is better fitted for the new task ahead?’ He lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘The Our bridges,’ he hissed, as if the words were of great significance and touched the side of his nose conspiratorially.
Otto suppressed a moan with the greatest of difficulty.
Five minutes later, accompanied by a beaming Mohamed and a Brass Eggs who looked slightly worse for wear, the little Admiral left. But before he did so, he paused at the door and whispered something to the Count.
Otto was not particularly interested – he was too preoccupied with whatever crazy new mission old Father Christmas had dreamed up for him – but he did catch the words, ‘Führer … Munster-Eifel … sometime in April … ’ before the Admiral disappeared with the excited dachshunds at his heels. At that point the words meant nothing to him, but later, much later, they would become significant, very significant indeed.
‘Tomorrow morning at zero eight hundred hours,’ the Count’s voice broke into his gloomy reverie.
Otto looked up. Meadow was very pale, as if he had just received a sudden shock. Otto wondered why.
CHAPTER 5
‘The bridges across the River Our, here at Losheim,’ the Count pointed to the map spread between them on the table, ‘and here at Andler. Not very large, as you can see, but if the Belgians were to destroy them, the river would present a serious obstacle for our armoured thrust around the flank of the Maginot Line through the Belgian Ardennes.’
‘I’m not going,’ Otto said sourly.
Count von der Weide seemingly didn’t hear. ‘Naturally we know about them in a general way. They are not exactly new. But we don’t know the strength of the garrisons presently manning them, the nature of their defensive positions and the exact location of the explosive chambers in the bridges themselves. All vital information, of course.’ He paused and looked at Otto in his usual winning manner.
‘Now look here, Meadow,’ Otto said angrily. ‘I’ve had enough of this damn fool game! Don’t you realise that they’ll be looking for me over there? I’ve killed a bloke – I’m a wanted man!’
‘That shouldn’t worry an agent of your calibre,’ he said maddeningly. ‘You’ve probably done things like that a dozen times or more in the past. “Ice-water runs through that chap’s veins,” those were the very words the Admiral used to me last night about you. Nomen est…’
‘Now don’t start that damn carry-on again!’ Otto exploded, his temper rising by the instant. ‘You know as plain as that big nose on your damn face, that I am an ordinary working-class lad from Berlin who, up to two months ago, was driving a shit-wagon at the Westwall. I’m no super-agent and have no desire to become one. I’ll put my cards on the table, Meadow. I left Berlin last August to find a nice cushy safe billet where I could sit out this war without getting my stupid turnip blown off by some stupid Polack, Frog or Tommy. Do you get it, Count? S-A-F-E!’ He spelled out the word furiously, his face red with anger. His shoulders heaving a little with the effort of talking so much, he ended weakly with, ‘Count, in truth, I am a devout coward.’
‘Oh, I can hardly believe that, Otto,’ the Count said mildly. ‘But calm yourself, my dear young friend. Listen to my offer first.’
‘Offer?’
‘Yes, offer. Get me the information I require and I’ll ensure you have your safe billet for the rest of this war.’
Otto eyed him suspiciously. ‘Where?’ he demanded.
‘Here.’
‘What – at the spy-school?’
‘Yes, Otto. As an instructor. You see we have urgent need of an experienced instructor in our clandestine-operations section.’ He leaned forward in a theatrically conspiratorial manner. ‘I mean none of the staff have had actual field experience. In essence they are all theorists.’
‘That you can say again,’ Otto said sourly and considered the proposition. At the spy-school, they were all nuts, of course, but apart from Maps and his tendency towards arson, they were safe nuts.
‘The Our bridges are just over the Belgian frontier. It would be a matter of a day’s work and you would be perfectly safe,’ the Count urged, understanding that Otto was thinking the matter over.
‘What would the pay be?’
‘Yes, civvy,’ Otto said hastily. Get him in military clobber and they'd have the power to order him here there and everywhere. His heart beat faster. ‘There’s going to be no uniform for Mrs Stahl’s son, thank you very kindly.’
The Count pursed his lips. ‘Three to four hundred marks a month, expenses naturally – ’
‘Naturally.’
‘And free board. Only officers pay the mess-bills. Otto, it would be the equivalent to the salary of a leading employee in a big city office.’
Otto bit his bottom lip. The pay was very good. It would be twice the best wage he had ever earned in Berlin from his less than legal activities, and the Count was right: the spy-school was definitely a cushy and very safe billet. No one in his right mind would ever send its instructors to battle; they would lose the war for Germany before the day was out.
‘All right,’ he said grudgingly, ‘I’ll do it. Just once more … But Meadow, how am I to set about it? I know nothing about military matters. For example, how do I find out the number of the garrison? I mean, I can hardly ask them to stand up and kindly be counted?’
The Count beamed, seemingly happy that Otto had decided to go ahead with the assignment. ‘Not necessary, old chap. It can be done more obliquely than that. By loaves.’
‘By loaves?’
‘Yes. Count the daily ration of loaves delivered to the garrison, and divide the number by the Belgian Army’s official daily bread ration. Take into account that NCOs and officers get a slightly larger allowance, and you’ve got your number.’
Otto controlled his exasperation with difficulty. ‘And how am I to know how much bread a Belgian soldier gets daily?’ he asked, his voice heavy with sarcasm.