by John Altman
As Hagen entered the office, Canaris stood behind his desk and offered his hand. He was a slight, short, unimpressive man who looked considerably older than his fifty-six years. His hair was thinning and gray, his shoulders narrow, his skin pasty and sagging. The only feature that betrayed his capability was his eyes. They were an incisive blue, and as Hagen reached out to shake the proffered hand, he could feel those eyes boring into him.
“Herr Hagen,” Canaris said. His voice was soft, almost womanly, and weak. “My thanks for coming on such short notice.”
Hagen grunted. He sat on one side of the desk while Canaris retook his seat on the other. The office around them was clean and unremarkable. One wall was covered with a map of the world. Underneath the map sat a black leather sofa, where Canaris was known to steal quick naps during his long workdays. On the wall opposite the map hung two framed pictures, one a Japanese-style portrait of the devil, the other a photograph of Canaris’s favorite dog, a dachshund called Seppl. On the desk itself was the symbol of the Abwehr: a small statue of three monkeys covering their eyes, ears, and mouth.
See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.
“I won’t waste your time,” Canaris said briskly. “The Führer feels that with the continuing problems in Russia, it is time we begin to anticipate the possibility of an Allied landing on the continent. To do this effectively, I feel that we need to synchronize the efforts of our agents in the field. All of our agents in the field.”
He paused for a moment to let the words sink in. Benign as they had sounded, Hagen realized immediately that there were at least two startling pieces of information contained in those three sentences. First was the admission that the campaign in Russia was truly troubled. Although this had been the overriding impression during the past few months, Hagen had not yet been told it so starkly by anybody in a position to know. Goebbels and his propaganda machine went to great lengths to make the troubles on the eastern front seem like only a temporary setback.
Second, and of more personal interest to Hagen, was the part about synchronizing agents in the field—all the agents in the field. The implication was that Hagen and his organization—what once had been known as the Reichssicherheitshauptamt, the RSHA, and was now known as the SS—had agents operating about whom Canaris was not aware.
It was, of course, true. Since the early 1930s there had been an ongoing feud between Canaris’s Abwehr and Himmler’s SS. Both had seen themselves as the primary security agents of the Nazi Reich after the blood purge of June 1934 had smashed the SA, and both had engaged in a game of cat-and-mouse with each other as well as with the enemy. As time had passed, the two organizations had found ways to live with each other, however reluctantly. But Himmler had never given up hope that his organization would become the one true security organ of the Third Reich, the primary force responsible for “safeguarding the embodiment of the National Socialist ideal.” Recently, in fact, Himmler had begun to keep even more secrets from Canaris. How else, except by maintaining his own cadre of loyal snoopers, could he prove that Canaris was involved with the conspiracy and remove him from his seat at the head of the Abwehr?
Hagen leaned back in his chair, keeping his face neutral.
“Herr Admiral,” he said blandly, “I do not believe that I have any knowledge of agents in the field which you do not possess yourself.”
Canaris smiled thinly. He nodded. Then he reached into his desk drawer, removed a file, and slid it across to Hagen. Hagen leaned forward and lifted the file open just enough to see the heading on the first page.
“I believe you trained this woman personally,” Canaris said, “many years ago.”
Hagen let the file fall closed again, frowning. The agent, who went by the code number V.1353, represented something of a sore spot for him. She had been one of the best he had ever trained, if not the very best, and he’d had high hopes for her. But then something had gone terribly wrong.
It had been back in the halcyon days of the Nazi party, when Hitler’s star was rising faster than anybody would have thought possible and the future was filled with promise—the promise of acquiring unlimited lebensraum for future German generations; the promise of racial purity and the rightful return of Austria and the Sudetenland to Germany; the promise of not only shaking off the shackles of Versailles but of avenging them. Caught up by the optimism, and already conscious of the need to produce greater results than such competing agencies as the Abwehr and the SA, Himmler had sanctioned the training of several special agents. The agents would infiltrate Britain, America, Poland, Czechoslovakia, Denmark, and Holland. They were symbolic of how far the Third Reich would eventually reach, and they had been the best young Germans Himmler could find. They would not be dependent on anything except themselves. They would be able to operate with any weapon, to memorize intelligence at a glance, to improvise their way out of any situation.
And to train these agents, the best of the best, he had chosen Hagen personally.
Agent V.1353 had distinguished herself even among this impressive company. She excelled at the physical side of the game, learning how to kill with any blade, how to change identities when it was required, how to improvise complex strategies with little notice. Improvisation was her greatest strength; in her hands no natural opportunity, no matter how small, was wasted. She was also possessed of a great natural beauty and a way with people. In addition, she was very young—so young, to Hagen’s way of thinking, that she was above suspicion.
They had planted her in America under her real name, but with a false background: the daughter of German Jews who would want nothing to do with Hitler’s rising National Socialist party. She had found work with a naval architecture firm, and for eight months had sent back solid, if unremarkable, intelligence.
Then, abruptly, she had vanished.
It was easy to figure out what had happened. She had become scared. She had felt too much affinity for her adopted country. Perhaps she had fallen in love. She was only human, after all.
Hagen had sometimes allowed himself, over the years, to speculate that perhaps the appearance of this case was misleading. It was always possible that Katarina had stumbled onto some opportunity too tempting to resist that had required her to go deep undercover. If that was the case, she might not have dared to inform her own spymasters of her plans. If that was the case, it was always possible that she might someday reappear.…
More likely, however, she had simply lost her nerve.
Since Katarina’s disappearance, the FBI had cracked down—visibly—on Abwehr agents in America. In 1941 they had rounded up every agent Canaris had placed there, tried them publicly, and hanged them. For the few RSHA agents who had remained at liberty, the message was clear enough. They scrambled home at the first opportunity. Since then Germany had enjoyed little success in penetrating America. They had agents in Mexico, but their effectiveness was limited by their distance. Canaris had sent a few more stragglers into New York, but they were frightened, unorganized, and clumsy, like everybody trained by the Abwehr. The only truly valuable agent still in America—agent V.1353—was no longer on the job.
“You remember?” Canaris pressed. “You trained this woman?”
Hagen nodded. “Of course I remember. She was my star pupil.”
“According to the file,” Canaris said, “she vanished in 1933. According to the file, she has not made contact since.”
“That is true.”
“You understand, Herr Hagen, how valuable she would be to us now if she were truly as skilled as the file claims. She has been in America for over ten years; she is thoroughly integrated. We would have many questions for her, if we could find her.”
“I understand, Admiral.”
“Herr Hagen, let me speak frankly.”
Canaris leaned forward. His eyes, already pointed, became razor-sharp.
“I am aware that differences exist between our agencies,” he said. “I do not wish to level any accusations. But I would not be surpris
ed if certain facts available to the Gestapo were not immediately made available to me. Be that as it may, my only concern now is finding this agent. I have heard that you and she enjoyed a close professional relationship. And so I ask you—without requiring an explanation for why I haven’t already been told, understand—I ask you now: Has this agent made contact with you during the past decade?”
“No, Herr Admiral, she has not.”
Hagen was no longer feeling nervous. Now he was feeling irritated. Katarina Heinrich was a subject that reminded him of an error in judgment he had made more than a decade before. And Canaris’s words contained many implied insults, no matter how judiciously he phrased them.
Along with the irritation, he felt disdain. Canaris made it sound as if he had a great personal stake in infiltrating America and discovering valuable information before the Allies attempted their invasion. But in truth he was against Hitler, as Hagen knew and would someday prove; he was a traitor. He was asking, Hagen was certain, only on the Führer’s personal orders.
“Do you think she could have made contact with anybody else during this time, without your knowledge?”
“No, Herr Admiral. I do not believe so.”
“Do you know of any other agents in America, Herr Hagen, of whom I might not be aware?”
“No, Herr Admiral.”
Canaris thinned his lips. He reached out and pulled the file back across the desk, then deposited it in his drawer.
“Herr Hagen,” he said, “if you do come into possession of any information which may be valuable in this matter, I request that you submit it to me immediately.”
“Of course, Herr Admiral.”
“Or if you happen to recall some contact which you cannot, for whatever reason, recall at this moment—”
“There was no such contact, Admiral. To my regret.”
“I see,” Canaris said. He looked dismayed, but this, Hagen thought, was also an act. Beneath the dismay, he was pleased. Another thing gone wrong for the Führer. Another chance that the Allies would take care of Hitler without Canaris and his cowardly conspirators ever having to extend themselves.
The disdain washed over him again. He could hardly keep it off his face. “That is all, Herr Admiral?” he said.
“That is all.”
Hagen rose, rapped his heels together smartly, and extended his right arm, held straight, with the palm facing Canaris. “Heil Hitler!” he said.
“Heil Hitler,” Canaris answered, somewhat lackadaisically.
Hagen turned and moved toward the door. Before stepping out, he looked over his shoulder at Canaris. The man was bent over his desk, making a note.
Traitor, Hagen thought darkly.
What he would have given for agent V.1353 to be alive and operating in America, just so he could withhold that information from Canaris. What he would have given for agent V.1353 to resurface, priceless intelligence in hand, proving to one and all that his judgment had been flawless … proving that she really was the best of the best.
But he had given up hope long before.
Hagen faced front again and let himself out of Canaris’s office.
3
HAM COMMON, SURREY
APRIL 1943
Rudolf Schroeder, alias Russell Webb, was a charming psychopath.
He sat in one of the rickety chairs in the damp, gray room, looking damnably comfortable. Except for the brief walks between his barracks and this chamber, he had not spent any time under the sun since his capture four months before, but his skin possessed the ruddy color that comes with natural good health. He had a handsome face, narrow in the cheeks and broad across the forehead, with a sharp hooked nose. His blond hair fell over the broad forehead in a curly lock. He smiled easily. His turquoise eyes sparkled. One would never guess, upon first acquaintance, that he was a psychopath; one would know only that he was charming.
Winterbotham sat in the chair across the table. Taylor was standing by the slit window, running the antenna of the suitcase radio out through the aperture. It was half past midnight, and they were preparing to make Schroeder’s latest transmission to the Abwehr center in Hamburg.
Schroeder kept smiling at Winterbotham. The smile was making Winterbotham feel antsy. That, he guessed, was the point. He tried not to fidget, and, for the most part, succeeded.
On the table between them sat the AFU set with which Abwehr agents communicated with their home base. Beside the suitcase radio sat a variety of small parcels. Taylor had brought these gifts for Schroeder; he brought similar ones every time they met. To Winterbotham, it seemed as if Schroeder was a woman and Taylor his suitor. The parcels included chocolates, a carton of cigarettes, two paperback novels, several books of matches, and a bottle of adequate Scotch.
Schroeder popped one of the chocolates into his mouth and kept smiling at Winterbotham.
“Delicious,” he said in his heavily accented English. “Andrew, you’ve outdone yourself.”
“Only the best for you,” Taylor said from the window.
Schroeder kept staring at Winterbotham as he chewed, and smiled. “Next time I’d like a plant,” he said. “Some nice, hearty plant that could stay alive in my cell. I hunger for life. Could you do that for me, Andrew? A plant?”
“Perhaps I could manage it.”
“A spider plant,” Schroeder said. “Or—how do you call it?—a Wandering Jew.” He grinned even wider.
Winterbotham felt an urge to lean across the table and put his fist through that grin. He restrained himself.
This was his third time meeting Schroeder, and he liked the man less with repetition. Schroeder was the worst kind of spy, one with no real allegiances whatsoever. He had been an aristocrat in Germany, the son of a wealthy hotelier, and had spent much of his life working in his father’s business. He had been invited to join the Abwehr only half a year before, when things in Russia had been going well and Hitler had been turning his thoughts back to an invasion of England. He had joined up happily, promising to infiltrate the enemy—nobody, including Schroeder, seemed to have realized how quickly his accent would give him away—and then send back intelligence that would pave the way for an invasion.
As soon as he was caught, however, he had turned into a double agent without putting up so much as a token resistance. It really made no difference to Schroeder, Winterbotham knew, which side he was fighting on. To him the war was just another distraction from his pampered life. He seemed to enjoy his new role as a double agent even more than he had enjoyed his initial role as a spy: It was juicier. Right now he was dressed in prisoner’s overalls, gray, and soft shoes with no laces. He wore the outfit with pride, as if it were a costume and he were an actor in a play.
Winterbotham hoped that Schroeder felt more kindly disposed toward him than he did toward Schroeder. There would come a time, after all, when he would have to trust his life to this man—in fact, they had reached it already. It was always possible that Schroeder and his masters had worked out a system of signals that was still unknown to MI-5. A certain letter inserted into a Morse code message might indicate that everything that followed was false information. Or a tiny hesitation during the transmission, a missed beat or half beat at a certain time. All it would take was one clue that Taylor and his friends had overlooked.…
Schroeder kept grinning at him.
Taylor finished with the antenna, came back to the table, and switched on the transmitter. He spun the dial, finding the arranged frequency. Schroeder himself would key the message back to Hamburg, with Taylor watching closely to make sure he didn’t play any tricks. Having Schroeder key the message himself was a necessary risk. A man’s Morse code style is as unique and distinctive as his fingerprints: If somebody besides Schroeder were to send the message, the Nazis would know immediately.
Finally, Taylor pulled up a third chair, reached into his briefcase, and produced a file. He passed it to Schroeder, who opened and read it, still chewing his sweets and looking bored.
“I’ve b
een busy,” he remarked.
“You have,” Taylor agreed.
Winterbotham had already read the file. It contained details of Schroeder’s supposed discoveries over the previous two weeks. While working at his pub near the War Office, he had overheard two officers talking about a new anodizing process being experimented with by the navy. He had noticed increased numbers of servicemen on a train line that terminated in the vicinity of Portsmouth. And, most striking of all, he had approached for the second time a hoary old professor who had been spending a lot of time at the pub lately. Said professor seemed extremely disenchanted with his work for Military Intelligence. With permission from the Abwehr, Schroeder would now proceed to the next step—broaching, with this professor, the subject of spying for the Germans.
“I must say,” Schroeder said, “that I’m rather pleased with my success. I must be something of a hero in Berlin these days.”
Taylor lit a cigarette and offered a dry smile.
“If only it were true,” Schroeder said. “Imagine the reception when I returned home. Imagine the women!”
He launched into a dissertation on the women in Germany, who were, he felt, the most beautiful in the world. This segued into a story about one of his last nights in Hamburg, spent at the Valhalla Klub in the red-light district. The Valhalla Klub was famous for its system of telephones connecting the tables. When one saw a young woman of whom one felt enamored, one simply picked up the phone and placed a call. In Schroeder’s case, however, the women had been taking the initiative and calling him. He had always fared well with women. One time, he and three friends had spent a weekend in Venice …
Winterbotham listened with half an ear. He was waiting for the correct moment to spring his surprise on Taylor. Ten minutes remained before they made contact with Hamburg. He decided that the time was right. He cleared his throat.
“Andrew,” he said.
“Hm?” Taylor said absently.