A Gathering of Spies

by John Altman

  Winterbotham followed Beck up a grand staircase to his room—a large, airy chamber with French windows looking out over the lake. As far as he could see, no guards had been posted outside. A small bookshelf near the bed was well-stocked; he eyed it for a moment. Then he circled the room several times before pausing near the window, staring out into the morning sun.

  “Will you require anything else?” Beck asked. “A breakfast? Another brandy?”

  Winterbotham shook his head. “I’ll sleep well just as I am, thank you.”

  “It has been a pleasure meeting you, Professor, and I sincerely look forward to continuing our work together.”

  The young German left the room, closing the door behind himself softly.

  Winterbotham looked after him for a moment. Then he drew a breath, held it, and heaved it back out as a sigh. Evasion, he had discovered, was exhausting work. He had been dodging questions for eight uninterrupted hours.

  He moved to the canopied bed and collapsed onto it heavily. Sunlight streamed through the French windows, pricking at his eyes; he considered getting up to pull the curtains. Perhaps in a moment, he decided. He let his eyes drift closed instead. Before they resumed the interrogation—if one could call such conversational ballet an interrogation—he would ask for a bath, a shave, a change of clothes. Or would that be a mistake? Every amenity he accepted put him, however subtly, in the Nazis’ debt. Perhaps it would be better to wait until these things had been offered—

  “Forgive me, Professor,” Beck said, “but I require clarification on a point.”

  Winterbotham opened his eyes. Somehow Beck had come back into the room, silently, and was sitting in a chair by the bed, consulting his pad.

  “You have told me,” Beck said, “that the British are aware that we use a three-rotor encryption device, correct? Yes. But, you insist, the British have not actually broken our codes. So I find a discrepancy, Professor. How is it that the RAF avoided being lured south on Alder Tag, if our codes had not been compromised?”

  Winterbotham knuckled at his eyes before answering.

  “You stopped bombing the quays,” he said.

  “Ah,” Beck said. “And so you anticipated the invasion.”

  “Yes.”

  “And therefore anticipated our tactic of luring the RAF south.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Many thanks,” Beck said, and smiled. “Now I shall be able to sleep. Good night, Professor.”

  He stood, bowed, and left the room again. After a moment Winterbotham returned his head to the pillow.

  Five minutes passed. He was just slipping into unconsciousness when the door to the chamber burst open and Beck swept in, wearing a fresh uniform, looking rested.

  “Professor!” he crowed. “How did you sleep?”

  Winterbotham propped himself up on one elbow. He considered informing Beck that he had, in fact, not slept, and decided against it. Beck, of course, already knew.

  “Very well, thank you,” he said.

  “Do you feel up to continuing?”

  “Of course,” Winterbotham said. He rubbed at his eyes again, then nodded, stood, and gave Beck a sardonic grin.

  “Repeat, please,” Beck said.

  Winterbotham sighed. “Plugboard connections,” he repeated. “Starting positions. The order of the rotors.”

  “Thank you. Proceed.”

  Winterbotham talked on. Beck let him speak, without interrupting, for nearly twenty minutes. Outside, the sun began to set; the mosquitoes turned slow and torpid.

  “I think that is enough for today,” Beck said then, smiling, always smiling. “Shall we take a walk before supper, Professor? A bit of exercise is good for the blood.”

  “If you like,” Winterbotham said.

  They walked around the lake. Winterbotham found himself staring at the scummy algae floating on the water—his eyes were too tired to pull themselves away. He watched the flitting nonsense of the mosquitoes and the water-skimmers and the dragonflies. Beck, beside him, kept his thoughts to himself.

  After they had walked for ten minutes, Winterbotham said, “Any word on my wife?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact,” Beck said. “She has been delayed. But she is safe.”

  “When do you expect her?”

  “Difficult to say. Tomorrow or the next day.”

  They walked.

  “You must love your wife very much,” Beck said. “You have been married for many years?”

  “Many years,” Winterbotham agreed.

  “And how did you meet her, Professor? If you don’t mind my asking. She was a student of yours?”

  “No. Her brother was a friend of mine, once upon a time.”

  “I see. He is not your friend any longer?”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Ah,” Beck said. “My condolences.”

  He lit a cigarette and offered one to Winterbotham, who shook it off, took out his pipe, and began to tamp down his tobacco as they walked.

  “You strike me as a reasonable man,” Beck said. “It is a shame that others in England are not as reasonable as you. Germany has no quarrel with England. Germany only wants what is hers. And at the risk of betraying my cynicism, Professor, there is a mutual enemy whom we both face. England and Germany should be allies. Cynicism? Let us call it pragmatism.”

  “I see the wisdom in your words, Herr Beck.”

  Beck glanced at him in the twilight. “I believe that you do,” he said. “I believe that you are here because you follow a higher moral calling, Professor, than the majority of your countrymen. You appreciate the value of peace.”

  Winterbotham lit his pipe, and held his tongue.

  “Let us return to Cecilienhof,” Beck said generously. “Another good night’s rest will surely do us both good.”

  This time, Winterbotham had actually fallen asleep before they woke him.

  He was shown into a different room, smaller than the one he had shared with Beck. He was presented with a different man, introduced as Herr Dietrich. Beck, he thought sourly, probably needed his sleep.

  Dietrich asked about things that Winterbotham did not know. This, Winterbotham understood, was a standard interrogation technique. After Dietrich had quizzed him for hours about aviation tactics and Soviet offenses and gun placements and other subjects that were completely alien to him, he would (in theory) feel extremely eager to be asked a question he could answer. Then the topic would swing back around to code breaking or invasion, and he would stumble all over himself in an effort to gain his host’s approval with correct replies.

  “Our airplanes in Africa suffer one-and-a-half-inch holes in their armor,” Dietrich said. “But always a single hole. Why is this?”

  Winterbotham shook his head. “I don’t know,” he said.

  “What weapon is producing the one-and-a-half-inch holes in our airplanes?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “We believe that the wing cannons on your Hurricanes are not equipped with reloading equipment. Is this accurate?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What type of radio is used by the Piper Cub?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “We believe it is the SCR. Six Hundred, correct?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I appreciate that this is not your area of expertise,” Dietrich said. “But I would expect that any military man who pays attention to his surroundings would have, at the very least, an impression concerning these questions.”

  Winterbotham shrugged. “Perhaps I don’t pay enough attention,” he said.

  “Perhaps not,” Dietrich said. “Perhaps an easier question?”

  Winterbotham shrugged again, lit his pipe.

  “Ah, here is an easy one. Surely you can help me with this one, Professor. One would think that the transference of a battle-tested division from the Mediterranean theater to Great Britain would imply preparations for an invasion of France. And yet you told Herr Beck that you believed it was merely a pre
caution against a German invasion. However, you also told Herr Beck that fears of a German invasion have, as of late, dropped to nearly nothing. These statements are at odds, are they not?”

  “Are they?” Winterbotham said.

  “They are.”

  “I can only tell you what I know,” Winterbotham said. “It’s up to you to put the pieces together.”

  A blue vein pulsed in Dietrich’s temple.

  “I see,” he said. “In any case, Professor, to return to the question of the one-and-a-half-inch holes in the armor of our aircraft …”

  That night they allowed him two hours’ sleep.

  The next day he was interrogated from sunrise to sunset.

  Finally, Beck leaned back in his chair, stretching languidly.

  “It has been a long day,” he said, “eh, Professor?”

  Winterbotham was looking out the windows of the conference room at the tendrils of sunset reflected in the lake. He found himself beginning to agree with Beck—yes, he would say, I’m glad you understand, it has been a long day indeed—but quickly caught himself.

  “Fatiguing,” Beck pressed, “eh?”

  Winterbotham nodded shortly.

  “Are you hungry, Professor? Come, let us visit the dining room. Then we can retire early. Tomorrow is another full day, after all.”

  “Herr Beck,” Winterbotham said, “if I may …”

  “Yes, Professor?”

  “You said initially that in order to avoid the mosquitoes, we would work only at night.”

  “Did I say that?” Beck asked, standing.

  “You did,” Winterbotham said. “Yet now we work at all hours. One would almost suspect, Herr Beck, that you are hoping to disorient me.”

  Beck, gathering his papers, smiled slightly.

  “We change our routine time and time again,” Winterbotham said. “You tell me one thing and then do another. You deny me sleep—”

  “Deny you sleep!”

  “Food is presented in abundance or in paucity. I am not allowed to bathe or change my clothes. I have not yet been allowed to see my wife—”

  “I should apologize,” Beck said. “We must have been working too hard, to give rise to such feelings of paranoia. Your constitution is suffering.”

  “I admit that your clumsy duplicity is tiring, Herr Beck. Now, tell me: Will I be allowed to see my wife, or will I not?”

  “My dear Professor,” Beck said, “after dinner you will have a bath. A razor, fresh clothing, whatever else you desire. Do not hesitate to ask me for anything.”

  “You’ve avoided my question, Herr Beck.”

  “I can only tell you so many times about the circumstances and the delays—”

  “When might she arrive, do you think?”

  “Tomorrow,” Beck said. “At the very latest, the day after.”

  Beck walked Winterbotham to his room that evening, bade him a tart good night, and then retraced his steps down the hallway, down the majestic staircase, to the front porch of the mansion.

  Here he smoked a cigarette, waiting for Admiral Canaris to arrive. He finished the cigarette, checked his wristwatch, and lit another. He was just finishing the second when he saw the staff Mercedes turn into the drive. A porter carrying a machine gun appeared from Cecilienhof and stood unobtrusively on one corner of the porch.

  Admiral Wilhelm Canaris emerged from the backseat of the Mercedes without waiting for his door to be opened. He wore an unseasonable overcoat, brown, with a black suit underneath. As Canaris stepped out of the car, Beck caught a glimpse of a dog curled up at the base of the leather seats—brown on black, matching the overcoat and the suit—looking wistfully after its master.

  Beck saluted.

  “Herr Admiral,” he said, “welcome to Cecilienhof. We are honored to receive you.”

  Canaris looked at him with undisguised distaste. “Seppl is hungry,” he said after a moment.

  “I will have the cook bring some beefsteak, Herr Admiral. To your room …?”

  “Of course,” Canaris said. He whistled sharply; the dog slipped nimbly from the backseat and came to stand beside him.

  They walked into Cecilienhof, Beck in the lead, Canaris and the dog slightly behind.

  “How goes the interrogation?” Canaris asked. He was opening a vial of pills as they walked.

  “I am afraid it goes poorly, Herr Admiral.”

  “In what way?”

  “Winterbotham tells us little that we do not already know.”

  “Is he withholding information, do you believe?”

  “Herr Admiral, he is most definitely withholding information.”

  Canaris thumbed two pills into his mouth. He dry-swallowed them, closed the vial, and returned it to his pocket. “Then coercion is called for,” he said.

  “Unfortunately, he seems to be aware of standard interrogation methods, Herr Admiral. He took the liberty of enumerating them for me earlier this evening.”

  “The Führer has taken a personal interest in this case,” Canaris said. “He is anxious for information on the invasion—sooner rather than later.”

  “I understand, Herr Admiral, and await your guidance.”

  “The man’s wife is here?”

  “She is.”

  “We may be forced to use her earlier than we had wished,” Canaris said. “I had hoped to save the woman as a last resort, but we must have an answer of some kind for the Führer within the next few days.”

  “I believe that conventional methods may still be effective, Herr Admiral. But since he is aware of them, they will take longer than usual.”

  “That is time that we do not have. Until now, Herr Beck, you have maintained the illusion of civility?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And yet you are certain that the man is withholding information.”

  “Quite certain, Herr Admiral.”

  “I will consider the matter and suggest a course of action in the morning.”

  The burr of a motorcycle caught Beck’s ear. He turned his head in time to see the vehicle pass a hall window in the settling dusk. After a moment, he heard the mansion’s front door open, and then the pounding of footsteps down the corridor behind them.

  “Herr Admiral!” a man called.

  The messenger reached them and saluted, breathing hard. He opened a pouch under his arm and withdrew an envelope.

  Canaris accepted the envelope without a word. He and Beck began to walk again as he jimmied open the flap and removed a single sheet of paper.

  “Our agent in England has managed to send us a warning,” he said after a moment. “Professor Winterbotham is still in the employ of the British.”

  Beck nodded.

  “She suggests an immediate execution,” Canaris said.

  “I am not surprised, Herr Admiral. As I said, he has been less than cooperative.”

  “A shame. The Führer was hoping for results with this one.”

  “Perhaps the man can still be of use, Admiral. If we plan to execute him in any case, our hands are not tied during the interrogation. Give me permission to use my own methods and I guarantee you, Herr Admiral, that I will secure every bit of information the man possesses—within whatever time schedule you allow.”

  Canaris looked up. “You enjoy your work,” he said after a moment, “do you not, Herr Beck?”

  “I do,” Beck answered.

  “I am sure that you are. skilled in your own fashion. But this man will not give in to the threat of pain. If he were that simple, the British would never have sent him.”

  “What do you suggest, Herr Admiral?”

  Canaris looked at the letter in his hand again. He sighed. “The wife, of course,” he said. “I suggest the wife.”

  21

  RASTENBURG, GERMANY

  The Wolfsschanze, set in a gloomy, thickly wooded corner of East Prussia, did not present an inviting façade.

  Three concentric rings of minefields, pillboxes, and electrified barbed-wire fencing surrounded a du
n-colored cluster of reinforced barracks. On this particular evening at the end of July, the sky and the forest had attained matching shades of gray.

  Reichsleiter Heinrich Himmler passed through the multiple perimeters, passed through three separate security checks, left his car, and was escorted down a damp concrete staircase to the steel-banded door of an underground bunker. He surrendered his firearm, listened as he was announced, and walked through the door.

  “Mein Führer,” he said. “Heil Hitler!”

  Adolf Hitler looked up from one end of a black marble table, where he had been bent over a map. He straightened, gesturing that Himmler should enter.

  “My friend,” he said. “Come in. I have news.”

  Himmler selected a chair at the end of the table, near Hitler. Both men sat. The Führer, Himmler thought, looked fatigued. His skin was pale, nearly translucent, and tinted a strange shade of yellow. His eyes were murky and half-lidded above dark smudges of exhaustion.

  He smiled wearily. “Il Duce has resigned,” he said. “Badoglio, our most bitter enemy, has taken over the government.”

  Himmler stared at him.

  “I cannot believe it,” he said after a moment.

  “No?”

  “It is not possible.”

  “No? I could not believe it myself. And yet it is true.”

  They sat in silence, then, as Himmler absorbed what he had been told. Mussolini had been forced from power; and so Italy would soon throw its lot in with the Allies. Militarily, of course, the significance would be negligible. The Italians were cowards and incompetents, and if they helped the Allies as much as they had helped the Germans, there would be no cause for concern. But politically—psychologically—if the Italians could lose patience with fascism, if their citizens could rise up and depose their leader and demand an end to the war, then could not the Germans do the same? Might this not presage a collapse of the Third Reich from within, even as its every flank was besieged from without?

  Hitler, following his own dark line of thought, stared down at the glistening black marble before him. At length, he stirred and said: “It is not as bad as it may seem.”

  “No,” Himmler agreed eagerly, and waited to be told why.