Artillery of Lies

by Derek Robinson

  “It is the capital city,” Christian said. “Surely it deserves great architecture.”

  “And the rest of Germany too? Speer said all our other cities are to be rebuilt on the same heroic scale. Hamburg, Düsseldorf, Essen, Hanover, Munich, Cologne, everywhere.”

  “Well, clearly that’s not feasible.”

  Oster laughed. “Hitler thinks it is. Those Royal Air Force Lancasters and American Flying Fortresses: they’re simply carrying out necessary demolition work for the greater glory of the Third Reich.”

  When they got back to Oster’s office, Christian had had time to think.

  “We were speaking of optimism, sir,” he said. “Although it seems rather a long time ago.”

  “And before that we were talking about Eldorado and the crucial importance of keeping the Eldorado channel open to traffic,” Oster said.

  “Yes.” Christian tugged at his lower lip. “I must seem very dense, sir. It’s just that I’m still trying to work out the link between the Eldorado Network and Reichminister Speer.”

  Suddenly Oster became impatient. “Look, Christian: when d’you think this vast architectural extravaganza was planned? I’ll tell you. All the designs were drawn long before we went into Poland. There are scale models hundreds of feet long hidden away in the Chancellery! It’s one of the reasons Hitler wanted this war—let him conquer Europe, conquer Russia, conquer the world or if he can’t conquer it, then at least dominate the bloody thing, and he can afford to build everything he damn well pleases! This is a war to satisfy Hitler’s vanity and make him famous. Armies are dying so Hitler will be remembered.”

  Christian was shaking his head. “I cannot believe the Fuehrer would lead us into war unless it was for the benefit of the German people.”

  Oster anticipated the last words and spoke over them. “In that case forget everything I’ve said,” he told Christian briskly. “Remember this instead. Sooner or later, every war comes to an end. Agreed?”

  Christian felt uncomfortable about agreeing but he could see no alternative. “I suppose that’s true, sir,” he said.

  “And when it comes to doing a deal with the west, Eldorado is one of the best go-betweens we could have.”

  “Eldorado’s not a go-between,” Christian protested. “He’s a spy, he collects intelligence.”

  “Call him what you like,” Oster said. “Just keep him warm and comfortable and happy in his work.”

  “Madrid runs Eldorado. I’m dead.”

  “Then you watch over Madrid. Do it from a safe distance. As a good ghost should.”

  The Twenty Committee met in London once a week. Its name wasn’t the cleverest idea ever. In the early days of the war, a committee had been set up to manage the business of running double-agents and someone had written XX on the cover of the minutes of the first meeting: XX for double-cross. That was a little too obvious, so it was translated to the Twenty Committee. An utterly meaningless, irrelevant name would have been safer: the Peachtree Committee, say, or better yet something really boring, such as the Reserve Stocks Sub-Committee; but after a couple of years the name had stuck.

  It was an interestingly high-powered group, spattered with the initials that are spawned by modern war. The two British security services were represented: MI5 and MI6—the first because its job was to catch spies in Britain and the second because its job involved knowing what foreign intelligence agencies were up to—and there were also men from HDE (Home Defence Executive), NID (Naval Intelligence Directorate), AMI (Air Ministry Intelligence), DMI (Director of Military Intelligence), CCO (Chief of Combined Operations), GHQ Home Forces, and a few more. The Twenty Committee did not decide on the strategic goals for its deception operations. Those goals came down to them from an even more high-powered outfit, known as the “W” Committee. The “W” Committee went all the way to the top. When, for instance, the Allies planned Operation Torch (the Anglo-American landings in North Africa), it was the “W” Committee that ordered the Twenty Committee to use its double-agents to mislead the enemy into preparing for raids elsewhere: Norway, Greece, France, wherever could be made to seem plausible. That was strategy. Just how the Twenty Committee did it was their business. That was tactics.

  Much of the weekly meetings was spent discussing what their agents should tell the enemy that was false and what they might tell him that was true. The Abwehr was not stupid. If an agent persistently pointed the Abwehr in the wrong direction it would rapidly stop believing him; what was worse, it would start suspecting that he had been turned by the other side. So the Twenty Committee had to keep sugaring its disinformation with some genuine intelligence; and it had to be useful, original intelligence, not snippets of news that anyone could collect from the daily papers. Running a double-agent meant cultivating the faith and confidence of the enemy. It was a very delicate swindle.

  The Twenty Committee’s decisions were passed on to the various case officers, such as Freddy Garcia. The committee members never met an agent. In the case of Luis Cabrillo, they should have been grateful. Six weeks after arriving at Rackham Towers he was still behaving like a pig.

  It was just before midday. Luis was in bed. Freddy was at his desk, reading a draft of Luis’s latest report. Julie was sitting at the other side of the desk, checking through the claims for expenses incurred by Eldorado sub-agents.

  “Buranda,” said Freddy. “Where’s Buranda?”

  Julie didn’t look up. “Beats me,” she said. “You had it last.”

  He got an atlas and began searching.

  “I wish he wouldn’t do this,” Julie said. Freddy grunted, and turned to the index. “Plus twenty-five percent?” she said. “I mean what the hell for?”

  “Who is it?”

  “Nutmeg.”

  “Bonus, maybe?”

  Julie made a face. “Can’t be. It’s backdated to cover all payments over the last six months.”

  “Including expenses?”

  Julie nodded. Freddy thought about it and went back to his atlas. “Buranda, Buranda,” he murmured. “Could it be an airport?”

  A log burned through, collapsed and provoked a brief fit of enthusiasm in the fire. The fit subsided. The door opened and Luis shuffled in. He was wearing pajamas, dressing gown and slippers, and was reading a document typed on pink paper. Freddy recognized the latest memorandum from the Twenty Committee.

  “This is shit,” Luis said. A page fluttered to the floor. He shuffled to the window, still reading. He had not shaved and his hair was a mess. There was a long silence. “That is shit too,” he said. Another page fell from his fingers.

  Freddy got up and went out of the room. Julie checked her watch, went to the sideboard and poured herself some sherry. “Want a drink?” she said. “The bar’s open.”

  Luis said nothing but went on reading. The more he read, the further away he held the document, until it was at arm’s length and he was frowning to focus. He reached the end of the page and twitched his thumbs, and the page slipped away. “More shit,” he said. He raised his eyes without moving his head and saw the glass in her hand. “This is shit and that is piss,” he said.

  “You should know,” Julie said evenly. “It’s your national drink, after all.”

  Luis sniffed. “We sell that treacle to the stupid English. Real sherry does not leave Spain.”

  Freddy came back in with half a dozen pink pages. “I followed the paper trail to his room,” he explained to Julie as he picked up the three pages lying on the floor. “You really mustn’t do this, Luis,” he said. “You know the stuff is classified.”

  “Don’t shout at me,” Luis said in a low, grim voice. Freddy had not been shouting. “I don’t write for people who shout at me.”

  “Anyway, what’s wrong with it?” Julie asked.

  “It’s shit,” Luis said.

  She looked wide-eyed at Freddy. “It must be wonderful to have such mastery of the English language,” she said.

  “We take what we’re given, Luis,” Freddy said.
“If the Twenty Committee wants us to work on Atlantic convoy routes then we do it, because that’s what matters.”

  “Not to the Abwehr. The Abwehr ask me about tanks and bombers, not about merchant ships.”

  “So surprise them,” Julie said.

  Luis handed Freddy the remains of the memorandum. “Give this toilet paper to your Archbishop of Canterbury,” he said. “Let him pray for a miracle.”

  “You told me you didn’t believe in God,” Julie said.

  “There is no God.”

  “So how can you expect a miracle?”

  Luis reached inside his pajamas and scratched his ribs while he thought. “With so much religion in the world,” he said, “it would be a miracle if there were no God.” He liked that. For a moment he seemed gloomily pleased with himself. “I believe in an ex-God. God was so ashamed of himself for creating Creation that he committed suicide.”

  “Funny nobody noticed,” she said.

  “There was a press release, but it was all in Latin.” Luis stopped scratching. “I feel thin,” he said.

  “You know,” Freddy said, and he tapped the draft Eldorado report on his desk. “This is damn good. Thin?” He craned his neck to examine him. “Thin? We can’t have that. D’you think he looks thin, Julie?”

  “No, I think he looks fat. Sort of gross but consumptive. Wheeze for us, Luis. Shake your flab.”

  “I didn’t say I look thin. I said I feel thin. It’s this lousy diet. I need fresh sardines.” Luis hugged himself and hunched his shoulders as if trapped in a blizzard. “Sardines and oranges.”

  “One does one’s best,” Freddy said, “but there are certain obstacles, I’m afraid … Never mind, this is a splendid report although there are one or two small points.”

  Luis screwed his eyes tightly shut and curled his toes.

  “I’m afraid your exploding turds will have to go,” Freddy said. “Brilliant idea. Truly brilliant. Well done, Drainpipe! Also the one-man-submarine. That’s out.”

  Luis opened his eyes to glare at Freddy. “Perfectly feasible,” he muttered.

  “That’s the trouble, old chap. They’re both too true. German soldiers all over France have to watch their step in case what they tread in goes off bang.”

  “Shit,” Luis said wearily. He drifted toward the door.

  “Before you go,” Freddy said, “is Buranda a city or a country?”

  “Yes,” Luis said, and shuffled out.

  They looked at each other. “I don’t like his mood,” Freddy said.

  “What you might call shitty,” she said. “Who’s Drainpipe?”

  “Didn’t I tell you? New sub-agent. An angry Welshman. The army requisitioned his farm and now they test experimental munitions there. He could be very useful.” Freddy spread his arms along the mantelpiece and warmed his backside. Beyond the windows, a bored and impatient wind chased the same few dead leaves around the lawns. The day was as light as it was ever going to be, which was a chilled and smoky gloom. Freddy said, “What’s wrong with him, Julie? Nothing pleases him, and yet he’s turning out first-rate stuff. I mean, just take a look.”

  She perched on the desk and read the exposed page of the draft report:

  is confirmed by GARLIC who says that police have confiscated all binoculars and telescopes owned by private individuals living within sight of the Clyde estuary. This is to prevent them from seeing horrific damage to convoys arriving after crossing the Atlantic. Some ships are so badly damaged, burning, etc., that dockers refuse to work on them and massive numbers of troops are unloading cargo instead. (Numerous accidents and wastage due to incompetence.) PINETREE reports heavy signals traffic London-Washington prompted by British army decision to postpone/cancel raids on Le Havre, St. Malo, Brest; also unspecified targets on Belgian/Dutch coasts. This decision directly caused by docks crisis (see above). WALLPAPER however has alternative information which indicates that the planned operations were much further north, probably in the region Denmark-Norway, with the aim of disrupting iron ore supplies from Sweden to Hamburg. I do not question WALLPAPER’s intentions but I suspect that his informants (largely Free French officers) are concerned to minimize damage to their homeland by campaigning for military operations elsewhere.

  HAYSTACK reports that a stolen document from the Ministry of Economic Warfare is circulating in London, revealing that contrary to official statements the average output per man/week in the semi-skilled sector has failed to reverse a decline which cannot be attributed to such negative factors as …

  She skimmed the next few paragraphs. “God!” she said. “This is boring.”

  “I know. That’s what makes it so beautiful.” Freddy came and looked over her shoulder. “It’s so boring it’s got to be true. Nobody but a government department could come up with anything so boring as that. He’s a genius.”

  “It’s not true? All this Ministry stuff?”

  “Certainly not. It’s all hokum. But it rings true, doesn’t it? And if you believe it you’re more likely to swallow the rest of the report—burning convoys and bolshy dockers and canceled assaults on Fortress Europe.”

  Julie flicked through a few pages. Freddy was right; Luis had a special style: a mixture of B-movie adventure, travelers’ tales, gossip, scandal and dense thickets of bureaucratic prose. She had forgotten how impressive it was. “Has the army really canceled any raids on Europe?” she asked.

  “I’ve no idea. Doesn’t really matter, does it? As long as the Germans think we might attack, they’ll keep lots of men in the west. Where Luis is so clever is in making bad news look like good news …” The flicker of white pajama trousers caught his eye. “For heaven’s sake,” he said. “What is he up to now?”

  Luis, still in his dressing gown, was trudging across the grass toward a clump of pines. The wind blew his hair sideways. He stopped to pick up a piece of dead wood; tucked it under his arm; walked on. “He’ll freeze,” Freddy said.

  “I’ll go,” she said.

  By the time she caught up with him, he had crossed the pines and was tramping resolutely down a muddy path into a great sprawl of woodland. Treetops creaked and rocked. The air was raw with the threat of an oncoming storm. She was in gumboots and overcoat and was carrying boots for Luis and an old army cape. “Put these on,” she said.

  “Don’t need ‘em.” He had not looked at her.

  “Luis …” She was about to say: Don’t be such a schmuck, you schmuck, but she swallowed the words. “It could get pretty cold.”

  “I’ll light a fire.” Without stopping, he showed her the piece of wood. It was thick and mossy and black with damp.

  “That’s good. Got any matches?”

  He nodded.

  The track narrowed and she had to walk behind him. They followed a stream, crossed it, climbed a long slope that was broken with jagged outcrops of stone. All the time the air grew colder and the light got worse. Halfway up the slope a fallen tree blocked the path. Luis scrambled over it and lost his slippers. Julie ducked underneath. “Sit,” she ordered, and pointed to a flat rock. Luis sat. She shoved the gumboots on his muddy feet and spread the cape over his shoulders. “Lead on,” she said.

  Half a mile away he came upon a place where a rocky overhang created a shallow cave, high above a stand of magnificent beeches. “Fire here,” he said. He still had his piece of black, mossy wood. He looked at it as if deciding which end to light first.

  She took it out of his hands and threw it as far as she could, so it went sailing down between the tall, clean-cut trunks of the beeches. “You’re a nice guy, Luis,” she said, “but it’s obvious you were never a Girl Scout.”

  “I can light a fire.” He was angry, but he was also shivering.

  “Oh, sure. In Spain you can light a fire, where it’s hot and dry. Who can’t? Scratch a Spaniard and start a fire, isn’t that right, Luis? But this is soggy old England, so give me the matches.”

  Luis refused. He folded his arms and put one foot crosswise on top of the other
. His nose was running and he wiped it with the back of his hand. “They’re my matches,” he muttered.

  “Shit!” she said. “To quote an eminent writer.” There was deadlock while she stared at him and he stared at nothing. “OK, I tell you what,” she said. “You light the fire, right? I make it and you light it. Deal? Terrific” Before Luis could respond she had grabbed his arm and pointed him at some trees. “Get dry wood, thin as your finger. Look for dead branches still on the tree.” She gave him a shove and turned and went the opposite way. “This is fun!” she cried. You dumb schmuck, she added silently.

  Julie built a fire on good Girl-Scout principles. Luis shuffled back and dumped a huge armful of dry sticks beside it. She pointed to the spot where he should apply flame. “Put it there, partner,” she said. He broke three matches before he got one to light, but its flame spread like magic and the blaze was a beacon in a dark and wicked world. “Now all we need is marshmallows,” she said.

  “For what?” he asked.

  “To stuff up your nose!” she shouted. “What else?” She found that very funny and when she laughed, he blinked with bewilderment. His cape had fallen off; his dressing gown hung open; his pajamas were unbuttoned; he was a walking disaster. Yet nothing could disguise his slim and clean-limbed grace. Julie wiped her filthy hands on his chest. It was an action that slipped easily into a hug, and the hug became an embrace. “Is that a bottle in your pocket?” Luis asked, “or am I glad to see you?”

  It was half a bottle of sherry: all that Julie had been able to grab on her way out. “Genuine treacle,” she said. “The poor bloody Spanish aren’t allowed to get their sticky hands on this.”

  Luis took a long swig. “Only wonderful,” he said, and burped. “No breakfast,” he explained.