Artillery of Lies

by Derek Robinson

“I don’t know about that,” Stephanie mumbled.

  “Come off it, kid. Don’t tell me you never think about your hero Otto all naked and shining. Let me put you straight. His private parts look like they just fell off the cold cuts counter at your local deli. Sad but true.”

  Stephanie shuffled up and down. She had been given school gym shoes, black and laceless, a size too large. The boilersuit had no pockets. She needed a bath and a shampoo. There was no mirror. She cried out, plaintively, “Why do they keep me here?”

  “Why did you come here?” Julie asked. She made room on the bed. “Come and sit here. Look, I know how you feel. I’m a long way from home too, all on account of a guy who swore he loved me.” Briefly, she wondered who she was talking about: Harry or Luis? It wasn’t the whole truth, either way. “They’ll say anything. Absolutely anything.” Stephanie sat beside her. “Tell me about these three clowns you came with. Which did you like best?”

  “I cannot tell. That is all secret.”

  “Oh, horsefeathers. Docherty’s three doors along the corridor, talking his Irish head off. I had lunch with him. We’re going to the cinema tomorrow.” Julie impressed herself with the fluency of her lies. The first prompted the next. “He likes you, you know that? He says you were the best at putting Laszlo in his place. That time in the pub, in Galway. What exactly did you hit him with? Docherty says Laszlo landed on his butt in the sawdust.”

  Stephanie laughed. That couldn’t possibly be a secret. Not what the Abwehr meant by a secret. “I hit him with this,” she said, showing her right fist.

  “Wow!” Julie said. She felt her biceps. “Attagirl! I bet he understood that message.”

  Stephanie talked about the pub. After that she couldn’t resist telling the story about Ferenc Tekeli and the nuns in the Dublin train, and was proud of herself when Julie laughed so much she nearly slid off the bed. In the end she talked about nearly everything. But when Julie asked, “What happened to Laszlo?” she fell silent. The past was past; she was ready to be indiscreet about it; but Laszlo was on a mission of crucial importance to the war and to the German people. She had a sacred duty to the Fuehrer not to betray that mission.

  “Docherty says Laszlo kills people for fun,” Julie said. “Otto Krafft told him so. Think about it.” She left.

  Luis stood in front of a wall-map of the world, colorfully studded with pins, and searched for some good news; some really good news. North Africa—nothing there; all gone beyond reclaim. Malta was a lost cause now that Sicily had fallen, which meant that Italy would be next, and that was a gloomy prospect. You couldn’t expect the Italians to fight to the last man to keep the Allies out of Germany. No, there was trouble brewing there. Yugoslavia? He shuddered. More and more partisans sucking in more and more German divisions. And Greece? You couldn’t trust the Greeks. The whole of the Eastern Front was bad news, of course. The Americans had started bombing Romania and the appalling, ferocious, unstoppable Russians were … Luis looked for Stalingrad, and found it hundreds of miles behind the Russian front line. What a disaster! By contrast the Allied capture of Sicily was a lost sixpence. That left Britain. Well, there was still some juice to be squeezed out of the U-boat war in the Atlantic but to be honest the Abwehr had gone off the boil when it came to convoys. Madrid’s questionnaires were often quite tepid on the subject. What agitated Berlin was strategic bombing. Luis looked at the black flatheaded pins marking German cities that had been regularly bombed. What a lot! A moderately athletic caterpillar could have crawled over most of Germany without touching the map.

  “It’s a dismal picture,” he said.

  Freddy looked at his watch. “An hour to transmission time. I really would like to get this signal off to Madrid today. It would show them that we take their request seriously.”

  Luis nodded. “What would the Germans most like to happen?” he murmured. “Given this awful map, what would cheer them up?”

  He stood still, apart from an occasional blink, for several minutes, until Freddy could stand it no longer. “Suppose the OWCH unit has a catastrophe?” he suggested. “Test flight goes wrong, bomber crashes on American army camp, huge bang, ten thousand killed.”

  Luis made a short, thoughtful noise in his throat.

  “Better yet,” Freddy said, “crash it on a British army camp. Fifteen thousand dead. Think of the uproar.”

  “Do shut up, Freddy. Crashed bombers! Who cares about crashed bombers?” Luis went to his desk and took the cap off his fountain pen. “That’s a mere trifle compared to Winston Churchill’s heart attack. Alleged heart attack. It’s being kept secret, of course. Eldorado got wind of it from sub-agent Garlic, who is now at Cambridge University studying under one of the world’s greatest heart specialists. Eldorado and Garlic are working around the clock on this sensational scoop.”

  “Nice touch,” Freddy said. “Since they like Garlic, let’s give them more of him.”

  “Now we’ve sugared the pill. I hate to say no without giving a damn good reason.” Luis finished writing. “You know, I’d quite like to see Berlin,” he said. “I’ve never been there.”

  “You wouldn’t like it with seven hundred Lancasters overhead,” Freddy said. Luis blotted the page and conceded the point silently.

  *

  Two days bed-rest.

  Well, it could have been worse; it could have been the sack, discharged as medically unfit, end of a career. Christian was too restless to stay in bed but he compromised by lying on a couch or sprawling in an armchair. Domenik visited, bringing the newspapers. “Hold the headlines up to a mirror,” he said, “and you’ll get somewhere near the truth. But then maybe you don’t want the truth.”

  “It’s the only thing the doctors haven’t forbidden,” Christian said. “I’m not allowed to drive a car, ride a horse, ski, swim, shoot, fish, take part in athletics or strenuous sports especially boxing, or have a bath.”

  “Why no baths?”

  “Might fall down and drown myself. Showers are permitted, thank God, or I’d end up choking on my own stench. Got any new jokes?”

  That was when General Oster walked in. “Don’t let me stop you,” he said.

  “Bit simpleminded, this one,” Domenik said. “An Englishman, an American and a German.”

  “Why do your jokes always go in threes?” Oster wondered.

  “It’s so they’ll always have a leg to stand on,” Christian said without thinking. Oster was amused.

  Domenik began: “The Englishman boasts: ‘Churchill can stand on the top of St. Paul’s Cathedral and see all of London.’”

  “Technically untrue, but continue,” Oster said.

  “The American says: ‘So what? President Roosevelt can stand on top of the Capitol and see all of Washington.’”

  “Rubbish,” Christian said. “Roosevelt’s in a wheelchair.”

  “The German says—”

  “Hang on to your hats, here it comes,” Oster announced.

  “The German says, ‘That’s nothing—the Fuehrer can stand on a kitchen chair and see all of Berlin!’”

  “Not worth waiting for,” Oster said. “A subtly satirical allusion to the effects of bombing, I take it? Feeble.”

  “Anyway,” Christian said, “just look out of the window.”

  “Jokes aren’t about reality, they’re about fears,” Domenik said. “Jokes are hostages to ill-fortune. Make a joke and it won’t happen. Of course it always does happen, but at least you get a chance to laugh at the bomb before it kills you.”

  “I have a much better joke,” Oster said. He tossed some cushions on to the floor and lay on them. “Our gallant allies the Hungarians have made a secret treaty with the British and American air forces. Hungary promises not to fire on any of their bombers and they promise not to bomb Hungary. Sweet, isn’t it?”

  “Is that definite?” Domenik asked. “I mean, there are so many rumors …”

  “Stefan, old fellow, there is nothing so loud as the sound of bombs not being dropped. Believe me, H
ungary is echoing to the racket.”

  “Didn’t we send a Hungarian to England?” Christian asked. He disliked talking about the disloyalty of Germany’s allies; even hearing about it built a swirling tension in his head. “What happened to him? What became of Ace, come to that?”

  “Oh, well, you know,” Oster said. “You reckon on losing one or two.” He rearranged the pillows behind his head.

  “But surely, sir …” Christian hesitated; he could sense failure ahead; but it was too late now. He might as well put the unasked question into words. “Surely Ace wasn’t lost? Didn’t we get his message? From Glasgow?” Oster nodded. “So where does he go from there?” Christian asked.

  “Good question.” Oster heaved himself up and threw the cushions at Domenik. “Come along, Stefan. We’re interrupting the convalescence.” As they went out, he said: “Since you’re so concerned, Meyer, maybe Eldorado can take him on. Remind me to suggest it when he comes.” Christian nodded. That “Meyer” really hurt.

  The mustache he was trying to grow was so far just a smear but Laszlo liked the feel of it and he was brushing what little there was with his fingertips as he came away from breakfast when the man who ran the hotel said, “Good morning, Mr. Lakram.”

  That wasn’t good. That wasn’t right. The people who ran the sort of hotel Laszlo could afford didn’t acknowledge the guests; certainly didn’t speak to them by name. They fined them five shillings for burning cigarette holes in the sheets and kicked them out in the rain. If they had to address a guest they called him “Muster” or “Jummy” but usually they said nothing at all. Laszlo took fright. He replied politely and hurried upstairs to his room, grabbed his suitcase and went out through the back window. It was a six-foot drop to a shed with a corrugated iron roof. He hit it with a crash and a tinkle and bounded along the roof, stamping out a concerto for cymbals, then dropped again into the back alley and ran until he found streets and crowds and safety.

  It was a bad start to a worse day. The tinkle that followed his crash on to the roof had been the coins jolted out of his pockets. Laszlo counted his money and found he was left with less than two pounds. Well, you could live for a few days on a couple of quid in 1943 if you slept in the open, but it was raining by noon and that wasn’t the worst of it. He had no identity papers. A. J. Lakram’s documents were in the hotel-keeper’s possession.

  Laszlo wasted a couple of pennies on the Glasgow Herald. RUSSIANS RE-TAKE KHARKOV, the front page shouted. Nobody cares about Laszlo was the news in the personal columns. His own message, now making its last appearance, was starting to look pathetic. If these are the really happy days, he thought, God help us when they run out.

  There was nothing to do but drink while the pubs were open and hide in the cinema when they weren’t. That evening, when he came out of Edge of Darkness (Errol Flynn and Ann Sheridan) the weather was worse. Dusk had come early; people were hurrying home, heads down against the gusting rain. Laszlo had no home. He got very wet trudging to the pub where he had first seen A. J. Lakram, and he drank too much beer, too fast while he was waiting for another likely-looking merchant seaman to come in. None did.

  At chucking-out time the rain was heavier than ever, and bitingly cold. He had eaten nothing since breakfast. His head and his legs were not working very well as he stumbled uncertainly in the blackness. He kept bumping into people but they were gone before he could grab them and show them his pistol and say the words.

  Fool, he told himself, they can’t see the pistol in the blackout. That was a bad moment, one of the worst. No gun, no hope. Then he thought of a solution. Ask for a light. Ask for a match. Strike the match and say, “See this?” Brilliant solution. Laszlo was grinning as he lurched off the curb and got lightly clipped by the wing of a car.

  The driver pulled over, walked back and found Laszlo leaning against a tree, laughing like a schoolgirl. “Are you hurt?” he asked.

  Laszlo clutched the man’s sleeve. “Have you got a light?” he said. “A light is what I need. Have you got a light?”

  “There may be some matches in the car. Can you walk?”

  While he was searching for matches Laszlo got into the car and waved his pistol. “Can you see this?” he asked. The man, stocky and curly-haired, was unsurprised. “I see it,” he said. “Is it loaded?”

  Laszlo aimed it at him while he screwed on the silencer. “Look carefully,” he said, “because you won’t hear anything.” He fired a shot through the roof. It made a bang like a tractor backfiring. “Sorry,” he said. “Now give me all your money. Identity card too.”

  Later, scuttling off in the wet dark, he realized that he could have stolen the car. Still, seventeen pounds wasn’t a bad haul. He stood in the doorway of a late-night chip-shop to see who he was now. William Kenny, farmer. Good enough.

  “The OWCH report is excellent, sir,” Christian said.

  “Oh, invaluable,” Canaris agreed.

  “Luftwaffe Intelligence are fascinated, quite fascinated.” Oster said. “They have a hundred new questions for Eldorado.”

  “And that’s on top of the eight-engined bomber report, sir,” Christian said.

  “We’re spoiling them,” Oster remarked.

  “But nothing so far on RAF Bomber Command’s next big target cities,” Canaris pointed out. “And that’s what we specifically asked for.”

  “In all fairness, sir, I do think you’re pressing a little hard, bearing in mind the obstacles. I mean, we’re asking Eldorado to break through a whole army of security systems. It’s bound to take time.” Christian shuffled his bundle of folders. “Meanwhile there’s this truly startling development regarding Churchill’s health. I know it involves Garlic again, but … Is it really wise to pull Eldorado out of England at this precise stage?”

  Canaris turned to Oster. “D’you think he’s afraid of Berlin? The bombing?”

  Oster shrugged. “It’s certainly a lot noisier than London. Perhaps that’s it.”

  “Then make it Switzerland,” Canaris told Christian. “Tell him I want to meet him in Zurich. No excuses. Do it now.”

  *

  Julie brought Stephanie Schmidt a potted geranium, vivid scarlet, and a small bottle of shampoo. The plant pleased her and the shampoo delighted her: a tear of thanks ran down her cheek. “As soon as you have gone …” she began.

  “Why not use it now?”

  More tears, which were soon washed away with the grease and dandruff when Stephanie bent her head into the wash-basin. Julie dried her hair, scrubbing it with the towel until the scalp felt purified, and then combed it, and tied it with a yellow ribbon from her own hair. “You look like a million dollars,” she said. “Or two million Deutschmarks.”

  Stephanie glowed with gratitude. “You are a wonderful person,” she said.

  “I’ll drink to that.” Julie took a small silver flask from her pocket. “Where d’you keep the crystal goblets?”

  “Oh …” Stephanie shook her head and made the ribbon fly. “In my family, you see, we never—”

  “That’s not what Docherty says. He says that when you were in that bar in Galway even Ferenc was taking lessons from you.” Stephanie protested prettily but surrendered speedily and they were soon sharing brandy from the cap of the flask. “You liked Ferenc, didn’t you?” Julie said.

  “He was lovely. Never before have I met a man who finds everything interesting. Everyone liked Ferenc”

  “Laszlo didn’t.”

  “Oh well, Laszlo was always in a hurry, no time to enjoy … Ferenc always had time to enjoy.” Stephanie didn’t want even to think about Laszlo: it spoiled the nice warm atmosphere. “And you should have seen Ferenc eat! Did I tell you about the time we all went to the bullfight?” She was off and running.

  Julie sat and listened to her cheerful gossip, and kept the little silver cup of brandy going back and forth. When there was a pause she said: “I wish I’d known him. I don’t suppose I ever will. Would he have made a very good spy, d’you think?”

/>   Recklessly indiscreet, Stephanie said, “World’s worst. He told me so. He only joined the Abwehr to get out of prison.”

  Julie smiled. “Sounds very, very sensible. I’d do the same.” She let the smile fade, very slowly. “I wonder …” She touched Stephanie on the knee with the tip of her forefinger; just a tiny touch, but it made the girl’s head twitch. “Do you think he knows he’s in danger?”

  Stephanie tried to shrug it off. “In war, we are all in danger.”

  “From Laszlo. Docherty says he thinks Ferenc is in great danger from Laszlo.” She looked Stephanie straight in the eyes. “Where is Laszlo, Stephanie? Tell me.”

  But she would not. Julie got a long speech about trust and honor and the sacred duty of the warrior; the longer it lasted the more scrambled the grammar became and the less sense it all made; until finally Stephanie was in tears. Julie capped the brandy and gave her a towel and told her not to upset herself. Another session over.

  The Director found Zurich on the map. “Twenty-odd miles from the German border,” he said. “Even worse than I thought.”

  “You suspect kidnap, sir?” Freddy said.

  “Don’t you?”

  “I don’t know what I suspect, sir. I just wonder what Canaris is going to think if Eldorado says no again.”

  “He’ll think Eldorado’s got flu.”

  “Has he?”

  “Summer flu. There’s a lot of it about, you know.”

  The news did not please Luis. “I never get colds,” he said. “I am extremely fit. Besides, how can I afford time off to lie in bed? Look at all the work I’ve got piling up!”

  Julie was present. “I think he ought to go to Zurich,” she told Freddy. “I think he ought to be flown there in an ambulance plane and carried on a stretcher to the Admiral’s presence. I think that would impress the Abwehr enormously. I see him with the right leg in plaster and bloody bandages wrapped around the head. Feverish, of course, and talking nonsense. And just as they award him the Blue Max for conspicuous bullshit in the face of overwhelming odds, he drops dead. What a movie it would make.”