Volk

  “The slopes of Gibraltar are precipitous,” Ernst reminded him as they studied the solid silhouette of the great rock. “The winds are irregular. It might as well be a minefield of the air.”

  Witzig nodded regretfully. “Then it seems that we are without sufficient resources to take the rock at this time. Nevertheless we shall take pictures, in case others are able to fathom what we do not.”

  “That is a diplomatic way to put it,” Ernst agreed. He had thought it should be possible to storm Gibraltar, until he had taken a good look at it. It would be a phenomenal prize to achieve, but the cost would be prohibitive.

  They took pictures. Because they did not want to be spied in the act, they took them by night. Consequently all they could come up with was murky silhouettes. This, too was a bad job; better pictures were already on file.

  Canaris, disappointed, nevertheless acceded to the logic. He ordered improved observation equipment to be sent to Algeciras. Then he settled down with his consultants to draw up a feasible assault plan, taking into consideration all the problems they had noted. He also ordered the commander of the Brandenburg’s third battalion to determine whether he could take Gibraltar with a surprise attack by German troops smuggled through Spain in trucks and supported by an engineer battalion infiltrated by sea.

  In due course the word came back: NEGATIVE. Canaris and his party had by then returned to Germany, but Ernst remained in Spain, signifying that the Admiral had not given up the quest.

  Heydrich, evidently keeping close track despite Ernst’s lack of a direct report, arranged to have a sealed letter delivered to him. He found it on the floor of his room in Algeciras, slipped under the door during his absence. It was apparent that Ernst was not the only secret agent in the area.

  He opened the letter. DESTROY AFTER READING was stamped at the top of the sheet, and Heydrich’s signature was at the bottom. It was authentic.

  It informed him that there was a plan to abduct the British Duke of Windsor, who was in Portugal now, about to take the ship Excalibur to the Bahamas, where he would be governor. The Duke had been King Edward VIII of England in 1936, but had gotten romantically interested in an American divorcee. Faced with the choice between her and the throne, the King, not the brightest of men, had abdicated the throne and married the woman. He was understood to be sympathetic to the Nazi cause, and might agree to make a statement on Germany’s behalf. That would be a political coup that might sway others toward the cause. Ernst was to go to Portugal immediately to assist, since he spoke English and could serve as a translator. He was to tell no one else of this, but to pretend he was merely traveling, as before. There was a name and address: his contact in Portugal.

  Ernst stared at the letter. Abduct the former King of England? In the hope that he would then endorse Nazism? This was utter folly! Even if the man was sympathetic, he would surely be alienated by the abduction, and in any event he would never publicly betray his country. He might not be smart, but he could hardly be that stupid. What nitwit had hatched this scheme? It couldn’t be Heydrich!

  But Heydrich would not directly counter a directive from his superior. He would go along with it, then arrange to divert it before real damage was done, in such a way that he would not be blamed. So this was form without substance. Ernst would have to go to Portugal and make the contact, but he doubted that it would go much farther than that.

  Sure enough, when he reported to the address two days later he was told to forget it; the plan had been canceled. He was instructed to forget that it had ever existed, and to pretend that he had never entered Portugal. He was glad to oblige. Heydrich had succeeded in diverting the insanity.

  Ernst, left to his own devices, resumed traveling around Spain, awaiting further orders. Something was bothering him, and it did not take any great concentration to figure out what: he wanted to see Quality Smith again. He knew this was idiocy, because even if she were not the fiancée of his friend, what interest would she have in a Nazi SS officer? Ernst was the opposite of everything she stood for. Yet he remembered her plain talk, and the way she had waved to him at the end, and his soul was restless.

  In mid August he could stand it no longer. He drove to Barcelona and went to the headquarters of the Quaker Relief there. Only to be told that all of the Quakers had left Spain, and the project had been shut down. It seemed that they had done something to annoy the government, so had been abruptly expelled.

  Ernst’s emotions were mixed. He was sorry not to see Quality again, but glad that she had escaped the country. Now if it should come to pass that Germany invaded Spain, she would not be caught in the crossfire. She was safe in America, where she belonged.

  Meanwhile it seemed that there was intense negotiation to try to get Spain to join the Axis voluntarily. Admiral Canaris came down for a week in late August to see about that, and Ernst joined him as a driver.

  This, too, came to grief. After a week of intensive dialogue with Spanish officials, Canaris formed the opinion that General Franco would not join in the war until England was beaten. They would have to wait for the big effort of the Luftwaffe to break England down. Already the bombers were crossing the channel to England daily, so the capitulation should not be long in coming.

  The Admiral returned to Germany, but still Ernst was relegated to Spain. Canaris was unwilling to give up on Felix, and intended to keep his personnel “on-site” until the project could be realized. This was in effect a vacation for Ernst, because he had nothing to do except drive around Spain, remaining inconspicuous. He could not remain in any one region long, lest folk realize that he was up to something. This included the Abwehr post in Algeciras.

  So he toured the country in thorough fashion, reading whatever books were handy, but finding them all boring. The nights were lonely. It had been better on the floor, with Quality Smith, than in the bed alone. He thought about Krista, whom he hoped to see again soon, and about Quality, whom he expected not to see again. The two were so different, yet now occupied similar sections in his mind. Krista was beautiful, self-possessed, and decisive, and she wanted to marry him. Quality was beautiful too, in a more ethereal way, and sure of herself in a more subtle way, and decisive in an oblique way. The two were seeming opposites in nature, yet parallel. Krista wanted what was best for Krista, and would do what she had to do achieve her ambition. Quality hardly seemed to care about herself; she wanted what was best for the world, and had been doing what she could to improve it. Of the two philosophies, he preferred the latter.

  But Krista was available, and Quality was not. Quality was back in America, and she was Lane’s fiancée. She was a pacifist who hated the artifacts of war and despised the Nazis. He had always known that there would never be anything between Quality and himself. Why, then, was it her face that came to his mind?

  He forced his imagination to picture Krista as she might be the day he agreed to marry her. She would go with him to a private place, and take off her clothing to show her fine body, and say “I thank thee, Ernst.”

  The picture exploded. That had not been Krista talking, but Quality! He could not keep her out of his fancy, though every aspect of her nature was foreign to his.

  Ernst shook his head. There were currents of foolishness in him he had not fathomed. But they would fade in time; it was inevitable.

  The Spanish press carried news the German press did not: the Battle Over Britain was not going well. Too many bombers were not returning. By the middle of September it was obvious that air power was not going to bring England to her knees. Ernst wondered whether Lane Dowling was part of the reason. He suspected that it was.

  Admiral Canaris continued to campaign behind the scenes for Felix, and Ernst continued to travel Spain. He agreed with the Admiral: it was now more important than ever to deny England the use of the Mediterranean, so that the surging British aircraft could not go there to raid Axis installations. There was only so much the British ships could do, but buttressed by air power they would be formidable. The failure o
ver England had to be redeemed by a success here, beginning with the capture of the Rock of Gibraltar. They had to make the Mediterranean theater impregnable.

  In late October Adolf Hitler himself met with General Franco, trying to charm him into joining the Axis. But Franco remained noncommittal. Did the fool think he had any other course? He had gained power because of Hitler’s help; now he was stalling about returning the favor.

  On October 28 Italy invaded Greece. That involved the Axis in a Balkan war, because of the “Three Power Pact” signed between Germany, Italy and Japan the month before. Ernst did not like it; to his mind the Italians had delusions of the grandeur of ancient Roman days, and were not militarily competent now. This was all too likely to become a mess for Germany to clean up. Admiral Canaris originated an armistice proposal which gained Hitler’s backing, but somehow there was no follow-through, and the mess remained.

  But it had one beneficial effect: it revived Hitler’s interest in the Mediterranean. Two weeks later Felix was given operational status, and Canaris came to Spain again to determine how Abwehr units and combat teams could best contribute to the Felix assault. There were several code names: Felsennest, soon changed to Basta, and an Abwehr Captain worked on it under the name Roderigo. But it was really Felix.

  “We need reconnaissance from the other side,” Canaris said. “To pinpoint the nature and number and placement of their defenses, and to spy out any possible access route. Just a good description would be immeasurably helpful.”

  “I wish I could get there,” Ernst said. “I can speak Spanish and English, so I might pass as an educated Spaniard.”

  “You know better than I that the isthmus is closed off and guarded, and the surrounding waters are mined,” the Admiral said. “But if you can find a way, by all means do it.” He smiled at the humor of the notion.

  Ernst searched for a way. He learned that there was a local smuggler, Jorge, who made regular visits to the Rock, selling dubious goods at exorbitant prices. Could they bribe Jorge to smuggle a man to Gibraltar? Probably they could—but the rock was so small and tight that any stranger there was all too apt to be spotted and challenged. A failure would be worse than not trying, because it would betray the German interest in Gibtraltar. So he concluded that this was not a viable option. There had to be some other way to get the information they needed.

  But there was one thing they could do. Ernst went into the town of La Linea, just north of the Gibraltar isthmus. “I am looking for Jorge,” he said in Spanish. “I think he has something for me.”

  It was surprisingly easy. Jorge regarded himself as a trader. He took Spanish goods to Gibraltar, trading them for British money, which was valuable to some parties in Spain. Twice a week he loaded up his small boat and rowed down to the west shore of Gibraltar where he delivered Spanish wines, exotic condoms, rare expensive canned food, dirty pictures, spices, and items of female apparel not seen on the street. The British authorities knew about it, but ignored him as long as he smuggled no dangerous drugs or weapons. Ernst could understand why: such trade served as a certain relief valve for bored military men, and helped keep the internal peace. “I have many officers as customers,” Jorge confided. “They don’t come in person, but I know them by their tastes. I have the only brand of tea they really like, and the herbs to make women wild for sex.”

  “I don’t believe that,” Ernst said.

  Jorge eyed him cannily. “But they believe, and that is what counts. What is it that you believe in?”

  In other words, what did he want badly enough to pay an outrageous price for it. “I believe you could smuggle someone to or from Gibraltar, and back again on your following trip.”

  “You believe too much! They would have my head!”

  “Who?”

  “The British! They watch that rock like hawks. They look the other way when I trade, but if I ever tried to bring anyone else there, they would shoot me.”

  Ernst nodded. “Surely they would. And what do you think the Spaniards would do if you brought a Britisher from the rock to Spain?”

  He became canny. “The Spanish don’t care. They sell me the goods I trade. Anyone who comes from the Rock is here for a good time, with much money to spend. There are no women there, now; the British expelled them all. The local women know how to get it all from a man, and leave him happy.”

  So he did conduct some British to Spain. “And the Germans? What do you think they would do to such a visitor?”

  “Oh, the Germans do not know about this.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Jorge looked at him, beginning to catch on. “Who are you?”

  “I am Captain Osterecht of the Abwehr.”

  “What do you want with me?” Jorge asked, alarmed.

  “I want information. I want you to tell me of any future British you bring here.”

  “But if you take them, my business will be destroyed! I must bring them safely back, or I will not dare show my face at the Rock again.”

  “Let me explain what I have in mind. You will inform me of any Britisher you bring here. I will encounter him by seeming coincidence, interrogate him, and let him go. You will be blameless and he will not be harmed. Your business will not be affected.”

  “But why should I tell you? My business will be safer if I protect the business of my clients.”

  Ernst slowly drew his service pistol, the one that had impressed and horrified Quality. He hoped it would have similar effect here.

  “Because your business will be in trouble if you do not.” He paused, letting the man’s fear build as the threat sank in. “And because I will pay you generously for your cooperation.”

  Jorge’s expression changed from fear to greed. “You will pay?”

  Ernst put away the pistol and brought out a packet of bills. The threat had been a bluff, but the bribe was not. “This now, and the same again, for each one you tell me of.” It was the stick and carrot approach, normally quite effective.

  So it was that the deal was made. With luck, they would have a Britisher to interrogate about the defenses of Gibraltar. They had a drug that would make a person talk fairly freely, and forget what had occurred.

  A week later Jorge contacted Ernst by calling the number he had been given. “There is one.”

  Ernst went immediately, taking pesos. Jorge told him where the Britisher was dallying, and Ernst gave him the money. Then the agents of the Abwehr closed in on the target.

  But it was only a seaman, fresh in port and determined to get what he usually got in port. He would not have any worthwhile knowledge. They let him go without interrogation.

  The following week there was another. Again they paid handsomely for nothing. Jorge was getting far the best of the deal.

  But the third week it was different. “This time an airman,” Jorge said as he took the money.

  That could be good news. An airman should have seen the rock from above, and know where its main defensive emplacements were. Ernst went himself to check this one.

  The man was not going to the house of the prostitutes. In fact he was not staying in town at all. He had already rented a car and was driving rapidly north. What was going on? There was nothing entertaining in that direction.

  “He must be a secret agent,” someone said.

  Now that seemed likely. What better way to introduce one to Spain? “We must discover what he is up to,” Ernst said. But he was the only one free to pursue the agent. He got his car and set off. Now it was not merely information on the Rock he was after, but a line on what the British were trying to do in Spain. This could be extremely important.

  Ernst knew the roads of Spain, and could drive them at night. The British agent evidently did not. He took wrong turns and got enmeshed in the dead ends of bombed out roads. He got lost in obscure towns. But he seemed to be headed up the coast, toward Valencia. He also seemed to be in a hurry to get there, so was driving all night. But Ernst was able to catch up to him, before turning off so as not to gi
ve away his pursuit. He knew which car it was, so would not lose it.

  The agent would not make it to Valencia quickly. Ernst knew of a bombed-out bridge that would surely catch him and force him to retrace a goodly segment of his route. The bridge was marked plainly, so there was no danger of driving off it and into space, but it would cause the man to turn around. Ernst drew up to the turnoff and parked his car sideways, blocking it. Now he would find out who the man was and what he was up to. It seemed pointless to follow him hundreds of miles until he reached a big city, where he could be lost. Better to brace him here, alone.

  Ernst got out of his car and stood beside it, his hand on his pistol. It was quite possible that the agent would be dangerous when he saw himself trapped. But it was also possible that this was not a saboteur, but someone trying to infiltrate an office or simply to make an observation and retreat with his notes. Exactly as Ernst would have done, had it been feasible to reach Gibraltar. So he would not be too ready to use his pistol. He preferred not to reveal himself as German, if he could avoid it.

  At dawn the lights of the agent’s car appeared. They speared down to strike Ernst’s car. This was the critical point. Would the man stop? Would he talk?

  The car stopped. Its motor died; the driver did not want to waste petrol. The man came out in the early light.

  “Who are you?” Ernst called in Spanish. A true agent would know the language.

  “I don’t speak Spanish.”

  Ernst was amazed. He knew that voice!

  “Lane Dowling!” he exclaimed.

  “Oh my God—is that you, Ernst?”

  They walked together and embraced, after each put away his ready pistol. “I thought you were a secret agent!” Ernst said.

  “I thought you were a Spanish highwayman. What are you doing here?”

  “Following you.” Then Ernst made a connection. “Quality! You are coming to see her! But—” He hesitated.

  Lane frowned. “Have you seen her?”