"None taken, my young friend. You are entitled to your opinion, however misinformed it might be."
Canaris's horse threw back its head and snorted. The breath froze into a cloud, then drifted away on the gentle morning wind. Canaris looked around him at the devastation of the Tiergarten. Most of the lime and chestnut trees were gone, burned by Allied incendiary bombs. Ahead of them, on the pathway, was a bomb crater the size of a Kubelwagen. Thousands more were scattered throughout the park. Canaris, tugging on the reins, led his horse around it. A pair of Schellenberg's security men trailed softly after them on foot. Another walked a few feet in front of them, head slowly wheeling from side to side. Canaris knew there were more he could not see, even with his well-trained eye.
"Something very interesting landed on my desk yesterday evening," Schellenberg said.
"Oh, really? What was her name?"
Schellenberg, laughing, spurred the horse into a light trot.
"I have a source in London. He did some work for the NKVD a long time ago, including recruiting an Oxford student who is now an officer inside MI-Five. He still talks to the man from time to time, and he hears things. He passes those things on to me. The MI-Five officer is a Russian agent, but I share in the harvest, so to speak."
"Remarkable," Canaris said dryly.
"Churchill and Roosevelt don't trust Stalin. They keep him in the dark. They have refused to tell him anything about the time and place of the invasion. They think Stalin might leak the secret to us so the Allies will be destroyed in France. With the British and Americans out of the fight, Stalin would try to finish us off alone and grab all of Europe for himself."
"I've heard that theory. I'm not sure I put much stock in it."
"In any case, my agent says MI-Five is in crisis. He says your man Vogel has mounted an operation that has scared the pants off them. The investigation is being led by a case officer named Vicary. Ever heard of him?"
"Alfred Vicary," Canaris said. "A former professor at University College in London."
"Very impressive," Schellenberg said genuinely.
"Part of being an effective intelligence officer is knowing your opponent, Herr Brigadefuhrer." Canaris hesitated, allowing time for Schellenberg to absorb the jab. "I'm glad Kurt is giving them a run for their money."
"The situation is so tense Vicary has met with Churchill personally to update him on the progress of his investigation."
"That's not so surprising, Herr Brigadefuhrer. Vicary and Churchill are old friends." Canaris cast a sideways glance at Schellenberg to see if his face registered any trace of surprise. Their conversations often turned into point-scoring contests, each man trying to surprise the other with tidbits of intelligence. "Vicary is a well-known historian. I've read his work. I'm surprised you haven't. He has a keen mind. He thinks like Churchill. He was warning the world about you and your friends long before anyone took notice."
"So what is Vogel up to? Perhaps the SD can be of some assistance."
Canaris permitted himself a rare but short burst of laughter.
"Please, Brigadefuhrer Schellenberg. If you're going to be so transparent, these morning rides will lose their appeal very quickly. Besides, if you want to know what Vogel is doing, just ask the chicken farmer. I know he's bugged our telephones and planted his spies inside Tirpitz Ufer."
"Interesting you should say that. I raised that very question with Reichsfuhrer Himmler over dinner last night. It seems Vogel is very careful. Very secretive. I hear he doesn't even keep his files in the Abwehr central registry."
"Vogel is a true paranoid and extremely cautious. He keeps everything in his office. And I wouldn't think about trying to get rough with him. He has an assistant named Werner Ulbricht who's seen the worst of this war. The man's always cleaning his Lugers. Even I don't go near Vogel's office."
Schellenberg pulled back on the reins until his horse came to a stop. The morning was still and quiet. In the distance came the growl of the morning's first traffic along the Wilhelmstrasse.
"Vogel is the kind of man we like in the SD--intelligent, driven."
"There's only one problem," Canaris said. "Vogel's a human being. He has a heart and a conscience. Something tells me he wouldn't fit in with your crowd."
"Why don't you let the two of us meet? Perhaps we can think of some way to pool our resources for the good of the Reich. There's no reason for the SD and the Abwehr to be always at each other's throats, like this."
Canaris smiled. "We're at each other's throats, Brigadefuhrer Schellenberg, because you are convinced I am a traitor to the Reich and because you tried to have me arrested."
Which was true. Schellenberg had assembled a file containing dozens of allegations of treason committed by Canaris. In 1942 he gave the file to Heinrich Himmler, but Himmler took no action. Canaris kept dossiers too, and Schellenberg suspected the Abwehr file on Himmler contained material the Reichsfuhrer would rather not be made public.
"That was a long time ago, Herr Admiral. It's in the past."
Canaris jabbed the heel of his riding boot into his horse and they started moving again. The stables appeared in the distance.
"May I be so bold as to offer an interpretation of your offer to be of assistance, Brigadefuhrer Schellenberg?"
"Of course."
"You would like to be a part of this operation for one of two reasons. Reason one, you could sabotage the operation in order to further lower the reputation of the Abwehr. Or, reason two, you could steal Vogel's intelligence and claim all the credit and glory for yourself."
Schellenberg slowly shook his head. "This mistrust between us, such a pity. So distressing."
"Yes, isn't it."
They rode together into the stables and dismounted. A pair of stable boys scampered out and led the horses away.
"A pleasure as always," Canaris said. "Shall we take breakfast together?"
"I'd love to, but I'm afraid duty calls."
"Oh?"
"A meeting with Himmler and Hitler, eight o'clock sharp."
"Lucky you. What's the topic?"
Walter Schellenberg smiled and laid his gloved hand on the older man's shoulder.
"Wouldn't you like to know."
"How was the Old Fox this morning?" Adolf Hitler said as Walter Schellenberg walked through the door at precisely eight o'clock. Himmler was there, sitting on the overstuffed sofa sipping coffee. It was the image Schellenberg liked to present to his superiors--too busy to arrive for a meeting early and engage in small talk, disciplined enough to be prompt.
"As cagey as ever," Schellenberg said, pouring himself a cup of the steaming coffee. There was a jug with real milk. Even the staff at the SD had trouble securing a steady supply these days. "He refused to tell me anything about Vogel's operation. He claims he knows nothing about it. He has permitted Vogel to work under extremely secretive circumstances, allowing himself to be kept in the dark about the details."
"Perhaps it's better that way," Himmler said, his face impassive, his voice betraying no emotion whatsoever. "The less the good admiral knows, the less he can betray to the enemy."
"I've done some investigating of my own," Schellenberg said. "I know that Vogel has sent at least one new agent into England. He had to use the Luftwaffe for the drop, and the pilot who flew the mission was very cooperative." Schellenberg opened his briefcase and withdrew two copies of the same file, handing one to Hitler and the other to Himmler. "The agent's name is Horst Neumann. The Reichsfuhrer may remember that business in Paris some time back. An SS man was killed in a bar in Paris. Neumann was the man involved in that."
Himmler let the file fall from his hands onto the coffee table around which they were seated. "For the Abwehr to use such a man is a direct slap in the face to the SS and the memory of the man he murdered! It shows Vogel's contempt for the party and the Fuhrer."
Hitler was still reading the file and seemed genuinely interested in it. "Perhaps Neumann is simply the right man for the job, Herr Reichsfuhrer. Look
at his dossier: born in England, decorated member of the Fallschirmjager, Knight's Cross, Oak Leaves. On paper a very remarkable man."
The Fuhrer was more lucid and reasonable than Schellenberg had seen him in some time.
"I agree," Schellenberg said. "Except for the one blight on his record, Neumann appears to be an extraordinary soldier."
Himmler cast a cadaverous glance at Schellenberg. He didn't appreciate being contradicted in front of the Fuhrer, no matter how brilliant Schellenberg might be.
"Perhaps we should make our move against Canaris now," Himmler said. "Remove him, place Brigadefuhrer Schellenberg in charge, and combine the Abwehr and the SD into one powerful intelligence agency. That way Brigadefuhrer Schellenberg can oversee Vogel's operation personally. Things seem to have a way of going awry where Admiral Canaris is involved."
Again, Hitler disagreed with his most trusted aide. "If Schellenberg's Russian friend is correct, this man Vogel seems to have the British on the run. To step in now would be a mistake. No, Herr Reichsfuhrer, Canaris remains in place for the time being. Perhaps he's doing something right for a change."
Hitler stood up.
"Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have other matters that demand my attention."
Two Mercedes staff cars were waiting at the curbside, engines running. There was an awkward moment while deciding whose car to take, but Schellenberg quietly relented and climbed in the back of Himmler's. He felt vulnerable when he wasn't surrounded by his security men, even when he was with Himmler. During the short drive, Schellenberg's armored Mercedes never strayed more than a few feet from the rear bumper of Himmler's limousine.
"An impressive performance as always, Herr Brigadefuhrer," Himmler said. Schellenberg knew his superior well enough to realize the remark was not meant as a compliment. Himmler, the second-most powerful man in Germany, was peeved at being contradicted in front of the Fuhrer.
"Thank you, Herr Reichsfuhrer."
"The Fuhrer wants the secret of the invasion so badly it is clouding his judgment," Himmler said matter-of-factly. "It is our job to protect him. Do you understand what I'm saying to you, Herr Brigadefuhrer?"
"Absolutely."
"I want to know what Vogel is playing at. If the Fuhrer won't let us do it from the inside, we'll have to do it from the outside. Put Vogel and his assistant Ulbricht under twenty-four-hour surveillance. Use every means at your disposal to penetrate Tirpitz Ufer. Also, find some way of getting a man into the radio center at Hamburg. Vogel has to communicate with his agents. I want someone listening to what's being said."
"Yes, Herr Reichsfuhrer."
"And, Walter, don't look so glum. We'll get our hands around the Abwehr soon enough. Don't worry. It will be all yours."
"Thank you, Herr Reichsfuhrer."
"Unless, of course, you ever contradict me in front of the Fuhrer again."
Himmler rapped on the glass partition so softly it was almost inaudible. The car pulled to the side of the curb, as did Schellenberg's, directly behind them. The young general sat motionless until one of his security men appeared at the door to accompany him on the ten-foot walk back to his own car.
26
LONDON
Catherine Blake was by now thoroughly regretting her decision to go to the Popes for help. Yes, they had given her a meticulous account of Peter Jordan's life in London. But it had come at a very steep price. She had been threatened with extortion, drawn into a bizarre sexual game, and been forced to murder two people. Now the police were involved. The murder of a prominent black-marketeer and underworld figure like Vernon Pope was big news in all the London newspapers. The police had misled the news-papermen, though--they said the victims had been found with their throats slit, not stabbed through the eye and through the heart. They were obviously trying to filter out crank leads from real ones. Or was MI5 already involved? According to the newspapers, the police wanted to question Robert Pope but had been unable to find him. Catherine could be of assistance. Pope was sitting twenty feet from her in the Savoy bar, angrily nursing a whisky.
Why was Pope there? Catherine thought she knew the answer. Pope was there because he suspected Catherine was involved in his brother's murder. Finding her would not be difficult for him. Pope knew Catherine was looking for Peter Jordan. All he had to do was go to the places frequented by Peter Jordan, and there was a good chance Catherine would appear.
She turned her back to him. She was not afraid of Robert Pope; he was more a nuisance than a threat. As long as she remained in full view he would be reluctant to take action against her. Catherine had expected this. As a precaution she had started carrying her pistol at all times. It was necessary but annoying. She had to carry a larger handbag to conceal the weapon. It was heavy and banged against her hip when she walked. The gun, ironically, was also a threat to her security. Try explaining to a London police officer why you're carrying a German-made Mauser pistol equipped with a silencer.
Deciding whether to kill Robert Pope was not Catherine Blake's biggest worry, for at that moment Peter Jordan walked into the bar of the Savoy along with Shepherd Ramsey.
She wondered which man would make the first move. Things were about to get interesting.
"I'll say one good thing about this war," Shepherd Ramsey said, as he and Peter Jordan sat down at a corner table. "It's done wonders for my net worth. While I've been over here playing hero, my stocks have been soaring. I've made more money during the past six months than I did for ten years working at Dad's insurance company."
"Why don't you tell old Dad to shove off ?"
"He'd be lost without me."
Shepherd signaled the waiter and ordered a martini. Jordan ordered a double scotch.
"Tough day at the office, honey?"
"Brutal."
"The rumor mill says you're working on a diabolical new secret weapon."
"I'm an engineer, Shep. I build bridges and roads."
"Any idiot could do that. You're not over here building a goddamned highway."
"No, I'm not."
"So when are you going to tell me what you're working on?"
"I can't. You know I can't."
"It's just me, old Shep. You can tell me anything."
"I'd love to, Shepherd, but if I told you I'd have to kill you, and then Sally would be a widow and Kippy would have no father."
"Kippy's in trouble at Buckley again. Goddamned kid gets in more trouble than I did."
"Now that's saying something."
"The headmaster's threatening to throw him out. Sally had to go over the other day and listen to a lecture about how Kippy needs a strong male influence in his life."
"I never knew he had one."
"Very funny, asshole. Sally's having trouble with the car. Says the thing needs tires but she can't buy new ones because of rationing. Says they couldn't open up the Oyster Bay house for Christmas this year because there was no fuel oil to heat the damned thing."
Shepherd noticed Jordan was studying his drink.
"I'm sorry, Peter. Am I boring you?"
"No more than usual."
"I just thought some news from home might cheer you up."
"Who says I need cheering up?"
"Peter Jordan, I haven't seen that look on your face in a very long time. Who is she?"
"I have no idea."
"Would you like to explain that?"
"I bumped into her in the blackout, literally. Knocked her groceries out of her arms. It was very embarrassing. But there was something about her."
"Did you get her telephone number?"
"No."
"How about a name?"
"Yes, I got a name."
"Well, that's something. Jesus Christ! I'd say you're a little out of practice. Tell me how she looked."
Peter Jordan told him: tall, brown hair falling across her shoulders, a wide mouth, beautiful cheekbones, and the most spectacular eyes he had ever seen.
"That's interesting," Shepherd said.
 
; "Why?"
"Because that woman is standing right over there."
Men in uniform generally made Catherine Blake nervous. But as Peter Jordan crossed the bar toward her she thought she had never seen a man look quite so handsome as he did in his dark blue American naval uniform. He was a strikingly attractive man--she had not noticed how attractive the previous evening. His uniform jacket fitted him perfectly through his square shoulders and chest, as though it had been cut for him by a tailor in Manhattan. He was trim at the waist, and his walk had a smooth confidence about it that only self-possessed, successful men have. His hair was dark, nearly black, and in striking contrast to his pale complexion. His eyes were a distracting shade of green--pale green, like a cat's--his mouth soft and sensuous. It broke into an easy smile when he noticed she was looking at him.
"I believe I bumped into you in the blackout last night," he said, and stuck out his hand. "My name is Peter Jordan."
She took his hand, then absently allowed her fingernails to trail across the palm of his hand when she released her grip.
"My name is Catherine Blake," she said.
"Yes, I remember. You look as though you're waiting for someone."
"I am, but it appears he's stood me up."
"Well, I'd say he's a damned fool then."
"He's just an old friend, actually."
"Can I buy you that drink now?" Jordan asked.
Catherine looked at Jordan and smiled; then she glanced across the bar at Robert Pope, who was watching them intently.
"Actually, I would love to go somewhere a little more quiet to talk. Do you still have all that food at your house?"
"A couple of eggs, some cheese, maybe a can of tomatoes. And lots of wine."
"Sounds like the makings of a wonderful omelet to me."
"Let me get my coat."
Robert Pope, standing at the bar, watched them as they slipped through the crowd and into the salon. He calmly finished his drink, waited a few seconds, then left the bar and trailed quietly after them. Outside the hotel, they were shown into a cab by the doorman. Pope, walking quickly across the street, watched the cab drive away. Dicky Dobbs was sitting behind the wheel of the van. He started the motor as Pope climbed inside. The van slipped away from the curb, into the evening traffic. No need to rush, Pope told Dicky. He knew where they were headed. He leaned back and closed his eyes for a few minutes as Dicky drove westward toward Jordan's town house in Kensington.