"Margaret and I used it when we came to Europe on vacation."
"Did your father-in-law's bank have German investments?"
"Yes, many. But he liquidated most of them before the war."
"Did he oversee that liquidation personally?"
"Most of the work was done by a man named Walker Hardegen. He's the number-two man at the bank. He also speaks fluent German and knows the country inside and out."
"Did he travel to Germany before the war?"
"Yes, several times."
"Did you ever accompany him?"
"No. I have nothing to do with my father-in-law's business."
"Did Walker Hardegen use the house in London?"
"He may have. I'm not certain."
"How well do you know Walker Hardegen?"
"I know him very well."
"Then I suppose you're good friends?"
"No, not really."
"You know him well but you're not friends?"
"That's right."
"Are you enemies?"
"Enemies is a strong word. We just don't get along well."
"Why not?"
"He dated my wife before I met her. I think he was always in love with her. He drank quite a bit at my going-away party. He accused me of killing her to make a business deal."
"I think someone who made a remark like that to me would be my enemy."
"I thought about knocking the hell out of him at the time."
"Do you blame yourself for your wife's death?"
"Yes, I always have. If I hadn't asked her to come into the city for that goddamned business dinner she'd still be alive."
"How much does Walker Hardegen know about your work?"
"Nothing."
"He knows you're a gifted engineer?"
"Yes."
"He knows you were sent to London to work on a secret project?"
"He could probably deduce that, yes."
"Have you ever mentioned Operation Mulberry in your letters home?"
"Never. They were all cleared by the censor."
"Did you ever tell any other member of your family about Operation Mulberry?"
"No."
"Ever tell any of your friends?"
"No."
"This fellow Shepherd Ramsey. Ever tell him?"
"No."
"Does he ever ask about it?"
"All the time--in a joking manner, of course."
"Did you have plans to see Catherine Blake again?"
"I don't have plans to see her. I never want to see her again."
"Well, that may not be possible, Commander Jordan."
"What are you talking about?"
"In due time. It's late. I think we all could use some sleep. We'll continue in the morning."
Vicary rose and walked in where Boothby was sitting. He leaned down and said, "I think we should talk."
"Yes," Boothby said. "Let's go in the next room, shall we?" He uncoiled himself from his chair and took Vicary by the elbow. "You did a marvelous job with him," he said. "My God, Alfred, when did you become such a bastard?"
Boothby pulled open a door and held out his hand for Vicary to enter first. Vicary brushed past Boothby and stepped inside the room.
He couldn't believe his eyes.
Winston Churchill said, "Hello, Alfred. So good to see you again. I wish it could be under different circumstances. I'd like to introduce you to a friend of mine. Professor Alfred Vicary, meet General Eisenhower."
Dwight Eisenhower rose from his seat and stuck out his hand.
The room had been a study once. There were bookshelves built into the walls, a writing desk, and a pair of wing chairs where Churchill and Eisenhower sat now. A wood fire burned brightly in the hearth, but it had failed to take the chill off the room. A woolen blanket lay across Churchill's knees. He was gnawing on the damp end of a dead cigar and drinking brandy. Eisenhower lit a cigarette and sipped black coffee. On the table between them was a small speaker, which they had used to monitor the interrogation of Jordan. Vicary knew this because the microphones were still turned on and he could hear a scrape of chairs and a murmur of voices coming from the next room. Boothby glided forward and turned down the volume. The door opened and a fifth man entered the room. Vicary recognized the tall, bearlike build: Brigadier General Thomas Betts, the deputy chief of intelligence at SHAEF and the man charged with safeguarding the secret of the invasion.
"Is he telling the truth, Alfred?" Churchill asked.
"I'm not sure," Vicary said, pouring himself a cup of coffee at the sideboard. "I want to believe him but something is bothering me, and I'm damned if I know what it is."
Boothby said, "Nothing in his background would suggest he's a German agent or that he's willingly betrayed us. After all, we came to him. He was recruited to work on Mulberry--he didn't volunteer. If he was an agent the entire time, he would have been banging on the door early in the war, trying to work himself into a position of importance."
"I agree," Eisenhower said.
"His background is sterling," Boothby continued. "You saw his file. His FBI background check didn't turn up a thing. He has all the money in the world. He's not a Communist. He doesn't bugger little boys. We have no reason to think he's sympathetic to the German cause. In short, we have no reason to suspect this man is a spy or has been coerced into spying."
"All true," Vicary said, thinking, When the hell did Boothby become chairman of the Peter Jordan fan club? "But what about this man Walker Hardegen? Was he checked out before Jordan came to the Mulberry team?"
"Thoroughly," General Betts said. "The FBI was concerned about his German contacts long before the War Department ever approached Jordan about working on Mulberry. They looked into Hardegen's background with a microscope. They didn't turn up a blessed thing. Hardegen is clean as a whistle."
"Well, I'd feel better if they took another look," Vicary said. "How in the bloody hell did she know to go after him? And how's she getting the material? I've been inside his house. It's possible she's getting into his papers without his knowledge, but it would be very dangerous. And what about his friend Shepherd Ramsey? I'd like to put him under surveillance and have the FBI look deeper into his background."
Churchill said, "I'm sure General Eisenhower won't have a problem with that, would you, General?"
"No," Eisenhower said. "I want you gentlemen to take whatever steps you feel are necessary."
Churchill cleared his throat. "This debate is very interesting, but it doesn't address our most pressing problem," he said. "It appears this fellow--intentionally or not--has delivered a very significant portion of the plans for Operation Mulberry directly into the hands of a German spy. Now, what are we going to do about it? Basil?"
Boothby turned to General Betts. "How much can the Germans discern about Operation Mulberry from that one document?"
"It's difficult to say," Betts said. "The document Jordan had in his briefcase doesn't give them a complete picture, just a damned important slice of it. There are many more components of Mulberry, as I'm sure you're well aware. This just tells them about the Phoenixes. If that document is really on its way to Berlin, their analysts and engineers are going to be poring all over it. If they're able to determine the purpose of the Phoenixes, it won't be difficult for them to unlock the secret of the artificial harbor project." Betts hesitated, his face grave. "And, gentlemen, if they're convinced we're building an artificial harbor, it's very possible they could make the leap and conclude we're coming at Normandy, not Calais."
Vicary said, "I think we should assume that is the case and proceed accordingly."
"My suggestion is that we use Jordan to lure Catherine Blake into the open," Boothby said. "We arrest her, put her under the bright lights, and turn her. We use her to funnel smoke back to the Germans--confuse them, try to convince them that Mulberry is anything but an artificial harbor meant for Normandy."
Vicary cleared his throat gently and said, "I fully agree with the second half of tha
t proposal, Sir Basil. But I suspect the first half wouldn't be quite as easy as it sounds."
"Your point, Alfred?"
"Everything we know about this woman suggests she is highly trained and thoroughly ruthless. I doubt we'd succeed in convincing her to cooperate with us. She's not like the others."
"It's been my experience that everyone cooperates when they're faced with the prospect of a hanging, Alfred. But what are you suggesting?"
"I suggest that Peter Jordan continue to see her. But from now on, we control what's inside that briefcase and what goes home into that safe. We let her run and we watch her. We discover how she's getting the material back to Berlin. We discover the other agents in the network. Then we arrest her. If we roll up the network cleanly, we'll be able to feed Double Cross material directly to the highest levels of the Abwehr--right up to the invasion."
Churchill said, "Basil, what do you think of Alfred's plan?"
"It's brilliant," Boothby said. "But what if Alfred's fears about Commander Jordan are correct? What if he truly is a German agent? Jordan would be in a position to do irreparable damage."
"That would be true under your scenario as well, Sir Basil. I'm afraid it's a risk we're going to have to take. But Jordan will never be alone with her or anyone else for a second. As of now he is under round-the-clock surveillance. Wherever he goes, we go. If we see or hear anything we don't like, we move in, arrest Catherine Blake, and do it your way."
Boothby nodded. "Do you think Jordan can pull it off? After all, he just told us he was in love with this woman. She betrayed him. I don't think he's going to be in any condition to continue carrying on a romantic relationship with her."
"Well, he simply has to," Vicary said. "He's the one who got us into this damned mess, and he's the only one who can get us out. It's not as though we could move the chairs around and slip a professional in there. They chose him. No one else will do. They'll believe what they see in Jordan's briefcase."
Churchill looked at Eisenhower. "General?"
Eisenhower crushed out his cigarette, thinking for a moment, and then said, "If there's truly no other way to do it, I support the professor's plan. General Betts and I will make certain you have the necessary support from SHAEF to make it work."
"Then it's done," Churchill said. "And God help us if it doesn't work."
"My name is Vicary, by the way, Alfred Vicary. This is Harry Dalton--he works with me. And this gentleman is Sir Basil Boothby. He's in charge."
It was early the next morning, an hour after dawn. They were walking a narrow footpath through the trees--Harry a few paces ahead, like a scout, Vicary and Jordan side by side, Boothby looming over them from behind. The rain had stopped during the night, but the sky was still thick with cloud. The nickeled winter light bleached all color from the trees and the hills. A gauze of fog covered the ground in the low spots, and the air smelled of woodsmoke from the fires burning inside the house. Jordan's gaze settled briefly on each of them as they were introduced, but he did not offer his hand. Both remained jammed in the pockets of the jacket that had been left in his room, along with a pair of woolen trousers and a heavy country sweater.
They moved along the path in silence for a time, like old schoolmates walking off a heavy breakfast. The cold felt like a nail in Vicary's knee. He walked slowly, hands clasped behind his back, head down as if looking for a lost object. The trees broke and the Thames appeared before them. A pair of wooden benches stood on the bank. Harry sat on one, Vicary and Jordan on the other. Boothby remained standing.
Vicary explained to Jordan what they wanted him to do. Jordan listened without looking at anyone. He sat motionless, hands still in his pockets, legs stretched out before him, gaze fixed on some obscure point on the surface of the river. When Vicary finished, Jordan said, "Find some other way to do it. I'm not up to it. You'd be a fool to use me."
"Believe me, Commander Jordan. If there were some other way to reverse the damage that's been done, I'd do it. But there isn't. You must do this. You owe it to us. You owe it to all the men who will risk their lives trying to storm the beaches of Normandy." He paused a moment and followed Jordan's gaze onto the water. "And you owe it to yourself, Commander Jordan. You made a terrible mistake. Now you have to help repair the damage."
"Is that supposed to be a pep talk?"
"No, I don't believe in pep talks. It's the truth."
"How long will it last?"
"As long as necessary."
"You're not answering my question."
"That's right. It could be six days or six months. We just don't know. This isn't an exact science. But I will end it as soon as I can. On that you have my word."
"I didn't think the truth counted for much in your line of work, Mr. Vicary."
"Not usually. But it will in this case."
"What about my work on Operation Mulberry?"
"You'll go through the motions of being an active member of the team, but the truth is you're finished." Vicary stood up. "We should get back to the house, Commander Jordan. We have a few papers for you to sign before we leave."
"What sort of papers?"
"Oh, just something that binds you to never breathe a word of this for the rest of your life."
Jordan turned away from the river and finally looked at Vicary.
"Believe me, you don't need to worry about that."
38
RASTENBURG, GERMANY
Kurt Vogel was fussing with his collar. He was wearing his Kriegsmarine uniform for the first time in longer than he could remember. It fit before the war but Vogel, like almost everyone else, had lost weight. Now his tunic hung on him like prison pajamas.
He was nervous as hell. He had never met the Fuhrer; in fact he had never been in the same room with the man. Personally, he thought Hitler was a lunatic and a monster who had led Germany to the brink of catastrophe. But he found he was eager to meet him and, for some inexplicable reason, he wanted to make a good impression. He wished he had a better speaking voice. He chain-smoked to ease his nerves. He had smoked the entire flight from Berlin and now he was smoking again in the car. Canaris finally pleaded with him to put the damned thing out for the sake of the dachshunds. They were lying at Vogel's feet like fat sausages, glaring up at him malevolently. Vogel cracked the window and tossed his cigarette into the swirling snow.
The staff Mercedes stopped at the outer checkpoint of Hitler's Wolfschanze. Four SS guards descended on the car, threw open the hood and the trunk, and used mirrors to search the undercarriage. The SS men waved them forward and they drove a half mile toward the compound. It was late afternoon, but the forest floor burned with brilliant white arc light. Guards with Alsatians patrolled the footpaths.
The car stopped again in the compound, and again they were set upon by SS men. This time the inspection was personal. They were ordered out of the car and body searched. Vogel was shocked at the sight of Wilhelm Canaris, the chief of Germany's intelligence service, standing with his arms in the air, an SS man patting him down as if he were a beer hall drunk.
A guard demanded Vogel's briefcase, and he reluctantly handed it over. It contained the photographs of the Allied documents and the hastily produced analysis from the Abwehr technical staff in Berlin. The SS man dug inside the briefcase with a gloved hand and then returned it to Vogel, satisfied it contained no weapons or explosives.
Vogel joined Canaris, and they walked wordlessly toward the stairs that descended into the bunker. Two of the photographs Vogel had left behind in Berlin, locked in his file cabinets--the photographs of the note. The hand was hers; Vogel recognized the jagged scar at the base of her thumb. He was torn. Accede to her wishes and extract her from Britain or leave her in place? He suspected the decision would be made for him.
Another SS man waited at the top of the stairs, just in case the Fuhrer's visitors were somehow able to arm themselves during the walk across the compound. Canaris and Vogel stopped and submitted to yet another search.
Canaris
looked at Vogel and said, "Welcome to Camp Paranoia."
Vogel and Canaris were the first to arrive. "Smoke now before the chicken farmer gets here," Canaris said. Vogel cringed at the remark; surely the room was thoroughly bugged. Leafing through his files, he fought off the craving for tobacco.
Vogel watched as the most powerful men of the Third Reich filed into the room one by one: Reichsfuhrer SS Heinrich Himmler, Brigadefuhrer Walter Schellenberg, Field Marshal Gerd von Rundstedt, Field Marshal Erwin Rommel, and Hermann Goring.
They all rose when Hitler entered the room, twenty minutes behind schedule. He wore slate gray trousers and a black tunic. He remained standing after everyone else sat. Vogel watched him, fascinated. The hair was graying, the skin sallow, the eyes red-rimmed. The dark circles beneath them were so pronounced they looked like bruises. Yet there was a daunting energy about him. For two hours he dominated the other men in the room as he led the conference on preparations for the invasion--probing, challenging, dismissing information or insight deemed irrelevant. It was clear to Vogel that Adolf Hitler knew as much, if not more, about the disposition of his forces in the West than his senior military officers. His attention to detail was astonishing. He demanded to know why there were three fewer antiaircraft guns in the Pas de Calais than in the previous week. He wanted to know the exact kind of concrete used for the Atlantic Wall fortifications and the precise thickness at which it was laid.
Finally, at the end of the conference, he turned to Canaris and said, "So. I'm told the Abwehr has uncovered another piece of information that might shed some light on the enemy's intentions."
"Actually, my Fuhrer, the operation was conceived and executed by Captain Vogel. I'll allow him to brief you on his findings."
"Fine," Hitler said. "Captain Vogel?"
Vogel remained seated. "My Fuhrer, two days ago in London one of our agents took possession of a document. As you know, we have discovered the enemy is engaged in something called Operation Mulberry. Based on these new documents we are now closer to learning exactly what Mulberry is."
"Closer?" Hitler said, his head tilting back. "So you are still engaging in guesswork, Captain?"