Outside the temperature was dropping by degrees as they climbed higher along the winding Kehlsteinstrasse. The car's motor labored, tires skidding on the icy surface of the roadway. After a few moments the driver stopped in front of two huge bronze doors at the base of Kehlstein Mountain. A team of SS men carried out a rapid inspection, then opened the doors with the press of a single button. The car left the swirling snow of the Kehlsteinstrasse and entered a long tunnel. The marble walls shone in the light of the ornate bronze lanterns.
Hitler's famous elevator awaited them. It was more like a small hotel room, with plush carpet, deep leather chairs, and a bank of telephones. Vogel and Canaris stepped in first. Canaris sat down and immediately lit a cigarette, so that the elevator was filled with smoke when Himmler and Schellenberg arrived. The four men sat silently, each looking straight ahead, as the elevator whisked them toward the Obersalzberg, six thousand feet above Berchtesgaden. Himmler, annoyed by the smoke, raised his gloved hand to his mouth and coughed gently.
Vogel's ears popped with the rapid altitude change. He looked at the three men riding upward with him, the three most powerful intelligence officers in the Third Reich--a chicken farmer, a pervert, and a fussy little admiral who might very well be a traitor. In the hands of these men rested the future of Germany.
Vogel thought, God help us all.
The Nordic giant who served as the chief of Hitler's personal SS bodyguard showed them inside the salon. Vogel, normally indifferent to natural scenery, was stunned by the beauty of the panoramic view. Below, he could see the steeples and hills of Salzburg, the birthplace of Mozart. Near Salzburg was the Untersberg, the mountain where Emperor Frederick Barbarossa awaited his legendary call to rise and restore the glory of Germany. The room itself was fifty feet by sixty feet, and by the time Vogel reached the seating area next to the fire he was light-headed from the altitude. He settled down in the corner of a rustic couch while his eyes scanned the walls. Huge oil paintings and tapestries covered them. Vogel admired the Fuhrer's collection--a nude believed to have been painted by Titian, a landscape by Spitzweg, Roman ruins by Pannini. There was a bust of Wagner and a vast clock crowned by a bronze eagle. A steward silently poured coffee for the guests and tea for Hitler. The doors flew open a moment later and Adolf Hitler pounded into the room. Canaris, as usual, was the last one on his feet. The fuhrer gestured for them to return to their seats, then remained standing so he could pace.
"Captain Vogel," Hitler said, without preamble, "I understand your agent in London has scored another coup."
"We believe so, my Fuhrer."
"Please, let's not keep it a secret any longer."
Vogel, under the watchful gaze of an SS man, opened his briefcase. "Our agent has stolen another remarkable document. This document provides us further clues about the nature of Operation Mulberry." Vogel hesitated. "We can now predict with much greater certainty just what role Mulberry will play in the invasion."
Hitler nodded. "Please continue, Captain Vogel."
"Based on the new documents, we believe Operation Mulberry is an antiaircraft complex. It will be deployed along the French coastline in an effort to provide protection from the Luftwaffe during the critical first hours of the enemy invasion." Vogel reached into his briefcase again. "Our analysts have used the designs in the enemy document to render a sketch of the complex." Vogel laid it on the table. Schellenberg and Himmler both looked at it with interest.
Hitler had walked away and stared out the windows toward his mountains. He believed he did his best thinking at the Berghof, where he was above it all. "And in your opinion, where will the enemy place this antiaircraft complex, Captain Vogel?"
"The plans stolen by our agent do not specify where Mulberry will be deployed," Vogel said. "But based on the rest of the intelligence collected by the Abwehr, it would be logical to conclude that Mulberry is destined for Calais."
"And your old theory about an artificial harbor at Normandy?"
"It was"--Vogel hesitated, searching for the right word--"premature, my Fuhrer. I made a rush to judgment. I reached a verdict before all the evidence was in. I am a lawyer by training, my Fuhrer--so you will forgive the metaphor."
"No, Captain Vogel, I believe you were right the first time. I believe Mulberry is an artificial harbor. And I believe it is destined for Normandy." Hitler turned and faced his audience. "This is just like Churchill, that madman! A grandiose, foolish contraption that betrays his intentions because it tells us where he and his American friends will strike! The man thinks of himself as a great thinker, a great strategist! But he is a fool when it comes to military matters! Just ask the ghosts of the boys he led to the slaughterhouse in the Dardanelles. No, Captain Vogel, you had it right the first time. It is an artificial harbor, and it is bound for Normandy. I know this"--Hitler thumped his chest--"here."
Walter Schellenberg cleared his throat. "My Fuhrer, we do have other evidence to support Captain Vogel's intelligence."
"Let's hear it, Herr Brigadefuhrer."
"Two days ago in Lisbon, I debriefed one of our agents in England."
Vogel thought, Oh, Christ, here we go again.
Schellenberg dug a document out of his briefcase.
"This is a memorandum written by an MI-Five case officer named Alfred Vicary. It was approved by someone with the initials BB and forwarded to Churchill and Eisenhower. In it, Vicary warns that there is a new threat to security and that extra precautions should be taken until further notice. Vicary also warns that all Allied officers should be especially careful of approaches by women. Your agent in London--it's a woman, is it not, Captain Vogel?"
Vogel said, "May I see that?"
Schellenberg handed it to him.
Hitler said, "Alfred Vicary. Why does that name sound familiar to me?"
Canaris said, "Vicary is a personal friend of Churchill's. He was part of the group that had Churchill's ear during the 1930s. Churchill brought him to MI-Five when he became prime minister in May 1940."
"Yes, I remember now. Didn't he write a bunch of vile articles about National Socialism throughout the thirties?"
Canaris thought, All of which turned out to be true. He said, "Yes, he's the one."
"And who's BB?"
"Basil Boothby. He heads a division within MI-Five."
Hitler was pacing again, but slowly. The tranquillity of the silent Alps always had a soothing effect on him. "Vogel, Schellenberg, and Canaris all are convinced. Well, I'm not."
"An interesting turn of events, wouldn't you say, Herr Reichsfuhrer?" The storm had moved off. Hitler was watching the sun vanishing in the west, the mountain peaks purple and pink with the high Alpine dusk. Everyone had gone except Himmler. "First, Captain Vogel tells me Operation Mulberry is an artificial harbor; then it is an antiaircraft complex."
"Quite interesting, my Fuhrer. I have my theories."
Hitler turned away from the window. "Tell me."
"Number one, he is telling the truth. He has received new information that he trusts, and he truly believes what he has told you."
"Possible. Go on."
"Number two, the intelligence he has just presented to you is totally fabricated and Kurt Vogel, like his superior Wilhelm Canaris, is a traitor bent on the destruction of the Fuhrer and of Germany."
Hitler crossed his arms and tilted his head back. "Why would they deceive us about the invasion?"
"If the enemy succeeds in France and the German people see the war is lost, Canaris and the rest of the Schwarze Kapelle scum will turn on us and try to destroy us. If the conspirators succeed in grabbing power, they will sue for peace and Germany will end up the way she was after the First War--castrated, weak, the beggar of Europe, living off scraps from the tables of the British and the French and the Americans." Himmler paused. "And the Bolsheviks, my Fuhrer."
Hitler's eyes seemed to catch fire, the very thought of Germans living under Russian domination too painful to imagine. "We must never let that happen to Germany!" he sai
d, then looked at Himmler carefully. "I see by that look on your face that you have another theory, Herr Reichsfuhrer."
"Yes, my Fuhrer."
"Let's hear it."
"Vogel believes the information he is presenting to you is true. But he has been drinking from a poisoned well."
Hitler seemed intrigued. "Go on, Herr Reichsfuhrer."
"My Fuhrer, I have always been frank with you about my feelings for Admiral Canaris. I believe he is a traitor. I know he has had contact with British and American agents. If my fears about the admiral are correct, wouldn't it be logical to assume he has compromised the German networks in Britain? Wouldn't it also be logical to assume that the information from Canaris's spies in England is also compromised? What if Captain Vogel actually discovered the truth, and Admiral Canaris silenced him in order to protect himself?"
Hitler was pacing restlessly again. "Brilliant as usual, Herr Reichsfuhrer. You are the only one I can trust."
"Remember, my Fuhrer, a lie is the truth, only backward. Hold the lie up to a mirror, and the truth will be staring back at you in the glass."
"You have a plan. I can see it."
"Yes, my Fuhrer. And Kurt Vogel is the key. Vogel can bring us the secret of the invasion and proof of Canaris's treachery once and for all."
"Vogel strikes me as an intelligent man."
"He was considered one of the brightest legal minds in Germany before the war. But remember, he was recruited by Canaris personally. Therefore, I have my doubts about his loyalty. He will have to be handled very carefully."
"That's your specialty, isn't it, Herr Reichsfuhrer?"
Himmler smiled his cadaverous smile. "Yes, my Fuhrer."
The house was dark when Vogel arrived. A heavy snowstorm had stretched the two-hour drive to four. He stepped from the back of the car and collected his small grip from the trunk. He sent the driver on his way; he had booked a room for him at the small hotel in the village. Trude was standing in the open door, arms folded tightly against her body for warmth. She looked absurdly healthy, her fair skin pink with the cold, her brown hair streaked by the mountain sun. She wore a heavy ski sweater, wool trousers, and mountain boots. Despite the chunky clothing Vogel could see she was fit from the outdoors. When Vogel took her into his arms she said, "My God, Kurt Vogel, you're nothing but a bag of bones. Are things so bad in Berlin?"
Everyone was in bed already. The girls shared a room upstairs. While Trude prepared his dinner, Vogel went up to look in on them. The room was cold. Nicole had climbed in bed with Lizbet. In the darkness it was hard to tell where one left off and the other began. He stood and he listened to their breathing and he smelled their scents--their breath, their hair, their soap, their warm bodies releasing the fragrance of the bedclothes. Trude always thought it was strange, but he loved the way they smelled more than anything else.
A plate of food and a glass of wine awaited him downstairs. Trude had eaten hours ago, so she just sat next to him and talked while he devoured the roast pork and potatoes. He was surprisingly hungry. He finished the first plate and she filled a second, which he forced himself to eat more slowly. Trude talked about her parents and the girls and how the Wehrmacht had come to the village and taken the remaining men and the schoolboys. She thanked God they had been given two daughters and no sons. She asked no questions about his trip, and he volunteered no details.
He finished eating. Trude cleared away the dishes. She had made a pot of ersatz coffee and was standing at the stove, pouring him a cup, when there was a very faint tapping at the door. She crossed the room and opened the door, staring in disbelief at the figure, dressed all in black, standing before her.
"Oh, my God," she murmured as the cup and saucer fell from her grasp and shattered at her feet.
"I still can't believe Heinrich Himmler actually set foot in this house," Trude said, her voice flat, as though she were speaking to herself. She was standing before a weak fire in their bedroom, ramrod straight, arms folded. In the dim light Vogel could see her face was damp and her body was trembling. "When I first saw that face I thought I was dreaming. Then I thought we were all under arrest. And then it dawned on me--Heinrich Himmler was in my parents' house because he needed to confer with my husband."
She turned from the fire and looked at him. "Why is that, Kurt? Tell me you don't work for him. Tell me you're not one of Himmler's henchmen. Tell me, even if it's a lie."
"I don't work for Heinrich Himmler."
"Who was that other man?"
"His name is Walter Schellenberg."
"What does he do?"
Vogel told her.
"What do you do? And don't tell me you're just Canaris's lawyer."
"Before the war I looked for very special people. I trained them and sent them to England to be spies."
Trude absorbed this information as if part of her had suspected it for a long time.
"Why didn't you tell me this before?"
"I wasn't allowed to tell anyone, not even you. I deceived you in order to protect you. I had no other reason."
"Where were you today?"
It was no use lying to her any longer. "I was at Berchtesgaden for a meeting with the Fuhrer."
"God Almighty," she muttered, shaking her head. "What else have you lied to me about, Kurt Vogel?"
"I've lied to you about nothing else, only my work."
The look on her face said she didn't believe him.
"Heinrich Himmler, in this house. What happened to you, Kurt? You were going to be a great lawyer. You were going to be the next Herman Heller, maybe even sit on the Supreme Court. You loved the law."
"There is no law in Germany, Trude. There is only Hitler."
"What did Himmler want? Why did he come here so late at night?"
"He wants me to help him kill a friend."
"I hope you said you won't help him."
Vogel looked up at her.
"If I don't help him, he'll kill me. And then he'll kill you and he'll kill the girls. He'll kill us all, Trude."
PART FOUR
43
LONDON: FEBRUARY 1944
"Same thing as before, Alfred. She led the watchers on a merry chase for three hours and then headed back to her flat."
"Nonsense, Harry. She's meeting another agent, or she's making a dead drop somewhere."
"If she did, then we missed it. Again."
"Damn!" Vicary used the stub of his cigarette to light another. He was disgusted with himself. Smoking cigarettes was bad enough. Using one to light the next was intolerable. It was just the tension of the operation. It had entered its third week. He had allowed Catherine Blake to photograph four batches of Kettledrum documents. Four times she had led the watchers on long chases around London. And four times they had failed to detect how she was getting the material out. Vicary was getting edgy. The longer the operation continued in this manner, the greater the chances of a mistake. The watchers were exhausted, and Peter Jordan was ready to revolt.
Vicary said, "Perhaps we're just going about this the wrong way."
"What do you mean?"
"We're following her, hoping we can detect her drop. What if we changed our tactics and started looking for the agent who's making the pickup?"
"But how? We don't know who he is or what he looks like."
"Actually, we might. Every time Catherine goes out we go with her. And so does Ginger Bradshaw. He's taken dozens and dozens of photographs. Our man is bound to be in a couple of them."
"It's possible, certainly worth a try."
Harry returned ten minutes later with a stack of photographs a foot high. "One hundred and fifty photographs to be exact, Alfred."
Vicary sat down at his desk and put on his half-moon reading glasses. He picked up the photographs one at a time and scanned the images for faces, clothing, suspicious looks--anything. Cursed with a near photographic memory, Vicary stored each of the images in his mind and moved on to the next. Harry drank tea and paced quietly in the shadows.
br /> Two hours later, Vicary thought he had a match.
"Look, Harry, here he is in Leicester Square. And here he is again outside Euston Station. Could be coincidence, could be two different people. But I doubt it."
"Well, I'll be damned!" Harry studied the figure in the photographs: small, dark-haired, with square shoulders and conventional clothing. Nothing about his appearance called attention to him--perfect for pavement work.
Vicary gathered up the remaining photographs and divided them in half.
"Start looking for him, Harry. Just him. No one else."
Half an hour later Harry picked him out of a photograph taken on Trafalgar Square, which proved to be the best one yet.
"He needs a code name," Vicary said.
"He looks like a Rudolf."
"All right," Vicary said. "Rudolf it is."
44
HAMPTON SANDS, NORFOLK
At that moment, Horst Neumann was pedaling his bicycle from Dogherty's cottage toward the village. He wore his heavy rollneck sweater, a reefer coat, and trousers tucked inside Wellington boots. It was a bright clear day. Plump white clouds, driven by the strong northerly winds, drifted across a sky of deep blue. Their shadows raced across the meadows and the hillsides and disappeared over the beach. It was the last decent day they would see for a while. Heavy weather was forecast for the entire east coast of the country, beginning midday tomorrow and lasting several days. Neumann wanted to get out of the cottage for a few hours while he had the chance. He needed to think. The wind gusted, making it nearly impossible to keep the bicycle upright on the pitted single-lane track. Neumann put his head down and pedaled harder. He turned and looked over his shoulder. Dogherty had given up. He had climbed off his bicycle and was pushing it morosely along the path.