A Game of Spies (18 page)

Then it snapped, and the rifle came loose. He pulled the Enfield around into his lap. He craned his head, looking outside of the rubble, trying to figure out what came next.

A man was there—a scant dozen feet away. Peering into the debris, a rifle held at his shoulder.

Hobbs planted the stock of the Enfield against his hip. He aimed the best he could, one-handed, and then fired. A wild shot. But a good one; the man fell away, out of sight.

A hiss came from between his teeth.
Cocksucker,
he thought.
Almost had me. Didn't you?

But he wasn't done yet, God damn it. After watching for a moment to make sure the man was not going to rise again, he turned his attention back to the rafter. There would be no way to do this gently. So he did it harshly—in one wrenching tug, ignoring the sudden flare of pain, ignoring the strip of flesh that was peeled from his calf.

He dragged himself through the settling grit, onto damp grass. The man he had shot was lying here, dying. Hobbs glanced at him for a moment, then looked away. He tried his leg. It blazed with agony.

Eva,
he thought.

The ringing in his ears rose again, deafening.

Messel rounded the corner of the house, pitchfork in hand.

There were two men lying on the ground within a dozen feet of each other. Neither moved; both, he thought, were unconscious. Then he moved to Grünewald and realized that the man was not unconscious but dead. His face was china-pale; his eyes stared bleakly into oblivion.

Messel looked down at the blacksmith for a few seconds. Then he moved to check on the Engländer.

This one was still alive—swimming in and out of awareness, his eyes coated with a milky cataract of confusion. The Enfield lay near one limp hand. Messel pushed it away with his foot, almost leisurely. As the broken strap trailed across the man's arm, his eyes sharpened, flashing with panic.

He was right to panic, Messel thought coldly.

Hobbs was trying to speak, but he didn't have the air. Instead he made a liquid sound, frantic but thin.
A rapist,
Messel thought with a curl of his lip.
A rapist and a murderer.

He raised the pitchfork to deliver the fatal stroke.

He never saw the man who came up behind him and fired a bullet into the base of his skull.

Hauptmann had been opening his mouth to call a command—but Frick had moved too quickly for that.

Now the boy he had shot was headless, sprawled on the ground like a half-assembled mannequin. It had not been necessary to shoot the boy, Hauptmann thought. A warning would have sufficed. But Frick had not given him the opportunity. If that was what time on the front did to a man, then Hauptmann would be happy never to experience that honor. He would rather sit in his office, flipping through papers, and let others learn the harsh lessons of combat. That way, at least, he could sleep at night.

He did not expect to sleep well tonight—if he did manage to find a chance to lie down—after seeing me corpses that littered the ground around them.

Frick did not seem burdened by any such thoughts. He approached the farmboy and rolled him away with one booted foot. The farmboy, despite the fact that part of his head was gone, was still alive. Frick raised the gun again. His finger tightened on the trigger—yet nothing happened.

He looked at the Luger dispassionately. Then he looked back at the farmboy. Now life was fleeing; the eyes darkened. Frick stuffed the Luger back into its holster, and knelt down beside the Engländer.

When he turned from the man, his face was a study of equanimity.

“Hauptmann,” he said calmly. “Go and fetch the car. Bring it as far as the road allows. Leave the dogs with the
Regierungsrat.
We'll meet you in a half hour.”

Hauptmann nodded jerkily, and turned. He nearly bumped into Bandemer, who was holding the dogs on leashes and staring at the scene before him with an expression of horror.

Bandemer's red-rimmed eyes glanced toward Hauptmann, but Hauptmann refused to meet them. He grabbed for the leashes and then hurried off in the direction of town.

Frick had returned to the man on the ground. The prisoner was only half-conscious; his head lolled loosely on his shoulders.

As Bandemer watched, Frick smiled at the prisoner—an oddly tender smile. Then he sensed Bandemer watching him, and the smile fell away.

He stood, tugging his uniform straight.

“Give me a hand,” he said. “And wipe that look off your face. You embarrass yourself.”

12

The Bentley was heading into Sussex.

Oldfield waited until Deacon had asked, then explained that they would be making a quick stop on their way to the airfield. The Prime Minister wanted to give Deacon some last words of wisdom.

“Just stand there and nod, old boy, and don't make a fuss. Chamberlain's under enough pressure these days. The last thing he needs is some smart-aleck pilot arguing with him. All right?”

Deacon shrugged, and nodded.

They came to an eighteenth-century estate set in a deer park, passed through a tall gate, and then drove for what seemed like miles past manicured gardens and terraced lakes.

The heart of Plumpton Place was a sprawling mansion surrounded by a gothic moat. A row of dark sedans was parked outside the house. Inside, Deacon and Oldfield were escorted to a sunny drawing room, then announced by an extremely short butler with lifts in his shoes.

But Chamberlain was already involved in a discussion; for the first few minutes of their visit, he ignored them completely. They stood just inside the doorway, hands folded patiently, waiting.

The man with whom Chamberlain was talking was Winston Churchill, the First Lord of the Admiralty. And Churchill, as usual, was on a tear.

“The time for keeping up appearances,” he was saying, “is past. It is time to act, Mr. Prime Minister, and appearances be damned. If we hesitate much longer, our last chance will be lost.”

Chamberlain was already shaking his head. The man's age, Deacon thought, seemed to have caught up to him almost without warning. His graying hair looked thinner than it had in newsreels taken just a few months before; loose rolls of skin had appeared under his chin. And the way he held his hands—one tightly entwined in the other—gave the impression of a man trying hard to control himself, perhaps even trying to mask a tremor. But it was not surprising that age had finally caught up to Chamberlain. Hitler had thrown too many lies in his face, and violated too many promises, for the Prime Minister to deceive himself any longer. He was being forced to face the truth—that he had led England into an untenable situation; that in today's world, goodwill and a desire for peace were not nearly enough.

Churchill, in contrast, was brimming with energy. As he spoke, his immense cheeks quavered, his hands moved to illustrate his words, and his eyes glittered ferociously.

“Without iron ore from Sweden, Mr. Prime Minister, Germany will be crippled. Eleven million tons flow every year down the Gulf of Bothnia, then across the Baltic. But in wintertime, ice blocks the shipping route; the ore must be transported by rail to Navrik, then shipped via the coast to Germany. Hitler is depending on our respecting Norwegian neutrality to ensure the safety of these shipments. For all of the winter just past, we have played into his hands—but it may not be too late to correct our mistake.”

“I will not be the one to violate the neutrality of Norway,” Chamberlain pronounced.

“Mr. Prime Minister, will Hitler respect their neutrality for a minute longer than it suits his purpose? When it comes time—”

“Our interference is precisely what he desires. It will supply him with a pretext to invade.”

Churchill could not conceal his exasperation. “Hitler will take Norway if and when he chooses, regardless of our actions. If we do not supply the pretext within his schedule, then he will supply one himself. But there is still a chance to block the crucial shipments of ore. We must mine the Norwegian Leads.”

“That would be a gesture of open hostility.”

“Toward a country that is already at war with England, Prime Minister.”

“We are not at war with Norway,” Chamberlain said resolutely. “And we would need to dispatch a force to Navrik, to ensure the success of the operation. In the judgment of the world, we would be guilty of naked aggression—”

“I have discussed the situation with the War Cabinet,” Churchill interrupted. “They are in complete agreement with me. The time for keeping up appearances is past.”

For a moment, Deacon thought that Chamberlain would take the First Lord of the Admiralty to task for his audacity; but then the Prime Minister's posture slackened. In that moment, he looked like a saddened old man besieged on all sides, who had lost confidence not only in those who surrounded him but also in himself.

Chamberlain shook his head again, as if trying to shake away his doubts. His eyes darted evasively. Then he glanced up and seemed to see Oldfield and Deacon for the first time. He seized on their presence with an enthusiasm that struck Deacon as somewhat manufactured: an excuse to avoid continuing the conversation with Churchill.

“Mr. Oldfield!” he said brightly. “Now, here we have a fine fellow, Mr. Churchill. Mr. Oldfield is here to direct the war against our enemies, instead of against our prospective allies. He is Director General, you know, of MI6.”

Churchill puffed out his cheeks with frustration, but summoned the courtesy to nod his head.

“And this must be the young pilot,” Chamberlain said. “Deacon is the name?”

“Arthur Deacon,” Oldfield said. “The pride of the RAF, and as fate would have it, my favorite nephew.”

Chamberlain absorbed Deacon with his hazy brown eyes. “Why is it,” he asked, “that all pilots have this look about them?”

Deacon blinked. “What look is that, Mr. Prime Minister?”

“Never mind, Mr. Deacon. Thank you for stopping by. I hoped to take the opportunity to impress upon you the import of your mission.”

“I am quite aware of it, Mr. Prime Minister.”

“I may have misjudged the little Austrian corporal. But thanks to the efforts of men like yourself and Mr. Oldfield, all is not yet lost.”

Churchill, who had moved to inspect a globe in a corner of the drawing room, muttered something to himself. Chamberlain ignored it.

“We may have a slight advantage in numbers,” the Prime Minister continued. “Four million men in our combined armies, as compared to the Germans' three. Yet our armored divisions are not battle-ready, and we suffer a dearth of trained reserve troops. The intelligence that we seek is therefore of great interest to the War Council.”

“I will do my very best, Mr. Prime Minister, to retrieve it for you.”

“Very good. I know that you will.”

He turned back to Churchill.

“Mr. Churchill,” he said. “Regretfully, I cannot continue arguing the matter at this time. I require rest.”

Churchill bristled.

“Perhaps a nap,” Chamberlain said. Now he was looking off into the parlor with a wistful air. “If you insist on continuing, I will make time this afternoon.”

“Mr. Prime Minister,” Churchill said. “If you are not up to the demands of leading our nation in this most desperate hour—”

Oldfield was tugging on Deacon's sleeve, pulling him toward the doorway. “That's it?” Deacon whispered.

Oldfield nodded.

They moved outside, back into the Bentley, then down the winding road that led away from the mansion. Oldfield did not seem interested in discussing the Prime Minister's words. He was looking out the window, his brow creased in thought. There was a sadness about him now, Deacon thought. After spending time in Chamberlain's company, he felt a touch of sadness himself. The man's fatal flaw had been optimism; and that optimism had led him to ruin.

Chamberlain, and perhaps the rest of the world.

And now the best chance of averting disaster lay in Deacon's hands.

He wished he'd found time for a last drink before leaving Bayswater.

PART THREE

13

The man called Frick was talking.

Hobbs was conscious of the voice only in fits and starts, as a conversational rising and ebbing. He couldn't tell whether the words were addressed to him, to the driver, or to the stocky man sitting in the passenger-side seat—the one they called Hauptmann. Since they were in English, he supposed they were addressed to him, or were at least for his benefit.

But the words made little impression; most of his mind was occupied with his leg. The wound there had opened again during his run, and the torn material of his trousers had become intertwined with tatters of bloodied bandage. As he looked at it, a sense of dislocation washed over him. That was his leg, looking like a half-chewed piece of meat. Impossible.

“The Russians,” Frick was saying, “are not quite as worthless as some might think. They are animals—but as such they have a certain animal cunning.”

The Mercedes was on a road that was not quite a road, leading ever deeper into thickly wooded hills. A canopy of branches closed above them as they drove, blocking out the starlight. Just what their destination was, Hobbs didn't know. Following his capture, they had returned to Wismar and dropped off the dogs; he had assumed that he would be transferred somewhere for interrogation. But Frick seemed to have a plan of his own, and the other two were evidently as in the dark about the details as Hobbs himself.

“And a certain foolish bravery,” Frick went on. “They play a remarkable game, the Russians. It originated during the Great War, I understand, somewhere in Rumania. A group of czarist officers found themselves with too much time and not enough food. So they removed a cartridge from the cylinder of a gun, spun it, put it to their heads, and pulled the trigger. The chances were six to one that it meant certain death. But that was the intention, of course. Once one man was dead, there was more food for the rest.”