A Gathering of Spies (10 page)

“By the way, Harry, I hardly need mention that what I'm about to tell you is classified.”

“I think from now on I can assume it.”

“Very good,” Taylor said. “Are you familiar with the phrase
chain reaction
?”

Winterbotham shook his head.

“I wasn't myself. It's a scientific term. I can't honestly say that I understand it very well. It has something to do with molecules, elements and such. Seems these elements are capable of giving off bits of energy when they smash together. Each tiny piece of element has a tiny bit of energy to give off. A chain reaction is a phenomenon in which one tiny piece of an element gives off its energy, thereby forcing the other tiny pieces nearby to give off their energy, thereby forcing others nearby to do the same, et cetera. The point is that it all happens nearly instantaneously, so a very large amount of energy ends up being created. That's the theory, anyway.”

“I suppose I'm following.”

“When I say a very large amount of energy,” Taylor said, “I'm referring to an
extremely
large amount of energy. Enough to wipe London off the map, or at least to put a good solid dent in the East End.”

Winterbotham got his pipe going and puffed out two smoke rings, both imperfect—he was still distracted. “A bomb,” he said.

“Just so. A bomb. The Germans are working on it, and so are we. Or, I should say, so are the Americans. They've got all their best scientists squirreled off in the desert somewhere over there, slaving away. From what we know, we're well ahead of the Nazis. Hitler, as you may be aware, has his own ideas about science. He thinks Einstein's theories are a lot of nonsense. He insists that relativity is a Jewish idea designed to befuddle the Aryan mind. Such thinking has interfered with their work on the bomb … although they're getting past that, now, as reality sets in. In fact, we believe they're on the right track. They're just not terribly far along.”

“Thank God.”

“Yes. But there's a problem, Harry.”

“There always is, isn't there?”

“Hm,” said Taylor. “Yes, I suppose there is. But this one is greater than most. It seems the Yanks have suffered something of a security breach. A young woman, the wife of one of their scientists, has disappeared from their laboratory. They believe she may have had access to some vital blueprints and technical data regarding their research on the bomb. What she may have is not enough to let the Germans make their own; the Yanks don't even have theirs working yet. But if she were to deliver her information to the Nazis, the race could become neck-in-neck. And that, obviously, is something we'd like very much to avoid.”

“Who is she?”

Taylor turned away from the window and faced him.

“We know exactly who she is. Her name is Catherine Danielson Carter—Carter because she married Professor Richard Carter, one of the scientists who is working on the bomb. She came to work for Carter in 1933, in Princeton, as his maid. Her mother, who died in 1925, had known Carter at school. After two years he proposed. They were married. Except we have reason to believe that Catherine Danielson was not really Catherine Danielson at all.”

“I'm afraid you've lost me,” Winterbotham said.

“Let me explain. Before coming to work for Carter, Catherine Danielson worked at a naval architecture firm in New York City, a place called Owen and Dunn. It just so happens that at the same time Catherine left to pursue her new job, another employee of the firm vanished. Her name was Katarina Heinrich. A German immigrant who arrived in New York in 1932.”

“Vanished?”

“Without a trace. She had no family in the States, nobody who cared enough to try and track her down. But now we know that it wasn't really she who vanished; it was Catherine Danielson. Katarina Heinrich murdered her and took her place. Carter wouldn't have known the difference. He hadn't seen Catherine since she was a child.”

Winterbotham took a long drag from his pipe. His head was spinning. Whether this was from the tobacco, the lack of sleep, the news about Ruth, or what Taylor was saying, he wasn't sure. “Murdered,” he repeated.

“Absolutely. Two days ago, the FBI matched some fingerprints of Catherine Danielson's, taken from Los Alamos, with records of Katarina Heinrich's prints from her days at the naval architecture firm. They're the same person, beyond any doubt. The only thing we don't know for certain is whether Heinrich was trying to get out of the game when she replaced Danielson or if she was just looking to go deep undercover. Whichever—the secrets she found at this laboratory were evidently too tempting to resist. She took them, and she ran.”

“Can't the FBI locate her?”

“They're trying. But if Katarina Heinrich is who we think she is, she's been very well trained. Which brings me to the next part—the reason we think that we're in a position to catch her for them.”

“Go on.”

“One of the spies we've been using at Double Cross is a man named Fritz Meissner. He entered England before any of Canaris's spies—in 1932.”

“The same year Katarina Heinrich arrived in America.”

“Precisely. Both entered foreign countries under their real names, and both were placed before the
Abwehr
was in the business of exporting spies. Meissner, who has been fairly cooperative over the past decade, insists that he was one of a kind. He's told us that he was working for Himmler and was trained by a man named Hagen. A real horror, this Hagen—an ex-Brownshirt—the kind of glorified thug who does so well in Hitler's Germany. He's Himmler's righthand man now in the Gestapo. In any event, until now we've believed Meissner that he was a unique case. But now, with what's happened in America, we're thinking that perhaps he has been less than honest with us. Perhaps there were several spies trained by Hagen under Himmler's guidance, shipped out to various countries around the world. Perhaps Katarina Heinrich was one of them. That would explain the naval architecture job in the first place, and would also shed some light on why she chose to vanish in 1933. She saw that the
Abwehr
agents beginning to arrive in America were clumsy, and had no desire to go down with them. So she removed herself.”

“But you've no hard evidence to link the two of them?”

“No hard evidence. But one tantalizing clue. Meissner began to receive letters last year—three letters, all arriving within the space of two months. Of course, they came directly to us. They were from New Jersey. They were signed with the name Anna Wagner. Meissner told us that Anna Wagner was a woman he had met in Germany in 1928, a married woman who had moved to America with her husband. He swore that the letters meant nothing. They seemed to bear him out; they were filled with affectionate drivel and, as far as we could see, no intelligence or anything of that sort. Nothing to raise suspicion.”

“Perhaps they were in code.”

“We gave them a good looking-over, Harry. If they were in code, it was a masterful job. They seem to be just what Meissner claims—love letters from an old flame. But now, with Catherine Danielson's disappearance, we're thinking that perhaps we dismissed them too hastily.”

“You think she'll come to him with her secrets about the bomb.”

“It seems like a fine chance. Assuming she has managed to board a boat without the FBI knowing about it, her choices are limited. She may try for Lisbon or Madrid, but there's a rule in the spy game, Harry: The more valuable a piece of intelligence is, the more perishable it is. If Heinrich knows what she's got, we don't think she's likely to take the chance of getting hung up in some neutral country. We think she'll come straight to England. She does seem to be an American, after all, to all appearances. And once she's here, she'll try to contact Meissner, whom she believes is still operating independently and is still in contact with Hamburg.”

“And then she'll walk into your trap.”

“Assuming, of course, that we're right about Meissner being her link to Hamburg, yes.”

“Have you spoken with Meissner about this?”

“I'm heading over there this afternoon. I was hoping you'd come along.”

“What about the letters he received?”

“They're trying to find them in records even as we speak.”

“Where is Meissner?”

“He's in a safe house not so far away. Come along, and I'll show you.”

The route from Whitehall led up, always up, to the Highgate section of north London. They passed through Waterlow Park, where antiaircraft guns, surrounded by sandbags, lay quiet under the sun; then through Highgate Cemetery, where such distinguished persons as George Eliot and Karl Marx slumber away for eternity, mindless of the Nazi bombs.

“We choose the highest possible points for our safe houses,” Taylor explained. “Those are the points that the spies themselves would seek out; wireless contact is much easier with height. There's no real way, of course, for the Nazis to know exactly where the signal is coming from, but we go to great lengths to achieve—”

“I know,” Winterbotham said. “The appearance of truth is vital.”

“It helps keep us sharp, anyway. Every time I go to visit Meissner, I see what he would see if he were actually at liberty. It keeps me on track when I draft the reports he sends back to Hamburg every week.”

“You're his case officer, then.”

“Yes.”

“But you told me he's been in England for ten years. And you, Andrew, only began to work for Military Intelligence fairly recently, right?”

Taylor gave him an odd, slanted half smile. “As a matter of fact, Harry, I was MI-Five long before I ever took the job at the university.”

“
What
?”

“Thought you knew me inside and out, eh? I may still have a few surprises left for you, old chap.”

“Next you'll tell me you threw all those chess games in order to keep a low profile.”

Taylor smiled wider. “Here we are,” he said.

The house was a three-story Victorian of red brick, perched on the very top of a hill in one corner of Pond Square. They were met just inside the front door by a squat, thickset young Briton who looked to Winterbotham as if he had seen too many flicks about Scotland Yard. Taylor introduced him as Dickens, and they shook. The young man had a crushing handshake. Winterbotham could see the bulge of a gun in a breast holster beneath his tweed jacket.

“How's our guest today?” Taylor asked.

“Same as ever,” Dickens said. “No lack of complaints with that one.”

“What is it now?”

“Same as ever. Boredom. Claustrophobia.”

“Let's see if we can't liven up his day,” Taylor said.

They climbed a narrow, musty staircase, leaving Dickens standing guard by the front door. Winterbotham found himself not quite believing where he was or what he had just found out about Taylor. Games within games they were playing, here; and him without any sleep; and Ruth alive—alive!—in Dachau, and he with a chance to get her back, if he played his cards right; and a spy in the room above them, keeping secrets; and another spy crossing the ocean at that very moment, secrets in tow. Secrets within secrets, games within games—it boggled the mind.

Another heavyset young man was sitting by a closed door on the second story. He was holding a thin novel—Conan Doyle, Winterbotham saw. The man stood as Taylor came off the top step, and looked as if he were about to salute.

“At ease.” Taylor smiled. “Harry, this is Alf. Alf, Harry Winterbotham.”

Alf nodded and grunted. Winterbotham nodded back.

“Who's that I hear?” said a voice from behind the door. The English was crisp and perfect.
Ten years
, Winterbotham thought.
Ten years spent living in this country. A spy who is now spying on his spymasters. Games within games. Secrets within secrets
.

“Come on,” Taylor said in a low voice. “I'll introduce you to the feather in Double Cross's cap. We'll see if we can't shake the truth out of him yet.”

Fritz Meissner was extremely tall and thin, pale, with receding blond hair and prominent blue veins in his temple. He lounged on a bed by an open window, enjoying the fresh spring air, smoking a cigarette. When Taylor and Winterbotham entered the room, he turned his eyes to face them—no other part of his body moved. There was something insolent in the man's demeanor, something that Winterbotham found extremely distasteful.

“Fritz!” Taylor said brightly. “I hope we're not interrupting.”

“Interrupting?” Meissner said. He smiled. “God forbid. But it's not your usual day, Andrew. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I wanted you to meet a friend of mine. Fritz Meissner, Harry Winterbotham.”

Meissner brought his cigarette to his mouth and took a laconic drag.

“Pleased to meet you,” he said.

“The pleasure's mine,” Winterbotham said stiffly.

“I've brought you some things,” Taylor said, and handed Meissner a package he had carried from the car.

Meissner immediately dug through it, lining up his treasures on the bed: a carton of cigarettes, matches, chocolates, a bottle of vodka, and a copy of
Esquire
magazine. He held the last up and examined the cover, where a leggy, hippy Varga girl was posed seductively. He looked pained.

“Andrew,” he moaned, “what are you trying to do to me?”

“All the way from America, Fritz. Take good care of it—soon enough the American censors will put a stop to it.”

“You'll make me crazy,” Meissner said. But he took the magazine and added it carefully to the pile on the bed.

There was one chair in the room; Winterbotham took it while Taylor remained standing. For several moments they went through the rituals of lighting their various tobaccos. Meissner ignited a new cigarette from the butt of his last. Winterbotham puffed out a cloud of orange-flavored smoke.