Artillery of Lies (7 page)

“Knickers puts the figure even higher,” Werth said. “Knickers reckons that half the survivors who got back to England were totally useless after that.”

Wagner said, “Knickers is … ?”

“A traveling salesman in soft drinks,” Werth said. “Lemonades and ginger beers and the like. He visits a lot of army camps in the south of England. Knickers says that many Canadians have deserted, following rumors that a similar raid is being planned. As a result, crime has increased—burglary, theft, hold-ups—because even deserters have to eat. Knickers himself was robbed by Canadian deserters only last week.”

“Good God!” Wagner said. “Not hurt, I hope?”

“No, no. They took his wallet. Fifty pounds.”

“Be sure he gets repaid out of expenses.”

“Yes, sir. Knickers also reports that Canadian units are being isolated as much as possible to avoid contact with British troops so that their morale will not suffer from accounts of the Dieppe shambles. This follows a severe fall in recruiting for Commando units.”

“The Russians won't like that,” Dr. Hartmann said.

“Your Russians don't seem to like anything very much, Doctor,” said Wagner.

“They are consistent in that respect, sir. What they want is an offensive in the west. Preferably several offensives. Virtually all the war—all the land war, certainly—is being fought in the east. The Russians want their allies to take some of the pressure off them. Eldorado has a more or less direct line to the Kremlin in the form of sub-agent Seagull. Seagull is a foreman in Liverpool docks and a lifelong Communist. Unless the British and the American armies start fighting in Europe soon, Seagull says there will be Communist-led strikes in Liverpool docks and elsewhere. Seagull's analysis is short and sharp: Stalin is r
unnin
g out of men, munitions and, above all, patience.”

“If Stalin tries to bully the Yanks, they'll turn their backs on him,” Richard Fischer remarked.

“The French can't agree on a leader, let alone a plan,” Otto Krafft said.

“You know where the Canadians stand,” Franz Werth added. “Well to the rear.”

“Thank you, gentlemen,” Brigadier Wagner said. “I feel sure that Berlin will read this latest bulletin from Eldorado with great interest.”

They got up and filed out, but Wagner signaled to Fischer to
stay. “Tell me,” he said. “Why should a dedicated English Communist docker like Seagull give intelligence to the
Abwehr?
”

“That's simple, sir,” Fischer explained. “Eldorado told
him
he's working for the Communist Czech Resistance.”

Wagner nodded. “I knew there was a reason. I just wanted to know what it was.”

Down the corridor, Krafft and Werth were watching Dr. Hartmann make coffee. “The old bastard seemed pretty pleased at the end,” Krafft said.

“So he should be,” Werth said.

“Rubbish!” Hartmann snapped. “What's there to be pleased about?” His spectacles misted in steam from the electric kettle and he growled in annoyance.

“Well … for a start, the
Wehrmacht
can relax in the west,” Krafft said. “The enemy doesn't seem to know whether he's coming or going, does he?”

Dr. Hartmann polished his spectacles on the large silk handkerchief he kept in his breast pocket. His face was compressed into a grimace that almost closed his eyes. The other two men were a soft, wavering blur. “So it seems
on the surface,”
he said, “everyone arguing, nobody agreeing. But what is the subject of all the argument?” He put his glasses on. Krafft and Werth sprang into sharp relief. They looked puzzled. “Heavens above!” he said. “If you were the enemy, how would you define your intentions?”

“Hostile,” Werth said lamely. “I suppose.”

“De Gaulle wants to attack. The Americans want to attack. The British want to make Commando raids. And the Russians don't give a damn who does what as long as someone does something aggressive soon. If Eldorado's intelligence means anything, it means we'd better reinforce our western defenses and do it
now.”

Richard Fischer came in. “I heard that,” he said. “For Christ's sake don't tell the Brigadier. He's just promised us all promotion. Provided.”

“Provided what?” Otto Krafft asked.

“Provided we recruit another Eldorado and install him in England.” Fischer took a sugar-cube and chewed it, noisily and cheerfully. “Or better yet, two Eldorados.” They were all gazing at him in amazement. “Thus making three in all. One on, one spare and one in the wash. Just like army socks.”

*

The air-raid sirens wailed as Admiral Canaris's car made its way across Berlin, and his driver glanced over his shoulder. Canaris gave a small, weary gesture: go on. There were so many air-raid warnings nowadays that people often ignored them. “Probably just a couple of photo-reconnaissance Mosquitoes,” Oster said. “We can't allow the RAF to disturb your funeral, can we, Christian?”

Christian said nothing. He was glad of his beard, for it hid his expression. He felt uneasy. He had eaten no breakfast and his stomach rumbled like a bowling alley; he hoped the noise of the car muffled it but worrying made him even more uneasy. Going to your own funeral should be a joke. Oster was certainly amused. Canaris was distant, preoccupied.

It was Canaris who had pointed out that Christian had been declared dead for some time now and the SD might think it odd that he had not been buried. So the Madrid coffin had been found; appropriate notices had been put in the Berlin papers; and here they all were, on their way to pay him their last respects.

It was a pleasant day, with more sun than cloud and a taste of oncoming spring in the air. That, too, didn't seem right; somehow Christian had always pictured himself being lowered into the ground on a grim and blustery day, with a knot of close friends clustered together in silent grief. Instead, to his shocked surprise, a small army of Prussian guardsmen was drawn up at the graveside.

Christian took in the crisp uniforms, the gleaming leather, the glittering buttons. “Was all this really necessary?” he whispered to Oster.

“You navy types don't appreciate a good funeral,” Oster said. “You just wrap him in his hammock and slide him over the side. We send the chap off in style.”

Muffled drums began a distant throb and the coffin came in sight, borne on the shoulders of slow-marching soldiers. They took forever to arrive. Christian's stomach had ceased rumbling and was setting like cement. He saw his dress-cap resting on the coffin, and his decorations—how on earth did they get hold of those?—and a wreath as big as a lifebelt, and next to it, winking in the sunlight, a bronze plaque with his full name engraved on it. Christian couldn't take any more. He shut his eyes. He heard gruff orders, stated rather than shouted, and
after much shuffling the chaplain began to speak. Christian opened his eyes and looked up, and there, far away and very high, was a great formation of silvery aircraft. They had to be American, almost certainly Flying Fortresses. At that height they looked like tiny fish, a school of extremely well-drilled minnows all holding their places in the current. The engines created a soft, sensuous rumble.

Canaris said a few words, praising a career which sounded very ordinary to Christian until he realized that it was his own. Then the riflemen did their bit. They aimed at the sky and Christian had the silly idea that they were trying to shoot down his immortal soul before it reached heaven. The volley banged.
Firing squad,
Christian thought.
Does the victim hear the rifles that kill him? Probably not. Who cares, anyway?

More orders. Christ, would this business never end? A bugler stepped forward and began to write his musical signature in the calm air, just as the grunt of remote explosions reached them. Christian saw a thin, black curve of smoke that must have come from a dying Fortress and he thought:
Oh well, the bugler's efforts aren't completely wasted.

He followed Canaris and Oster and threw a handful of earth into the hole. His hand felt black and sticky; his face felt white and sweaty. As he turned away, Oster took his arm. “We all come to it in the end, old chap,” he said softly.

“I feel such a fool.” Christian got out his handkerchief and wiped his hands and blew his nose. “I haven't done anything and yet I'm exhausted.”

“You haven't died. That's an achievement. Any fool can die, it's easy. Not dying is a full-time job. Very demanding.”

The car rushed them smoothly and quietly back to the center of the city. Christian relaxed and watched the fire engines charging in the opposite direction, their crews hanging on like sailors in a storm. The excitement had made him drowsy, and when Oster shook him awake, the car was stopped outside a restaurant. “On this special occasion,” Canaris said, “I felt that we all deserved a good funeral breakfast.”

Christian forced a smile. The last thing he wanted was food. But his appetite returned as soon as they were shown into a private room and he smelled
sauerbraten mit knödel,
his favorite dish when he was a boy. Fresh, crusty bread was put on the table; he ate a fragment and found that he was hungry. A good Rhine wine was poured; he
drank a little when Oster proposed some absurd toast and the lightly chilled, slightly dry liquid went down like a glorious salute to all the good things of life. It was perfect for the smoked trout, too.

“Simple food is best,” Admiral Canaris said. “The less fuss, the more taste. The French never know when to stop.”

“And the English never know how to start,” Christian said.

That amused them, and from then on the conversation flowed freely. Christian's stomach gratefully accepted all donations; he felt sure of himself again, so sure that he chose
rahmscknitzel mit champignons
instead of
sauerbraten.
The wine was a delicate rosé from Provence.

“The French get some things right, sir,” he said.

Canaris smiled and proposed a toast. “To the truth!” he said. “Always supposing it exists, that is.” They touched glasses.

“Did you see the uninvited guest at your ceremony?” Oster asked. Christian shook his head. “An SD man was trying to resemble a tombstone, without much success,” Oster told him. “The chief spotted him at once.”

“They follow me everywhere,” Canaris remarked, not complaining.

“That's outrageous, sir,” Christian said.

“Is it? I suppose it is. I find it oddly reassuring to be outraged. At least they think I'm still dangerous.”

“Any man with a fully functioning brain is dangerous to them,” Oster said cheerfully.

“Himmler disapproves of original thought,” Canaris said. “He wants to make it illegal; then his Gestapo would have a field-day. They'd hang everybody who couldn't prove he was a congenital idiot.”

They laughed; although Christian wondered whether or not it was such a joke. “How does an idiot prove he's an idiot?” he asked.

“It's not easy,” Oster said. “You have to be very, very clever.”

Canaris glanced sideways at Oster. “But not too clever,” he said. “That would be really idiotic.”

It was a mild rebuke. Christian sensed it, if he didn't understand it. Oster had the shadow of a strangely impish expression, but he said nothing. He took a piece of bread, tore it in half, fitted the halves together.

“Anyway,” Canaris said, “Hitler admires brains. He likes arguments.”

Oster poured more wine. “Wouldn't it be more accurate to say that he likes others to have arguments? So that he can play A against
B, and C against both of them, and wind up doing what he wanted to do in the first place?”

The restaurant owner came in with a cherry tart and some cheeses, and went away.

Christian said, “It's a great pity everyone can't stop arguing and backbiting and just unite to get on with the job.”

“No cream,” Canaris pointed out. “War is hell.”

“It's not quite as simple as that,” Oster told Christian. “First you must define the job.”

Christian was surprised. “Well … winning the war, obviously, sir.”

“Which war?” Canaris asked. He was serving the cherry tart. “And how do you define success?”

“Perhaps I'm very stupid, sir, but there's only one war that I can see.”

“Come, come, old chap,” Oster said, “you don't really believe that. Look: when we went into Poland, it was a completely different war from what we're fighting now. Everything has changed since then. Everything. Utterly changed.”

“Germany hasn't changed,” Christian insisted. “We're all fighting for the Reich.”

Oster found a cherry-stone and used his tongue to work it on to the bowl of his spoon. “That's an interesting idea,” he said. “We must talk more about it at some time.”

“I would agree with you that the Reich must be defended,” Admiral Canaris said. “We in the
Abwehr
must be aware and alert. We owe it to …” he patted his lips with his napkin, “… to the German people.”

“Did you know, for instance,” Oster said, “that a couple of months after we invaded Poland, we were
that
close”—he snapped his fingers—“to an army coup?” Christian's mouth was full, which saved him from answering. “Some of our more old-fashioned generals, and a few marshals too, disliked what we were doing in Poland. Not so much the fact as the style. Poor taste, they thought. Not the way a gentleman behaves. Do what you like to soldiers, but women and children … The way some of our Action Groups behaved was pure self-indulgence. Were you there?”

Christian swallowed. “No,” he said.

“I was,” Canaris said. “Sordid.”

“The army thought it was time for a change,” Oster said.

“My God,” Christian said. “That was when the bomb went off in that beer cellar in Munich, wasn't it?”