“Two details,” Hoover said, brimming with pride. “The Allies – us led into battle by the British – are planning to invade Europe, and Russia.”
Ritter lifted an eyebrow. The Abwehr had been very insistent on gaining any information on the Allies plans for invasion. Hoover might well be able to find them out, but would he tell the truth? He might want to embarrass Truman – a major Allied defeat would do that – or he might want to worm his way back into the good graces of Washington, which assisting an Allied victory might accomplish.
Fat chance, he thought wryly.
“There are two plans,” Hoover said. “The first one is to land an invasion force at Vladivostok and…”
Ritter gaped at him. It sounded like madness… and then he remembered that the Americans had managed something similar in their invasion of Norway. Certainly they had the ability to launch an invasion force right across the Pacific into Stalin’s back yard – the world was a sphere, after all.
“That plan is to be launched within two weeks at most,” Hoover said. “Regardless of the outcome, an invasion of France itself is planned for one month from now, landing directly in Normandy. Once they’ve managed to free Paris, they will head on into Germany.”
Ritter frowned. “Are you certain of your source?” He asked. “Is it not possible that it could be elaborate misinformation?”
Hoover shook his head. “It’s only known to congressmen within the oversight committees and their assistants,” he said. “So far, they’re planning to start moving troops to England now, and build up there.”
“Wonderful,” Ritter said. “What do you want in exchange for that little titbit?”
“Revenge,” Hoover said. His eyes glittered. Ritter realised suddenly that Hoover had gone off the deep end. “I want some of your people to kill that nigger ambassador and Truman the arch-traitor.”
“Because you can influence, if not control, his most likely replacement,” Ritter guessed. “Very well, Mr Hoover, we will see what we can do.”
Hoover had kept a small number of the electronic surveillance devices that Jim Oliver had obtained for him, stockpiling them around Washington in various locations for a rainy day. After the Wet Firecracker Rebellion, most of them had been rounded up, but some had remained hidden – until one of them transmitted a signal to Oliver’s headquarters in Washington.
Oliver had been astonished, but had followed up quickly with some of his agents. Moving a locator device around Washington and hunting for the other devices had been simple; they were designed to emit a pulse in response to a questing signal. It had been one of the reasons that they had been abandoned for government work.
“That’s Hoover,” he said, as the results came in. Activating all of the devices at long range had been tricky, but fortunately Hoover didn’t know enough to alter their program architecture. There was no question about the voice – any of the voices.
“The bastard is going to betray us to the Germans,” he said, with genuine astonishment. He chuckled at himself – knowing that some people would accuse him of hypocrisy – and paused to check the location. He scowled, wondering what to do. Informing the British or the Americans would reveal his own involvement with Hoover, something that would be bad for his life and business.
His mind considered rapidly. If Ritter was using Hoover as an intelligence source, there would be no way to ensure that information was filtered properly, let alone be changed upon requirement. Worse, Hoover might succeed in his mad plan – it could hardly be more of a flop than the last one – and that would be worse for business. He scowled, and started to place a phone call, before stopping himself. Asking anyone for help went against his nature.
If I could trust C Section, he though, and knew that he couldn’t. Asking the British Intelligence Service to handle the affair would be dangerous; Hanover simply didn’t need him so much. No, there was only one way to do it; he would have to take out Hoover himself, along with all the equipment. He started to form a plan and stopped. Something had just occurred to him.
“They know about the bugs and they don’t know that I was involved,” he exulted, heedless of who might hear. Chuckling with relief, he lifted a phone and placed a call. It was a long time before it was answered, even though he had a priority line. “Good evening, Ambassador King,” he said, when it was answered. “I have a problem that needs to be discussed with you.”
He waited for King’s tired swearword barrage to end. It was late in the evening. “I’ve found our old friend, Hoover,” he said. It was amazing how quickly King woke up. “Yes, I thought that might interest you,” he said. “Meeting tomorrow in your embassy?”
He smiled as King agreed. “I’ll be there at ten,” he said. “Goodnight.”
Chapter Twenty-Two: The Three-Edged Sword
Ten Downing Street
London, United Kingdom
1st May 1942
Hanover faced Baron Edmund over the table, watching the BBC director with concern. He kept his feelings from his face with an effort; this wasn’t going to go well. Edmund’s face was twitching; his eyes were desperate.
“You’ve seen the reports and the final recording,” Edmund said. “You must have heard it.”
Hanover nodded. The camera hadn’t been in a position to record the visuals of what he was certain had to have been a rape, but he had heard the sounds. Cold hard logic reminded him that Stewart had known the risks; human compassion said he should try to help, if he could.
“I heard it,” he said finally. “She did know the risks.”
Edmund glared at him. “Are you completely inhuman?” He snapped. “You have to do something!”
“Like what?” Hanover asked reasonably. “She got herself into this!”
“There’s still a signal from her camera,” Edmund snapped. “You can send the SAS to rescue her!”
Hanover considered. The prospect of Stewart’s body being used as a camp whore wasn’t as appealing as it had been before; the prospect of her being experimented on was worse. On the other hand…
“There is no way to know if she’s still with her camera,” Hanover said calmly. “The orbital images pin the location down precisely, to a manor house in the German country. I believe it belongs to Goring.”
He watched as Edmund’s face twisted backwards and forwards. They did owe her, he supposed; her information on the changes to the German command structure had been useful, particularly the titbits that had never been broadcast to the public. Still, inserting an SAS team into an uncertain place, with an uncertain mission, would be difficult, to say the least.
“So you won’t do anything to rescue her,” Edmund snapped. “How do you think they’ll play out on the evening news?”
Hanover felt a flicker of white-hot anger. He didn’t need it. “The stupid girl got herself into it,” he snapped. “She’s just like the volunteers who went to Iraq and Iran as human shields – and then was forced to stand in front of weapons or army command posts.”
“You advocated firing on them anyway,” Edmund snapped.
“And I was right,” Hanover snapped back. The two men glared at each other for a long dangerous moment. Hanover controlled his temper; they did owe her something, but perhaps not enough to risk a direct attempt to save her.
“We cannot send the SAS into an unknown region,” he said. “It would be dangerous; the last thing we want is to risk their reputation as supermen. Even though there’s been no sign of Skorzany, we can’t risk the Germans gaining a propaganda victory.” He held up a hand before Edmund could protest. “There is another option,” he said.