"Of course," Boothby said, handing Vicary the cigarettes and holding up the flame of his lighter for him.
"Achilles died after being struck by an arrow in his one vulnerable spot-his heel," Vicary said. "The Achilles' heel of Fortitude is the fact that it can be undone by one genuine report from a source Hitler trusts. It requires total manipulation of every source of information Hitler and his intelligence officers possess. Each one of them has to be poisoned in order for Fortitude to work. Hitler must be enmeshed in a total web of lies. If one thread of truth slips through, the entire scheme could unravel." Vicary, pausing for a pull on his Players, could not resist making the historical parallel. "When Achilles was undone, his armor was awarded to Odysseus. Our armor, I'm afraid, will be awarded to Hitler."
Boothby picked up his empty glass and rolled it consciously in the palm of his large hand.
"That's the danger inherent to all military deception, isn't it, Alfred? It almost always points the way to the truth. General Morgan, the invasion planner, said it best. All it would take is one decent German spy to walk the south coast of England from Cornwall to Kent. If that happened, the entire thing would come crashing down, and with it the hopes of Europe. Which is why we've been holed up with the prime minister all evening and why you're here now."
Boothby stood and slowly paced the length of his office.
"As of this moment, we are acting under the reasonable certitude that we have in fact poisoned all Hitler's sources of intelligence. We are also acting under the reasonable certitude that we have accounted for all of Canaris's spies in Britain and that none of them are operating outside our control. We wouldn't be embarking on a stratagem such as Fortitude if that weren't the case. I use the words reasonable certitude because there is no way we can ever be truly certain of that fact. Two hundred and sixty spies-all arrested, turned, or hanged."
Boothby drifted from the weak lamplight and vanished into the dark corner of his office.
"Last week, Hitler staged a conference in Rastenburg. All the heavies were there: Rommel, von Rundstedt, Canaris, and Himmler. The subject was the invasion-specifically, the time and place of the invasion. Hitler put a gun to Canaris's head-figuratively, not literally-and ordered him to learn the truth or face some rather distressing consequences. Canaris in turn gave the job to a man on his staff named Vogel-Kurt Vogel. Until now, we've always believed Kurt Vogel was Canaris's personal legal adviser. Obviously, we were wrong. Your job is to make sure Kurt Vogel doesn't learn the truth. I haven't had a chance to read his file. I suspect Registry may have something on him."
"Right," Vicary said.
Boothby had drifted back into the dim light. He pulled a mild frown, as though he had overheard something unpleasant in the next room, then fell into a long speculative silence.
"Alfred, I want to be perfectly honest with you about something from the outset of this case. The prime minister insisted you be given the assignment over the strenuous objections of the director-general and myself."
Vicary held Boothby's gaze for a moment; then, embarrassed by the remark, he looked away and allowed his eyes to wander. Over the walls. Over the dozens of photographs of Sir Basil with famous people. Over the deep burnished-oak paneling. Over the old oar that hung on one wall, strangely out of place in the formal setting. Perhaps it was a reminder of happier, less complicated times, Vicary thought. A glassy river at sunrise. Oxford versus Cambridge. Train rides home on chilly autumn afternoons.
"Allow me to explain that remark, Alfred. You have done marvelous work. Your Becker network has been a stunning success. But both the director general and I feel a more senior man might be better suited to this case."
"I see," Vicary said. A more senior man was code for a career officer, not one of the new recruits Boothby so mistrusted.
"But obviously," Boothby resumed, "we were unable to convince the prime minister that you were not the best man for the case. So it's yours. Give me regular updates on your progress. And good luck, Alfred. I suspect you'll need it."
7
By January 1944 the weather had resumed its rightful place as the primary obsession of the British public. The summer and autumn had been unusually dry and hot; the winter, when it came, unusually cold. Freezing fogs rose from the river, stalked Westminster and Belgravia, hovered like gunsmoke over the ruins of Battersea and Southwark. The blitz was little more than a distant memory. The children had returned. They filled the toy shops and department stores, mothers in tow, exchanging unwanted Christmas presents for more desirable items. On New Year's Eve, large crowds had jammed Piccadilly Circus. It all might have seemed normal if not for the fact that the celebration took place in the gloom of the blackout. But now the Luftwaffe, after a long and welcome absence, had returned to the skies over London.
At eight p.m., Catherine Blake hurried across Westminster Bridge. Fires burned across the East End and the docks; tracer fire and searchlights crisscrossed the night sky. Catherine could hear the dull thump-thump of antiaircraft fire from the batteries in Hyde Park and along the Embankment and taste the acrid bite of smoke from the fires. She knew she was in for a long, busy night.
She turned into Lambeth Palace Road and was struck by an absurd thought-she was absolutely famished. Food was in shorter supply than ever. The dry autumn and bitter cold winter had combined to eliminate almost all green vegetables from the country. Potatoes and brussels sprouts were delicacies. Only turnips and swedes were in plentiful supply. She thought, If I have to eat one more turnip, I'll shoot myself. Still, she suspected things were much worse in Berlin.
A policeman-a short chubby man who looked too old to get into the army-stood watch at the entrance to Lambeth Palace Road. He raised his hand and, shouting over the wail of the air raid sirens, asked for her identification.
As always, Catherine's heart seemed to miss a beat.
She handed over a badge identifying her as a member of the Women's Voluntary Service. The policeman glanced at it, then at her face. She touched the policeman's shoulder and leaned close to his ear so that when she spoke he could feel her breath on his ear. It was a technique she had used to neutralize men for years.
Catherine said, "I'm a volunteer nurse at St. Thomas Hospital."
The police officer looked up. By the expression on his face Catherine could see he was no longer a threat to her. He was grinning stupidly, gazing at her as if he had just fallen in love. The reaction was nothing new to Catherine. She was strikingly beautiful, and she had used her looks as a weapon her entire life.
The policeman handed back her identification.
"How bad is it?" she asked.
"Bad. Be careful and keep your head down."
London's need for ambulances had far exceeded the supply. The authorities grabbed anything suitable they could lay their hands on-delivery vans, milk trucks-anything with four wheels, a motor, and room in the back for the injured and a medic. Catherine noticed a red cross painted over the faded name of a popular local bakery on one of the ambulances pouring into the hospital's emergency entrance.
She walked quickly now, trailing the ambulance, and stepped inside. It was bedlam. The emergency room was filled with wounded. They seemed to be everywhere-the floors, the hallways, even the nurses' station. A few cried. Others sat staring, too dazed to comprehend what had happened to them. Dozens of patients had yet to see a doctor or a nurse. More were arriving by the minute.
Catherine felt a hand on her shoulder.
"No time for standing round, Miss Blake."
Catherine turned and saw the stern face of Enid Pritt. Before the war, Enid had been a kind, sometimes confused woman accustomed to dealing with cases of influenza and, occasionally, the loser of a Saturday-night knife fight outside a pub. All that changed with the war. Now she stood ramrod straight and spoke in a clear parade-ground voice, never using more words than needed to make a point. She ran one of the busiest emergency wards in London without a hitch. A year earlier her husband of twenty-eight years had been killed in the blitz. Enid Pritt did not grieve-that could wait until after the Germans were beaten.