"Who was her control officer?"
"I don't know his name. Sour-looking bastard. Smart, like you, only ruthless."
"Was his name Vogel?"
"I don't know-could be."
"You never saw her again?"
"No, just that once."
"So what happened to her?"
Becker was overcome by another fit of coughing that a fresh cigarette seemed to cure.
"I'm telling you what I heard, not what I know. You understand the difference?"
"I understand the difference."
"We heard there was a camp, somewhere in the mountains south of Munich. Very isolated, all surrounding roads closed. Hell for the locals. According to the rumors it was a place where they sent a few special agents-the ones they planned to bury deep."
"She was one of those agents?"
"Yes, Alfred. We've covered that ground already. Stay with me, please." Becker was digging through the chocolates again. "It was as if an English village had dropped from the sky and landed in the middle of Bavaria. There was a pub, a small hotel, cottages, even an Anglican church. Each agent was assigned to a cottage for a minimum stay of six months. In the morning they read London newspapers at the cafe over tea and buns. They did their shopping in English and listened to popular radio programs of the day on the BBC. Me, I never heard It's That Man Again until I came to London."
"Go on."
"They had special codes and special rendezvous procedures. They were given more weapons training. Silent killing. At night they even sent the boys English-speaking whores so they could fuck in English."
"And what about the woman?"
"They say she was fucking her control officer-what did you say his name was, Vogel? Again, it was only a rumor."
"Did you ever meet her in Britain?"
"No."
"I want the truth, Karl!" Vicary snapped, so loudly that one of the guards stuck his head inside the door to make sure there was no problem.
"I'm telling you the truth! Jesus Christ, you're Alfred Vicary one minute and Heinrich Himmler the next. I never saw her again."
Vicary switched to German. He didn't want the guards eavesdropping on the conversation.
"Do you know her cover name?"
"No." Becker responded in the same language.
"Do you know her address?"
"No."
"Do you know if she's operating in London?"
"She could be operating on the moon for all I know."
Vicary exhaled loudly in frustration. It was all interesting information but, like the discovery of Beatrice Pymm's murder, it put him no closer to his quarry. "Have you told me everything you know about her, Karl?"
Becker smiled. "She's supposed to be an incredible fuck." Becker noticed the color in Vicary's cheeks. "I'm sorry, Alfred. Jesus Christ, I forget what a prude you are sometimes."
Still speaking in German, Vicary said, "Why haven't you told us this before-the business about the special agents?"
"But I have, Alfred old man."
"Who have you told? You've never told me."
"I told Boothby."
Vicary felt blood streaming to his face, and his heart began to beat furiously. Boothby? Why in the world would Boothby be interrogating Karl Becker? And why would he do it without Vicary being present? Becker was his agent. Vicary arrested him, Vicary turned him, Vicary ran him.
His face calm, Vicary said, "When did you tell Boothby?"
"I don't know. It's hard to keep track of time in here. A couple of months ago. September maybe. No, maybe it was October. Yes, I believe October."
"What did you tell him, exactly?"
"I told him about the agents, I told him about the camp."
"Did you tell him about the woman?"
"Yes, Alfred, I told him everything. He's a vicious bastard. I don't like him. I'd watch out for him if I were you."
"Was there anyone with him?"
"Yes, tall fellow. Handsome, like a film star. Blond, blue eyes. A real German superman. Thin, though, skinny as a stick."
"Did the stick have a name?"
Becker threw his head back and made a show of searching his memory.
"Christ, it was a funny name. A tool or something." Becker pinched the bridge of his nose. "No, something you use in the house. Mop? Bucket? No, Broome! That's it, Broome! Imagine that-the guy looks like a fucking stick and calls himself Broome. You English have a marvelous sense of humor sometimes."
Vicary had collected the suitcase radio and was rapping his knuckle against the thick door.
"Why don't you leave the radio, Alfred? It gets lonely here sometimes."
"Sorry, Karl."
The door opened and Vicary stepped through. "Listen, Alfred, the cigarettes and chocolate were wonderful, but next time bring a girl, will you?"
Vicary went to the chief guard's office and asked for the logbooks for October and November. It took him a few moments, but he found the entry he was looking for.
DATE: 5-10-43
PRISONER: Becker, K.
NUMBER OF VISITORS: 2
NAMES/DEPT: No, thank you.
25
"My God, but it's cold this morning," said Brigadefuhrer Walter Schellenberg.
"At least you still have a roof over your head," replied Admiral Wilhelm Canaris. "The Halifaxes and Lancasters had quite a time last night. Hundreds dead, thousands homeless. So much for the invulnerability of our illustrious thousand-year Reich."
Canaris looked to Schellenberg for reaction. As always, he was struck by how young the man was. At just thirty-three he was head of Section VI of the Sicherheitsdienst-better known as the SD-the intelligence and security service of the SS. Section VI was responsible for gathering intelligence on the Reich's enemies in foreign countries, an assignment very similar to that of the Abwehr. As a result, the two men were locked in a desperate competition.
They were a mismatched pair: the short, laconic, white-haired old admiral who spoke with a slight lisp; the handsome, energetic, and thoroughly ruthless young brigadefuhrer. The son of a Saarland piano maker, Schellenberg was personally recruited to the Nazi security apparatus by Reinhard Heydrich, the chief of the SD who was assassinated by Czechoslovakian resistance fighters in May 1942. One of the Nazi Party's bright lights, Schellenberg thrived in its dangerous, paranoid atmosphere. His cathedral-like office was thoroughly bugged and he had machine guns built into his desk, giving him the ability to kill a threatening visitor with the press of a button. On those rare occasions when he permitted himself to relax, Schellenberg liked to spend time with his elaborate collection of pornography. Once, he displayed the photographs to Canaris the way a man might show snapshots of his family, boasting about the pictures he choreographed himself to satisfy his own bizarre sexual appetites. On his hand Schellenberg wore a ring with a blue stone, beneath which lay a capsule of cyanide. He had also been fitted with a false tooth containing a lethal measure of the poison.
Now, Schellenberg had just two goals: destroy Canaris and the Abwehr and bring Adolf Hitler the most important secret of the war, the time and place of the Anglo-American invasion of France. Schellenberg had nothing but disdain for the Abwehr and the cluster of old officers surrounding Canaris, whom he derisively referred to as Santa Clauses. Canaris knew perfectly well Schellenberg was gunning for him, yet between the two there existed an uneasy truce. Schellenberg treated the old admiral with deference and respect; Canaris genuinely admired the brash, brilliant young officer and enjoyed his company.
Which was why they began most mornings the same way, riding side by side on horseback through the Tiergarten. It gave each man a chance to check up on what the other was doing-to spar, to probe for weakness. Canaris liked their rides for one other reason. He knew that for at least one hour each morning the young general was not actively plotting his demise.