A Game of Spies (5 page)

Stop thinking. Keep moving.

He kept moving.

The people around him were loud, boisterous, drunk. During the days, they walked on eggshells, these Germans. Would the war come, as it seemed it must? Or would the English, at the last possible instant, sue for peace? At night, their tension was released; they drank, danced, brawled, and celebrated as if the world itself was ending. The beer halls and cafés were doing a thriving business behind their new blackout shades.

Litter crackled under his feet as he walked—discarded newspaper, windswept trash, an occasional crumpled leaflet. The British confetti campaign had begun on the very day that war had been declared. Thirteen tons of propaganda had landed in Germany on that first night alone. Hobbs and Borg had watched later deluges together from the apartment window. At one point, Borg had brought a leaflet up to the flat, and they'd shared a laugh over it. The rhetoric was simple and to the point.
Your rulers have condemned you to the massacres, miseries, and privations of a war they cannot ever hope to win.

A taxi was drifting toward him. He raised a hand and it immediately pulled over to the curb. He slid into the backseat and opened his mouth to state his destination—

—and then paused.

An idea had just occurred to him.

He would go to Eva's flat right now, at this very moment. He knew her address. He would go to her and make his plea, demanding that she give him another chance. He had been rehearsing the words over and over in his mind, during his time locked in the apartment with Borg. It would be a relief to finally say them.

But it would be better, no doubt, to stick to the plan. To visit his contact family in Wilmersdorf, get set up with false papers, and arrange the extraction. In the long run, it would improve his chances—both his and Eva's.

Best to stick with the plan,
he thought again. He was far enough behind schedule that another twenty-four hours wouldn't make much of a difference. He would go to Wilmersdorf tonight, and visit Eva tomorrow.

The words he wanted to say to her would still be there tomorrow.

“Hohenzollerndamm,” he told the driver blithely. “Wilmersdorf.”

LAKE WANNSEE

The staff car drifted to a stop in front of the villa; a single passenger emerged from the backseat.

He was a slender man, lithe and compact, with a widow's peak just beginning to gray around the temples. His hooded, restless eyes promptly scanned the entire area—lake, trees, porch, bristly frost-speckled lawn—in one long, smooth sweep.

The man's name was Frick, and his eyes had not been so restless a few months before. But since then he had spent time in Poland as commander of an
Einsatzgruppen
squad, following behind the regular army and rounding up Jews for deportation to the ghetto, and now his eyes never stopped moving.

He was not in the field anymore, however, and there was nothing here at the villa that seemed to merit such extreme caution. After a moment, he made himself relax. The transition from the field to the bureaucracy was not an easy one to make. But he was back in Germany now, and so his role as
Einsatzgruppen
leader needed to be put aside. It was time to don again the mantle he had worn for so many years before—
Kriminal Inspektor
of the Gestapo, and agent of the SD.

Yet the mantle did not fit quite as well as it once had. Frick had seen things in the field, and done things in the field, that had forever changed his nature. The old role felt awkward, too small, as if he had outgrown it. The laws of National Socialism were big and brave and new, and the old ideas, the old ways of doing things, had little place today.

After a few moments, he gave his head a shake and moved out of the sunshine. Once inside the villa, he paused to straighten the cuffs of his shirt and square his jacket's shoulders. Then he proceeded down the shadowed hall until he reached Hagen's office. The door was ajar. He presented himself with a stiff-armed salute.

“Herr Hagen,”
he said.
“Heil Hitler!”

Hagen looked up from his desk.

“Herr Inspektor,”
he said, leaning back in his chair. “Come in. Let me have a look at you.”

Frick entered the office. He stood proudly under Hagen's gaze, thinking that the experience he had picked up in the field must show in his bearing. And Hagen, looking him over, seemed impressed.

“You look well,” he said at last. “Have a seat,
Herr Inspektor.
We have much to discuss.”

Frick took a seat. Hagen opened a silver cigarette case and offered it across the desk. Frick shook his head. From elsewhere in the villa came a soft trickle of music: the “Beer Barrel Polka” by Will Glahe, cheery and somehow surreal.

Hagen took a cigarette for himself, shook off Frick's silver lighter as he held it forward—Frick, who had no taste for tobacco, had found other uses for the lighter on the front—struck a match, and began to speak.

He spoke with oratorical grandness, like a man, Frick thought, who had grown overly accustomed to making speeches. Six years ago, Hagen said, they had planted Frick in the Gestapo as an undercover agent. Frick's purpose there had been to report back to Hagen on Gestapo Chief Müller's machinations, to keep the SD's secret security files up to date. The Sicherheitsdienst, which had been formed in 1932 for the purpose of ferreting out disloyalty within the Nazi organization, had since expanded their purview, becoming the intelligence arm of the secret police. But their original purpose had been to spy on other German spies, and they continued to give this duty top priority.

Frick had done better at the Gestapo, Hagen was saying now, than anyone had assumed he would, rising quickly to the position of
Kriminal Inspektor.
Now that he had returned from the front, it was time to take advantage of this development. Hagen would like to see him begin to assemble his own network of men within the Gestapo, right under Müller's nose. A logical first step …

Frick tried to listen, but his mind kept wandering. The cozy warmth of the office, the sound of the radio, and Hagen's lulling monotone conspired to remove him from the here and now. In Poland he had overseen the disposal of a half-dozen difficult Jews. He had forced the women to dig the ditch into which they had then been executed. The experience had been unlike anything else in his life.

It would be difficult, very difficult indeed, to return to the bureaucratic ways of life back in Germany.

But perhaps Hagen realized this. The direction he was leading, Frick came to understand, was intended to liberate Frick from his original duties. Hagen had something else in mind for him.

Presently Hagen finished outlining his plan for placing SD agents, under Frick's supervision, in low-ranking positions throughout the Gestapo. He paused, stabbed out his cigarette, shifted some papers on his desk, and then said:

“It must have been glorious … your time spent in the field.”

Frick brightened. “Unlike anything I've experienced in my life, Herr Hagen.”

“I envy you,
Herr Inspektor.
I've spent too much time behind this desk. Far too much time.”

Frick, who secretly agreed, only shrugged. “Somebody must make the sacrifice.”

“Indeed,” Hagen said. He thought for a moment, then blinked. “In any case,” he said, “I have an opportunity for you, if you are interested. It would enable you to avoid a return to such drudgery. And it would take advantage of your connections with the Gestapo. You are uniquely qualified, I would venture, for this operation … if you are interested.”

Frick leaned forward. “Go on,” he said.

“There is a man—an Engländer—who was used by this office as an asset. A traitor who had experience with MI6. You may remember him. William Hobbs.”

Frick shrugged again. Most of his memories from before his time in Poland were washed-out, sepia-toned. “Perhaps,” he said.

“He came to Germany nearly five months ago. When the debriefing was finished, he was informed that he must stay in Berlin for the foreseeable future. This seems not to have agreed with him.” Hagen paused. “I received word this morning,” he said carefully, “that Hobbs has murdered his case officer—an unfortunate fellow named Borg—and vanished. Borg's corpse was found in the apartment they shared on Leipziger Strasse. His throat had been slit.”

Frick nodded, blank-faced.

“Hobbs cannot have gotten far, of course. No doubt he's still in Berlin, in hiding somewhere. Yet until now we have not been able to track him down. It makes me suspect that perhaps he was not truly a traitor,
Herr Inspektor.
It makes me suspect that he had planned for this eventuality.”

“I see.”

“Perhaps MI6 arranged all this in advance—his treachery, the kidnapping—on the assumption that we would not allow him to leave. If that is the case, I'm afraid we have been outmaneuvered. He has been successfully planted in Germany.”

Frick thinned his lips. He would not have put it past the shrewd, conniving British. They had been practicing the game of espionage for centuries upon centuries, and had become masters at it.

“I want this man back in my custody,” Hagen said. “He must have a contact here in Berlin—someone who is sheltering him.”

“Of course.”

“I would very much like you to find him for me.”

“Of course,” Frick said again.

Hagen reached into the drawer of his desk and withdrew a file. He passed it over. “William Hobbs,” he repeated. “Do not hesitate to come to me with any questions you may have. And move quickly. I would prefer to have him alive—but I would settle for having him.”

“I understand, Herr Hagen.”

Hagen looked at him for another moment. Something in his face softened. “Tell me,” he said then. “I have heard reports about the conduct of the
Einsatzgruppen.
They have taken matters into their own hands, I have been told, on the Polish front. It makes the Christians very nervous.”

Frick smiled.

“It is a new age, Herr Hagen. New methods are required to produce results.”

“How I envy you,” Hagen said wistfully.

“Perhaps next time you can join me. When we move West.”

“Perhaps,” Hagen said. “Perhaps.” His eyes turned momentarily inward, then sharpened again. He stood. “Have a look at the file,” he said. “Keep me informed.”

Frick stood opposite him. “I will have results shortly.”

“I trust you will.”

“Heil Hitler,”
Frick said.

“Heil Hitler,”
Hagen answered. “And
Herr Inspektor
—welcome home.”

3

CHARLOTTENBURG, BERLIN

The More You Work The Better Sleep You Need,
Eva Bernhardt read.
Make a nightcup of Bourn-Vita a regular habit
—
it will soothe you, help digestion and calm your whole body.

Eva, slumped over her desk with her chin propped in one hand, had to read the advertisement twice to get the sense from it. Good sleep was not something with which she had been intimately acquainted in recent nights. But now would be no time to slack off at work and risk drawing attention. No, everything must continue by the usual routine.

The usual routine, in its dull and quiet way, was torturous.

She took lunch alone at her desk: cold red cabbage with vinegar and boiled potatoes. The meal did not sit well in her stomach. For the rest of the day, she felt vaguely, insistently nauseous.

Afternoon turned on its sleepy axis; she felt herself nodding. She sat up straight, pinched the soft flesh inside her forearm, and tried to concentrate. Her work—supplying ammunition for the radio propagandists based in the Rundfunk—involved divining profound things from seemingly innocuous materials smuggled out of England. The work was tedious, and often absurd. But Propaganda Minister Goebbels, who rarely hesitated to invent outlandish claims for his broadcasts, liked to spice his lies with an occasional fact—so her position continued to exist, regardless of the quality of her results.

Mrs. Brown has organized a gardening corps. At the end of a hard day she goes home to tea and a good wash with Knight's Castile soap. The kindly luxurious lather of Knight's Castile soothes away that feeling of exhaustion, tones up the skin and keeps the complexion youthfully clear.…

A shadow fell across her desk. When Eva looked up, she saw Gretl Koch smiling down at her.

“You look tired,” Gretl said.

Eva returned the smile as best she could. Gretl was one of the nicer girls at the Rundfunk—a social butterfly, with no lack of wealthy older boyfriends.

“What you need,” Gretl went on, “is some fun. My friend Joseph made a killing last week. Some big naval contract. Tonight he wants to splurge. We're going dancing.”

Eva felt a tug of envy. Even before she had found herself in her current situation, she had not been the type to go out dancing. She had always been the outsider, the girl who ended up waiting in vain to be asked for a turn on the floor.

“Come with us,” Gretl said. “It'll do you good.”

“That's nice of you,” Eva said. “I can't tonight. Next time?”

“Now, why does that sound so familiar?”

“I appreciate the offer, Gretl.”

“He's got a brother. We could give him a ring, and all do the town together.”

“Next time,” Eva promised.

“You know,” Gretl said gloomily, “you're not getting any younger.” But she said it with a grin, and then left Eva alone, her skirt swishing busily as she moved back to her own desk.

By half past four, Eva had reached the end of her rope. Two advertisements for menstrual aids were spread on her desk, one for A-K tablets (“war will not wait on any woman's weakness”) and one for Rendells Feminine Hygiene (“a product of intimate importance”). She sighed heavily and set down her pen. Her brain was hardly working anymore. Her stomach felt turgid and sour.