Artillery of Lies (19 page)

“Eldorado is a weapon that works only if he is trusted and believed,” Christian told Wagner. “It's like a witness in court; prove he lied once and the jury won't believe anything else he says. That's what makes Garlic such a threat.”

“He's got to be wiped out,” Oster said. “Every minute he's alive Garlic is a menace to us all.”

“I think you know I'm sending four new agents into Britain tonight, sir,” Wagner said.

“That's why I'm here. Is there one of them you can trust to do the job?”

Wagner nodded. “You ought to meet him,” he said. “I've never known anyone with quite such an itch to kill people.”

“But is he competent?”

“Shot three in the last two weeks. Killed one.”

“Good God!” Christian said. “Who were they?”

“Casual acquaintances. Laszlo's not fussy, he'll shoot anyone. The Spanish police were quite pleased to hear we are sending him abroad.” Christian looked alarmed. “Egypt,” Wagner said, “
en route
to India, so the police believe.”

They drove to the seaplane base and Oster took Laszlo for a long stroll around the harbor. At first Laszlo was a bit gruff,
a bit taciturn; he had never met a general before. Oster asked his opinion about Spanish wines: how did they compare with French or Italian? Which could he recommend
personally?
Oster made a few notes and eased the conversation round to bullfights—how curious it was that the stupid British, always condemning the so-called cruelty, never appreciated the
courage
of the bullring? Laszlo was off and running. Later Oster asked him the story of his life and was gripped, fascinated, amazed by what he heard. Then they talked about spying, the challenge and the privilege and the glorious rewards of spying when one man, one brilliant, courageous agent, could do more than an army! They were so much in agreement, Laszlo and the General, it was quite remarkable … “I think I was born for this mission,” Laszlo said. “I have been waiting for it, and it has been waiting for me.”

Oster stopped. He clasped Laszlo by the shoulder, and looked into his eyes. “That is exactly what I hoped you would say,” he declared. “There is a man in Britain who is waiting for you, although he doesn't know it. Waiting for you to kill him.”

“Yes,” Laszlo said. “Winston Churchill.”

Oster was taken aback but only a rapid blink betrayed it. “An even greater threat to the Third Reich than Winston Churchill,” he said. “All I can tell you is that his codename is Garlic, he is a medical student at Glasgow University in Scotland, and he is Venezuelan. Will you find him for me?”

Laszlo didn't think twice. “There can't be many Venezuelans studying medicine at Glasgow, can there?” he said.

They shook hands. “Of course the others must know nothing about this,” Oster said. “Utter, total secrecy is paramount.”

“Naturally.”

“There is a simple way of communicating to me from Glasgow,” Oster said, “which I shall now explain and you will memorize.”

They strolled back, arm in arm. An hour later, Oster and Christian flew to Berlin. “Will he do it, d'you think?” Christian asked.

“He'll kill Garlic, Garlic's best friend and the band of the Coldstream Guards if they get in his way,” Oster said.

Stephanie Schmidt was curious about Laszlo's long conversation with the distinguished visitor. “It's top secret,” Laszlo said. “I've got to bump somebody off.” Stephanie was thrilled.

*

Julie went to their room and packed all her clothes. Then she found the most remote bedroom in the building and moved into it. Freddy met her lugging a suitcase along a corridor. “Oh dear,” he said.

“I quit.” She kept walking. “Luis loves Luis. Who am I to spoil the romance of the century?”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Sure,” she called over her shoulder. “Kick the living shit out of him. Should keep you busy for the rest of the week.”

Freddy went downstairs and found Luis in a favorite position: upside-down in an armchair, his head on the floor, his feet hooked over the top. “Seen my latest?” Luis asked. “Isn't it terrific?”

Freddy hadn't read a word of Luis's report yet. “Well up to your usual standard,” he said. It was hard to tell, but Luis looked disappointed. “Did you like the Ski Jump?” Luis asked.

“
Loved
it, Luis. Absolutely loved it. How on earth did you get the idea?”

“I was thinking about the Petrified Bog and what a terrific difference it would make to aerodromes in the rainy season, although there's a drainage difficulty that I'm still working on …” Luis frowned and then quickly put it aside. “Anyway, I suddenly realized that the real problem with bombers is takeoff. You can actually fly with a far heavier load than you can takeoff with, did you know that? Getting the stuff off the ground, that's the big obstacle. So I just thought, well, gravity's free, isn't it? And there are plenty of hills, aren't there?”

“Brilliant.” Freddy had no idea what Luis meant. “Madrid
Abwehr
will be thrilled, and as for the
Luftwaffe
…” He shook his head in wonderment.

“Maybe they'll try it out.” Luis unhooked his heels and slid off the armchair, ending up in a heap on the floor. “Oh well, back to the drawingboard,” he said, not moving.

“I just bumped into Julie in the corridor,” Freddy said.

“Lucky you. Did she bump into you?”

“She's packed her things, Luis. She's moved to another room.”

“Yours?”

“She was very upset last night. I was only trying to comfort her.”

“Don't kid yourself, Freddy. That woman is made out of armor-plating. You couldn't upset her with a blowtorch.”

Experience told Freddy to back off, not to interfere in other people's love-hate affairs. Freddy told experience to shut up. “That can't possibly be true,” he said. “And frankly, I'm appalled to hear you say it.”

Luis stood, and straightened his clothes. “Are you feeling brave, Freddy?” he asked. “Brave and strong and what's the word? Resilient. That's it. Because the terrible truth is that she doesn't love me. Isn't that dreadful? Shall I tell you why? Because I'm not lovable. Anyone who was stupid enough to love me would have to be an idiot and Julie is no idiot. You don't believe me. I can see it in your eyes. Too bad.”

“I'd sooner let Julie speak for herself,” Freddy said.

“No point in asking her. She thinks she can make something of me. All women do. They find a man and they say to themselves he's not bad, he'll be OK when I've smartened him up and changed his habits and generally knocked him into shape.” Luis began shadow-boxing around the room. “They can't help it. All women are mothers. Well, I don't need a mother. I've managed very nicely without one all my life and I don't intend to get trapped now.” He aimed three jabs at a lampstand.

“Sounds simple,” Freddy said. “Sounds lonely too.”

“I've got Eldorado and his gang to keep me company.”

“Fine!” Freddy said. He knew when he was beaten. “If you're happy, I'm happy. But just bear in mind that we've all got to live together and work together, so try and be pleasant to each other. Yes?”

“What a good idea.” Luis shadow-boxed his way out of the room.

“I didn't mean
now,”
Freddy called. Too late.

Luis went striding up and down corridors, banging on doors with a heavy walking stick, until he found Julie's room and went in. “Hello, you miserable bitch,” he said.

She was in her slip, hanging stuff in the wardrobe. “Get out of here or I'll kill you,” she said. Not original but she felt very tired.

“Freddy sent me.” Luis brandished the stick. “He told me to give you a damn good walloping. He said that's what the English do to their women if—”

“I'm not your woman and you're nobody's man.”

“Boot-faced old bat.”

“You're a bag of wind, Luis. Go blow up your balloons someplace
else.” A growing fury made the hangers rattle as she hooked them on the rail.

“Aren't you getting fat?” he asked. “And a bit hairy? I'd lend you my razor but you might—”

She turned on him, wrenched the stick out of his hands and flailed but missed because he dodged. She felt stupid and helpless, glaring and panting for breath while he stood in the doorway and smiled. She swung the stick again and he jumped back. She slammed the door and turned the lock. After a while she heard him walk away, whistling.

Freddy was reading the draft Eldorado report when Luis strolled in. “Can't find the silly woman,” he said amiably. “I expect she's gone for a walk.”

“Um.” Freddy was in the middle of Operation GABLE, Eldorado's acronym for Gravity-Assisted Bomber Lift Experiment. “This Ski Jump idea of yours is a real pippin. It's so simple, so obvious. I wonder whether we ought to offer it to the Air Ministry?”

Luis went over and re-read it. “Far too good for the silly bloody
Abwehr
,” he said. He ripped the page out, squashed it into a ball and threw it into the fire. Then he wandered round the room, shifting the chairs by an inch or so as he passed. “Anyway,” he said, “I left some flowers beside her bed, with a nice note.”

“Jolly good.”

“I think I'll kill Haystack,” Luis said. “He hasn't been pulling his weight lately, has he? Time he got knocked down by a double-decker bus.”

The surf rushed ashore as if it couldn't wait to kiss the white sands of Galway Bay, and it carried the rubber dinghy with it, delivering the four new agents high up the beach. Before the next wave came creaming in to reclaim the boat, they had scrambled out and grabbed their suitcases from the crewman. Nobody spoke until they reached the coastal road, only a few minutes' walk away: the navigator of the Heinkel seaplane had done a very good job. “I've got sand in my shoes,” Stephanie Schmidt said. She took them off and shook them.

“I can't hear you,” Ferenc Tekeli said, “my ears haven't popped yet.”

They sat on their suitcases and looked at the night.

“It's got the smell of Ireland, all right,” Docherty said, filling his
lungs and thumping his chest. “Pigshit, potatoes and poetry. There's nowhere like it in the world.”

“You thought France was Ireland, yesterday,” Tekeli said.

“And I feel deeply ashamed for it. France smells of armpits and arrogance. My nostrils deserve to be shot for treachery.”

Laszlo cleared his throat. “We are the vanguard,” he announced. “We lead the advance.”

“Not yet,” Ferenc said. “Stephie's only got one shoe on.”

“Ours is the place of honor,” Laszlo said. “These are the first strides of a great crusade.”

“If you say so.” Ferenc's stomach rumbled. “Did you eat all your sandwich on the plane?”

Stephanie said, “I'm ready.” They stood. A gentle growl sounded, deeper than the surf. “There he goes,” Docherty said. They all stared out to sea, but of course there was nothing to be seen and quite quickly the growl faded and died. It could have been a fishing boat. “We're really on our own now,” Docherty said. He meant it bravely but it sounded a little rueful.

“That's nothing new,” Stephanie said. “We are born alone and we die alone.” She had meant it to be reassuring, but in the chill small hours of the morning her words fell as flat as tombstones. Docherty picked up his suitcase. They followed him.

If Christian slept badly there was usually a good, military reason for it: too much strong cheese for supper, or an aching shoulder that twinged if he turned over. So when he found himself abruptly awake and staring into the dark he thought it must be the telephone. Or a knock at the door. “Who's there?” he called. Silence. He found the bedside light. The time was exactly 4 a.m. He picked up the phone. It buzzed in his ear, softly and smugly:
nothing to do with me, chum.
He put it down.

No point in going back to bed. He was wide awake, his pulse was brisk, his brain was clear. Also he was wet with sweat. Christian took a shower and dressed in slacks and a sweater. All the while he puzzled over this jolt back into consciousness. A violent dream? He remembered nothing. An air raid? Berlin was silent. And yet here he was, aroused and alert with no dragon to slay. He had to do something. He would go for a walk. He took a reefer jacket and
left his flat and immediately changed his mind: he would go to his office instead. Reason demanded to know why. Why go to the office? Well, there might be some new signals in from Madrid, or … or something. Anyway, it was his office, he didn't have to justify going to it, he could go if he wanted. But why did he want? Christian felt determined but also slightly foolish. Then he turned a corner and saw that the lights were on in General Oster's office.

Oster seemed pleased to see him. “Come in, come in,” he said and swung his feet off his desk with a flourish that sent his revolving chair sailing round. “Tell me what you think of this. I think it's rather good.”

A sheet of white cardboard as big as a newspaper lay on his desk. At first glance, Christian took it to be an elaborate family tree; then he recognized the names of various army units based at the different military districts of Germany. Elsewhere, lines led to
Wehrmacht
headquarters in Paris, Rome, Warsaw, Brussels; in fact to every occupied country. Linked to this network were the names of many gauleiters, Reich governors, police commissioners, Gestapo chiefs and SS commanders. It was quite a complex set-up. At the top, the web of lines converged on three names—Thiele, Olbricht and von Witzleben. They in turn led to one name: Beck. Above him, someone had scribbled in red crayon:
Valkyrie.

“It's a chain of command,” Christian said.

Oster gave a little, high-pitched grunt of amusement. “The chain would be around their necks if Himmler saw this. And Hitler would go straight through the roof, of course. Supposing he landed on his head and broke his neck, then Operation Valkyrie might possibly come into effect. It might just work, too. Don't look so constipated, Christian.”