Artillery of Lies (41 page)

“I expect you two fellows know each other already,” Canaris said. It was a very small joke, but it was enough to make them all relax a little. “There are no stewards or waiters, for obvious reasons, but I'm sure everyone can find a drink for himself.” He waved at the loaded bar.
“And later there will be food. Let me see … Scotch and bourbon, isn't it?” he asked Menzies and Donovan.

“Your intelligence is correct,” Menzies said, which was a slightly bigger joke and brought a chuckle from the crowd. People began to move, and talk. Canaris brought Menzies a Scotch.

“You were a cavalryman in the other war, I believe, General,” he said.

Menzies rocked his head in a yes-and-no gesture. “I would have been, if your lot had let me,” he said. They began to talk horses.

Oster gave Donovan his bourbon, and said: “You've seen the Italians in action, General. Abyssinia, wasn't it? 1936? Without giving away any secrets, naturally, what was your impression of that war? Cheers.” They drank.

Donovan said, “The flies won every battle and they didn't even break sweat.” He and Oster discussed flies and other casual by products of war.

When the first drink had gone down and the noise-level had gone up, Canaris discreetly steered Menzies and Donovan into an adjacent cabin and shut the door. They sat at a table: Canaris at the head, Donovan on his left, Menzies on his right.

“Since it has never happened before and may never happen again, allow me to state the obvious and say that this is a unique occasion,” Canaris said. “For the opposing heads of intelligence to come together to try to stop a world war is surely without precedent. To say that I am glad to meet you is a massive understatement.”

“Not the Pacific war,” Donovan said. “That goes on until Japan's beaten. I'm here to talk about Europe.”

“If I may say so,” Menzies said to Canaris, “you chose a funny time to put out peace feelers. Last January, Roosevelt and Churchill met at Casablanca and told the world we wouldn't accept anything less than Germany's unconditional surrender.”

“He knows that, Stewart,” Donovan said.

“I know he knows. I want to start with all the cards on the table, face-up. I don't want us to be ducking and dodging the hard questions.” Menzies still looked like a soldier: square chin, strong mouth, wide-set eyes that rarely blinked. “So let's not pretend that Casablanca never happened.”

“It was Casablanca that changed everything for me,” Canaris said. “Casablanca and then Hamburg.”

“You don't want to get blown to bits,” Donovan said. “Well, I can see the force of that argument.”

“We have always had a resistance movement in Germany. Recently it has been growing stronger. I believe it could be made strong enough to take over the country.”

“Kill Hitler, you mean,” Menzies said.

“Seize, arrest, detain, eventually hand him over to the Western Allies.”

“Take Hitler out of the game,” Donovan said. “OK, then what?”

“The war in the west comes to a halt.”

“You're talking about a ceasefire.”

“In the west, yes.”

“Get back to Hitler,” Menzies said. “What makes you think your resistance people are up to it?”

“He's survived two attempts on his life,” Donovan pointed out.

“Let me ask you a question,” Canaris said. “How do you think the German people will respond if their only choice is between unconditional surrender to the enemy, and following the Fuehrer to the end, whatever that may be?”

Donovan said, “It's not as clear-cut as that.”

“It damn well is.” Menzies turned on him. “Don't be so bloody silly, man. I fought the German army all through the last war, and I know that they do not give in.”

“War has changed. We have alternative strategies now.”

“I'm sure you have. Drop three thousand OSS agents into Berlin by parachute with Errol Flynn at their head. That may be your alternative strategy but it won't end the war.”

Donovan was becoming impatient. “All I need is to get one of my boys close to Hitler.” He produced his revolver. “Cut-and-thrust, that's what this war is about. Forget your trenches.”

“Put it away,” Menzies growled, “before you put one of us away.”

Canaris began, “If I might answer my own question …”

“Not necessary. We know the answer,” Menzies said. “Your people will fight to the death. It's going to be a very bloody business, and you're going to lose.”

“It's the Reds you Germans are scared of, isn't it?” Donovan said. “Well, I can understand that too.”

“Fear is only part of the formula. Fanaticism is something even stronger. Our fanaticism seems to feed upon your bombing.”

“We're not going to stop our bombing,” Donovan said sharply.

“Certainly not. You must redouble it.” The two generals stared. “Or, if that's not possible,” Canaris said, “you must at least
say
that you
intend
to redouble it. With that threat, that intention, as leverage, I can apply pressure to a great many influential people who wish to destroy Hitler without destroying Germany. Indeed, destroying Hitler is the only way to save Germany. But first the certainty of annihilation must be spelled out very clearly.”

“Casablanca did that.”

Canaris shook his head. “Unconditional surrender is a plan, a policy, an intention. Goebbels couldn't believe his luck. He knew that when the German people heard of it they would simply become even more determined
never
to surrender. You left them no room to maneuver and so they resolved to stand, fight and die where they stood.”

“Well,” Menzies said, “that's very sad, I suppose, but to use an English expression, it's their funeral.”

“It's your funeral, too,” Canaris said. “How many young lives will you lose before you reach Berlin? One million? Two?”

“We can afford it,” Menzies said.

Canaris stood up and looked out at the glittering, blue-green Atlantic. “I'm sure that will come as good news to Marshal Stalin. The bigger the war in the west, the easier will be his advance in the east.” He sat down. “Perhaps his troops will be in Berlin before yours.”

Menzies and Donovan looked at each other. A ship's bell rang, dimly, in some distant quarter. Next door, in the wardroom, someone laughed, and abruptly cut his laughter short. Canaris picked up a pencil and, without actually touching the table, traced the wandering grain in the wood.

“All right,” Donovan said. “Let's talk some more about that.”

It was the first time Brigadier Christian had grown a beard, so this was the first time he had tried to shave one off. It wasn't easy. He stood in Luis Cabrillo's bathroom, with Luis's safety razor in one hand and his shaving brush in the other, and wondered how to start. Also where.

“I don't know why you're being so bloody impossible,” he said. “You know perfectly well who I am.”

“We live in dangerous times,” Luis said. He closed the toilet lid and sat on it. “You might be some dreadful thug, sent to do unspeakable things to me.”

“Then I wouldn't be shaving my beard off, would I?” Christian picked a spot and rammed lather into it.

“You might be a master of disguise, for all I know.” Luis watched Christian chop away at a small patch of chin so forcefully that he cut himself. Blood dribbled down his neck. “No, you're not a master of disguise,” Luis said. “I can stop worrying about that.”

Christian gazed at the damage. He suddenly abandoned the razor and took out his wallet. “Look here,” he said. “This picture was taken only a couple of weeks after I began to grow the damn thing. You can see right through it, for God's sake.”

Luis studied the document, and sniffed. “This identifies you as Commodore Albert Meyer.”

“Never mind the name. Look at the photograph.”

Luis did. “Shifty,” he said. “Eyes too close together. Not to be trusted.” He gave the document back.

Christian stood and stared at the floor as if trying to wear a hole in it. Blood gathered in his beard until a drop formed and fell. It made a miniature rose on the tiles. “I say, do you mind?” Luis said. “Just keep your greasy gore to yourself. This is a bathroom, not an abbatoir.”

“I should have kicked you back into the gutter, Cabrillo,” Christian muttered.

“And if you become abusive I shall have you thrown out.”

Christian went back to the mirror and tugged at his beard. “Your razor's useless, it clogs up, I'll be here all night. Haven't you got any scissors?”

Luis gave him a pair of nail-scissors. Christian forced his blunt fingers into them and began snipping. It was going to be a long process. Luis went away and read the newspaper. Fifteen minutes later he came back. Christian had reduced much of the beard on the left-hand side of his face to stubble, lightly smeared with blood in a couple of places. His fingers hurt more than his face.

“Hold your head up,” Luis ordered. “More to the right … Don't scowl, it doesn't suit you. Yes … In some lights I suppose there is a certain similarity. OK, you can stop now. I don't need to see the other half.” Christian said something soft and ugly in German. He fitted the nail-scissors on to his bruised fingers and went on snipping.

Luis was half-asleep on the sofa when Christian came out of the bathroom, totally cleanshaven and feeling strangely pale and naked. “I hope you're satisfied,” he said. “Now perhaps you can answer my questions.”

“I didn't come here to talk to you,” Luis said. “Admiral Canaris sent the invitation.”

“Canaris has never met you. I'm the only person in Santander who could guarantee to identify you. You need me, Cabrillo, so watch your manners.” Christian stood over him. Luis cocked his head a fraction to see the small bits of toilet paper that marked cuts to Christian's chin and neck, and he smirked. It was an expression that had often annoyed Julie Conroy, and now it exasperated Brigadier Christian so much that he was driven to seek revenge. “Don't you grin at me, you little crook,” he barked. “You're in big trouble. You're in trouble right over your cheating head.”

Luis rolled on to his side, tucked up his legs and propped his head on his arm. It made him look as if he were making himself comfortable in readiness for an interesting story. “Trouble,” he said. “There's a word I haven't heard in a long time.” He was impressed by his own calmness. “Are you sure you don't mean danger? I'm accustomed to being in danger.” His pulse was hammering like a jammed fire-alarm.

“I know what I mean, and so do you.” Christian knew he shouldn't be doing this; he had no authority to interrogate Eldorado; his job was simply to locate him and have him ready for Canaris. But having gone so far he couldn't back off without losing face; and anyway Eldorado was his creation, he had a right to … Christian couldn't define the right but he knew it existed. And he knew Eldorado had no right to be so damned off-hand, so insolent. It was time he got cut down to size. “What about Garlic?” he said. “How do you explain Garlic?”

Luis shrugged. “Garlic is Garlic. What more is there to say?”

“Garlic is Garlic” Christian found that very funny. “You couldn't be more wrong, my foxy friend.” He laughed his way to the door. “Tell that to Admiral Canaris when he sees you. He enjoys a good joke.” The laugh became a cackle that faded as Christian departed. There was no humor in it, and this worried Luis more than Christian's question. The man had changed since the old days in Madrid: his expression was tinged with strain, and Luis had glimpsed the odd flicker of desperation too. He stretched out on the sofa, one leg
hooked over the back, and worried.
Garlic is Garlic and that couldn't be more wrong … If Garlic wasn't Garlic, then what the hell was he?
Luis bullied his brains and got nowhere. It was all meaningless. But not to Christian. Christian had said it meant trouble.

Before dinner, each of the three heads of secret services met in private with his aides and advisers. In the case of the
Abwehr
it was a very small meeting. Canaris and Oster strolled on deck in the bows of the
Barcelona.
She was ambling along at four or five knots: enough to create a pleasant breeze.

“It sounds as if you made an excellent presentation, sir,” Oster said. “I really don't see how they can refuse.”

“I do,” Canaris said.

“A million lives spared? The Allies would have to be mass murderers not to seize the chance and—”

“Please don't talk about mass murder. Our hands are not particularly clean in that respect.” Oster was silenced. “Try and think of some other argument,” Canaris said.

“Well … England must be close to bankruptcy. She's spent her gold reserves, lost her overseas trade—mainly to the Americans. The sooner she stops fighting, the sooner she gets back on her feet.”

“You can play that tune backward,” Canaris said. “England has spent all she's got in order to win this war. She deserves her money's-worth.”

“Well, she'll get it. The Allies will get all they want. We shall pull back our armies inside Germany and the Allies will liberate Europe at a stroke, without losing a man.”

“Italy, France, Belgium, Holland, Denmark, Norway.”

“Yes.”

“Poland? France and England went to war over Poland.”

“One step at a time, sir. Poland's still part of the Eastern Front.”

Canaris nodded, absently, and yawned. “Sorry … I'm not accustomed to this sea air. I wish to hell I knew what they're thinking.”

“They're thinking they could get a lot of big medals for this.”

Oster was wrong. Donovan's group was busily telling him the whole thing was a can of worms. The likeliest explanation, they said, was that it was all an
Abwehr
conspiracy to create mistrust and dissension between the Western Allies and Russia. Start a good strong rumor
about a separate peace and Stalin would get good and mad. Anyway, what guarantee did Canaris have that the
Wehrmacht
would obey a Resistance Government? You might kill or capture Hitler and find German armies refusing to surrender the countries they'd fought so hard to conquer. What then? And there were war crimes. Washington had recently issued a warning that the US government would take war crimes into account when it finally settled with Germany. Was that to be quietly forgotten after a ceasefire? War criminals weren't likely to offer themselves up for trial. You'd have to go in and get them. It was a can of worms and a bag of nails. It wouldn't hold water. Donovan listened and smiled. He enjoyed a good argument.