Artillery of Lies (6 page)

“Eldorado has been silent for the best part of a week,” Freddy Garcia said. “Madrid
Abwehr
must be very worried. It's essential we send them something meaty, damn quick.”

“I'm flying out to Lisbon tonight,” Templeton said. “I'll take it.”

“Good,” Luis grunted. “You can write it too. What are these?”

“English pork sausages,” Julie said.

Luis cut one open and sniffed it. “A holy miracle!” he announced. “The pork has turned to bread!”

“Have some bacon,” Templeton suggested. “I think you'll find it attractively pork-flavored.”

Luis took quite a lot of bacon and plenty of scrambled egg and began eating. “Scrumptious!” he said. “Yippee. Or is it yummee?” He looked at Garcia.

“Yummee for grub, yippee for general high spirits.”

“And yarooh?”

“Yarooh indicates pain or dismay.”

“No, no,” Templeton said. “Surely it's cripes for dismay.”

“Blimey!” Luis said. “Or do I mean crikey?”

“He's been reading
The Adventures of Billy Bunter at Greyfriars School,”
Julie said. “They all talk in code. That's what appeals to him.”

“A classic of English literature,” Templeton said. “It's stiff with over-eating, beatings and hero-worship. I'm surprised it's not a bestseller in Germany.”

“Pass the butter,” Luis said.

There was a fairly brittle silence while he buttered some toast. Templeton picked up crumbs with his fingertip and examined them for dangerous political tendencies. Garcia watched him, ready to offer a second opinion if asked. Luis munched.

“Maybe this wasn't such a hot idea,” Julie said, “coming to England.” They all looked. “I mean, if he's going to be permanently bloody temperamental about his work, I might just go home to the States.”

She got up from the table and walked to the window. A little sunshine was leaking in, cautiously, as if this might be the wrong room. It touched her long black hair and found shades of the deepest red in it. Her hands were plunged in the patch pockets of her skirt and when she turned her face to the sky, she looked twenty-four going on sixteen. Luis, secretly watching her, remembered the first impression she had made on him, long ago in Madrid. With people milling around her, she had seemed to him totally calm and in control, like a leopard among some gazelle. She still did. He envied that strength.

“Is it OK if I take a walk?” she asked.

“Yes, of course it's OK,” Garcia said. “Stay inside the estate,
won't you? There's miles and miles of walks. You might find some chestnuts. We could roast them after dinner.”

Luis cleared his throat. “The British must be in a pitiful condition if they have to scavenge for nuts.” He switched his glance from Garcia to Templeton and back.

“Nice touch,” Templeton said.

“I like it!” Garcia said. “Let's use it. Let's use it today! Where d'you want to work? The library? Good. Splendid. Let's go.”

Brigadier Wagner came back to Madrid after some very satisfactory skiing. He was tanned, clear-eyed, five pounds lighter and thoroughly at peace with himself. Now, as he rode up in the lift to his office on the seventh floor, he was looking forward to having his staff on the carpet and, when they admitted failure, pulling the carpet from beneath their feet for the pleasure of watching them bounce on their backsides. Then Richard Fischer met him and spoiled everything.

“Eldorado has delivered,” Fischer said. “He's had flu. That's why we didn't hear from him. It's a big report, one of his biggest. Nearly all his network is involved—Seagull, Knickers, Pinetree, Nutmeg, the lot. We're still working on it.”

Fischer was a lanky, sandy-haired ex-journalist who had suffered under many editors; he was ready to smile if Wagner did; until then he kept his serious, professional face.

Wagner took off his coat. “My office,” he said. “The whole team.” Already he had forgotten his disappointment.

The gang trooped in and sat down: Fischer, followed by Otto Krafft, a trim, pleasant-looking, youngish man who was so blond that his eyebrows seemed almost silver; Franz Werth, pudgy in plus-fours and a cardigan; and Dr. Hartmann, the jacket of his dark blue suit thoroughly buttoned from top to bottom. All carried files and bundles of paper and large yellow legal notepads.

“So,” Wagner said. “What's new?”

“The Yanks are restless,” Richard Fischer began.

“That's not new,” Wagner scoffed. “All Americans are congenitally restless. They can't sit still for five minutes.”

“Ah.” It was a tight, clipped sound: a note of punctuation. Fischer closed his file. He put his pen away. He sat back and looked at Otto Krafft.

“The French are suspicious,” Otto said. He waited three seconds, until Wagner's mouth opened, and then added: “But there's nothing new about that either.”

“As for the Canadians,” Franz Werth said, “the Canadians are far from happy.” He cleared his throat. “As usual,” he said.

“The Russians,” Dr. Hartmann announced. “What can one say about the Russians that has not been said before?” He made a weak, middle-aged gesture of despair. “Greedy and grasping, grasping and greedy.”

Brigadier Wagner smiled. He had a good smile but it did nothing to these men. They sat and looked. None moved. There was nothing challenging or even questioning in their attitudes. They simply occupied their places and waited.

“So this is what the great Eldorado report amounts to,” Wagner said, still smiling. He had been down a similar alley years before when he had been an amateur actor and the entire cast had taken a severe dislike to the director. At rehearsals, everyone did everything slightly wrong. The director raged, sulked and finally quit. Wagner learned then that even in a dictatorship you must lead by consent. He had forgotten this and they had now reminded him. “Tell me, Richard,” he said, “exactly how are the Yanks betraying their restlessness?”

“Oh …” Fischer flicked through a few pages. “It's probably not … I expect Pinetree just … I mean, this sort of thing's happened before often enough, hasn't it, Franz?”

“Pinetree is like Nutmeg,” Franz Werth said. “He sings beautifully but on one note only.”

“Same with Hambone,” Otto Krafft remarked. “Hambone's on a par with Nutmeg, really.”

“Seagull too,” Dr. Hartmann said.

“Oh well …” Fischer studied the ceiling. “We all know about Seagull, don't we?”

“I sometimes wonder,” Dr. Hartmann said, “if Seagull hasn't got more in common with Pinetree than Nutmeg.”

“I think I know what you mean,” Krafft said. “I know just what you mean.”

Werth raised a finger. “In a sense,” he suggested, “would it not be true to say that Seagull is to Pinetree as Nutmeg is to … Haystack?”

“Haystack,” Fischer said. “Haystack. Now there's a thought. Haystack.”

Brigadier Wagner said, “Refresh my memory. Which sub-agent is Haystack?”

They looked at each other, as if wondering who was best qualified to answer such a tricky question. Eventually, Franz Werth half-raised his hand. “Yes?” Wagner said.

“He's the one in London,” Werth said. Fischer nodded.

Wagner felt his temper start to smoke, so he took it for a slow walk around the room. “So is Pinetree,” he said. “Isn't he?”

“West London,” Werth said. “Pinetree is in west London. Haystack is in
north
London.”

“I have a map of London,” Werth offered. “If it would help.”

“This is all very entertaining,” Wagner said, “but it does nothing to help bring nearer the victory of the German nation, does it? Furthermore, I need hardly remind you that you are commissioned officers in the German army, subject to military discipline and bound by the oaths of loyalty and allegiance to the Fuehrer.” He let that sink in. “Now then, Fischer, you were telling me about the American attitude.”

Fischer gave his notes a quick glance. “Eldorado has forwarded a report from Pinetree, who is a British civilian employed by the US embassy,” he said. “Pinetree says a major disagreement is taking place between the commanders of the American and the British armed forces. In brief, the Americans want to get on with the war but the British say it's far too early to start operations in Europe.”

Wagner raised a finger. “Sounds like the usual high-level bickering,” he said. “What difference does it make to us? Surely that's the question.”

“Eldorado says Pinetree says the Americans are worried sick about the war in the Pacific. The Japanese seem unstoppable. They've captured virtually everything north of Australia except Guadalcanal, and the battle for Guadalcanal is ferocious. So the Americans in London are saying …” Fischer read aloud from his notes: “Quote:
If we're not gonna fight in Europe then for Chrissake let's go help our buddies in the Pacific,
unquote.”

“The Russians won't like that,” Dr. Hartmann said.

“Pinetree also sent us a lot of stuff about the North African invasion,” Fischer said. “Sundry cock-ups and disasters at sea: capsized American landing-craft, collisions between British and American warships, et cetera. The sort of thing nobody wants to repeat in a hurry. It all reinforces the Pacific-versus-Europe argument.”

“Right,” Brigadier Wagner said. “Fine, good, splendid. Now what is the gist of the French discontent, Otto? And who says so?”

“Donkey is the main informant, sir,” Krafft said, “with Wallpaper backing
him
up.” He saw Wagner furrow his brows and said, “Donkey's the Belfast telephone engineer and Wallpaper is the pansy lecturer at Birmingham University. He fancies Frenchmen.”

“Are there a lot of Frenchmen at Birmingham?”

“A full division in the area, Eldorado says. Twenty thousand.”

“Ah.” Wagner's brow cleared. “
Embarras de richesse,
as they probably never say in Birmingham. Twenty thousand … I hope Wallpaper isn't exhausting himself on our behalf.”

“He keeps tremendously fit, sir. Gymnastics, water polo, even rugby football.”

Wagner sniffed. “I have my doubts about grown men who scamper about in their underwear and grapple so enthusiastically.”

“No doubts about Wallpaper, sir. He's as bent as a fiddler's elbow. I suppose that's why he's interested in French politics.”

“And he's sent us the latest de Gaulle anecdote,” Wagner said.

Krafft was surprised. “As a matter of fact, Wallpaper did send us a new de Gaulle joke … Um … Here it is: What is the difference between Napoleon and General de Gaulle?” He glanced at the others.

“All right, tell us,” Wagner said.

“Napoleon is the small one,” Krafft said.

“That's not very funny,” Richard Fischer complained.

“I never said it was funny,” Krafft told him, “I said it was a British joke. You know what the British are like. They're all convinced they have a great sense of humor, but in fact they only laugh at bodily functions.”

“What—sex?” Werth asked.

“Certainly not,” Krafft said. “Bowel movements. The British find defecation irresistibly funny.”

“What an extraordinary race,” Werth said.

“Oh, I don't know,” Dr. Hartmann said. “It offers them the chance of a healthy guffaw once a day.”

“So de Gaulle is unpopular in England,” Brigadier Wagner said firmly.

“Yes, sir. Also in France, parts of Algeria and Tunisia, Syria, French West Africa and various other outposts of the French Empire,” Krafft said. “Senior officers on de Gaulle's staff have opened their hearts to Wallpaper. They share a common interest in good wine, apparently.
He reports that de Gaulle is determined to lead the liberation of France and become its new ruler, but others disagree.”

“Where does Donkey come into all this?” Wagner asked. “He's in Northern Ireland, isn't he?”

“That's where the disagreement is, sir. A lot of French troops refuse to take orders from de Gaulle—so many, in fact, that the British have sent them to Northern Ireland to avoid trouble. Donkey listens in to their telephone conversations. He says the French are too busy arguing with their allies and with each other to fight us. For instance, most of them are disgusted that they weren't included in the invasion of Tunisia and Algeria. Donkey says it's all France to them and they think Churchill's trying to steal it. What's more, a lot of them say they won't get involved in any attack on the south of France because that's not Occupied Europe, it's Vichy France; the Vichy government's entitled to defend it and who wants Frenchmen fighting Frenchmen?”

“Logical,” Wagner said.

“The Russians won't like it,” Dr. Hartmann said.

Wagner sniffed. “Everyone else has to put up with the idiocy of the French, so why not the Russians? Thank you, Otto. Who's next?”

“I've got a lot more, sir,” Otto said. “The French in Britain are so unhappy about food rationing that they've taken to collecting chestnuts to supplement their diet but this has brought them into conflict with the natives, who want the nuts for themselves.”

“Splendid,” Wagner said. “Nothing like fighting over a handful of nuts to work up an appetite. Now then, Franz. Canada frets. Why?”

Werth shuffled his papers and blinked a bit. “Unlike the French confusion, the Canadian dilemma is remarkably clear-cut, sir. They had one disaster at Dieppe, they don't want another like it, and if the British War Office keeps insisting, then the Canadian troops may well mutiny.”

“More dissension in the ranks,” Wagner murmured. “How encouraging … Mind you, I wouldn't be sorry to see a few more Dieppes. As raids go, it was a large and self-inflicted wound.”

Fischer said, “The Canadian force suffered seventy-five percent losses, so I heard. A very bloody nose.”