The Cairo Code (25 page)

“It's a security matter,” Sanson offered simply. “We'd like to have a look at the prisoner's file.”

The major didn't press his inquiry further. “As you wish.” He left and came back minutes later with a manila folder and handed it over.

“Do you know Berger personally?” Weaver asked.

“I think you could say that, sir.”

“What's he like?”

“A very decent sort of German. You might say a model prisoner.” The major smiled. “And a highly intelligent chess player into the bargain. He usually beats me hands down, every time.” He shrugged, as if excusing his fraternization with the enemy, and the fact that the British generally treated their Axis prisoners with decency, which usually amazed most Americans. “Not much else to do around these parts, I'm afraid. A man could shoot himself for the bloody boredom. I'll give you a few minutes to have a look at his file before we wake him, sir. You won't need an interpreter, by the way. Berger speaks excellent English.”

The officer escorted them down the hall to a stark room with just a table and some chairs. After he left, Weaver and Sanson read Berger's details. Apart from the usual name, rank, and serial number that he had been obliged to provide to his captors, various comments and notes had been added by his camp guardians, British officers and men with whom Berger had obviously become friendly and made casual, personal conversation. Aged twenty-five, and a career intelligence officer, he was married with an infant daughter and had a degree in mathematics from Dresden University.

After serving briefly in Russia, where he was badly wounded and had his left foot amputated, he had been posted to a desk job in North Africa eighteen months earlier.

Weaver said doubtfully, “Even if Berger admits to knowing about Besheeba and Phoenix, it's unlikely he'd be aware of their true identities, or anything about their backgrounds. A junior intelligence officer wouldn't be party to that kind of information, he'd simply be following orders.”

“Probably not. But he's got to know more than we do.”

A little later two guards led in the prisoner. Berger was tall and pale, boyish-looking, with a pleasant face, gentle mouth, and restless, intelligent eyes. He limped noticeably, dragging one of his feet, an obvious false limb, and wore a ragged German uniform a size too large. His hair was tousled and he seemed confused and barely awake.

“Hauptmann Manfred Berger?”

The young German blinked.
“Ja.”

“I'm Lieutenant Colonel Sanson, military intelligence. And this is Lieutenant Colonel Weaver. You speak English, I believe?”

“Yes, fluently. May I ask what this is about?”

“Take a seat.”

Berger rubbed his eyes and pulled up a chair facing them. Without preamble, Sanson showed him the memo. “Did you write this?”

Berger studied the flimsy and a faint look of caution showed in his expression as he looked up. “I could have. As war goes, nine months ago is a lifetime.”

“Did you write it?” Sanson repeated.

“I'm afraid I really don't recall.”

“Your name's right here at the bottom. Hauptmann Manfred Berger.”

Berger shrugged. “Yes, I see that. But in the course of my duty I put my name to many papers, and was obliged to help send many of our agents across your lines. I cannot be expected to remember every one.”

“This agent in Cairo, code-named Besheeba, and the other one, Phoenix. What can you tell me about them?”

“I know nothing about either of these people.”

“The memo suggests otherwise, Berger,” Sanson pressed him. “You obviously knew what you were writing about, so don't bloody lie to me.”

The German blushed at the hint of a threat. He studied both his interrogators. “May I be permitted an observation?”

“You're permitted.”

“For Germany, the war is over in North Africa. Whatever agents we had here are no longer of any importance.” He raised his eyes, curious. “Yet two senior intelligence officers come here at four in the morning to interrogate me. May I ask why?”

Sanson ignored the question. “I'll ask you one more time—”

“And may I please remind you that under the terms of the Geneva Convention I am obliged only to give my name, rank, and number. Nothing more. You are both soldiers, you know this.”

Sanson slammed his fist hard on the table, rattling it. “I don't give a curse about the Geneva Convention, Berger. Answer the bloody question.”

Berger looked mildly shaken by Sanson's hostility, but then he said quietly, “I'm sorry, I really cannot help you. You should know that minor intelligence officers such as myself are not usually privileged to know the true identities of field agents. That kind of information is confined to headquarters in Berlin.”

“Usually, but not always, Berger. And there are always barrack-room rumors floating around concerning the agents who work for you. No matter how small or insignificant that information seems, it may help us. And I'm sure you knew
something
about the operation in Cairo. How did Phoenix get across our lines? Was he taken, or did he go alone? Where did he stay in Cairo when he arrived? How did he rendezvous with Besheeba? So give me answers.”

Berger didn't reply, and Sanson promptly flicked open the German's folder. “You were arrested in Tunis wearing civilian clothes.”

“I was trying to avoid capture, naturally—”

“A soldier disguising himself in civilian clothes on enemy territory—that suggests he's a spy. Spies are shot by firing squad, Berger. That's the law. Even according to the Geneva Convention.”

The German paled. “Me, a spy? You're making a joke, of course?”

Sanson held Berger's stare and didn't flinch. “Am I? You're also an intelligence officer, double proof if it were needed.”

“I'm not a spy,” Berger answered nervously. “And even if I knew anything about this matter, which I don't, I couldn't help you.” He looked at Sanson defiantly, a faint hint of pride in his voice. “I'm still an honorable German officer. I would never betray my country's trust in me to the enemy.
Never.”

Sanson pushed back his chair with a clatter and stood. “I'll give you five minutes alone to review that trust, and your memory. After that, I want answers, not bull, or you'll suffer the consequences. And if I were you, I'd give some serious thought to a firing squad.”

•  •  •

Sanson paced angrily up and down the hall.

“You think he knows more than he's telling us?”

“I'm bloody sure of it. He wrote the memo.” Sanson stopped pacing. “He won't be able to help us crack the Cairo Code, it would have been written on one-time pads, but I'll bet my life on it that he knows something about the agents he helped send in. We're not the Gestapo, Weaver, but in a situation like this, you sometimes have to forget the rules.”

“What do you mean?”

Sanson took a leather truncheon from his pocket. “This. And worse, if necessary.”

Weaver saw the cold determination in the Englishman's face. “Beating a prisoner is considered torture. It's illegal, Sanson.”

“I don't give a curse about legal niceties right now, Weaver. Or how nice a chap Berger is. This is war, not a bloody cricket match. Our backs are to the wall. If we had time, we could play the usual games and try to coax it out of him. But we haven't got that luxury.”

“And what do you suggest?”

“If he still refuses to tell us what he knows, we take him back to Cairo for further interrogation.” Sanson slapped the truncheon hard into his palm. “But either way, if Berger knows anything, I'll make the ruddy sod talk.”

•  •  •

When they stepped back into the room, Sanson blatantly placed the truncheon on the table. Berger looked at it anxiously.

“Well, have you reconsidered?”

When the German hesitated, Sanson had the truncheon in his hand in an instant, struck him a quick, stinging blow across the face. The young German cried out, almost fell from his chair, clutched his jaw in shock. “I—I don't know anything about the Cairo operation.”

“We've established you wrote the memo. Which suggests you knew something about the people involved. Let me remind you again what it says.” Sanson removed the German flimsy from the folder, and read, “
‘Rommel urgently pressing for more details: troop numbers, armor,
and artillery movements. Berlin instructs Phoenix to proceed Cairo at once. Besheeba will rendezvous. Hopes combined efforts will produce more results.' ”

Sanson looked up. “It's that last line that gives it away, Berger. ‘Hopes combined efforts will produce more results.' What results did you hope for? You must have known
something
about these two agents. So tell me.”

Berger looked frightened. Sanson said, “Well, Berger, I'm waiting.”

“My name, rank, and serial number are all you're entitled to—”

“It serves no purpose to continue like this,” Sanson said in frustration. “You admitted yourself, the war's over for Germany in North Africa. What can you hope to achieve by not answering my questions?”

“I told you already. I know nothing. How many times do I have to repeat that?”

“You can repeat it all you like but I know you're lying. You're also trying my patience. You could be shot as a spy, or can't you grasp that?”

“Ich bin Manfred Berger, Hauptmann, nummer
—”

Sanson was off the chair in an instant, the truncheon in his hand. This time, he lashed Berger hard across the face. The German screamed in agony and collapsed onto the floor. Weaver couldn't stomach much more, was beginning to wonder if Berger could really tell them anything useful. He went to help the German up.

Sanson reacted in a flash. “What the bloody devil are you doing, Weaver? Leave him be!”

“He's hurt, Sanson!”

“I said
leave
him.”

For a moment, Weaver thought Sanson was going to hit him, but instead the Englishman skewered him with a frightening look. Weaver stepped back. Sanson moved to stand over the German, hands on his hips. “Come on, Berger. The truth. Out with it!”

Berger lay there, whimpering, a lather of sweat on his face, his false limb twisted hideously. “Please—”

“Think,
Berger. Think hard. You must know something. Is it worth a beating and a bullet when your country's already losing the war? Think of that child of yours. You'd like to see her again, wouldn't you? Or would you rather your wife and daughter got a telegram telling them you're dead?”

Berger reacted, almost at breaking point, his lips trembling, eyes welling with tears. He raised a hand to protect himself as Sanson started to lift the truncheon again.

“No—please! I'll tell you what I know.”

Heinrich Himmler, head of the SS and the Gestapo, was an unusually austere and distant man, a former Bavarian chicken farmer who sent millions to the death camps without so much as a second's thought, his dour bureaucrat's face devoid of emotion.

As Schellenberg was led into his Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse office that afternoon, rain was gusting against the windows, an icy wind blowing so harshly it could only have come from the Baltic.

Himmler wore his full-dress black Reichsführer's uniform and customary pince-nez glasses. He was seated behind his walnut desk, a stack of paperwork in front of him, a pen poised in his hand. The office was in half-darkness, everything about it spartan and impersonal, the only warmth coming from a sparking log fire blazing in a corner.

Schellenberg gave the Nazi salute. “You sent for me, Reichsführer?”

Himmler laid down his pen, silently indicated a chair, and in very slow, precise movements cleared his paperwork to one side, except for a handful of reports, as if preparing himself for business. He indicated the remaining papers on his desk with some distaste. “The latest ciphers have arrived from our agents in North Africa, and the progress reports from the Luftwaffe and Kriegsmarine. I think you had better read them.”

Schellenberg studied the pages while Himmler stood and came round from behind his desk. He paused at the fire for a time, warming his hands, then touched a jutting log with the toe of his polished boot, making sparks flare, before finally turning back.

“Well?”

Schellenberg put the reports aside. “They're disappointing, Reichsführer.”

“Disappointing?” Himmler flared. “They're disastrous. Our Atlantic U-boats have continually failed to engage Roosevelt's convoy. We've sent out our best commanders, and they've all failed. The most recent Luftwaffe report indicates a large fleet of protection vessels surrounding the battleship
Iowa,
which we suspect is carrying the American president. It was sighted from the air, approximately four hundred miles off the Moroccan coast at midday today, and pursuing an erratic route. Goering says it's too far away for us to attempt a bombing run—the spotter plane was engaged by aircraft from enemy destroyers and barely made its escape. As for the Kriegsmarine, they claim it's completely impossible to breach the heavy naval security.”

“I would imagine so, Reichsführer.”

“If all that weren't bad enough, our agents are having serious difficulty discovering where exactly Roosevelt's convoy might dock in North Africa—so it could be anywhere along a three-thousand-mile coast. Without precise information, we couldn't possibly effect a meaningful air or sea attack. And once Roosevelt comes ashore, we'll have little chance of knowing how he'll proceed until he reaches Cairo.” Himmler sighed with frustration, removed his glasses, and polished them methodically with a handkerchief. “So, Walter, it seems it may well be all down to you, after all. Tell me your progress.”