The Judas Code

He usually enjoyed himself there. It was so cramped, so full of books, so bachelor, and the schnapps was so smoky on the tongue that it reminded him of his youth when, on leave from naval college, he had planned – not conspired – breathtaking visions for the Fatherland.

To Canaris, von Claus always seemed like a professor, although he was the younger of the two (the deformity on his back, not quite a hunch, had added years to his fragile frame) and, of course, junior in rank.

By the time they were halfway through a bottle of schnapps washed down with pale beer imported from Munich the present was an unwelcome stranger to their conversation. But an intrusive one.

‘So, what do you think?’ Canaris asked.

‘About the rumours? As you say, they’re a little too thick on the ground. I wouldn’t have suggested you came to Lisbon if they hadn’t been backed up by two of our prime contacts.’

‘I’m glad you did,’ Canaris said. ‘I like it in your home. It’s a forgotten outpost of the Germany we once knew. Before—’

‘Careful,’ von Claus whispered.

‘Hey, what’s this? Spy warning spy about eavesdroppers? Are the British so alert?’ But his voice was hushed.

‘The Gestapo are, you must know that.’

His words sobered them both. Von Claus switched on the radio.

Finally Canaris said softly: ‘But they answer only to Himmler and Heydrich. I answer to Hitler. For the time being,’ he said sombrely. ‘What has it come to, Fritz, fearing your own countrymen more than the enemy?’ He tossed back a measure of schnapps. ‘But back to the business of the moment – then we can luxuriate about the past over lunch. What’s for lunch, Fritz?’

‘Frankfurters,’ said von Claus. ‘Frankfurters that spit their juice at you when you sink your teeth into them. Sauerkraut and potato salad.’

Canaris licked his lips. ‘If you eat like that every day why don’t you put on any weight?’

‘I wish I did, I have a lot of trouble getting suits to fit me,’ said von Claus who was as dapper as he was deformed. ‘But tell me, Wilhelm, if this is an elaborate disinformation operation how could it possibly benefit the British?’ He turned up the volume of the radio.

Canaris shrugged. ‘God knows. But I wouldn’t put anything past Churchill. On the face of it his strategy is logical enough: persuade us to smash Russia so that Britain and Germany can co-exist without the Bolshevik menace. I’d like to think it’s as simple as that …’

‘Except that in our world things never are? Have another drink, Wilhelm. Blast the suspicions out of that old grey head of yours.’

‘Not so old,’ Canaris said. ‘You see, what Churchill is saying to Hitler is this: “We will cause no trouble in the west, leaving you free to pursue your dream of expansion in the east.” Or more concisely: “We, the British, will allow you to go to war on only one front.”’

‘So?’

‘You don’t fool me, professor. You just want me to express your own doubts.’

‘And they are?’ smiling his pinched smile.

‘Timing, my dear Fritz, timing. Just supposing Hitler was delayed? Drawn into the Russian winter. And then just supposing Churchill didn’t keep his side of the bargain. Just supposing he attacked. Voilà. A war on two fronts.’

‘Britain isn’t strong enough to attack,’ von Claus objected.

‘She would be if the United States had by then entered the war. Timing, you see. She would be with Canada, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa, India and all the rest of her Empire beside her.’

Von Claus stood up and said loudly: ‘Come on, let’s eat and soak up some of that liquid cordite.’ As Canaris stood up he again lowered his voice to a whisper: ‘You know what I think, Wilhelm? I think it might be a good idea if Stalin was warned that the Führer intended to attack. That way there would probably be no war at all and thousands, possibly millions, of German lives would be saved.’

‘That possibility,’ said Canaris equally softly, ‘had not escaped me.’ He put his finger to his lips in a gesture that was only slightly theatrical.

*

The first of the two sources on which Canaris had decided to gauge the strength of the reports about Churchill’s new policy was a sleek, well-fed cat.

His hair, grey at the temples, was sleek; his physique, aided by Savile Row suits, was sleek; when paid compliments he purred.

He was one of the Abwehr’s most trusted agents in Lisbon and unique because he never asked for money; certainly, being a banker, he had more than enough but it was the sad experience of the accountants in Tirpitzufer that the richer the agent the more he charged. Apparently all that the banker required was recognition when Germany won the war.