Orders from Berlin

Heydrich took a deep breath of the cold mountain air. He felt his heart beating hard under his uniform and a sense of vertigo rising through his body that didn’t come from their elevated position. He knew instinctively that this was his opportunity. With the credit for Churchill’s assassination, he could be Hitler’s deputy. With England out of the war, he would have succeeded where Goering and the generals and admirals had failed.

‘I think I can solve the problem,’ he said quietly. ‘I think I can remove Churchill from the equation.’

‘Kill him, you mean? How are you going to do that?’

‘As you know, I received a radio message from our agent yesterday. What I didn’t mention in my report is that he saw Churchill in person, and he seems to think that if he’s summoned to see Churchill again, then there might be an opportunity. I don’t know the details, obviously – it was a very short message.’

‘Well, get the details.’ Hitler snapped out the order. He got up from the bench, smoothing the crease of his black trousers into place, and walked over to the railings, standing with his back to Heydrich and looking out towards the mountains, drumming his fingers on the wood.

After a moment, he turned around. ‘We must not get ahead of ourselves,’ he said slowly. ‘I need to know whether this is a harebrained scheme or a real chance to eliminate Churchill once and for all. We don’t want to throw away our best intelligence asset on a thousand-to-one bet. But if it can be done, then let it be done.’ Hitler rubbed his hands together, a characteristic gesture when he was excited. He smiled, exposing his teeth, and his blue eyes glowed. ‘This is the best idea I have heard in a long time. The worms will have a feast when Churchill’s fat body goes underground. But you must be quick in finding out what is possible, you understand? East is where we must go. And before next year is too far advanced; before Stalin is ready for us. We must give our troops enough time – I have no intention to be another Napoleon, freezing to death in the Moscow cold.’

‘You can count on me,’ said Heydrich, getting up from his seat and standing to attention opposite Hitler, the image of a loyal soldier.

‘I hope so,’ said Hitler, looking searchingly at his subordinate. ‘We are playing for high stakes. Do not let me down, Reinhard.’

Hitler whistled and the dog came running up through the trees. ‘We will go back now,’ he said, turning towards the Berghof. ‘You have work to do. But next time you come, we will walk all the way to my teahouse. The view from the Mooslahnerkopf is excellent, even better than from here. And you can tell me more about this opportunity.’ Hitler smiled as he repeated Heydrich’s word. ‘I shall look forward to it.’

There was a spring in Hitler’s step now as he walked, and he hummed a tune under his breath. They rounded a corner and, looking up, Heydrich caught sight of the Eagle’s Nest, the retreat built for the Führer by the party faithful on a ridge at the top of the Kehlstein Mountain, three thousand feet above the Berghof. Thirty million Reichsmarks, five tunnels, and an elevator – an engineering miracle – yet Hitler hardly ever went there, preferring his small teahouse on the Mooslahnerkopf Hill. Heydrich smiled, thinking of the wasted effort. Results were what mattered; they were what led to advancement up the ladder of power. And now finally he believed he held the keys to the citadel dangling in his hand.

They parted in the hall. The map had been cleared away and the oak table moved back against the wall. It was as if the conference had never happened. Heydrich raised his arm in salute and felt Hitler’s pale blue eyes fixed upon him again, boring into his soul, before the Führer turned and walked away, releasing him back into the world.

IV (#ulink_100cf75f-302f-5d15-b99c-99b1179d1127)

They sat restlessly around the long table arranged in a kind of hierarchical order, with the least powerful among them exposed to the wintry draught by the door and the most important positioned closest to C’s empty chair and the fire behind it, which had died down to a black, smoky residue of itself in the last half-hour. There was no coal left in the scuttle, and nobody had volunteered to descend the seven flights of stairs to fetch more from the store in the basement.

It was ten in the morning outside, but inside it might as well have been the dead of night. The thick blackout curtains were kept permanently in place in Con 1, as this room was known – God knows why, as there were no other conference rooms in the building – and the only illumination came from two milky-white electric globes hanging by rusty metal chains from the ceiling overhead. Up until yesterday there had been three of these lights, but the one nearest the door had given up the ghost during the previous night’s air raid and Jarvis, the caretaker, had not yet got round to replacing it.

Far too busy ministering to C’s ceaseless stream of demands, thought Seaforth with wry amusement. By long-hallowed custom, the head of MI6 was always known by the single letter C – short for chief, Seaforth supposed. And even though he hadn’t been in the job that long, this C was already notorious for his enjoyment of life’s luxuries: the best Havana cigars; malt whisky brewed in freezing conditions on faraway Hebridean atolls; pretty girls in the bar at the Savoy. Not that Jarvis was likely to be providing them, thought Seaforth, glancing across at the bent, skeletal figure of the caretaker standing over by the half-open door.

Jarvis was clad as always in the same grey overall that reached down to just below his arthritic knees. Seaforth had never seen him wearing anything else – the old man would have seemed naked in a suit and tie. Service rumour had it that Jarvis had fought as a non-commissioned officer in the Boer War and killed five of the enemy with his bare hands during the relief of Mafeking, but Seaforth had no way of knowing if this was true, as Jarvis made a point of never discussing his personal history. He’d been at HQ longer than any of the current occupants or indeed most of their predecessors and had over the years become a fixture of the place, like the soot-stained walls and the ubiquitous smell of cheap disinfectant.

Seaforth had only recently been permitted to join these meetings of the top brass, and he knew that if Thorn had had his way, he would still be sitting marooned in his tiny windowless office at the back of the building. But C had overruled Seaforth’s boss in this as in numerous other matters, and now Seaforth sat two chairs up from the door, three chairs away from Thorn, and four away from C’s empty seat, savouring his position as an up-and-coming man.

With a sigh of contentment, he ran his hands slowly through the mane of his thick, dark hair and stretched out his long, athletic legs under the table, rocking slowly back on his straight-backed chair, expertly keeping his balance. Like everyone else in the room, he was working harder than ever, existing on small amounts of sleep snatched between air raids; but unlike them, he managed somehow to look healthy and rested, his good looks enhanced if anything by the faint thin lines that had recently begun to crease his brow.

The only blemish on his day so far was the cigarette smoke. It hung in a thick, blue-grey cloud in the unventilated room, blending with the fumes from the dying fire, and clung to Seaforth’s suit, making his eyes water. He hated cigarettes – the poor man’s narcotic. They reminded him of home, of labourers coughing in the gloomy public houses after work, drowning their sorrows in watered-down beer. He looked round the room at his fellow spies sucking greedily on their John Player’s Navy Cut and Senior Service and did his best to conceal his disgust. C’s cigars were different – a symbol of his power, like the thick Turkish carpet that began at the threshold of his office in the next-door building or the slow, careful way in which he spoke, the perfectly rounded vowels enunciated in his aristocratic, Eton-educated voice. C was old school, but old school with a new broom, ready to give the young generation its head. Not like Thorn with his Oxford University tie and his visceral suspicion of anyone who hadn’t been to a public school. As far as Seaforth was concerned, the last war had been about sweeping away men like Thorn, but so far, at least, Thorn didn’t seem to have got the message.

To hell with Thorn, Seaforth thought. Unlike Thorn, he was here on merit – because he’d been able to produce intelligence out of Germany that the rest of the pathetic pen pushers in this room could only dream of, and his recent summons to Churchill’s bunker had sealed his advancement to the top table. And there wasn’t one damned thing that Thorn could do about it. Seaforth grinned, thinking of the way Thorn hadn’t said one word to him on the walk back through St James’s Park, just stared down at his feet as if he were thinking of putting an end to it all – which would be no loss to the Secret Service, Seaforth thought. Alec Thorn had become an encumbrance that MI6 could most certainly do without.

Over by the door, Jarvis cleared his throat. ‘’E’s coming,’ he announced in a thin, wheezing voice, and seconds later C entered the room, dressed in a green tweed suit and a red bow tie. He was a tall, impressive figure, possessed of a natural authority and an air of resolution intensified by the piercing blue of his eyes. They were a tool that C knew how to use to his advantage. ‘Look a man in the eye, and if he shrinks, then ten to one he’s a bounder,’ was one of the chief’s favourite adages.

C was nearly five years Thorn’s senior, but looking at the two of them, chief and deputy chief, sitting side by side at the end of the table, Seaforth thought that Thorn looked far and away the older man. He was careworn, with worry lines etched deep into his wide forehead and thinning grey hair receding from a rapidly spreading tonsure on his crown. And he sat bent over in his chair, alternately turning his filterless cigarette over in his fingers and then tapping its fiery end against the overflowing ashtray in front of him. His suit was worn and the edges of his shirt collar were frayed. Everything about him contrasted with the dapper, handsome figure of C on his left. It wasn’t hard to see why Whitehall had picked C for the job when the old chief had been given his marching orders three years before.

‘All present and correct,’ said C, glancing affably round the table. ‘Now we can’t be too long today, I’m afraid. I’ve got to be at the Admiralty by twelve for one of their invasion conclaves. I assume everyone’s seen young Seaforth’s latest intelligence report about the German plans – the one that was circulated three days ago?’ he asked, waving a piece of densely typewritten paper with ‘Top Secret’ stamped across the top. ‘Good. Well, it’s pure gold as usual. Winston’s delighted with the quality of the intelligence, apparently, although not so happy with what the Nazis have got pointed at us across the Channel. Did he say anything about the situation when you saw him, anything you can share with us?’ he asked, turning to his deputy.

Everyone else had their attention fixed on Thorn too. The whole country was jittery about the threat of the invasion, and the people in the room had access to privileged information about how real the threat actually was. A week earlier, GHQ had sent out the code word ‘Cromwell,’ meaning ‘invasion imminent,’ to all southern and eastern commands. Church bells had been rung – the agreed signal for an invasion – and widespread panic had ensued.

‘The PM doesn’t see how they can invade without air supremacy, and they’re a long way from having that,’ said Thorn. ‘He says we’re going to fight to the death even if they do come, but we already know that. Still, it was inspiring to hear it from him first-hand.’

‘I’m sure it was. Must have been an experience for you too, young Seaforth. Not every day an officer of your rank gets summoned to an audience with the Pope. But, as we all know, the PM likes to get his information first-hand and you’re the one providing it this time, so full credit to you,’ said C, lightly clapping his hands for a moment. Everyone joined in except Thorn, who looked stonily ahead, keeping his eyes fixed on a photograph of Neville Chamberlain on the opposite wall that no one had got round to replacing since Chamberlain had resigned the premiership back in May after the Norwegian disaster.

‘And what we need now is more of the same,’ C went on. ‘All the powers that be want from us is news of when the bastards are coming and what they’re bringing with them, and Seaforth’s man is giving us exactly that – and on a regular basis.’

‘Yes, pretty convenient, isn’t it?’ Thorn said softly.

‘What, you don’t trust the source, Alec?’ C asked sharply, turning to his deputy. ‘Well, he’s been right every time up until now, you know – about the build-up of the expeditionary force, about troop movements, about bombing objectives.’

‘Except for when the Luftwaffe switched their attention from the aerodromes to London. He didn’t tell us about that, did he? Might have spoilt the surprise,’ said Thorn, whose doubts about the authenticity of Seaforth’s intelligence had mushroomed in the three days since their visit to Churchill’s bunker.

‘Well, there really wasn’t time for that, was there?’ said C equably. ‘The Germans were provoked into bombing London by us bombing Berlin. Stupid fools! Winston tricked them. The RAF couldn’t have withstood it much longer if the Luftwaffe had carried on attacking planes rather than people, or at least that’s what I’ve heard on the grapevine. There were just not enough Spitfires to go round. Instead Goering’s given them a chance to catch their breath and reinforce.’

‘You asked me a question,’ said Thorn, looking C in the eye and acting as though he hadn’t heard anything C had just said. ‘And here’s my answer: No, I don’t trust the source, and I don’t buy the idea that his access has improved because he’s just been promoted. It’s too damned convenient if you ask me.’

‘But people get promoted in wartime, Alec,’ C said smoothly. ‘You should know that – it’s one of the facts of life.’

‘I know it is. And not just in Berlin, either,’ said Thorn, making no effort to disguise his meaning as he darted a furious glance down the table at Seaforth and angrily ground out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray. C watched his deputy carefully for a moment and then began to speak again.

‘So, moving on, our agent tells us that Hitler’s ordered a short delay to Operation Sea Lion while the expeditionary force is expanded and the rest of the heavy armour is brought up to the coast,’ he said, holding up Seaforth’s briefing paper again. ‘So this is what I need, gentlemen: reliable information about what’s actually happening on the ground – in Belgium, in France, all the way round to bloody Scandinavia. Soldiers practising amphibious landings; sailors kissing their sweethearts goodbye … you know what I’m talking about. We need to fill in the blanks. And quickly, gentlemen, quickly.’

C paused, glancing around the table, but no one spoke. Jarvis, standing behind his boss’s chair, darted forward and filled up C’s glass from a decanter of cloudy water.

‘All right, then,’ said C. ‘Let’s get to work. Is there anything else?’

‘We’ve had several decodes in this morning,’ said Hargreaves, a small bespectacled man sitting opposite Seaforth who was in charge of liaison with the boffins, as the communications branch of the Secret Service was euphemistically known. He had thick grey eyebrows that incongruously matched his grey woollen cardigan. ‘One of them’s interesting – it’s an intercept from yesterday. It’s quite short: “Provide detailed written report. What are the chances of success? C.” Seems like it’s someone called C somewhere in Germany who’s communicating with an agent here in England, although apparently there’s no way of pinpointing the receiver’s location without more messages. They’re checking to see if there are any other messages that have come in up to now using the same code, although it could well be the agent is using a different code to communicate back to Germany. That’s an extra precaution they take sometimes. I’ll let you know what they come up with.’

‘Someone pretending to be me,’ said C with a hollow laugh. ‘I’m flattered. Well, we all know that the Abwehr’s been dropping spies on parachutes and landing them from U-boats all over the place this year. But they’re in a rush – none of the agents are well trained, and some of them can’t even speak proper English from what I’ve heard. MI5 catches up with them all in a few days, and I believe they’ve even turned one or two, so I can’t imagine this one’s going to be any different.’

‘Except that most of them don’t have radios,’ said Thorn. ‘Can I see that?’ he asked, leaning forward to take the piece of paper that the small man had just read from.

‘Well, thank you, Hargreaves,’ said C after a moment, with a glance of slight irritation at his deputy, who was continuing to turn the paper over in his hand. ‘Like I said, I’m sure MI5 will deal with the problem. Now, let’s get to work. Alec, you stay behind. I need to pick your brains for a moment.’

C stared ahead with a fixed smile as the people around him got up from their chairs, gathered their papers together, and headed for the door. Once it was closed and the sound of voices had disappeared down the corridor, C turned to Thorn.

‘This has got to stop, Alec, you hear me? You and Seaforth have got to work together—’

‘Not together,’ interrupted Thorn angrily. ‘He works for me, in case you’ve forgotten. I’m his section chief, although you’d never know it to hear him talk.’

‘All right, he works for you. But he also works for me and for the PM and for the good of this dangerously imperilled country, and his agent in Berlin is producing intelligence product of a quality that we haven’t seen out of Nazi Germany in years. And just when we need it the most …’

‘Exactly,’ said Thorn, banging his fist on the table. ‘Doesn’t that make you suspicious?’

‘No,’ said C. ‘Because it’s corroborated by other reports. And by what happens after Seaforth receives the intelligence. His agent says they aren’t going to invade in the next two weeks and they don’t. He says they’re about to station heavy artillery across the strait from Dover and that’s exactly what they do. Yes, treating what we get with caution is healthy, but refusing to use it is stupid. Yes, stupid, Alec,’ said C, holding up his hand to ward off Thorn’s protest. ‘You know how Whitehall used to treat us before Winston took over – like the last man on the bloody totem pole. And now we’re given everything we want. More money; more agents; more access. You’ve seen the change in attitude yourself when you go and see the old man.’

‘It’s not me he wants to see any more; it’s Seaforth,’ Thorn said irritably. ‘I sat at the back of the room three days ago saying sweet Fanny Adams while Churchill practically ate out of the little runt’s hand. You should have seen it.’

‘And you’ll just have to bloody well put up with it. Of course the boy’s ambitious – he probably wants your job. But that’s not a bad thing. We need youth and energy if we’re going to win this war. Most of those RAF pilots who’ve saved our necks up to now are barely out of school, and it doesn’t matter what school they went to, either, or whether their parents are in trade if they can shoot down Junkers and Heinkels before they drop their bombs,’ he added with a sharp look at his deputy.

‘Well, it’s easy for you to say,’ said Thorn sourly. ‘You’re the one in charge.’