A Gathering of Spies (30 page)

Not that she was in any sort of shape, she realized, to handle resistance if she encountered it. The amphetamines had faded, leaving her with one hell of a hangover: blurred vision, cold sweats, jackknife heartbeat, tremors racking her body. She felt ravenously hungry, and more exhausted than ever.

But the bullet, at least, had stopped moving around—for now. Thank God for small favors.

She closed her eyes, lulled by the steady motion of the car. The lads up front were still talking; their voices sounded soothing, and very, very young.

Too late
, she thought. Too late to make the
treff
.

But what other option did she have?

Stay here, of course. Sleep. If they reached London without the lads finding her in the backseat, slip away when nobody was paying attention. Find somewhere to hole up for a couple of weeks until she gained a bit of distance from death's door. Then find a ship—a ship going anywhere.

Anywhere but here.

A tear burned the corner of her eye; she wiped it away absently.

And what about her people? How would she feel when they finished the bomb and dropped it on Germany, if she turned away now? Like a coward.

But would she feel any better if she delivered the bomb to Hitler and he used it to bring on
Götterdämmerung
?

A crease appeared between her eyes.

Her mind was in a jumble. Her mind, it seemed lately, was always in a jumble. Who was to know what was right or wrong? How was she supposed to know
what
to think?

Treason
, she thought darkly.

Take the car, return to the lighthouse, and honor your rendezvous
.

But it was too late for that. Her eyes were closing.

Go on
, she thought.
Rest. Sleep
.

TREASON
! her mind shrieked.
TREASON! WAKE UP
!

So very tired …

If she gave up now, would she ever be able to look at herself in a mirror?

Would she ever be able to sleep again?

Still wondering, she dozed off.

19

10 DOWNING STREET, LONDON

Winston Churchill stood on the garden terrace of Number 10 Downing Street, a paintbrush in one hand, looking critically at the easel before him.

The prime minister possessed something of a permanent scowl; the critical look on his face fit the features well. Looking at him now, one could easily imagine the recalcitrant schoolboy who once had lived inside this body, who had been described by his teacher as “a constant trouble to everybody, always in some scrape or other.”

Kendall, who had gotten into his own share of trouble growing up in London's East End, could hardly believe he was in the prime minister's presence—or was, more precisely, about to be in the prime minister's presence. He, Andrew Taylor, and Major Robertson were just now stepping into the half-acre garden from the Cabinet Room, all three simultaneously raising hands against the glaring sunshine.

Taylor whispered, “Don't interrupt him while he's painting.”

So they stood and watched, for the better part of ten minutes, as Churchill added a large blue mountain to his barely above average landscape. During this time, the remnants of Churchill's lunch were taken away, his flute of champagne was refilled, and a cigar was set out for him on a table underneath a sun umbrella. He looked like a man on vacation, Kendall found himself thinking, not like a man involved in a desperate fight against an aggressor who already had captured most of Europe. But this should not have been surprising—not from Churchill, who was known to deal with the most serious official matters from his bed, his dinner table, even his bath.

Presently, Churchill set down the paintbrush, turned to the men, and offered the suggestion of a bow.

“Forgive me, gentlemen,” he said. “The mountain wouldn't wait. Have a seat. Champagne?”

They sat around the table under the umbrella, accepting flutes of champagne. Kendall felt terrifically nervous, even more so than usual. Taylor, however, seemed calm, if weary; and Major Robertson, the soft-spoken head of Operation Double Cross, seemed almost bored.

“A fine day,” Churchill said, lighting his cigar. “I hope the news you've brought me isn't bad, gentlemen. It's far too fine a day for bad news.”

Major Robertson, running his finger around the rim of his glass, gave a smile. “I'm afraid there is a bit of bad in with the good, sir. Or I should say, that's the way it seems at first. The reality may be more complex.”

“That is the problem with modern times,” Churchill said. “They are unnecessarily
complex
. Two things have disappeared in my lifetime: Men no longer study the classics, and men no longer ride the horse. Times are now too
complex
for such simple pleasures, one supposes. But if you ask me, we have lost a good deal in these two things.”

Kendall had to remind himself not to stare too hard. Something about the way Churchill spoke was utterly mesmerizing; it was nearly impossible to look away.

“In any case,” Churchill said. “Major?”

“If you don't mind, Mr. Prime Minister, Mr. Taylor has been more involved with this case than I.”

“By all means. Mr. Taylor?”

Taylor cleared his throat, took out his pack of cigarettes, set it on the table, picked up his champagne, put it down again, and started to rub his eyes before stopping himself.

“Forgive me, Mr. Prime Minister. I've not had much chance to sleep lately.”

“Nor have I, Mr. Taylor. You'll find no sympathy here.”

Taylor cleared his throat again. “Right,” he said. “The situation is as follows. Several months ago we found a unique opportunity, over at Twenty”—Twenty, to those in the know, referred to Operation Double Cross, sometimes represented by the shorthand XX—“in the person of a German spy named Schroeder. Schroeder had parachuted into Canterbury with the assignment of getting himself to Whitehall, finding employment, and tracking down a dissatisfied Intelligence man who might be able to give Uncle Adolf some clues as to the invasion.”

“I seem to recall hearing of it,” Churchill said.

“Yes, Mr. Prime Minister; I briefed you at the time. To make a long story short—if at all possible—I called on an old chum of mine to come into the game. His politics have been rather publicly inclined toward Chamberlain, which made him seem an apt candidate for turning. But he had lost his wife in the invasion of Poland, and so I felt that he must have abandoned his sympathy for the Nazis. He agreed to play the role of the disenchanted agent and, if possible, to penetrate the
Abwehr
.”

Taylor picked up his cigarettes again, tapped one out, and lit it.

“At which point we as an agency became rather roundly distracted by the Heinrich affair,” he said.

Churchill nodded, sipping his champagne.

“The Heinrich woman slipped through our fingers,” Taylor said, “and it seemed as if we might lose her—until this man, Winterbotham, presented me with an idea. He suggested that if he were allowed to proceed and schedule his meeting with the
Abwehr
, the Heinrich woman would likely be instructed to honor the same rendezvous.”

“Yes.”

“I agreed—at which point I informed him that his mission was suspended, Mr. Prime Minister, until we had the woman safely in custody.”

“Mm.”

“And so it seems that he took it upon himself, Mr. Prime Minister, to deceive us about the true location of the meeting.”

Churchill closed his eyes. He held up a hand and remained motionless for the better part of a minute. Then he opened his eyes, puffed on his cigar, and said calmly, “His wife is alive?”

“She is. We believe that he plans to trade intelligence to the Germans in exchange for her return.”

“What intelligence will he be able to offer?”

“Nothing concerning the invasion, Mr. Prime Minister. But unfortunately, he has been made aware of many details concerning Twenty. It was necessary.”

Churchill pursed his lips and chewed on them for a moment. “The Heinrich woman?” he said.

“We don't believe she ever reached the scene of the rendezvous, Mr. Prime Minister. But if she did, she's slipped through our grasp again.”

“Forgive me, Mr. Taylor. I seem to have missed the
good
news in this rather disturbing tale.”

“If I may,” Robertson spoke up. “There is a bit more to it.”

“Don't keep it a secret, Major.”

Robertson looked at Kendall. “Go on, son,” he urged.

Kendall sat as straight as he could as Churchill turned his gaze on him. He felt himself flushing but managed to proceed, despite his nervousness, without a stammer.

“I was the last to see Professor Winterbotham, Mr. Prime Minister, before he went over to the Nazis. I tried to intercept him on the beach, which is how I got this nasty scrape on my nose, here—”

“Just tell him what happened,” Robertson said.

“Yes, sir. What happened,” Kendall said, “is that the professor bent over me, after he gave me this smack, Mr. Prime Minister, and said that he was going to see his mission through—to infiltrate the
Abwehr
. He apologized for having manipulated Mr. Taylor and the rest, sir, but he said he had thought it necessary.”

Taylor snorted.

“He said that in case the Germans were dissatisfied with his information and refused to let him return to England, sir, that he was prepared to escape. He repeated to me, several times, coordinates in the Baltic Sea, so that I was forced to memorize them. He said that we should have a seaplane waiting at five in the morning on the fourth of August, sir, if we wish to hear what intelligence he's gathered, sir.”

“After misleading his superiors, risking the secret of the atomic bomb, and disobeying direct orders, he wants to be picked up.”

“Seemingly, yes, Mr. Prime Minister.”

Churchill shook his head. “Mr. Taylor,” he said, “in your estimation, is this man a danger to Operation Double Cross?”

“He's no Nazi sympathizer, Mr. Prime Minister, if that's what you mean. But he will do whatever is required to secure the safety of his wife.”

“Major?”

“It is high treason, Mr. Prime Minister. No doubt about it.”

Churchill stood up. “Thank you, gentlemen,” he said. “It is time for my bath. Please keep me apprised of any developments. In the meantime, lay your hands on a seaplane and prepare to meet Winterbotham at the coordinates mentioned. I assume your pursuit of the woman continues?”

“Of course, Mr. Prime Minister.”

“Keep me apprised of that also.”

“If I may,” Taylor said. “There is another option, Mr. Prime Minister, with regard to Winterbotham.”

“Mm?”

“We can minimize the risk of damage to Twenty, sir, by informing the Germans that Winterbotham is still in our employ—that it would be in their best interests to execute him immediately.”

“And how shall we inform them?”

“By posing as the Heinrich woman, Mr. Prime Minister, and sending them a warning. Except for a single message, the Nazis haven't heard from her for ten years. And the man most likely to recognize her Morse style—her mentor—was killed at Flamborough Head. We'll claim that she met Winterbotham during the
treff
and discovered that he is a double agent. She managed to escape and send the warning. The deception should work.”

“Then the Nazis will execute him,” Churchill said. “And we'll never get the chance to hear what he may have learned about the
Abwehr
.”

“But there will be no risk of him betraying Twenty, Mr. Prime Minister. It is the safest route to follow.”

Churchill considered. “Very good, Mr. Taylor. Send your warning to the Nazis.”

He turned and walked into the Cabinet Room, leaving the men around the table staring after him in the mellow morning sunshine.

20

POTSDAM, GERMANY

JULY 1943

They were entering Potsdam, several miles southeast of Berlin.

It was ten o'clock at night but the sun was still up, giving Winterbotham a fine view of the sleepy town outside his window—the majestic brick houses set back from tree-lined streets, the lush gardens, and the azure waters of Lake Griebnitz, visible in snatches between plots of land.

Potsdam, it seemed, had not suffered at all from the war. Winterbotham could not find evidence of even a single Allied bomb. He reminded himself that this superficial well-being was probably the very reason they had brought him there; it seemed fair to assume that the rest of Germany was in slightly worse shape. Still, he found the pristine surroundings … unsettling.

After looking out his window for a time, he turned to look at the young German beside him. Beck also was watching the houses go past, a slight smile on his lips. Beck was a few years above twenty, Winterbotham judged, and a model Aryan—so perfectly Aryan that next to him, Rudolf Schroeder seemed almost earthy. He had a strong chiseled jaw, razor-sharp cheekbones, close-cropped blond hair, and icy-clear light-blue eyes. His physique was lean but muscular, wide across the shoulders and narrow at the waist. His English was crisp and impeccable.

“
Herr
Beck,” Winterbotham said.

Beck turned away from his window, still smiling.

“I do not wish to seem ungracious,” Winterbotham said. “I appreciate the effort to which you have gone to make this meeting possible. But I am anxious to see my wife.”

“Take my word, Professor, as soon as she reaches Potsdam, she will be brought to you.”

“Where is she now?”

“In transit,” Beck said. “Now, if I may take the liberty, Professor, I will encourage you to notice the palace coming up on our left.”

The palace coming up on their left was a mammoth, discursive building done in a confusion of styles: stucco walls, stone portals, Oriental-looking chimneys studding a Tudor façade. A spacious, well-manicured lawn sloped down to the banks of Lake Griebnitz.