“As I was saying,” continued the colonel, “I have noted in your file—”
“File! You blokes have a file on me?” exclaimed Logan in angry offense. He knew perfectly well they would check his record, but he was warming up to the game.
“Do not be offended, Herr MacVey. It is standard procedure—merely routine. The Abwehr trusts no one, even its own.”
“So I’ve heard,” said Logan caustically.
“You do not approve?” said the colonel, raising one eyebrow.
“One does what one has to do,” replied Logan. “I suppose you Germans are no different.”
“Indeed. And it would seem doing what might be considered somewhat—how do you say, irregular?—is something you are familiar with.”
“Just what’s that supposed to mean?” snapped Logan.
“Only that I took note of your prison record with interest,” replied the colonel.
Logan leaned against the bulkhead, folded his arms across his chest, and sent his gaze directly toward the colonel’s, as if challenging him to make an issue of his record. Logan and von Graff were in a tiny cabin, alone. Gunther had departed to some other part of the sub while the colonel carried out his interrogation. Logan had refused the chair that had been offered when the interview began five minutes earlier and merely stood with his back to the wall. The colonel sat at a small wooden table bolted to the floor.
Colonel Martin von Graff, an average-sized but imposing man in his late forties, carried a physique primed to military fitness, more than an equal match to most men regardless of size. His brown, close-cut hair was graying slightly at the temples, adding an element of venerability to his square, taut, clean-shaven face. His clear, precisely clipped speech accentuated his confident nature. He was accustomed to issuing orders and being obeyed. He was clearly a man not easily crossed or lied to.
“The dirty Crown,” said Logan, pointedly slurring his last word with disgust; “tossed me into the chokey—half the charges were trumped up, and I didn’t have a fancy title to get me off.”
“The son of a Glasgow laborer,” added von Graff, “himself in jail several times for petty theft.”
How much information did Arnie let them have? wondered Logan. They just better have left out all mention of Allison and Stonewycke.
“It’s the only way a poor blighter can get ahead in this rotten country,” said Logan.
“You hope to find something better in Germany?”
“There’s something to be said for a place where a house painter can rise to power.”
Von Graff winced. The Germans did not like to be reminded that their Führer had once been a common laborer. Even as the words were past his lips, Logan realized this was not to be the best approach. The Nazis weren’t like the Communists, proud of a working man’s heritage.
“Hitler also has a prison record,” Logan added smugly.
“And so you feel your crimes were of a political nature?”
“In Britain only Jews and noblemen get anywhere.” The words nearly choked Logan, but he had to move the interview toward ground to which this Nazi could relate. He had to try to appeal to the man’s Teutonic prejudice so as to take the attention off himself. “The only crime is that a man with white skin and pure breeding has to rob and steal to keep starvation from killing him, while the Jews control all the money.”
“I see,” said the colonel, without affect.
This man gives the word cool new meaning, thought Logan. Either he indulged in no political or racial fancies, or he had them as precisely under control as he did everything else about him.
“Look,” said Logan impatiently, “did you call me here to discuss anything besides my prison record?”
“Indeed I did,” answered von Graff. “But what I have in mind will involve some sensitive areas that a man without scruples—”
“I get your drift,” interrupted Logan.
“You have reformed of your life of crime, I take it, Herr MacVey?”
“I have no intention of stealing from the Reich, if that’s what you mean.”
“What exactly brought about this reform—your marriage, perhaps?”
“My marriage?”
“My report indicates you were married in 1933 to an Allison Bently of Yorkshire, after which you desisted from your criminal activities.”
What is this? thought Logan. He and Arnie had never discussed this aspect of his life and past in relation to what would be placed in his record. Somehow he had assumed that all mention of his marriage had been eliminated. Well, if Arnie had falsified the records, at least he had had the foresight to alter the names and places. That is, if he had indeed changed them. What if von Graff was baiting him, throwing out misinformation to catch him up? To see how far Logan was willing to carry the truth?
“Listen,” answered Logan at length, “I want my family left out of this. They have nothing whatever to do with my political viewpoints. Besides, my wife and I haven’t been together in months.”
“A divorce . . . ?”
“Not yet—but my wife had nothing to do with any of this, see? And I want it kept that way—or I don’t deal.”
“There is no reason for her to be involved,” replied von Graff.
A rap came on the door; and an aide entered with a tray containing a coffeepot and cups. “Will that be all, mein Colonel?” he asked. The colonel dismissed him briskly, and he turned and exited.
“I wish I could offer you something stronger, but it is best we keep our heads about us,” said the colonel as he poured out the coffee from an antique silver urn that could not have looked more out of place aboard a German war sub. “Do you take anything?” he asked Logan.
“Cream and sugar,” answered Logan.
“Two lumps?”
Logan nodded.
Suddenly the whole tenor of the meeting had changed. This was no longer a confab of spies, but a tea party. Von Graff had ceased for the moment being a military man, and instead was carrying out the role of host at an elegant dinner party. Logan recalled that the title “von” indicated nobility, and he wondered if in the colonel’s case it was more than merely an inherited appellation. Yes, the man’s nature was honed sharp, like a deadly weapon. But he had risen to his position without forgetting to bring along his silver coffee service and fine china. His wit and savoir-faire were perhaps restrained in these austere surroundings, but as he was served, Logan could easily picture von Graff moving gracefully about at an elite cocktail reception.
Still, through it all there remained something unchanged in his eyes, a raw chill that belonged to the battlefield, and it was visible even as he spoke in an apparently social vein.
“You British will never learn how to drink coffee properly,” he said, handing Logan the Wedgewood cup and saucer.
“We’ve always been resistant to change,” replied Logan noncommittally.
“You hope that by adding cream and sugar you will make the coffee taste like tea?”
“Maybe.”
“But alas, the two drinks are as different as . . .”
The colonel’s sentence was completed by the knowing glance in his eyes.
“You’re right. Nothing can turn coffee into tea.”
“So it is with life,” von Graff went on in a philosophical tone. Logan smiled at how deftly the colonel had maneuvered the conversation back to cases. “I was going to say a moment ago, as different as the Germans and the British. Throw in a pinch of this ideology or a dash of that doctrine and you still have what you began with—in your case an Englishman, born and bred. You can’t alter a man’s heritage any more than cream and sugar will alter the basic flavor of coffee.”
“Hardly an Englishman!” corrected Logan. “A Scot, to be specific. And no true Scotsman would ever consider himself an Englishman. All true Scots would agree—the union of 1707 be hanged!”
“So the Scots, the Irish, and the Welsh would align themselves with fascism as a means to an end?”
“Why not
?”
“They are hardly fascist.”
“I can’t believe that ideology would matter a fig to Hitler if he could get any of the Commonwealth countries to turn on England.”
“And is nationalism your motivation, Herr MacVey?” asked von Graff.
“Does it matter?”
“You spoke earlier of poverty and Jews,” said the colonel. “I wonder if you are a zealot.”
Logan leaned forward, peering intently into his interviewer’s eyes to give added emphasis to his words.
“To tell you the truth, von Graff,” he said, “I have only one ideology, and that’s Lawrence MacVey!”
Logan had slipped very comfortably into his role, and hardly balked at such an outright lie, and did not even stumble over the use of the strange name. “I figure that deep down you Germans are just like me, and that’s why I’m here.”
Von Graff laughed—not a merry laugh, but a dry response to a droll witticism.
“Hitler wrote in Mein Kampf,” he said, “‘The conviction of the justification of using even the most brutal weapons is always dependent on the presence of fanatical belief in the necessity of the victory of a revolutionary new order on this globe.’ The Third Reich is such a new order, and the extent of the Führer’s fanatical belief has only begun to be seen.”
“Are you saying, then, that my observation regarding the Reich’s motivations is incorrect?”
“It is correct,” answered the colonel. “But I would hasten to suggest that if you should ever meet the Führer, you not put it quite so succinctly.”
He rose, refilled the coffee cups, then began again.
“I must say, I am relieved, Herr MacVey. An opportunist is so much easier to work with than a zealot. However, opportunists do possess one serious drawback.”
“Which is?” asked Logan.
“Since they have no loyalties, it is forever difficult to predict when—and if—a sweeter opportunity will lure them away.”
“Not in my case,” Logan assured the colonel coolly. “I’m no zealot, but I’ll die before I sleep in the same bed with Britain. It has nothing to do with ideology. It has everything to do with me, and what they did to me. There are only two sides in this war—Britain and her cronies against your Fatherland. That leaves me with only one choice. It helps, though, that I expect to be well-compensated for my services.”
“The Reich expects such compensation to be well-earned.”
“And that brings us back to the beginning,” said Logan, “which is why I’ve been asked here. Certainly not for the stimulating conversation I’ve provided. You could have had that in Berlin.”
“You’d be surprised, mein Herr,” replied von Graff pensively. “You’d be surprised . . .”
He raised his cup of black coffee to his lips and drained off the remainder of its contents. “I believe this is a superb time to come to the point of our little meeting,” he added, changing back into his brisk military voice.
“Then I pass muster?”
“Time will tell, Herr MacVey. But for now, as you might say, Why not?”
Logan could think of a hundred reasons why he should not have passed his interviewer’s scrutiny, but none of them mattered as long as von Graff bought his act. He restrained a relieved sigh. Everything was going well enough; Arnie would be proud of him.
Taking advantage of the brief pause in the conversation, von Graff bent over and shuffled through some papers in a briefcase that sat on the floor next to him. In a moment he withdrew a large-sized folded sheet, pushed aside the coffee things, and opened it out on the table. It was a map of England.
“This is where I want you to begin,” said the colonel, his slim, neatly manicured finger pressed against the southeast coast of England. “Sussex, Kent, and Essex,” he continued. “I want everything you can get on coastal defenses. Specifically the location of anti-aircraft guns and the status of the electrically controlled land mines. Also, detailed damage reports after bombings. Finally, I want you to take a copy of this map and update it for us. As you can see, it is a few years old.”
“Sounds as if you haven’t given up hopes of invasion,” Logan prompted coyly.
“Keep in mind, MacVey,” replied von Graff, “that yours is the task of reporter, not interpreter. Many a good spy has failed because he has tried to second-guess his superiors.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” Logan answered. But if von Graff expected humility to accompany such a reply, he got none from Logan.
“Entrench yourself in that region,” continued the colonel. “I’m certain you’ll have no problem establishing a cover. When you leave here tonight, you will take with you a wireless transmitter—you do know how to operate a wireless, I take it?”
“Of course,” Logan lied. Actually he had never seen one at close quarters before. But Arnie would handle all that.
“Here is your code and its key,” von Graff said, handing him a thick folder along with the map. “Continue to use the same code name—Trinity, wasn’t it?”
Logan nodded.
“An interesting choice. A covert reference to the Third Reich, perhaps?”
“Pretty clever, wouldn’t you agree?” replied Logan. But even as he spoke he was thinking of how the name really had come about. Von Graff would have been surprised, and probably appalled.
One Sunday morning Logan and Allison had attended a little church not far from their Shoreditch flat. He had already encountered Arnie Kramer, and his thoughts were full of the major’s offer. He could hardly remember a thing about the service itself. But as he sat there silently with Allison at his side, he found himself thinking that if he wanted to do this spy thing right, he ought to come up with a code name for himself. “You’ll be taking on many names and characters from here on out,” Arnie had told him. Then he chuckled reassuringly. “But don’t worry, the same old Logan Macintyre will always be there somewhere!”
While Logan sat in church, unable to focus his mind on the sermon, his eye fell upon the word Trinity engraved in ornate script upon a window. Since his thoughts of late had never been far from his potential new occupation, he immediately perceived the parallel between Arnie’s statement and the spiritual manifestation represented by the window. He chided himself at his cheek in comparing what he was doing with anything spiritual. Yet when he had to give a code name, Trinity was the name that came to his lips.
So now, here he was telling lies to a Nazi colonel, using a name he had stolen from a stained-glass window. None of it made much sense. But maybe somehow the name, which had nothing whatever to do with the Third Reich, would force some sanity or meaning into the topsy-turvy world in which Logan Macintyre now found himself entangled.
9
Unexpected Twist
“He had what!” exploded Kramer.
“A box . . . a transmitter, I told you.”
“You were supposed to stick close. I told you not to let MacVey be alone with the krauts!”
“They took me away,” replied Gunther defensively. “I had no choice.”
Kramer looked away, thinking for a moment. Then he went on.
“So you heard nothing of what went on?”
“No. Only what Trinity told me on the way back.”
“Trinity . . . MacVey . . . Mac—!” burst out Kramer again, but caught himself. “This was only supposed to be a one-time operation. What am I supposed to do with a novice in the middle of a cauldron of Nazis?”
“It might not be a completely lost cause,” said Gunther.
Kramer rose from his chair, eyeing his companion momentarily, then ambled slowly to the window, his back to Gunther, and looked out on the street below. There was something else about this new twist he didn’t like. He was further than ever from being able to assess Gunther’s true loyalties. For all he could tell, he was the one who had been set up, and now Gunther had him just where he wanted him. That’s what he hated about this bloody business—you never really knew, at bottom, where people’s loyalties lay! Doubl
e agents, triple agents, quadruple agents! And there was Logan, the unsuspecting amateur, right in the middle of it as the wild card!
Blast! If he only had one of his own men in it! He should probably pull the plug on Logan, get him out of it, cover his tracks, and hang Gunther out to dry. It was just too risky. If this German wasn’t on the level, there was too much at stake, especially if they were now able to manipulate Logan.
He didn’t like it! He wasn’t tightly in control, and that made him nervous. But on the other hand, what if Gunther was solidly in their camp? He could ill afford to blow such a perfect defection. Maybe they could still pull out Logan as planned with Arnie’s boys operating the radio. But Gunther had said he had the impression the Abwehr was going to want to deal directly with Trinity, which would get sticky if they insisted on more face-to-face meetings. They had to get Logan out; he didn’t know anything of these affairs, con man that he was. He just hadn’t counted on it going so far. Logan had been supposed to keep quiet, let Gunther handle it. Now, here he was all signed up as a German agent, coming back to England with a wireless and a full set of orders, for heaven’s sake! The thing was ridiculous!
“So, what makes you so optimistic?” asked Arnie, turning. His face revealed little of his doubt to the German.
“I see no problem with keeping Trinity in,” replied Gunther.
“Keep him in! Why, that would mean—”
Kramer stopped. He had to keep his wits about him. He still wasn’t completely sure whom he was talking to. If Gunther still belonged to the Germans, it could be to his advantage to have a novice as his protege.
“He doesn’t have the experience for this kind of thing,” he said finally.
“But he has conquered the biggest obstacle already. They trust him.”
“Ha! You believe that? Then you are more of an idiot than I thought, mein lieber Freund.”
“They gave him a wireless and instructions.”
“It’s a setup, I tell you. How long have you been in this business, Gunther?”
“Long enough!” snapped the German.
Shadows over Stonewycke Page 6
