Shadows over Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  If only he wasn’t so tired! He hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours, and now he wished he had dozed off a bit during the last five. But he had been too keyed up. Logan knew he had to remain alert now more than ever, for he would not easily fool von Graff.

  The general took in a sharp breath, the muscles tightening around his neck. Then he walked around behind his desk and sat down. At length he looked up, eyes glinting.

  “Come now, Herr MacVey,” he said tightly. “Are you trying to play cat and mouse with me? Do you wish to feel me out before you make any commitments?”

  The man was shrewd, there was no mistaking that. He had guessed Logan’s motives exactly and now there was nothing else for Logan to do but forge ahead, hoping that the story he contrived would somehow coincide with facts.

  “Can you blame me, General?” said Logan. “Intelligence types aren’t exactly the most trusting of individuals, and I see you are with the S.S. now—that makes it even worse.”

  “You have nothing to fear from us . . . if you have nothing to hide.”

  “Do you think that tin soldier you have out there would have believed me if I had told him I was a British subject working for the Abwehr?” asked Logan cynically. “They would have laughed me right into Fresnes Prison, and then directly before a firing squad. I figured that by sticking to my French cover, I just might get released. And then I could have continued with my original plan.”

  “Which is?”

  “I was on my way to Berlin—to see you, actually.”

  “And what brought on this sudden urge for camaraderie?”

  “I had to dog it out of England, that’s what. MI5 raided my place and just about had a noose around my neck. But luckily I gave them the slip. That was two days ago.”

  “And so you decided to go to Berlin without contacting us first?”

  “What else could I do? They had my wireless, and I gathered from the MI5 blokes who arrested me that Gunther was not long for this world either.”

  “They’ve captured Gunther?” Von Graff was truly surprised at this revelation.

  “They didn’t use names, but he’s the only agent connected to me,” answered Logan.

  “Don’t you know an interrogator’s trick when you see one?” said von Graff derisively. “They tell you they have one of your comrades, and that he has been talking freely, in hopes that it will loosen your own tongue.”

  Logan knew the trick well, but he didn’t admit that to von Graff. Instead, “Why those blighters!” said Logan, shaking his head in self-recrimination.

  “I hope their ploy was unsuccessful.”

  “I didn’t tell them a thing.”

  “Then continue on with your remarkable story. How did you escape?”

  “You don’t believe a word I’m saying, do you?”

  “Time will tell, Herr MacVey. Go on.”

  “They let me go, thinking, I suppose, that I would lead them to some higher-ups. They had a couple of clowns on me, but I ditched them within the hour.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “There isn’t much more to say. I hired a couple of sympathizers I knew who owned a trawler, and they got me across the Channel to France.”

  “Where did you get these papers? Excellent forgeries, I might add.”

  “I still have friends in London from the old days,” said Logan. “You know I did a drag in prison a few years back on a counterfeiting charge. I know a chap who has made that racket an art form.”

  Logan could hardly believe that the answers to von Graff’s probing questions kept coming. His mind was growing so numb from fatigue that it felt as if he were running on the last fume of a very empty tank of petrol. Every now and then his eyes would lose their focus and he would have to jerk them back to attention. He tried to appear alert, but it was no use hiding his fatigue from von Graff—the general could see it plainly and was using it to his fullest advantage.

  “Why the break in communications before that?” von Graff said quickly, as if hoping the sudden change in tact would catch his victim off guard.

  It very nearly did. Logan was about to answer with another madeup alibi when all at once a warning went off in his head. Was it something in the general’s tone, or that imperceptible squint which suddenly appeared in his eyes, as if he were watching for the answer Logan might make to this question with even more scrutiny than usual? Something from outside himself nudged him into wakefulness. His head had become so dull that he had nearly fallen into one of the oldest traps in the book—if, indeed, it was a trap. But he had no time to deliberate. He must reply immediately, or von Graff would know he was lying.

  “General, really . . .” sighed Logan with a soft chuckle. “That’s a rather simpleton’s trick for a man of your expertise and intelligence. You know very well that I sent my usual message—that is, unless you’re out of touch with the Abwehr these days.”

  “You seem to have an answer for everything, Herr MacVey.”

  “That’s because there is an answer for everything.”

  “If your story is true.”

  Logan jumped up, took two quick strides to von Graff’s desk and slammed his fist angrily on the polished surface.

  “If you don’t want to believe me, fine!” he shouted. “At this point I don’t give a farthing! All I want is a bed and a few minutes sleep—then you can shoot me for all I care. I just wonder if this is how you treat all the agents who give so much for your bloody Reich!”

  “It would be much simpler just to radio London,” said the general calmly.

  “Go ahead—by all means!” replied Logan, irate now. “I don’t know why you didn’t do that in the first place rather than play all these little games of yours. I just about got myself hung for you—but do I get any thanks? No, instead I’m treated like a bloody snake!”

  “I have been sorely amiss, Herr MacVey,” said von Graff humbly. “I apologize.”

  “Oh, cut the bull!” snapped Logan. “I said I was sick of your games.”

  “Then let me be frank with you.” Von Graff’s eyes caught Logan’s and held them for a tense moment. The true test had come, and Logan knew it. He returned the stare, but it did not last long. Von Graff relaxed and continued. “I believe you,” he said. “It would take too much nerve to make up such a tale knowing that every point can and will be verified. Nevertheless, I had to be fully convinced before I could convince my superiors.”

  “Okay,” said Logan contritely. “My outburst may have been uncalled for—I’ve had a harrowing week, and I’m nearly burnt out.”

  “I understand,” replied von Graff, “and you may consider this interview at an end. I will have Captain Neumann take you to some very comfortable quarters down the hall where you can rest while I make arrangements for a hotel for you.”

  “What about Berlin?”

  “You have found me here. There is hardly any need to continue to Berlin, is there?”

  “I suppose not,” said Logan, “as long as you’ve got something for me to do. I don’t want to sit out the war in some hotel room.”

  “That can be arranged. But surely you want some rest and recuperation first. And what better place for that than the City of Lights?”

  “I could live with that,” said Logan, smiling. “Yes, that sounds just fine.”

  Neumann was summoned and Logan followed him to another room, which was indeed quite finely appointed, probably serving as temporary quarters for visiting officers and the like. He was given fresh linens, a breakfast tray containing foods most Parisians had not seen in two years, and even a change of clothes. He was suddenly being given the VIP treatment. But he refused to let it go to his head, for when Neumann finally departed, Logan heard the firm turn of the outer lock on the door.

  Oh well, he thought. He very nearly had come to the point where he no longer cared. All he wanted was some sleep. In a few hours he could face once more all the lies and deceptions. Then he would worry about Gunther’s response to von Graff’s unbelievable query. Then
he would wonder what had become of his planned rendezvous with Louis. And then he could ponder over how he would explain all this to Henri . . . if he got the chance.

  But for now, he just stretched out on the delightfully soft bed and fell instantly to sleep.

  37

  Speculations

  Sometimes Arnie Kramer longed for the clear-cut life of the front lines. When two opposing battalions meet and shoot it out, he thought, you know who are the winners and who are the losers. No matter what, you can always tell the enemy. He’s the bloke on the other end of your rifle.

  But in I-Corps it was never that easy.

  Kramer brought his scotch and soda to his lips for another gulp, then glanced over the rim of the glass at his companion. What would Atkinson make of it all? But there was no reading that flinty eye. Arnie would just have to spell it all out and then wait for his measured, soft-spoken response. He hoped he wouldn’t be too slow about it. Time was precious, and Kramer had already wasted an hour driving to the airbase and Atkinson’s office.

  “It was rather a giant mess to trust to the telephone,” replied Kramer, taking another swallow of his drink.

  “Just begin at the beginning, and give it to me,” said Atkinson. “Don’t leave anything out.”

  Kramer studied his drink a few moments more, deep in thought. Then he began.

  “I’ve got an agent, a double, named Gunther. Some months ago his Abwehr contacts required him to expand his network and introduce them to one of his sub-agents. We set up an imaginary agent, code name Trinity, and dug up a bloke to present to the Jerrys. I opted to bring in new blood for the operation because at the time we weren’t sure of Gunther’s loyalty and I didn’t want to risk one of our own boys. The meet came off a bit too successfully. The Abwehr was so impressed with our Trinity that they sent him off with his own wireless and a questionnaire. We’ve been operating the Trinity cover ever since.”

  “And?”

  “Well,” continued Kramer hesitantly. He liked Atkinson and knew he was a good man, but his reputation for ruthless perfectionism was daunting. Kramer did not like admitting a blunder to him.

  He drained off the last of his drink and resumed with a deep sigh. “The fellow we brought in was good. He played the Trinity game for a while, fed the Germans some good bogus info. But I figured there was no reason for him not to go on to bigger and better things. Then, too, it became known that he could speak fluent French. Immediately the French section wanted him, and I saw no reason to keep him. Besides, I knew he wanted more action. So I had HQ bring in someone else to cover Trinity’s wireless.”

  “What became of Trinity?”

  “Well, Ray, that’s the problem.”

  Kramer chuckled dryly, but he knew his attempt at humor wouldn’t help. Major Atkinson leaned back in his chair, staring down at Arnie with fire in his eye.

  “Are you trying to tell me I’ve got a man in occupied territory with an MI5 skeleton in his closet?” seethed Atkinson. His own code name was Mother Hen, and not without good reason. Protecting his agents was everything to the major, and seeing any of them in trouble tore him apart. And when something came up that he thought he should have known about, he made no attempt to disguise his anger.

  Kramer nodded reluctantly. “And the closet door has just been thrown open.”

  “Talk plainly, Arnie,” said Atkinson in a controlled tone despite his distress. “Who is Trinity? And how in the blazes could you have kept me blind about this?”

  “Trinity was a gold mine for us,” answered Kramer. “It just did not seem possible that there could ever be a conflict between the two operations.”

  “What if the Abwehr wanted to meet with your Trinity?”

  “We’d stall them. If that wasn’t possible, then we’d have Trinity imaginarily arrested by MI5, thus taking him out of commission as far as the Abwehr was concerned.”

  “What about my first question? Who is Trinity?”

  “Logan Macintyre.”

  “Good Lord!” breathed Atkinson. “What kind of danger is he in?”

  “That’s one of the many things I’m not sure of.”

  Kramer took a folded paper from his coat pocket. “Gunther got this about three hours ago.” He handed it over to Atkinson.

  The major read the decoded words incredulously:

  TRINITY ARRIVED SAFELY FRANCE STOP VERIFY CIRCUMSTANCES RE DEPARTURE ENGLAND STOP IS YOUR PRESENT STATUS SECURE END

  “What did your agent Gunther do?” asked Atkinson.

  “He feigned bad reception, which luckily with this blustery weather we’ve been having was perfectly believable. He told them to contact him later. They arranged to radio back in twenty-four hours. That’s tomorrow evening.”

  “So they bought it?”

  “I hope so.”

  “What do you propose to do now?” asked Atkinson.

  “Before I make that decision, I’d like to know just what Trinity, that is, Macintyre, is up to. I don’t want Gunther to give them any information that would compromise him.” Kramer glanced down at his empty glass, wondering if Atkinson would break out the bottle again. “Have you been in regular contact with him? Have there been any irregularities?”

  “Our most recent communication was last night as per schedule. But it was cut off prematurely.”

  “Then it’s possible the Nazi’s may have picked him up?”

  “Anything is possible in the underground,” said Atkinson. “We haven’t heard a thing since then. To tell you the truth, I’ve been concerned.”

  “If they did pick him up,” mused Kramer, “isn’t it possible he invoked the Trinity cover for protection?”

  “He’d never get away with it if he were caught red-handed operating a wireless.” Atkinson paused, sipping his own drink, though with more disinterest than his companion. “Perhaps someone else has assumed the Trinity identity,” he said at length.

  “Impossible,” stated Kramer firmly. “Gunther and Macintyre and I are the only ones who know about it. And Cartwright, of course, my new Trinity. No, it’s got to be Macintyre himself. And I’d like to know why.”

  “What are you implying, Arnie?”

  “Don’t get me wrong, I like him. He and I were old friends. That’s why I pulled him into this business in the first place. But the Germans can turn our boys just as easily as we can theirs.” Though he said nothing, Kramer was thinking of his conversation with Gunther in which the German told him of his brief meeting with Logan’s wife. He didn’t like it. Wives only muddied an agent’s existence. And he couldn’t help wondering if there wasn’t more to the Macintyre woman’s tracking of Gunther than met the eye.

  “Macintyre turned! I don’t believe that for a minute.” The major was incensed at the very thought. “I may have had doubts about Macintyre at first. And I wasn’t even particularly nice to him. But I never doubted his loyalty. Besides, he’s proved himself. The charge doesn’t fit with facts. He’s been in Paris four months, yet the Germans think he’s only just arrived. And regardless of all that, what advantage would it be to the Germans to use the Trinity cover in this way? It just doesn’t fit.”

  “All right,” conceded Kramer. “But say he was arrested last night, and assume further that he broke under torture. What if he made promises to the Germans, compromising Gunther in the process? Their radio message could just be part of some cunning ploy.”

  Atkinson opened his desk drawer, took out the bottle of Scotch, and walked around to Kramer’s chair and refilled his glass.

  “Steady, old boy,” he said, setting the bottle down and leaning on the edge of his desk. “I think you’re getting a bit gun-shy about this whole business. Intrigue’s the name of the game—we just have to outwit the Nazis on this one—for Macintyre’s sake.”

  Kramer gulped his drink. “Something’s going on over there, and I don’t know anything about it and you don’t know anything about it. Doesn’t that make you a bit nervous, Ray?”

  Atkinson did not answer immediate
ly. Instead, he shuffled through a stack of papers on his desk, finally removing one and handing it over to Kramer.

  “Look at this, Arnie,” he said. “It’s a recommendation for the George Cross for Macintyre.”

  Kramer’s thick eyebrows arched in surprise and his mouth fell open.

  “It’s all ’most secret’ right now—the details of his activities,” Atkinson went on, “but you read these reports and then tell me you suspect him of disloyalty or even breaking. The guy has become one of the underground’s key operatives, the hub of dozens of activities. Something’s going on in Paris, of that you are right. And we better give Macintyre all the support we can.”

  “Well,” said Kramer, surprised at such high praise coming from a man like Atkinson, and yet not a little proud of his protege, as he considered Logan, “at the very least it was foolhardy of him to fall back on the Trinity cover after four months’ separation.”

  Atkinson gave a short dry chuckle. “Now that does sound like Macintyre!”

  “So what do you suggest we do now,” asked Kramer, “in order to give him that support you are talking about?” He was quite willing to dump the decision into Atkinson’s lap.

  “When the Abwehr contacts Gunther,” said the major without hesitation, “have him verify Macintyre’s story.”

  “But we have no idea what his story is!”

  “Yeah, you’re right.” Atkinson paused and thought for a moment before continuing. “Then you and I are just going to have to get inside his skin and figure out what alibi he would have given the Germans,” he went on. “They must have been convinced, whatever he told them, or they wouldn’t have wired Gunther. I would say if he was picked up, it was probably for something completely unrelated to his espionage activities. He’s too careful to get caught in the middle of a wireless operation.”