Artillery of Lies

by Derek Robinson

  “What a good idea.” Luis shadow-boxed his way out of the room.

  “I didn’t mean now,” Freddy called. Too late.

  Luis went striding up and down corridors, banging on doors with a heavy walking stick, until he found Julie’s room and went in. “Hello, you miserable bitch,” he said.

  She was in her slip, hanging stuff in the wardrobe. “Get out of here or I’ll kill you,” she said. Not original but she felt very tired.

  “Freddy sent me.” Luis brandished the stick. “He told me to give you a damn good walloping. He said that’s what the English do to their women if—”

  “I’m not your woman and you’re nobody’s man.”

  “Boot-faced old bat.”

  “You’re a bag of wind, Luis. Go blow up your balloons someplace else.” A growing fury made the hangers rattle as she hooked them on the rail.

  “Aren’t you getting fat?” he asked. “And a bit hairy? I’d lend you my razor but you might—”

  She turned on him, wrenched the stick out of his hands and flailed but missed because he dodged. She felt stupid and helpless, glaring and panting for breath while he stood in the doorway and smiled. She swung the stick again and he jumped back. She slammed the door and turned the lock. After a while she heard him walk away, whistling.

  Freddy was reading the draft Eldorado report when Luis strolled in. “Can’t find the silly woman,” he said amiably. “I expect she’s gone for a walk.”

  “Um.” Freddy was in the middle of Operation GABLE, Eldorado’s acronym for Gravity-Assisted Bomber Lift Experiment. “This Ski Jump idea of yours is a real pippin. It’s so simple, so obvious. I wonder whether we ought to offer it to the Air Ministry?”

  Luis went over and re-read it. “Far too good for the silly bloody Abwehr,” he said. He ripped the page out, squashed it into a ball and threw it into the fire. Then he wandered round the room, shifting the chairs by an inch or so as he passed. “Anyway,” he said, “I left some flowers beside her bed, with a nice note.”

  “Jolly good.”

  “I think I’ll kill Haystack,” Luis said. “He hasn’t been pulling his weight lately, has he? Time he got knocked down by a double-decker bus.”

  The surf rushed ashore as if it couldn’t wait to kiss the white sands of Galway Bay, and it carried the rubber dinghy with it, delivering the four new agents high up the beach. Before the next wave came creaming in to reclaim the boat, they had scrambled out and grabbed their suitcases from the crewman. Nobody spoke until they reached the coastal road, only a few minutes’ walk away: the navigator of the Heinkel seaplane had done a very good job. “I’ve got sand in my shoes,” Stephanie Schmidt said. She took them off and shook them.

  “I can’t hear you,” Ferenc Tekeli said, “my ears haven’t popped yet.”

  They sat on their suitcases and looked at the night.

  “It’s got the smell of Ireland, all right,” Docherty said, filling his lungs and thumping his chest. “Pigshit, potatoes and poetry. There’s nowhere like it in the world.”

  “You thought France was Ireland, yesterday,” Tekeli said.

  “And I feel deeply ashamed for it. France smells of armpits and arrogance. My nostrils deserve to be shot for treachery.”

  Laszlo cleared his throat. “We are the vanguard,” he announced. “We lead the advance.”

  “Not yet,” Ferenc said. “Stephie’s only got one shoe on.”

  “Ours is the place of honor,” Laszlo said. “These are the first strides of a great crusade.”

  “If you say so.” Ferenc’s stomach rumbled. “Did you eat all your sandwich on the plane?”

  Stephanie said, “I’m ready.” They stood. A gentle growl sounded, deeper than the surf. “There he goes,” Docherty said. They all stared out to sea, but of course there was nothing to be seen and quite quickly the growl faded and died. It could have been a fishing boat. “We’re really on our own now,” Docherty said. He meant it bravely but it sounded a little rueful.

  “That’s nothing new,” Stephanie said. “We are born alone and we die alone.” She had meant it to be reassuring, but in the chill small hours of the morning her words fell as flat as tombstones. Docherty picked up his suitcase. They followed him.

  If Christian slept badly there was usually a good, military reason for it: too much strong cheese for supper, or an aching shoulder that twinged if he turned over. So when he found himself abruptly awake and staring into the dark he thought it must be the telephone. Or a knock at the door. “Who’s there?” he called. Silence. He found the bedside light. The time was exactly 4 a.m. He picked up the phone. It buzzed in his ear, softly and smugly: nothing to do with me, chum. He put it down.

  No point in going back to bed. He was wide awake, his pulse was brisk, his brain was clear. Also he was wet with sweat. Christian took a shower and dressed in slacks and a sweater. All the while he puzzled over this jolt back into consciousness. A violent dream? He remembered nothing. An air raid? Berlin was silent. And yet here he was, aroused and alert with no dragon to slay. He had to do something. He would go for a walk. He took a reefer jacket and left his flat and immediately changed his mind: he would go to his office instead. Reason demanded to know why. Why go to the office? Well, there might be some new signals in from Madrid, or … or something. Anyway, it was his office, he didn’t have to justify going to it, he could go if he wanted. But why did he want? Christian felt determined but also slightly foolish. Then he turned a corner and saw that the lights were on in General Oster’s office.

  Oster seemed pleased to see him. “Come in, come in,” he said and swung his feet off his desk with a flourish that sent his revolving chair sailing round. “Tell me what you think of this. I think it’s rather good.”

  A sheet of white cardboard as big as a newspaper lay on his desk. At first glance, Christian took it to be an elaborate family tree; then he recognized the names of various army units based at the different military districts of Germany. Elsewhere, lines led to Wehrmacht headquarters in Paris, Rome, Warsaw, Brussels; in fact to every occupied country. Linked to this network were the names of many gauleiters, Reich governors, police commissioners, Gestapo chiefs and SS commanders. It was quite a complex set-up. At the top, the web of lines converged on three names—Thiele, Olbricht and von Witzleben. They in turn led to one name: Beck. Above him, someone had scribbled in red crayon: Valkyrie.

  “It’s a chain of command,” Christian said.

  Oster gave a little, high-pitched grunt of amusement. “The chain would be around their necks if Himmler saw this. And Hitler would go straight through the roof, of course. Supposing he landed on his head and broke his neck, then Operation Valkyrie might possibly come into effect. It might just work, too. Don’t look so constipated, Christian.”

  “I’m not constipated, sir. But I hope I’m patriotic.”

  “Comes to much the same thing, in this country. Nobody’s bowels have moved since we all took the oath of loyalty in what was it? 1934? Ever since then the entire German nation has been standing to attention, blocked solid, too frightened to fart. Too frightened to think. That’s all this is, you know.” Oster rapped the sheet of cardboard with his knuckles. “Somebody did his thinking on paper. Believe it or not, it is possible to be patriotic and intelligent.”

  Christian took a chance. “Did you prepare this, sir?”

  “Heavens, no. If I’d prepared it I’d be on it, and up near the top, too.”

  “So who did?”

  “An opposition group. They exist, you know. Very respectable, too, some of them. You must have heard of the Kreisau Circle? Count von Moltke’s pals? They meet regularly at his country estate to discuss Alternatives, with a capital A.”

  “Kreisau’s in Silesia,” Christian said. “Back of beyond. Nothing ever happens in Silesia. Besides, the Circle doesn’t believe in violence, or so I’m told.”

  “There are others. Schulenberg, for instance; he was our ambassador in Moscow. Ulrich von Hassell, he’s another; he’s
the son-in-law of Admiral von Tirpitz. And Carl Goerdeler, used to be mayor of Leipzig. Men of that stature. They can’t stand the Nazis, they get plenty of sympathy from the old guard, and some of them won’t mind a bit of blood on their hands if they think it’s for the good of Germany.”

  “Does Admiral Canaris know about them?”

  “Canaris knows everything,” Oster said. “And nothing.”

  What the hell is that supposed to mean? Christian thought. He said, “Well, I suppose it’s none of my business.”

  “Isn’t it? You certainly look …” Oster chewed his lip while he picked the right word. “Concerned,” he said.

  “It just seems to me that these people are planning to overthrow the government, and they ought to be arrested.”

  “No. Not a good idea.”

  “High treason?”

  “Yes, but there would have to be a trial—several trials—and a lot of undesirable publicity, and then they’d be hanged and they’d turn into martyrs. Besides, you’d never catch everyone. Far better to watch them and see what bright ideas they come up with.” Oster nodded at the sheet of white cardboard. “This isn’t bad, you know. Somebody’s done a lot of work. Those are three key men at the top: Lieutenant-General Thiele is the Army’s communications chief, General Olbricht is an experienced organizer, and Field-Marshal von Witzleben is just the chap to enforce internal security while they’re about their business.”

  “Meanwhile the new Fuehrer, General Beck, proceeds to win the war,” Christian said. He felt free to use a little sarcasm; Thiele, Olbricht and von Witzleben were nobodies; Beck was a retired nobody. If these were the biggest names the plotters could recruit, their crime was not so much high treason as low farce.

  Oster wandered over to the window and pulled back a corner of the blackout curtain. “The moon’s down,” he said. “They’ll be ashore by now. That’s why you couldn’t sleep, wasn’t it?”

  “Was it, sir?” Christian didn’t understand the question but he wasn’t going to admit it to Oster. Oster had already scored too many points.

  “We send them off to death or glory, Christian,” Oster said, “and after that there’s damn-all we can do to help them, except stay awake and worry. Tell me the truth, now: would you rather be with them?”

  Christian scratched his beard.

  “No,” Oster said. “Neither would I.”

  The suitcases were too heavy. Even Ferenc Tekeli, whose hands were hardened by prison work, began to suffer. Docherty found a broken fence and slid a rail through the handles of two suitcases. With each pair of agents carrying a rail on their shoulders, they marched on until Laszlo complained that his feet hurt. “We can’t stop now,” Stephanie told him. “We are the vanguard, remember? We lead the advance. You don’t want the advance catching up and trampling all over you, do you?”

  “Go to hell,” Laszlo growled. He felt badly let-down by Madrid Abwehr. After three years of war, you’d think they’d have installed someone in Ireland with a car to meet new arrivals. Elementary, that was.

  “Don’t you dare use that tone of voice to me,” Stephanie said. “I’m an Englishwoman, remember? The English are always polite.”

  “Go to hell, please,” Laszlo snarled. “Thanks so very awfully, I am terribly obliged, you are fearfully dreadfully kind, what a very nice lady.”

  “Who is this appalling foreigner?” Ferenc asked in an aristocratic drawl. “I say, do piss off, you dago.”

  Stephanie giggled.

  “Do not take liberties with me,” Laszlo warned. “I have been given a mission and it is no joke to me.”

  “Awfully frightfully fearfully sorry,” Ferenc said.

  Dawn had broken when they reached a signpost that said three miles to Galway. Docherty told the others it would be a mistake to arrive in the town too early: nothing would be open, nobody would be about, four strangers would be very conspicuous. They found a falling-down barn and rested inside it for a couple of hours, then strolled into town as casually as their nagging hunger and their leaden suitcases allowed. Docherty, by some instinct, went straight to the railway station. It was shut.

  “Now isn’t that just our luck,” Docherty said to a man who was unloading milk-churns from a cart.

  “What train were you wanting to catch?” the man asked. He had a round face with cheeks that were apple-red.

  “The Dublin train.”

  “Ah, that won’t be in for a long time yet, if it’s on time. It’s a very good train, so they say.”

  “We were hoping to leave our bags in the left-luggage,” Docherty said.

  “Old Mick has the key to the left-luggage,” the man said. “But he’s not here now. He’d have nothin’ to do, you see.”

  “To be sure,” Docherty said. “Well, that’s the way it is, then, and we’ll just have to make the best of it.”

  The man unloaded two more churns. “Of course you could always carry your bags inside yourselves,” he said, “if you don’t mind payin’ Old Mick when he does get here.”

  Docherty pointed to the padlock on the gates.

  “That thing hasn’t worked in years,” the man said. “Not since Old Mick lost the key.” He unhooked the clasp and the gates swung wide. The agents trailed after him. It was a small station, with just two platforms. The left-luggage office was shut but the man, chatting easily with Docherty about the weather and the crops, groped along the top of the doorframe until he found a key. They put their bags inside. Docherty took four numbered tickets from a roll that hung on a loop of string, the man re-locked the door and put the key back where he found it.

  “D’you mean we’re just going to leave them there?” Stephanie asked.

  “Sure. Why not?” Docherty said.

  “Because there’s no security! Anyone could just walk in and … I mean, think of the risk.” She was pink with concern. “At least let’s take the key.”

  “Ah, the key’s just for show,” the man said. “You can easily get in without it, just give the handle a good hard twist, it’s a very old lock, so it is.”

  “If it worries you, Stephie,” Ferenc said, “you stay here and keep guard while we go and get some breakfast.”

  Stephanie followed them out of the station, but she was not happy. “Anyone could just walk in there and steal those radios,” she hissed at Docherty.

  “No, no. It’s not at all likely.”

  “How can you say that? Obviously the whole of Galway knows how to get into that room.”

  Docherty put a fatherly arm around her shoulders. “So nobody would go looking to find anything worth taking, would they? Especially before breakfast. There’s not a big demand for short-wave radios around here, you know. I doubt if many folk would get up this early to go and steal a suitcase, come to that.”

  Galway was not a very dynamic town. Grass grew in the streets and the solitary statue (of the late Pádraic O Conaire, poet and wit) held an empty stout bottle in its outstretched hand. There was only one place that looked as if it might provide breakfast: a gray, square hotel near the harbor. The dining room was empty but in the bar a boy wearing a stained white apron reaching to his ankles was sweeping the floor. “Me da’s out gettin’ in the lobster pots,” he said. “The bar won’t be open till ten.”

  “To tell you the honest truth, it’s a bite of breakfast we were hoping for,” Docherty said, “and here’s an English half-a-crown that I just found in the street, probably fell through a hole in your pocket.”

  “Me mom’s out the back collectin’ the eggs. Will you have a drink while you’re waitin’?”

  “Waiting for what?” Laszlo asked suspiciously.

  “Waiting for the bar to open,” Docherty explained, like a parent with a very dull child. “Four pints of Guinness, if you please,” he told the boy. “You’re in the cradle of civilization, remember,” he told Laszlo. The boy heaved carefully on the pump handles. Laszlo watched the rich black stout rising in the glass, slowly pushing up its thick and creamy head, and he felt uneasy.
This was not how he had expected to serve the Third Reich.

  Breakfast turned out to be not only possible but impressive. The bacon had been sliced thick and there were new-laid eggs, black and white puddings, fried mushrooms, a bowl of boiled potatoes, grilled pork sausages and a new loaf of soda bread with a pound of farm butter on a glass dish. Long before it arrived, Ferenc Tekeli had finished his first pint of Guinness. Docherty watched with interest as Ferenc drank it in three long swallows and handed his glass to the boy for a refill.

  “You want to be careful, Ferenc,” he said. “The stuffs stronger than it seems.”

  “Don’t worry, chum. I won’t let anybody else get hold of mine.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “The Irish are very friendly, aren’t they? I’m beginning to think this was a damn good idea.”

  Laszlo said, “It would be a damn good idea if you began to think.”

  “I don’t like the taste,” Stephanie said. “Can’t I have a brandy?” She gave the remains of her Guinness to Ferenc. “Of course you can, darling,” he said. “Have a double and save on the washing-up. Put it all on the bill and have one yourself,” he told the boy.

  “I’m not allowed to drink yet,” the boy said. He was no more than twelve.

  “Then rub it on your chest!” Ferenc cried. “Pour it on your hair!”

  “Can I have a Mars bar instead?” the boy asked.

  Laszlo tapped Docherty on the shoulder, hard. “This is not good enough,” he said. “This is not professional. We should not be wasting time here. When is the train?”

  “You’ve tons of time,” the boy said. “It never leaves until half-an-hour after it gets here.”

  “And that is when?” Laszlo asked.

  “Depends. Old Mick at the station would know, for sure. You should ask—”

  “He’s not there,” Stephanie said crisply.

  “Well of course he’s not there,” the boy said. “Why would he be there? There’s nothin’ for him to do until the train comes in, is there?” He gave her a look of mild contempt.