“Of course.” Coelho smiled and nodded but Hogg could see that he wasn’t really impressed.
“You do realize, don’t you, sir, that this man is armed and dangerous,” Hogg said. “I mean to say, I wouldn’t be here otherwise.” He glanced into the front room. “I don’t like that big bush at the front. Hides the house too much … In fact to tell the truth I’d be a lot happier if you went away and lived somewhere else for a while.”
“Impossible, I’m afraid.”
They went out and Hogg got into his car. “One of my men will check up on you from time to time,” he said. “I don’t know what more I can do. Make sure he shows his warrant-card.”
“If he doesn’t,” Coelho said, “I’ll kill him.” And gave a big grin.
What it is to be twenty-two and built like a heavyweight, Hogg thought as he drove away. You’re immortal.
Luis Cabrillo’s train—a slightly faster express—arrived in Santander at just after four in the afternoon. He told the taxi-driver to take him to the best hotel in town. The ride took him along the Paseo Pereda, which showed him everything there was to see of the waterfront, and into a district which the driver said was El Sardinero. The best hotel in town turned out to be a wedding cake called the Wellington. Luis gave the driver money as a porter took his suitcase. “Wellington,” he said to the driver. “You’re sure this is really the best?”
“What’s wrong with it?”
“It’s got a funny name, for a Spanish hotel. A Wellington is an English rubber boot.”
“I could take you to the Villa Rosa Linda. That’s got a nice name. Nice fleas, too.” He drove away.
The Wellington turned out to be clean and comfortable and not too full. He took a suite on the second floor, unpacked, had a bath. Room service brought him a bottle of white wine and some olives. He put on one of his new silk shirts and took a drink out on to a balcony. El Sardinero was a peninsula, so he had a fine view across the bay to old Santander. If he squinted into the setting sun he could see fishing boats painted in all the colors God created plus a few He dismissed as downright diabolical. Large, impressive waves lined up at sea and took their turn to charge the beach and make the supreme sacrifice. After Knightsbridge, the air was indecently warm. In three days Luis had consumed more than a month’s ration of sunshine in war-torn England. The wine went down like a well-earned bribe. And yet he felt at a loss. There was something wrong.
He went inside, slumped in a deep easy chair that was all cane and pillows, and put his feet on a coffee table made of a slab of marble long enough to support a small corpse. Instead it supported a complimentary copy of the Santander paper. Luis flipped through it. War, war, crime, cinema, sport. Junk, all junk. Not a word about a secret, anonymous and clandestine rendezvous between a top spy-master and his top spy. He dumped the paper.
The suite contained everything you might need and nothing you really wanted. There were mirrors. He looked at himself and decided he looked discontented. Or perhaps skeptical. Wary: was that the word? He walked away, turned back sharply and caught his reflection off-guard. Glum. That’s how he looked, glum and disappointed. He rubbed his face vigorously, bullying it into brightening up. The mouth responded willingly, like the creep it was, but not the eyes. The eyes looked through him. You found Santander, they said. Big deal. Now go out and find Canaris, because it doesn’t look as if he’s breaking his neck to find you, does it? He abandoned the mirror and found a small desk, its drawer full of hotel notepaper. Good time to write a letter. Dear Julie, he began, changed it to My dear Julie, changed that to Dearest Julie and sat for a long time thinking. Then he tore it up and burned it in an ashtray and went for a walk.
He was sitting in a clump of umbrella pine, watching seabirds do their swinging and swooping far below, when an old man with a beard approached him. “Good to meet you again, Mr. Cabrillo,” he said in English.
Luis felt his fingertips tingle with a tiny rush of blood. “Do I know you?” he said. White shirt with short sleeves and epaulets, blue slacks, tennis shoes: not the way a Spaniard would dress.
“Of course you do. I’m Brigadier Christian.”
“Impossible—” Luis stopped himself on the brink of saying Christian’s dead. His brain was suddenly shrill with warning signals: he wasn’t supposed to know about that, the Abwehr had never told Eldorado of Christian’s death. He felt slightly sick.
“Why impossible?”
“Christian hasn’t got a beard. You don’t look a bit like him.”
“But I grew a beard. In any case, I recognized you at the train station. I decided to let you settle in first and then—”
“Bollocks. I’ve never seen you before. Mother warned me against dirty old men like you.” Luis got up and walked away. He knew by now that it really was Christian, he recognized the voice, but some instinct told him not to give in easily, to fight for a psychological advantage.
Christian followed. He tried various arguments. Luis ignored them all. “All right, damn you,” Christian said, “I’ll shave the bloody thing off if that will make you happy.” He was furious. It was a good beard.
“Shave half,” Luis said. “Half your face is all I need.”
The fishermen of Santander wished the cruiser Barcelona would go away. For nearly a week now she had been steaming slowly along the coast, always inside the three-mile limit, back and forth. It spoiled the fishing, having fifteen thousand tons of steel rumbling up and down all the time; I mean, would you like that lot overhead? Nor did the fish. It put them off their feed, they beat it to God-knew-where, the catches were lousy. The Barcelona was the pride of the Spanish navy; fine, terrific, wonderful, Santander was honored. Now let her go away and honor some other poor bastards.
To make matters worse there were two more warships prowling about: a British destroyer and an American destroyer. The day Luis Cabrillo arrived at Santander the three ships made a rendezvous in a piece of sheltered water. Launches were lowered from the Barcelona and they fussed about, collecting people and bringing them back to the cruiser, which retrieved its launches and departed at a modest and cautious speed so as not to spill the drinks being served at the captain’s reception for his distinguished guests.
Admiral Canaris and General Oster had watched the completion of the rendezvous from the Barcelona’s bridge. Oster was using a borrowed pair of binoculars to study the arrivals. “The American looks excited,” he reported, “and he is wearing a revolver.”
“Don’t they all?” Canaris said.
Oster swung the binoculars an inch or two. “The Englishman is frowning, and he is wearing a small mustache,” he said.
“What caliber?” Canaris asked.
Oster returned the binoculars to a Spanish officer. “You appear remarkably composed, sir,” he said. “I mean, considering that this meeting marks the culmination of many months of difficult negotiations on your part, in the face of repeated rebuffs which would have discouraged a lesser man long ago.”
Canaris stared. “Oster, are you trying to borrow money, or what?”
“Well, it’s true, sir. This could be a turning-point in the war.”
“I don’t want the damn thing to turn, Hans. I want it to stop dead.” He led the way out. “Half of it, anyway.”
The captain of the Barcelona met his guests as they stepped on deck. It was quite a party: the American had six men with him, the Englishman four. The captain escorted them to the wardroom, where Oster was waiting at the door. The first man through it was the American. Oster made the introductions: “Admiral Canaris, may I present General William Donovan, Head of the Office of Strategic Services of the United States of America. General Donovan, Admiral Canaris.” Donovan was big, not fat but hefty, and there was a slight twist to his lips that could have been enjoyment or perhaps appraisal. They shook hands. He stepped aside, and Oster said: “Admiral Canaris, may I present Major-General Stewart Menzies, Head of the Secret Intelligence Service of Great Britain. General Menzies, Admiral Canaris.” Another
handshake. Menzies was not tall, and he gave Canaris one brief, comprehensive glance, like a boxer meeting an opponent for the first time. Then he too stepped aside.
“I expect you two fellows know each other already,” Canaris said. It was a very small joke, but it was enough to make them all relax a little. “There are no stewards or waiters, for obvious reasons, but I’m sure everyone can find a drink for himself.” He waved at the loaded bar. “And later there will be food. Let me see … Scotch and bourbon, isn’t it?” he asked Menzies and Donovan.
“Your intelligence is correct,” Menzies said, which was a slightly bigger joke and brought a chuckle from the crowd. People began to move, and talk. Canaris brought Menzies a Scotch.
“You were a cavalryman in the other war, I believe, General,” he said.
Menzies rocked his head in a yes-and-no gesture. “I would have been, if your lot had let me,” he said. They began to talk horses.
Oster gave Donovan his bourbon, and said: “You’ve seen the Italians in action, General. Abyssinia, wasn’t it? 1936? Without giving away any secrets, naturally, what was your impression of that war? Cheers.” They drank.
Donovan said, “The flies won every battle and they didn’t even break sweat.” He and Oster discussed flies and other casual by products of war.
When the first drink had gone down and the noise-level had gone up, Canaris discreetly steered Menzies and Donovan into an adjacent cabin and shut the door. They sat at a table: Canaris at the head, Donovan on his left, Menzies on his right.
“Since it has never happened before and may never happen again, allow me to state the obvious and say that this is a unique occasion,” Canaris said. “For the opposing heads of intelligence to come together to try to stop a world war is surely without precedent. To say that I am glad to meet you is a massive understatement.”
“Not the Pacific war,” Donovan said. “That goes on until Japan’s beaten. I’m here to talk about Europe.”
“If I may say so,” Menzies said to Canaris, “you chose a funny time to put out peace feelers. Last January, Roosevelt and Churchill met at Casablanca and told the world we wouldn’t accept anything less than Germany’s unconditional surrender.”
“He knows that, Stewart,” Donovan said.
“I know he knows. I want to start with all the cards on the table, face-up. I don’t want us to be ducking and dodging the hard questions.” Menzies still looked like a soldier: square chin, strong mouth, wide-set eyes that rarely blinked. “So let’s not pretend that Casablanca never happened.”
“It was Casablanca that changed everything for me,” Canaris said. “Casablanca and then Hamburg.”
“You don’t want to get blown to bits,” Donovan said. “Well, I can see the force of that argument.”
“We have always had a resistance movement in Germany. Recently it has been growing stronger. I believe it could be made strong enough to take over the country.”
“Kill Hitler, you mean,” Menzies said.
“Seize, arrest, detain, eventually hand him over to the Western Allies.”
“Take Hitler out of the game,” Donovan said. “OK, then what?”
“The war in the west comes to a halt.”
“You’re talking about a ceasefire.”
“In the west, yes.”
“Get back to Hitler,” Menzies said. “What makes you think your resistance people are up to it?”
“He’s survived two attempts on his life,” Donovan pointed out.
“Let me ask you a question,” Canaris said. “How do you think the German people will respond if their only choice is between unconditional surrender to the enemy, and following the Fuehrer to the end, whatever that may be?”
Donovan said, “It’s not as clear-cut as that.”
“It damn well is.” Menzies turned on him. “Don’t be so bloody silly, man. I fought the German army all through the last war, and I know that they do not give in.”
“War has changed. We have alternative strategies now.”
“I’m sure you have. Drop three thousand OSS agents into Berlin by parachute with Errol Flynn at their head. That may be your alternative strategy but it won’t end the war.”
Donovan was becoming impatient. “All I need is to get one of my boys close to Hitler.” He produced his revolver. “Cut-and-thrust, that’s what this war is about. Forget your trenches.”
“Put it away,” Menzies growled, “before you put one of us away.”
Canaris began, “If I might answer my own question …”
“Not necessary. We know the answer,” Menzies said. “Your people will fight to the death. It’s going to be a very bloody business, and you’re going to lose.”
“It’s the Reds you Germans are scared of, isn’t it?” Donovan said. “Well, I can understand that too.”
“Fear is only part of the formula. Fanaticism is something even stronger. Our fanaticism seems to feed upon your bombing.”
“We’re not going to stop our bombing,” Donovan said sharply.
“Certainly not. You must redouble it.” The two generals stared. “Or, if that’s not possible,” Canaris said, “you must at least say that you intend to redouble it. With that threat, that intention, as leverage, I can apply pressure to a great many influential people who wish to destroy Hitler without destroying Germany. Indeed, destroying Hitler is the only way to save Germany. But first the certainty of annihilation must be spelled out very clearly.”
“Casablanca did that.”
Canaris shook his head. “Unconditional surrender is a plan, a policy, an intention. Goebbels couldn’t believe his luck. He knew that when the German people heard of it they would simply become even more determined never to surrender. You left them no room to maneuver and so they resolved to stand, fight and die where they stood.”
“Well,” Menzies said, “that’s very sad, I suppose, but to use an English expression, it’s their funeral.”
“It’s your funeral, too,” Canaris said. “How many young lives will you lose before you reach Berlin? One million? Two?”
“We can afford it,” Menzies said.
Canaris stood up and looked out at the glittering, blue-green Atlantic. “I’m sure that will come as good news to Marshal Stalin. The bigger the war in the west, the easier will be his advance in the east.” He sat down. “Perhaps his troops will be in Berlin before yours.”
Menzies and Donovan looked at each other. A ship’s bell rang, dimly, in some distant quarter. Next door, in the wardroom, someone laughed, and abruptly cut his laughter short. Canaris picked up a pencil and, without actually touching the table, traced the wandering grain in the wood.
“All right,” Donovan said. “Let’s talk some more about that.”
It was the first time Brigadier Christian had grown a beard, so this was the first time he had tried to shave one off. It wasn’t easy. He stood in Luis Cabrillo’s bathroom, with Luis’s safety razor in one hand and his shaving brush in the other, and wondered how to start. Also where.
“I don’t know why you’re being so bloody impossible,” he said. “You know perfectly well who I am.”
“We live in dangerous times,” Luis said. He closed the toilet lid and sat on it. “You might be some dreadful thug, sent to do unspeakable things to me.”
“Then I wouldn’t be shaving my beard off, would I?” Christian picked a spot and rammed lather into it.
“You might be a master of disguise, for all I know.” Luis watched Christian chop away at a small patch of chin so forcefully that he cut himself. Blood dribbled down his neck. “No, you’re not a master of disguise,” Luis said. “I can stop worrying about that.”
Christian gazed at the damage. He suddenly abandoned the razor and took out his wallet. “Look here,” he said. “This picture was taken only a couple of weeks after I began to grow the damn thing. You can see right through it, for God’s sake.”
Luis studied the document, and sniffed. “This identifies you as Commodore Albert
Meyer.”
“Never mind the name. Look at the photograph.”
Luis did. “Shifty,” he said. “Eyes too close together. Not to be trusted.” He gave the document back.
Christian stood and stared at the floor as if trying to wear a hole in it. Blood gathered in his beard until a drop formed and fell. It made a miniature rose on the tiles. “I say, do you mind?” Luis said. “Just keep your greasy gore to yourself. This is a bathroom, not an abbatoir.”
“I should have kicked you back into the gutter, Cabrillo,” Christian muttered.
“And if you become abusive I shall have you thrown out.”
Christian went back to the mirror and tugged at his beard. “Your razor’s useless, it clogs up, I’ll be here all night. Haven’t you got any scissors?”
Luis gave him a pair of nail-scissors. Christian forced his blunt fingers into them and began snipping. It was going to be a long process. Luis went away and read the newspaper. Fifteen minutes later he came back. Christian had reduced much of the beard on the left-hand side of his face to stubble, lightly smeared with blood in a couple of places. His fingers hurt more than his face.
“Hold your head up,” Luis ordered. “More to the right … Don’t scowl, it doesn’t suit you. Yes … In some lights I suppose there is a certain similarity. OK, you can stop now. I don’t need to see the other half.” Christian said something soft and ugly in German. He fitted the nail-scissors on to his bruised fingers and went on snipping.
Luis was half-asleep on the sofa when Christian came out of the bathroom, totally cleanshaven and feeling strangely pale and naked. “I hope you’re satisfied,” he said. “Now perhaps you can answer my questions.”
“I didn’t come here to talk to you,” Luis said. “Admiral Canaris sent the invitation.”
“Canaris has never met you. I’m the only person in Santander who could guarantee to identify you. You need me, Cabrillo, so watch your manners.” Christian stood over him. Luis cocked his head a fraction to see the small bits of toilet paper that marked cuts to Christian’s chin and neck, and he smirked. It was an expression that had often annoyed Julie Conroy, and now it exasperated Brigadier Christian so much that he was driven to seek revenge. “Don’t you grin at me, you little crook,” he barked. “You’re in big trouble. You’re in trouble right over your cheating head.”
Artillery of Lies Page 31
