Canaris, got to his feet. A mere captain at the outbreak of war, he
had distinguished himself with a superb report on the weaknesses of the
French army a report which had been called a decisive factor in the
German victory. He had become chief of the army intelligence bureau in
1942, and that bureau had absorbed the Abwehr on the fall of Canaris.
Rommel had heard that he was proud and outspoken, but able.
Roenne said: "Our information is extensive, but by no means complete.
The Allies' code name for the invasion is Overlord. Troop
concentrations in Britain are as follows." He picked up a pointer and
crossed the room to the wall map.
"First: along the south coast. Second: here in the district known as
East Anglia. Third: in Scotland. The East Anglian concentration is by
far the greatest. We conclude that the invasion will be three-pronged.
First: a diversionary attack on Normandy. Second: the main thrust,
across the Straits of Dover to the Calais coast. Third: a flanking
invasion from Scotland across the North Sea to Norway. All
intelligence sources support this prognosis." He sat down.
Hitler said: "Comments?"
Rommel, who was Commander of Army Group B, which controlled the north
coast of France, said: "I can report one confirming sign: the Pas de
Calais has received by far the greatest tonnage of bombs."
"3 Goering said: "What intelligence sources support your prognosis,
von Roenne?"
Roenne stood up again.
"There are three: air reconnaissance, monitoring of enemy wireless
signals, and the reports of agents." He sat down.
Hitler crossed his hands protectively in front of his genitals, a
nervous habit which was a sign that he was about to make a speech.
"I shall now tell you," he began, 'how I would be thinking if I were
Winston Churchill Two choices confront me: east of the Seine, or west
of the Seine. East has one advantage : it is nearer. But in modern
warfare there are only two distances within fighter range and outside
fighter range. Both of these choices are within fighter range.
Therefore distance is not a consideration.
"West has a great port Cherbourg but east has none. And most important
east is more heavily fortified than west. The enemy too has air
reconnaissance.
"So, I would choose west. And what would I do then? I would try to
make the Germans think the opposite! I would send two bombers to the
Pas de Calais for every one to Normandy. I would try to knock out
every bridge over the Seine. I would put out misleading wireless
signals, send false intelligence reports, dispose my troops in a
misleading fashion. I would deceive fools like Rommel and von Roenne.
I would hope to deceive the Fuhrer himself!"
Goering spoke first after a lengthy silence.
"My Fuhrer, I believe you flatter Churchill by crediting him with
ingenuity equal to your own."
There was a noticeable easing of tension in the uncomfortable bunker.
Goering had said exactly the right thing, managing to voice his
disagreement in the form of a compliment. The others followed him,
each stating the case a little more strongly: the Allies would choose
the shorter sea crossing for speed; the closer coast would allow the
covering fighter aircraft to refuel and return in shorter time; the
south-east was a better launch pad, with more estuaries and harbours;
it was unlikely that all the intelligence reports would be unanimously
wrong.
Hitler listened for half an hour, then held up his hand for silence He
picked up a yellowing sheaf of papers from the table and waved them.
"In 1941," he said, "I issued my directive Construction of Coastal
Defences, in which I forecast that the decisive landing of the Allies
would come at the protruding parts of Normandy and Brittany, where the
excellent harbours would make ideal beachheads. That was what my
intuition told me then, and that is what it tells me now!" A fleck of
foam appeared on the Fuhrer's lower lip.
Fuhrer, our investigations continue, quite naturally, and there is one
particular line of inquiry which you should know about. I have in
recent weeks sent an emissary to England to contact the agent known as
Die Nadel."
Hitler's eyes gleamed.
"Ah! I know the man. Carry on."
"Die Nadel's orders are to assess the strength of the First United
States Army Group under General Patton in East Anglia. If he finds
that this has been exaggerated, we must surely reconsider our
prognosis. If, however he reports that the army is as strong as we
presently believe, there can be little doubt that Calais is the
target."
Goering looked at von Roenne.
"Who is this Nadel?"
Hitler answered the question.
"The only decent agent Can-aris ever recruited because he recruited him
at my behest," he said.
"I know his family a pillar of the Reich. Strong, loyal, upright
Germans. And Die Nadel - a brilliant man, brilliant! I see all his
reports. He has been in London since before the English started the
war. Earlier than that, in Russia ' Von Roenne interrupted: "My Fuhrer
' Hitler glared as him, but he seemed to realize that the spy chief had
been right to stop him.
"Well?"
Von Roenne said tentatively: "Then you will accept Die Nadel's
report?"
Hitler nodded.
"That man will discover the truth."
PART THREE
THIRTEEN
Faber leaned against a tree, shivering, and threw up.
Then he considered whether he should bury the five dead men.
It would take between thirty and sixty minutes, he estimated, depending
on how well he concealed the bodies. During that time he might be
caught.
He had to weigh that risk against the precious hours he might gain by
delaying the discovery of the deaths. The five men would be missed
very soon: there would be a search under way by around nine o'clock.
Assuming they were on a regular patrol, their route would be known. The
searchers' first move would be to send a runner to cover the route. If
the bodies were left as they were, he would see them and raise the
alarm. Otherwise, he would report back and a full-scale search would
be mounted, with bloodhounds and policemen beating the bushes. It
might take them all day to discover the corpses. By that time Faber
could be in London. It was important for him to be out of the area
before they knew they were looking for a murderer. He decided to risk
the additional hour.
He swam back across the canal with the elderly captain across his
shoulder. He dumped him unceremoniously behind a bush. He retrieved
the two bodies from the well of the boat and piled them on top of the
captain. Then he added Watson and the corporal to the heap.
He had no spade, and he needed a big grave. He found a patch of loose
earth a few yards into the wood. The ground there was slightly
hollowed, to give him an advantage. He got a
saucepan from the boat's
tiny galley and began to dig.
For a couple of feet there was just leaf-mould, and the going was easy.
Then he got down to clay, and digging became extremely difficult. In
half an hour he had added only another eighteen inches of depth to the
hole. It would have to do.
He carried the bodies to the hole one by one and threw them in. Then
he took off his muddy, bloodstained clothes and dropped them on top. He
covered the grave with loose earth and a layer of foliage ripped from
nearby bushes and trees. It should be good enough to pass that first,
superficial inspection.
He kicked earth over the patch of ground near the bank where the
life-blood of Watson had poured out. There was blood in the boat, too,
where the impaled soldier had lain. Faber found a rag and swabbed-down
the deck.
Then he put on clean clothes, made sail, and moved off.
He did not fish or watch birds: this was no time for pleasant
embellishments to his cover. Instead he piled-on the sail, putting as
much distance as possible between himself and the grave. He had to get
off the water and into some faster transport as soon as possible. He
reflected, as he sailed, on the relative merits of catching a train or
stealing a car. A car was faster, if one could be found to steal; but
the search for it might start quite soon, regardless of whether the
theft was connected with the missing Home Guard patrol. Finding a
railway station might take a long time, but it seemed safer: if he were
careful he could escape suspicion for most of the day.
He wondered what to do about the boat. Ideally he would scuttle it,
but he might be seen doing so. If he left it in a harbour somewhere,
or simply moored at the canal side the police would connect it with the
murders that much sooner; and that would tell them in which direction
he was moving. He postponed the decision.
Unfortunately, he was not sure where he was. His map of England's
waterways gave every bridge, harbour and lock; but it did not show
railway lines. He calculated he was within an hour or two's walk of
half a dozen villages, but a village did not necessarily mean a
station.
In the end luck solved two problems at once: the canal went under a
railway bridge.
He took his compass, the film from the camera, his wallet and his
stiletto. All his other possessions would go down with the boat.
The towpath on both sides was shaded with trees, and there were no
roads nearby. He furled the sails, dismantled the base of the mast,
and laid the pole on the deck. Then he removed the bung-hole stopper
from the keel and stepped on to the bank, holding the rope.
Gradually filling with water, the boat drifted under the bridge. Faber
hauled on the rope to hold the vessel in position directly under the
brick arch as it sank. The after-deck went under first, the prow
followed, and finally the water of the canal closed over the roof of
the cabin. There were a few bubbles, then nothing. The outline of the
boat was hidden from a casual glance by the shadow of the bridge. Faber
threw the rope in.
The railway line ran north-east to south-west. Faber climbed the
embankment and walked south-west, which was the direction in which
London lay. It was a two-line track, probably a rural branch line.
There would be few trains', but they would stop at all stations.
The sun grew stronger as he walked, and the exertion made him hot. When
he had buried his bloodstained black clothes he had put on a
double-breasted blazer and heavy flannel trousers. Now he took off the
blazer and slung it over his shoulder.
After forty minutes he heard a distant chuff-chuff-chuff, and hid in a
bush beside the line. An old steam engine went slowly by, heading
north-west, puffing great clouds of smoke and hauling a train of coal
trucks. If one came by in the opposite direction, he could jump it.
Should he? It would save him a long walk. On the other hand, he would
get conspicuously dirty, and he might have trouble disembarking without
being seen. No, it was safer to walk.
The line ran straight as an arrow across the flat countryside. Faber
passed a farmer, ploughing a field with a tractor. There was no way to
avoid being seen. The farmer waved to him without stopping in his
work. He was too far away to get a good sight of Faber's face.
He had walked about ten miles when he saw a station ahead. It was
half a mile away, and all he could see was the rise of the platforms
and a cluster of signals. He left the line and cut across the fields,
keeping close to borders of trees, until he met a road.
Within a few minutes he entered the village. There was nothing to tell
him its name. Now that the threat of invasion was a memory, signposts
and place-names were being re-erected, but this village had not got
around to it.
There was a Post Office, a Corn Store, and a pub called The Bull. A
woman with a pram gave him a friendly "Good morning!" as he passed the
War Memorial. The little station basked sleepily in the spring
sunshine. Faber went in.
A timetable was pasted to a notice-board. Faber stood in front of it.
From behind the little ticket window a voice said: "I shouldn't take
any notice of that, if I were you. It's the biggest work of fiction
since The Forsyte Saga."
Faber had known the timetable would be out-of-date, but he had needed
to establish whether the trains went to London. They did. He said:
"Any idea what time the next train leaves for Liverpool Street?"
The clerk laughed sarcastically.
"Some time today, if you're lucky."
"I'll buy a ticket anyway. Single, please."
"Five-and-fourpence. They say the Italian trains run on time," the
clerk said.
"Not any more," Faber remarked.
"Anyway, I'd rather have bad trains and our politics."
The man shot him a nervous look.
"You're right, of course. Do you want to wait in The Bull? You'll
hear the train or, if not, I'll send for you."
Faber did not want more people to see his face.
"No, thanks, I'd only spend money." He took his ticket and went on to
the platform.
The clerk followed him a few minutes later, and sat on the bench beside
him in the sunshine. He said: "You in a hurry?"
Faber shook his head.
"I've written today off. I got up late, I quarrelled with the boss,
and the lorry that gave me a lift broke down."
"One of those days. Ah, well." The clerk looked at hi swatch
"She went up on time this morning, and what goes up must come down,
they say. You might be lucky." He went back into his office.
Faber was lucky. The train came twenty minutes later. It was crowded
with farmers, families, businessmen and soldiers. Faber found a space
on the floor close to a window. As the train lumbered away, he picked
up a discarded two-day-old newspaper, borrowed a pencil, and started to
do the crossword. He was proud of his ability to do crosswords in
English: it was the acid test of
fluency in a foreign language. After
a while the motion of the train lulled him into a shallow sleep, and he
dreamed.
It was a familiar dream, the dream of his arrival in London.
He had crossed from France, carrying a Belgian passport which said he
was Jan van Gelder, a representative for Phillips (which would explain
his suitcase radio if the Customs opened it). His English then was
fluent but not colloquial. The Customs had not bothered him: he was an
ally. He had caught the train to London. In those days there had been
plenty of empty seats in the carriages, and you could get a meal. Faber
had dined on roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. It amused him. He had
talked with a history student from Cardiff about the European political
situation. The dream was like the reality until the train stopped at
Waterloo. Then it turned into a nightmare.
The trouble started at the ticket barrier. Like all dreams it had its
own weird illogicality. The document they queried was not his forged
passport but his perfectly legitimate railway ticket. The collecter
said: "This is an Abwehr ticket."
"No, it is not," said Faber, speaking with a ludicrously thick German
accent. What had happened to his dainty English consonants? They
would not come.