'Zeroing our position,' replied David, taking out a small metal mirror from
his field jacket. 'The scouts can relax if they know where we are.... If
you're going to work the north coufitry -what you call south - you'd better
remember all this.'
'I shall, I shall.'
David caught the reflection of the sun on the mirror and beamed it up to a
northern hill. He made a series of motions with his wrist, and the metal
plate moved back and forth in rhythn-dc precision.
Seconds later there was a reply from halfway up the highest hill in the
north. Flashes of light shafted out of an infinitesimal spot in the
brackish green distance. Spaulding turned to the others.
'We're not going to Beta,' he said. 'Falangist patrols are in the area.
We'll stay here until we're given clearance. You can relax.'
The heavyset Basque put down the knapsack mirror. His companion still
focused his binoculars on the field several miles below, where the American
and his three charges were now seated on the ground.
'He says they are being followed. We are to take up counterpositions and
stay out of sight,' said the man with the metal
79
mirror. 'We go down for the scientists tomorrow night. He will signal us.'
'What's he going to do?'
'I don't know. He says to get word to Lisbon. He's going to stay in the
hills.'
'He's a cold one,' the Basque said.
DECEMBER 2,1943
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Alan Swanson sat in the back of the army car trying his best to remain
calm. He looked out the window; the late morning traffic was slight. The
immense Washington labor force was at its appointed destinations; machines
were humming, telephones ringing, men were shouting and whispering and, in
too many places, having the first drink of the day. The exhilaration that
was apparent during the first hours of the working day faded as noon
approached. By eleven thirty a great many people thought the war was dull
and were bored by their mechanical chores, the unending duplicates,
triplicates and quadruplicates. They could not understand the necessity of
painstaking logistics, of disseminating information to innumerable chains
of command.
They could not understand because they could not be given whole pictures,
only fragments, repetitious statistics. Of course they were bored.
They were weary. As he had been weary fourteen hours ago in Pasadena,
California.
Everything had failed.
Meridian Aircraft had initiated - was forced to initiate - a crash program,
but the finest scientific minds in the country could not eliminate the
errors inside the small box that was the guidance system. The tiny,
whirling spheroid discs would not spin true at maximum altitudes. They were
erratic; absolute one second, deviant the next.
The most infinitesimal deviation could result in the midair collision of
giant aircraft. And with the numbers projected for
80
the saturation bombing prior to Overlord - scheduled to commence in less
than four months - collisions would occur.
But this morning everything was different.
Could be different, if there was substance to what he had been told. He
hadn't been able to sleep on the plane, hardly been able to eat. Upon
landing at Andrews, he had hurried to his Washington apartment, showered,
shaved, changed uniforms and called his wife in Scarsdale, where she was
staying with a sister. He didn't remember the conversation between them;
the usual endearments were absent, the questions perfunctory. He had no
time for her.
The army car entered the Virginia highway and accelerated. They were going
to Fairfax; they'd be there in twenty minutes or so. In less than a half
hour he would find out if the impossible was, conversely, entirely
possible. The news had come as a lastminute stay of execution; the cavalry
in the distant hills - the sounds of muted bugles signaling reprieve.
Muted, indeed, thought Swanson as the army car veered off the highway onto
a back Virginia road. In Fairfax, covering some two hundred acres in the
middle of the hunt country, was a fenced-off area housing Quonset huts
beside huge radar screens and radio signal towers that sprang from the
ground like giant steel malformities. It was the Field Division
Headquarters of Clandestine Operations; next to the underground rooms at
the White House, the most sensitive processing location of the Allied
Intelligence services.
Late yesterday afternoon, FDHQ-Fairfax had received confirmation of an
Intelligence probe long since abandoned as negative. It came out of
Johannesburg, South Africa. It had not been proved out, but there was
sufficient evidence to believe that it could be.
High-altitude directional gyroscopes had been perfected. Their designs
could be had.
81
DECEMBER 2,1943
BERLIN, GERMANY
Altmillier sped out of Berlin on the Spandau highway toward Falkensee in
the open Duesenberg. It was early in the morning and the air was cold and
that was good.
He was so exhilarated that he forgave the theatrically secretive ploys of
the Nachrichtendienst, code name for a select unit of the espionage service
known to only a few of the upper-echelon ministers, not to many of the High
Command itself. A Gehlen specialty.
For this reason it never held conferences within Berlin proper; always
outside the city, always in some remote, secluded area or town and even
then in private surroundings, away from. the potentially curious.
The location this morning was Falkensee, twenty-odd miles northwest of
Berlin. The meeting was to take place in a guest house on the estate
belonging to Gregor Strasser.
Altiniffler would have flown to Stalingrad itself if what he'd been led to
believe was true.
The Nachrichtendienst had found the solution for Peenom0ndel
The solution was true; it was up to others to expedite it.
The solution that had eluded teams of 'negotiators' sent to all parts of
the world to explore - unearth - prewar 'relationships! Capetown, Dar es
Salaam, Johannesburg, Buenos Aires....
Failure.
No company, no individual would touch German negotiations. Germany was in
the beginning of a death struggle. It would go down to defeat.
That was the opinion in Zdrich. And what Zilrich held to be true,
international business did not debate.
But the Nachrichtendienst had found another truth.
So he was told.
The Duesenberg's powerful engine hummed; the car reached high speed; the
passing autumn foliage blurred.
The stone gates of Strasser's estate came into view on the left, Webrinacht
eagles in bronze above each post. He swung into the
82
long, winding drive and stopped at the gate guarded by two soldiers and
snarling shepherd dogs. Altmfiller thrust his papers at the first guard, who
obviously expected him.
'Good morning, Herr Unterstaatssekretiir. Please follow the drive to the
right beyond the main house.'
'Have
the others arrived?'
'They are waiting, sir.'
Altmrdler maneuvered the car past the main house, reached the sloping drive
and slowed down. Beyond the wooded bend was the guest cottage; it looked
more like a hunting lodge than a residence. Heavy dark-brown beams
everywhere; a part of the forest.
In the graveled area were four limousines. He parked and got out, pulling
his tunic down, checking his lapels for lint. He stood erect and started
toward the path to the door.
No names were ever used during a Nachrichtendienst conference; if
identities were known - and certainly they had to be -they were never
referred to in a meeting. One simply addressed his peer by looking at him,
the group by gesture.
There was no long conference table as AltmUller had expected; no formal
seating arrangement by some hidden protocol. Instead, a half dozen
informally dressed men in their fifties and sixties were standing around
the small room with the high Bavarian ceiling, chatting calmly, drinking
coffee. AltmWIer was welcomed as 'Herr Unterstaatssekretdr' and told that
the morning's conference would be short. It would begin with the arrival of
the final expected member.
Altmaller accepted a cup of coffee and tried to fall into the casual
atmosphere. He was unable to do so; he wanted to roar his disapproval and
demand immediate and serious talk. Couldn't they understand?
But this was the Nachrichtendienst. One didn't yell; one didn't demand.
Finally, after what seemed an eternity to his churning stomach, Altmaller
heard an automobile outside the lodge. A few moments later the door opened;
he nearly dropped his cup of coffee. The man who entered was known to him
from the few times he had accompanied Speer to Berchtesgaden. He was the
F"rees valet, but he had no subservient look of a valet now.
Without announcement, the men fell silent. Several sat in armchairs, others
leaned against walls or stayed by the coffee
&3
table. An elderly man in a heavy tweed jacket stood in front of the
fireplace and spoke. He looked at Franz, who remained by himself behind a
leather couch.
'There is no reason for lengthy discussions. We believe we have the
information you seek. I say "believe," for we gather information, we do not
act upon it. The ministry may not care to act.'
'That would seem inconceivable to me,' said Altrafiller.
'Very well. Several questions then. So there is no conflict, no
misrepresentation.' The old man paused and lit a thick meerschaum pipe.
'You have exhausted all normal Intelligence channels? Through Zihich and
LisbonT
'We have. And in numerous other locations - occupied, enemy and neutral.'
'I was referring to the acknowledged conduits, Swiss, Scandinavian and
Portuguese, primarily!
'We made no concentrated efforts in the Scandinavian countries. Herr Zangen
did not think . . .'
'No names, please. Except in the area of Intelligence confrontation or
public knowledge. Use governmental descriptions, if you like. Not
individuals.'
'The Reichsamt of Industry - which has continuous dealings in the Baltic
areas -was convinced there was nothing to be gained there. I assume the
reasons were geographical. There are no diamonds in the Baltic!
'Or they've been burnt too often,' said a nondescript middleaged man below
AltmOller on the leather sofa. 'If you want London and Washington to know
what you're doing before you do it, deal with the Scandinavians.'
'An accurate analysis,' concurred another member of the Nachrichtendienst,
this one standing by the coffee table, cup in hand. 'I returned from
Stockholm last week. We can't trust even those who publicly endorse us.'
'Those least of all,' said the old man in front of the fireplace, smiling
and returning his eyes to Franz. 'We gather you've made substantial offers?
In Swiss currency, of course.'
'Substantial is a modest term for the figures we've spoken of,' replied
Altmfiller. 'I'll be frank. No one will touch us. Those who could,
subscribe to Zfirich's judgment that we shall be defeated. They fear
retribution; they even speak of postwar bank deposit reclamations.'
84
'If such whispers reach the High Command there'll be a panic.' The
statement was made humorously by the Fiffirees valet, sitting in an
armchair. The spokesman by the fireplace continued.
'So you must eliminate money as an incentive ... even extraordinary sums of
money.'
'The negotiating teams were not successful. You know that.' Altmifller had
to suppress his irritation. Why didn't they get to the point?
'And there are no ideologically motivated defectors on the horizon.
Certainly none who have access to industrial diarnonds.'
'Obviously, mein Herr.'
'So you must look for another motive. Another incentive.'
'I fail to see the point of this. I was told . . .'
'You will,' interrupted the old man, tapping his pipe on the mantel. 'You
see, we've uncovered a panic as great as yours.
. . The enemy's panic. We've found the most logical motive for ~l concerned.
Each side possesses the other's solution!
Franz Altmilller was suddenly afraid. He could not be sure he fully
understood the spokesman's implications. 'What are you saying?'
this correct?'
'Certainly. Indigenous to the basic operation of the rockets.'
'But there'll be no rockets - or at best, a pitiful few - without shipments
of industrial diamonds.'
'Obviously.'
'There are business interests in the United States who face insurmountable
. . .,' the old man paused for precisely one second and continued,
6insurtnountable problems that can only be resolved by the acquisition of
functional high-altitude gyroscopes.'
'Are you suggesting . .
'The Nachrichtendienst does not suggest, Herr Unterstaatssekret4r. We say
what is.' The spokesman removed the meerschaum from his lips. 'When the
occasion warrants, we transmit concrete information to diverse recipients.
Again, only what is. We did so in Johannesburg. When the man I. G. Farben
sent in to purchase diamonds from the Koeni.ng mines met with failure, we
stepped in and confirmed a long-standing Intelligence probe we knew would
be carried back to Washington. Our agents in
85
California had apprised us of the crisis in the aircraft industry. We
believe the timing was propitious.'
'I'm not sure I understand .....
'Unless we're mistaken, an attempt will be made to reestablish contact with
one of the Farben men. We assume contingencies were made for such
possibilities.'
'Of course. Geneva. The acknowledged conduits.'
'Then our business with you is concluded, sir. May we wish you a pleasant
drive back to Berlin.'
DECEMBER 2,1943
FAIRFAX, VIRGINIA
The interior of the Quonset belied its stark outside. To begin with, it was
five times larger than the usual Quonset structure, and its metal casing
was insulated with a sound-absorbing material that swept seamless down from
the high ceiling. The appearance was not so much that of an airplane hangar
- as it should have been - as of a huge, windowless shell with substantial
walls. All around the immense room were banks of complicated high-frequency
radio panels; opposite each panel were glassenclosed casings with dozens of
detailed maps, changeable by the push of a button. Suspended above the maps
were delicate, thin steel arms - markers, not unlike polygraph needles -
that were manipulated by the radio operators, observed by men holding
clipboards. The entire staff was military, army, none below the rank of
first lieutenant.
Three-quarters into the building was a floor-to-ceiling wall that obviously
was not the end of the structure. There was a single door, centered and
closed. The door was made of heavy steel.
Swanson had never been inside this particular building. He had driven down
to Field Division, Fairfax, many times - to get briefed on highly
classified Intelligence findings, to observe the training of particular
insurgence or espionage teams - but for all his brigadier's rank and
regardless of the secrets he carried around in his head, he had not been
cleared for this particular
86
building. Those who were, remained within the two-hundredacre compound for
weeks, months at a time; leaves were rare and taken only in emergency and
with escort.
It was fascinating, thought Swanson, who honestly believed he had lost all
sense of awe. No elevators, no back staircases, no windows; he could see a
washroom door in the left wall and without going inside, knew it was
machine ventilated. And there was only a single entrance. Once inside there
was no place for a person to conceal himself for any length of time, or to
exit without being checked out and scrutinized. Personal items were left at
the entrance; no briefcases, envelopes, papers or materials were removed
from the building without signed authorization by Colonel Edmund Pace and
with the colonel personally at the side of the individual in question.
If there was ever total security, it was here.
Swanson approached the steel door; his lieutenant escort pushed a button.