Yes. I am in your hands. You know that. But I will need authority to obtain details of our capability from the service chiefs and advice on the level to which it can be distorted without arousing suspicion.
Here. This should be sufficient, said Hitler, taking a folded document from his pocket and handing it across the table. Now, tell me about Ds source for his information. What do the British believe the sources position is at present?
On the general staff, attached to General Halder.
I see, said Hitler, licking his lips meditatively. Well, I think we are going to have to award him an increase in status if the British are going to believe that hes able to provide D with information of the value that I have in mind. What do you suggest, Reinhard?
Aide-de-camp?
Yes, very good that sounds just right, said Hitler, looking pleased. Sufficient status to give him access to top-level military conferences like the one today, and to make it credible that hes heard me speak of both my willingness to invade and my desire for peace. We can downgrade the sources status later if it becomes too conspicuous for a fictional character, Hitler added with a smile.
All as you say it will be done, said Heydrich, getting up from the table and putting on his SS cap, which he had held balanced on his knees during the conversation. He was about to salute, but Hitler forestalled him.
Remind me what is your usual method for communicating with D? he asked.
We have a reliable contact in the Portuguese embassy in London. Information and reports are sent through the diplomatic bag to Lisbon and then brought on to Berlin from there, and the same in the other direction. It takes time, but it is safe and efficient.
And radio?
The codes we have work for short messages. But not for anything longer D does not have an Enigma machine and so a report or a briefing instruction like this one wouldnt be secure. There is a drop we can use that D knows about.
A drop?
Yes. On the coast of Norfolk, north-east of London. We have a sleeper agent there who will pick up documents that we drop from a plane. It works. I have used it before, but D would have to go there to collect.
A drop?
Yes. On the coast of Norfolk, north-east of London. We have a sleeper agent there who will pick up documents that we drop from a plane. It works. I have used it before, but D would have to go there to collect.
Very well. Use the drop. Time is of the essence. Everyone needs to understand that. If we wait too long, the weather will turn against us and Churchill will know we are not coming. So you must give this task top priority put aside everything else that you are working on until the briefing document is ready for me to look at. And when it is, bring it here in person, and then, if I approve, you can send it.
Hitler nodded and Heydrich raised his right arm in salute and turned away. At the top of the steps leading down to the road, he looked back at the Fuhrer, who was now leaning back in his chair with his hat tipped down over his eyes and his legs stretched out in front of him. He looked like a holidaymaker, Heydrich thought, enjoying the last of the days sunshine with a cup of afternoon tea at his side. A neutral observer would have laughed at the suggestion that this was the most powerful man in Europe, who held the fate of nations balanced in the palm of his hand.
II
A flight of geese rose up in a sudden rush from the island in the lake, beat the air above the ruined bird-keepers cottage, and then soared into the London sky towards the white vapour trails of the fighter aircraft that had been engaged in aerial battles above the city for most of the day.
Seaforth stopped to look, but Thorn paid no attention, continuing his angry march down Birdcage Walk with his hands thrust deep inside his trouser pockets. Ever since he first came to London, Seaforth had loved St Jamess Park, and he felt profoundly grateful that he now worked so close to it that he could come here almost every day, sit under the ancient horse-chestnut trees, and look up past the falling boughs of the weeping willows to where the buildings of Whitehall rose from out of the water like the palaces of a fairy kingdom. But today there was no time to dawdle. Churchill was waiting for them in his bunker, and Seaforth turned away from the view and walked quickly to catch up with his companion.
He felt intensely alive. In the morning and again in the afternoon, hed left his desk and gone out and joined the crowds in the street outside, gazing up at the aerial dogfights going on above their heads Hurricanes and Spitfires and Messerschmitts wheeling and twisting through crisscrossing vapour trails, searching for angles of attack. The noise had been tremendous the roar of the machine guns mixed up with the exploding anti-aircraft shells; the underlying drone of the aeroplanes; the shrapnel falling like pattering rain on the ground; bombs exploding. Several times hed watched transfixed as planes caught fire and tumbled from the sky, with black smoke pouring out behind them as they fell. A Dornier bomber had hit the ground a few streets away, exploding in a column of crimson-and-yellow flame, and Seaforth could still hear the people around him cheering, throwing their hats up into the air while the German crew burned. Some bombs had fallen close by there was a rumour that Buckingham Palace had been hit but Seaforth had been too absorbed in the battle to worry about his personal safety. Hed felt he was watching history unfold right above his head.
And then at the end of the day he had been caught up in the drama when the unexpected summons had come from the prime ministers office and he and Thorn had set off together through the park. Now the days fighting seemed to be over there was no more sign of the enemy, only a few British fighters patrolling overhead, although Seaforth knew that the bombers would almost certainly return after dark to rain down more terror on the citys population. Seaforth wondered about the outcome of the days battle. Hed tried to talk to Thorn about it, but Thorn had shown no interest in conversation.
Seaforth didnt like Thorn; he didnt like him at all. He objected to the disdainful, upper-class voice in which Thorn spoke to him, treating him like a member of some inferior species. He rebelled against having to answer to a man for whom he had no respect. He tipped his felt hat back at a rakish angle and amused himself with trying to annoy Thorn into talking to him.
Is it true what they say, that Churchill receives visitors in his bath? he asked. I hope he doesnt do that with us. I think Id find it hard to concentrate. Wouldnt you?
Thorn grunted and stopped to light a cigarette, cupping the lighted match in his hand to protect it from the wind.
You hear so many strange things, Seaforth went on, undaunted by his companions lack of response. Like how he takes so many risks, going up on the roof of Downing Street to watch the bombs and the dogfights as if hes convinced that nothing will ever happen to him, like hes got some kind of divine protection; a contract with the Almighty.
Why are you so interested in where he goes? Thorn asked sharply.
Im not. Im just trying to make conversation, said Seaforth amicably.
Well, dont.
Whatever you say, old man, said Seaforth, shrugging. He whistled a few bars of a patriotic song and then went back on the attack, taking a perverse pleasure in Thorns growing irritation.
How many times have you seen the PM? Before now, I mean? he asked.
Two or three. I dont know, said Thorn. Does it matter?
Im just trying to get an idea of what to expect, thats all. Where did you go to Number 10 or this underground place?
You ask too many damn questions, said Thorn, putting an end to the conversation. He took a long drag on his cigarette, inhaling the smoke deep into his lungs. He was trying not to think about Seaforth or the forthcoming interview with the Prime Minister, and the effort was making his head ache.
He was eaten up with a mass of competing thoughts and emotions, and he felt too tired to work out where genuine distrust of Seaforth ended and his own selfish resentment of the young upstart began. Churchills summons to the two of them had placed him in an impossible position. His inclusion was recognition that he was the one in charge of German intelligence, but Thorn knew perfectly well that it was Seaforth Churchill wanted to talk to. It was Seaforths report that the Prime Minister wanted to discuss; it was Seaforths high-value agent in Germany he was interested in. Thorn was no better than a redundant extra at their meeting.
They reached Horse Guards and climbed the steps to 2 Storeys Gate. Thorn felt a renewed surge of irritation as he sensed Seaforths growing excitement. They showed their special day-passes to a blue-uniformed Royal Marine standing with a fixed bayonet at the entrance and went down the steep spiral staircase leading to the bunker. Through a great iron door and past several more sentries, they came to a corridor leading into the labyrinth. Seaforth blinked in the bright artificial light and greedily took in his surroundings whitewashed brick walls and big red steel girders supporting the ceilings. It was like being inside the bowels of a ship, Seaforth thought. The air was stale, almost fetid, despite the continuous hum of the ubiquitous ventilation fans pumping in filtered air from outside, and there was an atmosphere of concentrated activity all around them. Through the open doors of the rooms that they passed, Seaforth saw secretaries typing and men talking animatedly into telephones some in uniform, some in suits. People hurried by in both directions, and Seaforth was struck by the paleness of their faces, caused no doubt by a prolonged deprivation of light and fresh air. Tellingly, a notice on the wall described the days weather conditions, as if this were the only way the inhabitants of this God-forsaken underworld would ever know whether the sun was shining or rain was falling in the world above.
They stopped outside the open door of the Map Room. This was the nerve centre of the bunker, where information about the war was continually being received, collated, and distributed. Two parallel lines of desks ran down the centre of the room, divided from each other by a bank of different-coloured telephones green, white, ivory, and red the so-called beauty chorus. They didnt ring but instead flashed continuously, answered by officers in uniform sitting at the desks. Over on a blackboard in the corner, the days score was marked up in chalk Luftwaffe on the left with fifty-three down and RAF on the right with twenty-two. It was a significant number of kills but fewer than Seaforth had anticipated, judging from the mayhem hed witnessed in the skies over London during the day.