Artillery of Lies (11 page)

“It's not easy to explain,” Hartmann said. “All I can tell you is new agents don't walk in off the street. You've got to go out and search.”

“But where?” Krafft asked.

“Yes,” Hartmann said contentedly. “It's difficult, isn't it?”

Fischer worried at it for the rest of the day and half the night. He went to sleep with the question
Where do you get a good spy in Spain?
chasing itself around his brain. His subconscious did its stuff and he awoke with the answer: ask Belasco.

Mario Belasco was a major in the Spanish secret police. In the past, he and Fischer had done some favors for each other. During Luis Cabrillo's training, a fellow-trainee, Freddy Ryan, had had to be killed; Fischer got the job of disposing of the body. He tried to get it cremated, didn't have the right documents, and was glad when Belasco had them faked for him in a hurry—the corpse was beginning to get ripe. In return Fischer passed Belasco a list of anti-government agitators which the
Abwehr
had acquired while looking for something else; Belasco smoothly scooped them up, them and their dynamite too.

Fischer found Belasco in his office, being shaved by a little old man who had a head like a dried walnut and spidery hands that never stopped shaking. “My dear friend!” Belasco said. His lips moved; his head did not. “Take a seat. Have a coffee. Have a shave.”

Fischer had to look away from the trembling razor. “I'm not brave enough,” he said. “Aren't you afraid of losing an ear?”

“Terrified.” Belasco was still and silent while the quavering steel tackled his upper lip. “The consolation is that after this, nothing more frightening can happen to me for the rest of the day.” He held his breath as the razor harvested the last few patches of lather. The old man gave him a towel. “Thank you, God,” he said, looking at the ceiling. “I'll do something for You one day. Now what can I do for you, Richard?”

Fischer described his needs.

“Easy,” Belasco said. He finished drying his ears and neck and tossed the towel to the old man. He unlocked a desk drawer and took out a folder. “How about a couple of Egyptians? They're freelancing around the city and I know their rates are very reasonable.”

“No.”

“Fluent English.”

“I can't send Egyptians to England, Mario.”

“No, I suppose not. What about a Czech?”

“If you mean the fat drunk with the glass eye, we sacked him last year. Dreadful man. Never washes.”

“True,” Belasco said. “Let's see …” He worked down his list. “He's dead … He's working for the Americans … They're in prison … She's got no English … He's got no brains … He's in prison … He's got the pox … Ah, here's someone: a Dutchman. Fair English, lots of brains, no pox and quite handsome.” He held up a photograph.

Fischer looked at it. “Don't I know that face?” he said.

“He had a career in films until the war came along.”

“If I recognized him, so will half of England.”

“Could be useful. Nobody suspects someone famous. And he could grow a mustache.”

“He can grow asparagus, I'm still not risking him.”

“Mmm.” Belasco turned a page. “It's not so easy, after all. Your best prospects are all in jail.”

The little old man said, in a voice full of dry rot, “Then get one out.” He finished packing up his shaving gear and left.

“I suppose we could always get one out,” Belasco said.

“What are they in for?” Fischer asked.

“Fraud. Nearly always fraud and deception.”

“Yes. It would be, wouldn't it?”

They went through Belasco's list and picked out a thirty-four-year-old Hungarian called Ferenc Tekeli. He had sold military secrets to Russia, France and Spain. Now he was serving five years for fraud and ten years for impersonating a policeman. Fischer visited him in a Madrid prison that afternoon. It took less than five minutes to do a deal. Fischer thought he had never seen such a surprised and happy man; but then equally he had never known such a foul and rancid stink-pit of a prison. He could still smell it on his clothes next day.

That left Otto Krafft and Franz Werth still without any recruits.

“Nobody said that everybody has to come up with a second Eldorado,” Franz said to Otto. “If that happened, Wagner would have five Eldorados. I mean to say, there isn't that much military intelligence to be found in England, is there?”

“I don't advise you to take that line with the Brigadier,” Otto said. They were walking in the embassy gardens. The weather was bleak: the trees looked black as iron, the paths were treacherous with ice.

“I keep looking in the personal advertisement columns of the Spanish papers,” Franz said. “What I want to see is:
Young man, observant, intelligent, hardworking and brave, fluent English, seeks interesting employment, willing to travel, anything considered, danger no object.
You used to see that sort of ad all the time before the war. Not now. What's wrong with young men nowadays?”

“I blame the cinema. People have forgotten how to entertain themselves.”

Franz was not listening. “I suppose there's nothing to stop me advertising,” he said broodingly. “You know:
International firm seeks young man, observant, intelligent,
et cetera. Might work, mightn't it?”

“I can guarantee you at least one reply.”

Franz worked at it for five seconds and gave up. “Who?” he asked. “The British Secret Service.”

“Oh. You think they'd recognize … Yes, I suppose they would. And then of course they'd try to infiltrate one of their men in the hope that we'd send him to England.”

“In which case the consequences would be dire.”

“Appalling. Catastrophic. I don't think I'll advertise.”

They paused at a frozen goldfish pond. “What baffles me,” Franz said, “is knowing where to start looking. I mean, what
is
a spy? A good spy.”

“Someone who doesn't look like a spy. Luis Cabrillo didn't look like a spy, did he? He looked like the kind of young Spanish buck
you wouldn't leave in the same room with your wife, whatever the time of day. Come on, I'm freezing.”

They turned back. “So why do they do it?” Franz wondered. “Perhaps, if we can work that out, it might give us a clue about where to look for one.”

“The worst ones do it for vanity,” Otto said. “The best ones do it for love. And in between—”

“Wait, wait! Love, you say. The best ones do it for love.” Franz beat his gloved hands together as if to prompt his brain. A pigeon took flight and clattered away. “I have had an absurd idea,” he said. “But then, war is an absurd idea, so why not? Especially if it gets us off the hook. There's a young woman in the Press Office called Stephanie Schmidt. Shortish, rather podgy, thick horn-rim glasses, hair in a bun. Have you met her?”

“No,” Otto said, “and I don't think I want to.”

“She's madly in love with you.”

Otto was silent. He was blond and blue-eyed, there was nothing wrong with his face and his body was slim and athletic: it would not be the first time a stranger had fallen in love with him. Good looks could be a curse. “How do you know?” he asked.

“Oh, everyone knows. She's even asked for a transfer to the
Abwehr.
I'm told her English is excellent. Why don't you have a word with her?”

Otto stamped his feet, hard, to vent some anger. “Why don't you?” he said.

“She's not in love with me.”

“And I'm not in love with her.” But that was no answer, and he knew it.

“Listen: Eldorado Mark 2 doesn't have to be a man,” Franz said. “In fact there's a lot to be said for using an ugly little woman as an agent. Less conspicuous. Nobody notices her.”

“Sure, sure. And when they catch her and shoot her I expect she dies very quietly. No fuss, no embarrassment.”

“I don't know why you're being so touchy. For all you know she may be itching to become an agent.”

In fact the idea had not occurred to Stephanie Schmidt and when, a couple of hours later, Franz gently suggested it to her, she was astonished. They talked it over for quite a long time before he played his ace. “We attach great importance to the relationship between an agent and her controlling officer back here at Madrid
Abwehr,”
he said. “They must trust and understand each other, utterly and completely. Your controller would be …” he consulted a file, “… Otto Krafft. Would that suit you?” Fraulein Schmidt indicated that it would suit her. When Franz told him this, Otto muttered that it wouldn't be any fun for her if she went to England. Franz said, “It's not going to be any fun for her if she stays here, is it? And this way, her love isn't completely wasted. What do you want, Otto? War served up with ice cream and chopped nuts on top? Spare yourself some grief. It's never going to be like that.”

“It stinks,” Otto said.

“Of course it stinks. Whoever won a war with roses?”

Next day an Irishman called Docherty proved Dr. Hartmann wrong by walking in off the street and volunteering to be a German agent. He had a little difficulty finding the
Abwehr
because Laszlo Martini (whom he had met in a bar) had simply told him to ask for the commercial attaché, and the embassy had a genuine commercial attaché as well as the cover position held by Hartmann. Docherty kept hinting at the great military secrets he could reveal only to the right man, and eventually he ended up in Richard Fischer's office, Hartmann being unavailable. Docherty had no secrets to reveal but he told gory stories of his involvement in the Anglo-Irish Troubles of 1916-1922 and after, when he had killed Englishmen by the dozen, or even the score. Fischer found him hugely entertaining and sometimes even semi-convincing.

“Why do you want to spy for Germany?” he asked.

“It's purely a matter of principle,” Docherty said. “You see, I need a thousand pounds by Tuesday.” Compared with the Stephanie Schmidt affair, this was irresistibly straightforward. Docherty's name was added to the list. That made four, which should be enough.

“Yes, it's a fascinating idea, Luis,” Freddy Garcia said, “and we all love it madly, but it's not
convoys,
is it?”

“Boring bloody convoys,” Luis grumbled. “All I write about is convoys. Week after week, convoys, convoys, convoys.”

“That's in the nature of things, Luis. Convoys never stop. They're always crossing the Atlantic”

Julie said, “And you never stop eating the food they bring.”

Luis scribbled furiously and deliberately broke the point of his
pencil. “Look at that,” he accused. “Cheap and nasty. How can a chap write with such rubbish?” He flung the pencil in the fire.

“You're childish,” she said.

He gave her a sideways look that was half-rogueish, half-loutish. “Let's go to bed,” he said. “I'll show you whether I'm childish or not.”

“We just got out of bed.” It was mid-morning.

“And was I childish last night?”

“Shut up, Luis.”

“What's the matter? Embarrassed? I thought all you modern Americans were frank and free about sex.”

“In your case there's not a hell of a lot to say, is there? In and out, in and out.”

“Just like the convoys,” Freddy said, and wished he hadn't: at that moment, Luis's slim, olive face was frozen with anger at Julie. Freddy hurried to distract him.

“If you want to know what I honestly think, Luis, I think your Petrified Bog is too good an idea for this report. You've already given the
Abwehr
your splendid Very Low Level Extreme Delayed Opening Parachute and they're always fascinated by secret new equipment, aren't they? And Hitler … Didn't you tell me that Hitler is obsessed with paratroops?” Luis nodded. “Why is that, d'you think?”

“Oh … he likes to strike from the sky, it satisfies his god-like idea of himself.” Luis wandered over to the curtains and worked the drawstring, opening and shutting, opening and shutting. “And he likes to play with secret weapons, just to prove to his generals how clever he is.”

“But surely Crete …”

“Yes, I know. Crete gave me the idea.” By now Luis had forgotten about Julie. “Hitler sent his paratroopers to capture Crete and the British shot half of them dead while they were floating down.”

“So they did. Perfect targets. And you thought—”

“I thought … Well, I'll tell you exactly what happened, Freddy. I remembered a movie I saw where one guy is going to throw another guy off a skyscraper, and the first guy says to the second guy, ‘Don't worry, it's only the last six inches that hurts.'”

Freddy laughed. “Jolly good. Quite true, too.”

“And I thought, why not invent a parachute that opens at the
bottom of the jump instead of the top? Say, two hundred feet from the ground?”

“And you've done it,” Freddy said. “Brilliant! I'm sure Jerry will be tickled pink, and that's exactly why it would be a mistake to put your Petrified Bog in the same report. We mustn't spoil the
Abwehr,
must we?”

Luis said nothing. He was looking in a mirror and trying to waggle his ears. The harder he tried, the more his eyebrows fluttered. It was very discouraging.

“Incidentally, I see you've made another reference to the delegation from Buranda,” Freddy said. “Where exactly is Buranda?”

“On the Peruvian border. Very rich in manganese.”

“Ah. Let's add that, shall we?” Freddy wrote it in the margin. “Nice touch,” he said, “but it's still not convoys, is it?”

Luis slumped in an armchair. He was looking toward Julie but his eyes were not focused on her and he never blinked, so that he almost seemed blind. She knew this expression. Luis was dreaming again. After a while he hooked both legs over one arm of the chair. Freddy was working at his desk; the only sounds were the occasional crisp shuffle of paper, and the flicker of the fire, and the patter of rain on glass. Luis slowly raised his legs again until they pointed up and his head and shoulders hung down. Finally he blinked. “This position encourages the flow of blood to the brain,” he remarked.