Glenn Meade (19 page)

The desert road was empty in the
early hours, the air chilly, and they didn't pass a single vehicle. Weaver
drifted in and out of sleep, napping in the passenger seat until just after 4
a.m., when Sanson turned off the main road and drove for two miles down a
desolate track.

'Wake up. We're here.'

Weaver rubbed his eyes and saw a
signpost in English and Arabic.' This area strictly off-limits, except to
authorised military personnel.'

They were in a shallow valley, the
first rays of dawn barely tinting the horizon, and the place had an eerie feel.
He could make out a vast collection of wooden and corrugated-iron huts,
surrounded by barbed-wire runs, watchtowers jutting into the darkness.

They drove up to the camp's main
entrance barrier and halted. Two armed guards from the sentry hut examined
their papers before telephoning the duty officer and allowing them to drive
through. They were met outside the main administration building by a
tired-looking British major who escorted them into his office. 'I believe
you're here to interrogate Berger, sir?' he said to Sanson. 'An odd hour for
that sort of thing, if you don't mind me saying so.'

'It's a security matter,' Sanson
offered simply. 'We'd like to have a look at the prisoner's file.’

The major didn't press his enquiry
further. 'As you wish.' He left and came back minutes later with a manila
folder and handed it over.

'Do you know Berger personally?'
Weaver asked.

'I think you could say that, sir.'

'What's he like?'

'A very decent sort of German. You
might say a model prisoner.' The major smiled. 'And a highly intelligent chess
player into the bargain. He usually beats me hands down, every time.' He
shrugged, as if excusing his fraternisation with the enemy, and the fact that
the British generally treated their Axis prisoners with decency, which usually
amazed most Americans.

'Not much else to do around these
parts, I'm afraid. A man could shoot himself for the bloody boredom. I'll give
you a few minutes to have a look at his file before we wake him, sir. You won't
need an interpreter, by the way. Berger speaks excellent English.'

The officer escorted them down the
hall to a stark room with just a table and some chairs. After he left, Weaver
and Sanson read Berger's details. Apart from the usual name, rank and serial
number that he had been obliged to provide to his captors, various comments and
notes had been added by his camp guardians; British officers and men with whom
Berger had obviously become friendly and made casual, personal conversation.

Aged twenty-five, and a career
intelligence officer, he was married with an infant daughter and had a degree
in mathematics from
Dresden
University
. After serving
briefly in
Russia
, where he
was badly wounded and had his left foot amputated, he had been posted to a desk
job in
North Africa
eighteen months earlier.

Weaver said doubtfully, 'Even if
Berger admits to knowing about Besheeba and
Phoenix
, it's unlikely he'd be aware of their
true identities, or anything about their backgrounds. A junior intelligence
officer wouldn't be party to that kind of information, he'd simply be following
orders.'

'Probably not. But he's got to
know more than we do.'

A little later two guards led in
the prisoner. Berger was tall and pale, boyish-looking, "with a pleasant
face, gentle mouth and restless, intelligent eyes. He limped noticeably,
dragging one of his feet, an obvious false limb, and wore a ragged German
uniform a size too large. His hair was tousled and he seemed confused and
barely awake.

'Hauptmann Manfred Berger?'

The young German blinked. 'Ja.'

'I'm Lieutenant-Colonel Sanson,
military intelligence. And this is Lieutenant-Colonel Weaver. You speak
English, I believe?'

'Yes, fluently. May I ask what
this is about?'

'Take a seat.'

Berger rubbed his eyes and pulled
up a chair facing them.

Without preamble, Sanson showed
him the memo. 'Did you write this?'

Berger studied the flimsy, and a
faint look of caution showed in his expression as he looked up. 'I could have.
As war goes, nine months ago is a lifetime.'

'Did you write it?' Sanson
repeated.

'I'm afraid I really don't
recall.'

'Your name's right here at the
bottom.
Hauptmann Manfred Berger.'

Berger shrugged.
'Yes, I see that. But in the course of my duty I
put my name to many papers, and was obliged to help send many of our agents
across your lines. I cannot be expected to remember every one.'

'This agent in
Cairo
,
code-named Besheeba, and the other one,
Phoenix
.
What can you tell me about them?'

'I know nothing about either of
these people.'

'The memo suggests otherwise,
Berger,' Sanson pressed him.

'You obviously knew what you were
writing about, so don't bloody lie to me.'

The German blushed at the hint of
a threat. He studied both his interrogators. 'May I be permitted an
observation?'

'You're permitted.'

'For
Germany
,
the war is over in
North Africa
. Whatever
agents we had here are no longer of any importance.' He raised his eyes,
curious. 'Yet two senior intelligence officers come here at four in the morning
to interrogate me. May I ask why?’

Sanson ignored the question. 'I'll
ask you one more time-'

'And may I please remind you that
under the terms of the Geneva Convention I am obliged only to give my name,
rank and number. Nothing more. You are both soldiers, you know this.'

Sanson slammed his fist on the
table. 'I don't give two fucks about the Geneva Convention, Berger. Answer the
bloody question.'

Berger looked mildly shaken by
Sanson's hostility, but then he said quietly, 'I'm sorry, I really cannot help
you. You should know that minor intelligence officers such as myself are not
usually privileged to know the true identities of field agents.

That kind of information is
confined to headquarters in
Berlin
.'

'Usually, but not always, Berger.
And there are always barrack-room rumours floating around concerning the agents
who work for you. No matter how small or insignificant that information seems,
it may help us. And I'm sure you knew something about the operation in
Cairo
. How did
Phoenix
get across our
lines? Was he taken, or did he go alone? Where did he stay in
Cairo
when he arrived? How did he rendezvous
with Besheeba? So give me answers.'

Berger didn't reply, and Sanson
promptly flicked open the German's folder. 'You were arrested in
Tunis
wearing civilian
clothes.'

'I was trying to avoid capture,
naturally-'

'A soldier disguising himself in
civilian clothes on enemy territory - that suggests he's a spy. Spies are shot
by firing squad, Berger. That's the law. Even according to the Geneva
Convention.'

The German paled. The, a spy?
You're making a joke, of course?'

Sanson held Berger's stare and
didn't flinch. 'Am I? You're also an intelligence officer, double proof if it
were needed.'

'I'm not a spy,' Berger answered
nervously. 'And even if I knew anything about this matter, which I don't, I
couldn't help you.' He looked at Sanson defiantly, a faint hint of pride in his
voice. 'I'm still an honourable German officer. I would never betray my
country's trust in me to the enemy. Never.’

Sanson pushed back his chair with
a clatter and stood. 'I'll give you five minutes alone to review that trust,
and your memory. After that, I want answers, not bullshit, or you'll suffer the
consequences. And if I were you, I'd give some serious thought to a firing
squad.'

Sanson paced angrily up and down
the hall.

'You think he knows more than he's
telling us?'

'I'm bloody sure of it. He wrote
the memo.' Sanson stopped pacing. 'We're not the Gestapo, but in a situation
like this, you sometimes have to forget the rules.'

'What do you mean?'

Sanson took a leather truncheon
from his pocket. 'This. And worse, if necessary.'

Weaver saw the cold determination
in the Englishman's face. 'Beating a prisoner is considered torture. It's
illegal, Sanson.'

'I don't give a ruddy damn about
legal niceties right now, Weaver. Or how nice a chap Berger is. This is war,
not a bloody cricket match. Our backs are to the wall. If we had time, we could
play the usual games and try to coax it out of him. But we haven't got that
luxury.'

'And what do you suggest?'

'If he still refuses to tell us
what he knows, we take him back to
Cairo
for further interrogation.' Sanson slapped the truncheon hard into his palm.
'But either way, if Berger knows .anything, by Christ I'll make him talk.'

When they stepped back into the
room, Sanson blatantly placed the truncheon on the table. Berger looked at it
anxiously.

'Well, have you reconsidered?'

When the German hesitated, Sanson
had the truncheon in his hand in an instant, struck him a quick, stinging blow
across the face. The young German cried out, almost fell from his chair,
clutched his jaw in shock. 'I - I don't know anything about the
Cairo
operation.’

 
'We've established you wrote the memo. Which
suggests you knew something about the people involved. Let me remind you again
what it says.' Sanson removed the German flimsy from the folder, and read, '
"Rommel urgently pressing for more details: troop numbers, armour and
artillery movements.
Berlin
instructs
Phoenix
to proceed
Cairo
at once. Besheeba will rendezvous. Hopes combined efforts will produce more
results.'" '

Sanson looked up. 'It's that last
line that gives it away, Berger. "Hopes combined efforts will produce more
results."

What results did you hope for? You
must have known something about these two agents. So tell me.'

Berger looked frightened. Sanson
said, 'Well, Berger, I'm waiting.'

'My name, rank and serial number
are all you're entitled to-'

'It serves no purpose to continue
like this,' Sanson said in frustration. 'You admitted yourself, the war's over
for
Germany
in
North Africa
. What can you hope to achieve by not
answering my questions?'

'I told you already. I know
nothing. How many times do I have to repeat that?'

'You can repeat it all you like
but I know you're lying.

You're also trying my patience.
You could be shot as a spy, or can't you grasp that?' 'Ich bin Manfred Berger,
Hauptmann,
nummer
-'

Sanson was off the chair in an
instant, the truncheon in his hand. This time, he lashed Berger hard across the
face. The German screamed in agony and collapsed on to the floor.

Weaver couldn't stomach much more,
was beginning to wonder if Berger could really tell them anything useful. He
went to help the German up.

Sanson reacted in a flash. 'What
the bloody hell are you doing, Weaver? Leave him be!'

'To hell with you. He's hurt, for
Christ sakes!'

'I said leave him.' « For a
moment, Weaver thought Sanson was going to hit him, but instead the Englishman
skewered him with a frightening look. Weaver stepped back. Sanson moved to
stand over the German, hands on his hips. 'Come on, Berger. The truth. Out with
it!'

Berger lay there, whimpering, a
lather of sweat on his face, his false limb twisted hideously. 'Please-'

' Think, Berger. Think hard. You
must know something. Is it worth a beating and a bullet when your country's
already losing the war? Think of that child of yours. You'd like to see her
again, wouldn't you? Or would you rather your wife and daughter got a telegram
telling them you're dead?'

Berger reacted, almost at breaking
point, his lips trembling, eyes welling with tears. He raised a hand to protect
himself as Sanson started to lift the truncheon again.

'No - please! I'll tell you what I
know.'

Heinrich Himmler, head of the SS
and the Gestapo, was an unusually austere and distant man, a former Bavarian
chicken farmer who sent millions to the death camps without so much as a
second's thought, his dour bureaucrat's face devoid of emotion.