The Eagle Has Flown

For my motherHenrietta Higgins Bell

Contents

Title Page

Dedication

Foreword

Preface

London Belfast 1975

1

Berlin Lisbon London 1943

2

3

4

5

6

7

8

9

10

11

12

13

14

15

Belfast 1975

16

About the Author

Also By Jack Higgins

Copyright

About the Publisher

FOREWORD

For years fans of my work in thousands of letters begged me to write a sequel to The Eagle Has Landed because of the enduring popularity of that book and particularly because of the enormous affection they all seem to have for Liam Devlin, the rogue Irishman in the IRA who was involved in the Churchill plot. Of course the real problem was that Steiner, the gallant German paratroop Colonel, had been shot dead at the end of the original story. I was visiting the Tower of London by chance and was shown where Rudolf Hess had been held prisoner, and I was surprised to learn that other German prisoners had been held there. All I knew at that point was that I would like to write about a prisoner in the Tower, but who would he be? The answer was like a bolt from the blue. Steiner hadn’t died. He had survived surgery, was imprisoned in the Tower, and they wanted him back in Berlin. And who better to take on the job than Liam Devlin. The fact that this would be my fiftieth novel made it a special occasion, and so the Eagle flew again.

Jack Higgins

June 1996

PREFACE

At one o’clock in the morning of Saturday, November 6, 1943, Heinrich Himmler, Reichsführer of the SS and Chief of State Police received a simple message: The Eagle has Landed. It meant that a small force of German paratroopers under the command of Oberstleutnant Kurt Steiner, aided by IRA gunman, Liam Devlin, were at that moment safely in England and poised to snatch the British Prime Minister, Winston Churchill, from the Norfolk country house where he was spending a quiet weekend near the sea. By the end of the day, thanks to a bloody confrontation in the village of Studley Constable between American Rangers and the Germans, the mission was a failure, Liam Devlin apparently the only survivor. As for Kurt Steiner …

LONDON • BELFAST

1

There was an Angel of Death on top of an ornate mausoleum in one corner, arms extended. I remember that well because someone was practising the organ and light drifted across the churchyard in coloured bands through stained-glass windows. The church wasn’t particularly old, built on a high tide of Victorian prosperity like the tall houses surrounding it. St Martin’s Square. A good address once. Now, just a shabby backwater in Belsize Park, but a nice, quiet area where a woman alone might walk down to the corner shop at midnight in safety and people minded their own business.

The flat at number thirteen was on the ground floor. My agent had borrowed it for me from a cousin who had gone to New York for six months. It was old-fashioned and comfortable and suited me fine. I was on the downhill slope of a new novel and needed to visit the Reading Room at the British Museum most days.

But that November evening, the evening it all started, it was raining heavily and just after six I passed through the iron gates and followed the path through the forest of Gothic monuments and gravestones. In spite of my umbrella the shoulders of my trenchcoat were soaked, not that it bothered me. I’ve always liked the rain, the city at night, wet streets stretching into winter darkness, a peculiar feeling of freedom that it contains. And things had gone well that day with the work, the end was very definitely in sight.

The Angel of Death was closer now, shadowed in the half-light from the church, the two marble attendants on guard at the mausoleum’s bronze doors, everything as usual except that tonight, I could have sworn that there was a third figure and that it moved out of the darkness towards me.

For a moment I knew genuine fear and then, as it came into the light, I saw a young woman, quite small and wearing a black beret and soaked raincoat. She had a briefcase in one hand. The face was pale, the eyes dark and somehow anxious.

‘Mr Higgins? You are Jack Higgins, aren’t you?’

She was American, that much was obvious. I took a deep breath to steady my nerves. ‘That’s right. What can I do for you?’

‘I must talk to you, Mr Higgins. Is there somewhere we could go?’

I hesitated, reluctant for all sorts of obvious reasons to take this any further and yet there was something quite out of the ordinary about her. Something not to be resisted.

I said, ‘My flat’s just over the square there.’

‘I know,’ she said. I still hesitated and she added, ‘You won’t regret it, believe me. I’ve information of vital importance to you.’

‘About what?’ I asked.

‘What really happened afterwards at Studley Constable. Oh, lots of things you don’t know.’

Which was enough. I took her arm and said, ‘Right, let’s get in out of this damn rain before you catch your death and you can tell me what the hell this is all about.’

The house interior had changed very little, certainly not in my flat where the tenant had stayed with a late Victorian decor, lots of mahogany furniture, red velvet curtains at the bow window and a sort of Chinese wallpaper in gold and green, heavily patterned with birds. Except for the central heating radiators, the only other concession to modern living was the kind of gas fire which made it seem as if logs burned brightly in a stainless steel basket.

‘That’s nice,’ she said and turned to face me, even smaller than I had thought. She held out her right hand awkwardly, still clutching the briefcase in the other. ‘Cohen,’ she said. ‘Ruth Cohen.’

I said, ‘Let’s have that coat. I’ll put it in front of one of the radiators.’

‘Thank you.’ She fumbled at her belt with one hand and I laughed and took the briefcase from her.

‘Here, let me.’ As I put it down on the table I saw that her initials were etched on the flap in black. The only difference was that it said Ph.D. at the end of it.

‘Ph.D.?’ I said.

She smiled slightly as she struggled out of the coat. ‘Harvard, modern history.’

‘That’s interesting,’ I said. ‘I’ll make some tea, or would you prefer coffee?’

She smiled again. ‘Six months’ post doc at London University, Mr Higgins. I’d very definitely prefer your tea.’

I went through to the kitchen and put on the kettle and made a tray ready. I lit a cigarette as I waited and turned to find her leaning on the doorway, arms folded.

‘Your thesis,’ I said. ‘For your doctorate. What was the subject?’

‘Certain aspects of the Third Reich in the Second World War.’

‘Interesting. Cohen – are you Jewish?’ I turned to make the tea.

‘My father was a German Jew. He survived Auschwitz and made it to the US, but died the year after I was born.’

I could think of no more than the usual inadequate response. ‘I’m sorry.’

She stared at me blankly for a moment, then turned and went back to the sitting room. I followed with the tray, placed it on a small coffee table by the fire and we sat opposite each other in wingback chairs.

‘Which explains your interest in the Third Reich,’ I said as I poured the tea.

She frowned and took the cup of tea I handed her. ‘I’m just an historian. No axe to grind. My particular obsession is with the Abwehr, German Military Intelligence. Why they were so good and why they were so bad at the same time.’

‘Admiral Wilhelm Canaris and his merry men?’ I shrugged. ‘I’d say his heart was never in it, but as the SS hanged him at Flossenburg concentration camp in April forty-five, we’ll never know.’

‘Which brings me to you,’ she said. ‘And your book The Eagle Has Landed.’

‘A novel, Dr Cohen,’ I said. ‘Pure speculation.’

‘At least fifty per cent of which is documented historical fact, you claim that yourself at the beginning of the book.’

She leaned forward, hands clenched on her knees, a kind of fierceness there. I said softly, ‘All right, so what exactly are you getting at?’

‘Remember how you found out about the affair in the first place?’ she said. ‘The thing that started you off?’

‘Of course,’ I said. ‘The monument to Steiner and his men the villagers of Studley Constable had hidden under the tombstone in the churchyard.’

‘Remember what it said?’

‘Hier ruhen Oberstleutnant Kurt Steiner und 13 Deutsche Fallschirmjäger gefallen am 6 November 1943.’

‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘Here lies Lieutenant Colonel Kurt Steiner and thirteen German paratroopers killed in action on sixth November, nineteen forty-three.’

‘So what’s your point?’

‘Thirteen plus one makes fourteen, only there aren’t fourteen bodies in that grave. There are only thirteen.’

I stared at her incredulously. ‘How in the hell do you make that out?’

‘Because Kurt Steiner didn’t die that night on the terrace at Meltham House, Mr Higgins.’ She reached for the briefcase, had it open in a second and produced a brown manilla folder. ‘And I have the proof right here.’

Which very definitely called for Bushmills whiskey. I poured one and said, ‘All right, do I get to see it?’

‘Of course, that’s why I’m here, but first let me explain. Any study of Abwehr intelligence affairs during the Second World War constantly refers to the work of SOE, the Special Operations Executive set up by British Intelligence in 1940 on Churchill’s instructions to coordinate resistance and the underground movement in Europe.’

‘Set Europe ablaze, that’s what the old man ordered,’ I said.

‘I was fascinated to discover that a number of Americans worked for SOE before America came into the war. I thought there might be a book in it. I arranged to come over here to do the research and a name that came up again and again was Munro – Brigadier Dougal Munro. Before the war he was an archaeologist at Oxford. At SOE he was head of Section D. What was commonly known as the dirty tricks department.’

‘I had heard of him,’ I said.

‘I did most of my research at the Public Records Office. As you know, few files dealing with intelligence matters are immediately available. Some are on a twenty-five-year hold, some fifty …’

‘And exceptionally sensitive material, a hundred years,’ I said.

‘That’s what I have here.’ She held up the folder. ‘A hundred-year-hold file concerning Dougal Munro, Kurt Steiner, Liam Devlin and others. Quite a story, believe me.’

She passed it across and I held it on my knees without opening it. ‘How on earth did you come by this?’

‘I checked out some files concerning Munro yesterday. There was a young clerk on duty on his own. Got careless, I guess. I found the file sandwiched in between two others, sealed, of course. You have to do your research on the premises at the Records Office, but since it wasn’t on the booking-out form, I slipped it into my briefcase.’

‘A criminal offence under the Defence of the Realm Act,’ I told her.

‘I know. I opened the seals as carefully as I could and read the file. It’s only a thirty-page résumé of certain events – certain astonishing events.’

‘And then?’

‘I photocopied it.’

‘The wonders of modern technology allow them to tell when that’s been done.’

‘I know. Anyway, I resealed the file and took it back this morning.’

‘And how did you manage to return it?’ I asked.

‘Checked out the same file yesterday. Took the Munro file back to the desk and told the duty clerk there’d been an error.’

‘Did he believe you?’

‘I suppose so. I mean, why wouldn’t he?’

‘The same clerk?’

‘No – an older man.’

I sat there thinking about it, feeling decidedly uneasy. Finally I said, ‘Why don’t you make us some fresh tea while I have a go at this?’

‘All right.’

She took the tray and went out. I hesitated, then opened the file and started to read.

I wasn’t even aware that she was there, so gripped was I by the events recorded in that file. When I was finished, I closed it and looked up. She was back in the other chair watching me, a curiously intent look on her face.

I said, ‘I can understand the hundred-year hold. The powers that be wouldn’t want this to come out, not even now.’

‘That’s what I thought.’

‘Can I hang on to it for a while?’

She hesitated, then nodded. ‘Till tomorrow if you like. I’m going back to the States on the evening flight. Pan Am.’

‘A sudden decision?’

She went and got her raincoat. ‘That’s right. I’ve decided I’d rather be back in my own country.’

‘Worried?’ I asked.

‘I’m probably being hypersensitive, but sure. I’ll pick the file up tomorrow afternoon. Say three o’clock on my way to Heathrow?’

‘Fine.’ I put the file down on top of my coffee table.

The clock on the mantelpiece chimed the half-hour, seven thirty, as I walked her to the door. I opened it and we stood for a moment, rain driving down hard.

‘Of course there is someone who could confirm the truth of that file,’ she said. ‘Liam Devlin. You said in your book he was still around, operating with the Provisional IRA in Ireland.’

‘Last I heard,’ I said. ‘Sixty-seven he’ll be now, but lively with it.’

‘Well, then.’ She smiled again. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon.’

She went down the steps and walked away through the rain, vanishing in the early evening mist at the end of the street.

I sat by the fire and read the file twice, then I went back into the kitchen, made myself some more tea and a chicken sandwich and sat at the table, eating the sandwich and thinking about things.

Extraordinary how events coming right out of the blue can change things. It had happened to me once before, the discovery of that hidden memorial to Steiner and his men in the churchyard at Studley Constable. I’d been researching an article for an historical magazine. Instead, I’d found something unlooked for that had changed the course of my entire life. Produced a book which had gone round the world from New York to Moscow, made me rich. Now this – Ruth Cohen and her stolen file, and I was filled with the same strange, tingling excitement.

I needed to come down. Get things in perspective. So, I went to have a shower, took my time over it, shaved and dressed again. It was only eight-thirty and it didn’t seem likely that I’d go to bed early, if I went at all.

I didn’t have any more whiskey as I needed to think, so I made even more tea and settled on the chair again by the fire, lit a cigarette and started to work my way through the file again.

The doorbell rang, shaking me from my reverie. I glanced at the clock. It was just before nine. The bell rang again insistently and I replaced the file in the folder, put it on the coffee table and went out into the hall. It occurred to me that it might be Ruth Cohen again, but I couldn’t have been more wrong, for when I opened the door I found a young police constable standing there, his navy-blue mac wet with rain.

‘Mr Higgins?’ He looked at a piece of paper in his left hand. ‘Mr Jack Higgins?’

Strange the certainty of bad news so that we don’t even need to be told. ‘Yes,’ I said.

He stepped into the hall. ‘Sorry to trouble you, sir, but I’m making an enquiry relevant to a Miss Ruth Cohen. Would you be a friend of hers, sir?’

‘Not exactly,’ I said. ‘Is there a problem?’

‘I’m afraid the young lady’s dead, sir. Hit-and-run accident at the back of the British Museum an hour ago.’

‘My God!’ I whispered.

‘The thing is sir, we found your name and address on a card in her handbag.’

It was so difficult to take in. She’d stood there at the door where he was such a short time before. He was no more than twenty-one or -two. Still young enough to feel concern and he put a hand on my arm.

‘Are you all right, sir?’

I said, ‘Rather shocked, that’s all.’ I took a deep breath. ‘What is it you want of me?’

‘It seems the young lady was at London University. We’ve checked the student accommodation she was using. No one there with it being the weekend. It’s a question of official identification. For the Coroner’s Office.’

‘And you’d like me to do it?’

‘If you wouldn’t mind, sir. It’s not far. She’s at Kensington Mortuary.’

I took another deep breath to steady myself. ‘All right. Just let me get my raincoat.’

The mortuary was a depressing-looking building in a side street, more like a warehouse than anything else. When we went into the foyer, there was a uniformed porter on duty at the desk and a small dark man in his early fifties standing at the window looking out at the rain, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. He wore a trilby hat and trenchcoat.

He turned to meet me, hands in pockets. ‘Mr Higgins, is it?’

‘Yes,’ I said.

He didn’t take his hands out of his pockets and coughed, ash falling from the tip of his cigarette on to his coat. ‘Detective Chief Superintendent Fox. An unfortunate business, sir.’

‘Yes,’ I said.

‘This young lady, Ruth Cohen, was she a friend of yours?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I only met her for the first time earlier this evening.’

‘Your name and address were in her handbag.’ Before I could reply he carried on, ‘Anyway, best to get it over with. If you’d come this way.’

The room they took me into was walled with white tiles and bright with fluorescent lighting. There was a line of operating tables. The body was on the end one covered with a white rubber sheet. Ruth Cohen looked very calm, eyes closed, but her head was enclosed in a rubber hood and blood seeped through.

‘Would you formally identify the deceased as Ruth Cohen, sir?’ the constable asked.

I nodded. ‘Yes, that’s her,’ and he replaced the sheet.

When I turned Fox was sitting on the end of the table in the corner, lighting another cigarette. ‘As I said, we found your name in her handbag.’

It was then, as if something had gone click in my head, that I came back to reality. Hit and run – a serious offence, but when had it merited the attention of a Detective Chief Superintendent? And wasn’t there something about Fox with his saturnine face and dark, watchful eyes? This was no ordinary policeman. I smelled Special Branch.

It always pays to stick as closely to the truth as possible, I found that out a long time ago. I said, ‘She told me she was over from Boston, working at London University, researching a book.’

‘About what, sir?’

Which confirmed my suspicions instantly. ‘Something to do with the Second World War, Superintendent, which happens to be an area I’ve written about myself.’

‘I see. She was looking for help, advice, that sort of thing?’

Which was when I lied totally. ‘Not at all. Hardly needed it. A Ph.D., I believe. The fact is, Superintendent, I wrote a rather successful book set during the Second World War. She simply wanted to meet me. As I understood it she was flying back to the States tomorrow.’

The contents of her handbag and briefcase were on the table beside him, the Pan Am ticket conspicuous. He picked it up. ‘So it would appear.’

‘Can I go now?’

‘Of course. The constable will run you home.’

We went out into the foyer and paused at the door. He coughed as he lit another cigarette. ‘Damn rain. I suppose the driver of that car skidded. An accident really, but then he shouldn’t have driven away. We can’t have that, can we?’

‘Good night, Superintendent,’ I told him and went down the steps to the police car.

I’d left the light on in the hall. When I went in, I carried on into the kitchen without taking my coat off, put the kettle on and then went into the living room. I poured a Bushmills into a glass and turned towards the fire. It was then that I saw that the folder I’d left on the coffee table was gone. For a wild moment I thought I’d made a mistake, had put it elsewhere, but that was nonsense of course.

I put the glass of whiskey down and lit a cigarette, thinking about it. The mysterious Fox – I was more certain than ever that he was Special Branch now – that wretched young woman lying there in the mortuary, and I remembered my unease when she’d told me how she had returned that file at the Records Office. I thought of her walking along the pavement and crossing that street in the rain at the back of the British Museum and then the car. A wet night and a skidding car, as Fox had said. It could have been an accident, but I knew that was hardly likely, not with the file missing. Which raised the problem of my own continued existence.

Time to move on for a while, but where? And then I remembered what she had said. There was one person still left who could confirm the story in that file. I packed an overnight bag and went and checked the street through a chink in the curtain. Cars parked everywhere so it was impossible to see if I was being watched.

I left by the kitchen door at the rear of the house, walked cautiously up the back alley and quickly worked my way through a maze of quiet back streets thinking about it. It had to be a security matter, of course. Some anonymous little department at DI5 that took care of people who got out of line, but would that necessarily mean they’d have a go at me? After all, the girl was dead, the file back in the Records Office, the only copy recovered. What could I say that could be proved or in any way believed? On the other hand, I had to prove it to my own satisfaction and I hailed a cab on the next corner.

The Green Man in Kilburn, an area of London popular with the Irish, featured an impressive painting of an Irish tinker over the door which indicated the kind of custom the place enjoyed. The bar was full, I could see that through the saloon window and I went round to the yard at the rear. The curtains were drawn and Sean Riley sat at a crowded desk doing his accounts. He was a small man with cropped white hair, active for his age, which I knew was seventy-two. He owned the Green Man, but more importantly, was an organizer for Sinn Fein, the political wing of the IRA, in London. I knocked at the window, he got up and moved to peer out. He turned and moved away. A moment later the door opened.

‘Mr Higgins. What brings you here?’

‘I won’t come in, Sean. I’m on my way to Heathrow.’

‘Is that a fact. A holiday in the sun, is it?’

‘Not exactly. Belfast. I’ll probably miss the last shuttle, but I’ll be on the breakfast plane. Get word to Liam Devlin. Tell him I’ll be staying at the Europa Hotel and I must see him.’

‘Jesus, Mr Higgins, and how would I be knowing such a desperate fella as that?’

Through the door I could hear the music from the bar. They were singing ‘Guns of the IRA’. ‘Don’t argue, Sean, just do it,’ I said. ‘It’s important.’

I knew he would, of course, and turned away without another word. A couple of minutes later I hailed a cab and was on my way to Heathrow.

The Europa Hotel in Belfast was legendary amongst newspaper men from all over the world. It had survived numerous bombing attacks by the IRA and stood in Great Victoria Street next to the railway station. I stayed in my room on the eighth floor for most of the day, just waiting. Things seemed quiet enough, but it was an uneasy calm and in the late afternoon, there was a crump of a bomb and when I looked out of the window I saw a black pall of smoke in the distance.

Just after six, with darkness falling, I decided to go down to the bar for a drink, was pulling on my jacket when the phone went. A voice said, ‘Mr Higgins? Reception here, sir. Your taxi’s waiting.’

It was a black cab, the London variety, and the driver was a middle-aged woman, a pleasant-faced lady who looked like your favourite aunty. I pulled back the glass panel between us and gave her the ritual Belfast greeting.

‘Good night to you.’

‘And you.’

‘Not often I see a lady cab driver, not in London anyway.’

‘A terrible place that. What would you expect? You sit quiet now like a good gentleman and enjoy the trip.’

She closed the panel with one hand. The journey took no more than ten minutes. We passed along the Falls Road, a Catholic area I remembered well from boyhood and turned into a warren of mean side streets, finally stopping outside a church. She opened the glass panel.

‘The first confessional box on the right as you go in.’

‘If you say so.’

I got out and she drove away instantly. The board said ‘Church of the Holy Name’ and it was in surprisingly good condition, the times of Mass and confession listed in gold paint. I opened the door at the top of the steps and went in. It was not too large and dimly lit, candles flickering down at the altar, the Virgin in a chapel to one side. Instinctively, I dipped my fingers in the holy water and crossed myself, remembering the Catholic aunt in South Armagh who’d raised me for a while as a child and had anguished over my black little Protestant soul.

The confessional boxes stood to one side. No one waited, which was hardly surprising, for according to the board outside I was an hour early. I went in the first on the right and closed the door. I sat there in the darkness for a moment and then the grill slid open.

‘Yes?’ a voice asked softly.

I answered automatically. ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.’

‘You certainly have, my old son.’ The light was switched on in the other box and Liam Devlin smiled through at me.

He looked remarkably well. In fact, rather better than he’d seemed the last time I’d seen him. Sixty-seven, but as I’d said to Ruth Cohen, lively with it. A small man with enormous vitality, hair as black as ever, and vivid blue eyes. There was the scar of an old bullet wound on the left side of his forehead and a slight, ironic smile was permanently in place. He wore a priest’s cassock and clerical collar and seemed perfectly at home in the sacristy at the back of the church to which he’d taken me.

‘You’re looking well, son. All that success and money.’ He grinned. ‘We’ll drink to it. There’s a bottle here surely.’

He opened a cupboard and found a bottle of Bushmills and two glasses. ‘And what would the usual occupant think of all this?’ I asked.

‘Father Murphy?’ He splashed whiskey into the glasses. ‘Heart of corn, that one. Out doing good, as usual.’

‘He looks the other way, then?’

‘Something like that.’ He raised his glass. ‘To you, my old son.’

‘And you, Liam.’ I toasted him back. ‘You never cease to amaze me. On the British Army’s most wanted list for the last five years and you still have the nerve to sit here in the middle of Belfast.’

‘Ah, well, a man has to have some fun.’ He took a cigarette from a silver case and offered me one. ‘Anyway, to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?’

‘Does the name Dougal Munro mean anything to you?’

His eyes widened in astonishment. ‘What in the hell have you come up with now? I haven’t heard that old bastard’s name mentioned in years.’

‘Or Schellenberg?’

‘Walter Schellenberg? There was a man for you. General at thirty. Schellenberg – Munro? What is this?’

‘And Kurt Steiner?’ I said, ‘Who, according to everyone, including you, died trying to shoot the fake Churchill on the terrace at Meltham House.’

Devlin swallowed some of his whiskey and smiled amiably. ‘I was always the terrible liar. Now tell me what is this all about?’

So, I told him about Ruth Cohen, the file and its contents, everything, and he listened intently without interrupting.

When I was finished, he said, ‘Convenient, the girl’s death, you were right about that.’

‘Which doesn’t look too good for me.’

There was an explosion not too far away and as he got up and opened the door to the rear yard, the rattle of small arms fire.

‘It sounds like a lively night,’ I said.

‘Oh, it will be. Safer off the streets at the moment.’

He closed the door and turned to face me. I said, ‘The facts in that file. Were they true?’

‘A good story.’

‘In outline.’

‘Which means you’d like to hear the rest?’

‘I need to hear it.’

‘Why not.’ He smiled, sat down at the table again and reached for the Bushmills. ‘Sure and it’ll keep me out of mischief for a while. Now, where would you like me to begin?’

Berlin • Lisbon • London

2

Brigadier Dougal Munro’s flat in Haston Place was only ten minutes’ walk from the London headquarters of SOE in Baker Street. As head of Section D, he needed to be on call twenty-four hours a day and besides the normal phone had a secure line routed directly to his office. It was that particular phone he answered on that late November evening as he sat by the fire working on some files.

‘Carter here, Brigadier. Just back from Norfolk.’

‘Good,’ Munro told him. ‘Call in on your way home and tell me about it.’

He put the phone down and went and got himself a malt whisky, a squat, powerful-looking man with white hair who wore steel-rimmed spectacles. Strictly a non-professional, his rank of brigadier was simply for purposes of authority in certain quarters and at sixty-five, an age when most men faced retirement, even at Oxford, the war had been the saving of him, that was the blunt truth. He was thinking about that when the doorbell rang and he admitted Captain Jack Carter.

‘You look frozen, Jack. Help yourself to a drink.’

Jack Carter leaned his walking stick against a chair and shrugged off his greatcoat. He was in the uniform of a captain in the Green Howards, the ribbon of the Military Cross on his battledress. His false leg was a legacy of Dunkirk and he limped noticeably as he went to the drinks cupboard and poured a whisky.

‘So, what’s the situation at Studley Constable?’ Munro asked.

‘Back to normal, sir. All the German paratroopers buried in a common grave in the churchyard.’

‘No marker of course?’

‘Not at the moment, but they’re a funny lot, those villagers. They actually seem to think quite highly of Steiner.’

‘Yes, well, one of his sergeants was killed saving the lives of two village children who fell into the mill race, remember. In fact, that single action was the one thing that blew their cover, caused the failure of the entire operation.’

‘And he did let the villagers go before the worst of the fighting started,’ Carter said.

‘Exactly. Have you got the file on him?’

Carter got his briefcase and extracted a couple of sheets stapled together. Munro examined it. ‘Oberstleutnant Kurt Steiner, age twenty-seven. Remarkable record. Crete, North Africa, Stalingrad. Knight’s Cross with Oak Leaves.’

‘I’m always intrigued by his mother, sir. Boston socialite. What they call “Boston Brahmin”.’

‘All very fine, Jack, but don’t forget his father was a German general and a damn good one. Now, what about Steiner? How is he?’

‘There seems no reason to doubt a complete recovery. There’s an RAF hospital for bomber crews with burns problems just outside Norwich. Rather small. Used to be a nursing home. We have Steiner there under secure guard. The cover story is that he’s a downed Luftwaffe pilot. Rather convenient that German paratroopers and Luftwaffe aircrews wear roughly the same uniform.’

‘And his wounds?’

‘He was damn lucky there, sir. One round hit him in the right shoulder, at the rear. The second was a heart shot, but it turned on the breastbone. The surgeon doesn’t think it will take long, especially as he’s in remarkable physical shape.’

Munro went and got another small whisky. ‘Let’s go over what we know, Jack. The whole business, the plot to kidnap Churchill, the planning. Everything was done without Admiral Canaris’s knowledge?’

‘Apparently so, sir, all Himmler’s doing. He pressured Max Radl at Abwehr headquarters to plan it all behind the Admiral’s back. At least that’s what our sources in Berlin tell us.’

‘He knows all about it now, though?’ Munro said. ‘The Admiral I mean?’

‘Apparently, sir, and not best pleased, not that there’s anything he can do about it. Can’t exactly go running to the Führer.’

‘And neither can Himmler,’ Munro said. ‘Not when the whole project was mounted without the Führer’s knowledge.’

‘Of course Himmler did give Max Radl a letter of authorization signed by Hitler himself,’ Carter said.

‘Purporting to be signed by Hitler, Jack. I bet that was the first thing to go into the fire. No, Himmler won’t want to advertise this one.’

‘And we don’t exactly want it on the front of the Daily Express, sir. German paratroopers trying to grab the Prime Minister, battling it out with American Rangers in an English country village?’

‘Yes, it wouldn’t exactly help the war effort.’ Munro looked at the file again. ‘This IRA chap, Devlin. Quite a character. You say that your information is that he was wounded?’

‘That’s right, sir. He was in hospital in Holland and simply took off one night. We understand he’s in Lisbon.’

‘Probably hoping to make it to the States in some way. Are we keeping an eye on him? Who’s the SOE’s man in Lisbon?’

‘Major Arthur Frear, sir. Military attaché at the Embassy. He’s been notified,’ Carter told him.

‘Good.’ Munro nodded.

‘So what do we do about Steiner, sir?’

Munro frowned, thinking about it. ‘The moment he’s fit enough, bring him up to London. Do we still house German prisoners of war in the Tower?’

‘Only occasionally, sir, transients passing through the small hospital. Not like the early days of the war when most of the captured U-boat people were housed there.’

‘And Hess.’

‘A special case, sir?’

‘All right. We’ll have Steiner at the Tower. He can stay in the hospital till we decide on a safe house. Anything else?’

‘One development, sir. Steiner’s father was involved, as you know, in a series of army plots aimed at assassinating Hitler. The punishment is statutory. Hanging by piano wire and by the Führer’s orders the whole thing is recorded on film.’

‘How unpleasant,’ Munro said.

‘The thing is, sir, we’ve received a film of General Steiner’s death. One of our Berlin sources got it out via Sweden. I don’t know if you’ll want to see it. It’s not very nice.’

Munro was angry, got up and paced the room. He paused suddenly, a slight smile on his mouth. ‘Tell me, Jack, is that little toad Vargas still at the Spanish Embassy?’

‘José Vargas, sir, trade attaché. We haven’t used him in a while.’

‘But German Intelligence are convinced he’s on their side?’

‘The only side Vargas is on is the one with the biggest bank book, sir. Works through his cousin at the Spanish Embassy in Berlin.’

‘Excellent.’ Munro was smiling now. ‘Tell him to pass the word to Berlin that we have Kurt Steiner. Tell him to say in the Tower of London. Sounds very dramatic. Most important, he makes sure that both Canaris and Himmler get the information. That should get them stirred up.’

‘What on earth are you playing at, sir?’ Carter asked.

‘War, Jack, war. Now have another drink, then get yourself off home to bed. You’re going to have a full day tomorrow.’

Near Paderborn in Westphalia in the small town of Wewelsburg was the castle of that name which Heinrich Himmler had taken over from the local council in 1934. His original intention had been to convert it into a school for Reich SS leaders, but by the time the architects and builders had finished and many millions of marks had been spent, he had created a Gothic monstrosity worthy of stage six at MGM, a vast film set of the kind Hollywood was fond of when historical pictures were the vogue. The castle had three wings, towers, a moat and in the southern wing the Reichsführer had his own apartments and his especial pride, the enormous dining hall where selected members of the SS would meet in a kind of Court of Honour. The whole thing had been influenced by Himmler’s obsession with King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table, with a liberal dose of occultism thrown in.

Ten miles away on that December evening, Walter Schellenberg lit a cigarette in the back of the Mercedes which was speeding him towards the castle. He’d received the order to meet the Reichsführer in Berlin that afternoon. The reason had not been specified. He certainly didn’t take it as any evidence of preferment.

He’d been to Wewelsburg on several occasions, had even inspected the castle’s plans at SD headquarters, so knew it well. He also knew that the only men to sit round that table with the Reichsführer were cranks like Himmler himself who believed all the dark-age twaddle about Saxon superiority, or time-servers who had their own chairs with names inscribed on a silver plate. The fact that King Arthur had been Romano-British and engaged in a struggle against Saxon invaders made the whole thing even more nonsensical, but Schellenberg had long since ceased to be amused by the excesses of the Third Reich.

In deference to the demands of Wewelsburg, he wore the black dress uniform of the SS, the Iron Cross First Class pinned to the left side of his tunic.

‘What a world we live in,’ he said softly as the car took the road up to the castle, snow falling gently. ‘I sometimes really do wonder who is running the lunatic asylum.’

He smiled as he sat back, looking suddenly quite charming although the duelling scar on one cheek hinted at a more ruthless side to his nature. It was a relic of student days at the University of Bonn. In spite of a gift for languages, he’d started in the Faculty of Medicine, had then switched to law. But in Germany in 1933 times were hard, even for well-qualified young men just out of university.

The SS were recruiting gifted young scholars for their upper echelons. Like many others, Schellenberg had seen it as employment, not as a political ideal, and his rise had been astonishing. Because of his language ability, Heydrich himself had pulled him into the Sicherheitsdienst, the SS security service, known as the SD. His main responsibility had always been intelligence work, abroad, often a conflict with the Abwehr, although his personal relationship with Canaris was excellent. A series of brilliant intelligence coups had pushed him up the ladder rapidly. By the age of thirty, he was an SS Brigadeführer and Major General of Police.

The really astonishing thing was that Walter Schellenberg didn’t consider himself a Nazi, looked on the Third Reich as a sorry charade, its main protagonists actors of a very low order indeed. There were Jews who owed their survival to him, intended victims of the concentration camps rerouted to Sweden and safety. A dangerous game, a sop to his conscience, he told himself, and he had his enemies. He had survived for one reason only. Himmler needed his brains and his considerable talents and that was enough.

There was only a powdering of snow in the moat, no water. As the Mercedes crossed the bridge to the gate, he leaned back and said softly, ‘Too late to get off the roundabout now, Walter, far too late.’

Himmler received him in his private sitting room in the south wing. Schellenberg was escorted there by an SS sergeant in dress uniform and found Himmler’s personal aide, a Sturmbannführer named Rossman, sitting at a table outside the door, also in dress uniform.

‘Major.’ Schellenberg nodded.

Rossman dismissed the sergeant. ‘A pleasure to see you, General. He’s waiting. The mood isn’t good, by the way.’

‘I’ll remember that.’

Rossman opened the door and Schellenberg entered a large room with a vaulted ceiling and flagged floor. There were tapestries on the walls and lots of dark oak furniture. A log fire burned on a great stone hearth. The Reichsführer sat at an oak table working his way through a mound of papers. He was not in uniform, unusual for him, wore a tweed suit, white shirt and black tie. The silver pince-nez gave him the air of a rather unpleasant schoolmaster.

Unlike Heydrich who had always addressed Schellenberg by his Christian name, Himmler was invariably formal. ‘General Schellenberg.’ He looked up. ‘You got here.’

There was an implied rebuke and Schellenberg said, ‘I left Berlin the moment I received your message, Reichsführer. In what way can I serve you?’

‘Operation Eagle, the Churchill affair. I didn’t employ you on that business because you had other duties. However, by now you will be familiar with most of the details.’

‘Of course, Reichsführer.’

Himmler abruptly changed the subject. ‘Schellenberg, I am increasingly concerned at the treasonable activities of many members of the High Command. As you know, some wretched young major was blown up in his car outside the entrance to the Führer’s headquarters at Rastenburg last week. Obviously another attempt on our Führer’s life.’

‘I’m afraid so, Reichsführer.’

Himmler stood up and put a hand on his shoulder. ‘You and I, General, are bound by a common brotherhood, the SS. We are sworn to protect the Führer and yet are constantly threatened by this conspiracy of generals.’

‘There is no direct proof, Reichsführer,’ Schellenberg said, which was not strictly true.

Himmler said, ‘General von Stulpnagel, von Falk-enhausen, Stief, Wagner and others, even your good friend Admiral Wilhelm Canaris, Schellenberg. Would that surprise you?’

Schellenberg tried to stay calm, envisaging the distinct possibility that he might be named next. ‘What can I say, Reichsführer?’

‘And Rommel, General, the Desert Fox himself. The people’s hero.’

‘My God!’ Schellenberg gasped, mainly because it seemed the right thing to do.

‘Proof.’ Himmler snorted. ‘I’ll have my proof before I’m done. They have a date with the hangman, all of them. But to other things.’ He returned to the table and sat. ‘Have you ever had any dealings with an agent named Vargas?’ He examined a paper in front of him. ‘José Vargas.’

‘I know of him. An Abwehr contact. A commercial attaché at the Spanish Embassy in London. As far as I know, he has only been used occasionally.’

‘He has a cousin who is also a commercial attaché at the Spanish Embassy here in Berlin. One Juan Rivera.’ Himmler glanced up. ‘Am I right?’

‘So I understand, Reichsführer. Vargas would use the Spanish diplomatic bag from London. Most messages would reach his cousin here in Berlin within thirty-six hours. Highly illegal, of course.’

‘And thank God for it,’ Himmler said. ‘This Operation Eagle affair. You say you are familiar with the details?’

‘I am, Reichsführer,’ Schellenberg said smoothly.

‘There is a problem here, General. Although the idea was suggested by the Führer, it was, how shall I put it, more a flight of fancy than anything else? One couldn’t rely on Canaris to do anything about it. I’m afraid that total victory for the Third Reich is low on his list of priorities. That is why I personally put the plan into operation, aided by Colonel Radl of the Abwehr, who’s had a heart attack, I understand, and is not expected to live.’

Schellenberg said cautiously, ‘So the Führer knows nothing of the affair?’

‘My dear Schellenberg, he carries the responsibility for the war, its every aspect, on his own shoulders. It is our duty to lighten that load as much as possible.’

‘Of course, Reichsführer.’

‘Operation Eagle, however brilliantly conceived, ended in failure, and who would wish to take failure into the Führer’s office and place it on his desk?’ Before Schellenberg could reply, he carried on. ‘Which brings me to this report which has reached me from Vargas in London via his cousin here in Berlin, the man Rivera.’

He handed across a signal flimsy and Schellenberg glanced at it. ‘Incredible!’ he said. ‘Kurt Steiner alive.’

‘And in the Tower of London.’ Himmler took the signal back.

‘They won’t keep him there for very long,’ Schellenberg said. ‘It may sound dramatic, but the Tower isn’t really suitable to house high-security prisoners long term. They’ll move him to some safe house just as they did with Hess.’

‘Have you any other opinion in the matter?’

‘Only that the British will keep quiet about the fact that he’s in their hands.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Operation Eagle almost succeeded.’

‘But Churchill wasn’t Churchill,’ Himmler reminded him. ‘Our Intelligence people discovered that.’

‘Of course, Reichsführer, but German paratroopers did land on English soil and fought a bloody battle. If the story was publicized, the effect on the British people at this stage of the war would be appalling. The very fact that it’s SOE and their Brigadier Munro who are handling the matter, is further proof.’

‘You know the man?’

‘Know of him only, Reichsführer. A highly capable intelligence officer.’

Himmler said, ‘My sources indicate that Rivera has also passed this news on to Canaris. How do you think he will react?’

‘I’ve no idea, Reichsführer.’

‘You can see him when you get back to Berlin. Find out. My opinion is that he will do nothing. He certainly won’t go running to the Führer.’ Himmler examined another sheet in front of him. ‘I’ll never understand men like Steiner. A war hero. Knight’s Cross with Oak Leaves, a brilliant soldier, and yet he ruined his career, risked failure, everything, for the sake of some little Jewish bitch he tried to help in Warsaw. It was only Operation Eagle that saved him and his men from the penal unit they were serving in.’ He put the sheet down. ‘The Irishman, of course, is a different matter.’

‘Devlin, Reichsführer?’

‘Yes, a thoroughly obnoxious man. You know what the Irish are like, Schellenberg? Everything a joke.’

‘I must say that from all reports he seems to know his business.’

‘I agree, but then he was only in it for the money. Someone was singularly careless to allow him to walk out of that hospital in Holland.’

‘I agree, Reichsführer.’

‘My reports indicate that he’s in Lisbon now,’ Himmler said. He pushed another sheet across. ‘You’ll find the details there. He’s trying to get to America, but no money. According to that, he’s been working as a barman.’

Schellenberg examined the signal quickly then said, ‘What would you like me to do on this matter, Reichsführer?’

‘You’ll return to Berlin tonight, fly to Lisbon tomorrow. Persuade this rogue Devlin to return with you. I shouldn’t think that would prove too difficult. Radl gave him twenty thousand pounds for taking part in Operation Eagle. It was paid into a numbered account in Geneva.’ Himmler smiled thinly. ‘He’ll do anything for money. He’s that sort. Offer him the same – more if you have to. I’ll authorize payments up to thirty thousand pounds.’

‘But for what, Reichsführer?’

‘Why, to arrange Steiner’s escape, of course. I should have thought that’s obvious. The man is a hero of the Reich, a true hero. We can’t leave him in British hands.’

Remembering how General Steiner had met his end in the Gestapo cellars at Prinz Albrechtstrasse, it seemed likely to Schellenberg that Himmler might have other reasons. He said calmly, ‘I take your point, Reichsführer.’

‘You know the confidence I repose in you, General,’ Himmler said. ‘And you’ve never let me down. I leave the whole matter in your capable hands.’ He passed an envelope across. ‘You’ll find a letter of authorization in there that should take care of all contingencies.’

Schellenberg didn’t open it. Instead he said, ‘You said you wanted me to go to Lisbon tomorrow, Reichsführer. May I remind you it’s Christmas Eve?’

‘What on earth has that got to do with anything?’ Himmler seemed genuinely surprised. ‘Speed is of the essence here, Schellenberg, and reminding you of your oath as a member of the SS, I will now tell you why. In approximately four weeks, the Führer will fly to Cherbourg in Normandy. January twenty-first. I shall accompany him. From there, we proceed to a chateau on the coast. Belle Ile. Such strange names the French employ.’

‘May I ask the purpose of the visit?’

‘The Führer intends to meet with Field Marshal Rommel personally, to confirm his appointment as Commander of Army Group B. This will give him direct responsibility for the Atlantic Wall defences. The meeting will be concerned with the strategy necessary if our enemies decide to invade next year. The Führer has given to me the honour of organizing the conference and, of course, responsibility for his safety. It will be purely an SS matter. As I’ve said, Rommel will be there, probably Canaris. The Führer particularly asked for him.’

He started to sort his papers into a neat pile, putting some of them into a briefcase. Schellenberg said, ‘But the urgency on the Steiner affair, Reichsführer, I don’t understand.’

‘I intend to introduce him to the Führer at that meeting, General. A great coup for the SS, his escape and near victory. His presence, of course, will make things rather difficult for Canaris which will be all to the good.’ He closed the briefcase and his eyes narrowed. ‘That is all you need to know.’

Schellenberg, who felt that he was only hanging on to his sanity by his fingernails, said, ‘But, Reichsführer, what if Devlin doesn’t wish to be persuaded?’

‘Then you must take appropriate action. To that end, I have selected a Gestapo man I wish to accompany you to Lisbon as your bodyguard.’ He rang a bell on the desk and Rossman entered. ‘Ah, Rossman. I’ll see Sturmbannführer Berger now.’

Schellenberg waited, desperate for a cigarette, but aware also of how totally Himmler disapproved of smoking and then the door opened and Rossman appeared with another man. Something of a surprise, this one. A young man, only twenty-five or -six, with blond hair that was almost white. Good-looking once, but one side of his face had been badly burned. Schellenberg could see where the skin graft stretched tightly.

He held out his hand. ‘General Schellenberg. Horst Berger. A pleasure to work with you.’

He smiled, looking with that marred face like the Devil himself and Schellenberg said, ‘Major.’ He turned to Himmler. ‘May I get started, Reichsführer?’

‘Of course. Berger will join you in the courtyard. Send Rossman in.’ Schellenberg got the door open and Himmler added, ‘One more thing. Canaris is to know nothing. Not Devlin, not our intentions regarding Steiner and for the moment, no mention of Belle Ile. You understand the importance of this?’

‘Of course, Reichsführer.’

Schellenberg told Rossman to go in and walked along the corridor. On the next floor, he found a toilet, slipped in and lit a cigarette, then took the envelope Himmler had given him from his pocket and opened it.

FROM THE LEADER AND CHANCELLOR OF THE STATE

General Schellenberg acts upon my direct and personal orders in a matter of the utmost importance to the Reich. He is answerable only to me. All personnel, military and civil, without distinction of rank will assist him in any way he sees fit.

Adolf Hitler

Schellenberg shivered and put it back in the envelope. The signature certainly looked right, he’d seen it often enough, but then it would be easy for Himmler to get the Führer’s signature on something, just one document amongst many.

So, Himmler was giving him the same powers as he had given Max Radl for Operation Eagle. But why? Why was it so important to get Steiner back and in the time scale indicated?

There had to be more to the whole business than Himmler was telling him, that much was obvious. He lit another cigarette and left, losing his way at the end of the corridor. He hesitated, uncertain, then realized that the archway at the end led on to the balcony above the great hall. He was about to turn and go the other way when he heard voices. Intrigued, he moved forward on to the balcony and peered down cautiously. Himmler was standing at the head of the great table flanked by Rossman and Berger. The Reichsführer was speaking.

‘There are those, Berger, who are more concerned with people than ideas. They became sentimental too easily. I do not think you are one of them.’

‘No, Reichsführer,’ Berger said.

‘Unfortunately, General Schellenberg is. That’s why I’m sending you with him to Lisbon. The man, Devlin, comes whether he likes it or not. I look to you to see to it.’

‘Is the Reichsführer doubting General Schellenberg’s loyalty?’ Rossman asked.

‘He has been of great service to the Reich,’ Himmler said. ‘Probably the most gifted officer to serve under my command, but I’ve always doubted his loyalty to the Party. But there is no problem here, Rossman. He is too useful for me to discard at the present time. We must put all our energies into the preparation for Belle Ile while Schellenberg busies himself with the Steiner affair.’ He turned to Berger. ‘You’d better be off.’

‘Reichsführer.’

Berger clicked his heels and turned away. When he was halfway across the hall, Himmler called, ‘Show me what you can do, Sturmbannführer.’

Berger had the flap of his holster open, turned with incredible speed, arm extended. There was a fresco of knights on the far wall done in medieval style in plaster. He fired three times very fast and three heads disintegrated. The shots echoed through the hall as he replaced his weapon.

‘Excellent,’ Himmler said.

Schellenberg was already on his way. He was good himself, maybe as good as Berger, but that wasn’t the point. In the hall he retrieved his greatcoat and cap, was sitting in the rear of the Mercedes when Berger joined him five minutes later.

‘Sorry if I’ve kept you waiting, General,’ he said as he got in.

‘No problem,’ Schellenberg said and nodded to the driver who drove away. ‘Smoke if you like.’

‘No vices, I’m afraid,’ Berger said.

‘Really? Now that is interesting.’ Schellenberg turned up the collar of his greatcoat and leaned back in the corner pulling the peak of his cap over his eyes. ‘A long way to Berlin. I don’t know about you, but I’m going to get some sleep.’

He did just that. Berger watched him for a while, and then he also pulled up the collar of his greatcoat and turned into the corner.

Schellenberg’s office at Prinz Albrechtstrasse had a military camp bed in one corner for he often spent the night there. He was in the small bathroom adjacent to it shaving when his secretary, Ilse Huber, entered. She was forty-one at that time, already a war widow, a sensual, attractive woman in white blouse and black skirt. She had once been Heydrich’s secretary and Schellenberg, to whom she was devoted, had inherited her.

‘He’s here,’ she said.

‘Rivera?’ Schellenberg wiped soap from his face. ‘And Canaris?’

‘The Herr Admiral will be riding in the Tiergarten at ten o’clock as usual. Will you join him?’

Schellenberg frequently did, but when he went to the window and saw the powdering of snow in the streets he laughed. ‘Not this morning, thank you, but I must see him.’

Dedicated as she was to Schellenberg’s welfare, she had an instinct about things. She went and poured coffee from the pot on the tray she had put on his desk. ‘Trouble, General?’

‘In a way, my love.’ He drank some of the coffee and smiled, that ruthless, dangerous smile of his that made the heart turn over in her. ‘But don’t worry. Nothing I can’t handle. I’ll fill you in on the details before I leave. I’m going to need your help with this one. Where’s Berger, by the way?’

‘Downstairs in the canteen, last I saw of him.’

‘All right. I’ll see Rivera now.’

She paused at the door and turned. ‘He frightens me that one. Berger, I mean.’

Schellenberg went and put an arm around her. ‘I told you not to worry. After all, when has the great Schellenberg ever failed to manage?’

His self-mockery, as always, made her laugh. He gave her a squeeze and she was out of the door smiling. Schellenberg buttoned his tunic and sat down. A moment later the door opened and Rivera came in.

He wore a dark brown suit, an overcoat over one arm, a small man, sallow skin, black hair carefully parted. Just now he looked decidedly anxious.

‘You know who I am?’ Schellenberg asked him.

‘Of course, General. An honour to meet you.’

Schellenberg held up a piece of paper which was actually some stationery from the hotel he’d stayed at in Vienna the previous week. ‘This message you received from your cousin, Vargas, at the London Embassy concerning the whereabouts of a certain Colonel Steiner. Have you discussed it with anyone?’

Rivera seemed genuinely shocked. ‘Not a living soul, General. Before God I swear this.’ He spread his hands dramatically. ‘On my mother’s life.’

‘Oh, I don’t think we need to bring her into it. She’s quite comfortable in that little villa you bought her in San Carlos.’ Rivera looked startled and Schellenberg said, ‘You see, there is nothing about you I don’t know. There is no place you could go where I couldn’t reach you. Do you understand me?’

‘Perfectly, General.’ Rivera was sweating.

‘You belong to the SD now and Reichsführer Himmler, but it is me you answer to and no one else, so to start with: this message from your cousin in London. Why did you also send it to Admiral Canaris?’

‘My cousin’s orders, General. In these matters there is always the question of payment and in this case …’ He shrugged.

‘He thought you might get paid twice?’ Schellenberg nodded. It made sense and yet he had learned never to take anything for granted in this game. ‘Tell me about your cousin.’

‘What can I say that the General doesn’t know? José’s parents died in the influenza epidemic just after the First World War. My parents raised him. We were like brothers. Went to the University of Madrid together. Fought in the same regiment in the Civil War. He’s one year older than me, thirty-three.’

‘He isn’t married, you are,’ Schellenberg said. ‘Does he have a girlfriend in London?’

Rivera spread his hands. ‘As it happens, José’s tastes do not run to women, General.’

‘I see.’ Schellenberg brooded about it for a moment. He had nothing against homosexuals, but such people were susceptible to blackmail and that was a weakness for anyone engaged in intelligence work. A point against Vargas, then.

‘You know London?’

Rivera nodded. ‘I served at the Embassy there with José in thirty-nine for one year. I left my wife in Madrid.’

‘I know London also,’ Schellenberg said. ‘Tell me about his life. Does he live at the Embassy?’

‘Officially he does, General, but for the purposes of his private life he has a small apartment, a flat as the English call it. He took a seven-year lease on the place while I was there so he must still have it.’

‘Where would that be?’

‘Stanley Mews, quite close to Westminster Abbey.’

‘And convenient for the Houses of Parliament. A good address. I’m impressed.’

‘José always did like the best.’

‘Which must be paid for.’ Schellenberg got up and went to the window. It was snowing lightly. He said, ‘Is he reliable, this cousin of yours? Any question of him ever having had any dealings with our British friends?’

Rivera looked shocked again. ‘General Schellenberg, I assure you, José, like me, is a good Fascist. We fought together with General Franco in the Civil War. We …’

‘All right, I was just making the point. Now listen to me carefully. We may well decide to attempt to rescue Colonel Steiner.’

‘From the Tower of London, señor?’ Rivera’s eyes bulged.

‘In my opinion, they’ll move him to some sort of safe house. May well have done so already. You will send a message to your cousin today asking for all possible information.’

‘Of course, General.’

‘Get on with it then.’ As Rivera reached the door Schellenberg added, ‘I need hardly say that if one word of this leaks out you will end up in the River Spree, my friend, and your cousin in the Thames. I have an extraordinarily long arm.’

‘General, I beg of you.’ Rivera started to protest again.

‘Spare me all that stuff about what a good Fascist you are. Just think about how generous I’m going to be. A much sounder basis for our relationship.’

Rivera departed and Schellenberg phoned down for his car, pulled on his overcoat and went out.

Admiral Wilhelm Canaris was fifty-six. A U-boat captain of distinction in the First World War, he had headed the Abwehr since 1935 and despite being a loyal German had always been unhappy with National Socialism. Although he was opposed to any plan to assassinate Hitler, he had been involved with the German resistance movement for some years, treading a dangerous path that was eventually to lead to his downfall and death.

That morning, as he galloped along the ride between the trees in the Tiergarten, his horse’s hooves kicked up the powdered snow filling him with a fierce joy. The two dachshunds which accompanied him everywhere, followed with surprising speed. He saw Schellenberg standing beside his Mercedes, waved and turned towards him.

‘Good morning, Walter. You should be with me.’

‘Not this morning,’ Schellenberg told him. ‘I’m off on my travels again.’

Canaris dismounted and Schellenberg’s driver held the horse’s reins. Canaris offered Schellenberg a cigarette and they went and leaned on a parapet overlooking the lake.

‘Anywhere interesting?’ Canaris asked.

‘No, just routine,’ Schellenberg said.

‘Come on, Walter, out with it. There’s something on your mind.’

‘All right. The Operation Eagle affair.’

‘Nothing to do with me,’ Canaris told him. ‘The Führer came up with the idea. What nonsense! Kill Churchill when we’ve already lost the war.’

‘I wish you wouldn’t say that sort of thing out loud,’ Schellenberg said gently.

Canaris ignored him. ‘I was ordered to prepare a feasibility study. I knew the Führer would forget it within a matter of days and he did, only Himmler didn’t. Wanted to make life disagreeable for me as usual. Went behind my back, suborned Max Radl, one of my most trusted aides. And the whole thing turned out to be the shambles I knew it would.’

‘Of course Steiner almost pulled it off,’ Schellenberg said.

‘Pulled what off? Come off it, Walter, I’m not denying Steiner’s audacity and bravery, but the man they were after wasn’t even Churchill. Would have been quite something if they’d brought him back. The look on Himmler’s face would have been a joy to see.’

‘And now we hear that Steiner didn’t die,’ Schellenberg said. ‘That they have him in the Tower of London.’

‘Ah, so Rivera has passed on his dear cousin’s message to the Reichsführer also?’ Canaris smiled cynically. ‘Doubling up their reward as usual.’

‘What do you think the British will do?’

‘With Steiner? Lock him up tight until the end of the war like Hess, only they’ll keep quiet about it. Wouldn’t look too good, just as it wouldn’t look too good to the Führer if the facts came to his attention.’

‘Do you think they’re likely to?’ Schellenberg asked.

Canaris laughed out loud. ‘You mean from me? So that’s what all this is about? No, Walter, I’m in enough trouble these days without looking for more. You can tell the Reichsführer that I’ll keep quiet if he will.’

They started to walk back to the Mercedes. Schellenberg said, ‘I suppose he’s to be trusted, this Vargas? We can believe him?’

Canaris took the point seriously. ‘I’m the first to admit our operations in England have gone badly. The British secret service came up with a stroke of some genius when they stopped having our operatives shot when they caught them and simply turned them into double agents.’

‘And Vargas?’

‘One can never be sure, but I don’t think so. His position at the Spanish Embassy, the fact that he has only worked occasionally and as a freelance. No contacts with any other agents in England, you see.’ They had reached the car. He smiled, ‘Anything else?’

Schellenberg couldn’t help saying it, he liked the man so much. ‘As you well know, there was another attempt on the Führer’s life at Rastenburg. As it happened, the bombs the young officer involved was carrying, went off prematurely.’

‘Very careless of him. What’s your point, Walter?’

‘Take care, for God’s sake. These are dangerous times.’

‘Walter. I have never condoned the idea of assassinating the Führer.’ The Admiral climbed back into the saddle and gathered his reins. ‘However desirable that possibility may seem to some people, and shall I tell you why, Walter?’

‘I’m sure you’re going to.’

‘Stalingrad, thanks to the Führer’s stupidity, lost us more than three hundred thousand dead. Ninety-one thousand taken prisoner including twenty-four generals. The greatest defeat we’ve ever known. One balls-up after another, thanks to the Führer.’ He laughed harshly. ‘Don’t you realize the truth of it, my friend? His continued existence actually shortens the war for us.’

He put his spurs to his horse, the dachshunds yapping at his heels, and galloped into the trees.

Back at the office, Schellenberg changed into a light grey flannel suit in the bathroom, speaking through the other door to Ilse Huber as he dressed, filling her in on the whole business.

‘What do you think?’ he asked as he emerged. ‘Like a fairy tale by the Brothers Grimm?’

‘More like a horror story,’ she said as she held his black leather coat for him.

‘We’ll refuel in Madrid and carry straight on. Should be in Lisbon by late afternoon.’

He pulled on the coat, adjusted a slouch hat and picked up the overnight bag she had prepared. ‘I expect news from Rivera within two days at the outside. Give him thirty-six hours then apply pressure.’ He kissed her on the cheek. ‘Take care, Ilse. See you soon,’ and he was gone.

The plane was a JU52 with its famous three engines and corrugated metal skin. As it lifted from the Luftwaffe fighter base outside Berlin, Schellenberg undid his seat belt and reached for his briefcase. Berger, on the other side of the aisle, smiled.

‘The Herr Admiral was well, General?’

Now that isn’t very clever, Schellenberg thought. You weren’t supposed to know I was seeing him.

He smiled back. ‘He seemed his usual self.’

He opened his briefcase, started to read Devlin’s background report and examined a photo of him. After a while he stopped and looked out of the window remembering what Canaris had said about Hitler.

His continued existence actually shortens the war for us.

Strange how that thought went round and round in his brain and wouldn’t go away.

3

Baron Oswald von Hoyningen-Heune, the Minister to the German Legation in Lisbon, was a friend, an aristocrat of the old school who was also no Nazi. He was delighted to see Schellenberg and showed it.

‘My dear Walter. Good to see you. How’s Berlin at the moment?’

‘Colder than this,’ Schellenberg told him as they moved out through French windows and sat at a table on the pleasant terrace. The garden was a sight to see, flowers everywhere. A houseboy in white jacket brought coffee on a tray and Schellenberg sighed. ‘Yes, I can understand you hanging on here instead of coming back to Berlin. The best place to be these days, Lisbon.’

‘I know,’ the Baron told him. ‘The constant worry all my staff have is of being transferred.’ He poured the coffee. ‘A strange time to arrive, Walter, Christmas Eve.’

‘You know Uncle Heini when he gets the bit between his teeth,’ Schellenberg told him, using the nickname common in the SS behind Himmler’s back.

‘It must be important,’ the Baron said. ‘Especially if he sends you.’

‘There’s a man we want, an Irishman – Liam Devlin.’

Schellenberg took Devlin’s photo from his wallet and passed it across. ‘He worked for Abwehr for a while. The IRA connection. Walked out of a hospital in Holland the other week. Our information is that he’s here, working as a waiter at a club in Alfama.’

‘The old quarter?’ The Baron nodded. ‘If he’s Irish, this man, I hardly need to point out that makes him officially a neutral. A situation of some delicacy.’

‘No rough stuff needed,’ Schellenberg said. ‘I hope we can persuade him to come back peaceably. I have a job to offer him that could be rather lucrative.’

‘Fine,’ the Baron said. ‘Just remember that our Portuguese friends really do value their neutrality. Even more so now that victory seems to be slipping away from us. However, Captain Eggar, my police attaché here, should be able to assist you.’ He picked up his phone and spoke to an aide. As he put it down he said, ‘I caught a glimpse of your companion.’

‘Sturmbannführer Horst Berger – Gestapo,’ Schellenberg said.

‘Doesn’t look your sort.’

‘A Christmas present from the Reichsführer. I didn’t have much choice.’

‘Like that, is it?’

There was a knock at the door and a man in his forties slipped in. He had a heavy moustache and wore a brown gaberdine suit that didn’t fit too well. A professional policeman, Schellenberg recognized the type.

‘Ah, there you are, Eggar. You know General Schellenberg, don’t you?’

‘Of course. A great pleasure to see you again. We met during the course of the Windsor affair in nineteen forty.’

‘Yes, well we prefer to forget all about that these days.’ Schellenberg passed Devlin’s photo across. ‘Have you seen this man?’

Eggar examined it. ‘No, General.’

‘He’s Irish, ex-IRA if you ever can be ex-IRA, age thirty-five. He worked for Abwehr for a while. We want him back. Our latest information is that he’s been working as a waiter at a bar called Flamingo.’

‘I know the place.’

‘Good. You’ll find my aide, Major Berger of the Gestapo, outside. Bring him in.’ Eggar went out and returned with Berger and Schellenberg made the introductions. ‘Baron von Hoyningen-Heune, Minister to the Legation and Captain Eggar, police attaché. Sturmbannführer Berger.’ Berger, in his dark suit with that ravaged face of his, was a chilling presence as he nodded formally and clicked his heels. ‘Captain Eggar knows this Flamingo place. I want you to go there with him and check if Devlin still works there. If he does, you will not, I repeat not, contact him in any way. Simply report to me.’ Berger showed no emotion, and turned to the door. As he opened it Schellenberg called, ‘During the nineteen thirties Liam Devlin was one of the most notorious gunmen in the IRA. You gentlemen would do well to remember that fact ‘

The remark, as Berger immediately knew, was aimed at him. He smiled faintly, ‘We will, General,’ turned and went out followed by Eggar.

‘A bad one that. You’re welcome to him. Still …’ The Baron checked his watch. ‘Just after five, Walter. How about a glass of champagne?’

Major Arthur Frear was fifty-four and looked older, with his crumpled suit and white hair. He’d have been retired by now on a modest pension leading a life of genteel poverty in Brighton or Torquay. Instead, thanks to Adolf Hitler, he was employed as military attaché at the British Embassy in Lisbon where he unofficially represented SOE.

The Lights of Lisbon at the southern edge of the Alfama district was one of his favourite places. How convenient that Devlin was playing piano there although there was no sign of him at the moment. Devlin, in fact, was watching him through a bead curtain at the rear. He wore a linen suit in off-white, dark hair falling across his forehead, the vivid blue eyes full of amusement as they surveyed Frear. The first Frear knew of his presence was when Devlin slid on the stool next to him and ordered a beer.

‘Mr Frear, isn’t it?’ He nodded to the barman. ‘José here tells me you’re in the port business.’

‘That’s right,’ Frear said jovially. ‘Been exporting it to England for years, my firm.’

‘Never been my taste,’ Devlin told him. ‘Now if it was Irish whiskey you were talking about …’

‘Can’t help you there, I’m afraid.’ Frear laughed again. ‘I say, old man, do you realize you’re wearing a Guards Brigade tie?’

‘Is that a fact? Fancy you knowing that.’ Devlin smiled amiably. ‘And me buying it from a stall in the flea market only last week.’

He slid off the stool and Frear said, ‘Aren’t you going to give us a tune?’

‘Oh, that comes later.’ Devlin moved to the door and grinned. ‘Major,’ he added, and was gone.

The Flamingo was a shabby little bar and restaurant. Berger was forced to leave things to Eggar who spoke the language fluently. At first they drew a blank. Yes, Devlin had worked there for a while, but he’d left three days ago. And then a woman who had come in to sell flowers to the customers overheard their conversation and intervened. The Irishman was working another establishment she called at, the Lights of Lisbon, only he was employed not as a waiter but as a pianist in the bar. Eggar tipped her and they moved outside.

‘Do you know the place?’ Berger said.

‘Oh yes, quite well. Also in the old quarter. I should warn you, the customers tend to the rougher side. Rather common round here.’

‘The scum of this life never give me a problem,’ Berger said. ‘Now show me the way.’

The high walls of the Castelo de São Jorge lifted above them as they worked their way through a maze of narrow alleys and then, as they came into a small square in front of a church, Devlin emerged from an alley and crossed the cobbles before them towards a café.

‘My God, it’s him,’ Eggar muttered. ‘Exactly like his photo.’

‘Of course it is, you fool,’ Berger said. ‘Is this the Lights of Lisbon?’

‘No, Major, another café. One of the most notorious in Alfama. Gypsies, bullfighters, criminals.’

‘A good job we’re armed then. When we go in, have your pistol in your right pocket and your hand on it.’

‘But General Schellenberg gave us express instructions to …’

‘Don’t argue. I’ve no intention of losing this man now. Do as I say and follow me,’ and Berger led the way towards the café where they could hear guitar music.

Inside, the place was light and airy in spite of the fact that dusk was falling. The bar top was marble, bottles ranged against an old-fahioned mirror behind it. The walls were whitewashed and covered with bullfighting posters. The bartender, squat and ugly with one white eye, wore an apron and soiled shirt and sat at a high stool reading a newspaper. Four other men played poker at another table, swarthy, fierce-looking gypsies. A younger man leaned against the wall and fingered a guitar.

The rest of the place was empty except for Devlin who sat at a table against the far wall reading a small book, a glass of beer at his hand. The door creaked open and Berger stepped in, Eggar at his back. The guitarist stopped playing, and all conversation died as Berger stood just inside the door, death come to visit them. Berger moved past the men who were playing cards. Eggar went closer as well, standing to the left.

Devlin glanced up, smiling amiably and picked up the glass of beer in his left hand. ‘Liam Devlin?’ Berger asked.

‘And who might you be?’

‘I am Sturmbannführer Horst Berger of the Gestapo.’

‘Jesus and why didn’t they send the Devil? I’m on reasonable terms there.’

‘You’re smaller than I thought you’d be,’ Berger told him. ‘I’m not impressed.’

Devlin smiled again. ‘I get that all the time, son.’

‘I must ask you to come with us.’

‘And me only halfway through my book. The Midnight Court and in Irish. Would you believe I found it on a stall in the flea market only last week?’

‘Now!’ Berger said.

Devlin drank some more beer. ‘You remind me of a medieval fresco I saw on a church in Donegal once. People running in terror from a man in a hood. Everyone he touched got the Black Death, you see.’

‘Eggar!’ Berger commanded.

Devlin fired through the table top, chipping the wall beside the door. Eggar tried to get the pistol out of his pocket. The Walther Devlin had been holding on his knee appeared above the table now and he fired again, shooting Eggar through the right hand. The police attaché cried out, falling against the wall and one of the gypsies grabbed for his gun as he dropped it.

Berger’s hand went inside his jacket, reaching for the Mauser he carried in a shoulder holster there. Devlin tossed the beer in his face and upended the table against him, the edge catching the German’s shins so that he staggered forward. Devlin rammed the muzzle of the Walther into his neck and reached inside Berger’s coat, removing the Mauser which he tossed on to the bar.

‘Present for you, Barbosa.’ The barman grinned and picked the Mauser up. The gypsies were on their feet, two of them with knives in their hands. ‘Lucky for you you picked on the sort of place where they don’t call the peelers,’ Devlin said. ‘A real bad lot, these fellas. Even the man in the hood doesn’t count for much with them. Barbosa there used to meet him most afternoons in the bullrings in Spain. That’s where he got the horn in the eye.’

The look on Berger’s face was enough. Devlin slipped the book into his pocket, stepped around him, holding the Walther against his leg and reached for Eggar’s hand. ‘A couple of knuckles gone. You’re going to need a doctor.’ He slipped the Walther into his pocket and turned to go.

Berger’s iron control snapped. He ran at him, hands outstretched. Devlin swayed, his right foot flicking forward, catching Berger under the left kneecap. As the German doubled over, he raised a knee in his face, sending him back against the bar. Berger pulled himself up, hanging on to the marble top and the gypsies started to laugh.

Devlin shook his head, ‘Jesus, son, but I’d say you should find a different class of work, the both of you,’ and he turned and went out.

When Schellenberg went into the small medical room, Eggar was sitting at the desk while the Legation’s doctor taped his right hand.

‘How is he?’ Schellenberg asked.

‘He’ll live.’ The doctor finished and cut off the end of the tape neatly. ‘He may well find it rather stiffer in future. Some knuckle damage.’

‘Can I have a moment?’ The doctor nodded and went out and Schellenberg lit a cigarette and sat on the edge of the desk. ‘I presume you found Devlin?’

‘Hasn’t the Herr General been told?’ Eggar asked.

‘I haven’t spoken to Berger yet. All I heard was that you’d come back in a taxi the worse for wear. Now tell me exactly what happened.’

Which Eggar did for as the pain increased, so did his anger. ‘He wouldn’t listen, Herr General. Had to do it his way.’

Schellenberg put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Not your fault, Eggar. I’m afraid Major Berger sees himself as his own man. Time he was taught a lesson.’

‘Oh, Devlin took care of that,’ Eggar said. ‘When I last saw it, the Major’s face didn’t look too good.’

‘Really?’ Schellenberg smiled. ‘I didn’t think it could look worse.’

Berger stood stripped to the waist in front of the wash-basin in the small bedroom he had been allocated and examined his face in the mirror. A bruise had already appeared around his left eye and his nose was swollen. Schellenberg came in, closed the door and leaned against it.

‘So, you disobeyed my orders.’

Berger said, ‘I acted for the best. I didn’t want to lose him.’

‘And he was better than you are. I warned you about that.’

There was rage on Berger’s face in the mirror as he touched his cheek. ‘That little Irish swine. I’ll fix him next time.’

‘No you won’t because from now on I’ll handle things myself,’ Schellenberg said. ‘Unless, of course, you’d prefer me to report to the Reichsführer that we lost this man because of your stupidity.’

Berger swung round. ‘General Schellenberg, I protest.’

‘Get your feet together when you speak to me, Sturmbannführer,’ Schellenberg snapped. Berger did as he was told, the iron discipline of the SS taking control. ‘You took an oath on joining the SS. You vowed total obedience to your Führer and to those appointed to lead you. Is this not so?’

‘Jawohl, Brigadeführer.’

‘Excellent,’ Schellenberg told him. ‘You’re remembering. Don’t forget again. The consequences could be disastrous.’ He moved to the door, opened it and shook his head. ‘You look awful, Major. Try and do something about your face before going down to dinner.’

He went out and Berger turned back to the mirror. ‘Bastard!’ he said softly.

Liam Devlin sat at the piano in the Lights of Lisbon, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, a glass of wine on one side. It was ten o’clock, only two hours till Christmas Day and the café was crowded and cheerful. He was playing a number called ‘Moonlight on the Highway’, a particular favourite, very slow, quite haunting. He noticed Schellenberg the moment he entered, not because he recognized him, only the kind of man he was. He watched him go to the bar and get a glass of wine, looked away, aware that he was approaching.

Schellenberg said, ‘“Moonlight on the Highway”. I like that. One of Al Bowlly’s greatest numbers,’ he added, mentioning the name of the man who had been England’s most popular crooner until his death.

‘Killed in the London Blitz, did you know that?’ Devlin asked. ‘Would never go down to the cellars like everyone else when the air raid siren went. They found him dead in bed from the bomb blast.’

‘Unfortunate,’ Schellenberg said.

‘I suppose it depends which side you’re on.’

Devlin moved into ‘A Foggy Day in London Town’ and Schellenberg said, ‘You are a man of many talents, Mr Devlin.’

‘A passable bar room piano, that’s all,’ Devlin told him. ‘Fruits of a misspent youth.’ He reached for his wine, continuing to play one-handed. ‘And who might you be, old son?’

‘My name is Schellenberg – Walter Schellenberg. You may have heard of me?’

‘I certainly have.’ Devlin grinned. ‘I lived long enough in Berlin for that. General now, is it, and the SD at that? Are you something to do with the two idiots who had a try at me earlier this evening?’

‘I regret that, Mr Devlin. The man you shot is the police attaché at the Legation. The other, Major Berger, is Gestapo. He’s with me only because the Reichsführer ordered it.’

‘Jesus, are we into old Himmler again? Last time I saw him he didn’t exactly approve of me.’

‘Well he needs you now.’

‘For what?’

‘To go to England for us, Mr Devlin. To London, to be more precise.’

‘No thanks. I’ve worked for German Intelligence twice in this war. The first time in Ireland where I nearly got my head blown off.’ He tapped the bullet scar on the side of his forehead.

‘And the second time in Norfolk you took a bullet in the right shoulder and only got away by the skin of your teeth, leaving Kurt Steiner behind.’

‘Ah, so you know about that?’

‘Operation Eagle? Oh, yes.’

‘A good man, the Colonel. He wasn’t much of a Nazi …’

‘Did you hear what happened to him?’

‘Sure – they brought Max Radl into the hospital I was in in Holland after his heart attack. He got some sort of report from intelligence sources in England that Steiner was killed at a place called Meltham House trying to get at Churchill.’

‘Two things wrong about that,’ Schellenberg told him. ‘Two things Radl didn’t know. It wasn’t Churchill that weekend. He was on his way to the Tehran conference. It was his double. Some music hall actor.’

‘Jesus, Joseph and Mary!’ Devlin stopped playing.

‘And more importantly, Kurt Steiner didn’t die. He’s alive and well and at present in the Tower of London which is why I want you to go to England for me. You see I’ve been entrusted with the task of getting him safely back to the Reich and I’ve little more than three weeks to do it in.’

Frear had entered the café a couple of minutes earlier and had recognized Schellenberg instantly. He retreated to a side booth where he summoned a waiter, ordered a beer, and watched as the two men went out into the garden at the rear. They sat at a table and looked down at the lights of the shipping in the Tagus.

‘General, you’ve lost the war,’ Devlin said. ‘Why do you keep trying?’

‘Oh, we all have to do the best we can until the damn thing is over. As I keep saying, it’s difficult to jump off the merry-go-round once it’s in motion. A game we play.’

‘Like the old sod with the white hair in the end booth watching us now,’ Devlin observed.

Schellenberg looked round casually. ‘And who might he be?’

‘Pretends to be in the port business. Name of Frear. My friends tell me he’s military attaché at the Brit Embassy here.’

‘Indeed.’ Schellenberg carried on calmly. ‘Are you interested?’

‘Now why would I be?’

‘Money. You received twenty thousand pounds for your work on Operation Eagle paid into a Geneva account.’

‘And me stuck here without two pennies to scratch myself with.’

‘Twenty-five thousand pounds, Mr Devlin. Paid anywhere you wish.’

Devlin lit another cigarette and leaned back. ‘What do you want him for? Why go to all the trouble?’

‘A matter of security is involved.’

Devlin laughed harshly. ‘Come off it, General. You want me to go jumping out of Dorniers again at five thousand feet in the dark like last time over Ireland and you try to hand me that kind of bollocks.’

‘All right.’ Schellenberg put up a hand defensively. ‘There’s a meeting in France on the twenty-first of January. The Führer, Rommel, Canaris and Himmler. The Führer doesn’t know about Operation Eagle. The Reichsführer would like to produce Steiner at that meeting. Introduce him.’

‘And why would he want to do that?’

‘Steiner’s mission ended in failure, but he led German soldiers in battle on English soil. A hero of the Reich.’

‘And all that old balls?’

‘Added to which the Reichsführer and Admiral Canaris do not always see eye to eye. To produce Steiner.’ He shrugged. ‘The fact that his escape had been organized by the SS …’

‘Would make Canaris look bad?’ Devlin shook his head. ‘What a crew. I don’t much care for any of them or that old crow Himmler’s motives, but Kurt Steiner’s another thing. A great man, that one. But the bloody Tower of London …’

He shook his head and Schellenberg said, ‘They won’t keep him there. My guess is they’ll move him to one of their London safe houses.’

‘And how can you find that out?’

‘We have an agent in London working out of the Spanish Embassy.’

‘Can you be sure he’s not a double?’

‘Pretty sure in this case.’ Devlin sat there frowning and Schellenberg said, ‘Thirty thousand pounds.’ He smiled. ‘I’m good at my job, Mr Devlin. I’ll prepare a plan for you that will work.’

Devlin nodded. ‘I’ll think about it.’ He stood up.

‘But time is of the essence. I need to get back to Berlin.’

‘And I need time to think, and it’s Christmas. I’ve promised to go up country to a bull ranch a friend of mine called Barbosa runs. Used to be a great torero in Spain where they like sharp horns. I’ll be back in three days.’

‘But Mr Devlin,’ Schellenberg tried again.

‘If you want me, you’ll have to wait.’ Devlin clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Come on now, Walter, Christmas in Lisbon? Lights, music, pretty girls? At this present moment they’ve got a blackout in Berlin and I bet it’s snowing. Which would you rather have?’

Schellenberg started to laugh helplessly and behind them, Frear got up and went out.

Urgent business had kept Dougal Munro at his office at SOE Headquarters on the morning of Christmas Day. He was about to leave when Jack Carter limped in. It was just after noon.

Munro said, ‘I hope it’s urgent, Jack. I’m due for Christmas lunch with friends at the Garrick.’

‘I thought you’d want to know about this, sir.’ Carter held up a signal flimsy. ‘From Major Frear, our man in Lisbon. Friend Devlin.’

Munro paused. ‘What about him?’

‘Guess who he was locked in conversation with last night at a Lisbon club? Walter Schellenberg.’

Munro sat down at his desk. ‘Now what in the hell is the good Walter playing at?’

‘God knows, sir.’

‘The Devil, more like. Signal Frear most immediate. Tell him to watch what Schellenberg gets up to. If he and Devlin leave Portugal together I want to know at once.’

‘I’ll get right on to it, sir,’ Carter told him and hurried out.

It had tried to snow over Christmas, but in London on the evening of the 27th, it was raining when Jack Carter turned into a small mews near Portman Square not far from SOE Headquarters; which was why he had chosen it when he’d received a phone call from Vargas. The café was called Mary’s Pantry, blacked out, but when he went in the place was bright with Christmas decorations and holly. It was early evening and there were only three or four customers.

Vargas sat in the corner drinking coffee and reading a newspaper. He wore a heavy blue overcoat and there was a hat on the table. He had olive skin, hollow cheeks and a pencil moustache, his hair brilliantined and parted in the centre.

Carter said, ‘This had better be good.’

‘Would I bother you if it were not, señor?’ Vargas asked. ‘I’ve heard from my cousin in Berlin.’

‘And?’

‘They want more information about Steiner. They’re interested in mounting a rescue operation.’

‘Are you certain?’

‘That was the message. They want all possible information as to his whereabouts. They seem to think you will move him from the Tower.’

‘Who’s they? The Abwehr?’

‘No. General Schellenberg of the SD is in charge. At least that is who my cousin is working for.’

Carter nodded, fiercely excited, and got up. ‘I want you to phone me on the usual number at eleven, old chum, and don’t fail.’ He leaned forward. ‘This is the big one, Vargas. You’ll make a lot of cash if you’re smart.’

He turned and went out and hurried along Baker Street as fast as his game leg would allow.

In Lisbon at that precise moment Walter Schellenberg was climbing the steep cobbled alley in Alfama towards the Lights of Lisbon. He could hear the music even before he got there. When he went inside, the place was deserted except for the barman and Devlin at the piano.

The Irishman stopped to light a cigarette and smiled. ‘Did you enjoy your Christmas, General?’

‘It could have been worse. And you?’

‘The bulls were running well. I got trampled. Too much drink taken.’

‘A dangerous game.’

‘Not really. They tip the ends of the horns in Portugal. Nobody dies.’

‘It hardly seems worth the candle,’ Schellenberg said.

‘And isn’t that the fact? Wine, grapes, bulls and lots and lots of sun, that’s what I had for Christmas, General.’ He started to play ‘Moonlight on the Highway’. ‘And me thinking of old Al Bowlly in the Blitz, London, fog in the streets. Now isn’t that the strange thing?’

Schellenberg felt the excitement rise inside him. ‘You’ll go?’

‘On one condition. I can change my mind at the last minute if I think the thing isn’t watertight.’

‘My hand on it.’

Devlin got up and they walked out to the terrace. Schellenberg said, ‘We’ll fly out to Berlin in the morning.’

‘You will, General, not me.’

‘But Mr Devlin – ’

‘You have to think of everything in this game, you know that. Look down there.’ Over the wall, Frear had come in and was talking to one of the waiters as he wiped down the outside tables. ‘He’s been keeping an eye on me, old Frear. He’s seen me talking to the great Walter Schellenberg. I should think that would figure in one of his reports to London.’

‘So what do you suggest?’

‘You fly back to Berlin and get on with the preparations. There’ll be plenty to do. Arrange the right papers for me at the Legation, travelling money and so on and I’ll come the low-risk way by rail. Lisbon to Madrid, then the Paris Express. Fix it up for me to fly from there if it suits or I could carry on by train.’

‘It would take you two days at least.’

‘As I say, you’ll have things to do. Don’t tell me the work won’t be piling up.’

Schellenberg nodded. ‘You’re right. So, let’s have a drink on it. To our English enterprise.’

‘Holy Mother of God, not that, General. Someone used that phrase to me last time. They didn’t realize that’s how the Spanish Armada was described and look what happened to that lot.’

‘Then to ourselves, Mr Devlin,’ Schellenberg said. ‘I will drink to you and you will drink to me,’ and they went back inside.

Munro sat at his desk in the Haston Place flat and listened intently as Carter gave him the gist of his conversation with Vargas.

He nodded. ‘Two pieces of the jigsaw, Jack. Schellenberg’s interested in rescuing Steiner and where is Schellenberg right now? In Lisbon hobnobbing with Liam Devlin. Now, what conclusion does that lead you to?’

‘That he wants to recruit Devlin to the cause, sir.’

‘Of course. The perfect man.’ Munro nodded. ‘This could lead to interesting possibilities.’

‘Such as?’

Munro shook his head. ‘Just thinking out loud. Time to think of moving Steiner anyway. What would you suggest?’

‘There’s the London Cage in Kensington,’ Carter said.

‘Come off it, Jack. That’s only used for processing transients, isn’t it? Prisoners of war such as Luftwaffe aircrews.’

‘There’s Cockfosters, sir, but that’s just a cage, too, and the school opposite Wandsworth Prison. A number of German agents have been held there.’ Munro wasn’t impressed and Carter tried again. ‘Of course there’s Mytchett Place in Hampshire. They’ve turned that into a miniature fortress for Hess.’

‘Who lives there in splendour so solitary that in June nineteen forty-one he jumped from a balcony and tried to kill himself. No, that’s no good.’ Munro went to the window and looked out. The rain had turned to sleet now. ‘Time I spoke with friend Steiner, I think. We’ll try and make it tomorrow.’

‘Fine, sir. I’ll arrange it.’

Munro turned. ‘Devlin – there is a photo on file?’

‘Passport photo, sir. When he was in Norfolk he had to fill in an alien’s registration form. That’s a must for Irish citizens and it requires a passport photo. Special Branch ran it down. It’s not very good.’

‘They never are, those things.’ Munro suddenly smiled. ‘I’ve got it, Jack. Where to hold Steiner. That place in Wapping. St Mary’s Priory.’

‘The Little Sisters of Pity, sir? But that’s a hospice for terminal cases.’

‘They also look after chaps who’ve had breakdowns, don’t they? Gallant RAF pilots who’ve cracked up?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And you’re forgetting that Abwehr agent Baum in February. The one who got shot in the chest when Special Branch and MI5 tried to pick him up in Bays-water. They nursed him at the Priory and interrogated him there. I’ve seen the reports. MI5 don’t use it regularly, I know that for a fact. It would be perfect. Built in the seventeenth century. They used to be an enclosed order so the whole place is walled. Built like a fortress.’

‘I’ve never been, sir.’

‘I have. Strange sort of place. Protestant for years when Roman Catholics were proscribed, then some Victorian industrialist who was a religious crank turned it into a hostel for people off the street. It stood empty for years and then in nineteen ten some benefactor purchased it. The place was reconsecrated Roman Catholic and the Little Sisters of Pity were in business.’ He nodded, full of enthusiasm. ‘Yes, I think the Priory will do nicely.’

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