Daniel Silva - The Unlikely Spy

"Perhaps it's better that way," Himmler said, his face impassive, his voice betraying no emotion whatsoever. "The less the good admiral knows, the less he can betray to the enemy."

"I've done some investigating of my own," Schellenberg said. "I know that Vogel has sent at least one new agent into England. He had to use the Luftwaffe for the drop, and the pilot who flew the mission was very cooperative." Schellenberg opened his briefcase and withdrew two copies of the same file, handing one to Hitler and the other to Himmler. "The agent's name is Horst Neumann. The Reichsfuhrer may remember that business in Paris some time back. An SS man was killed in a bar in Paris. Neumann was the man involved in that."

Himmler let the file fall from his hands onto the coffee table around which they were seated. "For the Abwehr to use such a man is a direct slap in the face to the SS and the memory of the man he murdered! It shows Vogel's contempt for the party and the Fuhrer."

Hitler was still reading the file and seemed genuinely interested in it. "Perhaps Neumann is simply the right man for the job, Herr Reichsfuhrer. Look at his dossier: born in England, decorated member of the Fallschirmjager, Knight's Cross, Oak Leaves. On paper a very remarkable man."

The Fuhrer was more lucid and reasonable than Schellenberg had seen him in some time.

"I agree," Schellenberg said. "Except for the one blight on his record, Neumann appears to be an extraordinary soldier."

Himmler cast a cadaverous glance at Schellenberg. He didn't appreciate being contradicted in front of the Fuhrer, no matter how brilliant Schellenberg might be.

"Perhaps we should make our move against Canaris now," Himmler said. "Remove him, place Brigadefuhrer Schellenberg in charge, and combine the Abwehr and the SD into one powerful intelligence agency. That way Brigadefuhrer Schellenberg can oversee Vogel's operation personally. Things seem to have a way of going awry where Admiral Canaris is involved."

Again, Hitler disagreed with his most trusted aide. "If Schellenberg's Russian friend is correct, this man Vogel seems to have the British on the run. To step in now would be a mistake. No, Herr Reichsfuhrer, Canaris remains in place for the time being. Perhaps he's doing something right for a change."

Hitler stood up.

"Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have other matters that demand my attention."

Two Mercedes staff cars were waiting at the curbside, engines running. There was an awkward moment while deciding whose car to take, but Schellenberg quietly relented and climbed in the back of Himmler's. He felt vulnerable when he wasn't surrounded by his security men, even when he was with Himmler. During the short drive, Schellenberg's armored Mercedes never strayed more than a few feet from the rear bumper of Himmler's limousine.

"An impressive performance as always, Herr Brigadefuhrer," Himmler said. Schellenberg knew his superior well enough to realize the remark was not meant as a compliment. Himmler, the second-most powerful man in Germany, was peeved at being contradicted in front of the Fuhrer.

"Thank you, Herr Reichsfuhrer."

"The Fuhrer wants the secret of the invasion so badly it is clouding his judgment," Himmler said matter-of-factly. "It is our job to protect him. Do you understand what I'm saying to you, Herr Brigadefuhrer?"

"Absolutely."

"I want to know what Vogel is playing at. If the Fuhrer won't let us do it from the inside, we'll have to do it from the outside. Put Vogel and his assistant Ulbricht under twenty-four-hour surveillance. Use every means at your disposal to penetrate Tirpitz Ufer. Also, find some way of getting a man into the radio center at Hamburg. Vogel has to communicate with his agents. I want someone listening to what's being said."

"Yes, Herr Reichsfuhrer."

"And, Walter, don't look so glum. We'll get our hands around the Abwehr soon enough. Don't worry. It will be all yours."

"Thank you, Herr Reichsfuhrer."

"Unless, of course, you ever contradict me in front of the Fuhrer again."

Himmler rapped on the glass partition so softly it was almost inaudible. The car pulled to the side of the curb, as did Schellenberg's, directly behind them. The young general sat motionless until one of his security men appeared at the door to accompany him on the ten-foot walk back to his own car.

Catherine Blake was by now thoroughly regretting her decision to go to the Popes for help. Yes, they had given her a meticulous account of Peter Jordan's life in London. But it had come at a very steep price. She had been threatened with extortion, drawn into a bizarre sexual game, and been forced to murder two people. Now the police were involved. The murder of a prominent black-marketeer and underworld figure like Vernon Pope was big news in all the London newspapers. The police had misled the news-papermen, though-they said the victims had been found with their throats slit, not stabbed through the eye and through the heart. They were obviously trying to filter out crank leads from real ones. Or was MI5 already involved? According to the newspapers, the police wanted to question Robert Pope but had been unable to find him. Catherine could be of assistance. Pope was sitting twenty feet from her in the Savoy bar, angrily nursing a whisky.

Why was Pope there? Catherine thought she knew the answer. Pope was there because he suspected Catherine was involved in his brother's murder. Finding her would not be difficult for him. Pope knew Catherine was looking for Peter Jordan. All he had to do was go to the places frequented by Peter Jordan, and there was a good chance Catherine would appear.

She turned her back to him. She was not afraid of Robert Pope; he was more a nuisance than a threat. As long as she remained in full view he would be reluctant to take action against her. Catherine had expected this. As a precaution she had started carrying her pistol at all times. It was necessary but annoying. She had to carry a larger handbag to conceal the weapon. It was heavy and banged against her hip when she walked. The gun, ironically, was also a threat to her security. Try explaining to a London police officer why you're carrying a German-made Mauser pistol equipped with a silencer.

Deciding whether to kill Robert Pope was not Catherine Blake's biggest worry, for at that moment Peter Jordan walked into the bar of the Savoy along with Shepherd Ramsey.

She wondered which man would make the first move. Things were about to get interesting.

"I'll say one good thing about this war," Shepherd Ramsey said, as he and Peter Jordan sat down at a corner table. "It's done wonders for my net worth. While I've been over here playing hero, my stocks have been soaring. I've made more money during the past six months than I did for ten years working at Dad's insurance company."

"Why don't you tell old Dad to shove off?"

"He'd be lost without me."

Shepherd signaled the waiter and ordered a martini. Jordan ordered a double scotch.

"Tough day at the office, honey?"

"Brutal."

"The rumor mill says you're working on a diabolical new secret weapon."

"I'm an engineer, Shep. I build bridges and roads."

"Any idiot could do that. You're not over here building a goddamned highway."

"No, I'm not."

"So when are you going to tell me what you're working on?"

"I can't. You know I can't."

"It's just me, old Shep. You can tell me anything."

"I'd love to, Shepherd, but if I told you I'd have to kill you, and then Sally would be a widow and Kippy would have no father."

"Kippy's in trouble at Buckley again. Goddamned kid gets in more trouble than I did."

"Now that's saying something."

"The headmaster's threatening to throw him out. Sally had to go over the other day and listen to a lecture about how Kippy needs a strong male influence in his life."