The Paris Spy (Maggie Hope Mystery #7)(28)
“True, true.” The two laughed again.
Von Waltz exhaled, blowing smoke rings one after the other. “Before I left the office today, I was talking to Ribbentrop about the little radio game our colleagues are playing with the SOE in Holland,” the Obersturmbannführer said, namedropping shamelessly. “We must have the same success here, in Paris. We must fool the British—beat them at their own game. Alas, our last prisoner decided not to work with us, but we can still use her radio.”
“Too bad,” Bretz said, tapping the side of his glass, then drinking. “Any standin we use would have a different fist from the English agent.” A radio operator’s fist, the way he or she coded, was as distinctive as a signature. It was an assurance to those picking up the message that the agent was really who she said she was. “The different fist, as well as lack of security checks, might set off alarm bells back in London, you know.”
“Oh, the SOE obviously doesn’t notice or doesn’t care about such details. They don’t even care that their security checks are compromised. We could include a few lines of Mein Kampf and the British still wouldn’t believe their pretty operator’s been captured. But you’re right—we won’t be able to get away with it forever. And so I have an idea. We tell them this particular spy has gone into hiding in Paris for a few weeks. This will explain her changed fist, lack of security checks, and missed times of communication.”
“And then?” Bretz drained his glass.
“Then, after some time has gone by, we begin again, make London trust her. All the while either capturing more agents and commandeering their radios or letting them signal back as our prisoners, operating under our watch.”
“And our endgame?”
“The Allies will be making plans for their eventual invasion attempt, of course,” von Waltz answered, resting his cigar in an opaline ashtray. “To prepare, they will need covert agents in place, supplies, plans of destruction. By playing our Radiospiel, we’ll learn the time and place of the invasion. Information invaluable to Himmler. And to our Führer. Ribbentrop is on his way to Paris as we speak.”
“?‘Radio game.’ I like the sound of that!” Bretz swallowed the last of his pastis. “But the British might know. It’s possible they are playing us at our own game. They could have given us this agent in order to have someone on the inside. She just didn’t go along with the plan.”
“I studied at Cambridge years ago and know a few things about the English,” von Waltz replied. “They’re smart, they fight hard when they have to, they always do their duty—but they have an idealistic sense of ‘fair play’ that never fails to trip them up. And they would never, ever deliberately sacrifice one of their own, even in the name of victory.”
“But we can’t have this agent ‘in hiding’ forever,” Bretz objected. “And to truly use her radio, we’re going to need more information about her network. Specific details, so they don’t begin to suspect anything.”
Von Waltz leaned closer. “I have a spy on the inside—a double agent. My relationship with him goes back to the Spanish Civil War.”
“Ah. And what contacts does this agent have with the English?”
“Through the whimsies of war and his own quite considerable ambitions, he’s risen to a position of critical importance inside English intelligence. He’s the SOE’s roundhouse, through which most vital movements of their spy networks are scheduled. If we protect him and the British activities from any untimely discovery and arrest—keep the police and the Wehrmacht away from the safe houses and the Luftwaffe from their takeoffs and landings, at least as much as possible—he will continue to be extremely valuable to them.” Von Waltz doused his cigar in a small pool of water in the ashtray. “They will grow to trust him more and more.”
“Won’t they get suspicious if their agents start disappearing?”
“We mustn’t be greedy. We’ll pick off only a few at a time, no mass arrests. After all, the more agents he gets home safely, the more confidence the English will have in him. And the more they trust him, the better an agent he’ll be for me. We should follow these spies, see who they meet, find out the locations of the safe houses, and so on. By leaving their networks more or less intact,” von Waltz continued, “we’ll have access to unprecedented intelligence—up to and including the time and place of any Allied landings.”
One of the girls, wearing only a satin robe, poked her head into the salon. “And pierce the heart of the British spy network.” Bretz blew her a kiss. She giggled and left. “But why would your man be so keen to betray the British? After all, we invaded his country.”
“He’s no fan of the Reich, but he loathes Communism even more. He’s appalled at the way the French Communists have joined the Resistance, collaborating with the British. He thinks the Commies are planning on taking over if the Allies win. And he’d rather see his country Fascist than Bolshevik. Besides, the money is very good. He likes the finer things in life.” Von Waltz reached for his cigar. “As we all do.”
“But the agents—they’re not going to confide the details of their missions to this man. What information other than drop-offs and deliveries will he have access to?”