The Unlikely Spy(70)

The Hamburg operator ordered Becker to proceed. Becker looked down at Vicary's message and quickly tapped it out. When he was finished he waited for Hamburg to confirm, then signed off. Vicary slipped off his headphones and shut off the radio. Becker would sulk for a while--he always did after sending one of Vicary's Double Cross messages--like a man who feels the hot flash of guilt after copulating with his mistress and wishes to be alone with his troubled thoughts. Vicary always suspected Becker was ashamed of betraying his own service--that his rantings about Abwehr bumbling and incompetence were just an attempt to conceal his own guilt over being a failure and a coward. Not that he had much of a choice; the first time Becker refused to send one of Vicary's messages he would be marched off to Wandsworth Prison for an appointment with the hangman.

Vicary feared he had lost him. Becker smoked, and he ate a few more chocolates without offering any to Vicary. Vicary slowly packed away the radio.

"I saw her once in Berlin," Becker said suddenly. "She was immediately separated from the rest of us mere mortals. I don't want you to quote me on this, Alfred--I'm just going to tell you what I heard. The rumors, the talk. If it doesn't turn out to be totally accurate I don't want Stephens to come in here and start throwing me off the f*cking walls."

Vicary nodded sympathetically. Stephens was Colonel R.W.G. Stephens, the commandant of Camp 020, better known as Tin-Eye. A former Indian Army officer, Stephens was monocled, maniacal, and always dressed immaculately in a forage cap and uniform of the Peshawar Rifles. He was half German and spoke the language fluently. He was also detested by the prisoners and MI5 staff alike. Once he had given Vicary a thorough public dressing-down because he arrived five minutes late for an interrogation. Even senior staff like Boothby were not immune to his tirades and fits of vile temper.

"You have my word, Karl," Vicary said, taking his place at the table again.

"They said her name was Anna Steiner--that her father was some sort of aristocrat. Prussian, rich bastard, dueling scar on the cheek, dabbled in diplomacy. You know the type, don't you?" Becker didn't wait for an answer. "Christ, she was beautiful. Tall as hell. Spoke perfectly accented British English. The rumors said she had an English mother. That she was living in Spain the summer of 'thirty-six, f*cking some Spanish Fascist bastard named Romero. Turns out Senor Romero was a talent spotter for the Abwehr. He calls Berlin, collects a finder's fee, and hands her over. The Abwehr puts the screws to her. They tell lovely Anna that her Fatherland needs her; if she doesn't cooperate, Papa von Steiner gets shipped off to a concentration camp."

"Who was her control officer?"

"I don't know his name. Sour-looking bastard. Smart, like you, only ruthless."

"Was his name Vogel?"

"I don't know--could be."

"You never saw her again?"

"No, just that once."

"So what happened to her?"

Becker was overcome by another fit of coughing that a fresh cigarette seemed to cure.

"I'm telling you what I heard, not what I know. You understand the difference?"

"I understand the difference."

"We heard there was a camp, somewhere in the mountains south of Munich. Very isolated, all surrounding roads closed. Hell for the locals. According to the rumors it was a place where they sent a few special agents--the ones they planned to bury deep."

"She was one of those agents?"

"Yes, Alfred. We've covered that ground already. Stay with me, please." Becker was digging through the chocolates again. "It was as if an English village had dropped from the sky and landed in the middle of Bavaria. There was a pub, a small hotel, cottages, even an Anglican church. Each agent was assigned to a cottage for a minimum stay of six months. In the morning they read London newspapers at the cafe over tea and buns. They did their shopping in English and listened to popular radio programs of the day on the BBC. Me, I never heard It's That Man Again until I came to London."

"Go on."

"They had special codes and special rendezvous procedures. They were given more weapons training. Silent killing. At night they even sent the boys English-speaking whores so they could f*ck in English."

"And what about the woman?"

"They say she was f*cking her control officer--what did you say his name was, Vogel? Again, it was only a rumor."

"Did you ever meet her in Britain?"

"No."

"I want the truth, Karl!" Vicary snapped, so loudly that one of the guards stuck his head inside the door to make sure there was no problem.

"I'm telling you the truth! Jesus Christ, you're Alfred Vicary one minute and Heinrich Himmler the next. I never saw her again."

Vicary switched to German. He didn't want the guards eavesdropping on the conversation.

"Do you know her cover name?"

"No." Becker responded in the same language.

"Do you know her address?"

"No."

"Do you know if she's operating in London?"

"She could be operating on the moon for all I know."

Vicary exhaled loudly in frustration. It was all interesting information but, like the discovery of Beatrice Pymm's murder, it put him no closer to his quarry. "Have you told me everything you know about her, Karl?"