The Unlikely Spy(71)

Becker smiled. "She's supposed to be an incredible f*ck." Becker noticed the color in Vicary's cheeks. "I'm sorry, Alfred. Jesus Christ, I forget what a prude you are sometimes."

Still speaking in German, Vicary said, "Why haven't you told us this before--the business about the special agents?"

"But I have, Alfred old man."

"Who have you told? You've never told me."

"I told Boothby."

Vicary felt blood streaming to his face, and his heart began to beat furiously. Boothby? Why in the world would Boothby be interrogating Karl Becker? And why would he do it without Vicary being present? Becker was his agent. Vicary arrested him, Vicary turned him, Vicary ran him.

His face calm, Vicary said, "When did you tell Boothby?"

"I don't know. It's hard to keep track of time in here. A couple of months ago. September maybe. No, maybe it was October. Yes, I believe October."

"What did you tell him, exactly?"

"I told him about the agents, I told him about the camp."

"Did you tell him about the woman?"

"Yes, Alfred, I told him everything. He's a vicious bastard. I don't like him. I'd watch out for him if I were you."

"Was there anyone with him?"

"Yes, tall fellow. Handsome, like a film star. Blond, blue eyes. A real German superman. Thin, though, skinny as a stick."

"Did the stick have a name?"

Becker threw his head back and made a show of searching his memory.

"Christ, it was a funny name. A tool or something." Becker pinched the bridge of his nose. "No, something you use in the house. Mop? Bucket? No, Broome! That's it, Broome! Imagine that--the guy looks like a f*cking stick and calls himself Broome. You English have a marvelous sense of humor sometimes."

Vicary had collected the suitcase radio and was rapping his knuckle against the thick door.

"Why don't you leave the radio, Alfred? It gets lonely here sometimes."

"Sorry, Karl."

The door opened and Vicary stepped through. "Listen, Alfred, the cigarettes and chocolate were wonderful, but next time bring a girl, will you?"





Vicary went to the chief guard's office and asked for the logbooks for October and November. It took him a few moments, but he found the entry he was looking for.





DATE: 5-10-43

PRISONER: Becker, K.

NUMBER OF VISITORS: 2

NAMES/DEPT: No, thank you.





25


BERLIN





"My God, but it's cold this morning," said Brigadefuhrer Walter Schellenberg.

"At least you still have a roof over your head," replied Admiral Wilhelm Canaris. "The Halifaxes and Lancasters had quite a time last night. Hundreds dead, thousands homeless. So much for the invulnerability of our illustrious thousand-year Reich."

Canaris looked to Schellenberg for reaction. As always, he was struck by how young the man was. At just thirty-three he was head of Section VI of the Sicherheitsdienst--better known as the SD--the intelligence and security service of the SS. Section VI was responsible for gathering intelligence on the Reich's enemies in foreign countries, an assignment very similar to that of the Abwehr. As a result, the two men were locked in a desperate competition.

They were a mismatched pair: the short, laconic, white-haired old admiral who spoke with a slight lisp; the handsome, energetic, and thoroughly ruthless young brigadefuhrer. The son of a Saarland piano maker, Schellenberg was personally recruited to the Nazi security apparatus by Reinhard Heydrich, the chief of the SD who was assassinated by Czechoslovakian resistance fighters in May 1942. One of the Nazi Party's bright lights, Schellenberg thrived in its dangerous, paranoid atmosphere. His cathedral-like office was thoroughly bugged and he had machine guns built into his desk, giving him the ability to kill a threatening visitor with the press of a button. On those rare occasions when he permitted himself to relax, Schellenberg liked to spend time with his elaborate collection of pornography. Once, he displayed the photographs to Canaris the way a man might show snapshots of his family, boasting about the pictures he choreographed himself to satisfy his own bizarre sexual appetites. On his hand Schellenberg wore a ring with a blue stone, beneath which lay a capsule of cyanide. He had also been fitted with a false tooth containing a lethal measure of the poison.

Now, Schellenberg had just two goals: destroy Canaris and the Abwehr and bring Adolf Hitler the most important secret of the war, the time and place of the Anglo-American invasion of France. Schellenberg had nothing but disdain for the Abwehr and the cluster of old officers surrounding Canaris, whom he derisively referred to as Santa Clauses. Canaris knew perfectly well Schellenberg was gunning for him, yet between the two there existed an uneasy truce. Schellenberg treated the old admiral with deference and respect; Canaris genuinely admired the brash, brilliant young officer and enjoyed his company.

Which was why they began most mornings the same way, riding side by side on horseback through the Tiergarten. It gave each man a chance to check up on what the other was doing--to spar, to probe for weakness. Canaris liked their rides for one other reason. He knew that for at least one hour each morning the young general was not actively plotting his demise.

"There you go again, Herr Admiral," Schellenberg said. "Always looking at the dark side of things. I suppose that makes you a cynic, doesn't it."