A Gathering of Spies (31 page)

As they turned into the drive, Beck said, “She is Cecilienhof. There are one hundred and seventy-six rooms in the palace, Professor, which was constructed in 1917, just before the end of the Great War. I assume the history interests you? I know of your academic background.”

Winterbotham said nothing.

“You will be our guest in one of her magnificent bedrooms,” Beck continued, “and we shall hold our discussions in her main conference room. It is a sign of how important the High Command considers you, Professor, that such a magnificent palace has been placed at our disposal. Only you and I shall meet, to begin with, although it is possible that we may have other visitors as well. Perhaps Admiral Canaris; perhaps even the
Führer
himself. In any case, Cecilienhof will be your home during your stay in Germany.”

“How long do you suppose my stay may last?” Winterbotham asked.

Beck chuckled.

“It depends, of course, on what you have to tell us. Not less than one week, I should expect. Not more than two, or possibly three.”

“Then my wife and I will be returned to England?”

“We must discuss the particulars. It seems that a return to England may cause problems—for yourself, Professor, more than for us. Perhaps a more neutral destination, at least for a time?”

“But we will be allowed to leave,” Winterbotham said.

“Of course. You are a guest here. You are free to leave whenever you like.”

The car rolled to a stop by the front porch.

“We will have refreshments,” Beck said. “I know it is late, Professor, but I would very much like to begin our discussions tonight, if that is agreeable with you.”

They sat at a round oak table in the main conference room. Windows facing onto the lawn had been cast open, and Winterbotham could hear the lake, a thousand yards distant, stirring in a night breeze. The dim, cavernous room around him was paneled in dark wood; the table was encircled by four tremendous chairs, each with lions' heads carved into the armrests.

It was minutes past midnight when Beck lit a thin cigarette, put his pen to paper, then looked up at Winterbotham expectantly.

“Well,” he said. “Where shall we begin?”

The mosquitoes arrived with dawn.

They came off the lake, plump and brazen, just as Winterbotham and Beck were standing. Winterbotham finished the tot of brandy he'd been drinking; Beck slapped at a mosquito that had landed on his neck, inspected the carcass briefly, and then wiped his hand nonchalantly on his trousers.

“A good night's work,” he said. “We shall rest now. The mosquitoes, you understand; we cannot keep them out except by closing the windows, and then the room becomes stifling. This afternoon, perhaps, we will pick up where we have left off.”

“Will my wife arrive today?” Winterbotham asked.

Beck gave him a bland smile. “Perhaps this evening. Perhaps tomorrow.”

Winterbotham followed Beck up a grand staircase to his room—a large, airy chamber with French windows looking out over the lake. As far as he could see, no guards had been posted outside. A small bookshelf near the bed was well-stocked; he eyed it for a moment. Then he circled the room several times before pausing near the window, staring out into the morning sun.

“Will you require anything else?” Beck asked. “A breakfast? Another brandy?”

Winterbotham shook his head. “I'll sleep well just as I am, thank you.”

“It has been a pleasure meeting you, Professor, and I sincerely look forward to continuing our work together.”

The young German left the room, closing the door behind himself softly.

Winterbotham looked after him for a moment. Then he drew a breath, held it, and heaved it back out as a sigh. Evasion, he had discovered, was exhausting work. He had been dodging questions for eight uninterrupted hours.

He moved to the canopied bed and collapsed onto it heavily. Sunlight streamed through the French windows, pricking at his eyes; he considered getting up to pull the curtains. Perhaps in a moment, he decided. He let his eyes drift closed instead. Before they resumed the interrogation—if one could call such conversational ballet an interrogation—he would ask for a bath, a shave, a change of clothes. Or would that be a mistake? Every amenity he accepted put him, however subtly, in the Nazis' debt. Perhaps it would be better to wait until these things had been offered—

“Forgive me, Professor,” Beck said, “but I require clarification on a point.”

Winterbotham opened his eyes. Somehow Beck had come back into the room, silently, and was sitting in a chair by the bed, consulting his pad.

“You have told me,” Beck said, “that the British are aware that we use a three-rotor encryption device, correct? Yes. But, you insist, the British have not actually broken our codes. So I find a discrepancy, Professor. How is it that the RAF avoided being lured south on Alder Tag, if our codes had not been compromised?”

Winterbotham knuckled at his eyes before answering.

“You stopped bombing the quays,” he said.

“Ah,” Beck said. “And so you anticipated the invasion.”

“Yes.”

“And therefore anticipated our tactic of luring the RAF south.”

“Precisely.”

“Many thanks,” Beck said, and smiled. “Now I shall be able to sleep. Good night, Professor.”

He stood, bowed, and left the room again. After a moment Winterbotham returned his head to the pillow.

Five minutes passed. He was just slipping into unconsciousness when the door to the chamber burst open and Beck swept in, wearing a fresh uniform, looking rested.

“Professor!” he crowed. “How did you sleep?”

Winterbotham propped himself up on one elbow. He considered informing Beck that he had, in fact, not slept, and decided against it. Beck, of course, already knew.

“Very well, thank you,” he said.

“Do you feel up to continuing?”

“Of course,” Winterbotham said. He rubbed at his eyes again, then nodded, stood, and gave Beck a sardonic grin.

“Repeat, please,” Beck said.

Winterbotham sighed. “Plugboard connections,” he repeated. “Starting positions. The order of the rotors.”

“Thank you. Proceed.”

Winterbotham talked on. Beck let him speak, without interrupting, for nearly twenty minutes. Outside, the sun began to set; the mosquitoes turned slow and torpid.

“I think that is enough for today,” Beck said then, smiling, always smiling. “Shall we take a walk before supper, Professor? A bit of exercise is good for the blood.”

“If you like,” Winterbotham said.

They walked around the lake. Winterbotham found himself staring at the scummy algae floating on the water—his eyes were too tired to pull themselves away. He watched the flitting nonsense of the mosquitoes and the water-skimmers and the dragonflies. Beck, beside him, kept his thoughts to himself.

After they had walked for ten minutes, Winterbotham said, “Any word on my wife?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” Beck said. “She has been delayed. But she is safe.”

“When do you expect her?”

“Difficult to say. Tomorrow or the next day.”

They walked.

“You must love your wife very much,” Beck said. “You have been married for many years?”

“Many years,” Winterbotham agreed.

“And how did you meet her, Professor? If you don't mind my asking. She was a student of yours?”

“No. Her brother was a friend of mine, once upon a time.”

“I see. He is not your friend any longer?”

“He's dead.”

“Ah,” Beck said. “My condolences.”

He lit a cigarette and offered one to Winterbotham, who shook it off, took out his pipe, and began to tamp down his tobacco as they walked.

“You strike me as a reasonable man,” Beck said. “It is a shame that others in England are not as reasonable as you. Germany has no quarrel with England. Germany only wants what is hers. And at the risk of betraying my cynicism, Professor, there is a mutual enemy whom we both face. England and Germany should be allies. Cynicism? Let us call it pragmatism.”

“I see the wisdom in your words,
Herr
Beck.”

Beck glanced at him in the twilight. “I believe that you do,” he said. “I believe that you are here because you follow a higher moral calling, Professor, than the majority of your countrymen. You appreciate the value of peace.”

Winterbotham lit his pipe, and held his tongue.

“Let us return to Cecilienhof,” Beck said generously. “Another good night's rest will surely do us both good.”

This time, Winterbotham had actually fallen asleep before they woke him.

He was shown into a different room, smaller than the one he had shared with Beck. He was presented with a different man, introduced as
Herr
Dietrich. Beck, he thought sourly, probably needed his sleep.

Dietrich asked about things that Winterbotham did not know. This, Winterbotham understood, was a standard interrogation technique. After Dietrich had quizzed him for hours about aviation tactics and Soviet offenses and gun placements and other subjects that were completely alien to him, he would (in theory) feel extremely eager to be asked a question he could answer. Then the topic would swing back around to code breaking or invasion, and he would stumble all over himself in an effort to gain his host's approval with correct replies.

“Our airplanes in Africa suffer one-and-a-half-inch holes in their armor,” Dietrich said. “But always a single hole. Why is this?”

Winterbotham shook his head. “I don't know,” he said.

“What weapon is producing the one-and-a-half-inch holes in our airplanes?”

“I don't know.”

“We believe that the wing cannons on your Hurricanes are not equipped with reloading equipment. Is this accurate?”

“I don't know.”

“What type of radio is used by the Piper Cub?”

“I don't know.”

“We believe it is the SCR. Six Hundred, correct?”

“I don't know.”

“I appreciate that this is not your area of expertise,” Dietrich said. “But I would expect that any military man who pays attention to his surroundings would have, at the very least, an impression concerning these questions.”

Winterbotham shrugged. “Perhaps I don't pay enough attention,” he said.

“Perhaps not,” Dietrich said. “Perhaps an easier question?”

Winterbotham shrugged again, lit his pipe.

“Ah, here is an easy one. Surely you can help me with this one, Professor. One would think that the transference of a battle-tested division from the Mediterranean theater to Great Britain would imply preparations for an invasion of France. And yet you told
Herr
Beck that you believed it was merely a precaution against a German invasion. However, you also told
Herr
Beck that fears of a German invasion have, as of late, dropped to nearly nothing. These statements are at odds, are they not?”

“Are they?” Winterbotham said.

“They are.”

“I can only tell you what I know,” Winterbotham said. “It's up to you to put the pieces together.”

A blue vein pulsed in Dietrich's temple.

“I see,” he said. “In any case, Professor, to return to the question of the one-and-a-half-inch holes in the armor of our aircraft …”

That night they allowed him two hours' sleep.

The next day he was interrogated from sunrise to sunset.

Finally, Beck leaned back in his chair, stretching languidly.

“It has been a long day,” he said, “eh, Professor?”

Winterbotham was looking out the windows of the conference room at the tendrils of sunset reflected in the lake. He found himself beginning to agree with Beck—yes, he would say, I'm glad you understand, it
has
been a long day indeed—but quickly caught himself.

“Fatiguing,” Beck pressed, “eh?”

Winterbotham nodded shortly.

“Are you hungry, Professor? Come, let us visit the dining room. Then we can retire early. Tomorrow is another full day, after all.”

“
Herr
Beck,” Winterbotham said, “if I may …”

“Yes, Professor?”

“You said initially that in order to avoid the mosquitoes, we would work only at night.”

“Did I say that?” Beck asked, standing.

“You did,” Winterbotham said. “Yet now we work at all hours. One would almost suspect,
Herr
Beck, that you are hoping to disorient me.”

Beck, gathering his papers, smiled slightly.

“We change our routine time and time again,” Winterbotham said. “You tell me one thing and then do another. You deny me sleep—”

“Deny you sleep!”

“Food is presented in abundance or in paucity. I am not allowed to bathe or change my clothes. I have not yet been allowed to see my wife—”

“I should apologize,” Beck said. “We must have been working too hard, to give rise to such feelings of paranoia. Your constitution is suffering.”

“I admit that your clumsy duplicity is tiring,
Herr
Beck. Now, tell me: Will I be allowed to see my wife, or will I not?”

“My dear Professor,” Beck said, “after dinner you will have a bath. A razor, fresh clothing, whatever else you desire. Do not hesitate to ask me for anything.”

“You've avoided my question,
Herr
Beck.”

“I can only tell you so many times about the circumstances and the delays—”

“When might she arrive, do you think?”

“Tomorrow,” Beck said. “At the very latest, the day after.”

Beck walked Winterbotham to his room that evening, bade him a tart good night, and then retraced his steps down the hallway, down the majestic staircase, to the front porch of the mansion.

Here he smoked a cigarette, waiting for Admiral Canaris to arrive. He finished the cigarette, checked his wristwatch, and lit another. He was just finishing the second when he saw the staff Mercedes turn into the drive. A porter carrying a machine gun appeared from Cecilienhof and stood unobtrusively on one corner of the porch.