Eye of the Needle (11 page)

For photography he needed light. He would have to wait until dawn. There had been a ruined barn a little way back—he could spend the rest of the night there.

He checked his compass and set off. The barn was farther than he thought, and the walk took him an hour. It was an old wooden building with holes in the roof. The rats had long ago deserted it for lack of food, but there were bats in the hayloft.

Faber lay down on some planks but he could not sleep. Not with the knowledge that he was now personally capable of altering the course of the war.

DAWN WAS DUE
at 05:21. At 04:20 Faber left the barn.

Although he had not slept, the two hours had rested his body and calmed his mind, and he was now in fine spirits. The cloud was clearing with a west wind, so although the moon had set there was starlight.

His timing was good. The sky was growing perceptibly brighter as he came in sight of the “airfield.”

The sentries were still in their tent. With luck, they would be sleeping. Faber knew from his own experience of such duties that it was hardest to stay awake during the last few hours.

But if they did come out, he would have to kill them.

He selected his position and loaded the Leica with a 36-frame roll of 35mm fast Agfa film. He hoped the film’s light-sensitive chemicals had not spoiled; it had been stored in his suitcase since before the war, and you couldn’t buy film in Britain nowadays. It should be all right; he had kept it in a lightproof bag away from any heat.

When the red rim of the sun edged over the horizon he began shooting. He took a series of shots from different vantage points and various distances, finishing with a close-up of one dummy plane; the pictures would show both the illusion and the reality.

As he took the last, he saw movement from the corner of his eye. He dropped flat and crawled under a plywood Mosquito. A soldier emerged from the tent, walked a few paces, and urinated on the ground. The man stretched and yawned, then lit a cigarette. He looked around the airfield, shivered, and returned to the tent.

Faber got up and ran.

A quarter of a mile away he looked back. The airfield was out of sight. He headed west, toward the barracks.

This would be more than an ordinary espionage coup. Hitler had had a life of being the only one in step. The man who brought the proof that, yet again, the Fuehrer was right and all the experts were wrong, could look for more than a pat on the back. Faber knew that already Hitler rated him the Abwehr’s best agent—this triumph might well get him Canaris’s job.

If he made it.

He increased his pace, jogging twenty yards, walking the next twenty, and jogging again, so that he reached the barracks by 06:30. It was bright daylight now, and he could not approach close because these sentries were not in a tent but in one of the wall-less huts with a clear view all around them. He lay down by the hedge and took his pictures from a distance. Ordinary prints would just show a barracks, but big enlargements ought to reveal the details of the deception.

When he headed back toward the boat he had exposed thirty frames. Again he hurried, because he was now terribly conspicuous, a black-clad man carrying a canvas bag of equipment, jogging across the open fields of a restricted area.

He reached the fence an hour later, having seen nothing but wild geese. As he climbed over the wire, he felt a great release of tension. Inside the fence the balance of suspicion had been against him; outside it was in his favor. He could revert to his bird-watching, fishing, sailing role. The period of greatest risk was over.

He strolled through the belt of woodland, catching his breath and letting the strain of the night’s work seep away. He would sail a few miles on, he decided, before mooring again to catch a few hours’ sleep.

He reached the canal. It was over. The boat looked pretty in the morning sunshine. As soon as he was under way he would make some tea, then—

A man in uniform stepped out of the cabin of the boat and said: “Well, well. And who might you be?”

Faber stood still, letting the icy calm and the old instincts come into play. The intruder wore the uniform of a captain in the Home Guard. He had some kind of handgun in a holster with a buttoned flap. He was tall and rangy, but he looked to be in his late fifties. White hair showed under his cap. He made no move to draw his gun. Faber took all this in as he said, “You are on my boat, so I think it is I who should ask who you are.”

“Captain Stephen Langham, Home Guard.”

“James Baker.” Faber stayed on the bank. A captain did not patrol alone.

“And what are you doing?”

“I’m on holiday.”

“Where have you been?”

“Bird-watching.”

“Since before dawn? Cover him, Watson.”

A youngish man in denim uniform appeared on Faber’s left, carrying a shotgun. Faber looked around. There was another man to his right and a fourth behind him.

The captain called, “Which direction did he come from, corporal?”

The reply came from the top of an oak tree. “From the restricted area, sir.”

Faber was calculating odds. Four to one—until the corporal came down from the tree. They had only two guns, the shotgun and the captain’s pistol. And they were basically amateurs. The boat would help too.

He said, “Restricted area? All I saw was a bit of fence. Look, do you mind pointing that blunderbuss away? It might go off.”

“Nobody goes bird-watching in the dark,” the captain said.

“If you set up your hide under cover of darkness, you’re concealed by the time the birds wake up. It’s the accepted way to do it. Now look, the Home Guard is jolly patriotic and keen and all that, but let’s not take it too far. Don’t you just have to check my papers and file a report?”

The captain was looking a shade doubtful. “What’s in that canvas bag?”

“Binoculars, a camera, and a reference book.” Faber’s hand went to the bag.

“No, you don’t,” the captain said. “Look inside it, Watson.”

There it was—the amateur’s error.

Watson said, “Raise your hands.”

Faber raised his hands above his head, his right hand close to the left sleeve of his jacket. Faber choreographed the next few seconds—there must be no gunfire.

Watson came up on Faber’s left side, pointing the shotgun at him, and opened the flap of Faber’s canvas bag. Faber drew the stiletto from his sleeve, moved inside Watson’s guard, and plunged the knife into Watson’s neck up to the hilt. Faber’s other hand twisted the shotgun out of the young man’s grasp.

The other two soldiers on the bank moved toward him, and the corporal began to crash down through the branches of the oak.

Faber tugged the stiletto out of Watson’s neck as the man collapsed to the ground. The captain was fumbling at the flap of his holster. Faber leaped into the well of the boat. It rocked, sending the captain staggering. Faber struck at him with the knife, but the man was too far away for an accurate thrust. The point caught in the lapel of his uniform jacket, then jerked up, slashing his chin. His hand came away from the holster to clutch the wound.

Faber whipped around to face the bank. One of the soldiers jumped. Faber stepped forward and held his right arm out rigidly. The leaping soldier impaled himself on the eight-inch stiletto.

The impact knocked Faber off his feet, and he lost his grip on the stiletto. The soldier fell on top of the weapon. Faber got to his knees; there was no time to retrieve the stiletto, the captain was opening his holster. Faber jumped at him, his hands going for the officer’s face. The gun came out. Faber’s thumbs gouged at the eyes of the captain, who screamed in pain and tried to push Faber’s arms aside.

There was a thud as the fourth guardsman landed in the well of the boat. Faber turned from the captain, who would now be unable to see to fire his pistol even if he could get the safety off. The fourth man held a policeman’s truncheon; he brought it down hard. Faber shifted to the right so that the blow missed his head and caught his left shoulder. His left arm momentarily went nerveless. He chopped the man’s neck with the side of his hand, a powerful, accurate blow. Amazingly the man survived it and brought his truncheon up for a second swipe. Faber closed in. The feeling returned to his left arm, and it began to hurt mightily. He took the soldier’s face in both his hands, pushed, twisted, and pushed again. There was a sharp crack as the man’s neck broke. At the same instant the truncheon landed again, this time on Faber’s head. He reeled away, dazed.

The captain bumped into him, still staggering. Faber pushed him. His cap went flying as he stumbled backward over the gunwale and fell into the canal with a huge splash.

The corporal jumped the last six feet from the oak tree onto the ground. Faber retrieved his stiletto from the impaled guard and leaped to the bank. Watson was still alive, but it would not be for long—blood was pumping out of the wound in his neck.

Faber and the corporal faced each other. The corporal had a gun.

He was understandably terrified. In the seconds it had taken him to climb down the oak tree this man had killed three of his mates and thrown the fourth into the canal.

Faber looked at the gun. It was
old
—almost like a museum piece. If the corporal had any confidence in it, he would already have fired it.

The corporal took a step forward, and Faber noticed that he favored his right leg—perhaps he had hurt it coming out of the tree. Faber stepped sideways, forcing the corporal to put his weight on the weak leg as he swung to keep his gun on the target. Faber got the toe of his shoe under a stone and kicked upward. The corporal’s attention flicked to the stone, and Faber moved.

The corporal pulled the trigger; nothing happened. The old gun had jammed. Even if it had fired, he would have missed Faber; his eyes were on the stone, he stumbled on the weak leg, and Faber had moved.

Faber killed him with the neck stab.

Only the captain was left.

Faber looked, and saw the man clambering out of the water on the far bank. He found a stone and threw it. It hit the captain’s head, but the man heaved himself onto dry land and began to run.

Faber ran to the bank, dived in, swam a few strokes, and came up on the far side. The captain was a hundred yards away and running, but he was old. Faber gained steadily until he could hear the man’s agonized, ragged breathing. The captain slowed, then collapsed into a bush. Faber came up to him and turned him over.

The captain said, “You’re a…devil.”

“You saw my face,” Faber said, and killed him.

12

T
HE JU-
52
TRIMOTOR TRANSPORT PLANE WITH
swastikas on the wings bumped to a halt on the rain-wet runway at Rastenburg in the East Prussian forest. A small man with big features—a large nose, a wide mouth, big ears—disembarked and walked quickly across the tarmac to a waiting Mercedes car.

As the car drove through the gloomy, damp forest, Field Marshal Erwin Rommel took off his cap and rubbed a nervous hand along his receding hairline. In a few weeks’ time, he knew, another man would travel this route with a bomb in his briefcase—a bomb destined for the Fuehrer himself. Meanwhile the fight must go on, so that the new leader of Germany—who might even be himself—could negotiate with the Allies from a reasonably strong position.

At the end of a ten-mile drive the car arrived at the Wolfsschanze, the Wolves’ Lair, headquarters now for Hitler and the increasingly tight, neurotic circle of generals who surrounded him.

There was a steady drizzle, and raindrops dripped from the tall conifers in the compound. At the gate to Hitler’s personal quarters, Rommel put on his cap and got out of the car. Oberfuehrer Rattenhuber, the chief of the SS bodyguard, wordlessly held out his hand to receive Rommel’s pistol.

The conference was to be held in the underground bunker, a cold, damp, airless shelter lined with concrete. Rommel went down the steps and entered. There were a dozen or so there already, waiting for the noon meeting: Himmler, Goering, von Ribbentrop, Keitel. Rommel nodded greetings and sat on a hard chair to wait.

They all stood when Hitler entered. He wore a grey tunic and black trousers, and, Rommel observed, he was becoming increasingly stooped. He walked straight to the far end of the bunker, where a large wall map of northwestern Europe was tacked to the concrete. He looked tired and irritable. He spoke without preamble.

“There will be an Allied invasion of Europe. It will come this year. It will be launched from Britain, with English and American troops. They will land in France. We will destroy them at the high-water mark. On this there is no room for discussion.”

He looked around, as if daring his staff to contradict him. There was silence. Rommel shivered; the bunker was as cold as death.

“The question is, where will they land? Von Roenne—your report.”

Colonel Alexis von Roenne, who had taken over, effectively, from Canaris, got to his feet. A mere captain at the outbreak of war, he had distinguished himself with a superb report on the weakness of the French army—a report that had been called a decisive factor in the German victory. He had become chief of the army intelligence bureau in 1942, and that bureau had absorbed the Abwehr on the fall of Canaris. Rommel had heard that he was proud and outspoken, but able.

Von Roenne said, “Our information is extensive, but by no means complete. The Allies’ code name for the invasion is Overlord. Troop concentrations in Britain are as follows.” He picked up a pointer and crossed the room to the wall map. “First: along the south coast. Second: here in the district known as East Anglia. Third: in Scotland. The East Anglian concentration is
by far
the greatest. We conclude that the invasion will be three-pronged. First: a diversionary attack on Normandy. Second: the main thrust, across the Strait of Dover to the Calais coast. Third: a flanking invasion from Scotland across the North Sea to Norway. All intelligence sources support this prognosis.” He sat down.

Hitler said, “Comments?”

Rommel, who was Commander of Army Group B, which controlled the north coast of France, said, “I can report one confirming sign: the Pas de Calais has received by far the greatest tonnage of bombs.”

Goering said, “What intelligence sources support your prognosis, Von Roenne?”

Von Roenne stood up again. “There are three: air reconnaissance, monitoring of enemy wireless signals and the reports of agents.” He sat down.

Hitler crossed his hands protectively in front of his genitals, a nervous habit that was a sign that he was about to make a speech. “I shall now tell you,” he began, “how I would be thinking if I were Winston Churchill. Two choices confront me: east of the Seine, or west of the Seine. East has one advantage: it is nearer. But in modern warfare there are only two distances—
within
fighter range and
outside
fighter range.
Both
of these choices are within fighter range. Therefore distance is not a consideration.

“West has a great port—Cherbourg—but east has none. And most important—east is more heavily fortified than west. The enemy too has air reconnaissance.

“So, I would choose west. And what would I do then? I would try to make the Germans think the opposite! I would send two bombers to the Pas de Calais for every one to Normandy. I would try to knock out every bridge over the Seine. I would put out misleading wireless signals, send false intelligence reports, dispose my troops in a misleading fashion. I would deceive fools like Rommel and von Roenne. I would hope to deceive the Fuehrer himself!”

Goering spoke first after a lengthy silence. “My Fuehrer, I believe you flatter Churchill by crediting him with ingenuity equal to your own.”

There was a noticeable easing of tension in the uncomfortable bunker. Goering had said exactly the right thing, managing to voice his disagreement in the form of a compliment. The others followed him, each stating the case a little more strongly—the Allies would choose the shorter sea crossing for speed; the closer coast would allow the covering fighter aircraft to refuel and return in shorter time; the southeast was a better launch pad, with more estuaries and harbors; it was unlikely that
all
the intelligence reports would be wrong.

Hitler listened for half an hour, then held up his hands for silence. He picked up a yellowing sheaf of papers from the table and waved them. “In 1941,” he said, “I issued my directive
Construction of Coastal Defenses
, in which I forecast that the decisive landing of the Allies would come at the protruding parts of Normandy and Brittany, where the excellent harbors would make ideal beachheads. That was what my intuition told me then, and that is what it tells me now!” A fleck of foam appeared on the Fuehrer’s lower lip.

Von Roenne spoke up. (He has more courage than I, Rommel thought.) “My Fuehrer, our investigations continue, quite naturally, and there is one particular line of inquiry that you should know about. I have in recent weeks sent an emissary to England to contact the agent known as Die Nadel.”

Hitler’s eyes gleamed. “Ah! I know the man. Go on.”

“Die Nadel’s orders are to assess the strength of the First United States Army Group under General Patton in East Anglia. If he finds that this has been exaggerated, we must surely reconsider our prognosis. If, however, he reports that the army is as strong as we presently believe, there can be little doubt that Calais is the target.”

Goering looked at von Roenne. “Who is this Nadel?”

Hitler answered the question. “The only decent agent Canaris ever recruited—because he recruited him at my direction. I know his family—strong, loyal, upright Germans. And Die Nadel—a brilliant man, brilliant! I see all his reports. He has been in London since—”

Von Roenne interrupted: “My Fuehrer—”

Hitler glared at him. “Well?”

Von Roenne said tentatively, “Then you will accept Die Nadel’s report?”

Hitler nodded. “That man will discover the truth.”