Volk (25 page)

Meanwhile, when he was free, he drove again to Barcelona and questioned the proprietor of the house where the Quaker office had been. “We suspect that one of them did not depart with the others.”

“They all left,” he was assured. “None are here now.”

“Did any trucks go to France?”

“There was one, but it did not return.”

That was all they knew. But it opened an avenue. Quality could have driven to France, and been caught there. But there was nothing more he could do until he returned to Germany and reviewed the lists of detainees. It was galling to have to wait, but he was on assignment in Spain and had to remain there.

In December Admiral Canaris returned to Spain to meet with General Franco. Ernst accompanied him to Madrid. The Admiral's mission was unsuccessful: Spain was “unable” to join the war, or even to give a date for entry into the war, because of the current economic and military situation. “The
Führer
will be annoyed,” Canaris muttered. “I am here on his direct order. But if we can take Gibraltar, that may make up for it. We can still secure the Mediterranean theater.”

Ernst wanted to tell him that Gibraltar was hopeless, but the man was already so depressed that he remained silent.

So the consideration of Felix continued. Despite Ernst's firsthand report of the layout of the defenses, they wanted more pictures. In order to conceal their real intent, they took them by a local brothel, with some of the girls posing in the foreground.

That was a mistake. The authorities in Germany got the idea that the Abwehr personnel were playing with harlots instead of doing their work, and demanded that it stop. Project Felix was canceled.

But later in the month it was revived, as a possible diversion to relieve the hard-pressed Italians in Greece. It didn't matter; it remained hopeless.

Felix was canceled again, resurrected again, and finally canceled for good, and the Abwehr units were reassigned. But before that, Ernst was recalled to Germany. It was a relief. Now at last he would have the chance to check on Quality—if she were a prisoner of the Vichy. He hoped she was, because otherwise there was no hope for her.

•  •  •

Ernst returned to Berlin. It was the Christmas season, and though the Nazis frowned on Christianity, they had no objection to festivities. So Ernst had a week's leave to visit home. He could not return directly to Wiesbaden, because of his cover, but he found a way to manage it indirectly.

The first thing he did was look up Krista, whom he had not seen in almost six months. She was getting holiday leave too. She remained almost startlingly beautiful, and her interest in him was undiminished. But Berlin was crowded, and there was no sufficiently private place for her to demonstrate her interest in her normal fashion. So their first date was quite open and chaste.

“Do you think your family would object if I accompanied you, to meet them?” he inquired.

Her eyes lighted. She understood his situation, and saw opportunity. “They do know I have been seeing someone in Berlin. I think they might appreciate learning more about him. But it may be difficult to get train tickets, this late; tickets have been sold out for weeks.”

“I believe I could requisition a car for a few days.”

Those were magic words. “Then we must do it!”

They did it. She understood that when they arrived in Wiesbaden they would separate, each returning home alone, to avoid awkward questions both political and personal, and that when they met again there he would be Ernst Best. She was good at secrets.

As they drove toward Frankfurt, she turned to him. “We could stop anywhere along the way, for anything.” Her meaning was clear.

Ernst was sorely tempted. But he resisted. “I want it to be right between us—completely right.”

“But you must let me tempt you, in case it is already right. You must play fair, Ernst.”

He had to smile. When they came to an intersection with a minor road, he turned off, and turned off again, finding a deserted section in a wooded region. He stopped the car.

Krista slid over to embrace him. She kissed him. Then she opened her shirt to him. “Touch me, and tell me it is not right.”

“I fear that would be too much temptation.”

She loosened her bra and drew it out of the way. “If you wait too long, someone will come and see me, and then you will have much explaining to do.”

She was daring him to gamble on delay! And she was right: he could not afford to have anyone see her this way, and he did need to demonstrate that he could hold his course despite her.

He reached out and took her full breasts in his hands. The whole world seemed to fade out, except for that rapturous contact. His desire for her intensified to the point of seeming madness.

Then he heard something. Was it the approach of a distant car? He slid his hands around and up, catching the straps of her bra on his fingers. He drew it down to cover her breasts, and then closed her shirt over the whole.

The sound faded. It was a car, but not coming this way. But the false alarm had enabled him to do what he should.

She sighed. “You have not changed. I think it is your constancy I love most about you, though it frustrates me horribly. When you do commit, I will know it will never change.”

He nodded. He rather thought he would indeed commit, when he was free of this mission. Krista was ideal for an SS officer.

The rest of the visit home was uneventful. Four days later they returned to Berlin. Did Krista know how close she had come to overwhelming his resistance? Perhaps she did, and was satisfied merely to inflame his passion without actually doing anything forbidden.

•  •  •

Meanwhile, in Berlin, the Abwehr was involved in plans for the next campaign: the relief of the Italian effort in Yugoslavia and Greece. As Ernst had anticipated, the Italians were messing up the job and needed to be bailed out. The Admiral had worked out an armistice proposal which had gained Hitler's support, but the Greek Premier opposed it.

“It is essential that Germany not be drawn into this action,” Canaris insisted. He seemed almost desperate. That was odd, because it was obvious that German forces, if committed, could quickly reduce both Greece and Yugoslavia. It would have been better if it had been possible to take Gibraltar from the British, thus protecting that flank, but that would not stop land action.

Then Ernst had a bright idea. “Haven't a number of foreign personnel been interned in French camps? Refugees from the International Brigade may be of any nationality. They could be interviewed by military intelligence to determine whether they possess information or contacts of potential value to Reich concerns in other areas. If we can ascertain whether any are of Greek or Yugoslavian derivation—”

Canaris paused. “Any lead we can get is worthwhile. If by chance there are any with family members in important positions in Greece who might be blackmailed, that would be better yet. But it would take time to do this, and I have no personnel free.” Then he did a doubletake, looking at Ernst. “Except for you. Do it. Requisition a list of interred foreigners, and go to see them. See about translators who know the languages. If any camp directors balk, refer them to me.”

That was exactly what Ernst wanted. He would check every name, and if there were any Greeks or Slavs he could certainly do his utmost to get their information. But he would also check for one particular name: an American.

Soon the lists arrived, because it seemed that Hitler himself wanted Canaris to succeed in his effort. Ernst wondered what was so important about that region, that Germany had to remain clear of it? This was unlike previous campaigns.

Ernst pored over the names, noting prospects. It was not enough to check foreign names, for a name was no certain indication of origin. He had to catch the familiar names that might nevertheless have foreign connections. Also, some might have given false name to conceal their origins. He would have to actually see them and hear them speak to be sure. It was a big job he had gotten for himself.

Then he checked Gurs, a camp along the Spanish border. The name leaped out at him. Quality Smith, American. She was there. He had found her!

But Ernst did not allow anyone else to know his excitement. He completed his review of the lists, and prepared to travel to the camps. He had to do this in such a way that his interest would not cause any possible additional trouble for Quality. For despite his excitement about this confirmation, which was evidence that she was at least alive, he knew that her situation was in other respects dire. She must have been arrested for some reason. He would have to discover what that was, without tipping his hand.

•  •  •

He interviewed the internees at Gurs in rigorous order: first those suspected of having any Greek or Yugoslav connection, then those of other nationalities. He had to use translators for the various languages. The results were disappointing, in terms of his official mission, but he was establishing his credits so that no one would catch on to his personal mission. One of the last was the American, deliberately, as a wrap-up of what remained.

They brought her in, clad in her worn and soiled shirt and skirt. There was no money for uniforms for internees, so armbands distinguished them. Her hair fell partly across her face, not from any artful device but because she evidently lacked pins to hold it in place. She was completely unremarkable—yet his heart leaped.

He did not give her a chance to betray their prior acquaintance. He spoke brusquely in English. “Your name is—” He paused to peer at his list of names. “Smith. Of Britain?”

Her surprise could have been taken for fear of the interrogator. She had never seen him in uniform before. “I am Quality Smith, of America.”

“We are not at war with America. You were caught spying for Britain?”

“I was caught trying to smuggle a man from France into Spain.”

He frowned. “A Jew?” he asked sharply.

“Yes.”

He glanced at the camp commandant. “See how openly she confesses it. Americans are notoriously naive about this matter. She probably did not even think she was doing wrong.” Then he fired the question directly at Quality. “Is it wrong to harbor a Jew?”

“No.”

He turned again to the commandant. “It is a mistake to aggravate a noncombatant nation unnecessarily. It would be better to repatriate this one. Notify the American ambassador of her presence here, and advise him that we will deliver her there for a nominal fee to cover our costs in boarding her for this time. In the interim, she should be kept in good health, so that the Americans will have no claim against us.”

He watched as she was led away. He had done all he could to safeguard her. He doubted that she would be released, but he had accomplished two things: he had verified that she was alive and in health, and he had let her know that he would help her. To whatever extent he could.

What he had not anticipated was the strength of his personal reaction to the sight of her. He had addressed her with calculated indifference, but he had wanted to take her in his arms and comfort her. The emotion was different, in subtle and unsubtle ways, from what he had felt when touching Krista's breasts, but as strong.

In fact, he realized now that Quality was the major reason he had resisted Krista's allure. It was sheer foolishness and mischief in every respect, but his heart was drawn to her. He
had
to help her, though he dreaded the price of it.

Lane arrived at the Rock of Gibraltar in October 1940. Because the proprietors were sensitive to any interference by outsiders, he was listed as a temporarily inactive airman sent for recuperation. He would not be allowed to fly, and would not offer any criticism of existing facilities or policies. He would serve in whatever capacity to which it was convenient to assign him, and when he completed his recovery he would return to England to rejoin his unit. In short, he was represented as exactly what he was: a disabled airman who needed to be parked somewhere away from his unit until he was able to resume full activity. That way he could not interfere with the efficiency of his unit, or endanger his fellow airmen by being too eager to get back into the air.

The fact that Gibraltar was right next to Spain was officially irrelevant. No one here knew Lane's personal motive for being here. No one except Bader, who would not tell. Lane smiled, thinking of that. Bader had done him an enormous favor, and earned his lifetime loyalty thereby. But Bader had also succeeded in making him take the inactive time required, willingly. Bader had put it all together. That was his genius.

Gibraltar was impressive from the air. It was geologically a “bill,” or projection from land, the opposite of a fjord or inlet. Lane, unused to being a passenger instead of a pilot, nevertheless appreciated the chance to gaze at it with his whole attention. The thing was like a sleeping two-humped camel, its head down out of sight. The higher hump was to the north, to his surprise; he had somehow thought the rock rose to its southernmost extremity, then plunged into the sea. That was far from the case; the rise was nearly vertical at the north, just below the isthmus that connected it to the mainland, and tapered down to the sea at the south. The east side was too steep for use, but the west had roads and buildings all along its gentler slope. Several great moles reached out from the west to enclose the harbor. They served as the port for Force H, the British naval group consisting of the battle cruiser Hood, the battleships Resolution and Valiant, the aircraft carrier Ark Royal, several other cruisers, and fleet destroyers. The Eighth Submarine Flotilla was also here. The fighter planes served to protect these assorted ships. Lane had reviewed it all, and now was seeing it come to life.

Had he likened the peninsula to a sleeping camel? No, as the angle of approach shifted he saw the sharp ridges at its top, and the slanted water catchments on the eastern slope. The ridge was after all highest at the southern part, before commencing its slant. The Rock was more like a great ship, a monstrous three-mile-long battleship, no, a carrier ship, with its superstructure off to one side to make space for the landing decks. And that was what it was, essentially: a mighty dreadnought neither battleship nor carrier, but a colossal attack ship docked for the moment at the continent, about to set off for some unimaginable voyage. If he had to be out of his airplane and on a ship, this was the ship to be on.