Heroes, David Hagberg [me reader .txt] 📗

stock-still as he watched her. She was purchasing a newspaper. Katrina Mueller. The words rolled off his lips. Even her name was lovely.

If Schiechter was suspicious of Deland and if he had picked a handmaiden, it would be Maria Quelle, not Katrina Mueller.

Deland could not believe that of someone so beautiful and so young.

Yet, he told himself, he was young and innocent-seeming.

And he was a spy.

Even if it was her, however, he rationalized, it would be necessary for him to discover the extent of her knowledge. It was his duty.

She turned away from the counter, and Deland jumped up and waved. When she spotted him, she smiled and came across the room. His heart was thumping nearly out of his chest.

The stars shone brightly from a perfectly clear but moonless sky, providing only a scant illumination for the two long black Mercedes super sedans that pulled off the narrow coastal highway from Huelva. At this point they were only a couple hundred yards from the border with Portugal. Down a gentle hill the guard huts on both sides were lit up—an oasis in the middle of the very dark countryside.

Canaris climbed out of the rear of the lead Mercedes. He glanced nervously at his watch. He was a few minutes early.

Thank God for that. If their man was coming across tonight (and their intelligence unit out of Lisbon indicated he was), he’d be showing up at any time now. The penetration window was from 0130 until 0330.

A second man, this one much larger, much heavier, but also dressed in civilian clothes, got out of the big car after speaking with the driver and the other three men who scrambled out the opposite side.

He looked down toward the border posts, then handed Canaris a pair of powerful night glasses.

“Try these, Herr Admiral,” he said, his German very precise, definitely a Berliner.

“Danke,” Canaris said in a coarse Bavarian drawl, barely concealing his dislike for the man. He took the binoculars and brought them up to his eyes. At first he could not get the powerful glasses in focus, but then the profile of one of the Spanish customs men jumped into view, illuminated by the light within the hut.

The guard lit a cigarette, scratched his nose, and then stepped outside around to the side of the hut, where he undid his trousers and relieved himself.

Canaris felt like a voyeur and he was having trouble holding the binoculars steady. He was tired, and extremely nervous. He felt burned-out. Too much was riding on what was about to happen tonight. For the past month Meitner had been back in Berlin making sure that the transfer of Hamburg Radio to Zossen went smoothly. At the last minute he had cut the captain out of this operation. The man was too vulnerable. When the hell came, he would not be able to protect himself. Besides, Canaris thought, he wanted one relatively pristine man in Berlin. If and when the end came for the Abwehr, his own movements might very well be restricted. He wanted someone with the freedom of the city.

He went to the front of the car, and leaning over the broad, still warm hood, his elbows propped up, he again trained the glasses on the frontier crossing, conscious of his own heart beating and his shallow breathing. Careful, Willi, he told himself, trying to slow down. He had been having a lot of trouble with hyperventilating lately. There was a lot of pressure, and the loneliness with Erika down in Bavaria and with the children spread over Europe was great. They were out of harm’s way, and yet … The Spanish guard went back inside the hut when he was finished, and Canaris shifted his gaze to the Portuguese border hut. If there was going to be trouble, it would come there.

At first he could see no one. Just the glassed-in hut lit by what looked like a single bulb. But then there was a movement. Both guards suddenly came into view. One of them raised a wine bottle to his lips, drank deeply, then passed it to the other.

Major Rheinhard Whalpol came back from where he had been speaking with the men in the second car. There was a pinched, disapproving expression on his round piggish face. Typical of the new order, the thought crossed Canaris’ mind.

“Are your people ready?”

“Yes, but I don’t like this,” Whalpol snapped. He too appeared nervous. A tiny Brandenburger Division pin in the lapel of his dark suit glinted dully in the starlight. Against regulations on these sorts of operations, but Canaris found he no longer cared about such trivial details. Especially not this evening. Lately he found he was losing his stomach for that kind of a fight.

“What exactly is it that you don’t like, Major?” Canaris asked.

“It’s you, sir, with all due respect. If there’s an incident here tonight … if anything should develop, and your presence is discovered by the Guardia, there will be hell to pay.”

Canaris smiled at the irony. “This is war, Herr Major, or had you forgotten?” The night air smelled deliciously fragrant.

Algeciras was not far away. He wished he could just turn around, drive down there, and wait out the end.

“I must insist that you remain out of sight until the delivery is made.” “You’re not in a position to insist,” Canaris said. Whalpol was a fool.

“I see.”

Canaris glanced again toward the border. He was exhausted, mentally and physically, from the rigors of his position, from the incredible tension he had been under lately (Reitlinger’s and Schellenberg’s names came immediately to mind), and from the extraordinary pressures created by the Fuhrer’s recent tactics and the Allied bombing raids.

Curious, he told himself, to think of the last two pressures in the same vein.

Whalpol was still coming at him, like an irritating insect.

“I think we should withdraw, away from the border. We should meet the courier, as scheduled, in Madrid.”

“We will intercept him here.”

“I could pick up the film and hand-deliver it to