this man because of your stupidity.’
Berger swung round. ‘General Schellenberg, I protest.’
‘Get your feet together when you speak to me, Sturmbannführer,’ Schellenberg snapped. Berger did as he was told, the iron discipline of the SS taking control. ‘You took an oath on joining the SS. You vowed total obedience to your Führer and to those appointed to lead you. Is this not so?’
‘Jawohl, Brigadeführer.’
‘Excellent,’ Schellenberg told him. ‘You’re remembering. Don’t forget again. The consequences could be disastrous.’ He moved to the door, opened it and shook his head. ‘You look awful, Major. Try and do something about your face before going down to dinner.’
He went out and Berger turned back to the mirror. ‘Bastard!’ he said softly.
Liam Devlin sat at the piano in the Lights of Lisbon, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, a glass of wine on one side. It was ten o’clock, only two hours till Christmas Day and the café was crowded and cheerful. He was playing a number called ‘Moonlight on the Highway’, a particular favourite, very slow, quite haunting. He noticed Schellenberg the moment he entered, not because he recognized him, only the kind of man he was. He watched him go to the bar and get a glass of wine, looked away, aware that he was approaching.
Schellenberg said, ‘“Moonlight on the Highway”. I like that. One of Al Bowlly’s greatest numbers,’ he added, mentioning the name of the man who had been England’s most popular crooner until his death.
‘Killed in the London Blitz, did you know that?’ Devlin asked. ‘Would never go down to the cellars like everyone else when the air raid siren went. They found him dead in bed from the bomb blast.’
‘Unfortunate,’ Schellenberg said.
‘I suppose it depends which side you’re on.’
Devlin moved into ‘A Foggy Day in London Town’ and Schellenberg said, ‘You are a man of many talents, Mr Devlin.’
‘A passable bar room piano, that’s all,’ Devlin told him. ‘Fruits of a misspent youth.’ He reached for his wine, continuing to play one-handed. ‘And who might you be, old son?’
‘My name is Schellenberg – Walter Schellenberg. You may have heard of me?’
‘I certainly have.’ Devlin grinned. ‘I lived long enough in Berlin for that. General now, is it, and the SD at that? Are you something to do with the two idiots who had a try at me earlier this evening?’
‘I regret that, Mr Devlin. The man you shot is the police attaché at the Legation. The other, Major Berger, is Gestapo. He’s with me only because the Reichsführer ordered it.’
‘Jesus, are we into old Himmler again? Last time I saw him he didn’t exactly approve of me.’
‘Well he needs you now.’
‘For what?’
‘To go to England for us, Mr Devlin. To London, to be more precise.’
‘No thanks. I’ve worked for German Intelligence twice in this war. The first time in Ireland where I nearly got my head blown off.’ He tapped the bullet scar on the side of his forehead.
‘And the second time in Norfolk you took a bullet in the right shoulder and only got away by the skin of your teeth, leaving Kurt Steiner behind.’
‘Ah, so you know about that?’
‘Operation Eagle? Oh, yes.’
‘A good man, the Colonel. He wasn’t much of a Nazi …’
‘Did you hear what happened to him?’
‘Sure – they brought Max Radl into the hospital I was in in Holland after his heart attack. He got some sort of report from intelligence sources in England that Steiner was killed at a place called Meltham House trying to get at Churchill.’
‘Two things wrong about that,’ Schellenberg told him. ‘Two things Radl didn’t know. It wasn’t Churchill that weekend. He was on his way to the Tehran conference. It was his double. Some music hall actor.’
‘Jesus, Joseph and Mary!’ Devlin stopped playing.
‘And more importantly, Kurt Steiner didn’t die. He’s alive and well and at present in the Tower of London which is why I want you to go to England for me. You see I’ve been entrusted with the task of getting him safely back to the Reich and I’ve little more than three weeks to do it in.’
Frear had entered the café a couple of minutes earlier and had recognized Schellenberg instantly. He retreated to a side booth where he summoned a waiter, ordered a beer, and watched as the two men went out into the garden at the rear. They sat at a table and looked down at the lights of the shipping in the Tagus.
‘General, you’ve lost the war,’ Devlin said. ‘Why do you keep trying?’
‘Oh, we all have to do the best we can until the damn thing is over. As I keep saying, it’s difficult to jump off the merry-go-round once it’s in motion. A game we play.’
‘Like the old sod with the white hair in the end booth watching us now,’ Devlin observed.
Schellenberg looked round casually. ‘And who might he be?’
‘Pretends to be in the port business. Name of Frear. My friends tell me he’s military attaché at the Brit Embassy here.’
‘Indeed.’ Schellenberg carried on calmly. ‘Are you interested?’
‘Now why would I be?’
‘Money. You received twenty thousand pounds for your work on Operation Eagle paid into a Geneva account.’
‘And me stuck here without two pennies to scratch myself with.’
‘Twenty-five thousand pounds, Mr Devlin. Paid anywhere you wish.’
Devlin lit another cigarette and leaned back. ‘What do you want him for? Why go to all the trouble?’
‘A matter of security is involved.’
Devlin laughed harshly. ‘Come off it, General. You want me to go jumping out of Dorniers again at five thousand feet in the dark like last time over Ireland and you try to hand me that kind of bollocks.’
‘All right.’ Schellenberg put up a hand defensively. ‘There’s a meeting in France on the twenty-first of January. The Führer, Rommel, Canaris and Himmler. The Führer doesn’t know about Operation Eagle. The Reichsführer would like to produce Steiner at that meeting. Introduce him.’
‘And why would he want to do that?’
‘Steiner’s mission ended in failure, but he led German soldiers in battle on English soil. A hero of the Reich.’
‘And all that old balls?’
‘Added to which the Reichsführer
