for any of them or that old crow Himmler’s motives, but Kurt Steiner’s another thing. A great man, that one. But the bloody Tower of London …’
He shook his head and Schellenberg said, ‘They won’t keep him there. My guess is they’ll move him to one of their London safe houses.’
‘And how can you find that out?’
‘We have an agent in London working out of the Spanish Embassy.’
‘Can you be sure he’s not a double?’
‘Pretty sure in this case.’ Devlin sat there frowning and Schellenberg said, ‘Thirty thousand pounds.’ He smiled. ‘I’m good at my job, Mr Devlin. I’ll prepare a plan for you that will work.’
Devlin nodded. ‘I’ll think about it.’ He stood up.
‘But time is of the essence. I need to get back to Berlin.’
‘And I need time to think, and it’s Christmas. I’ve promised to go up country to a bull ranch a friend of mine called Barbosa runs. Used to be a great torero in Spain where they like sharp horns. I’ll be back in three days.’
‘But Mr Devlin,’ Schellenberg tried again.
‘If you want me, you’ll have to wait.’ Devlin clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Come on now, Walter, Christmas in Lisbon? Lights, music, pretty girls? At this present moment they’ve got a blackout in Berlin and I bet it’s snowing. Which would you rather have?’
Schellenberg started to laugh helplessly and behind them, Frear got up and went out.
Urgent business had kept Dougal Munro at his office at SOE Headquarters on the morning of Christmas Day. He was about to leave when Jack Carter limped in. It was just after noon.
Munro said, ‘I hope it’s urgent, Jack. I’m due for Christmas lunch with friends at the Garrick.’
‘I thought you’d want to know about this, sir.’ Carter held up a signal flimsy. ‘From Major Frear, our man in Lisbon. Friend Devlin.’
Munro paused. ‘What about him?’
‘Guess who he was locked in conversation with last night at a Lisbon club? Walter Schellenberg.’
Munro sat down at his desk. ‘Now what in the hell is the good Walter playing at?’
‘God knows, sir.’
‘The Devil, more like. Signal Frear most immediate. Tell him to watch what Schellenberg gets up to. If he and Devlin leave Portugal together I want to know at once.’
‘I’ll get right on to it, sir,’ Carter told him and hurried out.
It had tried to snow over Christmas, but in London on the evening of the 27th, it was raining when Jack Carter turned into a small mews near Portman Square not far from SOE Headquarters; which was why he had chosen it when he’d received a phone call from Vargas. The café was called Mary’s Pantry, blacked out, but when he went in the place was bright with Christmas decorations and holly. It was early evening and there were only three or four customers.
Vargas sat in the corner drinking coffee and reading a newspaper. He wore a heavy blue overcoat and there was a hat on the table. He had olive skin, hollow cheeks and a pencil moustache, his hair brilliantined and parted in the centre.
Carter said, ‘This had better be good.’
‘Would I bother you if it were not, señor?’ Vargas asked. ‘I’ve heard from my cousin in Berlin.’
‘And?’
‘They want more information about Steiner. They’re interested in mounting a rescue operation.’
‘Are you certain?’
‘That was the message. They want all possible information as to his whereabouts. They seem to think you will move him from the Tower.’
‘Who’s they? The Abwehr?’
‘No. General Schellenberg of the SD is in charge. At least that is who my cousin is working for.’
Carter nodded, fiercely excited, and got up. ‘I want you to phone me on the usual number at eleven, old chum, and don’t fail.’ He leaned forward. ‘This is the big one, Vargas. You’ll make a lot of cash if you’re smart.’
He turned and went out and hurried along Baker Street as fast as his game leg would allow.
In Lisbon at that precise moment Walter Schellenberg was climbing the steep cobbled alley in Alfama towards the Lights of Lisbon. He could hear the music even before he got there. When he went inside, the place was deserted except for the barman and Devlin at the piano.
The Irishman stopped to light a cigarette and smiled. ‘Did you enjoy your Christmas, General?’
‘It could have been worse. And you?’
‘The bulls were running well. I got trampled. Too much drink taken.’
‘A dangerous game.’
‘Not really. They tip the ends of the horns in Portugal. Nobody dies.’
‘It hardly seems worth the candle,’ Schellenberg said.
‘And isn’t that the fact? Wine, grapes, bulls and lots and lots of sun, that’s what I had for Christmas, General.’ He started to play ‘Moonlight on the Highway’. ‘And me thinking of old Al Bowlly in the Blitz, London, fog in the streets. Now isn’t that the strange thing?’
Schellenberg felt the excitement rise inside him. ‘You’ll go?’
‘On one condition. I can change my mind at the last minute if I think the thing isn’t watertight.’
‘My hand on it.’
Devlin got up and they walked out to the terrace. Schellenberg said, ‘We’ll fly out to Berlin in the morning.’
‘You will, General, not me.’
‘But Mr Devlin – ’
‘You have to think of everything in this game, you know that. Look down there.’ Over the wall, Frear had come in and was talking to one of the waiters as he wiped down the outside tables. ‘He’s been keeping an eye on me, old Frear. He’s seen me talking to the great Walter Schellenberg. I should think that would figure in one of his reports to London.’
‘So what do you suggest?’
‘You fly back to Berlin and get on with the preparations. There’ll be plenty to do. Arrange the right papers for me at the Legation, travelling money and so on and I’ll come the low-risk way by rail. Lisbon to Madrid, then the Paris Express. Fix it up for me to fly from there if it suits or I could carry on by train.’
‘It would take you two days at least.’
‘As I say, you’ll have things to do. Don’t tell me the work won’t be
