“You say these are very special people,” Martin said. “Can I know more than that?” If a signal came from London saying that Damocles had in fact come to a halt, he wanted to know how disastrous it would be for the Allies. He saw the need for withholding information from an agent, but he hated working in the dark.

  “I can’t tell you more about these people,” Haslam said, “or why they’re so special. But as regards the mission itself, I can tell you that most of the priority signals we send from here to The Hague arrive on the desks of the King of England and the President of the United States. Will that suffice?”

  Martin held his breath for an instant. “Yes. That does give me a clearer perspective.”

  “Let us hope it doesn’t give you a clearer perspective on a dead mission.” He stubbed out his cigarette.

  “You didn’t,” Martin said cautiously, “order me back to base just to tell me we might be finished. You could have just kept me running until you were certain.”

  “How right you are.” Haslam exchanged another glance with Tempel and seemed satisfied. “If Damocles has any future, we’ve got a special job for you. It’s a tricky one, and we want to know if you feel ready for anything we decide to give you. I expect you know roughly what I mean by that.”

  “I’m ready, yes. It was just that I had to yell at someone, about what I’d seen in the camps.”

  “And we are the only people you could safely yell at. Understood. And you’re feeling physically up to par?”

  “I am.”

  Haslam regarded him steadily for a moment with his .one pale blue eye; then he nodded and went over to the map on the wall.

  “Within the next two or three days an SS General named Artur von Fleig will be coming to Berlin by road from Neustrelitz, here in the north, approximately 100 kilometers distant. With him will be his driver and one or more aides; we’ll have precise details for you as soon as they come in.” He padded back to his desk and picked up the green and gold packet of Three Castles. “Have you heard of General von Fleig?”

  “Yes. He’s in Himmler’s entourage.”

  “That’s right. A man with access to a great deal of confidential information. He’ll be carrying certain documents. We want you to get them for us.” He took out a cigarette and tapped the end on his thumbnail.

  “You want this done, whether or not Damocles keeps running?”

  “Whether or not Damocles keeps running,” Haslam said evenly as he lit the cigarette, “may depend on how successful you are in obtaining the documents, which explains why we are so solicitously concerned with your morale and your physical condition. I can’t tell you how delighted we are with your reassurance on both points.”

  16

  BERLIN, 8 MARCH 1940

  Martin was lunching at the Kasinogesellschaft, Berlin’s exclusive military club, at the invitation of his Brigadier and together with fifty other guests. He had reported to base by telephone and told Major Haslam it was an invitation he should accept, for the sake of his cover. Haslam had told him to turn up at the Kasinogesellschaft, enjoy his lunch, and telephone base at two-hourly intervals to report his whereabouts. The exact departure time of General von Fleig from Neustrelitz was still uncertain, and Martin was told to show himself in the right places so as to establish a bona fide movement pattern, to avoid any later suspicion.

  He was leaving the club shortly before three o’clock when a young SS lieutenant carrying a briefcase almost knocked into him on his way in from the street.

  “Excuse me, Herr Standartenführer!”

  “Don’t, mention it.”

  “Er—Herr Standartenführer—could you please point out the Brigadeführer to me? I have despatches for him, and—” His voice trailed off as he stared into Martin’s face.

  “Is something the matter, Obersturmführer?” Martin’s tone was cool and authoritative, but he was being forced to reach an instant decision.

  “I . . . didn’t expect ... to see you again in Berlin,” the lieutenant said slowly, and the astonishment in his dark eyes was already changing to the glitter of intrigue. “Martin Benedict. Well, well!”

  Since the day Martin Benedict had changed his identity to that of SS-Standartenführer Martin Friedrich Brinkmann he had known that sooner or later he’d be recognized by someone from his past life here in Berlin. He had spent so much time in this city, and had met so many people, that it was inevitable. He had been briefed very thoroughly on this potential danger, and was ready to react correctly; but there was no certainty that within a minute he wouldn’t find himself under arrest. Within a minute from now, or an hour, or a day or so: it would depend on how skillfully he handled the situation, and on what the young lieutenant decided to do.

  It was Rudi Mahler, the newly recruited SS officer who had shared the taxi with him last September, the Rudi who had been falling in love with Vanessa at the 1936 Olympics when Martin and his sister had been in Berlin.

  And Rudi hadn’t hesitated, or shown the slightest doubt. Martin Benedict. Well, well! That was the key, and Martin had made his decision. Had Rudi seemed unsure, he would have brushed him aside and left the club. But Rudi was certain, and for Martin to deny his true identity would be fatal: Rudi would simply call on the nearest SS officers for support, and Martin would be taken away for interrogation.

  “Rudi!” he said with sudden pleasure. “I didn’t recognize you!” He declined to shake hands; he was ostensibly a colonel and Rudi a subaltern, and they were in formal surroundings. “You’re looking well— you’ve gained some weight!”

  “Yes,” Rudi said with a secretive smile, “I’m very well, thank you. And very surprised. Very surprised indeed.”

  “I can well imagine. And I’ve been expecting to run into you again, Rudi—especially since we’re now fellow officers. We must celebrate, as soon as possible! What are your plans for tonight?”

  “I’ve no plans for tonight, -Herr Standartenführer. . . He said it with studied irony, yet Martin caught a hint of ingrained deference to his superior rank; by ineradicable association, the triple silver braid at Martin’s shoulder demanded respect. This, Martin realized, might be all that could save him.

  “Splendid!” he said cheerfully. “Then we’ll meet again.” He gave- it the tone of an order. “Tonight at eight o’clock, at the Kabarett Harlekin. You remember it, of course.” They had been there before, with Vanessa and Hedda and Peter, in their days of friendship.

  “Of course,” Rudi smiled his secretive smile. “In Wielandstrasse, just off the Kurfürstendamm.”

  “Just as it always was. I’ll expect you to be punctual, and stone-cold sober—to begin with.” A hint of forthcoming revelry. Then he glanced cautiously around. “But I should warn you, officially, that my assignment within the SS is top secret. It would be to your advantage not mention our meeting to anyone at all. Tonight I’ll give you my confidence—I owe you that as a friend. And who knows, I might be in a position to help you further your ambitions; my status carries rather more power than that of a regular Standartenführer.” He gave Rudi an affectionate slap on the shoulder. “Until eight, my dear fellow!” Standing back, he brought his heels together. “Heil Hitler!”

  Martin arrived two minutes late at the Kabarett Harlekin, to find Rudi waiting for him in the crowded foyer. He had reached the nightclub fifteen minutes early, to keep watch on the entrance from the far side of the blacked-out street and make sure Rudi came alone. Both were in mufti, as was correct for SS officers off duty in public; but both showed their identity cards to the manager, ensuring better service.

  Martin had no idea whether his boyhood friend had told anyone of their meeting, and of the fact that an enemy alien had adopted the uniform of an SS-Standartenführer. But he believed not. His boyhood friend would have reported him without any compunction, since he now owed his total loyalty to his country and the Führer; but Rudi had always been fond of intrigue, and particularly if he thought he could profit from it. They’d ragged him about it in the early days, but had tolerated his worst misdeeds because of his flair for leading them into exciting escapades. As Martin sat with him in the small room with its atmosphere of red plush and cigar smoke, he believed that up to this moment he was probably safe.

  Their champagne cork popped as the rose-tinted spotlights followed three nude dancers across the tiny stage, and Martin raised his glass. “Your health, my dear Rudi—and our continuing friendship!”

  A few minutes later he was asking casually, “You’re not still in the Germania Regiment, then?” Rudi had worn the shoulder flash of the 4th Berliner at lunchtime today.

  “I decided to transfer,” he said, looking down for an instant. “I found the discipline just a bit too much.” Kicked out, Martin thought. Rudi liked the good life, and his pride in belonging to Hitler’s elite bodyguard had been compromised by his sensuality. He was already on his fourth glass of champagne and found it difficult to take his eyes off the dancers as their powdered breasts bobbed in the spotlight. Martin noticed again that he’d put on weight, and had the comfortable look of the bon viveur; the SS, after all, had no interest in the general rationing system that had brought near-hunger to the civilian population.

  From time to time Martin glanced at the entrance, as more people came in from the foyer; some .of them would be SS officers in mufti, and he picked out one or two of them by their arrogant bearing and the immediate attention they received from the staff. But nobody coming in had taken any interest in the table where he and Rudi were sitting, and he felt partly reassured; though there could easily be a whole cadre of SS men formed up in the street outside, at Rudi’s instigation.

  “I’m dying to know, of course, how it came about... Herr Standartenführer,” Rudi began when their second bottle had been opened. Martin spoke slowly, taking his time.

  “It’s quite simple. As you said yourself, the Führer still considers Germany and England as brother nations, in spite of war being declared. You may know that certain peace overtures have been exchanged in the last few weeks.” He shrugged. “I hope they prove effective. For the present we are unfortunately at war, and if the real fighting begins it’s going to be my job to look after the English prisoners of high rank, in the hope of getting them to use their influence in London if we send them home. I’m still working on Major Stevens and Captain Best—you remember the Venilo incident on the German-Dutch border last year?” He glanced up as another party came through from the foyer, then lost interest in them. “Hitler doesn’t want to have to fight England, Rudi, as I’m sure you know. He told me so on several occasions. He—”

  “You’ve met the Führer?” Rudi tried not to sound impressed, and failed.

  “Of course. That’s how I got this commission. After Vanessa died, Hitler summoned me to his office two or three times, for private discussions. He was fond of her, you know, and I suppose I provided a living reminder, as her brother. I also provided a means of proving to the British that Hitler has nothing but friendship for them—considering, after all, that the throne has German blood.” He leaned nearer Rudi. “You can imagine how effective it would be, if we returned captured prisoners of high rank to England, as a gesture of amity. Could one hope for better ambassadors? Only Hitler, you know, could devise such a brilliant maneuver. It wasn’t till I’d talked to him at some length that I saw what my sister found in him—a unique and fascinating talent for the conduct of human affairs. Have you met the Führer?”

  “No. I’ve not had that privilege.” Rudi was watching Martin intently, his dark eyes narrowed and the hint of a smile resting on his mouth. “It’s an interesting story,” he said at last. “Maybe I believe it, and maybe I don’t.”

  Martin stiffened. “I’ve no wish to stop your checking on my credentials, Rudi, but I’ll point out that I wasn’t in the least obliged to take you into my confidence, except as a friend. As a fellow officer I must remind you that the difference in our rank demands rather more courtesy from you than you’re at present showing.”

  The smile left Rudi’s mouth, and he too straightened in his chair. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It just takes a bit of getting used to.”

  “Of course. Now I suggest we relax for the rest of the evening. We came here to celebrate our reunion, after all.” He called a waiter and ordered another bottle of champagne.

  Martin turned his attention to the miniature stage as the evening wore on. Whether Rudi believed his story or not was immaterial: the purpose of this meeting was to gain time and give Martin an insight into Rudi’s character, so that he could judge how great the danger was, and what action to take. He had now done both.

  “You know,” Rudi said half an hour later, “that woman is Jewish. The one in the middle, you see? I can tell a Jew a mile away. . . .”

  Rudi was flushed and breathing hard. He was holding his drink well enough, sitting perfectly straight, but most of his inhibitions had gone. Martin was watching him carefully. At the end of the number, Rudi told their waiter to fetch the woman.

  Suzanne was dark, slight and small-breasted, her smile dazzling but with a spark of fear in it, Martin noticed. The waiter would have told her they were SS officers at this table—otherwise she wouldn’t have come.

  “You’re a Jew,” Rudi told her, his narrowed eyes wandering over her body. “Aren’t I right?”

  “I am French, m’sieur.” Her smile was less dazzling, and she glanced at Martin, who said nothing.

  “A French Jew,” nodded Rudi, his eyes on her breasts. “A foreign Jew. Christ, haven’t we got enough German Jews in this place to get rid of, without you bloody foreigners coming here? I suppose you’re a whore on the side?”

  “I am a cabaret artiste, m’sieur.” She was trembling now, her breath coming faster.

  “And a Jew. A bloody Jew. Get your papers here, I want to see them.”

  She turned quickly toward the side of the stage, with the manager talking to her as she edged between the tables.

  “They’re a bloody nuisance,” Rudi told Martin, picking up his glass. “They take our rations, you know that? Take everything and give nothing back, bobbing their tits up and down as if we’re expected to cheer or something.” He swung his head heavily to look at Martin. “Don’t you agree . . . Herr Standartenführer?” He laughed gustily.

  “Let the poor little bitch alone,” Martin said lazily. “All you want to do is take her to bed, 1 know you well enough for that.”

  Rudi laughed again, slapping the table. “You don’t think I’m going to arrest her without some amusement first, do you?”

  The woman returned, now in a split sequined skirt.

  She gave Rudi her papers, turning her head quickly as Martin spoke to her.

  “Are you from Paris, mademoiselle?”

  “Yes, m’sieur.” She gave him a trembling smile.

  “A beautiful city.” He raised his glass to her.

  “You said you were FrenchRudi said, looking up from the papers. “All you’ve got is a French mother. A Jewess” He dropped the papers on to the table. “Why did you lie to me, you Jewish bitch?”

  “I—I tell the customers I am French, m’sieur. The manager says it sounds more . . . exciting, you know?” She was trying to sound coquettish, but it didn’t go with her underlying fear, and Martin looked away. The woman was forty, perhaps older, with at least one child, judging by the Caesarean scar he’d seen when she was naked. And her papers were German, though not stamped with the Juden franking.

  “These papers are false,” Rudi said.

  Her face went white and the coquettish smile faded. “You see these?” Rudi asked Martin. “Look. Look here, at these serial numbers. One too many. And the photograph. And the printing—look, this line here.” Martin nodded. The papers were a crude forgery, a replica of her true papers with the Juden franking left out. It was probably known to the manager and some of the other people at the club. But she was a good dancer and brought in money; the SS came here in numbers and demanded entertainment, and with so many Jews sent to the camps there was a shortage of good performers. Probably even the SS knew her papers weren’t correct—Rudi’s behavior was typical enough—but they’d so far turned a blind eye in return for the woman’s services.

  Rudi threw the papers on to the table again Jor Suzanne to pick up. “You’re a lying Jewish bitch,” he told her slowly, his eyes glittering, “and I ought to arrest you. Forged papers, my God! You’ve heard of the KZs, I suppose? The concentration camps?”

  “I—yes, m’sieur—I have heard of them.”

  She looked as if she might faint, and Martin was ready to stop her falling. The rage was in him, slowly burning into life during the last few minutes; but it would have to wait.

  “So you’ve heard of the concentration camps,” nodded Rudi, enjoying himself. “And at this rate you’re asking for a personal inspection, you know that?”

  “No, m’sieur. I—I am only trying to—”

  “To do your job here, m’m? Amuse the troops, m’m?” He gave a belch. “Well, I happen to need a little amusement tonight, you lying Jewish whore, and you might find that preferable to the inside of a KZ, m’m? If not, there’s always the alternative. Which number’s your dressing room?”

  “Number one, m’sieur. But—”

  “Did you say 'but’?” His voice was a hiss and his eyes had narrowed to slits as he faced her,, his hands clenched. “Did you say 'but?”

  “No, I—I just meant—”

  “One more ‘but’ out of you, you foreign yiddische Hure, and I’ll have you into the camps.” Then he relaxed suddenly, pleased at the effect on her. “I’ll give you one last chance. You be in your dressing room in ten minutes from now, and make sure there’s no one else there, you understand? Ten minutes. Now get out of my sight.”

  She turned away, her face pale.