Hitler's peace

All I had to do now was tell Reilly, and then he could arrange with the British to have the place staked out until the German agent showed up again. I snatched up the evidence-the plaintext message, the empty package of Kools, the Hamilton Hotel matchbook-and went out of the radio room. I knew I could hardly catch the spy without condemning Elena as well.

I turned out the light, closed the bookcase door, and returned to the bedroom. Seeing her stir under the single sheet, I pretended to fetch a pack of cigarettes from my coat pocket.

“What are you doing?” she asked, sitting up.

“I’m just going to the bathroom,” I said, lighting a cigarette. “Go back to sleep.”

I closed the bathroom door, sat down on the toilet, and unfolded the plaintext message headed OPERATION WURF. In German, wurf was the verb “to throw,” but, figuratively speaking, it also meant “success,” “a hit,” “a stroke of luck,” and even, “a decisive action.” The message, addressed to someone called Brutus, was short, and everything about it supported the idea of some kind of decisive action. I read the message several times before folding it carefully and sliding it inside my own cigarette packet, alongside the matchbook from the Hamilton Hotel. Then I stood up, flushed the toilet, and went back to bed.

There wasn’t much chance of my sleeping again-not now that I had read the plaintext message from the Abwehr. And as dawn broke, I was still repeating the message in my head. Brutus to proceed with the assassination of Wotan. Good luck.

It was a while since I had seen an opera by Wagner, but I remembered that Wotan was one of the gods in Das Rheingold. This seemed to suggest that Brutus, whoever he was, planned to kill just one of the Big Three. But surely not Roosevelt or Churchill. Neither of them appeared to match up to Wotan. No, there was only one of the Big Three who seemed to fit the bill, and that was Joseph Stalin.

Elena awoke for a few minutes and kissed me fondly before going back to sleep. I really did think she cared for me. I knew I cared for her. And I knew I wasn’t prepared to send her over, no matter who or what she was. I tried to sleep a little in the hope that when I awoke I would know the right thing to do. But the sleep never came. And after a while I could think of no other way forward than the one I had first thought of. I slipped out of bed and, before leaving her bedroom, took the photograph of Elena and Major Reichleitner from her album, to make sure that I would be believed.

Reichleitner was still eating breakfast when Lance Corporal Armfield brought me to his cell. The major greeted me coolly. At first I was inclined to ascribe this display of indifference to the fact that his breakfast was not yet over. But as I lit a cigarette and waited for him to look me in the eye, I realized that something had happened. And that was when, looking around the cell, I saw Donovan’s Bride transcripts piled neatly on the table, the task of rendering them into plaintext now complete.

“Everything is clear to me now,” said Reichleitner. He was wearing a superior smile I found annoying, after all that I had done for him.

“Why haven’t you tried to tell someone?”

“Don’t think I won’t. But, no, I wanted to speak to you first. To tell you what I require for my silence.”

“And what might that be?” I smiled, half enjoying his little show.

“Your help to escape.”

This time I laughed. “I think you’re being a little premature, Major. After all, I need to see what you think you know and how you think that you know it. Cards on the table. Then perhaps we can make a deal.”

“All right. If you want to play it that way.” Reichleitner shrugged and fetched the papers off the table. “The Russians call this ‘open packing,’” he said. “Even though it’s deciphered, the use of certain code words still makes it hard for the layman to understand. How to read what ought to be plain, but is not. You will note the date of this particular message, please. October eighth. The message concerns a meeting that took place in London.

I nodded, more or less certain now I knew the meeting to which he was referring.

“LEO reports in his last LUGGAGE that he had BREAKFAST in GLADSTONE with a 26 who we now know was formerly a NOVATOR for SPARTA in TROY during the year 1937. Codenamed CROESUS. VERSAILLES suggests watching brief minimum, since CROESUS now works for ORVILLE and STAMP in a special capacity, and might provide future KNAPSACK. At any subsequent BREAKFAST you should stress the desperation of the situation in SPARTA and, if all else fails, you should tell him that we may have to weigh the question of his 43.”