Heroes by David Hagberg (reading cloud ebooks TXT) 📗

Canaris stared into the man’s eyes. Whalpol was almost certainly reporting to the RSHA, perhaps even to Schellenberg himself. Christ, it was becoming impossible to operate. With Oster gone and Dohnanyi all but out of the picture, he had hoped things would finally calm down. But they had not. The SD was after his blood. They wanted complete control of the Abwehr. It was only a matter of time before Whalpol and scum like him took over.

Canaris left the binoculars on the warm hood of the car, brushed past the major, who was fuming, and got his briefcase from the back seat. He pulled out his silver flask of cognac and took a deep drink, the liquor warming a path through his insides.

The cognac and his cigars were his only comforts now. His only companions, his dogs—Kasper and Sabine. The animals had all of man’s good qualities without possessing any of their failings.

They were loyal, no matter what. They never told lies. And when they loved, it was open, very clear, and always honest.

He thought too about Erika and the children. They’d come out of this all right. There’d be no taint on them. They’d all but divorced themselves from him, in any event. It was for the best.

No comfort there, he thought, taking a second drink, then replacing the flask in his case and straightening up. But Algeciras … His thoughts were interrupted when one of the Brandenburger men watching the frontier crossing called out softly but urgently.

“Herr Admiral!”

Major Whalpol was watching the border post through the binoculars. But Canaris could see that a small gray car, its headlights on low beam, was stopped on the Portuguese side. Two guards stood back as someone got out of the car. It looked like a large man.

“Is it Kurt?” he asked.

“I think so,” Whalpol said, handing over the glasses.

Canaris raised them to his eyes, steadying himself against the hood. The man from the car was turned away, but then, as he handed over his papers, he showed his profile. He was the right size and shape. But it was hard to tell from this distance.

“Ready your men, Major,” Canaris said without lowering the glasses.

“Is it Kurt?”

“We’ll know soon enough.”

Canaris could hear the men shuffling into position in the darkness behind him. Brandenburg Division troops, they were.

There weren’t many of them left. Most of them had been bled off into the SS, and what few were left, he hated to admit, were of doubtful loyalty. It wasn’t like the old days, when a cadet’s word was his ironclad bond. The entire fate of Germany rested solidly and four-squarely upon the shoulders of the officer corps. If there hadn’t been honor, then where would they have gotten?

The irony of that line of thinking at this moment struck him.

The Portuguese guards were questioning the man. The two Spanish guards had become curious, and they had stepped out of their hut and walked over to the striped turnpike barrier to watch and listen.

“Come on,” Canaris breathed. Dieter Schey had indicated by encoded number that Kurt would be bringing two film canisters across. By submarine from the coast of Maine to a deserted Portuguese beach above Aljezur. From there it would be taken to Lisbon, then back down here to cross the border. His destination, the Abwehr headquarters in Madrid. Only he was not going to get that far.

Normally, the film would be processed at Madrid for an immediate spot analysis. It served to speed things up. But in this case that could not be allowed to happen. Whalpol had found out about the film, somehow (Canaris had his suspicions which one of his staff had leaked the information), so had insisted on coming along. There hadn’t been much Canaris could have done that would not have created too much attention.

Now that he was here, however, Canaris found that he was becoming increasingly wary of any confrontation. The information coming over tonight, from all the indications Schey had given them, was perhaps more important than anything else they had ever gathered. At once devastating and frightening. He had not wanted to believe it was possible, but their own scientists were sure, and Schey had been providing them with enough hints over the past few months to make him a believer and to make Schey himself a national hero.

The courier took off his hat, his well-oiled black hair glistening in the lights from the border post.

For several long moments no one seemed to be doing much of anything, until at length the guards handed the man his papers and he got back into his car. The Portuguese barrier was lifted, and the courier drove the few yards into Spain where he stopped just short of the barrier and got out, his hat still off. Again papers were handed over for examination.

Whalpol touched Canaris’ shoulder, and he looked up, his heart hammering like a pile driver in his chest.

“There may be some shooting, sir,” the major said. They were out of earshot of the others.

“Are you planning to assassinate the man?”

“He may not stop. I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

“Reichsfuhrer Himmler would never forgive you,” Canaris said dryly.

“Nor would our Fiihrer,” Whalpol snapped, recovering nicely.

In the next moment he stiffened. “Here he comes.”

Canaris turned back. The near barrier had been raised and the gray car was coming up the hill toward them. The Portuguese guards had gone back into their hut, and the Spanish guards were doing the same, their backs to the highway.

Canaris tossed the binoculars on the front seat of the car and put his right hand in his coat pocket, his fingers curling around the grip of his short-barreled Walther PPK.

Whalpol’s men, dressed in Guardia Civil uniforms, had placed a road barrier across the highway. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder, their hands on the butts of their weapons.

The car ground its way up the hill, and when its headlights flashed on the barriers and the troops, it slowed down almost to a complete halt. The