Heroes by David Hagberg (reading cloud ebooks TXT) 📗

control Cartagena, how could he control the Abwehr?

“What has happened, my friend?” Canaris asked.

“It just came on the teletype from Zossen.”

“Another bomb?”

Von Auenrode nodded. “Another British orange ship. She blew up in the harbor. The Spanish authorities have one of our people in custody.”

Canaris turned away. He could feel himself shrinking inside.

This was it, then. It was truly all over. Reitlinger and Brigadier Schellenberg and all the others who had been after his scalp for the past year and a half would finally have their way.

“Sir?”

Canaris turned back. The dogs were confused. They could sense their master’s disturbance. “It’s all right now,” he said, reaching down and petting first one, then the other.

Von Auenrode seemed confused as well.

“How could they do such a thing?” Canaris said, looking up.

He could feel some anger deep down. He knew what this meant.

What it really meant not only for himself personally, and for the Abwehr, but for Germany. “This is quite impossible—now of all times!”

“We should go back,” von Auenrode said. “Most of the others have already left.”

Canaris shook his head. “Go if you want, Herr Major. But there is no hurry any longer.”

“Sir?”

“Has von Bibra left yet?”

“He left just after lunch. They all were asking about you.”

“Leissner?”

“He left as well. They felt that under the circumstances they should return …”

“They knew about Cartagena?”

“No … no, sir. That just came. They left because they felt there … was nothing to be accomplished here. The real work is back in Spain now.”

“Switzerland,” Canaris said under his breath.

“Herr Admiral?”

“Nothing. Perhaps I should return to Berlin, after all.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Perhaps I will leave this afternoon,” Canaris said. He had come to Biarritz with two alternatives in mind. He would either find a way to get into Spain, by which he would be running away, or he would turn and fight with the only weapon he had left at his disposal. “Yes,” he said, shaking von Auenrode’s hand. “It is time we all get back to work.”

Frau vori Auenrode, a slim beauty, was at the villa, but everyone else had left by the time Canaris and Major von Auenrode returned. Upstairs in his room, Canaris packed his two bags, called the houseman to fetch them, called for his car, and telephoned out to the airfield in Bayonne for his aircraft to be made ready. He was dressed in civilian clothes. He had not bothered to change.

The houseman came for his bags and the dogs, and Canaris followed him downstairs, but not outside. Instead, he went down the back corridor, past the kitchen, and beyond the receiving dock and service entrance to the small communications room that had been built in what once had been an ice storage room.

Bread and vegetables were being delivered from a horse-drawn cart. The old Frenchman did not look up as Canaris passed.

The teletype machine in the communications room was silent.

Bitner, the KO communications man, was gone. They all had had a busy night. He was probably sleeping.

Inside, Canaris shut the heavy door and relocked it. Then he stood stock-still, listening to the absolute silence of the narrow, very thickly insulated room. The walls, ceiling, and floor were all rough-hewn cedar. It smelled good.

He had ten or fifteen minutes at the most before someone would begin to wonder where he had gotten himself to. Von Auenrode was upstairs with his wife; they’d be packing. Everyone else would be sleeping, except for the staff. The houseman would wonder, and so would the chauffeur when he didn’t show up.

The telephone in this room was secure from the others in the house. No one would be able to listen in on any conversations.

Yet Canaris found himself reluctant to pick it up. Once he did, he would be committed to a very dangerous course.

Treason, it would be called—because treason it was.

He sat down at the desk and lit a cigarette. He stubbed it out almost immediately, picked up the telephone, and dialed for the operator in town.

“Operator.”

“This is 87.443,” Canaris gave the telephone number. “Please connect me with the Berlin operator.”

“I am sorry, sir, but the circuits are restricted to priority traffic at this hour.”

“This is a Reich war effort priority.”

“Yes, sir. Your name, sir?”

Canaris took a deep breath and involuntarily glanced over his shoulder at the locked door. “Auenrode,” he spoke into the | phone. “Major Kremer von Auenrode.” I “Yes, sir,” the operator said. “It will be just a moment or two; will you hold?”

“Of course,” Canaris said. He lit another cigarette. It tasted terrible. He wished for a drink of schnapps, or perhaps some cognac. I The Forschungsamt would trace this call sooner or later.

Schellenberg would see to it. If Auenrode were ever arrested and charged with treason, however, Canaris would make sure he got off.

“This is a Reich war effort priority call,” the operator was . saying. I “Yes. Your number please?” the Berlin operator replied. Her voice was very far away, and scratchy. I Canaris gave the number he had memorized before coming . here. One of Dohnanyi’s staff officers, who supposedly had contact with the German underground, had given it to him. The > number belonged to the chief of Berlin operations for the American OSS. It took a while for the connection to be made, but then it was ringing, and a man answered. ‘.

“Yes?” For a long second or two Canaris could not bring himself to speak. He just held the phone to his ear, listening to the hollowness of the long-distance line.

“Yes?” the man said again, with no inflection in his voice.

“I want you to listen very carefully to me,” Canaris said.

“Who is this?” ‘_*

“That is what you must determine. You must recognize my voice. You must know who I am. I will not identify myself to i you.” [

There was silence.

“There is no one coming for you; this is not a trick. I must meet with a certain party who is your superior in Bern. I must meet with him this very night. Before morning.”

“Are you defecting?”

“Do you