The Unlikely Spy

"But you're shaking your head, Alfred. I suspect you've spotted the Achilles' heel of the entire deception plan."

 

Vicary's lips curled into a careful smile. Knowing Vicary's love of Greek history and lore, Boothby realized he would automatically think of the Trojan War when being briefed on the details of Operation Fortitude. "May I?" Vicary said, gesturing toward Boothby's packet of Players cigarettes. "I'm afraid I've left mine downstairs."

 

"Of course," Boothby said, handing Vicary the cigarettes and holding up the flame of his lighter for him.

 

"Achilles died after being struck by an arrow in his one vulnerable spot--his heel," Vicary said. "The Achilles' heel of Fortitude is the fact that it can be undone by one genuine report from a source Hitler trusts. It requires total manipulation of every source of information Hitler and his intelligence officers possess. Each one of them has to be poisoned in order for Fortitude to work. Hitler must be enmeshed in a total web of lies. If one thread of truth slips through, the entire scheme could unravel." Vicary, pausing for a pull on his Players, could not resist making the historical parallel. "When Achilles was undone, his armor was awarded to Odysseus. Our armor, I'm afraid, will be awarded to Hitler."

 

Boothby picked up his empty glass and rolled it consciously in the palm of his large hand.

 

"That's the danger inherent to all military deception, isn't it, Alfred? It almost always points the way to the truth. General Morgan, the invasion planner, said it best. All it would take is one decent German spy to walk the south coast of England from Cornwall to Kent. If that happened, the entire thing would come crashing down, and with it the hopes of Europe. Which is why we've been holed up with the prime minister all evening and why you're here now."

 

Boothby stood and slowly paced the length of his office.

 

"As of this moment, we are acting under the reasonable certitude that we have in fact poisoned all Hitler's sources of intelligence. We are also acting under the reasonable certitude that we have accounted for all of Canaris's spies in Britain and that none of them are operating outside our control. We wouldn't be embarking on a stratagem such as Fortitude if that weren't the case. I use the words reasonable certitude because there is no way we can ever be truly certain of that fact. Two hundred and sixty spies--all arrested, turned, or hanged."

 

Boothby drifted from the weak lamplight and vanished into the dark corner of his office.

 

"Last week, Hitler staged a conference in Rastenburg. All the heavies were there: Rommel, von Rundstedt, Canaris, and Himmler. The subject was the invasion--specifically, the time and place of the invasion. Hitler put a gun to Canaris's head--figuratively, not literally--and ordered him to learn the truth or face some rather distressing consequences. Canaris in turn gave the job to a man on his staff named Vogel--Kurt Vogel. Until now, we've always believed Kurt Vogel was Canaris's personal legal adviser. Obviously, we were wrong. Your job is to make sure Kurt Vogel doesn't learn the truth. I haven't had a chance to read his file. I suspect Registry may have something on him."

 

"Right," Vicary said.

 

Boothby had drifted back into the dim light. He pulled a mild frown, as though he had overheard something unpleasant in the next room, then fell into a long speculative silence.

 

"Alfred, I want to be perfectly honest with you about something from the outset of this case. The prime minister insisted you be given the assignment over the strenuous objections of the director-general and myself."

 

Vicary held Boothby's gaze for a moment; then, embarrassed by the remark, he looked away and allowed his eyes to wander. Over the walls. Over the dozens of photographs of Sir Basil with famous people. Over the deep burnished-oak paneling. Over the old oar that hung on one wall, strangely out of place in the formal setting. Perhaps it was a reminder of happier, less complicated times, Vicary thought. A glassy river at sunrise. Oxford versus Cambridge. Train rides home on chilly autumn afternoons.

 

"Allow me to explain that remark, Alfred. You have done marvelous work. Your Becker network has been a stunning success. But both the director general and I feel a more senior man might be better suited to this case."

 

"I see," Vicary said. A more senior man was code for a career officer, not one of the new recruits Boothby so mistrusted.

 

"But obviously," Boothby resumed, "we were unable to convince the prime minister that you were not the best man for the case. So it's yours. Give me regular updates on your progress. And good luck, Alfred. I suspect you'll need it."

 

 

 

 

 

7

 

 

LONDON

 

 

 

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