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I bother you if it were not, señor?’ Vargas asked. ‘I’ve heard from my cousin in Berlin.’

      ‘And?’

      ‘They want more information about Steiner. They’re interested in mounting a rescue operation.’

      ‘Are you certain?’

      ‘That was the message. They want all possible information as to his whereabouts. They seem to think you will move him from the Tower.’

      ‘Who’s they? The Abwehr?’

      ‘No. General Schellenberg of the SD is in charge. At least that is who my cousin is working for.’

      Carter nodded, fiercely excited, and got up. ‘I want you to phone me on the usual number at eleven, old chum, and don’t fail.’ He leaned forward. ‘This is the big one, Vargas. You’ll make a lot of cash if you’re smart.’

      He turned and went out and hurried along Baker Street as fast as his game leg would allow.

      In Lisbon at that precise moment Walter Schellenberg was climbing the steep cobbled alley in Alfama towards the Lights of Lisbon. He could hear the music even before he got there. When he went inside, the place was deserted except for the barman and Devlin at the piano.

      The Irishman stopped to light a cigarette and smiled. ‘Did you enjoy your Christmas, General?’

      ‘It could have been worse. And you?’

      ‘The bulls were running well. I got trampled. Too much drink taken.’

      ‘A dangerous game.’

      ‘Not really. They tip the ends of the horns in Portugal. Nobody dies.’

      ‘It hardly seems worth the candle,’ Schellenberg said.

      ‘And isn’t that the fact? Wine, grapes, bulls and lots and lots of sun, that’s what I had for Christmas, General.’ He started to play ‘Moonlight on the Highway’. ‘And me thinking of old Al Bowlly in the Blitz, London, fog in the streets. Now isn’t that the strange thing?’

      Schellenberg felt the excitement rise inside him. ‘You’ll go?’

      ‘On one condition. I can change my mind at the last minute if I think the thing isn’t watertight.’

      ‘My hand on it.’

      Devlin got up and they walked out to the terrace. Schellenberg said, ‘We’ll fly out to Berlin in the morning.’

      ‘You will, General, not me.’

      ‘But Mr Devlin – ’

      ‘You have to think of everything in this game, you know that. Look down there.’ Over the wall, Frear had come in and was talking to one of the waiters as he wiped down the outside tables. ‘He’s been keeping an eye on me, old Frear. He’s seen me talking to the great Walter Schellenberg. I should think that would figure in one of his reports to London.’

      ‘So what do you suggest?’

      ‘You fly back to Berlin and get on with the preparations. There’ll be plenty to do. Arrange the right papers for me at the Legation, travelling money and so on and I’ll come the low-risk way by rail. Lisbon to Madrid, then the Paris Express. Fix it up for me to fly from there if it suits or I could carry on by train.’

      ‘It would take you two days at least.’

      ‘As I say, you’ll have things to do. Don’t tell me the work won’t be piling up.’

      Schellenberg nodded. ‘You’re right. So, let’s have a drink on it. To our English enterprise.’

      ‘Holy Mother of God, not that, General. Someone used that phrase to me last time. They didn’t realize that’s how the Spanish Armada was described and look what happened to that lot.’

      ‘Then to ourselves, Mr Devlin,’ Schellenberg said. ‘I will drink to you and you will drink to me,’ and they went back inside.

      Munro sat at his desk in the Haston Place flat and listened intently as Carter gave him the gist of his conversation with Vargas.

      He nodded. ‘Two pieces of the jigsaw, Jack. Schellenberg’s interested in rescuing Steiner and where is Schellenberg right now? In Lisbon hobnobbing with Liam Devlin. Now, what conclusion does that lead you to?’

      ‘That he wants to recruit Devlin to the cause, sir.’

      ‘Of course. The perfect man.’ Munro nodded. ‘This could lead to interesting possibilities.’

      ‘Such as?’

      Munro shook his head. ‘Just thinking out loud. Time to think of moving Steiner anyway. What would you suggest?’

      ‘There’s the London Cage in Kensington,’ Carter said.

      ‘Come off it, Jack. That’s only used for processing transients, isn’t it? Prisoners of war such as Luftwaffe aircrews.’

      ‘There’s Cockfosters, sir, but that’s just a cage, too, and the school opposite Wandsworth Prison. A number of German agents have been held there.’ Munro wasn’t impressed and Carter tried again. ‘Of course there’s Mytchett Place in Hampshire. They’ve turned that into a miniature fortress for Hess.’

      ‘Who lives there in splendour so solitary that in June nineteen forty-one he jumped from a balcony and tried to kill himself. No, that’s no good.’ Munro went to the window and looked out. The rain had turned to sleet now. ‘Time I spoke with friend Steiner, I think. We’ll try and make it tomorrow.’

      ‘Fine, sir. I’ll arrange it.’

      Munro turned. ‘Devlin – there is a photo on file?’

      ‘Passport photo, sir. When he was in Norfolk he had to fill in an alien’s registration form. That’s a must for Irish citizens and it requires a passport photo. Special Branch ran it down. It’s not very good.’

      ‘They never are, those things.’ Munro suddenly smiled. ‘I’ve got it, Jack. Where to hold Steiner. That place in Wapping. St Mary’s Priory.’

      ‘The Little Sisters of Pity, sir? But that’s a hospice for terminal cases.’

      ‘They also look after chaps who’ve had breakdowns, don’t they? Gallant RAF pilots who’ve cracked up?’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      ‘And you’re forgetting that Abwehr agent Baum in February. The one who got shot in the chest when Special Branch and MI5 tried to pick him up in Bays-water. They nursed him at the Priory and interrogated him there. I’ve seen the reports. MI5 don’t use it regularly, I know that for a fact. It would be perfect. Built in the seventeenth century. They used to be an enclosed order so the whole place is walled. Built like a fortress.’

      ‘I’ve never been, sir.’

      ‘I have. Strange sort of place. Protestant for years when Roman Catholics were proscribed, then some Victorian industrialist who was a religious crank turned it into a hostel for people off the street. It stood empty for years and then in nineteen ten some benefactor purchased it. The place was reconsecrated Roman Catholic and the Little Sisters of Pity were in business.’ He nodded, full of enthusiasm. ‘Yes, I think the Priory will do nicely.’

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