LITMIR.BIZ

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Order of Merit for gallantry in the field and an Iron Cross First Class for his exploits with the Condor Legion.

      He was aware of Canaris first, because of his high rank, although he did not recognize him, but Ritter he did, and went forward with genuine pleasure.

      ‘Hans Ritter, by all that’s holy.’

      Ritter got up to greet him, leaning on his stick, and shook hands. ‘You look well, Carlos. Spain seems a long time ago.’

      ‘I heard about your leg. I’m sorry.’

      Ritter said, ‘Admiral Canaris, Head of the Abwehr.’

      Romero got his heels together and saluted. ‘An honour, Herr Admiral.’

      ‘Join us, Herr Hauptsturmführer.’ Canaris waved to the mess steward. ‘Champagne. Bollinger for preference, and three glasses.’ He turned to Romero. ‘You are a courier pilot, I understand. Do you like that?’

      ‘To be frank, Herr Admiral, these milk runs of mine bore me to death.’

      ‘Then we’ll have to see if we can find something more rewarding for you,’ Canaris said as the champagne arrived. ‘Tell him, Hans.’

      Romero finished reading the file and closed it. His face was pale and excited as he looked up. Canaris said, ‘Are you interested?’

      ‘Interested?’ Romero accepted a cigarette from Ritter and his hand shook. ‘Herr Admiral, I’m willing to go down on my knees and beg.’

      Canaris laughed. ‘No need for that.’

      Ritter said, ‘The Catalina would not present you with a problem?’

      ‘Good God no, an excellent aircraft to fly.’

      ‘And what about a crew?’

      Romero sat back thinking about it. ‘I could manage with a second pilot and an engineer.’

      ‘And where would we find them?’ Canaris asked.

      ‘Right here in the Spanish Legion of the SS. Like myself, Herr Admiral. I can think of two suitable candidates right now: Javier Noval, a fine pilot, and Juan Conde, an aircraft engineer of genius.’

      Ritter made a note of the names. ‘Excellent. I’ll have them transferred to Abwehr duties along with yourself.’

      ‘What about the explosives and the mines?’ Romero asked.

      ‘We’ll have them delivered by some suitable freighter,’ Ritter told him. ‘There should be no problem in a place like Dahrein. You will naturally build up your credentials during the run-up to September. Coastal trade, freight, that kind of thing.’

      Romero nodded slowly. ‘But I do have a suggestion. When the time comes we could make the transfer of the mines at sea. I could land beside the freighter with no problem. From there a direct flight to the base would simplify the whole thing.’

      ‘Excellent.’ Canaris stood up. ‘I think you should meet our friend Professor Muller. You can come back to town with us, drop me off on the way and then continue to the University. From now on, you deal with Captain Ritter in all things.’

      ‘At your orders. Herr Admiral.’

      ‘Good,’ Canaris said, and he turned and led the way out.

      Muller’s department at the University was housed in a vast echoing hall filled with artefacts of every description. Egyptian mummies, statues from Rome and Greece, amphorae retrieved from ancient wrecks at the bottom of the Mediterranean, it was all there. Ritter and Romero browsed while Muller sat at his desk in his glass office and read the Operation Sheba file. Finally he got up and went to join them.

      Ritter turned. ‘Well, what do you think?’

      Muller was highly nervous, tried to smile and failed miserably. ‘A wonderful idea, Herr Hauptman, but I wonder if I have the qualifications you need. I mean, I’m not a trained spy, I’m just an archaeologist.’

      ‘This will be done, Professor, and by direct order of the Führer. Does this give you a problem?’

      ‘Good heavens no.’ Muller’s face was ashen.

      Romero clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, Professor, I’ll look after you.’

      Ritter said, ‘That’s settled then. When Hauptsturmführer Romero leaves from Lisbon in the Catalina, you go with him, so make your preparations. I’ll be in touch.’

      Ritter limped away, his stick tapping the marble. As they moved along the hall to the entrance, Romero said to him, ‘He’s a nervous little bastard, Ritter.’

      ‘He’ll come to heel and that’s all that’s important.’ They went out of the main entrance and stood at the top of the steps. ‘I’ll make arrangements for the immediate transfer of you and Noval and Conde today. You’ll leave for Lisbon tomorrow, in civilian clothes naturally. I’ll arrange priority seats on the Lufthansa flight. As regards the purchase of the Catalina our man at the German Legation will be your banker. Once you’ve checked the plane out, report back to me on the Embassy secure phone. I’ll expect to hear from you by Thursday at the latest.’

      ‘Mother of God, but you don’t hang about, Hans, do you?’

      ‘I could never see the point,’ Ritter said, and started down the steps to the Mercedes.

      The River Tagus, as someone once said, is the true reason for the existence of Lisbon, with its wide bays and many sheltered anchorages. It was from here that the great flying boats, the mighty clippers, left for America and it was here, attached to two buoys about three hundred yards out to sea from the waterfront, that Carlos Romero found the Catalina. He had arrived at the dock close to the Avenida da India together with Javier Noval and Juan Conde ten minutes early for the appointment with the owner’s agent, a man called da Gama. They stood at the edge of the dock looking out at the amphibian.

      ‘It looks good to me,’ said Noval, a tough young man around Romero’s age, who wore an old leather flying jacket.

      Conde was older than either of them, thirty-five and stocky. He also wore a flying jacket and looked across at the Catalina, shading his eyes from the sun.

      ‘What do you think, Juan, can you handle it?’

      ‘Just try me.’

      A motor boat nosed in to the dock and a man in a brown suit and Panama hat waved from the stern. ‘Señor Romero?’ he called in Spanish. ‘Fernando da Gama. Come aboard.’

      They went down the steps and joined him, and he nodded to the boatman, who took the motorboat away.

      ‘She looks good?’ da Gama suggested.

      ‘She looks bloody marvellous,’ Romero told him. ‘What’s the story?’

      ‘A local shipping line had the idea of regular flights down to the island of Madeira. Purchased the Catalina in the United States last year. It has performed magnificently, but they wanted to concentrate on passengers and the capacity is limited – too limited for there to be any money in it. May I ask what your requirement would be?’

      Romero stayed very close to the truth. ‘General freight in the Red Sea and Gulf of Aden, flying as far as Goa perhaps. It’s a new venture.’

      ‘I know that area,’ da Gama said. ‘The Catalina would be perfect.’

      They bumped alongside a small floating dock and as the boatman killed his motor, Noval and Conde grabbed a line and tied up. Da Gama opened the cabin door and led the way in. Romero looked into the cockpit with conscious pleasure, took one of the pilot’s seats and reached for the control column. Noval took the other seat and examined the instrument panel.

      ‘What a beauty.’

      Da Gama, Conde at his shoulder, opened a file. ‘I’ll just give you approximate dimensions. Length sixty-three feet, height

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