LITMIR.BIZ

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      ‘I don’t see where my expertise fits in, sir.’

      ‘Let’s talk about munitions. What’s the difference between this war and the last one?’

      ‘It’s an aerial war, an aerial bombardment war.’

      ‘All Berliners think about is air raids,’ Lehrer sighed. ‘I’m talking about the war. The offensive.’

      ‘There are no static fronts. It’s a mobile war. Blitzkrieg.’

      ‘Exactly. It’s a mobile war. It requires machinery, machine tools, artillery. It’s also a tank war. Tanks have armour. To stop a tank you have to penetrate the hardened steel of its armour and that requires what is known as solid-core ammunition.’

      ‘The shell heads are hardened with an alloy – tungsten, I believe . . . so are the machine tools, the gun barrels and tank armour.’

      ‘Otherwise known as wolfram or wolframite,’ said Lehrer. ‘Do you know where that comes from?’

      ‘China . . . most of it, and Russia. Sweden has some, not much, even though they invented the word tungsten, and . . .’ Felsen slowed as the cogs clicked, ‘. . . the Iberian Peninsula.’

      ‘You know your stuff.’

      ‘I learnt a lot from Wencdt.’

      ‘Wencdt?’

      ‘My General Manager, he’s a metallurgist,’ said Felsen. ‘You mentioned the Ukraine and the Black Sea states earlier.’

      ‘Ah . . .’ said Lehrer leaning back, steepling his fingers, savouring his own lips, ‘the bigger picture.’

      ‘I was under the impression that we had signed a non-aggression pact with Stalin in 1939. I’m not expecting you to confirm that that pact will be broken, but it hasn’t escaped the Berliners’ attention that factories are churning out massive amounts of material and it’s all heading in one direction.’

      ‘Let’s hope Stalin’s not as perspicacious as the Berliners.’

      ‘All he’d have to do is hang around the Bierstuben and Kneipen of Kreuzberg and Neukölln and offer to buy a few beers and he’d get all the military intelligence he needs.’

      ‘A worrying thought,’ said Lehrer, totally unconcerned. ‘Keep talking, Herr Hauptsturmführer, you’re doing very well.’

      ‘The wolfram we’re getting from China . . . does it come via Russia?’

      ‘Correct.’

      ‘And when we break the non-aggression pact we’ll be cutting ourselves off from the biggest wolfram suppliers in the world.’

      ‘Now you understand why I wanted you in uniform before I told you about the job.’

      ‘Susana Lopes,’ said Felsen, nodding at Lehrer. ‘You want me to use my lover’s Portuguese to buy wolfram.’

      ‘Portugal has the largest reserves in Europe and you didn’t get the job just because you speak Portuguese.’

      ‘What was wrong with Koch?’

      Lehrer fanned the name away like a nasty fart.

      ‘Not subtle enough,’ he said. ‘This job requires finesse, an understanding of people, a sort of games-playing skill, you know, a genius for bluff, a talent for dissimulation, that kind of thing. Skills of yours we have already seen in action. And anyway, he wasn’t what Susana would call simpatico was he?’

      ‘Am I buying this wolfram for the SS?’

      ‘No, no, you’re buying it for Germany, but the Supply Department is headed by Dr Walter Scheiber who, apart from being a great chemist, is an old Party member and a true SS man. In this way, the Reichsführer Himmler wants to make sure that the SS gets the credit for the campaign and in return we’ll take more of the munitions production. That is nothing to do with you. Your task is to get your hands on every kilo of uncontracted wolfram there is.’

      ‘Uncontracted wolfram? What’s already under contract?’

      ‘The biggest mine is British. Beralt – production 2000 tons per annum. The French own the Borralha mine – production 600 tons. The United Kingdom Commercial Corporation signed a contract with Borralha last year but we are being successful, through the Vichy government, in preventing it from working. We control a small mine called Silvicola, maximum production a few hundred tons. The rest is on the open market.’

      ‘And how much do we need?’

      ‘Three thousand tons for this year.’

      A clock ticked behind Felsen’s head. Snow shifted on the roof overhead and dropped in a flurry past the window.

      ‘May I smoke now, sir?’ asked Felsen, Lehrer nodded. ‘Didn’t you just say that the biggest mine produced two thousand tons a year?’

      ‘I did. And that’s not the least of your problems. The UKCC will institute pre-emptive buying offensives. You will have to manage vast quantities of “free” labour as well as your own men and any associated Portuguese agents. You will have to secure stockpiles, arrange shipments. You will have to be . . . how shall I put it . . . unconventional in your methods.’

      ‘Smuggling?’

      Lehrer stretched his fattening neck out of his collar.

      ‘You will need information about your competitors’ movements. You will need to stiffen your labour force’s resolve, keep foreign agents in line.’

      ‘And the Portuguese Führer – Dr Salazar – how does he . . .?’

      ‘He has a tightrope to walk. He is ideologically sound but there’s a long history of cooperation with the British which they are keen to invoke. He will find himself torn but we will prevail.’

      ‘And when do I leave for Portugal?’

      ‘You don’t, not yet. Switzerland first. This afternoon.’

      ‘This afternoon? And what about the factory? I haven’t organized a damn thing. That’s totally impossible, out of the question.’

      ‘These are orders Herr Hauptsturmführer,’ said Lehrer icily. ‘No order is impossible. A car will pick you up at one o’clock this afternoon. You will not be late.’

      Felsen stood outside his apartment building at exactly 1.00 p.m. He was in uniform but with one of his own coats over the top and watching grimly as an overalled worker pasted a huge black and red poster on to the wall by the pharmacy opposite. It said ‘Führer, we thank you’.

      He’d phoned Eva all morning and got no reply. Finally, after he’d packed and finished talking things over with Wencdt, he’d run round to her apartment and banged and shouted outside her windows until the same man who’d told him to shut up the night before stuck his head out to do so again. He stopped short on seeing the uniform under the coat and became excessively polite. He told him in sticky sweet German that Eva Brücke had gone away, that he’d seen her getting into a taxi with suitcases yesterday morning, Herr Hauptsturmführer.

      An old woman who’d been working her way up the frozen pavements of Nürnbergerstrasse drew level with the huddled Felsen and saw the poster and the sick look on his face. She gave the BerlinerBlick up and down the street and pointed her cane across to the pharmacy.

      ‘What have we got to thank him for?’ she said, emphasizing her clouds of breath with her spare fur-cuffed gloved hand. ‘The National Socialist coffee bean? How to bake cakes with no eggs? The only thing we’ve got to thank him for is that the Völkischer Beobachter . . . it’s softer than the National Socialist toilet paper.’

      She stopped as if she’d been knifed in the throat. Felsen’s coat had fallen open and she’d seen the black uniform. She ran. Her feet suddenly as sure as a speed skater’s on the sheet ice of

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