The curtains parted and Beatrice Schiffer appeared, followed by her brother.
“Why it is Captain Hardy,” she said in a voice just over a whisper. Her eyes were as blue as her brother’s and the siblings were nearly the same height, a good head shorter than Hardy. Her dark brown hair, flecked with gray, was carefully arranged so that it came just to her shoulders. Hardy always felt that was most sensible in a woman; keep your hair short and under control, no outlandish hairdos that require constant maintenance. Sensible.
He swallowed before replying. “How do you do, Miss Schiffer?”
“Years he’s been coming here,” Schiffer said to Beatrice, “and it’s still Miss Schiffer.”
“Topper, please,” she said.
“You see, Captain Hardy,” Schiffer said. “Topper. And she’s Bea. Short for Beatrice, you see. Bea since she was a girl and Topper from the clocks.”
Hardy was perplexed. “Clocks?”
“Tower clocks. Me job was to clean and repair them before the war. Then me legs gave out on me. Too many steps, you see. Get to the tops of the towers in no time. Wring a few pigeons’ necks on the way.”
“Topper, must you?” Beatrice reprimanded her brother mildly.
“Well, it’s true, Bea and many’s the time you’ve heard me complain about those filthy birds,” he said. Then he turned to Hardy. “Pigeon dung gums up a clock’s works faster than anything. Can’t tell you the times I’ve had to shovel—”
“Tea? Captain Hardy?” Beatrice interrupted her brother.
“That’s right,” Schiffer said. “We’ve just brought the kettle to a boil in the back. Come join us for a spot.”
“No. Thank you,” Hardy said. “I’ve come for a few things.” He had written down a list of supplies that he needed but couldn’t bring himself to reach for it. That would hasten the end of the visit.
“Now, Captain Hardy,” Beatrice said. “You’re a busy man I’m sure, but certainly a cup of tea wouldn’t demand too much of your time?”
“Best mind Bea, Captain Hardy,” Schiffer said. “I did when I went into this business. Didn’t know charcoal from chilblains but Bea made it all work out.”
Hardy saw the hope in Beatrice’s eyes, and for a moment he even thought that his continued presence was the object of that hope. But that would be too much to expect. Still it was only tea.
“Yes,” he said. “Tea it is.”
Chapter 6
Rommel was distracted. He paced the room appearing to listen carefully to Admiral Thomas K. Dresser, Commander-in-Chief of the Kriegsmarine Gruppe West. Dresser’s report of S-boats and R-boats and Channel activity droned on and on, covering every detail of his command’s activity over the past week. But Rommel was aware of the rationale behind Dresser’s endless self-serving account of all that the Kriegsmarine had done; it was Goering.
Hermann Goering was a harbinger of disaster. He would rush to the Fuehrer’s side and begin a hurried litany of the calamities that the other services had brought upon themselves because of their own ineptitude. But not the Luftwaffe; oh, certainly not the valiant Luftwaffe that could not keep American and British bombers from destroying the beautiful cities of the Fatherland, or from decimating the forces being rushed along French roads to strengthen the Atlantic Wall. No, Reichsfuehrer Hermann Goering would never report the failures of his own command; he would wax eloquently on the triumphs of the Luftwaffe. And the Fuehrer listened, and the Fuehrer fumed, and he ranted about the imbecilic commanders whose idiotic decisions cost the very resources that he, the Fuehrer, struggled endlessly to provide. And Goering, his face wreathed in sympathy for the Fuehrer’s untiring devotion to the welfare of the nation, watched Hitler storm about, and smiled secretly.
That was why Dresser spoke as he did. Because somewhere, in this mass of officers gathered around the long table in the large dining room of this vast hotel that had been turned into Wehrmacht Headquarters, there were several ambitious men, jackals really, who passed on to Goering distorted accounts of what was being reported. Best state that the impossible was being done to prevent the improbable — to keep the Allies away from the coast of France. No, no. To crush them. To color the waters of the English Channel with their blood so that the English and the Americans would never again dare think of invading the continent. Be assured in your predictions, unwavering in your conviction. And cognizant that the Fat Man’s ears heard everything.
Rommel was suddenly aware that Dresser had stopped speaking.
Kommodore Karl Walters, Rommel’s naval attaché, thanked the admiral smoothly, covering the feldmarschall’s inattention. Rommel cocked an eyebrow in mild irritation at Walters’s presumption that he was not listening. He had stopped listening long before Dresser finished his report, but that was beside the point. Walters took too many liberties. He assumed too much and certainly presumed too much, always seeming to anticipate Rommel’s questions about the navy’s readiness or the Allies’ intentions as regards to naval strategy, and the final insult to the feldmarschall’s sensibilities was that Walters was always right.
He was very smooth, Rommel had decided after the kommodore had joined his staff. Correct in action and deed — each word properly chosen and presented. Quietly, if voraciously, ambitious. Rommel saw some of himself in Walters and was disturbed by the image. As highly polished as marble, he decided, and just as cold. Be careful of his ambition, Rommel had reminded himself.
Commander of Army Group for Special Employment. Rommel. Go to France, Hitler had ordered him, and turn the Atlantic Wall into an impregnable defense. Make every port a fortress. Make certain the Allies impale themselves on the bayonets of Wehrmacht soldiers with the sands of France clutched in their dying hands. Von Rundstedt rolled his eyes at that one.
“Thank you, Admiral,” Rommel said, glancing at Walters. That was a signal that the meeting was over and that the fieldmarschal wanted his naval attaché to remain. After the others had gone Rommel approached the large map of the French coast, the English Channel, and the coast of England. “Walters,” he said, an indication that he was ready for the officer’s comments.
“Yes, Feldmarschall,” Walters said, walking from the end of the table to the huge map. “Admiral Dresser argued most effectively against using his S-boats exclusively as minelayers.”
“His opinion is not my concern,” Rommel said. He had no interest in Dresser’s reasoning. “Mines, Walters. The first line of defense.”
“Of course, Feldmarschall.”
“Mines in the water, mines on land. Is that so difficult to grasp?”
“No, Feldmarschall.”
Rommel turned, annoyed. Walters recognized this as a signal. The feldmarschall, never a patient man, wanted his attaché’s opinion.
Walters said smoothly, “I think that the admiral’s position has some merit. So too, do the S-boats.”
“Toys,” Rommel said. “There is no Kriegsmarine presence in the Channel. Little toy boats. Scattered up and down the coast. What good are they to me? To the defense of France?”
“They might be of some use,” Walters said. “Particularly the boats at Cherbourg.”
Rommel’s eyes reflected irritation.
“S-boats, Feldmarschall,” Walters continued, “with attachments on their hulls. They rise above the surface of the water and travel at very high speeds. Limited resistance against the hull.”