"That's all right," McBride said hollowly. "Go on, what happened?"
"They waited in Brest for two days, then got shipped back to Plabennec, every man in the division."
"No rumours, nothing like that?"
"Everyone thought it was England, sir. Our new codes were in English, I remember."
"England, with two divisions and a Fallschirmjaeger Division's rifle regiments?" McBride laughed, concentrating his sudden absence of enthusiasm in the mocking sound." The Isle of Wight, maybe, Herr Kohl—"
"I remember, the Fallschirmjaeger left a couple of days before the Division was shipped to Brest. Just weren't there in the morning, so the lads said. Never saw them again — and there was a lot of aircraft activity that previous night, heading for England."
"They all disappeared?"
"Three rifle regiments, recce company, signals, the whole lot. There was even a Parachute Artillery Abteilung that came in at the beginning of November — with the ten-o-five recoilless guns — they'd gone as well."
"Where, Herr Kohl — flown out or transferred?" McBride leaned towards the former Funkmeister. Goessler coughed, making Kohl shift slightly in his chair, aware of his fellow German again. He shook his head.
"And, as far as you're concerned, these units of parachute troops vanished — in England?"
Kohl nodded. "Yes, sir. They couldn't be anywhere else — could they?"
McBride shook hands with Goessler once more, the German clasping both hands round McBride's hand, pumping vigorously as if to restore circulation.
"It is both more and less of a mystery, eh, Thomas?" he said, smiling like a cut melon. "Do not worry — I will continue the work here. You must now go to England in pursuit of our mysterious parachutists — anything I learn will be sent to you. That part of it will be simple."
McBride nodded.
"Klaus, thank you. I confess I was disappointed — but there was enough there to make me go on, track the whole story down. Maybe it's even better than before — the disappearing Fallschirmjaeger, uh? Everyone likes a mystery. Maybe the book will change its shape if I can get hold of more—" His lips compressed as he realized he was walking away from East Berlin, from papers he might not have seen, people he might have been able to interview. "If I apply for another visa, you can smooth it, mm?" Goessler nodded. "People is what we want, Klaus. Men who served in those units with Kohl — records of those night flights late in November—" The avenues of investigation bubbled out of him now, as Lobke from the Ministry opened the door of the Zil and made him aware, by looking at his watch, that his journey to Tegel could not be longer delayed. McBride nodded at Lobke. "OK, OK."
"Go along now, Thomas — and leave everything with me. You'll be hearing from me very soon, I am certain."
His hand was released and McBride climbed into the car. As it pulled away from in front of the Hotel Spree, McBride looked out of the rear window. Goessler was waving enthusiastically after the car.
The morning was crisp, cold, clear, a sky washed of imperfections except for the smudge on the southern horizon which was the effluent of Southampton's bombing. McBride nevertheless felt invigorated by the air, the frost crunching like powdered glass underfoot, the chill on his wan, tired face. He rubbed one hand through his hair, tousling it. Walsingham walked beside him, deep in contemplation of the debriefing, of the notes he had studied and the tape-recorded dialogue with the weary McBride.
McBride liked Walsingham, effectively his special operations controller for OIC for the past year. Walsingham was a few years younger, though his rank of Commander, RNVR, seemed to belie his age — his age belied the sudden rank, McBride corrected himself. He had been drafted into OIC by means of an RNVR(S) commission at the outbreak of war, by Rear Admiral Godfrey — Director of Naval Intelligence — himself, from his job in civilian intelligence. By general repute, Walsingham was brilliant, painstaking, thorough, imaginative — and ruthless. McBride liked him as much for the suggestion of that latter quality that always seemed close to his eyes and mouth as for his more acceptable qualities. He was what McBride could accept, and admire, in his operations controller. And Walsingham respected his qualities as a field-agent.
A rook called from a bare tree, hunched above its great lump of a nest. Both men looked up at the noise, smiled.
"Well, Charlie-boy? Have you learned what you wanted? You're being remarkably silent, even for you."
"And your sudden brogue isn't having the slightest effect on me, Michael lad," Walsingham observed, looking down at his shoes, rimed with the frost on the lawn in front of the house.
"Touché!" McBride stopped, facing Walsingham. "What's it about, Charlie? I'm not an idiot — even I could smell something big — what is it?"
Walsingham wandered a few steps away, then turned to face McBride. He was suddenly boyish rather than donnish as he rubbed at his fair hair, making it stand up away from his pale forehead.
"I wish I knew, Michael, I wish I knew."
"Listen, Charlie, it's a two-way process. You talk to me, now."
Walsingham, as if ignoring McBride's demand, walked away from him, seeming to study the bare trees, the last curled leaves on the lawn — scuffing some of them with his foot, a sharp, crackling sound. McBride was surprised not at his reluctance, which he considered only apparent, but by the intense mental agitation that Walsingham's young face clearly evidenced. Walsingham looked up.
"I discount, of course, your remarks concerning the camaraderie of the Kriegsmarine and the Wehrmacht — at least, I want to ignore it, perhaps simply because it's so tantalizing to speculate on it." He smiled, almost in a hurt, defensive way. He thrust his hands in the pockets of his brown jacket — Walsingham was rarely in uniform — as if to limit the dramatic emphasis he might bring to bear on his remarks. "Your drawing is quite inadequate, you know — your skill with the pencil, I mean—"
"Charlie, are you trying to tell me something?" McBride grinned. "Go for your gun, Kincaid," he observed. Both men stood, ten yards apart, hands in pockets.
"Don't joke." It was said with the affronted dignity of a lover.
"OK — talk me through it, then."
"I guessed the sheds concealed submarines, but I couldn't understand why they were so— so flimsy—" He surrendered to emphasis, waved his hand briefly at his side, replaced it in his pocket. He looked like a schoolboy trying to explain a breach of discipline. "And the submarines in there — Raeder and Donitz don't have that many submarines, so this use of Guernsey is quite out of character, and ties up a lot of boats — look, they must have been building these big U-boats at the expense of other vessels!" He looked up at McBride, as if for confirmation, and McBride realized for the first time that Walsingham was rehearsing an argument; or was repeating one that had already failed to convince other people.
"Go on, Charlie," he said.
"Let's cut over this way," Walsingham said quietly, pointing towards a grove of trees that ran down to the stream that crossed the estate around the house. McBride nodded, and they walked in silence until Walsingham pursued his argument, the cry of another rook seeming to galvanize him into speech.
"Those boats you say — you think they were ocean-going big boys, right?" McBride nodded. "But they might have been milchcows, right?" Again, McBride nodded. "And again, they could have been a new type — what do you think they were doing? Had been doing?"
McBride walked on in silence for a time, listening to his own footsteps and those of his companion.
"I don't know, Charlie, I really don't. Your eyes lit up when I described the stuff on them — you tell me."