that.'
There was rage on Berger's face in the mirror as he touched his cheek. That little Irish swine. I'll fix him next time.'
'No you won't because from now on I'll handle things myself,' Schellenberg said. 'Unless, of course, you'd prefer me to report to the ReichsFuhrer that we lost this man because of your stupidity.'
Berger swung round. 'General Schellenberg, I protest.'
'Get your feet together when you speak to me, Sturmbannfuhrer,' Schellenberg snapped. Berger did as he was told, the iron discipline of the SS taking control. 'You took an oath on joining the SS. You vowed total obedience to your Fuhrer and to those appointed to lead you. Is this not so?'
'Jawohl, BrigadeFuhrer.'
'Excellent,' Schellenberg told him. 'You're remembering. Don't forget again. The consequences could be disastrous.' He moved to the door, opened it and shook his head. 'You look awful, Major. Try and do something about your face before going down to dinner.'
He went out and Berger turned back to the mirror. 'Bastard!' he said softly.
Liam Devlin sat at the piano in the Lights of Lisbon, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, a glass of wine on one side. It was ten o'clock, only two hours till Christmas Day and the cafe was crowded and cheerful. He was playing a number called 'Moonlight on the Highway', a particular favourite, very slow, quite haunting. He noticed Schellenberg the moment he entered, not because he recognized him, only the kind of man he was. He watched him go to the bar and get a glass of wine, looked away, aware that he was approaching.
Schellenberg said, ' "Moonlight on the Highway". I like that. One of Al Bowlly's greatest numbers,' he added, mentioning the name of the man who had been England's most popular crooner until his death.
'Killed in the London Blitz, did you know that?' Devlin asked. 'Would never go down to the cellars like everyone else when the air-raid siren went. They found him dead in bed from the bomb blast.'
'Unfortunate,' Schellenberg said.
'I suppose it depends which side you're on.'
Devlin moved into 'A Foggy Day in London Town' and Schellenberg said, 'You are a man of many talents, Mr Devlin.'
'A passable bar room piano, that's all,' Devlin told him. 'Fruits of a misspent youth.' He reached for his wine, continuing to play one-handed. 'And who might you be, old son?'
'My name is Schellenberg - Walter Schellenberg. You may have heard of me?'
'I certainly have.' Devlin grinned. 'I lived long enough in Berlin for that. General now, is it, and the SD at that? Are you something to do with the two idiots who had a try at me earlier this evening?'
'I regret that, Mr Devlin. The man you shot is the police attache at the Legation. The other, Major Berger, is Gestapo. He's with me only because the ReichsFuhrer ordered it.'
'Jesus, are we into old Himmler again? Last time I saw him he didn't exactly approve of me.'
'Well he needs you now.'
'For what?'
To go to England for us, Mr Devlin. To London, to be more precise.'
'No thanks. I've worked for German Intelligence twice in this war. The first time in Ireland where I nearly got my head blown off.' He tapped the bullet scar on the side of his forehead.. 'And the second time in Norfolk you took a bullet in the right shoulder and only got away by the skin of your teeth, leaving Kurt Steiner behind."
'Ah, so you know about that?'
'Operation Eagle? Oh, yes.'
'A good man, the Colonel. He wasn't much of a Nazi...'
'Did you hear what happened to him?'
'Sure - they brought Max Radl into the hospital I was in in Holland after his heart attack. He got some sort of report from intelligence sources in England that Steiner was killed at a place called Meltham House trying to get at Churchill.'
'Two things wrong about that,' Schellenberg told him.
There was rage on Berger's face in the mirror as he touched his cheek. That little Irish swine. I'll fix him next time.'
'No you won't because from now on I'll handle things myself,' Schellenberg said. 'Unless, of course, you'd prefer me to report to the ReichsFuhrer that we lost this man because of your stupidity.'
Berger swung round. 'General Schellenberg, I protest.'
'Get your feet together when you speak to me, Sturmbannfuhrer,' Schellenberg snapped. Berger did as he was told, the iron discipline of the SS taking control. 'You took an oath on joining the SS. You vowed total obedience to your Fuhrer and to those appointed to lead you. Is this not so?'
'Jawohl, BrigadeFuhrer.'
'Excellent,' Schellenberg told him. 'You're remembering. Don't forget again. The consequences could be disastrous.' He moved to the door, opened it and shook his head. 'You look awful, Major. Try and do something about your face before going down to dinner.'
He went out and Berger turned back to the mirror. 'Bastard!' he said softly.
Liam Devlin sat at the piano in the Lights of Lisbon, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth, a glass of wine on one side. It was ten o'clock, only two hours till Christmas Day and the cafe was crowded and cheerful. He was playing a number called 'Moonlight on the Highway', a particular favourite, very slow, quite haunting. He noticed Schellenberg the moment he entered, not because he recognized him, only the kind of man he was. He watched him go to the bar and get a glass of wine, looked away, aware that he was approaching.
Schellenberg said, ' "Moonlight on the Highway". I like that. One of Al Bowlly's greatest numbers,' he added, mentioning the name of the man who had been England's most popular crooner until his death.
'Killed in the London Blitz, did you know that?' Devlin asked. 'Would never go down to the cellars like everyone else when the air-raid siren went. They found him dead in bed from the bomb blast.'
'Unfortunate,' Schellenberg said.
'I suppose it depends which side you're on.'
Devlin moved into 'A Foggy Day in London Town' and Schellenberg said, 'You are a man of many talents, Mr Devlin.'
'A passable bar room piano, that's all,' Devlin told him. 'Fruits of a misspent youth.' He reached for his wine, continuing to play one-handed. 'And who might you be, old son?'
'My name is Schellenberg - Walter Schellenberg. You may have heard of me?'
'I certainly have.' Devlin grinned. 'I lived long enough in Berlin for that. General now, is it, and the SD at that? Are you something to do with the two idiots who had a try at me earlier this evening?'
'I regret that, Mr Devlin. The man you shot is the police attache at the Legation. The other, Major Berger, is Gestapo. He's with me only because the ReichsFuhrer ordered it.'
'Jesus, are we into old Himmler again? Last time I saw him he didn't exactly approve of me.'
'Well he needs you now.'
'For what?'
To go to England for us, Mr Devlin. To London, to be more precise.'
'No thanks. I've worked for German Intelligence twice in this war. The first time in Ireland where I nearly got my head blown off.' He tapped the bullet scar on the side of his forehead.. 'And the second time in Norfolk you took a bullet in the right shoulder and only got away by the skin of your teeth, leaving Kurt Steiner behind."
'Ah, so you know about that?'
'Operation Eagle? Oh, yes.'
'A good man, the Colonel. He wasn't much of a Nazi...'
'Did you hear what happened to him?'
'Sure - they brought Max Radl into the hospital I was in in Holland after his heart attack. He got some sort of report from intelligence sources in England that Steiner was killed at a place called Meltham House trying to get at Churchill.'
'Two things wrong about that,' Schellenberg told him.
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