Faber whipped around to face the bank. One of the soldiers jumped. Faber stepped forward and held his right arm out rigidly. The leaping soldier impaled himself on the eight-inch stiletto.

The impact knocked Faber off his feet, and he lost his grip on the stiletto. The soldier fell on top of the weapon. Faber got to his knees; there was no time to retrieve the stiletto, the captain was opening his holster. Faber jumped at him, his hands going for the officer’s face. The gun came out. Faber’s thumbs gouged at the eyes of the captain, who screamed in pain and tried to push Faber’s arms aside.

There was a thud as the fourth guardsman landed in the well of the boat. Faber turned from the captain, who would now be unable to see to fire his pistol even if he could get the safety off. The fourth man held a policeman’s truncheon; he brought it down hard. Faber shifted to the right so that the blow missed his head and caught his left shoulder. His left arm momentarily went nerveless. He chopped the man’s neck with the side of his hand, a powerful, accurate blow. Amazingly the man survived it and brought his truncheon up for a second swipe. Faber closed in. The feeling returned to his left arm, and it began to hurt mightily. He took the soldier’s face in both his hands, pushed, twisted, and pushed again. There was a sharp crack as the man’s neck broke. At the same instant the truncheon landed again, this time on Faber’s head. He reeled away, dazed.

The captain bumped into him, still staggering. Faber pushed him. His cap went flying as he stumbled backward over the gunwale and fell into the canal with a huge splash.

The corporal jumped the last six feet from the oak tree onto the ground. Faber retrieved his stiletto from the impaled guard and leaped to the bank. Watson was still alive, but it would not be for long—blood was pumping out of the wound in his neck.

Faber and the corporal faced each other. The corporal had a gun.

He was understandably terrified. In the seconds it had taken him to climb down the oak tree this man had killed three of his mates and thrown the fourth into the canal.

Faber looked at the gun. It was old—almost like a museum piece. If the corporal had any confidence in it, he would already have fired it.

The corporal took a step forward, and Faber noticed that he favored his right leg—perhaps he had hurt it coming out of the tree. Faber stepped sideways, forcing the corporal to put his weight on the weak leg as he swung to keep his gun on the target. Faber got the toe of his shoe under a stone and kicked upward. The corporal’s attention flicked to the stone, and Faber moved.

The corporal pulled the trigger; nothing happened. The old gun had jammed. Even if it had fired, he would have missed Faber; his eyes were on the stone, he stumbled on the weak leg, and Faber had moved.

Faber killed him with the neck stab.

Only the captain was left.

Faber looked, and saw the man clambering out of the water on the far bank. He found a stone and threw it. It hit the captain’s head, but the man heaved himself onto dry land and began to run.

Faber ran to the bank, dived in, swam a few strokes, and came up on the far side. The captain was a hundred yards away and running, but he was old. Faber gained steadily until he could hear the man’s agonized, ragged breathing. The captain slowed, then collapsed into a bush. Faber came up to him and turned him over.

The captain said, “You’re a…devil.”

“You saw my face,” Faber said, and killed him.

12

THE JU-52TRIMOTOR TRANSPORT PLANE WITH swastikas on the wings bumped to a halt on the rain-wet runway at Rastenburg in the East Prussian forest. A small man with big features—a large nose, a wide mouth, big ears—disembarked and walked quickly across the tarmac to a waiting Mercedes car.

As the car drove through the gloomy, damp forest, Field Marshal Erwin Rommel took off his cap and rubbed a nervous hand along his receding hairline. In a few weeks’ time, he knew, another man would travel this route with a bomb in his briefcase—a bomb destined for the Fuehrer himself. Meanwhile the fight must go on, so that the new leader of Germany—who might even be himself—could negotiate with the Allies from a reasonably strong position.

At the end of a ten-mile drive the car arrived at the Wolfsschanze, the Wolves’ Lair, headquarters now for Hitler and the increasingly tight, neurotic circle of generals who surrounded him.

There was a steady drizzle, and raindrops dripped from the tall conifers in the compound. At the gate to Hitler’s personal quarters, Rommel put on his cap and got out of the car. Oberfuehrer Rattenhuber, the chief of the SS bodyguard, wordlessly held out his hand to receive Rommel’s pistol.

The conference was to be held in the underground bunker, a cold, damp, airless shelter lined with concrete. Rommel went down the steps and entered. There were a dozen or so there already, waiting for the noon meeting: Himmler, Goering, von Ribbentrop, Keitel. Rommel nodded greetings and sat on a hard chair to wait.

They all stood when Hitler entered. He wore a grey tunic and black trousers, and, Rommel observed, he was becoming increasingly stooped. He walked straight to the far end of the bunker, where a large wall map of northwestern Europe was tacked to the concrete. He looked tired and irritable. He spoke without preamble.

“There will be an Allied invasion of Europe. It will come this year. It will be launched from Britain, with English and American troops. They will land in France. We will destroy them at the high-water mark. On this there is no room for discussion.”

He looked around, as if daring his staff to contradict him. There was silence. Rommel shivered; the bunker was as cold as death.

“The question is, where will they land? Von Roenne—your report.”

Colonel Alexis von Roenne, who had taken over, effectively, from Canaris, got to his feet. A mere captain at the outbreak of war, he had distinguished himself with a superb report on the weakness of the French army—a report that had been called a decisive factor in the German victory. He had become chief of the army intelligence bureau in 1942, and that bureau had absorbed the Abwehr on the fall of Canaris. Rommel had heard that he was proud and outspoken, but able.

Von Roenne said, “Our information is extensive, but by no means complete. The Allies’ code name for the invasion is Overlord. Troop concentrations in Britain are as follows.” He picked up a pointer and crossed the room to the wall map. “First: along the south coast. Second: here in the district known as East Anglia. Third: in Scotland. The East Anglian concentration is by far the greatest. We conclude that the invasion will be three-pronged. First: a diversionary attack on Normandy. Second: the main thrust, across the Strait of Dover to the Calais coast. Third: a flanking invasion from Scotland across the North Sea to Norway. All intelligence sources support this prognosis.” He sat down.

Hitler said, “Comments?”

Rommel, who was Commander of Army Group B, which controlled the north coast of France, said, “I can report one confirming sign: the Pas de Calais has received by far the greatest tonnage of bombs.”

Goering said, “What intelligence sources support your prognosis, Von Roenne?”

Von Roenne stood up again. “There are three: air reconnaissance, monitoring of enemy wireless signals and the reports of agents.” He sat down.

Hitler crossed his hands protectively in front of his genitals, a nervous habit that was a sign that he was about to make a speech. “I shall now tell you,” he began, “how I would be thinking if I were Winston Churchill. Two choices confront me: east of the Seine, or west of the Seine. East has one advantage: it is nearer. But in modern warfare there are only two distances—within fighter range and outside fighter range. Both of these choices are within fighter range. Therefore distance is not a consideration.