A New Kind of War

So ... what’s it all for, did you ask? It’s quite simple, really: we are about to deceive our loyal American allies, that’s all.’ The light went out.

‘How?’ Madness! ‘Why?’

‘How? Ah . . . well, you remember what we’re doing –I did tell you just before dinner. Rather hurriedly, I admit. But I did.

Number 21, and all that –remember – ?’

‘Number 21? The man in the photograph?’

‘That’s right: “Key-of-the-Door”, like in Housey-Housey – a mindless game of quite excruciating boredom, which I shall never forget because we were obliged to play it endlessly while we were dummy4

in readiness for Normandy. You know it?’

‘For Christ’s sake, David!’ Steady! ‘Number 21 – we’re going to pick up Number 21 – does he have a name?’

‘He does. But he won’t be using it tonight, and neither will we. For our purposes he’s now “Keys”, Fred. But the name you’ve got to remember is “Krausnick” in any case –“Krausnick” – okay?’

‘Is that his real name?’

‘Lord no! Krausnick is an entirely different fellow – a scientific fellow . . . But he’s the one we’re officially supposed to be picking up tonight, you see. Are you with me?’

It was no good saying ‘no’. ‘Yes. We’re pretending to go after a scientist named Krausnick. But we’re actually after . . . “Keys”.

And that’s the deception?’

‘Partly. Because . . . actually, we’re not going to get him, of course.’

‘Keys – ?’

‘No. Krausnick.’

‘Why not?’

‘We don’t want him. Or . . . I suppose we do want him, actually.

But he won’t be there anyway. In fact, the truth is, he’s probably nowhere. Because the last time he was spotted was in Berlin, back in late April, at the very end of things there. So the Russians have probably got him, if he’s still alive.’

‘So why are we after him? Or pretending we are – ?’

‘Ah! Well, he’s big-time stuff still, even if he is “Missing, dummy4

presumed” et cetera. On everyone’s “Most Wanted” list, with his picture in every sheriff’s office, Fred, is friend Krausnick.’

‘A big-time Nazi?’

‘Nazi? No ... or maybe he is – was that, too. But nobody seems to be worrying much about that now – not with scientists, anyway.’

Audley was shaking his head: Fred couldn’t see him doing it, but he was, nevertheless. ‘Krausnick’s a rocket- propulsion expert –

one of the Crocodile’s alleged specialities. So when we’ve got the prisoners all lined up, the old Croc will be striding up and down muttering “Krausnick” loudly, and f-frowning at each of ’em and saying “Not that one – not that one”, and so on ... All for the benefit of the Americans, you see?‘

It was still no good saying ‘no’. At least, not directly. ‘But this isn’t the deception – or only partly?’

‘Right.’ This time it was an invisible nod. ‘Because they’ll be watching us like a hawk. Because they’re hellbent on picking up every rocket-expert they can lay their hands on, Fred. Because . . .

because . . . the word is that the Germans had plans for super-rockets which could fizz their way clear across the Atlantic. And you just imagine rockets landing among all those skyscrapers – eh?’

Audley allowed him time for a brief catastrophic vision. ‘In fact ...

if, by any remotest accident, Herr Krausnick did turn up in the line-up . . . then they’d probably grab him from us – and apologize afterwards, the old Croc says. But maybe he’s doing them an injustice. But . . . but . . . the possibility of that happening has wonderfully encouraged their co- operation, at all events. Hence the searchlights. Plus a large number of their military intelligence dummy4

chaps too, more’s the pity! Although, of course, they don’t take us too seriously – or not Caesar Augustus, anyway!’

There was method in Colonel Colbourne’s madness, decided Fred.

But there was also rather too much risk-taking for his taste. ‘Did we tell them about Krausnick?’

‘Lord, no! But we did accidentally let them find out, just to encourage them to help us.’ Audley’s torch went on again, illuminating his wrist-watch. ‘We’ll have to go soon, Fred –’

‘Just to deceive them?’ Routine Anglo-American military double-dealing had been par for the course in Italy, Fred remembered. And everyone had tried to fuck-up the French, as a matter of routine enmity (although the Frogs had had the last laugh – and his admiration with it). But this was all curiously depressing, nevertheless. ‘Why?’

The torch went out. ‘We had to tell them something – for God’s sake, Fred – they’re not stupid: they know we’re up to something, I mean!’