Luger to its holster. Without lighting it, he clenched the much-used pipe between his teeth.
'No smoking in here!'
Keitel issued the edict when they were inside his office and he turned and saw Hartmann's pipe. The Abwehr officer kept it in his mouth and removed his cap as he spoke.
'I hardly ever light it. The pure atmosphere inside here will remain unpolluted. But it helps my concentration. That, I feel sure, you can hardly object to.'
It was a statement, not a question. From the first few seconds of their encounter in the compound the Abwehr man had recognized Keitel – but he spent half his life using his considerable skill as a psychologist to establish respect, however grudging, for his position. Keitel was the schoolboy bully, the head boy who sucked up to the headmaster and made life hell for the rest of the pupils. Oh God, he had met the type before – times without number. The trick was to throw them off balance instantly.
'Under whose authority were you permitted to enter the Security Zone?' Keitel barked.
After removing his cap and outer coat he had sat down behind a large desk. The chair was large – needed to be to accommodate his bulk – and he sat erect. He had overlooked the courtesy of suggesting that Hartmann sat down. The Abwehr officer paused to give his statement maximum shock effect.
'By order of the Fuhrer.' He took the pipe from his mouth and examined the bowl, then replaced it in its. original position as he continued. 'There are serious rumours – too serious to ignore any longer – that a Soviet spy is operating inside the Wolf's Lair. My job is to identify him.' He extracted a folded piece of paper from his wallet and placed it on the desk. 'There is my movement order…'. Again, the enigmatic pause. 'It gives me full power to question everyone regardless of rank..'
Keitel's face had changed, like the lowering of a shutter as he checked the order. Hartmann was intrigued. Was Keitel really the obstinate automaton he was reputed to be? Or did the bluster conceal something quite different? More deadly?
'May I sit down? That is kind of you. My thanks…'
Hartmann hung cap and coat on the wall-rack next to Keitel's and seated himself in the chair facing the Field Marshal across the wide expanse of desk. Keitel had not replied. He re-folded the document slowly, pushed it across the desk surface, staring at Hartmann. The atmosphere inside the but had subtly changed. Hartmann sensed tension, unease.
'That document gives you plenipotentiary powers,' 'That's right!' Hartmann responded cheerfully. He Keitel observed slowly, crossed his legs and leaned back in the chair, the soul of relaxation. 'The right of interrogation, summary powers of arrest. Regard me as the agent of the Fuhrer…'
The Abwehr… No one liked them – because everyone feared them. It was unclear where their authority began and ended. That was the style of Admiral Canaris, their chief, Keitel was thinking. It gave the old fox infinite room for manoeuvre. He decided to test the Abwehr man, his manner now bluff and amiable.
'Of course it goes without saying that your brief does not extend to the upper echelons of the High Command. Colonel-General Jodl, for example…'
'Or yourself?' Hartmann broke in agreeably.
'Well, naturally…'
'Perhaps you had better read the movement order again,' Hartmann suggested jovially. 'Regardless of rank'… Is that phrase not included? – Doubtless inserted at the Fuhrer's specific wish – since he himself signed the order.'
Keitel's mouth tightened. He would have liked to explode – was only holding himself in check with a supreme effort of will, the Abwehr Major noted. Again the Field Marshal glanced at the document still lying on his desk but made no move to re-read it. He went off at a tangent.
'Do you have to keep that beastly pipe in your mouth when you're addressing me?'
'As I said, it helps the concentration. We all need something. I notice this interview is something of a strain for yourself – you have not stopped fiddling with that baton since you sat down..'
Keitel stopped himself looking at his own hands but could not stop himself gripping more tightly the baton he had been revolving on the surface of his desk. Hartmann waited, amused. Keitel was unsure whether to push the baton away – which would have been some kind of concession to this bloody Abwehr creep – or whether to continue as before. Such tiny incidents were everyday stock-in-trade to Hartmann, who excelled in interrogation techniques.
'I find you insolent,' Keitel responded eventually.
'Others have found the same. It must be something in my manner – or in the job I have to do…'
Hartmann took out a notebook and pencil, perched the notebook at an angle so Keitel could not see what he wrote, his manner respectful and businesslike. His action created the impression there was no doubt that Keitel would cooperate. He asked his questions in rapid succession, concealing what he did not know – the normal technique for keeping a witness off balance.
'The Fuhrer takes all military decisions himself at the twice-daily conferences. You then see that these are carried out?'
'Of course. There is also Colonel-General Alfred Jodl…'
'Who again is privy to all decisions?'
'That is so…'. Keitel paused and perched the tip of his baton beneath his jaw. Hartmann waited, guessing something important was coming. Keitel was not the complete wooden dummy of repute – he was capable of verbal fencing. Which Hartmann found interesting.
'You should know that someone else is always present – always – at these military conferences. Martin Bormann
'But for years he has acted as the Fuhrer's secretary, Hartmann interjected as though he saw nothing significant in this comment.
While he spoke the Abwehr officer's pencil was apparently making notes. Keitel would have been startled had he been able to see the pencil jottings – which were nothing more than caricature doodles of himself. Hartmann was blessed with total recall of any conversation he participated in.
'So,' Hartmann. continued, 'we have yourself, Jodl and Bormann as the three men who always know the present – and near-future – order of battle of the Wehrmacht?'
'You have not included the other secretary,' Keitel remarked in a remote voice. Once again Hartmann had the strong sensation of shutters closing down, masking Keitel's real thoughts. It was a reaction he had not expected. He knew exactly who Keitel was switching his attention to.
'The other secretary?' he queried.
'I use the word secretary in a different sense, I am referring to Christa Lundt who personally notes down the Fuhrer's orders..'
'How old would Fraulein Lundt be?' Hartmann asked.
'Her early twenties, I suppose.' Keitel looked irritated and puzzled. 'What significance is there in her age?'
'Too young!'
The Abwehr officer closed his book after making a slashing motion as though deleting a name. In fact he had crossed out a doodle of Keitel decorated with a monocle. He put away the notebook and extracted his pipe again.
'I don't follow your reasoning,' Keitel protested. 'What has age to do with tracking down a hypothetical Soviet spy?'
'Hypothetical?' Hartmann enquired sharply.
'You have no proof of his – or her – existence..
'You are challenging the Fuhrer's unalterable conviction – I use his very words – that there is a Soviet spy passing details of our order of battle to the Red Army?'
Hartmann could not have been more genial as he stirred his bulk in the chair as though soon to leave. He could not have said anything more likely to throw Keitel on the defensive – the oblique suggestion that he was questioning the Fuhrer's judgement. Hartmann held his dead pipe and moved his fingers round the bowl while he watched his victim.
'I said nothing which could possibly be construed to have meant what you so outrageously suggested.. Keitel protested.
