A Gathering of Spies Read Online Free PDF Page A

generals, the games, the bombs, the madmen, the soldiers, all of it.
    Taylor, sitting beside him, noticed the appreciative look on his face.
    â€œIt’s pretty,” he said, “isn’t it?”
    Winterbotham nodded. “The war seems very far away,” he murmured.
    â€œIt does indeed. But that’s deceptive, old chap. The real war is being fought—and won—not very far from here. Not very far at all.”
    â€œThe real war?” Winterbotham said.
    â€œWell, some might take exception with that. The ones doing the fighting, for instance.” Taylor was watching him with bright, eager eyes. “But it’s true nonetheless. Our boys in the field would be doing a lot worse if we weren’t doing what we’re doing here. Take my word for it.”
    Now the car was moving alongside a low stone wall, approaching a gate festooned with barbed wire. Winterbotham could see two guards, machine guns in hand, coming forward to meet them.
    â€œWhat, exactly, are we doing here?” he asked.
    Taylor smiled. “That’s what you’re about to find out, old chap. And if you’re having second thoughts, now’s the time. Once we go through that gate, there’s no turning back.”
    They pulled up to the gate.
    Winterbotham held his tongue.
    â€œGood afternoon,” Taylor said politely, handing his papers to the stone-faced guard outside his window.
    Latchmere House, behind the low walls, behind the curls of barbed wire, between the spill of hastily constructed barracks, was a pale-green monstrosity.
    The building, three rambling stories of damp and mildew, had been built as a mental hospital after the Great War. The army had found euphemisms to disguise Latchmere’s true purpose; they had called it a “home”—so much nicer than “hospital”—for “victims of shell shock”—so much nicer than “mental patients.” But the architecture screamed “lunatic asylum,” and there was no mistaking it. The windows were narrow slits, far too small for a man to slip through. The rooms were bare, dark, drafty, and draconian.
    Taylor ushered him into a small chamber furnished with one small table and two rickety chairs. Grayish sunshine filtered in. The air smelled sour and earthy, like the air in a fruit cellar.
    â€œHave a seat,” Taylor said grandly, “and I’ll tell you the greatest secret of the war.”
    More dramatics , Winterbotham thought. But he sat, settling his bulk carefully into an unsteady chair, and took out his pipe.
    A small suitcase was resting on the table. Winterbotham looked it over curiously as he packed his orange-flavored tobacco. The case was tarnished metal, compact and nondescript. It was slightly too squat for a chessboard. He considered asking about it, and then decided that Taylor would explain in due time. This was Taylor’s show, after all, and he had to let Taylor go ahead as he liked—unnecessary drama and all.
    Taylor sat in the other chair, produced a cigarette, and waited until Winterbotham had his pipe going before lighting it. Then he leaned back, crossed his pudgy legs at the ankles, and said, “It’s rather a lot to digest, what I’m about to tell you. Stop me if I go too fast.”
    â€œNever fear,” Winterbotham said.
    â€œYou remember what I said the last time we met—about playing games?”
    Winterbotham nodded. “Playing games is what you do.”
    â€œNot just us. Hitler, too. He and his friend Canaris.”
    Winterbotham nodded again. Admiral Wilhelm Canaris was one of Hitler’s more infamous cronies—the head of the Nazi intelligence service, the Abwehr .
    â€œWould you care to guess, Harry, how many spies the Abwehr has sent to England since the early thirties?”
    â€œI wouldn’t have any idea.”
    â€œWell, we would, thank God. About a hundred. And that doesn’t include the Brits who sold