A Gathering of Spies by John Altman

much easier with height. There’s no real way, of course, for the Nazis to know exactly where the signal is coming from, but we go to great lengths to achieve—”
    â€œI know,” Winterbotham said. “The appearance of truth is vital.”
    â€œIt helps keep us sharp, anyway. Every time I go to visit Meissner, I see what he would see if he were actually at liberty. It keeps me on track when I draft the reports he sends back to Hamburg every week.”
    â€œYou’re his case officer, then.”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œBut you told me he’s been in England for ten years. And you, Andrew, only began to work for Military Intelligence fairly recently, right?”
    Taylor gave him an odd, slanted half smile. “As a matter of fact, Harry, I was MI-Five long before I ever took the job at the university.”
    â€œ What ?”
    â€œThought you knew me inside and out, eh? I may still have a few surprises left for you, old chap.”
    â€œNext you’ll tell me you threw all those chess games in order to keep a low profile.”
    Taylor smiled wider. “Here we are,” he said.
    The house was a three-story Victorian of red brick, perched on the very top of a hill in one corner of Pond Square. They were met just inside the front door by a squat, thickset young Briton who looked to Winterbotham as if he had seen too many flicks about Scotland Yard. Taylor introduced him as Dickens, and they shook. The young man had a crushing handshake. Winterbotham could see the bulge of a gun in a breast holster beneath his tweed jacket.
    â€œHow’s our guest today?” Taylor asked.
    â€œSame as ever,” Dickens said. “No lack of complaints with that one.”
    â€œWhat is it now?”
    â€œSame as ever. Boredom. Claustrophobia.”
    â€œLet’s see if we can’t liven up his day,” Taylor said.
    They climbed a narrow, musty staircase, leaving Dickens standing guard by the front door. Winterbotham found himself not quite believing where he was or what he had just found out about Taylor. Games within games they were playing, here; and him without any sleep; and Ruth alive—alive!—in Dachau, and he with a chance to get her back, if he played his cards right; and a spy in the room above them, keeping secrets; and another spy crossing the ocean at that very moment, secrets in tow. Secrets within secrets, games within games—it boggled the mind.
    Another heavyset young man was sitting by a closed door on the second story. He was holding a thin novel—Conan Doyle, Winterbotham saw. The man stood as Taylor came off the top step, and looked as if he were about to salute.
    â€œAt ease.” Taylor smiled. “Harry, this is Alf. Alf, Harry Winterbotham.”
    Alf nodded and grunted. Winterbotham nodded back.
    â€œWho’s that I hear?” said a voice from behind the door. The English was crisp and perfect. Ten years , Winterbotham thought. Ten years spent living in this country. A spy who is now spying on his spymasters. Games within games. Secrets within secrets .
    â€œCome on,” Taylor said in a low voice. “I’ll introduce you to the feather in Double Cross’s cap. We’ll see if we can’t shake the truth out of him yet.”
    Fritz Meissner was extremely tall and thin, pale, with receding blond hair and prominent blue veins in his temple. He lounged on a bed by an open window, enjoying the fresh spring air, smoking a cigarette. When Taylor and Winterbotham entered the room, he turned his eyes to face them—no other part of his body moved. There was something insolent in the man’s demeanor, something that Winterbotham found extremely distasteful.
    â€œFritz!” Taylor said brightly. “I hope we’re not interrupting.”
    â€œInterrupting?” Meissner said. He smiled. “God forbid. But it’s not your usual day, Andrew. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
    â€œI wanted you