Eye of the Needle by Ken Follett Page A

Anglia. If that army is the invasion force, then it follows that they will attack via the Pas de Calais.”
    “That makes sense. But I have seen no sign of this army of Patton’s.”
    “There is some doubt in the highest circles in Berlin. The Fuehrer’s astrologer—”
    “What?”
    “Yes, sir, he has an astrologer, who tells him to defend Normandy.”
    “My God. Are things that bad there?”
    “He gets plenty of earthbound advice, too. I personally believe he uses the astrologer as an excuse when he thinks the generals are wrong but he can’t fault their arguments.”
    Faber sighed. He had been afraid of news like this. “Go on.”
    “Your assignment is to assess the strength of FUSAG: numbers of troops, artillery, air support—”
    “I know how to measure armies.”
    “Of course.” He paused. “I am instructed to emphasize the importance of the mission, sir.”
    “And you have done so. Tell me, are things that bad in Berlin?”
    The agent hesitated. “No, sir. Morale is high, output of munitions increases every month, the people spit at the RAF bombers—”
    “Never mind, I can get the propaganda from my radio.”
    The younger man was silent.
    Faber said, “Do you have anything else to tell me? Officially, I mean.”
    “Yes. For the duration of the assignment you have a special bolt-hole.”
    “They do think it’s important,” Faber said.
    “You rendezvous with a U-boat in the North Sea, ten miles due east of a town called Aberdeen. Just call them in on your normal radio frequency and they will surface. As soon as you or I have told Hamburg that the orders have been passed from me to you, the route will be open. The boat will be there every Friday and Monday at 6 P.M . and will wait until 6 A.M .”
    “Aberdeen is a big town. Do you have an exact map reference?”
    “Yes.” The agent recited the numbers, and Faber memorized them.
    “Is that everything, Major?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “What do you plan to do about the gentlemen from MI5 in the house across the road?”
    The agent shrugged. “I’ll have to give them the slip.”
    Faber thought, It’s no good. “What are your orders after you have seen me? Do you have a bolt-hole?”
    “No. I am to go to a town called Weymouth and steal a boat to return to France.”
    That was no plan at all. So, Faber thought, Canaris knew how it would be. Very well.
    “And if you are caught by the British and tortured?” he said.
    “I have a suicide pill.”
    “And you will use it?”
    “Most certainly.”
    Faber looked at him. “I think you might,” he said. He placed his left hand on the agent’s chest and put his weight on it, as if he were about to get off the bed. That way he was able to feel exactly where the rib cage ended and the soft belly began. He thrust the point of the stiletto in just under the ribs and stabbed upward to the heart.
    The agent’s eyes widened for an instant. A noise came to his throat but did not get out. His body convulsed. Faber pushed the stiletto an inch farther in. The eyes closed and the body went limp.
    “You saw my face,” Faber said.

8

    I THINK WE’VE LOST CONTROL OF IT,” SAID PERCIVAL Godliman. Frederick Bloggs nodded agreement, and added, “It’s my fault.”
    The man looked weary, Godliman thought. He had had that look for almost a year, ever since the night they had dragged the crushed remains of his wife from underneath the rubble of a bombed house in Hoxton.
    “I’m not interested in apportioning blame,” Godliman said. “The fact is that something happened in Leicester Square during the few seconds you lost sight of Blondie.”
    “Do you think the contact was made?”
    “Possibly.”
    “When we picked him up again in Stockwell, I thought he had simply given up for the day.”
    “If that were the case he would have made the rendezvous again yesterday and today.” Godliman was making patterns with matchsticks on his desk, a thinking habit he had developed. “Still no movement at the