In the shocked silence, it was Himmler who spoke, his voice dry and precise. “That there has been negligence here is true, my Fuhrer, but surely we see further proof, in the failure of this dastardly attempt, of the certainty of your own destiny. Further proof of Germany’s inevitable victory under your inspired guidance.”
Hitler’s eyes blazed, his head went back. “As always, Reichsfiihrer, you see. The only one who does.” He turned on the others. “Get out, all of you. I wish to talk to the Reichsfuhrer alone.”
They went without a murmur, Goebbels the last one to leave. Hitler stood staring down at the map desk, hands clasped behind him. “In what way may I serve my Fuhrer?” Himmler asked.
“There is a plot, am I not right?” Hitler said. “A general conspiracy to destroy me, and this Captain Koenig was simply an agent?”
“Not so much a general conspiracy as a conspiracy of generals, my Fuhrer.”
Hitler turned sharply. “Are you certain?”
“Oh, yes, but proof-that is something else.”
Hitler nodded. “Koenig was an aide of General Olbricht. Is Olbricht one of those you suspect?” Himmler nodded. “And the others?”
“Generals Stieff, Wagner, von Hase, Lindemann. Several more, all being closely watched.”
Hitler stayed remarkably cool. “Traitors each and every one. No firing squad. A noose each when the time comes. No one higher, though? It would seem our field marshals are loyal at least.”
“I wish I could confirm that, my Filhrer, but there is one who is heavily suspect. I would be failing in my duty not to tell you.”
“Then tell me.”
“Rommel.”
Hitler smiled a ghastly smile that was almost one of triumph, turned and walked away and turned again, still smiling. “I think I expected it. Yes, I’m sure I did. So, the Desert Fox wishes to play games.”
“I’m almost certain of it.”
“The people’s hero,” Hitler said. “We must handle him carefully, wouldn’t you say?”
“Or outfox him, my Fuhrer,” Himmler said softly.
“Outfox him. Outfox the Desert Fox.” Hitler smiled delightedly. “Yes, I like that, Reichsfuhrer. I like that very much indeed.”
Hugh Kelso slept until noon and when he awakened, he was sick. He turned over in the violently pitching life raft and pulled down the zip of the entrance flap. His heart sank. There was nothing but sea, the life raft twisting and turning on the angry waves. The sky was black, heavy with rain and the wind was gusting 5 or 6, he could tell that. Worst of all, there wasn’t a hint of land anywhere. He was well out in the English Channel, so much was obvious. If he drifted straight across, wasn’t picked up at all, he’d hit the coast of France, possibly the Cherbourg Peninsula. Below that, in the Gulf of St. Malo, were the Channel Islands. Alderney, Guernsey and Jersey. He didn’t know much about them except that they were British and occupied by the enemy. He was not likely to be carried as far south as that, though.
He got the Verey light out, and fired an orange distress flare. There was seldom any German naval traffic in the Channel during daylight. They tended to keep to the inshore run behind their minefields. He fired another flare and then water cascaded in through the flap and he hurriedly zipped it up. There were some field rations in the emergency kit. He tried to eat one of the dried fruit blocks and was violently sick and his leg was on fire again. Hurriedly, he got another morphine ampule and injected himself. After a while, he pillowed his head on his hands and slept again.
Outside, the sea lifted as the afternoon wore on. It started to get dark soon after five o’clock. By that time the wind was blowing sou’westerly, turning him away from the French coast and the Cherbourg Peninsula so that by six o’clock he was ten miles to the west of the Casquets Light off the island of Alderney. And then the wind veered again, pushing him down along the outer edge of the Gulf of St. Malo toward Guernsey.
Kelso was aware of none of these things. He awakened around seven o’clock with a high temperature, washed his face with a little water to cool it, was sick again and dropped into something approaching a coma.