Eye of the Needle - Ken Follett [107]
Godliman decided not to salute.
Churchill said, “Sit down, Professor.”
Godliman suddenly realized that Churchill was not a big man—but he sat like a big man: shoulders hunched, elbows on the arms of his chair, chin lowered, legs apart. He was wearing a solicitor’s black-and-stripes—short black jacket and striped gray trousers—with a spotted blue bow tie and a brilliant white shirt. Despite his stocky frame and his paunch, the hand holding the fountain pen was delicate, thin-fingered. His complexion was baby-pink. The other hand held a cigar, and on the table beside the papers stood a glass containing what looked like whisky.
He was making notes in the margin of a typewritten report, and as he scribbled he occasionally muttered. Godliman was not really awed by the great man. As a peacetime statesman Churchill had been, in Godliman’s view, something of a disaster. However, the man had the qualities of a great warrior chieftain, and Godliman very much respected him for that. (Churchill modestly denied being the British lion, saying that he merely was privileged to give the roar; Godliman thought that assessment was just about right.)
He looked up abruptly now. “I suppose there’s no doubt this damned spy has discovered what we’re up to?”
“None whatsoever, sir,” Godliman said.
“You think he’s got away?”
“We chased him to Aberdeen. It’s almost certain that he left there two nights ago in a stolen boat—presumably for a rendezvous in the North Sea. However, he can’t have been far out of port when the storm blew up. He may have met the U-boat before the storm hit, but it’s unlikely. In all probability he drowned. I’m sorry we can’t offer more definite information—”
“So am I,” Churchill said, and suddenly he seemed angry, though not with Godliman. He got out of his chair and went over to the clock on the wall, staring as if mesmerized at the inscription, Victoria R.I., Ministry of Works, 1889. Then as if he had forgotten that Godliman was there, he began to pace up and down alongside the table, muttering to himself. Godliman was able to make out the words, and what he heard astonished him. The great man was mumbling: “This stocky figure, with a slight stoop, striding up and down, suddenly unconscious of any presence beyond his own thoughts…” It was as if Churchill were acting out a Hollywood screenplay that he wrote as he went along.
The performance ended as abruptly as it had begun, and if the man knew he had been behaving eccentrically, he gave no sign of it. He sat down, handed Godliman a sheet of paper and said, “This is the German order of battle as of last week.”
Godliman read:
Russian front:
122 infantry divisions
25 panzer divisions
17 miscellaneous divisions
Italy & Balkans:
37 infantry divisions
9 panzer divisions
4 miscellaneous divisions
Western front:
64 infantry divisions
12 panzer divisions
12 miscellaneous divisions
Germany:
3 infantry divisions
1 panzer division
4 miscellaneous divisions
Churchill said: “Of those twelve panzer divisions in the west, only one is actually on the Normandy coast. The great SS divisions, Das Reich and Adolf Hitler, are at Toulouse and Brussels respectively and show no signs of moving. What does all this tell you, professor?”
“Our deception and cover plans seem to have been successful,” Godliman answered, and realized the trust Churchill had placed in him. Until this moment, Normandy had never been mentioned to him, not by his uncle Colonel Terry or anybody else, though he had deduced as much, knowing as he did about the artificial buildup aimed at Calais. Of course, he still did not know the date of the invasion—D-Day—and was grateful that he did not.
“Totally successful,