by Walter Ellis
“Spain,” Serrano continued, “wishes to recover Gibraltar as a matter of national honour. To pretend otherwise would be ridiculous. We are also, as you know full well, committed partners in the Fascist alliance. Your fight is our fight. We share the same goals and are part of the same struggle. But you should understand that the problems of our nation after the civil war are severe and unresolved – exacerbated, if anything, by the continuing European conflict. I do not need to tell you this, Stohrer. You have been here long enough. We need supplies of food, we need guarantees of fuel, we need adequate weaponry with which to defend ourselves against retaliatory strikes. Above all, we need to know that Berlin will look with favour upon our territorial claims in North and West Africa, upon which our status as a European power will ultimately rest. Without the relevant assurances, we would be embarking on an adventure that could finally bankrupt our economy, starve our people and leave us with nothing to show for our efforts but a rock with a flag on top.”
“My dear Minister,” said Stohrer, “an invitation to Berlin can of course be arranged – though I must caution that in the weeks ahead, for reasons that will shortly become apparent, the Führer’s time will be strictly rationed. For now, I urge you and the Caudillo to give most serious thought to these matters. An opportunity such as this comes only once in a lifetime. Do not waste it, I beg of you.”
When the Spanish trio left, Stohrer collapsed into his chair. He was not a Nazi. He found most Party members coarse and infantile in their opinions, as did many of his older colleagues in the service. But Hitler, he had long ago realised, was an unstoppable force of nature, with mesmeric qualities. No one in Germany dared oppose him: certainly not Eberhard von Stohrer. Such qualms as the Bavarian had in Hitler’s service took second place to his need to hold on to his job and stay as far away from Berlin as possible. How had he performed today? he wondered. He wasn’t sure. All he knew was that the Spanish would not easily or quickly be sold on war.
Bruns, busy with his maps and charts, sought to reassure his boss. “You worry too much,” he said. “You did the best you could.”
“So did you,” said Stohrer. “But they are not stupid. They know we are asking them to engage in an enterprise that could ruin them.”
Bruns looked mildly surprised. “Are you suggesting, Ambassador, that the Reich could lose the war?”
“I am saying, colonel, that victory is rather further off than many imagine, especially in Berlin. War is not only brutal, it is notoriously unpredictable. Ask Canaris. The Spanish people have known nothing but savagery, hunger and humiliation since 1936. They know exactly what cost to put on ‘national honour’ and who will do the paying.”
Heaving himself once more to his feet, the ambassador strode across the expanse of his office to the oriel window overlooking the street. “Serrano lusts for glory. He yearns to take the salute at the victory parade. But he knows the realities as well as I.” He pointed to the pavement below, along which bedraggled groups of Madrileños picked their way. “Just look at them. It’s pitiful, Bruns. Nothing short of pitiful. Half of them are wearing clothes that were not new when Hindenburg died. Can you imagine if such a thing happened in Berlin! That fellow over there – you can see his ribs. The woman down by the lamppost, with a child at her feet: every day I see her – her entire life consists of begging. My God, I even saw two fellows fighting the other day in the street over a crust of bread. If we are to persuade these people that the best thing they can do after fighting each other like animals for three years and destroying their economy is to go back to war, we have to be damned sure we know what we are talking about.”
Bruns grunted. Such things did not concern him. “That is why you are a diplomat. All I know is that if we capture Gibraltar, the British are screwed.”
At that point, Klausener knocked and entered the office, reminding Stohrer for an instant of Jeeves, an invention of the English comic novelist, P.G. Wodehouse, one of his favourites before the war. He looked solicitously across the room, assessing the mood in an instant. “I take it, Herr Ambassador, you will not be requiring the champagne.”
A wheezy laughed emerged from the Ambassador’s throat. “No, Franz. I will not be requiring the champagne. Take it home. Drink it yourself. Better still, find a pretty Señorita and impress the hell out of her.”
In his room two doors up from the Ambassador’s office, Hasselfeldt switched off the Magnetophon and once more congratulated himself on his initiative. He was now privy to one of the best-guarded secrets in the Reich. What he did with the information he acquired was entirely a matter for him. Diplomats worked through persuasion, soldiers with force. The SD worked any damned way it pleased. His next report to Schellenberg, with a copy to Heydrich perhaps, would contain more than an account of place settings for the Duke of Windsor’s latest tea party; it would be a forceful critique of strategic thinking in the Spanish sphere and of the sorry limitations of those whose duty it was to achieve a positive result.
As it happened, a point of entry had just presented itself. The British aide, Bramall, was back in Madrid after a visit to Gibraltar – a visit of which he had not been forewarned. The reason he knew about it was that he had an informant in Serrano Suñer’s private office. According to his source, Bramall had told Serrano that he wished to make contact with some conservatively inclined naval officers in the colony, but this seemed fanciful. Photographs of Bramall at the frontier in the company of a British naval commander with an eye patch had been sent to him by the Abwehr head of station in Algeciras. Hasselfeldt was still unsure what Bramall was up to. The Wilhelmstrasse was convinced he was a reliable contact and “Friend of the Party.” His provenance had been checked out several times – even, via a sympathiser posing as a family member in London, with Oswald Mosley himself. It was also a fact that his father was a prominent pro-German sympathiser and that the son had been selected by the appeasement-minded Duke of Windsor as his Spanish liaison in Madrid.
But might it all not been a ruse? He remembered the photograph of Bramall at the London riot: the shock and revulsion in his eyes. There was definitely something not right about him. Something in his eyes and bearing. It was maddening. Keeping track of the fellow was turning into a farce. He kept on disappearing. Yet Serrano Suñer obviously regarded him highly. On one occasion, he had even given him use of a government car. Hasselfeldt snorted. It might take time, but he would get to the truth in the end. All he had got out of him so far was a single memo telling him things he already knew about the Duke of Windsor. There was one good quotation, which he had immediately forwarded to Berlin, but nothing of real value.
It was as if he was playing for time. But Bramall would not get the better of him when it came to the main event. He would have him brought to the Legation for an in-depth debriefing. If he refused to cooperate, he would have him snatched from the street, and to hell with the Spanish! He looked forward to it. It hardly mattered whose side the fellow was on, he could provide key details of Gibraltar’s defences and the readiness of its garrison. People under close questioning always gave away more than they knew. It was a fact of human nature. Afterwards, he would kill him – slowly – and have him buried beneath the floor of the embassy cellar, covered with quicklime. If nothing else, it would be an opportunity to refresh his techniques.
He felt like an athlete who had skipped training for too long. Regularity and repetition were what kept you sharp.
In the meantime, there was much to be done. He looked at his watch, which showed 11.36. There was an hour remaining before lunch, which gave him time to begin transcribing and translating into German the lengthy meeting between Stohrer and his Spanish guests. Ordinarily, he would have entrusted the job to an assistant or stenographer, but with material as sensitive as this he could take no chances. Have made sure his door was securely shut, he pushed the rewind switch on the Magnetophon and engaged the mechanism that took the spool of magnet
ic tape all the way back to the beginning. The dialogue replayed in reverse at high speed, reminded the Sturmbannführer of a group of hysterical chimpanzees he saw when he was a child in Vienna’s zoological gardens. He had thrown stones at them through the bars so that they howled at him in impotent rage until his mother pulled him away. When the spool halted, with a heavy click, Hasselfeldt moved a chair next to the device, turned down the volume and took up a notebook and pencil.
Soon the booming baritone of the Ambassador could be heard, speaking Spanish, followed by the higher-pitched responses of Serrano Suñer. What a windbag Stohrer was. He ought to have been on the stage at Bayreuth. “Reich Marshal Göring has been charged with preparing the ground for an invasion and will carry out his orders at the appropriate time. We are in no doubt that in the months ahead the Churchill clique will fall and that Britain, under a more compliant leadership, will thereafter take its place, respectfully, in the New Order.” And then a pause – no doubt intended to bring his audience to the edge of their seats. “One expected consequence of the revised geo-political situation will, naturally, be the immediate restoration to Spain of Gibraltar – bringing to an end an injustice that has persisted for far too long.”
Hasselfeldt wondered to what extent Stohrer was following orders and how much he was extemporising, giving away more than was necessary. The young SS officer was adept at taking notes. He wrote fast and had an excellent memory. Even so, he rewound each passage several times before he was satisfied that he had got it right. He had just moved on to page four of his notebook, with Serrano declaring the centrality of Spain’s African Empire to its national dignity, when the telephone rang on his desk.
He picked up the receiver without thinking. “Hasselfeldt. Who is it?”
The voice of the duty receptionist came on the line. “There is someone to see you, Herr Major. He says his name is Bramall.”
“Bramall?”
“Yes, Herr Major.”
Hasselfeldt felt a surge of disappointment course through him. Was he to be denied the pleasures of an interrogation in depth? But this was no time to be stupid. “Put him on.”
Downstairs, in the Legation’s lobby, Bramall heard the line go dead for a second. When the connection was made, it sounded at first like a crossed line. He could have sworn he could hear Serrano Suñer asking someone if Germany was ready to back Spain’s title to a united Morocco and Oran. The Minister’s voice was mellifluous and distinctive. He would have known it anywhere.
Abruptly, with a click, the voice ceased, to be replaced by Hasselfeldt, speaking in German. “Bramall, is that you? What do you want? Where have you been?”
What the hell was going on? Was Serrano conniving with the SD? It didn’t seem very likely.
“Well, that’s just it, you see. I thought I should look in and let you know what I’ve been up to.”
“Na-ja. Very well. Give me the reception clerk.” Bramall did so. “Check that he is not armed,” Hasselfeldt ordered, “and send him up.”
“At once, Herr Major.”
Hasselfeldt placed his notebook on the open top of the Magnetophon and began pacing back and forth between the door of his office and the window on the opposite side. He had not expected this. It added a certain piquancy to the game, but also an unwelcome degree of uncertainty. He felt as if he had been out-guessed, and the sensation was distinctly disagreeable.
In the lobby, a bespectacled SS corporal approached Bramall, who was waiting on a bench seat opposite the reception desk. “You are to come with me, please,” he said. “But first, you must raise your hands above your head. I will examine you for weapons.”
“Absolutely,” Bramall replied.
“We do not take chances.”
Once checked and cleared, Bramall was escorted upstairs to the SD office on the first floor. The Austrian was standing, with his arms crossed, next to the window. He was alone. Serrano must have left, though it was odd they hadn’t passed on the stairs or landing.
The voice across the room was pure Vienna. “You are beginning to irritate me, Bramall.”
“Really? And why would that be?”
“You have not reported to my office for several days. You provide me with no information on your movements. How am I to know what you are up to?”
Bramall offered a rueful smile. “But you must have got my report. I brought it here myself.”
“You mean your memorandum on the Duke?” The SD officer threw a look of pure contempt. “Yes, I got that. It would have made an amusing diary item in the Daily Mail, but I must tell you it did not excite either me or my superiors in Berlin. However, that is not what is at issue here. I wish to know where you have been in the last three days.”
“I just told you – that’s why I’m here.”
Hasselfeldt strode across to his desk and sat down. “Continue,” he said.
Out of the corner of his eye, Bramall could see the Magnetophon. He had no idea what it was, but it looked impressive. There were two large spools on either side, with a tape stretched between them by way of some kind of mechanism with lots of little wheels. There was a red light – presumably to show that it was working – and a background glow of valves. There was also a notebook in which Hasselfeldt, in a curiously childlike hand, was evidently writing just before he came in. He could make out the letters “RSS” followed by a colon and a lengthy paragraph beginning with quotation marks. The words “Morocco” and “Oran” stood out from the rest. He turned rapidly back to his host. “Yes,” he said, I thought you should know that I’ve been down to Gibraltar.”
“What were you doing there?”
“Meeting up with some old contacts – party members, naval officers who don’t see a war with the Reich as being necessarily in the best interests of their country. I thought you might be interested.”
Hasselfeldt opened a drawer in his desk and took out an envelope containing a number of photographs. He selected one and threw it across his desk. Bramall picked it up. It showed him in the Land Rover with his naval escort. Christ! Paterson was right. The Germans didn’t miss a trick.
“Ah,” he said. “So you got there before me.”
The Austrian looked faintly puzzled. “I hope that you are not implying I have nothing better to do than to follow you around the country taking your photograph.”
“No, no. I just meant that you seem to know what I’m doing before I do.”
“Please to remember that. Now tell me about your visit. These officers you spoke with – who were they?”
Bramall affected mild surprise. “I’d rather not give their names, if you don’t mind.”
“Don’t be absurd. We are not in high school now. I want to know who they are and what they said to you.”
“Is that absolutely necessary?”
“Their names, Bramall.”
“You’re not going to …?”
“They will be for our records. Nothing will happen to them.”
“Well, in that case, if you insist, there was a Lieutenant Harris – he was in the BUF at one point, but had to resign or else give up his career. He’s on the cruiser Gloucester. Lieutenant Commander Brewer is flying out to Alexandria today to join the aircraft carrier Eagle. but he’ll return with Force H. We had dinner two nights ago. He said Franco was the best thing to have happened to Spain in years. He was in Gibraltar in ‘36 when the crew of the Jaime Primero – a battleship, I believe – mutinied and threw their officers overboard. He couldn’t understand how radicals like that were allowed to get away with it.”
Hasselfeldt looked bored. “Go on,” he said.
“Harris thought if the Army could just put on a decent show somewhere … maybe in Africa if the Italians kick up or – who knows? – Gibraltar, then we could sue for peace on honourable terms. Brewer said that was it exactly. Both of them wanted
to see an end to a war they think England has no chance of winning.”
“And?”
“And that’s about it,” Bramall added lamely. “I was to meet up with another chap, name of McIntyre – a gunnery officer whose father served with my father in the last lot. Last time we met, he told me he’d give anything to see a bit more German-style leadership in the government in London. But he turned out to be on duty practically the whole time I was there, so I didn’t get to see him.”
“Which ship is he on?”
“He’s not. Shore batteries are his specialty. He’s been helping set up new emplacements.”
“What calibre?” Hasselfeldt was no military expert, but he liked to sound knowledgeable.
“Six-inch, I believe. That’s about 150 millimetres. But they’ve got 9.2-inch as well, and more on the way. Quite impressive, really.”
“I see. And that’s it, is it?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Very well.” Hasselfeldt examined his fingernails. “How did you gain admission to the base in the first place? Did they know you were coming?”
“Well, naturally. It wasn’t easy, I can tell you. Problem was, I couldn’t contact Gib from here, not unless I went through the embassy or the interior ministry in Spain.”
“And which did you use?”
“Both. I saw Minister Serrano Suñer the other day. We got on very well, as a matter of fact. We had quite a chat. He’s keen to know how serious London is about holding on to the Rock. The next day, I got his people to give me a laisser-passer as far as the frontier post at La Linéa. Then the embassy here cabled the Governor’s office, telling them to expect me.”
