The Soldier Spies

by W. E. B Griffin

  He pulled the keys from the ignition, pulled on the parking brake, stepped out of the car, and moved quickly around the rear to open the door for Gisella. By the time he got there, she had her door open and was swinging her feet out, carefully, because the car was so close to the edge. Her coat had opened and her skirt was hiked up, and a flash of white flesh was visible above the silk stockings he had brought her from Berlin.

  He felt his heart jump.

  Goddammit, she’s beautiful!

  “I can make it,”Gisella said. Standing up and supporting herself on the car, she made her way to where he stood. She held in her hand a tissue-wrapped bottle. The proprietor of the Kurhotel had been more than pleased to present Herr Standartenführer with one of his two bottles of Courvoisier.

  “Wait,” Müller said,“there’s more.”

  Gisella raised her eyebrows and looked at him curiously.

  He opened the trunk of the car and took from it a large cardboard box.

  “What’s that?” Gisella asked.

  “A few little things I picked up for you in Berlin,” he said.

  She looked at him with a warm sparkle in her eyes. “Thank you, sir,” she said, and her voice caught. “Thank you very much.”

  She likes me!

  As they entered the foyer of the old house, a door opened a crack and an eye peered out.

  Peis’s resident snoop, Müller decided.

  He followed Gisella up the stairs and waited for the answer to the knock at her door.

  Although he had examined his dossier carefully, Professor Friedrich Dyer was not what Müller had imagined. He expected an academic type, an absentminded professor in mussed and baggy clothes. Dyer was tall and erect with a full head of curly hair. There was a Hungarian somewhere in the bloodline, Müller decided. Perhaps that explained his rebellion.

  “Heil Hitler!” Professor Dyer said, raising his arm.

  “Heil Hitler,” Müller mumbled. He stepped inside the apartment, and Gisella closed the door after them.

  “Father,” Gisella said,“this is Standartenführer Müller.”

  “How do you do, Herr Standartenführer?” Dyer said formally, neither coldly nor warmly. But his eyes, Müller saw, showed both contempt and shame.

  Because his daughter is with an SS-SD officer? Or because he’s meeting the man in whose bed his daughter spent the night?

  “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Herr Professor Doktor,” Müller said. “As soon as your charming daughter relieves me of this burden, I will offer my hand.”

  Gisella giggled. Her father nodded his head, just perceptibly, but did not smile.

  “What’s in there, Johnny?” Gisella asked.

  “It should go, I think, in the refrigerator,” he said.

  Gisella stepped up to him and opened the flaps of the carton.

  “My God!” she said. “Where did you find all that?”

  “Is there a refrigerator?”

  “There’s an icebox,” she said.

  “I’ll have Peis bring you a refrigerator,” he said without thinking.

  “No,” Gisella said quickly.

  “We manage quite nicely with our old icebox,” Dyer said. “Thank you just the same,” he added, clearly not meaning it.

  “Professor, I am here as a friend,” Müller said.

  “I’m sure,” Dyer said, very carefully. He smiled. But the smile was artificial, and his eyes were wary. And contemptuous.

  Müller had a sudden insight: I could work on Dyer for the next twelve hours without making a crack in his hostility.

  “Would you come here a moment, Herr Professor Doktor?” Müller asked, taking Dyer’s arm and leading him into the kitchen. He went to the small FEG Volksradio and turned it on, raising the volume. Then he turned on the water in the sink.

  Gisella looked at him with both concern and curiosity.

  He took her arms in his hands and pulled her to him so that he could bring his lips to her ear.

  “Peis may have this place wired,” he said. “If you have to talk in here, make sure the radio is going and the water is running. It would be better if you talked in the woods, or a park. Not near a lake.”

  She nodded.

  He motioned Professor Dyer over and put his mouth close to his ear.

  “Your daughter is going to tell you what’s going on,” he said. “Pay attention. And keep your mouth shut, or we’ll all wind up dead.”

  When he let go of Dyer, he saw the confusion in the man’s eyes. He went back to Gisella.

  “Tell him what you know. And make sure he understands how dangerous this is. Find out what you can. Anything. Wild guesses, anything.”

  Gisella nodded and then, as she spoke into his ear, he could feel her warm breath:

  “You’re going? Now? Why?”

  “He’s made up his mind not to like me,” he said. “So he wouldn’t trust me anyhow. You have to make him do that.” He looked into her eyes until she nodded understanding and agreement. Then he added,“And I have to drive to Berlin, remember.”

  He resisted the temptation to kiss her ears, and let her go.

  He shut the water off and turned the radio volume down.

  “It has been a great pleasure to meet you, Herr Professor Doktor,” he said. “I look forward to that pleasure soon again. And I shall be in touch with you, my dear Gisella, just as soon as duty permits.” He paused and said loudly, “Heil Hitler und auf Wiedersehen.”

  Then he met Gisella’s eyes a moment before turning and walking out of the apartment.

  He was almost at the foyer door when Gisella caught up with him.

  “Johnny!”

  She put her arms around him.

  “Be careful,” she said.

  The foyer door opened and the resident snoop’s eye appeared.

  Müller yielded to the temptation to give her something to report. He kissed Gisella on the mouth, then put his hands on her rear end and pressed her against him.

  He kissed her longer than he had intended, and more tenderly. Then he went out to the Admiral.

  He thought, as he drove past the house: The truth is that I am acting like a schoolboy about that woman. I am going to have to watch myself. Not only is the affection mostly imaginary, but emotion is always dangerous.

  But then: After I have lunch with von Heurten-Mitnitz tomorrow, I’ll take a run over and get her some of the black silk French underwear. And some French perfume, too.

  Chapter THREE

  The Foreign Ministry

  Berlin, Germany

  20 January 1943

  The situation was surreal, Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz thought, dreamlike. Yet very real.

  When he walked into his office earlier, he had received word that Reichsminister for Foreign Affairs Joachim von Ribbentrop would be pleased if von Heurten-Mitnitz would take luncheon with him in his private dining room.

  “I took the liberty, Herr Minister,” Fräulein Ingebord Schermann said,“of informing the Herr Reichsminister’s adjutant that so far as I knew there was nothing on your schedule that would keep you from accepting his invitation. ”

  “That was precisely the right thing to say, Fräulein Schermann,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said. “Thank you. The time?”

  “Half past one, Herr Minister,” she said.

  He had had a little over four hours to consider how he would handle this meeting with von Ribbentrop.

  He and von Ribbentrop had much in common, or so it appeared on the surface. They were both aristocrats and career officers of the diplomatic service. Von Ribbentrop had once been a commercial attaché at the German embassy in Ottawa, as Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz had been an attaché in New Orleans. And von Ribbentrop, like the Graf von Heurten-Mitnitz, had been an early convert to National Socialism and the Führer.

  Beneath the surface, however, there were substantial differences: Joachim von Ribbentrop’s Almanac de Gotha pedigree was nowhere near as distinguished as von Ribbentrop liked people to think it was. Nor was he
nearly as clever or as skilled a diplomat as he thought he was. Like Müller, he had been promoted over his ability because he was not only trustworthy but an old-time—and thus deserving—Party comrade. Even Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz’s brother held von Ribbentrop with a measure of scorn.

  Since his return to Berlin, Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz had avoided von Ribbentrop. As indeed von Ribbentrop had avoided von Heurten-Mitnitz until it became apparent that von Heurten-Mitnitz would not be blamed for the American invasion of Morocco.

  When he was asked to lunch with von Ribbentrop, von Heurten-Mitnitz’s first thought had to do with the report of French perfidy in Morocco. That was not any closer to completion than it ever had been.

  But that question could have been asked over the phone.

  Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz had no idea what would emerge when he presented himself to von Ribbentrop’s receptionist at twenty minutes after one.

  The receptionist told him that the Reichsminister was tied up and offered him a chair, coffee, and a magazine.

  At 1:25, the door burst open and General Ernst Kaltenbrunner, head of the SS, trailed by an aide, marched into the reception room, nodded curtly at von Ribbentrop’s receptionist, shoved open the ceiling-high doors to von Ribbentrop’s office, and went inside.

  Kaltenbrunner, physically, was an imposing man. He was six feet eight inches tall, with weight to match, and his cheek bore a prominent scar from a saber slash.

  His aide set down beside von Heurten-Mitnitz, glanced at him curiously, and then picked up a magazine.

  Two minutes later, an officer in black SS uniform appeared in von Ribbentrop’s door.

  “The Herr Reichsminister will receive you now, Herr von Heurten-Mitnitz, ” he said.

  Neither von Ribbentrop nor Kaltenbrunner was in von Ribbentrop’s office. The SS officer led von Heurten-Mitnitz to von Ribbentrop’s private dining room, a long, narrow room overlooking the interior garden. Its view was not unlike the one from von Heurten-Mitnitz’s office, two floors above and a hundred feet south.

  “My dear Helmut,” von Ribbentrop said, turning to von Heurten-Mitnitz. “I’m so glad you were free.”

  He walked to him and offered his hand. He was an average-size man, with most of his brown hair, but there was a pallor to his skin that did not look healthy. His grip was firm, but that seemed an affectation.

  “It was very good of you to ask me,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said.

  “You know the General, of course.”

  In fact, von Heurten-Mitnitz had never been formally introduced to Kaltenbrunner.

  “Good to see you again, General,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said. Kaltenbrunner crushed von Heurten-Mitnitz’s hand in his massive, scarred hand.

  “I always come when invited,” Kaltenbrunner said. “Ribbentrop has the best chef in Berlin.”

  The long, polished mahogany table would have accommodated twenty people, but only three places had been set. Crisp, starched white place mats had been laid at one end. And there were long-stemmed crystal glasses, an impressive battery of sterling silverware with a swastika embossed on the handles, and elaborately folded napkins stood up on large, white, gold-rimmed plates.

  Five hundred yards from here, von Heurten-Mitnitz thought, as well as all over Germany, people are going hungry.

  A tall, good-looking SS trooper, with starched white jacket replacing his uniform tunic, walked over and offered a tray holding three cut-crystal glasses.

  “An aperitif is always in order, I think,” von Ribbentrop said. “In this case, I asked for Slivovitz”—Hungarian pear brandy. “Under the circumstances, I thought it appropriate.”

  Well, that explains it. I am to be ordered to the embassy in Budapest. Because I’ve hinted I want to be assigned there? Or because my brother has suggested it? Or simply because I am a minister who has lost his portfolio and there is an appropriate vacancy in Budapest? But why the private luncheon? And what does Kaltenbrunner have to do with it?

  They each took a glass.

  “The Führer,” Kaltenbrunner intoned solemnly, and von Heurten-Mitnitz and von Ribbentrop parroted the toast.

  “I’ve been telling the general,” von Ribbentrop said, “about the report you’ve been preparing for the Führer. Coming along with it, are you?”

  Ah, the report. Is that just a loose end to be tied up before I go? Or is it the reason I am going?

  “I’m beginning to see the end,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said.

  “Then we’ll move you at a propitious moment,” von Ribbentrop said, and then interrupted himself. “Why don’t we sit down?”

  “That report sounds like one of Goebbels’s ‘anger-events,’” Kaltenbrunner said. An “anger-event” was a German coinage of Kaltenbrunner’s own devising.

  "General?” von Heurten-Mitnitz asked.

  “The general theorizes,” von Ribbentrop said,“and he may well be right, that Dr. Goebbels believes that the Führer is at his best when he is angry. Consequently, the good doctor tries to schedule at least three events a week that are sure to anger our Führer.”

  “And that report of yours would be one of them,” Kaltenbrunner said. “As far as I’m concerned, the less said to the Führer about either Africa or the French, the better.”

  Two good-looking, blond young SS troopers came into the room. One pushed an exquisite wheeled serving cart. He placed it beside Kaltenbrunner, so that the second could ladle mushroom soup from a silver tureen into Kaltenbrunner’s plate. Then the cart was moved to von Heurten-Mitnitz, and he was served, and finally to von Ribbentrop. Afterward, one of the waiters poured wine, a ’37 Bernkastler.

  “So far as my report is concerned, General,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said, “‘Mine’ as the British said as they rode into the valley at Balaklava.”

  Kaltenbrunner chuckled, and von Ribbentrop looked puzzled.

  “‘Theirs not to reason why, theirs but to do and die,’” Kaltenbrunner furnished.

  “How droll,” von Ribbentrop said, moving on to cover his failure to catch the wit. “Helmut, we’re going to have, I fear, some trouble with our Hungarian friends. It has been suggested that you be sent down there to see what you can do about it. The general and I would like to hear how you feel about that.”

  “That would depend, Herr Reichsminister,”von Heurten-Mitnitz said.

  “Depend?” Kaltenbrunner interrupted.

  “On the nature of the trouble and whether or not I could do some good. Or do you just want me out of the way so my report on the French won’t reach the Führer?”

  Kaltenbrunner snorted. Joachim von Ribbentrop looked at him to see whether he was amused or angry. When he saw him smiling, Ribbentrop laughed.

  “The nature of the trouble is spelled Horthy,” Kaltenbrunner said, referring to the regent of Hungary.

  Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz raised his eyebrows.

  “I would spell it Hungarian,”von Ribbentrop said,“rather than single the admiral out. The Hungarians are having second thoughts about their alliance with us.”

  “If the question is out of line, please forgive me,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said. “But is there anything concrete?”

  “Yes, there is,” Kaltenbrunner said. He stopped and looked at von Ribbentrop. “Is there any reason I shouldn’t discuss Voronezh1?”

  Joachim von Ribbentrop shook his head.

  “For hundreds of years, von Heurten-Mitnitz, the Hungarians have beensplendid fighters. Under the Austro-Hungarian empire, of course. One would presume that equipped with the very latest German equipment, they would be able to at least hold their own against the Russians.”

  He then delivered, dispassionately, a rather detailed report of Hungarian reluctance to engage the Russians at Voronezh, down to the numbers of tanks and cannon lost to the enemy.

  “And I am unable to believe,” Kaltenbrunner concluded, “and Ribbentrop agrees with me, that their senior officers would have acted as they did, except on orders from Horthy. Or someone very close to Horthy. With his blessing,
so to speak.”

  Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz said what was expected of him: “Then the officers should be shot, and the men forced back into the line.”

  “The Führer believes that would be unwise,” von Ribbentrop said. “He believes that when the Hungarians come to understand that the alternative to an alliance with Germany is not neutrality and peace but enslavement by the Bolsheviks, they will fight in keeping with their warriors’ tradition.”

  “Perhaps he’s right,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said.

  “And perhaps he isn’t,” Kaltenbrunner said. Helmut von Heurten-Mitnitz was surprised at Kaltenbrunner’s bluntness. Only a few men would dare to suggest that Adolf Hitler erred. “That’s where you would come in, von Heurten-Mitnitz.”

  “I don’t quite understand,” von Heurten-Mitnitz said.

  “Reichsmarschall Göring, Dr. Goebbels, and some others are going to Budapest to reason with Admiral Horthy,” von Ribbentrop said. “And there is no doubt that they will return with a renewed pledge of allegiance from Horthy. And a new ambassador will be appointed. Inasmuch as Göring and Goebbels will appoint him—and not from the ranks of professionals, Helmut, since we bumblers have obviously failed to do what we were supposed to do—I rather doubt that he will report that the Hungarians have resumed trying to save their skins the minute Göring and Goebbels turn their backs.”

  “Forgive me if I seem to be jumping ahead, but if I were there, I wouldn’t be believed, either.”

  “Not by those two, of course not,” von Ribbentrop said. “No more than you were believed when you raised the alarm about an American invasion of North Africa.”

  “But the Führer would,” Kaltenbrunner said. “Once we remind him that you are the man that no one listened to about North Africa.”

  “I see,”von Heurten-Mitnitz said. He understood their reasoning, and understood, too, that doing what they asked was a good way to get himself shot.