The Honor of Spies

by W. E. B Griffin

  Himmler said virtually nothing to anyone on the flight to Berlin.

  Canaris wondered if Himmler really was fascinated with the contents of his briefcase, or whether he was angry with him for making him look like a fool with Hitler.

  Canaris went over what had happened at Wolfsschanze several times in his mind. With the exception of that very long three or four seconds during which he felt sure he was about to feel Hitler’s often irrational rage, everything had gone well.

  And Hitler hadn’t mentioned Operation Phoenix at all. Canaris wondered if Bormann had told Himmler about that encounter with the Bavarian corporal.

  On reflection, Canaris didn’t think he was going to get into any difficulty about the operation to rescue Mussolini; his only contribution to that was going to be providing the intelligence regarding the deposed Italian dictator’s location. And he was sure he knew. His man with Il Duce was solid as a rock.

  As the Heinkel taxied up to the curved Tempelhof terminal building, Canaris saw that a small convoy of cars was waiting for them.

  Himmler’s first deputy adjutant—SS-Brigadeführer Ritter Manfred von Deitzberg, a tall, slim, blond, forty-two-year-old Westphalian—was standing beside the lead car, an enormous Mercedes-Benz convertible sedan that carried on its right front fender the metal flag of the Reichsführer-SS.

  Canaris’s own car, a much smaller Mercedes that carried no indication of whom it would carry, was immediately behind that, and then came slightly larger cars for Generals Student and von Wachtstein, each equipped with the metal flag appropriate to their rank.

  Himmler exercised his right to be the first off the airplane. A moment later, Canaris followed him. He was surprised to see that Himmler was waiting for him.

  “I have been thinking, Canaris,” he said. “Not only do I have a full plate, as I’m sure you understand, but I’m a policeman, not a military man.”

  He waited for Canaris to respond. He didn’t.

  After a moment, Himmler went on: “Von Deitzberg, on the other hand, was a soldier. What I’m thinking is that I will take von Deitzberg with me now, tell him what happened at Wolfsschanze, then send him to you and Student and von Wachtstein so that you can work out what has to be done between you. Where will you be, at your office?”

  The Reichsführer-SS has apparently decided that if something else goes wrong with this absurd mission to rescue Il Duce, it won’t be his fault. If he can blame whatever goes wrong on me, fine.

  That will teach me it is not wise to have more accurate intelligence than he does. And if he can’t blame me, he’ll blame von Deitzberg.

  “I thought I would take General Student and General von Wachtstein to my house for an early dinner with Gehlen. We missed lunch at Wolfsschanze.”

  “Well, there is a silver lining in every black cloud, isn’t there?” Himmler said, smiling as he made a little joke. The meals served at Wolfsschanze were standard army field rations, invariably bland and unappetizing. It was the Führer’s idea, intended to remind all the senior officers of the troops in the field.

  Himmler rarely made little jokes, and when he smiled he reminded Canaris of a funeral director who had just sold an impoverished widow the most expensive coffin he had for sale.

  “I think I should take Student with me,” Himmler went on. “He can tell von Deitzberg what he has planned. And then all of you can get together first thing in the morning?”

  That wasn’t a question. That’s what he wants done.

  “Would half past seven at my office be too early for General Student, do you think, Herr Reichsführer? I like to get to the office early.”

  “I’ll have him there,” Himmler said. “And if von Deitzberg can find him for me, I’ll have Hauptsturmführer Skorzeny there, too.”

  “Fine,” Canaris said.

  Skorzeny, you are about to find out that Himmler’s rages, while not quite as loud and long-lasting as those of the Führer, are nearly as devastating.

  Himmler did not like being humiliated before the Führer because you provided him with inaccurate intelligence.

  Himmler gave a Nazi salute about as sloppy as Canaris usually gave. It was returned as sloppily by Canaris, and very crisply by everyone else.

  Then Himmler got into the enormous Mercedes. Von Deitzberg got in beside him. General Student walked to the Luftwaffe Mercedes sedan, got in, and it pulled out of line and followed Himmler’s car.

  “General von Wachtstein,” Canaris said, “I was just thinking, since we will have to be at my office early in the morning, that what we should do is let your car go, and you can come spend the night at my house.”

  “I would hate to be an imposition, Herr Admiral.”

  “Not at all. My wife is visiting her family in Bremen.”

  Actually, she’s in Westertede, which I devoutly hope is far enough from Bremen so that it won’t be bombed even by mistake by the B-17s of the Eighth Air Force.

  “In that case, Herr Admiral, I think accepting your kind invitation would be a good idea.”

  [FOUR]

  357 Roonstrasse, Zehlendorf

  Berlin, Germany

  1605 19 August 1943

  En route from the airfield, there was a good deal of evidence of the efficacy of the daily—by the U.S. Eighth Air Force—and nightly—by the Royal Air Force—bombing of Berlin. But once the suburb of Zehlendorf was reached there was virtually no sign of the war except the absence of streetlights and lights in windows.

  There were two civilian policemen on the street in front of Canaris’s house, and Canaris knew there was another patrolling the alley and gardens behind it.

  One of the policemen checked the identity cards of everyone in Canaris’s Mercedes, then signaled to the other policeman to open the gate.

  The driver stopped the car under a portico on the left side of the house, then hurried to open the rear passenger door on the other side before Canaris could do so himself. He failed.

  Admiral Canaris walked to a door, which opened just before he got there. General von Wachtstein, Oberstleutnant Gehlen, and Fregattenkapitän von und zu Waching followed him into the house.

  The door was closed, and the lights in the foyer came on.

  They now saw who had opened and closed the door: a burly man in his sixties. He had closely cropped gray hair and wore a white cotton jacket—and he suddenly said, “Shit! I forgot Max.”

  The lights went off. The door was opened, and the driver of the car came into the room. The door was closed, and the lights went on again.

  “Gentlemen, this is Egon, who was chief of the boat when I commanded U-201 in the first war,” Canaris said, motioning toward the burly one. “And this is Max, who was my chief bosun when I commanded the Schlesien. They take care of me.”

  He pointed at the officers with him and identified them.

  “Egon, see that no one can hear what’s said in the living room,” Canaris said.

  “I did that when they called and said send the car,” Egon said.

  “And then, since we have all earned it, bring us something—something hard—to drink in there. And when you’ve done that, get us something to eat. We missed lunch at Wolfsschanze.”

  “I can have sauerbraten, potatoes, and carrots in thirty minutes.”

  “That sounds fine,” Canaris said, then waved the men with him ahead of him into the living room.

  Everybody took seats in an assortment of armchairs. Max, now wearing a white cotton steward’s jacket, came in carrying a large tray heavy with glasses, an ice bucket, a siphon bottle, and two bottles of Johnnie Walker Black Label scotch whisky. He set it on a table.

  “I regret I am out of schnapps,” Canaris said. “This decadent English swill will have to do.”

  A faint smile flickered across von Wachtstein’s lips.

  “We can make our own drinks, Max,” Canaris said. “Go help Egon burn the sauerbraten.”

  Max nodded his acceptance of the order.

  Canaris waited until he had left the livin
g room and had closed the door behind him, then said: “So far as Max and Egon are concerned: They hear more than they should about things that should be of no concern to them. That’s not a problem, as I trust them with my life. But I generally make an effort to ensure they don’t hear anything more than they have to.

  “The scenario now is that tomorrow, while General von Wachtstein watches us, General Student will tell us what he has planned for the rescue of Mussolini when we learn Il Duce has been moved from Ponza to Abruzzi, if indeed that’s where they take him.

  “I will agree with whatever plan Student has, as I suspect whatever that is will have the approval of the Reichsführer. And I will agree to the participation in the rescue by Hauptmann Skorzeny, as I suspect the Reichsführer, for reasons he has not seen fit to share with me, wants him to participate.

  “Von Wachtstein will relay our agreement to the Führer via Obersturmführer Günsche. We will then wait until there is word from Ponza—I get a daily report, usually first thing in the morning—that Il Duce has been moved.

  “Von Wachtstein will report that Il Duce is being moved, that it has been confirmed that he has safely arrived wherever that is, and then I will ask the Reichsführer’s permission to ask the Führer for permission to proceed with the operation. The Reichsführer may, of course, elect to ask the Führer himself.”

  He looked around the table to see that everyone had understood the nuances of what he had said.

  “I was pleased when the Führer was so gracious to Oberstleutnant Gehlen. I thought it was important that Gehlen see where it is that the Führer and his staff conduct the war.”

  He checked to see that they had all understood the nuances of that, too.

  “I have had a communication from Kapitän zur See Boltitz in Buenos Aires. Lamentably, he reports that he has as yet been unable to detect the traitor many feel we have in our embassy there. In this endeavor, he has enlisted the aid of Major von Wachtstein.

  “He did report that an attempt to rescue the Froggers from where they were being held not only failed but resulted in the deaths of half a dozen SS men.

  “He further reported that another attempt by unknown persons on the life of Cletus Frade, who many believe is the OSS man in Argentina, failed, resulting in the death of three Argentines.

  “And finally, I learned from my man in Mexico City that U.S. Border Patrol posts have been alerted to look for Oberstleutnant Wilhelm Frogger, who has apparently escaped from his POW enclosure and may be trying to get into Mexico.”

  He paused and looked around the table again.

  “Otto, it has just occurred to me that, inexcusably—the fact that I was summoned to Wolfsschanze is not a valid excuse—I failed to notify either Parteileiter Bormann or the Reichsführer of what I learned from Argentina. Will you please remember to remind me to do so first thing in the morning?”

  “Jawohl, Herr Admiral,” von und zu Waching said.

  “A toast, gentlemen,” Canaris said as he rose from the table.

  “Our Führer and the Final Victory,” Canaris said.

  The others raised their glasses and there was a chorus repeating the toast.

  And if you have been listening to this, Herr Reichsführer, despite Egon’s skilled sweep of the place for listening devices—never underestimate one’s enemy—then I hope you are satisfied that I am not only one of the faithful, but always willing to defer to your superior judgment.

  And after we have our supper and von und zu Waching goes home and the rest of us “go to bed,” we’ll have another chat in my bomb shelter.

  Getting a listening device through the eight-inch concrete walls of that is simply impossible.

  That was not to happen.

  They had just sat down to their sauerbraten and carrots when Egon came into the dining room. He took a telephone from a sideboard, set it on the table in front of Canaris, and announced, “Von Deitzberg.”

  Canaris nodded and picked up the telephone.

  “What can I do for you, Herr Brigadeführer?”

  “Won’t it wait until the morning?”

  “In fifteen minutes, we’ll be having dinner. Can you give us thirty minutes for that?”

  “I understand.”

  He put the handset in its cradle and stood up.

  “Von Deitzberg wants to see me before the morning meeting,” he said. “He will be here in thirty minutes, probably less than that.”

  He pointed at the floor, then turned to Egon.

  “In twenty minutes, Egon, I want this table to look as if you’ve just served.”

  Egon nodded.

  The bomb shelter was illuminated with American Coleman gas lanterns hanging from the low ceiling. It was furnished with three steel cots, a desk with a typewriter, four small armchairs, and a portable toilet.

  “It is always best for people involved in something like we are to know nothing they don’t absolutely have to know,” Canaris began. He was sitting far back in one of the armchairs, tapping the balls of his spread fingers together. “In this case, however, I think we have to ignore that wisdom.”

  Admiral Canaris glanced at General von Wachtstein, Oberstleutnant Gehlen, and Fregattenkapitän von und zu Waching. Gehlen and von und zu Waching nodded. Von Wachtstein grunted.

  Carnaris went on: “In light of the recent events in Argentina, both the Führer’s sudden interest in Operation Phoenix and because what I think von Deitzberg wants is my assistance, or at least my acquiescence, in his going to Argentina.

  “He will most likely tell me that he is concerned with dangers posed to Operation Phoenix by the defection of the Froggers. What he is really concerned about is the possibility that the Americans, now that they have learned about it from Herr Frogger, will make the ransoming operation public.

  “If they should do so, von Deitzberg reasons, it would come to the attention of Himmler. So far as I have been able to determine, Himmler is unaware of the ransoming operation. If it came out, the best scenario vis-à-vis von Deitzberg would be Himmler’s displeasure with him for failing to discover the operation; the worst scenario for him, of course, being that Himmler would learn that von Deitzberg was the brains behind it.

  “These factors apply. The Americans knew all about the ransoming operation long before the Froggers deserted. President Roosevelt has decided that exposing the operation would serve only to ensure that no other Jews escaped the ovens. Aside from collecting data—evidence—to be introduced at the trials of these scum after the war, the Americans will do nothing to interfere with the ransoming operation.

  “Insofar as Operation Phoenix is concerned, the Americans know all about that, too, and did before the Froggers deserted. The decision there has been to interfere if possible—in other words, if they could learn of other shipments, where they would be landed, they would inform the Argentines, so that Germany would be embarrassed and the funds lost—but not to take action themselves.

  “Again, their intention is to collect evidence not only that the Phoenix funds were sent to Argentina, but about how they were expended. When the war is lost, they can then claim both any unexpended funds and what property, et cetera was acquired with the funds, as enemy property.

  “I have decided it would be counterproductive to inform the Americans— if indeed I could find out, and I am not going to ask any questions, and no one else should—of the dispatch of special funds by submarine, and their arrival sites and dates.

  “Von Deitzberg knows nothing of all this, and I am reasonably sure he thinks I don’t know about the ransoming operation. But he will proceed on the assumption that I do—in his shoes, so would I.

  “What von Deitzberg wants to do is make sure there is absolutely nothing in Argentina—or Uruguay, which is usually the destination of the Jews extracted from the concentration camps—that could possibly tie him to the ransoming operation.

  “So let us consider what we have in Buenos Aires: The man Bormann sent there over my objections, Kapitän zur See Boltitz, has proven t
o be a better counterintelligence officer than I thought he would be—”

  “Over your objections, Admiral?” Gehlen interrupted. “I thought—”

  “That he was one of us? The sure way to get him there was to convince Bormann I didn’t want him to go. May I go on?”

  “I beg your pardon, Herr Admiral,” Gehlen said.

  “As I said, Boltitz proved to be a far better counterintelligence officer than I thought he would be. And since his orders from me were to find the traitor, or traitors, in the embassy, he did just that: It didn’t take him long at all to find out that Major von Wachtstein had passed—to Major Frade of the OSS—the details of when and where the Océano Pacífico was going to attempt to land the special cargo.

  “That resulted—I think everybody but you knows this, Gehlen—in the Océano Pacífico being met by either Argentine army snipers—or representatives of the OSS—who shot Oberst Grüner, the military attaché, and his assistant, Standartenführer Josef Goltz, to death and forced the landing of the special cargo to be aborted.

  “Boltitz confronted Major von Wachtstein and they reached a between-honorable-officers agreement: Major von Wachtstein would have a fatal accident in his Storch and Kapitän zur See Boltitz would not only not reveal his treason, but destroy what evidence he had collected.

  “While Major von Wachtstein was perfectly willing to carry out his end of the agreement—doing so would keep General von Wachtstein from being hung from one of Himmler’s butcher’s hooks—he saw it as his duty to tell Ambassador von Lutzenberger, whom he knew to be a Valkyrie conspirator, what had happened.

  “That forced the ambassador to make Boltitz privy to what was going on long before I wanted that to happen.

  “While I was delighted, of course, that Major von Wachtstein did not have a fatal accident, I confess that I had—that I have—certain concerns vis-à-vis the ability of either of these young officers, neither of whom has any experience to speak of in matters of this sort, to handle their new situation.