by Philip Kerr
“You’re a liar.”
“There’s an easy way to prove that,” said Schellenberg. “Just look in my coat. If I’m wrong, then go ahead and kill me. But if I’m right, then think about it. It’s you who is the traitor, not me. It’s you who will be interfering with a direct order of the Führer. I could have you shot for this.”
Hoffmann smiled cynically. “Right now, it’s you who stands the best chance of being shot, not me.”
“True. Well, then, let me get my coat and you can make up your own mind.” Schellenberg stood up.
“Stay where you are. I’ll get it.”
“In the right-hand pocket. There’s a large manila envelope.”
“I thought you said there were three envelopes.”
“There are. Inside the manila one. Look, these are letters from the Führer, not notes from some lovesick soldier. They’re in another envelope to keep them clean, of course. Roosevelt is hardly likely to look favorably on an envelope with a thumbprint on it, is he?”
Hoffmann transferred the Walther from his right hand to his left as he prepared to search Schellenberg’s coat pocket. “It had better be there,” he said. “Or you’re a dead man.”
“And how would you explain that to the rest of the crew?”
Hoffmann laughed. “I won’t have to. As soon as I’ve got this envelope of yours, I’m going to shoot them and bail out.”
Schellenberg swallowed hard, feeling as if he had been kicked in the stomach; already he was considering the preposterous fate that would surely follow his unfortunate death in an air crash somewhere over the Baltic Sea: undoubtedly he would be given a place in Himmler’s ludicrous crypt for SS generals at Wewelsburg Castle, near Paderborn. Himmler would make another dreadful speech and Canaris would, perhaps, shed a crocodile tear for old times’ sake. Schellenberg realized that if he wanted to avoid this sort of charade, he would have to deal with Hoffmann, who even now was sliding his hand inside Schellenberg’s coat pocket.
The old tricks were still the best ones. In the early days of the war, Schellenberg had filled a whole prisoners’ block at the Sachsenhausen concentration camp with Jews from Germany’s criminal underworld and set them to work producing counterfeit British currency. (The £20,000 used to pay Cicero had come straight from the printing presses at Sachsenhausen.) Among these Jews were several expert “ganefs”—Jewish pickpockets, whom Schellenberg had used for a number of undercover operations. One of these ganefs, a Mrs. Brahms, who was considered the queen of Berlin’s underworld, had shown Schellenberg a good way of protecting himself from pickpockets. By pushing several needles down into the lining of the pocket, with the points toward the bottom, it was possible to slide a hand into the pocket without injury, but almost impossible to pull the hand out again without encountering the points of the needles. Mrs. Brahms called it her “rat-catcher,” because the principle was the same as was used in a certain kind of rodent trap.
“There’s nothing in this pocket,” said Hoffmann and, pulling his hand out again, screamed out loud as a dozen sharp surgical needles pierced his flesh.
Schellenberg was out of his seat in an instant, hauling the Loden coat, still attached to Hoffmann’s hand by the needle-filled pocket, over the man’s head and then punching him hard, several times, in the head. Hoffmann fell back into Himmler’s leather chair and swept the coat away from his face before leveling the silenced gun at Schellenberg and pulling the trigger. Schellenberg threw himself to the floor of the aircraft as the gun fired, the bullet shattering a glass in the liquor cabinet.
Still struggling with the coat and the pain in his right hand, Hoffmann wrestled himself around to take another shot at Schellenberg, who was lying immediately beside Himmler’s seat, partly protected by the huge leather armrest.
Schellenberg had little time to think. He reached for the red lever beside Himmler’s chair and pulled it hard. There was a loud hydraulic clanking noise, as if someone had struck the belly of the Condor with a large wrench, and then a rush of freezing-cold air, a scream, and the seat carrying Hoffmann disappeared through a large square hole in the floor. But for the strength of his grip on the red lever, Schellenberg might have fallen out of the plane, too. As half of his body dangled outside of the Condor’s fuselage, he had a brief vision of seat and man separating in the air, the parachute deploying, and Hoffmann falling into the Baltic Sea.
Shocked by the freezing air, his other hand too numb with cold to get much of a hold on the lip of the open escape hatch, Schellenberg called out for help, his voice hardly audible above the rushing air and the roar of the Condor’s four BMW engines. He felt himself slipping out of the aircraft as the hand clinging to the red lever grew weaker and increasingly numb by the second. His last thought was of his wife’s father, Herr Grosse-Schönepauck, an insurance executive, who was going to have to pay out on the policy Schellenberg had bought, and how he would love to have seen the expression on the old man’s face as he signed the check. The next moment he felt someone gripping him under the arms, hauling him back aboard the plane, and then rolling him away from the open escape hatch.
Exhausted, Schellenberg lay there for almost a minute before a blanket was laid on top of him, and one of the remaining crew, a huge fellow wearing a Luftwaffe radio/gunner’s badge, helped him to sit up, and then handed him a glass of cognac.
“Here,” he said, “get this down you.”
The man looked grimly out of the open hatch. “And then you can tell me what happened to Hoffmann.”
Schellenberg downed the brandy in one gulp and, leaning against the fuselage, glanced at his clothes, which were soaking wet and covered with grease and oil. He went into the lavatory to wash and then fetched his bag to change into the clothes that had been hiding the Führer’s letters. At the same time, he gave the man, a flight sergeant, a slightly expurgated account of what had happened. When he had finished talking, the sergeant spoke.
“Hoffmann took a phone call, at Tempelhof, about thirty minutes before you arrived.”
“Did he say who it was that called him?”
“No, but he looked a bit strange. After that he said very little, which was strange, too, because he was always quite a talkative fellow.”
“So I noticed. Had you known him long?”
“No. He joined the Government Group only a couple of months ago, after a long stint on the Russian front. Someone pulled some strings for him, we figured. Well, we were pretty sure about that. His brother is in the Gestapo.”
Schellenberg nodded. “It figures.”
He drank another cognac, and took a seat at the back of the plane, as far away from the open hatch as possible; then, covering himself with as many blankets as were available, he closed his eyes.
SCHELLENBERG KNEW STOCKHOLM well and liked it. In late 1941 he had spent a lot of time in Sweden when Himmler had sent him there to encourage the dissemination of Hitler’s racial ideology.
Although a neutral country, Sweden was effectively enclosed by German-held territory and secretly allowed the passage of German troops on Swedish railways. It also sold Germany more than 40 percent of her iron-ore requirements. Nevertheless, while showing a congenial face to Germany, Sweden was proud of its independence—the Nazi Party had never achieved representation in the parliament—and guarded this independence jealously. Consequently, when Schellenberg arrived at Stockholm’s airport, despite his diplomatic cover, he was obliged to answer a number of questions regarding his business before being allowed into the country.
After clearing immigration, he was met by Ulrich von Geinanth, the first secretary at the German Legation and the senior representative of the SD in Stockholm.
Was it Schellenberg’s suspicious imagination or had the first secretary been just a little disappointed to see him?
“Good flight?” asked von Geinanth.
“They’re all good when you’re not shot down by the RAF.”
“Quite. How is Berlin?”
“Not so bad. No bombers this
week. But they’ve had it pretty bad in Munich, Kassel, and Frankfurt. And last night it was Stuttgart’s turn.”
Asking no more questions, von Geinanth drove Schellenberg to Stockholm’s harbor area and the Grand Hotel close by the old town and the Royal Palace. Schellenberg disliked staying at the embassy and preferred the Grand, where, largely, he was left alone to take advantage of the excellent kitchens, the wine cellars, and the local whores. Having checked in, he left a message with the concierge for Dr. Kersten and then went up to his room to await the chiropractor’s arrival.
After a while there was a knock at the door and, always careful of his personal security, Schellenberg answered it with a loaded Mauser hidden behind his back.
“Welcome to Sweden, Herr General,” said the man at the door.
“Herr Doctor.” Schellenberg stood aside and Felix Kersten entered the suite. There was, he thought, a Churchillian aspect to the doctor: of medium height, he was more than a little overweight, with a double chin and a large stomach, which had helped earn him the sobriquet Himmler’s Magic Buddha.
“What’s the gun for?” frowned Kersten. “This is Sweden, not the Russian front.”
“Oh, you know. One can’t be too careful.” Schellenberg made the automatic safe and then returned it to his shoulder holster.
“Phew, it’s hot in here. Would you mind if I opened a window?”
“Actually, I’d rather you didn’t.”
“In that case, with your permission, I’ll take off my jacket.” Kersten removed the coat of his three-piece blue pinstriped suit and hung it on the back of a dining chair, revealing arms and shoulders that were the size of a crocodile wrestler’s—the result of more than twenty years of practice as a chiropractor and master masseur. Until 1940, when Germany had invaded the Netherlands, Kersten’s most important clients had been the Dutch royal family; but thereafter his chief client (Kersten had had little choice in the matter) was the Reichsführer-SS, who now regarded the burly Finn as indispensable. At Himmler’s recommendation Kersten had treated a number of other top Nazis, including von Ribbentrop, Kaltenbrunner, Dr. Robert Ley, and, on a couple of occasions, Schellenberg himself.
“How is your back, Walter?”
“Fine. It’s my neck that’s stiff.” Schellenberg was already removing the stud from the collar of his shirt.
Kersten came around the back of his chair. “Here, let me have a look.”
Massive cold fingers—like thick pork sausages—took hold of Schellenberg’s slim neck and massaged it expertly. “There’s a lot of tension in this neck.”
“Not just my neck,” murmured Schellenberg.
“Just let your head go loose for a moment.” One big hand grasped Schellenberg’s lower jaw and the other the top of his head, almost like a Catholic priest giving a blessing. Schellenberg felt Kersten turn his head to the left a couple of times, experimentally, like a golfer teeing up a big drive, and then much more quickly, and with greater power, twisting it hard so that Schellenberg heard and felt a click in his vertebrae that sounded like a stick breaking.
“There, that should help.”
Schellenberg rolled his head around on his shoulders a couple of times, just to make sure that it was still attached to his neck. “Tell me,” he said. “Does Himmler let you do that?”
“Of course.”
“Then I wonder why you don’t break his neck. I think I would.”
“Now, why would I want to do that?”
“I can think of a million reasons. And so can you, Felix.”
“Walter, he’s attempting to make peace with the Allies. Surely, in that, at least, he deserves our support. What I’m doing in his name could save millions of lives.”
“Possibly.” Schellenberg took out a red leather Schildkraut cigarette case, a present from Lina, and offered Kersten one of his Jasmatzis. Lighting Kersten’s cigarette, he was close enough to see the strange black ring around the iris in each of the chiropractor’s blue eyes that lent them a strangely hypnotic aspect. This near to Kersten, it was easy enough to give credence to the rumor about his mesmeric influence on Himmler.
“Since we’re talking about saving lives, Felix, might I suggest you start carrying a gun yourself.”
“Me? Carry a gun? Why?”
“You have powerful friends. Among them I include myself. But, as a result of that, you also have powerful enemies. Heinrich Müller of the Gestapo, for one.”
“Oh, he won’t find anything on me.”
“No? There are some people in Germany who might argue that meeting members of the American intelligence services is prima facie evidence you are a spy.”
“I haven’t met anyone from American intelligence. The only American I’ve met while I’ve been in Stockholm has been Roosevelt’s special representative, Mr. Hewitt. He’s a New York attorney and a diplomat, not a spy.”
Schellenberg smiled. It always gave him a little thrill to present people with the evidence of their naïveté. “Abram Stevens Hewitt,” he said. “Grandson of a former mayor of New York and a large contributor to the U.S. Democratic Party. Father a Boston banker. Graduate of Harvard and Oxford universities. Involved in a financial scandal involving the Ivan Kreuger Swedish Match company in 1932. Speaks fluent Swedish and German. And a member of the Office of Strategic Services since 1942. The OSS is an espionage and counterintelligence organization. Hewitt reports to the head of the Swedish station, Dr. Bruce Hopper, himself a former Harvard professor of government, and Wilko Tikander—”
“Not Wilko Tikander!” exclaimed Kersten.
“—a Finnish-American attorney from Chicago and chief of OSS operations here in Stockholm.” Schellenberg paused to allow the effect of his revelations to sink in. “Felix,” he added, “all I’m saying is that you need to be careful. Even if the Gestapo can’t discredit you—and there’s no doubt that won’t be easy so long as you enjoy Himmler’s confidence, which you do, obviously, since you are, as you say, here in Himmler’s name—even if they can’t discredit you in Himmler’s eyes, they might still decide to remove you. If you know what I mean.”
“You mean, kill me?”
“Yes. You have a wife and three sons. You owe it to them to be vigilant.”
“They wouldn’t harm them, would they?”
“No. Himmler wouldn’t allow that. But here, away from Germany, there’s a limit to what even Himmler can do. Do you know how to use a pistol?”
“Yes. During the war, the last war, I was in a Finnish regiment that fought the Russians.”
“Then take this.” Schellenberg handed him his Mauser; he had another one in his bag. “Keep it in your coat pocket, just in case. Only better not carry it around Himmler. He might think you don’t like him anymore.”
“Thank you, Walter. Is it loaded?”
“There’s a war on, Felix. It’s wise to assume that most guns are loaded.”
Kersten drew heavily on his cigarette and then stubbed it out, only half-smoked. He looked unhappily at the Mauser in his big hand and then shook his head.
“I can’t cure him, you know.”
“Who?”
“Himmler. He thinks he’s sick. But there is no cure because there’s no real illness. I can only alleviate the symptoms—the headaches, the stomach convulsions. Sometimes he thinks he has cancer. There is no cancer. But mostly he thinks his symptoms are caused by overwork, or even by a poor constitution. They’re not. There’s nothing physically wrong with the man.”
“Go on.”
“I’m afraid to.”
“I’m not your enemy, Felix.”
Kersten nodded. “I know, but still.”
“Are you saying he’s mentally ill?”
“No. Yes, in a way. He’s sick with guilt, Walter. He’s paralyzed with horror at what he has done and at what he continues to do.” Kersten shook his head.
“And is this why he has initiated these peace moves?”
“Only partly.”
“Personal ambition, I suppose. He
wants to take over.”
“No. It’s not that. He’s actually much more loyal to Hitler than you might suppose, Walter.”
“What, then?”
“Something terrible. A secret I cannot reveal to anyone. Something Himmler told me. I can’t tell you.”
Schellenberg poured them each a drink and smiled. “Now I really am intrigued. All right. Let’s suppose for a minute that you’re going to tell me, but only on condition that we think of someone else who could have told me. Someone other than Himmler. Now, who else could that be?” He handed Kersten a glass of apricot brandy.
Kersten thought for a moment and then said, “Morell.”
Schellenberg wracked his brain for almost a minute, trying to think of a Morell with whom Kersten might be acquainted, and then felt his eyes widening with surprise.
“Not Theodor Morell.”
“Yes.”
“Jesus.” Theodor Morell was Hitler’s personal physician. “All right, if I’m ever tortured by the Gestapo, I’ll say it was Morell who told me.”
“I suppose I have to tell someone.” Kersten shrugged and drained his cognac glass in one go. “Could I have another?”
Schellenberg fetched the bottle and refilled the Finn’s glass.
“I’ve warned Himmler of the consequences for the German people of doing nothing about this. That’s the real reason he’s making these peace overtures to the Americans. He’s known about this since the end of last year.”
“Hitler’s ill?”
“Worse than ill.”
“Dying?”
“Worse than that.”
“For Christ’s sake, Felix, what is it?”
“Last December, at Himmler’s castle near the Wolfschanze, Himmler took a thirty-page dossier from his safe and showed it to me. It was a top-secret file about Hitler’s health. He asked me to read the file with a view to my treating Hitler as a patient. I read it and wished I hadn’t. Dr. Morell had noted some loss of normal reflexes in Hitler that might have indicated some degeneration in the nerve fibers of the spinal cord, possibly even signs of progressive paralysis.”
