by Glenn Meade
Berger looked frightened. Sanson said, “Well, Berger, I’m waiting.”
“My name, rank, and serial number are all you’re entitled to—”
“It serves no purpose to continue like this,” Sanson said in frustration. “You admitted yourself, the war’s over for Germany in North Africa. What can you hope to achieve by not answering my questions?”
“I told you already. I know nothing. How many times do I have to repeat that?”
“You can repeat it all you like but I know you’re lying. You’re also trying my patience. You could be shot as a spy, or can’t you grasp that?”
“Ich bin Manfred Berger, Hauptmann, nummer—”
Sanson was off the chair in an instant, the truncheon in his hand. This time, he lashed Berger hard across the face. The German screamed in agony and collapsed onto the floor. Weaver couldn’t stomach much more, was beginning to wonder if Berger could really tell them anything useful. He went to help the German up.
Sanson reacted in a flash. “What the bloody devil are you doing, Weaver? Leave him be!”
“He’s hurt, Sanson!”
“I said leave him.”
For a moment, Weaver thought Sanson was going to hit him, but instead the Englishman skewered him with a frightening look. Weaver stepped back. Sanson moved to stand over the German, hands on his hips. “Come on, Berger. The truth. Out with it!”
Berger lay there, whimpering, a lather of sweat on his face, his false limb twisted hideously. “Please—”
“Think, Berger. Think hard. You must know something. Is it worth a beating and a bullet when your country’s already losing the war? Think of that child of yours. You’d like to see her again, wouldn’t you? Or would you rather your wife and daughter got a telegram telling them you’re dead?”
Berger reacted, almost at breaking point, his lips trembling, eyes welling with tears. He raised a hand to protect himself as Sanson started to lift the truncheon again.
“No—please! I’ll tell you what I know.”
BERLIN
19 NOVEMBER, 4:00 P.M.
Heinrich Himmler, head of the SS and the Gestapo, was an unusually austere and distant man, a former Bavarian chicken farmer who sent millions to the death camps without so much as a second’s thought, his dour bureaucrat’s face devoid of emotion.
As Schellenberg was led into his Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse office that afternoon, rain was gusting against the windows, an icy wind blowing so harshly it could only have come from the Baltic.
Himmler wore his full-dress black Reichsführer’s uniform and customary pince-nez glasses. He was seated behind his walnut desk, a stack of paperwork in front of him, a pen poised in his hand. The office was in half-darkness, everything about it spartan and impersonal, the only warmth coming from a sparking log fire blazing in a corner.
Schellenberg gave the Nazi salute. “You sent for me, Reichsführer?”
Himmler laid down his pen, silently indicated a chair, and in very slow, precise movements cleared his paperwork to one side, except for a handful of reports, as if preparing himself for business. He indicated the remaining papers on his desk with some distaste. “The latest ciphers have arrived from our agents in North Africa, and the progress reports from the Luftwaffe and Kriegsmarine. I think you had better read them.”
Schellenberg studied the pages while Himmler stood and came round from behind his desk. He paused at the fire for a time, warming his hands, then touched a jutting log with the toe of his polished boot, making sparks flare, before finally turning back.
“Well?”
Schellenberg put the reports aside. “They’re disappointing, Reichsführer.”
“Disappointing?” Himmler flared. “They’re disastrous. Our Atlantic U-boats have continually failed to engage Roosevelt’s convoy. We’ve sent out our best commanders, and they’ve all failed. The most recent Luftwaffe report indicates a large fleet of protection vessels surrounding the battleship Iowa, which we suspect is carrying the American president. It was sighted from the air, approximately four hundred miles off the Moroccan coast at midday today, and pursuing an erratic route. Goering says it’s too far away for us to attempt a bombing run—the spotter plane was engaged by aircraft from enemy destroyers and barely made its escape. As for the Kriegsmarine, they claim it’s completely impossible to breach the heavy naval security.”
“I would imagine so, Reichsführer.”
“If all that weren’t bad enough, our agents are having serious difficulty discovering where exactly Roosevelt’s convoy might dock in North Africa—so it could be anywhere along a three-thousand-mile coast. Without precise information, we couldn’t possibly effect a meaningful air or sea attack. And once Roosevelt comes ashore, we’ll have little chance of knowing how he’ll proceed until he reaches Cairo.” Himmler sighed with frustration, removed his glasses, and polished them methodically with a handkerchief. “So, Walter, it seems it may well be all down to you, after all. Tell me your progress.”
“I’m glad to report that everything goes according to plan, Reichsführer.” Schellenberg smiled brightly.
“You seem confident. Do you feel certain the woman will be capable of doing what is expected of her?”
“With her father’s life in the balance, she’ll do her utmost, I’m sure of it.”
“You had better be right. And Halder?”
“He’s coming along nicely.” Schellenberg smiled again. “A little conflict between him and Kleist, but we expected that.”
Himmler replaced his glasses, adjusted them on the bridge of his nose. “Ah, yes, Kleist. A bit of a brute, but the kind of man you can rely on. Much easier to predict than this fellow Halder. And what about Deacon?”
“Reichsführer?”
“His progress in Cairo?”
“I expect a signal from him within the next twenty-four hours, informing us of his readiness.”
“The troubling matter of this safe house being discovered, it hasn’t caused him further problems?”
“Not according to his last report. If it had, I’m certain he would have let us know.”
“Halder is aware of this?”
“I didn’t think it necessary to trouble him with the information, Reichsführer. He has enough to occupy his mind.”
Himmler nodded. “Perhaps you’re right. But what if Deacon fails to obtain the necessary transport and equipment at such short notice?”
“I’m confident we can still go ahead. It would be left to Halder and the others to sort out the problem once they arrive. But I’m sure they’re quite capable of it.”
Himmler made no comment, stared at the fire for several moments, lost in thought. “Very well. Considering the pessimism of the reports you just read, you have my authority to proceed with Operation Sphinx, and with the Führer’s approval.”
Schellenberg stood, delighted. “As you command, Reichsführer.”
“You will take Halder and the others to Gatow airfield tomorrow, and on to their standby position in Rome, to prepare for departure.” Himmler came back to his desk, sat, and carefully replaced the barrier of paperwork in front of him, indicating that the meeting was at an end. “And as always, keep me fully informed of any developments.”
BITTER LAKES
“It’s not much, but it’s definitely something.” Sanson lit a cigarette as they sat in the interrogation room an hour later, after Berger had been taken away.
Weaver was silent as Sanson read back through his notes. “We now know for certain that Phoenix arrived in Cairo nine months ago to help bolster the Germans’ intelligence-gathering. We also know, from Berger’s agreement with our description, that it’s probably our friend Farid Gabar. And we know that after he got through our lines he probably stayed one night in a safe house in Ezbekiya—a hotel belonging to an Arab working for German intelligence—before making contact with Besheeba.”
The information Berger had given them had indeed been slender, but was still significant. He had merely transcribed th
e signal for his commanding officer, but admitted to having twice seen the Arab that Sanson described during intelligence debriefings at Wehrmacht headquarters in Tunis. As Weaver had suspected, Berger wasn’t privy to the true identities or backgrounds of either agent, and he couldn’t tell them anything about Besheeba, except to say he’d heard a rumor he was Berlin’s top spy in Cairo.
“So we need to find this hotel. Except it was nine months ago that Gabar stayed there.”
“It’s the start of a trail, Weaver. And right now, it’s all we’ve got. I’ll have a word with some of my informers, and we’ll go through the lists of sympathizers again. We might turn up a suspect. If not, we’ll get the rundown on every hotel owner in the area until we do.”
Weaver stood. Sanson said, “Where are you going?”
“To see if Berger’s all right. I think you shook him pretty badly.”
Sanson said angrily, “Forget about it, Weaver. And there’s something I ought to point out while we’re on the subject. You should know better than to show disagreement or weakness during interrogation. That was a stupid thing you did, attempting to help him. It undermined my authority.”
“It wasn’t interrogation, Sanson. It was torture, whatever the results. The kind of thing I’d expect from the Gestapo.”
Sanson looked fit to explode. He got to his feet and stuffed his notebook in his breast pocket. “I told you, this is war. Or don’t you understand that? If you have a complaint to make about my methods, do so. But in a situation like this, results are all that count. Now, let’s make tracks back to Cairo. If we’re going to find Gabar fast, we’ve got our work cut out.”
21
* * *
BERLIN
Two thousand miles away that same day, and at just past eight in the evening, Admiral Wilhelm Canaris was still wrestling with his conscience as he entered the basement bierkeller.
It was a smoky place, filled with off-duty troops and glum-looking Berliners, the brass band playing on the rostrum all looking like condemned men, which wasn’t surprising. Like everyone else, their nerves were shot from the bombing, the arrogant marching songs they played to an indifferent crowd hardly reflecting the despondent mood of the beleaguered city.
Canaris slid into an empty booth and ordered a mug of beer. He glanced at his reflection in a nearby wall mirror. He looked stressed, exhausted, having hardly slept in the last five days since meeting with Schellenberg. Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive. No wonder he was stressed. He had kept the secret for many years, and a dangerous one at that. He was a traitor to his country, one of the plotters against Hitler, a defiance that would soon cost him his life, hung by piano wire from a meat hook in Flossenburg concentration camp.
But that was a fact he was ignorant of that evening, and a fate that was months away. He wore shabby civilian clothes, an overcoat and hat, and being a spymaster, he had no problem losing the Gestapo tail that had followed him as he left his home for an after-dinner stroll.
He sipped a mouthful of tepid beer from the mug in front of him and glanced at his watch. The young woman who entered the bierkeller two minutes later was slim and blond, her beautifully sculpted face and even more beautiful body expertly masked by far too much makeup and dowdy, ill-fitting clothes that deliberately hid her charms. She saw Canaris. He had left his hat on the edge of the table, the signal that it was safe to meet. She slid into the seat opposite, smiled. “Wilhelm.”
“My dearest Silvia,” Canaris said fondly. Had he not been faithfully married, he could easily have fallen in love with this divine-looking angel in front of him. Countess Silvia Konigsberg was the wife of a Swedish diplomat, and an old friend. “You had no problem getting here?”
“None.” Mischief sparkled in her eyes. “I lost my Gestapo tail in the Underground. The poor man must be having a fit by now.”
Canaris ordered a beer for her, and waited until the waitress left. “So, you fly to Stockholm tonight.”
“Midnight. The mail run. Was it something terribly important you wanted to see me about?”
Canaris cleared his throat. Anything in writing was out of the question, evidence that could be used against him. Silvia, on the other hand, had diplomatic immunity and powerful friends, extending up to the king of Sweden himself. Brutal interrogation was out of the question if she was caught. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t risking her life. The Gestapo was skilled in arranging fatal accidents.
“My dear Silvia, I must entrust you with a vital, urgent message. So crucial, it may decide the fate of the war. Are you ready to commit it to memory?”
Silvia didn’t flinch. A brave woman, Canaris thought, with that remarkable Nordic ability to appear calm under the worst duress. “Tell me,” she said simply.
Canaris hesitated. He knew that by this very act he was dooming Halder and the woman to failure, even death, and it was a heavy load on his conscience which had racked him for the last five days. But the alternative was simply too horrible to contemplate. “Schellenberg and Himmler have devised a plan to kill the American president and British prime minister. They know Roosevelt will arrive in Cairo to meet Churchill sometime on the twenty-second—three days from now. The intention is to assassinate them both.”
His Swedish angel turned pale and her mouth opened to admit a sharp intake of breath. Canaris said, “You must pass on the message to your usual contact. If this insane plan were to succeed, we both know the consequences.”
“How—how will it happen?”
“A specialist team to set up the operation will be on its way to Egypt by air within the next forty-eight hours. Even sooner, perhaps—”
At that moment they both heard the wail of an air-raid siren. The band stopped, people panicked, chairs overturned, and the bar staff began ushering customers to the basement cellars. “Dear God, it starts again,” Canaris said palely. “The country will be nothing but rubble.” He put a hand urgently on Silvia’s. “You’re certain you’ll make the plane tonight?”
She nodded. “My husband has important diplomatic business in Stockholm. And we have an escort across the corridor, as usual.”
It was absurd, Canaris knew. In the middle of the worst war in human history, a Baltic air corridor had been tacitly agreed between the Allies and Germany, for the safe passage of aircraft from neutral Sweden. Outside, the pounding started; the ceiling shook, scattering plaster, and the lights dipped.
Silvia stood anxiously. “I really had better go. If I’m stuck here, I may miss the flight.”
“God go with you, Silvia,” Canaris said urgently. “And for heaven’s sake, be careful out there, and please don’t let me down.”
Another bomb struck, somewhere in the streets outside, and off-duty soldiers and the bierkeller staff screamed at people to hurry to the basement. “There’s more our friend in Stockholm should know,” Canaris added quickly.
“There isn’t time, Wilhelm.” Silvia was moving towards the door.
“But I simply must give you some details—” As he took Silvia’s arm and helped her towards the exit, a burly Feldwebel came over as a powerful blast shook the building, almost knocking him off his feet.
“Are you two deaf? Downstairs, quickly! Before you’re blown to flipping pieces.”
As the Feldwebel began to push them towards the basement, without a word Silvia Konigsberg darted past him, out through the door, and up the steps. “You stupid cow. Are you crazy?” the soldier roared, and started after her.
Canaris gripped his arm. “No. Leave her!”
“She can suit herself, pops, but if you want to live to see your pension, you’d better get your backside down those stairs straight away. Move!”
Canaris saw Silvia disappear up the steps as a cloud of dust rolled through the bierkeller and the building shook once again. He put his arm over his mouth to stop from choking. Dear God. What if she was killed in the air raid and didn’t make it? And he had desperately wanted to give her more details, to make sure th
at her British intelligence contact in Stockholm knew that Halder and the woman were innocent pawns in a deadly game, but he was too late. Silvia was gone and the soldier was pushing him down towards the cellars.
• • •
Two kilometers across Berlin, at that very same moment, it was a different kind of cellar General Walter Schellenberg was being led towards. A visit to the basement prison at Gestapo headquarters always depressed him. It was a wretched place, reeking of fear and full of the screams of torture victims, but he was in an excellent mood that late afternoon as the burly SS jailer led him down the steps.
They walked to the end of a chilly, dimly lit corridor, past lines of iron doors on either side. The jailer halted outside one of the last and inserted a key. Schellenberg lit a cigarette.
“How is he?”
“Better than most here, Herr General. Three good meals a day and no more torture or beatings. But I still think he’s not right in the head. He barely responds.”
“Has he mentioned his daughter?”
“Not that I’m aware of, sir. He just cries a lot. Hardly stops, in fact.”
Just then, Schellenberg heard sobbing and glanced across the corridor to one of the other cells, from where the noise came. “Wait a moment.”
He stepped over, flicked on a wall switch, and pulled back the metal viewing shutter set in the iron door. He saw two young boys, one in his late teens, the other no more than fourteen, their faces badly swollen, huddled together in the corner of the cell as if for comfort, the younger sobbing uncontrollably. Blinking in the harsh light, they looked like pathetic, frightened creatures.
“And what about these two?” he said over his shoulder to the jailer.
“Traitorous brothers, plotters against the Führer, aren’t they, Herr General? They haven’t confessed yet, but you can be assured they will. And they’ll get what’s coming to them in the end, no doubt.”
