by Glenn Meade
“What about Gabar?”
“At this stage, all we can hope for is that the checkpoints and the brothel and almshouse searches turn up something.” Sanson looked bothered. “One other thing. I take it you had a chat with the general?”
“That’s right.”
“Good. Then you’ll be absolutely clear about your role from now on. This is a harsh war, Weaver, and whatever tactics I deem necessary are my business. If you don’t like it, by all means take it up with your superiors, but you don’t ever countermand my orders again, especially in front of a prisoner. Never. Is that plain enough?”
“It couldn’t be plainer.”
Sanson picked up his cap. “I’ll be at my flat catching up on some sleep if you need me. Otherwise, you’ll see me bright and early.” He stared at Weaver. “I really do hope everything’s crystal clear. If by any slim chance the Germans manage to get this team of theirs past our air defenses, it’ll be our job to hunt them down. I don’t need an officer who’s not prepared to do his duty—and that means killing the enemy if we have to.”
26
* * *
ROME
The Dakota came in over the sea and touched down at Practica di Mare military airfield on the coast just after seven that evening. It turned off the runway and taxied towards a large hangar. The doors were open and the inside was lit by powerful Klieg lamps, the area around it guarded by half a dozen armored troop carriers filled with crack SS troops.
Once the plane rolled inside, Falconi cut the engines and the hangar doors were shut. A half-dozen Luftwaffe mechanics immediately made busy, preparing to give the aircraft a final check, while a paint crew set about rigging up metal gantries to paint American markings on the fuselage and wings. Halder noticed that two other identical Dakota aircraft were already parked inside, freshly painted in desert camouflage and bearing U.S. decals.
Schellenberg led his fellow passengers down the metal steps and across the hangar to a private office that served as a rest room. There was a table and some easy chairs, half a dozen crew bunks, and refreshment of sandwiches and real, freshly made coffee. The copilot and Falconi followed them in, and the Italian beamed when he smelled the aroma.
“Real coffee. I don’t believe it. You’ve really outdone yourself, Walter. I just hope this isn’t some kind of ominous Last Supper?”
“Let’s hope not, so enjoy it while you can.”
Falconi filled a cup and swallowed a mouthful. “My, that’s good. You can keep that lousy ersatz stuff they serve in Berlin. I suppose there’s no chance of a few free hours to visit the Eternal City?”
“Absolutely not. You’re confined to base.”
Falconi smiled. “A pity. There’s a certain young lady I wouldn’t mind seeing again.” He took a handful of sandwiches and headed towards the door with his copilot. “Try and save some more coffee for Remer and me while we go and check the latest weather reports.”
When Falconi and Remer had left, an SS adjutant entered and saluted. “Signal for you, Herr General.”
Schellenberg stuck his riding crop under his arm, tore open the flimsy, read the contents, then dismissed the adjutant. “You may leave, there’s no reply. But you’d better find Colonel Skorzeny and tell him we’ve arrived.”
“I believe the colonel is already on his way, Herr General.”
“Excellent.” Schellenberg took Halder aside and said to the others, “And now, please enjoy the refreshments while I have a private word with the major.”
• • •
He led Halder across the hangar floor to a private office at the back which overlooked the darkened sea in the near distance, closed the door, and placed his briefcase on the desk.
“What’s up?” Halder asked.
“I had thought I might be able to bring you better news, but our U-boats have still failed to intercept Roosevelt’s battleship. The latest indications are that it passed through the Gibraltar Straits yesterday evening, but the convoy accompanying it is heavily armed and altered course so frequently it again proved impossible to get anywhere close enough to torpedo the vessel. By my reckoning, the president should reach Cairo within the next forty-eight hours, even allowing for any stop-offs on the way.”
“So that’s it. We definitely go in.”
Schellenberg nodded. “All we need now is a signal confirming we’re all clear for the drop, which I’m anticipating shortly.” He unlocked his briefcase. “I told you there was another reason Rachel Stern is a vital part of the mission, and now it’s time you knew. As you’re well aware, the ancient Egyptians had a fondness for secret passages. A practice, I’m told, that has continued until modern times. They say all of Cairo is a warren of secret tunnels.”
“What about it?”
“While you were in Egypt in ’39, there was a rather interesting and important discovery at the site of the Giza pyramids, not far from the Mena House. A secret passageway was uncovered, one that led towards Cheops pyramid. It seems most of the passageway forms part of a natural underground cavern, and the rest of it was burrowed out by grave robbers in ancient times.”
Halder frowned. “I never heard about that.”
“For a very good reason, which I’ll explain in a moment. You recall your dig at Sakkara?”
“Of course. Why?”
“The passageway I refer to was discovered by Professor Stern. His wife and daughter worked with him on the excavation. But they kept it a family secret.”
Halder looked totally surprised. “How do you know all this?”
“I told you, Jack, I always do my homework thoroughly. The professor’s notes and maps were found in his possession when the Kriegsmarine picked him up. The truth came out during his interrogation by the Gestapo.”
“You’re sure Rachel was involved?”
“Positive. The professor intended to return to Egypt after the war and continue the work at Giza. Rather sly of him, don’t you think?”
“And how is this passageway going to help us?”
Schellenberg raised his shoulders. “I don’t know that it can exactly, not until you see it for yourself and decide, but it certainly suggests an interesting strategy if all else fails. One which just might help Skorzeny’s men to mount their attack with a strong element of surprise.”
“Skorzeny’s been told about the tunnel?”
“Of course. It was necessary for him to know exactly what tactics he might have to work with.” Schellenberg took out a tattered map and spread it on the table. It showed the Giza pyramids and the surrounding area. “The map belonged to the professor. The passageway entrance lies somewhere here, about two hundred meters from Cheops pyramid. It ends under the tomb of an unknown noble, but for some reason the professor found the burial place to be undisturbed. He was looking forward to excavating the tomb, and seemed to think it might have led to an important find, but war broke out and he never got the chance to complete his work.”
“You still haven’t told me where all this is leading.”
“According to Professor Stern, the Mena House was originally a royal hunting lodge. Thousands of years before that, it may have been the site of an encampment for the stonemasons and craftsmen who toiled on the pyramids. Stern considered it possible that some of the workmen somehow discovered the natural cavern, and might have been greedy and daring enough to risk their lives by using it to help them burrow into the pharaoh’s tomb and try to steal the immense riches in gold and jewels contained there, or have grave robbers try and do it for them.
“All entirely irrelevant, of course, except that used in reverse, the passageway may help you gain entrance to the compound area or, with luck, get close to the hotel itself. But you can’t know for certain unless the tunnel is opened again and explored. Besheeba confirmed in his report last night that there’s still some archeological activity going on at Giza, which means you may be able to use your cover story to examine the site.” He looked at Halder. “What’s wrong? You look troubled by something.”
> “Now you mention it, I seem to remember the professor and his wife had a fondness for disappearing at night.”
Schellenberg grinned. “There you are, then. You should know by now you can’t trust anyone. But you’d better say nothing to Fräulein Stern for now. At least not until you reach Cairo, and the need arises for her help. Well, what do you think?”
Halder shrugged. “It might be of use. But a lot will depend on how heavily guarded the area is, and the condition of the tunnel.”
“You’ll have to do infinitely better than that, Jack. I told you, this can’t fail. We need to know precisely where we stand before Skorzeny’s paratroops can go in. Memorize what you can of the map. You can’t take it with you for obvious reasons, in case you’re stopped and searched, but the fräulein will have remembered the details, you can be sure of it.”
As Halder studied the map, there was a knock on the door. Otto Skorzeny entered. The colonel carried a baton under his arm, his paratrooper’s blouse over his SS uniform. He raised his arm in salute. “Herr General. You arrived safely.”
“Ah, Otto. This should interest you.” He handed him the signal flimsy, which Skorzeny read.
“So, it’s all down to us,” Skorzeny replied when he looked up, a slight smile on his face which suggested he actually relished the news.
“It appears so. I was just explaining to Halder about the tunnel.”
“An interesting possibility.” Skorzeny tapped his baton on the professor’s map. “Let’s hope it can be of some use.” He looked at Halder, his bullish stare almost a threat. “See that you don’t let me or my troops down. We’re going into the lion’s den on this one. So much depends on you accomplishing your tasks. You have two of my best men under your command—they’ll do their duty, whatever it takes. See you do yours, Halder.”
“I have a question, Colonel. No doubt the Allied defenses will include an air exclusion zone around Cairo. How will you manage to avoid the risk of being spotted on radar and shot down?”
Skorzeny smiled broadly. “With relative ease. The two other Dakota aircraft you saw on your arrival are our transport. Fortunately for us, the desert terrain on the lead-in to the city is reasonably flat. Once we’re fifty kilometers from the airfield we’ll descend to no more than two hundred meters above the ground. Radar detection would be impossible at such a low altitude. The equipment would be useless. And even if the enemy makes a visual sighting of our aircraft from then on, they’ll see our Allied markings and think we’re going about our rightful business.”
“I told you, Jack,” Schellenberg said with a smirk. “Ways and means.”
“There’s also the other tricky problem we discussed,” Halder went on. “And one that needs answering. The question of getting the colonel’s men safely from the airfield to Giza. What if the vehicles are stopped and searched for any reason? Surely the game would be up?”
“Let’s give him his answer, Otto,” Schellenberg said.
“My pleasure, Herr General.” Skorzeny went to the door, opened it, and barked, “Lieutenant Eberhard, your presence is required.”
Halder looked on with surprise as a blond-haired, boyish-faced young man in his early twenties, who had obviously been waiting outside, smartly entered the room. He wore a U.S. infantry officer’s uniform, summer issue, with a peaked cap, and carried a Colt .45 automatic in a leather side holster. He snapped off a neat salute and stood to attention.
“Very good, Eberhard,” Skorzeny said. “Tell us a little about your background in America.”
“I lived in Philadelphia for twelve years, sir,” Eberhard replied in perfect, American-accented English. “My parents emigrated with me when I was a child. My pop worked as a machine-shop foreman, until he and my mom eventually decided to return to Germany in ’34.”
“Open your tunic, Eberhard,” Skorzeny ordered.
“Yes, sir.” Eberhard undid the buttons of his tunic to reveal an SS officer’s shirt, with silver-threaded runes.
“Button up again, Eberhard. You’re dismissed.”
The lieutenant closed his shirt, and when he had left the room Skorzeny turned to Halder with a grin. “Eberhard is a fluent English speaker, as you heard. And with an impeccable American accent. An all-round clean-cut American boy, wouldn’t you agree, Halder?”
“With respect, Colonel, one man out of dozens in the disguise of a marine, no matter how good his accent, is hardly going to be enough to fool anybody if those trucks are stopped and searched.”
“I don’t think you understand, Jack,” Schellenberg interrupted. “When the time comes for the colonel to fly to Cairo, all of his men will be wearing U.S. military garb over the shirts and pants of their German uniforms.”
“I see.” Halder raised his eyes. “Again, it seems you’ve thought of everything.”
“Once they enter the hotel they can discard the American uniforms and slip on their own SS paratroop blouses, which they’ll carry in kit bags, along with their helmets and weapons. But until then the subterfuge of pretending to be U.S. troops ought to help them get inside the building. And at least a dozen of the men speak English with acceptable American accents.” Schellenberg turned to Skorzeny. “Are your men prepared, Otto?”
“As they’ll ever be, Herr General. Like me, they’ll be anxiously awaiting Halder’s signal. Perhaps you would do me the honor of inspecting them?”
“Later, of course. It would be my pleasure.”
There was another knock on the door and Schellenberg said, “Enter.”
The SS adjutant returned. “Urgent message for you, Herr General.”
He handed over a sealed envelope. Schellenberg tore it open, removed two signal flimsies, and studied them before he dismissed the adjutant.
Halder said, “A problem?”
Schellenberg shook his head. “Quite the opposite. Your contact will be ready and waiting at the airfield near Abu Sammar, as expected. And Cairo has everything in hand and is looking forward to your arrival.” He smiled triumphantly at Skorzeny, then turned back to Halder. “Well, Jack, it seems we’re just about ready for takeoff. Let’s get your clothes and personal belongings sorted out, and then hopefully you’ll all be on your way.”
• • •
They had already changed into their clothes when Falconi and the copilot reappeared. The Italian was dressed in a flying jacket with a sheepskin collar over the uniform of a captain in the United States Army Air Corps. The copilot wore a lieutenant’s uniform under his flier’s jacket, and both men were armed with holstered Colt automatics.
“It feels like I’m on my way to a fancy dress party,” commented Falconi with a smile. Rachel wore a khaki bush suit, like the others, with a white cotton scarf tied at her throat, and Falconi laughed when he saw Halder’s battered felt bush hat, khaki pants and shirt, and high-laced desert boots. “You look like an extra from Hollywood central casting, Jack. Don’t tell me, you’re off in search of King Solomon’s mines.”
“Don’t laugh, Vito. I’m trying to get into the part.”
“I’m sure Cecil B. De Mille would be impressed.”
Schellenberg made a final check of their clothes and belongings, rummaging through the assortment of Gladstone bags they had been given.
“Everything seems in order,” he announced when he had completed his check. “It’s best to be certain none of you has taken along any personal items you shouldn’t. That kind of thing has a nasty habit of giving people away. I lost a perfectly good agent once, all because the fool neglected to remove his German wristwatch before his mission. The error cost him his life. What about the weather reports?” he asked Falconi.
“It seems it could be pretty terrible all over North Africa.”
“How bad is terrible?”
Falconi smiled. “Storms, lightning, high winds. Probable desert sandstorms on the ground. Not a pleasant combination. But the good thing is it should keep the Allied air patrols to a minimum.”
Schellenberg looked worried. “What do you th
ink?”
“I’ve flown in brutal weather often enough.” Falconi shrugged. “It’s just the passengers may find it unpleasant being tossed about.”
“We still go, of course,” Schellenberg said firmly.
“Then I’m ready when you are.”
Schellenberg gathered Halder, Kleist, and Doring around him. “Well, it seems this is it. Good luck to you all.”
He did a final check on their clothes and belongings, shook their hands, then Kleist and Doring went on board. As Falconi and his copilot went up the metal steps, Schellenberg said, “Take good care of your passengers, Vito. They’re precious cargo and a lot depends on them.”
“Of course, Herr General.”
Rachel climbed the steps and, as Halder made to follow, Schellenberg grasped his arm, excitement welling in his voice. “So, it begins.”
“Let’s just hope there’s a happy ending.”
Schellenberg touched his cap with his riding crop in a final salute. “That all depends on you, Jack. Remember, nothing less than a hundred percent will do. Need I say it? As of this moment, the survival of the Reich and the outcome of the war are entirely in your hands.”
Halder looked back at him grimly, then followed the others up the steps.
* * *
PART THREE
* * *
NOVEMBER 21, 1943
27
* * *
ABU SAMMAR
21 NOVEMBER
Achmed Farnad came awake with a curse in the darkness.
He reached over and silenced the source of his irritation—an ancient British-made alarm clock—then screwed up his eyes and checked the time.
Three a.m.
He sat up in bed, scratched himself, and looked over at his snoring wife. The lazy sow would sleep through an earthquake. He forced himself from under the warm blankets and shivered as he stepped out onto the cold floor, feeling the desert chill in the room bite into his bones. He knew his task that morning was extremely dangerous, and he was aware of a nervous cramp in his stomach. At such an early hour, he also knew that the entire population of Abu Sammar—barely two hundred souls—was fast asleep, but when he heard the howl of a solitary dog he crossed anxiously to the window and peered out through the peeling wooden shutters.
