by Glenn Meade
“I’m not blaming you. I’m sure you did your best.” He explained their change of plan. “We’re going to try to make it to Alex alone, just the two of us. Pray we have enough of a head start and they’re not searching for us already.”
Achmed came into the room, followed by Kleist and Doring. “The old crone’s gone, blaming everyone but herself. And the mood she’s in, you can bet she’ll blather everything to the village.”
“It’s probably for the best the Italian’s dead,” Kleist remarked. “It makes things less complicated.”
Halder gave him a bitter look, but ignored the comment and said to Achmed, “Did you send off the signal?”
“Just now. But in daytime, the signal strength is never reliable. Let’s hope Berlin gets the message.”
“Repeat the transmission after you return, and again tonight, to be absolutely certain. What about my comrade’s body?”
“We can bury him in the desert on our way.”
Halder said to Kleist, “Make it reasonably decent. Don’t leave him for the vultures, you hear me?” He crushed out his cigarette. “We’d better get going.”
They went upstairs to remove Falconi’s body, wrapping him in a couple of filthy gray blankets, then Achmed led them out to the backyard. When they put the body into the back of the truck, Achmed’s son appeared and opened the yard gates, and Halder and Rachel climbed into the Jeep.
Achmed got behind the wheel of the Fiat, beside Kleist and Doring, then leaned out of the driver’s window and gave a wave to Halder. “Allah go with you, my friends.”
Halder waved back, started the Jeep, and he and Rachel drove out through the gates.
Achmed watched them disappear in a flurry of dust and spat out of the window. You poor fools, he thought, None of you has a hope.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” Kleist jerked his elbow into the Arab’s ribs. “Move!”
Achmed started the Fiat and pulled out into the street.
36
* * *
BERCHTESGADEN
21 NOVEMBER, 4:30 P.M.
Two thousand miles away that afternoon, in the forested splendor of the Austrian Alps, a heated meeting was under way in Hitler’s mountain retreat, the Eagle’s Lair, attended by a half-dozen Wehrmacht field marshals, two Kriegsmarine admirals, and Hermann Goering, the chief of the Luftwaffe. All had arrived specially from Berlin and had the unpleasant task of reporting bad news.
They were in the large, wood-paneled room used for such meetings. The scene out over the Tyrol was beautiful, clear skies and a crisp autumn day, but everyone’s mind was on anything but the splendid view. Field Marshal Gerd von Rundstedt, commander-in-chief of the German Army in the West, was the last to speak, and as he summarized the Wehrmacht reports he deliberately avoided looking at Hitler.
“To outline the main points—our armies are fighting a vigorous delaying action on the Eastern Front, west of the River Dnieper, and also south of Rome.” He gestured with a pointer to the maps, laid out on the large baize table. “I can also report that partisan activity in France, Norway, Holland, and the Balkans is posing ever-increasing problems.” He looked across the table at Hitler, whose face was a mask of displeasure. “We can overcome all these difficulties, of course, mein Führer,” von Rundstedt added. “But it’s really a question of manpower and supplies. The Allies are destroying our supply lines with increasing regularity, by air and sea. Our resources are stretched to the limit.”
“You say delaying action when you mean retreat. Our armies are retreating.”
Von Rundstedt saw Hitler’s unforgiving stare and flinched. “Well . . . quite so, mein Führer, but—”
Hitler put up a hand to silence him, before glaring over at the Kriegsmarine admirals, accusation in his voice. “Sixty U-boats lost in the last four months. I believe that’s a record, is it not?”
“Again, a question of manpower and supplies, mein Führer,” one of the admirals replied nervously. “We’re simply becoming outnumbered since the Americans entered the war. Even our vessels undergoing repairs are being bombed in the dockyards.”
Hitler stood there, his arms folded, his face a mask of contempt, as his gaze swiveled to Goering. “And what does the air marshal have to say about all this? Where are the daring raids he threatened over Britain? The ring of steel he promised in the skies around Germany? Or does the Luftwaffe even bother to fly these days?”
Goering, his overweight figure looking ridiculous in his white uniform, cleared his throat. “We do our best, mein Führer. But the admiral is right. The opposing forces are becoming overwhelming. Our resources are stretched so thinly we cannot hope to command the skies.” He tried desperately to strike a note of optimism. “But soon we will have our new V-l rockets and our jet fighters—I’m certain they will give us the advantage.”
“We are concerned with the present, not six months from now,” Hitler snorted, brushing aside Goering’s reply with a contemptuous wave of his hand. “Excuses. All of you give me excuses. You say you do your best, but your best isn’t good enough.” His voice rose hysterically as he spat the words with venom. “Fools! With such incompetence, what hope do we have if the Allies launch their invasion in the west? Next time you come here I don’t want feeble answers, I want solutions, is that clear? Now go! You’re dismissed, all of you!”
When the humiliated senior officers shuffled out of the room, Hitler collapsed moodily into a leather armchair. Moments later his SS aide entered and snapped to attention.
“Reichsführer Himmler and General Schellenberg are here to see you urgently, mein Führer.”
Hitler’s face was ashen with fury. “No doubt with more bad news.” He stood, wiped spittle from his lips. “Very well, send them in.”
Himmler entered, followed by Schellenberg. Both men gave the Nazi salute, and Hitler waved for them to be seated.
“I see you still can’t manage to wipe that grin off your face, Walter,” Hitler commented. “I never quite know whether you come bearing good news or bad.”
“A terrible affliction, mein Führer.” Schellenberg’s smile widened despite himself. “But the ladies seem to find it attractive.”
Hitler didn’t look amused, still in a foul mood as he turned his attention to Himmler.
“Well, what is it you wish to discuss?”
“Mein Führer, we have news concerning Operation Sphinx.”
Hitler brightened a little, the dark clouds temporarily forgotten. “Our one hope in this entire mess. Well, is it good news you bring, or like my generals have you come with bad tidings? I warn you, I’m in no mood for the latter.”
Himmler delicately adjusted the pince-nez glasses on the bridge of his nose. “The aircraft carrying our agents was intercepted and attacked by an Allied fighter, before crashing on Egyptian soil early this morning.”
Hitler’s face darkened, but Himmler carried on quickly, anxious to dispel the gloom.
“However, as we prepared to depart Berlin to bring you word, we received another signal from our agent in Abu Sammar. It appears that the flight crew were killed. But Halder and the others survived without injury and managed to make contact.”
Hitler stood abruptly, paced the room with growing anger. “More disaster! Does it ever end?”
“Perhaps not entirely a disaster, mein Führer,” Himmler suggested. “It seems Halder is intent on proceeding with the operation.”
Hitler turned on him. “And what about the Allies? They’re not fools. Once they discover what’s happened, no doubt they’ll do their utmost to hunt our people down.”
“Even so,” Himmler offered reassuringly, “that assumes they would be immediately aware of our exact intentions, something which is highly unlikely. We used an American Dakota, which should help confuse matters for a time—it’s not unknown for the Allies to shoot down their own aircraft in error, no more than it is for us. And if Halder is intent on carrying on, he’s obviously convinced there’s still a chance he can reach Cairo.”
>
Hitler sighed, crossed to the panoramic window. “It doesn’t augur well and I still don’t like it. Have you informed Canaris?”
“He’s aware of the loss of the aircraft, but not the latest news. Walter will let him know when we return to Berlin.”
Hitler’s face twisted in contempt. “I don’t trust the man. I’m convinced he’s spreading rumors behind my back, that the war is lost and I’m insane. If he is, he’ll pay dearly.”
He looked over at Schellenberg. “Still, this man Halder of his seems an able fellow.”
“One of the Abwehr’s best, and an excellent choice for our purposes. If anyone can accomplish what we intend, Halder’s the one to do it.”
“And what news of the Jew, Roosevelt?”
“It’s likely he’ll arrive in Cairo within the next twenty-four hours. Our agent in Oran reliably reported that the Iowa docked off the Algerian coast just after oh seven hundred hours, yesterday morning.”
“And yet our U-boats failed to destroy the vessel en route,” Hitler said bitterly.
Himmler had already broken the news of that particular failure the previous evening.
“Our wolf packs tried repeatedly to intercept the Iowa, mein Führer. But the convoy was so heavily armed and altered course so frequently it proved impossible to get anywhere near the vessel.”
Hitler stood at the broad window for several moments, looking out at the mountains, hands clasped behind his back, rocking up and down on the balls of his feet, as if considering the situation. After a while he turned to Himmler. “So, Sphinx, such as it is, remains our last hope.”
“At the best of times, a mission like this is bound to be fraught with difficulties. And the problems we’ve encountered don’t help matters. But I’m convinced there’s still a reasonable chance Halder can achieve his objective.”
Hitler banged a fist into his open palm and his voice rose to a scream. “A reasonable chance isn’t good enough. If the Allied invasion is agreed, then the war is lost. Roosevelt’s death would give Germany the most precious advantage of all—time. It will give our industry a full year. With that year we can win the war. That is why this mission can’t fail. I want immediate reports from now on—any information concerning Sphinx’s progress, I’m to be informed at once.”
“With respect, mein Führer,” Schellenberg interrupted quietly, “even if Halder disappoints us, we may still have an ace up our sleeve.”
Hitler wiped spittle from his lips and looked across knowingly. “And you’d better pray to God this ace of yours works. Dismissed.”
EL HAUWARIYA, TWENTY MILES WEST OF ALEXANDRIA
11:25 A.M.
Halder halted the Jeep outside the whitewashed railway station. They hadn’t encountered any checkpoints during the fifty-minute trip across the desert, and as they drove into El Hauwariya no one seemed to pay them much attention. The landscape around was flat and endless, the desert on three sides, the turquoise Mediterranean in the very far distance. The village was larger and more bustling than Abu Sammar, with badly paved roads and a couple of small decrepit hotels, and there was a lively camel market in progress in the crowded main square as they drove past. The station looked quiet enough, but as Halder pulled up he noticed a military police Jeep parked further along the curb. “Not very promising. You’d better wait here while I have a look.”
“Can’t I go with you?”
“Best not, in case there’s trouble. Besides, an army officer on his own shouldn’t attract much attention, but with a pretty woman on his arm people are bound to notice.” He smiled and stepped out of the driver’s seat, then adjusted the belt of his holstered revolver. “Try not to look too worried. And if anyone asks, tell them your boyfriend’s gone inside.”
• • •
The station was busy, dozens of people waiting around on the platform, mostly Arab peasants in worn djellabas, but as Halder started to approach the ticket desk window, he saw two armed British military policemen with red hatbands and white ankle leggings standing off to one side. One of them, a corporal, carried a Sten gun. The sergeant with him was scrutinizing passengers as they passed through the ticket barrier. Halder pretended to check a timetable pasted on the wall, but before he had a chance to leave, the sergeant came over and saluted. “Morning, sir. May I inquire if you’re traveling?”
Halder frowned, returned the salute, and mimicked a perfect upper-class English accent. “Why, Sergeant? Whatever’s the matter?”
The man looked him up and down, reluctant to offer an explanation. “Well, Sergeant, I asked you a question.”
“There’s been an incident not far from here, sir,” the sergeant said. “A couple of British soldiers were murdered by enemy agents.”
“Good Lord.” Halder noticed the second MP glance over in his direction as he checked the papers of an Arab couple passing through the ticket barrier.
“I’m afraid you still didn’t answer my question, sir,” the sergeant persisted. “Are you traveling?”
Halder shook his head. “Afraid not. I’m meeting someone. But I think I got the bloody times mixed up. It’s the next train.”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I’ll still have to ask to see your papers.”
“Of course, I quite understand.” Halder fished in his pocket, pretending to look for his ID, but really trying to gauge whether he could manage to shoot both MPs if it came to it. “Do you know the names of the two chaps who were killed? I might have known them.”
“I’m afraid not yet, sir. But I’m sure we will, soon enough.”
Halder presented his ID, and before the sergeant could get a thorough look at the photograph, he held out his hand for him to give it back. The man made no move to return the document. He looked up, the watchful eyes under the peaked cap staring into Halder’s face. “Captain Jameson, is it, sir?”
“Of course.”
“There’s a problem with this ID.”
Halder felt his heart sink. “What sort of problem?”
“It’s out of date by a week, sir.” The sergeant waited for an explanation.
Halder promptly took back the ID and examined it. “You’re absolutely right. You’ve got me there, I’m afraid. Must have slipped my mind. What can I say?”
“You mind me asking where you’re billeted, sir?”
“At Amiriya.” Halder sounded irritated. “Look, is all this really necessary? I can understand you’ve got a job to do, and my ID’s a little out of date, but, good Lord, man, it ought to be evident I’m British, not a bloody enemy agent. Give Amiriya a call if you’ve nothing better to do. Ask to speak with the CO. If the old man’s not in too foul a mood, he’ll vouch for me. Carry on, Sergeant, I’ll wait here with the corporal.”
The sergeant hesitated, pursing his lips in indecision, but the blunt offer seemed to satisfy him. “That won’t be neeessary, sir. But if I were you I’d get the ID sorted out as soon as possible.”
“Of course. Very negligent of me.” Halder slipped it back in his pocket. “Bad luck our two chaps being killed. You’d think we were bloody safe from that sort of thing after we kicked Jerry out, but apparently not. It all sounds pretty serious.”
“Not half as serious as it’s going to be when we catch them, sir.”
“I’m sure you’re right.” Halder glanced at his watch and sighed. “Well, I suppose I’d better find something to do until the right train arrives. I wish you luck, Sergeant.”
“I’m pretty certain we’ll find them, sir. We only got the word ten minutes ago as we were passing through town, but I heard that checkpoints are being set up on every road into Alex. They haven’t got a ruddy hope of escaping.”
• • •
Halder left the station feeling utterly depressed and walked back to the Jeep, slipping in beside Rachel. He removed his cap and wiped sweat from his brow. Rachel said, “Is there a problem?”
“I think you could say that. It looks like they’re definitely on to us.” He explained the situation, then reached across a
nd touched her hand. “The whole thing’s a mess. Even if I let you take your chances alone, you’d still be in trouble.”
“I’m not so naive as to think I’ll get gentle treatment if I’m caught. I’d still rather take my chances with you. You’re sure there’s no other way we can get to Alex?”
“I don’t see how. The checkpoints on the roads are bound to be thorough. We’re caught like rats in a trap, whichever way we turn.” He gestured northwards, towards the sea.
“We could attempt heading towards the coast and try stealing a boat from somewhere, but I wouldn’t rate our chances of getting very far before the theft was reported. And we’d be sitting ducks out on the water, once the army came after us.”
“There must be some way we can get on board the train. If we wait around here, we’re bound to be caught.”
“Short of following in the Jeep and trying to jump on, but that would give the game away.” Halder shook his head. “I can’t think of anything else, unless we can get rid of our two friends watching the ticket counter.”
“What did you tell them you were doing at the station?”
Halder explained. Just then they heard the whistle of a steam engine. Farther down the track a plume of thick smoke rose into the air. The train was only minutes from arriving. “Any suggestions?”
Rachel looked over at the Military Police Jeep. “Just one. But will it work?”
37
* * *
Rachel saw the two military policemen as soon as she stepped into the station. The sergeant approached her. “Excuse me, miss. Are you traveling?”
“Yes. Why?”
“Where to, miss?”
“Alex.”
“May I see some identification, please?”
Rachel pretended to search in her bag. “I’m sorry, I don’t seem to have any with me. I came out in such a rush this morning, you see. I must have forgotten my papers.”
“Are you British, miss?”
