by Glenn Meade
“Herr General, it’s after midnight—”
“I’m well aware of the time! Just do it.” Half an hour after Schellenberg had made the necessary phone calls, a rain-soaked Canaris finally arrived, looking tired and bothered as he was led in by the adjutant, who then withdrew.
“What is it you want?”
Schellenberg handed him the signal flimsy. “Some urgent news just in from Cairo. I thought you’d want to see.”
When Canaris had finished reading, he grimly shook his head, tossed the flimsy on the desk with a damning flourish. “It’s just as I thought. The whole thing has come to nothing in the end. Lives wasted for nothing. No doubt they’ll all be apprehended and shot.”
Schellenberg picked up his cigarette case from the desk, selected a cigarette, lit it, and inhaled slowly, as if savoring what was about to come. “It’s a calamity, no question. And so close to the end. Skorzeny’s aircraft had already taken off, and were en route. I’ve had to give the order that they return to Rome—the Allies would certainly have shot them out of the skies before they landed. But there’s an unfortunate communications problem with Rome—the signal keeps breaking up and we can’t get in touch. We’ll keep trying, of course, but as a precaution I’ve urgently instructed that our Luftwaffe night fighters operating out of Crete try and intercept Skorzeny’s Dakotas before it’s too late. Let’s just pray we can get to the colonel in time. The Führer is bitterly disappointed, of course. I spoke to him by telephone before you arrived, and his mood really wasn’t the best after I’d told him. But he’s not completely without hope.”
Canaris stared at Schellenberg as if he were insane. “Not without hope? But it’s over.”
“Not yet. In fact, the interesting part just begins.”
Canaris scowled. “I don’t follow.”
Schellenberg stood up from his desk. “I didn’t think you would. But now, my dear Wilhelm, it’s time you knew the truth. No doubt you recall the first rule of good intelligence work—one must always try to be one step ahead of the game. You see, I’ve kept my best card until last. And I think you’re going to be surprised.”
• • •
Schellenberg crossed to the window, looked out at the teeming rain, one hand behind his back, a cigarette poised in the other. “I recall you admitted having heard rumors about my agent, Nightingale?”
“I’ve certainly heard whispers. Why?”
“And what exactly did the gossip-mongers say?”
Canaris shrugged. “That no one but the Führer and a handful of trusted, high-ranking SD know his real identity. That he’s the best agent your organization ever trained. Ruthless. Clever. Totally dedicated.”
Schellenberg gave an approving nod. “An accurate appraisal. Nightingale was certainly one of the most professional agents we ever recruited. Highly intelligent and extremely resourceful. Calm under pressure, totally lacking in fear, and absolutely committed to the task in hand. I think you’d agree those same attributes would probably describe a very capable assassin?”
Canaris’s mouth went dry. “What are you trying to say?”
“Nightingale is among the team we sent to Cairo, and will attempt to succeed where Halder and Skorzeny have failed.”
Canaris stared at him blankly as Schellenberg went on. “I told you, Wilhelm, above all Roosevelt is our prime target. As of now, he’s our only target. And Nightingale is our last card—the only remaining hope we have for the success of the mission. Our ace in the hole.”
Canaris was astounded. “But—who is he?”
Schellenberg shook his head. “Not he. She. To be precise, Rachel Stern.”
The shock on Canaris’s face was total. Schellenberg let the impact sink in. “Not her real name, of course, but it’ll do perfectly well for now.”
“This is some kind of joke, surely.”
Schellenberg looked affronted as he came back from the window and sat. “This is not a matter I’d jest about.”
“But—but it’s quite unbelievable.”
“There are some facts you should be aware of. Before the war, she was our top agent in Egypt, and provided us with much invaluable information. About military installations, about the nationalist groups which were a thorn in the British side, and much else besides.” Schellenberg raised an eyebrow, smugly. “Believe me, you’ve really no idea how good she was back then. Better than all of our people put together. She’d have made even the best of them look like complete amateurs.”
“But—Rachel Stern is half Jewish?”
Schellenberg smiled broadly. “Ah, now that’s where it becomes a little devious. When we first decided to send her to Egypt, she needed a plausible background. Professor Stern and his wife were, in fact, SD agents all along. His wife’s Jewish background and the professor’s anti-Nazi sentiment were a fabrication, all part of their cover story, of course, and an excellent ready-made one at that. So, someone in the SD office simply invented a daughter for the Sterns—I think you can imagine the rest.”
Canaris’s mind was ticking over furiously. “And their arrest by the Gestapo when they were returned to Germany?”
“More trickery, I’m afraid. A Kriegsmarine vessel was scheduled to pick them up en route to Istanbul, when the Izmir sank. Fortunately for us, the professor and Nightingale were rescued. But their apparent arrest was simply to protect their cover. They were, in fact, taken away for debriefing.”
“But—why was she imprisoned at Ravensbruck?”
Schellenberg smiled. “I’m surprised you can’t see the reasoning behind it, Wilhelm. But then I can see you’re still in shock. It was another trick, pure and simple.”
“I don’t follow.”
“Halder hadn’t seen Rachel Stern since they parted company in Cairo. The professor’s anti-Nazi remarks and his wife’s supposed Jewish blood would have suggested an unpleasant fate for the family had they returned to Germany. Which is exactly what Halder would have expected—anything less would have made him suspicious. As for the camp, it was an easy enough matter to arrange—a ragged camp uniform, a doctor to administer small amounts of cordite to give her a washed-out appearance. And to top it all, a fictitious camp officer who had been a pupil of her father’s, to explain why she was still in reasonably good health, and hadn’t been all that badly treated.”
Canaris said palely, “It seems you thought of everything.”
Schellenberg grinned wickedly. “I always try to. Details are so important. It was never a case of Halder making certain the woman did what was expected of her, but the other way round. He might have been the ideal man for the job, but Himmler had some doubts from the very start about Halder’s true allegiance, considering he’s part American—and whether he’d really do his best to carry the whole thing through. The woman was there to make sure he did. And with the future of the entire Reich at stake, we had to have a backup plan if we couldn’t get Skorzeny’s paratroops into Cairo or if Halder failed.”
“Why didn’t you simply tell him the truth from the start?”
“It was perfectly obvious Halder still had feelings for Rachel Stern. And he’d do his utmost to make sure they made it to Cairo, whatever the obstacles. If we had told him the truth it would have completely shattered his illusions. Then there was the risk he might not even have agreed to go along with us in the first place.
“We also wanted Nightingale’s cover story to be believable and beyond suspicion. If she was caught, she would simply be a victim, used by us, and not one of Germany’s most brilliant agents, to be tried and sent to the gallows by the Allies. That would have given them something to boast about, and wouldn’t have done our esteem any good at all.”
There was a long pause, and Canaris looked angry. “Why did you keep all this from me?”
“Not my doing, Wilhelm. The Führer decided that keeping it secret was the best course—the fewer who knew the better.”
“And no doubt he’s enjoying a laugh at my expense. I’ve always known he doesn’t trust me,” Can
aris said without bitterness. “This only confirms it.”
Schellenberg shrugged. “That’s a matter for you to pursue.”
The curiosity was palpable in Canaris’s voice, hoarse and very quiet now. “Who is she, Walter? What’s her background?”
Schellenberg lit another cigarette. “Does it really matter at this late stage?”
“For someone to risk laying down her life on a last-ditch mission like this, she must be either a fanatic or a fool. Why would she agree to it?”
Schellenberg smiled thinly. “Because these are desperate times we find ourselves in. And she’s a patriot.”
Canaris looked sceptical. “That sly look on your face says there’s more to it. I have a feeling there’s another reason.”
“You always look for an ulterior motive, don’t you, Wilhelm? And rightly so.” Schellenberg blew out smoke, sighed grimly. “Very well, I shall give you one. General Pieter Ulrich. You’ve heard of him?”
Canaris nodded. “By reputation, he’s an upstanding and highly respected Wehrmacht officer. A brave and honorable man, much decorated.”
“He’s also the woman’s father. And no longer a respected officer, but one of these insane, traitorous plotters against the Führer. In fact, the last time I paid him a visit in the Gestapo cells, he really had gone quite mad. Solitary confinement appears to have sent him over the edge.”
“The—the general has been imprisoned?” Canaris stammered. “The last I heard, Ulrich had been posted to the Russian front.”
“I’m afraid it’s much worse than that. He and his entire family were arrested secretly some months ago on a charge of treason. All, that is, except his daughter. She wasn’t considered party to his crime. Nevertheless, we decided to offer her a proposition.”
Canaris’s face darkened knowingly. “You played the same dirty game with her that you played with Halder?”
Schellenberg gave a shrug. “It’s an old routine in our business, as you well know, but always effective. In her case, all charges dropped against her family—if she agreed to go along with this, and if necessary, to give up her life for the Fatherland. A small price, I think you’ll agree, for the survival of the Reich and the release of her entire family. Both her parents, and her two younger brothers, who are also currently being held in the cellars.”
“But General Ulrich’s sons—I think I met them once. They must be only in their teens. Boys, both of them. How could they be guilty of such treason?”
Schellenberg gave a shrug. “You’d have to ask Himmler that—their arrest had nothing to do with me. But I’ve been keeping a close personal watch on all of them, you’ll be glad to know, and they’re being reasonably well treated—no more beatings or interrogation. At least until this is over and their fate decided.”
Canaris’s mouth tightened with disgust. “And what if the general’s daughter fails?”
“Let’s try not contemplate failure,” Schellenberg said moodily. “I’ve had quite enough for one night. And you must believe me when I tell you that the woman probably stands as good a chance as Skorzeny’s troops. Halder will probably be devastated if he’s learned the truth.”
Canaris sat back, dazed, his brain racing, trying to fit the rest of the pieces into place. “What will happen to him now?”
“Assuming, of course, there are survivors, the same plan we arranged with Deacon still applies—to fly them out when it’s over, Halder included. Not that I honestly expect such an outcome. But certainly if Nightingale manages to carry this off, she’ll be the toast of the Reich. Dead or alive, her name will have established its place in history.”
Canaris sat there for a time, mulling it all over. “No doubt she never cared a whit for Halder. It was all a charade.”
“She’s a splendid actress, of course, when the occasion demands,” Schellenberg admitted. “But as for not caring about Halder, I’m really not so sure.”
“Explain.”
“I read her reports when she returned from Egypt. It seems that apart from Halder, she maintained a friendship with another young man, an American. She intended the relationships purely as a convenience, of course, all part of her cover. But as you well know, when you’re an experienced intelligence officer, you train yourself to try to read minds, and the true meanings behind words.”
“What are you saying?”
“I got the distinct feeling that had she not left Egypt when she did, she might have been torn between her personal feelings and her duty. When I debriefed her, I asked her out of curiosity how she felt about both men. She admitted that she had strong feelings for each.”
“You’re saying she loved them?”
“I’m saying that whatever she felt was perfectly understandable. She was a young woman in an exotic setting, the romantic attention flattered her, and she found herself responding, despite her best efforts not to. You know as well as I do that the finest agents are never the unfeeling brutes—they’re the ones with hearts and minds.” Schellenberg shrugged. “She’s also a woman. And we both know how unfathomable a species they are. Anything is possible. But she was certainly caught up in a conflict of emotions.”
“What do you mean?”
“She changed after she returned to Germany. Lost her appetite for her work. She was distracted, lacked focus, until eventually, after a couple of disastrous missions in Istanbul, she was relegated to agent training here in Berlin. And that’s where she’s been ever since. If you must have an honest appraisal, I’d say she fell in love with both men and couldn’t get over them, but didn’t want to admit it to herself. However, this time she’s perfectly focused, and in no doubt about the importance of what must be done.”
Canaris sat there, feeling oddly unmoved by the revelation. “You still haven’t told me what happens now.”
“She and Deacon will do whatever is necessary to carry this through. We now know the passageway is usable, and Roosevelt is inside the compound. The rest is up to them.”
“Deacon knows about her?”
“He’s been aware of our plans from the start. Kleist, too. I insisted on it. With that temper of his, he was likely to have tried to kill the woman once she had outlived her apparent usefulness.” Schellenberg smiled. “Not that he would have succeeded for a moment. She’s more than capable of looking after herself, and a truly excellent shot.”
Canaris still hadn’t got over the shock. He shivered, looked out at the rain, the grim black clouds hanging over nighttime Berlin. His anger was gone. It seemed pointless; everything was beyond his control. After a time, he turned back. “But do you honestly believe she can kill Roosevelt?”
“Believe me, if there’s even a slim hope that anyone can finish this, Nightingale can.”
68
* * *
MAISON FLEUVE
23 NOVEMBER, 1:30 A.M.
Weaver sat there, his face as if carved in stone, every muscle taut. It was very still in the room, the silence overpowering. Halder didn’t utter a word, thunderstruck, until Rachel Stern had finished talking.
“I have to admit, you fooled me completely,” he said very quietly, still in shock, his voice almost a whisper. “The business of the camp, the reasons why Schellenberg wanted you as part of this, the hostility towards me at first. They all rang true. But I can see now I was gravely mistaken. It was all a sham.”
A look like remorse crossed her face. “None of it my fault, Jack. Like you, I was caught between the Devil and the deep blue sea, obliged to do Schellenberg’s bidding.” She came back slowly from the window. “You look stricken, Harry. Have I disappointed you that much?”
Weaver felt at a total loss for words. He flinched, as if he’d received a physical blow, managed to whisper hoarsely, “More than you’ll ever know.”
“I’m sorry it had to be this way.”
Halder said bitterly, “Very touching, but you can keep the phony anguish, it doesn’t mean a thing. You never had an ounce of feeling for either Harry or me, ever. Did you? It was all a gam
e.”
She looked at them both steadily, a kind of grief in her eyes. “Is that what you really believe, Jack?”
“I believe I’ve been an utter fool—the rest of it is really immaterial. Except what happens next.”
“You’re coming with Deacon and me. You got close to Roosevelt once already. You can do it again. But this time you’ll have me as company. And if by any chance there’s an afterwards, we’re flying out of here.”
“You mind telling me how?”
“The way Deacon arranged in case of emergency. His Egyptian officer friend will make the pickup from a desert strip near Sakkara, and fly us to a German airbase on Crete.”
“Take it from me, even if anyone made it on board they’ll be blasted from the skies.”
“Deacon doesn’t seem to think so. The route’s been worked out. Once the aircraft is north of Port Said, German night fighters will be waiting to guide it to safety.”
“And who’s going to do the dirty deed at the hotel?”
“Me. That was the intention—if you failed, or Skorzeny’s men didn’t arrive.”
“How?” Halder shook his head at Rachel. “You won’t stand a chance in hell of getting near Roosevelt, never mind killing him and getting away with it.”
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to play that hand as it falls. But as for the how—” Rachel produced Deacon’s Luger, put down the machine pistol and took something from her pocket. Halder instantly recognized the oblong metal shape. She fitted it on the end of the Luger. “A new silencer the SD has developed. The best they’ve ever produced. If I fired behind your back you wouldn’t even know about it.”
She pointed the gun at Halder, squeezed the trigger. There was a barely audible sound, like a tiny cough, and a slug whispered past Halder’s ear, embedded itself in the plasterwork behind. She fired again, deliberately to the right this time, hitting one of the Nubian death masks on the wall, a clean shot between the eyes.
