Dead Secret

by Alan Williams

  He was struck at once by two things. Firstly, the subject of oil was rarely mentioned, except in passing, and never as a major factor in the conduct of the war. The second was that the two men whom he would have expected to have been most concerned with this subject did not merely ignore it — they made light of it. The first was Albert Speer; the second, Adolf Hitler.

  Speer’s memoirs were so detailed, so disarmingly frank, that Hawn was left with the strong impression that the former Minister of War Production was not covering up — it was simply that there were things he had not known about, but which, being a vain man, he was not prepared to admit. And if Mönch had been telling the truth, and a secret operation had been set up, independent of Speer’s Ministry, and under the code name ‘Bettina’, Speer might well not have heard of it.

  But what of Hitler? Of all the books through which Hawn laboured the one author who diverted him most was Hitler, in his Table Talk 1341-43. This proved a fascinating and bizarre chronicle. Almost every night, and often deep into the morning — in the Spartan comfort of Berschesgaden, or the grey claustrophobia of the bunker — the Führer would hold forth. His select captive audience would range from the most powerful and deadly men in his empire, to long-suffering generals back from the Front, or hapless visitors like the head of the Danish SS Viking Division.

  Hitler spared none of them. He talked about anything, everything, which captured his whim. To the Danish lapdog he talked at length about the ‘brutal and savage nature of women’; then his views on English public schools and the British monarchy — the former of which he deplored, and the latter admired — to his copious views on music. ‘The English like music,’ he announced: ‘unfortunately music does not like the English.’ At which his obedient guests fell about with laughter.

  But perhaps the worst affliction of these dinners was the fact that no one was allowed to drink or smoke; and battle-weary veterans would constantly excuse themselves to go to the lavatory for a quick puff and a pull at their hipflasks.

  Hawn was left with the impression that Hitler was not mad, and certainly not stupid: he was just one of those unfortunate people who know a little bit about a great many things, and felt an obsession to express himself on every one. Whether it was power, money, nationality, history, empire, aristocracy, architecture, cinema, literature, drama, sex, discipline, animals, pornography, philosophy, race, royalty, religion — Adolf Hitler had views on all of them, very firm views, and views which he expounded at length and with passion.

  But — recalling the proverbial dog in the night, in the Sherlock Holmes story — there was one subject upon which he hardly touched at all during these three years when his ‘Table Talk’ was being so meticulously recorded. That subject was oil. At no point did he express any serious concern about a fuel crisis — let alone that it was the single most crucial fact in his waging of the Second World War.

  When he did mention oil, his comments were either blithely sanguine, bordering even on the frivolous, or wildly theoretical. He had the modern ecologists’ passion for discovering new forms of fuel — not out of necessity, but because he regarded the automobile as a smelly, dirty object. At the same time he had grandiose ideas for exploiting oil under the rainforests of South America; and even, at a lunch in July 1942, expressed enthusiasm for prospecting for it beneath the woods round his beloved Vienna.

  The nearest he came to expressing any concern on the subject was his admiration for the Soviets who had cut out the monopolies and private interests… As a result, they are now in a position to prospect throughout their territory for oil with the assistance of very large-scale maps… There is no limit to what we could have extracted from the sources in the vicinity of Vienna, if the State had undertaken the necessary exploitation in time. This, added to the oil wells of the Caucasus and Rumania, would have saved us all from anxiety.

  His one other reference to fuel was again in 1942 when he said: ‘In future mobilization will no longer be a problem of transport for us. We still have the problem of petrol, but that we’ll solve.’

  He did not say how — which, Hawn reflected, was a pity.

  CHAPTER 16

  It was the first week in October, and they had still heard nothing from Pol. It was the weekend. The libraries and Record Office were closed. They had a large lunch, made love until it was almost dark, then brewed up a pot of strong coffee, lacing the cups with brandy, and began a detailed post-mortem on their researches — which might accurately be described as more dead than alive.

  ‘The trouble is,’ Anna said, ‘it’s all negative. Negative proof, if you like. Nothing to prove that our theory isn’t feasible, or untrue. But nothing to prove definitely that it’s true.’

  ‘Nevertheless, there was still a dead body in a Paddington bedsitter. And Mönch’s memoranda.’ (Anna had got the documents back from her brother, which Hawn had translated and had copied, with the original deposited in his bank.) ‘Then there’s the tie-up with Salak and Shanklin, and Shanklin and Frisby and that man Rice. It would be enough to get my editor putting ten of his best men on the job.’

  ‘Let’s just look at the facts first,’ Anna said. ‘What do we have on the credit side? We have no evidence — in any of the files that we’ve gone through or books we’ve read — that contradicts our theory. All right?

  ‘Secondly — there are firm, corroborated statistics that German consumption of oil actually increased as the war went on. I can give you chapter and verse for all this if you want it.

  ‘Three — one of the commonest arguments we’ve heard to dispose of our theory is that the Germans had accumulated vast oil reserves before the war, and went on to capture more huge reserves in the Occupied countries. The facts, however, are that when Hitler invaded Poland, he had only three months’ reserves. And in France — where he captured most oil — the supplies were barely enough for two months. Also, we mustn’t forget that in this first year of the war, the scale of Hitler’s mechanized machine was vastly inferior to that of the later years.

  ‘Four — contrary to popular belief, he did not receive a great deal of oil from Russia, either during the Nazi-Soviet Pact, or after his invasion of Russia in June 1941. The Russian oil industry was very underdeveloped, and after the invasion what there was of it was being constantly sabotaged.

  ‘Five — and this is the really crucial factor, the linchpin on which our theory stands or falls. Ploesti, Rumania. Officially, from the beginning of the war, Rumania was Germany’s main source of crude oil. But, Tom, here the statistics are very odd.’ She turned to a page with columns of handwritten figures; he groaned sardonically and she held up her hand. ‘I know — lies, damned lies, and statistics. The trouble is — from ABCO’s point of view — these statistics don’t add up. They not only contradict each other — they contradict history.

  ‘Unfortunately, I’ve had to do a certain amount of improvisation — inspired guesswork, as our critics and enemies would no doubt call it. Anyway, pay attention, because this is vital. In 1943 the Germans were refining approximately 23 per cent of Rumanian oil. We know that Ploesti didn’t have many refineries of its own, so I think we can make an intelligent guess that total German fuel imports from Rumania would have been about 30 per cent.

  ‘And we know that after the Allies invaded Southern Italy and captured the airfield at Bari, Ploesti and the other smaller Rumanian fields were being bombed round the clock. I haven’t been able to find any exact figures to confirm how quickly production dropped off, except that by August 1944 — when the Russians overran Rumania — the figure of exports of crude to Germany was down to about 10 per cent. A miserable bloody 10 per cent! And yet Germany went on fighting.

  ‘Now, as I told you in Madrid, the average weekly German fuel consumption in 1943 was down to 1.7 million tonnes — and the German and Allied figures more or less agree here. And according to Mönch’s memorandum, under “Operation Bettina” they were aiming at a target of two million a week.

  ‘Yet by December 19
44 — at the time of the Ardennes Offensive — they were still, apparently, producing two-thirds refined oil, as compared to any other month of that year. All right — it was still a long way short of Bettina’s target, but it was still more than four months after Rumania had been captured by the Russians. So where were they importing it from?’

  ‘They still had their quasilegal sources,’ Hawn said, ‘via the neutrals. What Robak was flying a kite about, at my meeting with him in the Gritti. And they could have been feeding off reserves from Rumania.’

  ‘All right, I’ll take your second point first. Contrary to what that ass Logan says, we now know that at the outbreak of war they had very short reserves — presumably because they were so cock-a-hoop about winning. But later — and there are plenty of odd sources for this — it appears that Hitler actually issued an edict forbidding the hoarding of supplies of any kind — from food to vital raw materials, which of course included oil. He considered it tantamount to pessimism, defeatism, which in his unholy mind meant treason. That would explain why so many of his staff, including Speer, were doing their nuts complaining to him about the shortage of materials, while he just fobbed them off by saying that everything would be all right. But then, of course, he knew about “Operation Bettina” and they didn’t.

  ‘In short, he still thought he could counter-attack and win the war. But he needed oil for that, Tom. He needed one hell of a lot of it, and he went on importing it and refining it right up to the end — although the official German statistics for some reason stop early in 1945.

  ‘Now, as for the neutrals, he certainly managed to get some through the friendly ones, like Spain, via Vichy, France — as well as lovely Switzerland and Sweden.’

  Hawn nodded. ‘Yes — Robak flew that kite for me too.’

  ‘But what proportion would that have been in pure percentages? And we’re not talking about a few hundred thousand odd barrels. We’re talking of several hundred million tonnes. Of crude, not synthetic.’

  ‘Now — point six. The question of synthetic fuel. That, we’re all told, was their great standby.’ She began to read from another sheet of notes: ‘“Of the total German fuel consumption between 1943 and May 1945, 49 per cent was synthetic, due to the process known as hydrogenation.” That’s a quote from an Allied Commission report, by the way. And we also know now from our friend Pol that the synthetic stuff was only suitable for aircraft and light vehicles. We also know that by 1944 Goering had to ground two-thirds of his Luftwaffe, when it was most needed against Allied bombing attacks, because of lack of fuel.

  ‘So 49 per cent couldn’t have been very much. On the other hand, we have that figure of 30 per cent from Rumania, dwindling to a miserable 10 per cent — of both crude and refined, which was somehow enough to keep the mighty German armour alive and rolling. However you juggle the figures, Tom, they come out the same. A discrepancy as wide as the Grand Canyon.

  ‘Oh, and I almost forget. Right up to the end, in 1945, Hitler was still prepared to allow Werner von Braun as much high-grade fuel as he wanted for his rockets, mainly the V2, and the experimental V3 that was supposed to hit New York.’

  ‘I shouldn’t pay too much attention to Hitler’s judgement. In those last months he was hepped up to the eyeballs and as mad as a March hare.’ Hawn sat up. ‘Let’s take those figures first. Say, from 1943 to the end. 49 per cent synthetic. Thirty-five per cent, if we’re going to be really generous — generous to ABCO and their accomplices, I mean — for Rumania, dropping to around 15 per cent, if we count the peripheral fields in Hungary, Poland, and Silesia. Then perhaps 5 per cent from reserves or captured supplies. And another 5 per cent from the neutrals, through their “laundering” service.’

  ‘That’s an absolute maximum — and more than bloody generous to ABCO.’

  ‘Angel, we’re not only prosecuting. We’re defence, judge and jury. And if we start paring the figures down just to suit our theory, they’ll hang us up by our balls.’

  She grinned. ‘Speak for yourself. But I take your point. Your absolute maximum leaves a discrepancy of 6 per cent. Rising to 26 per cent after the bombing of Ploesti started. And up to 36 per cent when Rumania was swallowed up.’

  ‘Now wait a minute, angel. That figure isn’t necessarily a discrepancy. It’s simply a net reduction of total German oil supplies.’

  ‘It’s more than that, Tom. It’s an almost total elimination of all their crude oil. Yet they were getting it from somewhere. I’d say as judge and jury, we’ve got a copper-bottomed prima facie case. I’d say more. If those figures of yours were a bank statement of credits and debits, it would be about time to call in the Fraud Squad.’

  She sat forward with her hands pressed together. ‘All damned lies and statistics. We’re not going to prove anything — let alone convince anybody — with a lot of figures. People will say the figures are wrong, that the Germans falsified them, that they’re not complete — all kinds of legalistic bunkum.

  ‘We’ve got to prove that the Germans got it from ABCO. They obviously did — in huge quantities, and pretty regularly. But we’ve still got to make a case. A case for the prosecution. And a case that ABCO — with all its power and money and well-dressed henchmen — isn’t going to be able to break or fix.’

  ‘And you don’t think we’ll be able to do that by ourselves? That we’ll have to go on sitting on our hands waiting for Pol — to know what’s in that second instalment from Mönch? D’you think Pol will let on?’

  ‘It depends if he thinks we can still be of any use to him.’

  ‘You’re pretty cynical about Pol, aren’t you?’

  ‘If you mean, do I trust him? — no! The moment we start trusting a man like that, we’re finished.’

  CHAPTER 17

  Two days later a letter arrived from France, date-stamped Chamonix. Pol was writing on hotel notepaper. Considering his flamboyance, the contents of the letter were impersonal and peremptory. He wanted to meet them both in three days’ time at the Hotel Lotti in Paris at 8.00 p.m.

  Anna’s extended holiday had finished, and she had just started work again at the LSE. It was with some difficulty that she managed to persuade them to grant her another week’s leave — though Hawn had an idea that one week would not be enough.

  The post next day enclosed two first-class tickets, one way, from London to Paris. Hawn did not like the one way, since he could scarcely credit Pol with meanness: but also he could hardly argue.

  At London Airport there was a billboard for the evening paper: POTATO CANCER SCARE. Ah, we live dangerously, he thought; and bought the paper which he read over the champagne during the flight.

  It was in the Stop Press: FORMER NAZI WAR CRIMINAL FOUND HANGED. ‘Monsaraz, Portugal. Former Nazi official, Dr Hans Dieter Mönch, was found hanged here in his hotel room. Local Police are treating it as suicide.’

  He and Anna had spent too long having their senses lulled by the dead drudge of statistics. Now they were alert again, awake to the full potential menace of Pol and their one-way ticket from him to the Lotti Hotel.

  The fat man was already at the bar when they walked in. He greeted them voluptuously, but was careful not to disturb himself from his stool lest he could not get back on again. ‘Excellent, mes chèrs! Now, Monsieur Hawn, I shall be able to offer you that meal which the Spanish authorities so rudely denied you.’

  They ate in a little restaurant behind Notre Dame. It was unpretentious, and half the tables were empty. The proprietor was a gaunt man with a bad leg and a fat wife. He greeted Pol by kissing him on both cheeks. Hawn guessed that they were either confederates in crime or old Resistance comrades.

  ‘This is not a famous place,’ Pol explained, tucking in his bib: ‘but it is probably the best restaurant in Paris.’

  Hawn waited until the wine had been poured and Pol had ordered the first course. ‘So what happened to Mönch?’

  The Frenchman gave a grandiose shrug that caused his chair to creak. ‘Ah, the poor Doktor. He had cancer,
you know — cancer of the bone. He had not long to live.’

  ‘Did you, and your friends in Jacques, do it?’

  ‘Mon chèr Monsieur Hawn, that is scarcely a polite suggestion. And I was so looking forward to an agreeable dinner with you both. I am sure Mademoiselle Admiral would not like it spoilt for her.’

  Anna looked him in the eye. ‘I’d be happier if I knew what happened to Mönch.’

  Pol spread out his napkin and sighed. ‘Mönch was a very wicked man, my friends. He worked close to Himmler — he was a confidant of his. He employed slave labour — and we all know what that meant.’

  ‘Did you collect his second affidavit?’

  ‘I did. And you have the first, of course?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Pol sat smiling brightly at them both. Hawn added, ‘First, why the one-way tickets?’

  ‘Ah, a mere bagatelle. Just that I do not expect you to be returning direct from Paris. But we can discuss your travel arrangements later. First, the document.’

  ‘And yours,’ Hawn said.

  Pol gave his girlish giggle: ‘Ah, Monsieur Hawn, you are so suspicious!’

  ‘You’d think me an idiot if I wasn’t.’

  The Frenchman wobbled with laughter; then reached inside his voluminous jacket and produced a folded wad of typescript, identical in appearance to the first — only this time there were only six pages. In return, Hawn handed him the photostat of Mönch’s original documents, which Pol read while he ate. He ate busily, washing almost every mouthful down with a glass of wine. He read them a second time, then folded them away inside his jacket.

  Hawn had meanwhile worked his way through Mönch’s second missive. There were not two names — only one. Reiss. Mönch confirmed that the man had been a top double-agent in both Istanbul and the Caribbean, that he had worked for ‘Operation Bettina’ throughout, and that this was an organization so secret that it was known only to Himmler and his immediate entourage.