by Jack Higgins
* * *
When he was ushered into the ornate office on the first floor at Prinz Albrechtstrasse, he found Himmler seated behind a large desk, a stack of files in front of him, a surprisingly nondescript figure in a gray tweed suit. The face behind the silver pince-nez was cold and impersonal and it was difficult to imagine what went on behind those expressionless eyes. In many ways a strangely timid man who could be kind to his subordinates, loved animals, and was devoted to his children and yet a monster, responsible for almost all of the terror and repression that the Reich visited on its victims.
Heydrich was standing by the window, and he turned, his face angry. “Where on earth have you been, Walter?”
Before Schellenberg could reply, one of the several telephones rang. Himmler answered it, listening for a few moments, then said, “Insert in the appropriate file,” and replaced the receiver.
He removed his pince-nez and rubbed a finger between his eyes, an habitual gesture. “So, General, your conversation in the Tiergarten with the Herr Admiral Canaris was interesting?”
“So that's where you've been?” Heydrich said. “Playing cat and mouse with that old fool again? I gave you a certain task, Walter, as you well know.”
“Which I was following through.”
Himmler said, “The Windsor affair, I presume? You may talk freely. General Heydrich and I are as one in this matter.”
“Very well,” Schellenberg said. “I made out a report of my meeting with Foreign Minister Ribbentrop as you suggested.”
“Yes, I've already received it,” Heydrich said impatiently.
“Then I worked my way through the Windsor file to form an opinion in the matter.”
“And?”
“It was not enough,” Schellenberg said. “It occurred to me that it would be a good idea to sound Admiral Canaris on the matter. I happen to know that most Thursday afternoons he goes riding, so I went to the Tiergarten and found him there.”
“You had no authority to do such a thing,” Heydrich exploded.
Himmler stilled him with a wave of the hand. “What was your primary reason for doing this?”
Schellenberg took his time in replying, playing it very carefully indeed. “A difficult question, Reichsführer. A matter of some delicacy.”
“My dear Schellenberg, I respect your tact in this matter, but within the walls of this office there is nothing you cannot say. Not only because I am your Reichsführer, but also because we are all three men of the SS. Members of a common brotherhood.”
“Come on, Walter,” Heydrich said. “Speak out.”
“Very well. I suspected that Reichsminister Ribbentrop had not been entirely honest with me. It seemed logical that he would have approached the Abwehr first and yet he made no mention of the fact.”
“I see.” Himmler's voice was very soft now and he smiled in a strangely satisfied way. “And had he?”
“I'm afraid so, Reichsführer.”
“The rotten little bastard,” Heydrich said.
“Leave it, Reinhard. Another nail in his coffin. But continue, Schellenberg. What did the Admiral have to say?”
Schellenberg told them, holding nothing back, for there was no need to do so. Himmler made occasional notes on a memo pad. Finally, he put down his pen.
“So—the Herr Admiral sees no good in this affair?”
“So it would seem.”
“And you?”
There was a silence as they both waited for his reply, and Schellenberg knew that he was on dangerous ground now. Choosing his words with care, he said calmly, “But Herr von Ribbentrop made it clear that the whole business was to be carried through at the Führer's express command. He has even provided me with the necessary written authority. The Reichsführer must see that I cannot possibly question an order from the Führer himself. My personal opinion doesn't enter into the matter.”
Heydrich turned away abruptly to conceal his smile, but Himmler was positively glowing with approval. “I could not have put it better myself. He carries the burden for all of us. The destiny of Germany rides on his shoulders.”
Schellenberg said, “So, you also wish me to proceed in this matter, Reichsführer?”
“Most certainly. You will travel to Lisbon as soon as arrangements can be made, by way of Madrid, I think. A consultation with our Ambassador there, Von Stohrer, would be useful.”
Heydrich turned from the window. “One point, Reichsführer. Lisbon is alive with secret agents of every nationality, and General Schellenberg will be known to many of them. I have every faith in his ability to defend himself from the front, but I think it essential to have someone to protect his back. With your permission, I'll assign two or three of my best men.”
“Not necessary,” Himmler said. “I'll take care of it personally. The Gestapo, I'm sure, will be able to provide exactly the operatives we're looking for.”
“As you say, Reichsführer.”
“Good. You may leave us now, General Schellenberg. I'm sure you have many preparations to make. I'd like a further word with you, Reinhard, on another matter.”
Schellenberg went out quickly and returned to his office. He was sweating slightly and lit a cigarette. A moment later Frau Huber came in with a cup of coffee.
“See Ilse?” he smiled. “I told you there was nothing to worry about.”
As he raised the cup to his lips his hand was trembling.
As always after such an episode he needed action and went down to the firing range in the basement which was presided over by an SS Sturmscharführer named Reitlinger. The targets against the sandbags at the far end were of charging Russian soldiers, not Tommies, an affectation of Himmler who still cherished the hope of some sort of compromise with a people who were, after all, an Aryan race.
“Action, Horst. That's what I need,” Schellenberg said. “What have you got?”
“The new Erma police submachine gun, General. Just in this morning.”
Schellenberg emptied it in short bursts, firing from the waist, cutting a couple of the targets in half. The noise was deafening.
As it died down, he placed the weapon on the firing bench. “A butcher's gun. What I need is something more subtle—a silent killer, if you like.”
Reitlinger smiled and moved to the armorer's cupboard, for he knew very well what Schellenberg, who was a superb pistol shot, meant. He returned with a Mauser 7.63 mm Model 1932, with the latest adaptation, a bulbous silencer, a weapon specially developed for German counterintelligence operatives.
“Now this is more like it.”
Schellenberg hefted the weapon in his hand. It held a ten-round magazine which he emptied fairly rapidly, putting two shots squarely in the middle of five of the targets. The only sound was a series of dull thuds.
“Very neat,” Heydrich said, appearing behind him, “but surely you're losing your touch, Walter? Two shots each instead of one?”
“A wounded man can always shoot back,” Schellenberg said. “A second shot will almost invariably finish him off. I like to cover my bets.”
“You said that as if it were a stage direction.” Heydrich held out a hand. Reitlinger rammed a fresh magazine into the Mauser and passed it to him. “Yes, Walter, I am more than ever inclined to believe that is what you are—an actor. Rather a good one, by the way.”
He emptied the magazine, aiming each shot carefully. “That was an outstanding performance you gave just now in the Reichsführer's office. Quite brilliant. Exactly calculated to please.”
Reitlinger had moved to a position by the door which placed him out of earshot.
“And what did you expect me to say—the truth?”
“Which is?”
“That this whole thing is a waste of time. I've read that file, I've talked to Canaris, and they've completely miscalculated their man. The reports from Von Stohrer in Madrid about the Duke's sympathetic attitude. Cocktail gossip by Spanish aristocrats with fascist sympathies who want to believe he thinks as they do. That's the whole troub
le. Everyone wants to believe he's on our side, and they manufacture the evidence by a kind of wishful thinking. If the Duke of Windsor said Beethoven was his favorite composer, some idiot, even in his own country, would take that to be an endorsement of the Nazi Party.”
“So, you don't think he'll be interested?”
“Not in the slightest.”
“Then you'll have to persuade him, won't you?”
“And what on earth is that supposed to achieve?”
Heydrich said, “When we occupy England he would have to do as he's told for the simple reason that it would be the best way he could serve the interests of his people.”
He looked down toward the targets. “I haven't done very well, have I?”
“Not really.” Schellenberg rammed in another clip. His arm swung up, he fired twice without apparently taking aim, and shot out the eyes of the center figure.
“And now you're angry,” Heydrich said. “I wonder why?”
Schellenberg put down the gun. “We all have our off days. Do you mind if I go now? I've got work to do.”
“Not at all. You can pick me up at eight-thirty.”
“What for?”
“This Winter girl. I'd like to see her in the flesh. The Garden Room, I think you said?”
“All right.” Schellenberg walked to the door, which Reitlinger opened for him. “I'll want one of the silenced Mausers during the next couple of days. One hundred rounds in ten clips. Make up a pack for me and deliver it to the office.”
“Jawohl, Brigadeführer.”
Schellenberg went out, and when Reitlinger turned he found Heydrich examining the center target.
“Astonishing,” he said. “Both eyes at fifty paces. Could you teach me to do that, Sturmscharführer?”
“I'm afraid not, General,” Reitlinger said. “It is not a talent which can be taught. You've either got it, or you haven't.”
“Ah, well,” Heydrich said. “He is on my side.” He opened the door and smiled. “At least, I hope he is.”
Lina Heydrich was away for the summer at the charming thatched-roof chalet off the Baltic coast on Fehmarn Island which Heydrich had built for her in 1935. He himself continued to live, with the help of a cook and housekeeper, at their Berlin house, which was in the exclusive Zehlendorf quarter bordering on the Grunewald forest.
Schellenberg picked him up there at eight o'clock in one of the special department Mercedes with two uniformed SS men up front on the other side of the glass partition. One to drive and the other to “ride shotgun,” an expression coined by Heydrich himself, who was fond of a good Western film.
As they drove down toward the center of the city Heydrich seemed morose and out of sorts.
“Uncle Heini,” he said, referring to Himmler by the disrespectful nickname by which he was known throughout the SS, “was not exactly being solicitous when he jumped in on my suggestion about providing you with bodyguards. Unless I'm very much mistaken, you'll have a couple of hand-picked Gestapo goons breathing down your neck.”
“And reporting every move I make three times a day by long-distance telephone to the Reichsführer personally. Yes, I'm well aware of the possibility,” Schellenberg told him.
“I don't know why, but at a time when things have never looked better, I have a feeling that they are beginning to go wrong for us—for all of us.”
“And why should that be?”
Heydrich hesitated, then leaned forward to check that the glass panel which divided them from the driving compartment was firmly closed.
“This is in confidence—total confidence, Walter, but the truth is, I have my doubts about Sea Lion.”
“You mean you don't think the invasion of England will take place?”
“I have a nasty feeling the moment has already passed. To be frank, the Führer's decision to halt the Panzers on the Aa Canal in Belgium, and thus allow the remnants of the British Expeditionary Force to escape from Dunkirk, was a military error of the first magnitude.”
“And now?”
“Russia. I think that is the way his mind is increasingly turning. I have reason to believe he already has a contingency plan in mind.”
“And you don't think it such a good idea?”
“Do you?”
Schellenberg shrugged. “Happily, I don't have to make that kind of decision. If you want my opinion, I'd say that the trouble with a Russian campaign is not particularly the Russian Army. It's the limitless distances, supply lines thousands of miles long, ferocious winter weather. Look what happened to Napoleon.”
“I know,” Heydrich said. “I have nightmares about that.” They were traveling along the Kurfürstendamm now and he wound down the window and peered out. “Not what it was in the old days—nothing is. I was at the Gloriapalast Theater for the premier of Blue Angel in nineteen-thirty. What a sensation, and when Dietrich appeared onstage the crowd went wild. Believe me, Walter, those legs of hers were the eighth wonder of the world.”
“I can imagine,” Schellenberg said.
“You've no idea what this town was like. There was the Ring Club which only allowed membership to those who'd served at least three years in jail. The Silhouette, the Always Faithful, and the Paradise which was filled with the most glorious transvestites in gorgeous dresses, high heels, lipstick. Not that my own tastes ever ran in that direction.”
Schellenberg said nothing, simply lit another cigarette and let him ramble on.
Heydrich said, “One can only hope this Garden Room and your Hannah Winter can supply us with a decent evening's entertainment. It would make a nice change.”
Hannah had already changed, ready for the first show, and went in search of Uncle Max, whom she had not seen since the previous evening. She found him in his office doing the books.
She kissed him on top of the head. “Had a good day?”
“Not too bad. And you?”
“I stayed in bed most of the morning. Did some shopping this afternoon.”
He took both her hands in his. “What we talked about last night, Liebchen? You'll do as I say? Leave with Connie and the boys on Monday.”
“And you?”
“I'll follow as soon as I can.”
“Uncle Max, you're a Jew in a city where Jews are treated as badly as at any time in the last two thousand years. I don't even understand why you came back when any Jew with sense was trying to get out.”
“I'm American, Liebchen. And so are you. They don't want trouble with Uncle Sam—they've got enough on their plate, so they treat us a little differently. I don't say they like it, but that's how it is.”
She shook her head. “There's more to this than meets the eye. Much more.”
“Twenty minutes to show time,” he said. “Make us some coffee, like a good girl.”
She went out into the small kitchen off his office, leaving the door ajar. She lit the gas and filled the coffeepot with water, then lit a cigarette and sat on a high kitchen stool and waited for the water to boil.
There was a knock on the office door; it opened, then closed again violently. She heard her uncle say in German, “Irene, for God's sake! Haven't I told you never to come here?”
“I'd no choice, Max. Something happened today that was rather special.”
Hannah stood up and moved so that she could see through the partially open door into the office. Irene Neumann unbuttoned her coat, raised her skirt and took the folded copy of the Windsor report from her stocking.
“I was put on temporary duty in the copying room today. I had to make copies of this for Heydrich. It's a report of a meeting between Schellenberg and Von Ribbentrop concerning a plot to kidnap the Duke of Windsor.”
The kitchen door swung open and Hannah stepped into the room. Irene Neumann turned pale. “Oh, God!” she said.
“No, Irene—it's all right.” Max squeezed her hand reassuringly. “This is my niece, Hannah. Completely trustworthy, I assure you. Now, let me have a look at this.”
He read it quickly, then pass
ed it to Hannah. “So—now you know. Go on—read it. This is the sort of thing that keeps me here.”
Her brain seemed to be dulled with the shock of it. She started to read the report and at the same time was aware of Irene Neumann and her uncle speaking in low tones.
As she finished, she heard the woman say, “Will Moscow be interested?”
“Perhaps. On the other hand, I might be able to pass it on through the American Embassy. Difficult, though. The Gestapo have forty or fifty men watching the place constantly. You'd better go now. How did you come in?”
“By the stage door.”
“Leave the same way.” He kissed her on the cheek. “Look after yourself, Irene. I'll be in touch.”
When Irene Neumann left by the stage door it had started to rain. She paused to button her overcoat and found an old beret in one pocket which she pulled on.
There was a street lamp bracketed to the wall at the end of the alley, giving the SD man, on surveillance duty inside the delivery truck parked on the corner, a clear view of her as she walked toward him. He managed to take several photos of her before she turned into the main street and disappeared into the evening crowds.
“Uncle Max—you're a Communist?”
“Labels,” he said, “are meaningless these days. The only question that matters is which side are you on. Look, try and understand. In New York, after twenty-five years, I owned a hotel and two nightclubs. Everything paid for and I had half a million dollars in the bank I didn't know what to do with. I was bored. So, I got involved with a Zionist organization that was trying to do something about what was happening to our people in Germany. Your mother knew nothing about it. I came back here in thirty-seven to help organize an escape line for Jews. I gradually got drawn into the other side of things. The only people who are really doing anything worth doing are the Socialist Underground, and by their very nature their links are with Moscow.”
“And Frau Neumann?”
“Irene is a dedicated Communist. Not a card-carrying member. What they call a sleeper. Available to party orders since she was a seventeen-year-old student. She really believes Karl Marx walked on water and she loathes the Nazis. She's a clerical worker at Gestapo headquarters. There are people like her in positions of trust all over the country. You'd be surprised.”
