He drew a breath and was suddenly aware that they were not moving. “Why have you stopped?” he shouted to the driver. “Go!”
“We are disabled, mein Führer,” said the guard apologetically. “I think they have destroyed our front wheels.”
“Keep trying!” cried Himmler, raising his fist to punch at the man through the panel dividing the cab from the rear compartment. Before the blow could land, the driver slumped forward, blood oozing out of his ear. There was a bullet hole in the thick window behind him, and several men with guns were gathering around the car. Soldiers—American soldiers!
Von Reinhardt was looking at him, his eyes strangely penetrating, his lips locked in a half smile. The effort to defend himself seemed to have drained all of his strength.
In that instant Himmler understood that he had been betrayed. He turned to the remaining guard. “Give me your gun!” he demanded, reaching out to pluck the weapon from the man’s hand, turning around to train it on von Reinhardt.
“Don’t you understand—I warned you that you would die if you betrayed me! You are my hostage!”
“Call this a bishop’s sacrifice leading to checkmate,” von Reinhardt said, leaning back in the seat, his eyes half closed. “Our mutual friend Rommel not only believes in the ends of justice, but also the means. This kind of trap is not his style—but it does work for me. As Goethe observed, ‘A great deal may be done by severity, more by love, but most by clear discernment and impartial justice.’ Rommel would have done you justice; I add the clear discernment. This plan achieves the original end of a rapid Nazi departure with fewer deaths and achieves the additional end of justice richly served. All for the sacrifice of a mere bishop. A bishop is not much of a sacrifice to make, nicht wahr?”
Somehow, his pallid lips creased into a semblance of a smile—an expression of smug satisfaction that remained on his face even as Himmler shot twice, then two more times, sending the bullets directly into the Prussian’s heart.
By this time the doors of the armored car were being pulled open and voices—voices speaking English—were making harsh demands.
HEADQUARTERS, SECOND GUARDS TANK ARMY, KÜSTRIN, GERMANY, 0209 HOURS GMT
Colonel Krigoff walked into the conference room accompanied by Major Rokov and several enlisted men from the commissar’s security staff. He stood at attention, facing down General Petrovsky, who straightened up from his leaning posture over the map table and confronted his intelligence officer with an icy glare.
“Did you forget that I placed you under arrest?” he asked.
“Your orders were countermanded by a higher authority,” Krigoff retorted.
“I am the authority in this army! Or, perhaps, did Comrade Marshal Zhukov hear your cries for help and come to rescue you—like Rapunzel taken from her lofty tower?” snapped the commander of the Second Guards Tank Army.
“I represent an authority superior even to our esteemed front commander,” the colonel declared calmly. “I am an emissary of the chairman, himself. And there is no doubt how Comrade Chairman Stalin will react when he sees one of his trusted agents arrested by a general—a general who is in the process of failing to capture the most important objective of the war. Even in the prison truck one can hear the sound of a crucial bridge being demolished.” The latter statement was not quite true; it was Major Rokov who had told him of the successful German defense, but it seemed like an effective bit of verbal flourish.
That stab, Krigoff saw, had struck home. A sheen of sweat covered Petrovsky’s brow, though the temperature in the mess tent was not far above freezing.
The general recovered his composure and snorted in disgust. “We will cross this river soon enough, and I myself will lead these troops into Berlin.”
“This army will cross the river, Comrade General—that fact is as inevitable as World Communism. But I would not be so confident about you being in front of those troops.”
Krigoff looked at the black-and-white photograph he had in his hand. Paulina had been right: the focus was excellent, as was the image of Comrade Stalin in the picture Petrovsky was holding. The general’s face, too, was clearly visible, as was his expression of disgust and the gob of saliva, which Paulina had in fact caught in midair.
With a grin of triumph, the colonel threw the picture onto the table so that it slid across the surface and came to rest in front of Petrovsky.
The blood slowly drained from Petrovsky’s face as he recognized the picture and, no doubt, recalled the incident of his contemptuous remark. He looked around the conference table as if seeking assistance from one of the generals on his staff. All of them, Krigoff was pleased to note, kept their faces studiously on the map; none raised their eyes to meet their commander’s gaze.
“How did you get this?” croaked the commander of Second Guards Tank Army.
Paulina Koninin entered the mess tent, her camera held at the ready, the bloody bandage still wrapped around the fingers of her left hand. “Comrade Colonel Krigoff was wrongly accused,” she said. “And I myself heard the general’s comments, and saw his despicable gesture regarding our glorious chairman. These of course are merely matters of record, but they will certainly be produced in your trial.”
“My trial? On what charges?” demanded the general, his tone a hoarse rasp. It was a silly question and no doubt he knew it; formal charges were purely optional in the NKVD-directed trials of Stalinist Russia. Nevertheless, Krigoff took some delight in answering.
“Charges of contempt for our leader, just for a beginning. I am sure that the public presentation will focus on your military incompetence—of extreme caution in the face of grand opportunity! Of costing the Red Army the chance for an historic victory!” Krigoff’s voice fell to a hiss. “Do you know that Allied Radio is reporting that the Americans are already planning a victory parade through the heart of Berlin for tomorrow? That victory should have been ours, Comrade General!”
With an almost bestial snarl, Petrovsky groped for his sidearm, which was in a buckled holster at his hip. The safety cover was stubborn and he pulled at the flap several times, while Krigoff stared in growing horror, unable to force himself to move in the face of this utterly unexpected development. This was not right—truly, the man was mad!
A moment later the general drew his gun, pointing the weapon directly at Alexis Krigoff.
In that instant the colonel, proud appointee of the chairman himself, felt his bladder go weak and his knees start to tremble. He raised his hands, recognizing the gesture for the pathetic futility that it was. The pistol cracked, the sound incredibly loud in the confined space.
But one of the guards accompanying the major had acted quickly, grabbing the general’s arm so that the shot went wild. With a moan of relief Krigoff scrambled to his feet and fled through the door, acutely conscious of his wet pants. He heard the sound of another gunshot and flinched, tumbling to the ground in his terror. “Did he shoot me?” he cried to Rokov, who was standing in the doorway of the large tent.
“No. Comrade General Petrovsky has taken his own life,” replied the major.
He was looking down at the sodden Krigoff, and his expression was unreadable.
TASK FORCE SANGER, RURAL HIGHWAY #47, EAST OF LUCKENWALDE, GERMANY, 1200 HOURS GMT
“So, you got him, son,” said General Wakefield.
“Yes, sir,” Sanger replied. Now that the capture was over, he felt empty. All the emotion seemed to have drained out of him.
The prisoner was under twenty-four-hour guard by a full platoon of armed, watchful veterans—men who would have relished a chance to use Führer Heinrich Himmler for target practice. As a consequence, the former leader of the Third Reich was trying very hard not to attract any attention. He remained in the back of a half-track, hands and feet shackled. Wakefield had driven to Luckenwalde as soon as the word had come down. Sanger had set up shop in an old farmhouse, where he had a good fire going. Wakefield had made himself comfortable at a rough-hewn wooden table in front of the fire, a
mug of coffee in one hand and a cigar in the other. Sanger stood, fidgeting and pacing, unable to stay still.
“What do you want to do with him?” Wakefield asked.
“What do I want to do with him, or what should I do with him?”
Wakefield chuckled. “Whichever.”
“I want to shoot the son of a bitch an inch at a time and see if I can make him feel a hundredth part of the pain he’s dished out. I should turn him over to SHAEF and hope they do the right thing. Whatever that is.”
“You think they’ll do the right thing at SHAEF?” Wakefield chewed on his cigar.
“I don’t know. There isn’t a lot of precedent here. Whatever gets done will have a lot of politics in it. And whatever gets done will be done with one eye looking east.”
“At the Rooskis.”
“Yep.”
Wakefield waited, puffing contentedly on his cigar. Finally Sanger spoke again. “What do you think, General?”
Wakefield grunted. “Hell, I don’t know. Won’t make a difference to the dead, if that’s what you’re asking, and he ain’t in shape to do more damage to the living. It’s over for him.” Wakefield looked directly at Sanger and puffed on his cigar. “Revenge is poor comfort, boy. You want it simple, tell Smiggy to take care of things and go for a walk. You want to pass the buck, turn him over to SHAEF. He won’t go free. If he does, someone will track him down and kill him sooner or later. You feel like it, kill him yourself. Write down ‘Shot while trying to escape.’ Doesn’t matter. Won’t make you feel better, at least not for more than a few minutes.”
“Then what should I do?” Sanger said in an anguished voice.
“Don’t get your tits in a wringer about it, for one thing,” replied Wakefield. He took a swig of coffee and puffed on his cigar as he watched Sanger pace back and forth. “Gonna wear yourself out that way. You worry too much, boy. Worry never did a damn thing for anybody. Make a decision. It’s either right or it’s wrong. Worrying won’t change it. Look at me.” The general grinned. His teeth were yellow. “Often wrong, but never unsure. Hell, you want some advice, I’ll give you some, okay?”
“I’d be grateful, General.”
“Wait till you hear it, son, then tell me if you’re grateful,” Wakefield said. He scratched his leg. “All right. What good is he?”
“Who? Himmler?”
“Yeah, Himmler. Who do you think I was talking about, Sally Rand?”
“Well, you just told me he couldn’t do anything anymore.”
“I said he couldn’t do any more damage, at least with anything other than his mouth. What good is he?”
“Well—I—I don’t know,” Sanger said. He thought for a moment. “I haven’t looked at it that way.”
Wakefield stood up and picked up his coat. “That’s my advice. If he isn’t any good, get rid of him, either to SHAEF or like I said. If he is, then use him.”
“I’m going to have to think about that for a while, sir,” Sanger said. “But I have an idea what you’re talking about.”
Wakefield nodded as he pulled on his leather jacket and put his helmet back on. “Good habit, thinking. Always like to encourage it in a young officer.” He opened the door. “Jesus, it’s cold out there and my goddamned hemorrhoids are killing me. I’m getting too old for this.” He clamped his stogie between his teeth as he returned Sanger’s salute, then he was gone.
LONDON, ENGLAND, 2127 HOURS GMT
“Ah, yes. You look a likely lad. Are you going to sit on that bench? No? Walking by again?” The man in the passenger seat peered through his binoculars. It was not raining this night, but it was damp and the car window kept fogging up.
“Are you going to ask that of everyone who walks by that bleedin’ bench all night?” the driver growled. He had little to do on this stakeout and was bored.
“Oh, laddie, it’s excitin’ to watch professionals at work. It’s like a cricket match, it is. Subtleties of play, professionalism, style. Our friend Mr. Philby is an artist. If there were a World Cup, he’d be a contender.”
“I’m a rugby man, meself,” replied the other. He rubbed his hands together in his woolen gloves. They were still cold.
“Here comes another, strolling along the path, umbrella furled. A lady walks by … he does not tip his hat. Not quite the pucca sahib, is he? Two points off, mate, for unsportsmanlike conduct. Not the same quality of gentleman as our Mr. Philby, are you? But wait! What’s this? He’s sitting down! Is this just a coincidence? A happenstance? Oh, no, it isn’t. I see a hand slipping underneath the bench. Yes, and here it is clutching a folded newspaper. We’ve got our quarry, yes we do. Briefcase comes up, ah, here it comes … yes, the envelope inside the newspaper is slipped into the briefcase, and now another envelope comes up to replace it, yes—not quite up to the master’s standards, but adequate, fully adequate … . Now, briefcase drops between legs in front, paper up, read an article or two by the light of the lamppost, just in case, yes, throw off suspicion, no need to hurry, and now we’re done, paper is folded, paper returned underneath bench! We’re done! All right, me bucko, time to find out where you call home.”
The driver started up the car and slowly crept into traffic. The passenger picked up a rather heavy walkie-talkie. “This is Unit Four. The pigeon is returning to his roost. Repeat, the pigeon is returning to his roost.”
A crackle of static, then, “Roger. All units copy.”
There was an underground entrance three blocks away, and to no one’s surprise, the pigeon headed down into it. There, another agent was waiting to pick up the tail, and so forth in a slow shuffle through the city. Unit Four was able to rejoin the party at the other end of the tube journey, just in time to learn the pigeon’s roost. “Gor blimey,” whispered the driver.
“Well, now,” said the passenger, as the pigeon entered the gates of the Soviet Embassy.
15 MARCH 1945
THE KREMLIN, MOSCOW, USSR, 0500 HOURS GMT
The State Defense Committee met each morning to conduct a daily briefing and review of the military and strategic situation. It was often a meeting that engendered nervousness among some of its participants, especially when there was bad news to be given.
Although the conference table was large, the cavernous room dwarfed it. A square of old carpet underneath the table was the only floor covering; boots and shoes echoed in the chamber as the principals entered for the meeting. Stalin sat at the head of the table. A quick scan of the faces let him know that this morning’s news would be bleak. Of course, with news this discouraging, the general outlines were already well known before the meeting started.
“Good morning, comrades,” the chairman said.
“Good morning, Comrade Chairman,” they chorused in return.
Attendance at this meeting was somewhat irregular. Molotov, the foreign minister, was present, as was Beria, head of the NKVD, and Bulganin, the defense minister. Stalin, in addition to his other portfolios, served as people’s commissar for defense, the most senior military post, but various deputies and military officers provided additional support at these meetings.
Stalin looked at the faces around the table and smiled. He could see the visible relaxation that resulted. Good. For the moment, he needed people to focus on solutions, not on preserving their own skins. If later he needed examples to help others focus more effectively, then so be it. “We have two topics this morning. The first has to do with the large camp that our troops discovered in Poland—the one called Auschwitz. The second topic is Berlin. Let us talk first about Auschwitz.”
Bulganin spoke first. “Comrade Chairman, we heard about the various atrocities that were perpetuated at the Nazi camp known as Buchenwald, which the capitalist forces uncovered a few weeks ago. It now seems that those atrocities were minor indeed compared to those being committed in Nazi camps in occupied Poland. The largest of these camps, it seems, is the camp known as Auschwitz, located near the Polish community of Oswiecim. While it provides slave labor for various factories,
it is primarily a factory for mass extermination of Jews. Some of the facilities were wrecked by German troops as they evacuated ahead of our advancing forces, but enough remains to reconstruct what went on. The scale of the program is quite unprecedented.”
None of the men around the table were strangers to mass killings for political reasons, but as Bulganin passed around photographs and documentation, there was silence.
“We have known that the Germans were unprincipled, savage barbarians,” Stalin said, “but even so, this exceeds our understanding. This effort, Nikolai Aleksandrovich, was aimed, you say, at the Jews?”
“At Auschwitz, nearly exclusively,” Nikolai Aleksandrovich Bulganin replied. “The Nazis, however, had a long list of enemies. The Jews headed the list, and it seems that the first objective of this program was the complete extermination of every Jew in Europe. Eventually, I suppose, every Jew in the world, if they got that far. Gypsies, homosexuals, some other religious groups would come next.”
“Communists?”
“I would imagine that Hitler and Himmler would have happily held open the gas-chamber doors for every communist, whatever race or nationality. Plus, while they were at it, every Slav, every Georgian, every Russian. I do not think those gas chambers would have stopped operation for a very long time, if the Nazis had their way.”
Stalin shook his head. “When I was in Teheran, meeting with Roosevelt and Churchill, I told them that it was of the highest importance that Germany after the war must be rendered so powerless that it could never again threaten the world. To that end, I proposed that fifty thousand, and maybe even a hundred thousand senior German officers be liquidated. I see now that I was sadly mistaken. I am too softhearted, my friends. That number is far too modest. But now we have this camp. How can we use it to help convince the rest of the world of the importance of crushing the Germans so they can never possibly rise again? Our relations with the Americans are strained, and the British have never been trustworthy.”
Fox at the Front (Fox on the Rhine) Page 54
