A Single Spy

by William Christie

  A man burst out of a doorway right on top of him. Alexsi almost pulled his knife before he realized it was an air raid warden. The man shouted, “Air-raid danger fifteen!” and hurried down the street, still shouting it at the top of his lungs. That meant a large enemy bomber raid was on the way.

  A minute or two later the sirens went off all over Berlin. Alexsi didn’t see how the British could bomb with such low visibility from the rain that afternoon, so he just kept walking.

  Searchlights popped on, and the sky lit up. Then the antiaircraft guns on the Zoo flak tower in the Tiergarten opened up. They were shooting rapid fire and the sound was deafening. The time fuse shells began exploding above the clouds, and each cracking detonation silhouetted the cloud layer with a flash of light. Alexsi just stood and watched it. An amazing show.

  Then, between the bursts of the flak, the sound of approaching airplane engines. They seemed very low. And in an instant all those sounds were canceled out by exploding bombs in the distance. Alexsi counted the time between the high explosive flashes and when the sound reached him to get an idea how far away they were.

  A green flare a meter long crashed to earth a hundred meters down the street, bouncing end over end until it came to rest, hissing like a thousand snakes. It lit up the street like a hideous nightmare, and Alexsi realized instantly what it was. An aiming mark for the bombers above. He began to run.

  He was directly in the line of what the Germans called the bomb carpet. The explosions drew closer and closer.

  Alexsi ran with both palms clapped over his ears and his mouth open. The noise was deafening and the air pressure was terrible. The explosive shock waves had been slamming into him like his father’s punches, but now they were like a beating with iron bars. The ground heaved under his feet, and he fell flat on his face. The detonations were bouncing him up and down on the pavement like a doll. Their force was such that there was no way he could get back up. A flash and a spray of fire two streets over as an incendiary bomb went off. The entire wall of a building fell down into the street in front of him. Another blast picked him up into the air and slammed him back onto the ground. The pressure made it feel like he couldn’t get any air into his lungs. Every window on the street blew out. Alexsi wrapped his hands over his head and lay there under a rain of broken glass. When he felt it stop falling he poked his head up to the sight of the street carpeted in rubble. And the glass glittering in the red light of the fires on the horizon.

  In the midst of the blasts a person ran by him on the street, on fire. Engulfed in flame and running. He thought he heard a woman screaming, “Murder!” In the din he didn’t know if he had really heard it or it was only in his head.

  Realizing it was death to stay there, he crawled to the nearest doorway. The door was blown off and he scrambled inside and down the pitch darkness of a hallway. The bombs were violently shaking the entire building, the walls swaying back and forth.

  By some miracle he bumped into a stairway. He crawled down in search of safety. The building shook like it was about to fall apart.

  After the first turn down he was able to grab the banister for support and get to his feet. Stumbling, one arm thrust in front of him to feel whatever might be there. He ran into an iron door that was locked, and pounded on it. He pounded and shouted. The door opened and hands pulled him in.

  It was as black as the bottom of a well, but babies were screaming and women were crying. Alexsi actually found that sound a great relief. He was pulled in a little farther and the door slammed behind him. Someone uncovered a lantern and he could finally see. It was the building’s air raid shelter, packed with people.

  Someone asked the world’s stupidest question. “How is it out there, Captain?”

  “Bad,” Alexsi managed to say. “Very bad.”

  He found a spot near the door and slumped down onto the floor. The brutal pounding continued, like an orchestra of kettledrums this far underground.

  Someone was poking his arm. A young boy beside him said, “What is that on you, Captain?”

  “What do you mean?” Alexsi said.

  The boy began brushing him off with his hand. “It’s glass,” he said. “You have glass all over you.”

  “Careful, don’t cut yourself,” Alexsi said automatically.

  “Don’t worry,” said the boy. He had his Hitler Youth cap over his hand as he dutifully brushed away.

  When he was done, there was a pile of powdered glass at Alexsi’s feet. It glittered in the lantern light.

  Alexsi remembered the street above carpeted in it, gleaming in the red firelight. The first thing he thought of was that the Germans were getting their payment for what they’d done to the Jews on the night of the broken glass.

  After an hour the pounding subsided, and a debate began whether to go and take a look. That was interrupted by the pounding of a fist on the shelter door. They opened up and a fireman was standing there with his own battery torch.

  “Everyone out,” he ordered. “Winds are rising. There may be a firestorm.”

  When they stumbled into the street, the horizon was glowing red in three directions. They began walking toward where it seemed to be clear, carefully picking their way through the rubble. Alexsi took a little girl onto his shoulders and a toddler in his arms so the mother could carry her baby. As they walked, an eviscerated building would come crashing down, or a delayed-action bomb would explode the silence, and everyone would scream in terror.

  Alexsi vowed that he would get out of Germany. No matter what Schellenberg had up his sleeve, he’d agree to it. He had to get out.

  51

  1943 Berlin

  “Good, you made it,” Schellenberg remarked casually as Alexsi came through the door. “Devil’s own time getting through the streets. My adjutant must have bought it, poor fellow. Can’t think of any other reason why he wouldn’t be here.”

  No, you probably couldn’t, Alexsi thought. He was still in his bombed-out uniform, and unshaven, though Schellenberg looked smart and perfectly pressed. He was bent over a map spread out on his enormous desk. In the same posture beside him was a major of the Armed SS, a burly giant in his forties who had to be close to two meters tall. He wore the sleeve band of the Das Reich division and a Knight’s Cross around his neck. But the first thing you noticed about him was that deep scar across his left cheek. Considering himself something of an expert, Alexsi ruled out a knife or shrapnel wound. He had never been impressed by Germans with their fencing scars. Show him the fellow who gave you the scar, then he’d be impressed.

  Schellenberg said, “Captain Walter Shultz—Major Otto Skorzeny.”

  So this was him, Alexsi thought as they shook hands. Skorzeny sizing him up the same. That Knight’s Cross had come from leading the mission that plucked the Italian dictator Mussolini from captivity by his own people and brought him back to Hitler. Though Abwehr gossip said it was the crack Air Force Parachute Training Battalion doing all the work, and Himmler making sure the SS man Skorzeny got all the credit. Nazi politics.

  “I’ll be straightforward with you,” said Schellenberg. “I need a first-class agent to go into Iran and lay the groundwork for a military operation. I’ve made up my mind that you’re the man. What do you say?”

  Whenever they said they were being straightforward with you, you could count on the fact that they weren’t. But Alexsi had made up his mind, too. “I’m your man, General.”

  Schellenberg gave him another dazzling smile. “Excellent! Well, now there’s no more need for pussyfooting around. I can tell you what’s up. And it’s big, so we’d better sit down.”

  They settled themselves onto the soft and padded chairs. Alexsi waited patiently. He knew Schellenberg, like the rest of them, couldn’t resist dramatics.

  “We know it for a fact,” Schellenberg began. “That the so-called Big Three—Stalin, Churchill, and Roosevelt—will be meeting together in Teheran between November 28 and December 1 of this year. This will be a golden opportunity that we
will not let pass by. We will wipe them out.” He made a cutting gesture with his hand. “It will set back the Allied military operations for years and give us some breathing room to deploy our new weapons. What do you think?”

  Alexsi thought it was the craziest thing he’d ever heard in his life. Even worse than a bunch of Russian university students thinking they could kill Stalin. Never mind Churchill and Roosevelt. As long as those two stayed close to Stalin they’d be surrounded by an entire division of NKVD machine gunners. Especially in Teheran. But he was still Russian enough to recognize the party line when he heard it. So, like a good party man, what he said out loud was, “I agree, General. We would be failing in our duty otherwise.”

  “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear,” Schellenberg said exultantly. Skorzeny was just watching Alexsi intently. “This is the plan. Time is short, so we will parachute you into Iran. You will find safe houses in Teheran near the conference area, obtain vehicles, and prepare and mark a sizable parachute-landing zone. When the time is ripe Major Skorzeny’s men—SS Special Unit for Special Assignments Friedenthal—will drop in to do the job. Afterward the force will fall back to the tribal areas and across the border to Turkey.” He smiled over at Skorzeny. “Otto here made the Abruzzi jump to rescue Il Duce, and now he will make the long jump to eliminate the Big Three. Operation Long Jump. You will be their guide throughout. Your thoughts?”

  Alexsi had no plans to verbalize his thoughts. But if everyone in the room was going to act like a lunatic then he might as well join in. “You recall our meeting yesterday, General? When we discussed the problems that both your people and I had with the tribes.”

  “Yes,” Schellenberg said, frowning.

  Oh, this was one who did not like to be thwarted in the least, Alexsi thought. “Well, if I may make a suggestion? Just south of Teheran on the Qom–Teheran road is a salt lake bed. The area all around it is perfectly flat. And will be as dry and hard-packed as concrete in the fall of the year. I could prepare some drums of fuel as runway lights, and even the largest aircraft could easily land and take off on it. A radio signal from me to hone in on. In this way the major’s force could be extracted.” Good luck with that. But no harm in being helpful.

  “Local knowledge!” Schellenberg exclaimed, grasping Skorzeny by the arm. Something, Alexsi noted, the big man did not care for in the least. “This is why you must have local knowledge. Brilliant, Shultz. You solve a multitude of problems with a single inspiration. Wait. One moment.” He grasped his chin, deep in thought.

  Alexsi and Skorzeny waited patiently.

  “I have it!” Schellenberg said finally. “You will kill Stalin and Churchill, as planned. But you will abduct Roosevelt and bring him to the Führer to negotiate America’s exit from the war.” He smiled triumphantly and eagerly searched out Alexsi’s and Skorzeny’s faces for their reaction.

  In a way, keeping composure through all this was nearly as bad as weathering Uncle Hans’s wanting him to get in touch with Moscow. If the Allies could only see how decisions were made in the Third Reich they’d piss themselves laughing. Then again, considering how Stalin had taken being told the Germans would invade, perhaps not. In any case Alexsi thought Schellenberg had been reading far too many adventure novels for his own good. Never mind his own Iran report. Perhaps the real reason the Nazis had thrown the famous psychiatrist Freud out of the country wasn’t because he was Jewish, but to keep him from diagnosing them all as madmen. He turned to see how Skorzeny would handle it. Or whether he was as crazy as Schellenberg.

  “If I can,” Skorzeny said slowly, speaking his first words in Alexsi’s presence. His voice was deep and raspy, just as you’d imagine from someone of his looks. “Kill, definitely. Capture if possible.”

  “Of course, of course,” Schellenberg said, patting him on the knee. “Rest assured, the Reichsführer and I have no doubt of your success.”

  Alexsi was glad he wasn’t the only one getting the screws. Here was Schellenberg beating Scarface Otto over the head with Himmler.

  “You will immediately go into isolation.” Schellenberg was speaking to Alexsi. “We cannot risk the slightest security breach. Spies are everywhere. Why, did you know that the Russians even had an agent who told them we would invade?”

  That gave Alexsi a start that he was unable to disguise.

  “Yes,” said Schellenberg. “Some bastard named Sorge. Posed as a German journalist in Tokyo. Probably Russian all along. The Japs caught him.”

  Well, Schellenberg had mistaken whatever had passed across his face for outrage. Alexsi wondered if you could eventually become immune to extreme shock. Based on his own experience the answer was no.

  “So we can’t be too careful,” Schellenberg went on. “And you will need help. Someone to run your radio.”

  “I am a fully qualified wireless operator, General,” Alexsi said quickly.

  “Well, we feel a partner would be helpful,” Schellenberg said insistently. “We have discovered to our cost that two men together are far too noticeable, so I will be gifting you a wife.” He sat back again, as if expecting applause.

  Alexsi said, “As you know, General, I had no trouble working alone before.”

  “Of course, of course. But in this case another pair of hands, so to speak, could make all the difference in the world. Unlike your last mission, the SD will make sure you are properly supported this time.”

  It required no great powers of perception to know when a general didn’t wish to be argued with. The only reason they were kidnapping an army man from Abwehr was because they needed him. They would send some SD woman agent along to keep an eye on him and take credit for success along with Skorzeny.

  “I tell you frankly that at this stage of the war it is nearly impossible to find the correct people with the requisite languages,” Schellenberg said. “She will be your German-speaking Swiss wife. But have no fear—it would be unacceptable for a woman to outrank you.” He went over to his desk, picked up the phone, and pressed a button. Alexsi could hear the intercom buzzing outside the room.

  After an uneventful moment Schellenberg hung up the phone, only slightly abashed. “I forget I have no adjutant.” He walked over to a side door, opened it, and said, “Come in, come in.”

  She was a brunette, not unattractive, hair pulled and pinned severely back behind her head and body concealed under an SS uniform. A first lieutenant, with the blitz arrowhead of the signal service on her left sleeve, and the brown piping of concentration camp guards circling her shoulder boards.

  “Captain Walter Shultz,” Schellenberg said formally. “Obersturmführer Erna Fuchs.”

  “Lieutenant,” Alexsi said politely.

  She snatched up his hand and pumped it briskly up from his collarbone to down below his belt. “I look forward to our mission, Captain!”

  More thorn than rose, there. Alexsi wanted to tell her there was no need to shout. He only smiled instead.

  All things considered, it really was fantastic luck. No doubt every SD agent who spoke Farsi had already been captured by the British and Russians in Iran. So, really, he was going back to Iran as a German agent thanks to his own efforts as a Soviet agent. Life was so strange. But at least he’d be out of Berlin. Even if he hadn’t nearly been blown to pieces by British bombs, the writing was there on the wall for anyone to see. If the Western Allies didn’t land in France this summer, it would definitely be the next. If the Russians didn’t crack open the German front in the east this year, it would be next year for sure. And when it all fell apart the last thing he wanted was to be an intelligence officer in Berlin with both sides converging on the Nazi capital. The Germans would almost certainly decide that a captain with the Iron Cross who’d trained in the infantry needed to be killed by the Americans at the head of a battalion. Not for him, thanks.

  52

  1943 Over Iran

  Alexsi knew he had been dreaming, but when roughly shaken awake couldn’t remember what of. Then he opened his eyes and couldn�
��t see anything. After realizing he was now awake and not dreaming, and thinking himself blind, he finally remembered that he’d tied his scarf around his eyes to block the light through the flying goggles. He lifted them up with embarrassed relief and returned to the reality of the grimy, oily cabin of the Junkers Ju 290. At least asleep, with ears packed full of cotton and the leather flight helmet buckled down, he didn’t have to endure the stink of petrol from the auxiliary tanks lashed down inside the cabin, those four deafening engines, or waiting for that rickety, shaking behemoth to either fall apart or catch fire in midair. There was something to be said for long train journeys.

  Lieutenant Fuchs’s lips were moving in front of him. Alexsi lifted the corner of his flight helmet and the sound flooded in.

  “How can you sleep?” she demanded.

  “It’s better than staring out a window for eight hours,” Alexsi shouted back. “Did you wake me up just to ask me that?”

  “The navigator wants you.”

  Alexsi went hand over hand up to the front of the bucking aircraft. Even in his sheepskin coat it was freezing cold.

  The navigator was bent over the map at his table. Alexsi tapped him on the shoulder.

  The navigator pointed to the line of their route on his map. From Vienna to Bulgaria, where they’d last touched down to top off their fuel tanks. Across Turkey and Iraq, and now to Iran. They were almost there. Alexsi wedged himself behind the navigator’s chair to get a look out the observation window. The clear night sky revealed just the blackened expanse of the Iranian desert, the few cities of any size bare pinpricks of light. They corresponded perfectly to the map. Yes, that was Hamadan below. Alexsi tapped the city on the map, and nodded. The navigator nodded back. Alexsi was glad the fellow was thorough. These men of the Luftwaffe Test Formation special mission unit knew their business. Spending all their time flying behind enemy lines, they had better.