Hunting the Hangman

by Howard Linskey

The East Prussian retreat was a simple, functional HQ. Hitler adored The Wolf’s Lair and its secret location amid the woodlands. The Wolf’s Lair? That had to be Hitler’s very own idea. He had a seemingly endless enthusiasm for such childish monikers. So it was that German submarines went to sea in Wolf Packs, men who distinguished themselves in the Reich had the hearts of Lions or Tigers, and the Führer’s den was always an Eagle’s Nest or a Wolf’s Lair. Heydrich thought these immature fancies quite ridiculous but it would, of course, have been madness to say so. Even his position was not so strong that he could afford to pour scorn upon the great leader.

  What would Misch do, Heydrich contemplated idly, if he were suddenly to pull out his Luger and bear down on the door Misch guarded? If Heydrich said out of my way Misch, I am going to kill the Führer. Undoubtedly young Rochus would put up a fierce fight – more than ready to lay down his own life for his leader. He probably fantasised such scenarios in his bed at night. What more glorious death for a soldier than to lie mortally wounded in his adoring Führer’s arms, tears of gratitude falling on his face as he gently passes away, safe in the knowledge he has thwarted an attempt on the great leader’s life? It was pathetic really, one could expect equal intelligence and self-sacrifice from a well-trained Alsatian dog.

  Heydrich was secretly amused at Misch’s silent and unquestioning devotion and made note of it. When he finally assumed the leadership of the nation, as was surely his destiny, all German soldiers would swear a personal oath of allegiance to Heydrich, as they had previously done to Hitler. That was the way to guarantee unswerving loyalty from Germans.

  But now he was bored with Misch. How much longer must he wait for Hitler? What crisis could be detaining him so long? He had witnessed the leader walking purposefully down the corridor hours earlier, with the insufferable Bormann at his side – the latter sporting a look of fierce protection. Nobody got near the Führer these days without going through Bormann and he was fast becoming the most hated man in the Reich – perhaps more so even than Heydrich.

  At first the Reichsprotektor had been secretly glad of the delay. It gave him an opportunity to review the facts of his briefing once more, before he presented it to Hitler personally. Did the figures match his conclusions in the precise manner he desired? Had his subalterns remembered to have the documents prepared with print three times the normal size, so that Hitler’s appalling eyesight could cope with them? Everything had to be right. Heydrich was sensible enough to realise these periodic appointments with the most important force in Germany were his catalyst for advancement. True, it is important to do a good job in the fatherland but, much more vital, is the Führer’s perception that you do a good job. That was what really mattered – and Heydrich was a master of presentation.

  And so, not being unduly concerned at the briefing and having fully prepared for it, Heydrich simply became bored at the unexpected delay. Just as he was wondering whether it was worth unfastening the leather document pouch for one last unnecessary examination of the munitions production figures for the Sudetenland, the door behind Rochus Misch finally opened.

  Misch almost leapt out of the way in his haste to allow the Führer access but Heydrich merely rose to his feet with a practised calm, as the unmistakeable figure of Adolf Hitler strode magisterially towards him. Heydrich gave the Nazi salute and was about to greet his leader when he stopped in his tracks. Hitler was staring straight at him, sporting a furious countenance Heydrich found instantly alarming. There was a look of absolute mania in the Nazi leader’s eyes. Heydrich had seen this look before but never been on the receiving end of it until now. What could he have done to prompt such anger? Hitler’s stare was unflinching and even the fearless Heydrich wanted to look away and stare down at the floor in shame, like a naughty schoolboy too frightened to admit some misdemeanour. Instead he merely continued to stare into eyes that were a mirror of hate, seeking some clue to his fall from grace. He wanted to ask what misunderstanding had led to this but he had seen enough of Hitler’s rages to know that no reason or argument would be brooked once the leader’s mind was made up.

  Heydrich awaited the onslaught now; the catalogue of crimes that would be thrown at him; the charge sheet that would see his medals and titles stripped from him, his lands confiscated, his wife and children sent to separate concentration camps, while he ended his life ingloriously hanging by piano wire suspended from a butcher’s hook. Heydrich knew the next exchange could be the most important of his life and he steeled himself.

  But the Führer did not speak; instead he did something far more terrible. He gave Heydrich a look of singular disgust – then simply walked away from him. In that moment he felt truly doomed. What could have prompted this reaction? How had he been reduced from favoured acolyte to despised pariah in the space of days? Then Heydrich received his answer. Standing in front of him was the podgy figure of Martin Bormann. From his smug countenance and oh so timely appearance, Heydrich instantly realised he was the victim of intrigue. By God, he was supposed to be the master of this game and he has allowed a chubby faced secretary to defeat him.

  Bormann’s eyes were hooded by dark brows and a steep, shelving forehead that set them further back into his face than seemed natural. It was entirely in keeping with his Machiavellian personality. Even here he seemed to be hiding something. What he could not shield, as his jowly face tensed in an effort to control his emotions, was the glee he was deriving from Heydrich’s predicament.

  ‘The Führer does not wish to see your report,’ he said simply.

  With a look of complete victory, Bormann left Heydrich standing alone in the corridor, as he sauntered calmly after his master and the staunch, ever-present figure of Rochus Misch.

  10

  ‘If you have sacrificed my nation to preserve the peace of the world, I will be the first to applaud you. But if not, gentlemen, God help your souls’

  Czechoslovakian Foreign Minister, Jan Masaryk, to British Foreign Secretary Lord Halifax – Munich conference 1938

  Strankmüller lolled like a badly made wooden puppet every time the train rounded a bend. His chin gently bumped against a uniformed chest before his head fell back once more, causing his mouth to gape open silently like a cadaver’s. Kubiš could not have slept now if he had wanted to.

  The Manchester Piccadilly train was making steady progress to London, yet Kubiš was increasingly impatient to reach their destination, for he was the recipient of an astonishing turn of good fortune. What else could explain his liberation from the training programme and a fateful, surely predestined pairing with Gabčík for Operation Anthropoid?

  Certainly poor Anton Svoboda had been cruelly unlucky, but it was not as if he was dead or even severely injured. He simply had a major concussion – so what was that but a very bad headache? In a couple of weeks he would be fit to return to his unit and they would find some other mission for him to undertake.

  Kubiš is alone in the carriage, save for the sleeping figure of Strankmüller. He tries to distract himself with the view from the train window – a kaleidoscopic blur of amber and dark green that passes him at such a rate he can barely distinguish where individual trees and bushes start and end – but it is no use, his mind is racing.

  This time it was his turn to be called out of a training exercise – on silent killing – before the lesson was complete. Now it was Jan who spoke with Strankmüller, as the other men stood to one side while he had been singled out for a special assignment. Svoboda was injured, he had been told, nothing serious but he was unable to continue with his mission. Would Kubiš possibly be willing to take his place and work alongside his comrade Josef Gabčík on this most secret and dangerous undertaking? Of course he would. And this eager consent was all it took for him to be released from the training programme and to leave his instructors behind.

  His belongings were swiftly cleared from David Watson’s tiny little room, while George and Victoria received a short lectur
e in their front parlour from Strankmüller, regarding the destination of their lodger – most secret – and the fact that they could not know the nature of his mission – top secret. However, the true government of Czechoslovakia thanked them for the kindness of their hospitality and their selfless contribution to the war effort. They were then warned never to speak of Jan’s premature departure, except to say, if asked, that he had returned to Scotland for further training.

  The look of pride on George Watson’s face, as Jan said his hurried goodbyes, was almost as sweet as the obvious realisation from Victoria Watson that she had not been housing a shirker after all, but a true and committed allied agent, destined for some daring and heroic mission heaven knows where.

  Jan had been selected above others. He will strike back at the hated Germans, regain his sense of purpose and fulfil the promise he made to return to his country before the war is over. And – unimaginable good fortune – the destination is Prague, which means his prayer for Anna Malinová has been answered, and he will soon be with her once more. Now he can permit himself to think of his girl and enjoy the contrast in emotion. Instead of maddening despair, he experiences the uncontained optimism of one who is convinced fate itself has favourably intervened. The realisation he was back in the war again gave Kubiš a tangible burst of energy. I have been asleep for months but now I am awake.

  As the train rolled south, he tried to recall Strankmüller’s words, yet only fragments come back to him now. The rest was lost in a rush of emotion and adrenalin caused by the prospect of impending action. You have been selected because you are a proven soldier… loyal, patriotic and true… this mission is considered extremely hazardous, you are not expected to survive its completion… we will not order you to take part… you can return to your unit without a blemish on your files… you must be sure that you wish to volunteer for this operation…

  And so forth, but he is a soldier and what else is he going to do? Stay behind and sweep the parade ground? Where does he have to sign?

  Kubiš envied Strankmüller the gift of sleep. If only he could snore his way along the main line, not waking until the train has come to a stop, nudging itself gently against the buffers at Euston station.

  The JU52 parted the clouds, turning them into thin wisps of vapour that clung longingly to the plane’s wings, until it dropped through the white canopy and emerged into a bright blue expanse of sky above the airport. As the Junkers began its unhurried descent into Ruzyně, Heydrich’s nerves finally began to calm.

  He had begun the flight in the blackest of moods – he was doomed and knew it. The Reich’s greatest strength was also its most obvious weakness – everything centred on the Führer. If Hitler appreciated you, nothing could prevent a spectacular rise; not social snobbery, a humble past or criminal record. Alternately, if you fell foul of the leader, no one could help and few would mourn – they would be too busy scheming to lay claim to your vacant job, rank and privileges.

  How often he had witnessed a once favoured, Nazi Gauleiter, broken, chained and pleading, covered in blood and his own excrement as he cowered on the floor of a cell at Prinz Albrechtstrasse. Heydrich had practically invented the system, and certainly had honed the methods by which confession, to crimes real or imagined, was seen as a merciful release. Men would say anything once you had pulled out their teeth with pliers, bent their fingers back one by one until they snapped, or crushed one of their testicles. He had viewed it all so dispassionately but now he shuddered involuntarily at the thought of spending hours, possibly days, screaming in a torture chamber of his own imaginative devising.

  And all because of Bormann.

  It was the thought of the fat, smug face of Hitler’s secretary that moved his thoughts gradually from fear to anger then defiance. Bormann – Bormann the bastard – that jumped up sergeant major’s son, that note-taking, fetcher-and-carrier, provider of coffee and glasses of water, mopper of the Führer’s brow. How could he let himself be outmanoeuvred by this coarse vulgarian, whose only official title was head of the Parteikanzlei – Hitler’s Chancellery? What did he have that Hitler valued so? How could he be destroyed? Heydrich determined to answer both questions – then they would see who came out on top.

  First thing in the morning he would open up Bormann’s slim and inconsequential file at Hradčany, devouring every speck of intelligence on his rival. There was not much there he was sure, and he had to admit he’d entirely underestimated this scheming spider, who only emerged in a position of influence after his boss – that unhinged victim of astrology Rudolf Hess – parachuted into Scotland six months before on a mad scheme for peace doomed to failure from the outset. But Heydrich would add to what he knew – utilising every man in the intelligence service if need be. For his enemy had shown his face – so the day had not been an entire waste.

  Bormann’s file would soon be vast and compendious, listing every act of corruption, moment of sexual deviancy or treasonable utterance he had ever so much as considered. A few cases of liberated Jewish booty in a Swiss bank account, a young boy in his bed one night, a solitary bad word publicly declaimed against the Führer was all it would take. Put that together and present it, with the necessary portrayal of reluctance – Mein Führer I am sure this will be as big a shock to you as it was to me but I regret to inform you that… and Bormann would be lying in his own shit on a Gestapo cell floor, pleading for a mercy that would not, could not, come – for his would be an interrogation Heydrich would personally oversee.

  Meanwhile the Reichsprotektor would double his efforts to squeeze every last piece of production out of the Czechs – showing Hitler the iron hand he approved of – and win back his favoured status with the Führer. There was also the Jewish project, to which he had lent serious thought. He was almost ready to begin, and even a disgruntled and poorly advised leader like Hitler could not ignore the results of this masterly scheme.

  The thought cheered him greatly and, by the time the plane taxied to a standstill, with a reassuring purr from its propellers, his attention had already turned towards the evening’s entertainment. There was no problem on this earth that could not seem at least half cured after a few cold beers, a hearty meal and an hour between a woman’s thighs.

  That evening Kubiš was reunited with his friend Gabčík, who greeted him with joyful, outstretched arms as his disbelieving head shook repeatedly from side to side. He clasps those arms around Kubiš and hoists him gleefully into the air for a second before letting him drop heavily back onto his feet once more.

  ‘I liked Anton, sure,’ he told his friend moments later, ‘but this? This is even better, Jan. It is fitting. We go into battle together!’

  ‘It’s fate,’ answered Kubiš.

  ‘You can call it fate if you want, Jan, or God, or luck, or our guardian angels watching over us. Whatever it is, I am happy for it.’

  Gabčík had been disarmingly honest about Kubiš’ selection as replacement. ‘They asked me what I thought about you, sure Jan, and I said I could think of nobody finer to have at my side, but they had already chosen. It wasn’t as if I had to say “What about Jan Kubiš – he’s a good man?” They knew all about you for sure. Major Strankmüller had a thick file on you, knew everything from the off.’

  And Kubiš felt the pride of a man whose faith in himself has been completely restored at a stroke.

  11

  ‘Whoever is not with us is against us

  And whoever is against us will be ground to pieces’

  SS Brigadeführer Karl Frank, State Secretary of the Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia

  Moravec strode into the room at the Porchester Gate hotel without fanfare. Gabčík clicked smartly to attention as soon as he caught the flash of gold on the Lieutenant Colonel’s shoulder and Kubiš copied his movement. Moravec did not even look at them. He took the coming to attention as his right and walked round the desk in his own time, slowly removing his cap and p
lacing it carefully on the blotter as he took his seat.

  ‘At ease,’ he said.

  The room was thick with the musk of old wood and pipe smoke, lending it a scholarly and ancient feel. The overwarm air and odour of tobacco instantly reminded Gabčík of his school days. Somehow he could not rid himself of the feeling of going before the headmaster.

  ‘Gentlemen, Major Strankmüller has explained you have been chosen for a most special undertaking. You have both been trained to return to the occupied homeland and carry out operations of sabotage. That training is ideal preparation for a new and very different mission of far greater importance to your country. The sanction for this operation comes directly from the President himself. Your task will be the single greatest act of defiance to the Nazis since the conflict began.’

  Gabčík could be fairly accused of cynicism on occasion, but even he did not possess complete immunity from the chest swelling pride of the trusted man, chosen above others. Though unbidden, he felt compelled to respond.

  ‘We are both prepared to do everything necessary, sir.’

  ‘Good, I am sure you are both equal to the task. In a few days you will be parachuted back into Czechoslovakia as planned, but you will not make contact with the local resistance. Your mission is of such importance we cannot afford to have it compromised by any lapse of security, and our networks there are simply too fragile to trust against infiltration. Instead you will make your own way to Prague. There you will mount a surveillance operation on the commander of the German occupying forces, SS General Reinhard Heydrich.’

  ‘You will have heard many stories regarding the brutality of Heydrich’s regime; and I am in a position to confirm these reports are in no manner exaggerated.’ Moravec did not have to rely on Czech sources for this information. His most prized asset in the occupied territories was a double agent in the Abwehr, Germany’s military intelligence organisation. Agent 54, as he had been christened, confirmed everything the resistance network had told him about the brutality of Heydrich’s regime. ‘Heydrich is personally responsible for the torture and imprisonment of innocent civilians, for the relentless suppression of our resistance networks and for the literally hundreds of summary executions in the capital. He is a criminal who has lost the right to be treated as a soldier. Your mission is to analyse Heydrich’s movements and plan an assault on his person that will result in his death. This will send the message to Hitler that our nation will never be a satellite of Germany and resistance will continue.’