by Iles, Greg
Out of habit Heydrich surveyed the Berghof grounds from the small bedroom window. He saw SS guards and dogs silhouetted against the snow at regular intervals all over the compound. Nodding with satisfaction, he sat stiffly on the edge of a narrow bed. An hour passed. When he next heard footsteps in the hall, he knew they belonged to the Führer.
Standing deliberately, he straightened his silver-bordered collar and faced the door. As it opened, he cried, “Heil Hitler!” and gave a whip-crack Nazi salute.
Adolf Hitler stood blinking in the doorway. He looked like a man suddenly pulled into a quiet alcove from a beer hall where a violent brawl was in progress. “Heydrich,” he mumbled.
“My Führer.”
“We haven’t much time. I have to get back to my generals. They’ve taken a break for food.” With sudden furious energy. Hitler strode into the room and walked to the window. “Food!” he cried, pounding his right fist into his palm. “They think I am a fool, Heydrich! Adolf Hitler! My God, if I had listened to my generals we would never even have crossed into the Rhineland. And now that we stand ready to begin the greatest land invasion the world has ever seen, they counsel me to be cautious!” Hitler whirled, evangelical fire burning in his eyes. “Would caution have won us Poland, Heydrich?”
“No, my Führer!”
“Would it have won us France?”
“No!”
“Then how can it win us Russia?” Spittle flew from Hitler’s quivering lips.
“It cannot, my Führer!”
“Exactly! You should hear them … Halder, Jodl, even Guderian’s reports sound like the whining of an old woman. They speak as if we have allies. We have none! For hours the fools have gone over and over the North African situation. The situation is clear! On January third the British captured thirty-eight thousand ltalian soldiers at Sidi Barram. Did you know that? That’s more prisoners than the British had soldiers!”
“The Italians are swine,” Heydrich declared, watching Hitler wind up, again.
“What does Africa matter, I ask you? All my generals proudly display Mein Kampf on their mantlepieces. I don’t believe one of the idiots has read it! Russia is the key to everything! When Russia falls, Japan will be free to attack the United States. And with Roosevelt’s attention turned there, Churchill will be forced to sue for peace. It’s so simple a child could see it.” Hitler’s left eye twitched angrily, “Perhaps I should place my armies under the command of the Hitler Youth!”
Heydrich said nothing to this remarkable suggestion.
Hitler smoothed his unruly forelock, then clasped his hands behind him and said, “Do you know what my Prussian peacocks are afraid of?”
Heydrich swallowed. “England, my Führer?”
“Precisely! They throw my own words back at me as if I did not write them myself. ‘Germany should never again become embroiled in a two-front war. Never will I fight a two-front war.’ Enough! England lies prostrate beneath our bombs, yet my sniveling generals call her a western front. A front! When we turn east, Heydrich, the cowards will learn what a front truly is!”
Heydrich suppressed a sadistic grin.
Hitler squared his shoulders. “Directive Twenty-one commands that all preparations for Plan Barbarossa be completed by May fifteenth of this year. Do you know why?”
“So that we may defeat the communists before winter sets in?”
“Exactly. And why this year, Heydrich? Because Stalin is arming Russia even faster than I am arming Germany! The purge of ‘thirty-seven slowed him down considerably, yes, but he has a new program in place—a total reorganisation will be too late! All that we have accomplished—if we wait another year it will be dust! Do you understand?”
“Perfectly, my Führer.”
“I believe you do. And that is why you are here.” Hitler carefully read his watch, holding it close to his face because of his poor vision. “I have no intention of fighting on two fronts, Heydrich. But can I trust my spineless generals with my plans?” He waved his hand impatiently. “My brilliant generals. Imbeciles, every one. England doesn’t want war. No matter what your agents tell you, Heydrich, I know. Withstanding aerial bombardment is one thing—fighting a land war is another. The English people will do almost anything to keep from sending their sons to die at another Somme or Ypres. Believe me, Heydrich, I was there. No, the only obstacle to an Aryan peace is Winston Churchill. Churchill and his warmongering cronies! Do you agree?”
“Absolutely, my Führer.”
“Tell me,” Hitler said in a confiding tone, “what do you think of our chances of making peace with the British?”
Heydrich tried to guess which answer Hitler wanted today. The Führer did not tolerate equivocation; it had to be one absolute or the other. “As things now stand,” he ventured carefully, “we have no chance whatsoever.”
Hitler’s eyes sparkled. “You seem certain. Yet I suspect that some of your superiors might disagree with you.”
Heydrich felt his chest tighten.
Hitler’s voice cut like a blade. “What do you know, Herr Obergruppenführer, of attempts by my officers to make clandestine contact with the British?”
Heydrich felt the tingle of opportunity in his palms. “May I speak frankly, my Führer?”
“You had better!”
“My Führer, so far, despite exhaustive efforts, I have not uncovered any proof of treason around you. However, I am aware of efforts on the part of certain individuals to make clandestine contact with British citizens in various neutral countries. I’ve taken the liberty of compiling dossiers on the activities of each for your review.”
Hitler frowned disdainfully. “The Haushofers, for instance? Karl and Albrecht?”
“Yes,” said Heydrich, surprised by Hitler’s knowledge.
“You know of their communications with Hess?”
Heydrich nodded warily.
“Göring?”
“Surely you don’t suspect the Reichsmarschall!”
Hitler dismissed his shock with a wave of the hand. “Who knows? The air war over the Channel came close to breaking him. Göring hasn’t the stamina for wars of attrition. He was trained for aerial dog-fighting—nothing else. But what of my question? How do you rate the chances of gaining peace by clandestine means?”
Heydrich licked his thin lips. “As long as Churchill rules in London, my Führer, England will fight us.”
Hitler nodded. “And the result?”
“England will be crushed.”
“No,” Hitler said softly. “There will be no war with England.”
Heydrich waited for some evidence to back up this mystic assertion.
“There will be no war with England, because soon Winston Churchill will no longer sit at the head of the British government.”
Heydrich’s pulse quickened.
“Does that statement surprise you, Heydrich? It shouldn’t. Because you are the man who is going to ensure that my prediction becomes fact.”
It took all of Heydrich’s self-control to hold his facial muscles in check. Remove Churchill from the government? It was too fantastic …
“Let me ask you another question, Herr Obergruppenführer. You consider yourself a good judge of men. What do you think of the Duke of Windsor?”
Heydrich chose his words carefully. “As you know, my Führer, I handled security on the occasion when the duke secretly met with Reichminister Hess in Lisbon. During my limited time with the duke, I developed an impression of a weak, self-centered man. He-behaved like a spoiled child. Having voluntarily relinquished the throne of England, he would like nothing better than to sit upon it again, if only so that his American wife can be called ‘Her Royal Highness.’ Windsor imagines that he would do anything to attain this end, when in fact he would probably do everything short of what is required.”
Hitler smiled. “You are indeed a good judge of men. But none of that matters in the slightest. It is the royal blood that matters, Heydrich. The blood. The English pretend to abhor my racial pol
icies, they revile me at every turn. Yet in the final analysis they revere the blood just as we do!” Hitler tugged anxiously at his forelock. “How would you rate Windsor as a friend to Germany?”
“There can be no doubt of his sympathies, my Führer. From an intellectual standpoint, he’s the most right-thinking Englishman in the Empire. His actions in France proved that. Knowingly or not, he accelerated our invasion timetable by at least a week. But may I ask, my Führer, why this is relevant? The English constitution forbids an abdicated king from ever resuming the throne, even should he wish to.”
“Don’t worry about the English constitution!” Hitler snapped contemptuously. “If the English people recalled Windsor, would he accept?”
“Undoubtedly. He said as much to Hess in Lisbon.”
“Well, the people are going to recall him, Heydrich. And soon.”
Heydrich blinked.
“If King George were to die suddenly,” Hitler postulated, “what would happen? There are two possibilities. Either his eldest daughter, Elizabeth, would assume the throne—a highly dubious prospect, considering that England is engaged in a life-and-death struggle—or the English people would remember the Duke of Windsor, their once-adored Prince of Wales and uncrowned king, who now wastes his not-inconsiderable gifts as crown governor of the Bahamas. Which alternative do you think they would choose, Heydrich? Which would you choose? An empty-headed child, or the strong hand of a man trained to rule? How important will Windsor’s romantic follies seem in the face of England’s greatest peril?”
Heydrich shifted uncomfortably. “I … I’m not sure the English view these things as we do, my Führer.”
“Rubbish! And what does it matter? Windsor would only be the window dressing! The real power of England is in Downing Street! That is where the change must be made!”
Heydrich sensed that Hitler had finally come to the point of this meeting. “But how is this change to be made, my Führer?” he asked softly.
Hitler’s eyes flickered. “Ruthlessly, Heydrich. As all acts of war must be. On the tenth of May, Winston Churchill is going to die. And with him King George the Sixth. When that happens, Britain will hold its breath, headless for a few moments of history. And through that brief window, we shall snatch the prize we want—peace in the west. Then Russia will be ours for the taking, and Guderian’s panzers will roll!”
Heydrich cracked his boot heels together and stood rigid before his master.
“Have you been struck dumb?” Hitler asked, his very posture a challenge.
“No, my Führer. It’s simply that … the scope and genius of your concept have shocked me.”
Hitler nodded. “I understand. Few men think as I do, with a mind unfettered by the restraints of so-called ‘civilized’ war. Such a concept is ludicrous, a blatant contradiction of terms. But I’m sure you’re wondering exactly how deaths of these two men will gain us peace from the English.”
Heydrich nodded, though he was actually wondering how the deaths of those men could be accomplished.
“It’s quite simple,” Hitler explained. “When the new prime minister takes Churchill’s place, his government will be mine. Or at least sympathetic to my ideas. Don’t look so surprised. Like Haushofer and others, I too know of certain Englishmen who want peace. However, the men I speak of are men of deeds, not words. They understand my true aims, that my primary goal is to expand eastward—not into Britain. They know that Adolf Hitler is the hammer that will crush world communism!”
Heydrich stepped back from the raw force of Hitler’s zeal.
“The British Empire was not forged by men who whined at the sight of a little blood, Heydrich. The English understand that to create, one must first destroy. That out of death comes life!” Hitler wiped his brow. “So you see—”
Heydrich did see. He saw that Hitler—whether from Machiavellian genius or sheer desperation—had decided to extend the tactics of terror, which had served him so well during the Party’s early expansion, into the realm of international policy. Heydrich also saw that this decision would immeasurably raise his value to Hitler vis-a-vis purely military officers. Where another man might recognize imminent disaster, Heydrich saw opportunity.
“So,” Hitler concluded, bringing his hands together,“Beginning now, you will devote all your energies to devising a method by which Winston Churchill and George the Sixth can be liquidated. Three limits must define your plan. First, your mission cannot be accomplished in such a way as to incriminate Germany or the National Socialist Party. Second, you will conduct all inquiries involved in your planning in such a way that neither Reichsführer Himmler, Admiral Canaris, nor any other member of the High Command becomes aware of your mission. And finally, the mission must be carried out on the tenth of May—the glorious anniversary of our historic westward invasion!”
Heydrich blanched. The Führer had just placed restrictions on the operation that would make success all but impossible. Even if a bolt of lightning were to strike Churchill and the king down in Trafalgar Square, accusing fingers would still point to Germany. Yet despite this grim truth, Heydrich elected to keep silent. He had seen what happened to men who protested to Adolf Hitler that his orders were impossible. “Am I to understand, my Führer, that I am to assassinate these men?”
Hitler exploded. “Were you not listening? The thought of making Winston Churchill a martyr turns my stomach, but alive he hounds me like the devil incarnate. I want him dead! The king too!”
Heydrich’s mind reeled at the implications of this order. If what the Führer said about Nazi sympathizers in England was true, the plan could actually work. But what were the odds of that? The terror bombing of London and other population centres had hardened Britain’s will to fight. The reports of all his agents adamantly confirmed this. Could there really still be Englishmen who feared Stalin more than they feared Hitler? Men to whom profits meant more than national honour? Men to whom a guarantee of safety from Adolf Hitler was worth more than a pre-war Deutschemark?
“Do not think I labour under any illusions,” Hitler said, almost telepathically. “The English have no love for me, or for things German. But they understand me, Heydrich. I represent absolute power concentrated in the head of the state, and the English respect that. Their industrialists and nobles fear Stalin and his hordes far more than my policies. Communism—power seized by millions of fanatical workers who cannot wait to tear down the ivied walls of tradition—that is like the plague to the English, the Black Death come again!”
A sharp knock on the bedroom door halted Hitler in midstream. Martin Bormann opened the door and stood there stubbornly, ignoring Heydrich. “You asked me to inform you when the generals finished their dinner, my Führer.”
“So I did, Bormann, thank you. Dismissed.”
Bormann reluctantly closed the door. Hitler folded his arms and peered closely at Heydrich. “Do you foresee difficulties, Herr Obergruppenführer?”
“None, my Führer,” Heydrich replied automatically.
Hitler raised his chin and smiled. “That is why I selected you for this mission. The word impossible is one you never learned. If my generals had the same attitude, we would be in Moscow by now.”
Heydrich inclined his head briefly.
“I am going you give you a name, Heydrich. You will never repeat it. You will never write it down. This is the Englishman you may contact if there is vital information you cannot obtain by any other means. Churchill’s likely whereabouts, such matters as that. His name is Robert Stanton.”
“Lord Grenville?” Heydrich ejaculated. He reddened. “I apologize for the interruption, my Führer, but he is the last man you would have guessed to betray his king!”
Hitler smiled wickedly. “That is good. Just remember, you will never use his name, only his code name. Lord Grenville is Mordred.” While Heydrich’s brain raced, Hitler said, “I’ll go downstairs first. You follow in a few minutes. I don’t want my generals to know of our meeting. On the eleventh of May I shall pr
esent them with a fait accompli, just as I did with my 1939 pact with Stalin. That should stiffen their resolve when they cross into Russia!”
“It should indeed, my Führer!”
“The operation must take place on the tenth of May, Heydrich. Other wheels are already in motion. When your plan is ready, call Bormann and say the word Mordred—he’ll set up another meeting.” Hitler reached for the door handle, then paused. “By the way, about those files you have compiled on potential traitors. Is Hess among them?”
Heydrich nodded solemnly.
“Burn his file.”
“The moment I return to Berlin, my Führer—”
Hitler saluted smartly. “Guten Abend, Herr Obergruppenführer.”
Heydrich’s “Heil Hitler!” died against the closing door. In spite of his pounding heart, he resumed his cross-legged position on the edge of the bed. He sat absolutely still, and before five minutes passed, his throbbing pulse had returned to a point of equilibrium that most men of eighteen would be hard put to equal at rest. He stood deliberately, passed a slim hand over his blond hair, and walked into the hall.
Halfway down the stairs, he heard a furtive noise behind him. Eva Braun again? Better to let it pass, he thought. But he could not. His predatory instincts were too strong. With the stealth of a leopard, Heydrich turned and crept back up the stairs. He arrived on the second floor just in time to see the round-shouldered back of Martin Bormann disappear into the bedroom opposite the one Eva Braun had leaned out of.
Heydrich heard the shallow tinkle of girlish laughter, and as the door closed he glimpsed a swatch of unclad flesh. For a moment he stood still. Then, almost as if pulled against his will, he moved up close against the door. He heard the laughter again, like cheap crystal. First teasing, then hysterical, it had a lilt of drunkenness in it. Then a sharp cry of pain pierced the door.
