by Iles, Greg
“They can do it,” Heydrich said evenly. “Helmut is the most remarkable agent I have ever come across. But you pinpointed the problem with your very first question, my Führer. How do we get Helmut’s Verwunden Brigade to assassinate Churchill and the king at the place and time of our choosing?”
“Just as I said!”
Heydrich’s face assumed a surgeon’s impassivity. “As I said before, motivation is not a problem. These men believe that Churchill is dragging the English working class into yet another worldwide slaughter for capitalist greed. They’ve already proved their sympathies by sabotaging the British war effort, albeit in small ways, and they certainly have no moral compunction against killing. No, my Führer, the problem is one of authority. These men idolize Helmut, but Helmut alone simply hasn’t the authority to order an action on that scale. Not even Britain’s National Communist Party could order the assassination of a head of state—much less two. An order like that must originate”—Heydrich looked Hitler dead in the eye—“from Moscow.”
“Then we are lost!” Hitler bellowed, leaping to his feet. “I told you about my Rumanian oil fields! How can I possibly persuade Stalin to mount an operation like this? That crafty old bear would immediately guess our true intent!”
“You need not persuade Stalin of anything,” said Heydrich. “I’ve solved the problem already. That is what took me two months, my Führer, solving problems like this. But I have the answers with me tonight. All of them.”
“I’m tired of this game, Heydrich! Get to the point!”
The young SD chieftain nodded slowly. “My Führer, do you remember a Russian named Zinoviev?”
Hitler knitted his brow. “The Bolshevik leader of 1917?”
“No.” Heydrich cracked a reptilian smile. “A Russian as opposite from a Bolshevik as any man could be. He was captain in the Okhrana, the tsar’s secret police.”
Hitler tugged at his forelock. His eyes darted around everywhere but at Heydrich. The teahouse fire had died, but neither man noticed. Finally Hitler sat down again, perching on the edge of the leather easy chair. “Proceed,” he said.
As trim and hard as a rapier, Reinhard Heydrich stood before the most powerful man on earth and outlined the plan that would place him first in the line of succession to the black throne of the Nazi empire. With each new revelation, his voice rose in excitement, and Hitler—spellbound—followed him up the scale.
“And the genius of the concept,” Heydrich exulted, with the thrill of consummation, “—the beauty of it—is that England will not simply be neutralized, it will join us in our war against Russia! Think of it! Paralysed by grief, the British people will cry out to their new leaders for guidance, and they will be told by those leaders—your men—to do exactly what they so desire to do—take revenge on the godless enemy ! On Russia, the cradle of assassins! And to do that they must reach out to you! Barbarossa will become an Aryan crusade!”
Hitler’s facial muscles had seized into an almost catatonic spasm. His right hand shook as if from palsy. The genius of Heydrich’s plan had burst into his brain with the brilliance of a dying star. All his life Hitler had fed upon the intellects of more timid men, seizing upon their revolutionary ideas and charging forward without looking back. Now—given Heydrich’s plan like a gift from heaven itself—he revelled in the knowledge that he would once again beat all the odds, once again prove himself right and all his generals wrong! This certainty coursed through his veins like a blast of morphine. Visions of conquest flashed behind his eyes: the Kremlin, shattered and smoldering in black ashes; tall young Germans tilling the great fields of the Ukraine; German ships sailing forth from Odessa and Archangel…
“I see it!” Hitler cried. “I see it all now!” He scurried around the table like a human lightning rod attempting to discharge itself. “It can work! Churchill is going to die!”
“And the king!” Heydrich added euphorically. “My Führer, Helmut assures me that it can be done. Zinoviev is already preparing for the mission!”
“My God,” Hitler murmured, suddenly mortified. “How do you communicate with Helmut?”
“I don’t. It’s always been a one-way conduit. “Because of that—”
“Yes?”
“I had to send a man into England with a message.”
“What? “
“I take full responsibility, my Führer. I felt that this mission was simply too important to risk by using radio communications. I trust no one. I never even contacted Lord Grenville.”
“And what if your messenger had been captured?”
“He wasn’t.”
“And what if he read your message, Herr Obergruppenführer? What if he decided to sell it to the highest bidder!” “The message was in code,” Heydrich replied evenly. “He simply delivered an envelope and returned with a one-word answer: Ja.”
Hitler’s voice went shrill with-paranoia. “And you think this courier knows nothing? Can reveal nothing? What if he decides to sell his knowledge now?”
“That would be impossible, my Führer. I shot him myself, five minutes after he delivered Helmut’s reply.”
Hitler said nothing for a long while. Putting his hand to his chin, he looked out through one of the small-paned windows near the fireplace. Outside, the snow had begun to fall again. “Remarkable,” he murmured. He took his walking stick from its resting place on the hearth and turned back to Heydrich. “Let’s return to the Berghof—we can talk on the way back.”
They walked through the darkness without speaking. The crunch of Heydrich’s boots on the hard-packed snow punctuated their progress across the mountain. Now and then the howls of the German shepherds reverberated across the rocky slope. After twenty minutes they reached the parking area.
Hitler fixed Heydrich with his dark gaze. “Are you confident that Helmut’s Englishmen can reach their targets, Herr Obergruppenführer? Can they kill both men on the tenth of May?”
“My Führer,” Heydrich said confidently, “Any man can be assassinated on any day, if one critical condition is satisfied.”
“What condition?”
“That the assassin be prepared to die in the doing of the deed.”
Hitler’s eyes narrowed. “And you believe these Englishmen will die for Helmut?”
Heydrich blinked against the wind. “No. They will die for their lost ideals. They will die for their gods–Lenin and Marx. For Moscow, perhaps. But most of all, they will die believing they have delivered their country from the clutches of ruthless oppressors who have held England’s poor—and half of the rest of the world’s—in slavery for a very long time. They will die to become martyrs.”
“Remarkable,” Hitler said finally. “You seem to have considered every possibility.”
Heydrich nodded with formal correctness.
“I shall leave you here, Heydrich. Is there anything further you require from me?”
“Yes,” Heydrich answered without hesitation. “A diversion. If you could possibly arrange some type of limited attack on England on May tenth—a small commando attack on a Channel port, perhaps? A U-boat raid near London?”
“I’ve already taken care of that,” Hitler said. “Have no fear, your assassins will have all the confusion they need. On the night of May tenth, I shall unleash the most devastating air attack London has ever known. And it will be the last raid against Great Britain. At least until Russia has been conquered. Perhaps then…” He trailed off, his voice soft and ruminative.
Heydrich licked his wind-burned lips. Unexpectedly, he had discovered the courage to ask the question which had haunted him since the night Hitler first gave him his assignment. “My Führer?” he said tentatively.
“Yes?”
“With all respect, you have not told me much about the political side of the mission. To be quite frank, it worries me. The success of the entire operation hinges on a single factor, and that factor is beyond my control.”
“What are you talking about?”
“My Führe
r, again with all respect, do you have Englishmen ready to assume control of the government when Churchill dies? When the king is dead? My sources indicate—”
“That does not concern you!” Hitler jabbed a stiff finger into Heydrich’s chest. “You have Lord Grenville’s name! You know all you need to for now! Just make certain that your cripples carry out their orders! Hess has the names. He will handle the political side of the mission.”
Too shocked to be afraid, Heydrich raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Reichminister Hess, my Führer? But … I was under the impression that your confidence in him was waning. Both Göring and Himmler speak of him as—”
“Göring and Himmler? You should spend less time listening to gossip and more time studying how the Party rose to the position it now holds! Hess has done more for me than…” Hitler shook his fist in the air. “Let me tell you something, Heydrich. It took Hess just one month to do what you could not do in a year. Hess rooted out the traitor in our midst. And that traitor is your own boss—Himmler! Yes, loyal Heinrich. Already he searches for ways to usurp my power. And you, working right under his nose, you could not see it!” Hitler’s face suddenly darkened. “Or could you?”
Heydrich blanched. “No, my Führer! I swear to you… What can I do to prove my loyalty? I shall arrest the Reichsführer myself!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Hitler scoffed. “We cannot arrest the head of the SS for treason. No, we shall rely on the safety mechanism already in place.”
Heydrich wiped his brow with relief. His hand was shaking. “My Führer, a disturbing thought has occurred to me. It concerns the ‘double’ program. If Reichsführer Himmler is indeed a traitor, it is all the more frightening. I think you should place all the doubles from the Practical School under my direct command.”
“What the devil are you talking about, Heydrich?” Hitler scowled in confusion.
“My Führer, consider this: if, God forbid, a traitor were to succeed in having you assassinated, the doubles could be of inestimable value to that traitor in gaining the confidence of the people and the army. If the traitor could present a ‘trusted comrade’ of yours, a true Nazi who would always stand at his side like an ally—‘Reichminister Hess’, for example—the German people might well accept the traitor’s authority. Himmler is certainly devious enough to have worked this out.”
This terrifying possibility seemed to shrink Hitler in his very clothes. “I want every double shot immediately!” he cried. “Such a risk cannot be tolerated!”
Heydrich replied very softly. “My Führer, perhaps you might reconsider? Our political doubles represent a tremendous investment of time and resources. I believe they will prove invaluable to us in the coming war with Russia. You could remove the danger simply by placing them under my direct command.”
Hitler’s black eyes bored relentlessly into Heydrich’s face, probing for disloyalty. After a full minute of silence, he said, “Permission granted.” Then he added, “For now.”
Heydrich stared after Hitler in surprise as he made his way up the frozen path. “My Führer!” he called, hastening up the slope after him. “Nothing can stop us now! Failure is not a possibility!”
Hitler paused twenty metres from the Berghof. In a flat, tired, voice suddenly drained of anger, he said, “I am sure, Heydrich. When Barbarossa is completed, I shall not forget you. Once Russia’s vast lands lie under our control, I will need a man of iron to rule her—a Reichsprotector I can trust. Are you that man, Heydrich?”
“As you command, my Führer!”
Without a word Hitler turned and marched up the steps to the Berghof. Heydrich stood motionless in the snow. The promise of a Reich-Protectorship made his heart pound, but a darker dread still ate at his confidence. In the face of Hitler’s wrath, he had quailed from voicing his deepest doubt about Plan Mordred—the nagging suspicion that the Führer’s English sympathizers, whoever they might be, might instead turn Germany into a for-Britain nation. But what could he do? The game had to be played and he had to make sure that his part ran smoothly. From this moment forward, Heydrich existed almost without sleep, without food. The Führer had extended the light of power to him, and he moved through his days like he was sworn to a holy quest. His allies in that quest were an embittered Russian expatriate and a one-eyed German agent living in the heart of beleaguered London. All believed only that a fat English warrior and a shy English king must die.
In Hitler’s small study on the second floor of the Berghof, Rudolf Hess anxiously awaited his Führer. Dressed in his gray uniform, he sat behind a desk littered with architectural plans and sketches. Most of the sketches were by Hitler; Hess recognized the cramped, untutored style. The building plans, though, had been drafted by Albert Speer. Strong-lined and well-proportioned, the great avenue of the Führer’s new Berlin stretched across the desk like a blueprint of the future. The magnificent Imperial Palace, the Triumphal Arch that would dwarf the one in Paris. It seemed the natural fruit of the labour of the new Reich, a mighty city built to endure for a thousand years. Or so it had seemed on those happier occasions when Hess had studied these plans in the past. He would never look at them in quite the same way again.
The Party and the Reich he had once viewed as a united force—an unstoppable juggernaut destined for immortality—he now saw as a fragile alliance of ambitious men held together only by their common fear of Adolf Hitler. Since Hess’s momentous meeting with the Führer in January, both Heinrich Himmler and Hermann Göring had deduced the real reason for Hess’s training flights. At Gestapo headquarters in Berlin, Hess had conducted a conversation with Reichsführer Himmler that could only be described as a war of nerves. The smell of treason had hung in the room like cordite. As the two men spoke in measured tones, Hess had realized that Himmler’s office was, in every sense of the word, a battlefield. In the narrow confines of four walls, words became bullets, names flashed like tracers, and the silences were mined as lethally as the sands around Tobruk. Himmler had claimed that the British would never make peace with Hitler, but might make peace with Germany if he himself sat in the seat of power. Then—as Hess’s rage boiled over—Himmler had disguised his power grab by claiming it would be a mere strategy to trick the British into making peace. Hess had not been fooled. Behind Himmler’s bland face and pince-nez glasses, Hess had glimpsed a power lust more sickening than the greed of any Jew. He had left the Prinz-Albrechtstrasse with no doubt that Heinrich Himmler was a traitor.
Göring had been very different, if only in terms of the style of the conversation. Where Himmler had begun his interrogation on an obscure pretext, and arrived at his main point only after circumlocuting a veritable maze of half-truths—like the fighter ace he was, Göring had charged in with guns blazing. In substance, however, Göring’s assessment of the British position had been remarkably close to Himmler’s—no British peace with Germany, ever. Unlike Himmler, though, the corpulent Luftwaffe chief had not suggested treason. Hess recalled Göring’s last words with grudging admiration: If the Führer wants to invade Russia now, it is our duty to stand by him to the end, whether the reward be ambrosia or cyanide. It’s war now, Hess, war to the bloody end! Göring’s opinion of Germany’s future had been plain to see. He had pronounced Hess’s intended peace mission to England suicidal, then declared that if Hitler attacked Russia before finishing Britain, all was lost. Hess thanked God that the Führer was in good health. If the future depended on men like Himmler and Göring, the Fatherland was indeed lost.
“Rudi?” said a soft voice. Hess turned quickly.
Silhouetted in the study, Adolf Hitler stood watching him intently. Hess tried to read the black eyes, but they were, as ever, inscrutable. Regarding Hess from the doorway, Hitler felt a strange, almost paternal sadness. Hess’s broad shoulders, strong jaw, and high Aryan forehead fanned the flames of pride in his breast. The resolute eyes looked back at him with a frankness that seemed to say, “I am ready for anything! Command and I shall obey!” But was Hess ready for anything? W
as he ready for Plan Mordred? Explaining the operational details of the mission would be easy. Hess would admire the plan for its boldness and intricacy. Technical details fascinated him. But the rest?
“My Führer,” Hess said abruptly, “I am curious about something. It’s been two weeks since I informed you of Reichsführer Himmler’s seditious conversation, yet nothing seems to have been done. Are you delaying punishment for some reason?”
Hitler smiled wanly. “Remember the old proverb, Rudi? Better the devil you know than the one you don’t?”
“But Himmler could betray you at any moment!”
Hitler sighed. “Sooner or later, Rudi, he will probably try. it is a delicate balancing act I perform. It has been from the beginning. It’s the same for all men of power. Churchill, Stalin, Mussolini, Roosevelt—no one is immune. Himmler’s SS is powerful, old friend, too powerful to alienate or ignore. But it is also corrupt. Himmler fears Heydrich—his subordinate—yet he thinks because Heydrich has a little Jewish blood, he can be controlled by blackmail.” Hitler’s eyes flickered like black stars. “Don’t worry, Rudi, I have my own controls over Reichsführer Himmler. His personal adjutant happens to be Heydrich’s man, and Heydrich is my man. One word from me, night or day, and Himmler dies. But for the present—while he is useful—he lives.”
Hess looked unconvinced.
“I expected it to be Göring,” Hitler confided. “I always thought him weaker than Himmler.”
Hess nodded. “I must confess that I thought—hoped—the same thing. I never liked Göring. He’s a braggart and a libertine. But he is also loyal. For the time being, at least.”
You’re so straightforward, old friend, Hitler thought. Perhaps that is why I trust you. Heydrich explained it all so well, made it seem so easy and mechanical. But in truth it isn’t. The English fanatics who will die after firing bullets into the brains of their leaders mean nothing. They are machines, like tanks or rockets. But you, Hess, are the closest thing to a friend I have left. How can I explain to you that the same rules which apply to five communist fanatics also apply to you? Yet somehow I must. For England must be neutralized. Churchill must die.
