London Calling

by D. N. J. Greaves

  The final briefing had just finished, followed by a grilling to make sure that he’d remembered everything he needed to know to ensure a successful mission. When Schubert had finished testing Simon to his satisfaction, he nodded to Schellenberg, saluted and left the two of them alone.

  Schellenberg was silent for a few moments. ‘That’s it, then. We’ve covered everything as thoroughly as we can, and you’re about as ready as you’ll ever be, considering the urgency of this mission. I will accompany you to Oranienburg airfield tonight, where you’ll meet your pilot for the flight. He’s very good, and he’ll be flying you into England in one of our new jet aircraft. It’s fast enough to outrun any Allied aircraft, so insertion should not be a problem.’ He paused, looking more serious than Simon had seen him at any time in their previous meetings. ‘Any questions?’

  ‘Only one, but possibly the most crucial of them all. You’ve given me a description of this man, and his contact at the Spanish Embassy. The Spanish were even kind enough to supply a photo of Sěnor Ruiz. I should be able to track him from the Embassy to the meeting place in Hyde Park, and then trail this British officer and make contact. But if he’s genuine, how can I be sure of this?’

  ‘You’ve hit the nail on the head,’ Schellenberg agreed. ‘This is where the whole plan can fall down. If he’s from MI6, then it’s likely he’ll be good at what he’s doing - doubtless he’ll be very convincing, and you may find it very hard to judge him. He may even have more documents to back up his story. I’m afraid that in the end you will have to trust to your instincts to see whether he’s telling the truth or not. Listen to his story, look into his eyes. How can any of us judge the truth these days?’ He laughed mirthlessly. ‘It all boils down to your impression.’

  ‘So, you’re not putting me under any pressure then, are you?’

  Schellenberg shrugged easily and smiled back. ‘No. Use the radio transmitter in the safe house to get back in contact. It’s never been used to transmit before, so British Signal Intelligence should not be aware of it. Our signals department tell me they’ve listened to your transmit pattern enough to recognize you as an operator.’ He was referring to the ability to detect the identity of a person sending a radio signal by recognizing the pattern of how they typed in Morse code. ‘Remember to keep your coded messages as short as possible, and keep to the designated times for transmission. This minimizes the risk of interception and discovery. I’ve been keeping this asset in reserve, for an occasion just like this. Use it wisely. Once you’ve sent the information we’ll arrange your pick up via U-boat, with a date. The location and coordinates have been pre-arranged, as you know. The rest should be straightforward enough’.

  He fell silent again. Simon could see there was something else on Schellenberg’s mind. ‘If that’s all, sir, I’d better get ready’.

  ‘There is something else I’d like you to do for me, before you go.’ He shifted in his seat, and looked uncomfortably back at Simon. ‘I need you to do a special task for me, tonight before you leave for England, something distasteful but almost certainly very necessary. I know you’ve seen Admiral Canaris recently, and I have some idea of what you’ve discussed with him. Relax’. The look of surprise on Simon’s face was obvious. ‘I’ve no wish to discuss what was said between the two of you. What’s more important is this: Himmler is interrogating an old friend of Canaris’ as we speak- a man called Brandt. He’s a former Abwehr agent, the same man who brought back the report from Madrid. He was spotted going to Canaris’ house recently. Himmler suspects that Brandt has concealed something of great importance that he was given in his meeting with Spanish Intelligence, something he hasn’t shared with us. Who knows what it could be, or whether it exists at all? But Himmler is not taking any chances. So far, the interrogation has not produced any results, but it can only be a matter of time- nobody can stand what our Gestapo friends call ‘heightened interrogation’.’

  ‘What have they done to him?’

  ‘The usual. Severe beatings- they usually start off with the feet, then work on the kidneys. The next step is nail removal, finger and toes, all coupled with sleep deprivation, followed by more beatings. Most people can’t take this level of torture. But Himmler is also trying out a new toy- I’m told that it’s generally reserved for the most resistant, those who can manage to endure such barbarities. Do you want to know the details?’

  Simon barely had a chance to reply, before Schellenberg continued relentlessly.

  ‘It’s a steel rod, connected to a heavy duty battery. An electrical current can make the tip of it glow red-hot. If left on long enough, it goes white hot. Skin vaporizes on contact with it. They’ve been using it externally, on the skin, and occasionally internally, although that can be quite deadly if overdone. I’m told internal insertion is used only as a very last resort. Nobody can bear that level of sadism- they crack, go mad from the pain or die from a stroke or a heart attack’.

  Simon didn’t need to guess what internally meant. ‘Why are you telling me all this?’

  ‘Because Brandt probably knows about the alliance between Canaris and me. If Himmler gets to hear about that, it could make my position, and yours, very precarious indeed. Brandt might also give Himmler enough information to put Canaris behind bars for good, and that could lead to your father as well. I’ve discussed this with the Admiral, and he reluctantly agrees the necessity. We can’t take that risk. Besides, Brandt’s a dead man anyway, whether we act or do nothing. We’ve got to put him out of his misery as humanely as possible, before he cracks and reveals what he knows’.

  ‘You want me to do it? Why? Why not you- you’re better placed than me.’

  ‘Because I can’t be seen to intervene. The risk of me being recognized, without a valid reason to be down there, is too great. It has to be somebody who is not well known here, somebody who can slip in and out and is of sufficient rank not to be questioned. Besides, you’re off to England tonight and I will ensure that you never return here when you get back, just in case some busybody puts two and two together.’

  ‘But what about guards, access, keys?’

  ‘The cells are bolted from the outside- no keys are needed. The cell is easy to find. To add to the confusion, I’m going to stage a fake fire and raise the alarm. You will slip in and out while everybody’s rushing to get outside. If Brandt’s in as bad a way as my sources suggest, you’ll be doing him a great favour, something to permanently relieve the agony he’s going through. Will you help me?’

  Simon felt sick. He remembered some of the horrors he’d seen on the Eastern Front, the way that some of his friends had been brutally tortured by the Soviet Commissars, the unspeakable acts of bestiality. He had killed beyond count himself, in the heat of battle. But this was in cold blood, something he’d never had to consider before. The necessity was obvious-but could he bring himself to do it?’

  He shuddered. ‘How can it be done without leaving a trace?’

  Schellenberg opened a drawer, and pulled out a small flask. He unscrewed the top, and waved the bottle under Simon’s nose. He detected the faint aroma of almonds, mixed with alcohol.

  ‘Cyanide. Get him to drink this, and within less than a minute he’ll be dead. Painlessly. It leaves no trace. After a few minutes, the aroma disappears. If I were in his position, with no hope left, I’d want this. So would you. Let’s hope we never get put to that test.’ Schellenberg put back the top, and pushed the flask over to Simon’s side of the desk.

  He took a deep breath. Here he was yet again- a pawn in the control of others. But there was too much riding on this to refuse. ‘Alright, I’ll do it. But you owe me, Brigadeführer. The price is this - you will protect my father and Admiral Canaris to the best of your ability, even if Himmler is set loose on them. Do I have your word, as an officer and a gentleman?’ He looked at Schellenberg, straight in the eye.

  ‘Yes.’ For once Schellenberg did not smile. ‘I promise that I’ll do all I can, no matter what. After all, we’re both on the
same side now.’

  West of Helgoland, North Sea 0100 8/5/1944

  The full moon reflected eerily over the calm waters far below. Barely a ripple was visible across the wide expanse of smooth sea. There was no haze to speak of - the night was cloudless. High above the stars twinkled, distant tiny points of light in the black heaven. The twin Jumo 004B turbojets’ thunder was mercifully more muted at this height. They were flying at just under 33,000 feet, top ceiling for this aircraft, at a speed somewhere approaching 700 kilometers per hour. Visibility in the clear night skies was excellent in all directions, hopefully enough to give ample warning should they be unlucky enough to chance across any Allied night fighter loitering in the area. Sommer was reasonably sure that no enemy aircraft would have a chance of getting anywhere near, let alone matching their speed and altitude. At least, that was what Luftwaffe Intelligence reckoned. A rumour was circulating that the British were in the process of developing their own jet interceptor over the last couple of years, but as yet nobody had come back with any evidence to substantiate this. He had little doubt that the Arado would register on watchful enemy radar screens, but it was another thing entirely to get an aircraft up high enough and fast enough in time to catch them. It would only be at lower altitudes and slower speeds that they might run into trouble.

  Their course had taken them in a northwesterly direction from Oranienburg and then over the flat forest and lake landscape of western Pomerania and Mecklenburg. The Arado then looped around the island of Fehmarn, out into the Baltic just south of the Danish coast of Lolland, and shortly afterwards crossed briefly back into Germany to the north of Schleswig. Sommer had planned the route to keep well out of the way of the usual enemy routes into German airspace. The Arado was now flying on a 250° westerly course, keeping the Friesian islands to their left. Terschelling was just visible as a flat and elongated dark smudge off the port wingtip. So far there had not been any reports of enemy night fighters in this area. The only notable activity reported in by Luftwaffe Air Defence HQ was RAF Bomber Command. The British were busy with their own agenda – night-time bombing missions to the Brussels area and other targets further south - nothing to concern them. In a short while Sommer would point the aircraft due west, to make landfall over England somewhere south of Grimsby. Things would probably get interesting well before they reached the coast.

  They had taken off the deserted main runway just after 2330. Schellenberg had spent some time briefing the pilot, before finally bidding Simon goodbye softly in the gloom. There was little conversation on the car journey from Berlin. The Brigadeführer seemed lost in his own thoughts. Simon was still coming to terms with the horror he had seen, and what he had felt obliged, if not coerced, to do.

  The diversion had worked well enough. Somehow, the Brigadeführer had managed to engineer a small fire in a deserted storeroom on the first floor of RSHA. The blaze was more smoke than real menace, but it was sufficient to raise the alarm and spark an impromptu evacuation. In the confusion, Simon made his way to the annexe at the rear of the main building where the cellblocks were housed.The place was deserted, and he managed to find the correct room. Nobody had given a thought to the well-being of the prisoners, not surprisingly. All the guards had disappeared once the fire alarm was raised. Schellenberg was right- the door was easily unbolted from the outside. He slipped quietly in.

  He was utterly unprepared for what he saw. A single naked light bulb lit up the harsh white cell. Something that once had been a man was lying face down across a low table. The stench of burnt flesh, urine and excrement was almost overpowering. His back and arms were a mass of blisters, bruises and blackened skin. Streaks and pools of blood lay caked on the floor. Brandt’s fingers and toes were mutilated beyond recognition. Simon deliberately avoided looking down at what had happened to the buttocks and feet. He knelt down close to the large, boggy area of blood that covered the left side of Brandt’s face and head, and listened carefully. He could just detect the sounds of ragged breathing, and a pulse still fluttered at the left wrist. Clearly, the man was near death. Had he talked?

  Simon looked around for something to help rouse the unconscious Brandt. A half empty bucket of water lay against the far wall, next to a table covered with bloodstained pliers and heavy rubber hoses. Quickly he grabbed it and splashed the contents all over Brandt’s face. He was rewarded by a grunt. The right eye blearily opened, and suddenly his face contorted into a howl of agony and terror. Simon quickly clamped his hand across Brandt’s mouth, cutting off the scream before it could bring any unwelcome attention.

  ‘I’m a friend, he hissed. ‘Can you hear me?’ But the response was inconclusive. Perhaps Brandt had mistaken him for another sadistic torturer, come to torment him once again, or maybe it was the excruciating pain that had caused him to scream out. In desperation, Simon pulled the flask out of his trouser pocket and unscrewed the top. He lifted up Brandt’s head, and moved the bottle to his cracked and bruised lips.

  ‘Drink,’ he hissed into Brandt’s ear. ‘This will take the pain away’.

  Somehow the mutilated man responded to the stimulus, and started gulping down the liquid. A small rivulet spilled onto his chin, but Brandt managed to swallow enough before he started to choke. Simon eased his head gently down and moved back to watch the dying man. He could have sworn that a shadow of a smile flickered across Brandt’s face, before the body arched into the last fatal spasm of death.

  On his way back, Simon slipped into one of the deserted ground floor offices, opened a window, and eased himself out into the garden area on the far side of the building, next to the large black bulk of the Martin Gropius Museum of Art. He kept to the cover of bushes and trees before gradually emerging and mixing with the large crowd that was gathered outside the front of 8 Prinz Albrecht Strasse. Two fire tenders were drawn up outside the main entrance. The ‘fire’ was soon brought under control.

  Sommer’s casual drawl interrupted his thoughts. ‘Everything OK? Accommodation fit for one of our heroes from the SS?’

  ‘Not too bad.’ Simon ignored the jibe. He didn’t feel like explaining that his being in the Waffen SS was not by choice, not to this hotshot prat from the Luftwaffe.‘I can’t say it’s the most comfortable position I’ve ever been in’, he growled, ‘but it’ll have to do.’

  He was wedged tightly behind the pilot’s seat. The engineers at Warnemünde had managed to move the bulkhead behind him back a few centimetres to give him some extra breathing space. Behind the bulkhead was the large fuel tank. Simon was uncomfortably aware that the slightest piece of shrapnel or cannon bullet entering this area would transform this beautiful, graceful aircraft into an instantaneous fireball. ‘How long more before we reach the English coast?’

  ‘At this rate around half an hour – may be less. What do you think?’ Sommer chuckled loftily. ‘Isn’t she absolutely fabulous? I’ve never flown anything so smooth and predictable.’

  ‘Not bad, although next time I’d prefer a better seat and maybe a pretty stewardess to serve refreshments, ‘Simon grudgingly admitted. ‘I just hope we don’t meet any of the opposition.’

  Sommer laughed scornfully. ‘Very unlikely. They might catch a glimpse of us as we fly past them, but it’s highly unlikely they’ll get anywhere near us. And I very much doubt if they have any flak that can reach us, either. But if it makes you feel any better, you can help me keep a look-out for enemy fighter activity.’

  ‘What about the jump?’ Simon was more than a little concerned about his chances of making a successful jump. ‘Surely you don’t expect me to get out at this speed and height?’

  Sommer scoffed at the suggestion. ‘Relax, Hauptsturmführer. Your boss made sure I was given a full briefing, although naturally he didn’t feel it was necessary for me to know exactly why we’re doing this nocturnal jaunt to England. I’ve got a reasonable idea, but let’s leave it at that. Anyway’, he continued, ‘I’m told you have just enough jump experience to get down safely’. He turned his head and w
inked at Simon. ‘Here’s the plan- once we hit the coast, we’ll thread our way southwest, avoiding all enemy airfields and known flak concentrations. When we get to the drop area, we’ll slow down and descend to about three thousand feet. A jump from that height should be easy enough, and the full moon will help you to steer safely and not end up with you landing on a cowshed and breaking your neck. Just as well there’s little wind tonight - every little bit helps.’ Sommer turned back to scan his instruments and smiled to himself.

  Simon caught his expression. There’s something this supercilious bastard hasn’t told me. ‘Come on, out with it,’ he grated. ‘What’s so bloody funny?’

  ‘Ah, yes’, the pilot drawled. ‘There’s one small detail I forgot to mention’.

  He hadn’t, but Sommer felt that the following information was better mentioned after they were airborne.

  Simon groaned to himself. What could it be now? After the events earlier that evening, he wasn’t exactly in the best of moods, and the stress of the mission was beginning to wear his patience down. ‘Why do I get the feeling this isn’t going to be exactly good news?’

  ‘I’m surprised you haven’t worked that out for yourself,’ Sommer said with a smirk. ‘Remember how we got into the cockpit? Can you see an exit hatch beneath you? No? Well, I think that covers what I forgot.’ He seemed to be vastly amused about something.

  ‘What? You mean that….’ Simon’s voice trailed off. What the hell was this smart-arse hinting about?