Fear Itself

by Andrew Rosenheim

  ‘They were,’ he said carefully, ‘but not in the normal ledger. On each occasion I dictated a note for the working case file stating what I’d done.’

  ‘Why there?’ Tolson could be relentless – unlike Hoover, whose patience often ran out before all the questions got asked.

  ‘Because no one else would see the working file until the case was closed. I didn’t want it showing in Accounts where it might raise questions.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Tolson, as if Guttman had walked into a trap.

  Hoover was pursing his lips disapprovingly. When he spoke, his jaw jutted aggressively. ‘Have you got anything else to say for yourself?’

  Guttman still didn’t know what was going on. Did they think he was skimming money? He hesitated, then finally asked, ‘Why has this come up now? Those pictures were taken almost a year ago.’

  ‘Dinah misplaced the film. She only found it last week.’

  ‘How convenient.’ He regretted this as soon as he’d said it.

  Hoover looked angry. ‘It’s of no relevance when this came to our attention. What matters is that there has been a serious breach of the FBI code. It’s true that from time to time we feel obliged to pay informants. It’s not a practice I am happy with, though where circumstances warrant we have no choice. But it must only be done with absolute integrity, and following Bureau procedures. Any deviation will not be tolerated – from you, or from anyone else.’

  Hoover was in highest dudgeon now; Guttman had seen it often enough. ‘I consider this a very serious violation of Bureau standards. There will be an internal inquiry that Mr Tolson will chair; you will have the opportunity to present your side of things in full. But until then, you are suspended from duty, effective immediately.’

  Stunned, Guttman managed to protest: ‘Mr Hoover, I’d ask you to wait for the inquiry’s verdict before taking away my responsibilities. I have an investigation underway of the greatest importance; I’m convinced there’s a Nazi plot to destabilise the highest elected office of this country.’

  Tolson actually laughed. But Hoover was still furious. ‘So the first time we hear about it is when we’re about to suspend you. As you would say, how convenient.’

  ‘What about my reports? What happens to them?’ He was thinking about Nessheim; it was critical now that Nessheim stay with the Bureau. Once suspended, Guttman wouldn’t be able to do anything.

  Tolson was prepared for this. ‘The White House crew will keep reporting to Mueller, and for the time being he’ll report to me. Same for the field offices – I’ll alert them as soon as we’re done here. As for your own staff in the building, they’ll report to Louis B. Nichols.’ Realising Nessheim would straddle this divide, Guttman said nothing.

  Tolson looked at Hoover. The Director leaned forward and clasped his hands together on the desk. ‘Mr Guttman, someone will collect your personal effects from your office. The guards are next door; they’ll escort you from the building.’

  Part Four

  1940

  27

  15 May 1940

  West Pomerania, near the Polish border

  IT WAS A bleak view from the house. A quarter of a mile of rough headland lay between it and the coast, where Schellenberg could see the steely grey of the Baltic. He sensed a storm brewing.

  He shivered and moved closer to the fire. It might be May, but this late in the afternoon the air had turned sharp, almost winter-like. The turf bricks in the hearth glowed like coal, but without the same emitted heat. He had been shown into this vast drawing room by an ancient butler in a frock coat, who had then closed the large oak door and disappeared, leaving Schellenberg to stare at the antique furniture and the oil paintings hanging in heavy gilded frames and wonder why Heydrich had asked him to meet here.

  Despite its size, the house could not disguise its dilapidated state – gutters on the roof line were hanging by a thread, and the windows’ paint was flaked from the harsh salt air. An aura of decay hung over the grounds as well: the iron railings running either side of the tall gates at the beginning of the drive had been stripped, ready to be molten for military use, and the pale cows Schellenberg had spied in the fields as his car approached were transparently milk-less. Still, even the fading of its grandeur could not disguise the fact that this estate must have once belonged to an immensely wealthy family.

  The door opened and the old butler came in, bearing a tray, which he put down on a mahogany side table. It was midway between teatime and drinks, a no-man’s-land for refreshments. Schellenberg noted that the tray held two glasses, a half-full bottle of whisky, and a soda siphon. As the butler left the room another man entered, and the servant lowered his head deferentially.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said the man, coming across and extending his hand. He was much older than Schellenberg, and was dressed in a well-worn tweed suit and a wool tie the colour of sage. He was of average height, with silver hair slicked straight back and a trim Van Dyke beard. ‘Welcome to Kernshagen. It is a pleasure to meet you.’

  Shaking hands perfunctorily, Schellenberg said sharply, ‘Where is the Obergruppenführer?’ In a room of such refinement this sounded jarringly rude, but his driver had taken four hours to reach the coast. They were only 100 miles from Berlin, on the edge of the Pomerania Bay, but the roads had been full of troops, reinforcements moving towards Belgium and France. For all the mechanised efficiency of the Blitzkrieg in the west, most of the soldiers he’d seen had sat in horse-drawn carts.

  The man said, ‘The Obergruppenführer is two hours east of us, I’m afraid. In Poland – or should I call it eastern East Prussia now?’ His expression was amused, though his eyes seemed to take everything in. He added quietly, ‘But he’s given me orders to pass on to you.’

  ‘I see,’ said Schellenberg, but his back was up. His summons had been couched in urgent terms; Schellenberg had not come this far to be fobbed off with a surrogate; he could have stayed in Berlin for that.

  ‘Who are you?’ he demanded of the man, who looked too old to be in the army.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he replied, bowing his head. ‘My name is Jahnke.’

  Schellenberg stared at him open-eyed.

  Jahnke said cordially, ‘Let us have a drink, Herr Schellenberg. There is some whisky on the tray, which you won’t often see these days outside Berlin. It’s a taste I developed during my years in America, though the whisky is Scotch – Johnnie Walker. I took the precaution of importing three cases last year. It’s a luxury that will not, I fear, be available again any time soon.’

  Schellenberg felt embarrassed and impatient all at once. ‘Thank you, but I should be getting back. If you would be so kind as to give me these orders …’

  Jahnke gave a tolerant smile. ‘Of course. But your driver is right now being fed by Bertha in the kitchens. It’s not up to me how you deal with your men, but in my experience an empty stomach makes for a bumpy journey home.’

  He said this with such charm that Schellenberg felt ashamed for his churlishness. ‘A whisky would be most acceptable,’ he said, realising how pompous this sounded. I’ve changed, he thought unhappily.

  They sat down in captain’s chairs by the fire. Jahnke half-filled Schellenberg’s glass with Scotch, then added soda from the siphon. Schellenberg noticed that Jahnke’s own drink was the size of a sherry doled out for a maiden aunt.

  Schellenberg took a long pull on his drink, and emboldened said, ‘Why is Herr Heydrich in Poland?’

  ‘He’s with the Führer.’

  ‘I see,’ was all Schellenberg could manage. How inappropriate his little sulk at Heydrich’s absence now seemed. Still, he was puzzled, since surely the Führer’s attention right now lay in the other direction. ‘I am surprised he’s not visiting the Low Countries.’

  ‘One might think so,’ Jahnke acknowledged with a nod, ‘but then, the situation there seems almost a fait accompli. I believe the Führer is assuming France will fall within a few weeks.’

  ‘There is still England to think about
,’ Schellenberg found himself protesting.

  Jahnke looked unfazed. ‘He seems to think that is only a matter of time as well. The British may surrender once they see the Continent is lost, along with half their army on the French coast. If they don’t, then we’ll invade. One hopes that can be avoided.’

  Schellenberg did too. He was already involved in the plans for an invasion – not from a military planning point of view, but rather how to handle both British intelligence and their police once the island had been subdued. Operation Sea Lion was an operation that Schellenberg wanted to remain hypothetical.

  Then Jahnke said, ‘It’s not Poland that is occupying the Führer’s attention, but east of there.’

  Russia. Inevitable, of course, since everyone knew the alliance between Hitler and Stalin was never going to last. But surely now was not the time to wage war against yet another country, especially one so big.

  ‘Nothing immediate,’ said Jahnke reassuringly, reading Schellenberg’s thoughts. ‘But the Führer likes to look ahead.’

  Was there a hint of scepticism in his voice?

  Jahnke changed the subject. ‘Heydrich said you were in England last summer. What did you make of them there?’

  Schellenberg thought about his trip with Irene – it seemed an age ago. He’d had only one piece of business; otherwise the role of tourist had been perfectly authentic, though they’d gone under Dutch names and Dutch passports. ‘I found them a curiously passive people. Polite, restrained, and not at all eager for war.’

  ‘And yet?’ asked Jahnke persistently, and Schellenberg realised the man would not be satisfied with clichés.

  Schellenberg said, ‘I believe there is a toughness beneath their veneer of civility. Thank you very much; After you; Do excuse me, madam,’ he mimicked in his best English accent, and was glad to see that Jahnke looked amused. ‘But the fact is, they won’t be pushed around. They’re desperate to forestall an invasion, but not if that would mean dishonour. Their new Prime Minister is very keen on honour. The playing fields of Eton and so on.’

  Jahnke smiled. ‘I think you’ll find Mr Churchill went to Harrow, but it’s much the same thing.’

  Schellenberg did not mind the correction; he was slightly in awe of this veteran of the espionage world.

  ‘Fortunately,’ said Jahnke, ‘we have some friends in England of our own.’ Schellenberg was surprised; seeing this Jahnke added, ‘The Obergruppenführer has kept me in touch with developments.’

  Schellenberg nodded. It made sense that Jahnke knew whom he had met with in London. Schellenberg said now, ‘It went without a hitch. But …’ and he hesitated.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I worried that our meeting could have been watched.’

  ‘What made you think that?’ Jahnke’s manner was no longer quite so easy.

  ‘I felt I might have been followed. There was someone with a camera – I saw him on Piccadilly, and then once across the street at my hotel.’

  ‘Could they have detected you entering the country?’

  ‘I don’t think so. Our passports were unimpeachable.’

  ‘There’s an alternative explanation, of course. They might have spotted you because they were following the lady.’

  ‘But her cover seems rock solid – her husband is famous for his pro-Soviet sentiments.’

  ‘They might be following her on account of that,’ Jahnke suggested. He chuckled. ‘Though I’d like to see their faces when they found a suspected Communist meeting up with the head of German counter-espionage.’

  Schellenberg did not share his amusement.

  The door opened and the butler came in, then went to the fireplace where he started to poke the glowing turf. ‘Thank you, Staatz,’ said Jahnke gently, and the old man put the poker down and shuffled out of the room.

  Jahnke turned to Schellenberg. ‘Staatz is what the English call a “retainer”. Serfdom was abolished in Pomerania in 1808 – Staatz’s great-great-grandfather was one of those “freed”. Frankly, it was a change in name alone. Staatz is the eighth generation of his family to serve the estate.’ He sipped his whisky with an air of abstraction, then said quietly, ‘Tell me, how is our friend at the Reichsrundfunkhaus?’

  Schellenberg hesitated before replying. Only the week before he had been to the state broadcasting centre, out at its vast modern headquarters in a suburb of Berlin. It hadn’t been his first trip, nor, he thought with a sigh, was it likely to be his last. For the man he’d visited – the foreign broadcaster William Joyce – was proving a nightmare.

  Schellenberg said now, ‘He’s a bit of a handful, to tell you the truth. Fame has gone to his head.’

  ‘Are you worried he won’t do as he’s told?’

  ‘Not really. I don’t see that he has any choice. He can hardly go back to England now. They’d hang him.’

  Jahnke seemed satisfied with this. But then he said enquiringly, ‘Something else is worrying you, Herr Schellenberg?’

  Normally Schellenberg would have resented the intrusiveness, but he realised he wanted to unburden himself. Jahnke could not be more different from Heydrich – the apprehension Schellenberg always felt in the company of the Obergruppenführer was entirely absent now. Perhaps that was it; he felt that he could have an honest conversation with this worldly-wise man. It had been a long time since that had seemed possible.

  ‘When I first interviewed Joyce, I wanted to be sure he had not been in recent contact with our English friend.’

  ‘Naturally. And?’

  ‘He said he hadn’t, but I wasn’t sure I believed him. If he had written to her, and the British are onto her, then the channel of communication to our Dreiländer friend could be compromised.’

  Jahnke did not look worried. ‘It’s conceivable, I grant you, but very unlikely – and it would require unprecedented trans-Atlantic cooperation. But there’s something else nagging at you, isn’t there?’

  Schellenberg saw no reason to dissemble. ‘Werner,’ he said bluntly.

  ‘It will be four years ago this summer, won’t it?’

  So Jahnke knew. The memories that continued to haunt him came in a distasteful rush: the drive along the forestry track, the short hike to the clearing, the propping of the body against a tree and wrapping the hand around the butt of the gun.

  He shook his head to clear the image, and found Jahnke’s eyes on him. Sympathetic but dispassionate, they seemed to understand. ‘It was necessary,’ said Jahnke softly. ‘He had been indiscreet.’ When Schellenberg lifted a questioning eyebrow, he added, ‘With Ambassador Luther – as you know.’

  Schellenberg nodded. ‘I hope Luther was the only one.’

  ‘You think Werner talked to others?’

  ‘What about the man at the embassy – Emil Bock?’

  Jahnke said, ‘Werner didn’t know Bock. And in any case, Bock himself can’t talk to anyone now – German or American.’

  Schellenberg was still worried. ‘Are you confident that ultimately Bock was one of ours?’

  Jahnke rubbed his beard, musing. ‘If I have learned one thing after forty-five years in this peculiar business, it’s that there is no “ultimately” for any secret agent. In this case, however, the beauty of it is that it didn’t matter – whether the Americans thought Bock was theirs or ours is of no consequence. That’s the whole point of diversions – to divert. That’s all. And intentionally or not, Bock did his job magnificently. Remember that the American domestic intelligence people are not very ex-perienced with this kind of penetration. Thanks to their famous Hoover, they are only conditioned to look for Reds under their beds.’

  Schellenberg was cheered by this. ‘I understand they even have a Jew running their counter-espionage,’ he offered with a laugh.

  He was slightly disappointed when Jahnke didn’t laugh as well but looked sober instead, saying, ‘Over the years I have found the Jews to be many things, but stupid is not one of them. When we have managed to rid the world of their race I imagine the average intelligen
ce level will diminish markedly. Some Party members would probably think that’s not a bad thing,’ he added drily.

  ‘So you think the Dreiländer is safe?’

  Jahnke got up and fetched the bottle of whisky from its tray, tipping it until a quarter of an inch was added to his glass. He stood and sipped, staring out the long window towards the iron-coloured sea. ‘The Dreiländer I knew was still a boy, though always at heart a loyal German. I thought I was teaching him, but I realise now just how much he taught himself. He could act a part effortlessly.’

  He was still staring out to sea, talking to himself as much as to Schellenberg. ‘I simply can’t believe the Americans will find him. They may find strands – how he’s contacted, who else is unknowingly involved. But they won’t put it together; the Americans are a lucky people, but this would require exceptional intelligence as well as luck.’

  He turned and looked down impassively at Schellenberg. ‘Besides, I have never believed in leaving things to chance. If the Americans somehow discover what we have in mind, they will find that it is just the beginning of a maze, not the end point. And as with any maze, there will be many possible paths to follow: just choosing one will take them long enough for our man to accomplish the task.’

  Jahnke looked pointedly at his watch. ‘Your driver will have been well fed by now,’ he declared, and clapped his hands. The door opened and Staatz appeared.

  ‘Fetch Herr Schellenberg’s coat, please. His car is waiting outside.’ Jahnke turned and faced Schellenberg, and the smile on his face was bitter-sweet. ‘It has been a pleasure meeting you, Herr Schellenberg. I have heard much about you; now I know why. So: your orders.’

  And he extracted a small buff envelope from his coat’s inner pocket. It was sealed but not addressed. Jahnke said, ‘Read it in the car. It won’t take you very long.’

  And before his driver even reached the gates of Kernshagen, Schellenberg slit open the envelope with his penknife, curious to see what Heydrich wanted him to do. As he looked at the thick cream-coloured sheet, he hoped that what had been conceived of so long ago (almost twenty years, in fact, when Schellenberg was still a schoolboy) was finally coming to fruition. He felt a surge of excitement, and a little fear, as he read: