Fulcrum of Malice

by Patrick W O'Bryon

  “Reinhard Heydrich.”

  “Yes, Heydrich. But the time has come to go our separate ways. There is no honor in brutality, persecution, assassination and mayhem, and Germany needs to restore its honor. Now more than ever. For me to facilitate change, I must remain on the job. Heydrich can never learn that I’ve infiltrated an American spy into the very financial institution which keeps SS tanks rolling across the steppes and the Führer’s coffers full, or I’m finished.” The admiral slid the empty bottle into the ice bucket with a look of regret. “There’s far too much at stake, so you’ll understand why we can’t give him that opportunity.”

  Ryan creased his brow. “To be clear—I fumble this task, I get caught, the Gestapo never gets an opportunity to learn anything from me, correct?”

  “I choose you for good reason, Mr. Seffer. Our file says you can impersonate a European at the drop of a hat, your German is obviously flawless, and you can play the banker able to get us what we want. What we must have. I assure you, should the worst come to pass, our agents within Gestapa will make sure you never suffer.”

  Canaris had revealed matters which—if exposed— could cost the admiral his life. Hitler would clearly not be pleased to have someone, no matter how influential, threaten his personal income stream. Since Canaris had been so open about his conflict with the SD, he must truly need Ryan’s expertise, and now it was clear they shared the mutual goal of bringing down the Nazis. This challenge fulfilled the commitment he had made when joining Donovan’s COI.

  He spoke at last: “I once loved Germany for its culture and beauty, and for the generous people who first welcomed me here. I’ve witnessed great kindness in the German soul, but such compassion withers under an ideology based on depravity and racial intolerance.” Ryan paused and grinned, his mind made up. “So I’ll go into the Reichsbank, Herr Admiral. Should I fail, all I ask is that you get my friend out of harm’s way. Are we agreed?”

  Canaris smiled warmly and rose from his chair. “Excellent, Mr. Seffer.” He reached for the phone. “Let’s pull the rug out from under these plutocrats. If the howls are loud enough, these corporations will have to back off, the Reich’s war machine will grind to a halt, and you’ll save American lives in the process. And then we help Germany find an honorable peace in the family of nations. Worthy goals, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Agreed, Herr Admiral. Let’s get it done.”

  “Dinner first, Mr. Seffer. Tomorrow we can begin, but the lobster here really is excellent, and I’ve developed quite an appetite.”

  Wilhelm Canaris peered into the depths of the unlit cross streets. Impossible to say who might lurk in that blackness. Only the main boulevards were lit, and those just barely. A dense fog was moving in, and few cars crept along, the narrow slits of their headlamps tentatively piercing the gloom.

  The blackout restrictions hid anyone intent on mischief. Very few law-abiding pedestrians would be out at such a late hour. Just two months earlier, the guillotine at Plötzensee had finally taken the head of a serial killer who exploited the darkened city to sexually assault or kill almost fifty women. As German men fought for Nazi glory on the front, women and foreign laborers now carried the economic burdens of the city. Hurrying home at day’s end they fought their own battles in those treacherous streets.

  His driver, Karl, appeared relieved at the admiral’s request to head home to Schlachtensee rather than return to the Tirpitzufer headquarters. Driving in these hazardous conditions was obviously a strain. Canaris leaned back in his seat. Any overnight intelligence could wait until morning. With luck, his bedside phone would allow him a few hours rest before the morning demanded his full attention. He closed his eyes to the world and sighed. Untold months of challenge were finally taking a physical as well as mental toll, and he asked himself how long he could navigate with impunity such treacherous shoals.

  He thought he spied the quick flash of a match or cigarette lighter in the darkness, and strained to see more. It could have been the muzzle flash of a handgun, or perhaps just another devilish trick of his tired eyes. How difficult to place trust in anyone or anything in such troubled times!

  The American chap appeared to be everything von Haldheim promised: intelligent, clever, and none of those undersized ears which made it difficult to trust a taller man. His manners were refined and his looks dashing. Best of all, how satisfying to know Lemmon placed the welfare of the cabaret woman before his own. Men with Christian ethics were a disappearing lot.

  Canaris already knew plenty about Americans. Soon he would have to learn more. Back in ’37 his covert operations put the Norden bombsight in Luftwaffe hands, a technological coup of the first order. And recently his signals people had broken many American and British ciphers. The United States was sure to enter the war before another year passed, a serious if not fatal blow to hopes for a negotiated and honorable peace. Once the vast economic resources of America committed to all-out war, Germany could face complete annihilation. And if her covert operatives proved as committed and resourceful as Lemmon, America would do very well at the intelligence game.

  High time these fellows turned their attentions to the Communists. Those damned Bolsheviks had trashed his beloved navy at the end of the Great War, and now were intent on destroying every last vestige of European honor and tradition. He had cemented ties with the British a half-decade earlier to stop the leftist threat in Spain. Many of those bonds remained strong despite war with England, because lines of communication had to remain open, no matter the conflict. The best hope to save Germany from its suicidal path was to join forces with its current enemies in battle against a common foe.

  Karl said they were nearing Schlachtensee. The admiral settled back and closed his eyes again. Lemmon seemed well-suited to the task at hand and a man of honor. He might even have uses elsewhere should this banking mission succeed. Spy craft required such assets. Military intelligence had long respected civilized rules of combat, morality and international law, a tradition unknown to degenerates like Himmler and Heydrich. Abwehr operatives had no choice but to adapt to changing times. He could not condone assassination, but the use of violent means in self-defense was now fundamental to saving the Germany he loved.

  Leaving the American alone for a few days had proved its worth. Canaris needed to learn what the agent was made of, and his expectations were fulfilled. An Abwehr agent had easily spotted Lemmon’s tail from the moment they arrived at Anhalter Bahnhof. The Parisian SD operative hadn’t been sharp enough to realize he’d taken on a stalker of his own. By eliminating the Frenchman, Lemmon showed he had learned his lessons well. He would be reliable in a tight situation, a new requirement of the job.

  Canaris forced his jaw to relax.

  He was sickened by Heydrich’s brutality and cunning. The cadets at the naval academy had once tagged him “The Goat,” mocking that high-pitched voice and bleating laugh. But the nickname truly did reflect Reinhard’s mental and emotional inclinations. He was stubbornly aggressive, ready to lock horns at the drop of a hat. In truth, the warning sign should have been that ungentlemanly conduct that got him expelled from the academy in their younger days. Immorality always led to ethical decay. Under Heydrich’s leadership, the SD and Gestapo had ground human rights to dust beneath the heels of their jackboots, heaping shame on the German people, promoting blackmail, extortion, torture, and summary execution.

  Now Heydrich was maneuvering, consolidating his power, intent on absorbing Canaris’ Abwehr, determined to stand second only to Hitler. Perhaps he itched to replace the Führer himself. Reinhard had always envied the admiral’s access to Hitler, his ability to gain exemptions from the most stringent Nazi laws. He begrudged Canaris’ independent passport and visa section, his freedom to move people abroad without Gestapo oversight. The admiral felt his position weakening and knew it was only a matter of time before his own fiefdom fell to Reinhard Heydrich’s machinations.

  Unless a peaceful resolution with the Allies could be reached, Heydri
ch could take over the Protectorate of Bohemia and Moravia. If so, he would brutally annihilate the ethnic Czechs. That was his way. The SS cruelties and horrors witnessed in Poland left Canaris despairing of ever again seeing Germany respected by the world. What would become of his beloved country with such rot at its core? That accursed man flouted all rules of civilized warfare, using the Wehrmacht to carry out his criminal undertakings, corrupting the last vestiges of German military honor in the name of Nazi ideology. Heydrich had finally let loose his SS liquidation squads to wreak unrestrained terror and havoc in the East. No man despised the Communists more than Canaris, but such flagrant disregard for human rights meant Germany might never again be allowed to rejoin the ranks of the world’s civilized nations.

  The time for hedging bets was passed. The admiral had long played a dual role, obeying the Führer while covertly fighting on behalf of the German people. Now he would act solely on behalf of the country he loved. Powerful nations knew their strength lay in resources, manufacture and finance. Armies can only conquer when someone picked up the tab. The evidence gained by infiltration of the Reichsbank might encourage America to withdraw its financial support of the Nazi regime and force Germany to sue for an honorable peace. Then the warring nations would work together to battle the worldwide Soviet threat.

  The admiral focused again on the dark streets, his jaw tense, his teeth grinding. He couldn’t arrive home soon enough. What a godsend to have a good woman at his side in such troubled times! Despite the late hour, his wife would still be up, waiting to pour them a nightcap. Then she would calm his nerves with some favorite tune on the piano. Chopin’s Études usually worked best. Surrounded by bookcases brimming with favored authors, his dogs at his side as she played, the admiral could finally let down his guard. She was always there for him, the perfect mate for a man whose every hour demanded so much focus, so much wariness, so much intrigue. A kind, patient woman, and he loved her dearly. Every man should be so lucky.

  Canaris massaged his temples, working back the headache. Not from the champagne, but from the challenges still ahead. He considered asking Karl to turn down the heater, but thought better of it as a sudden chill took him. He searched the pockets of his greatcoat for the leather gloves. Memories of trekking across South America in younger days flooded back, thoughts of a warmer clime where he had total control of his own destiny.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Niedermühlen near Essen, Germany

  24 September 1941

  Argent scanned a file copied from the registry of the Occupation judicial authority. Abwehr intervention had finally turned up what they needed on Marita’s case. His finger moved from entry to entry as he mentally relived her questioning at Gestapo headquarters Paris, her incarceration in the women’s wing at the Prison de Cherche-Midi, and the subsequent guilty verdict from the tribunal. He stopped at “condemnation to death by guillotine,” his hand trembling at the insanity of it all. Rolf looked on as he pulled the cork on a bottle of Château Margaux. Argent stared at a handwritten note: “execution interrupted at last moment with commutation and deportation.” A transcript of the case for the prosecution lay in front of him on the table. Argent couldn’t bring himself to read it through.

  Admiral Canaris’ operatives had finally located Marita at a huge munitions complex outside Essen. The city lay equidistant from Paris and Berlin in the industrial Ruhr region. Painful enough to imagine his lover suffering behind the notorious walls of Cherche-Midi, but now she lived and worked at heavy labor in the company of dangerous criminals.

  Rolf’s words jolted him back to the moment. “The admiral’s managed to commute the death order, but stopping the deportation was beyond even his reach, given the challenges in Paris. Our powerful comrades in the SD and Gestapo pull plenty of weight around here, and they wouldn’t budge. They want revenge for sending their favorite extortionist into Göring’s clutches.”

  Rolf poured two glasses. Argent waved him off. “So what do we know about this ordnance plant?” He set aside the dossier, keeping only some local maps showing the Essen region, the plans for the nearest towns and the layout of the weapons facility.

  “It lies not far from the massive Krupp works and specializes in smaller munitions—you know, incendiaries, shells, that sort of thing. Niedermühlen itself appears pleasant enough, except for that factory complex on the edge of town. Some seven hundred or so are employed in armaments and chemicals, some voluntary, some skilled locals, a large number of forced laborers and prisoners.”

  Argent rubbed his face, energizing for battle. He felt the stubble and realized he hadn’t shaved that morning. The large mirror on the wall of the study reflected a brow furrowed in a perpetual frown, drawn cheeks, and eyes sunken from lack of sleep. Inactivity and mounting frustration didn’t suit him. “Is she housed on-site?”

  “The prisoners sleep in dormitories a few kilometers from the plant. Armed guards march them through town; the workers put in their ten hours, then march back.” He wiped the tip of his cigarette holder and lit up. “We haven’t determined what they have her doing, but we know she works the ten a.m. shift, at least for now. She’s back in the dormitory by eighty-thirty or nine.” Rolf made himself comfortable at the head of the table and took a sip, nodding his approval. “That’s actually better for her, because the RAF makes its nighttime calls after midnight. That whole industrial region is a powerful magnet for British air raiders, of course.”

  “How close to her barracks?”

  Rolf reached for the file and thumbed through the paperwork. “A few attacks fairly close to the town so far, but sporadic. And no direct hits on or even near the plant. It seems Krupp is drawing most of the attention. As of two days ago she’s doing fine, but the work conditions in those places can be devastating—lots of toxic chemicals, and the forced laborers get the most hazardous assignments.” His revulsion was obvious. “They’re considered fully expendable and easily replaced.”

  Argent consulted his watch, figuring travel times in his head. “I can catch a train tonight. Can we get me identity documents by this afternoon?”

  “Not so fast. We promised Ryan Lemmon a role in this mission. His concern is no different than your own.” Rolf took another sip of the Bordeaux and expressed his satisfaction. “Such a brilliant vintage, this one. Puts most of our home-grown plonk to shame. Are you sure you won’t give it a try?”

  Irritated, Argent continued, “I’ll post the notices in the Berlin classifieds as agreed, but only for two consecutive days. If Lemmon’s not back to me within seventy-two hours, I’m going for her without him!” He rose abruptly, bumping the table and spilling some wine as Rolf poured Argent’s untouched glass into his own.

  “Easy, my friend,” Rolf warned, and Argent half-expected him to complain about the lost Bordeaux. “Two play at this game better than one, so wait for Ryan’s support. Canaris can’t provide the manpower—his plate’s full with other matters. There’s something big going on thanks to Ryan’s efforts. But Tirpitzufer is already preparing paperwork to facilitate her release. They’re on it, so give them a chance.”

  “With all due respect, sir—this isn’t the time to wait for Berlin. For all we know, Marita may be suffering horribly, and it won’t take a genius to rescue her. They march the prisoners to and from work on a regular schedule. No one will expect my intervention, and I can use the cover of darkness.”

  “All well and good, but should you succeed, how will you get her out?”

  “Take a look at this, Rolf—” He removed something from his breast pocket. “It’s the only photo I have.” Rolf examined a fuzzy snapshot taken at the club, obviously amateur work, likely by a German officer on leave. Marita looking directly at the camera, Argent’s eyes on her. “Can our people use it to come up with an image for an identity card?”

  “No guarantees.” Rolf tucked the photo into the dossier. “They might have better luck with her prison photo.”

  “I’m not asking for guarantees, just an oppor
tunity to get her out of that hell hole.”

  “I’m told love makes people do strange things, Argent. Never had the opportunity to find out personally, but I do worry about your judgement, given your deep infatuation with this lovely woman.” Rolf raised a hand to stop Argent’s protests. “No, please hear me out. I’m simply suggesting extra caution. Give Ryan time to make contact. Then once done, get back here. We’ve important work brewing and I need you in Paris, understood?”

  Rolf returned to his wine, and Argent knew he was now on his own.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Berlin, Germany

  25 September 1941

  A courier arrived as dawn broke over the city. Ryan barely found time to hang up the phone and dress before the man was knocking at the door to his suite. He used the password Canaris had given the night before. The nondescript man offered no name. He instructed Ryan to pack quickly and meet him out front where a car was waiting. The grand lobby was quiet at this early hour and the night clerks paid no attention when he departed with his valise in hand. His guide must have handled the sizeable bill.

  The courier shifted into first and eased into the flow of morning traffic. They soon veered southeast. The streets were still dark but the sky was a wash of pewter. Few automobiles appeared on the boulevards. Bluish sparks rained from overhead wires as trams navigated the turns of the avenues. The passengers hunched forward, faces blurred by breath-fogged windows. Buses lurched from curb to curb, disgorging the morning workforce. The sidewalks slowly filled with pedestrians, collars up against the cold, furled umbrellas anticipating rain showers.

  Ryan saw they were heading toward Neukölln, a borough far less affluent than the central Mitte district. Questions for the chauffeur elicited only a grunt and a curt “Wait and see.” Twice he took unexpected turns with his eye on the rear-view mirror, switching direction at least four times before working his way back to their original route. The man appeared unconcerned, so Ryan assumed the maneuvers were strictly precautionary. When the car braked to a halt midway along a proletarian housing block, he couldn’t suppress his surprise at the disparity between the shabby tenement and his previous residence in the heart of the city.