by Walter Ellis
One further piece of information was contained in a note left by the two assassins. According to his diary, now on its way to Gibraltar, Rath had a ten o’clock appointment with Colonel Walter Bruns, the chief military attaché, at the Legation. That left Bramall barely any time in which to refine his plan. He would have to play it by ear. Setting out on foot at two thirty in the morning from the side door of his hotel, he arrived at the tasca shortly before three. He hadn’t been followed. One thing he had learned about eternal vigilance was that it tended to peter out after midnight. Romero, asleep in the room behind the bar, was already on standby, but he needed to know exactly when to move. Bramall briefed him, leaving it to the Dublin man to bring Isabella up to speed.
By the time Bramall arrived back at his hotel, it was four in the morning. “Been visiting a friend,” he told the reception clerk, half asleep at his desk. The fellow shrugged. The sexual habits of the guests were no concern of his – not unless the Guardia Civil expressed an interest.
Three hours later, having had virtually no sleep, it was time for Bramall to get ready. Romero had managed to get a friend of his to replace the lenses in Rath’s glasses with tinted glass. Blackening his hair wasn’t a problem. He used soot from the fireplace in his room, mixed with water. The scar was more problematic, and painful. With the blade of his cutthroat, he incised a line, a millimetre or so deep, diagonally into the skin of his right cheek, following the line of his shoulder. He cut first from one side, then the other, so that a triangular section of his skin’s upper layer was removed without any significant loss of blood. The resulting impairment would heal over in a month, he thought, but for a couple of days, so long as it was not subjected to any unusual scrutiny, it would resemble a scar. There was nothing he could do about his eyes, which were blue, not grey. But the tinted glass of his spectacles helped even the score. With the brim of his officer’s cap casting a shadow over his brow, it was likely no one would notice.
At 9.20, he was ready to go. He looked in the mirror one last time and adjusted his cap. Then he shut his eyes and drew a deep breath. Romero and Isabella would play their part, he was in no doubt about that. The rest was up to him. He exited the hotel via the café on Calle Alcalá. Ten minutes later, he arrived at the side door of the Legation, where he calculated that the personnel on duty would be different from those working the front lobby.
The two SS guards on duty came to attention at his approach. He reminded himself that he was a German officer and saluted in the formal Nazi style. “Heil Hitler!”
A familiar voice came straight back at him. “Heil Hitler! Excuse me, Herr Fregattenkapitän.” Bramall swallowed. It was the same, bespectacled corporal who had frisked him during his previous visit. “The main entrance to the Legation is round the corner. This is for commercial deliveries and junior staff.”
Braithwaite had told him that when things got rough, bluster was the only way forward. Always take charge. They should never suspect you’re not on top of things. Bramall summoned up his best Hochdeutsch, or High German, in an approximation of the “pure” Saxon of Hanover. “Don’t bother me with trivia, Corporal,” he said. “I have an appointment with Colonel Walter Bruns, our military attaché, at ten o’clock.”
“Then you’re early, sir. It’s only 9.30.”
“What?” Bramall looked at his watch – actually Rath’s watch, included with his uniform. “Ach, my watch must be fast.”
“Not a problem, Sir. I trust your hotel was comfortable?”
“I wouldn’t know. I arrived five hours late and got next to no sleep. These Spanish trains are unbelievable!”
“Indeed, Sir. I heard one of our diplomats last week say just the same thing.”
“Let’s go, then. Or are you proposing I wait out here until ten o’clock?”
“Of course, not, Herr Fregattenkapitän. If I could just see your Ausweis …”
“My pass? Good God, man, don’t you know who I am?”
“I’m afraid we haven’t met, Sir.”
“Na ja.” Bramall reached into the inside pocket of the jacket of his uniform and withdrew Rath’s Militärischausweis. This was a delicate moment. He had stained the main ID section of his pass, with water, so that the photograph, with its embossed stamp, was slightly discoloured. Even so, anyone with a keen eye would see that he and Rath were far from identical. The only thing to do was bluff. He opened the pass and thrust it at the corporal, making sure that the open pages were no more than a couple of inches from his eyes. All the hapless NCO could see, squinting behind his glasses, was a stern, impassive face, with a scar down one cheek. He looked up at Bramall. The scar was practically glowing. The corporal drew back, blinking.
“Yes, Sir. I’m sorry, Sir. This way, if you please.”
Once inside, he was asked to take a seat. “I’ll telephone Colonel Bruns’s office and let them know you’re here. Perhaps he can see you now”
“That would be helpful.”
This was the second difficult moment. If Bruns happened to be at his desk, with nothing better to do, he would invite him straight up. He would then have to think of some way of putting off the encounter. Perhaps he could say he wanted to visit the washroom – or that he needed to make an urgent phone call to Berlin. Fortunately, the requirement did not arise.
“I’m afraid the Colonel is with the ambassador right now. He will see you in 20 minutes, as agreed. I am to escort you to his office where no doubt his secretary will arrange a cup of coffee.”
Not there. That was a relief.
“Thank you, but there’s no need to waste your time, Corporal. I know the way up.”
“If you say so, Sir. Third floor, second on the right. The Fahrstuhl is straight ahead at the end of the passage.”
Bramall nodded and made his way down the narrow hallway. The German-made Fahrstuhl, or Lift, was like a never-ending sequence of dumb waiters. There were no doors, simply a rising series of square-cut floors that appeared one after the other and continued upwards on a never-ending loop that came down again on the opposite side. He stepped in. The Lift didn’t pause and he had to be quick to step out on the first floor.
Bramall didn’t know it, but at this second Hasselfeldt was struggling to contain his rage. He was in the middle of transcribing the second half of Colonel Bruns’s presentation to the Spanish delegation when his Gestapo colleague, Paul Winzer, made another of his impromptu morning visits. The suave, self-assured Kriminalkommissar seemed to drop in all the time these days. It was as if, in a reverse of the normal order of things in Berlin, he regarded the activities of the SD as no more than an adjunct of his own operation. In fact, if Hasselfeldt only knew it, Winzer’s concern was that it was his functions that were being usurped by the SD. The Duke of Windsor, it seemed to him, had been allowed to slip away from Spain almost unnoticed while Hasselfeldt meddled in the embassy’s broader, and much more important geopolitical remit. This wouldn’t have mattered if nothing else were going on. The Duke and Duchess were, after all, inherently irrelevant and Ribbentrop was rapidly going the same way. But with Operation Felix in the offing, Winzer’s job was to ensure that only those, German and Spanish, who needed to know what was going on were privy to its secrets.
He began his questioning with the usual pleasantries. Wie geht’s? … Not quite so hot today … Did you read that cinema attendances are up again in Berlin? Hasselfeldt was not fooled. He waited for the knife to go in and he was not to be disappointed. Winzer sat down on a swivel chair and clasped his hands in front of him. Then, lifting his elegantly shod right foot onto his left knee, he pushed himself with his other foot slowly right and left. “Tell me,” he began, “have you heard anything from Schellenberg?”
“The Obersturmbahnführer is in regular contact.”
“I am relieved to hear it. Anything I should know about?”
Hasselfeldt’s expressio
n tightened. He found these regular interrogations intrusive and impertinent. “Shouldn’t you be dealing with your own cases, Herr Kriminalkommissar? Has the Directore General de Securidad come up with nothing interesting lately? Is that why you keep coming in here asking questions about matters that need not concern you?”
Winzer affected a mixture of injured innocence and indignation. “Klaus! How can you say such things? We both work for the same masters and I have by far the greater experience of Spain. Do you wonder that I like to see what you are up to with your …what do you call it?” He indicated the Magnetophon, over which the SD officer had been bent as he entered his office.
“My Magnetophon, you mean? Ach … so that’s what this is all about. You want to know how it works and what information it may contain.”
“Not at all,” said Winzer. “That is a matter for the protocol section and the ambassador, which no doubt they will resolve in their own time. But you should know, Sturmbannführer, that the Prinz Albrechtstrasse is not happy. Not happy at all. There is concern that your attention is not focused, as it should be, on ways and means of attracting the Duke and Duchess of Windsor back to Spain, and thereby to the Reich. I hope that you are not allowing any personal interests you may have in the political and diplomatic arenas to cloud your judgment in respect of this central priority.”
The two men glared at each other. Once again, Winzer felt he had scored a palpable hit.
“You may be assured, Herr Kriminalkommissar, “that my concept of my duty is undiluted by personal considerations. I only hope that the same can be said of the Gestapo.”
Winzer rose up from his chair, knowing he was taller than Hasselfeldt by a good five centimetres. He looked for a moment as if he was about to deliver some further admonishment, but in the end he only smiled. The smile spoke volumes. “I have given you good advice in good faith, Sturmbannführer,” he said softly. “When things go wrong, do not say that you were not warned.”
As soon as Winzer left, Hasselfeldt struck his fist against the door in rage and frustration. How dare he speak to him like that? On whose authority did Winzer, a jumped up Kripo officer who by rights should be back in his native Hamburg checking papers in the Reeperbahn, question his procedures and priorities? He looked forward to his reaction when he not only brought the Duke and Duchess back to Madrid, but revealed to the Prinz Albrechtstrasse the true strength and weakness of Gibraltar’s defences and the treasonable incompetence of those in the Legation charged with bringing Spain into the war.
With a grunt, he moved back to the Magnetophon and reached for the earphones. He would not allow himself to be distracted.
Proceeding down the corridor after leaving Hasselfeldt’s office, Winzer was momentarily perplexed to come across a tall, rather intense-looking naval officer striding towards him who he felt sure was not a member of the Legation staff. Officers came and went all the time, of course. It was impossible to keep track of them all. Squinting, he couldn’t quite make out the man’s rank: the Kriegsmarine hierarchy was almost as arcane as that of the SS. But he looked reasonably senior and, quite possibly, lost.
“Excuse me, can I help you?”
Whoever he was, he was preoccupied. “What’s that?” came the reply. “Did you say something?”
“I asked if I could help you. Only, you seem to have lost your bearings.”
“Lost? Oh no, assuredly not, Herr Kriminalkommissar. I am on my way to the office of Colonel Walter Bruns. It is close by, is it not?”
The man was a Saxon – from Hanover, by the sound of him. Hanoverians of a certain class spoke as if they were reciting from the dictionary. But he knew his Gestapo insignia; he would give him that.
“I’m afraid you’re on the wrong floor. The colonel is two flights up. Would you like me to show you?”
“No, thank you. Most kind, but that will not be necessary. I can find my own way. But if you could direct me to the nearest … Bedürfnisanstalt.”
Winzer couldn’t help smiling. He hadn’t heard that word used in years. “The gentlemen’s lavatory is at the end of the corridor, just before the stairs.”
“I am most grateful. Danke schön.”
“Bitte schön. Winzer is the name – Gestapo.”
“Rath – Abwehr.”
Winzer’s sense of puzzlement deepened. “Abwehr? I wasn’t informed that someone from military intelligence was visiting the embassy.”
“Really?” the stranger replied, looking vaguely apologetic. “That is most unfortunate. I am here to report on the latest developments from my base in Algeciras.”
“Aah! I understand. Perhaps I will see you in the bar later?”
“That would be splendid. I will have to check that I am free. Until then, auf wiedersehen.”
As soon as Winzer disappeared, Bramall heaved a sigh of relief. He had thought the Gestapo man would place him from the party at the Villa Ortega, but apparently not. Even so, time was pressing. Romero and Isabella would be getting anxious.
He stepped into the washroom, suddenly aware of how tired he was. The windows overlooked a side road, but were close to the front of the building. From the furthermost window, assuming that Isabella was in place, it should be possible to give the signal.
He was about to turn the snib on the window when he heard a noise behind him. He turned round. Christ Almighty! It was Hasselfeldt.
The Austrian took in his insignia at a glance. He prided himself on his encyclopaedic knowledge of all of the services. “Guten Tag, Herr Fregattenkapitän.”
Bramall turned back to the window, hiding his face. “Guten Tag, Herr Sturmbannführer. It is warm, is it not? I was just going to let some air in.”
“Let me help you. Those fasteners are tricky.”
Working his fingers in a frenzy, Bramall wrenched open the window. He could feel the sweat gathering on his brow. “No, no – thank you – it is done. And now, if you will excuse me … ” He marched straight into the nearest cubicle, shut the door and locked it, sighing with relief.
He waited three minutes, maybe four, listening as Hasselfeldt drew a basin of water and soaped his hands on a cake of soap, the colour of English toffee, fixed to a spike on the wall. The whole business seemed to take forever, but at last he heard the plop of the stopper being released and the gurgle of water disappearing down the drain. This was followed by the rip of a paper towel, footsteps and, finally, the noise of the washroom door opening and shutting. Seconds later, Bramall opened the cubicle door and peered out. As he did so, the SD officer walked back in.
“I left my watch by the basin,” he began. Then their eyes met. “Wait a moment, I know you. You’re …”
Bramall walked briskly towards him, smiling. “What are you talking about, Sturmbannführer?”
Hasselfeldt tore at the flap on his holster, trying to release his Walther 9mm P-38 automatic. “Stand back!” he ordered.
Knowing he had less than a second in which to save the situation, Bramall hurled himself bodily at the Austrian, the force of the collision sending both men tumbling to the floor. Hasselfeldt recovered with surprising speed, twisting and turning where he lay, groping for his Walther. But Bramall, with the advantage of surprise, was fractionally quicker. As Hasselfeldt rose to his knees, the automatic in his hand, he sprang up and kicked him in the base of the skull with his steel-capped boot. The SD man sank back onto the tiles, groaning. Bramall was taking no chances. He kicked him savagely, first in the stomach, then once more, for luck, in the face, causing his nose to pour with blood.
He stood over the unconscious figure. It was obvious he would be out for some considerable time. Grabbing the Walther, which had spun several metres across the floor, he contemplated for a moment letting him have it right in the chest. It would have been a deeply satisfying moment. But the shot would be heard. He couldn’t risk it, and beating him to d
eath in cold blood was not something he could contemplate. Instead, he dragged the limp body into the cubicle he had just vacated. Then he returned, breathing hard, to the window at the opposite side.
Fifty metres down the road, adjusting her lipstick beneath the shade of a newly planted plane tree, Isabella looked up to the Legation’s first floor windows. The plan was that Bramall would wave a handkerchief out of a first floor window as soon as he was in position. It was important she shouldn’t stand for too long on the avenida. Someone would grow suspicious. She checked her watch for the third time: 9.47. Then she glanced down the broad avenue, as if looking for a taxi. Thirty seconds later, she saw the handkerchief. Thank God for that! She had almost given up. But now it was time.
Trembling, with her heart rising to her mouth, she began walking towards the Legation. She was wearing a yellow dress, quite low cut, with a hem that finished only just beneath her knees. As she drew level with the entrance, guarded by a pair of SS riflemen, she turned to them and smiled. Each of the men smiled back. She was easily the prettiest thing they had seen all day. Then she stumbled. Her heel had apparently caught on a paving stone. The two guards motioned forwards, anxious to be of assistance. One of them reached for her elbow in order to help her back to her feet. That was when Romero, appearing from nowhere, shot each of them with a single bullet to the head. Neither cried out; they simply flopped over. Isabella averted her eyes as the Irishman wheeled round, checking that the coast was clear. “Good job,” he told her. “Now get out of here! Go!”
Shaking violently, fighting the urge to gag, she rose to her feet, took off both her shoes and began to run as fast as she could. Passers-by were screaming and shouting. One elderly man collapsed, clutching his chest. A dog barked furiously. A tram thundered past, its bell clanging, the passengers either crouching below the level of the windows or else staring out, transfixed.