The Winter Agent

by Gareth Rubin

  No, no – despite the missing pictures, there was doubt about the situation; her guilt wasn’t clear-cut. She was involved somehow, he was sure, but the game itself was still hidden.

  And he had no time to think, to remember, to analyse – because no matter what her objective was, he had to warn London what had happened. And without her, he had no way of transmitting.

  His best chance would be to contact another circuit and send an emergency message through them. The Fisherman network was based in Amiens so they might also be able to get a message to Luc in the prison there. Besides, the Gestapo had penetrated so many Paris networks he wouldn’t know if he could trust anyone in the capital. He had to be wary, more guarded than before.

  He glanced at the canister, on its side next to the radio, and a new thought struck him. The radio – he was sure it hadn’t been there the last time he was here. And now he noticed that it wasn’t a normal household radio; it looked more like the transmitter Charlotte used to send and receive messages. What was it that Luc had shouted from the prison van? Something about Parade One and a German radio frequency. What if Luc had borrowed or built this radio to monitor that signal?

  Reece looked over the equipment. The dial looked to be set somewhere around 40MHz – well beyond the normal civilian band. He turned the machine on. Its batteries began to hum and, after checking outside the shed to ensure no one was within earshot, Reece turned the volume up a little. All he heard was static. He moved the dial slowly up and down but found nothing of note. He risked a minute scanning the surrounding frequencies, before he knew he had to leave.

  He switched the set off, spun the dial to a random setting, put a match to the remaining forged documents, and prepared to leave.

  CHAPTER 8

  Wilhelm Canaris stopped to take in the view: snowy Bavarian mountains sprinkled with birds flitting through tall trees. His narrow chest rose and fell as he pictured Alpine milkmaids doing what Alpine milkmaids did in books. And yet the vista was doing little to relax his mood.

  That morning an Abwehr agent had acquired a copy of the highly secret notes of Hitler’s personal physician, Dr Morell, for the admiral. It had been eye-catching stuff.

  It seemed that the Führer wasn’t only being regularly injected with extract from the prostates of young bulls – Canaris presumed Eva, twenty-three years Hitler’s junior, was the supposed beneficiary of this bizarre treatment – but his days seemed to be a haze of morphine, cocaine, strange bacterial-based tablets to reduce day-long stomach cramps caused by wind, Pervitin, the drug they gave to Stuka pilots to keep them flying for days at a time, atropine, to combat high blood pressure, testosterone, to supplement the bull serum, and a bagful of other drugs to boot. Very discreet enquiries had been made with a psychiatrist, who had confirmed that such a cocktail would most likely place a man on the doorstep of the madhouse, even if he had previously been the most stable of characters. And that was something the Führer had never been.

  Canaris hadn’t quite decided what to do with the report. For now, it was little more than a personal curiosity, although there was certainly the potential for more active measures further down the line – whether it should be shared with one or two selected individuals or … well, that would be decided when the time came. For now, it would remain for his eyes only. And so he placed the report somewhere it wouldn’t be stumbled across. It wasn’t the sort of document to be caught possessing.

  No, not a stable man, Adolf Hitler, but always clever at sowing division. A strangely political beast, Canaris mused. Nature had formed within him an innate talent for placing a knife in a man’s hand and pointing him towards a third party. Take today’s appointment, for example. It had already set the Oberkommando der Wehrmacht, the closest thing the combined armed forces had to a General Staff, against the army’s high command, the Oberkommando des Heeres. With those two bodies at each other’s throats like drunks in a beer cellar, Hitler remained unassailable. And that was before you considered the Waffen-SS generals, who would happily liquidate their own families if so ordered by the Führer.

  All in all, the fate of the world’s German-speaking peoples had never in the whole of history been so enclosed in the hand of a single man. A single man who was being injected with serum extracted from a bull’s prostate.

  Canaris slipped his hands into his pockets and rose up and down on the balls of his feet, flexing his muscles after the dawdling car journey from the nearby airstrip. After that he strode to the SS guard post to present his identification.

  ‘Heil Hitler!’ the guard snapped.

  ‘Heil Hitler.’ Yes, yes, Heil Hitler. Perhaps it was a blessing that it wasn’t yet Heil Himmler. No doubt they had that to look forward to.

  The Obersalzberg, the Führer’s country retreat for the last decade, was like a state within a state. It even had its own cultural history – a museum’s worth of fine paintings and artefacts that had, until just a few years earlier, graced other marble hallways and papered drawing rooms throughout Europe. A self-written history: always the refuge of those labouring under an inferiority complex.

  The house itself was really a glorified mountain chalet, and Canaris couldn’t help but curl his lip as he reached the white-painted monstrosity. ‘May I offer you some tea, Admiral?’ asked the subaltern who greeted him. At least there was carpet underfoot.

  ‘No, thank you.’

  Without another word, they entered a waiting room with black leather seats. An SS colonel glanced up then looked back down at a report he was reading without acknowledging the Abwehr chief’s presence. Canaris was used to that and, although it made things difficult at times, he preferred it that way. He had no more time for Himmler’s lackeys than they had for him.

  ‘Would you wait here? He will send for you soon.’

  Canaris took a seat. The subaltern clicked his heels and left. The SS officer stalked away too, which was welcome. And so Canaris was left alone to study his own uniform, confirming that it was spotless, until the sound of approaching steps made him look to the doorway in front of him. Momentarily it was filled by a half-hunched, flabby figure walking uncomfortably and unevenly. His right hand was clutching his left wrist, but it could hardly quell the violent twitching that told of a long-term degeneration of his central nervous system. Canaris stood smartly. ‘Heil Hitler,’ he said, raising his right arm.

  The Führer acknowledged the salute, flipping his right palm over his shoulder. The left hand shook and was promptly caught again. Behind him, an Alsatian panted at his heels. Canaris firmly believed the Führer cared more for the dog than for any creature with two legs, including Eva.

  ‘Admiral. I am glad to see you.’ He broke a smile.

  ‘My Führer.’

  ‘Blondi, come!’ The dog trotted towards his master’s heels. ‘This way. Have you been offered tea?’

  ‘I have, my Führer.’ Hitler led the way, with Canaris and the dog in his wake. Guards clicked their heels as the men passed.

  ‘Someone told me you’re keen on cookery.’

  Canaris chuckled. ‘I confess I am.’

  ‘Yes, I have my spies too, Admiral.’

  ‘If only my own were as efficient.’

  ‘I can let you loose in the kitchen if you like. You might not have tried vegetarian meals.’

  ‘Thank you, but I need to return to Berlin.’

  ‘Of course. In here.’ Canaris knew the way, and yet he let himself be led as if it were the first time visiting a friend’s new house.

  The Führer’s study was full of air and light. The decor, personally chosen by him, was pleasant and comfortable – far less imposing than the grey-and-white palate that Hitler and Speer presented to the people of Germany and all the conquered realms. The couches had floral green designs, perhaps in keeping with the theme of nature’s bounty that settled on the complex when the SS guards were temporarily out of sight. As he entered, Eva, wearing a yellow chiffon dress and a matching ribbon in her hair, stroked Canaris’s shoulder and le
ft the room. He bowed to her graciously, simultaneously noticing two generals in the corner of the room earnestly discussing some pages of a report. He raised a palm to them by way of greeting. He didn’t acknowledge Himmler’s presence by the window.

  Hitler sat and rested his hands, fingers knitted, on a wide desk sporting what appeared to be a rolled-up map bound with white ribbon. He nodded to the Reichsführer-SS.

  ‘We have selected most of the American prisoners we require for Parade One,’ Himmler informed the Führer, coming forward. ‘We are nearly at full complement.’

  ‘Good. How many more do you need?’

  ‘Oh, a handful. I would say two weeks would see the selection process complete. We have men in the stalags looking for the final suitable candidates right now.’

  ‘May I ask how many of our own men you have?’ Canaris enquired.

  ‘More than three thousand commandos, with the core deception units numbering four hundred men.’

  ‘Of course you will require troops who have proved themselves on the field. Not in the eastern camps.’

  ‘You needn’t worry about the men of the Waffen-SS, Admiral. They are experienced. Decorated. They are the cream of the Reich. And I am sure you will approve of the field commander.’ Canaris waited. ‘Otto Skorzeny.’

  Hitler raised a cup of lightly coloured tea to his lips and watched.

  ‘Skorzeny is a very capable man,’ Canaris agreed. Skorzeny was, indeed, a good choice for a difficult mission. The Waffen-SS lieutenant-colonel’s recent daring rescue of Mussolini from captivity in Italy had filled newspaper pages for a week. He had taken a hundred men, flown by glider into the mountaintop ski resort where the deposed Fascist leader was being held, overpowered the Italian guards and spirited Mussolini out to Austria in a light aircraft. Although Canaris had little time for the oafish former dictator, it certainly indicated Skorzeny’s courage while clamped in the very jaws of the enemy. Yes, he would be just the man to lead Parade One on the ground. And once he and his commandos had done their work, Rommel’s panzers would sweep in to wipe out what was left of the invasion force. But was Skorzeny clear how his role was likely to end? ‘A very capable man,’ he repeated. ‘And is he aware that the chances of him returning in one piece are comparatively low?’

  ‘He is as aware as you or I. But Admiral, do not write off Otto Skorzeny,’ Himmler replied. ‘If any man in the Reich can accomplish this mission and exfiltrate unharmed, he is that man.’

  ‘Of course, Reichsführer.’

  ‘And –’

  ‘Although it would be preferable,’ Canaris continued, ‘if this time we could keep him away from the newsreel cameras upon his successful return. Such exposure may boost morale among the schoolboys and housewives at home, but it leads to resentment in the ranks.’

  ‘You might be correct,’ Hitler said, lifting the cup of tea back to his mouth with his right hand before Himmler could reply. His left spasmed on the polished wood and a little of the tea spilled on to his fingers. ‘Perhaps you would like to express that to Skorzeny himself?’ He smiled genially. ‘I am joking, Admiral. But Skorzeny could use your expertise on naval matters for the operation.’ Himmler looked as if he was about to loudly object, but Hitler silenced him with a look. Canaris knew that his own presence would be not so much as an expert on naval protocol but as part of the Führer’s long-standing strategy of dividing his supporters as much as his enemies. After all, for now, Himmler saw himself as Mark Antony to Hitler’s Julius Caesar, but it wouldn’t take much to make him Brutus. So Canaris would keep a critical eye on Himmler’s commando force, and Himmler would loathe Canaris even more.

  Yes, a strangely political beast, Adolf Hitler.

  ‘As you wish,’ Canaris replied.

  ‘Has the Abwehr any information on the location of the invasion?’ Hitler asked.

  ‘My Führer, you know that I do not make promises I cannot keep. I cannot promise we will gain that intelligence. Perhaps the SD? Parade?’

  Parade. It would all turn on Parade. Canaris still wanted that man working for the Abwehr, not Himmler. Perhaps planting the seed in the Führer’s mind that the SD were failing to use Parade to his full potential would be the first step on the path.

  ‘We are making every effort,’ Himmler responded. ‘Parade also does not make promises he cannot be sure to keep. He thinks the chances of gaining that information are low. He will, however, be given access to their army Order of Battle the minute their flotilla leaves port. He will transmit the required details to us within an hour.’

  ‘That will be useful information. Undoubtedly. But unless we have the location of the landings at least a day in advance, Skorzeny could have the greatest units in the world but he won’t be in position in time to use them.’ It hardly needed repeating, but he quietly enjoyed doing so.

  ‘No doubt that is correct.’

  ‘Who is Parade, anyway?’ Canaris asked. ‘Is he German?’

  Himmler hesitated, as if weighing up whether he could be trusted with such information. ‘He’s British.’

  ‘One of Mosley’s?’

  ‘A sympathizer, but he kept himself off any party lists. We found him in 1936 and told him he could be more use if he joined their government service.’

  ‘Very astute of you.’

  Hitler placed his cup down and spoke: ‘The quality of his information has been first rate. From now on he is to have his own dedicated channel manned around the clock and you are to put the Abwehr’s resources at Himmler’s disposal, if necessary, to protect him. We can’t let him fall into their hands.’

  ‘He will not, my Führer,’ Himmler replied. ‘I guarantee it.’

  ‘Forgive an old sailor, Reichsführer, but over-certainty is not helpful,’ Canaris interjected, his irritation unusually bubbling to the surface.

  ‘But confidence in the Third Reich is,’ Himmler said.

  ‘No doubt.’ Canaris settled himself. The Reichsführer-SS had never been on a battlefield. And yet here he was pronouncing as if he were personally in charge of the war effort. This man – a chicken farmer by profession – was as opaque as a clean window: this strategy of his wasn’t aimed only at crushing the Allies’ Second Front, it was meant to position him as Hitler’s successor.

  ‘Show me the map,’ Hitler ordered Himmler. The Reichsführer unfurled the large sheet of paper and placed glass paperweights at the corners. It was indeed a map, showing in detail the Atlantic Wall: France’s north-west coast with an inland perimeter eight kilometres deep of barbed wire, machine-gun emplacements, land mines and anti-tank defences. The two generals in the corner completed a circle around the map.

  Canaris – so many years at sea, so many years on land, spent making Germany stronger, protecting her from threats, building her muscles – watched Himmler’s hand tap the map as if he were playing a children’s game with soldiers made from tin.

  ‘Rommel’s forces have been flooding the fields around strategic locations to defend against paratroopers – the weight of their equipment will probably drown them. The panzers are grouped here, awaiting the invasion. We will keep them in reserve in the …’

  One of the generals cleared his throat. ‘My Führer, before we continue, I must reiterate my firm belief that we cannot rely on the information from this spy. We must …’

  ‘Generalfeldmarschall,’ Himmler sighed.

  Hitler held his palm up. ‘No, let him speak his mind.’

  ‘Thank you, my Führer,’ the general continued. ‘I believe that Rommel is correct – if we hold so many panzer divisions this far from the coast, the Allied bombers would tear them to pieces on the roads before they could arrive to repel an amphibious landing. We must spread them along the Atlantic Wall itself. All the way from here to here.’ He prodded the map at the Cotentin peninsula in Normandy and the Pas de Calais.

  ‘Too thin,’ Himmler asserted. ‘They would be spread too thin.’

  ‘Better than not arriving at all. When we took France it was speed that
won the battle, and …’

  Hitler spoke: ‘Generalfeldmarschall, I take your point. We need time to discuss this further, but we have other business now. Shall we speak on Saturday?’

  ‘I would prefer to speak now, my Führer.’

  ‘On Saturday, Generalfeldmarschall.’ The officer bowed. ‘Gentlemen, I have business now with Canaris and Himmler. You may leave us. Please take some tea if you need refreshment.’ The two generals saluted and left the room.

  For a while Hitler sat silently with his fingers knitted in front of his chin. Then his fist slammed into the desk. ‘“I would prefer to speak now, my Führer!” he says. “I would prefer to speak now, my Führer!” I will speak to him when I want to speak to him!’ His left hand twitched and jumped on the desk as he shouted. ‘He talks of how speed won us France – as if I am not the creator of the Blitzkrieg itself!’ His right arm swept through the air. ‘Need I remind him that I rebuilt Germany after he and his aristocratic friends left us kneeling to the French? That his loyalty is to me, not Rommel?’

  ‘I’m sure you don’t, my Führer,’ Himmler replied.

  ‘No. It’s better for him that I don’t.’

  CHAPTER 9

  Cover: Identity

  A) Your own. Advantages: Your story will be mainly true. Only a limited period will have to be explained away. Records will confirm your statements. Disadvantages: The subversive part of your history may be known to the enemy or to persons who may give you away.

  ‘Hello again, sir,’ called the cheery young man behind the till of a well-kept café in Erith, a village south-east of London that had been swallowed into the metropolis, becoming part of it. He drew a stream of steaming tea from an urn. ‘Usual cup?’

  ‘Thanks.’ The smartly dressed man with neatly lacquered light red hair took a rolled-up copy of the Daily Mirror from under his arm and turned it over to study the back page. His lips made little movements as he read the report of a football match.