How in hell will he keep what must have been a hell of a firefight and six dead Germans from coming out?
Jedgar, from J. Edgar Hoover, was el Coronel Martín of the BIS.
Christ, they tried to kill him again!
And he’s right. Allen will be interested in the Argentine agricultural attaché in Berlin.
Unless he already knows him. Which is likely.
Not only was he half in the bag when he started to write this, he obviously had a couple of belts while he was writing it.
And the one thing I can’t do is let Donovan see it.
“It strays a little from the form and substance one expects from an official after-action report, wouldn’t you say, Lieutenant Fischer?”
“Just a little, sir.”
“Things like that tend to upset Director Donovan. So, what I’m going to do, just as soon as my secretary gets here, is dictate a synopsis . . .”
As if on cue, the office door opened and his secretary, a gray-haired middle-aged woman, walked in.
“Good morning, Colonel,” she said.
“. . . and send that to him,” Graham finished. “Good morning, Grace. Would you get your pad and pencil, please?”
“Before or after I get you your wake-up cup of coffee?”
“Coffee won’t be necessary. Lieutenant Fischer and I are going to have breakfast at the Army-Navy Club and put to rest those nasty rumors that the Army and Marine Corps don’t talk to each other.”
She backed out of the office and returned a moment later with a steno graphic notepad in hand.
“Interoffice memorandum, Secret, dictated but not signed, to the director,” Graham dictated. “Subject: Major Cletus Frade, After-Action Report of. The Marine has landed, situation well in hand. Respectfully submitted.”
“Do I get to see it?” Grace asked.
“Not only do you get to see it, but after you have it microfilmed and send that over to State for inclusion in today’s diplomatic pouch to Mr. Dulles in Berne, you get to file it someplace where it can’t possibly come to the attention of the director.”
She shook her head, and said, “Yes, sir.”
“Give the nice lady your briefcase, Len. And the pistol. We don’t want to scare people at the Army-Navy Club.”
V
[ONE]
Führerhauptquartier Wolfsschanze
Near Rastenburg, Ostpreussen, Germany
0655 19 August 1943
Generalleutnant Graf Karl-Friedrich von Wachtstein—a short, slight, nearly bald, fifty-four-year-old—walked briskly down a cinder path from the Führerhauptquartier bunker to the bunker in which Generalfeldmarschall Wilhelm Keitel, Germany’s senior military officer—he was chief of the Oberkommando der Wehrmacht—had his quarters.
Wolfsschanze held fifty bunkers—ugly buildings with eight- and ten-foot-thick concrete walls and roofs. Wehrmacht engineers had begun—in great secrecy and on a cost-be-damned basis—the construction of “Wolf ’s Lair” in 1940. A 3.5-square-kilometer area in the forest east of Rastenburg in East Prussia had been encircled with an electrified barbed-wire fence and minefields.
Next came the erection of another barbed-wire enclosure inside the outer barrier. Only then, within this interior barrier, had construction begun of the artillery-proof and aerial-bomb-proof bunkers. The compound had its own power-generating system, a railway station with a bomb-proof siding for the Führer’s private train, an airstrip (between the inner and outer fences), several mess halls, a movie theater, and a teahouse.
An SS-hauptsturmführer and two enlisted men, all armed with Schmeisser machine pistols, stood outside the heavy steel door to Keitel’s bunker.
“Generalleutnant von Wachtstein to see the generalfeldmarschall. I am ex pected.”
The hauptsturmführer clicked his heels and nodded to one of the enlisted men, who walked quickly to the steel door and pulled it open, standing to attention as von Wachtstein walked into the bunker.
Von Wachtstein found himself in a small room. An oberstleutnant, a stabsfeldwebel, and a feldwebel, who had been sitting behind a simple wooden table, jumped to their feet.
The oberstleutnant gave the straight-armed Nazi salute.
“Good morning, Herr General,” he said. “You are expected. If you would be so good as to accompany the stabsfeldwebel?”
Von Wachtstein followed the warrant officer farther into the bunker to another steel door, which he pulled open just enough to admit his head. He announced, “Generalleutnant von Wachtstein, Herr Generalfeldmarschall.”
“Admit him.”
The door was opened wider. Von Wachtstein marched in, came to attention, and gave the Nazi salute.
Keitel, a tall erect man who was not wearing his tunic, had obviously just finished shaving; there was a blob of shaving cream next to his ear and another under his nose.
“Well?” he demanded.
“Reichsmarschall Göring, Herr Generalfeldmarschall, reports there is some mechanical difficulty with his aircraft, and there is no way he can get from Budapest here before three this afternoon, or later.”
Keitel considered that a moment.
“In this regrettable circumstance, von Wachtstein, I see no alternative to you informing the Führer. He will, of course, want to know of this incident as soon as possible.”
“Jawohl, Herr Generalfeldmarschall.”
The “incident” was the suicide of Generaloberst Hans Jeschonnek, chief of the general staff of the Luftwaffe, who had shot himself just after midnight.
Among his other duties, Jeschonnek, Göring’s deputy, had been charged—personally, by the Führer—with the protection of the rocket establishment at Peenemunde. Hitler believed that once rocket scientist Wernher von Braun “worked the bugs out” of the V2 missile, it would cow the English into suing for peace.
The V2, which had a speed of about a mile a second, carried 1,620 pounds of high explosive in its warhead. It had a range of two hundred miles, enough to reach large parts of England. The bugs that Hitler expected von Braun to soon work out concerned navigation. The best accuracy obtained so far was that half of all missiles launched could be reasonably expected to land within an eleven-mile circle.
The rockets considerably annoyed the British, but they didn’t by any means cow them. Their solution to the problem was to ask the Americans to destroy Peenemunde with B-17 bombers, as Peenemunde was too small a target to be seen by their Lancaster bombers at night.
Jeschonnek was not only unable to stop the Americans, whose bombs just about destroyed the Peenemunde installation, but made things far worse for himself by deciding that a large formation of fighter aircraft near Berlin were American and ordering the Berlin antiaircraft to shoot them down. The attack had knocked nearly one hundred of them from the sky.
Unfortunately for the Reich, they turned out to be German fighter planes. When Jeschonnek learned of this, he put his pistol in his mouth and blew his brains all over the concrete walls of his bunker quarters.
The only question in von Wachtstein’s mind about Jeschonnek’s sui - cide was whether he had killed himself out of shame for failing to protect Peenemunde, or because nearly one hundred of his fighter pilots were dead because of his orders, or whether he did so rather than face Adolf Hitler’s legendary wrath.
On his way back to the Führerhauptquartier bunker, von Wachtstein wondered if Keitel had any inkling at all of the contempt von Wachtstein felt for him. And he felt that not only because the man—referred to by his colleagues as Lakaitel (“Little Lackey”) and as the “Nodding Donkey”—was sending him to face Hitler’s wrath.
Von Wachtstein considered Keitel a disgrace to the German officer corps. While Hitler had appointed himself Oberster Befehlshaber der Wehrmacht—Supreme Commander of the Armed Forces—it was still clearly the duty of his officers to advise him when they thought his judgment was wrong. Keitel never disagreed with anything Hitler decided.
Stalingrad was an example. Keitel never said a word when von Paulus,
nearly out of ammunition and reduced to eating his horses, had requested permission to fight his way out of his encirclement, but Hitler instead ordered him to fight to the last man. Hitler had then promoted von Paulus to field marshal and pointedly told him that no German field marshal had ever surrendered, a clear suggestion that von Paulus was honor bound to commit suicide.
The result of that had been 150,000 German soldiers dead and 91,000 captured—von Paulus among them—when the Red Army ultimately and inevitably triumphed.
Von Wachtstein knew that not only had Keitel tacitly approved the horrors that Himmler’s death squads had visited on Russian soldiers and civilians, but that he had personally ordered that French pilots flying in the Normandie-Niemen fighter regiment of the Soviet air force not be treated as prisoners of war when captured. He ordered them summarily executed.
Von Wachtstein thought again that Keitel—not Adolf Hitler himself—was the real reason he had joined Operation Valkyrie. Hitler was in power solely because Keitel and the clique that surrounded him kept him in power. If Keitel survived the attempt on Hitler’s life, von Wachtstein would happily shoot him himself, or preside over the court of honor to strip him of his field marshal’s baton before standing him against a wall. Or, better yet, hanging him.
SS-Obersturmführer Otto Günsche, a very handsome blond man in his early twenties, who was Hitler’s personal adjutant, was sitting on a Louis XIV chair outside Hitler’s living quarters, obviously waiting for the Führer to appear.
“Günsche, would you please ask the Führer to receive me? It’s quite important.”
“Jeschonnek?”
“Has he heard?”
Günsche shook his head.
“One moment, Herr General, I will ask.”
A moment later, Günsche waved von Wachtstein through the door to Hitler’s living quarters.
Hitler was sitting on a Louis XIV couch, holding a Meissen teacup in his hands.
Von Wachtstein gave the Nazi salute as SS-Obersturmführer Otto Günsche stepped to a corner.
“Good morning, my Führer,” von Wachtstein said.
Hitler returned the salute with a casual wave of the hand.
“Günsche said it was important.”
“My Führer, I regret to inform you that Peenemunde suffered severe damage yesterday afternoon.”
“So I have heard.”
“And a great many of our fighters were shot down yesterday near Berlin.”
“How many is ‘a great many,’ von Wachtstein?”
“Approximately one hundred, my Führer.”
“How did that happen?”
“They were mistaken for American fighters, my Führer.”
“Who made that mistake?”
“General Jeschonnek ordered the attack, my Führer.”
“Günsche, get General Jeschonnek in here.”
“My Führer, General Jeschonnek took his own life just after midnight,” von Wachtstein said. “By pistol shot.”
Hitler looked at him.
“I presume Reichsmarschall Göring has been informed?”
“Yes, my Führer,” von Wachtstein said.
“And where is the reichsmarschall?”
“In Budapest, my Führer,” von Wachtstein said. “He is experiencing some technical difficulty with his aircraft. He expects to be able to get here sometime after three this afternoon.”
“How is it that the reichsmarschall learned of this before I have?”
“My Führer, Generalfeldmarschall Keitel has directed me to contact the reichsmarschall, inform him of General Jeschonnek’s death, and to relay the generalfeldmarschall’s suggestion that Reichsmarschall Göring come here as soon as possible.”
“I see,” Hitler said. “Oh, how well I see.”
And here is where I get to feel the wrath.
“Is there anything else you have to tell me, General von Wachtstein?”
“No, my Führer.”
“Then that will be all, von Wachtstein.”
“Yes, my Führer.”
Am I somehow going to escape the wrath?
Von Wachtstein saluted and walked toward the door.
“Günsche, find Parteileiter Bormann and ask him to come see me im mediately.”
“Jawohl, my Führer.”
“Von Wachtstein!” Hitler barked.
Von Wachtstein, who was almost at the door, stopped and turned.
“Yes, my Führer?”
Now I get the wrath.
“It is not true, General von Wachtstein, that I always lose my temper with the bearer of bad news. Sometimes I understand why the bearer is the bearer.”
He made an impatient gesture of dismissal.
Von Wachtstein did an about-face and left.
[TWO]
Aboard Führerhauptquartier Flug Staffel No. 12
Near Rastenburg, Germany
0655 19 August 1943
Although there was room for ten in the passenger compartment of the twin-engine aircraft, there were only three men in it.
One of them, Rear Admiral Wilhelm Canaris, a short fifty-five-year-old whose face was just starting to jowl, and who was chief of the Abwehr—Intelligence Division—of the German Armed Forces High Command, was privately—very privately—amused at the situation.
Among the most senior officers of the Nazi hierarchy, the competition was fierce for any seat on a “Hitler Squadron” Heinkel 111 flying from Berlin to “Wolf ’s Lair.”
Almost as intense, Canaris thought, as the competition to get a seat beside—or even near—Der Führer in his car or at dinner.
And since the last thing I want is to go to Wolfsschanze or have dinner with the Bavarian Corporal, here I am on my way to Wolfsschanze almost certainly to have to eat at least lunch with him, and leaving behind me at Tempelhof Field ten furious very senior officers who thought they had successfully competed in the race for a seat on the eight o’clock flight.
And they can’t be angry with me, either. For when they make inquiries, they will be told that SS-Obersturmführer Otto Günsche had called, announcing that I was on my way to Tempelhof, and the moment I got there, I was to be put aboard the Heinkel, which would then immediately depart for Wolfsschanze.
When the young and junior officer spoke, as a number of senior officers had learned to their pain, he spoke with the authority of the Führer.
Günsche had called Canaris earlier:
“Heil Hitler! Obersturmführer Günsche, Herr Admiral. The Führer requests your presence at your earliest convenience, Herr Admiral. An aircraft will be waiting for you at Tempelhof. May I tell the Führer that you are hastening to comply with his request, Herr Admiral?”
With Canaris in the plane—a converted bomber, or more accurately one of Germany’s first (1934) commercial transport aircraft, which had been converted into a bomber and then, to move senior officials around, converted back to an airliner—were two officers. One was Canaris’s deputy, Fregattenkapitän Otto von und zu Waching, a small, trim, intense Swabian. The other was Oberst - leutnant Reinhard Gehlen, also trim and intense, but larger in stature than von und zu Waching. Gehlen, the senior intelligence officer of the German General Staff on the Russian front, had been in Canaris’s office when Günsche had called.
There were several reasons Canaris had brought Gehlen along on the trip to Wolfsschanze. It was entirely likely Hitler would like to talk to him, for one. For another, he hadn’t had enough time to talk to him before Günsche had called; Gehlen had returned to Berlin only late the night before. But the most important reason was that the opportunity to show Gehlen the inside of Wolfsschanze seemed to have been dumped in his lap.
Gehlen was an Operation Valkyrie conspirator. More than that, he had volunteered to give his own life if that was what it would take to remove Hitler. The only way Canaris could see to kill Der Führer was to do so at Wolfsschanze, and obviously, having access to the Führerhauptquartier would be necessary to accomplish that.
The compound was protected by t
he Leibstandarte Adolf Hitler Regiment of the SS. They made sure that no one who could possibly put Hitler, or any of the other members at the top of the Nazi power structure, in any danger could get near any of them.
Canaris motioned for Gehlen to come to his seat.
When Gehlen was squatting in the aisle beside him, Canaris said, “I didn’t have time to ask, Gehlen, but are you acquainted with Oberstleutnant Wilhelm Frogger, late of the Afrikakorps?”
“I know who he is, Herr Admiral.”
“There was an interesting message from Mexico City overnight,” Canaris said. “The guards at border crossings from the United States have been alerted to look for him. He has apparently escaped from the prisoner-of-war camp in Mississippi and may be trying to get into Mexico.”
It is equally possible, Canaris thought, since there have been virtually no other escapes from POW camps in the United States, that Frogger said something he should not have—or approached, tried to recruit—the wrong person in the POW camp, and, following an ad hoc, secret, middle-of-the-night court-martial, was convicted of being a traitor, executed, and buried.
Gehlen did not reply.
“I didn’t know him well,” Canaris went on, “but he never struck me as the sort of chap who would succeed in something like escaping from a POW cage.”
“I don’t know what to think, or say, Herr Admiral,” Gehlen said.
“It has been my experience, Gehlen, that if you don’t know what to think, it is best to think some more, and if you don’t know what to say, it is best to say nothing.”
Canaris turned his attention to his briefcase, and Gehlen knew he had been dismissed.
Among senior intelligence officers, there was a saying: “One should not listen to what Canaris says; one should pay attention to what he does not say.”
There were four Heinkel 111s parked at the airfield. One was always kept there against the unlikely possibility that the Führer might suddenly decide to go to Berlin or Berchtesgaden or Vienna. The other three aircraft suggested to Canaris that the three most powerful men in the Nazi hierarchy—Hermann Göring, Heinrich Himmler, and Martin Bormann—also had been summoned to Wolfsschanze. They were the only officers important enough to have their own aircraft kept waiting for them.
The Honor of Spies Page 15