‘Of course, Reichsführer.’
Berger clicked his heels and went out. Himmler picked up his pen and started to write again.
The Mercedes moved along the Kurfurstendamm as snow started to fall again. There was evidence of bomb damage everywhere and with the blackout and dusk falling, the prospect was less than pleasing.
‘Look at it,’ Schellenberg said. ‘Used to be a great city this. Art, music, theatre. And the clubs, Mr Devlin. The Paradise and the Blue Nile. Always filled with the most beautifully dressed transvestites you’ve ever seen.’
‘My tastes never ran that way,’ Devlin told him.
‘Nor mine,’ Schellenberg laughed. ‘I always think they’re missing out on a good thing. Still, let’s eat. I know a little restaurant in a back street not far from here where we’ll do reasonably well. Black market, but then they do know me, which helps.’
The place was homely enough with no more than a dozen tables. It was run by a man and his wife who obviously did know Schellenberg well. The general apologized for the dearth of corned beef sandwiches, but was able to produce a mutton broth, lamb, potatoes and cabbage and a bottle of Hock to go with it.
The booth they sat in was quite private and as they finished the meal Schellenberg said, ‘Do you really think it is possible, this thing?’
‘Anything’s possible. I remember a case during the Irish Revolution. Nineteen twenty, it was. The Black and Tans had captured a fella called Michael Fitzgerald, an important IRA leader. Held him in Limerick Prison. A man called Jack O’Malley who served in the British Army in Flanders as a captain got his old uniform out, dressed up half a dozen of his men as soldiers and went to Limerick Prison with a fake order that said they wanted Fitzgerald at Dublin Castle.’
‘And it worked?’
‘Like a charm.’ Devlin poured the last of the wine into both their glasses. ‘There is one problem here though, a very important problem.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘Vargas.’
‘But that’s taken care of. We’ve told him we must have firm information as to where they intend to move Steiner.’
‘You’re convinced they will move him?’
‘Certain of it. They won’t continue to keep him in the Tower. It’s too absurd.’
‘So you think Vargas will come up with the right information?’ Devlin shook his head. ‘He must be good.’
‘He always has been in the past, so the Abwehr have found. This is a Spanish diplomat, Mr Devlin, a man in a privileged position. No ordinary agent. I have had his cousin, this Rivera fellow, thoroughly vetted.’
‘All right, I accept that. Let’s say Rivera’s as clean as a whistle, but who checks out Vargas? There is no one. Rivera is just a conduit through which the messages come and go, but what if Vargas is something else?’
‘You mean a neat British Intelligence plot to entice us in?’
‘Well, let’s look at the way they would see it. Whoever drops in needs friends in London, some sort of organization. If I was in charge on the Brit side, I’d give a little rope, let things get started, then arrest everybody in sight. From their point of view, quite a coup.’
‘Are you telling me you’re having second thoughts? That you don’t want to go?’
‘Not at all. What I’m saying is that if I do, I have to go on the supposition that I’m expected. That Vargas has sold us out. Now that’s a very different thing.’
‘Are you serious?’ Schellenberg demanded.
‘I’d look a right idiot if we organize things on the basis that Vargas is on our side and I get there and he isn’t. Tactics, General, that’s what’s needed here. Just like chess. You’ve got to think three moves ahead.’
‘Mr Devlin, you are a remarkable man,’ Schellenberg told him.
‘A genius on my good days,’ Devlin told him solemnly.
Schellenberg settled the account and they went outside. It was still snowing lightly as they walked to the Mercedes.
‘I’ll take you to Ilse’s now and we’ll meet up in the morning.’ At that moment the sirens started. Schellenberg called to his driver. ‘Hans, this way.’ He turned to Devlin. ‘On second thought, I think we’ll go back to the restaurant and sit in their cellar with the other sensible people. It’s quite comfortable. I’ve been there before.’
‘Why not?’ Devlin said and turned with him. ‘Who knows? They might find us a bottle of something in there.’
Behind them, gunfire was already rumbling like thunder on the edge of the city.
5
As they approached Schellenberg’s office at Prinz Albrechtstrasse, the morning air was tainted with smoke. ‘They certainly hit the target last night,’ he said.
‘You can say that again,’ Devlin replied.
The door opened and Ilse Huber nodded good morning. ‘There you are, General. I was a little worried.’
‘Mr Devlin and I spent the night in the cellar of that restaurant in Marienstrasse.’
‘Rivera’s on his way,’ she told him.
‘Oh, good, send him in when he arrives.’
She went out and ten minutes later ushered Rivera in. The Spaniard stood there clutching his hat, nervously glancing at Devlin.
‘You may speak freely,’ Schellenberg said,
‘I’ve had another message from my cousin, General. He says they are moving Steiner from the Tower of London to a place called St Mary’s Priory.’
‘Did he give an address for that?’
‘He just said it was in Wapping, by the river.’
Devlin said, ‘A remarkable fella, your cousin, to come up with such a prime piece of information so easily.’
Rivera smiled eagerly. ‘José is certain his information is correct, señor. He got it from a friend of his, a soldier in the Scots Guards. They have a company serving in the Tower at the moment. They use the public houses nearby and my cousin …’ Rivera shrugged. ‘A matter of some delicacy.’
‘Yes, we understand, Rivera.’ Schellenberg nodded. ‘All right, you can go for now. I’ll be in touch when I need you.’
Ilse showed him out and came back. ‘Is there anything you’d like me to do, General?’
‘Yes, find me one of those gazetteers from the files. You know the sort of thing. London street-by-street. See if this place is mentioned.’
She went out. ‘I used to know Wapping well at one stage of my career,’ Devlin said.
‘With the IRA?’
‘The bombing campaign. They were always having a go, the hard men, those who’d blow up the Pope if they thought it would help the cause. Nineteen thirty-six, there was an active service unit who set a bomb or two off in London. You know the sort of thing? Women, kids, passers-by? I was used as an enforcer in those days and the men at the top wanted it stopped. Lousy publicity, you see.’
‘And this is when you knew Wapping?’
‘A friend from my youth in County Down. Friend of my mother’s actually.’
‘Who is this friend?’
‘Michael Ryan. Ran a safe house. Not active at all. Very deep cover.’
‘And you took care of this active service unit?’
‘There were only the three of them.’ Devlin shrugged. ‘They wouldn’t be told. After that, I went to Spain. Joined the Lincoln-Washington Brigade. Did my bit against Franco till the Italians took me prisoner. Eventually the Abwehr pulled me out.’
‘And this friend of yours in Wapping, this Ryan – I wonder what happened to him?’
‘Still in deep, old Michael, I should imagine. He wouldn’t want to know any more. That kind of man. Had doubts about the use of violence. When the Abwehr sent me to Ireland in forty-one I met a friend of his in Dublin. From what he told me I know for a fact the IRA didn’t use Mick during their bombing campaign in England at the beginning of the war.’
‘Could this be of any use?’ Schellenberg suggested.
‘Jesus, General, you’ve got the cart running before the horse, haven’t you?’
Ilse
came in with an orange-coloured book. ‘I’ve found it, General, St Mary’s Priory, Wapping. See, right on the edge of the Thames.’
Schellenberg and Devlin examined the map. ‘That isn’t going to tell us much,’ Devlin said.
Schellenberg nodded. ‘I’ve just had a thought. Operation Sea Lion, nineteen forty.’
‘You mean the invasion that never was?’
‘Yes, but it was thoroughly planned. One task the SD was given was a comprehensive survey of London. Buildings, I’m talking about. Their usefulness if London were occupied.’
‘You mean which place was suitable for Gestapo Headquarters? That sort of thing?’
Schellenberg smiled amiably. ‘Exactly. There was a listing of many hundreds of such places on file and plans, where obtainable.’ He turned to Ilse Huber. ‘See what you can do.’
‘At once, General.’
Devlin sat by the window, Schellenberg at his desk. They lit cigarettes. Schellenberg said. ‘You said last night you preferred to proceed with the notion of Vargas being a traitor.’
‘That’s right.’
‘So what would you do? How would you handle it?’
‘Easy – a stroke of genius hit me at the height of the bombing, General. We don’t tell Vargas I’m going.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘We extract what information we need. In fact, we probably have enough already. Then, once a week, Rivera asks for more information on your behalf. Steiner’s regime at the Priory, the guard system, that sort of thing, only I’ll already be in London. Now, Walter, my old son, you’ve got to admit that’s good.’
Schellenberg laughed helplessly, then got up. ‘Very good – bloody marvellous. Let’s go down to the canteen and have a coffee on it.’
Later, Schellenberg called for his Mercedes and they drove to the Tiergarten and walked around the lake, feet crunching in the light powdering of snow.
‘There’s another difficulty,’ Devlin said. ‘The Special Branch managed to hunt me down when I was in Norfolk. A little late in the day as it happened, but they did and one of the things that helped was the fact that as an Irish citizen I had to be entered on the aliens’ register by the local police and that required a passport photo.’
‘I see. So what are you saying?’
‘A complete change in appearance – a real change.’
‘You mean hair colouring and so on?’
Devlin nodded. ‘Add a few years as well.’
‘I think I can help there,’ Schellenberg said. ‘I have friends at the UFA film studios here in Berlin. Some of their make-up artists can achieve remarkable things.’
‘Another thing – no aliens’ register this time. I was born in County Down which is in Ulster and that makes me officially a British citizen. We’ll stick with that when it comes to false papers and so on.’
‘And your identity?’
‘Last time I was a war hero. A gallant Irishman who’d been wounded at Dunkirk and invalided out.’ Devlin tapped the bullet scar on the side of his head. ‘This helped the story, of course.’
‘Good. Something like that then. What about method of entry?’
‘Oh, parachute again.’
‘Into England?’
Devlin shook his head. ‘Too chancy and if I’m seen, it’s bound to be reported. No, make it Ireland like last time. If they see me there, no one gives a bugger. A stroll across the border into Ulster, the breakfast train to Belfast and I’m on British soil.’
‘And afterwards?’
‘The boat. Belfast to Heysham in Lancashire. Last time, I had to take the other route from Larne to Stranraer in Scotland. The boats get full, just like the train.’ Devlin grinned. ‘There’s a war on, General.’
‘So, you are in London. What happens then?’
Devlin lit a cigarette. ‘Well, if I keep away from Vargas, that means no help from any of your official sources.’
Schellenberg frowned. ‘But you will need the help of others. Also weapons, a radio transmitter because without the ability to communicate …’
‘All right,’ Devlin said. ‘So a few things are going to have to be taken on trust. We were talking about my old friend in Wapping earlier, Michael Ryan. Now the odds are good that he’s still around and if he is, he’ll help, at least with suitable contacts.’
‘Such as?’
‘Michael ran a cab and he worked for the bookies on the side. He had a lot of underworld friends in the old days. The kind of crooks who’d do anything for money, deal in guns, that sort of thing. That IRA active service unit I had to knock off in London back in thirty-six – they used underworld contacts a lot, even to buy their explosives.’
‘So, this would be excellent. The help of your IRA friend and the assistance, when needed, of some criminal element. But for all you know, your friend could no longer be in London?’
‘Or killed in the Blitz, General. Nothing is guaranteed.’
‘And you’re still willing to take a chance?’
‘I reach London, I assess the situation because I have to do that however clever the plan looks that we put together here. If Michael Ryan isn’t around, if it simply looks impossible, the whole thing, I’m on the next boat back to Belfast and over the border and safe in Dublin before you know it.’ Devlin grinned. ‘I’ll give you the bad news from your Embassy there. Now could we go back to your office? It’s so damn cold I think my bollocks are going to fall off.’
In the office, after lunch, they started again, Ilse sitting in the corner taking notes.
Schellenberg said, ‘Say, for argument’s sake, that you got Steiner out one dark evening in London.’
‘Broke him out of the Priory, you mean?’
‘Exactly. And that’s only the first step. How do you get him back? Do you take him to Ireland? Return the way you came?’
‘Not so healthy that,’ Devlin said. ‘De Valera, the Irish Prime Minister, has played it very cleverly. Kept Ireland out of the war, but that doesn’t mean he’s putting himself out for your people. All the Luftwaffe crews who’ve ended up in Ireland have been put in prison camps. On the other hand, if an RAF plane strays and crash-lands they usually give them bacon and eggs for breakfast and send them home.’
‘And he’s been imprisoning IRA members, I understand.’
Devlin said, ‘In forty-one, I got back on a neutral boat, a Brazilian cargo ship from Ireland that put in at Lisbon, but that’s a tricky one. Nothing guaranteed at all.’
Ilse said diffidently, ‘Surely, the moment the Colonel is out, they’ll be looking for him.’
‘Exactly,’ Devlin said. ‘Police, Army, Home Guard, the Security Services. Every port watched, especially the Irish routes.’ He shook his head. ‘No, once out we’ve got to leave England almost immediately. Be on our way before they know what’s hit them.’
Schellenberg nodded, thinking about it. ‘It occurs to me that one of the cleverest things about Operation Eagle was the way Colonel Steiner and his men were transported to England.’
‘The Dakota, you mean?’ Devlin said.
‘An RAF Dakota which had crash-landed in Holland and was put back into service. To all intents, a British plane flying home if anyone saw it and all it had to do to make the drop was fly in under eight hundred feet because many sections of the English coast have no low-level radar.’
‘Worked like a charm,’ Devlin said. ‘Except on the way back. Gericke, the pilot, was in the same hospital as me. He was shot down by a Luftwaffe night-fighter.’
‘Unfortunate, but an intriguing thought. A small plane, flying in under radar. A British plane. A suitable landing place. It could have you and Steiner out and safely in France in no time at all.’
‘And pigs might fly, General. Not only would you need a suitable plane. You’d need the landing place. May I also point out you’d need an exceptional pilot.’
‘Come now, Mr Devlin, anything is possible. We have what’s called the Enemy Aircraft Flight where the Luftwaffe tests captured Brit
ish and American planes of every kind. They even have a B17. I’ve seen it.’ He turned to Ilse. ‘Get in touch with them at once. Also extend your research on Operation Sea Lion to cover any sites in the general area of London that we intended to use for covert operations, landings by night, that sort of thing.’
‘And a pilot,’ Devlin told her. ‘Like I said, something special.’
‘I’ll get right on to it.’
As she turned, there was a knock at the door and a young woman in SS auxiliary uniform came in carrying a large file. ‘St Mary’s Priory, Wapping. Was that what the General wanted?’
Ilse laughed triumphantly. ‘Good girl, Sigrid. Wait for me in the office. I’ve got something else for you.’ She turned and handed the file to Schellenberg. ‘I’ll get her started on the other thing.’
As she reached the door, Schellenberg said, ‘Another possibility, Ilse. Check the files on those British right-wing organizations that flourished before the war, the ones that sometimes had Members of Parliament on their books.’
She went out and Devlin asked, ‘And who in the hell would they be, General?’
‘Anti-Semitics, people with Fascist sympathies. Many members of the British aristocracy and upper classes rather admired the Führer, certainly before the war.’
‘The kind who were disappointed not to see the panzers driving up to Buckingham Palace?’
‘Something like that.’ Schellenberg opened the bulky file, extracted the first plan and opened it. ‘So Mr Devlin, there you have it in all its glory. St Mary’s Priory.’
Asa Vaughan was twenty-seven years of age. Born in Los Angeles, his father a film producer, he had been fascinated by flying from an early age, had taken his pilot’s licence even before going to West Point. Afterwards he had completed his training as a fighter pilot, performing so well that he was assigned to take an instructors’ course with the Navy at San Diego. And then came the night his whole world had collapsed, the night he’d got into a drunken brawl in a harbourside bar and punched a major in the mouth.
Eagle Has Flown, The Page 8