by Glenn Meade
The previous year, one of his agents in Spain had got a tip-off that Roosevelt and Churchill were meeting in Casablanca. He radioed the date, time, and place to Berlin. But because the agent was a Spaniard, some idiot in the Abwehr translated Casablanca literally, and reported to his superiors that the Allied leaders were planning a meeting, not in North Africa, but in the White House in Washington.
Canaris blushed at the threat as he put down the letter. “It seems I have little choice. Which of my people had you got in mind?”
“First, I’ll have need of one of your Egyptian agents. Preferably someone living in a remote desert location, not more than a couple of days’ travel from Cairo. Someone entirely trustworthy.”
Canaris shrugged. “I can think of one or two who might be suitable. But go on.”
“Second, I thought Jack Halder would be perfect to lead the initial team we send in to set everything up. He’s one of your best men, knows his way around Cairo, speaks Arabic, and is capable enough to see the whole thing through. He’s also American by birth and can speak English with a flawless American or British accent, thanks to his time at Oxford. All of which may be useful when it comes time to get access to Roosevelt’s quarters.”
Canaris’s face darkened. “So that’s why his file was requested yesterday by the Reichsführer’s office? I thought it had to do with that business in Sicily, months back.”
Schellenberg smiled. “You must admit Halder has an impressive reputation. It’s almost part of military legend how he managed to infiltrate Allied lines while serving in North Africa. A month in Cairo and Alexandria, in the guise of a British officer, gathering intelligence under the very noses of the enemy? Quite a remarkable feat, I would have thought.”
“He’s certainly one of my best, but you’re wasting your time.” Canaris shook his head. “If you’ve read his file you’ll know he’s lost his edge after all that unpleasant business with his father and son. He doesn’t seem to have the interest anymore, and spends most of his time out at a summer cottage his father owned, overlooking the lakeshore at Wannsee. I visited him there last month and he didn’t look happy.”
Schellenberg said grimly, “Yes, all rather tragic, what happened. But what if I could convince him otherwise?”
“It’s still a suicide trap, Walter. You’d be sending him to certain death.”
“I assure you the plan can succeed,” Schellenberg said firmly. “And those who survive the operation will return safely. Furthermore, I think you’ll agree when you’re briefed on the details in full.”
Canaris knew there was little point in arguing. He shrugged wearily in defeat. “Knowing Halder, I suppose there’s a slim chance it could work.”
Schellenberg gave a wintry smile. “It’s got to. Otherwise Himmler assures me the Führer will have our heads.”
“But a week is no time at all to set up a mission like this.”
“Which is why things will have to proceed at a very rapid pace from here on. There’s absolutely no time to lose.”
7
* * *
BERLIN
It was just after eleven that same morning when Schellenberg’ s Mercedes pulled up outside the secluded lakeshore cottage at Wannsee, ten kilometers west of Berlin. The sleepy village on the edge of the Grunewald was a favorite among senior German military officers, many of whom kept magnificent summer homes there. The rainclouds had gone and it was glorious for November, with clear skies and bright autumn sunshine.
The single-story, white-painted wooden cottage looked out onto a perfect view of the lake. It had a picket fence and a small veranda, and Schellenberg smiled when he noticed a woman’s bicycle propped against the fence. He went up the steps, carrying a leather briefcase and his officer’s silver-topped riding crop.
The front door was unlocked and he stepped into a tiny living room. The place was no more than a couple of rooms with a sofa on each side of a stone fireplace, a table and chairs, a tiny kitchen, and a single bedroom leading off. There were some books on the shelves, a brass bust of King Tut, and two silver-framed photographs of a rather striking blond-haired woman and a young boy, but the room was in some disarray. He noticed an unfinished bottle of champagne and two glasses on the coffee table, a pair of women’s shoes and a gray uniform skirt lying discarded on the floor. There were some fresh cotton towels on the back of a chair.
“Halder? Are you there?”
A moment later the bedroom door opened and a pretty female corporal came out. She wore only the top part of her uniform, her bare legs and underwear showing, a look of surprise on her face as she grabbed one of the towels and covered herself.
“Who the devil are you?”
Schellenberg smiled. “I might ask the same question, fräulein. General Walter Schellenberg. And you?”
She looked young and ravishing, her hair tousled, as if she had just climbed out of bed, but when she took in the black SS uniform and heard the name, her expression changed and she flushed with embarrassment.
“Hei—Heidi Schmidt, Wehrmacht Nursing Corps.”
“Charmed, I’m sure. Relax, Heidi, you’re not on parade. Perhaps you can tell me where Halder is.”
“He—he said he was going for a run and a swim.”
“Is he a friend of yours?”
“We—we met the other night in a bar in Wannsee,” the girl stammered. “He seemed quite down, so I—I cycled over here after my duty to see if he was all right.”
Schellenberg grinned. “Brought out the maternal instinct in you, did he? Still, I’m glad to see someone’s keeping him company. Heaven knows he needs it right now. Is that your bicycle I saw outside?”
“Yes, sir.”
Schellenberg bent to pick up the discarded skirt with the tip of his riding crop, and held it out to the girl. “Well now, Heidi. I think it might be wise if you got dressed and ran along. Halder and I have some business to attend to and I really don’t want us to be disturbed.”
• • •
Jack Halder sweated as he ran along the lakeshore. His shirt was off, his tanned bare chest covered in small scars, and he wore sneakers and a pair of loose cotton training pants. There were touches of premature gray in his hair and the beginnings of wrinkles around his eyes, but the same wry smile was fixed permanently in place, though it looked a little solemn that morning. He clutched a stopwatch in his hand, and when he reached some rocks at the edge of the shore he halted, clicked the stopwatch, and looked at the result with dismay.
“Damn it, you can do better than that, Halder.”
He started to run again, gave a burst of power, the sweat pumping now after a brisk five-kilometer run. As he rounded the cove and reached the rocks he saw the black-uniformed officer sitting in the sand, a grin on his face, a cigarette in his hand.
Halder came to a halt, took several deep breaths, and stared over at Schellenberg, who simply smiled. “Well, Jack, trying to get into shape again, I see. Always a good sign. I had thought of joining you for a swim, but I think I’ll give it a miss. Here, you need this more than me.”
Schellenberg had a towel in his hand and he tossed it to Halder, who caught it and wiped the perspiration from his face. “You louse, what do you want?”
“That’s no way to greet an old comrade.” Schellenberg glanced at Halder’s scarred chest. “You seem to have healed quite nicely. And by the way, I rather liked the young lady who’s been giving you comfort.” Then he said, more seriously, “Did she help ease the pain any, my friend?”
“That’s none of your bloody business.”
“You’re quite right.” Schellenberg stood, wiped sand from his uniform, and picked up his briefcase. “Now, how about we go up to the cottage? There’s something I’d like to discuss.”
• • •
Schellenberg poured the last of the champagne into two flute glasses and handed one to Halder, who shook his head.
“Not for me. What do you want?” He had showered and changed into a shirt and slacks, and sat on th
e sofa.
“Just a little chat between friends,” Schellenberg answered. “Military business, I’m afraid.”
“The last time I heard those lines was over four months ago. You had Canaris have me pose as an American intelligence officer to help rescue one of your SS generals from an interrogation post behind enemy lines in Sicily. I ended up with a bullet in my leg and grenade shrapnel in my chest.”
Schellenberg sipped from his glass. “Unfortunate that, but no one could have played the role as believably as you, which was why we needed you in the first place. And you lived up to my expectations and succeeded admirably. You’re certain you won’t have some champagne, Jack? It’s really delicious.”
“You’re beginning to irritate me.”
Schellenberg shrugged and glanced at the bottle. “An excellent Dom Perignon, ’36. You’re looking after yourself, I see.”
“For your information, the champagne was a gift from a friend.”
“No need to explain.” Schellenberg plucked a book from one of the shelves. “The Collected Works of Carl Jung. Rather depressing reading, his philosophy, I would have thought. Old Carl isn’t exactly one for a joke and a laugh.”
“It goes with the mood I’m in right now.”
“What are we going to do with you, my friend?” Schellenberg replaced the book on the shelf and looked at the silver-framed photograph of the woman. He turned back. “You loved her very much, didn’t you, Jack?”
Schellenberg saw a terrible grief flood Halder’s face, a fathomless sadness in his eyes. He stood and said awkwardly, “The Wehrmacht girl you met, she’s just a nice kid. Someone I got drunk with and poured out my soul to. Maybe I finally needed to talk to someone. And if you really want to know, she didn’t help ease the pain.”
“It hasn’t been easy for you these last few years, has it? Losing a young wife, and then what happened in Hamburg. I was truly sorry to hear about your father,” Schellenberg said quietly. “I mean that. I hope you’ll accept my condolences. I hear the boy’s still recovering?”
“And will be for a long time. All water under the bridge now. Let’s leave it be.”
Schellenberg put down his glass and became more businesslike. “But you’re still angry, and quite rightly so. And it’s an anger I can put to good use.” He undid the straps on his briefcase, plucked out a file, and laid it on the table.
“What’s that?”
“It concerns what happened to your father and son. Our latest intelligence reports on the Allied fire-bombing raids on Hamburg.”
“What about it?”
“It seems the raids had the highest approval of the British and American governments. Both agreed they wanted absolute and total destruction, to teach Germany a savage lesson. It turned out to be the worst single act of devastation in world history. Do you know the full extent of the damage?”
Halder said angrily, “Look, Schellenberg, all I know is I lost my father, and my son’s burned so badly he’ll be lucky if he ever walks again.”
“Your father certainly chose the wrong time to visit relatives in Hamburg with the boy.”
Halder was bitter. “I was on my back in hospital, recovering after that little escapade you arranged in Sicily, remember? Pauli was being looked after by his grandfather.”
“Not for a moment can you blame me for what happened, Jack. The Allies committed an utterly insane act. Ten square kilometers of Germany’s second city wiped out, over sixty thousand dead, mostly civilians, and a hundred thousand injured. The use of incendiary fire-bombs was deliberate, to cause maximum civilian casualties. I hear the city was like a scene from hell—people burning like torches, the heat so intense the flaming asphalt made the streets look like rivers of fire. And the feeling is the Allies may intend the same for Berlin, sooner rather than later. Goebbels has already ordered the evacuation of a million citizens.”
Halder ignored the file, a harsh look on his face. “Get to the point.”
“There’s a matter I wish to discuss. Something rather daring and dangerous that perhaps may put a little life back into that tortured soul of yours. Canaris has offered to loan you to me, if you agree.”
“I don’t work for the SD. And the answer’s no, whatever it is. I’m not interested. Me, I’m content to sit out the rest of the war in Berlin.”
“And then what? Wait for the Allies to hang you as a traitor? You may be a German citizen, but you’re American-born, and with your war record it’s quite a likely scenario. Where would your son be then? He needs you, Jack. Even more so now. And do you really think Canaris could allow you to relax in Berlin? Now that your wounds are healed, he’d use you every chance he got, especially with the war going the way it is. Which rather diminishes your chances of remaining alive. On the other hand, if you help me with this mission, we’ll wipe the slate clean and you’re free to go.”
“You mean leave the Abwehr?”
“I mean leave Germany. Get away from the war, if that’s what you wish.” Schellenberg saw the surprise on Halder’s face. “You have my word on it, Jack. And Himmler’s and the Führer’s. You and your son can start a new life together, somewhere safe and far from here.”
Halder frowned. “And what’s the price I’ve got to pay?”
Schellenberg smiled. “You’re ahead of the posse, as they say.”
“So tell me.”
And Schellenberg told him.
• • •
Halder looked bewildered for several moments, then he laughed. “Walter, you’re definitely going crazy in your old age.”
“I assure you, the plan’s feasible. And you know me, I always do my homework thoroughly.”
“The admiral knows about this?”
“It’s to be a joint operation. Unusual, I know, but necessary under the circumstances. I shall take personal command of the planning and briefing.”
Halder crossed to the window, ran a hand through his hair, and looked back. “Kill Roosevelt? I know you think I’m an adventurer, but believe me, that doesn’t include a vocation for suicide. Whoever accepted the mission would have about as much chance of surviving as a one-legged man of escaping a forest fire.”
Schellenberg laughed. “An interesting comparison, but hardly valid. The plan is quite simple, really. Once you and the team reach Cairo, you’d be established in a safe house. Any equipment you might need to move around the city with relative freedom—Allied uniforms and vehicles—should already have been secured for you by my agents, and they’ll provide any further help you might need. All you have to do is affirm exactly where Roosevelt will be quartered—most likely at the Mena House—and find a weakness in their security that can be breached. You’ll also need to secure a small airfield, about ten kilometers south of the Giza pyramids, that’s largely unprotected. Once your objectives have been achieved, you radio us. When our SS paratroops land you lead them to the target and leave the rest to them. After that, we get you out.”
“How?”
“The same way Skorzeny’s men will get out—by air.”
“You mean if anyone’s lucky enough to survive. And why the devil do you need me?”
“I told you, my agents in Cairo may be cunning fellows, but they would be incapable of handling such a mission all by themselves. You, on the other hand, are a perfect candidate. You’ve already worked deep behind enemy lines in Egypt, speak fluent Arabic, and you’re familiar with Cairo.”
“There have to be better reasons than that. You’re bound to have agents who speak Arabic and know the city better than me.”
Schellenberg shook his head. “Not many, actually, and certainly not of your caliber with a proven track record. You’ve impersonated American and British officers to perfection many times, so a repeat performance shouldn’t be beyond your abilities.” He opened his briefcase and unfolded a map on the table. “I’ve brought along a map to help you refamiliarize yourself with Cairo.”
“You’re getting ahead of yourself. I haven’t decided on anything yet. And y
ou’ve told me nothing about the rest of the team.”
“I anticipate three others—two SS men and a woman.”
“Tell me about them.”
“The two SS are Major Dieter Kleist and Feldwebel Hans Doring. Both serving with Otto Skorzeny’s commando group.”
“Dieter Kleist?” Halder looked across with contempt. “He’s a ruthless animal, the worst kind of brute in uniform. I came across his work in the Balkans. He had the nasty habit of shooting suspected partisans out of hand, and raping his female prisoners before he put them out of their misery.”
“Perhaps, but even a brute has his uses. He’s a very efficient and deadly weapon, our Kleist, recently transferred to Skorzeny’s command, and an excellent man in the field. He also speaks reasonable English and Arabic, and he’s acquainted with Egypt. He once worked for a German company, surveying for oilfields.”
“What about Doring’s background?”
“He spent some time in the Middle East before the war, as a driver-mechanic for a German archeological crew. Now he’s a specialist in covert operations behind enemy lines, and comes highly recommended.”
“By whom?”
“Skorzeny himself. Himmler insists on having Skorzeny’s SS as part of the first team. I’m sure that between the lot of you, you should be able to do the necessary business.”
Halder shook his head. “So far, I still don’t like it very much. What about the woman?”
“Her name’s Rachel Stern.”
• • •
Halder was thunderstruck. After a long silence Schellenberg lit a cigarette. “Understandably, you’re shocked. I believe you once knew her.”
Halder was still white-faced and didn’t reply. Schellenberg said, “What’s the matter?”