The Warrior-Minister, Schellenberg noted wryly. A typically brilliant contrast; the man looked set for an elegant ball, rather than a trench, but with obvious signs of valour visible. A peacock, perhaps, but a courageous, clever, nihilistic and dangerous one.
“How was your journey?” the nasal voice asked him.
“Fine, Herr General.”
“Any women en route? The usual Schellenberg magic?”
“No, Herr Obergruppenführer it was a straight flight and drive here. Far less dramatic than your arrival, sir.”
At that, Heydrich looked gratified. “Quite. And good, I cannot report success of that kind of my own journey here, and I’d frankly be outraged if you had outperformed me to that degree.”
Britain’s Protector strolled to the table, as relaxed as his deputy had ever seen him, and casually opened a gold cigarette box, carelessly selecting one before propping it into his mouth. He smoked undemonstratively, but with such obvious pleasure that Schellenberg could not help but stare. The intense man who so bowled him over in their professional lives more resembled the man in private; stripped of his uniform and away from the office, the man with the voracious sexual appetite, who demanded Schellenberg’s presence at all hours in the nightclubs of Berlin; whose ungovernable proclivities were displayed with such boozy metanoia. But here, he was calm. There was no hint of self-destruction, merely… shockingly, to Schellenberg… ease. Incredibly, Heydrich was relaxed.
Schellenberg knew better than to drop professional formality. The memory of Heydrich’s eyes boring into his own, and the words ‘you just drank poison. If you wish to live, tell me everything’ were still fresh in his mind.
Heydrich, for his part, was in great spirits after the grand arrival. Skipping in ahead of Himmler had been the crowning point, not to mention acquisitioning nothing less than the Royal Suite of the Savoy for The Office of the Reichsprotektor of Great Britain and Supreme Headquarters of the SS and Security Police and SD. No doubt Himmler would struggle to swallow that particular mouthful.
And dear Schellenberg here, newly humbled.
“Have Müller, Eichmann and the police commanders arrived?” the Reichsprotektor asked presently.
“Yes Obergru.... Reichsprotektor. They are here.”
“Are you hungry, thirsty? Have a drink.”
“Thank you, Herr Reichsprotektor, but I–”
“Have a drink Schellenberg, and make it a good one. Try the champagne, you may as well get used to it before I assign you to Paris, where no doubt you’ll spread your wings a little more than you’ve allowed yourself to in Berlin for some time. And for God’s sake, while we are at it, it is just you and I alone here, and ‘Sir’ or ‘General’ will suffice.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Has Ribbentrop finished bothering you with his asinine plans regarding the Duke of Windsor?”
“No, sir.”
“Don’t worry; I’ll get rid of him. The man’s an idiot; anyone can see the Duke will come to us of his own accord. Being restored to the throne will satisfy his vanity. Göring and I will get rid of Ribbentrop as soon as the Führer finally realises the man’s colossal stupidity, and lack of any semblance of talent or intelligence…”
Satisfied with his pronouncements, Heydrich nodded assuredly to Schellenberg, and turned back to the mirror, self-consciously examining himself.
Schellenberg drank in silence, deciding against making a quip about poison. When Heydrich was good and ready, having satisfied his various personal vanities and collected his thoughts, he turned to the SD Major, noting with satisfaction the files and dossiers in preparation.
“Well then… shall we proceed, Walther?”
They descended from the lofty heights of the Royal rooms to the designated conference suite booked for the conference. Fifteen attendees. The power of life and death in all of continental Western Europe and Britain held between them.
~
The young rebels were sombre and tired as they traipsed down the Mall from the Strand towards Buckingham Palace; the flags and pomp of the tree-lined street being a sad, flat irony. It was almost self-conscious; the stiff-upper lipped British maintaining ‘Rule Britannia, Britannia Rules The Waves’ with the Union Jack and the magnificent approach from Trafalgar Square and the Marble Arch to the palace home of the royals.
Yet the King was in exile, along with Churchill. It was a great illusion of imperial majesty. It was empty.
Alan was cross, and having already mentally given up on the plan, had ceased looking out for the best sniper’s spot along the expected route.
“Look, this plan’s bloody daft if you ask me. How do we even know he’ll bloody come this way?”
Jack’s patience was wearing thin.
“What do you expect, Himmler on the tube?”
“No, but–”
“I somehow can’t see Heinrich Himmler getting off at Hyde Park corner in his pirate clobber, me old mucker.”
“We don’t know for sure he’ll come down here,” William observed reasonably. “Hell they could leave the Savoy north to Leicester Square, down through Piccadilly–”
“Swing by the Ritz for tea and crumpets on the way?” Jack was scornful.
“Jack,” Mary said, in an uncharacteristically relaxed tone. “We are ready to do this. There is no doubt. But is muy importante we do not miss them.”
He softened, as always with her.
“I know, love. But if Göring is there, or even if he’s not… look at the way those bastards just entered…” they approached the palace. Jack gestured at its locked gates – Wehrmacht troops stood sentinel, alongside members of the King’s Guard, for a truly farcical touch.
Occupation was not normality; in such a world, as all is tipped upside down, these are the kind of half-measures and half-hearted compromises that make a mockery of the whole thing. The concept of countries and realms.
“This,” Jack pointed out, gesturing at the palace, then back down the Mall, at the whole magnificent spectacle at the heart of Britain’s Imperial Might. “You think there’s even ’alf a chance these bastards will pass this route up?”
“Fair point,” William agreed.
“After the two hotels themselves, this bit will be the most heavily defended, though.” Alan observed.
“True. So let’s find a spot.”
They strolled down, alongside the great palace and cut off at Green Park, which ran parallel to the Constitution Hill road and palace gardens, leading towards the Wellington Arch.
“Well…” Jack considered. “It’s pretty sparse. There’s nowhere in reach from this side you could sort out a proper Eagle’s Nest. There’s no hide site here, and chances are they’ll have a second lot further back in the park waiting. Looks hopeless, old boy.”
“I agree,” Alan nodded. “Terrible job for a marksman, with the right security positioning. Trees offer no protection, crowds could be blocking the road, no higher ground, this would be a tough call.”
They looked at William and Mary expectantly, the two most opinionated when it came to political or military matters, despite their markedly different means of expression. But both nodded, reluctantly. It was a tough call.
They marched past Wellington Arch, and round to Hyde Park corner itself, where the nervous would-be-assassins stood gazing across the green. They briefly debated commandeering an office from one of the surrounding buildings, but quickly rejected the idea. Buildings so close to the palace and en route to the apparently Göring-commandeered Dorchester would be vetted, perhaps crawling with krauts. As if to highlight this, their slow meander had taken them past more Wehrmacht troops than they had previously seen in all of London at any stage over the previous twelve weeks, and they knew, at once, that their suspicions about the route were correct.
“Right, then…” Alan breathed.
“Then left, then right again, that’s walking, mate,” Jack smiled. But Alan was focused on the task at hand.
“I’ve got a plan. We’ll get th
ese bastards. One minute.”
A further minute up the road, they stood at the southernmost point of the dual carriageway that ran alongside London’s Hyde Park, with The Dorchester several hundred metres further north on the right hand side, by the lane that led traffic south. But here, Alan stopped, a gleam in his eye.
“Do you see it, lads? And you,” he conceded, to Mary, who was not listening. She understood at once.
“That!”
They all stared at the statue that Mary pointed at; stood on a great concrete base, and on slightly raised ground as the park rose to a mound, the eighteen foot high sculpture offered a clear shot at the road from no more than twenty-to-thirty paces away. It was the Wellington Monument. Should the roundabout section not be properly guarded, this was the perfect place from which to strike.
“Achilles, eh?” William whistled. “Bloody hell, Geordie, that might just be the bastard ticket. That might just be it.”
They all stared at the famous statue of Achilles.
“Very fitting,” chuckled William. “The Achilles heel of these shysters is pride. And whoever is not safely inside an armoured car is going to get a Paris arrow.”
“In London,” Jack quipped, grinning. “Don’t think old Homer figured ‘Cockney’ as much of a heroic name though, do you?”
“Or Artful Dodger,” Alan laughed.
“Imagine if he was called ‘Scouser’ – would Liverpool be the city of love?”
“Thirty thousand extra Scouse birds named Helen,” William snorted, and was pinched by Mary, who understood enough to recognise the strange English term for girls.
Even as they sniggered along with him, the realisation of the mission’s nature dawned on them all at once. Alan, sobering, followed their eyes to the statue and nodded.
“If any can honestly say they’re a better marksman than I, say the word now and I will happily run at those bastards emptying my pistol.” He patted his pocket, where lay his trusty Star, which he still lovingly tended, two years after last firing it in anger on Spanish soil.
But Jack and William shook their heads, gravely. They all knew he was the man to do it. The mission’s success superceded any instinct for self-preservation.
“We know, mate. And yeah, we have more chance of surviving a firing squad than rushing the car. But it has to be done.”
“We know,” Mary said. “This mission is worth it.”
But they all rounded on her, and told her it was out of the question. After several minutes of heated arguments, she finally relented, quietening down to a resentful sulk.
It was a death mission. Alan alone had a chance of escaping it.
“Look, I already know what you’ll say, but you know I could do this mission alone, right? Without you lot chucking Molotovs.”
Molotovs was their term for grenades, based on the homemade incendiary bombs or ‘Molotov cocktails’ the Finns used against Russian soldiers earlier that year.
“Can’t do it from further back,” he continued, considering, “… but, if I come up close, get up on the plinth with Achilles, or even just stand next to it, and quickly fire one off as the car approaches–”
Jack told him to forget it.
“No. You’re the man for it. And that’s a damn good spot; it’s just high enough to get a clear shot over the crowd, but unless they’re everywhere it will probably be unguarded. Why guard a statue? It’s not even high. But it’s literally perfect. Hell, it’s barely thirty-five metres, Alan, you could get him with a regular rifle from there.”
“Aye, but we all could. That’s the point. And my job’s safest.”
But Jack was firm.
“No. You. Besides, if your first shot rings true, abandon ship. If there’s enough people, the panic will be massive; drop and run with the crowd. You can stash your bike towards the back of the park, maybe up towards the tube stop on Bayswater Road… it’s still a long shot, but perhaps–”
But Jack’s words died on his tongue. As they continued up the Park Lane, reaching level with the Dorchester Hotel across the way, their attention on the surroundings for the next day had blinded them to the present danger of today. It came in the shape of two scowling, sauntering BUF members.
“Right, the four of you,” the larger of the two boomed. “I want your papers.”
~
Heydrich accepted the salutes of the two guards standing sentinel, exulting as he strode into the meeting.
Seven Einsatzgruppe commanders and a Wehrmacht liaison officer were in the process of settling themselves round the great oak table in the room’s centre, chatting informally, and the Reichsprotektor was immensely gratified to see them all rise to salute him. Alas, Himmler was not yet there. Smart boy, Heini. Either that, or you are sulking.
Heydrich took a seat at the head of the table, and several of the SS exchanged knowing glances.
“A shame the table is not round,” Heydrich boomed with as much authority as his nasal voice would allow. “We would be like King Arthur and the knights.”
The SS men chuckled politely, and looked around, having only just arrived themselves. The opulence of the room drew impressed murmurs from the assembled; many of whom themselves were hardly strangers to the trappings of ostentatious government in the centralised agencies, after Albert Speer’s influence in Berlin had started to make itself felt. An ornate chandelier hung low at what was just above head height for a person seated at the polished oak table that served as the room’s point of gravitas. At Adolf Eichmann’s discretion, ornate chairs had replaced the straight-backed wooden chairs that had seemed oddly out of place with the rest of the room; its thick, velvety carpet on which footsteps could hardly be heard; its thick beamed walls with their gleaming shine; its portraits, which had fittingly been replaced with that of the Führer in pride of place; smaller portraits were hung on the walls around; one of Göring, one of Himmler, and one of Heydrich. The latter picture was noticed by the assembled commanders, and their surprise had been briefly visible. Of those professionally closest to Heydrich, Müller, Lange and Eichmann smiled wryly at the portrait.
Presently, the Reichsführer-SS entered with Joachim Peiper, and the large, looming presence of an Austrian SS and Police leader of Poland, whom Heydrich had drafted to Britain. The group rose, and to a man, saluted the supreme chief of the Schwarze Korps.
“Heil, heil,” Himmler said sternly, pausing briefly to take in the seating arrangement and, barely hiding his distaste, chose the empty seat directly facing Heydrich. That man, however, quickly began the debate, seizing the initiative, to the surprise of those in the Reich Security Main Office whom had seen nothing but outwardly subordinate deference from Heydrich to Himmler in the years they had worked beneath them.
“Herr Gentlemen, thank you for coming to this gravely important meeting,” Heydrich began smoothly. “Please note that we have Field Marshal von Brauchitsch’s personal adjutant here in Major General Siewer, so the Oberkommando des Heeres and the Military Commander are kept fully abreast of administrative proceedings and official directives from the office of the Reichsprotektor of Great Britain, and Chief of the Sicherheitspolizei and Sicherheitsdienst.”
Heydrich’s chief deputies noted the relish in his voice, to varying levels of approval. Gestapo general Müller openly nodded his own, being a strong advocate of assertive leadership and of Heydrich’s qualities being better served as the Führer’s chief paladin; a view Heydrich himself shared.
The Reichsprotektor looked over to Himmler, smiling.
“Regarding SS affairs, the Reichsführer-SS has been assigned to Great Britain for the time being to oversee and accomplish various tasks on behalf of the Führer.”
He waited, expectantly, and Himmler found his voice. His customarily prim demeanour and rather superior manner had surfaced, overcoming the initial disorientation of his subordinate’s uncharacteristic approach. Himmler worded his introduction carefully, ill-at-ease with the concurrent power chains at work and the subtle intricacies of his SS s
ubordinate. As such, he tried to take the lead.
“Gentlemen… This is an important discussion, so let us not waste time. The briefing is as follows, as per Führer directive no.2 for England, as expressed in his mandate to me which you will find in the folder that SS-Obergruppenführer Heydrich has prepared; this will not be further recorded in print. You each have copies of Information G.B and Special Wanted List G.B. compiled extremely well I must say by SD foreign intelligence chief Herr Major Schellenberg – excellent work for which we can thank the Major here.”
Schellenberg bowed to him, ingratiatingly.
“Thank you, Reichsführer.”
Several of the officers banged the table in approval.
“The Herr Obergruppenführer,” Himmler resumed, nodding at Heydrich – rather pointedly, Schellenberg thought – “has spoken to you at length regarding security operations; beyond which, we can pass on to the army the responsibility of winning public opinion, maintaining a well-oiled social machine.”
He gestured with false courtesy to Major-General Siewer.
“The Führer’s will at that the army and its commander von Brauchitsch are to run civil and social matters with a firm but fair hand, in order to peacefully incorporate the British Empire and our Saxon blood brothers into the Greater Reich and establish a Germanic order in Europe and the world. But in order to do that, antisocial elements and enemies must first be dealt with, and this book…” the Special Arrest Lists handbook was raised aloft, “is our handbook, our manual to cut away the cancers afflicting England and the British society.”
Good God, thought Heydrich. Enough. Within five years, you are a dead man. You and your awful wife, and your Jewish cousin alike.
Himmler concluded his brief introduction.
“Obergruppenführer Heydrich and the SD have been preparing for this over the course of several months, and from the reports sent to me for the Führer’s eyes you have all performed well thus far in suppressing hostility. As I am myself not aware of the extent of our intelligence, I will hereby pass on to our Reich Security chief, Herr Heydrich.”
Jackboot Britain: The Alternate History - Hitler's Victory & The Nazi UK! Page 35