by Jana Petken
Chapter Forty
Anthony Eden, the Foreign Secretary, and Stuart Menzies, the head of MI6, walked into the conference room together. Both men were accompanied by their secretaries, who attended presumably to take notes of the meeting. Max was not surprised so few people were present. The mission was evidently a huge deal, but it was also designated top secret.
The discussion began not with the subject of Max’s impending mission to France but with Hitler’s disasters at Stalingrad and the Allies’ Italian Campaign. The Foreign Secretary was animated with an indelible smile on his lips that held firm even as he spoke; a rare sight for a politician nowadays.
“… Hitler’s withdrawal from Kursk in July has forced the Germans to go on the defensive in Russia. The Red Army has already begun the liberation of Western Russia while in Italy, General Alexander’s Fifteenth Army Group, headed by General Clark’s Fifth Army and Montgomery’s Eighth Army, is doing better than expected. Gentlemen, Herr Hitler is now fighting the war on two fronts, and I believe he will not be able to maintain his occupations in Western and Eastern Europe for much longer.” Eden nodded to Stuart Menzies to continue.
“Despite our recent strategic disagreement with the Americans over whether to invade France now or stick with our policy to centre our operations in the Mediterranean, we have, I believe, reached a mutually approved plan.”
Menzies poured water from a jug into his glass, but continued to talk as he did so, “Great Britain and America have committed most of our combined forces to an invasion of France early next year, but we are also fully involved together this year to take Italy off the table.”
“Out of the conflict altogether?” Heller asked Menzies.
“That’s the plan, Jonathan. Popular support in Italy for the war has been declining since Mussolini’s arrest and imprisonment, and we believe we are now in position to remove Italy from Germany’s clutches.”
Menzies then addressed Max directly, bringing him into the conversation for the first time. “Major Vogel, yesterday, at an Allied military camp at Cassibile, Sicily, Brigadier-General Castellano of Italy met with General Eisenhower’s Chief of Staff, General Bedell Smith. In the meeting, both generals signed an agreement, which stated that the Kingdom of Italy was surrendering to the Allies. This event was, and still is, top secret, and it won’t become public knowledge in Italy for another four days when Italy’s new Prime Minister Badoglio will make an official announcement to the Italian people.”
Max was pleased but not astounded by the news; he’d seen and spoken to hundreds of demoralised Italian prisoners in Algeria and Tunisia. They’d been short on weapons, aircraft and men, and after constantly withdrawing from their defensive positions, their officers were utterly fed up with the whole thing. To hear today that one of the Axis countries had officially capitulated lifted his spirits no end. Now, the Allied Generals would seriously eye the European Continent and make their plans to invade with one great, consolidated force.
Eden continued, “We are assuming the man you are going to meet with in Paris will not yet know about yesterday’s armistice agreement in Sicily. It will be your job to not only repeat to him what we are telling you today, but also to leave no doubt in his mind that we are gaining the upper hand in this war, period. You, Major, will also falsely inform the gentleman that General Eisenhower himself was present at the surrender, and accompanied by as much pomp and ceremony as you want to invent. He must get our version of the event and not Herr Goebbels’ embellished list of reasons as to why this is not a catastrophe for the German people.”
“Yes, sir, of course.” Max, intoxicated by Anthony Eden’s enthusiastic response over Italy’s momentous surrender to the Allies, felt his expensive dinner dancing in his digestive tract. This was a real breakthrough – a pivotal development that would change the dynamics of the war – a game-changer.
Although eager to know the name of the man he was to meet with in Paris, Max was savvy enough to bite his tongue. Heller had once told him, ‘One must wait for announcements from a member of His Majesty’s government. Mere mortals should not steal their leaders’ thunder.’ Max glanced at Heller for a clue, but in return got a glare, saying, don’t ask me.
For another half an hour, the men continued to speak about Mussolini’s demise and their ambitions for Italy’s new role in the war, but then to Max’s relief, they turned their thoughts to France.
“Max, before Mike Preston was killed, he and his team had prepped for this meeting tomorrow in Paris,” Menzies said. “I’m sorry you’re being thrown in at the deep end, but arrangements have been made and we cannot afford to miss an opportunity to speak to such a high-ranking German official.”
For God’s sake, say the name, Max thought, as he nodded dutifully.
“You were the obvious choice,” Menzies added.
“I presume if I’m the obvious choice, I’ll be dealing with a German-speaking man?” Max dared to say.”
Anthony Eden smiled. “Correct. The German in question is Admiral Wilhelm Canaris.”
Max looked at each man in turn, his mouth gaping open, his tongue suddenly covered in cotton, his brain frazzled. “Canaris … the head of the Abwehr?” he finally managed to stutter. “Sorry for my surprise, but I never imagined…”
“Good,” Heller said, interrupting Max. “No one is supposed to imagine he could be playing both sides.”
Max, stunned to hear that the man in question was Stuart Menzies’ nemesis in Germany, stared at the file that Heller had pushed towards him. The photograph of the white-haired man in his fifties, wearing the uniform of the German Kriegsmarine with his rank of admiral clearly visible on his shoulder epaulettes, was one he had seen many times both before and during the war.
Even before Hitler’s invasion of Poland, Canaris was known as an inveterate nationalist who had been quoted as saying numerous times; ‘I feel that Adolf Hitler’s party is much better than anything that has gone before.’ As far back as the Brownshirts’ demise and their leader’s assassination in the Röhm putsch, Canaris had preached for wholehearted cooperation with the new regime.
As he scrolled down the page, Max came to a telling paragraph that had encompassed MI6’s view of the Abwehr chief. In it, Canaris was again appealing to the German military to support Hitler. Max raised his head to his superiors, who had sat in silence as he’d read excerpts from the documents. “I’ve been studying Admiral Canaris for years. He was quoted many times, appealing to the military to recognise the Führer. I’m hardly surprised by anything nowadays, but this is quite the revelation.”
“Your shock is understandable, Major. It’s hard to conceive that the man who first suggested the use of the Star of David to identify Jews is an anti-Nazi, British Intelligence asset, is it not?” Anthony Eden said with a victorious smirk.
“Not quite an asset, sir,” Menzies contradicted Eden like a gentle schoolmistress. “Canaris turned from Hitler because he believed from the outset that Germany was going to lose another major conflict. We must remember that whatever he says or does, it is for Germany’s benefit, not ours.”
“Yes, quite … quite right,” the Foreign Secretary graciously agreed.
“Whatever his game is, he wants the Führer gone,” Menzies continued, “and that’s good enough for Winston Churchill, who’s taken a personal interest in these meetings with Canaris.”
Now that Max knew who he was going to meet, he needed every bit of information on Canaris he could get his hands on. “Do we know when and what turned the admiral towards our side?” he asked Menzies.
“Mike Preston first met Canaris in Spain in ‘41. Apparently, the admiral became concerned about the direction Hitler was taking when he voiced his intention to absorb Czechoslovakia,” Menzies answered.
Heller added, “It goes further back than that. In 1938, Admiral Canaris sent his emissary, Ewald von Kleist-Schmenzin, to London to secretly discuss the situation with MI6 and some of our politicians. I was present at the meeting where Klei
st informed us that Canaris and other unnamed German military and government officials were planning to capture and unseat Hitler and the entire Nazi Party before the invasion of Czechoslovakia began. And unsuccessful as those ambitions were, we suspect that Canaris is still as supportive of overthrowing Hitler today as he was five years ago.”
Max, forgetting the esteemed men sitting at the table with him, mused, “Call me a sceptic, but I recall a certain mission to Holland to meet with German anti-Hitler generals, and instead of sharing a plot, we lost two of our best agents, who are to this day, as far as we know, still being held in a German prison camp.”
“Jonathan, give the Major the other file on Canaris,” Menzies said, then addressed Max. “In those pages, you will find our assessment of Canaris’ integrity as a British collaborator and records of every meeting he had with Mike Preston. You’ll find it interesting reading.”
Max took the file and asked,” Did the admiral ask for this meeting, or did we?”
“He did. Now, let’s get down to the nitty-gritty, shall we?”
******
After Eden and Menzies left, Heller and Max discussed other matters. Marjory brought tea, but for the first time in over a year, she apologised for not having sugar. “I’d have thought one of you boys could pinch some sugar on your travels,” she said, teasing Max.
“That will be all, Marjory,” Heller said good-humouredly.
Heller, looking like a man who was bursting to share a secret, lit his one cigar for the day and relaxed into his chair. “Well, now that we’ve got that over with, I can tell you what’s to become of you when you get back.”
“I’m coming straight back, then?” Relief washed away the strain on Max’s face. He’d been worried sick that he’d be ordered to remain in France in Mike Preston’s place.
“If all goes well, you should be back here within the week.” Heller puffed on his cigar, the secretive smile still playing on his lips. “In preparation for the eventual Allied invasion of France, our Secret Intelligence Service is collaborating with American and Free French allies to create special teams of agents. The programme, codenamed, Sussex, will begin next week at an undisclosed location. You will be on the first course with two other officers. The second course will begin in September with a further ten officers.”
Max was interested, for two reasons; firstly, Heller had mentioned an Allied invasion of France, which could mean a shortening of the war. Secondly, the course was being held in Britain, meaning he’d probably get some free time to spend with Judith.
“What’s the idea behind Sussex?” Max asked, after lighting a cigarette.
“Agents, men, women, or mixed, working in pairs will be dropped behind enemy lines to provide front-line intelligence after our allied landings on the continent. I wouldn’t look so damned happy about this, Max. This is Menzies’ baby and he personally asked for you. Once you’re out there, you won’t get back.”
Max gave Heller a careless shrug. “I’m glad we’re thinking about taking this war to the next level. I sometimes think we’re getting too bloody comfortable with the status quo in Europe. I’m for kicking the Germans all the way back to Berlin as soon as possible, aren’t you?”
“Damn right, I am.” Heller handed Max an envelope. “Your orders and your objectives. Make sure you destroy what’s in there before you leave the building.”
Heller rose and pushed his chair back. “I hope you understand now why I ordered you not to tell Judith or your family you were coming back yesterday?”
Max had been disappointed, but he agreed with Heller’s thinking, “I do, sir, and given the secrecy surrounding this mission, I think it’s best if I was never here. See you when I get back. I’ll bring sugar for Marjory.”
Chapter Forty-One
RAF Tempsford in Bedfordshire had been designed to look like an ordinary working farm. Used by 161 Squadron, it was the main base of operations for SOE and agents from other intelligence sections conducting top secret missions on the continent.
Upon Max’s arrival at the base, he reported to Tangmere Cottage, situated opposite the main entrance. After signing in, he was taken to a local hotel where he spent an hour and a half in a bedroom, lying on top of the bed and thinking about this and that, and going around in circles until his nerves were shattered.
For a while, he tried to anchor his thoughts with Judith, but instead, they returned to the mission. He’d been involved in a lot of dangerous and significant operations since 1938, but this one would probably define his war, his career. Wilhelm Canaris was not just another foreign agent, or a German officer claiming to be anti-Hitler and against the policies of the Third Reich; he was someone who had the power to end this war with a single blow against the Führer. Canaris’ file was a comprehensive record of small but pivotal acts in favour of the Allies and against his own leader; however, it also contained contradictions, such as his discordant acts of killing civilians and executing Allied soldiers.
The admiral was not the first high-ranking German officer to make overtures to MI6, but in this case, the British Foreign Secretary and Stuart Menzies believed in Canaris’ desire to oust the Führer and were willing to throw all their resources at the admiral in pursuit of their shared goal.
‘The admiral wants to talk,’ Stuart Menzies had said. That was all he could tell Max about the purpose of the meeting.
Admiral Canaris wants to talk, Max repeated to himself, and for the first time in memory, he questioned whether he was up to the job.
When the call came, Max was ferried to the Gibraltar Farm, the nickname for the cluster of farm buildings within the airfield’s perimeter track. He and one other man, a French SOE agent who had been a pilot in the French Armée de l’Air, stood in the hangar going through the final briefing with the captain of the Westland Lysander Mk III aircraft. Max recognised the pilot. He was involved in the Carpetbagger project, which had been created to fly special operations, to deliver supplies to Resistance groups in enemy-occupied countries, to deliver personnel called JOEs to the field, including SOE and MI6 agents, and occasionally to extract personnel from the field.
He’d been the pilot of the plane that had carried Darek and Max back to England on the night Paul had run from the airfield near Dieppe, and by the look on the Scotsman’s face, it was clear he also remembered that night.
“Oh aye, so it’s you again? I hope you’re in a better mood tonight than you were the last time I saw you. You had a few prime words to say that night, didn’t you, sonny boy?” the pilot said, nodding in remembrance.
“I’m in a much better mood today, Captain,” Max told the man. “I apologise for my bad language. It was a difficult mission.”
“Aye, you lost a man if I remember correctly. Bet you got a bollocking for that when you got back home, eh? Och, it happens to the best of us. Right then – let’s get started, shall we? We’ve got a nice night for it. Perfect skies, a full moon, and no strong headwinds to worry about.”
After the pilot went through the flight plan with the SOE agent who had selected the French airfield, he said, “As usual, we’ll face the risk of German night fighters on our flight path. If the sky’s good for us, it’ll be good for them too. Aye, you can guarantee they’ll be out tonight. You will sit in the rear cockpit,” he informed Max. And to the Frenchman, “You will be in a pannier underneath the storage area in the fuselage. What are we carrying?”
“Wireless equipment and four crates of weapons.”
“Fine. When we land, I’ll be picking up a downed airman, so get off this plane as fast as you can and stay out of my way.” Then the pilot gave the men his obligatory warnings. “Remember, if we’re met by Gestapo instead of the Resistance, keep the bastards busy while I get my Lizzy back in the air. This is an expensive piece of machinery, and my life is much more valuable than yours.”
He’s probably right, Max thought. Pilots, especially for missions like these, were in high demand. He liked the Scotsman. He was earthy, and his banter
was evidently helping to keep the French SOE agent’s nerves at bay. The young man had looked terrified when he’d walked into the briefing room. Max recalled his first time going into France and being dropped off, not knowing if friend or foe would be on the airstrip to greet him.
Once Max was issued with his firearm, a small Beretta 418 with a 25 ACP cartridge, he went through the contents of his rucksack. At MI6 Headquarters, he’d gone to the clothing department where he’d been issued a suit, two white shirts, two ties, and a fedora hat. He’d also been given a soft, brown leather briefcase in which were a selection of fake Swiss watches.
MI6 and SOE were inventive when it came to their outfits for male and female agents. They were aware of national and regional differences in fashion, and since 1940, they’d either sourced outfits, shoes, and suitcases from second-hand shops or bought them from refugees who’d fled Continental Europe for the British Isles.
Max recalled a fitting he’d had with a French seamstress. She’d told him, “We get our shirts from refugees, and we take them apart to check the shape of the collar and the stitching on the seams. You would be surprised to know, Major, that something as simple as the stitching on a seam will advertise to the keen eye whether a garment is British or French, Dutch or German.”
Max’s favourite seamstress, who’d outfitted him numerous times, had remarked a few months earlier that European stocks were depleted, and MI6 and SOE had been manufacturing their own authentic continental clothing and luggage to outfit their agents for over a year. She’d gone on to say they were using clothing companies owned by refugees, who were already well-versed in the sewing styles of their native lands. He hoped his suit and shirts wouldn’t be too wrinkled by the time he reached Central Paris. Strange to be thinking about clothes at a time like this, but better that triviality than thinking about being shot out of the sky or shot on the ground by Germans.
As he boarded the waiting aircraft, Max’s nerves stretched taut. An agent should be on the ground in France, waiting for the aircraft’s arrival. He or she would guide the pilot in with either a bonfire or bicycle lights or storm lamps. The pilot had to spot the minimal ground signals, but he also needed to navigate by visible landmarks in the moonlight to correct dead reckoning. ‘Any man who says he’s not afraid on these flights is a liar,’ Max had assured the Frenchman before they’d boarded.