by Jana Petken
After the aircraft landed on a narrow airstrip about fifteen kilometres from the Paris suburbs, Max was escorted in a farm truck by two members of the Paris French Resistance, who had worked in tandem with the dead Mike Preston. When they reached a more populated area, the men continued the journey on foot to the Port of Gennevilliers, which was situated about six kilometres from Paris. There, Max spent what remained of the night on a Resistance-owned river barge that was hauling building materials.
The following morning, Max dressed in his Rolf Fischer outfit and armed with a briefcase of watches and his Swiss identity papers made his way to the safe house in the centre of Paris, first by barge and then using the Paris Metro system.
Max’s two-man team were already in the safe house, situated near Notre Dame in the Place des Vosges. Trained in Britain, the Frenchmen had been members of Mike Preston’s team and were still shaken by his death.
“What happened to Major Preston?” Max asked in French before the men began to discuss the forthcoming operation.
“He got caught in crossfire near a checkpoint in the street behind the Cathedral. The SS were chasing Jews, and the major got hit. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time, nothing more. A freak accident – ça schlingue! It stinks, but that’s what happened.”
“And his body?”
“They threw it on the back of a truck along with three dead Jews. We don’t know where they took him, or what identity papers he’d been carrying on his person.”
With Mike’s unfortunate death still on his mind, Max was taken through the plan for the impending meeting with the Abwehr chief. Mike had put it in place the day before he died, and the two agents were clear on their joint purpose and the identity of the man they were escorting to the prearranged meeting place.
“Admiral Canaris will be in a Wehrmacht-licenced staff car displaying the serial numbers of the Abwehr,” one of the men informed Max. “Jacque, our British agent, will be driving him. He is a man Canaris has met before, and he will explain to the admiral that Mike is no longer in the picture. He will also vouch for you, Major, before Canaris thinks about calling off the meeting.”
The other Frenchman took over and pointed to a map of Paris, laid out on the table. “Jacque will park the car in this narrow, one-way traffic street near the river. We will arrive before the admiral to check the area and make sure we are not being tailed.”
“I will get in the back of the vehicle with Canaris. The vehicle should have darkened windows, so I will blindfold him,” the first Frenchman to speak, said.
The other man continued, “And I will arrive at the meeting place first, to watch for suspicious activity in the area.”
“Good, and where will I be?” Max asked, still studying the map.
“You, Major, will make your way to the Convent of the Nuns of the Passion of our Blessed Lord on Rue de la Santé and wait for us there. The Mother Superior is expecting Mike’s successor, so please identify yourself by giving her this note.”
Max unfolded the piece of paper and read the one line: ‘In God we trust,’ it said – short, simple, and probably a predetermined code that one of the men had given her. “She will recognise this?” Max wanted to confirm the note’s validity.
“Yes. This and only this will get you inside.”
“She has been working with us for over two years. She was fond of Major Preston,” the first Frenchman added.
Max arrived at the convent without incident. It was a glorious day. French people were going about their business. German soldiers were, as usual, behaving like tourists; taking photographs with cameras attached to leather straps hanging around their necks whilst slouching on hard-backed café chairs with glasses of wine or beer in their hands. In a more sinister fashion, German SS squads were also driving and walking in the streets and going into shops and cafés, presumably to check identity papers. Since November 1942, the whole of France had come under direct German control, apart from a small sector occupied by Italy. Mass deportations of Jews had begun around the same time, but even now the Germans were hunting them down. Paris, as wonderfully picturesque as always, felt like a place untouched by war, apart from the insidious presence of the occupying army.
Whilst waiting, Max got comfortable in one of the two armchairs in front of the fireplace in the Mother Superior’s private sitting room. He was going into this meeting blind, but he was experienced enough to know that patience would be critical.
He was also awed by the German who was, hopefully, going to arrive any minute. Despite Canaris being MI6’s direct opponent, he was also someone whom many at headquarters respected. To admire one’s enemy was not necessarily a conflict of interest, Max believed. Wilhelm Canaris had had a stunning military record that went back to 1905, long before many current SIS agents had even been born. Indeed, Canaris’ heroic exploits in the Great War were obligatory reading for trainee officers at spy school.
At the age of seventeen, the admiral joined the Imperial Navy, and by the outbreak of the First World War in 1914 was serving as an intelligence officer on board the SMS Dresden. It was the only warship that had managed to evade the Royal Navy for a prolonged period during the Battle of the Falkland Islands in December 1914, and it was primarily due to Canaris’ skilful evasion tactics…
Jerked from his thoughts when the door opened, Max leapt to his feet and stood to attention when one of the French agents ushered the blindfolded Wilhelm Canaris to the second armchair and seated him. Max, his pulse dancing in his neck, said, “Remove the blindfold.” Then he sat opposite the admiral.
One of the French agents brought in fresh coffee in a green and white floral coffeepot with matching milk jug, full of milk, and two matching cups and saucers. He left immediately without saying a word or acknowledging the German, dressed in his civilian clothes.
Max remained silent whilst Canaris grew accustomed to the room’s brightness. The other MI6 agent sat in a chair beside the door. He was not there to participate but to confirm Max’s account of what was said during the meeting to MI6 in London.
Canaris’ innocent round eyes settled on Max. Both men, looking like two fighting cocks weighing up their opponent before a battle to the death, remained reticent until Max broke the silence in German.
“Coffee, General?” Max offered.
“Thank you,” Canaris said, without taking his eyes off Max’s face.
After they both had their cups filled, Max offered Canaris a cigarette from his silver cigarette case. Canaris accepted but lit it with his own lighter.
He looks much older than he does in MI6’s most recent photograph of him, Max thought. His hair was whiter, his pallid complexion more wrinkled, especially around the mouth where it turned down at the edges. “What message would you like me to convey to my government, Admiral?” Max asked.
“Straight to the point. I like that,” Canaris answered as he lifted his china cup to his lips. “Tell me, what do you know about me?” he asked, after sipping his coffee and replacing the cup on its saucer.
“I know you are a respected admiral in the Kriegsmarine. You are also the head of the German Abwehr Secret Service. You are a man of deep principles, and you have a strong sense of duty. You are not an ardent follower of Adolf Hitler, yet you do his bidding both in Germany and in the occupied territories where you have killed hundreds … thousands of people.”
Max, willing his hand not to shake, took a sip of coffee before continuing; his mouth was as dry as the desert sand he’d left. “Despite the deaths of civilians at your hands, Admiral, I also believe you are not an inherently bad man, but rather someone who must pose as a trusted friend to the Führer in order to survive whilst trying to bring down his regime.”
“What else have you heard?” Canaris asked, looking impressed by Max’s candid impressions.
“September 1942, you allowed a train with five transport wagons to make its way to Auschwitz with nine hundred Jews, most of whom were from Holland. At the same time, you paid for train ticke
ts from Berlin to the Swiss border, for twelve Jewish men, women and children who were carrying falsified identity papers that you provided. Upon being questioned in Switzerland by MI6, the men and women stated unequivocally that they owed their lives to you, Admiral. I also know that you have given vulnerable people token training as Abwehr agents and then issued papers allowing them to leave Germany, which makes you, in my eyes, a paradox of good and evil.”
Canaris’ eyes widened in surprise at the mention of evil, but Max had decided before the meeting began to be honest. He was not there to smother the man in compliments but to have a deep, meaningful conversation. Why else would both men be taking such risks, if not to open a discussion seeking a way to end the war?
“I ask myself every day if I am a good man or an evil one without redemption,” Canaris said after a long pause, during which both men had filled the silence with yet more coffee drinking. “I fear I will never know the answer to that question. When the Führer wanted to invade Czechoslovakia, I went as far as to arm shock troops to be used to arrest him when the time came. That plan came to nought. Then your Neville Chamberlain came, and my close associates and I believed Germany would take the road to peace.”
“As we all hoped,” Max said.
“Yes, as we all hoped.” Canaris sighed, as though with a distasteful memory, “I complained to my superior when the first synagogues fell in Berlin, and the future for the Jews looked bleak, but nothing came of my protests. I protested again in 1939 when I saw the sickening destruction of Warsaw and the mass graves being dug for undesirables, so you see the pattern? I was becoming an annoying fly in the Reich’s ear, and to carry on … to survive in a position from where I could do some good, I had to temper my … disillusionment with the Nazi Party with an apparent willingness to carry out the Führer’s policies. Exactly as you perceived.”
Canaris leant in towards Max across the small glass table that separated them. “If my circle of friends and I could find a way to get rid of Adolf Hitler in a violent coup, what terms for peace would Germany receive in return? You must take this question to Winston Churchill on my behalf. It is my reason for being here.”
Max held his lips in a tight line, but Canaris reiterated what he’d said.
“My similarly-minded colleagues and I believe this is the only way to end the war, but should we succeed in killing the Führer, we would want good terms for peace.”
“Then, that is the message I will convey to my Prime Minister, Admiral,” Max said, knowing damn well that Winston Churchill’s answer would be, nothing but unconditional surrender.
Max, mindful of the time and that he still had to get out of France the same way he’d got in, wondered what else Canaris wanted to say. What he had already said could have been sent to London in a coded transmission; why had Canaris wanted to meet in person?
Canaris twisted in his chair to look at the French agent. Then he turned back to Max. “I would like five minutes alone with you.”
“You can speak freely in front of my colleague, Admiral,” Max responded with a nod to the Frenchman.
Canaris shook his head, “Ah, but I don’t think you would like that.”
Max was intrigued. “Wait outside,” he instructed the French agent.
When they were alone, Max asked, “What can I do for you, sir?”
“You can tell me … did your father kill my Abwehr agent, Captain August Leitner?” Canaris asked, then grew quiet, his eyes watchful.
Robbed of speech, Max stared like a torpid fool at Canaris’ expectant face. Unable to come up with a single retort of denial or an honest answer that would not have dire consequences for his family in the future, he clawed his mind for a response. For the first time in his career, his ability to smooth talk and tell plausible lies had abandoned him.
“Come now, don’t be shy – you are Major Max Vogel, are you not?” Canaris, clearly enjoying himself, asked.
Honesty, Max reminded himself. He couldn’t lie his way out of this one; Canaris was too bloody important, and he already knew the truth. “Let’s say I am Major Max Vogel, Admiral. Why would my father have anything to do with an Abwehr agent? If you knew him, you’d know that Dieter Vogel was a businessman who cared for money, not politics or military matters. You must also know he’s dead?”
Canaris smiled, and undeterred, said, “Yes, but at the time, your father was alive and the last person to see August Leitner before his unfortunate accident.” Canaris then shocked Max with a deep-throated chuckle. “I sent Captain Leitner on Operation Brandenburg. I have a thick file on every member of your family. I have looked at your photograph, and that of your brother Paul many times. And I have long suspected your father of murdering Leitner to protect your doctor brother who has recently deserted the army and his country.”
“My brother – a deserter? No…”
“Major, we are both sitting here together and conspiring to kill Adolf Hitler. Perhaps you can appease my curiosity, hmm?” Canaris cocked his head to one side, observing Max’s reddened face and eyes that couldn’t quite hide their fear. “Had I wanted to, I would have arrested Dieter Vogel before he … died,” Canaris finally said. “Tell me … did your father kill Hauptmann Leitner?”
“No, he did not, sir,” Max answered, and it was the truth.
After the two men had parted company, Max remained glued to the armchair. It was hard to take in, to believe that his cover and position had finally been burnt. Mirror was smashed to pieces, and Rolf Fischer was dead in the water.
He could imagine Heller’s reaction, and it wasn’t going to be pretty. You cannot operate for MI6 if the head of the damned Abwehr knows who you are. Christ’s sake, Max, you’re finished here. I’ve lost you to that bloody SOE again!
Chapter Forty-Two
Freddie Biermann
Berlin November 1943
Freddie Biermann looked at his dinner plate and grimaced in disgust. The cooked rice mashed into patties and fried in mutton fat had been okay the first few times he’d eaten it, but the ersatz meat, as it was commonly called, was beginning to turn his delicate stomach. “This again, dear?” he asked Olga, who passed him a slice of her homemade bread, made with ground horse-chestnuts, pea meal, potato meal, and barley. He looked at it and shook his head. “Have we nothing else?”
“No, Freddie, we have nothing else, and neither does anyone else in our situation,” Olga replied sharply.
Valentina, looking thin and pale, pushed her fork into the rice patty and moaned, “If only you could get your old job back, Papa. Frau Hoffmann, who works with me at the donations for Russia depot, says her husband gets extra meat rations because he’s in the Gestapo.”
“I won’t have that man’s name mentioned at my table, Valentina,” Biermann frowned at her.
“Try not to be insensitive, darling. He stole your father’s job, remember,” Olga reminded her daughter.
With his wife and daughter watching him, Biermann dug his fork into the patty, lifted it to his mouth, and then shoved the rice in as if it were torture. He looked at Olga’s expectant face and swallowed without a scowl. “Nice, darling,” he repented to keep the peace.
With tears in her eyes, Valentina broke off a piece of crusty bread. She looks sad all the time, Biermann thought, giving her a tender smile. “Eat up, Valentina. You work too hard at the Reich Security Offices. You should stop volunteering at that donations place on your day off. Let the army look after its soldiers. That’s what they get paid for.”
“I don’t mind. I’d rather help there than work in Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse.”
“Someone has to bring a little extra money into this family,” Olga rebuked her daughter again. “If it weren’t for the little extra bits and pieces you get from Ernst Kaltenbrunner’s offices, we’d be starving.”
“We’re not starving.” Biermann chewed another mouthful of the disgusting food he was eating. No point arguing with his wife or Valentina about the rotten conditions in Berlin. ‘Things are as they are,’ he�
�d pointed out on many occasions. He’d allowed Valentina to go back to work not because she got extra scraps from the SS, but so she could find a good, loyal man who supported Nazism and the policies of the Third Reich; someone who would make her forget her disastrous marriage to that traitor, Vogel.
Sometimes he thought she still loved Paul Vogel. Since her divorce, which he had obtained for her using dubious but effective means with the help of a good lawyer and forged signatures, she’d rarely spoken about the deserter. But Biermann had caught her once or twice looking at a photograph of her wedding day. She kept it in her purse along with photos of Erika.
“It’s about time you found yourself a nice officer – SS, perhaps. Herr Himmler looks after his men, especially those serving under him at the Reich offices,” Biermann told Valentina.
Valentina frowned. “All the typists say it’s not the same there since Reinhard Heydrich’s assassination in Prague. Everyone is miserable.”
“He was a good man,” Olga said, although she’d never met Heydrich.
“Did you know he flew nearly one hundred combat missions for the Luftwaffe?” Biermann asked.
“Yes, Papa. Is it true he once had to make an emergency landing in Russia behind enemy lines when his aircraft was hit by Soviet anti-aircraft fire?”
“Yes, although he never admitted it happened. Ach, Ernst Kaltenbrunner will never fill Heydrich’s shoes … no one will.”
Valentina set her knife and fork neatly together on her plate, then gave her father an inquisitive look. “Papa, did they ever find out who killed Manfred Krüger? I liked him. I could have seen myself with a man like that.”