He stepped back as the boat moved slowly in pursuit of the British. It wasn’t a safe tactic at all but there was really no other option. He had considered risking an attack, but getting into firing position on one of the bigger ships would be difficult without one of the smaller ships getting in the way and the destroyers coming after him. The British fleet was zigzagging, moving in an pattern that would make it hard to score a hit at this range except through sheer luck.
“Message encoded, sir,” the radio operator said.
“Transmit,” Heidelburger ordered, grimly. “Kurt, keep an eye out for them turning and sending destroyers after us.”
The tension rose sharply. There were no secrets on a submarine, and every man knew that by sending the signal, they risked detection and destruction. The British would definitely maintain a listening watch and even though they wouldn’t — Heidelburger hoped — be able to decode the message.
“Signal sent,” the radioman said. For a brief few moments, they would have extended an antenna out of the water, into the air. Even in darkness, a radar sweep might pick it up, giving the British a direct line on their location. “Berlin acknowledges.”
“The British fleet is continuing on its course,” the sonar operator said. “If they heard us, they’re not bothering to give chase.”
Heidelburger nodded grimly. The British fleet was moving at a respectable speed; if they hadn’t been concentrating on evasive tactics, they would have out-raced the U-boat by now and left Heidelburger unable to relocate them. The time was ticking by slowly. He waited as the British fleet got further and further ahead, before it finally vanished over the horizon.
“Send a second signal,” he said. He was surprised to feel his heart beating so rapidly. It wasn’t a failure, or at least not one that could be blamed on him, but he hated losing track of the enemy ships. “Contact lost. Will attempt to relocate enemy force.”
He privately doubted that they would succeed.
* * *
The Eastern and Mediterranean Fleets were a sight for sore eyes, Fraser decided as his personal autogyro settled down on the deck of HMS Impervious. The Impervious was the most modern fleet carrier in the Royal Navy; the ‘Imp,’ as her crew called her, had been serving with Admiral Sir Philip Vian and the Eastern Fleet for several months, watching the Japanese. It had been a risk, pulling her and her sisters out of the Far East, but as Churchill had said, it was a risk that must be borne.
Japan would have real problems assaulting Australia, and the defence of India and Burma was in the hands of the Indian Army. He somehow doubted that they would risk moving south with such a large American commitment to the Philippines. The War Cabinet had decided that the Japanese had too many problems in China to risk opening up a further war front, but even so, Fraser would be relieved when he could send the Eastern Fleet back to Singapore. The Japanese were not always capable of behaving in a rational manner.
“Welcome aboard the Impervious,” Admiral Vian said. His reputation for taking firm action while all others were confused had preceded him. Fraser knew that the man wouldn’t hesitate to do what was necessary to defeat the Germans. The only black mark on Vian’s record was a well-known hatred of the Norwegians, something that had resulted in a number of incidents before he had been packed off to the Far East to command the Eastern Fleet. “What are my orders?”
Fraser allowed Vian to lead him and Admiral Somerville into his stateroom. “The Germans trailed us for some distance and know we’re here, so I want to take advantage of them knowing our rough location.”
“That rarely helped the Italians,” Somerville said. The commander of the Mediterranean Fleet was the oldest of the three, but as a known Churchill partisan had been denied his shot at becoming First Sea Lord. He was competent enough to take what was, in theory, an inferior fleet and dare the Italians to try to destroy it. After the brief and lethal encounter in 1943, the Italians hadn’t dared to challenge the Mediterranean Fleet again and, even now, remained in their harbours rather than fight. “The Germans, of course, are another matter.”
“Yes,” Fraser said. The two admirals would have read the reports from Scapa Flow with care and attention, but it was important to ensure that they understood the clear dangers in treating the Germans like the Italians. The Italian Navy worried endlessly over a clearly-inferior enemy fleet; the Germans had set about destroying a superior force and they’d damn near succeeded. “We have, however, an operating plan to redress some of our disadvantages and hopefully crush the German fleet when it comes out to do battle. Our priority, of course, are the carriers.”
“Of course,” Somerville echoed. Once the German carriers were sunk, the British battleships or aircraft would finish off the German battleships. Fraser found himself, against all logic and reason, hoping for a chance to fight it out with the seven German battleships and their escorts on the surface. He would have the advantage for once. Fraser spoke for twenty minutes, outlining the plan and answering the questions they put to him.
“I like it,” he said finally. “How far advanced are the preparations for it?”
Fraser nodded.
“I have the modified carriers ready at Scapa Flow,” he said. He hadn’t risked taking those ships to the Clyde. The German submarine that that been trailing them might have risked putting a torpedo into one of the modified carriers, suspecting that it was one of the fleet carriers. “Once we reach Point Alpha, those carriers will move into action.”
Somerville smiled. He was more of a battleship admiral than a carrier admiral, like Fraser himself and unlike Vian, who loved new technology, but he understood the plan. The Germans would have to act in a certain way, but the beauty of the plan was simple. If the Germans didn’t react as expected, the British could simply break off the engagement and withdraw back to Scapa Flow, now heavily fortified against all possible German attacks.
“Clever,” he said. “When do we move?”
Vian produced a bottle of scotch and three glasses.
“Once we’ve had a drink,” he said and poured them all a generous measure. “Admiral, what’s the toast?”
Fraser lifted his glass.
“A willing foe and sea room,” he said. They clinked their glasses together and drank. “One way or another, whatever happens, Great Britain will never forget this coming battle.”
Chapter Forty-Nine
London, England
Why had Roger Hollis committed suicide?
The question nagged at Alex DeRiemer as he sat in his office, trying to think; his instincts, which he had learned to trust, told him that it was important. Hollis had been one of MI5’s most promising young officers, someone who might have risen right to the top, and yet he had killed himself. DeRiemer wondered, reading the official report, if it had really been a murder, perhaps even the work of Skorzeny himself, but he could find no flaws in the report. Hollis had taken a pistol, one of the ones signed out to MI5 personnel in fears that the Germans would try to storm the building, and blown off his own head.
Why?
The files were in front of him, but there was little to suggest any reason for despair. Hollis hadn’t been married, nor did he have any relationships that might have caused him to be despondent, and while there were a handful of negative comments in his file, there were no real black marks. He’d been accused of showing a lack of enthusiasm for chasing a particular report of a German spy at one point, but it turned out that the man had been innocent all along, clearing Hollis of any real charges that might have been brought against him… and his future had looked rosy. It had also come to a sharp end when he’d placed the gun against the side of his head and fired.
“It makes no sense,” DeRiemer said to himself. He’d spoken to a few of Hollis’s colleges — he hadn’t had any real friends — and they said that he’d been more subdued than usual, but Hollis had hardly been Churchill or Monty when it came to flashy behaviour. If there had been something wrong with him, it remained impossible to see, but Alex wa
s sure that he was right on the brink of understanding…
He looked back at the dates and froze. Hollis had killed himself the day that his department had been asked to look for a possible German spy within the establishment. His department hadn’t been directly involved in the first investigation and hadn’t been officially informed — and, in theory, he should have known nothing about it — until the investigation had cleared Hollis and he’d been brought into the matter. As the man responsible for securing British seaports and trade from German or Russian infiltration, Hollis’s help would have been invaluable… but he’d killed himself instead.
He killed himself when he learnt that there was a German spy somewhere in the establishment, DeRiemer thought, then experienced a blinding flash of inspiration. What if… Hollis himself had been the spy? Had he killed himself when he thought the investigation was getting too close to him? Was that even possible? Hollis’s records showed that he had been an ardent anti-German and anti-Communist. Had that been a cover? The theory slipped slightly the more he thought about it. Hollis, in such a position, would have been far too valuable to be risked on basic spying. He might have been the Director of MI5 within a few years.
He tested the theory time and time again in his mind. Hollis had been working for the Germans, doing… what? Logically, he would have been employed to ensure that other German spies were covered or passed over by MI5’s investigators, something that he would have been ideally placed to organise. In his position, he could also have made sure the Germans knew exactly what they would face at Felixstowe; he might even have designed the procedures that had allowed the Germans to sail the Hans Bader into the harbour without anything more than a cursory investigation. That would have been enough to cause anyone to be suicidal, but even so, was it enough to cause Hollis to kill himself? He must have known what he was doing… hadn’t he? Even if he hadn’t known, how had he missed it when the Germans actually landed?
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” he called. His assistant stepped in. “Yes, Sarah, what is it?”
Sarah smiled. “The Prime Minister is requesting your presence ten minutes ago,” she said wryly.
“I’m on my way,” he said. Churchill was scheduled to address a gathering of Londoners and Civil Dignitaries in the heart of London, one of the most secure gatherings in the world… which wasn’t that secure. Churchill’s bodyguards, some of David Stirling’s men, had tried to talk Churchill out of going, knowing that in a crowd, it would be very difficult to prevent anyone from getting close enough to take a pot-shot at Churchill. “Why does he want me there?”
Sarah’s grin grew wider.
“Because he has a habit of gathering the best and the brightest around him,” she said, knowing that DeRiemer’s rise meant that her position would rise as well. “You’re the one who predicted trouble, so you’re the one who gets the credit and… well, he’ll treat you as a good luck charm.”
“You’ve been listening to the other secretaries again,” he said. He knew little about the world of the personal assistants. “As long as he wants me…”
* * *
Skorzeny’s lips twitched as he examined the British lorry. There was nothing much to be said for it, not compared to a panzer or even a standard Speer Lorry that the Speer machine had been grinding out for the German Army. It was nicely anonymous, impossible to tell apart from the hundreds of others that were running through London, and easy to drive. The British had some strange habits when it came to driving, but with Canadians and Australians — and even a handful of Americans — in London, no one would notice the group of British servicemen driving one lorry and looking very urgent. They would get in, carry out their mission, and escape in all the confusion.
Philby’s face looked resigned as Skorzeny climbed out of the truck. Like it or not, they were all committed now; Philby’s involvement would be easy to deduce when he failed to return to his office. He had been granted permission, along with a few dozen others, to attend Churchill’s speech; Skorzeny hadn’t hesitated to use it as an opportunity to take a clear shot at Churchill. Everything would depend on getting the timing exactly right.
“Good,” Skorzeny said. They’d parked the vehicle where it should draw no notice, but they couldn’t stay too long, just in case. “Are you sure that these papers will allow us entry into the secured zone?”
“Yes,” Philby said confidently. His voice weakened. “Are you sure that you can get us out of there afterwards?”
Skorzeny slapped him on the back.
“Don’t be such a coward,” he said cheerfully. “I have been through hundreds of occasions when important people have been assassinated and believe me, the confusion is terrible. We get in, take the shot, and get out again, OK?”
“I suppose,” Philby said. “The papers are set out for a Canadian unit, so you won’t be expected to do anything, but get lost in London. If they order you out, then… well, you can just obey them and then get lost again…”
“But that’s not going to happen,” Skorzeny said in flawless English. “Are you ready for your part of the arrangement?”
“Yes,” Philby said. “I’ll move now…”
“Yes,” Skorzeny mimicked and moved forward as Philby turned his back. The communist wasn’t a strong man and was taken completely by surprise. Skorzeny grabbed the back of Philby’s neck with one hand and drew a slash across his throat with the other. The spy gasped and tried to say something as his life bubbled away. Skorzeny watched dispassionately as Philby fell to the ground, dead.
“Idiot,” he commented and carefully hid Philby’s body in the garage. It would take days for it to be found, but by then, Skorzeny intended to be out of the country. Philby had outlived his usefulness, now that his protector was dead; the shock of discovering who he had worked for had clearly unhinged Roger Hollis. “Are you ready?”
“Yes, Otto,” one of his men said. They all wore British uniforms; they would pass undetected, at least until it was too late. “We’re ready.”
They drove the lorry out of the garage and onto the street. As Philby had promised, the roads were heaving with military traffic, with hundreds of vehicles and thousands of marching soldiers buzzing around, moving through London before they went up to the front-line
It was just the same in Berlin, Skorzeny knew, although his own unit had never been allowed a parade through Berlin. That was a honour reserved for the more public units… and Himmler was determined to keep as much about his unit as possible a secret.
It seemed a waste of time now, as he’d lost too many men in London, but maybe some of them had made it out to join the unit he knew would be reforming in the east. His driver kept them moving directly towards Churchill’s location; the British Prime Minister, according to Philby, intended to bore the socks off everyone in London by making a public speech.
“That’s our turning,” he muttered, and the driver obediently turned the lorry, heading right towards Churchill’s stand. He was a little surprised that the road wasn’t permanently blocked — he’d seen some of the defences in the London suburbs and had been amused at the thought of how determined the British were to defend their capital city — but as a group of soldiers appeared at the far end, he nodded in understanding; Churchill’s own vehicle would probably have to pass out this way. “Show them our papers…”
The driver passed the British officer his papers, and there was a long pregnant pause. “These papers are out of date,” the officer said, one hand falling to the holster he wore at his belt. “I am afraid that I am going to have to ask you to come with me and…”
Skorzeny drew his own pistol in one quick motion and shot the officer, his men spilling out of the lorry like the professionals they were and attacking the British soldiers. Caught by surprise, the unit was quickly wiped out, but Skorzeny knew that the shots would have been heard; the entire British Army would be after them within moments. Philby had either been wrong or had betrayed them and planned to vanish rat
her than meet at the rendezvous point, but it didn’t matter. The mission had suddenly become a suicide mission.
“This way,” he barked laughing aloud. He was older than most of his men and saw little good in growing even more so until he died in a training accident or even old age. He would close his arms around Churchill’s fat neck and wring it, no matter what the British did, and they would die together. “Heil Hitler!”
* * *
Alex DeRiemer heard the shooting as he sat behind Churchill, trying not to show his boredom or his worries. Churchill was a good speaker and knew how to work a crowd, but there was so much work to be done that it was all he could do to remain quiet, let alone stay seated when he could have slipped off back to the office. Churchill had requested him specifically, and it was something that could boost his career forward, but even so, it was a waste of time. He had been amusing himself by counting the soldiers and Very Important People at the gathering when the shooting started and he was sure exactly who was behind it.
Skorzeny, he thought, reaching for the pistol he wore at his belt. It had been too long since he had fired a shot on the training range, something that was a requirement for any MI6 officer who might have to go into German-held territory, and he was far too aware that Skorzeny would probably eat him for breakfast. Churchill’s bodyguards came forward, while Churchill himself, personally fearless, stared in the direction of the shots… as an explosion blasted away a chunk of the wall.
“Get down,” one of the bodyguards shouted and lunged at Churchill, knocking him to the ground. A group of British soldiers appeared… and opened fire on Churchill. They took fire themselves from a dozen different directions at once, but the first British shots were confused. The antagonists fired back with abandon, forcing everyone to keep their heads down. DeRiemer found himself on the ground without any clear memory as to how he’d gotten there.
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