Hunting the Hangman

by Howard Linskey

  ‘It’s remarkable what can be revealed by a routine follow up report, don’t you think? We really had no idea.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  Yes, and who had authorised the follow up surveillance in the first place but Heydrich? More likely the information had been readily available before the report went in to Himmler and had been suppressed by the Reichsprotektor, who had waited more than six months to casually slip it into an afternoon conversation over coffee. That was his way, always to know more than others.

  Heydrich sat back down again, made an elaborate show of draining the cooling dregs from his cup, and fixed Schellenberg with an earnest look.

  ‘Don’t concern yourself from this point on, Walter.’ He soothed his new creature while the document that could bury Schellenberg was entombed behind them. ‘I really don’t want you to worry about a thing.’

  Schellenberg nodded weakly. He was an accomplished marksman, capable of hitting a target at ease and from distance, but he knew his hand would shake uncontrollably if he ever had to point a Luger in Heydrich’s face.

  6

  ‘Get me good men; brave, patriotic and true’

  Eduard Beneš, at the beginning of Operation Anthropoid

  Strankmüller’s head fell forward.

  ‘Emil? EMIL!’

  The words came from miles away and they jolted him back to life. His head shot upwards, as if snatched by an unseen hand, and he was at his desk once more, dragged back from exhausted sleep.

  ‘You were snoring. Well, you snored once to be exact.’

  The words were not expressed unkindly. Major Johnson, one of three liaison officers assigned by the British SIS, knew Strankmüller had barely slept in three days; not since his emergency crash meeting with Moravec.

  ‘I knew you wouldn’t want to miss the lieutenant colonel. He’ll be here in twenty minutes. Time for a quick wash and brush up, don’t you think? And I’ll organise us a brew.’

  Johnson was speaking to him as one does to the recently bereaved, excusing all unusual displays of behaviour. In another, previous incarnation Major Emil Strankmüller would have been embarrassed at his unkempt appearance and the nodding off at his desk, but most of all by the claxon call of his solitary snore. He found now, to his surprise, none of it mattered. There were far more important considerations.

  ‘Thank you, Ralph. I’m sorry I disturbed you.’ He said it by rote not conviction and the reply was equally matter of fact.

  ‘Not a bit of it.’

  Johnson left the room in search of water for brewing and Strankmüller blinked at the files in front of him, willing his gummy eyes to widen and stay that way, at least until Moravec had come and gone once more. It had been seventy two hours since the lieutenant colonel gave Strankmüller his orders – the most important he’d received since they had escaped Prague together eighteen months ago, when they flew out of the capital in a violent snowstorm on the eve of the German occupation. Soon he would be expecting to see evidence of Emil’s labours.

  They had spoken privately in the Porchester Gate hotel, whose rear offices doubled as the temporary headquarters of the Czech secret service. Since that day, Strankmüller had remained in the little office. When he was not behind his desk, chain smoking his way through the hundreds of files stacked on and around it, he dozed fitfully on a metal cot in the far corner – three, four hours at a time. Food was brought in on a tray and he had taken to punctuating his days with cups of Camp coffee, the better to keep track of them.

  The grooves under Strankmüller’s eyes were darkening and his hair becoming unruly through lack of attention. Where it had once been oiled and slicked to the point where he could be mistaken, in this country which mistrusted male grooming, for a spiv, or at best a professional ladies man, Strankmüller’s locks now sulkily rebelled. He was more conscious of his stubble, but only because it itched and irritated him.

  He was a man on a mission.

  What that mission was nobody, but Moravec who’d assigned him it, was permitted to know. But even a casual observer would realise Strankmüller was looking for personnel. If you were in the Czech army, you’d escaped the invasion of France and you could shoot straight, Strankmüller had read your file, for a second or two at least. Most likely he had discarded your particulars instantly, with a muttered Czech curse at you for delaying him in his search for the perfect Joe; as all agents with SOE were commonly called. And you would never know you had been considered, however briefly, for Operation Anthropoid.

  He had started with those already on, or graduated from, the SOE course, but broadened his search in case there were undiscovered talents hiding anonymously in the wings, like understudies waiting for the leading man to fall from the stage and give them their chance.

  Gradually, the heap of rejected files grew larger until they were stacked high against the outer panel of Emil’s desk, three piles wide. Only when they threatened to topple did he allow Johnson to remove them, and the Englishman would stagger out into the corridors under the weight of unwieldy armfuls of manila.

  Dominating the desk itself, so that scarcely an inch of the cushioned leather inlay could be made out, were the possibles and the probables. Several piles of well-thumbed folders Strankmüller had read again and again; explosives experts, wireless operators, machine gunners, athletes, linguists, saboteurs; the assembled expertise of the common man that lies fallow in years of peace but becomes the much cherished currency of war time.

  Strankmüller’s obsession, for such it seemed, was born of two urgent, conflicting notions. He was choosing men who must succeed. And he was choosing men who would most likely die. By discarding someone’s file, removing them from the stack of would-be assassins, he was ensuring they would not be killed, on this operation at any rate, and he felt a strange euphoria in the act. He told himself he was only sending two men to their deaths not two hundred and, as the pile of rejected files grew, he gained great comfort from glancing over it. How could he explain why he first snapped at Johnson when the fellow quite sensibly suggested they be moved out of the way? How could he make the man understand it was this stack that kept him going into the night and well into the next morning? That the only cheer he had these days was a cup of coffee, a distracted cigarette, and the knowledge that the mother of Platovsky, Private, DR; would not be made to mourn him on Strankmüller’s watch; that the wife of Kopecký, Corporal, FS, would avoid the tragic certainty of widowhood until another mission at least. He was playing God, saving lives. Men who would have no idea they were even considered for the mission would live to fight another day and it was all down to him.

  Some were patently unsuitable for the task and he weeded them out early, using the comments of their commanding officers as an unquestioned guide to these souls he could never hope to find the time to meet. This one was too left wing and this one too much to the right. This one questioned things; still another lacked the imagination to function effectively on his own initiative. This one drank and this one had a weakness for skirt.

  But as the time grew close and the files had been slowly whittled down to a handful, the pressure began to tighten round Strankmüller like a noose. Almost all of the remaining men had an equal level of ability, guts and nationalistic credentials. He could recommend any one of them to Moravec with equal conviction and he would have to become more subjective to choose the final two, following instinct and that intangible gut reaction honed by years of running his own agents.

  Then he convinced himself they might achieve their mission, and escape safely after all, if he were just to choose the right two men; providing the perfect combination, a partnership that would work so flawlessly these impeccable Joes could achieve the unachievable, then fly right back to base again like homing pigeons. So perhaps he really was playing God now.

  And all the while the words of the President stayed with him. The single, simple brief Moravec had passed to him. Stra
nkmüller had asked what kind of man he was looking for, expecting a precise breakdown of the skills required. Instead he was given barely a sentence, ‘Get me good men; brave, patriotic and true.’

  There was one stipulation, however; a little less noble but designed to ignite the dampened flame of nationalist fervour in occupied Czechoslovakia; one of the men had to be a Czech and the other a Slovak. Thus, the two former halves of the republic would strike back in unison at the evil forces of occupation.

  Now a decision had to be reached in a little over a quarter of an hour. Two men needed and three remaining files in front of him, set aside from the pack, an aura of doom about them. After all his searching, he had decided on men from the same intake of volunteers at the SOE sabotage course – Gabčík, Svoboda and Kubiš.

  He had put it off right to the end. As long as there were three in the running, he was still not sending two specific men to their deaths. Any one of them could survive his selection procedure, be entirely ignorant of it in fact.

  He picked up Gabčík’s file first. A brown folder, well worn, its contents memorised by the major till he could recite them during his snatched moments of sleep. Gabčík, Sergeant, J; born in the Slovak district of Žilina, twenty-nine years of age. Currently on operational secondment to SOE, training course almost over, expected destination RAF Brickendonbury, to be trained as a saboteur, most likely to be deployed behind the lines in rural Czechoslovakia. Aim, to link up with what remains of the resistance. From there Sergeant Gabčík is expected to think on his feet and act on his initiative, to instigate a campaign of terror against the less obvious targets of military action; factories, arms plants, bridges, railway tracks. Gabčík is loyal, unquestioning and patriotic, it says here, with unquestioned abilities as a soldier and is already the proud recipient of medals for gallantry. He is expected to be a fine exponent of the art of subterfuge and will doubtless lead the thousands of occupying enemy soldiers a merry dance as he blows up factory after factory along his terrible way. That is the gist of his superior’s comments at any rate. He is short in stature but evidently strong with, if the dog-eared photograph clipped precariously to his folder is to be believed, a fierce and determined demeanour. He is of course unmarried, as are all three of the men Strankmüller has selected.

  Svoboda, Sergeant, A. Has a remarkably similar military record to Gabčík’s, except Anton is a Czech and could suitably partner Gabčík if required, thus fulfilling the political brief Strankmüller has been set by his president. He is another short-arse, if you pardon the expression, and Emil does indeed excuse himself with his fogged inner voice, but hardy, rugged and unstinting in the determination to rid his homeland of the Nazis.

  Finally, there is Kubiš, just as brave, patriotic and true as the others. A Czech also, from Třebíč in Moravia, so it is to be one of either Kubiš or Svoboda it seems, unless Strankmüller feels so strongly about the qualities of the latter men that he consigns Gabčík to the pile of also-rans and insists on them. But he does not. There is nothing to choose between them and no grounds except spite to ruin the unnecessary synchronicity of Beneš’ little scheme. Kubiš’ picture disturbs him though. The face, so youthful he had the man’s age independently checked more than once. Surely he could not be twenty eight years of age? He looked barely eighteen in his picture; like a boy playing at soldiers, standing to attention in his father’s oversized, old uniform before marching up and down in a game of make believe. But no, he has reached the rank of sergeant, an impossibility for a teenager, and been presented with the Czech War Cross by none other than Beneš himself. He may yet get the opportunity to meet his president again before this episode is through, thinks Strankmüller.

  Still he has not reached his decision and the hour will soon be upon him. He has just enough time to leave his desk for a few moments, for the wash and shave Johnson urged on him, and he may even get to finish the cup of tea that will await his return, before making a final choice.

  But there is no more time. Implausibly, a shadow crosses his desk, cast by the remaining light outside yet, broken by the broad rampart of his shoulder blades, it disappears almost instantly. Strankmüller does not have to look behind him. It is the almost imperceptible sign that Moravec is early. For all the years he has known his superior he has failed to grasp the lieutenant colonel’s anxiety at this most auspicious of assignments. Unable to perceive that the fastidiously punctual Moravec may choose, wraith like, to ascend the rear stairwell, an entrance specifically designed for his clandestine use alone, a good fifteen minutes earlier than they had agreed.

  And the decision not yet made.

  A surge of hurt ran through Strankmüller – all his work, his tireless effort, so close to a decision, and now Moravec here early to spoil it all. How could he let his superior see a final choice has not been taken? Refusing to leave himself open to charges of weakness or procrastination, he reaches out with his right hand, as instinctive a decision as he has ever made, sweeps up one of the files and flips it lightly to the far corner of the desk. There it refuses to hide from his gaze and instead flaps open, billowing for an instant before landing heavily, like a bird with a broken back. The photograph of its subject stares accusingly up at him as a second shadow crosses it, indicating that his commander has come silently through the rear door and is finally at his side.

  ‘Emil, have you found me good men?’

  There are never any pleasantries when Moravec is experiencing the burdens of operational pressure.

  ‘Yes,’ rasps his subordinate, becoming peculiarly aware that he has lost his voice along with his other senses, every one of them drained by lack of sleep. Before he can correct himself and start again, this time to include a more formal greeting, his CO continues.

  ‘One Czech and one Slovak?’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  What an idiot he feels, as his words break once more under the burden of his heavy throat. It is all he can do to stop himself from wailing at the unfairness of it all. This is not how he has foreseen the briefing. Days before, when the pile of potential assassins was waist deep from the floor upwards, he had rehearsed in his mind the gravity of his tone, as he firmly but respectfully outlined the career highlights of the chosen Joes. Moravec would throw in the occasional taxing question for which Emil would have the perfect considered response. Instead, it is his destiny to reply to his commander’s earnest entreaties in the comical rasp of an old man.

  ‘Very good. Hand me the files and I’ll read them while you get a wash up. Then we will eat downstairs in the hotel and you will get a good night’s sleep before waking early tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, you will need to travel personally, to collect the men from wherever they are currently training.’

  ‘Of course, sir,’ Emil croaked.

  Moravec frowned at him, picking up Strankmüller’s almost empty cigarette packet and peering suspiciously into it as if searching for clues.

  ‘Smoke many of these do you?’

  The major nodded unhappily.

  ‘Mmm, thought so. Suggest you cut down a bit.’

  Could there be a more inglorious beginning to a mission, thought Strankmüller. Moravec nodded at the two files that lay in front of his deputy.

  ‘So, what are their names?’

  Strankmüller cleared the back of his throat with a racking cough and when he spoke he was thankfully able to enunciate more clearly. ‘The first is Gabčík. Sergeant Josef Gabčík. A good man, seen action, decorated, almost through training.’ Emil knew his CO liked a short, to-the-point briefing.

  Moravec nodded in seeming satisfaction. ‘And the second?’

  For a fraction of a moment Strankmüller’s stomach churned. Which file had he discarded and which remained? In truth, he knew the answer but the prospect of getting the name wrong, and disgracing himself further, was more than he could have borne in his dishevelled conditi
on. Composing himself he took a breath, then let out the name purposefully.

  ‘Svoboda. Sergeant Anton Svoboda. Very competent, fearless in fact, according to the instructors.’

  ‘He’ll need to be,’ asserted Moravec, and he scooped up the two men’s files, walked over to Johnson’s vacant desk, sat down and began to read. Without looking up from his task he called out to his deputy.

  ‘Right go and get a wash and shave, Emil. I’m not dining with you looking like that.’ He tried to sound stern but was unable to stifle a slight smirk of amusement at Strankmüller’s wholly evident dedication to the task he had been set.

  ‘Sir,’ mumbled his subordinate glumly.

  Strankmüller stumbled from the chair and wandered distractedly out into the corridor, leaving behind a bare patch of wood on his desk for the first time in three days. The rest of its surface was still littered with folders. All were fastened and piled anonymously on top of one another in a number of messy heaps. Save for one, which lay open. In the top left hand corner of this rebellious document the impish face of Jan Kubiš peered determinedly out at the world, showing no outward sign of disappointment at being passed over for the mission.

  7

  ‘The Slavs are to work for us. In so far as we do not need them, they may die. Slav fertility is not desirable’

  Martin Bormann

  George Watson’s tuneless whistling interrupted the tranquillity of a late English afternoon. The rain had decided against its expected visit and the sky was just light enough to venture out into a back garden that required his constant attention.

  From here he attempted a barely recognisable version of Anne Shelton’s Let the Curtain Come Down that was frequently punctuated by a phlegmy cough or asthmatic wheeze. That morning he had pronounced himself secretly in love with the eighteen-year-old, though he had never seen her face. Little Anne, as he called her, had become the latest ‘forces’ sweetheart’, serenading British troops in North Africa from their radio sets, to the accompanying sounds of the Bert Ambrose band.