After a while, the passenger door opened and Goli Hemmati sat in the seat, having arrived on the Geneva-Zurich Express as Salinger had been told. He thought then how strange it was she had been sent to take care of him, Julia’s childhood friend, now working for the British. She wore a gray raincoat and smelled damp, but she was still very beautiful. She informed Salinger it was all over for him, and that she was to take him away from the war.
Four months later he was determined fit for duty again. Stationed in Cairo, he was told there was much work to do concerning the elimination of an immense German spy network once Rommel was defeated. For Salinger this meant mainly desk duty, the daily shuffling of papers, and attending to logistic matters. To put it bluntly, he was being protected, and he was bored.
This, he thought, made it even stranger as to why he was being driven on this late afternoon to a meeting with British Intelligence on the outskirts of Cairo.
----
Salinger looked up from the newspaper as the taxi passed the Mena House Hotel. Gleaming towers and domes set among palms, an oasis of luxury in the desert landscape with gardens bursting full of bougainvillea and jasmine. It all represented another time in Salinger’s life . . . when life was fresh back then even though the clouds of war surrounded him and his new wife. It was there at the Mena, among the jasmine-scented gardens, beneath the shadows of the Pyramid of Cheops, he and Julia were married.
He allowed himself the fleeting luxury of remembering, and then pushed it all away realizing he had become very good at doing that—shutting away those happier times.
The taxi driver pumped the brakes as they reached where the asphalt road ended.
Off to the right was a group of villas among groves of tamarind and eucalyptus trees. The driver pulled off to the left away from the villas where an Arab leaned over an irrigation wheel and sipped water from cupped hands. Just beyond, a group of men sat cross-legged beside squatting camels.
The sedan bounced to an abrupt halt at a roadblock some twenty yards short of the oasis. The driver got out, opened the door for Salinger and pointed. ‘There, sir.” Salinger offered to pay the fare but the driver waved away his money and pointed beneath the trees. “He has already paid, sir.”
Salinger turned, shielding his eyes against the setting sun.
Major Graham Mayfield stood at the tree line.
----
The British intelligence officer at forty-nine looked more the part of a college professor peering from behind rimless glasses. Head of British Intelligence operations in Persia, Mayfield was certainly no stranger to the intrigues swirling through Cairo. It was rumored that he could walk through the terrace bar of the Shepheard Hotel and point out every spy present whether they were British, American, or German.
Mayfield walked out of the shadows toward Salinger, his coat draped over his arm, his pearl-white shirt plastered to his damp chest. “Well, Booth, you’re looking healthy again. Thank God for that.” They shook hands. “How long has it been? Have we talked since you were stationed in Cairo?”
“It was before I was sent to Bern,” Salinger told him.
Mayfield took him by the elbow. “Yes, Bern is such a beautiful city and just the place for one to heal. A bad business that you went through back then, didn’t you? I would hope you’ve been able to put that all behind you.”
When Salinger didn’t answer— “You don’t still blame yourself for those men dying?” Mayfield asked.
For the briefest of moments, there was between them an illusion that at one time they were actually above all of this.
“I wish I could blame someone else,” Salinger said.
You could blame the Germans.”
Salinger stared out over the desert. “I’ve tried that, Major.”
Mayfield let a respectful moment pass. “Well, I would imagine you’ll want to know why I asked you to meet me here. Some serious business has come up in Tehran. Rather quickly as these sorts of things tend to do.”
“You have an operation for me?”
Mayfield grinned. “Exactly. I thought it was time we got you out of that office, and besides who knows Tehran better than yourself.” He stopped. “Booth, because Iran is your playing field I wouldn’t suggest sending anyone else there to address this situation.” He pointed to a Buick sedan parked behind the trees. “There are several men here who also agree with me you’re the man for the job. Let’s not keep them waiting.”
As they approached the Buick, a shadow moved out from the front of the sedan.
Winston Churchill wore a white duck suit, a white panama hat and white shoes. He carried a gold-topped ebony cane and looked more like a butterfly hunter than the leader of England. “So, this is our man, Major?”
“Yes, sir, Booth Salinger.”
Churchill extended his hand, staring straight at Salinger as if to instantly read into his soul. “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Salinger. Sorry about all the melodrama concerning meeting you out here in the desert. But I know you’ll appreciate the secrecy once you’ve been made aware of the situation.”
Meeting the Prime Minister of England in the middle of the Egyptian desert? Salinger instantly appreciated the urgency of the meeting.
“We have a circumstance,” Churchill began, “which demands immediate and swift attention. Mayfield assures me there is no other man he would rather have working on it than you because of your keen awareness of the workings of Persian intelligence operations.”
“The major has always had a vivid imagination,” Salinger said.
“That may well be, but I’ve grown to trust his judgment,” Churchill said, pointing a thick finger at Salinger. “We need you to work with us . . . and before you ask, yes we’ve received permission to approach you to work with British Intelligence.” Churchill, cigar clinched between his teeth, turned and made his way toward the sedan. “Walk with me, Mr. Salinger.”
After several yards they stood at the Buick. Churchill opened the back door. President Franklin Roosevelt leaned over. “Good evening, Mr. Salinger. Would you like to take a seat?”
----
Salinger sat beside the President who was wearing a dark business suit. His large head was thrown back as seen in newspaper photographs hundreds of times, with a broad smile on his pear-shaped face and the gleaming pince-nez cocked on his nose. Churchill and Mayfield sat opposite.
“I knew your father very well . . . a good man,” Roosevelt said. “Were you aware he was conducting some work for us in Europe at the time of his death?”
“My father was working for the government?”
“He was invaluable to us,” the President said. “Europe was quickly being closed off by Hitler and the only men who had access to information were businessmen traveling there. We asked your father to keep his ears and eyes open to what was happening behind the curtain. He was quite useful; he was the one who recommended you to Army Intelligence by the way.” He smiled, “with some assistance from friends in high places.”
“You—”
“Anything for an old friend, and, I can see from Major Mayfield’s recommendation it was a smart decision.”
Roosevelt lit a Camel in the ivory cigarette holder and thrust it upward at a jaunty angle. “Major Mayfield has convinced the Prime Minister . . . and he in turn has convinced me . . . that I should loan you to their intelligence service so this problem can be cleared up.” The President turned to Mayfield. “Would you care to explain the situation, major?”
“Two nights ago,” Mayfield began, “one of our intelligence officers, Major Benjamin Fields was found murdered. A shot, small caliber close range to the stomach. Then a final shot to the head, execution style. He was in a rather scruffy hotel room in a place called Shahr-e Rey south of Tehran. The murder of a British officer is bad enough, but to make matters worse Fields possessed valuable information.”
“What was his purpose in Tehran?”
“Fields was stationed with MI6 security forces posted to Cairo six months ago. His exact pu
rpose was to coordinate the protection and assimilation of certain top-secret information to be discussed during the conference. Being assigned to the British Embassy in Tehran, he had access to the agenda for both the Cairo conference and the meeting upcoming in Tehran next week.”
Mayfield continued. “Several factors come into play. A German agent could have set him up, but it has come to my attention he also had an insatiable appetite for women. He was put on a short lease within the last several months concerning that matter.”
“Don’t count out the Soviets,” Churchill said.
“Of course, they could be involved,” Mayfield said.
Salinger leaned back. “Was the room registered in his name?”
“He used a false name when he registered, which leads me to believe that it was a rendezvous with someone he knew—someone he trusted to keep his secret. And before you ask, no, we don’t believe he had turned.”
“Are you certain, or is that your opinion, Major?”
Mayfield’s face stiffened. “I’m afraid we aren’t certain of anything at this point.”
Salinger understood the major as a man who gave loyalty and expected it in return. The question of one of his men being a traitor was beyond his understanding. “Were the officer’s papers missing?”
Mayfield turned to Churchill. The Prime Minister nodded. “Fields was carrying the agenda for the upcoming meeting in Tehran, outline major details to be discussed.”
Salinger fingered the edge of the window. “Information that’s not beyond repair . . . the agenda can be changed, meeting places shifted so security won’t be jeopardized.”
“I’m afraid it’s not quite that simple.” Mayfield said. “Within the itinerary papers several valuable items were detailed. One such item was the outline of political posturing after the Allied victory. A bit of inconvenience really, if exposed, more embarrassment than anything else.” Mayfield hesitated. “The second issue could be a bit more dangerous if exposed. Fields possessed among his papers references to Operation Overlord, the planned Allied invasion plans of Europe, to be discussed in great detail during the conference.”
“How much detail?” Salinger asked. “And certainly it was coded.”
“Coded, of course,” Mayfield said. “Details? Enough so that it would be a complete disaster if the Huns figure out what they actually possess. Timetables. Schedules. Suggested locations for the landing points penciled in.”
“Time is a crucial factor,” Churchill said. “The invasion is scheduled for late May or early June. If, we cannot clear this matter up to our complete satisfaction that the Germans don’t know what they possess, we would be forced to delay the invasion.”
“Which means the war would drag on for at least another two years or more,” Roosevelt said.
Mayfield shifted in his seat. “So now, Salinger, you know what we’re up against. And why we need someone such as yourself who knows Tehran.”
“Major, I haven’t been there in over a year.”
“Nothing has really changed, Booth,” he said. “The place is full of spies, and the government is on the take from whoever offers the most money.”
Churchill sat there, his hands cupped atop his cane. The sun was quickly retreating behind the vast desert, placing the sedan in half shadow.
“Can we count on you to sort this all out, Mr. Salinger?” Roosevelt asked.
Going back to Tehran? The thought paralyzed Salinger for a long moment. Still . . . he opened the door. “I’ll help in any way I can, Mr. President. And thank you for sharing that story about my father.”
“He was a good man to his country and he’d be proud of you.”
Salinger turned to Mayfield, “Where do we begin?”
“I’ll take you to Gray Pillars in the morning. Fields worked out of an office there.”
----
The three men watched the taxi as it disappeared into a swirl of sand and nightfall.
“Such a sad fellow,” Roosevelt offered. “He seemed to hesitate. Did you expect that, Mayfield?”
“He’s the right man for the job and I’ll stake my reputation on it.” Mayfield lit his pipe. “He’s given up a lot for the cause, but he’ll pull through.”
“In what way?” Churchill asked.
“Salinger had a breakdown after he lost some men in a mountain operation near Tehran. Then he had an affair, with his wife’s friend no less who was sent to Bern to bring him back. It was more than his wife could accept, all of that. She attempted suicide four months later. A terrible tragedy, though she survived.”
“Dreadful,” Churchill said.
“Yes, it is,” Mayfield stared back into the dark desert. “And Salinger knows going back to Tehran will stir up all those awful memories.”
-Three-
24 November. The villa at 56-58 Am Grossen Wannsee in southwestern Berlin.
At midmorning beneath a lead-colored sky, a black Mercedes sedan drove up the long avenue beneath leafless trees and pulled up around the circular drive to the front door of the large villa overlooking Lake Grosser Wannsee.
Built in 1915, the gray stone house since the beginning of the war was designed equally for work and social gatherings, lending an air of refinement to important gatherings of German Intelligence. On 20 January 1942, Nazi leaders had met at the Wannsee Villa to plan the Final Solution to the ‘Jewish Question’. Conducted by Reinhard Heydrich, Chief of the Reich Main Security Office, the meeting set forth an effective plan for ‘the extermination of the Jews of Europe’. Heydrich had continued to use this place as his Berlin Headquarters until his untimely assassination by Czech fighters in June 1942.
In the back seat of the approaching sedan was Colonel Theodor Richter, head of one of the most secretive sections of German Intelligence—codenamed Black Forest. Richter was a small man with a serious face even more solemn on this morning because of the gravity of the meeting he was to attend. Huddled in the warm interior, he smoked, depressingly aware of the continuing failure of Germany’s war effort—and the approaching danger to his plan set in motion in Iran eighteen months before. A plan the men with whom he was to meet with had not a clue it existed.
When the sedan stopped in front of the villa, Richter stepped out and quickly paced through the vast doorway. Inside he was met by a towering guard and escorted through a gigantic hall hung with Boars’ heads embedded with red damask. Climbing the marble staircase, Richter was shown into an upstairs conference room at the end of the hallway.
Three men sat at a long polished table. A large window behind them presented a sweeping view of the gray large-mirrored lake. Security Police Chief Ernest Kaltenbrunner, the Hitler-appointed head of Operation Long Jump, the plot to kill the Big Three, sat at the head of the table. On his left sat SS Brigadefuhrer Walter Schellenberg, head of Foreign Intelligence, more specifically Section VI—espionage and sabotage abroad. The third man sitting at the other end of the table was Lieutenant Hermann Frick, Richter’s assistant.
“Good of you to meet with us,” Kaltenbrunner bantered as Richter took a chair opposite Schellenberg.
“I’m late. A matter which couldn’t be overlooked I’m afraid.”
“Hmm,” Kaltenbrunner sat tight-lipped staring at him. “Schellenberg insisted you be in this meeting.” Richter was well aware of this man’s contempt for the Abwehr and himself.
Born in Innkreis, Austria in October 1903, Kaltenbrunner was the son of a lawyer and was educated at the State Realgymnasium in Linz and Graz University. He worked briefly as a lawyer in Linz before joining the Nazi Party and the SS in Austria in 1932. In 1935 he became leader of the Austrian SS, assisted in the Anschluss, the union of German and Austria, and shortly was promoted personally by Hitler to SS Brigadefuhrer. On 30 January 1943 he was appointed chief of the RSHA, comprising both the Security Police and the SD, the position held by Heydrich until his assassination.
He was a tall man, standing over 6’7”, and had deep scars on his face reportedly from his dueling days as
a student. Rumors persisted that the ‘dueling scars’ were actually results of an alcohol-linked driving accident.
“We were discussing the last dispatches from your Abwehr agents stationed in Algiers,” Kaltenbrunner told him, “which means in all probability we should move ahead with Operation Long Jump.” Kaltenbrunner nodded at Frick, who handed over several papers to his boss. The lieutenant was twenty-seven appearing much younger than his years, and over the last eighteen months had proven idealistic and totally loyal to Richter.
Richter carefully examined the papers revealing the ambitious operation unfolding in Iran. When he finished, he sat the papers in front of him on the table. “What are the odds this operation will succeed? Do you actually believe you can get an assassin, let alone a hundred, within two hundred meters of any of these men?”
“Colonel,” Kaltenbrunner said. “These men are totally dedicated to their objective, even to the point of giving their lives to achieve the purpose. There is a Latin saying that I’m certain you are aware of, ‘He who scorns his own life is lord of yours.’”
‘I don’t doubt their dedication,” Richter said.
“Besides, Colonel, the situation has actually turned to our advantage.”
“In what way?”
Kaltenbrunner turned to Schellenberg. “Fill your man in.”
“In March, we dispatched six commandos with orders to make their way to Tehran,” the general started. “There they were to make contact with one of our agents and establish radio contact with Berlin. It was the first act in an operation I had personally designed—codenamed Operation Franz—a military operation since redesigned based on vital information an agent in Turkey has provided. These facts detailed exactly where and when the conference between the three allied leaders would take place the last week in November in Tehran.”
“A gift,” Richter said.
“There are some who doubt the validity of the information, but I have no reason to doubt it at all.”
A Spy in the Shadows (Spy Noir Series Book 1) Page 2