‘Tell me, Herr Jacob, what is the operational status of this aircraft?’
‘It’s almost ready to go into full production, Brigadeführer,’ Jacob replied. ‘All we need is Maior Sommer’s evaluation from today’s flight.’ Schellenberg glanced over at Sommer.
‘I enjoyed watching your flight. Your opinion, Maior?’
‘It’s all ready, sir. Today’s flight was a dream. I see no reason why we can’t have it flying soon.’
‘How soon?’
‘This one could be operational today.’
‘Thank you, Maior. Schellenberg turned back to Jacob. ‘I understand this aircraft is very fast, and can outrun any Allied fighter, is that not so?’
‘Yes Brigadeführer. That’s what Luftwaffe Intelligence suggests.’
‘And its range is?’
‘Approximately two thousand two hundred kilometers on a full fuel load, sir’.
‘Good’. Schellenberg paused. ‘That should be more than enough. I also realise that it’s a single seater, but do you think you could squeeze in a passenger in behind the pilot’s seat?’ He studied the perspiring engineer intensely.
‘I don’t know’, Jacob hesitated. ‘We’ve never looked at that before.’ He looked troubled. ‘It’s a roomy cockpit certainly, but I’m not entirely sure….Perhaps we could remove the bomb- aiming mechanism, slide the pilot’s seat a bit further forward, maybe adjust the controls….’
Schellenberg glanced at Sommer. ‘What’s your opinion, Maior?’
‘Well, it’s possible,’ Sommer concluded after a slight pause. ‘But whoever can squeeze in the space behind the seat’s going to be mighty uncomfortable. And he’s going to have a hell of a time getting out. But if he can get in, he can get out, sore arse and all’.
‘Thank you.’ Schellenberg noted the casual lack of respect due his rank in Sommer’s reply, but decided to ignore it for the moment. ‘That’s what I hoped you’d say’. He turned back to the engineer. ‘Thank you for your time, Herr Jacob. Please discuss this requirement with your colleagues, but only on a need to know basis. Understood?’ The engineer nodded his head nervously. ‘I have every confidence that you will find a solution quickly. We need detain you no longer’.
Jacob smiled weakly, got up, bowed and shot out of the room as quickly as he could. Schellenberg waited until the door had closed, and then turned towards the others. ‘Gentlemen, I think you can catch the general idea of what I’m angling at.’ Both men nodded. ‘Maior Sommer, I want you to finish your debriefing with the Arado engineers and fly the plane back to the factory, today. There, you will supervise the conversion to accept a passenger in the space behind the pilot’s seat. Any other duties you may have are suspended until I’ve finished with your services. I’m sending one of my men up to the factory to liaise. He’ll inform me when the aircraft is ready. I want this modification finished in record time, a week today at the very latest’.
‘A week!’ Sommer interjected. ‘Christ sir, that’s not much time.’
‘No, but that’s all you’ve got. There’s a severe time pressure on the mission I have in mind. When the plane is ready, fly it back to Luftwaffe Reconnaissance HQ at Oranienburg. There you will hold yourself in readiness to begin the operation at a moment’s notice. This will be a nighttime mission, preferably with a full moon. My representative will join you there.’
Luttwitz sensed a rising indignation from his friend, and rapidly decided to step in before Sommer might say something he would later regret.
‘Brigadeführer, is there anything else you can tell us about the mission? That’s not much to go on.’
‘All in good time, gentlemen.’ Schellenberg smiled. ‘I will give you the relevant details with enough time to assess the latest intelligence and prepare your flight plan. Remember, this is top secret. The mission overrides any and all other matters.’ He focused on Sommer. ‘I hear you’re one of the best pilots in the Luftwaffe, Maior. I think you’ll find this mission suitably challenging. Good day, gentlemen’.
112 Glienicke Strasse, Kladow 1930 3/5/1944
The two-storey house stood alone, along a short drive. It was located just off the main street that led down a long gentle slope towards a small harbour. Lake Havel and the green slopes of the Grünewald beyond were clearly visible. He walked down from the top of the road. There were a few empty cars parked along the pavement. It all seemed so very peaceful and quiet. Large oak trees lined the sidewalk, providing leafy shade as the sun started its westerly course towards twilight. Simon turned right into the drive at number 112. The gates were open and he entered the grounds, his footsteps crunching along the gravel drive. At the front of the building a flight of steps led up to a large stone porch. He pressed the bell buzzer, and from deep inside the faint chime of a grandfather clock announced half past the hour. But there was no reply. He tried again. Still nothing. He was just about to walk around the side of the house when the door opened, catching him by surprise. A small, neatly dressed man in a black suit silently beckoned him to come in. As Simon passed him the butler walked out to the edge of the porch and along the drive. He slipped into the bushes by the wall, and stealthily looked out onto the street, carefully checking the view in both directions. Apparently satisfied, he returned, closing the front door behind him and beckoned Simon to follow him down the hall.
The house was quite old, probably dating back to the time of Bismarck and the unification of Germany. The hall corridor led back towards a large kitchen. He passed several doors; a music room, a large library and study, a good-sized dining room and an equally impressive drawing room. The butler led him through the kitchen and out onto a large patio. A huge conservatory was positioned at the left rear of the house, pointing towards the garden that stretched out towards the lake. Simon could see a small wooden summer house at the far end.
The butler pointed him in its general direction, smiled briefly and turned back towards the kitchen. Something in the way he moved reminded Simon of …What was it? He was sure he’d seen that man before. Was it the same person who brusquely bumped into him outside the Anhalter station a couple of days ago?The butler quickly slipped back into the kitchen and disappeared from view.
A stone path weaved its way among the shrubs, lawn and rockeries. At the end, a small hedge marked the lower boundary of the garden and almost reached the lake’s edge. The summer house was tucked in the right corner, facing towards the water. As he walked down the garden, Simon wondered how Canaris would be. They’d only met a few times in the past, notably at the wedding and a few family get-togethers, but they had always got on well enough, and Canaris had gone out of his way to be friendly and interested in Simon’s well-being. At times Canaris had seemed almost like a father figure to him, particularly since his estrangement with his own father. There was also no doubt that the older man was very shrewd. But the one thing he dreaded was talking about Klarissa. He did not want to re-open wounds that were too fresh and painful, but there would be little choice. Better get on with it.
Simon mounted the step, and knocked on the door. A brief moment later Canaris appeared. That he was pleased to see him was obvious by the look on his face.
‘My dear Max, so good to see you again. It’s been far too long’. Canaris beamed, and gave Simon a quick fierce hug. ‘Come in and sit down. I see you got my message’. He beckoned to a seat by a small table.
‘Yes sir. Both of them’.
He stopped and sighed. ‘Max, what can I say?’ A look of pain flitted across the older man’s face. ‘The news about Klarissa was a devastating blow for all of us. I was, and still am, deeply shocked and saddened by the news. Her mother was inconsolable, so I took it upon myself to write to you.’ He lapsed into silence for a few moments, gazing at the fire in the hearth.‘I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am. She was my favourite niece, almost like a daughter to me. I loved her dearly’. Canaris paused again, his voice thick with emotion.
‘Yes, I know. So did I’. Simon could feel that tears
were not that far away. He struggled to speak clearly. ‘But she’s gone, and I have to accept that. An old friend gave me some advice - it’s time to move on and let her rest in peace. I can’t say that’s easy, but there’s no other choice’. He cleared his throat and swallowed.
Canaris turned away for a moment, hiding his face. ‘Yes, of course,’ he said heavily. ‘Let’s change the subject. Can I get you a drink? Some brandy, perhaps?’
‘Thank you sir, or Armagnac, if you have any.’
‘Yes, of course’. Canaris busied himself with a small drinks cabinet in one corner of the room, and returned carrying two glasses. He handed one to Simon. ‘Prost. Here’s to our friends and families, all our loved ones, and to a better future‘. Simon silently raised his glass in reply, and took a small sip of the smooth, powerful amber liquid. They sat in silence for a few minutes, busy with their own thoughts. After a suitable pause, Simon felt the need to clear the air. It was high time to change the subject.
‘I was sorry to hear about your retirement, sir’, he began. ‘Have you been offered another position?’
‘Not yet. Someone from the Economics Ministry is allegedly trying to sort out a position where I can be of use, but nothing’s come of it so far.’ Canaris ventured a small smile. ‘I suppose Schellenberg told you that’.
Simon was thoroughly stunned. Just how the hell did Canaris know what went on inside number eight Prinz Albrecht Strasse? Canaris had not mentioned his demotion in his letter. Did that mean he knew everything about Schellenberg’s conversation with him and the mission? The Admiral’s next words were a little more illuminating.
‘I may have been officially retired, Max, but that doesn’t mean I’ve lost all my sources. I still keep in contact with a few old friends, and they provide me with some useful bits and pieces. Even from there, of all places,’ he said, obliquely referring to RSHA. ‘But we’ll talk about that later. First, I want to hear about you: what’s happened to you since we last met - your recovery, and so on. Then we’ll go back to the house and have dinner. You’ve met Alfred, my butler.’ He chuckled. ‘More than once, I think, although you may not have realised it at the time. Also, there’s someone else you need to meet, a bit later on before you have to get back to your duties. Tell me everything’.
87 Kreuzberg Allee, Berlin 2000 3/5/1944
Brandt sat in his small apartment, casually reading the current edition of the Volkischker Beöbachter. He was killing time, indulging himself in the latest version of state-generated fiction. The paper contained little of real interest - just the usual propaganda, under the watchful scrutiny of Goebbels’ Information Ministry. The recent reverses on the Eastern Front were skillfully glossed over, but only a fool or the blind could fail to realise what was really happening. The front lines were creeping inexorably closer to the Reich’s borders. Headlines proclaimed record numbers of planes shot down, tanks destroyed and prisoners captured, but no mention was made of the cost. The Nazis had abandoned the daily publishing of the list of fallen in the papers over a year ago. Too bad for morale, someone had said.
The appointment with the Admiral was for nine, at the house in Kladow. He yawned. After the excitement of the report from England there had been very little work for him to do. Every day he’d expected to receive orders to return to Madrid and resume his duties, but nothing had happened. Had they appointed someone from the SS, maybe even that loathsome shit Ziemcke, to take over his post? There weren’t many former Abwehr agents left, now. Himmler seemed hell-bent to remove as much of the former organization as quickly as possible, and the take-over of the Abwehr was almost complete. In the last few days he had got the distinct impression that he had become superfluous to all requirements. Even the office secretaries ignored him. There was nothing much he could do, but still he stuck at it. You never knew when an interesting piece of intelligence might come your way.
He left the car from the motor pool parked just around the corner. The drive over to Kladow would take no more than half an hour, even with the blackout covers on the headlamps. He knew the way. The documents he carried at all times would ensure swift passage through any checkpoint or inspection, no matter how thorough the examination. It was time to go. He put on his jacket, left a few tell-tales in place in case of unwelcome visitors, and slipped out, triple locking the door behind him. The hallway and stairs were empty. Silently he descended the stairs and walked to the rear exit of the apartment block.
It was cool and shadowy after the warmth of the day. A light breeze ruffled the trees.Brandt moved stealthily along the path at the back of the block, taking care to walk as quietly as possible. It led him onto a narrow alley, filled with rubbish and refuse bins. He paused, carefully scanning the shadows. Nothing moved. At the far end he stopped again and looked at the street. A few pedestrians hurried home, nothing to arouse any particular interest. He turned left and walked to the corner, surreptitiously checking his surroundings. Everything looked normal. The car was facing him, parked no more than fifty yards away.Across the road a seedy, run-down furniture emporium and cheap restaurant framed the view; on this side a few shops, closed down and shuttered for the night.
He walked to the car, slipped the keys out of his pocket to open the door and slid onto the front seat. He was just about to turn the ignition when the roar of an engine and the squeal of hastily applied brakes made him look to his left. A large black BMW saloon had pulled up parallel to where his car was parked, neatly blocking him in. Three men dressed in dark suits and hats got out and quickly surrounded the car. Flight was impossible. His heart raced, and his shirt suddenly felt sticky and clammy. Keep calm. This might be nothing to do with me. But deep in his heart he knew otherwise.
The nearest man walked up to the driver’s side window, bent over and tapped the glass. Brandt eased the window down. It was Ziemcke. He was grinning broadly.
‘Good evening, Hans. Going somewhere?
‘Yes’. Brandt did his best to keep his voice steady, but a slight tremor betrayed him. ‘I’m just going to see my sister in Zehlendorff. She’s not been very well recently.’
‘Ah. That is such a shame.’ Ziemcke affected a mock dismay. ‘Such a shame for her, that is. The trouble, Hans, is that you don’t have a sister in Zehlendorff. Or is it Finsterwalde? How about Kladow?’ The muzzle of a Walther PPK suddenly appeared in his right hand, his face now sneering at him. ‘Whatever you were about to do can wait. The Reichsführer is not entirely happy about one or two details concerning your recent activities, and requests the pleasure of your company at number eight Prinz Albrecht Strasse. So please make it easy on yourself by stepping out of the car. Slowly. No sudden moves, and keep your hands out of your pockets.’
Brandt followed instructions, his mind seething. A quick glance showed that the other two were standing at the front and rear of the car, cutting off any escape. He took a deep breath and started to open the door. Ziemcke moved back, but just a fraction too slowly. The door suddenly shot forward, catching him off balance and throwing him to the pavement. Brandt was onto him like a panther, his considerable bulk knocking the wind out of the smaller man, both hands wrestling for the gun. Ziemcke struggled desperately, trying to scratch the bigger man’s eyes with his free left hand. A head butt slammed into his nose and forehead, bringing tears to his eyes, temporarily blinding him and loosening his grip. Brandt could hear footsteps racing towards him. He rolled over, grasping the Walther. The nearest figure rushed towards him, his arm emerging from his jacket. Something glinted in the street lamp’s illumination. In one swift blur, Brandt raised his gun and loosed off a shot. Suddenly a heavy weight crashed into him, smashing the gun out of his hand. As he turned to face the new threat, he barely caught the glimpse of a black object hurtling towards him. A brilliant burst of colour streaked into his vision, a violent blast of jagged light. The side of his head exploded as if a bomb had detonated next to him, and then an overpowering wall of blackness blotted out all his senses.
112 Glienicke Strasse, K
ladow 2100 3/5/1944
They had just finished dinner and were relaxing in the conservatory, looking back down the garden. The glow from the lake was gradually diminishing as the sun sank further into the west. All the house curtains were drawn, and soon the conservatory shades would be closed in anticipation of night and the black-out. Alfred had silently served them throughout dinner, refilling their glasses and anticipating every wish with a gentle smile. But he had remained entirely mute.
During a break in the conversation Alfred had slipped downstairs into the cellar to fetch another bottle of wine. Canaris explained the reason.
‘Forgive me. I should have mentioned this earlier. Alfred rarely speaks. One night a few years back, before the war started, Alfred and his wife went out for an evening at the theatre. On their way home they were walking down a street near the Tiergarten. A group of drunken SA storm troopers emerged from a bier keller. Just by chance, as they strolled by. The storm troopers took exception to Alfred’s wife, who is part Jewish. In the ensuing struggle one of them hit Alfred over the head with a truncheon. We never saw Maria again. I made extensive enquiries, but could only find out that she had disappeared. Somewhere in the East, I think. It took Alfred six months to recover. The doctors said that he was very lucky - the blow would have killed many other men. The residual damage was relatively minor. Expressive dysphasia, they called it. He finds it very difficult to speak.’
London Calling Page 3