Sheba

by Jack Higgins

  Canaris frowned. “But where is this leading?”

  “This place is unknown, Herr Admiral, hidden out there in the desert. Used for supplies, an aircraft, it could provide a base for a strike against the Canal.”

  Canaris got up and went to the map. He examined it and turned. “A thousand miles at least from that area to the Suez Canal.”

  “More like twelve hundred, Herr Admiral, but I’m sure I could find a way.”

  Canaris smiled. “You usually can, Hans. All right, bring Muller to see me.”

  “When, Herr Admiral?”

  “Why now, of course, tonight. I intend to sleep in the office anyway.”

  He returned to his papers and Ritter went out.

  Professor Otto Muller was a small, balding man with a wizened face tanned to the shade of old leather by constant exposure to the desert sun. When Ritter ushered him into the office to meet Canaris, Muller smiled nervously, exposing gold-capped teeth.

  Canaris said, “That will do, Hans.” Ritter went out and Canaris lit a cigarette. “So Professor, a remarkable find. Tell me about it.”

  Muller stood there like a nervous schoolboy. “I was lucky, Herr Admiral. I’ve been working in the Shabwa area for some time and one night an old Bedouin staggered into my camp, dying of thirst and fever. I nursed him back to life.”

  “I see.”

  “They’re a strange people. Can’t bear to be in debt, so he repaid me by telling me where Sheba’s temple was.”

  “Payment indeed. Tell me about it.”

  “I first saw it as an outcrop of reddish stone, out there in the vastness of the Empty Quarter. The Herr Admiral must understand that there are sand dunes out there that are hundreds of feet high.”

  “Remarkable.”

  “As I got closer, we entered a gorge. I had two Bedouin with me as guards. We had journeyed by camel. There was a flat plain, very hard-baked, then a gorge, a broad avenue of pillars.”

  “And the temple? Tell me about that.”

  Which Muller did, talking for a good half hour while Canaris listened intently. Finally the Admiral nodded. “Fascinating. Captain Ritter tells me you made an excellent report to the Abwehr?”

  “I hope I know my duty, Herr Admiral. I’m a party member.”

  “Indeed,” Canaris observed drily. “Then you will no doubt be pleased to return to this place with suitable funding and do what you are told to do. This is a project the Führer himself is interested in.”

  Muller drew himself up. “At your orders, Herr Admiral.”

  “Good.” Canaris pressed a button on his desk. “We’ll keep you informed.”

  Ritter entered. “Herr Admiral?”

  “Wait outside, Professor,” Canaris said and waited until Muller had gone out. “He seems harmless enough, but I still have my doubts, Hans. If you used this place as a base, it would require a flight of, say, twelve hundred miles to the Canal, and what real damage could one bomber do? In fact, do we have a plane that could make the flight?”

  “I’ve already had a thought,” Ritter said. “But I’d like to explore it further before sharing it with you.”

  Canaris frowned. “Is this serious business, Hans?”

  “I believe it could be, Herr Admiral.”

  “So be it.” Canaris nodded. “I don’t need to tell you to squeeze Muller dry, details of this Dahrein place, how the Spanish run it, and so on. At least they’re on our side, which could be useful.”

  “I’ll see to it, sir.”

  “At your soonest, Hans. A feasibility study. I’ll give you three days.”

  Ritter turned and limped out, and Canaris went back to his papers.

  2

  ON WEDNESDAY MORNING, CANARIS, AFTER SLEEPING once again on the little military bed in his office, was in the bathroom shaving when there was a knock at the door.

  “Come in,” he called.

  “It’s me, Herr Admiral,” Ritter replied. “And your breakfast.”

  Canaris wiped his face and went out to the aroma of good coffee and found an orderly arranging a tray on his desk, Ritter standing by the window.

  “Dismissed,” Canaris said and picked up his cup as the orderly went out. “Join me, Hans.”

  “I’ve already had breakfast, Herr Admiral.”

  “You must have risen early. How conscientious of you.”

  “Not really, Herr Admiral. It’s just that I find difficulty sleeping.”

  Canaris was immediately all sympathy. “My dear Hans, how stupid of me. I’m afraid I often forget just how difficult life must be for you.”

  “The fortunes of war, Herr Admiral.” He laid a file on the desk as Canaris buttered some toast. The Admiral looked up. “What’s this?”

  “Operation Sheba, Herr Admiral.”

  “You mean you’ve come up with a solution?”

  “I believe so.”

  “You think this thing could be done?”

  “Not only could it be done, Herr Admiral, I think it should be done.”

  “Really.” Canaris poured coffee into the spare cup. “Then I insist that you have a cigarette and drink that while I see what you’ve got here.”

  Ritter did as he was told and limped across to the window. The third of April. Soon it would be Easter, and yet it rained like a bad day in November. His leg hurt, but he was damned if he was going to take a morphine pill unless he really had to. He swallowed the coffee and lit a cigarette. Behind him he heard Canaris lift the telephone.

  “The Reich Chancellery, the Führer’s suite,” he said and added after a moment, “Good morning. Canaris. I must see the Führer. Yes, most urgent.” There was a longer pause and then he said, “Excellent. Eleven o’clock.”

  Ritter turned. “Herr Admiral?”

  “Excellent, Hans, this plan of yours. You can come with me and tell the man yourself.”

  Ritter had never ventured beyond the main reception area at the Chancellery before and what he saw was breathtaking, not only the huge doors and bronze eagles, but the Marble Gallery which was 480 feet long, the Führer’s special pride as it was twice as long as the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles.

  When they were admitted to the Führer’s enormous study, they found Hitler seated at his desk. He looked up. “Something important, I trust.”

  “I think so, my Führer,” Canaris said. “This is my aide, Captain Ritter.”

  Hitler took in the scarred face, the stick, the medals, rose, came round the table, and took Ritter’s hand. “As a soldier I salute you.”

  He went back to his chair and Ritter, overwhelmed, stammered, “What can I say, my Führer.”

  Canaris intervened. “The question of the Suez Canal. Captain Ritter has come up with an extraordinary plan. In fact, what is the most extraordinary thing about it is its simplicity.” He laid the file on Hitler’s desk. “Operation Sheba.”

  Hitler leaned back, arms folded in an inimitable gesture. “I’ll read it later. Tell me, Captain Ritter.”

  Ritter licked dry lips. “Well, my Führer, it all started with a Professor of Archaeology at the University called Muller and an extraordinary find he made in Southern Arabia.”

  “Fascinating,” Hitler said, his eyes glowing, for his passion for architecture was intense. “I’d give anything to see that temple.” He sat back. “But go on, Captain. You use the site as a base, but how does that advance the cause?”

  “The essence of the plan is its absurd simplicity. A single plane, a bomber trying to attack the Canal, is an absurdity. One can never be certain of accuracy.”

  “So?” Hitler said.

  “There is a two-engined amphibian called the Catalina, an American plane that can drop wheels and land on the ground as well as water. It has an extraordinary cruising range. Better than sixteen hundred miles carrying a bomb load of one and a half thousand pounds.”

  “Impressive,” Hitler said. “And how would such a plane be used?”

  “As I say, absurdly simple, my Führer. The plane lands at our site in t
he desert and takes on not bombs but mines. It flies to Egypt and lands on the Suez Canal itself. There the crew off-load many mines which will drift on the current. I would suggest somewhere near Kantra as a good spot. The crew will, of course, sink the Catalina, leaving on board a large quantity of our latest explosive, Helicon, which will do an enormous amount of damage to the Canal itself. I need hardly point out that the mines floating down will meet ships traveling north from Lake Timsah. I think we may count on several sinking and thus causing a further blockage.”

  There was silence for a while as Hitler sat there staring into space, and then he smacked a fist into his palm. “Brilliant, and as you say absurdly simple.” He frowned. “But this plane, this Catalina. Can you get hold of one?”

  “There is one available for sale in Lisbon, my Führer. I thought we could buy it and start our own airline in Dahrein, a Spanish company, naturally. I’m sure there would be plenty of coastal trade.”

  Hitler got up, came round the desk, and clapped him on the shoulders. “Quite. I like this man, Herr Admiral. Put his plan into force at once. You have my full authorization.”

  “My Führer.” Canaris led the way to the door, turned and forced himself to give the Nazi salute. “Let’s get out of here,” he whispered to Ritter, turned, and opened the door.

  As they went along the Marble Gallery, Canaris said, “You certainly covered yourself with glory there. Naturally I’ll authorize the necessary funding for the Catalina, but it occurs to me that there might be a problem regarding a suitable crew. Of course there is no reason why Germans should not be flying for a Spanish airline.”

  “But much better if they were Spanish,” Ritter said.

  “And where would you procure them?”

  “The ranks of the S.S., Herr Admiral. They have many Spanish volunteers.”

  “Of course,” Canaris said. “It would be perfect.”

  “I have already tracked down a suitable pilot, a man with much combat experience in the Spanish Civil War. He is at present employed as a courier pilot by the S.S. I’m seeing him later this morning at Gatow airfield.”

  “Good. I’ll come with you and see for myself,” Canaris said and led the way down the marble stairs.

  Carlos Romero was twenty-seven, a saturnine, rather handsome young man. Son of a wealthy Madrid wine merchant, he had learned to fly at sixteen, had joined the Spanish Air Force at the earliest possible moment, and trained as a fighter pilot. When the Civil War came, he had opted for Franco, not because he was a dedicated Fascist but because that’s what people of his class did. He’d shot down eleven planes, had had the time of his life. He’d even flown with the German Condor Legion.

  Suddenly it was all over and he didn’t want that, and then he’d got a whisper that the S.S. were taking Spanish volunteers. A pilot with his record, they had snapped him up without hesitation, employing him mainly on courier duties, ferrying high-ranking officers.

  So here he was at the controls of a small Stork spotter plane a thousand feet above Berlin, an S.S. Brigadeführer behind him. He called the tower at Gatow, received permission to land and drifted down toward the airfield, bored out of his skull.

  “Mother of God,” he whispered softly in Spanish. “There must be something better than this.”

  There was, of course, and he found it when he went into the mess and took off his flying jacket, revealing a well-tailored S.S. uniform in field gray. He had a small Spanish shield on his left shoulder and wore the Spanish Order of Merit for gallantry in the field and an Iron Cross First Class for his exploits with the Condor Legion.

  He was aware of Canaris first because of his high rank although he did not recognize him, but Ritter he did and went forward with genuine pleasure.

  “Hans Ritter, by all that’s holy.”

  Ritter got up to greet him, leaning on his stick, and shook hands. “You look well, Carlos. Spain seems a long time ago.”

  “I heard about your leg. I’m sorry.”

  Ritter said, “Admiral Canaris, Head of the Abwehr.”

  Romero got his heels together and saluted. “An honor, Herr Admiral.”

  “Join us, Herr Hauptsturmführer.” Canaris waved to the mess steward. “Champagne. Bollinger for preference, and three glasses.” He turned to Romero. “You are a courier pilot, I understand. Do you like that?”

  “To be frank, Herr Admiral, these milk runs of mine bore me to death.”

  “Then we’ll have to see if we can find something more rewarding for you,” Canaris said as the champagne arrived. “Tell him, Hans.” Romero finished reading the file and closed it. His face was pale and excited as he looked up. Canaris said, “Are you interested?”

  “Interested?” Romero accepted a cigarette from Ritter and his hand shook. “Herr Admiral, I’m willing to go down on my knees and beg.”

  Canaris laughed. “No need for that.”

  Ritter said, “The Catalina would not present you with a problem?”

  “Good God, no, an excellent aircraft to fly.”

  “And what about a crew?”

  Romero sat back thinking about it. “I could manage with a second pilot and an engineer.”

  “And where would we find them?” Canaris asked.

  “Right here in the Spanish Legion of the S.S. Like myself, Herr Admiral. I can think of two suitable candidates right now, Javier Noval, a fine pilot, and Juan Conde, an aircraft engineer of genius.”

  Ritter made a note of the names. “Excellent. I’ll have them transferred to Abwehr duties along with yourself.”

  “What about the explosives and the mines?” Romero asked.

  “We’ll have them delivered by some suitable freighter,” Ritter told him. “There should be no problem in a place like Dahrein. You will naturally build up your credentials during the run-up to September. Coastal trade, freight, that kind of thing.”

  Romero nodded slowly. “But I do have a suggestion. When the time comes, we could make the transfer of the mines at sea. I could land beside the freighter with no problem. From there a direct flight to the base would simplify the whole thing.”

  “Excellent.” Canaris stood up. “I think you should meet our friend Professor Muller. You can come back to town with us, drop me off on the way, and then continue to the University. From now on you deal with Captain Ritter in all things.”

  “At your orders, Herr Admiral.”

  “Good,” Canaris said and he turned and led the way out.

  Muller’s department at the University was housed in a vast echoing hall filled with artifacts of every description. Egyptian mummies, statues from Rome and Greece, amphora retrieved from ancient wrecks at the bottom of the Mediterranean, it was all there. Ritter and Romero browsed while Muller sat at his desk in his glass office and read the Operation Sheba file. Finally he got up and went to join them.

  Ritter turned. “Well, what do you think?”

  Muller was highly nervous, tried to smile, and failed miserably. “A wonderful idea, Herr Hauptmann, but I wonder if I have the qualifications you need. I mean, I’m not a trained spy, I’m just an archaeologist.”

  “This will be done, Professor, and by direct order of the Führer. Does this give you a problem?”

  “Good heavens, no.” Muller’s face was ashen.

  Romero clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t worry, Professor, I’ll look after you.”

  Ritter said, “That’s settled then. When Hauptsturmführer Romero leaves from Lisbon in the Catalina, you go with him to make your preparations. I’ll be in touch.”

  Ritter limped away, his stick tapping the marble. As they moved along the hall to the entrance, Romero said, “He’s a nervous little bastard.”

  “He’ll come to heel and that’s all that’s important.” They went out of the main entrance and stood at the top of the steps. “I’ll make arrangements for the immediate transfer of you and Noval and Conde today. You’ll leave for Lisbon tomorrow, in civilian clothes naturally. I’ll arrange priority seats on the Lufthans
a flight. As regards the purchase of the Catalina, our man at the German Legation will be your banker. Once you’ve checked the plane out, report back to me on the Embassy secure phone. I’ll expect to hear from you by Thursday at the latest.”

  “Mother of God, but you don’t hang about, Hans, do you?”

  “I could never see the point,” Ritter said and started down the steps to the Mercedes.

  The river Tagus, as someone once said, is the true reason for the existence of Lisbon with its wide bays and many sheltered anchorages. It was here that the great flying boats, the mighty clippers, left for America, and it was here, attached to two buoys about three hundred yards out to sea from the waterfront, that Carlos Romero found the Catalina. He had arrived at the dock close to the Avenida Da India together with Javier Noval and Juan Conde ten minutes early for the appointment with the owner’s agent, a man called da Gama. They stood at the edge of the dock, looking out at the amphibian.

  “It looks good to me,” said Noval, a tough young man around Romero’s age, who wore an old leather flying jacket.

  Conde was older than either of them, thirty-five and stocky. He also wore a flying jacket and looked across at the Catalina, shading his eyes from the sun.

  “What do you think, Juan, can you handle it?”

  “Just try me.”

  A motor boat nosed in to the dock, and a man in a brown suit and Panama hat waved from the stern. “Señor Romero?” he called in Spanish. “Fernando da Gama. Come aboard.”

  They went down the steps and joined him and he nodded to the boatman, who took the motorboat away.

  “She looks good?” da Gama suggested.

  “She looks bloody marvelous,” Romero told him. “What’s the story?”

  “A local shipping line had the idea of regular flights down to the island of Madeira. Purchased the Catalina in the United States last year. It has performed magnificently, but they wanted to concentrate on passengers and the capacity is limited—too limited for there to be any money in it. May I ask what your requirement would be?”