Shadows of War

by Michael Ridpath

  They were on their way to Munich, where Hitler was giving a speech to mark the sixteenth anniversary of the 1923 Beer Hall Putsch, in which he had led his National Socialist comrades in a failed attempt to take over the city.

  The ground was pressing up towards the underbelly of the aircraft. The machine juddered and Fräulein Peters was alarmed to see outside her window part of the wing detach itself and droop downwards. There was a grinding beneath her feet. She braced herself as the runway rushed upwards beneath the wings, and then they were down with barely a bump.

  The machine turned towards the airport terminal building and jolted to a stop. The pilot came through to the cabin.

  Hitler, who was sitting only two rows from Fräulein Peters, greeted him. ‘I need to be in Berlin tomorrow morning, Baur. Can you guarantee we can leave early? What’s the weather forecast?’

  ‘At the moment they are saying visibility will be good, my Führer, but it is November and fog is always a possibility. If that was to happen, there’s a chance we could be delayed for a few hours until it clears. If you have to be sure of getting to Berlin tomorrow morning I recommend you take the train tonight.’

  Hitler nodded. ‘Fräulein Peters,’ he said. ‘Please arrange a train back to Berlin after the speech. It is imperative I am back there tomorrow morning. I have a meeting at ten o’clock.’

  ‘Certainly, my Führer,’ said Fräulein Peters. She had no idea how she would arrange it, but she was confident she would work it out. If the Führer wanted something done, it was done.

  She wondered what the meeting was. She knew it wasn’t in his diary, but the whole concept of a diary when it came to the Führer’s schedule was a joke. Flexibility was the watchword.

  Düsseldorf

  Schellenberg paced up and down the small lounge of the pension. He had had virtually no sleep the night before. This was turning into one of the most difficult operations in his short but eventful career at the Gestapo. He was still only twenty-nine, but Heydrich had just entrusted him with the new foreign-intelligence branch of the organization, known as the Amt VI. He knew he was up to the job, but he also knew that if he screwed this operation up, it would be a high-profile failure.

  Those were best avoided in Germany these days.

  He heard a commotion and a familiar voice in the lobby of the pension. Familiar, but unwelcome.

  ‘Naujocks!’ Schellenberg exclaimed. ‘What the devil are you doing here?’

  Alfred Naujocks was a colleague and rival to Schellenberg in Heydrich’s intelligence-gathering apparatus. Where Schellenberg was subtle, Naujocks was brutal. Where Schellenberg could charm, Naujocks could intimidate. Which wasn’t to say that Naujocks wasn’t cunning. He was. Cunning and dangerous.

  ‘The boss sent me to protect you,’ Naujocks said. ‘I’ve brought a dozen SS troopers with me.’

  ‘I don’t need a nursemaid!’ protested Schellenberg. ‘I’ve told Heydrich the British believe me. The last thing I want is a bunch of thugs watching my every move.’

  ‘Heydrich thinks the Dutch might snatch you tomorrow,’ said Naujocks. ‘You are far too important for us to lose. At least that’s what he says. We’ll be watching the meeting from the border. If the Dutch try anything, we’ll come and snatch you back.’

  ‘Very well,’ said Schellenberg. ‘But don’t do anything unless you are sure that there is trouble.’

  Schellenberg left the pension and went for a stroll around the block. This latest development worried him. Did Heydrich know something he didn’t? Heydrich usually knew something other people didn’t. Perhaps the deception was blown. Or perhaps Heydrich just didn’t trust Schellenberg not to negotiate his own deal with the British. If anything, that was more worrying.

  You didn’t want Heydrich to distrust you.

  Schellenberg would just have to keep his eyes open and rely on his wits. They had served him well in the past and they would in the future.

  He entered the front door of the pension and bumped into a Gestapo Kriminalassistent. ‘Herr Sturmbannführer, Admiral Canaris has been trying to get hold of you in Berlin.’

  What the hell did he want? The Abwehr was not a part of this operation, and Schellenberg knew that Heydrich would require it kept that way. But if Canaris had gone to the trouble to track Schellenberg down it must be important.

  Schellenberg went to the room that served as a communications centre in the pension and put through a phone call to the Tirpitzufer.

  ‘Ah, Walter, thank you for getting back to me,’ Canaris said. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Very well, Herr Admiral. Our soldiers might be sitting on their arses, but there seems plenty for us to do.’

  ‘That’s certainly true,’ said Canaris. ‘I wonder if you can enlighten me? Our people in Holland have come across an army captain named Schämmel. Do you know him?’

  Schellenberg thought quickly. If he denied knowledge of Schämmel and Canaris discovered later that the captain and Schellenberg were one and the same person, he would have blown his credibility with the Chief of the Abwehr. And that credibility was important. So he had to admit some knowledge.

  ‘I do know of him,’ Schellenberg said.

  ‘Ah, good. He has apparently been claiming to be in touch with elements who wish to overthrow the Führer. Have you heard that?’

  Now Schellenberg realized he would have to come clean, or else the Abwehr might disrupt the operation. Interesting they had found out. Never underestimate Canaris’s sources of information.

  ‘Actually, I know Schämmel well,’ said Schellenberg. ‘Extremely well.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘In fact, he and I are the same man. We are running a little operation to draw out the English on whether they have been discussing such a plot with anyone within Germany.’

  ‘Hah! I like it!’ said Canaris. ‘So it’s you who has been in Holland talking to Payne Best and Stevens?’

  ‘That’s right. I’ve had several meetings with them, and in fact I am due to meet them tomorrow near the border. They appear to have fallen for it.’

  ‘And have they admitted to discussions with any conspirators?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Schellenberg. ‘But they didn’t seem surprised at the idea that there might be some out there. I’m hoping to press them tomorrow.’

  ‘It’s a bold move, Walter, and I congratulate you. But it would have been courteous to let us know what you were doing. It’s dangerous to step on each other’s toes in a neutral country: it will lead to trouble.’

  ‘Of course, Herr Admiral.’ Schellenberg would have to play this next part carefully. ‘Heydrich was keen that this should be a Gestapo operation. Perhaps if we had bumped into each other in the Tiergarten, I might have mentioned something...’

  ‘Yes, Walter. I enjoy our little chats. Good luck tomorrow, and please keep me informed of developments.’

  Schellenberg replaced the receiver. He thought he had done a reasonable job. He was pretty sure he had retained Canaris’s trust. And if he had denied all knowledge of Schämmel, the Abwehr would have taken action to find out about him of their own accord. It could all have turned very ugly.

  Naujocks. Canaris. There were too many distractions. Schellenberg forced himself to focus on the task at hand, which was convincing the British that he and his general were genuine, and getting them to talk about other conspirators. He needed a good night’s sleep.

  Munich

  Fräulein Peters could listen to the Führer speak for hours. He had been talking for fifty minutes and they had flown by. He had seemed tired at the beginning of his speech, but his words and the adulation of his audience had lifted his spirits, as they always did. Fräulein Peters felt jealous of those comrades who in 1923 had gathered in this very hall and marched out into the streets to try to reclaim Germany for the Germans. They had failed, of course, but it was the first brave step on a glorious path.

  Hitler was talking about Providence, how Providence was with the German people and with the Nation
al Socialists, how Providence was leading the German people – after centuries of bravery and spilling of blood – to their true destiny.

  ‘Fräulein Peters.’ It was Frau Kühn, the telephone operator. ‘Reichsminister von Ribbentrop.’

  Fräulein Peters tore herself away from the Führer’s words and hurried to a small room just next to the hall.

  ‘Herr Reichsminister!’

  ‘Fräulein Peters, what time does the train leave for Berlin?’

  ‘Nine thirty-one, Herr Reichsminister.’

  ‘The Führer will want to talk, he always wants to talk. But it is essential that he is back in Berlin tonight. Give him a message from me to wind up his speech soon and make sure he catches that train. Put it under his nose.’

  ‘Yes, Herr Reichsminister!’

  Fräulein Peters quelled a moment of panic at how she could tell the Führer to do anything. She scribbled out the message, making clear that it was from Ribbentrop. Then she summoned an SS trooper to deliver it: she knew that would look much better to the crowd than if she were to do it.

  The trooper placed the note in front of the Führer as he was speaking. He paused, and during the applause, glanced at it. He concluded his speech: ‘Party Comrades! Long live National Socialism! Long live the German people! And especially today, long live our victorious army!’

  The applause in the confines of the beer hall deafened her. Fräulein Peters checked her watch: 8.58 p.m. They would be all right so long as Hitler didn’t linger chatting, which he was very capable of doing. But he shook only a few hands and by 9.09 they were out of the hall. Fräulein Peters had arranged for an extra carriage to be placed on the Number 71 train leaving at 9.31, and they were all aboard with three minutes to go.

  Relieved, Fräulein Peters settled into her seat and at 9.31 p.m. precisely the train left the station.

  Despite the slightly hurried departure, there was an air of gaiety in the saloon carriage and bottles of champagne were broken out. Fräulein Peters was given a glass by a handsome SS officer she hadn’t seen before, who proceeded to strike up a conversation. The Führer was in a good mood and Goebbels was making him laugh. The relief and the champagne made Fräulein Peters feel giddy, and she was enjoying the attentions of the SS officer.

  The train pulled into Nuremberg and Goebbels climbed out to see whether there were any messages. Fräulein Peters saw him return a few minutes later with a grave expression. The carriage quietened to hear what he had to say. Fräulein Peters wondered if it was some military disaster: a battleship sunk, perhaps, or a surprise Allied offensive.

  She was totally unprepared for what Goebbels did say. ‘My Führer, I have just heard that at nine-twenty this evening an enormous bomb went off in the beer hall. At least a dozen comrades were killed.’

  The Führer didn’t seem to take this in. Fräulein Peters refused to believe it until he believed it. All eyes were on him, waiting for a lead.

  ‘It’s true, my Führer,’ said Goebbels. ‘If you had not left early you would be dead.’

  There was silence in the carriage. Then Hitler nodded to himself. ‘Now I know,’ he said in a low voice full of grim satisfaction. ‘The fact that I left so soon shows that Providence is looking after me. Providence will ensure I fulfil my destiny.’

  Fräulein Peters felt her whole body tingle. She knew that the Führer was right. She knew, right then, that she had just witnessed an important step in the destiny of the Führer, the destiny of the German people. Her destiny. She could feel her face flush with the emotion.

  ‘So, Joseph,’ he said, anger rising in his voice. ‘Who is it who tried to assassinate me?’

  Düsseldorf

  Somehow, in the depths of a heavy slumber, Schellenberg heard the insistent ringing of the telephone. His body was thick with sleep; he had taken a pill to make sure he was rested for the morning. He checked his watch – 3.30 a.m. He climbed out of bed in his pyjamas and picked up the receiver.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘What’s that?’

  Schellenberg didn’t recognize the voice, but it sounded shaken. ‘I haven’t said anything,’ he said. ‘Who is speaking?’

  The reply was clear and direct now, all nervousness gone. ‘This is Reichsführer Himmler. Finally you answer. Is that you, Schellenberg?’

  ‘Yes, Herr Reichsführer.’

  ‘Have you heard the news?’

  ‘No, Herr Reichsführer.’

  ‘There was an explosion at the beer hall in Munich. Miraculously the Führer had just left the room, but several Party comrades were murdered. There is no doubt that this is the work of the British secret service. The Führer is convinced of this. He orders you to arrest the two British agents you are meeting tomorrow in Holland and bring them back over the German border. Use the SS detachment that arrived to protect you today. Do you understand?’

  ‘Yes, Herr Reichsführer, but—’

  ‘No buts. This is an order from the Führer. Do you understand now?’

  Schellenberg realized there was no point arguing.

  ‘Yes, Herr Reichsführer!’

  Schellenberg put the phone down. It was going to be a long and dangerous day.

  9

  The Hague, 9 November

  Conrad was waiting in the small lobby of his hotel in his freshly crumpled suit. He was nervous. There were a number of things that bothered him: the fact Theo didn’t know this Major Schämmel, the leaks in the British operation in The Hague and how to get the message about the planned German offensive to Van. He hadn’t agreed a means of communicating with Van directly, and the date of the offensive was less than a week away. He had just lost a day; he couldn’t afford to lose another. After he had met Schämmel he would insist on returning to London to report to Van directly.

  He had spent most of the last twenty-four hours kicking his heels in the hotel, lying low as Payne Best had suggested.

  ‘Mr de Lancey, I have a telephone message for you, from a Professor Hogendoorn,’ said the woman behind the reception desk in German, handing him a note. It too was in that language, with some spelling errors; not surprisingly, the hotel receptionist’s German was not perfect. Please meet me on Sunday if you can. Prof. Madvig with me. Ask for me at the university.

  That must be Theo, perhaps with some information on Schämmel. By ‘Sunday’, Theo meant that day, Thursday; he would be using the ‘subtract three’ code. But there was no chance of Conrad getting to Leiden that day. ‘Did Professor Hogendoorn leave a telephone number?’

  ‘I am afraid not, Mr de Lancey.’

  Just then Payne Best’s long low car drew up outside the hotel. Conrad had no time to find a Leiden telephone directory and leave a message with the professor that Conrad would be unable to see Theo that morning. It was a shame: it would have been extremely useful to hear what Theo had to say about Schämmel before Conrad met him for the first time.

  Conrad folded the note, stuffed it in his pocket, and went outside to greet Payne Best.

  ‘Not cancelled again?’ he said.

  ‘No. We’re on. Hop in.’

  They drove through the centre of The Hague. The city was full of peacetime bustle: trams, cars and swarms of bicycles fighting for road space, with policemen expertly directing things. The frantic traffic contrasted with the sedate, quietly opulent mansions that lined the city’s streets. They passed the old Binnenhof, a complex of brown turrets and courtyards that housed the Dutch Parliament, and headed north through narrow streets to a peaceful little canal lined with bare trees and elegant townhouses.

  Payne Best pulled up outside one of these, bearing a brass plate on which Conrad read the words Handelsdienst voor het Continent. They entered the building, which seemed to be a discreet office. Payne Best nodded to the man at reception, said something in Dutch to him, and led Conrad up a flight of stairs. ‘This is my business in Holland,’ Payne Best said. ‘Continental Trading Services. Pharmaceuticals mostly these days.’

  He greeted a secretary sitting at a desk out
side an open door. Payne Best’s office was large and comfortable with a good view down on to the canal and its little bridge outside. Bookcases and traditional Dutch landscapes lined the wall, together with a striking portrait of Payne Best himself.

  A mild man with a trim, greying moustache was sitting in a leather chair by Payne Best’s desk, reading The Times. He put down the newspaper and rose to his feet.

  ‘De Lancey? I’m Major Stevens, the Passport Control Officer here in The Hague.’

  Conrad shook Stevens’s proffered hand. So this was the head of the British secret service in Holland Theo had warned him about.

  ‘Major Stevens will be joining us,’ said Payne Best. ‘Isn’t Klop here yet?’

  ‘No sign of him,’ Stevens said. ‘In the meantime, I’ve got something for you, Best.’ Stevens produce two Browning automatic pistols from a briefcase at his feet, and gave one to Payne Best, keeping the other for himself. ‘Sorry, de Lancey, I don’t have one for you.’

  ‘We won’t need them, will we?’ Conrad said.

  ‘We shouldn’t,’ said Payne Best. ‘But we are going to be very close to the frontier, so it makes sense to be careful. Mind you, during the last show I used to meet people in a café in Limburg that was half in Holland and half in Germany. Can’t get closer than that.’

  Payne Best’s secretary stuck her head around the door and said something to her boss. A moment later a tall, dashing Dutchman of about thirty appeared: Lieutenant Klop. Payne Best introduced him to Conrad in English. Klop’s accent was indeed very good; he could easily pass for a British Army captain to a non-native speaker.