by Glenn Dyer
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
1030 Hours, Tuesday, October 6, 1942
The Berghof, Hitler’s Mountain Headquarters, Berchtesgaden, Germany
The overnight train trip from Berlin to Munich drained Admiral Wilhelm Canaris. Normally, Canaris, the fifty-five-year-old head of the Abwehr, the German military intelligence organization, needed eight or more hours of sleep a day. But those badly needed hours of rest proved elusive on the private railcar that carried Canaris and his adjutant, Captain Herbert Wichmann, to Canaris’s meeting with Hitler and Heinrich Himmler, head of the German SS. One needed to be at his best when dealing with the führer and Himmler, Canaris’s personal adversary. Today, he was not at his best. But he was not at his worst either. Knowing the reason for the hastily called meeting—the Allied plans for a second front—was helpful.
As his driver inched the staff car up the narrow road to the main entrance, Canaris spotted the Berghof, Hitler’s residence, perched high above them to the right. The sky brimmed with light-gray, low, fast-moving clouds, but blue patches of sky were beginning to take over. Canaris took it as a good sign. It took a moment to pass through the gate security and a few more moments before they arrived at the stone steps of the entrance. Two SS Leibstandarte guards stood at attention and waited for the staff car to come to a stop, their Mauser pistols tucked away in their holsters as their hands tightly gripped their Maschinenpistole submachine guns.
It had occurred to Canaris that he might have been summoned to the meeting to be sacked. The idea that he would be unseated as head of the Abwehr when his country most needed him had made sleep impossible. He had to keep both Hitler and Himmler at bay.
As Canaris and Wichmann ascended the front steps of the Berghof, the sight of the residence’s bright, gleaming walls could be seen supporting a long, peaked roof that jutted out toward the mountainous landscape, some of which was already dusted with snow. A slice of Austria, Hitler’s birthplace, could be seen in the background, through a notch in the Bavarian mountains.
A tall, strapping SS lieutenant, his blond hair slicked back and his blue eyes radiating, bounded down the entranceway’s interior staircase, stopped abruptly, clicked his bootheels together, and raised his right arm in the Nazi salute. “Heil Hitler.”
Canaris raised his right hand no higher than his stooped shoulder and nodded.
“Admiral Canaris, Captain Wichmann, please follow me. Admiral, the führer will meet you in the main salon.”
#
Dressed in black trousers, a double-breasted gray-blue tunic over a white shirt, and a black tie, Hitler greeted Canaris warmly. Heinrich Himmler stood quietly nearby, resplendent in his SS uniform, a row of ribbons running across his left breast and rectangular epaulets on his collar flanking his black tie. His boots reflected the bright sun streaming in through the fifteen-foot-long window that stretched to the vaulted ceiling. Canaris’s deep dislike of Himmler—who was bald and flabby and whose main facial feature was a receding chin—had grown exponentially over the past year.
“Shall we sit and get on with it?” Clearly bored and antsy, Himmler motioned Hitler and Canaris over to a couch and group of chairs surrounding a low table with a vase of mountain flowers in its center. “Admiral, please sit here,” Himmler said, pointing to the long, green divan situated along the wall. Himmler and Hitler took chairs on the other side of the table. Canaris, a short man at five feet three inches, sank deep into the soft cushions, looking as if he were a young boy being questioned by two headmasters. Canaris could see that Himmler had given much consideration to the meeting’s staging.
“If I may begin, Führer?” Himmler nodded toward Hitler, who gave his approval with the wave of one hand as he stroked his loyal German Shepard Blondi’s head with the other. “Winter is approaching in Europe. If the English and the Americans are planning a major offensive, it must come soon. The Allies talk and talk of a second front, but, I must say, there is severe disappointment that the Abwehr, your Abwehr, has produced little to no reliable information as to where the English and the Americans plan to strike next.”
Hitler nodded slowly, his lips pursed in an antagonistic frown.
Canaris sat back and let Himmler go on, knowing that interruptions irritated the man.
“The Abwehr’s list of achievements is short and unacceptable. Its list of failures is growing, and that too is unacceptable. My God, the miserable failure of Operation Pastorius has made your Abwehr a laughingstock.”
Canaris could not argue that the Pastorius failure had damaged the reputation of his intelligence organization. He had argued, without any success, that there were too many operations being asked of the Abwehr to be able to properly staff it with well-trained agents. The caliber of men available to the Abwehr was shockingly deplorable.
“Your—”
Hitler stopped Himmler with a fist pound to the armrest of his chair. “Admiral, these are serious accusations. Yet you have no reply?” Hitler shouted.
Canaris sat calmly; he never let Hitler’s outbursts rattle him. “It is true—Pastorius was a failure. It was mounted hastily.” Canaris knew that taking strong adverse positions with Hitler and Himmler was a poor strategy. Taking a cue from the temperature and temperament of his audience had served him well over the years, and most certainly with Hitler. “And we have learned from it.”
“Learned from it? Preposterous. I see no indications of a more effective Abwehr, if that is what you are inferring.” Himmler was incensed. In the rays of sunlight that peeked in, Canaris could see Himmler launch spittle across the table, toward him, as he spoke. “Your Abwehr has failed, again and again, to produce accurate assessments of enemy activities both in the east and the west. You failed miserably in detecting the Russian buildup in the Stalingrad area, which cost us dearly. How do you explain that, Admiral?”
Canaris remained calm as he answered. “At this point in time, the Allies are producing a large amount of contradictory information concerning their operations. That includes the Russians. It takes time to confirm exactly what is the wheat and what is the chaff.”
“Oh, stop with your cute little sayings,” Himmler shouted. “They disgust me.”
Canaris decided to not engage with Himmler, instead, allowing him to settle down. “Führer, yes, there have been setbacks. But there have been successes.”
“Yes, Admiral. But not enough recent successes.” Hitler stood and walked over to a low, long table in front of the massive window.
Canaris believed it was time to remind Hitler how effective the Abwehr—his Abwehr—could be. “I shall remind you, the Abwehr did present intelligence regarding the British and Canadian raid on Dieppe.”
Himmler sat back in his chair and stole a look at Hitler, who, at the mention of Dieppe, turned and pointed at Canaris.
“Admiral, that was, indeed, a great victory for the Reich. The Abwehr’s role has not received the attention that it deserved. Himmler, do you agree?”
Himmler’s pudgy hands, resting on the arms of the club chair, were balled into fists, the knuckles white. “The führer is generous with his praise, I feel.”
Hitler shook his head at Himmler’s lack of generosity and moved back to his chair. “Admiral, where will the Allies strike next? It is imperative that we pin down their next target. What have your agents been reporting?”
“Führer, again, we are sifting through a large amount of intelligence. The Allies have become experts at generating indications that they are considering multiple targets.”
“Such as?” Himmler asked.
“Targets range from as far south as Dakar, off the west coast of Africa, to the Cherbourg peninsula, to Norway.”
“Ach, Norway. This target has been reported on in American newspapers for days. Surely you have more sophisticated means of gathering intelligence than reading the enemy’s newspapers, Admiral.”
Canaris had had enough of the probing, the insults, and the insolence from someone who had never seen active military service on be
half of Germany. He jumped to his feet and looked at the führer, who appeared startled by his sudden movement. “I can assure you both that every effort is being made to discover where the Allies will open a second front. Reporting intelligence that is not vetted is worse than reporting no intelligence at all. I will not provide the führer with guesswork. Now, if it pleases the führer, I must return to Berlin and get on with the Abwehr’s work.”
“Admiral, a display of hurt feelings will not persuade me to relieve the pressure on the Abwehr to fulfill its mission to the Reich,” Hitler stated.
Canaris stood motionless.
“I expect accurate and irrefutable intelligence from you regarding the second front in a week. One week. Do you hear me? Sift through all your intelligence and find the wheat, as you say. Am I . . . clear?” Hitler said, his face a glowing shade of red.
“Yes, Führer, you are exceedingly clear, as usual.”
#
Canaris and Wichmann sat in the rear of the staff car in silence as it drove though the Bavarian countryside. Canaris was brooding after his encounter with Hitler and his sycophant Himmler. Unless he produced some reliable intelligence, his sacking may have been only delayed. A disaster for the German people.
“Herbert, what have we heard from Longworth of late?” Canaris asked, staring at the forest greenery as it whisked by his window.
“Nothing since he reported that convoy PQ 18 would have enhanced RAF air coverage. That was at least a month ago. Why, Admiral?”
“Can we apply some pressure on him to provide . . . a higher class of intelligence?”
“Regarding?”
“Regarding where the Allies plan to open a second front.”
“I gather that was the subject of your meeting.”
Canaris didn’t respond.
“Admiral, may I suggest that I reach out to Major Kappler in Rome and have him communicate with Longworth through our friend Bishop Heinz in the . . . usual manner? I think it’s time that we remind Longworth that his future as an English statesman is completely in our hands. Maybe we should send a specific reminder of that?”
“What do you mean?”
“I would ask Major Kappler to include a copy of a picture of Longworth’s last night with his Italian mistress when he was stationed in Rome—the night he asphyxiated her.”
“I struggled with this from the beginning. I am not comfortable with being so heavy-handed. We are not the Gestapo.”
Wichmann leaned toward Canaris and spoke in a hushed tone. “Admiral, if you are to remain as the head of the Abwehr, where you can do the most good for Germany, you must prove your value to Hitler and those around him. Besides, to not use the photographs given to us by the Italian secret police would be . . . wasteful.”
Canaris went back to his silent study of the wooded landscape. He abhorred the darker art of spy work. It was not how he wanted the Abwehr to conduct itself. But he needed to get back into Hitler’s good graces.
“Admiral, maybe a mention of the poor woman’s name?” Wichmann asked. Several moments passed, during which a heavy rain began to fall.
“Do what you think best,” Canaris said without turning his head.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
1300 Hours, Tuesday, October 6, 1942
Regent’s Park, London
There was a bracing chill in the air as Miles Stoker strolled through York Gate into Regent’s Park as if he were a prewar tourist, stopping occasionally to stare at the birds as they soared overhead. He never feared being seen or that he might have been followed on his regular jaunts into various London parks to meet his comrade. He was always exceedingly careful to follow all the protocols that he was instructed to follow when meeting with fellow conspirators.
He enjoyed his meetings with Otto just as much as Philby did, especially their initial meetings, when they were probing each other to determine the other’s suitability for the tasks that lay ahead. Their conversations ran the gamut from music and art, to the politics of Marx and Lenin.
As Stoker strolled over York Bridge and approached the Inner Circle that encompassed Queen Mary’s Gardens, he spotted a group of young women chatting away as they clustered about a metal drum with holes drilled into the sides, to help diffuse the warmth from a fire that burned within. Nearby were the lashings that kept a large barrage balloon tethered to the ground. There was a mountain of sand beyond the barrage balloon that had been dumped at the start of the war for sandbags. Three young boys—with their mothers nearby pushing baby carriages back and forth—played war games on the pile of sand with broomsticks standing in for rifles and a faded, tattered Union Jack flying from a sycamore branch that had been downed by a strong fall wind. Stoker could smell the damp sand—the only scent on the slight breeze, as the blooms of summer had long since vanished.
He tightened the scarf around his neck and adjusted his fedora. As he did, a compactly built man passed behind him, bundled up as if he had recently arrived from Murmansk. Stoker held his ground and fumbled with a set of binoculars as the man took a seat on a bench twenty yards down the path. He searched the nearby trees for birds. He couldn’t tell a ruddy duck from a sanderling, but no one would know that. He finished his bird gazing several minutes later and, now confident that neither man was followed, joined the man, being sure to sit with his good ear facing his handler.
The man’s gray hair was combed straight back off a large forehead that featured eyebrows arched as if in perpetual surprise. His matching gray beard was unruly, with hairs splaying in all directions, and his large hands showcased long, slender fingers with bony joints.
“I am sure you know winter is months away,” Stoker said.
The man grunted. “Yes, yes. But I am not as hardy as our comrades who are valiantly defending Stalingrad.” The man’s English was stiff and proper, delivered in a deliberate fashion.
“Hardiness fades with age. Didn’t anyone tell you that?”
Otto could only grunt at Stoker’s pronouncement. He noisily blew into his tightly cupped hands while he watched a mother of one of the young boys box the child’s ears for throwing sand in the face of his now-wailing friend. Otto began to cough, at first lightly, then more forcefully. Each successive cough lingered longer, until he finally stopped and spit into a handkerchief, then wiped his mouth. Stoker could see dark-colored phlegm staining the cloth. They sat in silence for another minute.
“I am cold and tired. And, if I am not mistaken, it was you who signaled for this meeting,” Otto said.
“I was only being polite, waiting for the black lung episode to pass.”
“Your humor at my expense is shameful. Now what do you want to tell me?”
Stoker surveyed the area and spoke quietly. “Philby has been made aware that the American’s have . . . misplaced a top-secret document that details key information regarding the Allied invasion of North Africa. This document has great value to us.”
“Why are you so interested in an operation that we have known about since before Churchill’s visit to Moscow? He himself gave Premier Stalin key information about the operation.”
Stoker shifted in his seat to face Otto. “Answer this question: Does not Premier Stalin want the Allies to launch a second front in Western Europe and not in North Africa?”
“A second front in Western Europe . . . yes, that is true, Comrade.”
“So tell me—if the directives, the specific details of this North African operation—were to fall into the hands of the Germans, what do you think the Allies would do?”
Otto shrugged. “You are the expert on the Allies. You tell me.”
“Gladly. Philby and I—” Stoker stopped and pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket and blew his nose, allowing a woman pushing a baby carriage to pass by. His attempt to take credit for Philby’s strategy was risky. But without risk, there was no reward. “We believe that with the element of surprise gone, the Germans will, to some extent, fortify the Vichy French. But it will be halfhearted because the Germans f
irmly believe the Allies will strike somewhere on the Continent. Norway or possibly the Cherbourg peninsula. Even they know that to give proper relief to their Soviet ally, a major attack must be mounted on the Continent.”
“Yes . . . yes. You make some sense.”
“Some? It is more than some. It is assured that if Roosevelt and Churchill know the directives are in the hands of the Nazis, at best, the North African operation would be canceled, or at the least postponed to allow for a different set of objectives and timetables to be determined. Neither Roosevelt nor Churchill would risk the success of the first major Allied offensive in the European Theater.” Stoker beamed at Otto, which only appeared to confuse Otto more thoroughly.
“A postponement only brings us back to where we are now. So what good—”
“It will give Premier Stalin more time to convince the Allies to mount an invasion of France and will give the Americans and the British more time to build the necessary forces to launch such an operation. Only then will Hitler move enough troops and arms to the West, and only then will the Soviet Army reclaim land lost to the Nazis and expand beyond.”
“Fine. Fine. But unless you have the document, you are wasting my time.”
“We don’t have it. Yet.”
Otto’s head snapped around to face Stoker. “Yet? What do you mean?”
One of the young women tending the barrage balloons threw more wood into a drum, which threw off a thick, black cloud accompanied by some sharp cracks and pops. Several women screamed and backed away.
“I received a call this morning. It was a woman. Cockney accent. She made it clear that she was representing someone. This someone has the document. I don’t know this woman. I don’t know how she got my phone number. All I know is that if this person has this document, we can put it to great use.”
“This person, she or he . . . they are—”
“Selling it for five thousand pounds. And with your ability to provide the necessary funds, it can be ours.”