Ollerton
The Colonel and Willie Ashford sat on their usual stools at the end of the bar in the Black Bull taking an early evening drink, with Paddy the Labrador asleep on the floor by their feet. The night was cold and dark outside, but the pub was bright and warmed by a high-banked fire. The mood was sombre and the main topic of conversation among customers was the assassination in America.
‘Such a waste,’ said the Colonel. ‘Such a beautiful young woman with a young family. Life can be damned cruel, at times, Willie.’
Archie Roberts came in and banged his arms against his body. He was wearing a tan car coat that came to mid-thigh; the coat was open and he wore no scarf and he had obviously driven to the pub. He joined them and ordered a large whisky from landlord George Wilson.
‘Will you gentlemen join me?’ he said.
The Colonel finished his pint and said, ‘Why not?’
Willie said, ‘Thank you, Archie. Hospitable, old chap.’
‘Rum do in the States,’ said Roberts. George put the whisky in front of him and Roberts gave him a £5 note and said, ‘Take for these, as well.’
‘A terrible affair,’ said Willie.
‘Shame the silly sod couldn’t shoot straight. He’d have done us all a favour killing Kennedy. Instead he had to go and hit the delightful Jackie. Now she was a good looking woman.’
He said it with a leer that suggested he might develop the theme.
The Colonel said, ‘Bad taste.’ He held his gaze. ‘Very bad taste.’
‘Bollocks. That lily-livered liberal deserved shooting and what’s wrong in saying his wife was a decent bit of skirt? I’d have given her one.’
Willie said, with barely concealed restraint, ‘That lily-livered liberal served with distinction in the Pacific where he proved his bravery under fire. What did you do in the war, Archie? And your comments about Mrs Kennedy are beneath contempt.’
The Colonel said, ‘Sometimes, Archie, you surpass even yourself for crass insensitivity. Now, be a good chap and bugger off and leave us alone.’
Roberts’ neck bulged in his tight collar and his face went red. He looked round to see if anyone had heard and saw that they had and were watching his reaction. George placed his change in front of him. He drained the whisky, picked up the money, turned abruptly and left, slamming the door behind him.
Willie said, half jokingly, ‘He’ll be straight on his secret radio, you know, reporting us to the Gestapo.’
‘He deserved it.’
‘And you delivered it rather well, old chap.’
Chapter 12
November 24, Berlin
Peter Bergfeld walked down the Wilhelmstrasse to the administrative section of the Reich Chancellery, the grandiose 1930s building that had been the start of the restructuring of Berlin by architect Albert Speer. Work had continued throughout the 1950s to fulfil the Fuhrer’s dreams of creating a spectacular and unmatchable capital city. Too much marble, thought Bergfeld. Mind, if you were building for a thousand years?
The Fuhrer’s office was in the main building, although he was rarely in Berlin. Hitler’s health had deteriorated dramatically in the last decade. For a time, back in the 1930s, he had had a quack doctor as his personal physician. If he had kept him, maybe he would have been long dead by now. But he hadn’t. After 18 months, he took the advice of SS Major General Dr Karl Brandt and sacked him. Brandt was appointed in his place and still held the post.
Hitler had been a vegetarian for years, eaten a healthy diet, and had not drunk alcohol or smoked. He had had a good war, with victory following victory, but birth defects and disease, whose symptoms had been kept at bay for a long time, had finally taken their toll. And no, Bergfeld had been told by Heydrich himself, the Fuhrer was not suffering from syphilis contracted from a Jewish prostitute in his youth. The reality was much more prosaic. He had been born with a defective bowel condition and was suffering from Parkinson’s disease, which was why he now had an operating theatre at Berchtesgaden and had, according to rumours, undergone several neurosurgical procedures.
Goebbels, meanwhile, lived in a private nursing home. His family said his frailty was due to his unstinting service to the nation and they had a doctor’s certificate to prove his problems were geriatric rather than psychiatric, although it was well known that the master of propaganda was suffering from dementia, a condition that, under law, was treated with euthanasia.
Goerring had died 10 years before of his third heart attack and Hess had succumbed to a mysterious illness six years ago that sceptics suspected had been refined in an SS laboratory. The only serious contenders left to succeed Hitler were Bergfeld’s boss, Heydrich, who in effect ruled the military, and the man he was on his way to see, Reichsmarschall Martin Bormann, who ruled the legislative. They were both waiting for Hitler to die.
For more than 20 years, Bormann had been a nondescript civil servant and the power behind the throne. He controlled the personal finances of the Fuhrer and the budgets of his inner circle and was Hitler’s named Deputy. He had achieved his position through fanaticism, loyalty and administrative skill. Bormann had always taken care of the detail. If Hitler had even hinted at a new edict or policy, Bormann had drafted and presented it for the Fuhrer’s signature.
Bergfeld had offered his services to Bormann a year before. The man known as the Brown Eminence had no friends and few close associates but an army of spies with which to monitor the Wehrmacht, the SS and any perceived threat. Bergfeld had made his approach face-to-face at a reception; he had trusted no intermediary. Bormann had been naturally suspicious of an offer from an SD agent who was also an associate of his arch-enemy, Heydrich. It was six weeks before Bergfeld, at his office in the Ministry of Culture, received a summons to visit Bormann at the Chancellery.
‘Why?’ said Bormann.
‘Because I have come to the conclusion that Reichsfuhrer Heydrich is no longer working for the good of the Fuhrer and Germany but for himself. I believe he is planning to take power himself, whether or not the Fuhrer is ready to relinquish that power.’
He had mentioned his own unstinting loyalty, not to Heydrich, but to the Fuhrer and the nation, and had come to Bormann, as the Fuhrer’s deputy, to warn him of his suspicions.
Bormann had smiled and read between the lines, as Bergfeld knew he would. He had concluded that Bergfeld had either been sent by Heydrich to work as a double agent, or that Bergfeld had assessed the odds in the two-horse race to rule the Reich after Hitler and had decided Bormann was the better bet. Either way, he had accepted Bergfeld although he hadn’t trusted him. This was the visit where that would change.
He was shown into Bormann’s office, a large room with brown walls and brown carpet and high ceilings. A table was by the door for hats and briefcases, a small informal desk to the left and a large, solid desk of mahogany to the right, behind which sat the man himself. He was working, as always, writing with a fountain pen on a foolscap pad.
'Sit down,’ he said, without looking up.
Bergfeld felt he had the measure of Heydrich but Bormann was still an unknown quantity. His insignificant appearance, he knew, was deceptive. Too many people had made wrong assumptions in the past and not all of them were still around to rue the fact. He sat in one of the two chairs in front of the desk and placed his briefcase on the other.
Bormann stopped writing, screwed the top on the fountain pen and placed it on the desk. He looked at Bergfeld for the first time.
‘Well?’ he said.
‘Sir, I have to inform you that Reichsfuhrer Heydrich is planning a coup.’
Bormann widened his eyes with interest.
‘Go on.’
‘It is set for January 30.’ Bormann nodded at the significance of the date. January 30 was a Nazi holiday to celebrate the anniversary of when Hitler became Chancellor in 1933. It was called the Day of the Seizure of Power. ‘That is the one time in the year when the Fuhrer will be in Berlin. When he will be accessible. The Fuhrer will be taken into
protective custody and Heydrich will take power. You and your supporters will be removed and executed. There will be no trials. No time to claim innocence. In any case, he has manufactured evidence to prove your guilt.’
‘How do you know?’
‘I’m part of the conspiracy.’
‘What support does he have?’
‘I have a list.’ From the briefcase he took a sheet of paper and read from it the names of 22 senior SS officers. When he had finished, he gave the list to Bormann. ‘They are all ready to take direct action. They have also intimated they will be able to rely on support from other officers once the action is underway.’
‘And they see which way it is going.’ Bormann leaned forward, his folded arms resting flat on the desk. ‘So, it comes to this.’
Bormann was a master of intrigue and infighting. For a few moments he was silent and Bergfeld wondered what was going through his head, what he was planning.
‘Sir, I took an oath to the Fuhrer 30 years ago. I still hold true to that oath and I believe that you, as the Fuhrer’s deputy, will do what is right on his behalf.’
He hesitated and Bormann said, ‘Go on.’
‘In my opinion, even a failed coup will damage Germany. Wouldn’t it be better if it didn’t happen? If the Reichsfuhrer were removed?’
‘How?’
‘We could follow the American example. Only we would do it right. I could do it right. If you agree, I could assassinate the Reichsfuhrer.’
Bormann did not react immediately. Bergfeld began to sweat.
'I think I may have misjudged you, Herr Bergfeld. You would be capable of this?’
‘You know my service record. I am capable of many things as long as it serves the Reich.’
Bormann’s eyes blanked for a moment as he considered the suggestion further.
‘Remove the head of the snake and the rest will have no sting,’ he said, almost to himself.
‘And his friends?’ said Bergfeld, sensing he was safe.
‘Can be dealt with at leisure.’ He looked past Bergfeld, down the room towards a painting of Hitler dressed in the armour of a Gothic knight, a swastika banner in his hand. His fingers tapped the desk. ‘The assassination cannot happen in Germany.’
The repercussions of it happening on home soil would be as cataclysmic as a coup.
‘England?’ said Bergfeld.
‘England.’ Bormann nodded. ‘He likes England. Let him die there. And it will give us an excuse to impose order. Mosley has been lax, of late. We will bring back the body and give it a funeral fit for a hero.’ His small, piercing eyes stared at Bergfeld with renewed interest. ‘You can do it?’
‘Yes, sir. I spend much time in England. When the Reichsfuhrer was in London in September, he had need of my services. I had to find him a suitable brothel.’ Bormann snorted in distaste and Bergfeld nodded in agreement. ‘He visits England again next month, on December 15 and 16. He will have need of me again so I can pick the time and place.’
‘Good. Do it then.’ He stared intently across the desk. ‘I will not see you again until afterwards. Do not let me down, Herr Bergfeld.’
‘No, sir.’
‘I want that bastard dead.’
‘He will be, sir. A hero’s death.’
Bormann nodded and smiled and pointed to the door with one finger and Bergfeld knew he had been dismissed. He picked up the briefcase and stood up, became erect and clicked his heels and raised his arm in salute.
‘Heil Hitler,’ he said.
Bormann raised his right hand loosely in response and, still nodding, repeated the words.
‘Heil Hitler,’ he said.
Chapter 13
November 28. Abbey Road Studios
John popped a pill and washed it down with black coffee.
‘It’s like being back at the Top Ten,’ he said.
George, who was lying flat on the floor on his back with his arms above his head, said, ‘Please sir, I’ve got a note from me mam that says I don’t have to do torture.’
They were in the studio, recording songs for their first album and George Martin was working them harder than expected. They thought it was because they had missed a day but he said it was to keep the momentum going. So far, the momentum had been going for 12 hours.
‘It’s the energy,’ he said. ‘Keep it flowing.’
‘If it flows anymore,’ said Ringo, ‘I’ll be a puddle on the floor.’
Bergfeld watched them through the glass window from the control room while Martin coaxed them into continuing.
‘Not much longer and it’s in the bag. A number one album to follow a number one single.’
‘You sweet talker, you,’ said Lennon. ‘You know just what buttons to press, don’t you?’
‘That’s why you’re in here and I’m out there,’ said Martin, nodding towards the control room.
‘If you’re so clever, what’s our next hit, then?’ said Paul, half-facetiously, half expectantly.
‘What do you think?’ he said.
John said, ‘I Saw Her Standing There is strong.’
It was Paul’s song and he said, ‘Nice of you to say so.’
‘Takes one to know one, kid.’
Martin said, ‘It’s a good song. I also like From Me To You. Look, take ten and I’ll play them. See if we get a consensus.’
He went out of the studio and they saw him reappear on the other side of the glass with Bergfeld. The clock on the wall said it was coming up to midnight. George Martin leaned forward, nodded to them and the studio was filled with sound.
One, two, three, four:
Well she was just 17, you know what I mean,
And the way she looked was way beyond compare.
So how could I dance with another,
When I saw her standing there.
On the other side of the glass, Bergfeld said, ‘Even I can tell this is good. Will it be the next single?’
‘Not necessarily. John’s From Me To You is safer. More melodious. It has instant appeal.’ He smiled at the luxury of choice. ‘Their songs are very good, Peter. They play well and they perform well. They have the talent to be around for a long time.’
‘I believe you. Maybe eventually they’ll play something I really like. With strings.’
‘You want them to become orchestral?’ Martin smiled. ‘Not a bad idea. Maybe that’s something to work on in the future.’
'If there is a future.’
The way he said it inferred he meant on a wider scale, more than a pop career for the Beatles. This was not an isolated statement. Bergfeld and Martin had had several discussions that had veered into other areas after using music as a starting point. Bergfeld had been scathing about the leadership of the Reich and the direction in which it was being led. He had made politely disparaging remarks about Mosley, whilst pointing out that, as a guest in the country, he was not really in a position to criticise its leader. Martin had listened and nodded and smiled, aware that Bergfeld worked for the Ministry of Culture and, probably, some other agency as well. Bergfeld was safe being politically outrageous; Martin might not be and he had been careful in his responses.
‘What’s the latest rumour from Berlin?’ the producer said.
‘There are too many rumours in Berlin. I prefer inside information.’
‘And you’re in the position to get it?’
‘I’m in the position to make it.’
Bergfeld smiled and watched Martin sense this was crunch time. Martin realised a pitch was about to be made. He said nothing but sat back in his chair before the mixing desk and looked at Bergfeld.
Bergfeld said, ‘I’ve had you checked out.’
‘I thought you might.’
‘Thoroughly checked out.’
‘And?’
‘And I think I can trust you.’
‘That’s a big assumption about anybody.’
‘I want you to do something for me.’
‘What?’
The song fini
shed and Bergfeld looked through the window and put his thumbs up. John raised two fingers in return. The four young men looked spaced out from tiredness, pills and too much coffee. Neil was asleep on a sofa in a reception room. Now would be a good time to take them home.
‘Maybe the boys have done enough for today,’ said Bergfeld.
The producer nodded, flicked a switch and spoke to them in the studio.
‘I’ll play From Me To You and then we’ll pack it in for now, boys. Be back at noon tomorrow.’ He broke the connection, pressed another switch to play the music and turned the chair to face Bergfeld. ‘Well?’
Bergfeld reached for his briefcase, which was styled like a Gladstone bag in brown leather, with a flap over the top and two carrying handles. It was the same briefcase he had taken to the office of the Deputy Fuhrer. He took from it a mini-cassette that he handed to Martin who looked at it with interest.
‘I haven’t seen anything this small before,’ he said.
‘It was developed at Philip’s factory in Eindhoven for SS intelligence. The briefcase has a secret compartment with a tape recorder. A microphone is in the handle.’
‘So who are you going to tape?’
‘I’ve already taped him. What I want you to do, is fine tune the recording.’
Chapter 14
December 15, London
Reichsfuhrer Reinhard Heydrich, smug on wine and sated by sex, left the house in St John’s Wood with a swagger. His two aides, Sturmbannfuhrer Gunther Seldte and Haupsturmfuhrer Otto Brandt, had waited downstairs and his chauffer-driven Mercedes was parked outside. A Special Branch car containing two officers was parked further down the street, providing an uncalled-for and anonymous escort. Heydrich had always preferred to travel with the minimum of fuss and bodyguards. He was a soldier and could protect himself.
It was midnight and the air was crisp, the sky clear and ice frosted the ground. He wore his overcoat on his shoulders like a cloak and pulled on his gloves and smiled at the world. The road beyond the garden wall was quiet, the pale beams of the street lights fragile in the clear air. The only noise was the purr of the engine of the car that waited for him. The night was eternal and at times like this he felt immortal.
The Heydrich Sanction Page 11