Seldte, a large man who had spent 10 years helping to pacify the wilder parts of Russia, went first. He opened the gate, looked both ways down the deserted street, and nodded back to where Heydrich and Brandt waited. The junior officer, slim, young and ambitious, went down the path, through the gate and opened the rear door of the Mercedes.
Heydrich lit a cigarette. He blew smoke at the moon and inhaled again and held the fumes deep inside his lungs and imagined it seeping throughout his body, easing joints, smoothing sharpness, making him ever so slightly giddy. He exhaled as he walked down the path, smiling at Seldte’s animal alertness. It was men like Gunther Seldte – without fear or pity and with unquestioning loyalty – that had made Germany great. He didn’t feel affection for him, but the pride of a breeder who had produced a strain of particularly vicious dog.
Heydrich drew the smoke into his lungs a third time as he stood on the pavement, his head back, his eyes on the stars, and he flicked the cigarette away with the forefinger and thumb of his right hand. It was still arcing through the air, its tip bright, when the first bullet went into the back of Gunther Seldte and exited through his chest in an explosion of blood, flesh and essential organs. Seldte fell forward silently as the night erupted in gunfire.
The Reichsfuhrer reached for the pistol in his holster and ducked to get in the car but glass shattered and the driver’s head tipped back and blood and particles of brain slapped across Heydrich’s face. He stepped back onto the pavement, the pistol in his hand and stared round for a target.
Otto Brandt pulled open the front passenger door of the car and pulled out a submachinegun that had been clipped to the dashboard. Down the road, the engine of the car containing two Special Branch officers who had been assigned to tail and protect the Reichsfuhrer, roared into life and the vehicle exploded in a spectacular crimson flash. Flames lit the quiet street, smoke swirled, and still Heydrich could not see his enemy.
Brandt fired the submachinegun at a figure across the road and Heydrich stared into the darkness of the garden. The house was the safest place. He moved back onto the path, his gun pointing at the shadows.
‘Otto,’ he shouted. Not to bring his subordinate to safety, but to provide cover, but shots from a different direction hit and spun the Haupsturmfuhrer. His finger was still on the trigger and he fired a burst into the car as he fell to the pavement.
Heydrich banged on the front door but it remained closed. The shadows moved. He heard and saw the flare of the shots and pain mushroomed in his chest. His body was thrown back against the brick porch. A squat man stepped into the light of the street lamp from the bushes of the garden. He came closer as Heydrich slumped to the ground, the pistol still in his hand.
This could not be happening. Not in London. London was a civilised part of the Reich. The English did not assassinate. His killer came closer and stared down at the dying man and Heydrich tried to move his arm but the life had gone from it. The killer levelled the gun and fired a bullet into the Reichsfuhrer’s head.
Silence seeped nervously back into the residential street. Footsteps on the pavement caused the squat man to look round. A young man in his early 20s, wide eyed with fear, was by the gate.
‘Is he dead?’ he said.
A van reversed down the street towards them.
‘Wait,’ the squat man said.
He crouched by the body, put his gun on the ground and took the pistol from Heydrich. It was a 7.65mm automatic. He felt its weight in his gloved hand. The safety was off but it had not been fired. He turned, pointed it at the young man, and fired two shots into his chest. The force of the bullets flung him across the pavement and he bounced into the Mercedes before falling to the ground. The man replaced the gun in Heydrich’s hand, picked up his own weapon, and walked down the path and out of the garden. He paused to put his gun into the hand of the young man he had just killed then walked to the waiting van and climbed in the open back.
Peter Bergfeld looked round from the driver’s seat. ‘Okay?’ he said.
‘Okay,’ said the man, and pulled the door closed and the van drove off down the street into the eternal night.
Chapter 15
December 20, Berlin
The oak coffin of SS Reichsfuhrer Reinhard Heydrich lay in state in the Mosaic Hall of the Reich Chancellery, surrounded by flowers and flanked by an SS guard of honour. Throughout Germany and its empire, flags flew at half-mast. Berlin was swathed in black.
Hitler remained in Berchtesgaden but had declared five days of national sorrow, between death and burial. Reichsmarschall Martin Bormann led the official mourners and sat alongside Lina Heydrich and her four grown-up children. Behind them was the hierarchy of the SS, the Reich and armed services, and political and foreign dignitaries. Sir Oswald Mosley was towards the rear. The Berlin Philharmonic Orchestra played the Death March from Wagner’s Gotterdammerung.
When the music ended, Bormann stepped forward to a lectern and delivered a eulogy so rich in praise that many found it both amusing and embarrassing. Heydrich had not been liked, and neither was Bormann, and it was well known the two had hated each other.
Mosley had discussed with Kim Philby what might be said at the meeting he was scheduled to have with the Fuhrer’s special envoy and the head of the Siecherheitsdienst, after the funeral. Thank God for Philby and, to a lesser extent, Guy Burgess. Sir Oswald had taken Philby’s advice to promote Burgess to head of MI5. Having two men who actually worked well together running the two branches of his secret intelligence service was rare. Usually, rivalry got in the way of cooperation; just look at the different and dangerous factions in Germany. At least, he had a strong base for his own internal and external security.
The funeral progressed and he tried to work out, yet again, if his placing in the Mosaic Hall was a slight on him and on Britain for being the place where the Reichsfuhrer had died. Damn the man. Why hadn’t he been able to keep his appetites under control? Why hadn’t he had a woman sent to his apartments at the Savoy?
They were moving the coffin outside to a waiting gun carriage where it was draped in a swastika. A company of Waffen SS led the cortege, followed by the gun carriage pulled by six black horses. Members of the Nazi Party and the high command, led by Bormann, moved into place to follow the coffin to the Invaliden cemetery, but a junior officer drew Sir Oswald to one side.
‘If you could come this way, sir.’
He led him into the Marble Gallery and Mosley recalled what he had told Philby about Hitler preferring Downing Street to the Chancellery. Maybe so, but Downing Street didn’t intimidate like the Chancellery. Speer had built it on a scale for the gods. The ceilings were high, the windows to his left were immense, the doors to the offices on his right large enough to dwarf giants, the walls hung with heroic tapestries. Their footsteps echoed as they approached a group of people waiting outside the Fuhrer’s office. Philby was there, among the British delegation.
“Wait here, please,” the officer said. He tapped on the door and entered. Philby joined Mosley. Home Secretary James Dawson hovered close.
Philby’s calmness reassured him. They had rehearsed this meeting and constructed a scenario for all occasions. Burgess had taken over the investigation into the assassination. The police and Special Branch now answered to him. He had provided the evidence that was to be presented. Sir Oswald hoped the swiftness of their results would appease Hitler’s envoy, though he doubted it.
The door opened and the junior officer nodded that it was time. Sir Oswald Mosley led his small delegation into the office. The room was large and rectangular. To the right was an informal area with sofas and easy chairs; by the windows was a table for maps and briefings. To the left, in the far corner, was a large desk behind which was another heroic tapestry and a door that led to Hitler’s private chambers.
Two officers were by the table: Otto Koch, a Heydrich appointee who was head of the Sicherheitsdienst, and SS Obergruppenfuhrer Gunther Heines, a highly decorated career soldier who had been
the Fuhrer’s closest confidante for the last seven years.
Sir Oswald, his left thumb hooked in his belt, crossed the carpet, clicked his booted heels and raised his right arm in an immaculate salute. Dawson and Philby followed his lead. The two officers returned the salutes.
Heines said, “You know who I am, Prime Minister?’
‘I understand you represent the Fuhrer.’
‘In this matter, I represent his power and his anger. That is why we are in the office of the Fuhrer. He insisted we use it so you should understand his dismay and his determination. He wants arrests, executions and vengeance. Now, what can you tell us?’
If Mosley had thought he might have an easier time facing an envoy rather than Hitler himself, he was wrong.
‘May I offer my deepest condolences on behalf of myself and my country …’
‘The Fuhrer doesn’t want condolences. He wants answers.’
Mosley was not used to being interrupted. He recomposed himself and said, ‘The assassination was the work of the Weisse Rose.’
The White Rose was a resistance organisation that had been started by students at Munich University more than 20 years before.
‘I understood the Weisse Rose no longer exists,’ Heines said. ‘Now you tell me it does?’
‘The dead assassin was Paul Routledge, a student at the University of Durham. He was part of a cell that includes two other students, whom we have identified. One of them was Ferdinand Kersten, a 22-year-old German national. He was apprehended at his lodgings in Durham city yesterday evening but refused to surrender. He was shot and killed whilst trying to escape.’
The news that one of the assassins was German hit home, as Philby had told Mosley it would.
‘He was German? There is no mistake?’
‘None.’ Philby handed Mosley a report. The Prime Minister gave it to Heines. ‘He had links with several universities in Europe, including two in Germany - Bonn and Frankfurt.’
Heines placed the report on the table behind him.
‘There are names?’ he said.
‘Yes.’
'Go on.’
‘We believe the assassination team consisted of four men. Routledge and Kersten were part of it but we have yet to discover the names of the other two. We have identified another student, Simon Humphrey. We believe he is part of the support team and may have arranged to hide the other two.’
‘Has he also been shot trying to escape?’
Sir Oswald almost winced at the sarcasm. Prisoners who died trying to escape were a lot easier to blame than ones who survived.
‘He is under observation. He has not yet been interviewed or alerted and there has been no publicity about the death of Kersten. We hope Simon Humphrey may lead us to the other two.’
‘So. You have four assassins and one other. The streets of England are so unsafe that four German officers can be killed and no one sees anything. If Comrade Heydrich had not shot his killer, you would have nothing. They would have escaped. Your security was non-existent. How did it happen, Prime Minister? How did it happen?’
His voice was even but deadly.
‘Sir?’ Philby said, and Heines moved his eyes sideways, as if to notice him for the first time.
Mosley said, ‘This is Sir Harold Philby, the Director of the Secret Intelligence Service.’
Heines nodded and Philby said, ‘The assassins had knowledge in advance of where the Reichsfuhrer would be. British intelligence and Special Branch were not informed of his movements that night. We did not know where he was going, so we could not have leaked the information. It had, therefore, to come from someone close to the Reichsfuhrer. Someone may have passed on the information without knowing its significance. Possibly, someone in his delegation or at the Embassy. We have, of course, no jurisdiction in the Embassy and have been unable to follow that line of enquiry. It would be useful if, perhaps, the SD could undertake such interviews themselves. We would be happy to work under their guidance if they find any information to suggest that the informant is British.’
Sir Oswald could see that Heines understood exactly what Philby was implying. They had told him one of the assassins was German and Kim had added it was more than likely the informant was also German.
Heines nodded, as if mulling over what had been said.
‘Enquiries will be made,’ he said. ‘But this atrocity happened in England. What have you done about it in England? Who has been punished? You shoot one man but others are to blame. What are you doing to redress this atrocity, this insult to the Reich and National Socialism? The Fuhrer’s anger cannot be calculated and he would not be happy to hear of an attempt to shift the blame. I am instructed to demand, Prime Minister, that you take action to make the mongrels of England take notice of their folly. To let them know such acts will not be tolerated. The Fuhrer wants vengeance. What vengeance can I tell him to expect?’
‘Sir. I acknowledge the failures of internal security. The Commander of Special Branch and the Director of MI5 have been relieved of their posts. We are investigating the possible spread of the White Rose dissident group and anyone connected to it will be dealt with severely.’
‘And?’
‘We believe someone must be hiding the two remaining assassins.’ Sir Oswald stiffened his spirit. What he was about to make was a commitment beyond the normal, even for his own fascist state, but Philby had advised it was the only option. ‘And if someone is hiding them, an example must be made that will encourage others to give them up.’
‘Go on.’
‘I shall order a Heydrich Sanction.’
Heines nodded, as if he had expected nothing less.
‘Where?’
‘The village of Ollerton. The home of Simon Humphrey.’
‘How many citizens?’
Sir Oswald glanced sideways and Philby whispered in his ear.
‘Five hundred and sixty four,’ said Sir Oswald.
‘They must all die,’ Heines said. ‘Men, women and children. The Fuhrer wishes it.’ Mosley had not expected this instruction. He had intended the women and children would go to the camps, which was a delayed death sentence, but one which could be glossed for public consumption. He hesitated before making the point and then thought better of it.
Heines added, ‘The Fuhrer wishes you to know that the Reichsfuhrer was worth a thousand villages. But this one will do. For now.’
Chapter 16
December 23, London
Peter Bergfeld swallowed the last oyster. Strange food for a celibate man. He smiled and touched his lips with a paper napkin. The meeting had gone well but he should have held it earlier. He had not expected events to move so quickly.
He sat alone in the German Bar of the Savoy, happy to be surrounded by the noise of the early evening crowd who were looking forward to Christmas. Wealthy shoppers and smart young men and women from offices were having a drink before catching taxis, buses and trains home, a transitory crowd that would eventually be replaced by revellers starting a night out.
The business meeting had been in the Old Compton Street office of impresario Jimmy Burns. The contract the Beatles had originally signed had been with Top Ten Management, a company he had registered in London. Nowhere in any of the Top Ten Management documentation did his name appear. This afternoon, he had advised them to sign a personal management contract, subsidiary to the TTM agreement, with Jimmy Burns, who was already talking about signing other Liverpool bands on the strength of the reviews and reaction to what the Melody Maker called ‘the Liverpool Sound’.
George Martin had opted for safety and had chosen From Me To You as their next single and it was the Christmas number one, while the LP Please, Please Me was top of the album charts. The single, Please, Please Me, was number one in America and there was talk of a US tour. But first they were to undertake a headlining British tour in the new year, this time travelling on a customised luxury coach, and were booked to appear on Juke Box Jury on BBC Television. Success seemed assured.
John Lennon put a large scotch in front of Bergfeld and sat opposite. His appearance was striking and several people among the throng turned to look at this distinctive and handsome young man who was dressed in black and mostly in leather. Leather cap, coat and trousers and a black roll neck sweater. John poured Lowenbrau into a glass. Bergfeld wondered why he was here but was secretly glad that he was.
‘Where are the others?’ said Bergfeld.
‘Getting pissed.’
‘I thought you were all going home for Christmas?’
‘Tomorrow. Tonight is party time.’
‘I don’t go to parties.’
‘I wasn’t going to invite you.’
Bergfeld laughed and finished the drink he already had. John had been antagonistically self-confident before the records had become hits and rock journalists had started telling him how good and clever he was. Now his ability had been given a seal of approval, his self-confidence had started to edge towards arrogance, at least in public. But Bergfeld had seen the young man’s sketch book and the self-deprecating self-portraits and caricatures of people he met. This gave a far clearer window to the soul than looking into his eyes.
‘So why are you here?’
‘To find out why you’ve dumped us.’
‘I haven’t dumped you. I gave you the reasons. You were a Ministry of Culture project and now you have become a success, you need a manager who knows the business and can look after your interests. The contract is a good contract. Jimmy will not let you down. I’ve done my job. The project has worked and it’s best if no one knows about your connection with the Ministry or why we promoted you. The music industry would become sceptical; they would think you were manufactured. Teenagers would hate you for being connected to the establishment. It’s best we part now while no one knows me.’
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