“I’m happy Elisabeth is safe,” Bell said. “But I’m sorry for you.”
“Oh.” Dietrich shook his head. “It was over between us years ago. Still, I’m sad. There is something about this predicament I am in that makes me long for a family of my own. I don’t know why. I’d only be sick to death with worry for their sake.” Then he glanced at his watch and stood. “I must leave now.”
Bell stood as well. They shook hands, but that was not enough, so they embraced. Dietrich picked up his briefcase and went to the door. He stopped and looked back.
“George, if we should never meet again,” he said, “I want you to know you are one of the finest men I have ever known. Thank you for everything you have done for me.”
Then he was gone.
LONDON. JUNE 1942. The Athenaeum had survived the Blitz with only the loss of windows and several holes of a width of three to five feet in the attic. Still, the upper floors were little used. There was a decided draft. And most of the members liked to gather, after a long round at Whitehall or Parliament or Lambeth, at twilight. Just about the time the first warnings sounded. So the wine cellar downstairs had been expanded to include a lounge complete with carpet, electric lamps, billiard tables, and the over-stuffed chairs which were as indispensable as a good brandy. The rules were bent so that many members even took their meals on trays while seated in the chairs, like middle-class American men in their rumpus rooms.
So it was a simple matter for the Bishop of Chichester and the foreign secretary to find a quiet corner in the first-floor reading room. They sat with legs folded and exchanged pleasantries while a servant poured the brandy and arranged the blackout curtains. When the sirens went off, the men ignored them. The German raids had been lighter of late, and what little activity there was seemed to focus on the docklands to the east.
“It seemed to dawn on Jerry,” Anthony Eden observed, “that the bombing was getting them nowhere. We’d lost so much, what’s a bit more. No one here caved in because of it.”
“Let’s hope so,” Bell said. He was aware Eden was regarding him amiably but a bit warily.
“That was quite a speech you gave in the House of Lords last month,” Eden said, referring to Bell’s attack on the internment camps set up to hold German nationals living in Britain. “I don’t have to tell you Vansittart was beside himself. You always were a man of strong opinions, George.”
Bell didn’t answer, waited for the question he knew would be next.
“And what strong opinion led you to request a ‘discreet meeting on a subject of the most urgent importance,’ as you put it?”
Bell sent up a quick, silent prayer, took the list of names from his pocket, and handed it to Eden. Eden scanned the list and looked up quizzically.
“The next government of Germany,” Bell said. And he told Eden everything, reading from his notes, that Dietrich had related. When he was done the two men sat in silence staring at the fire. A lump of burning coal fell from the grate with a sizzling pop.
At last Eden said, “This is not the first feeler we’ve received from the Germans, you know. There is more than one group which calls itself the resistance, and most of these groups are probably the SS trying to either seduce or confuse us.”
“This one isn’t SS,” Bell said. “I’d stake my soul on it.”
Eden raised his eyebrows. “Do you know what Vansittart would say? He’d say you are soft on the Germans.”
“There was a time,” Bell said angrily, “when Churchill and Vansittart and I were the only men in the kingdom who wanted to take on Hitler. As I shall not hesitate to remind anyone who dares call me a Nazi sympathizer. But not all Germans are Nazis.”
“Are you suggesting the German people don’t support their government?”
“No. Like people everywhere, most Germans support their government in wartime. Even if the war is terribly wrong, unfortunately. What is it—what quality of humanity—that allows for such blindness? But these men—no. They’re prepared to commit treason—have already committed treason—to end this war and overthrow the Nazis.”
“We’ve heard from another resistance group within the German Foreign Office,” Eden said, “which claims the same thing, and yet wants to retain Poland and Czechoslovakia for the Reich.”
“That is unacceptable to the people I am speaking for. And yet these men are aware there are some in the resistance who would want to keep conquered territory. They believe once Hitler is eliminated this question can be dealt with more satisfactorily.”
Bell felt himself to be a bundle of nerves, had stood and begun to pace to ease the tension. Eden waved him back to his chair and refilled their glasses. “I’m not unsympathetic to what you are proposing,” he said.
Bell stopped and sat, took the offered glass with a trembling hand.
“In fact,” Eden said, “I am the best person in the cabinet you could have approached with this. But for my sake and the sake of your cause, I must play devil’s advocate.”
Bell nodded.
“There is some skepticism,” Eden continued, “because some of those Germans, especially in the Foreign Office, who have approached us clandestinely have done so through acquaintances in the English upper classes who were known to be, if not sympathetic toward, at least tolerant of the German government before the war.”
“I know the type well,” Bell said. “We could include members of this club in that group, couldn’t we? In fact, if you mistrust every member of the upper classes who was tolerant of the German government before the war, well, you’d have lost most of your cabinet, wouldn’t you?” (Including Eden, Bell thought.)
Eden smiled. “Touché,” he said. “But that isn’t the most serious sticking point. These contacts of yours have had plenty of time to declare themselves. All the most outspoken opponents of the Nazis went into the concentration camps in the thirties. Anyone else is suspect.”
“The trade union leaders on this list spent time in Dachau,” Bell pointed out.
“But the others,” Eden said. “Beck and the other military men are prosecuting the war—quite successfully, I might add—even as we speak. If the Germans take the Middle Eastern oil fields, the game is over. And some of these men on your list, like Goerdeler and Schacht, have held positions in the Nazi government.”
Bell said, “People learn. They change their minds.”
“Yes, but where are the results? The war has been going on for three years. What have these people been doing? Where are the assassination attempts, the other overt acts to show they are serious?”
“All I can say in their defense,” Bell said, “is that their position is difficult. I do believe they are serious and will act with or without the British government. But if we don’t help them, they may very well fail. The Nazis, as you yourself agree, are still very popular, and any attempt to dislodge them must be quick and decisive. Otherwise these—these very fine German patriots will give their lives for nothing and millions more innocent people around the world will continue to die.”
Eden had worked the sheet of paper with the names into a tight roll and tapped it on the arm of his chair. “One thing more. We have pledged our word to the Americans and the Russians to keep up this fight. We can’t just unilaterally pull back without consulting the Russians especially, even if there is a coup. Stalin would be furious. Not that there aren’t many people,” he added significantly, “who wonder privately why we are fighting Hitler instead of Stalin.”
“I don’t wonder about that,” Bell said sharply. “Hitler must be fought. As for how this can be done without offending the Russians, I’m no diplomat, I’m not privy to discussions with the Allies. I only ask you to do your best.” He sighed. “It’s not much good, is it?”
Eden shook his head. “I doubt it. But I’ll see what I can do.” He stood, glanced at his watch, and offered his hand. “Now it’s back to the salt mines. And George—” he held the bishop’s hand between both his—“take care of yourself. Of your reputation,
I mean. You’re on dangerous ground.”
WHITEHALL. ONE WEEK LATER. Anthony Eden sits at his desk in the Foreign Office with Sir Robert Vansittart, the permanent undersecretary, and Stuart Menzies, head of the British intelligence service, MI6. Eden hands round a box of cigars. “Well,” he says.
Menzies says, “We’ve had other peace feelers in the last three weeks, from Madrid and Istanbul. Are any of them legitimate or trustworthy?” He shrugs. “My top expert on this is a fellow named Philby. He’s most skeptical of all these communiqués, but especially this latest one, which he sees as a typical counterintelligence ploy.”
“At least this one’s creative,” Vansittart says, rolling his eyes. “I mean, an English bishop.”
“Yes, well, perhaps old George is turning fascist on us,” Menzies says.
“I don’t think so,” Eden says. “If this is a fake it’s only because George has been suckered in. I like him. I think he’s sincere.”
“Because you like him?” Vansittart says acidly.
“Because he strikes me as a man of great integrity,” Eden answers placidly, “and because he is one of the most respected clergymen in the Church of England. But in any event, I quite agree we must see some action in Germany before we can take any of this seriously.”
“Winston’s position exactly,” agrees Vansittart. “Give us a dead body. Namely, Hitler’s. Then we’ll see what we shall see.”
They finish their cigars and go their separate ways, Vansittart to speak with Churchill, Menzies to file away the recommendation from MI6 agent Kim Philby, who unbeknownst to him is a double agent in the service of Stalin’s NKVD and who has orders to keep Great Britain and Germany fighting one another at all costs.
BISHOP’S PALACE, CHICHESTER. JUNE 15, 1942. George Bell sits at the desk in his study. Through the window he can see across to the sundial on the cathedral’s west transept. He holds the letter from Anthony Eden in his hand and reads it several times.
Without casting any aspersion on the bona fide of your informant, I am satisfied that it would not be in the national interest for any reply whatever to be sent. I realize that this decision may cause you some disappointment, but in view of the delicacy of the issues involved I feel that I must ask you to accept it.
Your,
Anthony Eden
Whitehall
The bishop takes out pen and paper and writes the text of a cable to be sent as arranged to Willem Visser’t Hooft in Geneva.
Undoubted interest, but deeply regret no answer possible. Bell.
Doppelgänger
SS-STURMBANNFÜHRER ALOIS BAUER SITS in his spacious corner office on the second floor of the massive stone pile in the Prinz-Albrecht-Straße. A well-appointed office with bookshelves (mostly bare), a painting by Barthel Bruyn the Elder that before the war hung in a Belgian museum, an antique cherry liquor cabinet, an adjutant and a typist in the adjoining room. The desk is large, of solid oak, polished to a sheen that reflects the glow of the overhead lamp. A file folder lies on the green blotter. Bauer picks up the folder in both hands. The folder is more precious than the painting and the contents of the office; indeed, everything else is the result of the folder. Bauer smiles across the desk at his boss, Heinrich Himmler.
“I have them now,” Bauer says. “The end of the Rote Kapelle, the Red Orchestra. And not too late, I hope, to correct the damage that has been done. We could bring these people in at any time, but we are just now in the midst of using them to send false information to Moscow. A sort of parting gift.”
Himmler nods and accepts a glass of brandy from the adjutant, who bows discreetly and leaves, closing the door softly behind him.
“How did you do it?” Himmler asks.
“We used new electronic equipment to pick up the signals of their radio transmissions from Paris. And then the code-breakers went to work. The Soviets were foolish enough to include names and addresses in one of their transmissions, if you can believe that.”
Himmler says, “It’s always the most simple mistake that brings down the fortress.”
Bauer’s expression changes, grows more serious. “One thing is very bad. These are people in sensitive positions. Members of the old Prussian elite, highly placed in the government as if by some sort of birthright. Not because of loyalty, certainly.” He opens the folder. “Harro Schulze-Boysen, a leading official in the Air Ministry and the grandnephew of Grand Admiral von Tirpitz. How can the same family produce a military hero and a traitor? Then there’s Arvid von Harnack, from a family of distinguished academics. Harnack is a senior official in the Ministry of Economics. Imagine, a Communist spy in charge of the Reich’s economic policies.”
“God,” Himmler mutters. “I detest these old families. They think they’re just below the Almighty. Never trust anyone with two last names, I always say.”
“One wonders,” says Bauer, “how many more traitors there are.”
Himmler nods. “So do I. My guess is there are more traitors in the Foreign Office and War Ministry than lice on a Jew.”
“My guess as well,” says Bauer. “Because here’s what is most disturbing. Not only did the Red Orchestra pass on military secrets to the Soviets. They also sent dispatches claiming many of our generals are seriously disillusioned with the Führer.”
“I have heard such rumors from other quarters. And I believe we have found the man to look into the matter.”
Bauer bows his head modestly, just after he glimpses his own reflection in Himmler’s monocle.
“I’m suspicious of the Abwehr,” he says. “Even though army intelligence was helpful in catching out these traitors. The best men I spoke with in the Abwehr believe their own ranks are tainted. I’ve been wanting to investigate army intelligence for some time. But one has gotten the feeling it is a sacred cow.”
“Because of Heydrich, poor fellow,” Himmler replies. “I liked Reinhard. But he and Admiral Canaris were old friends, lived next door, and Canaris was like a father to him. Both fanatics about dogs, and so Heydrich would never hear a word about the Abwehr, would take your head off if you suggested something might be very wrong there. But Heydrich is dead”—the head of the SD, the intelligence wing of the SS, had been assassinated by Czech partisans—“and there is now no one between the Abwehr and me. Do I make myself clear?”
“Quite,” Bauer says. “My colleagues will be very pleased to hear this.” He was thinking especially of Sonderegger of the Gestapo, who had barely been kept on a short leash when the report of disloyalty on the general staff had been transcribed by the cryptanalysts.
“This mustn’t be botched!” Himmler said sharply, as though reading Bauer’s mind. “Any warning will send these people running for cover.”
“I’m aware of that,” Bauer agreed. “I know how to handle this. One can keep very still while looking—as you said—for details.”
Himmler nods, pleased. “You have already done a great service to the Reich,” he says. “The Führer has informed me you are to have a reward.” He turns to the painting on the wall. “A work of art from his private collection. A Vermeer perhaps, or a Brueghel. Though if the bombing worsens everything will be going underground for the time being.”
Bauer coughs discreetly. “I am honored,” he says, and places his hands in his lap to keep them from shaking. “But I must admit my artistic passions lie in a different direction.”
“Oh?” Himmler leans back so his chair creaks.
“I adore Mozart,” says Bauer.
Himmler looks puzzled. “But surely recordings of Mozart are available. If there is something you lack for your collection—”
“A manuscript!” Bauer breaks in, dismayed at his own boldness.
But Himmler is not offended, only bemused. “A manuscript?”
“Mozart’s Mass in C Minor. The original manuscript is in the possession of the Prussian State Museum and, I understand, stored underground somewhere in the Reich.”
“And you want this manuscript?”
“Yes,” Bauer whispers. “Oh, yes.”
“Well—” Himmler claps his hands on his knees. “After all, it’s only a few scratches on paper. Not the actual music itself. I don’t see why not. I shall tell the Führer.”
“Would you?” Bauer’s eyes are shining. “Oh, would you?”
When Himmler leaves, Bauer stands and salutes so vigorously that he nearly wrenches his shoulder out of joint.
Himmler is as good as his word. Three weeks later, Alois Bauer’s saloon car draws up outside a potash mine deep in the Thuringian Forest. A dwelling place of dwarves, Bauer thinks as he is led deep into the bowels of the earth by a guard, their gargantuan twisted shadows preceding them along the passage. The depths of the mine hold the collections of the Prussian State Library, carefully crated and labeled, perhaps by the same officious curator Bauer has come to think of as an ogre guarding an enchanted treasure. Now there are no curators present, only armed guards, who have their orders from the top. The specific crate has already been located, to save the Sturmbannführer time, since he is an important and busy man. His visit is off the record; no one has noted it in the repository ledger.
The crate is carefully pried open. Bauer stands over it and beholds the object of his desire, the parchment a pale illumined gold beneath the glow of the electric torch. He does not move for many minutes, head bowed so no one can see his tears. The guards wait patiently; nothing better to do anyway. At last he looks up.
“You are certain it is safe here?”
“Oh, yes,” says the SS Hauptsturmführer in charge of the potash mines. “Only the Führer is more secure.”
“But at any time—”
The man nods so that he doesn’t have to finish. “Whenever you wish, it will be waiting for you. We have the orders on file.”
Bauer sighs. He would like to take the manuscript with him, but he loves it too much to expose it to the bombs which are falling with increasing frequency on Berlin. “Auf Wiedersehen,” he says to the crate, in a voice so low no one else hears. “Until we meet again.” He salutes the guards, and leaves the mine, his boots echoing along the stone chamber.
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