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‘What on earth has that got to do with anything?’ Himmler seemed genuinely surprised. ‘Speed is of the essence here, Schellenberg, and reminding you of your oath as a member of the SS, I will now tell you why. In approximately four weeks, the Führer will fly to Cherbourg in Normandy. January twenty-first. I shall accompany him. From there, we proceed to a chateau on the coast. Belle Ile. Such strange names the French employ.’
‘May I ask the purpose of the visit?’
‘The Führer intends to meet with Field Marshal Rommel personally, to confirm his appointment as Commander of Army Group B. This will give him direct responsibility for the Atlantic Wall defences. The meeting will be concerned with the strategy necessary if our enemies decide to invade next year. The Führer has given to me the honour of organizing the conference and, of course, responsibility for his safety. It will be purely an SS matter. As I’ve said, Rommel will be there, probably Canaris. The Führer particularly asked for him.’
He started to sort his papers into a neat pile, putting some of them into a briefcase. Schellenberg said, ‘But the urgency on the Steiner affair, Reichsführer, I don’t understand.’
‘I intend to introduce him to the Führer at that meeting, General. A great coup for the SS, his escape and near victory. His presence, of course, will make things rather difficult for Canaris which will be all to the good.’ He closed the briefcase and his eyes narrowed. ‘That is all you need to know.’
Schellenberg, who felt that he was only hanging on to his sanity by his fingernails, said, ‘But, Reichsführer, what if Devlin doesn’t wish to be persuaded?’
‘Then you must take appropriate action. To that end, I have selected a Gestapo man I wish to accompany you to Lisbon as your bodyguard.’ He rang a bell on the desk and Rossman entered. ‘Ah, Rossman. I’ll see Sturmbannführer Berger now.’
Schellenberg waited, desperate for a cigarette, but aware also of how totally Himmler disapproved of smoking and then the door opened and Rossman appeared with another man. Something of a surprise, this one. A young man, only twenty-five or -six, with blond hair that was almost white. Good-looking once, but one side of his face had been badly burned. Schellenberg could see where the skin graft stretched tightly.
He held out his hand. ‘General Schellenberg. Horst Berger. A pleasure to work with you.’
He smiled, looking with that marred face like the Devil himself and Schellenberg said, ‘Major.’ He turned to Himmler. ‘May I get started, Reichsführer?’
‘Of course. Berger will join you in the courtyard. Send Rossman in.’ Schellenberg got the door open and Himmler added, ‘One more thing. Canaris is to know nothing. Not Devlin, not our intentions regarding Steiner and for the moment, no mention of Belle Ile. You understand the importance of this?’
‘Of course, Reichsführer.’
Schellenberg told Rossman to go in and walked along the corridor. On the next floor, he found a toilet, slipped in and lit a cigarette, then took the envelope Himmler had given him from his pocket and opened it.
FROM THE LEADER AND CHANCELLOR OF THE STATE
General Schellenberg acts upon my direct and personal orders in a matter of the utmost importance to the Reich. He is answerable only to me. All personnel, military and civil, without distinction of rank will assist him in any way he sees fit.
Adolf Hitler
Schellenberg shivered and put it back in the envelope. The signature certainly looked right, he’d seen it often enough, but then it would be easy for Himmler to get the Führer’s signature on something, just one document amongst many.
So, Himmler was giving him the same powers as he had given Max Radl for Operation Eagle. But why? Why was it so important to get Steiner back and in the time scale indicated?
There had to be more to the whole business than Himmler was telling him, that much was obvious. He lit another cigarette and left, losing his way at the end of the corridor. He hesitated, uncertain, then realized that the archway at the end led on to the balcony above the great hall. He was about to turn and go the other way when he heard voices. Intrigued, he moved forward on to the balcony and peered down cautiously. Himmler was standing at the head of the great table flanked by Rossman and Berger. The Reichsführer was speaking.
‘There are those, Berger, who are more concerned with people than ideas. They became sentimental too easily. I do not think you are one of them.’
‘No, Reichsführer,’ Berger said.
‘Unfortunately, General Schellenberg is. That’s why I’m sending you with him to Lisbon. The man, Devlin, comes whether he likes it or not. I look to you to see to it.’
‘Is the Reichsführer doubting General Schellenberg’s loyalty?’ Rossman asked.
‘He has been of great service to the Reich,’ Himmler said. ‘Probably the most gifted officer to serve under my command, but I’ve always doubted his loyalty to the Party. But there is no problem here, Rossman. He is too useful for me to discard at the present time. We must put all our energies into the preparation for Belle Ile while Schellenberg busies himself with the Steiner affair.’ He turned to Berger. ‘You’d better be off.’
‘Reichsführer.’
Berger clicked his heels and turned away. When he was halfway across the hall, Himmler called, ‘Show me what you can do, Sturmbannführer.’
Berger had the flap of his holster open, turned with incredible speed, arm extended. There was a fresco of knights on the far wall done in medieval style in plaster. He fired three times very fast and three heads disintegrated. The shots echoed through the hall as he replaced his weapon.
‘Excellent,’ Himmler said.
Schellenberg was already on his way. He was good himself, maybe as good as Berger, but that wasn’t the point. In the hall he retrieved his greatcoat and cap, was sitting in the rear of the Mercedes when Berger joined him five minutes later.
‘Sorry if I’ve kept you waiting, General,’ he said as he got in.
‘No problem,’ Schellenberg said and nodded to the driver who drove away. ‘Smoke if you like.’
‘No vices, I’m afraid,’ Berger said.
‘Really? Now that is interesting.’ Schellenberg turned up the collar of his greatcoat and leaned back in the corner pulling the peak of his cap over his eyes. ‘A long way to Berlin. I don’t know about you, but I’m going to get some sleep.’
He did just that. Berger watched him for a while, and then he also pulled up the collar of his greatcoat and turned into the corner.
Schellenberg’s office at Prinz Albrechtstrasse had a military camp bed in one corner for he often spent the night there. He was in the small bathroom adjacent to it shaving when his secretary, Ilse Huber, entered. She was forty-one at that time, already a war widow, a sensual, attractive woman in white blouse and black skirt. She had once been Heydrich’s secretary and Schellenberg, to whom she was devoted, had inherited her.
‘He’s here,’ she said.
‘Rivera?’ Schellenberg wiped soap from his face. ‘And Canaris?’
‘The Herr Admiral will be riding in the Tiergarten at ten o’clock as usual. Will you join him?’
Schellenberg frequently did, but when he went to the window and saw the powdering of snow in the streets he laughed. ‘Not this morning, thank you, but I must see him.’
Dedicated as she was to Schellenberg’s welfare, she had an instinct about things. She went and poured coffee from the pot on the tray she had put on his desk. ‘Trouble, General?’
‘In a way, my love.’ He drank some of the coffee and smiled, that ruthless, dangerous smile of his that made the heart turn over in her. ‘But don’t worry. Nothing I can’t handle. I’ll fill you in on the details before I leave. I’m going to need your help with this one. Where’s Berger, by the way?’
‘Downstairs in the canteen, last I saw of him.’
‘All right. I’ll see Rivera now.’
She paused at the door and turned. ‘He frightens me that one. Berger, I mean.’
Schellenberg went and put an arm around her. ‘I told you not to worry. After all, when has the great Schellenberg ever failed to manage?’
His self-mockery, as always, made her laugh. He gave her a squeeze and she was out of the door smiling. Schellenberg buttoned his tunic and sat down. A moment later the door opened and Rivera came in.
He wore a dark brown suit, an overcoat over one arm, a small man, sallow skin, black hair carefully parted. Just now he looked decidedly anxious.
‘You know who I am?’ Schellenberg asked him.
‘Of course, General. An honour to meet you.’
Schellenberg held up a piece of paper which was actually some stationery from the hotel he’d stayed at in Vienna the previous week. ‘This message you received from your cousin, Vargas, at the London Embassy concerning the whereabouts of a certain Colonel Steiner. Have you discussed it with anyone?’
Rivera seemed genuinely shocked. ‘Not a living soul, General. Before God I swear this.’ He spread his hands dramatically. ‘On my mother’s life.’
‘Oh, I don’t think we need to bring her into it. She’s quite comfortable in that little villa you bought her in San Carlos.’ Rivera looked startled and Schellenberg said, ‘You see, there is nothing about you I don’t know. There is no place you could go where I couldn’t reach you. Do you understand me?’
‘Perfectly, General.’ Rivera was sweating.
‘You belong to the SD now and Reichsführer Himmler, but it is me you answer to and no one else, so to start with: this message from your cousin in London. Why did you also send it to Admiral Canaris?’
‘My cousin’s orders, General. In these matters there is always the question of payment and in this case …’ He shrugged.
‘He thought you might get paid twice?’ Schellenberg nodded. It made sense and yet he had learned never to take anything for granted in this game. ‘Tell me about your cousin.’
‘What can I say that the General doesn’t know? José’s parents died in the influenza epidemic just after the First World War. My parents raised him. We were like brothers. Went to the University of Madrid together. Fought in the same regiment in the Civil War. He’s one year older than me, thirty-three.’
‘He isn’t married, you are,’ Schellenberg said. ‘Does he have a girlfriend in London?’
Rivera spread his hands. ‘As it happens, José’s tastes do not run to women, General.’
‘I see.’ Schellenberg brooded about it for a moment. He had nothing against homosexuals, but such people were susceptible to blackmail and that was a weakness for anyone engaged in intelligence work. A point against Vargas, then.
‘You know London?’
Rivera nodded. ‘I served at the Embassy there with José in thirty-nine for one year. I left my wife in Madrid.’
‘I know London also,’ Schellenberg said. ‘Tell me about his life. Does he live at the Embassy?’
‘Officially he does, General, but for the purposes of his private life he has a small apartment, a flat as the English call it. He took a seven-year lease on the place while I was there so he must still have it.’
‘Where would that be?’
‘Stanley Mews, quite close to Westminster Abbey.’
‘And convenient for the Houses of Parliament. A good address. I’m impressed.’
‘José always did like the best.’
‘Which must be paid for.’ Schellenberg got up and went to the window. It was snowing lightly. He said, ‘Is he reliable, this cousin of yours? Any question of him ever having had any dealings with our British friends?’
Rivera looked shocked again. ‘General Schellenberg, I assure you, José, like me, is a good Fascist. We fought together with General Franco in the Civil War. We …’
‘All right, I was just making the point. Now listen to me carefully. We may well decide to attempt to rescue Colonel Steiner.’
‘From the Tower of London, señor?’ Rivera’s eyes bulged.
‘In my opinion, they’ll move him to some sort of safe house. May well have done so already. You will send a message to your cousin today asking for all possible information.’
‘Of course, General.’
‘Get on with it then.’ As Rivera reached the door Schellenberg added, ‘I need hardly say that if one word of this leaks out you will end up in the River Spree, my friend, and your cousin in the Thames. I have an extraordinarily long arm.’
‘General, I beg of you.’ Rivera started to protest again.
‘Spare me all that stuff about what a good Fascist you are. Just think about how generous I’m going to be. A much sounder basis for our relationship.’
Rivera departed and Schellenberg phoned down for his car, pulled on his overcoat and went out.
Admiral Wilhelm Canaris was fifty-six. A U-boat captain of distinction in the First World War, he had headed the Abwehr since 1935 and despite being a loyal German had always been unhappy with National Socialism. Although he was opposed to any plan to assassinate Hitler, he had been involved with the German resistance movement for some years, treading a dangerous path that was eventually to lead to his downfall and death.
That morning, as he galloped along the ride between the trees in the Tiergarten, his horse’s hooves kicked up the powdered snow filling him with a fierce joy. The two dachshunds which accompanied him everywhere, followed with surprising speed. He saw Schellenberg standing beside his Mercedes, waved and turned towards him.
‘Good morning, Walter. You should be with me.’
‘Not this morning,’ Schellenberg told him. ‘I’m off on my travels again.’
Canaris dismounted and Schellenberg’s driver held the horse’s reins. Canaris offered Schellenberg a cigarette and they went and leaned on a parapet overlooking the lake.
‘Anywhere interesting?’ Canaris asked.
‘No, just routine,’ Schellenberg said.
‘Come on, Walter, out with it. There’s something on your mind.’
‘All right. The Operation Eagle affair.’
‘Nothing to do with me,’ Canaris told him. ‘The Führer came up with the idea. What nonsense! Kill Churchill when we’ve already lost the war.’
‘I wish you wouldn’t say that sort of thing out loud,’ Schellenberg said gently.
Canaris ignored him. ‘I was ordered to prepare a feasibility study. I knew the Führer would forget it within a matter of days and he did, only Himmler didn’t. Wanted to make life disagreeable for me as usual. Went behind my back, suborned Max Radl, one of my most trusted aides. And the whole thing turned out to be the shambles I knew it would.’
‘Of course Steiner almost pulled it off,’ Schellenberg said.
‘Pulled what off? Come off it, Walter, I’m not denying Steiner’s audacity and bravery, but the man they were after wasn’t even Churchill. Would have been quite something if they’d brought him back. The look on Himmler’s face would have been a joy to see.’
‘And now we hear that Steiner didn’t die,’ Schellenberg said. ‘That they have him in the Tower of London.’
‘Ah, so Rivera has passed on his dear cousin’s message to the Reichsführer also?’ Canaris smiled cynically. ‘Doubling up their reward as usual.’
‘What do you think the British will do?’
‘With Steiner? Lock him up tight until the end of the war like Hess, only they’ll keep quiet about it. Wouldn’t look too good, just as it wouldn’t look too good to the Führer if the facts came to his attention.’
‘Do you think they’re likely to?’ Schellenberg asked.
Canaris laughed out loud. ‘You mean from me? So that’s what all this is about? No, Walter, I’m in enough trouble these days without looking for more. You can tell the Reichsführer that I’ll keep quiet if he will.’
They started to walk back to the Mercedes. Schellenberg said, ‘I suppose he’s to be trusted, this Vargas? We can believe him?’
Canaris took the point seriously. ‘I’m the first to admit our operations in England have gone badly. The British secret service came up with a stroke of some genius when they stopped having our operatives shot when they caught them and simply turned them into double agents.’
‘And Vargas?’
‘One can never be sure, but I don’t think so. His position at the Spanish Embassy, the fact that he has only worked occasionally and as a freelance. No contacts with any other agents in England, you see.’ They had reached the car. He smiled, ‘Anything else?’
Schellenberg couldn’t help saying it, he liked the man so much. ‘As you well know, there was another attempt on the Führer’s life at Rastenburg. As it happened, the bombs the young officer involved was carrying, went off prematurely.’
‘Very careless of him. What’s your point, Walter?’
‘Take care, for God’s sake. These are dangerous times.’
‘Walter. I have never condoned the idea of assassinating the Führer.’ The Admiral climbed back into the saddle and gathered his reins. ‘However desirable that possibility may seem to some people, and shall I tell you why, Walter?’
‘I’m sure you’re going to.’
‘Stalingrad, thanks to the Führer’s stupidity, lost us more than three hundred thousand dead. Ninety-one thousand taken prisoner including twenty-four generals. The greatest defeat we’ve ever known. One balls-up after another, thanks to the Führer.’ He laughed harshly. ‘Don’t you realize the truth of it, my friend? His continued existence actually shortens the war for us.’
He put his spurs to his horse, the dachshunds yapping at his heels, and galloped into the trees.
Back at the office, Schellenberg changed into a light grey flannel suit in the bathroom, speaking through the other door to Ilse Huber as he dressed, filling her in on the whole business.
‘What do you think?’ he asked as he emerged. ‘Like a fairy tale by the Brothers Grimm?’
‘More like a horror story,’ she said as she held his black leather coat for him.
‘We’ll refuel in Madrid and carry straight on. Should be in Lisbon by late afternoon.’
He pulled on the coat, adjusted a slouch hat and picked up the overnight bag she had prepared. ‘I expect news from Rivera within two days at the outside. Give him thirty-six hours then apply pressure.’ He kissed her on the cheek. ‘Take care, Ilse. See you soon,’ and he was gone.
The plane was a JU52 with its famous three engines and corrugated metal skin. As it lifted from the Luftwaffe fighter base outside Berlin, Schellenberg undid his seat belt and reached for his briefcase. Berger, on the other side of the aisle, smiled.
‘The Herr Admiral was well, General?’
Now that isn’t very clever, Schellenberg thought. You weren’t supposed to know I was seeing him.
He smiled back. ‘He seemed his usual self.’
He opened his briefcase, started to read Devlin’s background report and examined a photo of him. After a while he stopped and looked out of the window remembering what Canaris had said about Hitler.
His continued existence actually shortens the war for us.
Strange how that thought went round and round in his brain and wouldn’t go away.
3
Baron Oswald von Hoyningen-Heune, the Minister to the German Legation in Lisbon, was a friend, an aristocrat of the old school who was also no Nazi. He was delighted to see Schellenberg and showed it.
‘My dear Walter. Good to see you. How’s Berlin at the moment?’
‘Colder than this,’ Schellenberg told him as they moved out through French windows and sat at a table on the pleasant terrace. The garden was a sight to see, flowers everywhere. A houseboy in white jacket brought coffee on a tray and Schellenberg sighed. ‘Yes, I can understand you hanging on here instead of coming back to Berlin. The best place to be these days, Lisbon.’
‘I know,’ the Baron told him. ‘The constant worry all my staff have is of being transferred.’ He poured the coffee. ‘A strange time to arrive, Walter, Christmas Eve.’
‘You know Uncle Heini when he gets the bit between his teeth,’ Schellenberg told him, using the nickname common in the SS behind Himmler’s back.
‘It must be important,’ the Baron said. ‘Especially if he sends you.’
‘There’s a man we want, an Irishman – Liam Devlin.’
Schellenberg took Devlin’s photo from his wallet and passed it across. ‘He worked for Abwehr for a while. The IRA connection. Walked out of a hospital in Holland the other week. Our information is that he’s here, working as a waiter at a club in Alfama.’
‘The old quarter?’ The Baron nodded. ‘If he’s Irish, this man, I hardly need to point out that makes him officially a neutral. A situation of some delicacy.’
‘No rough stuff needed,’ Schellenberg said. ‘I hope we can persuade him to come back peaceably. I have a job to offer him that could be rather lucrative.’
‘Fine,’ the Baron said. ‘Just remember that our Portuguese friends really do value their neutrality. Even more so now that victory seems to be slipping away from us. However, Captain Eggar, my police attaché here, should be able to assist you.’ He picked up his phone and spoke to an aide. As he put it down he said, ‘I caught a glimpse of your companion.’
‘Sturmbannführer Horst Berger – Gestapo,’ Schellenberg said.
‘Doesn’t look your sort.’
‘A Christmas present from the Reichsführer. I didn’t have much choice.’
‘Like that, is it?’
There was a knock at the door and a man in his forties slipped in. He had a heavy moustache and wore a brown gaberdine suit that didn’t fit too well. A professional policeman, Schellenberg recognized the type.
‘Ah, there you are, Eggar. You know General Schellenberg, don’t you?’
‘Of course. A great pleasure to see you again. We met during the course of the Windsor affair in nineteen forty.’
‘Yes, well we prefer to forget all about that these days.’ Schellenberg passed Devlin’s photo across. ‘Have you seen this man?’
Eggar examined it. ‘No, General.’
‘He’s Irish, ex-IRA if you ever can be ex-IRA, age thirty-five. He worked for Abwehr for a while. We want him back. Our latest information is that he’s been working as a waiter at a bar called Flamingo.’
‘I know the place.’
‘Good. You’ll find my aide, Major Berger of the Gestapo, outside. Bring him in.’ Eggar went out and returned with Berger and Schellenberg made the introductions. ‘Baron von Hoyningen-Heune, Minister to the Legation and Captain Eggar, police attaché. Sturmbannführer Berger.’ Berger, in his dark suit with that ravaged face of his, was a chilling presence as he nodded formally and clicked his heels. ‘Captain Eggar knows this Flamingo place. I want you to go there with him and check if Devlin still works there. If he does, you will not, I repeat not, contact him in any way. Simply report to me.’ Berger showed no emotion, and turned to the door. As he opened it Schellenberg called, ‘During the nineteen thirties Liam Devlin was one of the most notorious gunmen in the IRA. You gentlemen would do well to remember that fact ‘
The remark, as Berger immediately knew, was aimed at him. He smiled faintly, ‘We will, General,’ turned and went out followed by Eggar.
‘A bad one that. You’re welcome to him. Still …’ The Baron checked his watch. ‘Just after five, Walter. How about a glass of champagne?’
Major Arthur Frear was fifty-four and looked older, with his crumpled suit and white hair. He’d have been retired by now on a modest pension leading a life of genteel poverty in Brighton or Torquay. Instead, thanks to Adolf Hitler, he was employed as military attaché at the British Embassy in Lisbon where he unofficially represented SOE.
The Lights of Lisbon at the southern edge of the Alfama district was one of his favourite places. How convenient that Devlin was playing piano there although there was no sign of him at the moment. Devlin, in fact, was watching him through a bead curtain at the rear. He wore a linen suit in off-white, dark hair falling across his forehead, the vivid blue eyes full of amusement as they surveyed Frear. The first Frear knew of his presence was when Devlin slid on the stool next to him and ordered a beer.
‘Mr Frear, isn’t it?’ He nodded to the barman. ‘José here tells me you’re in the port business.’