Glenn Meade (20 page)

As Schellenberg was led into his Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse
office that afternoon, rain was gusting against the windows, an icy wind
blowing so harshly it could only have come from the Baltic.

Himmler wore his full-dress black
Reichsfuhrer's uniform and customary pince-nez glasses. He was seated behind
his walnut desk, a stack of paperwork in front of him, a pen poised in his
hand. The office was in half-darkness, everything about it spartan and
impersonal, the only warmth coming from a sparking log fire blazing in a
corner.

Schellenberg gave the Nazi salute.
'You sent for me, Reichsfuhrer?'

Himmler laid down his pen,
silently indicated a chair, and in very slow, precise movements cleared his
paperwork to one side, except for a handful of reports, as if preparing himself
for business. He indicated the remaining papers on his desk with some distaste.
'The latest ciphers have arrived from our agents in
North
Africa
, and the progress reports from the Luftwaffe and
Kriegsmarine. I think you had better read them.'

Schellenberg studied the pages,
while Himmler stood and came round from behind his desk. He paused at the fire
for a time, warming his hands, then touched a jutting log with the toe of his
polished boot, making sparks flare, before finally turning back.

'Well?'

Schellenberg put the reports
aside. 'They're disappointing, Reichsfiihrer.'

'Disappointing?' Himmler flared.
'They're disastrous. Our Atlantic U-boats have continually failed to engage
Roosevelt
's convoy. We've sent out our best commanders,
and they've all failed. The most recent Luftwaffe report indicates a large
fleet of protection vessels surrounding the battleship
Iowa
, which we suspect is carrying the
American President. It was sighted from the air, approximately four hundred
miles off the Moroccan coast at midday today, and pursuing an erratic route.
Goering says it's too far away for us to attempt a bombing run - the spotter
plane was engaged by aircraft from enemy destroyers and barely made its escape.
As for the Kriegsmarine, they claim it's completely impossible to breach the
heavy naval security.'

'I would imagine so,
Reichsfiihrer.'

'If all that weren't bad enough,
our agents are having serious difficulty discovering where exactly Roosevelt's
convoy might dock in North Africa - so it could be anywhere along a
threethousandmile coast. Without precise information, we couldn't possibly
effect a meaningful air or sea attack. And once Roosevelt comes ashore, we'll
have little chance of knowing how he'll proceed until he reaches
Cairo
.' Himmler sighed
with frustration, removed his glasses and polished them methodically with a
handkerchief. 'So, Walter, it seems it may well be all down to you, after all.
Tell me your progress.'

'I'm glad to report that
everything goes according to plan, Reichsflihrer.' Schellenberg smiled brightly.

'You seem confident. Do you feel
certain the woman will be capable of doing what is expected of her?'

'With her father's life in the
balance, she'll do her utmost, I'm sure of it.'

'You had better be right. And
Haider?'

'He's coming along nicely.'
Schellenberg smiled again. 'A little conflict between him and Kleist, but we
expected that.'

Himmler replaced his glasses,
adjusted them on the bridge of his nose. 'Ah, yes, Kleist. A bit of a brute,
but the kind of man you can rely on. Much easier to predict than this fellow
Haider.

And what about Deacon?'

'Reichsfiihrer?'

'His progress in
Cairo
?'

'I expect a signal from him within
the next twenty-four hours, informing us of his readiness.'

'The troubling matter of this safe
house being discovered, it hasn't caused him further problems?'

'Not according to his last report.
If it had, I'm certain he would have let us know.'

'Haider is aware of this?'

'I didn't think it necessary to
trouble him with the information, Reichsfiihrer. He has enough to occupy his
mind.'

Himmler nodded. 'Perhaps you're
right. But what if Deacon fails to obtain the necessary transport and equipment
at such short notice?'

'I'm confident we can still go
ahead. It would be left to Haider and the others to sort out the problem once
they arrive.

But I'm sure they're quite capable
of it.'

Himmler made no comment, stared at
the fire for several moments, lost in thought. 'Very well. Considering the
pessimism of the reports you just read, you have my authority to proceed with
Operation Sphinx, and with the Fuhrer's approval'

Schellenberg stood, delighted. 'As
you command, Reichsfuhrer.'

'You will take Haider and the
others to Gatow aerodrome tomorrow, and on to their stand-by position in
Rome
, to prepare for
departure.' Himmler came back to his desk, sat, and carefully replaced the
barrier of paperwork in front of him, indicating that the meeting was at an
end. 'And as always, keep me fully informed of any developments.'

Bitter
Lakes
'It's not much, but it's definitely something.' Sanson lit a cigarette as they
sat in the interrogation room an hour later, after Berger had been taken away.

Weaver was silent as Sanson read
back through his notes.

'We now know for certain that
Phoenix
arrived in
Cairo
nine months ago to help bolster the Germans' intelligence-gathering.

We also know, from Berger's
agreement with our description, that it's probably our friend Farid Gabar. And
we know that after he got through our lines he probably stayed one night in a
safe house in Ezbekiya - a hotel belonging to an Arab sympathiser working for
German intelligence - before making contact with Besheeba.'

The information Berger had given
them had indeed been slender, but was still significant. He had merely
transcribed the signal for his commanding officer, but admitted to having twice
seen the Arab that Sanson described, during intelligence debriefings at
Wehrmacht headquarters in
Tunis
.
As Weaver had suspected, Berger wasn't privy to the true identities or
backgrounds of either agent, and he couldn't tell them anything about Besheeba,
except to say he'd heard a rumour he was
Berlin
's
top spy in
Cairo
.

'So we need to find this hotel.
Except it was nine months ago that Gabar stayed there.'

'It's the start of a trail,
Weaver. And right now, it's all we've got. I'll have a word with some of my
informers, and we'll go through the lists of sympathisers again. We might turn
up a suspect. If not, we'll get the rundown on every hotel owner in the area
until we do.' ‹ Weaver stood. Sanson said, 'Where are you going?'

'To see if Berger's all right. I
think you shook him pretty badly.’

Sanson said angrily, 'Forget about
it, Weaver. And there's something I ought to point out while we're on the
subject. You should know better than to show disagreement or weakness during
interrogation. That was a stupid thing you did, attempting to help him. It
undermined my authority.'

'It wasn't interrogation, Sanson.
It was torture, whatever the results. The kind of thing I'd expect from the
damned Gestapo.'

Sanson looked fit to explode. He
got to his feet and stuffed his notebook in his breast pocket. 'I told you,
this is war. Or don't you understand that? If you have a complaint to make
about my methods, do so. But in a situation like this, results are all that
count. Now, let's make tracks back to
Cairo
.
If we're going to find Gabar fast, we've got our work cut out.'

Two thousand miles away that same
day, and at just past eight in the evening, Admiral Wilhelm Canaris was still
wrestling with his conscience as he entered the basement bierkeller.

It was a smoky place, filled with
off-duty troops and glum looking Berliners, the brass band playing on the rostrum
all looking like condemned men, which wasn't surprising. Like everyone else,
their nerves were shot from the bombing, the arrogant marching songs they
played to an indifferent crowd hardly reflecting the despondent mood of the
beleaguered city.

Canaris slid into an empty booth
and ordered a mug of beer.

He glanced at his reflection in a
nearby wall mirror. He looked stressed, exhausted, having hardly slept in the
last five days since meeting with Schellenberg. Oh, what a tangled web we
weave, when first we practise to deceive. No wonder he was stressed. He had
kept the secret for many years, and a dangerous one at that. He was a traitor
to his country, one of the plotters against Hitler, a defiance that would soon
cost him his life, hung by piano wire from a meat hook in Flossenburg
concentration camp.

But that was a fact he was
ignorant of that evening, and a fate that was months away. He wore shabby
civilian clothes, an overcoat and hat, and being a spymaster, he had no problem
losing the Gestapo tail that had followed him as he left his home for an
after-dinner stroll.

He sipped a mouthful of tepid beer
from the mug in front of him and glanced at his watch. The young woman who
entered the bierkeller two minutes later was slim and blonde, her beautifully
sculpted face and even more beautiful body expertly masked by far too much
make-up and dowdy, ill-fitting clothes that deliberately hid her charms. She
saw Canaris. He had left his hat on the edge of the table, the signal that it
was safe to meet.

She slid into the seat opposite,
smiled. 'Wilhelm.'

'My dearest Silvia,' Canaris said
fondly. Had he not been faithfully married, he could easily have fallen in love
with this divine-looking angel in front of him. Countess Silvia Konigsberg was
the wife of a Swedish diplomat, and an old friend. 'You had no problem getting
here?'

'None.' Mischief sparkled in her
eyes. 'I lost my Gestapo tail in the Underground. The poor man must be having a
fit by now.'

Canaris ordered a beer for her,
and waited until the waitress left. 'So, you fly to
Stockholm
tonight.'

'Midnight. The mail run. Was it
something terribly important you wanted to see me about?'

Canaris cleared his throat.
Anything in writing was out of the question, evidence that could be used
against him. Silvia, on the other hand, had diplomatic immunity and powerful
friends, extending up to the King of Sweden himself. Brutal interrogation was
out of the question if she was caught. But that didn't mean she wasn't risking
her life. The Gestapo was skilled in arranging fatal accidents.

'My dear Silvia, I must entrust
you with a vital, urgent message. So crucial, it may decide the fate of the
war. Are you ready to commit it to memory?'

Silvia didn't flinch. A brave
woman, Canaris thought, with that remarkable Nordic ability to appear calm
under the worst duress. 'Tell me,' she said simply.

Canaris hesitated. He knew that by
this very act he was dooming Haider and the woman to failure, even death, and
it was a heavy load on his conscience which had racked him for the last five
days. But the alternative was simply too horrible to contemplate. 'Schellenberg
and Himmler have devised a plan to kill the American President and British
Prime Minister. They know Roosevelt will arrive in
Cairo
to meet Churchill some time on the
twenty-second - three days from now. The intention is to assassinate them
both.'

His Swedish angel turned pale and
her mouth opened to admit a sharp intake of breath. Canaris said, 'You must
pass on the message to your usual contact. If this insane plan were to succeed,
we both know the consequences.'

'How - how will it happen?'

'A specialist team to set up the
operation will be on its way to
Egypt
by air within the next forty-eight hours. Even sooner, perhaps-'

At that moment they both heard the
wail of an air-raid siren.

The band stopped, people panicked,
chairs overturned, and the bar staff began ushering customers to the basement
cellars. 'My God, it starts again,' Canaris said palely. 'The country will be
nothing but rubble.' He put a hand urgently on Silvia's. 'You're certain you'll
make the plane tonight?'

She nodded. 'My husband has
important diplomatic business in
Stockholm
.
And we have an escort across the corridor, as usual.'

It was absurd, Canaris knew. In
the middle of the worst war in human history, a Baltic air corridor had been
tacitly agreed between the Allies and
Germany
,
for the safe passage of aircraft from neutral
Sweden
. Outside, the pounding
started; the ceiling shook, scattering plaster, and the lights dipped.

Silvia stood anxiously. 'I really
had better go. If I'm stuck here, I may miss the flight.'

'God go with you, Silvia,' Canaris
said urgently. 'And for heaven's sake, be careful out there, and please don't
let me down.'

Another bomb struck, somewhere in
the streets outside, and off-duty soldiers and the bierkeller staff screamed at
people to move quickly to the basement. 'There's more our friend in
Stockholm
should know,'
Canaris added quickly.

'There isn't time, Wilhelm.'
Silvia was moving towards the door.

'But I simply must give you some
details-' As he took Silvia's arm and helped her towards the exit, a burly
Feldwebel came over as a powerful blast shook the building, almost knocking him
off his feet.

'Are you two deaf? Downstairs,
quickly! Before you're blown to fucking pieces.'

As the Feldwebel began to push
them towards the basement, without a word Silvia Konigsberg darted past him,
out through the door, and up the steps. 'You stupid bitch. Are you crazy?' the
soldier roared, and started after her.

Canaris gripped his arm. 'No.
Leave her!'

'She can suit herself, pops, but
if you want to live to see your fucking pension, you'd better get your arse
down those stairs straight away. Move!'

Canaris saw Silvia disappear up
the steps as a cloud of dust rolled through the bierkeller and the building
shook once again.

He put his arm over his mouth to
stop from choking. My God. What if she was killed in the air raid and didn't
make it? And he had desperately wanted to give her more details, to make sure
that her British Intelligence contact in
Stockholm
knew that Haider and the woman were innocent pawns in a deadly game, but he was
too late. Silvia was gone and the soldier was pushing him down towards the
cellars.

Two kilometers across
Berlin
, at that very
same moment, it was a different kind of cellar General Walter Schellenberg was
being led towards. A visit to the basement prison at Gestapo headquarters
always depressed him. It was a wretched place, reeking of fear, and full of the
screams of torture victims, but he was in excellent mood that late afternoon as
the burly SS jailer led him down the steps.

They walked to the end of a
chilly, dimly lit corridor, past lines of iron doors on either side. The jailer
halted outside one of the last and inserted a key. Schellenberg lit a
cigarette.

'How is he?' « 'Better than most
here, Herr General. Three good meals a day and no more torture or beatings. But
I still think he's not right in the head. He barely responds.’

'Has he mentioned his daughter?'

'Not that I'm aware of, sir. He
just cries a lot. Hardly stops, in fact.'

Just then, Schellenberg heard
sobbing, and glanced across the corridor to one of the other cells, from where
the noise came.

'Wait a moment.'

He stepped over, flicked on a wall
switch, and pulled back the metal viewing shutter set in the iron door. He saw
two young boys, one in his late teens, the other no more than fourteen, their
faces badly swollen, huddled together in the corner of the cell as if for
comfort, the youngest sobbing uncontrollably. Blinking in the harsh light, they
looked pathetic, frightened creatures.

'And what about these two?' he
said over his shoulder to the jailer.

'Traitorous brothers, plotters
against the Fiihrer, aren't they, Herr General. They haven't confessed yet, but
you can be assured they will. And they'll get what's coming to them in the end,
no doubt.'

Schellenberg shuddered with
disgust as he heard a woman's scream from somewhere in the depths of the
prison. He closed the shutter, turned back to the waiting jailer and gave a nod
towards the other cell. 'You can open the door now.'

The jailer obeyed, flicked on the
light from outside. Schellenberg stepped into the foul-smelling room. There was
barely space for two people, a metal bunk with filthy grey blankets and a
dented slop bucket, a harsh light glaring from the ceiling. A grey-haired, once
distinguished-looking man sat curled up in the corner, hands over his head and
face, whimpering like a baby, rocking back and forth.

'You're being treated well, I
hear?' Schellenberg remarked quietly.

The man didn't reply or attempt to
look up, and the guard screamed, 'Answer the general when he speaks to you!'

Schellenberg angrily snapped his
fingers. 'Leave us! Outside!'

The jailer clicked his heels,
instantly obeyed. Schellenberg drew on his cigarette, looked back at the
prisoner. 'I'm afraid you'll have to forgive these people. Some are worse than
common beasts. But I have some good news, which should boost your morale. Your
daughter agreed to my proposal. If she does what's expected of her, and
survives, this unpleasant business should all be over very soon. Well, what
have you got to say?'

The man whimpered, nervously took
his hands away from his head. His bearded face was severely bruised, purple
sores where old wounds had healed. He stared up like a frightened madman,
deranged eyes beyond help, then he started to cry, covered his face again, and
rocked back and forth.

Schellenberg sighed with despair,
tossed his cigarette on the floor and crushed it with his heel. 'I have a
terrible feeling you're beyond redemption, my friend. The bully boys have
scrambled your brains.' He stepped outside, said to the jailer, 'Have a doctor
come by. Not one of the usual cellar quacks. A proper physician. And I want to
see his report.'

'Yes, Herr General.'

The cell door clanged shut and
Schellenberg retreated back down the corridor.

Cairo 18 November Reggie Salter
was in a foul mood that Thursday afternoon, and for a very good reason. One of
his warehouses had been raided the previous night, not by the police, but by a
well-organized gang of Arab thieves. They had slit the throat of one of his
guards, and made off with over five thousand pounds' worth of Salter's
cherished goods.

His men had already buried the
guard's body out in the desert, and before long some greedy bastards would be
digging their own graves to keep him company. Whoever robbed his warehouse was
going to pay dearly, but knowing the Arab criminal gangs as Salter did, he was
unlikely to see his goods again.

He was still fuming at the thought
of losing five grand when Costas came up the stairs from the warehouse below,
wiping his hands on an oily rag. 'Deacon's just arrived downstairs, Reggie.

You want me to send him up?’

'No, I'll go down. What's
happening with the fucking Jeep?'

'It's out in the yard. The boys
are checking it over.'

'Right. Let's see the colour of
Deacon's money.' Salter went down the steps to the warehouse, Costas behind
him, and they saw Deacon and the Arab waiting by some packing crates on the
ground floor.

'Harvey, old son. Good to see you
again.'

'You have the Jeep and the
uniforms?'

'All business today, ain't we? I
said I wouldn't let you down, and I haven't. I even got them earlier than
expected. Follow me.'

Salter led the way through the
warehouse to a covered yard at the back. Two of his men were working away under
the hood of an American Jeep, while another was busy cleaning the dust off the
military police decals on the sides.

'Costas tells me the engine's a
good one - almost new,' Salter explained. 'Not half clapped out like most you'd
come across, after being run ragged across the fucking desert.'

Deacon looked over the vehicle.
'Where did you get it?'

Salter tapped his nose with a
grin. 'The less you know the better.'

'But you're sure the papers are
legitimate, and the Jeep can't be traced back to here?'