Glenn Meade (7 page)

'I can't let you leave. You know
too much and you've seen my face.'

The sun was hidden behind dark
rain-clouds that morning as the vast grey bulk of the battleship USS Iowa, all
fifty-eight thousand tons of her, the pride of the
US
fleet, dropped anchor five miles
off the Virginian coast.

Captain Joe McCrea watched from
the bridge as the tug came heading his way from the shore, bobbing through the
gentle swell, escorted by half a dozen naval vessels, prowling around it like
protective mother hens. McCrea had received the signal twenty minutes ago,
telling him the VIP passengers were ready to join his ship. One among them was
certainly the most important he had ever carried on board a vessel under his
command, in over twenty years' distinguished naval service, and McCrea knew he
was about to undertake the most challenging mission of his life.

He turned to the young lieutenant
at his side. 'Make ready to bring the passengers aboard.'

'Yes, Captain.'

McCrea put down his binoculars as
the lieutenant went down to the main deck. The
Iowa
was like a miniature town in itself,
with a crew of two and a half thousand men. It bristled with an impressive
array of heavy guns and anti-aircraft weapons, its decks and platforms covered
an area of over nine acres, and despite its vast size it could travel at a
speed of thirty-three knots, the fastest vessel in its class. Out in the
Norfolk Sound, scattered on the gentle grey waves, was her escort, six more
vessels with a deadly array of firepower, and their sight was a reassuring one
to McCrea that morning. This mightn't be the biggest armada in history, but it
was definitely one of the most vital, and secret. He checked his uniform, then
made his way to the lower deck to greet his passengers.

When the tug finally pulled
alongside, McCrea saw at least a dozen people cramped in the stern, civilians
and naval personnel.

There was a flurry of activity as
sailors on the landing boom grabbed lines and made ready. Because of the height
of the
Iowa
,
there was a sheer drop of almost thirty feet from the lower main deck to the
sea. A small boom extended down towards the waves to enable boarding, but that
was where it got difficult. It wasn't every day you got to bring the President
of the
United States
aboard. Franklin Delano Roosevelt was a cripple, wheelchair-bound most of his
life, so it posed a particular problem. He couldn't step on to the boom, so a
harness had been arranged to winch him on to the
Iowa
.

McCrea looked down into the gentle
swell as a succession of Secret Service agents and aides jumped from the tug on
to the boom, and then it was the President's turn. He saw the familiar sight of
Roosevelt
appear, the big, kindly face and the
ready smile, as he was helped from his wheelchair. His lower legs were encased
in metal braces, the spindly limbs as thin as a young boy's, a legacy of
childhood polio which left him in frequent agony. It took two Secret Service
agents to carry him to the harness and secure him, and then it was winched up.

It some ways it was a pitiful
sight, and one McCrea was dreading. The President of the most powerful country
on earth, the man on whom the world depended to win the war, being hoisted
aboard the
Iowa
on a harness made of wood and rope davits. But there was no sign of fear or
self-pity on the man's face, just solemn determination. McCrea waited
patiently, his heart in his mouth, hoping to God there wasn't an accident, that
the ropes didn't break and the President of America slip from the harness and
drown.

Finally,
Roosevelt
was helped aboard, and McCrea breathed a sigh of relief. A flurry of Secret
Service agents went to his assistance, the wheelchair appeared on deck, and
Roosevelt
was helped out of the harness and into the
chair. One of the agents placed the familiar heavy naval cloak around the
President's shoulders. McCrea had noticed the admiration on the faces of his
crew as they watched the whole process, young and not-so young American seamen
who had crowded on deck to catch a glimpse of their famous passenger. They
looked on in awe and surprise, wanting to applaud, but the order had gone out
that no honours were to be rendered when their passengers boarded.

This was a top-secret mission, and
the
Iowa
's
crew complied to a man. McCrea saluted. 'Welcome on board, Mr President, sir.'

Roosevelt
smiled warmly, offered his hand. 'Captain McCrea. So you're the poor fellow
who's got the dubious pleasure of getting me safely to my destination?'

'I am indeed, sir. We've got your
quarters all set up. If you'll kindly walk this way and-' McCrea left the words
unfinished, suddenly remembering the President's infirmity as he looked at him
in the wheelchair. It was a dumb mistake and he blushed a deep crimson. He had
been
Roosevelt
's naval aide for two years, and
yet the man's steely determination constantly made you forget that not only was
he a cripple, but he also suffered gravely from heart disease.

Roosevelt
brushed aside the blunder, warmly took hold of McCrea's arm and laughed. 'Don't
you worry, Captain. I get around pretty well in this darned contraption, so you
just lead the way.'

When they entered
Roosevelt
's cabin on the upper deck, McCrea said, 'I took
the liberty of bringing along some route maps, to show you how we'll proceed,
Mr President.'

The President fitted a Lucky
Strike into a Bakelite cigarette holder. 'That's most kind of you, Captain.’

A Secret Service agent offered a
light, before he pushed the wheelchair over to the table. Another agent stood
close at hand, carrying a black doctor's bag of emergency medicines; the
President's heart pills, his rubbing mixtures for when he became soaked in
sweat, which he often did from overexertion, bottles of various painkillers,
and - as always - a small bottle of whisky.

McCrea waited until
Roosevelt
had slipped on his glasses, then pointed to the
map. 'We've plotted a course south past the Azores, then north-east to the
Gibraltar straits, and on to
Oran
.

Our ETA is nine days from now -
the twentieth - Mr President, sir. Then you'll be on your way to
Cairo
by plane, barring
problems.'

Roosevelt
smiled gently, the cigarette holder clenched between his teeth. Till assume
you're well equipped for those?'

'We've got speed, and a destroyer
escort. Both should prove too much for any German subs. But then you never can
tell. It's a risk we take, sir.'

Roosevelt
shrugged. 'The price of war, Captain.'

'We'll have our aircraft scouting
for submarine activity, and the destroyers will be using their sonar equipment
for the same purpose. It's the German U-boats that pose the biggest threat.

They're pretty deadly.'

Roosevelt
removed the holder from his mouth and looked up, his face more serious. 'This
is an important trip, Captain.

You might even say that hundreds
or thousands of lives - not to mention the outcome of the war and the future of
our nation - depend upon my arrival. You think we'll make it?'

McCrea considered before replying.
'It's never easy to predict, Mr President, with so much enemy activity in the
Atlantic
. But then again, the Germans don't know our
plans and we'll be moving fast, so I'm pretty confident we can get you safely
to your destination.'

Roosevelt
removed his glasses and gave one of his famous lopsided smiles. 'Captain, it
seems for now my fate is in your hands.’

The man wore a pair of dark navy
oilskins, the standard issue of the US Coast Guard. He had waited for almost
three hours, lying in the sodden grass on the
Norfolk
headland as the rain pelted down, the
powerful marine binoculars resting on his arm.

By the time he saw the tugboat
roll through the waves and come alongside the
Iowa
, the rain had stopped and the
visibility had greatly improved. He lay there, observing the vessels as best he
could from such a distance. Five minutes later he tucked the binoculars under
his oilskins and quickly made his way back down the headland path. He recovered
the bicycle hidden in the long grass, swung his leg over the crossbar, and rode
away.

Admiral Wilhelm Canaris was an odd
man.

He shuffled around wearing carpet
slippers, and his office was always in disarray. The obligatory wall portrait of
Adolf Hitler was nowhere to be seen, for Canaris - or the 'Little Admiral', as
the former U-boat commander was affectionately known to his old shipmates - had
nothing but contempt for the vulgar and pompous Nazi leadership. It was a
contempt he shrewdly kept to himself, for Canaris was also head of the Abwehr,
Germany
's
wartime military intelligence, with responsibility for overseeing almost twenty
thousand personnel and agents in thirty countries around the world.

It was almost noon when the young
Prussian adjutant knocked on the office door in the Abwehr's headquarters at
74-76 Tirpitz Ufer in
Berlin
,
overlooking the Landwehr canal, and, receiving no reply, entered. The adjutant
was a new man, barely a week in his post, but he was already acquainted with
the admiral's eccentricity. He saw a small man in his middle fifties with bushy
grey eyebrows and a stooped back, who looked like a provincial schoolmaster,
wearing frayed slippers and a crumpled naval uniform, kneeling on the floor and
feeding a bowl of scraps to two nervous-looking pet dachshunds.

The adjutant coughed. 'Herr
Admiral.'

Canaris looked up, distracted.
'What is it, Bauer?'

'A call from SS headquarters, from
General Schellenberg.'

'And what does Walter want this
time?'

'The general requests an urgent
meeting at nine hundred hours.'

'For what purpose?'

'He didn't say, Herr Admiral. Only
that it's urgent.'

Suddenly there was the distant
wail of an air raid siren.

Canaris sighed, patted the dogs to
calm them, got to his feet and dusted his knees. US Air Force B-17S had been
raiding
Berlin
during daylight all the previous week, with deadly effect, and by the sound of
it they were about to start again. 'Very well. I suppose you had better organize
the car. And make it quick, before the Americans go to work.'

'
Zu
Befehl, Herr Admiral.' Bauer shouted the reply, snapped to attention, and
smartly clicked his heels, causing both animals to whimper. Canaris frowned
with displeasure.

'Do me a favour, Bauer. This heel-clicking
and shouting business, it's all very well on the parade ground, but please
refrain from doing it in the office. It rather frightens the dogs.'

Bauer flushed. 'As the Herr
Admiral wishes.'

When the adjutant left, Canaris
looked down at his beloved dachshunds, their snouts stuck in the bowl, and
sighed wearily.

'No rest for the wicked, my
children. I have a feeling young Walter may be up to his tricks again.'

Walter Schellenberg was one of the
most unorthodox SS intelligence officers Canaris had ever met, and perhaps also
the most likable. A young man of thirty-two, and a lawyer by profession, he was
dashing and handsome, with a taste for the finer things in life. A graduate of
the
University
of
Bonn
, he had shrewdly
joined the SS after Hitler came to power in 1933, and managed to obtain a post
in the SD, the SS intelligence department, where his sharp aptitude and
businesslike mentality soon attracted Himmler. Schellenberg quickly rose to
become a member of Himmler's personal staff, and was eventually appointed Head
of SD Ausland, the foreign intelligence branch, for like his boss he revelled
in plots, subterfuges and secrecy, as if they were his very lifeblood.

A chain-smoker, he had an easy
manner, and he was in a good mood when Canaris entered his office on the third
floor, despite the fact that the bombardment was going on outside, wisps of
smoke and dust drifting up from the wall ventilator.

'Sit down, Wilhelm.' Schellenberg
smiled. 'As usual you look like you have the weight of the world on your
shoulders.'

Schellenberg wore his black SS
uniform, the cuff-titles bearing the legend RFSS in silver thread. Reichsfuhrer
der SS. Himmler's personal staff. The sight of the cuff-title made Canaris
shiver inwardly. He always detested having to visit the Reich Main Security
Office on Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse, the headquarters of the SS and the Gestapo,
from which Heinrich Himmler and his deputies presided over their empire of
evil. The black uniforms and grim surroundings never failed to send a chill
down his spine.

'Sometimes it certainly feels that
way,' he replied. 'So, what is it this time, Walter?'

There was a lull in the bombing
and Canaris heard a screech of tyres outside in the inner courtyard as a truck
and a Mercedes pulled up in quick succession. Leather-coated Gestapo men
climbed out in a hurry and began unloading their human cargo, bound for the
torture cellars. Several senior Wehrmacht officers were among the prisoners,
elderly men mostly, one or two of whom Canaris faintly recognized. Some were
with their bewildered wives and families. The Gestapo savagely kicked and beat
them with pistol butts as they were herded towards the basement entrance.

'What the devil's going on?'
Canaris asked in alarm.

'A messy business.' Schellenberg
observed the scene outside.

'Suspected subversives, all of
them. Himmler has reason to believe there's a group of traitorous plotters
working against the Fuhrer. Recent evidence from our interrogations points to
an attempt by high-ranking officers to bomb his plane in March of this year.
Only by the grace of God did it fail to go off.'

'Good Lord.' Canaris paled. 'You
can't be serious.’

'Very, I'm sad to say. Who could
believe that anyone who has taken an oath of loyalty to the Fiihrer would wish
him dead? But we'll root them out, don't you worry. Every last one of them,
even if we have to interrogate the entire army, navy and air force.'

Schellenberg turned from the
window, popped a cigarette in his mouth, lit it, and blew smoke up to the
ceiling. 'But back to business. The latest ciphers from my SD agents in
Persia
and the
Middle East
agents make for rather interesting reading. It appears all the signs are that
the
Cairo
and
Teheran meetings of the Allied leaders are definitely on, just as we suspected.
And as you well know, Roosevelt has yet to decide on how the imminent invasion
of
Europe
will proceed.'

Canaris forced himself to look
away from the disturbing scene outside, felt a chill go through him, and sighed
heavily, as if he knew what was coming. 'Why do I get the feeling you have
another of your exotic plans in mind?'

Schellenberg grinned. 'My dear
Wilhelm, such is the sole reason for my existence. What would life be without a
little subterfuge to make it interesting?'

'I suppose you had better tell
me.'

'First, tell me your opinion of
President Roosevelt.'

Canaris raised an eyebrow. 'What
is this? Some sort of trick question to hang me with?'

An uneasy alliance existed between
Germany
's
two intelligence agencies, and Canaris had the unpleasant suspicion he was
about to be duped into some sort of trap.

'On the contrary. A simple
question for which I'd appreciate an honest answer.'

Canaris shrugged. 'I have to admit
a certain grudging respect for the man, even if he is the enemy. A cripple
who's spent most of his life in constant pain and in a wheelchair, but
nevertheless still manages to win the presidency for three terms, commands a
certain admiration in itself. As far as American public opinion goes, he's
probably the most revered President since
Lincoln
.
He took their economy out of the worst depression in history almost
single-handedly, and they respect him for that, even though we Germans despise
him for bringing
America
into the war and bombing our cities to ruins.’

'An honest assessment.'
Schellenberg stood, came round his desk and sat on the edge. 'What do you know
about my top agent in
Cairo
?'

'I presume you mean Nightingale?
Only that I've heard he's the best you ever had.'

Schellenberg laughed and shook his
head. 'Forget Nightingale, that's far in the past. I'm talking about the
present.'

'Absolutely nothing. You know
damned well you keep that information to yourself.'

Schellenberg smiled. 'But times
change, and now it's time to co-operate. The war is hardly going in our favour
right now.

Indeed, there are some who say
we're on the losing side.'

Canaris raised his eyebrows and
said mildly, 'I really wouldn't express that view too loudly, Walter. Unless
you want to whistle goodbye to your career and have your testicles reshaped in
the cellars.'

Schellenberg threw his head back
and laughed. 'That's what I like about you, Wilhelm, you always have my
interests at heart.

But back to matters in hand. Actually,
we have two principal agents still active in
Cairo
. The most important is a man named
Harvey Deacon, code name Besheeba. Born in
Hamburg
, forty eight years of age.'

'He's a German citizen?'

'British, actually. Rather
ironical, that, considering he hates the Allies with a vengeance.'

'May I ask why?'

'The British were responsible for
killing his father.'

'Which makes for rather a neat
motive.'

'Exactly. He's a nightclub owner
and businessman. I can also tell you that he's ruthless and immensely capable.
He's done rather well for us in the past, extremely well in fact.'

'And the other?'

'An Arab named Hassan Sabry. Code
name
Phoenix
.
We had him working for Rommel's people, until we moved him to
Cairo
. Though his real interest is banishing
the British from
Egypt
.
However, while both men have the cunning of sewer rats, they're rather limited
when it comes to the bigger picture.'

'Why are you telling me all this?’

Schellenberg stubbed out his
cigarette, quickly lit another. 'I need your help. I have a job in mind that
requires the assistance of a couple of your people, to work alongside Deacon
and Sabry.'

'Whatever for?'

Schellenberg looked deathly
serious. 'Because, my dear Wilhelm, together we're going to kill President
Roosevelt.'

The room was so quiet that Canaris
could hear the clock ticking.

He was caught off guard, and when
he had recovered said, 'Have you lost your mind? What you're suggesting is
preposterous.'

'Daring was the word I would have
used. And you forget, only six weeks ago Colonel Otto Skorzeny's SS paratroops
rescued Mussolini from a heavily fortified garrison. Before we undertook that
mission all the indications pointed to failure - we assessed only a ten per
cent chance of success - yet we pulled it off brilliantly. From touchdown to
rescue took precisely four minutes, and with not one of bur men lost in the
action.'

The bold liberation of II Duce
from imprisonment at the Hotel Campo Imperatore in
Abruzzi
in central
Italy
on 12 September was still being proudly sung about in the corridors of SD
headquarters. It was certainly a dazzling triumph, but Canaris shook his head.
'What you're proposing is something else entirely. We both know that
Roosevelt
, like Churchill, has a steel wall of security
around him day and night. Such a thing would be impossible.'

'Nothing is impossible, Wilhelm.
And desperate times call for desperate measures. Besides, it all depends on the
planning.'

Canaris said wearily, 'And how
exactly do you propose to assassinate the President of America?'

'First, let me show you
something.' Schellenberg handed across a slip of paper from the file on his
desk. As Canaris started to read, he said, 'It's a rather important message
from Deacon. I think you'll agree he's unearthed an interesting nugget.'

Canaris continued to read the
decoded signal and looked up, pale-faced. 'Is this true?'

Schellenberg smiled. 'I thought
you might be surprised. As you can see, it virtually confirms Roosevelt will be
arriving in
Cairo
on the twenty-second of this month, eight days from now, before he proceeds to
Teheran. There's to be a private conference with Churchill and a senior Chinese
delegation seeking more Allied support for the war in the
Far
East
. But Himmler is convinced the real purpose of Roosevelt's
visit is to agree the timing of the invasion of
Europe
with Churchill. If the invasion goes ahead, it doesn't bear thinking about -
we'd be fighting on all fronts.'