Michael Ridpath: Shadows of War

‘It’s more difficult now we are at war,’ Theo said.

‘It is,’ said Oster. ‘You know, Theo, strictly between us, in my view it would be a disaster for our country if France was knocked out of the war.’

Theo trusted his superior. Oster was the driving force behind the conspiracy. Canaris left Oster, and through him Theo, to do the organizing. Canaris was careful to preserve the delicate balance of loyalty to the Fatherland and willingness to overthrow its leader. Oster had fewer qualms.

Theo nodded. ‘I understand, Colonel.’ He also understood how Oster’s words would be seen as treason, not just by the Nazis, but by most German officers and by Admiral Canaris himself.

Theo had intended to tell no one what he had told Conrad. But somehow telling Oster made what Theo had done less treasonable. Like Theo, Oster believed that the most important thing for Germany, the only thing for Germany, was to get rid of Hitler by any possible means.

‘I gave de Lancey the date of Case Yellow,’ Theo said.

Oster looked at Theo gravely. And then a smile spread across his face. ‘And I told the Dutch military attaché last night that we would be invading his country next week. But let’s keep this to ourselves, eh, Theo? And now, isn’t it about time you went back to Holland?’

Munich

Fräulein Peters stared down at the Bavarian countryside flickering beneath the clouds below her and marvelled at her good fortune. It was her first time in an aeroplane and it ranked as one of the most exciting days of her twenty years. Not only was she a thousand metres up in the sky, but she was there with the Führer! Six months before, she would never have believed it. Then she had been transferred to the Reich Chancellery secretariat, and for the last three weeks she had been working for the Führer himself.

Fräulein Peters was doing a good job; she was an efficient and competent secretary, quick thinking and able to see one step ahead. The only trouble was her nerves. On those occasions when the Führer spoke to her directly, she could sense herself blushing. She could almost feel her tongue swelling in her mouth and she was sure that at some point soon she would garble her words and make a fool of herself. Fortunately, the Führer seemed to enjoy her blushes. She had blond hair, blue eyes and a very clear complexion. She was, she knew, a true German, and she was proud of it.

They were on their way to Munich, where Hitler was giving a speech to mark the sixteenth anniversary of the 1923 Beer Hall Putsch, in which he had led his National Socialist comrades in a failed attempt to take over the city.

The ground was pressing up towards the underbelly of the aircraft. The machine juddered and Fräulein Peters was alarmed to see outside her window part of the wing detach itself and droop downwards. There was a grinding beneath her feet. She braced herself as the runway rushed upwards beneath the wings, and then they were down with barely a bump.

The machine turned towards the airport terminal building and jolted to a stop. The pilot came through to the cabin.

Hitler, who was sitting only two rows from Fräulein Peters, greeted him. ‘I need to be in Berlin tomorrow morning, Baur. Can you guarantee we can leave early? What’s the weather forecast?’

‘At the moment they are saying visibility will be good, my Führer, but it is November and fog is always a possibility. If that was to happen, there’s a chance we could be delayed for a few hours until it clears. If you have to be sure of getting to Berlin tomorrow morning I recommend you take the train tonight.’

Hitler nodded. ‘Fräulein Peters,’ he said. ‘Please arrange a train back to Berlin after the speech. It is imperative I am back there tomorrow morning. I have a meeting at ten o’clock.’

‘Certainly, my Führer,’ said Fräulein Peters. She had no idea how she would arrange it, but she was confident she would work it out. If the Führer wanted something done, it was done.

She wondered what the meeting was. She knew it wasn’t in his diary, but the whole concept of a diary when it came to the Führer’s schedule was a joke. Flexibility was the watchword.

Düsseldorf

Schellenberg paced up and down the small lounge of the pension . He had had virtually no sleep the night before. This was turning into one of the most difficult operations in his short but eventful career at the Gestapo. He was still only twenty-nine, but Heydrich had just entrusted him with the new foreign-intelligence branch of the organization, known as the Amt VI. He knew he was up to the job, but he also knew that if he screwed this operation up, it would be a high-profile failure.

Those were best avoided in Germany these days.

He heard a commotion and a familiar voice in the lobby of the pension . Familiar, but unwelcome.

‘Naujocks!’ Schellenberg exclaimed. ‘What the devil are you doing here?’

Alfred Naujocks was a colleague and rival to Schellenberg in Heydrich’s intelligence-gathering apparatus. Where Schellenberg was subtle, Naujocks was brutal. Where Schellenberg could charm, Naujocks could intimidate. Which wasn’t to say that Naujocks wasn’t cunning. He was. Cunning and dangerous.

‘The boss sent me to protect you,’ Naujocks said. ‘I’ve brought a dozen SS troopers with me.’

‘I don’t need a nursemaid!’ protested Schellenberg. ‘I’ve told Heydrich the British believe me. The last thing I want is a bunch of thugs watching my every move.’

‘Heydrich thinks the Dutch might snatch you tomorrow,’ said Naujocks. ‘You are far too important for us to lose. At least that’s what he says. We’ll be watching the meeting from the border. If the Dutch try anything, we’ll come and snatch you back.’

‘Very well,’ said Schellenberg. ‘But don’t do anything unless you are sure that there is trouble.’

Schellenberg left the pension and went for a stroll around the block. This latest development worried him. Did Heydrich know something he didn’t? Heydrich usually knew something other people didn’t. Perhaps the deception was blown. Or perhaps Heydrich just didn’t trust Schellenberg not to negotiate his own deal with the British. If anything, that was more worrying.

You didn’t want Heydrich to distrust you.

Schellenberg would just have to keep his eyes open and rely on his wits. They had served him well in the past and they would in the future.

He entered the front door of the pension and bumped into a Gestapo Kriminalassistent. ‘Herr Sturmbannführer, Admiral Canaris has been trying to get hold of you in Berlin.’

What the hell did he want? The Abwehr was not a part of this operation, and Schellenberg knew that Heydrich would require it kept that way. But if Canaris had gone to the trouble to track Schellenberg down it must be important.

Schellenberg went to the room that served as a communications centre in the pension and put through a phone call to the Tirpitzufer.

‘Ah, Walter, thank you for getting back to me,’ Canaris said. ‘How are you?’

‘Very well, Herr Admiral. Our soldiers might be sitting on their arses, but there seems plenty for us to do.’

‘That’s certainly true,’ said Canaris. ‘I wonder if you can enlighten me? Our people in Holland have come across an army captain named Schämmel. Do you know him?’

Schellenberg thought quickly. If he denied knowledge of Schämmel and Canaris discovered later that the captain and Schellenberg were one and the same person, he would have blown his credibility with the Chief of the Abwehr. And that credibility was important. So he had to admit some knowledge.

‘I do know of him,’ Schellenberg said.