Arnaldur Indriðason: Operation Napoleon

‘I believe we let them have Eichmann,’ Miller replied.

‘What do you mean?’

‘We led them to Eichmann.’

‘You did what?’

‘Besides being ruthless, Mossad are tireless. Like bloodhounds. You can’t keep anything hidden from them indefinitely. When the Israelis had sniffed out too much, we arranged things to look as if the trail led to Eichmann. They were satisfied and took the bait. But they would never have found him without our intelligence.’

Kristín had the sensation of being in freefall. Her mind was at once quite empty and yet overwhelmed with trying to take in the implications of Miller’s revelation. The individual words were barely registering as sounds but the sense of what he was saying seemed to penetrate her mind obscurely. Her face betrayed no emotion, no great astonishment as Miller went on. She had, it might have looked to Miller, entered a state of suspended animation.

‘The Germans were in no position to lay down conditions for a ceasefire. They were defeated; it was only a question of time before the war ended. They were so terrified the Reds would reach Berlin first that many of them were prepared to join us in the final months if we could be trusted to turn on the Russians.’

‘The trail to Eichmann?’ Kristín said, as if to herself. ‘Whose trail were they on then?’

‘A Swedish count acted as intermediary between us and the Nazis,’ Miller continued, ignoring her question. ‘It may have been his idea, put to a handful of people. Or the Nazis may have raised it first. Himmler wanted to do a deal with the Allies over fighting the Communists; he counted on becoming the new head of government. Meanwhile Churchill drafted a plan to attack Russia with German support and I believe the idea was hatched after that. The Nazis couldn’t dictate conditions but they could put in a request. I don’t think the plan originated with the US generals but once they considered it, the idea didn’t seem so preposterous. After all, there was a historical precedent. There was Napoleon.’

‘What’s Napoleon got to do with all this? Why Napoleon?’

But to Kristín’s horror, Miller appeared to catch himself, to come out of the mist of recollection and confession into which he had drifted, and to regain some measure of control.

‘I can’t tell you anything else. I’ve already said more than enough.’

‘You haven’t said anything.’

‘That’s because I don’t know anything for certain. I never saw the documents.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘The Operation Napoleon papers. I never saw them. Never saw what the final plan looked like.’

‘Who drafted it?’

‘I can’t tell you any more. And you don’t want to know any more. Believe me. You don’t want to know. No one wants to know. It doesn’t matter any more. It’s irrelevant. It’s all buried and forgotten.’

‘What?’

Miller looked down at his brother without speaking, and Kristín saw tears welling up in his eyes. She did not understand what he was insinuating and was fast losing patience with his evasions; here he was, perched on the precipice of giving up whatever precious information he had guarded so jealously for so long. She fought back the instinct to shake the last shreds out of him.

‘Ask yourself what became of Napoleon,’ Miller said abruptly.

‘What became of him? He died in exile on St Helena. Everyone knows that.’

‘Well, they did the same thing.’

Kristín stared at the old man, forgetting to breathe.

‘That’s why they called it Operation Napoleon.’

‘And Napoleon?’

‘He was to be allowed to take his dog with him. A German shepherd called Blondi. Nothing else. I’ve wondered about this all my life but never had any confirmation. I don’t know if the suggestion that his life should be spared originated as part of the negotiations with the German war cabinet, or if he was handed over to the Allies to smooth the way for negotiations, or if the British and Americans were competing with the Russians to get to him first. Perhaps there was another, more obscure reason. The Germans’ last hope was to drive a wedge between the Allies, to encourage friction between them. After all, they knew Churchill was no friend of the Russians.’

Miller paused.

‘My brother was supposed to fly him,’ he said eventually.

‘Your brother?’ Kristín said, her eyes on the body-bag.

‘He didn’t know. Didn’t know the real purpose of the journey, I mean. I was going to tell him when we met but I never got the chance.’

‘But this is absurd!’ Kristín said.

‘Yes, absurd,’ Miller agreed. ‘That’s the word for it. Can you imagine what would have happened if news had got out that the Americans had helped him to escape and kept him in detention?’

‘But the Russians got him.’

‘No. Somewhere near the bunker, in the chaos and wreckage of Berlin, the Russians found the burnt body of a man who could have been anybody. It suited them, and us, and everybody else to make certain assumptions, to draw conclusions. In any case they later mislaid the remains. That made proving his identity impossible and allowed the space for what were always written off as crackpot conspiracy theories to flourish.’

‘So where is he?’

‘I haven’t read the documents. I hardly know anything, really. It was only a plan.’

‘Do you mean they never followed it through?’

‘I haven’t a clue. I don’t know if they did. I don’t think any one person was in charge. People were involved on a need-to-know basis.’

‘But you mentioned Eichmann. You said the Americans had directed the Israelis to Eichmann when they stumbled across the trail.’

‘I’m only inferring,’ Miller said and Kristín could see that he was belatedly trying to backtrack, regretting having said so much. He had become wary now, unwilling to compromise himself any further. He looked vaguely ashamed of himself, somehow childlike. Even though the genie was out of the bottle, long-held habits of discretion were vainly doing battle with this newer taste for confession.

‘Where is Napoleon?’

‘I don’t know. I’m telling you the truth. I don’t know.’

‘They put him on an island?’

But Miller had come to the end. His shoulders slumped, his head bowed, he looked physically smaller and more fragile, a husk of a man finally overcome by burdens of grief and concealment.

‘Which island?’

Silence.

‘After all these years, what are you scared of? Can’t you see it’s over?’

Before he could answer, if he ever meant to, the dim light of his flickering torch went out and they were plunged into darkness.

C-17 TRANSPORT PLANE, ATLANTIC AIR SPACE,

SUNDAY 31 JANUARY, 0615 GMT

From the sudden popping of their ears they sensed that the plane was losing altitude. Surely it was too soon for them to be beginning their descent? They waited, listening. After a while a new noise began above the drone of the engines but neither recognised it. Kristín crawled cautiously through the wreckage of the Junkers’ fuselage to the gap that Miller had cut in the sheeting. Inch by inch, her chest hammering, she craned her head out to see the vast ramp which formed the aft door of the plane slowly lowering. The night was moonlit outside and in the blue-white radiance she saw the silhouettes of figures standing by the opening. For a few seconds she feared she would be sucked into the black void before she realised that the cargo hold was not pressurised.

She squeezed through the gap and down on to the floor of the hold, stealing along the fuselage towards the men. There were three of them but trying to hear a word they were saying was hopeless; a freezing wind blew in violent gusts and the noise of the plane reached an ear-splitting level as the view of the night sky grew larger. Her back pressed against the struts of the fuselage, she crept along the left-hand wall, hidden among the shadows. The men were standing only a few feet in front of her. Now that she could make out their faces, she realised they were strangers. She was certain neither Bateman nor Ratoff was among them. She took care to keep at a safe distance, and was about to return to Miller when she saw a pallet emerge from deep within the dark bowels of the plane.