Greg Iles - The Spandau Phoenix

the time he would tell me no more than that.

With Helmut's help I set to work selecting our assassins.

We had decided to choose three men-one man for each target, with one

backup man I . n case of unforeseen circumstances. The men we

ultimately chose were named William Banks and William Fox. I shall

neverforget them. The confusion caused by the similarity of their names

was circumvented by their nicknames. Banks, a red-haired giant, was

known as "Big Bill, " and the more diminutive Fox as "Little Bill.

" The backup man-selected by Helmut-was a distasteful little fanatic

named Sherwood This Sherwood almost wrecked the operation on the first

day. During the Spanish war he'd been captured at Jarama, and the first

time he saw me he turned pale as a fish. When Helmut asked him what was

wrong (I spoke little English) Sherwood asked if I had ever been in

Spain. Naturally I said I hadn't, whereupon the little man told his

comrades that I could have been the twin brother of a certain El Muerte@

sadistic Russian interrogator who worked for the Germans in Spain.

Helmut laughed outright, and the rest o us joined !f in. All but

Sherwood The memory had shaken him badly. It had shaken me too.

In Spain-where I had used my Okhrana methods ruthlessly-the communists

had christened me El Muerte.

My job was to motivate Banks and Fox to carry out their suicidal

attacks. Helmut had prepared them well, and this made my role much

easier From the day he founded his tiny cell, Helmut had promised his

disenchanted men that when the revolution came, they would be called on

by Moscow to carry out the first strikes against the iniperiali's't

oppressors.

My years in the Okhrana had given me an encyclopedic knowledge of

communist-methods and terminology, and I used it to the full in dealing

with these Englishmen.

I told them solemnly that Hitler intended to break his pact with Stalin

and attack Russia within thirty days. To this terrifying news I added

the usual Stalinist drivel, .e that while the industrialized nations

would eventually fall like rotten apples from the tree, the war had

presented an opportunily we could not afford to let pass. Now was the

time for revolution, I cried with passion, and the names of the martyrs

who struck down the imperialist leaders would be engraved forever in the

histories of the new world.

Stalin, I told them, had decided to save Russia and ignite the worldwide

revolution in one daring stroke. Not only were Churchill and George VI

to die, but the leaders of imperialist France and the fascist leaders of

Italy and Germany. The forged documents I carried added the weight of

holy writ to my tale, and these two Englishmen accepted it all with

grave pride. It was a sobering thing to see-two men who had fought so

bravely for their homeland agreeing to bring it to its knees.

Of course, in their minds they were liberatorsdowntrodden proletarians

who would free their fellowcountrymen from the clutches of warmongers

like Churchill.

One week before the target date we received reports that Churchill would

be spending the weekend of May 10th at Ditchley Park, a private country

house owned by a friend.

The king, of course, would be at Buckingham Palace. Soon after I

received a coded message from Heydrich, outlining the "diversion" that

Hitler would provide. The Fuhrer had ordered an air raid on London for

the night of May 10th-to occur simultaneously with our mission. And not

just any air raid, Heydrich said, but the largest bomber strike yet

visited on the city. Hitler believed that such a raid would not only

provide us with a perfect diversion, but would also demonstrate to the

English the futility of continued struggle against GermanyThe moment I

read this message I decided to change the strike date to May 11th,

regardless of Hitler's orders. I knew that our targets would not leave

their protected shelters during the air raid,- and if our assassins

attempted to break into Ditchley Park or Buckingham Palace, they would

be shot dead long before they reached their targets. But on May

11th-when both Churchill and the king would emerge to view the

unprecedented bomb damage of Hitler's raid-the chances of success would

be highest.

The weapon we chose for the attacks was the British Sten gun.

Although prone to jamming, the Sten was easily concealable and insured

that a high number of bullets would penetrate the targets. Each man was

to carry a revolver as a backup in the event of a jam.

Five days before the strike date, I suggested to Helmut that we dismiss

the alternate-Sherwood-from training.

Helmut agreed and informed Sherwood of the change. From this moment on,

things began to go wrong. First "Big Bill" Banks, the man assigned to

kill Churchill, refused to remain in the safehouse during the final days

before the strike date.

His parents lived in London, and he wanted to spend his last days with

them. Helmut's best efforts could not change the man's mind.

"Little Bill " Fox-the man assigned to King George-had no family, and

agreed to stay in the safehouse with us. Together we passed the days

playing cards and listening to the radio. At night around ten-thirty

"Big Bill" would show up to make sure the plan had not changed.

Twice during this period Sherwood found an excuse to break orders and

come to the safehouse. I should have found some way to kill the

Bolshevik rat, but since "Liule Bill" was with us all the time, I

couldn't risk doing it in the house.

I thought of ordering Helmut to slip out and kill Sherwood, but I must

confess I had some doubt as to whether he would do it. Helmut had lived

with-andfought b@these Englishmen for years, and I could see that the

inevitability of their deaths was beginning to weigh upon him.

Helmut wasn't disloyal, but the strain of living a perpetual lie had

started to build up in him to a significant degree. Because of this, I

let the Sherwood matter go unresolved.

On May 10th-the final night before the strike-the atmosphere in the

house was electric. We had a car parked behind the house, filled with

black-market petrel. Every minute it sat unattended was another minute

of increased risk.

Around ten p.m. we heard the first Luftwaffe bombs falling outside. They

were far away from us-Heydrich had seen to that-but the noise was still

frightening. I began to worry.

By eleven p.m. "Big Bill" had still not arrived. I began to wonder if

he had lost his nerve, or even-God forbid-if he might have been killed

in the air raid. His lateness did not help Fox's resolve, either The

little man paced the room like a prisoner in solitary confinement.

At eleven-fifteen, disaster struck. The door burst open and "Big Bill"

stormed into the room, his eyes blazing. "They're dead! " he shouted

like a madman. "Dead dead dead! " I will neverforget his huge redface,

shaking in anguish. I couldn't imagine what he was screaming about, but

he soon told us.

Both his parents had been killed in the air-raid, he wailed, burnt

blacker than coat He wanted revenge: revenge on Goring, on the

Luftwaffe, and most of all on Hitler I tried to turn this catastrophe to

our advantage. Banks would have his revenge, I said. Tomorrow Hitler

would be killed@just as Churchill would-by a communist martyr just like

Banks.

What better revenge could his parents have?

When I mentioned Churthill, however, a strange look crossed Banks's