A Spy in the Shadows (Spy Noir Series Book 1) (9 page)

Schellenberg said, “A good starting point for our discussion about Operation Long Jump and the possibilities of its success.  Is it your opinion this operation will end to our liking?  The truth, Colonel.”  Richter hesitated aware he was being led into a dangerous conversation.

“The microphones have been turned off, Colonel.  I give you my word on that.” 

“With all the facts presented,” Richter finally said, “in my opinion the operation will not succeed.”

“Neither do I,” Schellenberg said.  With that he leaned back.   “Though, I’ve always found political assassinations an intriguing subject, the majority of such successful operations has been carried out in peacetime by fanatics acting without orders from anyone.  Most plots to eliminate heads of state devised during wartime are simply rejected.”  He stared directly at Richter.  “With the enormous losses our gallant armies are suffering in the East, we no longer live in such a world, Colonel.”

“A point we can agree on,” Richter offered cautiously. 

“And what makes you certain this operation will fail?”

“Because it demands the elimination of all three men at once.  The mass of security assembled by the Allies in Tehran would simply overwhelm such a plot.”

“Agreed,” Schellenberg said.  “Our agents have done their best to acquaint themselves with every detail of Stalin, Roosevelt, and Churchill’s personal lives.  The names of Roosevelt’s friends, the exact hour of Stalin’s meals, even the layout of Churchill’s bedroom.  The walls of the espionage schools in Potsdam, Baden, Duren, and Hamburg-
Altona are decorated with detailed maps of London and Moscow.  There even exists a blueprint of the White House; all in anticipation someday such an operation would be attempted.”

Schellenberg frowned.  “Information having no value whatsoever in Tehran.”  He stood and walked to his desk, and crossed his arms.  “If we decided to eliminate only one of these leaders, would that increase our odds?  Three men— but one target . . .”

The statement intrigued Richter.  “Which leader?”

“It doesn’t really matter.  The death of any of the three leaders would be stunning to the Allied effort.”

A chill ran through Richter because the idea was brilliant.  The Soviets and British had comparable intelligence structures in Iran, which would eventually learn the plot was to kill all three.  But to change the rules in the middle of the game—to assassinate one—that would create chaos among the people responsible for security in Tehran.  “The chances remain improbable  . . . but to turn our focus on one target, it would present much better odds.”

“And so to that end, Colonel  . . . are there any shrouded resources available in Iran that could assist us?”

“Concerning?”

He leaned back and took a file from his desk.  “Such as your mysterious agent Traveler.”

Richter’s face gave him away. 

“Yes, I’ve known of Traveler’s movements for some time, Colonel,” Schellenberg said.  “And I find it refreshing one of my intelligence officers possesses his own secret.  Admirable, but now you must tell me more so you and I can utilize our resources to assure success to our Tehran plan.”  Schellenberg flipped a cigarette case in his hand.  “So—now you tell me about Traveler.”

“She’s my best agent,” Richter said.  “And she’s been living among the enemy for such a long time she’s become very transparent in her purpose.”

“Her training?”

“Trained at A-Schule West where she performed as one of the best agents to go through there.”

“Her background?”

Over the next fifteen minutes Richter told him about the life of Catherine Doehla.  When he had finished, Schellenberg walked to the window.  There, he swayed back and forth, hands clasped behind his back.  “And her cover?”

“She is the wife of a British Embassy officer in Tehran.  Colonel Robert Boland.  He heads up security at the embassy.”

Schellenberg stared out the window.  “When did you last have communications with her?”

“Last evening.  She is being assisted by one of our other agents, an archeologist who considers himself an important asset.  He isn’t of course, purely amateur, but he has provided Traveler with radio contact to Wannsee.”

“Good.”

“She was forced to eliminate a British officer with whom she was having an affair,” Richter told him, “certain he could give her information.  He stumbled across her reading some papers. 
Among his briefcase were documents that Traveler believes could reveal crucial Allied Invasion details.”

“Codenamed Overlord . . . yes, we’ve been aware of that for some time.  The fact that a German agent is in all probability running around Tehran with invasion plans could create the very diversion we need to kill one of those men.  It could delay our defeat, Colonel.”  Schellenberg hesitated, “Or—actually turn the war in our favor.”

----

Twenty minutes later, the Mercedes deposited Richter beneath a light snow that had begun at noon.  He walked along a stone quay the length of the
Landwehrkanal, which fronted the enormous block housing Germany’s vast military bureaucracy.  Along the lazy black waters of a narrow side canal stood a row of elegant town houses.  At 72-76 Tirpitz Ufer, five stories high, was the gray stone edifice of the Abwehr.  Instead of entering, Richter walked along the narrow canal until he noticed a lone figure standing at the water.

Admiral Wilhelm Canaris walked out of the shadows.  Just the mentioning of his name conjured up mystery and intrigue.  Small, frail and gray-haired, the chief of German Intelligence came and stood beside Richter.  “Well?”  He simply asked.

“I believe we made progress.”

“Good,” Canaris took him by the elbow leading him down the canal.

Born in the coal-mining city of Dortmund, Canaris graduated from the Naval Academy at Kiel and during the First World War served as the intelligence officer on the cruiser Dresden.  He was soon promoted to captain and was assigned to work with the Kaiser’s spy chief in Spain.

By the end of the war, Canaris presented an impressive resume.  He spoke seven languages, had a handle on the intrigue existing within the German Navy, and became experienced in covert
missions in Europe.  In 1934, with German rearming and Hitler’s ascend to power Canaris was the obvious candidate to head the Fuhrer’s spy network.

Under Canaris’s methodical guidance, the Abwehr expanded and was soon poised to present itself as a threat to any enemy.  Even the infamous British Intelligence.

But Canaris had no confidence in the thugs with whom the Fuhrer had surrounded himself.  Goring.  Himmler.  Canaris considered them all stooges.  There even now lingered for the intelligence chief, a growing doubt of concern about the Fuhrer himself and his capacity to lead their great nation toward its destiny.  And though he had never joined the Nazi party, he remained a loyal soldier, faithful to Hitler and Germany.  That was specifically why Canaris had decided with the last days to pursue this covert operation with Colonel Theodor Richter.

They walked toward several benches located beneath giant oaks protecting them from the snow.

“The venture in Persia isn’t going very well,” Canaris told him.  “Our latest information tells us that the whole lot has basically been rounded up before they reached Tehran.”

“All of them?”

“There is a small group of men who have made it close to the city, and they should provide cover for our operation.  Even if they don’t make it to the safe house,” Canaris frowned.  “Do you think Schellenberg suspects your efforts to have Paul Heuss included in that group?”

“That Heuss was involved in the elimination of Goli
Faqiri’s husband? “Richter asked.  “No, sir, I don’t believe he knows anything about us returning Heuss to the scene of the crime.” 

“I do hate we’re forced to use such gallant men as deceptions but it simply can’t be helped, Colonel.  Our operation must contain a higher degree of success . . . so, we sacrifice our own.”

“Schellenberg believes that also,” Richter said, “in his own way.”

Canaris said, “I find him to be an amazing fellow with a strong heart and obviously ambitious.  To fool a fellow such as Schellenberg will take quite an effort.”  Canaris hunched his shoulders against the chill.  “Black Forest can accomplish that,” he whispered.  His hands were suddenly jammed in his coat pocket.  “I would imagine he took the bait.”

“Totally,” Richter told him.

“Excellent,” Canaris said, his eyes lifting.  “Understand you and I shall not discuss this matter again.  Black Forest is your concern now, Colonel.  You are totally on your own.”

Richter turned his collar up against a sudden breeze.  “Understood.”

-Eight-

In 1943 the population of Tehran was only an estimate—maybe five hundred thousand, maybe eight hundred thousand—there were so many strangers moving in and out of the city each day an accurate number was indeterminable.  Houses were lit by electricity and Tehran had numerous cafes with music and sound-film cinemas.  Luks, the luxury hotels, had heat and running water.  Government officials, landowners, and wealthy businessmen owned automobiles while the public traveled by horse drawn carriages and on double-decker buses, owned by high-ranking police officers—among them was Karim Chubok, a personal friend of Booth Salinger.

----

Iranian Police Headquarters.  Daneshvar Street.

Salinger’s flight from Cairo had arrived at five thirty when he checked into the Palace Hotel and came directly to the police station.  He now sat patiently in a winged heavily woven chair in the police chief’s office.

The room was large and ornately furnished.  Deep-color tapestries hung on caramel walls along with framed photographs of ancestors, warlords of the desert, peering down ominously.  A single large window looked out upon a semitropical park planted with firs. 

Behind a vast polished desk sat Police Chief Karim Chubok a small, sinewy man, but very important of stature within the law enforcement structure of Tehran.  Late afternoon shattered sunlight slanted through the window, bathing across a desk of carefully stacked papers. 

“A moment please, Salinger,” Chubok looked up quickly with bright brown eyes, then back to the papers before him.  “A cable that should have been sent out earlier in the day, but several important details was missing.”  He raised a hand.  “A moment.”

Salinger had known Chubok for three years, since he had become the head law enforcement officer in this district.  He was known as precise, a professional, and mostly honest to deal with.  Salinger knew him as a man who treated information in a city of spies as gems of wealth, diamonds of great value to be bartered with at the appropriate time.

In another moment, Chubok placed the pen down and took the paper and folded it.  He pushed the intercom button and a young assistant hurried in.  He took the paper from the chief and quickly departed closing the door behind him.

“So, Booth, I thought possibly you would never return again to my city.  I seem to remember a conversation in which you stated the very fact.”

“The murder of a British Intelligence officer changes things,” Salinger told him.

“Ah, yes . . . an important man, no doubt if you’ve been sent here to look into his death.  And you’re working for Major Mayfield, of course.  Which means this is all perhaps linked to the conference.”

“Don’t read too much into this just yet,” Salinger said.

“But I’m afraid I already have, my friend.”

It shouldn’t have surprised Salinger that Chubok was ahead of the game.  “Major Fields,” Salinger said, “did have in his possession information concerning the conference.  Agendas.  Details of security issues being addressed.”

Chubok smiled.  “And you came to me for facts, any small piece that may be missing?”

“Where else would I come, Chief?”

“Such a shadowed world, my friend, but I’m afraid I have little to offer on your Major Fields,” Chubok said.  “And, I must remind you of the fact we are officially neutral.”

Salinger had considered how his old friend would receive him.  Power changes men, mostly in the wrong ways, but it didn’t appear to have tainted Chubok.  “I was hoping I could see the report your men filed on the murder scene.” 

Chubok placed his hands flat on the desk.  “Like I said officially neutral, yes.  However, being anxious about the future of my country, I have resigned myself to the fact there is absolutely no hope that my city will emerge from the morass of crime and poverty before the war ends.  Corruption at its highest level has simply become a fine art in Iran,” he answered.  “The drug trade, prostitution, black marketing—you would be impressed with the dishonesty, Salinger.”

The police chief shrugged.  “But there will come a time for change.”  He took a cigarette from a box and lit it with a silver lighter.  He let the smoke settle in front of his face.  “Any assistance which I offer must be discrete,” he said.  “The allies used pressure to make Riza Shah resign.  He was, as you are aware, favorable toward the Germans.  Our people remain bitter.”