Eva (3 page)

Standartenführer
Otto Skorzeny, Hitler reminisced. One of his very best officers.
Ein prima Kerl!
And an Austrian. As he was, himself. Had he only had more officers of Skorzeny’s caliber, he thought bitterly, things might have been different. The man had made an excellent impression on him at their very first meeting, he remembered. At the Wolfsschanze. In July, two years before. When he was searching for a daring young officer of unquestioned loyalty to lead the rescue mission to free I1 Duce. He had put Skorzeny in charge. Skorzeny’s action had been both brilliant and audacious. For a moment Hitler let himself savor one of the really heroic operations of the war. Well guarded, Mussolini had been held captive on top of a totally inaccessible mountain. Gran Sasso. In the Abruzzi range. With a handful of paratroopers Skorzeny had surprised the Italian troops guarding Mussolini and freed him. And to get the Duce off the mountaintop Skorzeny had crammed himself, a pilot, and the Duce into a tiny Storch and literally taxied the plane off the mountain top over the edge of a 3,000-foot drop, barely gaining enough flying speed to keep the overloaded plane from crashing. And he had brought the Italian leader to safety in Germany. It had been a magnificent feat. The entire world had been in awe of German courage and ingenuity. Otto Skorzeny was an officer he could trust. One of the few. A man of enormous imagination, personal courage, and great resourcefulness. He nodded slowly in remembrance. As with “Operation Greif.” What the Americans had called the “Jeep Parties.” Only last year. Captured American jeeps with Skorzeny’s specially trained, English-speaking troops in U.S. uniforms, roaming freely behind enemy lines, playing havoc, turning road signs around, cutting communication wires and setting fires. Skorzeny’s handful of special commandos had created such panic that vast numbers of enemy troops were immobilized searching for them. Eisenhower himself had been kept a virtual prisoner at his own headquarters. He smiled to himself.
Standartenführer
Otto Skorzeny was a
real
officer. A
real
German.

He grew sober. But now, when the most vital, the most crucial of all missions was at hand, when once again he was searching for a daring young officer, Otto Skorzeny could not be the man. He had wanted him. But he had realized that the officer would stand out far too much. Six feet, four inches tall, with a scar running the length of his left cheek, the man would be too recognizable. An absolute impossibility for the present mission. Besides, Skorzeny was of the greatest importance to the final preparations of the Werewolf Organization and the National Redoubt—the
Alpenfestung.
So he had asked him to recommend his best, his most loyal officer.

He flipped the page and peered at the
Lüttjohann Personalienakt
attached:

LÜTTJOHANN, WILLIBALD

SS Obersturmführer,
# 3.309.288

Born: Göttingen, 21 June 1914

Hitler Youth, Group: Center, 1929

Promoted:
Gefolgschaftsführer
1931

SS 1933

Assigned RSHA 1936

Assigned
Sonderabteilung Ausland
1937

Agent Provocateur,
U.S.A.

German-American Bund, N.Y., 1937/38

Hitler smiled a thin, self-satisfied smile. The German-American Bund under that buffoon, Fritz Kuhn, had still been an excellent operation, astonishingly successful and effective considering it had to be carried out on a large, highly visible scale in a foreign country. He recalled the many news stories of violent rallies in open support of the German cause; the American Stormtroopers— sometimes outdoing their German brothers in their brutality and zeal; the fine propaganda films and the riots in the German part of New York City. Yorkville, it was called, as he remembered. Yes, the Bund had done much for the Nazi ideology, much to weaken the internal security of the United States. Of course, only in a decadent democracy could such actions be allowed to take place. It had been to his gain. The Bund had been important in recruiting patriotic spies and saboteurs who had served the Fatherland well through the years. He looked at the
Personalienakt.
Largely because of the efforts of such men as
Obersturmführer
Willibald Lüttjohann. The young officer chosen by Skorzeny seemed an excellent choice. He would know the enemy well.

He read on:

Waffen SS
1939

Campaigns: Warsaw, Poland 1939

Belgium/France 1940. Dunkirk

Promoted:
Stabsscharführer
1940

“Operation Barbarossa,” Russia 1941

Field Commission:
Untersturmführer
1941

Sonderkampfgruppe Skorzeny
1942

Knight’s Cross, Gran Sasso, 1943

Promoted:
Obersturmführer,
1944

Jagdverband,
Denmark, 1944

“Operation Greif,” 1944

Oak Leaves, Knight’s Cross

Werewolf Training Ctr., Neustrelitz 1945

Hitler frowned. The Werewolves. Why had he heard nothing? Krueger should be in position by now. He clenched his fist. It still twitched uncontrollably. The enemy would quickly learn the deadly perils of occupying German soil once the Werewolves were let loose.
They
would be the ones to make the invaders cringe in fear. He had at once approved the formation of the organization when Himmler had approached him with the idea.
Unternehmen Werwolf
—Operation Werewolf. Dedicated young men and women; from the SS; from the Hitler Youth; civilians, who would gladly lay down their lives in the performance of their duty, a duty which was to inflict death and terror on the invaders. Like their medieval namesakes. Himmler had put Prützmann, an SS General, in charge. And, of course, there was Skorzeny. When the time came they would be the backbone, the living spark of the continued resistance from the Alpine Fortress. He frowned again. He made a mental note to order Bormann to find out why there had been no word from Krueger; the general should be ready to go into action in a few days. He suddenly felt impatient. Nothing ever went the way it should. He could rely on no one but himself. And yet he had to.

He returned his attention to the service record of Willibald Lüttjohann. It was imperative that
that
young officer be unfailingly reliable. He read:

Vital Statistics

Height: 6 feet

Weight: 180 pounds

Hair: Blond

Eyes: Blue

Complexion: Fair

Identifying Marks: None

Special Capabilities

Languages: Fluent English; some French, Italian

Expert Marksman, small arms

Expert, Close Combat

Parachutist

He pushed the papers aside. He had asked Skorzeny for the best. He had not been let down. For once.

Willibald Lüttjohann. A young man he had never seen. A young man who soon would be carrying the future of the German Reich in his hands.

Abruptly Hitler gathered up the papers and put them away. Squinting for the keyhole he unlocked a drawer in his desk. Two large identical envelopes embossed with the state seal and thick with papers were lying side by side. For a moment he sat staring at them—unseeingly. Then he picked up one and stood up. Dragging his left foot he shuffled toward the door.

In the little chamber off Dr. Stumpfegger’s examination room across the hall from Hitler’s study,
Feldmarschall
Ritter von Greim was asleep. The shock had worn off and his injured foot had begun to hurt. Stumpfegger had given him a sedative to help him sleep. An orderly was just placing a small tray with a carafe of water and a glass on a table next to the bed. He straightened up and stood at attention as the Führer entered.

For a moment Hitler hovered at the door, watching the sleeping officer. “Wake him!” he rasped, without looking at the orderly. He walked to the foot of the bed.

The orderly at once stepped up to the sleeping Greim. Gingerly he took hold of the officer’s shoulder, gently shaking him.

“
Herr Feldmarschall,”
he said. “
Bitte. Bitte aufwecken!”

Greim stirred fitfully. The orderly became more insistent. He shook the patient. “Wake up, please!” he said loudly. “The Führer wants to speak with you.”

Slowly Greim opened his eyes. With difficulty he focused on Hitler, standing at the foot of his bed. He screwed up his eyes in an effort to clear his drowsy mind. “
Mein
. . . Führer,” he whispered, his voice husky.

The orderly helped him to sit up, banking his pillow behind him. Hitler nodded to the man. “Leave us,” he said.

The orderly left. Hitler pulled up a chair next to the bed. Heavily he sat down. For a moment he stared solemnly at the groggy man in the bed.

“Greim,” he said portentously, “I want you to know exactly why I summoned you here.”

Greim started to speak. Hitler silenced him with a wave of his hand. “Just listen to me,” he said. “I promoted you to
Feldmarschall
because I need you,” he continued. “But that is
not
the reason I had you come here in person. I could have done that more efficiently by telephone. Obviously I would not have subjected you to the danger you faced, if that had been the sole, the real reason for wanting you here.” He smiled cynically. “But it will serve convincingly enough as my reason for those who would question my motives. And they are legion, believe me,
mein lieber
Greim.” He looked soberly at the officer. “There is another reason,” he said gravely. “A vital reason—a top secret reason—which made it imperative that I see you in person. Do you understand?”

Greim nodded. Fighting Stumpfegger’s sedative, he still found it difficult to concentrate.

“Before you leave here,” Hitler went on, “you will be given official orders. But your
real
mission will be given to you by me. Personally. Now! I want you to have time to prepare yourself for it. There can be no margin for failure!”

Greim stared at the hunched-over old man sitting next to his bed. The Führer. The leader of the German nation. The German people. His commander in chief. He knew something of great importance was happening, and he struggled to focus his attention. “I . . . shall do my utmost,
mein
Führer,” he said, his speech slurred. “As I have . . . always done.”

Hitler nodded. From his pocket he brought out the large envelope he had taken from his desk. “In this envelope are some documents,” he said, his voice strangely tense. “Others will be added before you leave.” He paused. He looked at the envelope with an undecipherable expression on his haggard face, then back at Greim. “Your mission,” he grated. “Your mission will be to carry this envelope and its contents to safety and to see that the instructions contained in it are carried out faithfully.” For a moment his hooded eyes grew glassy. “Left here,” he said hoarsely, “it will only fall into—into the wrong hands.”

He handed the envelope to Greim. “I want you to read the documents. Now!” he said. “I want you to realize the vital importance of your mission.”

Greim took the envelope. He opened it. It contained half a dozen documents, all imprinted with official seals and stamps. He began to read. Hitler sat immobile, watching him.

And suddenly the drug-induced haze that swaddled Greim’s mind was torn away. At once he was fully alert. Mesmerized, he read on.

Finished, he let the papers sink down on the bed. Obviously shaken, he stared at Hitler.

“
Mein . .
. Führer . . .” he breathed. “I . . .”

Hitler silenced him. “Only you and I know the contents of those documents, Greim,” he said soberly. “
Reichsleiter
Bormann will be told. And one other—but you need not know who.” He looked at the
Feldmarschall,
his eyes burning. “You understand what is required of you?”

Greim nodded. “I do,
mein
Führer. I shall not fail you.”

Hitler nodded. He had picked the right man. “And you realize that until the proper, the designated time, the knowledge you now possess must remain strictly secret?”