The Cairo Code (10 page)

“Why not kill Churchill as well while you're at it?” Canaris shrugged offhandedly.

“One target is always easier to hit than two. To kill Churchill as well would be a wonderful bonus, and if the opportunity presents itself, I assure you it will be taken. But Roosevelt is top of our list.”

Canaris sighed. “I still think it's folly. The Allies' security will be as tight as a bank vault. On the ground and in the air.”

Schellenberg smiled. “As we've seen with Mussolini, there are always ways to crack open a vault, my friend. And you fail to appreciate the rewards if we succeed. The death of either leader would be a godsend, but Roosevelt especially. He's the linchpin that holds the Allies together, and their quartermaster when it comes to supplies. With him out of the way, the Allies would be thrown into disaray. And with their president dead, I doubt the Americans would have the stomach for an invasion next summer, as the British and Russians are demanding. It would probably split the Allied powers apart, which would suit us nicely and give us enough time to regain the upper hand. And think of the propaganda value—it would be an incredible boost to our troops' morale. Besides, a lesson is needed here, I think. The Americans will have to learn they can't bomb German cites with impunity, and interfere in a war that's really none of their business. It's about time they had their faces slapped.”

“Are you saying the mission is definitely going ahead?”

“Unless our U-boats or the Luftwaffe somehow miraculously succeed in destroying the
Iowa,
you can be certain of it. We already have a name—Operation Sphinx.”

“Then you're way ahead of me. Who gave the order?”

“Himmler.”

Canaris shook his head in dismay. “Don't tell me the Führer approves of this madness?”

“He's already given the mission top priority. See for yourself.” Schellenberg handed across a signed letter from the file, and Canaris saw the signature of Adolf Hitler underneath.

He read the letter and looked up. “A joint operation between the Abwehr and SD is most unusual.”

“I agree. But the Führer's still upset about that last fiasco of yours in Cairo—he can't quite decide if it was disloyalty or incompetence—which is why he wants me to take the lead on this one, but with your help. So I'm certain he'd be rather annoyed if you didn't put in your oar and give any assistance necessary.” Schellenberg grinned slyly. “Worse still, God forbid that he might be tempted to put you in the same class as those who plot against him.”

The Abwehr, while able to think up the most grandiose schemes, was sometimes woefully inept in carrying them out. Their top spy in Egypt, John Eppler, had been apprehended the previous year, caught by the British when the sterling bank notes he was supplied with for his mission turned out to be excellent but flawed forgeries, which ultimately led to his arrest. But there was an even graver mistake Canaris had wisely kept to himself.

The previous year, one of his agents in Spain had got a tip-off that Roosevelt and Churchill were meeting in Casablanca. He radioed the date, time, and place to Berlin. But because the agent was a Spaniard, some idiot in the Abwehr translated Casablanca literally, and reported to his superiors that the Allied leaders were planning a meeting, not in North Africa, but in the White House in Washington.

Canaris blushed at the threat as he put down the letter. “It seems I have little choice. Which of my people had you got in mind?”

“First, I'll have need of one of your Egyptian agents. Preferably someone living in a remote desert location, not more than a couple of days' travel from Cairo. Someone entirely trustworthy.”

Canaris shrugged. “I can think of one or two who might be suitable. But go on.”

“Second, I thought Jack Halder would be perfect to lead the initial team we send in to set everything up. He's one of your best men, knows his way around Cairo, speaks Arabic, and is capable enough to see the whole thing through. He's also American by birth and can speak English with a flawless American or British accent, thanks to his time at Oxford. All of which may be useful when it comes time to get access to Roosevelt's quarters.”

Canaris's face darkened. “So that's why his file was requested yesterday by the Reichsführer's office? I thought it had to do with that business in Sicily, months back.”

Schellenberg smiled. “You must admit Halder has an impressive reputation. It's almost part of military legend how he managed to infiltrate Allied lines while serving in North Africa. A month in Cairo and Alexandria, in the guise of a British officer, gathering intelligence under the very noses of the enemy? Quite a remarkable feat, I would have thought.”

“He's certainly one of my best, but you're wasting your time.” Canaris shook his head. “If you've read his file you'll know he's lost his edge after all that unpleasant business with his father and son. He doesn't seem to have the interest anymore, and spends most of his time out at a summer cottage his father owned, overlooking the lakeshore at Wannsee. I visited him there last month and he didn't look happy.”

Schellenberg said grimly, “Yes, all rather tragic, what happened. But what if I could convince him otherwise?”

“It's still a suicide trap, Walter. You'd be sending him to certain death.”

“I assure you the plan can succeed,” Schellenberg said firmly. “And those who survive the operation will return safely. Furthermore, I think you'll agree when you're briefed on the details in full.”

Canaris knew there was little point in arguing. He shrugged wearily in defeat. “Knowing Halder, I suppose there's a slim chance it could work.”

Schellenberg gave a wintry smile. “It's got to. Otherwise Himmler assures me the Führer will have our heads.”

“But a week is no time at all to set up a mission like this.”

“Which is why things will have to proceed at a very rapid pace from here on. There's absolutely no time to lose.”

It was just after eleven that same morning when Schellenberg' s Mercedes pulled up outside the secluded lakeshore cottage at Wannsee, ten kilometers west of Berlin. The sleepy village on the edge of the Grunewald was a favorite among senior German military officers, many of whom kept magnificent summer homes there. The rainclouds had gone and it was glorious for November, with clear skies and bright autumn sunshine.

The single-story, white-painted wooden cottage looked out onto a perfect view of the lake. It had a picket fence and a small veranda, and Schellenberg smiled when he noticed a woman's bicycle propped against the fence. He went up the steps, carrying a leather briefcase and his officer's silver-topped riding crop.

The front door was unlocked and he stepped into a tiny living room. The place was no more than a couple of rooms with a sofa on each side of a stone fireplace, a table and chairs, a tiny kitchen, and a single bedroom leading off. There were some books on the shelves, a brass bust of King Tut, and two silver-framed photographs of a rather striking blond-haired woman and a young boy, but the room was in some disarray. He noticed an unfinished bottle of champagne and two glasses on the coffee table, a pair of women's shoes and a gray uniform skirt lying discarded on the floor. There were some fresh cotton towels on the back of a chair.

“Halder? Are you there?”

A moment later the bedroom door opened and a pretty female corporal came out. She wore only the top part of her uniform, her bare legs and underwear showing, a look of surprise on her face as she grabbed one of the towels and covered herself.

“Who the devil are you?”

Schellenberg smiled. “I might ask the same question, fräulein. General Walter Schellenberg. And you?”

She looked young and ravishing, her hair tousled, as if she had just climbed out of bed, but when she took in the black SS uniform and heard the name, her expression changed and she flushed with embarrassment.

“Hei—Heidi Schmidt, Wehrmacht Nursing Corps.”

“Charmed, I'm sure. Relax, Heidi, you're not on parade. Perhaps you can tell me where Halder is.”

“He—he said he was going for a run and a swim.”

“Is he a friend of yours?”

“We—we met the other night in a bar in Wannsee,” the girl stammered. “He seemed quite down, so I—I cycled over here after my duty to see if he was all right.”

Schellenberg grinned. “Brought out the maternal instinct in you, did he? Still, I'm glad to see someone's keeping him company. Heaven knows he needs it right now. Is that your bicycle I saw outside?”

“Yes, sir.”

Schellenberg bent to pick up the discarded skirt with the tip of his riding crop, and held it out to the girl. “Well now, Heidi. I think it might be wise if you got dressed and ran along. Halder and I have some business to attend to and I really don't want us to be disturbed.”

•  •  •

Jack Halder sweated as he ran along the lakeshore. His shirt was off, his tanned bare chest covered in small scars, and he wore sneakers and a pair of loose cotton training pants. There were touches of premature gray in his hair and the beginnings of wrinkles around his eyes, but the same wry smile was fixed permanently in place, though it looked a little solemn that morning. He clutched a stopwatch in his hand, and when he reached some rocks at the edge of the shore he halted, clicked the stopwatch, and looked at the result with dismay.

“Damn it, you can do better than that, Halder.”

He started to run again, gave a burst of power, the sweat pumping now after a brisk five-kilometer run. As he rounded the cove and reached the rocks he saw the black-uniformed officer sitting in the sand, a grin on his face, a cigarette in his hand.

Halder came to a halt, took several deep breaths, and stared over at Schellenberg, who simply smiled. “Well, Jack, trying to get into shape again, I see. Always a good sign. I had thought of joining you for a swim, but I think I'll give it a miss. Here, you need this more than me.”

Schellenberg had a towel in his hand and he tossed it to Halder, who caught it and wiped the perspiration from his face. “You louse, what do you want?”

“That's no way to greet an old comrade.” Schellenberg glanced at Halder's scarred chest. “You seem to have healed quite nicely. And by the way, I rather liked the young lady who's been giving you comfort.” Then he said, more seriously, “Did she help ease the pain any, my friend?”

“That's none of your bloody business.”

“You're quite right.” Schellenberg stood, wiped sand from his uniform, and picked up his briefcase. “Now, how about we go up to the cottage? There's something I'd like to discuss.”

•  •  •

Schellenberg poured the last of the champagne into two flute glasses and handed one to Halder, who shook his head.

“Not for me. What do you want?” He had showered and changed into a shirt and slacks, and sat on the sofa.

“Just a little chat between friends,” Schellenberg answered. “Military business, I'm afraid.”

“The last time I heard those lines was over four months ago. You had Canaris have me pose as an American intelligence officer to help rescue one of your SS generals from an interrogation post behind enemy lines in Sicily. I ended up with a bullet in my leg and grenade shrapnel in my chest.”

Schellenberg sipped from his glass. “Unfortunate that, but no one could have played the role as believably as you, which was why we needed you in the first place. And you lived up to my expectations and succeeded admirably. You're certain you won't have some champagne, Jack? It's really delicious.”

“You're beginning to irritate me.”

Schellenberg shrugged and glanced at the bottle. “An excellent Dom Perignon, '36. You're looking after yourself, I see.”

“For your information, the champagne was a gift from a friend.”

“No need to explain.” Schellenberg plucked a book from one of the shelves. “The Collected Works of Carl Jung. Rather depressing reading, his philosophy, I would have thought. Old Carl isn't exactly one for a joke and a laugh.”

“It goes with the mood I'm in right now.”

“What
are
we going to do with you, my friend?” Schellenberg replaced the book on the shelf and looked at the silver-framed photograph of the woman. He turned back. “You loved her very much, didn't you, Jack?”

Schellenberg saw a terrible grief flood Halder's face, a fathomless sadness in his eyes. He stood and said awkwardly, “The Wehrmacht girl you met, she's just a nice kid. Someone I got drunk with and poured out my soul to. Maybe I finally needed to talk to someone. And if you really want to know, she didn't help ease the pain.”

“It hasn't been easy for you these last few years, has it? Losing a young wife, and then what happened in Hamburg. I was truly sorry to hear about your father,” Schellenberg said quietly. “I mean that. I hope you'll accept my condolences. I hear the boy's still recovering?”

“And will be for a long time. All water under the bridge now. Let's leave it be.”

Schellenberg put down his glass and became more businesslike. “But you're still angry, and quite rightly so. And it's an anger I can put to good use.” He undid the straps on his briefcase, plucked out a file, and laid it on the table.

“What's that?”

“It concerns what happened to your father and son. Our latest intelligence reports on the Allied fire-bombing raids on Hamburg.”

“What about it?”

“It seems the raids had the highest approval of the British and American governments. Both agreed they wanted absolute and total destruction, to teach Germany a savage lesson. It turned out to be the worst single act of devastation in world history. Do you know the full extent of the damage?”

Halder said angrily, “Look, Schellenberg, all I know is I lost my father, and my son's burned so badly he'll be lucky if he ever walks again.”