The Cairo Code (9 page)

When the adjutant left, Canaris looked down at his beloved dachshunds, their snouts stuck in the bowl, and sighed wearily. “No rest for the wicked, my children. I have a feeling young Walter may be up to his tricks again.”

•  •  •

Walter Schellenberg was one of the most unorthodox SS intelligence officers Canaris had ever met, and perhaps also the most likable. A young man of thirty-two, and a lawyer by profession, he was dashing and handsome, with a taste for the finer things in life. A graduate of the University of Bonn, he had shrewdly joined the SS after Hitler came to power in 1933, and managed to obtain a post in the SD, the SS intelligence department, where his sharp aptitude and businesslike mentality soon attracted Himmler. Schellenberg quickly rose to become a member of Himmler's personal staff and was eventually appointed Head of SD Ausland, the foreign intelligence branch. For like his boss, he reveled in plots, subterfuges, and secrecy, as if they were his very life-blood.

A chain-smoker, he had an easy manner, and he was in a good mood when Canaris entered his office on the third floor, despite the fact that the bombardment was going on outside, wisps of smoke and dust drifting up from the wall ventilator.

“Sit down, Wilhelm.” Schellenberg smiled. “As usual you look like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders.”

Schellenberg wore his black SS uniform, the cuff-titles bearing the legend RFSS in silver thread.
Reichsführer der
SS. Himmler's personal staff. The sight of the cuff-title made Canaris shiver inwardly. He always detested having to visit the Reich Main Security Office on Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse, the headquarters of the SS and the Gestapo, from which Heinrich Himmler and his deputies presided over their empire of evil. The black uniforms and grim surroundings never failed to send a chill down his spine.

“Sometimes it certainly feels that way,” he replied. “So, what is it this time, Walter?”

There was a lull in the bombing and Canaris heard a screech of tires outside in the inner courtyard as a truck and a Mercedes pulled up in quick succession. Leather-coated Gestapo men climbed out in a hurry and began unloading their human cargo, bound for the torture cellars. Several senior Wehrmacht officers were among the prisoners, elderly men mostly, one or two of whom Canaris faintly recognized. Some were with their bewildered wives and families. The Gestapo savagely kicked and beat them with pistol butts as they were herded towards the basement entrance.

“What the devil's going on?” Canaris asked in alarm.

“A messy business.” Schellenberg observed the scene outside. “Suspected subversives, all of them. Himmler has reason to believe there's a group of traitorous plotters working against the Führer. Recent evidence from our interrogations points to an attempt by high-ranking officers to bomb his plane in March of this year. Only by the grace of God did it fail to go off.”

“Good Lord.” Canaris paled. “You can't be serious.”

“Very, I'm sad to say. Who could believe that anyone who has taken an oath of loyalty to the Führer would wish him dead? But we'll root them out, don't you worry. Every last one of them, even if we have to interrogate the entire army, navy, and air force.”

Schellenberg turned from the window, popped a cigarette in his mouth, lit it, and blew smoke up to the ceiling. “But back to business. The latest ciphers from my SD agents in Persia and the Middle East agents make for rather interesting reading. It appears all the signs are that the Cairo and Teheran meetings of the Allied leaders are definitely on, just as we suspected. And as you well know, Roosevelt has yet to decide on how the imminent invasion of Europe will proceed.”

Canaris forced himself to look away from the disturbing scene outside, felt a chill go through him, as if he knew what was coming. “Why do I get the feeling you have another of your exotic plans in mind?”

Schellenberg grinned. “My dear Wilhelm, such is the sole reason for my existence. What would life be without a little subterfuge to make it interesting?”

“I suppose you had better tell me.”

“First, tell me your opinion of President Roosevelt.”

Canaris raised an eyebrow. “What is this? Some sort of trick question to hang me with?”

An uneasy alliance existed between Germany's two intelligence agencies, and Canaris had the unpleasant suspicion he was about to be duped into some sort of trap.

“On the contrary. A simple question for which I'd appreciate an honest answer.”

Canaris shrugged. “I have to admit a certain grudging respect for the man, even if he is the enemy. A cripple who's spent most of his life in constant pain and in a wheelchair, but nevertheless still manages to win the presidency for three terms, commands a certain admiration in itself. As far as American public opinion goes, he's probably the most revered president since Lincoln. He took their economy out of the worst depression in history almost single-handedly, and they respect him for that, even though we Germans despise him for bringing America into the war and bombing our cities to ruins.”

“An honest assessment.” Schellenberg stood, came round his desk, and sat on the edge. “What do you know about my top agent in Cairo?”

“I presume you mean Nightingale? Only that I've heard he's the best you ever had.”

Schellenberg laughed and shook his head. “Forget Nightingale, that's far in the past. I'm talking about the present.”

“Absolutely nothing. You know very well you keep that information to yourself.”

Schellenberg smiled. “But times change, and now it's time to cooperate. The war is hardly going in our favor right now. Indeed, there are some who say we're on the losing side.”

Canaris raised his eyebrows. “I really wouldn't express that view too loudly, Walter. Unless you want to whistle good-bye to your career and have your testicles reshaped in the cellars.”

Schellenberg threw his head back and laughed. “That's what I like about you, Wilhelm, you always have my interests at heart. But back to matters in hand. Actually, we have two principal agents still active in Cairo. The most important is a man named Harvey Deacon, code name Besheeba. Born in Hamburg, forty-eight years of age.”

“He's a German citizen?”

“British, actually. Ironical, that, considering he hates the Allies with a vengeance.”

“May I ask why?”

“The British were responsible for killing his father.”

“Which makes for rather a neat motive.”

“Exactly. He's a nightclub owner and businessman. I can also tell you that he's ruthless and immensely capable. He's done rather well for us in the past, extremely well in fact.”

“And the other?”

“An Arab named Hassan Sabry. Code name Phoenix. We had him working for Rommel's people, until we moved him to Cairo. Though his real interest is banishing the British from Egypt. However, while both men have the cunning of sewer rats, they're rather limited when it comes to the bigger picture.”

“Why are you telling me all this?”

Schellenberg stubbed out his cigarette, quickly lit another. “I need your help. I have a job in mind that requires the assistance of a couple of your people, to work alongside Deacon and Sabry.”

“Whatever for?”

Schellenberg looked deathly serious. “Because, my dear Wilhelm, together we're going to kill President Roosevelt.”

•  •  •

The room was so quiet that Canaris could hear the clock ticking. He was caught off guard, and when he had recovered said, “Have you lost your mind? What you're suggesting is preposterous.”

“Daring
was the word I would have used. And you forget, only six weeks ago Colonel Otto Skorzeny's SS paratroops rescued Mussolini from a heavily fortified garrison. Before we undertook that mission all the indications pointed to failure—we assessed only a 10 percent chance of success—yet we pulled it off brilliantly. From touchdown to rescue took precisely four minutes, and with not one of our men lost in the action.”

The bold liberation of Il Duce from imprisonment at the Hotel Campo Imperatore in Abruzzi in central Italy on 12 September was still being proudly sung about in the corridors of SD headquarters. It was certainly a dazzling triumph, but Canaris shook his head. “What you're proposing is something else entirely. We both know that Roosevelt, like Churchill, has a steel wall of security around him day and night. Such a thing would be impossible.”

“Nothing is impossible, Wilhelm. And desperate times call for desperate measures. Besides, it all depends on the planning.”

Canaris said wearily, “And how exactly do you propose to assassinate the president of the United States?”

“First, let me show you something.” Schellenberg handed across a slip of paper from the file on his desk. As Canaris started to read, he said, “It's a rather important message from Deacon. I think you'll agree he's unearthed an interesting nugget.”

Canaris continued to read the decoded signal and looked up, pale-faced. “Is this true?”

Schellenberg smiled. “I thought you might be surprised. As you can see, it virtually confirms Roosevelt will be arriving in Cairo on the twenty-second of this month, eight days from now, before he proceeds to Teheran. There's to be a private conference with Churchill and a senior Chinese delegation seeking more Allied support for the war in the Far East. But Himmler is convinced the real purpose of Roosevelt's visit is to agree the timing of the invasion of Europe with Churchill. If the invasion goes ahead, it doesn't bear thinking about—we'd be fighting on all fronts.”

Canaris read the signal again, then held it up. “Can you be absolutely certain of this information?”

“All SD agents abroad were ordered to use whatever means necessary to gather intelligence about the Teheran and Cairo meetings, just as your own people were. One of our American agents spotted the battleship
Iowa
departing Chesapeake Bay two days ago, after taking on a cargo of civilian passengers. Nothing remarkable about that, you might say, but we suspected a ship of the
Iowa
's class might be used to transport Roosevelt to North Africa. It was only a suspicion, of course, and we needed more information. Fortunately for us, Deacon came up trumps. He managed to get photographs of a top-secret memo which was kept in the American ambassador's private safe at his Cairo residence, confirming the dates of the conference. The microfilm arrived last night via a Spanish diplomatic courier.”

“How did this fellow Deacon manage to photograph the memo?”

Schellenberg grinned. “Some weeks ago he signaled us with details of a special compound being built at the site of the famous Mena House Hotel, near the Giza pyramids, and strong rumors he'd gathered that some sort of important meeting was soon to take place. Naturally, he was instructed to collect more information, but all he turned up was confirmation that large numbers of troops and army engineers had been drafted into the hotel area, which was sealed off by the military. It suggested to me it might be the location of the proposed conference. In desperation, I personally ordered Deacon to try to breach security at either the British residency or the American embassy: They were the most likely places information would be kept. It was a tall order, brazen and dangerous in the extreme, but after surveillance he estimated that both locations were too tightly guarded.”

“And impossible to break into, I would have thought.”

“Which was why Deacon turned his attention to the American residency. The ambassador's home was less closely guarded. He learned from a Spanish diplomat that the ambassador would attend a gala dinner at the Turkish embassy a week later, and so the die was cast. He employed a burglar, one of the best in Cairo, to do the necessary.” Schellenberg smiled. “But the kernel of the matter is the American president definitely intends visiting Cairo, and we know the approximate dates. A rather heaven-sent opportunity not to be missed, don't you think?”

“What if the information is meant to mislead us?”

“Come now, do you really think it would be kept in a heavily guarded safe if the Allies actually wanted us to find it? And Deacon is certain no one can possibly suspect that he had the residency burgled and the memo photographed. Which means we have the element of surprise.”

Canaris put the signal down, disbelief on his face. “You're serious, aren't you? You're really planning to go ahead with this.”

Schellenberg nodded. “I considered an attempt in Teheran during the conference there, but Persia is too hostile a territory. With so many Allied troops about, and Stalin's paranoia, such a mission would be fraught with difficulties. However, Egypt is quite a different matter. Security is more relaxed now that Rommel is no longer a threat. And it's way behind the front lines, so the Allies would never expect us to strike. But naturally, it isn't our only iron. We'll have the Luftwaffe and our U-boat wolf packs in the Atlantic on the alert, in the hope they can locate Roosevelt's convoy and destroy it. But I wouldn't hold my breath, which is why we shall proceed with the plan as if our very lives depended on it.”

“And what
exactly
do you intend?”

“Unfortunately, the memo didn't disclose where Roosevelt will be quartered, or his security arrangements, which poses us a problem, but not an insurmountable one. As for the mission, it will break down into two parts, much the same plan we used to get Mussolini. First, we'll send in a small, select team to pinpoint exactly where the president and prime minister will be staying and the strength of their protection. Once they've done that, they'll try to find a way in—there are always weak links in any security, as you well know.

“When they've achieved that objective, they radio us. Then begins the second and final phase of the operation. I'll have a couple of plane-loads of Skorzeny's crack SS paratroops ready and waiting at an Italian airbase. His very finest specialist troops—the toughest, hardest, most highly trained the SS can provide—and we both know our SS paratroops are the absolute best in the world. The kind of men who are willing to lay down their lives for the Führer without a moment's hesitation. Once we get the signal, they'll be flown to Cairo and land at an airfield near the city, which our team on the ground will have secured beforehand, along with any equipment—trucks, vehicles, and so on—necessary to help Skorzeny's men make their way to the target. If the intention is to quarter Roosevelt at the Mena House, which I strongly suspect, so much the better, and a good omen for us. Skorzeny's SS have already shown they can penetrate such a heavily fortified hotel, as they did in Abruzzi. They'll be in and out so fast, the Allies won't know what's hit them.”