Sheba

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‘The fortunes of war, Herr Admiral.’ He laid a file on the desk as Canaris buttered some toast. The Admiral looked up. ‘What’s this?’

‘Operation Sheba, Herr Admiral.’

‘You mean you’ve come up with a solution?’

‘I believe so.’

‘You think this thing could be done?’

‘Not only could it be done, Herr Admiral, I think it should be done.’

‘Really.’ Canaris poured coffee into the spare cup. ‘Then I insist that you have a cigarette and drink that while I see what you’ve got here.’

Ritter did as he was told and limped across to the window. The 3rd of April. Soon it would be Easter and yet it rained like a bad day in November. His leg hurt, but he was damned if he was going to take a morphine pill unless he really had to. He swallowed the coffee and lit a cigarette. Behind him he heard Canaris lift the telephone.

‘The Reich Chancellery, the Führer’s suite,’ the Admiral said, and added after a moment, ‘Good morning. Canaris. I must see the Führer. Yes, most urgent.’ There was a longer pause and then he said, ‘Excellent. Eleven o’clock.’

Ritter turned. ‘Herr Admiral?’

‘Excellent, Hans, this plan of yours. You can come with me and tell the man yourself.’

Ritter had never ventured beyond the main reception area at the Chancellery before and what he saw was breathtaking, not only the huge doors and bronze eagles but the Marble Gallery, which was four hundred and eighty feet long, the Führer’s special pride as it was twice as long as the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles.

When they were admitted to the Führer’s enormous study they found Hitler seated at his desk. He looked up. ‘Something important, I trust.’

‘I think so, my Führer,’ Canaris said. ‘This is my aide, Captain Ritter.’

Hitler took in the scarred face, the stick, the medals, rose, came round the table and took Ritter’s hand. ‘As a soldier I salute you.’

He went back to his chair and Ritter, overwhelmed, stammered, ‘What can I say, my Führer?’

Canaris intervened. ‘The question of the Suez Canal. Captain Ritter has come up with an extraordinary plan. In fact, what is the most extraordinary thing about it is its simplicity.’ He laid the file on Hitler’s desk. ‘Operation Sheba.’

Hitler leaned back, arms folded in an inimitable gesture. ‘I’ll read it later. Tell me, Captain Ritter.’

Ritter licked dry lips. ‘Well, my Führer, it all started with a professor of archaeology at the University called Muller and an extraordinary find he made in Southern Arabia.’

‘Fascinating,’ Hitler said, his eyes glowing, for his passion for architecture was intense. ‘I’d give anything to see that temple.’ He sat back. ‘But go on, Captain. You use the site as a base, but how does that advance the cause?’

‘The essence of the plan is its absurd simplicity. A single plane, a bomber trying to attack the Canal is an absurdity. One can never be certain of accuracy.’

‘So?’ Hitler said.

‘There is a two-engined amphibian called the Catalina, an American plane that can drop wheels and land on the ground as well as water. It has an extraordinary cruising range. Better than sixteen hundred miles carrying a bomb load of one and a half thousand pounds.’

‘Impressive,’ Hitler said. ‘And how would such a plane be used?’

‘As I say, absurdly simple, my Führer. The plane lands at our site in the desert and takes on not bombs, but mines. It flies to Egypt and lands on the Suez Canal itself. There the crew offload many mines, which will drift on the current. I would suggest somewhere near Kantra as a good spot. The crew will of course sink the Catalina, leaving on board a large quantity of our latest explosive, Helicon, which will do an enormous amount of damage to the Canal itself. I need hardly point out that the mines floating down will meet ships travelling north from Lake Timsah. I think we may count on several sinking and thus causing a further blockage.’

There was silence for a while as Hitler sat there staring into space and then he smacked a fist into his palm. ‘Brilliant and as you say, absurdly simple.’ He frowned. ‘But this plane, this Catalina. Can you get hold of one?’

‘There is one available for sale in Lisbon, my Führer. I thought we could buy it and start our own airline in Dahrein, a Spanish company, naturally. I’m sure there would be plenty of coastal trade.’

Hitler got up, came round the desk and clapped him on the shoulders. ‘Quite. I like this man, Herr Admiral. Put his plan into force at once. You have my full authorization.’

‘My Führer.’ Canaris led the way to the door, turned and forced himself to give the Nazi salute. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ he whispered to Ritter, turned and opened the door.

As they went along the Marble Gallery Canaris said, ‘You certainly covered yourself with glory there. Naturally I’ll authorize the necessary funding for the Catalina but it occurs to me that there might be a problem regarding a suitable crew. Of course, there is no reason why Germans should not be flying for a Spanish airline.’

‘But much better if they were Spanish,’ Ritter said.

‘And where would you procure them?’

‘The ranks of the SS, Herr Admiral, they have many Spanish volunteers.’

‘Of course,’ Canaris said. ‘It would be perfect.’

‘I have already tracked down a suitable pilot, a man with much combat experience in the Spanish Civil War. He is at present employed as a courier pilot by the SS. I’m seeing him later this morning at Gatow airfield.’

‘Good. I’ll come with you and see for myself,’ Canaris said, and led the way down the marble stairs.

Carlos Romero was twenty-seven; a saturnine, rather handsome young man, son of a wealthy Madrid wine merchant, he had learned to fly at sixteen, had joined the Spanish Air Force at the earliest possible moment and trained as a fighter pilot. When the Civil War came he had opted for Franco, not because he was a dedicated Fascist, but because that’s what people of his class did. He’d shot down eleven planes, and had the time of his life. He’d even flown with the German Condor Legion.

Suddenly it was all over and he didn’t want that, and then he’d got a whisper that the SS were taking Spanish volunteers. A pilot with his record they had snapped up without hesitation, employing him mainly on courier duties, ferrying high-ranking officers.

So here he was at the controls of a small Stork spotter plane a thousand feet above Berlin, an SS Brigadeführer behind him. He called the tower at Gatow, received permission to land and drifted down towards the airfield, bored out of his skull.

‘Mother of God,’ he whispered softly in Spanish, ‘there must be something better than this.’

There was, of course, and he found it when he went into the mess and took off his flying jacket, revealing a well-tailored SS uniform in field grey. He had a small Spanish shield on his left shoulder, and wore the Spanish Order of Merit for gallantry in the field and an Iron Cross First Class for his exploits with the Condor Legion.

He was aware of Canaris first, because of his high rank, although he did not recognize him, but Ritter he did, and went forward with genuine pleasure.

‘Hans Ritter, by all that’s holy.’

Ritter got up to greet him, leaning on his stick, and shook hands. ‘You look well, Carlos. Spain seems a long time ago.’

‘I heard about your leg. I’m sorry.’

Ritter said, ‘Admiral Canaris, Head of the Abwehr.’

Romero got his heels together and saluted. ‘An honour, Herr Admiral.’

‘Join us, Herr Hauptsturmführer.’ Canaris waved to the mess steward. ‘Champagne. Bollinger for preference, and three glasses.’ He turned to Romero. ‘You are a courier pilot, I understand. Do you like that?’

‘To be frank, Herr Admiral, these milk runs of mine bore me to death.’

‘Then we’ll have to see if we can find something more rewarding for you,’ Canaris said as the champagne arrived. ‘Tell him, Hans.’

Romero finished reading the file and closed it. His face was pale and excited as he looked up. Canaris said, ‘Are you interested?’

‘Interested?’ Romero accepted a cigarette from Ritter and his hand shook. ‘Herr Admiral, I’m willing to go down on my knees and beg.’

Canaris laughed. ‘No need for that.’

Ritter said, ‘The Catalina would not present you with a problem?’

‘Good God no, an excellent aircraft to fly.’

‘And what about a crew?’

Romero sat back thinking about it. ‘I could manage with a second pilot and an engineer.’

‘And where would we find them?’ Canaris asked.

‘Right here in the Spanish Legion of the SS. Like myself, Herr Admiral. I can think of two suitable candidates right now: Javier Noval, a fine pilot, and Juan Conde, an aircraft engineer of genius.’

Ritter made a note of the names. ‘Excellent. I’ll have them transferred to Abwehr duties along with yourself.’

‘What about the explosives and the mines?’ Romero asked.

‘We’ll have them delivered by some suitable freighter,’ Ritter told him. ‘There should be no problem in a place like Dahrein. You will naturally build up your credentials during the run-up to September. Coastal trade, freight, that kind of thing.’

Romero nodded slowly. ‘But I do have a suggestion. When the time comes we could make the transfer of the mines at sea. I could land beside the freighter with no problem. From there a direct flight to the base would simplify the whole thing.’

‘Excellent.’ Canaris stood up. ‘I think you should meet our friend Professor Muller. You can come back to town with us, drop me off on the way and then continue to the University. From now on, you deal with Captain Ritter in all things.’

‘At your orders. Herr Admiral.’

‘Good,’ Canaris said, and he turned and led the way out.

Muller’s department at the University was housed in a vast echoing hall filled with artefacts of every description. Egyptian mummies, statues from Rome and Greece, amphorae retrieved from ancient wrecks at the bottom of the Mediterranean, it was all there. Ritter and Romero browsed while Muller sat at his desk in his glass office and read the Operation Sheba file. Finally he got up and went to join them.

Ritter turned. ‘Well, what do you think?’

Muller was highly nervous, tried to smile and failed miserably. ‘A wonderful idea, Herr Hauptman, but I wonder if I have the qualifications you need. I mean, I’m not a trained spy, I’m just an archaeologist.’

‘This will be done, Professor, and by direct order of the Führer. Does this give you a problem?’

‘Good heavens no.’ Muller’s face was ashen.

Romero clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, Professor, I’ll look after you.’

Ritter said, ‘That’s settled then. When Hauptsturmführer Romero leaves from Lisbon in the Catalina, you go with him, so make your preparations. I’ll be in touch.’

Ritter limped away, his stick tapping the marble. As they moved along the hall to the entrance, Romero said to him, ‘He’s a nervous little bastard, Ritter.’

‘He’ll come to heel and that’s all that’s important.’ They went out of the main entrance and stood at the top of the steps. ‘I’ll make arrangements for the immediate transfer of you and Noval and Conde today. You’ll leave for Lisbon tomorrow, in civilian clothes naturally. I’ll arrange priority seats on the Lufthansa flight. As regards the purchase of the Catalina our man at the German Legation will be your banker. Once you’ve checked the plane out, report back to me on the Embassy secure phone. I’ll expect to hear from you by Thursday at the latest.’

‘Mother of God, but you don’t hang about, Hans, do you?’

‘I could never see the point,’ Ritter said, and started down the steps to the Mercedes.

The River Tagus, as someone once said, is the true reason for the existence of Lisbon, with its wide bays and many sheltered anchorages. It was from here that the great flying boats, the mighty clippers, left for America and it was here, attached to two buoys about three hundred yards out to sea from the waterfront, that Carlos Romero found the Catalina. He had arrived at the dock close to the Avenida da India together with Javier Noval and Juan Conde ten minutes early for the appointment with the owner’s agent, a man called da Gama. They stood at the edge of the dock looking out at the amphibian.

‘It looks good to me,’ said Noval, a tough young man around Romero’s age, who wore an old leather flying jacket.

Conde was older than either of them, thirty-five and stocky. He also wore a flying jacket and looked across at the Catalina, shading his eyes from the sun.

‘What do you think, Juan, can you handle it?’

‘Just try me.’

A motor boat nosed in to the dock and a man in a brown suit and Panama hat waved from the stern. ‘Señor Romero?’ he called in Spanish. ‘Fernando da Gama. Come aboard.’

They went down the steps and joined him, and he nodded to the boatman, who took the motorboat away.

‘She looks good?’ da Gama suggested.

‘She looks bloody marvellous,’ Romero told him. ‘What’s the story?’

‘A local shipping line had the idea of regular flights down to the island of Madeira. Purchased the Catalina in the United States last year. It has performed magnificently, but they wanted to concentrate on passengers and the capacity is limited – too limited for there to be any money in it. May I ask what your requirement would be?’

Romero stayed very close to the truth. ‘General freight in the Red Sea and Gulf of Aden, flying as far as Goa perhaps. It’s a new venture.’

‘I know that area,’ da Gama said. ‘The Catalina would be perfect.’

They bumped alongside a small floating dock and as the boatman killed his motor, Noval and Conde grabbed a line and tied up. Da Gama opened the cabin door and led the way in. Romero looked into the cockpit with conscious pleasure, took one of the pilot’s seats and reached for the control column. Noval took the other seat and examined the instrument panel.

‘What a beauty.’

Da Gama, Conde at his shoulder, opened a file. ‘I’ll just give you approximate dimensions. Length sixty-three feet, height twenty, wingspan a hundred and four. The twin engines are Pratt and Whitney, twelve hundred horsepower each. Cruising speed a hundred and eighty miles an hour. Remarkably long range. Without freight it is possible to fly for four thousand miles before the need to refuel. I can’t think of another aircraft that could do this.’

‘Neither can I,’ Romero told him and got up. ‘You can take us back now.’

As they scrambled into the motor boat da Gama tried the usual tack. ‘Of course, a number of people are interested.’

The motor boat pulled away and Romero said, ‘Drop the sales pitch, my friend, just draw up the contract. I’ll give you my lawyer’s name, we sign tomorrow and you’ll receive a cheque for your asking price. Satisfied?’

Da Gama looked astonished. ‘But of course, Señor.’

Romero took out a cigarette and accepted a light from Noval. He looked back at the Catalina and blew out a long plume of smoke.

‘Looks like we’re in business, boys,’ he said.

Baron Oswald von Hoyningen-Heune was Minister to the German Legation in Lisbon. An aristocrat and career diplomat of the old school, he was no Nazi and, like most of his staff, was thankful to be as far away from Berlin as possible. Initially wary of the strange Spaniard who was a Hauptsturmführer in the SS, and resigned to following orders from Berlin, he had been pleasantly surprised, had taken to Romero.

He rose to greet him now as the Spaniard entered his office. ‘My dear Romero, it went well?’