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‘Stanley Mews, quite close to Westminster Abbey.’
‘And convenient for the Houses of Parliament. A good address. I’m impressed.’
‘José always did like the best.’
‘Which must be paid for.’ Schellenberg got up and went to the window. It was snowing lightly. He said, ‘Is he reliable, this cousin of yours? Any question of him ever having had any dealings with our British friends?’
Rivera looked shocked again. ‘General Schellenberg, I assure you, José, like me, is a good Fascist. We fought together with General Franco in the Civil War. We …’
‘All right, I was just making the point. Now listen to me carefully. We may well decide to attempt to rescue Colonel Steiner.’
‘From the Tower of London, señor?’ Rivera’s eyes bulged.
‘In my opinion, they’ll move him to some sort of safe house. May well have done so already. You will send a message to your cousin today asking for all possible information.’
‘Of course, General.’
‘Get on with it then.’ As Rivera reached the door Schellenberg added, ‘I need hardly say that if one word of this leaks out you will end up in the River Spree, my friend, and your cousin in the Thames. I have an extraordinarily long arm.’
‘General, I beg of you.’ Rivera started to protest again.
‘Spare me all that stuff about what a good Fascist you are. Just think about how generous I’m going to be. A much sounder basis for our relationship.’
Rivera departed and Schellenberg phoned down for his car, pulled on his overcoat and went out.
Admiral Wilhelm Canaris was fifty-six. A U-boat captain of distinction in the First World War, he had headed the Abwehr since 1935 and despite being a loyal German had always been unhappy with National Socialism. Although he was opposed to any plan to assassinate Hitler, he had been involved with the German resistance movement for some years, treading a dangerous path that was eventually to lead to his downfall and death.
That morning, as he galloped along the ride between the trees in the Tiergarten, his horse’s hooves kicked up the powdered snow filling him with a fierce joy. The two dachshunds which accompanied him everywhere, followed with surprising speed. He saw Schellenberg standing beside his Mercedes, waved and turned towards him.
‘Good morning, Walter. You should be with me.’
‘Not this morning,’ Schellenberg told him. ‘I’m off on my travels again.’
Canaris dismounted and Schellenberg’s driver held the horse’s reins. Canaris offered Schellenberg a cigarette and they went and leaned on a parapet overlooking the lake.
‘Anywhere interesting?’ Canaris asked.
‘No, just routine,’ Schellenberg said.
‘Come on, Walter, out with it. There’s something on your mind.’
‘All right. The Operation Eagle affair.’
‘Nothing to do with me,’ Canaris told him. ‘The Führer came up with the idea. What nonsense! Kill Churchill when we’ve already lost the war.’
‘I wish you wouldn’t say that sort of thing out loud,’ Schellenberg said gently.
Canaris ignored him. ‘I was ordered to prepare a feasibility study. I knew the Führer would forget it within a matter of days and he did, only Himmler didn’t. Wanted to make life disagreeable for me as usual. Went behind my back, suborned Max Radl, one of my most trusted aides. And the whole thing turned out to be the shambles I knew it would.’
‘Of course Steiner almost pulled it off,’ Schellenberg said.
‘Pulled what off? Come off it, Walter, I’m not denying Steiner’s audacity and bravery, but the man they were after wasn’t even Churchill. Would have been quite something if they’d brought him back. The look on Himmler’s face would have been a joy to see.’
‘And now we hear that Steiner didn’t die,’ Schellenberg said. ‘That they have him in the Tower of London.’
‘Ah, so Rivera has passed on his dear cousin’s message to the Reichsführer also?’ Canaris smiled cynically. ‘Doubling up their reward as usual.’
‘What do you think the British will do?’
‘With Steiner? Lock him up tight until the end of the war like Hess, only they’ll keep quiet about it. Wouldn’t look too good, just as it wouldn’t look too good to the Führer if the facts came to his attention.’
‘Do you think they’re likely to?’ Schellenberg asked.
Canaris laughed out loud. ‘You mean from me? So that’s what all this is about? No, Walter, I’m in enough trouble these days without looking for more. You can tell the Reichsführer that I’ll keep quiet if he will.’
They started to walk back to the Mercedes. Schellenberg said, ‘I suppose he’s to be trusted, this Vargas? We can believe him?’
Canaris took the point seriously. ‘I’m the first to admit our operations in England have gone badly. The British secret service came up with a stroke of some genius when they stopped having our operatives shot when they caught them and simply turned them into double agents.’
‘And Vargas?’
‘One can never be sure, but I don’t think so. His position at the Spanish Embassy, the fact that he has only worked occasionally and as a freelance. No contacts with any other agents in England, you see.’ They had reached the car. He smiled, ‘Anything else?’
Schellenberg couldn’t help saying it, he liked the man so much. ‘As you well know, there was another attempt on the Führer’s life at Rastenburg. As it happened, the bombs the young officer involved was carrying, went off prematurely.’
‘Very careless of him. What’s your point, Walter?’
‘Take care, for God’s sake. These are dangerous times.’
‘Walter. I have never condoned the idea of assassinating the Führer.’ The Admiral climbed back into the saddle and gathered his reins. ‘However desirable that possibility may seem to some people, and shall I tell you why, Walter?’
‘I’m sure you’re going to.’
‘Stalingrad, thanks to the Führer’s stupidity, lost us more than three hundred thousand dead. Ninety-one thousand taken prisoner including twenty-four generals. The greatest defeat we’ve ever known. One balls-up after another, thanks to the Führer.’ He laughed harshly. ‘Don’t you realize the truth of it, my friend? His continued existence actually shortens the war for us.’
He put his spurs to his horse, the dachshunds yapping at his heels, and galloped into the trees.
Back at the office, Schellenberg changed into a light grey flannel suit in the bathroom, speaking through the other door to Ilse Huber as he dressed, filling her in on the whole business.
‘What do you think?’ he asked as he emerged. ‘Like a fairy tale by the Brothers Grimm?’
‘More like a horror story,’ she said as she held his black leather coat for him.
‘We’ll refuel in Madrid and carry straight on. Should be in Lisbon by late afternoon.’
He pulled on the coat, adjusted a slouch hat and picked up the overnight bag she had prepared. ‘I expect news from Rivera within two days at the outside. Give him thirty-six hours then apply pressure.’ He kissed her on the cheek. ‘Take care, Ilse. See you soon,’ and he was gone.
The plane was a JU52 with its famous three engines and corrugated metal skin. As it lifted from the Luftwaffe fighter base outside Berlin, Schellenberg undid his seat belt and reached for his briefcase. Berger, on the other side of the aisle, smiled.
‘The Herr Admiral was well, General?’
Now that isn’t very clever, Schellenberg thought. You weren’t supposed to know I was seeing him.
He smiled back. ‘He seemed his usual self.’
He opened his briefcase, started to read Devlin’s background report and examined a photo of him. After a while he stopped and looked out of the window remembering what Canaris had said about Hitler.
His continued existence actually shortens the war for us.
Strange how that thought went round and round in his brain and wouldn’t go away.
3 (#u7ccd0126-16b1-56dc-a3b3-125870eb7d0b)
Baron Oswald von Hoyningen-Heune, the Minister to the German Legation in Lisbon, was a friend, an aristocrat of the old school who was also no Nazi. He was delighted to see Schellenberg and showed it.
‘My dear Walter. Good to see you. How’s Berlin at the moment?’
‘Colder than this,’ Schellenberg told him as they moved out through French windows and sat at a table on the pleasant terrace. The garden was a sight to see, flowers everywhere. A houseboy in white jacket brought coffee on a tray and Schellenberg sighed. ‘Yes, I can understand you hanging on here instead of coming back to Berlin. The best place to be these days, Lisbon.’
‘I know,’ the Baron told him. ‘The constant worry all my staff have is of being transferred.’ He poured the coffee. ‘A strange time to arrive, Walter, Christmas Eve.’
‘You know Uncle Heini when he gets the bit between his teeth,’ Schellenberg told him, using the nickname common in the SS behind Himmler’s back.
‘It must be important,’ the Baron said. ‘Especially if he sends you.’
‘There’s a man we want, an Irishman – Liam Devlin.’
Schellenberg took Devlin’s photo from his wallet and passed it across. ‘He worked for Abwehr for a while. The IRA connection. Walked out of a hospital in Holland the other week. Our information is that he’s here, working as a waiter at a club in Alfama.’
‘The old quarter?’ The Baron nodded. ‘If he’s Irish, this man, I hardly need to point out that makes him officially a neutral. A situation of some delicacy.’
‘No rough stuff needed,’ Schellenberg said. ‘I hope we can persuade him to come back peaceably. I have a job to offer him that could be rather lucrative.’
‘Fine,’ the Baron said. ‘Just remember that our Portuguese friends really do value their neutrality. Even more so now that victory seems to be slipping away from us. However, Captain Eggar, my police attaché here, should be able to assist you.’ He picked up his phone and spoke to an aide. As he put it down he said, ‘I caught a glimpse of your companion.’
‘Sturmbannführer Horst Berger – Gestapo,’ Schellenberg said.
‘Doesn’t look your sort.’
‘A Christmas present from the Reichsführer. I didn’t have much choice.’
‘Like that, is it?’
There was a knock at the door and a man in his forties slipped in. He had a heavy moustache and wore a brown gaberdine suit that didn’t fit too well. A professional policeman, Schellenberg recognized the type.
‘Ah, there you are, Eggar. You know General Schellenberg, don’t you?’
‘Of course. A great pleasure to see you again. We met during the course of the Windsor affair in nineteen forty.’
‘Yes, well we prefer to forget all about that these days.’ Schellenberg passed Devlin’s photo across. ‘Have you seen this man?’
Eggar examined it. ‘No, General.’
‘He’s Irish, ex-IRA if you ever can be ex-IRA, age thirty-five. He worked for Abwehr for a while. We want him back. Our latest information is that he’s been working as a waiter at a bar called Flamingo.’
‘I know the place.’
‘Good. You’ll find my aide, Major Berger of the Gestapo, outside. Bring him in.’ Eggar went out and returned with Berger and Schellenberg made the introductions. ‘Baron von Hoyningen-Heune, Minister to the Legation and Captain Eggar, police attaché. Sturmbannführer Berger.’ Berger, in his dark suit with that ravaged face of his, was a chilling presence as he nodded formally and clicked his heels. ‘Captain Eggar knows this Flamingo place. I want you to go there with him and check if Devlin still works there. If he does, you will not, I repeat not, contact him in any way. Simply report to me.’ Berger showed no emotion, and turned to the door. As he opened it Schellenberg called, ‘During the nineteen thirties Liam Devlin was one of the most notorious gunmen in the IRA. You gentlemen would do well to remember that fact ‘
The remark, as Berger immediately knew, was aimed at him. He smiled faintly, ‘We will, General,’ turned and went out followed by Eggar.
‘A bad one that. You’re welcome to him. Still …’ The Baron checked his watch. ‘Just after five, Walter. How about a glass of champagne?’
Major Arthur Frear was fifty-four and looked older, with his crumpled suit and white hair. He’d have been retired by now on a modest pension leading a life of genteel poverty in Brighton or Torquay. Instead, thanks to Adolf Hitler, he was employed as military attaché at the British Embassy in Lisbon where he unofficially represented SOE.
The Lights of Lisbon at the southern edge of the Alfama district was one of his favourite places. How convenient that Devlin was playing piano there although there was no sign of him at the moment. Devlin, in fact, was watching him through a bead curtain at the rear. He wore a linen suit in off-white, dark hair falling across his forehead, the vivid blue eyes full of amusement as they surveyed Frear. The first Frear knew of his presence was when Devlin slid on the stool next to him and ordered a beer.
‘Mr Frear, isn’t it?’ He nodded to the barman. ‘José here tells me you’re in the port business.’
‘That’s right,’ Frear said jovially. ‘Been exporting it to England for years, my firm.’
‘Never been my taste,’ Devlin told him. ‘Now if it was Irish whiskey you were talking about …’
‘Can’t help you there, I’m afraid.’ Frear laughed again. ‘I say, old man, do you realize you’re wearing a Guards Brigade tie?’
‘Is that a fact? Fancy you knowing that.’ Devlin smiled amiably. ‘And me buying it from a stall in the flea market only last week.’
He slid off the stool and Frear said, ‘Aren’t you going to give us a tune?’
‘Oh, that comes later.’ Devlin moved to the door and grinned. ‘Major,’ he added, and was gone.
The Flamingo was a shabby little bar and restaurant. Berger was forced to leave things to Eggar who spoke the language fluently. At first they drew a blank. Yes, Devlin had worked there for a while, but he’d left three days ago. And then a woman who had come in to sell flowers to the customers overheard their conversation and intervened. The Irishman was working another establishment she called at, the Lights of Lisbon, only he was employed not as a waiter but as a pianist in the bar. Eggar tipped her and they moved outside.
‘Do you know the place?’ Berger said.
‘Oh yes, quite well. Also in the old quarter. I should warn you, the customers tend to the rougher side. Rather common round here.’
‘The scum of this life never give me a problem,’ Berger said. ‘Now show me the way.’
The high walls of the Castelo de São Jorge lifted above them as they worked their way through a maze of narrow alleys and then, as they came into a small square in front of a church, Devlin emerged from an alley and crossed the cobbles before them towards a café.
‘My God, it’s him,’ Eggar muttered. ‘Exactly like his photo.’
‘Of course it is, you fool,’ Berger said. ‘Is this the Lights of Lisbon?’
‘No, Major, another café. One of the most notorious in Alfama. Gypsies, bullfighters, criminals.’
‘A good job we’re armed then. When we go in, have your pistol in your right pocket and your hand on it.’
