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‘He is doing well. As agreed, he provides disinformation where it cannot be detected as false and true intelligence where it does not threaten our security and can be verified by the enemy. His masters in the British Secret Service are pleased with him – he has recently been promoted to a level where he is present at some MI6 strategy meetings, and his reports are read by their Joint Intelligence Committee. Soon, if we are patient, he should have access to the most top-secret information.’
‘Excellent,’ said Hitler, rubbing his hands. ‘As always, your work does you credit, Reinhard. You make the Abwehr look like circus clowns.’
Heydrich bowed his head, savouring the compliment. There was nothing he would have liked better than to further extend his Gestapo empire into the field of foreign intelligence, where he was currently forced to compete not only with the Abwehr, the traditional Secret Service headed by Admiral Canaris, but also with Ribbentrop’s equally second-rate Foreign Office outfit.
‘But I am afraid that we are going to have to be a little less patient,’ Hitler went on smoothly. ‘Agent D gives us an opportunity not just to make the British believe that we are serious about the invasion, but also to make them think that we can succeed. That is what is missing now. Churchill still thinks he can win. If he receives information that makes him stop believing that, then he will have to negotiate. He will have no choice. Do you understand me, Reinhard?’
‘Yes, of course. But if they find out that what D is telling them is untrue, then his cover will be blown. He is an important asset—’
‘And will remain so,’ said Hitler, holding up his hand to forestall further objection. ‘If D’s cover is blown, then Churchill won’t believe the information he’s being given and our scheme fails. No, we must exaggerate our strength on the sea and in the air, but not to the point where it strains credibility. It’s a delicate balance – a task requiring a sure hand. Can I rely on you, Reinhard? Can you do this for me?’
‘Yes. I am in your hands. You know that. But I will need authority to obtain details of our capability from the service chiefs and advice on the level to which it can be distorted without arousing suspicion.’
‘Here. This should be sufficient,’ said Hitler, taking a folded document from his pocket and handing it across the table. ‘Now, tell me about D’s source for his information. What do the British believe the source’s position is at present?’
‘On the general staff, attached to General Halder.’
‘I see,’ said Hitler, licking his lips meditatively. ‘Well, I think we are going to have to award him an increase in status if the British are going to believe that he’s able to provide D with information of the value that I have in mind. What do you suggest, Reinhard?’
‘Aide-de-camp?’
‘Yes, very good – that sounds just right,’ said Hitler, looking pleased. ‘Sufficient status to give him access to top-level military conferences like the one today, and to make it credible that he’s heard me speak of both my willingness to invade and my desire for peace. We can downgrade the source’s status later if it becomes too conspicuous for a fictional character,’ Hitler added with a smile.
‘All as you say – it will be done,’ said Heydrich, getting up from the table and putting on his SS cap, which he had held balanced on his knees during the conversation. He was about to salute, but Hitler forestalled him.
‘Remind me – what is your usual method for communicating with D?’ he asked.
‘We have a reliable contact in the Portuguese embassy in London. Information and reports are sent through the diplomatic bag to Lisbon and then brought on to Berlin from there, and the same in the other direction. It takes time, but it is safe and efficient.’
‘And radio?’
‘The codes we have work for short messages. But not for anything longer – D does not have an Enigma machine and so a report or a briefing instruction like this one wouldn’t be secure. There is a drop we can use that D knows about.’
‘A drop?’
‘Yes. On the coast of Norfolk, north-east of London. We have a sleeper agent there who will pick up documents that we drop from a plane. It works. I have used it before, but D would have to go there to collect.’
‘Very well. Use the drop. Time is of the essence. Everyone needs to understand that. If we wait too long, the weather will turn against us and Churchill will know we are not coming. So you must give this task top priority – put aside everything else that you are working on until the briefing document is ready for me to look at. And when it is, bring it here in person, and then, if I approve, you can send it.’
Hitler nodded and Heydrich raised his right arm in salute and turned away. At the top of the steps leading down to the road, he looked back at the Führer, who was now leaning back in his chair with his hat tipped down over his eyes and his legs stretched out in front of him. He looked like a holidaymaker, Heydrich thought, enjoying the last of the day’s sunshine with a cup of afternoon tea at his side. A neutral observer would have laughed at the suggestion that this was the most powerful man in Europe, who held the fate of nations balanced in the palm of his hand.
II (#ulink_f3ae46f2-f60a-553f-a345-f606c6380ec4)
A flight of geese rose up in a sudden rush from the island in the lake, beat the air above the ruined bird-keeper’s cottage, and then soared into the London sky towards the white vapour trails of the fighter aircraft that had been engaged in aerial battles above the city for most of the day.
Seaforth stopped to look, but Thorn paid no attention, continuing his angry march down Birdcage Walk with his hands thrust deep inside his trouser pockets. Ever since he first came to London, Seaforth had loved St James’s Park, and he felt profoundly grateful that he now worked so close to it that he could come here almost every day, sit under the ancient horse-chestnut trees, and look up past the falling boughs of the weeping willows to where the buildings of Whitehall rose from out of the water like the palaces of a fairy kingdom. But today there was no time to dawdle. Churchill was waiting for them in his bunker, and Seaforth turned away from the view and walked quickly to catch up with his companion.
He felt intensely alive. In the morning and again in the afternoon, he’d left his desk and gone out and joined the crowds in the street outside, gazing up at the aerial dogfights going on above their heads – Hurricanes and Spitfires and Messerschmitts wheeling and twisting through crisscrossing vapour trails, searching for angles of attack. The noise had been tremendous – the roar of the machine guns mixed up with the exploding anti-aircraft shells; the underlying drone of the aeroplanes; the shrapnel falling like pattering rain on the ground; bombs exploding. Several times he’d watched transfixed as planes caught fire and tumbled from the sky, with black smoke pouring out behind them as they fell. A Dornier bomber had hit the ground a few streets away, exploding in a column of crimson-and-yellow flame, and Seaforth could still hear the people around him cheering, throwing their hats up into the air while the German crew burned. Some bombs had fallen close by – there was a rumour that Buckingham Palace had been hit – but Seaforth had been too absorbed in the battle to worry about his personal safety. He’d felt he was watching history unfold right above his head.
And then at the end of the day he had been caught up in the drama when the unexpected summons had come from the prime minister’s office and he and Thorn had set off together through the park. Now the day’s fighting seemed to be over – there was no more sign of the enemy, only a few British fighters patrolling overhead, although Seaforth knew that the bombers would almost certainly return after dark to rain down more terror on the city’s population. Seaforth wondered about the outcome of the day’s battle. He’d tried to talk to Thorn about it, but Thorn had shown no interest in conversation.
Seaforth didn’t like Thorn; he didn’t like him at all. He objected to the disdainful, upper-class voice in which Thorn spoke to him, treating him like a member of some inferior species. He rebelled against having to answer to a man for whom he had no respect. He tipped his felt hat back at a rakish angle and amused himself with trying to annoy Thorn into talking to him.
‘Is it true what they say, that Churchill receives visitors in his bath?’ he asked. ‘I hope he doesn’t do that with us. I think I’d find it hard to concentrate. Wouldn’t you?’
Thorn grunted and stopped to light a cigarette, cupping the lighted match in his hand to protect it from the wind.
‘You hear so many strange things,’ Seaforth went on, undaunted by his companion’s lack of response. ‘Like how he takes so many risks, going up on the roof of Downing Street to watch the bombs and the dogfights – as if he’s convinced that nothing will ever happen to him, like he’s got some kind of divine protection; a contract with the Almighty.’
‘Why are you so interested in where he goes?’ Thorn asked sharply.
‘I’m not. I’m just trying to make conversation,’ said Seaforth amicably.
‘Well, don’t.’
‘Whatever you say, old man,’ said Seaforth, shrugging. He whistled a few bars of a patriotic song and then went back on the attack, taking a perverse pleasure in Thorn’s growing irritation.
‘How many times have you seen the PM? Before now, I mean?’ he asked.
‘Two or three. I don’t know,’ said Thorn. ‘Does it matter?’
‘I’m just trying to get an idea of what to expect, that’s all. Where did you go – to Number 10 or this underground place?’
‘You ask too many damn questions,’ said Thorn, putting an end to the conversation. He took a long drag on his cigarette, inhaling the smoke deep into his lungs. He was trying not to think about Seaforth or the forthcoming interview with the Prime Minister, and the effort was making his head ache.
He was eaten up with a mass of competing thoughts and emotions, and he felt too tired to work out where genuine distrust of Seaforth ended and his own selfish resentment of the young upstart began. Churchill’s summons to the two of them had placed him in an impossible position. His inclusion was recognition that he was the one in charge of German intelligence, but Thorn knew perfectly well that it was Seaforth Churchill wanted to talk to. It was Seaforth’s report that the Prime Minister wanted to discuss; it was Seaforth’s high-value agent in Germany he was interested in. Thorn was no better than a redundant extra at their meeting.
They reached Horse Guards and climbed the steps to 2 Storey’s Gate. Thorn felt a renewed surge of irritation as he sensed Seaforth’s growing excitement. They showed their special day-passes to a blue-uniformed Royal Marine standing with a fixed bayonet at the entrance and went down the steep spiral staircase leading to the bunker. Through a great iron door and past several more sentries, they came to a corridor leading into the labyrinth. Seaforth blinked in the bright artificial light and greedily took in his surroundings – whitewashed brick walls and big red steel girders supporting the ceilings. It was like being inside the bowels of a ship, Seaforth thought. The air was stale, almost fetid, despite the continuous hum of the ubiquitous ventilation fans pumping in filtered air from outside, and there was an atmosphere of concentrated activity all around them. Through the open doors of the rooms that they passed, Seaforth saw secretaries typing and men talking animatedly into telephones – some in uniform, some in suits. People hurried by in both directions, and Seaforth was struck by the paleness of their faces, caused no doubt by a prolonged deprivation of light and fresh air. Tellingly, a notice on the wall described the day’s weather conditions, as if this were the only way the inhabitants of this God-forsaken underworld would ever know whether the sun was shining or rain was falling in the world above.
They stopped outside the open door of the Map Room. This was the nerve centre of the bunker, where information about the war was continually being received, collated, and distributed. Two parallel lines of desks ran down the centre of the room, divided from each other by a bank of different-coloured telephones – green, white, ivory, and red – the so-called beauty chorus. They didn’t ring but instead flashed continuously, answered by officers in uniform sitting at the desks. Over on a blackboard in the corner, the day’s ‘score’ was marked up in chalk – Luftwaffe on the left with fifty-three down and RAF on the right with twenty-two. It was a significant number of ‘kills’ but fewer than Seaforth had anticipated, judging from the mayhem he’d witnessed in the skies over London during the day.
Seaforth’s eyes watered. The thick fug of cigarette smoke blown about by the electric fans on the wall made him feel sick, but he swallowed the bile rising in his throat, determined to see everything and to try to understand everything he saw. No detail escaped his notice – the codebooks and documents littering the desks lit up by the green reading lamps; the map of the Atlantic on the far wall with different-coloured pins showing the up-to-date location of the convoys crossing to and from America; the stand of locked-up Lee-Enfield rifles just inside the entrance to the room.
‘What are you looking at?’ asked a hostile voice close to his ear. It was Thorn. Seaforth had been so absorbed in his observation of the Map Room that he had momentarily forgotten his companion. But Thorn had clearly not forgotten him. He was staring at Seaforth, his eyes alive with suspicion.
‘Everything,’ said Seaforth. ‘This is the heart of the operation. Of course I’m curious.’
‘Curiosity killed the cat,’ said Thorn acidly.
‘Mr Thorn, Mr Seaforth. If I could just see your passes?’ A man in a dark suit had appeared as if from nowhere. ‘Good. Thank you. If you’d like to come this way. The Prime Minister will see you now.’
They passed through an ante-room, turned to their left, and suddenly found themselves in the presence of Winston Churchill, dressed not in a bathrobe but in an expensive double-breasted pinstripe suit with a gold watch chain stretched across his capacious stomach. He was wearing his trademark polka-dot bow tie and a spotless white handkerchief folded into a precise triangle in his top pocket. It was the Churchill that was familiar from countless Pathé newsreels and photographs, except for the stovepipe hat, and that was hanging on a stand in the corner. Without the hat he seemed older – the wispy strands of hair on his head and the pudginess of his face made him seem more a vulnerable, careworn old man than the indomitable British bulldog of popular imagination.
He got up from behind his kneehole desk just as they came in, depositing a half-smoked Havana cigar in a large ashtray that contained the butts of two more.
‘Hello, Alec,’ he said, shaking Thorn’s hand. ‘Good of you to come – sorry about the short notice. And this must be the resourceful Mr Seaforth,’ he went on, fixing a look of penetrating enquiry on Thorn’s companion, who had hung back as they’d entered the room, as if overcome by an uncharacteristic shyness now that he was about to meet the most famous Englishman of his generation.
Eagerness and then timidity: Thorn was puzzled by the sudden change in Seaforth, who seemed momentarily reluctant to go forward and shake Churchill’s outstretched hand. And then, when he did so, Thorn could have sworn that Seaforth grimaced as if in revulsion at the physical contact. But Churchill didn’t seem to notice, and Thorn realized that it could well be the cigar smoke that was causing Seaforth discomfort. He was well aware how much Seaforth hated tobacco, and the sight of his subordinate’s nauseated expression had been the only redeeming feature for Thorn of Seaforth’s recent inclusion at strategy meetings in the smoke-filled conference room back at HQ.
‘I don’t need you, Thompson,’ said Churchill. For a moment, Thorn had no idea whom the Prime Minister was talking to, until he turned to his right and realized that another man was present in the room. It was Walter Thompson, Churchill’s personal bodyguard, sitting like a waxwork in the corner, tall and ramrod straight. Without a word, Thompson went out and closed the door behind him.
‘Drink?’ asked Churchill, crossing to a side table and mixing himself a generous whisky and soda. ‘By God, I need one. I hate being down here with the rest of the trogs, but Thompson and the rest of them insist on it when the bombing gets bad, so I don’t suppose I’ve got too much choice. I’d much prefer to have been up topside watching the battle. Seems like Goering’s thrown everything he’s got at us today, but the brass tell me we’ve weathered the storm so far, at least. You know, I don’t think I’ve been as proud of anyone as I’ve been of our pilots these last few weeks. Tested in the fiery furnace day after day, night after night, and each time they come out ready for action. Extraordinary!’
Churchill looked up, holding out the whisky bottle. Thorn accepted the offer, but Seaforth declined.
‘Not a teetotaller, are you?’ asked Churchill, eyeing Seaforth with a look of distrust.
‘No, sir,’ said Seaforth. ‘I just want to have all my wits about me, that’s all. I’m expecting some difficult questions.’
‘Are you now?’ said Churchill, raising his eyebrows quizzically as he resumed his seat and waved his visitors to chairs on the other side of the desk. ‘Well, it was certainly an interesting report you sent in,’ he observed, putting on his round-rimmed black reading glasses and examining a document that he’d extracted from a buff-coloured box perched precariously on the corner of the desk. ‘Lots of nuts-and-bolts information, which I like, but most of it saying how well prepared Herr Hitler is for his cross-Channel excursion, which I like rather less. We knew about the heavy build-up of artillery and troops in the Pas-de-Calais, of course, but the number of tanks they’ve converted to amphibious use is an unpleasant surprise, and we’d assumed up to now that most of their landing craft were going to be unpowered.’
‘They’ve installed BMW aircraft engines on the barges,’ said Seaforth. ‘They seem to work, apparently.’
‘So I see. Five hundred tanks converted to amphibious use,’ said Churchill, reading from the document. ‘It’s a large number if they can get them across, but that’ll depend on the weather, of course, and who’s in control of the air, and we seem to be holding our own in that department, at least for now, at any rate.’
‘There are the figures for Luftwaffe air production in the report as well – on the last page,’ said Seaforth, leaning forward, pointing with his finger.
‘Yes,’ said Churchill. ‘Again far higher than we expected. But to be taken with a pinch of salt, I think. Goering would be likely to exaggerate the numbers for his master’s benefit.’ He put down the report, looking at Seaforth over the tops of his glasses as if trying to get the measure of him. ‘Your agent’s report is basically a summary of what was discussed at the last Berghof conference, with a few opinions of his own thrown in for good measure. Is that a fair description, Mr Seaforth?’
‘He’s verified the facts where he can,’ said Seaforth.
‘But he’s an army man working for General Halder, who’s another army man,’ said Churchill. ‘He’s not going to have inside information about the Luftwaffe.’
‘He knows one hell of a lot for an ADC, and a recently promoted one at that,’ Thorn observed sourly. It was his first intervention in the conversation.
‘Too good to be true? Is that what you’re saying, Alec?’ asked Churchill, looking at Thorn with interest.
‘Too right I am. The source material was nothing like this before. Now it’s the Führer this, the Führer that. It’s like we’re sitting round a table with Hitler, listening to him tell us about his war aims.’
‘My agent didn’t have access before to Führer conferences,’ Seaforth said obdurately. ‘Now he does.’
‘Why’s he helping us?’ asked Churchill. ‘Tell me that.’
‘Because he hates Hitler,’ said Seaforth. ‘A lot of the general staff do. And he has Jewish relatives – he’s angry about what’s happening over there.’
‘How well do you know this agent of yours?’
‘I recruited him personally when I was in Berlin before the war. He felt the same way then – he loved his country but hated where it was going. I have complete confidence in him.’
‘As do his superiors, judging from his recent promotion,’ observed Churchill caustically. He was silent for a moment, scratching his chin, looking long and hard at the two intelligence officers as if he were about to make a wager and were considering which one of them to place his money on. ‘Betrayal is something I’ve always found hard to understand – even when it’s an act committed for the best of motives,’ he said finally. ‘It’s outside my field of expertise. But we certainly cannot afford to look a gift horse in the mouth, even if we do choose to regard the animal with some healthy scepticism. So, let us assume for a moment that what your agent says is true and that Hitler is ready and determined to come and pay us a visit once he’s got all his forces assembled—’
‘He thinks Hitler doesn’t want to,’ said Seaforth, interrupting.
‘Thinks!’ Thorn repeated scornfully.
‘Hitler said as much at the conference,’ said Seaforth, leaning forward eagerly. ‘He wants to negotiate—’
‘A generous peace based broadly on the status quo,’ said Churchill, finishing Seaforth’s sentence by quoting verbatim from the report. ‘And that may well be exactly what he does want,’ he observed equably, picking up his smouldering cigar and leaning back in his chair. ‘The Führer thinks he is very cunning, but at bottom the way his mind works is very simple. He’s a racist – he wants to fight Slavs, not Anglo-Saxons. But the point is it doesn’t matter what he wants. We cannot negotiate with the Nazis however many Messerschmitts and submersible tanks they may have lined up against us. Do you remember what I called them when I became Prime Minister four months ago – “a monstrous tyranny, never surpassed in the dark, lamentable catalogue of human crime”?’ Churchill had the gift of an actor – his voice changed, becoming grave and solemn as he recited the line from his speech. But then he smiled, taking another draw on his cigar. ‘Grand words, I know, but the truth. We must defeat Hitler or die in the attempt. There is no hope for any of us otherwise. And so the strength of his invasion force and his wish for peace cannot change our course.’
Abruptly the Prime Minister got to his feet. Thorn nodded his approval of Churchill’s policy, but Seaforth looked as though he had more to say. He opened his mouth to speak, then changed his mind.
‘Thank you, gentlemen. Reports like this one are invaluable,’ said Churchill, tapping the document on his desk. ‘If you get more intelligence like this, I shall want to see you again straight away. Both of you, mind you – I like to hear both points of view. And you can call my private secretary to set up the appointment so we don’t have delays going through the Joint Intelligence Committee – he’ll give you the number outside. My predecessors made a serious mistake in my opinion keeping the Secret Service at arm’s length. It takes a war, I suppose, to inject some sense into government.
‘Goodbye, Alec. Goodbye, Mr Seaforth,’ he said affably, shaking their hands across the desk. ‘Seaforth – an interesting name and not one I’ve heard before,’ he said pensively. ‘Sounds a bit like Steerforth – the seducer of that poor girl in David Copperfield. Came to a bad end, as I recall. A great writer, Dickens, but inclined to be sentimental, which is something we can’t afford to be at present. The stakes are too high; much too high for that.’
III (#ulink_824e4c82-350e-5a9f-8d46-d8c703d369f8)
Exactly the same people were present in the great hall of the Berghof as the week before; the same map of Europe was spread out across the table; and Reichsmarschall Goering was wearing the same brighter-than-white uniform with gold epaulettes and buttons and black Iron Cross medals dangling at his throat. He jabbed exultantly at the towns of south-east England with his fat forefinger and listed the damage that the Luftwaffe had inflicted upon them since the last conference. He seemed oblivious to the tight-lipped frigidity of the Führer, standing beside him.
Head of an air force and he can’t even fit inside an aeroplane. Heydrich smiled for a moment, his thin, pale lips wrinkling in contemptuous amusement at the thought of Goering trying to fit his great bulk inside the narrow cockpit of a Heinkel twin-engined bomber. Once upon a time, Goering had flown, of course – in the last war he had been a fighter ace, the last commander of von Richthofen’s Flying Circus after the Red Baron was killed in action in 1918. But now he was past it, over the hill; unfit for anything useful except to go back home to Carinhall, the ugly, tasteless mansion he’d built for himself in the Schorfheide forest north-east of Berlin and fill his belly full of rich French food while he feasted his bulbous eyes on the old master paintings he’d looted out of Paris when it fell.
Heydrich could fly. He hadn’t needed to. He could have stayed behind his desk in Berlin when the war broke out, issuing orders and decrees like other ministers. But instead he’d overcome his fears and learnt because he knew that flying would make him a god, turning in silver arcs through the clouds; insulated by silk and fur against the bitter, outlandish cold; pitting his wits and nerves against an unknown enemy until death took one or the other of them, plucking them from the skies forever. Earlier in the year, he’d flown sixty missions over Norway and France, watching as the panzer divisions below had thrust their shining black armour deep into the heartlands of the enemy, accomplishing in a few short weeks what the German army had failed to do in five years of fighting during the last war. And why? What had changed to make this possible? The answer was simple. It was the leadership of Adolf Hitler – his energy and power; his extraordinary intelligence and understanding; and yes, his will. He was the one who had made the difference. He had made the soldiers believe in themselves; he had carried them forward to victory.
And today the aura of power around the Führer was even more striking than usual. Everyone in the room was in uniform except Hitler, who was wearing a black double-breasted suit and a white shirt and tie, as if he were attending a funeral and not a military conference. The Führer was always meticulous in his dress, and Heydrich was sure that the suit had been a deliberate decision, meant to emphasize his displeasure at the current progress of the war. Heydrich’s report of Agent D’s short radio message concerning Churchill’s intransigence, which he’d sent to Hitler the previous day, had only increased the Führer’s angry gloom.
‘What does it gain us if we bomb all these towns? What does it matter if the population of London goes stark raving mad?’ Hitler broke out in a nervous, angry voice, gesturing with a dismissive wave at the map. ‘That fool Churchill will not give in. He doesn’t care if the bodies are piled ten high in the London streets. You’ve heard him speak. He wants this war. It’s what he always dreamed about. What does it matter that there’s no sense to it; that there’s no justice to it? England can have its empire, but Germany can have nothing. That is what he says. You can’t reason with a man like that. The only thing that would have made a difference is if you had given me air supremacy. And isn’t that what you promised me a week ago, Herr Reichsmarschall? Isn’t it?’
It was a rhetorical question thrown out while Hitler was pausing for breath, and Goering knew better than to respond. Heydrich was secretly impressed by the way Goering stood almost at attention and silently took all that the Führer had to throw at him. Hitler was giving full rein to his fury now. He was shouting and beads of sweat stood out on his pale forehead. In a characteristic gesture, he kept brushing the fringe of his falling brown hair back from off his face.
‘If we can’t control the skies, we can’t control the sea. An invasion is a waste of time. Any fool knows that. And so I’m to wait here doing nothing, listening to you telling me about incendiary bombs while Stalin builds more tanks. The Bolsheviks are the enemy, not the British. That is where the panzers must go, that is our destiny,’ Hitler shouted, jamming his finger down on the right side of the map, into the huge red mass of the Soviet Union. ‘I always knew this. I wrote it in my book fifteen years ago. Perhaps you should read it again, Herr Reichsmarschall – refresh your memory. My Struggle, I called it; Mein Kampf. I should have called it My Struggle to Be Heard.’
‘We will win,’ said Goering, injecting a note of certainty into his voice that Heydrich was sure he didn’t feel. ‘Just a little more time is all we need. And the RAF will be finished. They cannot withstand us; they are on their last legs.’
‘They are bombing Germany!’ Hitler screamed. ‘That is what they are doing. And you talk like it isn’t happening.’
Hitler took out his handkerchief and mopped his sweating brow. He held hard on to the side of the table, trying to control his breathing.
‘The invasion of England is cancelled, indefinitely postponed – call it what you like. You have all failed,’ he said, looking slowly around at his generals as if he were registering each face for subsequent review. ‘All of you,’ he repeated. His voice was soft but venomous, and the men closest to him instinctively took a step back. ‘Let it be the last time.’
Abruptly he turned and walked away from the table towards the side door by which he had come in. The conference was over.
Ten minutes later, Heydrich stood at the top of the entrance steps, watching the leaders of the Third Reich leave the Berghof one by one in their chauffeur-driven black Mercedes-Benz staff cars. In just the last few days summer had turned to autumn, and the canvas umbrellas over the outdoor tables flapped disconsolately in the light breeze that was blowing up from the valley below. It seemed to Heydrich far longer than a week since he had sat with Hitler on the stone terrace, drinking tea in the afternoon sunshine.
Looking down the steps, Heydrich remembered the Führer standing where he was now, waiting to greet the straight-backed British Prime Minister Neville Chamberlain in the week before the Munich Conference in 1938. Chamberlain had watery eyes and a wispy moustache, and he’d wanted peace in our time. Heydrich remembered afterwards the way Hitler had scornfully described how the Englishman’s hands had trembled when he used the word war. And Chamberlain hadn’t been alone. Lord Halifax, England’s foreign minister then and now, had also wanted to find a peaceful solution to ‘Germany’s legitimate demands’, as he’d called them. Hitler was right – it was Churchill who had changed the rules of the game. The fat man was in love with the sound of his own voice, filling the radio waves with his hatred of Germany and his talk of blood, toil, sweat, and tears. The false briefing paper exaggerating Germany’s preparedness for the invasion of England on which Heydrich had lavished so much time and care had made no difference. D had reported that Churchill wouldn’t back down – the old fool had meant exactly what he’d said in his rabble-rousing speech to the British Parliament back in June: ‘We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall never surrender.’ Fine words, but meaningless when the British Army had left all its heavy weapons on the beach at Dunkirk and their Home Guard was armed with spades and pitchforks. Without Churchill things might be different: sense might prevail. And D’s radio message had contained an idea for how Churchill might be removed from the equation – only a possibility, but certainly one worth exploring. A new door seemed to be opening just as an old one was closing.
Heydrich hadn’t mentioned D’s idea in the report that he’d sent to Hitler by courier the day before. It required a face-to-face conversation; it was too sensitive to be put in writing, and besides, Heydrich wanted to ensure it remained a secret between him and the Führer. He hesitated as he slowly buttoned his greatcoat and adjusted the peak of his SS cap over his brow. On the face of it, now was a perfect opportunity to see the Führer alone. He’d watched all the generals leave. But Hitler might not be receptive to new ideas in his present angry mood – an unscheduled intrusion might only infuriate him more. Yet Heydrich had a solution to offer to the very problem that was causing the Führer’s ill humour.
He ran the tip of his tongue round the edges of his lips as he weighed the odds, and then, making up his mind, he turned on his heel and re-entered the house. The great hall was empty, so he went on into the pine-panelled dining room and practically collided with the Führer’s valet, Heinz Linge.
‘Please tell the Führer that I wish to see him,’ said Heydrich. He was nervous and made it sound like an order rather than a request.
‘But the Führer is resting, Herr General,’ said Linge, who was under instructions to take orders from no one except his master. ‘The conference has ended. Everyone has left.’
‘Tell the Führer that that is why I am here,’ said Heydrich, standing his ground. ‘Because of what was discussed at the conference. I have something important to tell him. I need to see him urgently.’
‘Something that can’t wait. But something that couldn’t be said before in front of your colleagues. You intrigue me, Reinhard.’ Hitler had appeared silently behind his valet in the doorway, standing with his hands behind his back, but Heydrich was reassured to see that the Führer was smiling and appeared to have entirely shaken off his earlier irritation. He’d changed into a simple white military jacket, the same colour as Goering’s but otherwise entirely unlike the Reichsmarschall’s ridiculously flamboyant uniform.
‘Come, let us go out,’ he said. ‘We can walk together and enjoy the view down over the valley, and you can tell me what it is that is so urgent.’
