“Thought I’d never ask, eh? Well, here’s the situation . . .” He walked across to a map on the wall, on which pins marked the positions of the Nazi camps whose locations were known to the Allies. With each appalling discovery made by the advancing armies, the number of pins increased. Gubbins picked out one north of Berlin, to the east of the British Army’s current forward positions.
“This is a place called Sachsenhausen. It was set up by the Nazis before the war to house their political prisoners: communists, liberals, pacifists, dissenters of every sort. Since the war began, they’ve used it, among other things, to house political prisoners from countries they’ve overrun—leaders of parties hostile to National Socialism, that sort of thing—and also some of our chaps. That’s where you come in. They’ve got some of our people, British and Danes, as well agents from SIS and a few military types who angered them by their insistence on trying to escape from POW camps.
“Two of the prisoners, including one of ours, are called Churchill. No relation to Winston, but the Germans don’t know that. Anyway, there are a lot of people—in Number 10, Broadway and elsewhere—who want our people back. But there’s a complicating factor . . .”
The map told Saffron what that was. “You mean the Russians, sir?”
“Yes. We believe they’ll be liberating Sachsenhausen today or tomorrow, if they haven’t done so already. But ‘liberating’ is not the right word for what the Russians are doing. There’s a view in certain circles, and I don’t disagree, that we will soon be exchanging one war with a vile, dictatorial regime bent on world domination for another that’s just as bad.”
“Oh God. . . . Can’t we ever live in peace?”
“Let us hope so. In the meantime, we don’t want our people falling out of German hands, right into Russian ones. I want you to fly to Germany. Our closest units to Sachsenhausen are elements of Twelve Corps. I want you to get to the divisional headquarters of their forward units. Put your ear to the ground. Find out how the land lies . . . We’ll be within a stone’s throw of the Russians by the time you get there. If you can find a way to make contact with them, so much the better. If you can get to Sachsenhausen, that would be best of all. Use your initiative.”
“Yes, sir,” said Saffron, unable to keep the smile off her face. Only now that she was presented with this opportunity did she realize how much she had missed the adventure of being in the action, rather than watching it from afar. “May I make a request, sir?”
“That rather depends what it is.”
“It would be a great help if I had some sort of proof of my bona fides, and of the importance of my mission. I’m sure that if I were a soldier, busy trying to end a war, and some strange woman turned up at my HQ distracting me with talk of prison camps and captured VIPs, I’d be tempted to tell her to take a running jump.”
Gubbins smiled. “You aren’t the first person to have had that thought. Here . . .”
He handed her a small ring-bound folder. It contained two documents, typed on headed notepaper from Number 10 Downing Street, each slipped into a clear plastic cover. On one, a short statement was written, to the effect that Captain Saffron Courtney was on a mission of national importance, attempting to recover prisoners captured by the SS, and was to be given every assistance that she might require.
It was signed, Winston S. Churchill.
“Golly,” she said. “That ought to do the trick.”
“One would hope so. The second sheet gives the same message in Russian.”
Saffron examined a page of impenetrable Cyrillic script.
“I had one of the chaps from our Czech section cast an eye over it,” Gubbins assured her. “He reads Russian and assured me it made sense.”
“When do I leave?”
“First thing tomorrow, by Dakota from R.A.F. Northolt. Twelve Corps know you’re coming, so there’ll be someone to meet you. I want you to keep me posted on what’s happening. Code all messages as per usual. The war may almost be over, but we can’t be too careful. One word of warning: I’m told the weather in central Europe is unseasonably cold this year. Wrap up warm. You will be provided with a small amount of American currency. The dollar will be the most useful currency in Germany at the moment. But use it sensibly, and account for every bit of it. You may carry a gun for your personal protection. The armorer will issue you with a service revolver and holster. I hope you are not obliged to use it.”
•••
The day was damp and cold. The sound of the Russian guns was getting louder. It would not be long before Berlin was in Stalin’s hands.
How the hell did it come to this? Konrad von Meerbach thought as he watched Adolf Hitler proceed down the line of teenage boys, assembled to meet him outside the Führerbunker. Look at him! He’s a gibbering drug addict, hiding his hand behind his back so that people can’t see it shaking. This is his fifty-sixth birthday. He looks more like seventy-six.
As Hitler pinned another medal on a proud young chest, the sight of those boys, dressed in a motley assortment of battle dress and caps, depressed von Meerbach more. The years he had dedicated to the SS and the glory he had witnessed had been reduced to this: the desperate recruitment of untrained children because all the good, strong, Aryan men were gone.
The ceremony ended. The cameramen rushed off to develop their film, though God alone knew who would see it, for there were no cinemas open in the fragments of the Third Reich that had not fallen into enemy hands.
Von Meerbach finished his cigarette, savoring the pleasure in his lungs, for smoking was forbidden in the bunker, on the strict instruction of the Führer. He followed the rest of the entourage who had attended the medal ceremony down the spiral staircase into the concrete catacombs.
He entered the guardroom, where a clerk was sitting behind a desk.
“Papers,” the clerk said.
“It’s less than an hour since you last checked them,” von Meerbach objected, though he knew it would do no good. “Good God, man, my pistol’s still in that locker behind you.”
The clerk’s face was emotionless. He repeated, “Papers.”
Von Meerbach handed them over. In the corridor beyond the guardroom he saw Hermann Fegelein, Himmler’s personal liaison officer, with the headquarters staff. Fegelein was gesturing at him. Von Meerbach managed a terse nod in return. Fegelein was an unprincipled careerist, a man who had married Eva Braun’s sister Gretl to get closer to the Führer’s inner circle. To make matters worse, his move had worked. Fegelein was now an SS general, giving him seniority over von Meerbach.
The clerk returned the papers. Von Meerbach walked past the desk and down the corridor. Fegelein did not wait to greet him.
“Follow me,” he said and strolled through the long waiting room that ran down the middle of the main bunker, and turned right into the toilets. Fegelein checked that none of the cubicles were occupied. He opened the door at the far end that led into the washroom. That too was empty. He locked the main toilet door.
“Now we can have some privacy,” he said. He took a packet of cigarettes out of his breast pocket. “Smoke?”
Von Meerbach wondered what would happen if they were caught, concluded it could hardly be worse than what was happening to them all anyway, and said, “Thank you, General.”
“Ah, no need to be formal, Konrad. We old SS men have to stick together.”
Fegelein sounded like a man who was about to ask a favor. Von Meerbach’s rank might be inferior, but his personal resources were infinitely greater.
Instead, Fegelein said, “I thought you should know: Himmler’s leaving Berlin today. He isn’t coming back.”
“But I heard him, this morning, swearing his loyalty to the Führer. He promised he’d stay to the bitter end.”
Fegelein gave a sardonic smile. “What else could he say? The fact is, he’s getting out, and you should do the same. Tempelhof is still open, but it won’t be for long. Himmler’s departure will give you the justification to follow him. You are follo
wing your SS commander-in-chief’s example. Who’s to say he hasn’t ordered you to go?”
Fegelein stubbed his cigarette out in a sink, washed away the ash and pushed the butt down the plughole, like a naughty schoolboy hoping that a teacher won’t catch him.
He stood up straight again and said, “Listen, it’s a matter of your personal safety. You’re going to be needed when the war is over. You can help rebuild for the future.”
Von Meerbach nodded, and asked, “And you? Are you going too?”
“I can’t. I’m still supposed to be manning my post with the high command. That’s what comes with being part of the family, eh?”
“Hitler won’t let himself be captured alive, or Eva. He could demand the same of you.”
“Oh, don’t you worry. I’ll have sneaked out before it gets to that stage. I’ve got it worked out.”
“Then I wish you luck.” Von Meerbach disposed of his own cigarette. “I dare say we’re going to need all the luck we can get.”
•••
Von Meerbach was driven to the Reich Main Security Office on Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse, a cluster of buildings that served as the headquarters for the Gestapo, the SD intelligence service and SS. Smoke was wafting through the air as he walked up from the entrance, but it was not caused by enemy bombs or shells. Every scrap of space in the yards between the buildings and even in the gardens at the back of the complex was being used to burn secret, or potentially incriminating, documents. Male and female staff could be seen standing at open windows, throwing out bundles of paper that drifted and fluttered to the ground, where men gathered them up like autumn leaves and threw them onto the bonfires.
Von Meerbach made his way to his outer office, where his two secretaries, Heidi and Gisela, were waiting for him, and though he normally gave no thought at all to his subordinates’ well-being, he found himself touched by their loyalty.
Heidi asked whether he wanted a cup of coffee. Gisela, who was holding a notepad and pencil, reported that he had a number of messages.
Von Meerbach waved his hand. “There isn’t time for any of that.” He glanced at Heidi. “Fetch my briefcase.” Then to Gisela he said, “Follow me.”
She went with him into his inner sanctum. “Remove the photographs on my desk from their frames,” von Meerbach said. As Gisela did so, he went to a safe that was set into one wall, spun the dials to the correct combination and opened it.
By now Heidi had returned, bearing the briefcase. Von Meerbach transferred another million dollars in bearer bonds from the safe to the case. This was followed by three bundles of American notes in various denominations that amounted to approximately $15,000.
“The photographs, please,” von Meerbach said.
Gisela handed them to him: signed and dedicated pictures of Hitler, Himmler and Heydrich; one of Francesca; and another of his son and daughter by his first wife, Trudi. Both the secretaries were looking agitated, close to tears. It was obvious that von Meerbach was about to make his getaway, leaving them to the Russians. And they knew, as did every woman in the Reich, what fate the Russians had in store for them.
Von Meerbach saw that they were expecting him to say something: to tell them what was happening, reassure them that all would be well—anything would do. He began, as was his nature, with himself.
“It may seem that I am running from the fight. On the contrary, I am leaving here, where the situation is hopeless, so that I can help the fight back, when it comes. I believe in our cause. I am proud of the work I have done . . .”
It struck von Meerbach that his words were not impressing his two secretaries as he had hoped. Only now did he think, They are women. They need sweet words, flattery, nonsense with which to fill their empty heads. Well, if they insist . . .
“And, of course, I am deeply grateful for your help over these past few years. I could not have achieved all I did without you.”
He looked at the safe. There was another block of notes in there, worth several thousand dollars. Germany was about to be thrown back to the stone age: no power, no light, no fuel, no housing, no clean water or working sewers, and no food. But this would be more than enough to make sure that Heidi and Gisela could at least buy black-market food.
“Here,” he said, roughly dividing the pile in two and giving each of them one half, “take this. Use it wisely. This money could be your ticket out of the city. It will buy you food and shelter. But for God’s sake, whatever you do, don’t let the damn Cossacks know you have it . . . no matter how much you may be tempted to buy them off. Understand?”
The two women nodded, then Heidi said, “Is it really the end? Can the Führer not save us?”
Von Meerbach shook his head. “No. He cannot save himself. Give me your hands . . .”
They reached out and he took their hands in his. “Listen to me: go to the deepest cellar you can find. Take every drop of water, every scrap of food you can muster. You can start with all the bottles in my drinks cabinet: the brandy and whisky will keep you warm on cold nights. You know where my personal food is kept: the cans of paté, foie gras and caviar. They’re no use to me, take them all. If the worst comes to the worst, at least you can have a party before the world ends.”
Gisela looked at him with a puzzled, uncertain expression on her face, as if expecting this was some kind of trick. “Why . . . why are you being so kind to us?” she asked.
Von Meerbach had been wondering the same himself.
“I don’t know . . . I suppose I can’t see the point in being unkind. You have never done me harm. Other people, however, have harmed me, and you may be sure that if I get the chance to harm them in return, ten times over, I certainly will. Does that answer your question?”
“Yes, I believe it does.”
“Then I will say goodbye to you both.”
Von Meerbach did not waste time with hugs or kisses. He returned to his car, clutching his briefcase, and said to the driver: “Tempelhof.”
Sperling would be waiting there. Von Meerbach had always expected that this moment would come, although not perhaps so soon. He had told his pilot to be ready to fly at a moment’s notice. He settled into his seat and looked out of the window at the ruined city. One of the few buildings that was still standing had a propaganda slogan written in whitewash on its front wall: Every German will defend his capital. We shall stop the Red hordes at the walls of our Berlin.
Did anyone ever spout more crap than Goebbels? von Meerbach wondered. They passed a platoon of old men bearing panzerfaust anti-tank rockets over their shoulders, like the rifles they would have carried if they had been real soldiers in an army that could still fight. Up ahead he saw a line of lampposts, miraculously left standing. Bodies had been strung up on them, one for every streetlight: old men, young men, a couple of boys, a woman. They had been executed by the mobs of party fanatics who were wandering the streets, looking for scapegoats to blame for the death of the Thousand-Year Reich.
Each one had a placard around their neck with an accusatory statement scrawled upon it: “I am a gutless coward,” “commie whore,” “I hid while brave men fought,” and so on.
Von Meerbach grinned at the thought of the pleasure that the brainless thugs who had carried out the summary executions must have taken in their actions. It was a senseless, pointless addition to the mass slaughter all around them. It would have no effect on a battle that had long since been lost. But it would give them the pleasure of exercising power over another human being—the ultimate power of depriving them of life—and if that gave them a scrap of pleasure before the curtain fell, who could begrudge them?
And then it struck him: the answer to that stupid girl’s question. He had given those two secretaries the money because he could. His act of charity was a demonstration of power and status.
Von Meerbach grinned at the logical corollary of that realization. All charity was essentially a demonstration of power and an underlining of relative status. All the pious do-gooders who made a show of their
generosity to the poor and needy were wallowing in their power as much as their virtue. They were all filthy hypocrites. He, at least, von Meerbach concluded, had the virtue of being honest.
He was greatly cheered by this thought.
When he reached Tempelhof he found Sperling taking a nap by his plane, but the pilot sprang into action. They flew south out of the city, over the heads of the advancing Russians, with Sperling straining to extract top speed from the Lightning, and by late afternoon they were landing at the Meerbach Motor Works field and taxiing into the hangar.
When von Meerbach stepped out of the aircraft that had taken him from Berlin, he looked at the strange, futuristic machine standing on the other side of the building.
He gestured to Sperling to come over and asked, “You’re sure you can fly it?”
“No question. I helped test it, after all.”
“And you’re sure it has the range?”
“Normally, no. But with the drop tanks we’ve added, it should be fine.”
“And it can outrun anything the British or Americans can put in the sky?”
“Oh yes. Nothing short of a V-rocket goes any faster.”
“Good. We fly tomorrow morning. Be ready at dawn.”
•••
Gubbins was right. The biting east wind that whipped across the North German Plain had come all the way from Siberia and Saffron was glad of the thick woolen jumper she was wearing under her battledress and the woolen skiing tights under her trousers. She was traveling light, with a small army rucksack to go with the canvas shoulder bag that had been her companion since her first days as Jumbo Wilson’s driver in Cairo, back in 1940. It contained her purse, the folder with her signed letters from the Prime Minister, and a number of personal items that included the picture taken of her and Gerhard at the Eiffel Tower. She hardly ever looked at the faded photograph anymore, but it had been with her everywhere she had gone. Even in the Low Countries, she had slipped it into the hidden compartments where her one-time pads had been kept.
Saffron slung her bag across her body and hoisted her rucksack over one shoulder. She intended to carry both pieces of baggage with her at all times, wherever she went. If her mission went well, she would have to make unexpected journeys at a moment’s notice. She didn’t want to leave anything behind.