Orders from Berlin (2 page)

‘It is only a matter of time,’ he said, standing with his arms akimbo, inflated with his own importance. ‘London is burning. The population is cowering in makeshift shelters … the docks are half-destroyed—’

‘To hell with the docks,’ Hitler interrupted angrily. ‘The skies are what matters. You heard my question. Can you break the English air force; can you destroy them like y
ou promised?’

‘Yes. Operation Eagle is succeeding,’ said Goering, responding immediately in a quieter voice. His acute sensitivity to Hitler’s changing moods had stood him in good stead over the years, and he had gauged correctly that a measured assessment of the Luftwaffe’s capabilities, free of hyperbole, was what was now required. ‘It is a matter of simple mathematics,’ he said. ‘Our attacks on British factories and airfields have massively reduced their capacity to keep pace with the severe losses that they are continuing to sustain every day. They are running out of planes and they are running out of pilots. Any day now their fighter command will have to withdraw from southern England and our landings can begin. Their weakness is shown by the damage we have already been able to inflict on London. They would never have allowed it if they could have prevented it.’

Hitler stared balefully at Goering for a moment, as if trying to assess whether his subordinate’s confidence was an act put on for his master’s benefit, but Goering met the Führer’s gaze full on without dropping his eyes.

‘We shall see,’ said Hitler, taking off his glasses. ‘We shall soon see if your assessment is correct, Herr Reichsmarschall.’

It was a signal that the conference was over. One by one, the military commanders saluted Hitler and left the hall. Heydrich moved to follow them, but Hitler held up his hand.

‘Stay,’ he said. ‘There is something I need to talk to you about. We can go out on the terrace. The fresh air will do us good.’

It was one of the last days of summer. The green-and-white umbrella canopies moved gently in the slight breeze above the white chairs and tables, and the bright afternoon sun threw shadows across the wide terrace and glittered in the windows of the Berghof. Across the tops of the pine trees down in the valley, the snow-capped mountains of Austria reared up under a cloudless blue sky. Who would have guessed, thought Heydrich, that hidden not far away from where they were standing, a battery of smoke-generating machines stood ready to drown the Berghof in a blanket of thick white fog should it come under threat from enemy bombers.

The war seemed very far away in the silence. The sound of his and Hitler’s footsteps echoed on the flagstones as they walked over towards the parapet.

‘We can talk here,’ said Hitler, sitting down at one of the tables and motioning Heydrich to the chair opposite. Hitler sighed, stretching out his legs, and then rubbed his knuckles in his eyes. Perhaps gazing at the map during the briefing had given him eye strain, or perhaps it was something more profound. Whatever the cause, the Führer had certainly seemed out of sorts at the conference.

‘I don’t like it,’ said Hitler, shaking his head. He had his hands folded in his lap now, but he was gently clasping them together – a sure sign of inner turmoil. ‘This is not what I wanted. This is not the war we should be fighting.’

‘Against England?’

‘Yes,’ said Hitler, bringing his hands together suddenly and holding them tight. His bright blue eyes were blazing with the intensity of his feeling. ‘They are not our enemy, and yet they will not listen to reason. It’s that fool Churchill. He has possessed them with his talk of blood and sacrifice. Don’t they understand that we have no quarrel with them? They can keep their empire. I want them to. It’s a noble institution. I have told them that again and again, but they will not listen.’

Hitler had begun to shout, but now he stopped suddenly. It was as though an electric motor had been suddenly turned off, and Heydrich tensed, waiting for the power to resume. But Hitler continued after a moment in a quiet voice, visibly holding himself in check.

‘I don’t want this invasion. I am fully prepared to spend German blood to get this great country what it needs, but that is in the east,’ he said, pointing with his forefinger out towards the mountains facing them across the valley. ‘We must defeat Bolshevism and take the land west of the Urals for our people. That is our destiny, but to lose an army trying to conquer Brighton or Worthing or Eastbourne … that is intolerable.

‘Unerträglich!’
Hitler spat out the word. It seemed once more as if rage were going to get the better of him, but again he pulled himself back from the brink. ‘The war in the west is a means to an end,’ he said slowly, choosing his words carefully. ‘The object is to ensure that we are not stabbed in the back when we begin the war that matters, the one against Russia. And that must be soon, Reinhard … soon. We cannot wait much longer. Stalin is rearming; the Soviets are expanding – they are like ants; they come up out of the soil and multiply, and soon we will not be able to destroy them. Not if we wait.’

‘Yes,’ said Heydrich, inspired by the Führer’s vision. ‘As always, you are right.’

‘And so we need peace with the English, not war,’ Hitler went on after a moment. ‘But how do we achieve this? Not with an invasion. Not unless we have to, and even then I am reluctant. Raeder is an old woman, but he is right about the difficulties that we face with the crossing. You cannot rely on the weather. The Spanish tried 350 years ago and their ships were wrecked. Napoleon could not even make it across the Channel. Our landing craft are second-rate and we don’t have the naval superiority we need to protect them.’

‘But if we win in the air,’ said Heydrich, ‘perhaps that will make the difference. The
Reichsmarschall
said that it is only a matter of time—’

‘Time that we do not have,’ said Hitler, interrupting. ‘I will believe Goering when the English air force stops bombing Germany. For now we need to try something else. And that is where you come in, Reinhard.’

Heydrich came alert. He’d been absorbed by the discussion
of grand strategy and had forgotten for a moment that the Führer had had him wait behind after the conference for a purpose.

‘What can I do?’ he asked eagerly.

Hitler held a finger to his lips in a warning gesture. A pretty serving girl wearing a Bavarian peasant dress had appeared behind Heydrich with a tray of peppermint tea. She set the cups on the table and curtsied to the Führer, who smiled affably in response.

‘Tell me about Agent D. Is he continuing to be reliable?’ asked Hitler, sipping from his cup. He seemed serene now, and there was no trace of the anger and frustration that had been in evidence before the tea arrived. It was as if he were introducing a subject of minor interest into the conversation.

‘Yes,’ said Heydrich without hesitation. ‘He is one of the best agents I have ever had. I trust him implicitly.’

‘Good. And his intelligence – is it useful?’

‘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 ene
my. 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.

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.