Operation Afterlight, page 7
“It is.”
“Good,” Anders said. He winked. “Now enjoy your coffee while we wait for the car.”
They didn’t make small talk. Neither man was the type. Their ride was late, which gave Stahl a chance to order a slice of Aprikosenkuchen that partly filled the gnawing void in his stomach.
A black Citroen soon arrived. Leaving francs for the bill, Anders led the way outside. The ‘married couple’ followed, looking suitably embarrassed, and kept close behind until Stahl sat safely in the Citroen’s rear. Anders went around the other side, taking his seat with the briefcase in his lap and both hands on the lid.
“Let’s go,” he told the driver, a big man with a more muscular frame than his apparent employment would warrant.
“To the airfield?” The driver regarded Stahl in his rear-view mirror with suspicion. His accent was British. London, Stahl judged. East End, most likely.
“For now,” Anders said.
They pulled away into traffic, turning left over the Quaibrücke and speeding up under the tram wires on Rämistrasse until they passed the University. “It all seems very normal,” Stahl remarked. “Really no different to how it was in 1939. You could believe there was no war at all.”
“There isn’t,” Anders said. “Not here. One of the many benefits of neutrality.”
Stahl remembered the files Canaris had shown him. Switzerland might have stayed neutral, but they were hardly innocent bystanders. “I am sure they will profit from the experience nonetheless.”
“Of course,” Anders said. “Now, tell me a story. Why are you here? I’m guessing by the three dead Germans on the border that this isn’t exactly a diplomatic mission. The German Embassy was furious about that. They demanded to know who Switzerland had let in.”
“What did they tell them?”
“Not the truth, that’s for sure. Hans Hausamann may be an opportunist, but he won’t spill any secrets he doesn’t have to. As far as your compatriots in Berne are concerned, an escaped PoW killed the guards, then died in a car crash while evading police arrest.”
“And they believed that?”
“Does it sound any more unlikely than the top assassin in the SS turning traitor?”
“I am not a traitor,” Stahl snapped.
“Patriot, then,” Anders said, amused. “But I’m still waiting.”
Stahl considered the briefcase on the Dane’s lap, the way the man’s huge hands remained on it at all times. He had no doubts it contained a pistol. Or a knife. Anders was equally adept with either. If his visitor’s story did not satisfy the Dane, he was surely under orders to resolve the issue quietly as well as quickly. Stahl figured he was getting on that plane either way; only his condition was open to debate. Britain wouldn’t risk upsetting the Swiss government with unexplained bodies on Swiss soil, not when a slight deviation from their flight path would take them over the convenient depths of the Mediterranean.
“What does the word Götterdämmerung mean to you, Major?”
“Not a lot.”
“It is the final part of Wagner’s Der Ring des Nibelungen, his four-opera cycle.”
“Do I strike you as an opera fan?”
Stahl ignored that. “The word itself is a literal translation of Ragnarök, the old Viking myth of the fall of the Gods. The end of the world.”
“I have to say, Stahl,” Anders said, tapping his fingers on the briefcase lid, “you’re not filling me with confidence that this trip was worth my time.” The driver’s eyes flickered between the two of them, and almost imperceptibly, the car slowed.
“You do not believe that,” Stahl said. “If you did, you would not have flown here on that Hudson when you heard of my arrest. So perhaps you and your hired thug driver stop should stop trying to make me nervous, and try listening?”
Anders stared a moment and then laughed. “I told you,” he said, punching the driver on the shoulder. “I bloody told you, didn’t I? Damn, Stahl, I have missed you. Sorry. Tell me about Götterdämmerung.” He settled back in his seat, beaming tolerantly.
The smile did not last long. Not once Stahl began talking. By the time he stopped, so had the talk of an overnight hotel in Paris.
London would not wait that long.
Chapter Nine
London, 14 March
Someone had once told Sarah Lane that an officer in uniform should never run. Regardless of the conditions, even under direct enemy fire, a good officer never ran.
Well, she bloody did. Especially when such an important summons arrived so late.
Ignoring Mary’s despairing protests as the younger woman struggled to keep up with her, Lane weaved through the office workers and off-duty soldiers milling around the entrance to Charing Cross Underground station and raced along the Strand. Mary! What had she been thinking, waiting this long to knock on her door? Why couldn’t she have sent a message, or called her landlady? SOE had the number. Mrs Rose was always so irritatingly proud that she had a telephone, but the one time it might have been useful, Mary had come halfway across London to deliver the message in person, leaving Lane only a few minutes to dress and no time to breakfast before running for the Tube.
She slowed slightly to watch for traffic coming up Northumberland Avenue. From his lofty perch, the statue of Charles I in the centre of the roundabout seemed to regard her with faint approbation. It wasn’t Mary’s fault, Lane reminded herself. After all, calling on an open line to invite someone to a Joint Intelligence Committee meeting wasn’t exactly the done thing. No, this was Dennison’s fault. He’d barely agreed to even bring up the subject of Götterdämmerung in the JIC. He certainly hadn’t warned her that her presence might be required.
A little out of breath, she slowed enough for Mary to catch her as she passed through the shadow of Admiralty Arch.
There were two guards at the entrance to Carlton Terrace, rifles slung, faces wary. “Squadron Officer Lane,” she said, showing her ID.
“They were expecting you a little earlier, Ma’am,” one said. “Please make your way straight up. Just you,” he added, shifting his body to cut Mary off from the door.
“I’ll see you later, Mary,” Lane said.
“Wait, Miss Lane.” Mary fumbled in her purse and produced a crumpled white handkerchief. “For your face,” she explained, pressing it into Lane’s hands and giving them an affectionate squeeze. “You’re looking a little warm.”
“Thank you.”
“Good luck,” Mary said brightly, but Lane was already through the open door. She had only been here a few times, and Dennison never allowed her into the conference room, but at least she knew the way. She took the steps two at a time, nodded to the soldier standing outside the room, and raised her hand to knock on the door. Beyond it, she heard the muffled drone of a man’s voice.
Wait, she thought. Compose yourself. She took a few deep breaths, willing her pulse to slow, feeling the sweat on her back beneath her warm woollen uniform. Taking the handkerchief, ignoring the smell of Mary’s perfume on it, she dabbed at her neck and temples. The soldier pretended not to notice.
She knocked on the door and opened it.
The room fell silent. The speaker, who she recognised as Sir David Petrie of the Security Service, turned from his presentation to regard her. She felt a little jolt of surprise at his presence. Sir David normally sent a representative. His audience, all middle-aged men lining each side of the long, polished conference table, regarded her with blank faces. She recognised a handful of them instantly, noting that the head of SIS was also here. Most unusual. There were three uniformed military types from the War Office, Admiralty and Air Ministry, accompanied by a handful of aides and bag carriers. She knew she had met the senior RAF officer in the room, a Group Captain, equivalent to a British Army full Colonel. He worked for the Directorate of Intelligence (Research), the cover name for the department within the Air Ministry that handled the hush-hush special operations that the RAF had occasionally undertaken on behalf of SOE and MI6. They had crossed paths in the build-up to both the Amiens prison raid in February 1944 and the Aarhus raid on Halloween. Frustrating, that she couldn’t remember his name, but she’d worked with so many military men since the war began that they had blended into one another.
Colonel Dennison sat at the foot of the table, fiddling with an expensive-looking fountain pen while his face suggested he wasn’t sure if he was annoyed that she was late or simply that she had arrived at all. Looking away from him, still furious, her gaze paused on a sturdy civilian she didn’t recognise but who, for some reason, kept his hat on indoors.
Most shocking of all, she saw Lord Wolmer sitting close to the top of the table. Roundell Palmer, third Earl of Selbourne, known as “Top Wolmer” to friends and political rivals alike. The Minister of Economic Warfare. The man who “owned” SOE, and her ultimate boss. His face was not blank at all, though she wished it was. Behind him, a large clock showed just how late she was.
Glowering, Lord Wolmer shot a look at Dennison.
With colour flooding to his cheeks, the colonel pushed out the empty chair next to him and gestured sharply for Lane to sit.
“My apologies, Sir David,” she said, taking her seat.
“No matter.” Powerfully built with rugged features, the Scotsman had a reputation for being kindly. Judging from the expressions on the faces of the others, he was the only one feeling so inclined.
Without meeting Dennison’s eyes, she sat back in her chair, smoothing her skirt beneath the table and wondering why so many senior people had come today.
Sir David picked up where he had left off. The Security Service had arrested a German agent trying to work with organised crime groups in the dockyards area. With remarkable ease, Sir David said wryly, adding that German espionage efforts within the UK itself had been somewhere between amateurish and embarrassing for several years. The absorption of the Abwehr by the RHSA following the exposure of Canaris had only hastened the process.
Lord Wolmer cleared his throat. “And what can MI5 tell us about Werwolf?”
Lane sat bolt upright at the name.
Sir David shook his head. “Almost nothing, sadly. Most of the double agents we have captured and turned had already left Germany long before the Nazis started any proper planning for their defeat. The more recent ones, like the chap in the East End, just weren’t in the know. Whatever the SS are planning, they are keeping their cards close to their chest.”
“Rather.” Lord Wolmer turned to the civilian in the hat. “What about your department, Quiet? Anything to add?”
“I think,” the man in the hat said, the voice drifting from the shadows beneath the brim, “it would be better to delay until Major Anders arrives.”
Wolmer frowned. “Not to second guess you, Quiet, but are you sure this…guest he’s bringing is worth the risk we’re taking? After all, whatever his track record, he’s not exactly someone we would normally give top level security clearances to.”
“I’m sure,” the man replied, pausing, “that he won’t be allowed to embarrass us.”
A silence descended on the room, broken only by the ticking of the large clock on the wall.
“Well,” Wolmer said, “let’s hope he at least has something worth the wait, because as of now, this committee seems to have very little light to shed on this business. Colonel Dennison, does your own guest have anything to add?”
The Colonel squirmed in his seat. “Possibly. Just some minor points.”
The Minister gestured him for silence. “Miss Lane, isn’t it?”
She nodded. She saw the RAF Group Captain frown at the Minister’s ignoring of her WAAF rank, but she had long since given up expecting people, especially civilians, to take her uniform seriously.
“The floor is yours, Miss Lane,” Lord Wolmer said. “We’re all excited to hear what you have to say.” He paused. “However belatedly.”
“Yes, sir.” She looked at Dennison, more in hope than expectation that he might have thought to bring some briefing notes or materials. From his vacant look, she saw instantly that it had never even occurred to him. No matter. She had read every report, every cited source, a dozen times. She knew everything she needed to know.
She left her boss to play with his pen and turned her attention to the decision-makers.
“The first thing to note about Werwolf,” she began, “is that its value is likely more in the propaganda sphere than any concrete military advantage. Goebbels is busy telling the world that every pure Aryan-blooded German man, woman and child will die before accepting surrender, but that is not true.”
“Easy to say from here,” the Brigadier from the War Office said. “But that will hardly help if my tank crews find schoolgirls in braids running under their tracks with an artillery shell strapped to their chest.”
“I don’t believe they will, sir,” she said firmly. “Germany isn’t Japan. Yes, there are some fanatics who think Hitler is a living God, but they are the exceptions, not the rule. For most, everything suggests survival is the priority. Germany might not be quite ready to fully abandon Hitler, even now, but the average citizen certainly isn’t lining up to die for him.”
“Is that all it is, then?” Sir David raised an eyebrow. “Propaganda?”
“Not quite, sir. There is a fake Werwolf, the one Goebbels is pushing, and a real one. The latter is a military operation, more akin to our SAS or SBS. Ambushes. Assassinations. Special Forces raids on bridges and isolated HQs. Messing with road signs and sowing confusion, like we saw in the Ardennes offensive a few months ago. That’s what we should plan against for the occupation, not suicide attacks by children.”
“That’s certainly easier to cope with,” the Brigadier said. “It’s nice to know we don’t need to be too worried.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Lane said. Dennison gave her a warning look. She ignored it. “I’m more concerned about a project called Götterdämmerung.”
“Which is?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
A tremor of laughter rippled along the table. Lane didn’t join in. She felt anger rising and placed her hands flat on the table to stop them clenching into fists.
“Forgive my colleagues, Miss Lane,” Sir David said, frowning at the nearest men. “But you’ll agree that isn’t an enlightening start.”
“I don’t know exactly what it is,” Lane said. “All I know is that it is important. My section deals with Germany and Austria, as you know. We don’t get the quantity of reporting we used to before the July 1944 crackdown, but I still have an extensive web of agents sending updates night and day. The German resistance might not be as widespread or photogenic as the French one, but it is there. Priests. Students. Disaffected soldiers. Criminals, motivated by money. Even some Nazis who know they have lost the war but think that a swift conquest by the Western Allies is better than falling into Soviet hands.”
“Which it is,” Sir David said.
“The point is, this network is widespread and diffuse, and most of them share no contacts or common ground with the rest. Which makes it more concerning for me that this word Götterdämmerung keeps coming up.”
“The Twilight of the Gods,” the man in the hat murmured.
Lane glanced at him. He said nothing more.
“So far,” she continued, “I have been able to discern it is linked to Werwolf, but separate. Whatever the operation is, it seems to report to SS High Command, possibly directly to Himmler himself. There is a network of scientists and medical research facilities involved. One report even suggests that the SS have requisitioned a U-Boat, though I can’t yet determine why.”
The Commodore from the Admiralty raised a hand. “What about chemical weapons? A modified U-Boat surfacing at night and firing chemical shells from its desk gun could spread panic up and down the east coast of England.”
“Unlikely,” the Minister said. “Hitler has had the entire war to choose to use chemical weapons. He hasn’t used them for the same reason we haven’t. And like us, it’s not because he doesn’t have them available. They just aren’t very useful. Why wait until now, when his ability to reach us is at its lowest? He must know we’d retaliate with a thousand times the potency.”
“Hitler’s erratic, Minister,” the Commodore insisted. “We shouldn’t rule out chemical warfare.”
“Or biological,” Lane said quietly.
“Not a chance,” the Brigadier said. “We all read the reporting from the Biological Warfare Intelligence Committee. We’d have known if there was any widespread attempt to use biological weapons. Besides, these things are horribly difficult to employ without your own side suffering just as badly. Once that genie is out of the lamp, it’s awfully hard to stuff the bugger back in.”
“If Squadron Officer Lane can provide some more details on these facilities,” the RAF Group Captain from DI(R) said, “we can arrange some aerial shots courtesy of the photo-reconnaissance chaps. They might not tell us much, but it is worth a try. Please send the locations across.”
“Will do, sir,” Lane assured him.
There was a knock, resounding at almost the same moment that the door flew wide open. Two men entered.
The first, Lane saw, was tall. Broad-shouldered. A strong jaw, offset by ears that stuck out a little too fully from beneath his green beret. He seemed to be half-smiling, standing framed in the doorway for a moment as if inviting everyone to note the time and manner of his arrival. He wore the uniform and insignia of a British Army major, possibly tailored to better show off the powerful frame beneath. On his upper arm, she saw the Tactical Recognition Flash for Combined Arms operations.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said. He walked towards the table. Stalked, Lane corrected herself. Every step seemed perfectly controlled and loaded with menacing intent. Like a tiger. “Sorry to keep you waiting. I’m Major Anders, Second Commando Brigade.”
