“You don’t look surprised, Schellenberg,” observed Himmler.
“That we’re trying to talk peace? If you recall, Herr Reichsfuhrer, it was I who suggested the need for an alternative strategy to end the war in August last year. At the time, I believe you told me I was being defeatist.”
Schellenberg could see that Himmler hardly cared to be reminded of this. “So what’s this, then?” Himmler said, brandishing the dossier containing details of Operation Long Jump, irritably. “Another alternative?”
“Exactly that, Herr Reichsfuhrer. Another alternative. I’m afraid I wasn’t aware of your own peace initiative.”
“You are now. As a matter of fact, that’s why I summoned you here this morning.”
“I see. And is Felix Kersten involved?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“It was a guess.”
“Well, it’s a damned good one.” Himmler sounded irritated again.
Schellenberg shrugged apologetically, but inside he felt his stomach sink. He was all for talking peace with the Allies, but he had hardly supposed that the Gestapo could have been right about Felix Kersten: that a Finnish masseur should have been entrusted with negotiating Germany’s fate seemed beyond all common sense. He didn’t disagree with Gestapo Muller in that regard, anyway.
“I don’t know what plans you’ve made for the evening,” said Himmler, “but I’m afraid you’ll have to cancel them. I’m sending you to Stockholm right away. My personal plane is waiting for you at Tempelhof. You’ll be in Sweden by lunchtime. There’s a suite booked for you at the Grand Hotel, which is where Felix will meet you.”
Himmler produced a key chain from his trouser pocket and rose from his chair; he unlocked a wall-mounted Stockinger safe from which he removed a thin-looking official briefcase with a pair of handcuffs attached to the handle. “You’ll have full diplomatic status, so there should be no reason for the Swedes to ask you to open this briefcase. But I’m opening it now in order to impress on you the need for absolute secrecy. There are only five people who know about this mission: the Fuhrer, myself, von Ribbentrop, Felix Kersten, and now you. You’ll need to change out of uniform, of course. You can do that when you return home to collect your passport and some clothes for your stay. Oberleutnant Wagner will escort you to the cash office, where you can collect some Swedish money.” Himmler handcuffed the briefcase to Schellenberg’s wrist, handed him the key, and then unbuckled the flap to reveal three white envelopes, each of them protected by several sheets of cellophane plastic, and a cigarette lighter. Schellenberg guessed that the purpose of the cellophane sheets was not to stop the envelopes from getting dirty but to enable them to burn more quickly if he needed to destroy them.
“Each letter has been written by the Fuhrer himself,” explained Himmler. “One is addressed to President Roosevelt, another to Joseph Stalin, and the third to Prime Minister Churchill. You will hand this bag to Dr. Kersten, who will put each letter into the hands of the appropriate person in Stockholm, during which time you will offer him any assistance he might require. Is that clear?”
Schellenberg clicked his heels and bowed his head obediently. “Quite clear, Herr Reichsfuhrer. Might I be allowed to inquire as to the contents of the Fuhrer’s letters to the Big Three?”
“Even I don’t know precisely what has been written,” said Himmler. “But I believe that the Fuhrer has sought a clarification of the Allied declarations regarding unconditional surrender. He wishes to find out if the Allies really do not want a negotiated peace and points out that such a demand, if it is genuine, would be unprecedented in the annals of modern war.”
“So,” said Schellenberg, “nothing very important, then.”
Himmler smiled thinly. “I fail to see the funny side of this, Schellenberg, really I do. The future of Germany and the lives of millions of people might easily depend on the contents of this briefcase. Do you not agree?”
“Yes, Herr Reichsfuhrer. I am sorry.”
Oberleutnant Wagner escorted Schellenberg to the cash office in the ministry’s basement. Not that this was necessary. Schellenberg had started his SS career at the Ministry of the Interior and knew very well where the cash office was. Fiddling his expenses had always been one of Schellenberg’s major accomplishments.
“How’s Colonel Tschierschky, sir?” asked Wagner. “Still got that blue BMW Roadster, has he? Just the car I’d be driving if I could afford it.”
Schellenberg, who wasn’t much interested in cars, grunted without much enthusiasm as the cashier counted a sizable wad of Swedish kronor onto the counter in front of him. Wagner eyed the money greedily as Schellenberg tossed the wads of cash into the briefcase still handcuffed to his wrist, and then locked it again. Together, he and Wagner walked to the front door of the ministry.
“You and Tschierschky were in a special action group, weren’t you, Wagner?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And before that?”
“I was a lawyer, sir. With the Criminal Police, in Munich.”
Another damned lawyer. Schellenberg’s nose wrinkled with distaste as he left the ministry. It was hard to believe that he himself had given up medicine to become a lawyer, of all things. He hated lawyers. It had been a mistake to try to kill all the Jews when there were still so many lawyers.
He drove back to his apartment and changed out of uniform. Then he threw some things into an overnight bag, collected his passport, and went outside. At Loesser and Wolff’s on the corner of Fasanenstrasse, he bought twenty Jasmatzis and some newspapers for the flight. Then he drove to Tempelhof, where Himmler’s plane was waiting. It was a Focke Wulf FW 20 °Condor, the same kind of plane that Schellenberg had hoped to use in the plan to mount a bombing raid on Teheran.
Once on board he handed the crew their sealed orders and then took his seat, avoiding the Reichsfuhrer’s vast leather chair with its personal escape hatch-in the event of an emergency, the occupant had only to pull on a red lever and a door would be opened hydraulically beneath the seat, allowing him to slide out, still strapped into his seat, and then drop to the ground by parachute. But the very idea of sitting in a seat that might drop out of the plane was not, in Schellenberg’s opinion, conducive to a comfortable journey. So he sat in the smaller seat opposite, the one that was usually occupied by Himmler’s girlfriend, his adjutant, or his private secretary. He lit a Jasmatzi and tried to take his mind off the dangers of the flight ahead. The Reichsfuhrer’s personal Condor was probably the nearest thing Germany had to an American flying fortress, but by late 1943 the RAF was considered much too ubiquitous in German skies to risk frequent flights in it, and Himmler usually needed several cognacs to steady his nerves. Schellenberg followed suit.
Less than ten minutes later the Condor’s four BMW engines were driving the plane down the runway and then into the air, with Schellenberg staring through the fifty-millimeter-thick bulletproofglass window at the city below. From the air it was easier to see just how effective the RAF had become; there was hardly one neighborhood in the whole of Berlin that did not show some bomb damage. Another year of this, thought Schellenberg, and there wouldn’t be very much of a city left for the Russians to capture.
They flew south, toward the suburb of Mariendorf, before turning west toward Zehlendorf and the Grunewald, and then north over the Olympic Stadium and the Citadel at Spandau, where some of the Reich’s most important state prisoners were incarcerated. The plane climbed steadily, and when, after about thirty minutes, it had leveled out at just over 5,000 meters, one of the four-man crew came into the passenger area to bring Schellenberg some blankets.
“Tell me,” said Schellenberg, “what do you think of this plane?”
The man pointed at Himmler’s seat. “May I?”
“Be my guest,” said Schellenberg.
“Best long-range airliner in Europe,” said the man, whose name was Hoffmann. He sat down and made himself comfortable. “If not the world. I never understood why we didn’t make more of these. This plane will get you to New York, nonstop, in just under twenty hours. Mind you, it’s not particularly fast. Even a Short Sutherland will catch one of these and shoot it down. And God forbid a Mosquito should ever find us. But aerodynamically speaking, at least, the Condor is outstanding.”