Walter Schellenberg leaned back in the rear seat of the speeding open-topped, armor-plated Mercedes and shifted his gaze from the back of Oberleutnant Ulrich Wagner’s head to the tightly woven canopy of trees overhead. Even on a bright October’s afternoon like this one the forest made the road as dark as something out of the Brothers Grimm; and that protected the Wolfschanze from being seen from the air. Which was the reason the Fuhrer had chosen to locate his Wolf’s Lair headquarters in this godforsaken place. And yet, despite the continued pretense that the area concealed nothing more important than a chemical plant, it seemed not only certain that the Allies knew of the Lair’s existence but also that their bombers had the range to attack it. As recently as October 9, 352 heavy bombers of the USAAF had struck at targets just 150 kilometers away that included the Arado plants at Anklam, the Focke Wulf airframe plant at Marienburg, and the U-boat yards at Danzig. Was it actually possible, Schellenberg asked himself, that the Allies could no more contemplate killing Hitler than Himmler could?
The Reichsfuhrer-SS, sitting next to Schellenberg, removed his glasses and, cleaning them with a monogrammed cloth, took a deep and lusty breath of the forest air. “You can’t beat this East Prussian air,” he said.
Schellenberg smiled thinly. After a three-hour flight from Berlin, during which they had been buzzed by an RAF Mosquito and bounced around like a shuttlecock by some turbulence over Landsberg, his appreciation of East Prussian air was less than wholehearted. Thinking that he might improve the hollow feeling in his stomach if he ate something-so close to a meeting with the Fuhrer, he didn’t dare to touch the flask of schnapps he had in his briefcase-Schellenberg removed a packet of cheese sandwiches from his coat pocket and offered one to Himmler, who seemed on the verge of taking it, then thought better of it. Schellenberg had to look away for a moment for fear the Reichsfuhrer would see him smiling and know that he was recalling an occasion, years before, during the invasion of Poland, when Himmler and Wolff, having helped themselves to several of Schellenberg’s sandwiches, had discovered, too late, that they were moldy. His fledgling career in the SD had almost ended right then and there as, between roadside retches, Himmler and his aide had accused the junior officer of trying to poison them.
Himmler’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t know why you’re eating those now,” he said. “There will be lunch at the Wolfschanze.”
“Perhaps, but I’m always too nervous to eat when I’m with the Fuhrer.”
“I can understand that,” conceded Himmler. “It’s quite a thing to sit beside the most remarkable man in the world. It’s easy to forget something as mundane as food when you’re listening to the Fuhrer.”
Schellenberg might have added that his own appetite was also curbed by the Fuhrer’s revolting table manners, for unlike most people, who lifted their cutlery to their mouths, the Fuhrer kept the arm which held his spoon or fork flat on the table and brought his mouth down to his plate. He even drank tea from a saucer, like a dog.
“I need to pee,” said Himmler. “Stop the car.”
The big Mercedes drew to the side of the road, and the car following behind, carrying Himmler’s secretary, Dr. Brandt, and his adjutant, von Dem Bach, drew up alongside.
“Is anything the matter, Herr Reichsfuhrer?” Brandt enquired of his boss, who was already marching through the trees and fiddling with the fly buttons of his riding breeches.
“Nothing’s the matter,” said Himmler. “I need to pee, that’s all.”
Schellenberg stepped out of the car, lit a cigarette, and then offered one to von Dem Bach’s aide.
“Where are you from, Oberleutnant?” he asked, walking in vaguely the same direction as Himmler.
“From Bonn, sir,” said Wagner.
“Oh? I was at Bonn University.”
“Really, sir? I didn’t know.” Von Dem Bach’s aide took a long drag on his cigarette. “I was at Ludwig-Maximilians University, in Munich.”
“And you studied law, I suppose.”
“Yes, sir, how did you know?”
Schellenberg smiled. “Same as me. I wanted to be a lawyer for one of those big companies in the Ruhr. I suppose I rather fancied myself as a big-shot industrialist. Instead I was recruited into the SD by two of my professors. The SD has been my life. I was in the SD before I was even a party member.”
They came closer to Himmler, who seemed to be having a problem undoing his last fly button, and Schellenberg turned back to the car, with Wagner following.
The gunshot, almost deafening in the woods, felled Oberleutnant Wagner as if his bones had turned to jelly. Instinctively Schellenberg took one pace away and then another as Himmler advanced on Wagner. Staring down at his victim with forensic interest, his chinless face trembled with a mixture of horror and excitement. To Schellenberg’s disgust, the Walther PPK in the Reichsfuhrer’s hand was made of gold, and as Himmler held it at arm’s length once again to deliver the coup de grace, he could see Himmler’s name inscribed on the slide.
“I took no pleasure in that,” Himmler said. “But he betrayed me. He betrayed you, Walter.”
Almost casually, Brandt and von Dem Bach walked over to inspect Wagner’s body. Himmler started to holster his weapon. “I took no pleasure in that,” he repeated. “But it had to be done.”
“Wait, Herr Reichsfuhrer,” Schellenberg called out, for it was plain Himmler was trying to holster a weapon that was cocked and ready to fire. He took hold of Himmler’s trembling, clammy hand and removed the pistol from his grip. “You need to lower your hammer-thus, sir.” And holding his thumb over the hammer, Schellenberg squeezed the trigger lightly and then eased the hammer forward against the firing pin, before working the safety catch. “To make your pistol safe. Otherwise you might blow your toe off, sir. I’ve seen it happen.”
“Yes, yes, of course. Thank you, Schellenberg.” Himmler swallowed uncomfortably. “I never shot anyone before.”
“No, Herr Reichsfuhrer,” said Schellenberg. “It’s not a pleasant thing to have to do.”
He glanced down at Wagner, shook his head, and lit another cigarette, reflecting that there were many worse ways to get it if you had been stupid enough to incur the wrath of Heinrich Himmler. When you had seen Russian POWs doing hard labor in the quarry at Mauthausen you knew that for a fact. Following the attempt on Schellenberg’s life in Himmler’s private plane, a discreet investigation had revealed Ulrich Wagner had been the only one who could have telephoned Hoffmann at Tempelhof Airport and alerted him that there was something in Schellenberg’s briefcase that had a bearing on the secret peace negotiations being conducted by Felix Kersten. As soon as Wagner had seen the Swedish currency on the cashier’s desk in the Ministry of the Interior, he would have known Schellenberg’s destination. And then there was the fact that before joining Himmler’s personal staff, Wagner had worked in Munich for the Criminal Police Council at a time when the senior police counselor had been Heinrich Muller, now chief of the Gestapo. It seemed that Ulrich Wagner had been Muller’s spy on Himmler’s personal staff for years. Not that there was any real proof of Muller’s direct involvement. Besides, Himmler had no wish to bring formal charges against the Gestapo chief; that would be to risk exposing the complete history of Kersten’s peace negotiations, about which the Fuhrer was, perhaps, still unaware.
“What shall we do with the body?” asked Brandt.
“Leave it,” said Himmler. “Let the beasts of the forest have him. We shall see if Muller’s Gestapo is equal to the task of finding him here.”
“So close to the Wolfschanze?” Schellenberg asked. “It’s probably the last place they’ll think of looking.”
“So much the better,” sneered Himmler, and led the way back to the car.
They drove on and reached a turnpike barrier across the road. It was manned by four SS men. All four recognized the Reichsfuhrer but went through the motions of checking his identity, asking for SS paybooks and Fuhrer visitor chits. Their papers were examined again at a second checkpoint, and the duty officer in the guardhouse telephoned ahead and then told Himmler that his party would be met by the Fuhrer’s ADC at the Tea House. Waving the car through into Security Zone 2, the officer smiled politely and administered his usual warning before giving the Hitler salute.