How far-reaching this operation might have been would never be known, because it was derailed by the arrival of SS execution squads, known as Einsatzgruppen, which began a series of mass executions in the same region where Abwehr had been working to win over the local population.
Disillusioned Ukrainians, who had initially welcomed the arrival of German troops, now turned upon those they had seen as liberators and began a struggle against both the Fascists and the Communists.
Canaris had never forgiven the SS for their role in the failure of the Abwehr’s operations in the East. He had made no secret of that fact, which was why Skorzeny had good reason to wonder why the leader of the Abwehr would seek the assistance of an SS Sturmbannführer.
‘I chose you,’ explained Canaris, ‘because you are the best we’ve got, and also because this operation is too important to be waylaid by departmental politics.’
‘I understand, Admiral, and I am grateful for your confidence in me.’
‘And with that confidence in mind, I order you to maintain absolute secrecy with regard to this operation. No activity report is to be filed. No communication is to be made once the operation is under way. There will be no debriefing afterwards. No one may know. Absolutely no one. Not even Himmler!’
Skorzeny’s eyebrows rose almost imperceptibly.
‘Is that clear?’ asked Canaris.
‘Yes, Admiral. It is.’
‘You have your orders.’ Canaris waved him away. ‘Make them so.’
Immediately after Skorzeny’s departure, Canaris picked up the phone. ‘Get me Vasko,’ he ordered.
Two hours later, Vasko was standing in the room. He was of middle height, with a small mouth and large, staring blue eyes, which seemed to take in everything around him without looking at anything in particular. His hair, which he combed straight back on his head, was thin and the same dull shade of brown as the fur on the back of a mouse. He had an unremarkable face that appealed neither to women nor to men, and which allowed him to vanish in a crowd, ignored even by those who had stood in his presence, some of whom he had sent to their graves on the orders of Admiral Canaris.
‘Sit,’ Canaris gestured towards a chair. ‘Are you hungry? Thirsty?’
‘No, Admiral. Thank you.’
‘Skorzeny has agreed to transport you across the lines. You leave tonight. The mission is going ahead.’
‘But why bring in Skorzeny?’ demanded Vasko. ‘Surely the Abwehr have people who can get me through the lines.’
‘None who are as capable as Skorzeny,’ replied Canaris, ‘and if this mission goes wrong, I will need someone to take responsibility. Who better than the SS?’
‘And if it succeeds?’
‘Then Hitler’s flagging confidence in the Abwehr will be restored, and that slack-jawed chicken farmer Himmler will have no choice except to sing our praises to the heavens.’ Canaris lifted a sealed envelope from his desk and held it out.
Vasko leaned forward and slipped it from the Admiral’s grasp.
‘Once Skorzeny has brought you through the lines,’ Canaris continued, ‘you will be guided to your target by a partisan named Malashenko. He is a member of the Barabanschikov Atrad, and has served as an informant to the Secret Field Police in Rovno. The rendezvous point is an old hunter’s cabin in the forest south of Rovno. You’ll find the map coordinates inside that envelope.’
Vasko tucked it into the inside chest pocket of his coat. ‘How much did you tell Skorzeny about the operation?’
‘As much as he needs to know, but no more. Skorzeny is aware that you are going in to liquidate Colonel Andrich but, like you, he knows nothing at all about the full extent of the mission, or the agent who will be carrying out the secondary phase.’
‘Forgive me, Admiral, but are you sure it’s right to separate the two phases of the mission so completely? If I knew who this second agent was. .’
‘Then you would be in a position to give up the name of the agent if, God forbid, you were ever captured. Or vice versa. He does not know you and you do not know him. That is how I want it and, believe me, so do you.’
‘Yes, Admiral.’ Vasko stood up to leave.
‘There is one more thing.’ Opening a drawer in his desk, Canaris removed a bar of gold as long as his outstretched hand and as wide as his first three fingers. The finish of the gold was not shiny but rather a dusty brass colour. The surface bore several stamps, indicating its weight, purity and Reichsbank inventory number. Carefully, he set it down in front of Vasko. ‘Your guide is expecting to be paid.’
‘As much as that?’ remarked Vasko.
‘If everything goes according to plan, Colonel Andrich will soon be dead, and Stalin himself will not be far behind. For that,’ said Canaris, ‘one bar of gold is a small asking price.’
*
Malashenko stood in the doorway to his cabin, smoking a cigarette as he watched a man approaching down the centre of the path.
He wore the uniform of a Red Army officer, and all he carried with him was a leather satchel of the type used by blacksmiths for holding horse shoes. ‘You must be Malashenko,’ he said.
‘I am. And who are you?’
‘A stranger bearing gifts. That’s all you need to know.’
Malashenko flicked away his cigarette and stood aside to let him pass.
Inside the cabin, Vasko removed his gun belt, from which hung a holstered Tokarev and a Russian army canteen. He laid them on the table, then sat down and waited while Malashenko brewed coffee made from chicory in an old pan on the stove.
‘What is it you want from me?’ asked the partisan, as he poured the dark and bitter-smelling drink into a chipped enamel cup.
Vasko took the mug and turned it so that the handle was facing away from him but he did not lift it from the table. ‘You recently passed on information about a man named Colonel Andrich.’
‘That’s right. He arrived in Rovno two days ago.’
‘I need you to tell me where I can find him.’
‘That’s a nice pistol,’ said Malashenko, eyeing the gun belt on the table. Slowly, he reached out towards it.
‘If you want to keep those fingers,’ said Vasko, ‘don’t touch anything that doesn’t belong to you.’
Grumbling, Malashenko withdrew his hand.
‘Just do as you’re told and you will be well rewarded,’ Vasko told him.
‘How well?’
Vasko opened the satchel and pulled out something which had been placed inside an old grey sock. He set it on the table and pushed it across to Malashenko.
Malashenko picked up the sock and tipped the bar of gold on to the table. The spit dried up in his mouth. ‘Why are you paying me so much?’ he asked warily.
‘If it were up to me, I wouldn’t, but this is what the Admiral thinks you’re worth.’
Malashenko thought about Antonina’s advice, to leave Rovno and never come back. Better to travel with one bar of gold, he told himself, than with a hundred bags of salt.
Vasko slid the bar back into the sock and returned it to his farrier’s satchel. ‘Are we agreed?’
Malashenko nodded slowly. ‘Stay here tonight,’ he said. ‘You will be safe. I’ll be back in the morning, after I have found your Colonel Andrich.’
*
That first night in the cabin, as Vasko lay in the bunk, surrounded by the distantly familiar smells of Russian black bread, Russian tobacco and the fishy reek of Russian boot grease distilled from the rotted husks of Lake Baikal shrimp, he listened to the steady thudding of artillery in the distance.
He put his hands against his ears, hoping to block out the sound. But it didn’t work. The relentless pounding of the guns seemed to rise up from the earth beneath the cabin, until even the air he breathed appeared to tremble.