Eventually the man behind the refectory table spoke in fluent German that was too good for an American.
“How are you today, General?” he asked.
“Thank you, I’m well, but I’m afraid you’ve obviously got the wrong man. I’m not a general. Last time I looked at my pay book it said captain.”
The man with the pipe said nothing and continued writing.
“If you bother to check my passport you’ll see I’m not the man you probably think I am. My name is Bernhard Gunther.”
“In our profession none of us is ever really what he seems to be,” said the man with the pipe. He spoke calmly, like a professor or a diplomat, as if he had been explaining a philosophical point to a dull student.
“In Nazi Germany not being who you are is a regular way of life, for everyone. Take my word for it.”
The pipe smoke was sweet and actually smelled like real, unadulterated tobacco, which made me think he must be American. The English were just as badly off for tobacco as the Germans.
“Oh, I think we know who you are, all right.”
“And I’m telling you that you’ve made a mistake. I’m guessing you think that I’m General Walter Schellenberg. I am driving his car, after all. He asked me to bring it here, from the Mercedes car factory in Sindelfingen. And now I’ve met you I’m beginning to understand why. I’m guessing he was expecting something like this might happen. Getting snatched off the streets by American spies. That’s what you are, isn’t it? I mean, you’re not German. I know you’re not Swiss. And you can’t be English. Not with those suits.”
The pipe smoker started writing again. I had nothing to lose by talking. So I talked. Maybe I could talk my way out of this.
“Look here, I’ve an important appointment back at my hotel at two o’clock. With a lady. So I’ll tell you everything you want to know. Which isn’t much. Keep the car. It isn’t mine. But I’d rather not miss that appointment.”
“This lady. What’s her name?”
I said nothing.
“If you tell us her name we shall leave word at your hotel that you have been unavoidably detained.”
“So you can snatch her, too?”
“Why would we do that when we have you, General?”
“I’d rather not say what her name is. We’re lovers, all right? But the lady is married. I expect you could find out, but I’d rather not say what her name is.”
“And how would your wife, Irene, feel about that?”
“I think Irene would be all right with it since I’m not married to her.”
“I’m afraid you’re going to be here awhile,” said the man. “So you might as well get used to the idea. You won’t be keeping your appointment with your lady friend. You’ll be helping us with the answers to some important questions we have, General Schellenberg. And it would be unfortunate for us both if your answers were not truthful.”
“Look,” I said. “You know the name of General Schellenberg’s wife. Congratulations. But you obviously know very little else because if you did you’d know that he’s nothing like me. He’s short. I’m tall. He’s younger than me. Thirty-three, I think. Better-looking, too, although I agree that seems unlikely. He speaks fluent French. On account of the fact that he lived in Luxembourg. I hardly speak a word of it. And he’s a snake, which is how I’m here now instead of him. Look, there’s a man — a Swiss — who’ll vouch for what I say. He’s an intelligence officer, too — a captain by the name of Paul Meyer-Schwertenbach. He works for military intelligence. His boss is a man named Masson. Meyer knows who I am because he’s met the real General Schellenberg. And he’s met me, in Berlin. Last year he came to an international crime commission conference. I got to know him reasonably well. He lives in a château in Ermatingen, called Wolfsberg Castle. Why don’t you telephone him? He’ll tell you what Schellenberg looks like and what I look like and we can sort this whole thing out in a few minutes. I’ve got nothing to hide. I’m not a spy. I’m really not in a position to tell you anything very much. I was a criminal commissar with Kripo in Berlin, and until recently I was working for the War Crimes Bureau, at army headquarters. I’ve been sent here on a private mission by Dr. Goebbels in his capacity as head of the UFA film studios at Babelsberg. There’s an actress, living here in Zurich... he wants her to star in his next film. That’s it, gentlemen. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but this time you got the monkey, not the organ-grinder.”
“This conference. Where was it held?”
“The Villa Minoux, in Wannsee. That’s a sort of guesthouse owned by the SS.”
“Who else was there?”
I shrugged. “The usual suspects. Gestapo Müller, Kaltenbrunner, Himmler. General Nebe. And Schellenberg, of course. It was him who introduced me to Captain Meyer-Schwertenbach.”
“You move in very elevated circles for a mere captain.”
“I go where I’m told to go.”
“Have you ever been in Switzerland before?”
“No. Never.”
The pipe smoker smiled in a faceless sort of way, without conveying anything of his emotions, so it was impossible for me to determine if he thought what I’d said was true, or false, funny, or beneath contempt. The three other men in the room were all thugs — Gestapo types with better haircuts and nicer breath.
“Tell me, General, what plans does Germany have for the invasion of Switzerland?” he asked.
“Me? I really have no idea. You might as well ask me when Hitler is going to throw in the towel and surrender. But from the little I’ve heard, our dear leader still believes the idea of invading Switzerland is a possibility. Only there’s no appetite for it among the German leadership. Goebbels told me that himself. The fact is, everyone in the German Army lives in fear of invading this little country because the Swiss Army enjoys a reputation for marksmanship that’s second to none. That and the fact that the Alps mean that even the Luftwaffe wouldn’t be able to count for much in attempting to subdue the place. It’s just not worth it.”
The man with the pipe spent several minutes writing this. I glanced at my watch and saw that it was already midday.
“Could I have a cigarette?” I asked.
“Give him a cigarette,” said the pipe smoker, and without hesitation one of his men sprang forward with an open cigarette case. I picked one, noted the name — Viceroy — on the paper, and put it in my mouth. He lit me and sat down again. From the speed with which the man had moved I formed the conclusion that the man with the pipe was no ordinary spy; perhaps this was the American spymaster himself. He certainly fit the description given by Schellenberg.
“So you are American,” I said. “The OSS, I suppose.” I smiled at the pipe smoker. “And perhaps you’re even Mr. Allen Dulles himself, of the OSS in Bern.”
The pipe smoker stayed smiling, inscrutably.
“You know, Mr. Dulles, the Swiss will be very cross with you when they find out what you’ve done to me. They take their neutrality very seriously indeed. Your treatment of me — a German guest with a visa — might easily cause a diplomatic incident. After all, someone from the Swiss police or intelligence services must have told you I was in Zurich. That won’t go down well with the people in our embassy when they find out what’s happened. Which they will, of course, when I fail to report back to Berlin.”
“General, this will all end more quickly if we confine ourselves to me asking the questions and you giving the answers. And when you have done so to my complete satisfaction, you will walk out of here a free man. You have my word. Neither the Abwehr, nor your boss, Heinrich Himmler, will ever be the wiser. He’s the man who calls the shots in Department Six these days, isn’t he? I mean, since General Heydrich’s death. You’re Himmler’s special plenipotentiary, and answerable only to him.”