“Look, I’m not even a member of the Nazi Party. How can I persuade you that I’m not General Schellenberg?”
“All right. Let’s see if you can. You don’t deny you’re driving his car. All of the paperwork in the glove box confirms Walter Schellenberg as the car’s exporting owner. And the importing company as the Swiss Wood Syndicate. Then there’s the booking at your hotel. That was made by a company called Export Drives GMBH, a subsidiary of another company called Stiftung Nordhav, of which Walter Schellenberg is one of the directors and of which Reinhard Heydrich was formerly the chairman. The same company also paid the bill at the Baur au Lac for a Hans Eggen when, in February this year, he visited Zurich. He traveled to Switzerland at the same time as a Walter Schellenberg, who had also had a room at the Baur but didn’t actually stay there. The two men crossed the border by car at Fort Reuenthal.”
“If that’s so, then the Zurich cantonal police will easily be able to confirm that I’m not Schellenberg. You could ask Sergeant Bleiker, or Police Inspector Weisendanger. I believe I have the inspector’s business card in my wallet if you care to look for it.”
“As I’m sure you know, General, it’s only since your previous visit that Colonel Müller of the Swiss Security Service — your opposite number, so to speak — has insisted that you be kept under surveillance by the Zurich police whenever you are in Switzerland. He would like to find out what you’ve been up to almost as much as I do. Which is probably why you’re using an alias now. Beyond the fact that you and Eggen had meetings with Meyer and Roger Masson of Swiss Military Intelligence, very little is known of your activities in Switzerland. Perhaps you’d like to take this opportunity to enlighten me. What are you doing here now? And what were you doing then? After all, you were both here for almost two weeks. What did you discuss with Masson and Meyer?”
“Would it be easier to ask them?”
“I doubt that the Swiss would want to share any intel with me. They turn a blind eye to what we’re doing here in Switzerland just as they do their best to ignore what you Germans get up to. Let’s face it: their surveillance of you is hardly oppressive, is it? What can you tell me about the Swiss Wood Syndicate?”
“Nothing at all.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
I shrugged.
“Come now, General. There’s no need to be so coy about this. The SWS manufactures wooden barracks. Presumably the SS and the German Army have a use for wooden barracks.”
“If you say so.”
“Only, some of these barracks end up being used in concentration camps, don’t they?”
“I really wouldn’t know. Look, I just remembered something. Someone else who might confirm who I say I am. Heinrich Rothmund of the police section at the Swiss Department of Justice and Police. When I was a detective working for Kripo in Berlin I had several conversations with Rothmund. A missing persons case that was never resolved. I wouldn’t say we’re old friends but he’ll know exactly what we spoke about then.”
“But as you yourself have said, the Swiss police take a dim view of any interference with the diplomatic community in their country. I can hardly ask Herr Rothmund to come here and identify you without alerting him to the fact that you’re being held against your will. I’m afraid I’d soon find myself asked to leave Switzerland for good.”
“I’m sure you can think of a way of checking me out without raising his suspicions. After all, it’s the intelligence community you work in, not a local department store. Even your mind ought to be able to devise some means of establishing beyond all doubt that I am who I say I am.” I shrugged. “Look, Mr. Dulles, I’m just trying to save us both some valuable time here.”
“That reminds me, General, when is your next scheduled meeting with Police Inspector Weisendanger?”
“Tonight. At six.”
“We both know that this can’t be true. By the terms of your visa he’s only obliged to meet with you once a day. To make sure that you keep out of trouble. Since the two of you had breakfast this morning, I have to conclude that your next meeting must be tomorrow. But it would be useful to know at what time this will be. Are you to have breakfast again tomorrow?”
“Yes.”
“So, we have until then to get to know each other better.”
Allen Dulles — for so I believed him to be — checked his wristwatch and stood up.
“I will see you this afternoon, General,” he said. “I have a lunch appointment, here in Zurich. You will be well looked after in my absence. And you might take advantage of your time to reflect upon our conversation. In the absence of your cooperation I should hate to tell my associates here to treat you roughly, just as I should regret having to provide German intelligence with evidence of our conversations. You’re no good to me if I have to burn you, General. I should much prefer it if we can establish a proper working relationship for the future.”
“You mean you want me to spy for you.” I smiled. “Well, why didn’t you say so? I don’t have to be General Schellenberg to do that. Bernie Gunther could be just as useful a spy as him. I’m not nearly as expensive as a general. And after all, as you say, I do sometimes move in elevated circles. Since I’ve never been a Nazi, it’s my earnest wish that the war ends as soon as possible. Is that straight enough for you? As my country was hijacked by a bunch of gangsters, I have no reason not to betray it and, more particularly, them, to people like you. So, by all means let’s talk about my becoming an American spy. Where do I sign?”
Allen Dulles checked the bowl of his pipe, relit it carefully, and stared at me through eyes that slowly narrowed behind his glasses.
“We’ll talk again, this afternoon.”
He was about to leave the room when one of his OSS men handed him a photograph, which he looked at for several seconds through ruminative clouds of pipe smoke.
“Now, this is interesting,” he said. “While we’ve been talking, one of our more diligent desk analysts has come up with this photograph. Perhaps you’d care to comment on this.”
Dulles handed me the picture. There was a caption on a label affixed to the bottom of the print that I hardly needed to read as I recognized the picture immediately. It read: Picture taken at the Prague Circus Krone in October 1941 for local Czech newspaper. The two officers in foreground are Generals Heydrich and Frank. Also pictured are Heydrich’s wife, Lina, Frank’s wife, Karola, Heydrich’s three aides-de-camp, believed to be Ploetz, Pomme, and Kluckholn, and an unknown man, but also believed to be a senior officer in the SD.
“That’s you, isn’t it?” said Dulles. “That ‘unknown’ German officer with Generals Heydrich and Frank?”
“Yes, that’s me,” I admitted. “I see no point in denying it. But I don’t know that it tells you anything very much, Mr. Dulles. After all, none of us is wearing a uniform. It certainly doesn’t tell you that I’m an SS-Obersturmbannführer, which I think is the rank that Walter Schellenberg held around that time.”
“It tells me that you knew Heydrich pretty well if you went to the fucking circus with him and his wife.”
Thirty-one
They locked me in a bedroom. There were no bars on the window but this was in the tower room — the one that looked like a church steeple from the outside — and the drop straight to the sloping ground was at least fifteen meters. The Three Toledos wouldn’t have made a jump like that if the famous Erwingos had been there to catch them. I certainly wasn’t about to try it.