shoes slipping slightly on the small stones and, stopping for a moment, I threw off my jacket before once again picking up the yoke and dragging the thing down to the main gate.
Two of the Sikh sentries came toward me, bayonets fixed, but quite relaxed and looking puzzled.
“What are you doing, Sahib?” asked one of them.
“Give me a hand,” I said. “There’s a time bomb inside this thing.”
They stared at me blankly.
“Don’t you understand? It’s a bomb.”
And then wisely, one of them ran off toward the main building.
I reached the gate, having achieved quite a reasonable forward motion, at which point the Sikh who had spoken to me threw down his rifle and began to help me push the cart.
At last we cleared the gates of the British embassy compound and headed down the wide empty boulevard toward the main part of the city. The Sikh stopped pushing now and ran away. Which suited me fine. I almost preferred that I should do it myself. How much better that I should be remembered not as the man who had saved Hitler’s life, nor even as the man who had scuppered the peace talks, but as the hero of the hour-the man who had saved the Big Three from being blown to pieces.
There seemed nothing particularly heroic about what I was doing. I was tired and, in a way, I almost looked forward to the end of it all. So, pushing the water cart with its lethal payload, I went to find a kind of peace. The kind of peace that passeth all understanding. Final peace. Hitler’s peace.
XXVII
With none of the surviving members of the Operation Long Jump team-supposing that there were any-having yet made it as far as the German embassy in Ankara, there was much that Walter Schellenberg still didn’t know about what had happened in Teheran. But from sources at the Soviet embassy in Iran, and inside the British SIS in London, he had been able to put together a rough picture of the events that followed the hurried departure of the Fuhrer from the Iranian capital. Alone in his office on Berkaerstrasse, Schellenberg reread the top-secret account he had typed himself for Himmler, and then drove to the Ministry of the Interior.
It was a meeting he was hardly looking forward to since it was now well known to the Reichsfuhrer-SS that the young SD chief had disobeyed a direct order regarding the use of Zeppelin volunteers. Himmler would have been well within his rights to have ordered Schellenberg’s immediate execution. At the same time, however, Schellenberg had already concluded that if Himmler intended to have him arrested he would probably have done it by now. The worst Schellenberg thought he could probably expect was a severe dressing down, and perhaps some sort of demotion.
Despite the recent bombing, the Ku-damm still managed to look comparatively normal, with people getting ready for Christmas as if they hadn’t a care in the world. To look at them, carrying Christmas trees and gazing in shop windows, a war might be happening somewhere other than in Berlin on a Thursday morning in mid-December. Schellenberg parked his car on Unter den Linden, where a cold wind was worrying the Nazi flag on the facade of the Ministry of the Interior, saluted to the two guards on duty outside the front door, and went inside.
He found Himmler in a businesslike mood and, to his surprise, the Reichsfuhrer showed no immediate inclination to issue his subordinate with any kind of reprimand. Instead he eyed the report on Schellenberg’s lap and with an uncharacteristic casualness invited the SD general to summarize what it contained.
“Most of the Friedenthal Section were killed or captured, of course,” said Schellenberg. “Very likely they were betrayed to the Soviets by one of the Kashgai tribesmen, for money.”
“Very likely,” agreed Himmler, who saw no reason to tell Schellenberg that it was he himself who had betrayed the Operation Long Jump team to the NKVD.
“It was always the main risk in Operation Long Jump-the reliability of those tribesmen,” Schellenberg continued. “But we think that those who did evade capture, at least in the short term, were probably responsible for some sort of bomb that was placed on the grounds of the British embassy in Teheran. Our sources indicate that there was a large explosion about a hundred yards away from the embassy at just after twenty-one hundred hours on Tuesday, November thirtieth. Churchill was hosting his birthday party at the time, and it seems that earlier that same day, the bomb, of considerable size, had been concealed in a water cart and positioned close to the banqueting room. But the bomb was discovered, very likely by the same man who was killed moving it to a place of safety. An American, named Willard Mayer.”
“You don’t say,” said Himmler, who sounded genuinely surprised to hear this.
“Willard Mayer was a member of the American OSS, and was Roosevelt’s German translator during the conference. He was also a philosopher of some note and before the war had studied in Vienna. And in Berlin, I believe. I looked at one of his books. It’s really quite profound.”
“Willard Mayer was also the Jew who saved the Fuhrer’s life,” said Himmler.
“Then he seems to have been quite a hero, doesn’t he?” Schellenberg observed. “Saving the Fuhrer and then the Big Three. A little more than one expects from your average philosopher.”
“Do you really think that bomb would have killed them?”
“By all accounts, the explosion was immense. The American’s body was never found.”
“Of course, with him gone there’s one less witness to what really happened,” said Himmler. “In that respect at least, they’re fortunate. Almost as fortunate as you, Schellenberg.”
Schellenberg acknowledged the rebuke with a curt nod of the head. He waited a moment.
“Well, go on,” urged Himmler. “Go on.”
“Yes, Herr Reichsfuhrer. I was merely going to add that as far as the Americans are concerned, the process of rewriting the record has already begun. To read the British and American newspapers after the conference was over, it’s hard to believe the Fuhrer could ever have been there. Remarkable, really. It’s as if none of this ever happened.”
“Not quite,” said Himmler.
Schellenberg braced himself. This was it. Himmler was going to demote him after all.
“That Jew-lover, Roosevelt, must now take the consequences for his refusal to agree to the Fuhrer’s terms.”
Schellenberg smiled with a mixture of relief and amusement. It seemed as though he would be remaining in his position. And it looked as if it wasn’t just the Allies who were busy rewriting history. The first time Himmler had told him of the Fuhrer’s secret trip to Teheran he had added that Hitler’s departure had been precipitated by the discovery that he could not deal with an enemy as cruel and perfidious as Stalin after all.
“What consequences are those, Herr Reichsfuhrer?”
“The war against the Allies may be impossible to win, Schellenberg,” said Himmler. “I think we both know that’s true. But there is still the war against the Jews. The Fuhrer has ordered that the final solution of the Jewish problem is to be given the utmost priority in the coming year. New deportations have already begun in Hungary and Scandinavia, and special camps have been given instructions to increase their turnover.”
Himmler stood up and, clasping his hands behind his back, walked to the window and looked out.
“The work will be difficult, of course. Unpleasant, even. Personally speaking, I myself find this order especially abhorrent. As you know, I have always struggled to find a just peace for Hitler and for Germany.” He glanced back at Schellenberg and shrugged. “But it was not to be. We did our very best. And now…” He walked carefully back to his desk and, sitting down, picked up his fountain pen with its infamous green ink. “Now we must do our very worst.”
Schellenberg breathed a sigh of relief. He was safe after all.
“Yes, Herr Reichsfuhrer.”
