Hitler's peace

VI

“It sounds to me as if you’ve been reading Der Pimpf, ” Himmler told Schellenberg. Der Pimpf — The Squirt-was the monthly periodical for young boys in the Hitler Youth organization. It contained a mixture of high adventure and propaganda. “Assassinate the Big Three? Are you mad? Really, Schellenberg, I’m surprised at a man of your obvious intelligence coming up with a harebrained scheme like this. What on earth made you think of such an idea?”

“You did, Herr Reichsfuhrer.”

“Me?”

“Your speech at Posen. It made quite an impression on me. You said that it’s faith that wins battles, and that you didn’t want pessimists in our ranks, or people who have lost their faith in the Fatherland. I thought to myself that if Skorzeny could pull off something like the rescue of Mussolini, then, perhaps, something even more daring might be achieved.”

“Pessimism is one thing, Schellenberg, but reckless optimism is quite another. And so is realism. I expect realism from a man of your abilities. As we both know, Skorzeny’s mission was carried out at the Fuhrer’s request. It was an absurd idea and achieved nothing of any practical use. Did you even hear me mention the name of Skorzeny at Posen? No. You did not. Normally, given enough time, I could have killed off Hitler’s idea of rescuing Mussolini, in the same way that I’ve killed off a lot of other idiotic schemes. But he kept on and on about this one until I could see no way of avoiding it. And, my God, whoever expected the fool to succeed?”

They were in Himmler’s new office at the Ministry of the Interior on Unter den Linden, next to the old Greek embassy. From the double-height first-floor windows, recently made bombproof, Schellenberg could see the Adlon Hotel and the very window of the room where he had made love to Lina the previous Saturday.

“Realism demands that we pursue peace with the Allies, not try to assassinate their leaders.”

Schellenberg nodded but quietly marveled at the many contradictions that were evident in Himmler’s character and conduct. The Himmler now talking peace was the very same Himmler who, on August 25, the day he had taken over from Wilhelm Frick as minister of the interior, had sentenced a government councillor to the guillotine for “defeatist talk.” The councillor’s execution could only have been for show, thought Schellenberg; to encourage the others. The Reichsfuhrer’s remark seemed to confirm what he had learned from the two Gestapo men he’d been obliged to murder: that Himmler was indeed conducting some kind of private peace negotiations that might leave him at the head of a post-Hitler government.

“No,” said the Reichsfuhrer. “I don’t think they would take kindly to that. Not while we’re trying to talk peace.”

So there it was, thought Schellenberg. He’d admitted it. Of course in Himmler’s arrogance it would probably never have crossed his mind that the Gestapo might properly regard this as treason. That they would actually have the audacity to spy on him, the Reichsfuhrer-SS, would be quite unthinkable.

“You don’t look surprised, Schellenberg,” observed Himmler.

“That we’re trying to talk peace? If you recall, Herr Reichsfuhrer, it was I who suggested the need for an alternative strategy to end the war in August last year. At the time, I believe you told me I was being defeatist.”

Schellenberg could see that Himmler hardly cared to be reminded of this. “So what’s this, then?” Himmler said, brandishing the dossier containing details of Operation Long Jump, irritably. “Another alternative?”

“Exactly that, Herr Reichsfuhrer. Another alternative. I’m afraid I wasn’t aware of your own peace initiative.”

“You are now. As a matter of fact, that’s why I summoned you here this morning.”

“I see. And is Felix Kersten involved?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“It was a guess.”

“Well, it’s a damned good one.” Himmler sounded irritated again.

Schellenberg shrugged apologetically, but inside he felt his stomach sink. He was all for talking peace with the Allies, but he had hardly supposed that the Gestapo could have been right about Felix Kersten: that a Finnish masseur should have been entrusted with negotiating Germany’s fate seemed beyond all common sense. He didn’t disagree with Gestapo Muller in that regard, anyway.

“I don’t know what plans you’ve made for the evening,” said Himmler, “but I’m afraid you’ll have to cancel them. I’m sending you to Stockholm right away. My personal plane is waiting for you at Tempelhof. You’ll be in Sweden by lunchtime. There’s a suite booked for you at the Grand Hotel, which is where Felix will meet you.”

Himmler produced a key chain from his trouser pocket and rose from his chair; he unlocked a wall-mounted Stockinger safe from which he removed a thin-looking official briefcase with a pair of handcuffs attached to the handle. “You’ll have full diplomatic status, so there should be no reason for the Swedes to ask you to open this briefcase. But I’m opening it now in order to impress on you the need for absolute secrecy. There are only five people who know about this mission: the Fuhrer, myself, von Ribbentrop, Felix Kersten, and now you. You’ll need to change out of uniform, of course. You can do that when you return home to collect your passport and some clothes for your stay. Oberleutnant Wagner will escort you to the cash office, where you can collect some Swedish money.” Himmler handcuffed the briefcase to Schellenberg’s wrist, handed him the key, and then unbuckled the flap to reveal three white envelopes, each of them protected by several sheets of cellophane plastic, and a cigarette lighter. Schellenberg guessed that the purpose of the cellophane sheets was not to stop the envelopes from getting dirty but to enable them to burn more quickly if he needed to destroy them.

“Each letter has been written by the Fuhrer himself,” explained Himmler. “One is addressed to President Roosevelt, another to Joseph Stalin, and the third to Prime Minister Churchill. You will hand this bag to Dr. Kersten, who will put each letter into the hands of the appropriate person in Stockholm, during which time you will offer him any assistance he might require. Is that clear?”

Schellenberg clicked his heels and bowed his head obediently. “Quite clear, Herr Reichsfuhrer. Might I be allowed to inquire as to the contents of the Fuhrer’s letters to the Big Three?”

“Even I don’t know precisely what has been written,” said Himmler. “But I believe that the Fuhrer has sought a clarification of the Allied declarations regarding unconditional surrender. He wishes to find out if the Allies really do not want a negotiated peace and points out that such a demand, if it is genuine, would be unprecedented in the annals of modern war.”

“So,” said Schellenberg, “nothing very important, then.”

Himmler smiled thinly. “I fail to see the funny side of this, Schellenberg, really I do. The future of Germany and the lives of millions of people might easily depend on the contents of this briefcase. Do you not agree?”

“Yes, Herr Reichsfuhrer. I am sorry.”

Oberleutnant Wagner escorted Schellenberg to the cash office in the ministry’s basement. Not that this was necessary. Schellenberg had started his SS career at the Ministry of the Interior and knew very well where the cash office was. Fiddling his expenses had always been one of Schellenberg’s major accomplishments.

“How’s Colonel Tschierschky, sir?” asked Wagner. “Still got that blue BMW Roadster, has he? Just the car I’d be driving if I could afford it.”

Schellenberg, who wasn’t much interested in cars, grunted without much enthusiasm as the cashier counted a sizable wad of Swedish kronor onto the counter in front of him. Wagner eyed the money greedily as Schellenberg tossed the wads of cash into the briefcase still handcuffed to his wrist, and then locked it again. Together, he and Wagner walked to the front door of the ministry.

“You and Tschierschky were in a special action group, weren’t you, Wagner?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And before that?”

“I was a lawyer, sir. With the Criminal Police, in Munich.”

Another damned lawyer. Schellenberg’s nose wrinkled with distaste as he left the ministry. It was hard to believe that he himself had given up medicine to become a lawyer, of all things. He hated lawyers. It had been a mistake to try to kill all the Jews when there were still so many lawyers.

He drove back to his apartment and changed out of uniform. Then he threw some things into an overnight bag, collected his passport, and went outside. At Loesser and Wolff’s on the corner of Fasanenstrasse, he bought twenty Jasmatzis and some newspapers for the flight. Then he drove to Tempelhof, where Himmler’s plane was waiting. It was a Focke Wulf FW 20 °Condor, the same kind of plane that Schellenberg had hoped to use in the plan to mount a bombing raid on Teheran.

Once on board he handed the crew their sealed orders and then took his seat, avoiding the Reichsfuhrer’s vast leather chair with its personal escape hatch-in the event of an emergency, the occupant had only to pull on a red lever and a door would be opened hydraulically beneath the seat, allowing him to slide out, still strapped into his seat, and then drop to the ground by parachute. But the very idea of sitting in a seat that might drop out of the plane was not, in Schellenberg’s opinion, conducive to a comfortable journey. So he sat in the smaller seat opposite, the one that was usually occupied by Himmler’s girlfriend, his adjutant, or his private secretary. He lit a Jasmatzi and tried to take his mind off the dangers of the flight ahead. The Reichsfuhrer’s personal Condor was probably the nearest thing Germany had to an American flying fortress, but by late 1943 the RAF was considered much too ubiquitous in German skies to risk frequent flights in it, and Himmler usually needed several cognacs to steady his nerves. Schellenberg followed suit.

Less than ten minutes later the Condor’s four BMW engines were driving the plane down the runway and then into the air, with Schellenberg staring through the fifty-millimeter-thick bulletproofglass window at the city below. From the air it was easier to see just how effective the RAF had become; there was hardly one neighborhood in the whole of Berlin that did not show some bomb damage. Another year of this, thought Schellenberg, and there wouldn’t be very much of a city left for the Russians to capture.

They flew south, toward the suburb of Mariendorf, before turning west toward Zehlendorf and the Grunewald, and then north over the Olympic Stadium and the Citadel at Spandau, where some of the Reich’s most important state prisoners were incarcerated. The plane climbed steadily, and when, after about thirty minutes, it had leveled out at just over 5,000 meters, one of the four-man crew came into the passenger area to bring Schellenberg some blankets.

“Tell me,” said Schellenberg, “what do you think of this plane?”

The man pointed at Himmler’s seat. “May I?”

“Be my guest,” said Schellenberg.

“Best long-range airliner in Europe,” said the man, whose name was Hoffmann. He sat down and made himself comfortable. “If not the world. I never understood why we didn’t make more of these. This plane will get you to New York, nonstop, in just under twenty hours. Mind you, it’s not particularly fast. Even a Short Sutherland will catch one of these and shoot it down. And God forbid a Mosquito should ever find us. But aerodynamically speaking, at least, the Condor is outstanding.”

“And as a long-range bomber?”

Hoffmann shrugged dismissively. “In the beginning it was quite an effective Atlantic bomber. I sank a few ships myself before transfering to the Government Group. But as I said, it’s an easy target for a fighter, even with all the armament we’re carrying. If you have the element of surprise, then it’s okay, I suppose. Some of the later models have search radar, which gives you a useful blind-bombing capability; or they’ll have a radio-guidance installation for missiles. The range is the thing. I mean, think about it, sir. New York. This plane could bomb New York. Chances are we’d catch them napping. After all, nobody expects a bomber to come all that way. Of course it would mean getting our feet wet, but I reckon it would be worth it, don’t you? I mean, just think how many we’d kill in a densely populated place like New York. Once you’ve got the element of surprise, you’re halfway there, aren’t you?”

The man reached inside his flying suit and took out a Walther PPK fitted with a noise eliminator on the barrel, which he pointed at Schellenberg. For half a moment Schellenberg thought Hoffmann was going to use the gun to make some sort of comparison, but instead the Walther stayed pointed at his chest.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you for that briefcase, sir,” he said.

“Oh, I like the ‘sir,’ ” said Schellenberg. He put down his glass of cognac and held up the briefcase so that it dangled from the manacle on his wrist. “You mean this briefcase? The key is on a chain in my trouser pocket. I’ll have to stand up to retrieve it. If that’s all right with you.”

Hoffmann nodded. “Do it very carefully.”

Schellenberg stood up slowly, showed the man his empty hand and then slid it carefully into his trouser pocket, pulling out a long silver key chain.

Hoffmann’s grip tightened nervously on the Walther, and he licked his lips. “Now sit down and unlock the bracelet.”

Schellenberg staggered back into his seat as the plane lurched a little in an air pocket; finding the key at last, he unlocked the manacle from his extended wrist.

“Now hand it over.”

Schellenberg watched patiently as the man balanced the briefcase on his lap and tried the lock on the flap. “It’s locked,” he said quietly. “There’s a different key.”

Hoffmann flung the briefcase back at him. “Do it.” Schellenberg unlocked the briefcase and then handed it over again. Hoffmann nursed it on his lap for several seconds as if uncertain what to do, and then glanced inside to find only the cellophane sheets, the money, and the cigarette lighter.

“Is this all?”

“I don’t know,” said Schellenberg. “I haven’t yet looked at the contents. My orders were merely to hand the briefcase over in Stockholm, not examine the contents.”

“There has to be something more than this,” insisted Hoffmann. “You’re an SS general. The head of Foreign Intelligence. You wouldn’t be going all the way to Stockholm aboard Himmler’s private plane just to hand over some Swedish money and a cigarette lighter. You’re a traitor. You’re planning to betray Germany to the Allies. Himmler gave you this briefcase himself. There was something in here before the money went inside it. Something connected with what’s happening in Stockholm. You must have taken it out on the way to the airport. Whatever it is, you must have it in your coat pocket or in your bag. I’ll ask you to tell me where it is, and then I’ll count to three. And if you don’t tell me I’ll shoot you. I won’t kill you. Just hurt you. Sir.”

“You’re right, of course,” said Schellenberg. “I dislike the practice of manacling a briefcase to one’s wrist. Himmler’s crazy idea. It’s like advertising that one is carrying something valuable.” He pointed at the gray Loden coat hanging in the closet behind him. “In the pocket of my overcoat there are three letters written by the Fuhrer, addressed to each of the Big Three, declaring Germany’s willingness to surrender.”

“You’re a liar.”

“There’s an easy way to prove that,” said Schellenberg. “Just look in my coat. If I’m wrong, then go ahead and kill me. But if I’m right, then think about it. It’s you who is the traitor, not me. It’s you who will be interfering with a direct order of the Fuhrer. I could have you shot for this.”

Hoffmann smiled cynically. “Right now, it’s you who stands the best chance of being shot, not me.”

“True. Well, then, let me get my coat and you can make up your own mind.” Schellenberg stood up.

“Stay where you are. I’ll get it.”

“In the right-hand pocket. There’s a large manila envelope.”

“I thought you said there were three envelopes.”

“There are. Inside the manila one. Look, these are letters from the Fuhrer, not notes from some lovesick soldier. They’re in another envelope to keep them clean, of course. Roosevelt is hardly likely to look favorably on an envelope with a thumbprint on it, is he?”

Hoffmann transferred the Walther from his right hand to his left as he prepared to search Schellenberg’s coat pocket. “It had better be there,” he said. “Or you’re a dead man.”

“And how would you explain that to the rest of the crew?”

Hoffmann laughed. “I won’t have to. As soon as I’ve got this envelope of yours, I’m going to shoot them and bail out.”

Schellenberg swallowed hard, feeling as if he had been kicked in the stomach; already he was considering the preposterous fate that would surely follow his unfortunate death in an air crash somewhere over the Baltic Sea: undoubtedly he would be given a place in Himmler’s ludicrous crypt for SS generals at Wewelsburg Castle, near Paderborn. Himmler would make another dreadful speech and Canaris would, perhaps, shed a crocodile tear for old times’ sake. Schellenberg realized that if he wanted to avoid this sort of charade, he would have to deal with Hoffmann, who even now was sliding his hand inside Schellenberg’s coat pocket.

The old tricks were still the best ones. In the early days of the war, Schellenberg had filled a whole prisoners’ block at the Sachsenhausen concentration camp with Jews from Germany’s criminal underworld and set them to work producing counterfeit British currency. (The?20,000 used to pay Cicero had come straight from the printing presses at Sachsenhausen.) Among these Jews were several expert “ ganefs ”-Jewish pickpockets, whom Schellenberg had used for a number of undercover operations. One of these ganefs, a Mrs. Brahms, who was considered the queen of Berlin’s underworld, had shown Schellenberg a good way of protecting himself from pickpockets. By pushing several needles down into the lining of the pocket, with the points toward the bottom, it was possible to slide a hand into the pocket without injury, but almost impossible to pull the hand out again without encountering the points of the needles. Mrs. Brahms called it her “rat-catcher,” because the principle was the same as was used in a certain kind of rodent trap.

“There’s nothing in this pocket,” said Hoffmann and, pulling his hand out again, screamed out loud as a dozen sharp surgical needles pierced his flesh.

Schellenberg was out of his seat in an instant, hauling the Loden coat, still attached to Hoffmann’s hand by the needle-filled pocket, over the man’s head and then punching him hard, several times, in the head. Hoffmann fell back into Himmler’s leather chair and swept the coat away from his face before leveling the silenced gun at Schellenberg and pulling the trigger. Schellenberg threw himself to the floor of the aircraft as the gun fired, the bullet shattering a glass in the liquor cabinet.

Still struggling with the coat and the pain in his right hand, Hoffmann wrestled himself around to take another shot at Schellenberg, who was lying immediately beside Himmler’s seat, partly protected by the huge leather armrest.

Schellenberg had little time to think. He reached for the red lever beside Himmler’s chair and pulled it hard. There was a loud hydraulic clanking noise, as if someone had struck the belly of the Condor with a large wrench, and then a rush of freezing-cold air, a scream, and the seat carrying Hoffmann disappeared through a large square hole in the floor. But for the strength of his grip on the red lever, Schellenberg might have fallen out of the plane, too. As half of his body dangled outside of the Condor’s fuselage, he had a brief vision of seat and man separating in the air, the parachute deploying, and Hoffmann falling into the Baltic Sea.

Shocked by the freezing air, his other hand too numb with cold to get much of a hold on the lip of the open escape hatch, Schellenberg called out for help, his voice hardly audible above the rushing air and the roar of the Condor’s four BMW engines. He felt himself slipping out of the aircraft as the hand clinging to the red lever grew weaker and increasingly numb by the second. His last thought was of his wife’s father, Herr Grosse-Schonepauck, an insurance executive, who was going to have to pay out on the policy Schellenberg had bought, and how he would love to have seen the expression on the old man’s face as he signed the check. The next moment he felt someone gripping him under the arms, hauling him back aboard the plane, and then rolling him away from the open escape hatch.

Exhausted, Schellenberg lay there for almost a minute before a blanket was laid on top of him, and one of the remaining crew, a huge fellow wearing a Luftwaffe radio/gunner’s badge, helped him to sit up, and then handed him a glass of cognac.

“Here,” he said, “get this down you.”

The man looked grimly out of the open hatch. “And then you can tell me what happened to Hoffmann.”

Schellenberg downed the brandy in one gulp and, leaning against the fuselage, glanced at his clothes, which were soaking wet and covered with grease and oil. He went into the lavatory to wash and then fetched his bag to change into the clothes that had been hiding the Fuhrer’s letters. At the same time, he gave the man, a flight sergeant, a slightly expurgated account of what had happened. When he had finished talking, the sergeant spoke.

“Hoffmann took a phone call, at Tempelhof, about thirty minutes before you arrived.”

“Did he say who it was that called him?”

“No, but he looked a bit strange. After that he said very little, which was strange, too, because he was always quite a talkative fellow.”

“So I noticed. Had you known him long?”

“No. He joined the Government Group only a couple of months ago, after a long stint on the Russian front. Someone pulled some strings for him, we figured. Well, we were pretty sure about that. His brother is in the Gestapo.”

Schellenberg nodded. “It figures.”

He drank another cognac, and took a seat at the back of the plane, as far away from the open hatch as possible; then, covering himself with as many blankets as were available, he closed his eyes.

Schellenberg knew Stockholm well and liked it. In late 1941 he had spent a lot of time in Sweden when Himmler had sent him there to encourage the dissemination of Hitler’s racial ideology.

Although a neutral country, Sweden was effectively enclosed by German-held territory and secretly allowed the passage of German troops on Swedish railways. It also sold Germany more than 40 percent of her iron-ore requirements. Nevertheless, while showing a congenial face to Germany, Sweden was proud of its independence-the Nazi Party had never achieved representation in the parliament-and guarded this independence jealously. Consequently, when Schellenberg arrived at Stockholm’s airport, despite his diplomatic cover, he was obliged to answer a number of questions regarding his business before being allowed into the country.

After clearing immigration, he was met by Ulrich von Geinanth, the first secretary at the German Legation and the senior representative of the SD in Stockholm.

Was it Schellenberg’s suspicious imagination or had the first secretary been just a little disappointed to see him?

“Good flight?” asked von Geinanth.

“They’re all good when you’re not shot down by the RAF.”

“Quite. How is Berlin?”

“Not so bad. No bombers this week. But they’ve had it pretty bad in Munich, Kassel, and Frankfurt. And last night it was Stuttgart’s turn.”

Asking no more questions, von Geinanth drove Schellenberg to Stockholm’s harbor area and the Grand Hotel close by the old town and the Royal Palace. Schellenberg disliked staying at the embassy and preferred the Grand, where, largely, he was left alone to take advantage of the excellent kitchens, the wine cellars, and the local whores. Having checked in, he left a message with the concierge for Dr. Kersten and then went up to his room to await the chiropractor’s arrival.

After a while there was a knock at the door and, always careful of his personal security, Schellenberg answered it with a loaded Mauser hidden behind his back.

“Welcome to Sweden, Herr General,” said the man at the door.

“Herr Doctor.” Schellenberg stood aside and Felix Kersten entered the suite. There was, he thought, a Churchillian aspect to the doctor: of medium height, he was more than a little overweight, with a double chin and a large stomach, which had helped earn him the sobriquet Himmler’s Magic Buddha.

“What’s the gun for?” frowned Kersten. “This is Sweden, not the Russian front.”

“Oh, you know. One can’t be too careful.” Schellenberg made the automatic safe and then returned it to his shoulder holster.

“Phew, it’s hot in here. Would you mind if I opened a window?”

“Actually, I’d rather you didn’t.”

“In that case, with your permission, I’ll take off my jacket.” Kersten removed the coat of his three-piece blue pinstriped suit and hung it on the back of a dining chair, revealing arms and shoulders that were the size of a crocodile wrestler’s-the result of more than twenty years of practice as a chiropractor and master masseur. Until 1940, when Germany had invaded the Netherlands, Kersten’s most important clients had been the Dutch royal family; but thereafter his chief client (Kersten had had little choice in the matter) was the Reichsfuhrer-SS, who now regarded the burly Finn as indispensable. At Himmler’s recommendation Kersten had treated a number of other top Nazis, including von Ribbentrop, Kaltenbrunner, Dr. Robert Ley, and, on a couple of occasions, Schellenberg himself.

“How is your back, Walter?”

“Fine. It’s my neck that’s stiff.” Schellenberg was already removing the stud from the collar of his shirt.

Kersten came around the back of his chair. “Here, let me have a look.”

Massive cold fingers-like thick pork sausages-took hold of Schellenberg’s slim neck and massaged it expertly. “There’s a lot of tension in this neck.”

“Not just my neck,” murmured Schellenberg.

“Just let your head go loose for a moment.” One big hand grasped Schellenberg’s lower jaw and the other the top of his head, almost like a Catholic priest giving a blessing. Schellenberg felt Kersten turn his head to the left a couple of times, experimentally, like a golfer teeing up a big drive, and then much more quickly, and with greater power, twisting it hard so that Schellenberg heard and felt a click in his vertebrae that sounded like a stick breaking.

“There, that should help.”

Schellenberg rolled his head around on his shoulders a couple of times, just to make sure that it was still attached to his neck. “Tell me,” he said. “Does Himmler let you do that?”

“Of course.”

“Then I wonder why you don’t break his neck. I think I would.”

“Now, why would I want to do that?”

“I can think of a million reasons. And so can you, Felix.”

“Walter, he’s attempting to make peace with the Allies. Surely, in that, at least, he deserves our support. What I’m doing in his name could save millions of lives.”

“Possibly.” Schellenberg took out a red leather Schildkraut cigarette case, a present from Lina, and offered Kersten one of his Jasmatzis. Lighting Kersten’s cigarette, he was close enough to see the strange black ring around the iris in each of the chiropractor’s blue eyes that lent them a strangely hypnotic aspect. This near to Kersten, it was easy enough to give credence to the rumor about his mesmeric influence on Himmler.

“Since we’re talking about saving lives, Felix, might I suggest you start carrying a gun yourself.”

“Me? Carry a gun? Why?”

“You have powerful friends. Among them I include myself. But, as a result of that, you also have powerful enemies. Heinrich Muller of the Gestapo, for one.”

“Oh, he won’t find anything on me.”

“No? There are some people in Germany who might argue that meeting members of the American intelligence services is prima facie evidence you are a spy.”

“I haven’t met anyone from American intelligence. The only American I’ve met while I’ve been in Stockholm has been Roosevelt’s special representative, Mr. Hewitt. He’s a New York attorney and a diplomat, not a spy.”

Schellenberg smiled. It always gave him a little thrill to present people with the evidence of their naivete. “Abram Stevens Hewitt,” he said. “Grandson of a former mayor of New York and a large contributor to the U.S. Democratic Party. Father a Boston banker. Graduate of Harvard and Oxford universities. Involved in a financial scandal involving the Ivan Kreuger Swedish Match company in 1932. Speaks fluent Swedish and German. And a member of the Office of Strategic Services since 1942. The OSS is an espionage and counterintelligence organization. Hewitt reports to the head of the Swedish station, Dr. Bruce Hopper, himself a former Harvard professor of government, and Wilko Tikander-”

“Not Wilko Tikander!” exclaimed Kersten.

“-a Finnish-American attorney from Chicago and chief of OSS operations here in Stockholm.” Schellenberg paused to allow the effect of his revelations to sink in. “Felix,” he added, “all I’m saying is that you need to be careful. Even if the Gestapo can’t discredit you-and there’s no doubt that won’t be easy so long as you enjoy Himmler’s confidence, which you do, obviously, since you are, as you say, here in Himmler’s name-even if they can’t discredit you in Himmler’s eyes, they might still decide to remove you. If you know what I mean.”

“You mean, kill me?”

“Yes. You have a wife and three sons. You owe it to them to be vigilant.”

“They wouldn’t harm them, would they?”

“No. Himmler wouldn’t allow that. But here, away from Germany, there’s a limit to what even Himmler can do. Do you know how to use a pistol?”

“Yes. During the war, the last war, I was in a Finnish regiment that fought the Russians.”

“Then take this.” Schellenberg handed him his Mauser; he had another one in his bag. “Keep it in your coat pocket, just in case. Only better not carry it around Himmler. He might think you don’t like him anymore.”

“Thank you, Walter. Is it loaded?”

“There’s a war on, Felix. It’s wise to assume that most guns are loaded.”

Kersten drew heavily on his cigarette and then stubbed it out, only half-smoked. He looked unhappily at the Mauser in his big hand and then shook his head.

“I can’t cure him, you know.”

“Who?”

“Himmler. He thinks he’s sick. But there is no cure because there’s no real illness. I can only alleviate the symptoms-the headaches, the stomach convulsions. Sometimes he thinks he has cancer. There is no cancer. But mostly he thinks his symptoms are caused by overwork, or even by a poor constitution. They’re not. There’s nothing physically wrong with the man.”

“Go on.”

“I’m afraid to.”

“I’m not your enemy, Felix.”

Kersten nodded. “I know, but still.”

“Are you saying he’s mentally ill?”

“No. Yes, in a way. He’s sick with guilt, Walter. He’s paralyzed with horror at what he has done and at what he continues to do.” Kersten shook his head.

“And is this why he has initiated these peace moves?”

“Only partly.”

“Personal ambition, I suppose. He wants to take over.”

“No. It’s not that. He’s actually much more loyal to Hitler than you might suppose, Walter.”

“What, then?”

“Something terrible. A secret I cannot reveal to anyone. Something Himmler told me. I can’t tell you.”

Schellenberg poured them each a drink and smiled. “Now I really am intrigued. All right. Let’s suppose for a minute that you’re going to tell me, but only on condition that we think of someone else who could have told me. Someone other than Himmler. Now, who else could that be?” He handed Kersten a glass of apricot brandy.

Kersten thought for a moment and then said, “Morell.”

Schellenberg wracked his brain for almost a minute, trying to think of a Morell with whom Kersten might be acquainted, and then felt his eyes widening with surprise.

“Not Theodor Morell.”

“Yes.”

“Jesus.” Theodor Morell was Hitler’s personal physician. “All right, if I’m ever tortured by the Gestapo, I’ll say it was Morell who told me.”

“I suppose I have to tell someone.” Kersten shrugged and drained his cognac glass in one go. “Could I have another?”

Schellenberg fetched the bottle and refilled the Finn’s glass.

“I’ve warned Himmler of the consequences for the German people of doing nothing about this. That’s the real reason he’s making these peace overtures to the Americans. He’s known about this since the end of last year.”

“Hitler’s ill?”

“Worse than ill.”

“Dying?”

“Worse than that.”

“For Christ’s sake, Felix, what is it?”

“Last December, at Himmler’s castle near the Wolfschanze, Himmler took a thirty-page dossier from his safe and showed it to me. It was a top-secret file about Hitler’s health. He asked me to read the file with a view to my treating Hitler as a patient. I read it and wished I hadn’t. Dr. Morell had noted some loss of normal reflexes in Hitler that might have indicated some degeneration in the nerve fibers of the spinal cord, possibly even signs of progressive paralysis.”

“Go on.”

“It was Morell’s opinion that this was tabes dorsalis, also known as locomotor ataxia.” Kersten lit a cigarette and stared grimly at the glowing tip. “A tertiary syphilitic infection of the nerves.”

“Holy Christ!” exclaimed Schellenberg. “Are you saying that the Fuhrer has syphilis?”

“Not me, for God’s sake. Not me. Morell. And this was only a suspicion. Not a complete diagnosis. For that there would have to be blood tests and an examination of Hitler’s private parts.”

“But if it’s true?”

Kersten sighed loudly. “If it’s true, then it’s possible that, periodically at least, Germany may be led by someone suffering from acute paranoia.”

“Periodically.”

“Hitler might appear rational for most of the time, with bouts of insanity.”

“Just like Nietzsche.”

“Exactly so.”

“Except that Nietzsche was in an asylum.”

“Actually, no. He was committed to an asylum but was released into the care of his own family and eventually died at home.”

“Raving.”

“Yes. Raving.”

“That sounds familiar.”

Schellenberg collected his overnight bag off the bed and emptied the contents into the quilt. “Then let us hope that when he wrote these letters to each of the Big Three he was in a rational phase.”

“So that’s why you’re here.”

“Yes. Himmler wants you to deliver them to the appropriate government representatives.”

Kersten picked up one of the three letters and turned it over in his pudgy hands as if it had been something written in Goethe’s own handwriting. “To bear such a huge responsibility,” he muttered. “Incredible.”

Schellenberg shrugged and looked away. That Germany’s future should be entrusted to the hands of a forty-five-year-old Finnish masseur seemed no less incredible to him.

“Hewitt, I suppose, for the letter to Roosevelt,” said Kersten.

Schellenberg nodded vaguely; could any of the Big Three possibly treat such a bizarre overture with any seriousness?

“Madame de Kollontay, for the Soviets, of course.”

He liked Kersten and had the greatest respect for him as a therapist, and yet he could not help but think that this kind of back-door diplomacy-no, asylum-door diplomacy was more like it-was doomed to fail.

“I’m not sure about the British,” murmured Kersten. “I haven’t had a great deal to do with the British. Henry Denham, perhaps. Now, he is a spy, I think.”

All of which left Schellenberg angry with Himmler. What on earth was he thinking? Was Himmler any less insane than Hitler?

“I’ll ask Hewitt when I see him later this afternoon,” continued Kersten. “He’s a patient of mine, you know. His back pain provides a useful cover for our meetings.”

How dare he, thought Schellenberg. How dare Himmler charge this simple man, of limited intellectual ability, with a mission like this and describe Schellenberg’s own idea as sounding like something out of Der Pimpf?

Schellenberg could now see no alternative. He was going to have to try again to sell Himmler on his plan to assassinate the Big Three. And perhaps there was something in Nietzsche that might help. He was no philosopher, but he remembered enough of what he had read of Nietzsche to know that Himmler would appreciate his florid tone. There was a phrase in Nietzsche’s book about morals that seemed appropriate. About how only rare superior individuals-the noble ones, the Ubermenschen, yes, Himmler loved that particular word-could rise above all moral distinctions to achieve a heroic life of truly human worth. Something like that, perhaps, might help sell Himmler on his plan. And after Himmler, Hitler, too. Hitler would be easy. Himmler was the harder sell. After Himmler, Hitler would be a piece of cake.