Out of Mecklenburg Read online

  And it had, the news still ringing in von Menen’s ears: Hitler had committed his fearsome war machine to his craziest scheme yet – the colonisation of the east. Since the early hours of Sunday, the Third Reich had been at war with the country many Germans conceived as the real enemy – Russia! From the Black Sea to the Baltic, a German army of unprecedented size was on the march, its sole aim to extend the ideology of a man who craved to be champion of Europe, Adolf Hitler. Next stop, The World.

  Wehmen lit up a cigarette, dabbed a finger to his tongue, rubbed it against his thumb and began leafing through the file, turning each page with measured rhythm. He stopped, looked up and fixed von Menen with a long, curious gaze, his nicotine-stained fingers drumming on his silver cigarette box.

  ‘Remind me,’ he said, ‘what were the circumstances of you being born in Spain?’

  Von Menen’s distant Mediterranean origins were not glaringly obvious, yet his dark brown, almost black, wavy hair seemed starkly at odds with his greenish-blue eyes.

  ‘My parents were in Catalonia at the time, sir, visiting my grandmother – my grandmother being Spanish, you see. They were about to return to Germany when—’

  ‘Ah, yes, your grandfather, married one of the…’ Wehmen paused, scratched his thinning grey hair, flecks of dandruff fluttering to his shoulders.

  ‘Devoto de Martinez family, sir.’

  ‘That’s right. Caused a right old stir at the time, I believe; your grandmother’s decision to renounce the Catholic faith, I mean.’

  ‘I believe it did, sir, yes.’

  ‘The reason why you went to Madrid University, your ancestry?’

  ‘One of them, sir.’

  ‘Personally, never knew your grandfather, but history shows him to have been a fine diplomat, a textbook example of mediation and superbly mannered…’ Wehmen paused again, a wheezing sound seeping through his lips. He coughed loudly and a fine mist of saliva sprayed out across the top of his desk. ‘Attributes ideally suited to the Bismarck era,’ he added, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, ‘but not so these days. We’ve no time for that starched, sedate nonsense anymore.’

  Von Menen averted his eyes. No time for refinement, either.

  Wehmen referred back to the file. ‘Army service… you spent some time on the staff of General von Witzleben, now Field Marshal von Witzleben, and served an attachment with the Signals Corps?’

  ‘Yes, sir… I returned to General von Witzleben’s staff in December 1937 and stayed there until June 1938. That’s when I joined the Foreign Office.’

  Wehmen turned to the next page. ‘Languages… you have an excellent command of French, English, Italian and Portuguese, and your Spanish is faultless.’

  ‘I’ve been speaking, reading and writing Spanish since I was a child, sir.’

  ‘Mm… I suppose so. A bit of a boxer, too, I see. Is that how you got the nose?’

  ‘Yes, sir, but I haven’t boxed since I left the army.’

  ‘Other sports?’

  ‘Fencing, sailing… riding.’

  Wehmen coughed again, reached for a glass of water and took a quick sip. ‘Any immediate plans?’ he asked.

  ‘Plans, sir?’

  ‘Marriage?’

  Another bizarre question. Von Menen’s scepticism moved further into the ascendancy. ‘No, sir, marriage isn’t on my agenda at the moment.’

  Pushing the file aside, Wehmen leaned over his desk, a penetrating look in his eyes. ‘Von Menen,’ he said, after a lengthy pause, ‘what do you know about…’ Another deafening silence.

  ‘About what, sir?’

  Wehmen replied in a whisper, as if the room was full of eavesdroppers. ‘About… Information Department Three.’

  Von Menen’s face was full of puzzlement. ‘Nothing, sir. I’d no idea there was such a department.’

  ‘That’s because it’s new, formed only a couple of months ago, by the Minister himself. Its function is to collate intelligence for the Foreign Office.’ Wehmen picked up another cigarette, slipped it between his lips. ‘And you, von Menen, are its latest recruit,’ he added, speaking with the cigarette still in his mouth.

  Von Menen pushed back in his chair, face crammed with confusion.

  ‘On the directions of the Foreign Minister,’ continued Wehmen, ‘you are being posted to…’ He reached for his lighter, lit the cigarette, smoke swirling about his face.

  ‘Posted to where, sir?’

  ‘Buenos Aires, of course,’ replied Wehmen, as if Buenos Aires was just two stops down the line from Potsdamer Platz Station.

  Von Menen stared at the floor in bewilderment. This is a dream. I’ve just made love to Clarita Brecht, freed myself from the luxurious entanglement of her legs and fallen into a deep sleep. In a moment, she’ll prod me in the back. But she didn’t.

  ‘Ar-gen-tin-a?’ he replied. ‘To… collate in-tell-i-gence? But I know nothing about intelligence, sir.’

  ‘You don’t need to! You’re not going there as some seedy, grubby little spy! You’re going there as an accredited envoy of the Third Reich, an envoy with a special remit.’ Wehmen’s head was almost halfway across his desk. ‘You’re going there because you’re considered to have the brains, the intellect and the insight to obtain the kind of information Herr von Ribbentrop wants. The Minister’s expectations of you are very high,’ he emphasised, peering over the top of his pince-nez. ‘He wants a special pair of eyes and ears in Argentina and he’s chosen yours. It would be most unwise of you to disappoint him.’

  Wehmen settled back heavily and glanced at his notepad. ‘At eight o’clock tomorrow morning you’re meeting your new section chief, Herr Werner, and he will brief you more fully.’ He slipped a half-flimsy across his desk. ‘That’s where you’ll find him.’

  Von Menen’s face was a twisted picture of pain. ‘But, sir—’

  ‘But nothing! Orders, von Menen, orders.’ Wehmen drew heavily on his Murad Turkish cigarette, a centimetre of rolled tobacco turning to ash, his steely gaze casting a stern warning. ‘And remember, when you leave this office you are not to discuss this matter with anyone other than Herr Werner.’ He flicked his hand dismissively in the direction of the door. ‘That is all. You may go.’

  *

  Tuesday 24th June 1941

  A small overnight case lay idly on top of the desk, a maroon folder beside it. An island of order in an office that otherwise looked like a junk shop.

  Werner, a man in his late fifties, short, solid in stature, with untidy grey hair, a round sallow face and a pair of tortoiseshell spectacles poised on the tip of his nose, looked as though he had spent the last few nights in his office.

  ‘Before we start,’ said Werner, ‘I gather you’re not happy with your posting. Well, if it helps, I know how you feel. Last week, I had a comfortable office in Dahlem. I started at nine and finished at six. Now, my wife thinks I’ve left home. Anyway, take a seat.’

  Von Menen looked around the room, the floor littered with half-empty boxes, files, reference books and a camping bed that might well have been used by Otto von Bismarck himself. ‘Frankly, I don’t feel like anything at the moment, sir,’ he replied. ‘I’m still reeling from the shock of being told that my immediate future lies on the far side of the South Atlantic.’

  ‘Well, at least I’ve met you,’ replied Werner, ‘which is more than I can say for the person I’m meant to report to.’

  ‘Who’s that, sir?’

  ‘I’m told his name is Andor Hencke, from the Political Department, younger than me, but in terms of seniority, well… on Wilhelmstrasse, things have a habit of changing overnight…’ Werner peered over the top of his spectacles, a wry smile drifting across his face. ‘Something you’ve just learned to your obvious displeasure.’

  Von Menen was trying to fathom the protocol, his aversion
for Wehmen uppermost on his mind. ‘I assume, then,’ he said, ‘that Herr Hencke reports to Under-Secretary of State…?’

  ‘Doctor Wehmen?’ interrupted Werner, shaking his head. ‘No, Herr Hencke will report directly to the Foreign Minister, meaning that all that stands between you and Herr von Ribbentrop is me and Herr Hencke. Anyway, whatever you feel about your new-found status with the Foreign Office, you’re stuck with it, so…’

  A good start; sounds like a man I can trust. Frank, calm; no party badge in his lapel, no portrait of the insane Adolf.

  Werner made towards a huge safe in the corner of his office, withdrew a thick green file, laid it on top of his desk and sat down.

  ‘Your assignment is very unorthodox. Officially, you’re being posted as an accredited Second Secretary. Unofficially, you’re going there as, well, a kind of pseudo intelligence officer, I suppose, operating solely on behalf of the Foreign Office…’ He peered over the top of his spectacles, a cautionary look on his face. ‘It’s a challenging remit, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Challenging?’

  ‘In the sense that you’ll find others at the Embassy with similar remits; that is, to obtain intelligence. I’m referring, of course, to the Abwehr and the SD. You will know from your time in the army that the Abwehr is a military organisation with certain refined ethics… bit of a gentlemen’s club, if you like, run by—’

  ‘Admiral Wilhelm Canaris,’ interrupted von Menen, ‘wily, enigmatic and unassuming… so I’ve heard.’

  ‘Frankly, I’ve never had any dealings with the man, so I can’t comment on his personality. But I can tell you that the SD is nothing like the Abwehr. It is by no means a backwater for aristocrats, squires and grandees. Know much about the SD, do you?’

  ‘A bit… It’s part of the RSHA, the Reich Security Administration, run by Reinhard Heydrich, Himmler’s right-hand man. Through the RSHA, Heydrich controls just about every aspect of Germany’s security police apparatus, including the Gestapo.’

  ‘Correct, but the SD is Heydrich’s cherished invention. His agents in Buenos Aires – researchers, as they might well be described – will, assuredly, be intrigued by your arrival. So, for the record you are a Second Secretary, and you know nothing about Information Department Three. Understood?’

  ‘Perfectly, sir.’

  ‘A further point on the SD,’ continued Werner, referring to his notes. ‘Heydrich has just appointed a young SS Major as acting chief of the SD’s foreign intelligence branch. His name is Walter Schellenberg and I gather he’s a bit of a go-getter… useful if you remembered his name, I think.’

  ‘Seems I’m fast becoming a rank outsider in a three-horse race,’ said von Menen. ‘I mean, me competing with the Abwehr and the SD is, to put it bluntly—’

  ‘A bit odd?’

  ‘In that I’ve had no training for this kind of work, yes.’

  ‘From what I’ve seen of your record, I doubt that you’ll be a rank outsider. As for training, you don’t need any. This assignment is not about dingy, smoke-filled bars in Buenos Aires, invisible ink, dead letter boxes, disguises, false heels and knocking rhythmically six times on Carmen’s door. It’s about being a special envoy with a special remit, someone with good perceptive skills, someone who has the acumen to get the information the Foreign Office wants. You have those qualities. It’s why you were selected.’

  ‘I presume the Ambassador knows why I’m going there, sir?’

  ‘Yes, but only the Ambassador and the Chargé d’Affaires. Others will have their suspicions, of course, but you’ll have to deal with that in your own cautious way. Initially, focus your attention on what you’re likely to find outside the Embassy, and by that I mean the Argentine Army Intelligence Service and the Policia de la Capital. If they suspect you’re surplus to our genuine requirements, they’ll take a keen interest in you, tap your phone, intercept your mail and follow you around. So, whenever you’re away from the Embassy, use public call boxes and do not encourage people to write to you, or visit you, at your private address.’

  A knock sounded on the door. A skimp of a girl tripped in bearing two cups of coffee. Werner waited for her to leave and when the door clicked shut he reached for the maroon folder, fished out a grainy photograph of a man in military uniform and laid it on the table. ‘He’s a career soldier,’ he said, ‘a lieutenant colonel in the Argentine army, believes in State intervention over the economy and admires the philosophy of Germany. Personally, though, I’d say he’s more inclined to the ideology of Mussolini. He was in Europe recently, as a military observer. Our main interest in him is his involvement with an organisation called the GOU, short for United Officers Group, a secret brotherhood of pro-Axis military officers. We want you to make a covert study of the GOU, assess its strengths and weaknesses and evaluate its prospects. In other words, find out all you can about it.’

  Von Menen picked up the photograph. ‘Mid-forties?’

  ‘Yes, born 1895. His name is Juan Domingo Perόn. We believe he’s directing the Argentine army’s mountain troop unit at Mendoza.’ Werner removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes and heaved an arduous sigh. ‘You’ll be aware of Argentina’s neutral stance, insofar as the war in Europe is concerned, but that is not to say that she has no empathy for the German cause. Within the Argentine military there are many people who are on our side. But the same cannot be said for the man in the street, whose support lies almost entirely with the British: for every pro-German in Argentina, you’ll find at least five Anglophiles. You need to remember that.’

  Another two hours flew by, Werner speaking at length about Argentina’s volatile history – her roller-coaster economy, ambitious military expansionism, disdain for Brazil and Chile, and her continuing war of words with the United States.

  ‘You’ve a lot to learn, Carl. The National Library in Buenos Aires will be a good start, but don’t forget the newspapers; read as many as you can.’ Werner delved into the folder and fished out a booklet headed TOP SECRET – AKROBAT. ‘All your reports will be encoded by special ciphers, unique to you and me. Make them precise. No extraneous rubbish. And remember the security code. Non-urgent reports will be sent through normal Embassy channels, but anything critical or ultra-sensitive will be sent via this’ – straining over his desk, Werner released the two catches on the small – ‘suitcase.’

  Werner turned it round so that the handle faced von Menen, his half-empty cup of coffee spilling onto the carpet in the process. Ignoring the mess, he hinged up the lid, revealing a second, smaller suitcase, seemingly as innocuous as the first, but when its lid was raised…

  ‘A transceiver,’ said von Menen.

  ‘The latest.’

  It was a small, compact arrangement, complete with a set of headphones, a silent Morse key, a flexible antenna and a spare set of valves.

  ‘I know all about your Signals Corps history,’ said Werner, ‘so I won’t bore you with all the technicalities. Suffice it to say, the call sign for the Information Department Three home station is ZBZ9. Your own call sign is MEC9 and your personal code is AKROBAT. Bear in mind, also, that in the first instance your signals will be picked up by a relay station in Madrid. From there, they’ll be transmitted directly to Berlin.’ Closing the two lids, Werner slapped his hand on top of the case. ‘A warning,’ he added. ‘It’s not to be used for sending signals directly from the Embassy, or from your private residence in Buenos Aires, so you’ll have to find yourself a “safe” house as soon as possible. Rent or buy, it doesn’t matter. Just make sure that nobody knows about it, not even the Ambassador.’ He slipped a second envelope across his desk. ‘They’re yours. Antenna layouts, security codes, ciphers, transmission times and frequencies. Memorise the security codes, transmission times and frequencies, and make sure to burn the paperwork before you leave the building. The ciphers are one-time pads.’

  Von Menen plucked out one of the small bo
oklets and fanned through the pages. ‘Meaning, I have one copy and—’

  ‘I have the other,’ confirmed Werner. ‘Use them in strict numerical sequence and be sure to burn each sheet immediately after transmission. As with the transceiver, keep them safe. Understood?’

  ‘Perfectly, sir.’

  Werner stroked his jaw. ‘Your address, it’s off Unter den Linden, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Call me in a couple of days and I’ll arrange for someone to deliver the transceiver and a spare set of crystals.’

  Werner walked back to his safe, hauled out a fat manila envelope and dropped it on top of his desk. It landed with a deep thud. ‘There’s a lot of money in there,’ he said; ‘enough to quench the appetite of anyone who’s got the information we’re looking for. Inside, you’ll find details of a personal bank account with the Banco de la Nación, in Buenos Aires. You have a safe at home?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good. Make sure to keep everything in it until you leave… Oh, nearly forgot, the photograph you were asked to supply two weeks ago? My apologies for the guile, but it had nothing to do with the process of updating your personal file.’ Werner delved into his drawer, pulled out a pristine diplomatic passport and pushed it across his desk. ‘With that, you’ll have full diplomatic privilege… No need for scrutiny by border authorities.’

  Von Menen ran his fingers across the hard, dark blue cover, tracing the gold-embossed emblem of the Third Reich and the inscription Deutsches Reich Diplomatenpass.

  ‘Any questions?’ asked Werner.

  ‘Yes. How long am I likely to be away?’

  ‘Can’t possibly answer that,’ was the astonishingly frank reply. ‘What I can tell you is that the Minister has taken a personal interest in your assignment, a very personal interest. Don’t mention that I told you, but you were chosen from a shortlist of five. It was Herr von Ribbentrop himself who had the final say. He thinks you are, to quote, “expressly qualified for the role”. There’s no point in me making a secret of it; a great deal is expected of you.’