Out of Mecklenburg Read online

  ‘And my next briefing?’

  ‘There is no next briefing,’ Werner apologised. ‘You’re flying to Stuttgart next Sunday, staying overnight at the Hotel Graf Zeppelin and continuing to Portugal the next day. You sail from Lisbon on 3rd July, a first class cabin on Cabo de Hornos. There’s a full Wagons-Lits itinerary inside the envelope.’

  Von Menen gasped at the urgency of it all. ‘But—’

  Shaking his head, Werner hauled himself up from his chair. ‘No point in raising any objections with me,’ he said. ‘As of today, you’re finished at Wilhelmstrasse, so I suggest you make the best of the next few days and visit your family. Remember, memorise the transmission times, frequencies and security code, and burn every scrap of paperwork before you leave the building. As for you and I,’ he concluded, offering his hand, ‘the next time we meet will be over the ether. Good hunting.’

  Von Menen’s mind was a whirlpool of doubt. In less than six weeks he would be in Buenos Aires, lost in a world of ciphers, transmission times, radios, an organisation called the GOU and a man named Juan Domingo Perόn; a diplomat one minute, a spy the next; aiding those he despised and cut adrift from those he admired. He walked back to his office, trying to distil his misfortune, but knowing that he was hopelessly stuck, trapped between von Ribbentrop and the two giants of German espionage.

  He knew something about the workings of the Abwehr and he had a measure of the questionable dealings of the Nazi-inspired SD, but like two north poles in the same box, the Abwehr and the SD didn’t mix: Heydrich mistrusted Canaris, Canaris was watchful of Heydrich, and neither had any time for the insufferable and arrogant Joachim von Ribbentrop. His mind filled with the notion of a half-baked scheme contrived by von Ribbentrop in a vain attempt to seize the espionage initiative from the Abwehr and the SD, to win the favour of his beloved Adolf Hitler.

  Von Menen unlocked and pushed open his office door. There was an unaddressed envelope lying on the floor, a brief message inside:

  The next meeting of the Edelweiss Alpine Flower Society has been brought forward to this evening – same time, same venue.

  Kind regards,

  Ludwig Hamelin, Honorary Secretary

  “Ludwig Hamelin” was the alias of Rudolph von Bauer, a former army colleague who’d transferred to the Abwehr shortly after von Menen had joined the Foreign Office.

  Von Bauer wouldn’t know the difference between a dandelion and a rare orchid, but he certainly knew the difference between non-violent resistance to Nazi rule and outright military rebellion. In that sense he was an important link to a man seen by many as a symbol of hope for a new, democratic Germany – Field Marshal Erwin von Witzleben. But von Bauer’s affinity with von Witzleben went much deeper than a mutual hatred for Hitler. Like von Menen, he, too, had served on the staff of the illustrious field marshal!

  Von Menen walked over to the window, pressed his head against the glass and felt the heat of the day on his forehead. Something’s afoot. Von Bauer said he couldn’t make the meeting at Wittenberge because he had to go to Breslau. So why is he still in Berlin?

  He telephoned his friend, Gustav Helldorf, over at the Foreign Office Press Branch, cleared his desk, then trawled through the items Werner had given him, the contents of the manila envelope sending him into a cold sweat – thick wads of US dollar bills, Swiss francs, bundles of Argentine pesos and a green velvet pouch containing over fifty Swiss gold pieces.

  Von Menen packed everything into his valise, sat down and began the arduous task of memorising call signs, frequencies and transmission times.

  By early evening, a pile of charred papers lay smouldering in the fire grate.

  2

  Von Menen rode the U-Bahn from Kaiserhof to Klosterstrasse, arriving at the Letzten Instanz Tavern a little after eight-fifty.

  He ordered two beers, found a quiet table and waited, certain that the punctilious von Bauer would arrive precisely at nine. He did; an impressive figure in a charcoal three-piece suit, gold watch chain looped across his waistcoat.

  ‘Good to see you, Rudolph, though I’m surprised you’re still in Berlin. I thought you’d be—’

  ‘In Breslau?’ whispered von Bauer. ‘Should have been, but when I heard about your posting—’

  ‘You thought you’d come and see me?’

  Von Bauer peered over his shoulder, eyes darting around the room. ‘That’s about the way of it, yes.’

  ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘Got it from a little canary. Also, got a cryptic call from Gustav, said you’d mentioned… making a run for it?’

  ‘Said in haste,’ von Menen replied flatly, ‘but it would suit my conscience.’

  ‘Perhaps, but it wouldn’t suit the rest of us.’

  ‘It’s my conscience, Rudolph.’

  ‘Yes, but our cause is a collective endeavour…’

  Von Menen glanced around the room, icy defiance in his eyes.

  ‘I know how you feel,’ continued von Bauer, ‘but staying in Germany won’t change a thing. We want rid of them, yes, but now isn’t the time. Hitler might be insane, but he’s at the height of his power and he’s popular. Moving against him now would be suicidal. We’d fail. Besides, he’s already left for his new HQ in the east. Too distant for what you had in mind.’ He reached for von Menen’s wrist and squeezed it lightly. ‘We have to be patient, Carl. I realise how disappointed you are, but disappointment heals much better than a severed head.’

  ‘You’re trying to tell me something?’

  Von Bauer cast another furtive look around the room. ‘Remember what you told me, just before you left the regiment? That your intention was never to join the Foreign Office, the thought of working for the Nazis too much to contemplate?’

  ‘That’s the way I felt, yes. It’s the way I still feel.’

  ‘But your grandfather persuaded you otherwise, his advice being, “Those idiots must be watched… closely”.’

  ‘He was right.’

  ‘I’m glad you still see it that way, because your posting to Argentina will give you – and us – the opportunity to do some real watching. It suits our purpose. When the time comes – and it will – we’ll need someone in South America, someone we can trust, someone like you.’

  ‘That’s all very well, Rudolph, but they’re sending me there as a damn spy, for heaven’s sake.’

  ‘I know why they’re sending you there, but why isn’t important, why is just another von Ribbentrop vanity trip. Just act out the part.’

  ‘Act out the part!’

  ‘If we’re going to defeat them, Carl, we must know what they’re thinking, even in Argentina. But you’ll have to be careful and that means disassociating yourself from the Kreisau Circle. Wipe it from your mind.’

  Von Menen shook his head in bewilderment. ‘Rudolph, the Kreisau Circle might be a little too passive for my way of thinking, but at least it gives me something to cling to.’

  Von Bauer leaned forward, his look intense. ‘Forget it! Forget your association with me, too, and forget Gustav.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because the idea of communicating with like-minded friends in Germany, especially through diplomatic channels, is too dangerous. If someone here, with proven links to you, were to be picked up by the Gestapo, Heydrich would have you hauled back to Berlin in chains.’

  Von Menen’s aspirations were shrinking around him. ‘So, the message is: be a decent chap, go to Argentina and do a bit of spying for the Nazis. In the meantime, all I have to worry about is my conscience. Is that it?’

  ‘Not exactly,’ replied von Bauer, unmoved by the cynicism. ‘You’ll have more than your conscience to worry about.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘I have four names for you, names you’d do well to remember. And I mean remember. Do not write them down. But first…
’ Von Bauer dipped into his briefcase, pulled out a small, brown paper package and slipped it across the table. ‘Take this with you. You might need it.’

  ‘What…?’

  ‘It’s a PPK and three cartons of ammunition.’

  A look of sheer astonishment washed over von Menen’s face. ‘Surely you’re not serious.’

  ‘Oh, but I am, and you’ll understand why when I tell you about three of these names.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Müller, Schmidt and Jost. Müller and Schmidt are SD agents… Nazi Foreign Intelligence. They’ve been at the Embassy in Buenos Aires since March, on a so-called fact-finding mission.’

  ‘And Jost?’

  ‘Gestapo, on a two-year secondment.’

  ‘What the… is a Gestapo officer doing on a two-year secondment to Argentina?’

  ‘Part of Heydrich’s game plan. He wants a Gestapo/SD foothold in every German embassy we have. Very soon von Ribbentrop will be forced into accepting it. He’ll have no choice. But where Jost is concerned, for now it’s simply a way of monitoring the chatter of German expats. He feeds anything interesting back to Berlin, his cronies at Gestapo Headquarters get to work and if the dissident has relatives in Germany, they get a very frightening message…’

  ‘Tell Felix to keep his mouth shut, or…?’

  ‘Exactly. But the important thing for you to remember is that Jost is a dangerous man. Before his posting to Argentina, he was stationed at Gestapo Headquarters in Berlin, attached to…’ – von Bauer paused, a grim look on his face – ‘Section A3.’

  ‘A3? They deal with—’

  ‘Reactionaries; the likes of us. That’s why you must forget the Kreisau Circle.’

  Von Menen reeled back in his chair, his face creasing, one thought on his mind. How long before Jost gags me, bags me and ships me back to Berlin?

  ‘Don’t be fooled by the name, either,’ resumed von Bauer. ‘Erhardt Jost – not to be confused with Heinz Jost, who’s in the process of being replaced as head of Nazi Foreign Intelligence by a young SS major, Walter Schellenberg.’

  ‘So I’ve heard.’

  ‘Well, hear something else… Müller and Schmidt are from the highly polluted end of the SD sewer. The only thing going for Müller is his excellent command of the language; like you, his mother is half Spanish. But Jost is very different, a fervent Nazi, politically aware and highly dangerous, especially where the likes of us are concerned. To put it succinctly, he’s completely lacking in any form of human compassion.’

  ‘With respect, Rudolph, I know all I need to know about the habits of A3.’

  ‘I’m sure, but you’ll need to be especially cautious of Jost. Many a decent family in Germany has faced an unexpected funeral bill because of him. They call him “Mongoose, the snake-eater”. You can’t miss him. He’s short and wiry, has straw-coloured hair, smokes cigars like there’s no tomorrow and fancies himself with the ladies. He’s a lone operator, too, works independently, doesn’t trust anyone and shuns camaraderie. A little unusual for an SS man, wouldn’t you say?’

  Von Menen’s mouth arched into a dry smile. ‘Maybe it’s his height.’

  Von Bauer grinned. ‘Whatever his height, if ever he found out about your real sympathies, believe me, he’d have no qualms about killing you.’

  ‘Killing me?’

  ‘Yes, and neither would Müller or Schmidt.’

  Casting his eyes to the floor, von Menen looked uneasily at his valise, thought about the Walther and the ammunition and wondered if three cartons would be enough. He looked up and placed his elbows on the table, fisting his hands under his chin. ‘The fourth name?’ he asked wearily.

  ‘Professor Franz Schröder, one of us, a kind of long-distance supporter. We were at Leipzig University together. We’ve always kept in touch and nowadays we communicate via my cousin’s address in Gothenburg.’

  ‘A professor of what?’

  ‘Law, at the University of Buenos Aires. If you need to share your sentiments with anyone, he’s your man. Be very discreet, mind – Franz’s views about Hitler and the Nazis are well known throughout the entire academic community in Buenos Aires. And before you ask, he has no relatives in Germany. His family left for England in 1937.’

  ‘How do I make contact with him?’

  ‘The law faculty. It wouldn’t be wise for you to be seen visiting his private address.’

  ‘Description?’

  ‘My age, slim, very tall, about a metre ninety, wears a monocle and, like most professors, has a penchant for quirky habits. Whatever the weather, or the occasion, he always wears a biscuit-coloured jacket.’

  ‘He’ll need proof of who I am.’

  ‘That’s in hand. Next Monday, I’m going to Sweden. I’ll send a letter from Gothenburg to his post office box in Buenos Aires. I use the pseudonym Olof Carlsson. Franz uses the name Peter Nilsson. I’ll refer to you as Nils Bildt and I’ll give him some background information about your family – disguised, of course. With luck, he’ll have the letter within two months.’ Von Bauer dipped into his waistcoat pocket, pulled out a tiny photograph and gave it to von Menen. ‘Show him that. It’s a photograph of me and Franz, taken in the Bavarian Alps, spring 1914.’

  ‘Seems you’ve thought of everything,’ said von Menen. ‘What can you tell me about the Ambassador?’

  ‘Only that he’s a career diplomat and an ardent Party man. I believe he went to Argentina shortly after Hitler came to power. My guess is he’ll be highly suspicious of you at first, but I doubt he’ll rock the boat. Ribbentrop wouldn’t like it and Warsaw can be a very cold place in the winter.’ A rueful smile drifted across von Bauer’s face. ‘There’s something else,’ he continued. ‘How’s your Shakespeare?’

  ‘Awful.’

  ‘Twelfth Night – “Thus the whirligig of time brings in his revenges”?’

  ‘Sorry, Rudolph, not with you.’

  ‘This morning I had cause to speak to someone from the old school. Word has it that some years ago your grandfather gave our Ambassador in Buenos Aires one hell of a haranguing; lasted the best part of an hour, so I’m told. Just thought I’d let you know.’

  ‘But my grandfather was a von Schönberg. How would the Ambassador know about my connection to him?’

  ‘The drums of the Foreign Office beat loud and clear, Carl, even as far as South America.’

  Von Menen closed his eyes. ‘Jesus; first Jost, then Müller and Schmidt, and now it’s the Ambassador. I might just as well hitch myself to a granite kerbstone and hurl myself into the Spree.’

  ‘There’s one other thing,’ said von Bauer, making ready to leave. ‘Your new section chief, Günther Werner?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He’s not with us, but as far as I can gather, he’s not against us, either. By that, I mean he’s not a member of the Party; in fact, he seems a very decent sort of chap.’ Von Bauer checked his pocket watch, mumbled something about his wife and pushed himself up from his chair. ‘Time to say farewell, Carl. Before I go, though, I have two messages for you, the first from Field Marshal von Witzleben: he thanks you for your help and wishes you well.’

  ‘The second?’

  ‘From Helmuth von Moltke… whilst he does not share your proactive views, he respects your sincerity and wishes you God speed.’ Von Bauer offered his hand. ‘Well, enjoy the sea crossing, Carl, and do give my best to Franz… Oh, one last thing… the gun; take it with you. You might need it.’

  Outside, dusk was gathering beneath a moonless sky. Streetlamps were unlit, windows hidden by close-fitting blackout curtains. Berlin would soon be a city of inky silence, a night for black-market racketeers.

  Von Menen set off on foot, the weight of his valise telling as he crossed the Schloss Bridge and made into Unter den Linden. A lump rose in his throat as
he passed the darkened image of the Zeughaus, the words of his dying grandfather echoing in his mind: ‘Most Germans believe Hitler to be the great redeemer, Carl. He’s restored their pride… given them something to crow about. But when the truth emerges, the people of this nation will realise that they’ve been duped by a despot. By then, of course, it will be too late; Germany will be in ruins.’

  In the distance, the Brandenburg Gate stood silhouetted against the pale afterglow of sunset, the scene blissfully tranquil. That Germany was at war was difficult to imagine. The crump of bombs, the wail of sirens and the smell of fire and cordite were rarely evident in Berlin. They were rarely evident in Germany.

  The town house in Berlin’s fashionable Mitte district was strangely deserted, and had been ever since von Menen’s father had left his post at the headquarters of the German Army High Command to join the build-up of forces in the east. Frau von Menen, now ensconced at the family estate in Mecklenburg, had left many of the rooms mothballed, the furniture swathed in white beneath the heavy, pungent smell of camphor.

  Von Menen sank into a deep armchair, the notion of informing his family about his impending departure to South America uppermost on his mind. Since his father was on the Eastern Front, and his sister Katrina lost in the affections of her naval officer husband somewhere in the wilds of Tuscany, it brought the options down to one: his mother, who was spending a few weeks with his Aunt Ingrid at Flensburg.

  It would not be easy. Like the rest of his family, she was mindful of his secret assignations and shared his staunch opposition to the Nazis, but von Menen knew instinctively that his posting to Argentina would provoke wild and worrying thoughts in her mind.

  He walked to the far end of the drawing room, closed the blackout curtains, switched on the lights and studied the array of photographs on the lid of the Steinway grand, a snapshot gathering of pre-Nazi German elite: Colonel General Otto von Menen, Prussian to the core, uniform dripping with medals; Frederick von Schönberg, distinguished diplomat, arm-in-arm with his wife, formerly Maria Helena Devoto de Martinez, a dash of blue blood in her veins, the scandal of her marriage to a Protestant German diplomat still echoing through the ranks of Catalonia’s high society; Klaus von Menen, youthful and dashing in the uniform of a lieutenant of the 3rd Royal Field Artillery Regiment, gazing admiringly into the eyes of his bride-to-be, the charming and radiant Anna-Maria Devoto de Martinez von Schönberg. And finally, Aunt Ingrid, glamorous and zestful, lolling on the arm of her wealthy playboy husband Baron Rudolph von Schneider, who was then killed in a flying accident in Austria in 1921. Aunt Ingrid had inherited everything and she’d never remarried, preferring instead to keep a drawer full of unwrapped affairs, her enduring relationship with a married Swedish diplomat still going strong after fifteen years.