LITMIR.BIZ

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Stohrer, would be useful.’

      Heydrich turned from the window. ‘One point, Reichsführer. Lisbon is alive with secret agents of every nationality and Brigadeführer Schellenberg will be known to many of them. I have every faith in his ability to defend himself from the front, but I think it essential to have someone to protect his back. With your permission, I’ll assign two or three of my best men.’

      ‘Not necessary,’ Himmler said. ‘I’ll take care of it personally. The Gestapo, I’m sure, will be able to provide exactly the operatives we’re looking for.’

      ‘As you say, Reichsführer.’

      ‘Good. You may leave us now, General Schellenberg. I’m sure you have many preparations to make. I’d like a further word with you, Reinhard, on another matter.’

      Schellenberg went out quickly and returned to his office. He was sweating slightly and lit a cigar-ette. A moment later Frau Huber came in with a cup of coffee.

      ‘See, Ilse?’ he smiled. ‘I told you there was nothing to worry about.’

      As he raised the cup to his lips his hand was trembling.

      As always after such an episode Schellenberg needed action and went down to the firing range in the basement which was presided over by an SS Sturmscharführer named Reitlinger. The targets against the sandbags at the far end were of charging Russian soldiers, not Tommies, an affectation of Himmler who still cherished the hope of some sort of compromise with a people who were, after all, an Aryan race.

      ‘Action, Horst. That’s what I need,’ Schellenberg said. ‘What have you got?’

      ‘The new Erma police sub-machine gun, General. Just in this morning.’

      Schellenberg emptied it in short bursts, firing from the waist, cutting a couple of the targets in half. The noise was deafening.

      As it died down, he placed the weapon on the firing bench. ‘A butcher’s gun. What I need is something more subtle – a silent killer, if you like.’

      Reitlinger smiled and moved to the armourer’s cupboard for he knew very well what Schellenberg, who was a superb pistol shot, meant. He returned with a Mauser 7.63 mm Model 1932, with the latest adaptation, a bulbous silencer, a weapon specially developed for German counter-intelligence operatives.

      ‘Now this is more like it.’

      Schellenberg hefted the weapon in his hand. It held a ten-round magazine which he emptied fairly rapidly, putting two shots squarely in the middle of five of the targets. The only sound was a series of dull thuds.

      ‘Very neat,’ Heydrich said, appearing behind him, ‘but surely you’re losing your touch, Walter? Two shots each instead of one?’

      ‘A wounded man can always shoot back,’ Schellenberg said. ‘A second shot will almost invariably finish him off. I like to cover my bets.’

      ‘You said that as if it were a stage direction.’ Heydrich held out a hand. Reitlinger rammed a fresh magazine into the Mauser and passed it to him. ‘Yes, Walter, I am more than ever inclined to believe that is what you are – an actor. Rather a good one, by the way.’

      He emptied the magazine, aiming each shot carefully. ‘That was an outstanding performance you gave just now in the Reichsführer’s office. Quite brilliant. Exactly calculated to please.’

      Reitlinger had moved to a position by the door which placed him out of earshot.

      ‘And what did you expect me to say – the truth?’

      ‘Which is?’

      ‘That this whole thing is a waste of time. I’ve read that file, I’ve talked to Canaris and they’ve completely miscalculated their man. The reports from von Stohrer in Madrid about the Duke’s sympathetic attitude. Cocktail gossip by Spanish aristocrats with fascist sympathies who want to believe he thinks as they do. That’s the whole trouble. Everyone wants to believe he’s on our side and they manufacture the evidence by a kind of wishful thinking. If the Duke of Windsor said Beethoven was his favourite composer, some idiot, even in his own country, would take that to be an endorsement of the Nazi party.’

      ‘So, you don’t think he’ll be interested?’

      ‘Not in the slightest.’

      ‘Then you’ll have to persuade him, won’t you?’

      ‘And what on earth is that supposed to achieve?’

      Heydrich said, ‘When we occupy England he would have to do as he’s told for the simple reason that it would be the best way he could serve the interests of his people.’

      He looked down towards the targets. ‘I haven’t done very well, have I?’

      ‘Not really.’ Schellenberg rammed in another clip. His arm swung up, he fired twice without apparently taking aim and shot out the eyes of the centre figure.

      ‘And now you’re angry,’ said Heydrich. ‘I wonder why?’

      Schellenberg put down the gun. ‘We all have our off days. Do you mind if I go now? I’ve work to do.’

      ‘Not at all. You can pick me up at eight-thirty.’

      ‘What for?’

      ‘This Winter girl. I’d like to see her in the flesh. The Garden Room, I think you said?’

      ‘All right,’ Schellenberg walked to the door which Reitlinger opened for him. ‘I’ll want one of the silenced Mausers during the next couple of days. One hundred rounds in ten clips. Make up a pack for me and deliver it to the office.’

       ‘ Jawohl, Brigadeführer. ’

      Schellenberg went out and when Reitlinger turned he found Heydrich examining the centre target.

      ‘Astonishing,’ he said. ‘Both eyes at fifty paces. Could you teach me to do that, Sturmscharführer?’

      ‘I’m afraid not, General,’ Reitlinger said. ‘It is not a talent which can be taught. You’ve either got it or you haven’t.’

      ‘Ah, well,’ Heydrich said. ‘He is on my side.’ He opened the door and smiled. ‘At least, I hope he is.’

      Lina Heydrich was away for the summer at the charming thatch-roofed chalet on the Baltic coast on Fehmarn Island which Heydrich had built for her in 1935. He himself continued to live, with the help of a cook and housekeeper, at their Berlin house which was in the exclusive Zehlendorf quarter bordering on the Grünewald forest.

      Schellenberg picked him up there at eight o’clock in one of the special department Mercedes with two uniformed SS men up front on the other side of the glass partition. One to drive and the other to ride shotgun, an expression coined by Heydrich himself who was fond of a good Western film.

      As they drove down towards the centre of the city Heydrich seemed morose and out of sorts.

      ‘Uncle Heini,’ he said, referring to Himmler by the disrespectful nickname by which he was known throughout the SS, ‘was not exactly being solicitous when he jumped in on my suggestion about providing you with bodyguards. Unless I’m very much mistaken, you’ll have a couple of hand-picked Gestapo goons breathing down your neck.’

      ‘And reporting every move I make three times a day by long-distance telephone to the Reichsführer personally. Yes, I’m well aware of the implications,’ Schellenberg told him.

      ‘I don’t know why, but at a time when things have never looked better, I have a feeling that they are beginning to go wrong for us – for all of us.’

      ‘And why should that be?’

      Heydrich hesitated, then leaned forward to check that the glass panel which divided them from the driving compartment was firmly closed.

      ‘This is in confidence – total confidence, Walter,

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