Post by Wing on Mar 19, 2007 16:56:56 GMT -5
Chapter 5
19 July 1944
0329 Hours GMT
Abwehr Headquarters
Berlin, Germany
“This is crazy. Absolutely crazy.”
Sturmbannführer Wolfgang Raccheim ran a hand over his light brown hair wearily, biting his lip with frustration. He was beginning to hate the messenger who had been bringing him teletypes hot off the press for the past few days, a short, ferrety runner with bad posture and a wry smile, for the only thing he brought was more of this utterly maddening news. These little snippets of information couldn’t even be classified as news, really—they were pieces of a puzzle that they expected him to fit together. It was an impossible task.
First the news of Rommel’s kidnapping: a disaster in itself. Rumors had poured in after that—the Desert Fox had been shot, it was all a practical joke, the Allies had publicly announced his capture—and people from all sides were screaming at him, his superiors, and his staff to find an answer, to sort out the fact from the fiction and fix the problem. And now this. The Reichsführer was on his way over, and he wanted to see Raccheim. Not Canaris, the Abwehr’s head, not the presiding SS representative in the Abwehr, but Sturmbannführer Wolfgang Raccheim, the highest-ranking SS officer currently installed in the Reconnaissance branch of Reich Intelligence.
Raccheim looked up to see the ferret still standing there, hands behind his back in an at-ease stance he had assumed without prompting. Glaring coldly at him, the sturmbannführer jerked his head irritably at the door and poured over the hand-written message laid out on his desk once more.
{i}To Herr Sturmbannführer Wolfgang Raccheim, Second Floor:
Reichsführer Himmler sends his compliments and hopes you will see him immediately. He conveys his apologies for the short notice of this message.
Heil Hitler!
E.S.{/i]
Wolfgang hadn’t the faintest idea who E.S. was, but he knew that the messenger, however annoying he might be, was a reliable one and wouldn’t have given it to him if it hadn’t been important. Cursing, the tall SS officer threw back his head and drained the last drops of whiskey from his flask, then slammed the glass back down on his desk beside the massive pile of papers there and crossed to the other side of his office to peer at himself in the mirror. He noticed that the edges of his vision were blurring, and realized that in addition to be limp with tiredness, he had also managed to become slightly drunk in his attempts to stay awake. Wonderful.
The sturmbannführer scowled at the sight of his own pale, exhausted reflection. He was young for his rank at twenty-nine, but because of his recent transfer to intelligence, he still kept the fitness of a field officer and had the lean physique of a runner. A forelock of dark blond hair mussed from a few quick hours of sleep had fallen into his blue eyes, and he impatiently dug into his pocket for a comb, managing to pull it back into some semblance of neatness. Next, he buttoned up his stained and wrinkled uniform shirt—not much he could do about that—and brushed off his black dress jacket before putting it on, buttoning that up too and checking that his Iron Cross Second Class and wound badge were secure.
Now to fix up the office. Raccheim looked around the shadowy room with a dismayed eye—he had time to make space for someone to walk through, but nothing more. Stacks of paper were everywhere. Dryly, he wondered if this was some sort of living nightmare before attacking his desk, carefully placing each haphazard pile behind the desk to make them less visible and then turning to the floor. After rearranging the towers of paper a bit, he checked his watch reflexively—what had he forgotten? Scheiss! The hat! Frantically, he cast about for his peaked officer’s hat and saw it peeking out from beneath a collapsed pile, grabbed it, beat it back into shape hastily, and jammed it on his head before dropping back to his chair. The room suddenly fell very silent.
Bloody Himmler. Trust him to come at four in the morning!
Raccheim sat there for a few minutes, reviewing his papers and fretting. Why had the Reichsführer wanted to see him, of all people? It would have to be about Rommel, of course. Rommel, Rommel, Rommel. That was all he had heard for the past two days. Rommel. He knew everything there was to know about the man now, at least by the military’s standards, and yet he had no idea how to approach this problem of him having been kidnapped and missing. The Reichsführer would want answers, just like the others, but he would have none for him.
Footsteps outside his door jerked his head up, and when the door opened, Raccheim got up and snapped to attention, extending his hand in the Sieg-Heil salute. A tall SS officer entered, followed after a moment by the Reichsführer of the SS and the head of the Gestapo, Heinrich Himmler.
Himmler’s face was cast into shadow by the lighting of the room, and for a moment, all Raccheim could see of his features was the faint glint of lamplight on his round spectacles before he stepped into brighter light. Shorter than Raccheim or his anonymous aide, Himmler nonetheless cut a menacing figure in his jet black uniform, the silver of his lapels and the Death’s Head insignia on his hat illuminating his features only slightly. The Reichsführer’s face was narrow and nearly chinless, with a small mustache above his thin mouth, but his pale, watery eyes were alive with intelligence behind his glasses. “At ease, Sturmbannführer Raccheim,” he said quietly, his voice almost a whisper.
“Mein Reichsführer,” Wolfgang said in response, lowering his arm. He found himself fascinated by the quiet power Himmler had over him despite his previous annoyance with his superior officer and met his eyes squarely, hiding his interest behind a carefully blank mask.
“Thank you for seeing me so early in the morning, Herr Sturmbannführer,” Himmler acknowledged. “It’s a pleasure to meet you at last. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Raccheim shook the man’s extended hand briefly. “Me, Reichsführer?” he asked, trying not to sound surprised.
A thin smile flitted over Himmler’s face, the slight amusement registering only briefly with his subordinate before it faded away. “Indeed. Word gets around, Herr Sturmbannführer. Paris, 1940? I hear you did good work there.”
Shrugging, Raccheim allowed a small smile himself. “The Resistance hadn’t been firmly established there yet, mein Reichsführer. I was lucky.” With a start, he realized that they were still standing. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude—please sit down,” he said apologetically, gesturing to the two chairs in front of his desk. “Sorry about the mess. Can I get you anything to drink?”
Himmler shook his head as he sat, his gaunt-faced minion wordlessly taking the chair beside him. “No, thank you, Herr Sturmbannführer. I don’t wish to take much of your time—” He glanced around at the chaotic scene. “—as you’re obviously hard at work here, but what I have to say to you is extremely important.”
Which was why the Reichsführer had come himself, Raccheim thought ironically. He had hardly expected the second-most important man in the Reich to come at this hour on a whim. “Please go ahead,” he said politely.
Leaning forward slightly, Himmler narrowed his eyes slightly as he studied the sturmbannführer for a moment, his gaze piercing. “It is to be understood, Herr Raccheim, that this information is strictly confidential, and that, for now, the full details of what I am going to ask of you are to remain that way until I give further notice.”
Raccheim nodded. He had expected that as well. “Of course, mein Reichsführer.”
“Good.” The bespectacled man surveyed him a moment more before sitting back again. “I understand that you are perhaps our leading expert on the Rommel situation at the moment.”
The young SS officer had to contain a snort of derision from escaping him. Expert was hardly the right word for it—perhaps most confused was the best title. Nevertheless, he nodded again, knowing an affirmative was expected of him. “You could say that, sir.”
“I also understand that this is a very complex set of circumstances,” Himmler continued, pausing briefly. Raccheim’s trained eye caught a flicker of hesitance on his face before he went on, which surprised him—this seemed to be a matter of real concern for the Reichsführer. “You should know, Herr Raccheim, that in this matter…the Führer and I do not exactly see eye to eye.”
Raccheim stiffened slightly in his chair. Was this a confession?
Himmler examined his nails for a moment. “The Führer has told me expressively that he does not plan to do anything about Rommel’s capture. Yes, we are going to consider it as a successful capture,” he added at Raccheim’s questioning look. “He believes that Rommel is no longer a trustworthy commander after the field marshal visited him last.”
“I understand the encounter did not go well,” Raccheim ventured, unsure if Himmler minded him speaking or not. The Reichsführer’s face gave no indication of his mood, so he plunged on. “They said Rommel tried to convince the Führer to make peace with the Allies.”
“That is correct.” Himmler did not seem surprised that he knew this information. “The thing is, Herr Raccheim, I agree with Rommel.”
Raccheim blinked, caught off-guard. “You-you do, sir?” he stammered.
“Yes.” The Reichsführer merely looked at him, his eyes flat and neutral “In fact, I have been in contact with Churchill’s agents for months now trying to establish some sort of positive relationship.”
That was high treason, the sturmbannführer knew at once, and he struggled to keep his face free of the shock that he was feeling. The idea was inconceivable—the Reichsführer of the SS, the Führer’s right hand man, carrying out secret negotiations with the Allies! Could things have really gotten so bad that one of the most powerful men in the Reich felt compelled to turn to the enemy for help? “Herr Reichsführer…” he began, trying to formulate some sort of response. “I…”
Beside Himmler, the silent officer stirred in his seat, his cold blue eyes settling on Raccheim’s face. His thin, skeletal face matched the Totemkopf insignia all three present were wearing—a death’s head, like those carved on the graves of those who had died in the Great War. On visits to his father’s grave in the cemetery as a child, Wolfgang had always been frightened of the skulls adorning the otherwise unmarked headstones. There were never any names on these—beneath the soil, he had always known, unidentified corpses lay in pieces, with nothing but that ominous symbol of death to mark their final resting place. The memories drifted back to him now as those flat eyes met his for a moment, and he suppressed a shiver.
Himmler continued speaking as if nothing had occurred in the short pause in which the two had stared at one another. “That’s why I need your help, Herr Sturmbannführer.”
Raccheim shook himself mentally. To refuse would probably be the death of him, he knew, but what could he say? “I live to serve, mein Reichsführer.”
The shorter man nodded with satisfaction, his eyes narrowing slightly behind his round spectacles as he gave a small smile. “Good,” he said shortly. “In brief, Herr Raccheim, I want Rommel back.”
“Back, Reichsführer?”
Himmler made a small, impatient gesture with his left hand, drumming his fingers on his knee. “That’s what I said. I want him brought back alive and well, and as soon as possible. If we have Rommel, we have the army, and Rommel’s views on the present course of the war are the same as mine, which is why I need him, specifically, to help Germany end this war. Do you understand?”
Despite the fact that the Reichsführer was starting to show signs of irritation at his hesitance, Raccheim paused again, biting his lip thoughtfully. Himmler had not showed any signs of minding when he had spoken his mind before, so he tried his luck once again. “Mein Reichsführer…may I speak plainly?” he asked uncertainly.
“Go ahead.”
“Well…” He glanced at the other officer before going on. “I really don’t know how possible that is. We honestly know very little about the situation. We have no idea where the field marshal has been taken, if they arrived in England yet, how many commandos there were in total—nothing. All we know is what Rommel’s chief of staff, who was the only witness, told us, and what we heard from the soldiers the British force held hostage. The English press hasn’t made a peep yet. As far as we know, Rommel could still be in France.”
“That’s unlikely,” Himmler said curtly. “According to my intelligence, he has arrived in England. Otherwise, I would not be here making this request of you.” His pointed stare made it very clear that this was not, in fact, a request, but an order. “And I believe I can trust the SS intelligence more than the Abwehr at the present time, Herr Sturmbannführer.”
With a slow nod, Raccheim tried a different angle. “What sort of rescue did you have in mind, mein Reichsführer? Perhaps Otto Skorzeny—”
“No, no.” The Reichsführer looked over his spectacles at Raccheim, his gaze almost pitying. “No, Raccheim, I want this done diplomatically. At least, I want it to seem diplomatic. I will work out the logistics of the plan so that my connections with the British remain more or less intact, and you will do the actual rescuing. I’ve read your file, as you’ve probably figured out—I know what you’re capable of, and I believe you can pull it off.”
Raccheim blinked. “Do you mean…that you’ll be letting someone else take the blame so you stay on good terms with the Allies, mein Reichsführer? Who?”
Himmler reached out and patted his arm in an almost-fond paternal gesture, his expression crafty. “That’s not for you to worry about, Herr Sturmbannführer, remember?” he chuckled. “You concentrate on doing what I tell you to do.” His smile vanished suddenly. “Speaking of which,” he said, his voice dropping, “I want to make it clear that you know where your loyalties lie in this matter, Raccheim.”
“Herr Reichsführer…”
“You are a loyal member of the Party and a dedicated member of the SS,” Himmler recited quietly. “That’s what your file says. You took a bullet in the winter of 1943 on the Russian front to protect a superior officer. Your efforts in Paris rid us of over a hundred members of the Resistance. That kind of loyalty says something about a man, Herr Sturmbannführer.”
“I suppose so, mein Reichsführer,” Raccheim said cautiously. He didn’t like the looks of the web Himmler was weaving—he was being drawn close to the spider at far too quickly a rate for his liking.
“It is true, I suppose? You are a loyal member of the SS? Would you die for your fellow SS man?”
The sturmbannführer nodded and sat up a little straighter. This, he could answer honestly. “Yes, mein Reichsführer.” He had proved that already, or at least come close—the permanent limp he bore and would have for the rest of his life attested to that fact. “I would die to preserve the honor of our force.”
“I know,” Himmler replied, his gaze intensifying. “You are indeed a loyal member of the SS. My SS, Raccheim. I must ask you not to forget where your loyalties are—it is to be understood that you are working under me. You will take orders from me alone. Not Canaris, not your SS superior here: me, and no one else, not even the Führer himself. Do you understand?”
Raccheim knew he was treading on dangerous ground, but he could no longer restrain himself. “Mein Reichsführer, I’m honored,” he said stiffly, meeting Himmler’s piercing stare as levelly as possible. “But sir, you must realize…in asking this of me, you are asking me to betray my Führer.” He hesitated as Himmler’s eyes flashed a warning, but went on anyway. “With respect, mein Reichsführer, I swore an oath when I joined the SS—that oath was to Adolf Hitler, not you.”
“You are neither betraying that oath nor your Führer, Herr Sturmbannführer,” Himmler said delicately, his voice carrying a hint of an edge despite his relatively patient expression. “I thought I had already explained that I would handle the logistics. I’m not asking you to turn on the Führer: I’m asking you to do your job. It’s literally the only way to save our country, Raccheim. I will make the Führer understand.” The Reichsführer’s brow furrowed. “Do you see what I mean?” he asked, tilting his head to one side.
I will make the Führer understand…what was that supposed to mean? Himmler had already committed treason by admitting to dealing with the Allies. Was he telling the truth, or was he intent on using the Abwehr sturmbannführer as a pawn in a greater scheme only?
“Raccheim.” Himmler’s sharp voice cut through his uncertain silence. He looked up as the Reichsführer leaned forward so he was directly face-to-face with the young officer. Raccheim found that he was unable to look away as he spoke. “You’re an intelligent man,” he allowed, shaking his head when the sturmbannführer opened his mouth automatically to thank him. “Your business is Intelligence, after all—uncovering people’s secrets, isn’t that right?”
“It’s part of the job, Herr Reichsführer.”
“Make sure that you keep away from my secrets.” Himmler’s face was deadly serious, not a trace of humor on his thin face. “You will focus on this task and nothing else, especially what you’ve heard tonight. Your loyalty is to me now. Everything that I’ve told you is confidential, your secret as well as mine, and I expect it to be kept that way.”
The forcefulness of his words closed down any hope of a protest. Raccheim knew what consequences would be if he refused. He nodded curtly.
Himmler seemed satisfied with the firmness of the response and nodded in return, standing up to go. The two other SS officers rose with him, and for the second time in the past few minutes, the silent newcomer locked eyes with Raccheim. This time, he spoke, his voice a hiss.
“There is no changing your mind now, Herr Raccheim. Disloyalty to the SS only ends one way.”
Raccheim looked instinctively to Himmler, half-expecting him to reproach his aide for the thinly disguised threat, but the Reichsführer merely looked coldly back at him. Seeing the steely indifference in that stare, the sturmbannführer slammed his heels together and snapped out his arm in a Sieg-Heil salute. The pair returned the gesture, the unidentified officer gravely murmuring “Heil Hitler” while Himmler gave a lazy military salute before turning on his heel and walking out.
When the door had been closed behind them, Raccheim remained standing for a moment before sinking wearily into his chair and putting his head in his hands.
“Scheiss!” he murmured viciously. “Gott in himmel!”
This was absolute madness. Himmler was going to get himself killed, and Raccheim would be brought down with him.
He chewed on his lip, tossing his hat back on a pile of papers, which toppled over—he ignored the resulting mess—and thought hard about his future. He could inform on the Reichsführer, uncover the crimes of the SS leader before something went too far. It would mean a promotion for him, almost certainly: perhaps, knowing the rumored whims of the Führer these days, he would even be vaulted into Himmler’s vacated spot.
But that was something too. The Führer really was getting more and more unpredictable, and as much as Raccheim had tried to ignore it, it was costing Germany equipment, supplies, vehicles, and lives. Stories had gone around the Abwehr headquarters about the different medications Hitler took, how he was now giving to rants that left him foaming at the mouth, how his senseless orders killed men who were desperately needed to hold the fronts he insisted should be abandoned one day and bolstered with fiery rage the next. Since 1936, Raccheim had been a devoted follower of the man, but his beliefs were being shaken by each new rumor.
He was a committed Nazi, yes. But he was also an Abwehr agent, and that meant that he had to be open to change, even if it arrived unexpectedly or involved risk.
Raccheim’s eyes narrowed as he considered Heinrich Himmler. The Reichsführer was incredibly cunning, a wily, intelligent creature capable of offering a share of his lofty reputation at one moment and turning on his one-time ally with very capable bared fangs the next. Trusting him would be like playing with fire. Still, if one knew how to play the Reichsführer’s game, things could go very well for that person. Very well indeed.
And Himmler was intelligent. The sturmbannführer greatly valued that quality, and intelligence mixed with shrewdness, he knew, made for a person who always got what he wanted. The Reichsführer would see his plans carried out, and if it did so happen that that meant betraying the Führer…well, then Himmler would have proved himself the stronger, and a newly successful Raccheim would be in a prime position to claim some of the wealth of a takeover.
The tall sturmbannführer allowed himself a small smile as he picked up an unread stack of papers about the Rommel case. It was time to play double agent, and this time either side he played for could be the winner. It just added to the challenge.
19 July 1944
0329 Hours GMT
Abwehr Headquarters
Berlin, Germany
“This is crazy. Absolutely crazy.”
Sturmbannführer Wolfgang Raccheim ran a hand over his light brown hair wearily, biting his lip with frustration. He was beginning to hate the messenger who had been bringing him teletypes hot off the press for the past few days, a short, ferrety runner with bad posture and a wry smile, for the only thing he brought was more of this utterly maddening news. These little snippets of information couldn’t even be classified as news, really—they were pieces of a puzzle that they expected him to fit together. It was an impossible task.
First the news of Rommel’s kidnapping: a disaster in itself. Rumors had poured in after that—the Desert Fox had been shot, it was all a practical joke, the Allies had publicly announced his capture—and people from all sides were screaming at him, his superiors, and his staff to find an answer, to sort out the fact from the fiction and fix the problem. And now this. The Reichsführer was on his way over, and he wanted to see Raccheim. Not Canaris, the Abwehr’s head, not the presiding SS representative in the Abwehr, but Sturmbannführer Wolfgang Raccheim, the highest-ranking SS officer currently installed in the Reconnaissance branch of Reich Intelligence.
Raccheim looked up to see the ferret still standing there, hands behind his back in an at-ease stance he had assumed without prompting. Glaring coldly at him, the sturmbannführer jerked his head irritably at the door and poured over the hand-written message laid out on his desk once more.
{i}To Herr Sturmbannführer Wolfgang Raccheim, Second Floor:
Reichsführer Himmler sends his compliments and hopes you will see him immediately. He conveys his apologies for the short notice of this message.
Heil Hitler!
E.S.{/i]
Wolfgang hadn’t the faintest idea who E.S. was, but he knew that the messenger, however annoying he might be, was a reliable one and wouldn’t have given it to him if it hadn’t been important. Cursing, the tall SS officer threw back his head and drained the last drops of whiskey from his flask, then slammed the glass back down on his desk beside the massive pile of papers there and crossed to the other side of his office to peer at himself in the mirror. He noticed that the edges of his vision were blurring, and realized that in addition to be limp with tiredness, he had also managed to become slightly drunk in his attempts to stay awake. Wonderful.
The sturmbannführer scowled at the sight of his own pale, exhausted reflection. He was young for his rank at twenty-nine, but because of his recent transfer to intelligence, he still kept the fitness of a field officer and had the lean physique of a runner. A forelock of dark blond hair mussed from a few quick hours of sleep had fallen into his blue eyes, and he impatiently dug into his pocket for a comb, managing to pull it back into some semblance of neatness. Next, he buttoned up his stained and wrinkled uniform shirt—not much he could do about that—and brushed off his black dress jacket before putting it on, buttoning that up too and checking that his Iron Cross Second Class and wound badge were secure.
Now to fix up the office. Raccheim looked around the shadowy room with a dismayed eye—he had time to make space for someone to walk through, but nothing more. Stacks of paper were everywhere. Dryly, he wondered if this was some sort of living nightmare before attacking his desk, carefully placing each haphazard pile behind the desk to make them less visible and then turning to the floor. After rearranging the towers of paper a bit, he checked his watch reflexively—what had he forgotten? Scheiss! The hat! Frantically, he cast about for his peaked officer’s hat and saw it peeking out from beneath a collapsed pile, grabbed it, beat it back into shape hastily, and jammed it on his head before dropping back to his chair. The room suddenly fell very silent.
Bloody Himmler. Trust him to come at four in the morning!
Raccheim sat there for a few minutes, reviewing his papers and fretting. Why had the Reichsführer wanted to see him, of all people? It would have to be about Rommel, of course. Rommel, Rommel, Rommel. That was all he had heard for the past two days. Rommel. He knew everything there was to know about the man now, at least by the military’s standards, and yet he had no idea how to approach this problem of him having been kidnapped and missing. The Reichsführer would want answers, just like the others, but he would have none for him.
Footsteps outside his door jerked his head up, and when the door opened, Raccheim got up and snapped to attention, extending his hand in the Sieg-Heil salute. A tall SS officer entered, followed after a moment by the Reichsführer of the SS and the head of the Gestapo, Heinrich Himmler.
Himmler’s face was cast into shadow by the lighting of the room, and for a moment, all Raccheim could see of his features was the faint glint of lamplight on his round spectacles before he stepped into brighter light. Shorter than Raccheim or his anonymous aide, Himmler nonetheless cut a menacing figure in his jet black uniform, the silver of his lapels and the Death’s Head insignia on his hat illuminating his features only slightly. The Reichsführer’s face was narrow and nearly chinless, with a small mustache above his thin mouth, but his pale, watery eyes were alive with intelligence behind his glasses. “At ease, Sturmbannführer Raccheim,” he said quietly, his voice almost a whisper.
“Mein Reichsführer,” Wolfgang said in response, lowering his arm. He found himself fascinated by the quiet power Himmler had over him despite his previous annoyance with his superior officer and met his eyes squarely, hiding his interest behind a carefully blank mask.
“Thank you for seeing me so early in the morning, Herr Sturmbannführer,” Himmler acknowledged. “It’s a pleasure to meet you at last. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Raccheim shook the man’s extended hand briefly. “Me, Reichsführer?” he asked, trying not to sound surprised.
A thin smile flitted over Himmler’s face, the slight amusement registering only briefly with his subordinate before it faded away. “Indeed. Word gets around, Herr Sturmbannführer. Paris, 1940? I hear you did good work there.”
Shrugging, Raccheim allowed a small smile himself. “The Resistance hadn’t been firmly established there yet, mein Reichsführer. I was lucky.” With a start, he realized that they were still standing. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be rude—please sit down,” he said apologetically, gesturing to the two chairs in front of his desk. “Sorry about the mess. Can I get you anything to drink?”
Himmler shook his head as he sat, his gaunt-faced minion wordlessly taking the chair beside him. “No, thank you, Herr Sturmbannführer. I don’t wish to take much of your time—” He glanced around at the chaotic scene. “—as you’re obviously hard at work here, but what I have to say to you is extremely important.”
Which was why the Reichsführer had come himself, Raccheim thought ironically. He had hardly expected the second-most important man in the Reich to come at this hour on a whim. “Please go ahead,” he said politely.
Leaning forward slightly, Himmler narrowed his eyes slightly as he studied the sturmbannführer for a moment, his gaze piercing. “It is to be understood, Herr Raccheim, that this information is strictly confidential, and that, for now, the full details of what I am going to ask of you are to remain that way until I give further notice.”
Raccheim nodded. He had expected that as well. “Of course, mein Reichsführer.”
“Good.” The bespectacled man surveyed him a moment more before sitting back again. “I understand that you are perhaps our leading expert on the Rommel situation at the moment.”
The young SS officer had to contain a snort of derision from escaping him. Expert was hardly the right word for it—perhaps most confused was the best title. Nevertheless, he nodded again, knowing an affirmative was expected of him. “You could say that, sir.”
“I also understand that this is a very complex set of circumstances,” Himmler continued, pausing briefly. Raccheim’s trained eye caught a flicker of hesitance on his face before he went on, which surprised him—this seemed to be a matter of real concern for the Reichsführer. “You should know, Herr Raccheim, that in this matter…the Führer and I do not exactly see eye to eye.”
Raccheim stiffened slightly in his chair. Was this a confession?
Himmler examined his nails for a moment. “The Führer has told me expressively that he does not plan to do anything about Rommel’s capture. Yes, we are going to consider it as a successful capture,” he added at Raccheim’s questioning look. “He believes that Rommel is no longer a trustworthy commander after the field marshal visited him last.”
“I understand the encounter did not go well,” Raccheim ventured, unsure if Himmler minded him speaking or not. The Reichsführer’s face gave no indication of his mood, so he plunged on. “They said Rommel tried to convince the Führer to make peace with the Allies.”
“That is correct.” Himmler did not seem surprised that he knew this information. “The thing is, Herr Raccheim, I agree with Rommel.”
Raccheim blinked, caught off-guard. “You-you do, sir?” he stammered.
“Yes.” The Reichsführer merely looked at him, his eyes flat and neutral “In fact, I have been in contact with Churchill’s agents for months now trying to establish some sort of positive relationship.”
That was high treason, the sturmbannführer knew at once, and he struggled to keep his face free of the shock that he was feeling. The idea was inconceivable—the Reichsführer of the SS, the Führer’s right hand man, carrying out secret negotiations with the Allies! Could things have really gotten so bad that one of the most powerful men in the Reich felt compelled to turn to the enemy for help? “Herr Reichsführer…” he began, trying to formulate some sort of response. “I…”
Beside Himmler, the silent officer stirred in his seat, his cold blue eyes settling on Raccheim’s face. His thin, skeletal face matched the Totemkopf insignia all three present were wearing—a death’s head, like those carved on the graves of those who had died in the Great War. On visits to his father’s grave in the cemetery as a child, Wolfgang had always been frightened of the skulls adorning the otherwise unmarked headstones. There were never any names on these—beneath the soil, he had always known, unidentified corpses lay in pieces, with nothing but that ominous symbol of death to mark their final resting place. The memories drifted back to him now as those flat eyes met his for a moment, and he suppressed a shiver.
Himmler continued speaking as if nothing had occurred in the short pause in which the two had stared at one another. “That’s why I need your help, Herr Sturmbannführer.”
Raccheim shook himself mentally. To refuse would probably be the death of him, he knew, but what could he say? “I live to serve, mein Reichsführer.”
The shorter man nodded with satisfaction, his eyes narrowing slightly behind his round spectacles as he gave a small smile. “Good,” he said shortly. “In brief, Herr Raccheim, I want Rommel back.”
“Back, Reichsführer?”
Himmler made a small, impatient gesture with his left hand, drumming his fingers on his knee. “That’s what I said. I want him brought back alive and well, and as soon as possible. If we have Rommel, we have the army, and Rommel’s views on the present course of the war are the same as mine, which is why I need him, specifically, to help Germany end this war. Do you understand?”
Despite the fact that the Reichsführer was starting to show signs of irritation at his hesitance, Raccheim paused again, biting his lip thoughtfully. Himmler had not showed any signs of minding when he had spoken his mind before, so he tried his luck once again. “Mein Reichsführer…may I speak plainly?” he asked uncertainly.
“Go ahead.”
“Well…” He glanced at the other officer before going on. “I really don’t know how possible that is. We honestly know very little about the situation. We have no idea where the field marshal has been taken, if they arrived in England yet, how many commandos there were in total—nothing. All we know is what Rommel’s chief of staff, who was the only witness, told us, and what we heard from the soldiers the British force held hostage. The English press hasn’t made a peep yet. As far as we know, Rommel could still be in France.”
“That’s unlikely,” Himmler said curtly. “According to my intelligence, he has arrived in England. Otherwise, I would not be here making this request of you.” His pointed stare made it very clear that this was not, in fact, a request, but an order. “And I believe I can trust the SS intelligence more than the Abwehr at the present time, Herr Sturmbannführer.”
With a slow nod, Raccheim tried a different angle. “What sort of rescue did you have in mind, mein Reichsführer? Perhaps Otto Skorzeny—”
“No, no.” The Reichsführer looked over his spectacles at Raccheim, his gaze almost pitying. “No, Raccheim, I want this done diplomatically. At least, I want it to seem diplomatic. I will work out the logistics of the plan so that my connections with the British remain more or less intact, and you will do the actual rescuing. I’ve read your file, as you’ve probably figured out—I know what you’re capable of, and I believe you can pull it off.”
Raccheim blinked. “Do you mean…that you’ll be letting someone else take the blame so you stay on good terms with the Allies, mein Reichsführer? Who?”
Himmler reached out and patted his arm in an almost-fond paternal gesture, his expression crafty. “That’s not for you to worry about, Herr Sturmbannführer, remember?” he chuckled. “You concentrate on doing what I tell you to do.” His smile vanished suddenly. “Speaking of which,” he said, his voice dropping, “I want to make it clear that you know where your loyalties lie in this matter, Raccheim.”
“Herr Reichsführer…”
“You are a loyal member of the Party and a dedicated member of the SS,” Himmler recited quietly. “That’s what your file says. You took a bullet in the winter of 1943 on the Russian front to protect a superior officer. Your efforts in Paris rid us of over a hundred members of the Resistance. That kind of loyalty says something about a man, Herr Sturmbannführer.”
“I suppose so, mein Reichsführer,” Raccheim said cautiously. He didn’t like the looks of the web Himmler was weaving—he was being drawn close to the spider at far too quickly a rate for his liking.
“It is true, I suppose? You are a loyal member of the SS? Would you die for your fellow SS man?”
The sturmbannführer nodded and sat up a little straighter. This, he could answer honestly. “Yes, mein Reichsführer.” He had proved that already, or at least come close—the permanent limp he bore and would have for the rest of his life attested to that fact. “I would die to preserve the honor of our force.”
“I know,” Himmler replied, his gaze intensifying. “You are indeed a loyal member of the SS. My SS, Raccheim. I must ask you not to forget where your loyalties are—it is to be understood that you are working under me. You will take orders from me alone. Not Canaris, not your SS superior here: me, and no one else, not even the Führer himself. Do you understand?”
Raccheim knew he was treading on dangerous ground, but he could no longer restrain himself. “Mein Reichsführer, I’m honored,” he said stiffly, meeting Himmler’s piercing stare as levelly as possible. “But sir, you must realize…in asking this of me, you are asking me to betray my Führer.” He hesitated as Himmler’s eyes flashed a warning, but went on anyway. “With respect, mein Reichsführer, I swore an oath when I joined the SS—that oath was to Adolf Hitler, not you.”
“You are neither betraying that oath nor your Führer, Herr Sturmbannführer,” Himmler said delicately, his voice carrying a hint of an edge despite his relatively patient expression. “I thought I had already explained that I would handle the logistics. I’m not asking you to turn on the Führer: I’m asking you to do your job. It’s literally the only way to save our country, Raccheim. I will make the Führer understand.” The Reichsführer’s brow furrowed. “Do you see what I mean?” he asked, tilting his head to one side.
I will make the Führer understand…what was that supposed to mean? Himmler had already committed treason by admitting to dealing with the Allies. Was he telling the truth, or was he intent on using the Abwehr sturmbannführer as a pawn in a greater scheme only?
“Raccheim.” Himmler’s sharp voice cut through his uncertain silence. He looked up as the Reichsführer leaned forward so he was directly face-to-face with the young officer. Raccheim found that he was unable to look away as he spoke. “You’re an intelligent man,” he allowed, shaking his head when the sturmbannführer opened his mouth automatically to thank him. “Your business is Intelligence, after all—uncovering people’s secrets, isn’t that right?”
“It’s part of the job, Herr Reichsführer.”
“Make sure that you keep away from my secrets.” Himmler’s face was deadly serious, not a trace of humor on his thin face. “You will focus on this task and nothing else, especially what you’ve heard tonight. Your loyalty is to me now. Everything that I’ve told you is confidential, your secret as well as mine, and I expect it to be kept that way.”
The forcefulness of his words closed down any hope of a protest. Raccheim knew what consequences would be if he refused. He nodded curtly.
Himmler seemed satisfied with the firmness of the response and nodded in return, standing up to go. The two other SS officers rose with him, and for the second time in the past few minutes, the silent newcomer locked eyes with Raccheim. This time, he spoke, his voice a hiss.
“There is no changing your mind now, Herr Raccheim. Disloyalty to the SS only ends one way.”
Raccheim looked instinctively to Himmler, half-expecting him to reproach his aide for the thinly disguised threat, but the Reichsführer merely looked coldly back at him. Seeing the steely indifference in that stare, the sturmbannführer slammed his heels together and snapped out his arm in a Sieg-Heil salute. The pair returned the gesture, the unidentified officer gravely murmuring “Heil Hitler” while Himmler gave a lazy military salute before turning on his heel and walking out.
When the door had been closed behind them, Raccheim remained standing for a moment before sinking wearily into his chair and putting his head in his hands.
“Scheiss!” he murmured viciously. “Gott in himmel!”
This was absolute madness. Himmler was going to get himself killed, and Raccheim would be brought down with him.
He chewed on his lip, tossing his hat back on a pile of papers, which toppled over—he ignored the resulting mess—and thought hard about his future. He could inform on the Reichsführer, uncover the crimes of the SS leader before something went too far. It would mean a promotion for him, almost certainly: perhaps, knowing the rumored whims of the Führer these days, he would even be vaulted into Himmler’s vacated spot.
But that was something too. The Führer really was getting more and more unpredictable, and as much as Raccheim had tried to ignore it, it was costing Germany equipment, supplies, vehicles, and lives. Stories had gone around the Abwehr headquarters about the different medications Hitler took, how he was now giving to rants that left him foaming at the mouth, how his senseless orders killed men who were desperately needed to hold the fronts he insisted should be abandoned one day and bolstered with fiery rage the next. Since 1936, Raccheim had been a devoted follower of the man, but his beliefs were being shaken by each new rumor.
He was a committed Nazi, yes. But he was also an Abwehr agent, and that meant that he had to be open to change, even if it arrived unexpectedly or involved risk.
Raccheim’s eyes narrowed as he considered Heinrich Himmler. The Reichsführer was incredibly cunning, a wily, intelligent creature capable of offering a share of his lofty reputation at one moment and turning on his one-time ally with very capable bared fangs the next. Trusting him would be like playing with fire. Still, if one knew how to play the Reichsführer’s game, things could go very well for that person. Very well indeed.
And Himmler was intelligent. The sturmbannführer greatly valued that quality, and intelligence mixed with shrewdness, he knew, made for a person who always got what he wanted. The Reichsführer would see his plans carried out, and if it did so happen that that meant betraying the Führer…well, then Himmler would have proved himself the stronger, and a newly successful Raccheim would be in a prime position to claim some of the wealth of a takeover.
The tall sturmbannführer allowed himself a small smile as he picked up an unread stack of papers about the Rommel case. It was time to play double agent, and this time either side he played for could be the winner. It just added to the challenge.