Hitler's peace

“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.