Dominion (15 page)

‘No,’ Renner answered quietly. ‘I think Sturmbannführer Hoth is right, there are not many left here now.’ He looked at Gunther with interest. ‘I believe you
have met Deputy Reichsführer Heydrich.’

‘A few times only. When I first joined the Hitler Youth.’

Renner nodded thoughtfully. He still seemed to be weighing Gunther up. He asked, ‘What do you think you will do, Sturmbannführer Hoth, when the Jews are all gone from
Germany?’

‘I don’t know, sir. I’ve some years before I retire. I thought I might go to Poland, I hear there is still work to be done there.’ He had thought, maybe if he did that
the spark of energy would return; if not, perhaps the partisans would get him, as they had Hans, and the family sacrifice would be complete.

Renner said, ‘You have an interesting history, Hoth. A university degree in English, a year spent living there, then when you returned Party membership and five years serving in the
Criminal Police Department.’

‘Yes, sir. My father was a policeman, too.’

Renner nodded, the silver skull-and-crossbones badge on his black SS cap glinting as it caught the light. ‘I know. In 1936 you were recruited to Gestapo Counter-Intelligence, under
Brigadeführer Schellenberg as he then was, and worked on intelligence matters involving England, including the blueprint for its occupation, although fortunately as it turned out that was not
needed.’ He smiled coldly. ‘Then five years in England after 1940, working from our embassy with the British Special Branch, helping build up their counter-subversion programmes.’
As he spoke he glanced at the folder on his knees and Gunther realized he was referring to his own personnel file. Renner looked up at him with a puzzled expression. ‘And yet in 1945 you
applied to return to Berlin, to join Department III. And here you have remained ever since, working on ethnic matters and, for the past few years, tracing hidden Jews. Never seeking
promotion.’

Gunther said, ‘I had had enough of England, sir. My wife more so. And my current rank is enough for me.’

‘Your wife left you, I see.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Renner’s expression softened. ‘I am sorry, I sympathize. Your work record is exemplary, you have done a great deal for the Reich. It says here you have a great gift for analysis, for
noticing patterns other officers miss.’ Renner looked at Gunther again for a long moment, weighing him up, then turned to Karlson.

‘Yes,’ Karlson said. He sat back in his chair, examining Gunther with his large, red-veined eyes. ‘Obersturmbannführer Renner’s section has had a request from some
very senior people at the London embassy. They need someone there for a –’ he smiled – ‘a task, of some importance. You speak English, you went to university there and you
worked in Police Liaison at Senate House for five years. They would like you to go over for a week, perhaps two.’

Gunther hesitated, then said, ‘Of course. If I can be of use.’

‘Though you are not fond of England?’ Renner asked.

Gunther answered, ‘I know Britain is our ally but I don’t like or trust the British. I’ve always thought them – decadent.’ Renner nodded. ‘And Beaverbrook is
a joke,’ Gunther added.

Renner nodded again. ‘I agree. But Mosley’s not strong enough to take over yet. Though being Home Secretary in England gives him great power. The English are Aryans, yet despite
their achievements they do not really think racially. And yes, they are decadent, they cannot even keep control of their Empire any more. And Churchill’s people are making more and more
trouble.’

‘So I have heard.’

‘Beaverbrook’s in France now, talking to Laval.’ Renner gave a wintry smile. ‘Then he comes to Berlin. He wants closer economic links with Germany and to recruit more
troops for India. The British cannot make their Empire pay so now they seek crumbs from our table. They will have to pay a price for that.’ He looked at Karlson, who linked his pudgy hands
together on the desk and leaned forward.

‘The operation we wish you to assist with is SS. We know you are loyal to us. You will work with our Intelligence man in London. You will say nothing to Ambassador Rommel’s staff,
nor to any of the people you used to know, nor any of the army people the embassy is crawling with.’

So it’s part of the SS–army secret war, Gunther thought, a war that has been going on for years. The army saw themselves as the historic guardians of Germany while the SS believed
they were the men of the future, the ones who would police the lesser races of Greater Germany until they died off, and who would guard and preserve the future of the race. Hitler had favoured the
SS, had raised them up from nothing, but now he was ill, some said seriously, and neither the army nor the SS seemed able to bring victory in Russia. The rumours in the Gestapo were that the army
wanted to end the Russian war, keep Ukraine and Western Russia and the Caucasus and let the Russians set up a ragtag corrupt country of their own to the east. But Himmler knew that for Germany to
be secure, the war had to be fought to the end. With Göring dead, most of his economic power had passed to Speer, whom the army favoured but whom Himmler and the SS regarded as little better
than a Bolshevik with his great state enterprises and contempt for free markets. Goebbels, Hitler’s chosen successor after Göring’s death, held the balance between them, but no-one
was quite sure where Goebbels stood these days.

‘So Rommel’s people aren’t involved?’ Gunther said carefully.

‘Rommel knows nothing about it. This operation is entirely SS.’ Renner added, ‘If that creates a problem for you, Hoth, you must say so now and then this interview will never
have taken place.’

‘It’s not a problem, sir.’

‘Good.’ Renner sat back.

‘You will take a flight from Templehof to London at nine tomorrow morning,’ Karlson said. ‘You will be driven to the embassy where you will be told more about your assignment.
In the meantime, tell no-one.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Gunther thought,
I’ve nobody left to tell
.

Karlson said, ‘Bring me back some English tea, will you? Earl Grey.’ He laughed and looked at Renner. ‘An old woman’s drink. My wife likes to serve it when she gets
together with her aunts.’

As the car approached central London the traffic increased. The big Mercedes halted at a set of lights, surrounded by little snub-nosed English cars. Gunther saw a shadowy
reflection of his face in the window. His features were beginning to sag; he was starting to look jowly, though his mouth and chin were still firm. He should take more exercise; Hans had always
kept himself fit. A light drizzle began spotting the windscreen as they drove down the wide Euston Road.

Gunther had first come to England as a student at Oxford for a year, in 1929. Even then he had found the English effete. He had returned to London to work though, after the Treaty of Berlin, and
spent five years liaising with the British police, helping train them in how to deal with riots, civil unrest, terrorism. The British had already learned a good deal themselves, from Ireland, but
had grown complacent in the peaceful forties.

They turned left, past large old buildings and green squares, the trees bare. The car drove to the back of Senate House, where the embassy area was protected by twenty-foot high concrete walls
patrolled by British police. A German soldier opened the steel gates that led into the car park at the back. Gunther got out stiffly. He looked up at the nineteen-storey building, stepped like a
tall, narrow pyramid, the huge swastika flags hanging limp in the cold, heavy air. He had always admired its proportions, its functionality.

The driver led Gunther into the building, through the familiar stone corridors to the wide central vestibule where a marble bust of the Führer, ten feet high, stood on a great plinth. It
was as busy as he remembered, the wide space echoing with footsteps and voices: men in uniforms, women typists in smart suits, files under their arms, clacking along in their high heels. He was led
to the lifts. The driver showed a pass to the attendant, another soldier. They were the only ones inside as the lift rose smoothly to the twelfth floor. Ludwig said, ‘How does it feel to be
back, sir?’

‘Depressingly familiar. At least the air isn’t full of dust like Berlin.’

‘Yes. Though the British fogs can be bad.’

‘I remember them well.’

The doors opened. Ludwig’s manner became formal again. ‘Your appointment, sir, is with Standartenführer Gessler. Afterwards I will show you to your flat. It is in Russell
Square, very comfortable.’

‘Thank you.’ An Intelligence colonel, Gunther thought, one of the senior SS officers at the embassy. He felt a twitch of excitement, such as he hadn’t had in a long time.

The office Gunther entered was small, painted white, with a panoramic view from the window of London under its pall of grey cloud. There was a globe of the world on a table
under the window, the German Empire shown extending to the Urals, obligatory photographs of Hitler and Himmler behind the desk. The Hitler photo was the last one, taken in 1950, showing him
grey-haired, cheeks fallen in, shoulders stooped. He glared out miserably at Gunther, a striking contrast to Himmler’s cold confidence.

The man who rose to greet him wore full SS uniform. Gessler was in his early fifties, small and neat, thinning dark hair combed across his head to hide a bald spot. Round pince-nez and a severe
face with stern lines round the mouth reminded Gunther of his old headmaster in Königsberg. He was one of the stiff, colourless technocrats Himmler and Heydrich favoured for senior office.
Yet, as Gunther knew, such people could be brutal too; like his old headmaster, they often had a temper. Gessler raised his arm in the National Salute and said, ‘
Heil Hitler
.’
Gunther followed. He was invited to sit down. Gessler looked at him. He laid his hands flat on the desk; they were short and stubby. The desk was very neat, pens and pencils pointing the same way
in a little tray, papers lined up precisely.

Gessler spoke sharply, without any pleasantries. ‘Inspector Hoth, I am told your absolute discretion can be trusted. That you know the British, their ways, their police. That you can be
diplomatic when needed. That you are a Gestapo officer to your bones.’ For the first time he smiled, suddenly confiding. ‘And that you are a good hunter of men.’

‘I hope all that is true, sir.’

‘Repeat that in English.’

Gunther did so. Gessler nodded briefly. ‘Good. They said you spoke almost without accent.’ He paused. ‘I understand your brother joined the SS when he was quite young. Died
heroically in Russia.’

‘He did.’ Gunther wanted a cigarette, but saw no ashtray in the room.

Gessler continued quietly, ‘And I understand you believe, like him, that Germany must be committed to the uttermost to destroying our enemies, so that future generations of Germans may
live at peace and be secure.’

‘I have done for over twenty years, sir.’

‘You and your brother joined the party in 1930.’

‘Yes, sir. During the Weimar chaos.’

Gessler crossed his legs. ‘And yet, unlike your brother, you never applied to join the SS. You are automatically subject to Deputy Reichs-führer Heydrich, of course, as a member of
the Gestapo. But you are not SS. That did not seem to concern my colleagues in Berlin, but I think it requires – some explanation.’ He smiled again, but without warmth now.

Gunther took a breath. ‘My brother Hans was always drawn to – to an idealist’s life. Whereas I was drawn to police work, like my father. It is where my skills lie. It is how I
serve Germany.’

Gessler gave a sharp little grunt. ‘I can see a life of physical fitness has not appealed to you.’ He himself was trim and fit in his spotless black uniform. ‘It is strange. I
thought identical twins always behaved alike.’

Gunther suspected Gessler was trying to provoke him. He answered quietly, ‘Not in every way.’

Gessler considered a moment. Then he stood abruptly and crossed to the globe. He laid a hand on Europe. ‘This globe, as we both know, is a fiction. Much territory west of the Volga remains
in Russian hands. They still have the Volga oilfields and new ones they’ve found in Siberia, while most of the territory we do hold is crawling with partisans. Poland, too. Our settlements
there are increasingly unsafe. There are those who say we should end the war, settle with Khrushchev and Zhukov or some of the little capitalists sprouting up behind the Volga now the Communist
Party shares power with them. What is your opinion?’

Gunther knew the answer Gessler wanted, which was the answer he believed. ‘If we did a deal with the Russians, left any large Russian state that might threaten us again, that would be a
poor reward for the lives of five million German soldiers. And our weapons technology is advancing all the time.’

Gessler swung the globe round, pointing at the United States. ‘But not as fast as America’s. And in a few weeks President Taft will be gone, and this liberal Adlai Stevenson will be
in charge. They say he’s cautious, he’ll be careful, but he’s not our friend.’

‘The Americans have always been unpredictable.’

‘Yes. And have coupled a policy of isolationism with the development of fearful weapons. Look at their claims to have an atomic bomb, a wonder weapon that dwarfs any we possess.’

‘We’re told it’s a fake, those films are a Hollywood trick,’ Gunther said, though he had never been quite sure about that.

‘No, it exists,’ Gessler countered in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘Those films of the mushroom clouds in the desert were not faked. The sand turned to glass.’ He raised his
heavy dark eyebrows. ‘We have agents, sympathizers, in America. We have done since Roosevelt’s day. And at the US embassy in London too, I will tell you a little more about that. But to
return to us. We have our nuclear programme, that is no secret. Yet it hasn’t progressed well. We believe the Americans are ahead of us in all sorts of weapons research. Biological weapons.
Even in rocketry it seems they may be catching up.’ He laughed, with unexpected nervousness. ‘Maybe the science-fiction writers are correct, and we will have a war on the moon one
day.’