Fox On The Rhine (20 page)

And then they were into fields of green, a region even beyond the initial bombardment. The road, still narrow and lined with hedgerows, rolled straight to the south over gently rolling country. There was no sign of any German defender.

“Give me the mike, Bill,” Pulaski said, and Sergeant Dawson handed him the handset for the radio.

“We’ve got a clear road, men!” Pulaski barked into his radio. “I want everyone to move forward at full speed--understand that there is to be no delay! Let’s make some tracks!”

Only then did he sit back in the turret of his half-track, letting the wind blow through his short-cropped hair. He’d be damned if he wasn’t going to beat Third Armored into the little spot on the map that was Sainte-la-Salle.

Ukraine, Soviet Union, 1400 hours GMT

“Do you think we’ve crossed the front lines yet?” Müller asked, peering out the window of the Junkers transport. “Is that Poland down there--or the Soviet Union?”

In the seat beside him, von Reinhardt shrugged. “Borders are such tenuous things,” he remarked. “What is Poland today was Germany yesterday, and will probably be part of Greater Russia tomorrow. As our late führer observed, ‘The greater the amount of room a people has at its disposal, the greater is also its natural protection.’ In that the Russian people and the German nation think alike. But to answer your question, judging from the evidence I’d say we’ve crossed the front.”

He pointed out of the window, and Müller raised his eyes, then gasped at the sight of three fighter planes cruising just above and behind the lumbering Ju-52. Red stars on wing and fuselage gleamed like fresh blood in the sunlight.

“Th-they’re Russians!” stammered the bespectacled colonel. “MiGs, I think,” Reinhardt agreed, with that maddening display of calm. “Though I confess that I’m not fully conversant with the machines of the Red Air Force.”

This entire mission had already become a nightmare, and was only getting worse as far as Müller was concerned. He had asked Reinhardt about the foreign minister after their disastrous meeting. “Did you observe the slackening of the face on one side, the drooping of the eyes?” Reinhardt had asked.

“Why yes, but--” Müller started to reply.

“A minor stroke, I should think,” Reinhardt said. “Brought on by shock at the führer’s demise. Our foreign minister is, I’m afraid, in questionable health.”

“But doesn’t the new führer recognize it? Even a second’s worth of observation is enough. I couldn’t believe how disorganized his mind was. How on earth can the führer expect him to negotiate with the Soviets?”

“An interesting question. As the fictional detective Sherlock Holmes observed, ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’ If a man is obviously distraught, on the border of being nonfunctional, and is yet being sent on a mission labeled of critical importance to the Fatherland, one must assume either that those who send him are stupid or that there is no other choice,
hein
?”

“Damn it, Günter--don’t play with me like that!” Müller said with unusual vehemence. “This is our lives--my life--we’re talking about. If you know something, tell me. If not, tell me that.”

Gunter paused. “Müller, my friend, I’m sorry. I understand your concern, and quite between us, I share your worries. However, since there’s nothing much we can do about our fate right now, I tend to make jokes. It helps keep me sane. But that’s not fair to you. You need information. Let me tell you what I think … “

Ribbentrop was the highest-ranking official in the Reich with a background of dealing with Molotov and the Russians. At the same time, his power in the inner circle of the Nazi regime had been steadily slipping. Even Himmler, once his close friend and patron, had finally become disenchanted with the “champagne salesman.”

Now, Himmler needed to open up new negotiations with the Soviet Union, Ribbentrop was the only man with the contacts and experience to make it happen, and yet there was substantially diminished respect on Himmler’s part about Ribbentrop’s competence--even before Ribbentrop’s apparent stroke. It was unlikely that Himmler would put the fate of the Reich exclusively in that man’s hands. Reinhardt assumed that this mission was only one front in Himmler’s wider plan, and that Ribbentrop--and the entire mission--could be anything from a key strategic piece to a mere sacrifice pawn in the larger chess game. Müller had sputtered with fear at the suggestion that they might all be put to death as soon as they landed; Reinhardt couldn’t completely disabuse him of the idea because in his judgment, it was altogether possible.

“So what can we do about it?”

“Watch and see,” Reinhardt said. “And wait for an opportunity.”

The sharp-eyed officer closed his eyes, and nothing Müller said could get him to reopen them. He looked fretfully out of the window at the fighter escort, but he mostly saw his own and Reinhardt’s reflections in the thick glass. Müller’s stomach rumbled. He longed for pastry.

The Ju-52 began to descend, the fighter escort following. Müller got a brief glimpse of a bleak military field as the plane banked to align itself for final approach. As the aircraft descended through the gray sky, he noticed tanks lining the runway, their barrels trained inward.
Perhaps they’ll shoot each other instead of us
, he thought, but he would never be so lucky.

After a smooth landing, the plane taxied to a stop before a large hangar. Soviet troops hauled the huge metal doors open. A tractor chugged and the transport was slowly eased into the hangar. In the dim light Müller could see hundreds of Soviet troops. They were all armed, rifles pointing at the aircraft. The doors rumbled shut behind them. They were trapped.

“Ah, the honor guard,” said Reinhardt, leaning forward. Müller saw his face in the reflection from the window.

“Is that what you call it,” said Müller dryly.

Müller could hear the clanking of the rear passenger door opening, and then loud, angry shouts in Russian as the enemy troops pushed into the transport. Although Müller didn’t understand Russian, the meaning was clear. At gunpoint the guard relieved the Germans of their weapons, pulling them away angrily, threatening them. A huge, red-eyed giant of a man pulled Müller up from his seat. He was in a spitting, nearly homicidal rage, shouting angrily in Müller’s face with what seemed to be beet breath. Müller was too overpowered to be scared, though none of his muscles responded to his command.

All the Germans--military officers and diplomats alike--were hauled off the plane, their weapons confiscated roughly with threats and shouting. Personal belongings were pulled away... including a few chocolates Müller had stashed in his pocket for a dietary emergency. The Russian who grabbed the chocolate immediately devoured them, wrapper and all, chewed them up, then spit out the waxed paper onto the dirt floor.

Müller noticed Ribbentrop, still dazed and seemingly unaware of his surroundings, being manhandled by the guards.
So this is how we die
, he thought, expecting bullets any moment, hoping that would be all, that he wouldn’t be tortured first.

“Halt!” The shout echoed in the hangar. With a few remaining shoves and pushes, the guards backed off, although their weapons remained trained on the small German delegation. Müller turned to see a short, stocky man with a square face, thinning white hair and a white mustache, thin glasses under heavy eyebrows. He wore a civilian suit.
Viachislav Molotov,

Commissar for Foreign Affairs
, thought Müller. He recognized him from newspaper photographs as well as from the briefing materials before the flight.
I’d bet a dozen strudels he planned this, and now he’ll act as if nothing bad has happened
.

“Joachim, my good friend!” he said, heading for the German foreign minister who had fallen to the dirt floor. “How very good to see you!” He reached down to help the fallen Ribbentrop to his feet. Müller noticed a lack of surprise or concern on the Commissar’s smiling face.

Ribbentrop looked up through dirt-smeared eyes. “Vi-achislav,” he murmured. “Viachislav. He’s dead, you know.” Molotov looked puzzled. “Who’s dead?”

“The führer. The führer’s dead.” Ribbentrop’s voice was wandering again.

Molotov seemed taken aback at von Ribbentrop’s condition. This, obviously, had not been part of his briefing. Ribbentrop’s deputy, State Secretary Baron Adolf Steengracht von Moyland, stepped up to present papers and to begin the diplomatic rituals. Müller tuned out most of the ceremonial portion, standing at attention and feeling like the guest of honor at a firing squad, surrounded by Russian troops. Finally, it was over, and he and the others were escorted from the hangar onto a waiting bus. Molotov, Ribbentrop, and Steengracht entered a long black staff car.

Müller stuck close to Reinhardt. If he was going to hell, he wanted company.

Replacement Army Headquarters, Berlin, Germany, 29 July 1944, 1600 hours GMT

A major of the SS, wearing a black leather trenchcoat with a swastika armband, leading a uniformed squad of six men with Schmeissers at the ready, marched down the narrow corridor. The rhythmic clatter of boots on the polished floor echoed in the confines of the building. Soldiers stopped their work as the armed patrol marched past. People moved out of the way, drew back with fear at the passing of the grim-faced troops.

The one-armed man at the map table looked up as the room around him fell silent.

“Colonel Count von Stauffenberg?” the major demanded.

The colonel drew himself stiffly to his full height. “You know I am von Stauffenberg” he confirmed.

“Very well. I place you under arrest for the assassination of Adolf Hitler.”

Stauffenberg looked calmly at the SS squad. Slowly, deliberately, he stared around the room. Officer after officer dropped his eyes rather than make contact with him. Bermel held his gaze for a minute, then looked away.

“I have made no secret of my work. I am proud to have committed not murder, not assassination, but tyrannicide.” His voice rang out clearly in the suddenly silent room.

The major’s eyes narrowed in contempt. The soldiers were watching Stauffenberg, fingers tense at their triggers.

“Follow me,” the major barked. Stauffenberg fell in line behind him. The SS troops formed an escort around the count.

The moment had finally come. Stauffenberg was ready to pay the price for his actions. He had imagined this scene many times since he’d first joined the conspiracy in the fall of 1943.

In his own mind and in the minds of his coconspirators, Stauffenberg represented the best of the old Germany. For nearly all of his career he had been a loyal servant of his country’s government--indeed, his sacrifices had gone beyond what could have been asked of any man.

On the seventh of April, 1943, while commanding units of the German Tenth Armored Division in North Africa, he fought hard to cover Rommel’s retreat. On that day his panzer column was strafed by a U.S. fighter plane, and von Stauffenberg lost his left eye, his right hand, and two fingers of his left hand in the attack. For months he worked to relearn how to dress himself, to write with his left hand, to function again as an officer. He wanted to return to the front lines, but instead he was assigned to the General Army Office under General Friedrich Olbricht, who was one of the conspirators.

It was Stauffenberg’s uncle, Count Nikolaus von Uxkull, who had first recruited him into the conspiracy. Stauffenberg quickly became the pillar of strength that the conspirators so desperately needed. The brilliant but disfigured officer’s natural leadership skills elevated him to the top of the plotters’ ranks, but after the Allied landings at Normandy, he began to question whether it was still worthwhile to kill Hitler with the end of the war so obviously looming.

His mentor, General Henning von Tresckow, had given him a forceful argument that the assassination was still necessary. “What matters now is not the practical purpose of the coup,” Tresckow had said, and Stauffenberg could still hear his voice clearly, “but to prove to the world and for the records of history that the men of the resistance movement dared to take the decisive step.”

And so he had. Although the Nazis had retained control, although Germany had not changed, Stauffenberg could stand tall. He had pronounced the sentence of death on Adolf Hitler, and no one could undo his work. Now it was time for the end.

The count slid the fingers of his one remaining hand up his folded and pinned sleeve to pull out the thin knife hidden there. His death would come quickly, honorably, at his own hand, not through degrading tortures at the hands of the SS butchers.

Then there was a sudden yell, and the sharp explosive report of a Walther firing, followed by the soft thud of a bullet impacting flesh, and a scream of pain and shock from one of the guards. “Long live free Germany!” came a triumphant cry--it was Lieutenant Haeften. Bursting from his office, a Walther in each hand, looking like a caricature of the American cowboys whose images were as well known in Germany as in America itself, Haeften was firing rapidly at the assembled guards.

For a moment Stauffenberg watched his young protégé. It was clear that this was a hopeless attack, but then Stauffenberg remembered his own statement: “We have demonstrated that there is some honor left in Germany.”

It was honorable to go down fighting, and quickly the old combat veteran joined the fight. With one rapid move he pulled out the knife he was saving for himself and stabbed it through the neck of the SS major, twisting the blade hard and feeling it slide between the vertebrae, killing the Nazi instantly. Gushes of red spurted from an opened artery, and the major’s scream died in his throat, a gurgle of blood flooding the trachea. He looked over at the young lieutenant, who looked back.

Then the thunderclap of submachine guns echoed with ferocity in the confined room. The two members of the German aristocracy were no match for a squad of SS troops armed with Schmeissers. There were just too many to take out all at once. Screaming, men dove for cover as an avalanche of bullets ravaged the body of von Haeften. Ricochets blazed off metal desks and walls. Haeften collapsed backward, the last two shots from his pistols going wild. Stauffenberg tried to wrest the weapon from the hand of the dead major, then he, too, heard the noise and felt the impact of the machine gun slugs in his flesh. He recognized them; he’d felt them before.