Truth’s Labyrinth

By Jørgen Steines

The year is 1943; World War II rages on.

Major Johann Richter of the German military intelligence service, Abwehr, is tasked with a case of great importance for the war effort. Several incidents point to a traitor among the top Nazis, and Johann starts investigating generals, field marshals and party leaders.

As the investigation progresses, Johann witnesses the extensive atrocities of the regime – atrocities that ordinary German people know little about. His loyalty to the Third Reich is severely tested, and an unexpected chain of events places him and his family in grave danger.

As Johann finally comes close to revealing the traitor, he is faced with a difficult choice that could radically change the course of the war...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Aug 28, 2023
• ISBN: 9781805146766

Jørgen Steines

The inspiration for Jørgen Steines debut novel, Truth’s Labyrinth, came from a lifelong passion for history. Steines took six months off to pursue his dream, research his subject thoroughly and polish his writing. When not writing, Steines is a partner in Deloitte Consulting.

Book preview

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 64

Chapter 65

Chapter 66

Chapter 67

Chapter 68

Chapter 69

Chapter 70

Chapter 71

Chapter 72

Chapter 73

Chapter 74

Chapter 75

Chapter 76

Chapter 77

Chapter 78

Chapter 79

Chapter 80

Chapter 81

Chapter 82

Chapter 83

Chapter 84

Chapter 85

Chapter 86

Chapter 87

Chapter 88

Chapter 89

Chapter 90

Chapter 91

Chapter 92

Chapter 93

Epilogue

The following list includes organisations and real people who play a prominent role in the novel’s action. Rank and titles are given for the months covered in Truth’s Labyrinth.

Germany

Abwehr: The German military intelligence service responsible for foreign intelligence gathering, sabotage and counter-espionage.

Oberkommando der Wehrmacht (OKW): The German High Command of the Armed Forces with responsibility for coordinating operations across the army, navy and air force.

Reichssicherheitshauptamt (RSHA): Headquarters of security, responsible for fighting all enemies of the Third Reich, domestically and abroad. The main departments were the Geheime Staatspolizei (Gestapo), Kriminalpolizei (Kripo) and Sicherheitsdienst (SD), formerly the SS’s own intelligence service.

Schutzstaffel (SS): Consisted primarily of the Allgemeine SS (enforcement of racial politics as well as police work) and the Waffen-SS (the military branch). A third department was the SS-Wirtschafts- und Verwaltungshauptamt (SS-WVHA), which managed finance, utilities and business projects. With Amt D, the SS-WVHA was also responsible for the concentration and extermination camps.

Kriminalpolizei (Kripo): the German criminal police.

Bentivegni, Franz von: Colonel, head of Division III in the Abwehr – espionage and counter-espionage.

Bormann, Martin: Reich Leader, Hitler’s personal secretary and head of the Party Chancellery.

Bussche, Axel von dem: Hauptmann, battalion commander of the 9th Grenadier Regiment.

Canaris, Wilhelm: Admiral, head of the Abwehr.

Dohnányi, Hans von: Jurist, employed by the Abwehr.

Fellgiebel, Erich: General of the Communication Troops, Commander of the German Army Communications.

Göring, Hermann: Reichsmarschall of the Greater German Reich, Commander-in-Chief of the Luftwaffe and responsible for a number of domestic policy areas.

Himmler, Heinrich: SS-Reichsführer and Head of the German Police, head of the SS, RSHA and Ordnungspolizei (Orpo).

Keitel, Wilhelm: Field Marshal, Chief of OKW.

Liebehenschel, Arthur: SS-Sturmbannführer, responsible for finance and administration for Inspektion der Konzentrationslager under the SS-WVHA.

Martini, Wolfgang: General der Luftnachrichtenentruppe, responsible for the German Luftwaffe’s signalling service and German radar technology.

Oster, Hans: Major General, Deputy Commander of the Abwehr.

Schellenberg, Walther: SS-Oberführer, Chief of Ausland-SD – Amt VI of the RSHA.

Stauffenberg, Claus von: Lieutenant Colonel, Staff Officer at the Reserve Army Headquarters.

Thiele, Fritz: Lieutenant General, liaison officer for the Wehrmacht’s communications at OKW.

Great Britain & Allies

Secret Intelligence Service (SIS): The British military intelligence service responsible for foreign intelligence. Commonly known as MI6 (Military Intelligence, Section 6).

Brooke, Alan: General, Chief of the Imperial General Staff of the British Empire.

Churchill, Winston: Prime Minister of the United Kingdom.

Eisenhower, Dwight D.: General, Supreme Commander Allied Expeditionary Force of the North African Theater of Operations (NATOUSA).

Harris, Arthur: Marshal of the Royal Air Force, Commander-in-Chief of the British Bomber Command.

Hoare, Bertie Rex O’Bryen: Wing Commander, Commander of No. 605 Squadron RAF.

Lindemann, Frederick: Professor, Prime scientific adviser to the British Government.

Menzies, Stewart: Major General, Chief of SIS.

Mikołajczyk, Stanisław: Prime Minister of the Polish Government-in-Exile in London.

Spaatz, Carl Andrew: Lieutenant General, Commander of the Allied Northwest African Air Force and US Twelfth Air Force.

Rathbone, Eleanor: Independent Member of the British Parliament. She was a member of the noted Rathbone family.

The Jewish ghetto in Lodz

(renamed Litzmannstadt during the German occupation)

Rumkowski, Chaim: Head of the Jewish Council of Elders of the ghetto.

Samstag, Werner: Member of the Order Service or the Jewish Police as it was often referred to.

Stromberg, Alfred: Kriminaloberassistent in the Kripo.

Auschwitz

Grabner, Maximilian: SS-Untersturmführer, head of the political department, similar to the Gestapo of the camp.

Höss, Hedwig: Wife of Rudolf Höss.

Höss, Inge-Brigit: Third child of Rudolf and Hedwig Höss’s five children.

Höss, Rudolf: SS-Obersturmbannführer (lieutenant colonel), commandant of Auschwitz.

Palitzsch, Gerhard: SS-Hauptscharführer (non-commissioned officer), Rapportführer (duty officer).

Pilecki, Witold: Captain of the Polish Army, deployed and fled Auschwitz with two Polish compatriots – Edward Ciesielski (Edek) and Jan Redzej (Jasiek).

Switzerland

Lucy: Anti-Nazi spy-ring driven from Lucerne, Switzerland. In Germany, the network, which provided information to Switzerland, consisted of ten senior military officers and civilians. Seven have been identified, while the last three remain unknown.

When does a lie begin?

A lie, Rabbi Fajner would say, has no beginning. A lie runs downwards like a rootlet, branching an infinite number of times. But if you trace the rootlets down, you never find a moment of inspiration and vision, only overwhelming desperation and despair.

A lie always begins with denial.

Something has happened – yet you do not want to admit that it has.

That is how a lie begins.

Steve Sem-Sandberg The Emperor of Lies.

Prologue

Four kilometres from Auschwitz

night of the 25 April 1943 – Witold

Ahead of him in the dark, two figures sprinted away. A shot tore through the night, and Witold felt the stream of air from the rifle’s bullet graze his ear.

‘Zigzag,’ he yelled out of breath, as he began to run from side to side.

The moon illuminated the flat landscape through scattered slate-grey clouds, revealing a sanctuary of vegetation about a thousand feet further on. Witold glanced over his shoulder, looking for the SS guard, but only darkness filled his gaze. More rounds of flashing light followed by deafening bangs had him ducking instinctively. In front of him, Edek and Jasiek continued their desperate race.

Shortly afterwards, the shots ceased, but Witold shouted not to stop. He felt the adrenaline mobilising the last bit of strength in his sinewy body, and they continued to run for another couple of miles before exhaustion overtook them.

He saw Jasiek drop the bundle of clothes he’d been clenching tightly to his stomach during their escape, after which the frail human figure dropped to the ground like a marionette whose strings had been cut.

Witold and Edek stood bent over, supporting their emaciated bodies with their hands on their knees. Witold’s pulse pounded in his temple. It took time for them to get their breathing under control again.

‘How long do we have?’ coughed Jasiek, a pained expression on his gaunt face.

‘Hopefully, a half an hour before the hunt starts,’ replied Witold. ‘There’s nearly three miles to the main camp and no telephone connection.’

He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a small piece of cut-off telephone cable. The cable ended its journey in the bushes. The plan to get them night work in the outlying bakery had worked.

‘There’s no time to rest now. It’ll be bright in a few hours.’

Jasiek nodded. He roughly brushed the bundle clean of the brown sawdust-like powder that was supposed to be flour, and then opened the outer layer of protective fabric. Even in the sparse moonlight, Witold saw how Jasiek’s cheekbones stuck out from under an almost transparent layer of skin. With his frail arms, he handed trousers and jackets to Edek and Witold, who were already stripping off their prisoner uniforms.

They hid the stripy attire in the shrubbery, and Witold spat in the direction of the threadbare fabric before signalling they should leave. He led them north along the bank of the Sola and where the river flowed into the Vistula, they changed direction eastwards to follow the larger river.

Further ahead, a row of house roofs emerged from the darkness. A village lay sprawled in solitude along the shore and the inhabitants’ boats bobbed peacefully on the water, and Witold contemplated whether they should take one of them and let themselves drift on the calm current. While Edek and Jasiek took a break, he waded out into the cold water, to the poles the boats were moored to. They were all secured with chains and padlocks. It’d be impossible to break them open without waking up the people in the houses that were less than sixty feet away.

On the way back through the knee-high water, he heard the sound of motorbikes in the distance. Witold straightened as he tilted his head. Yes, the sound was coming closer. He waved his arms, increasing his speed so the water splashed around him, while Edek and Jasiek got up onto their legs.

‘We have to leave the river and continue inland,’ he said quietly. ‘It’s our best chance to find somewhere to hide before the sun comes up.’

Witold could almost see how the last bits of strength were seeping out of the men’s bodies as swirls of steam. None of them had the strength to run any longer, not even Witold himself, so they alternated between walking and stumbling through the hilly landscape of ditches and meadows.

The sight of a newly-sown field told Witold they had returned to the land of the living, and when the first sounds of bird song broke the silence of the night, he stopped abruptly. It struck him that he’d never seen birds over the camp in Auschwitz, as if they knew that the stark, barren area was a place to fly far away from.

Dawn was slowly brightening the sky, and through the mist Witold could make out a dark line of trees on the horizon. Long before they reached the edge of the woods, an almost forgotten fragrance of forest filled his nostrils. Exhausted, they passed the first rows of trees and threw themselves down on the soft moss. Witold felt the damp from the earth seep through his clothes. Jasiek fell asleep as soon as his head hit the forest floor, a weak snoring coming from his chest. Witold glanced up at the sky, and tried to capture the sight of the open space between the tree tops. Something wet flowed down over his cheeks as all the inhumanity, cruelty, degradation, debasement and incapacitation were slowly sucked out of his hard-pressed body by the earth’s moisture soaking his skin.

Edek twisted on the cool bedding, turning his head toward Witold.

‘They wouldn’t do it, would they?’ he asked with a low voice.

‘I wouldn’t have escaped if I thought so.’

Edek bit his thumbnail.

‘No one should have to die for our sake?’ he whispered.

Witold lay a hand on Edek’s arm. It was a question he himself had pondered long and hard. As a deterrent or out of pure revenge, the Germans had previously selected ten random prisoners from the same work group as those who’d escaped. They’d been locked inside a cell until they’d died of hunger. He’d heard it could take several weeks if the unfortunate souls weren’t completely emaciated already.

‘No other prisoners were nearby,’ replied Witold. ‘We were the only three in the bakery. Who would they punish?’

The answer was a hesitant shrug.

‘You should know,’ Edek said. ‘After three years.’ He shook his head quietly. ‘I don’t understand how you let yourself be imprisoned intentionally.’

‘I had my reasons.’

‘I know.’

Edek turned his head back and looked up at the arched sky, now tinged blue from the rising sun.

‘I wouldn’t have survived another six months.’

Witold closed his eyes and thought that half a year was optimistic. Few of those newly arrived, who made it through the selection process upon arrival survived more than three months.

‘Sleep. We’ll have to move on soon. You’ll be with your friends in Katowice in a few days.’

‘And you?’

‘I’m heading in another direction.’

PART One

Chapter 1

Berlin – six months later – Johann

The Führer’s piercing gaze was fixed directly on him. The dark eyes stared stiffly at Johann, as if intending to register each and every one of his movements. That was how he felt every time he sat in front of the gold-framed portrait behind Admiral Wilhelm Canaris’s huge mahogany desk in the Abwehr’s headquarters.

In the oil painting, with the Bavarian Alps in the background, Hitler’s gaze seemed almost hypnotic. The artist had managed to capture the magnetic expression of the eyes, which still gave Johann chills of awe.

Out of the corner of his right eye, he spied an even larger portrait on the wall. It depicted the Greek freedom fighter and admiral, Constantine Canaris, from whom his superior was said to descend. Johann couldn’t quite see the similarity between the two, but he acknowledged that Canaris with his slightly dark skin and thick white hair could well have southern European ancestry.

‘Cigarette?’

The admiral opened the lid of a white enamel cigarette box, a black eagle enthroning its surface.

‘They’re Spanish,’ he said.

Johann took one, lit it and lowered his tense shoulders. It tasted good. Not as bitter as the usual wartime cigarettes.

‘It’s good you could come.’ The admiral made it sound like Johann had had a choice. ‘I have a question for you, Major Richter.’

This might be an easy meeting, after all, thought Johann. He knew every detail of all recent operations under his command.

‘Do you think we’ll win the war?’

Johann stopped his next drag of the cigarette abruptly.

‘Yes, of course, Herr Admiral,’ he said, a little trapped smoke escaping his mouth.

‘Of course,’ the admiral repeated. ‘A response expected from any loyal German officer.’

Johann tried in vain to interpret Canaris’s facial expressions. Why had he been called in to meet with the admiral? Alone. Despite him being responsible for the Abwehr’s special operations abroad, there was usually a level of command between himself and the intelligence service’s topmost chief.

The admiral got up and went over to one of the two large windows behind his desk. He was a short man. Below five foot four. Canaris folded his hands behind his back and took in the view through the large window. He stood there for some time, not saying anything, and Johann began to understand why many thought the admiral seemed mysterious.

Several myths flourished in the Abwehr about Canaris. One of the more exotic legends was that he’d had an affair with the Dutch spy and dancer Mata Hari while he’d been in Madrid during World War I. And when he’d no longer been able to use her, he supposedly handed her over in cold-blood to the British Secret Intelligence Service.

Johann could easily imagine Canaris swinging Mata Hari around in the Spanish night. Despite the admiral being in his late fifties, he still had an appealing exterior that was reinforced by the double-breasted black admiral’s uniform with its gold buttons and insignia of wide gold stripes on the cuffs.

‘Come and enjoy the view while you think a little more about your answer,’ Canaris finally said, waving him forward without turning around.

Was this some kind of test? Fortunately, he was the only one who could feel the rapid pounding of his heart.

Johann got up and went over to the other window next to the admiral. Canaris’s top floor office faced the Landwehr Canal, and his gaze fell on a little gang of workers, walking along the bank with picks and shovels over their shoulders. They had the blue OST patch attached to their clothes, and looked strangely identical and anonymous in their drab work clothes and silent grey-white faces. They could be seen everywhere. There were several million people in the country who were compensating for the absence of almost an entire generation of German men. Few were volunteers.

Canaris followed his gaze and nodded towards the men.

‘They’re probably on their way to clear up after the bombing last night. Did any fall in your neighbourhood, Herr Major? It’s Pankow, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, we live in Pankow, Herr Admiral. It didn’t affect us last night,’ replied Johann, wondering at Canaris knowing where he lived.

‘Good for you, despite it hardly being the last time the RAF will pay us a visit.’

‘Berlin will be fine,’ said Johann, trying to sound unmoved. It was impossible not to think of the horror stories from Hamburg when he sat in the bomb shelter with his family at night. Less than two months ago, thousands of aircraft had dropped an incomprehensible number of incendiary bombs and explosives over the Reich’s second largest city. The bombardment had continued for several consecutive days and nights, and over forty thousand inhabitants had been killed. Babies and the elderly had burned to death or suffocated in a crazy fire storm that had destroyed most of the city.

The news of the disaster spread terror throughout the country, and countless homeless people were evacuated to Berlin. Many of them were in a state of nervous breakdown, and there were reports of people who, mad with grief, had taken the shrivelled bodies of their children with them in suitcases.

Johann stared trance-like at the chestnut trees along the canal. Autumn’s brown shades were beginning to make their mark on the edge of the dark green leaves.

‘So how do you think we will win the war?’ Canaris asked. The question brought Johann out of his reverie. He tried to picture a map of Europe. German and Italian troops had recently been thrown out of North Africa, and after the incomprehensible defeat at Stalingrad, the front in Russia was moving in the wrong direction. The war had evolved into a grim battle of endurance, and he knew that Germany couldn’t continue indefinitely.

Johann took a deep breath.

‘I have full confidence that the Führer will lead us to victory.’

‘Undoubtedly. But how?’ Canaris asked again.

Johann’s heart had difficulty keeping a normal rhythm.

‘Once we’ve regained our strength, I guess we’ll resume our efforts at Kursk, Herr Admiral. It looked promising over the summer.’

‘Operation Citadel, you mean. Just between us, the offensive has finally been called off for reasons I’ll explain later. What other options do you see?’

Johann leaned on the window sill and looked up at the sky.

‘We hear so much about incredible secret weapons. And as the Führer says, the contrived alliance of communists and the two most capitalist countries in the world will soon crumble.’

Canaris sighed loudly.

‘The Allies will most likely stick together as long as they have us as a common enemy.’

Johann avoided looking at Canaris. He knew the admiral was right. Johann still believed in the final victory. But that Endsieg was becoming increasingly based on faith alone, rather than on realism.

‘With all due respect, Herr Admiral. What is it that you want from me?’

The admiral’s gaze rested on Johann for several seconds. Then he gestured with his hand again.

‘Let’s sit down.’

Canaris took a seat and pressed a button that made a bell ring in the front office. Johann could clearly hear the sound through the door. However, it wasn’t that, but the words that came out of the admiral’s mouth, which made him start in the chair.

‘You are to find the traitor who’s about to cost us the war,’ he said.

Chapter 2

Gotenhafen – same day – Witold

The cabin door slammed into the wall with a bang. Stamping boots mixed with the sound of paws clattered eagerly over the hard ship’s deck.

‘Come, Baldo, search,’ commanded a voice.

Witold’s heart pounded ferociously. He sensed the dog on the other side of the false double wall, could hear it barking and its paws clicking against the floor. He sat crouched in the narrow space behind the wooden wall that now felt paper-thin.

He’d feared the patrol would have a dog but was still surprised. The Swedish sailors had warned him that the Germans had become more thorough in their routine investigations of merchant ships, but they’d also reassured him that they were on good terms with the guards. Witold held his breath and wondered if he’d chosen the wrong escape route.

He clutched the gun tightly. The far too familiar sounds of a German guard and a savage German Shepherd so close made the rage swell up inside him. He hated German shepherds. Witold suppressed a burning desire to empty the magazine through the double wall.

Since his escape, he’d had plenty of time to count how many days he’d spent behind the barbed wire in Auschwitz. Nine hundred and forty-seven days. Almost three years in a hell that was impossible for anyone in the outside world to imagine.

Getting out was like being reborn. He’d stayed briefly with some contacts in the country, but hadn’t allowed himself many days’ rest before heading for Warsaw. Here he made contact with the underground movement, which he himself had been part of before being arrested in a street raid in 1940. They called themselves the Home Army. Their leaders were former officers who’d escaped captivity after Poland’s surrender.

Witold had tried in vain to convince the leaders to attack Auschwitz from the outside. A coordinated attack with the resistance movement inside the camp itself. But the Home Army commanders thought it would result in excessive losses – if such an attack were even possible at all. Besides, the Home Army had other priorities. Awaiting the right time for the armed uprising they were preparing in the capital.

With his experience as a captain in the army, Witold was tasked with training new people for the resistance movement. He’d been doing it for several months now. Months in which the horrors of Auschwitz were continuing as before. And the reports he’d sent to London still remained unanswered.

Witold’s patience was running out. He wanted to escape from Poland, from Gotenhafen, and get to England by way of Sweden. In Gdynia, as the city was known before the Germans conquered it, a new and heavily guarded naval base was established, beside the trading harbour, which was why he’d thought the searches of the neutral ships had become more perfunctory.

Or so he’d thought.

He heard the guard move the table, which stood against the double wall of the Swedish shipmate’s cabin.

‘What have you found, Baldo?’ The voice on the other side sounded far too clear.

Witold cursed himself for not spreading tobacco powder around the cabin.

The guard started knocking on the wall with the butt end of the rifle. Sporadically at first, searching. The wood wasn’t going to last long if he struck it any harder. Witold lifted his pistol.

The dog barked loudly as the knocking sounds intensified. Witold’s head could hardly cope with the noise.

If he killed the guard, he’d have to abandon his escape attempt. Instinctively, he grabbed the documents sewn into his jacket with his other hand. Sweat trickled down over his forehead. Had it all been in vain?

‘What are you doing, Hans?’ said a voice on the other side of the wall. Witold recognised the shipmate Lund’s Swedish accent.

‘Baldo’s caught the scent of something,’ the guard answered gruffly.

‘Relax, Hans and come look at this.’

Witold heard a drawer being opened.

‘Smell that,’ Lund urged calmly.

‘What the hell is that nasty muck?’ grimaced the guard, and Witold could hear him taking a few steps back.

‘That stinks.’

Lund laughed.

‘Fermented herring in brine. A Swedish speciality, like the schnapps here.’ Witold heard a new drawer being opened.

‘Take the bottle. We’re on our way back to Sweden, so I’ll be filling up the stores again soon.’

‘Baldo doesn’t usually make mistakes.’

‘He didn’t. It’s a wonder you didn’t smell it yourself. I’d just opened the tin when I was called up to the captain. Sniff, little dog.’

Witold pictured Lund holding the tin under the dog’s muzzle. He held his breath in the dark room, not daring to move. It sounded like the dog was backing away.

Witold heard the dog growl again. The sound was coming closer. He tensed all his muscles at the scraping sound of the animal’s claws coming through the wall.

‘There’s nothing here, Hans,’ he heard the sailor repeat. ‘Take the schnapps for you and your friends.’

‘Two bottles,’ said the soldier.

‘Of course,’ said the mate quickly. ‘Hope you have a good party.’

‘Baldo, here!’ shouted the guard, and Witold heard boots move, a whistling sound and dog paws skidding over the ship’s raw deck.

He waited, listening as taut as a bow string.

After a short while, Witold heard the three redeeming little knocks on the wall, and he collapsed onto the floor.

Chapter 3

Berlin – same day – Johann

‘A traitor?’ repeated Johann, sitting straighter in the chair.

Canaris nodded.

Such a task wasn’t within his remit at all, thought Johann. He was enjoying having responsibility for foreign special operations and had no experience with counterespionage within Germany itself.

He was trying to formulate an objection when the door to the office opened. The bell had apparently been a signal to Canaris’s secretary, who came in balancing a coffee pot and two porcelain cups on a silver tray.

When she’d poured the coffee, Johann sensed an almost forgotten aroma from the cup. An aroma that brought to mind sitting at a café on Unter den Linden, thronged with people who didn’t know what else to do.

‘Is it …?’

Canaris smiled.

‘Yes, real coffee beans from a contact at Hotel Adlon.’

Johann inhaled the coffee’s bouquet eagerly, while the secretary, a shapely young woman in a tight-fitting, knee-length skirt, went out again. Was there a resemblance to Mata Hari? he thought. From behind, her piled-up hair and the swaying gait of her soft curves reminded him of Ewa, another secretary of the Abwehr. She’d been transferred to the Hamburg office six months ago, and Johann still wondered if she herself had requested it. Given the circumstances, it was for the best. Easier for him to not think about her.

Canaris got up to retrieve a bottle of cognac and two crystal glasses from a corner cupboard. After pouring, he handed one to Johann.

‘To a speedy end to the war,’ he said, raising his glass.

‘And real coffee,’ acknowledged Johann as he sipped the amber liquid and wondered what he had done to deserve the precious coffee and the commander’s cognac.

Canaris leaned forward in his chair, folded his hands and laid them on the desk.

‘As you well know, Herr Major, we grow weaker every day that the war continues. The Americans are churning tens of thousands of aeroplanes out of their factories, and the Russians are collecting tanks at a rate we’re unable to keep up with. Not to mention, they have men, oil and other raw materials in almost inexhaustible quantities.’ He frowned. ‘Our only chance lies in prompt and decisive victories.’

‘Like the Blitzkrieg against Poland and France,’ Johann commented dutifully.

‘Exactly. And how we succeeded in Russia, until we were slowed down at Stalingrad.’

Canaris drummed his fountain pen against the desk.

‘The Kursk offensive last summer was an opportunity to win back the initiative. We just never broke through the front because the Russians knew exactly how and where we were going to strike.’

Johann felt a fluttering sensation in his stomach.

‘Are we sure of that, Herr Admiral?’

‘Absolutely,’ Canaris replied without hesitation. ‘Operation Citadel was a disaster even before the offensive had begun. The Red Army attacked the airbases where the Luftwaffe’s fighter planes were ready to take off, and their artillery opened fire on our starting positions exactly two hours before our own artillery opened fire.’

‘But couldn’t it be due to thorough – or lucky – recon?’ Johann asked, considering for a moment whether he was asking too many questions.

The admiral shook his head and, thankfully, didn’t seem irritated.

‘During the first advance, we found a detailed copy of our plans for the operation in Russian. A captured officer from the Red Army revealed that the plans had been handed over several days before the offensive started.’

Johann sipped his cognac but had difficulty enjoying the rich taste.

Canaris turned around, opened the door of a safe behind him and pulled out a paper dossier a few centimetres thick.

‘There are other examples,’ he said, laying the folder embossed with the German eagle on the table.

‘I don’t need to tell you the contents of this file are strictly confidential.’ Johann shook his head lightly.

Canaris leaned forward.

‘The only possible explanation is a traitor in the General Staff or Party Leadership.’

Johann downed the last of the cognac. This was no simple spy he had to find. He set the empty glass on the table as he thought about what an investigation among the generals and field marshals of the supreme command would mean. And among the party leaders? It didn’t bear thinking about.

Canaris refilled the glass.

‘Are you sure I’m the right man for the job, Herr Admiral?’ asked Johann. ‘I don’t have any experience with domestic counterespionage.’

‘Field Marshal Keitel and I discussed it when we were considering possibilities. But it was actually your party membership that settled the matter.’

‘Field Marshal Keitel? My party membership?’

Johann was annoyed that his voice sounded a little shrill. Canaris brought his folded hands up under his chin.

‘As the head of the Wehrmacht’s supreme command, the field marshal was the first to receive knowledge from the Kursk offensive. Naturally, he’s keen to find the traitor and stop the leak, so he brought the case to me.’

Johann stared at a paper weight of three bronze monkeys standing on the admiral’s desk. The first one was cupping its ears, the second one was looking at something slightly suspiciously and the hand of the third one was covering its mouth. Cardinal virtues for an agent, Johann thought. See everything, hear everything, say nothing.

Canaris took a deep breath.

‘And why you? To answer that question, we have to start somewhere else.’

The admiral got up again, stood with his back to the window and leaned on the windowsill.

‘As you know, our colleague Hans von Dohnányi was arrested by the Gestapo in April for illegal currency transactions. There was actually a much more serious suspicion of treason, but it was difficult to prove. Most recently, my own chief of staff, Hans Oster, has been officially sent on holiday for health reasons. In reality, he’s under house arrest on suspicion of colluding with Dohnányi and, therefore, several party leaders have begun doubting the reliability of the Abwehr.’

‘I know of the allegations against Dohnányi, but that doesn’t justify discrediting our entire organisation?’

‘Maybe not, but let me be honest with you. We are all patriots and want the best for Germany. But what is the best for Germany? Not everyone in the Abwehr shares the view of humanity currently prevalent in our country.’

Johann sat, motionless. This conversation could easily move into dangerous territory, so it was a relief when Canaris came back to the point.

‘Field Marshal Keitel is, of course, also aware of the distrust of our organisation, and he considers it important to have a loyal party member in charge of the investigation. Thus, you, Herr Major. You have been a member of the party since 1925, and few in the Abwehr at your level and above can boast that. None, in fact.’

Johann was well aware his five-digit party membership number was a great privilege. He often wore the golden party badge, awarded to the first hundred thousand members of the NSDAP – the National Socialist German Workers’ Party – despite it being several years since he’d spent his free time working for the party. Now he was no longer so sure of the benefits.

‘The field marshal and I agree,’ continued Canaris. ‘Your profile gives us the best possible combination of skills and ideological beliefs.’

‘But why not give the job to the Sicherheittsdienst?’ asked Johann, still hoping for a way out. The remit of the Sicherheittsdienst, or SD, as it was better known as, overlapped greatly with that of the Abwehr. In reality, they often competed with Himmler’s own security and intelligence organisation. As a brother organisation to the SS, their loyalty and tenacity couldn’t be questioned.

‘We discussed that possibility too. But the field marshal doesn’t want to release these SD goons on his fellow officers. We can’t afford to create any unnecessary unrest among the key people of a critical military situation. An effective but discreet investigation is called for.’

The assignment wasn’t beginning to sound any easier to Johann.

‘A team headed by Otto Lantz will be at your full disposal,’ added Canaris. ‘You know each other, I believe.’

‘Otto Lantz? But he investigates industrial espionage and sabotage,’ objected Johann.

‘His experience as a former detective superintendent is crucial. I trust Herr Lantz unconditionally and we can’t take any chances. Germany can’t afford another Kursk.’

Canaris pushed the material towards Johann.

‘Read through this by tomorrow morning, when we’ll meet again.’ The admiral opened the dossier.

‘On top is a letter of authorisation signed by both Field Marshal Keitel and myself. The letter requires everyone to support and help you without exception. It will be necessary for unearthing information on high-ranking people.’

Johann skimmed the text. Having the supreme military person in the Reich behind him was a powerful statement. The letter gave him vast room to manoeuvre, but he still had to tread cautiously. Many of those at the top of the party, the SD, or the Gestapo for that matter, could squash him like a fly, regardless of his possession of the paper bearing Keitel’s and Canaris’s signatures. They would just laugh and wipe their arses with it, throw him in a dark pit or worse.

‘You will report directly to me,’ continued Canaris, looking straight at Johann.

‘And my commanding officer?’

‘I’ve already agreed with Colonel von Bentivegni. He doesn’t need to know more. Everything goes through me. And under no circumstances should you arrest anyone without my approval. This applies irrespective of what you discover during the investigation.’

The admiral straightened his uniform.

‘Do you understand?’

‘Absolutely, Herr Admiral.’

‘Good. Undoubtedly, you understand how much is at stake. I hope you live up to our expectations.’

Johann took the dossier and got up.

‘I’ll try, Herr Admiral.’

Chapter 4

Berlin – same evening – Johann

At dusk, it