The Lady from Zagreb

Thirty

I drove slowly away from Küsnacht feeling both elated and depressed. Elated at the idea that Dalia loved me, and depressed at the realization that seeing her in Germany was going to be so problematic, if not impossible. She was right, of course. I could hardly blame her. What woman in her right mind would have voluntarily put herself in danger of becoming Mephisto’s mistress? But I certainly wondered what I was going to tell Goebbels when I was in his office once more. And it was clear to me that he was not going to be pleased when he learned that his favorite actress was refusing to return to Berlin. I could still hear his words, telling me to bring her back at all costs. Carl Jung would have had a difficult job persuading Dalia to change her mind.

I drove into Zurich thinking I would probably have to send Goebbels a telegram advising him of the outcome of my meeting with Dalia. Maybe he could think of something that would bring her back to work. More money, perhaps. That was something all movie actresses seemed to understand very well. It was said that Marlene Dietrich had been paid $450,000 by Alexander Korda to star in his film Knight Without Armour. Surely Dalia could have commanded just as much as Dietrich. She was certainly more beautiful. And her films were more popular, too. At least they were in Germany.

I was still thinking about this when I drove into the Baur’s parking lot, immediately to the west of the hotel and on the other side of the canal. I stepped out of the car and was locking the door when a man got out of the car parked next to me and asked me for a light. Not suspecting anything, I reached for my lighter, which is when I found a big Colt automatic in my gut and another man frisking me for a gun. The next thing I knew I was being invited to get into the back of my own Mercedes and the man with the gun was sitting alongside me. The one who’d searched me had taken my passport and the car keys and was now in the driver’s seat. A moment or two later we were speeding out of the hotel car park with the other car close behind.

I imagine they’d been following me all the way from Küsnacht. It wasn’t like me not to spot a tail, but with so much on my mind I simply hadn’t noticed it. There were four of them — two in my car and two in the car behind. I turned to take a longer look but the man seated beside me flicked the lobe of my ear meaningfully with the Colt and told me to keep my eyes to the front.

“Who are you?” I asked. “You’re not Gestapo. Not with those suits and that cologne.”

The man with the gun said nothing. By now all I knew was that we were driving north. That’s easy when the river is to the west and on your left. Five minutes later we turned into a dull, quiet neighborhood full of tall white houses with gable roofs and stopped in front of a corner house with several stories and a steeple. One of the men in the car behind opened a garage door and we drove inside. Then I was marched upstairs and through the door of a barely furnished corner apartment on the uppermost floor — a safe house, I imagined, with a nice view of nothing very much. A man smoking a pipe and wearing a three-piece suit was seated behind a refectory table. His hair was thin and white and he had a broad gray mustache. He wore a spotted bow tie and a pair of wire-framed glasses. He continued writing something on a sheet of paper with a fountain pen while I was escorted to a chair in the middle of the room. I sat down and waited to discover who these people were. So far, their accents had led me to believe they were neither Swiss nor German, and I quickly presumed they were English or American.

Eventually the man behind the refectory table spoke in fluent German that was too good for an American.

“How are you today, General?” he asked.

“Thank you, I’m well, but I’m afraid you’ve obviously got the wrong man. I’m not a general. Last time I looked at my pay book it said captain.”

The man with the pipe said nothing and continued writing.

“If you bother to check my passport you’ll see I’m not the man you probably think I am. My name is Bernhard Gunther.”

“In our profession none of us is ever really what he seems to be,” said the man with the pipe. He spoke calmly, like a professor or a diplomat, as if he had been explaining a philosophical point to a dull student.

“In Nazi Germany not being who you are is a regular way of life, for everyone. Take my word for it.”

The pipe smoke was sweet and actually smelled like real, unadulterated tobacco, which made me think he must be American. The English were just as badly off for tobacco as the Germans.

“Oh, I think we know who you are, all right.”

“And I’m telling you that you’ve made a mistake. I’m guessing you think that I’m General Walter Schellenberg. I am driving his car, after all. He asked me to bring it here, from the Mercedes car factory in Sindelfingen. And now I’ve met you I’m beginning to understand why. I’m guessing he was expecting something like this might happen. Getting snatched off the streets by American spies. That’s what you are, isn’t it? I mean, you’re not German. I know you’re not Swiss. And you can’t be English. Not with those suits.”

The pipe smoker started writing again. I had nothing to lose by talking. So I talked. Maybe I could talk my way out of this.

“Look here, I’ve an important appointment back at my hotel at two o’clock. With a lady. So I’ll tell you everything you want to know. Which isn’t much. Keep the car. It isn’t mine. But I’d rather not miss that appointment.”

“This lady. What’s her name?”

I said nothing.

“If you tell us her name we shall leave word at your hotel that you have been unavoidably detained.”

“So you can snatch her, too?”

“Why would we do that when we have you, General?”

“I’d rather not say what her name is. We’re lovers, all right? But the lady is married. I expect you could find out, but I’d rather not say what her name is.”

“And how would your wife, Irene, feel about that?”

“I think Irene would be all right with it since I’m not married to her.”

“I’m afraid you’re going to be here awhile,” said the man. “So you might as well get used to the idea. You won’t be keeping your appointment with your lady friend. You’ll be helping us with the answers to some important questions we have, General Schellenberg. And it would be unfortunate for us both if your answers were not truthful.”

“Look,” I said. “You know the name of General Schellenberg’s wife. Congratulations. But you obviously know very little else because if you did you’d know that he’s nothing like me. He’s short. I’m tall. He’s younger than me. Thirty-three, I think. Better-looking, too, although I agree that seems unlikely. He speaks fluent French. On account of the fact that he lived in Luxembourg. I hardly speak a word of it. And he’s a snake, which is how I’m here now instead of him. Look, there’s a man — a Swiss — who’ll vouch for what I say. He’s an intelligence officer, too — a captain by the name of Paul Meyer-Schwertenbach. He works for military intelligence. His boss is a man named Masson. Meyer knows who I am because he’s met the real General Schellenberg. And he’s met me, in Berlin. Last year he came to an international crime commission conference. I got to know him reasonably well. He lives in a château in Ermatingen, called Wolfsberg Castle. Why don’t you telephone him? He’ll tell you what Schellenberg looks like and what I look like and we can sort this whole thing out in a few minutes. I’ve got nothing to hide. I’m not a spy. I’m really not in a position to tell you anything very much. I was a criminal commissar with Kripo in Berlin, and until recently I was working for the War Crimes Bureau, at army headquarters. I’ve been sent here on a private mission by Dr. Goebbels in his capacity as head of the UFA film studios at Babelsberg. There’s an actress, living here in Zurich... he wants her to star in his next film. That’s it, gentlemen. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but this time you got the monkey, not the organ-grinder.”

“This conference. Where was it held?”

“The Villa Minoux, in Wannsee. That’s a sort of guesthouse owned by the SS.”

“Who else was there?”

I shrugged. “The usual suspects. Gestapo Müller, Kaltenbrunner, Himmler. General Nebe. And Schellenberg, of course. It was him who introduced me to Captain Meyer-Schwertenbach.”

“You move in very elevated circles for a mere captain.”

“I go where I’m told to go.”

“Have you ever been in Switzerland before?”

“No. Never.”

The pipe smoker smiled in a faceless sort of way, without conveying anything of his emotions, so it was impossible for me to determine if he thought what I’d said was true, or false, funny, or beneath contempt. The three other men in the room were all thugs — Gestapo types with better haircuts and nicer breath.

“Tell me, General, what plans does Germany have for the invasion of Switzerland?” he asked.

“Me? I really have no idea. You might as well ask me when Hitler is going to throw in the towel and surrender. But from the little I’ve heard, our dear leader still believes the idea of invading Switzerland is a possibility. Only there’s no appetite for it among the German leadership. Goebbels told me that himself. The fact is, everyone in the German Army lives in fear of invading this little country because the Swiss Army enjoys a reputation for marksmanship that’s second to none. That and the fact that the Alps mean that even the Luftwaffe wouldn’t be able to count for much in attempting to subdue the place. It’s just not worth it.”

The man with the pipe spent several minutes writing this. I glanced at my watch and saw that it was already midday.

“Could I have a cigarette?” I asked.

“Give him a cigarette,” said the pipe smoker, and without hesitation one of his men sprang forward with an open cigarette case. I picked one, noted the name — Viceroy — on the paper, and put it in my mouth. He lit me and sat down again. From the speed with which the man had moved I formed the conclusion that the man with the pipe was no ordinary spy; perhaps this was the American spymaster himself. He certainly fit the description given by Schellenberg.

“So you are American,” I said. “The OSS, I suppose.” I smiled at the pipe smoker. “And perhaps you’re even Mr. Allen Dulles himself, of the OSS in Bern.”

The pipe smoker stayed smiling, inscrutably.

“You know, Mr. Dulles, the Swiss will be very cross with you when they find out what you’ve done to me. They take their neutrality very seriously indeed. Your treatment of me — a German guest with a visa — might easily cause a diplomatic incident. After all, someone from the Swiss police or intelligence services must have told you I was in Zurich. That won’t go down well with the people in our embassy when they find out what’s happened. Which they will, of course, when I fail to report back to Berlin.”

“General, this will all end more quickly if we confine ourselves to me asking the questions and you giving the answers. And when you have done so to my complete satisfaction, you will walk out of here a free man. You have my word. Neither the Abwehr, nor your boss, Heinrich Himmler, will ever be the wiser. He’s the man who calls the shots in Department Six these days, isn’t he? I mean, since General Heydrich’s death. You’re Himmler’s special plenipotentiary, and answerable only to him.”

“Look, I’m not even a member of the Nazi Party. How can I persuade you that I’m not General Schellenberg?”

“All right. Let’s see if you can. You don’t deny you’re driving his car. All of the paperwork in the glove box confirms Walter Schellenberg as the car’s exporting owner. And the importing company as the Swiss Wood Syndicate. Then there’s the booking at your hotel. That was made by a company called Export Drives GMBH, a subsidiary of another company called Stiftung Nordhav, of which Walter Schellenberg is one of the directors and of which Reinhard Heydrich was formerly the chairman. The same company also paid the bill at the Baur au Lac for a Hans Eggen when, in February this year, he visited Zurich. He traveled to Switzerland at the same time as a Walter Schellenberg, who had also had a room at the Baur but didn’t actually stay there. The two men crossed the border by car at Fort Reuenthal.”

“If that’s so, then the Zurich cantonal police will easily be able to confirm that I’m not Schellenberg. You could ask Sergeant Bleiker, or Police Inspector Weisendanger. I believe I have the inspector’s business card in my wallet if you care to look for it.”

“As I’m sure you know, General, it’s only since your previous visit that Colonel Müller of the Swiss Security Service — your opposite number, so to speak — has insisted that you be kept under surveillance by the Zurich police whenever you are in Switzerland. He would like to find out what you’ve been up to almost as much as I do. Which is probably why you’re using an alias now. Beyond the fact that you and Eggen had meetings with Meyer and Roger Masson of Swiss Military Intelligence, very little is known of your activities in Switzerland. Perhaps you’d like to take this opportunity to enlighten me. What are you doing here now? And what were you doing then? After all, you were both here for almost two weeks. What did you discuss with Masson and Meyer?”

“Would it be easier to ask them?”

“I doubt that the Swiss would want to share any intel with me. They turn a blind eye to what we’re doing here in Switzerland just as they do their best to ignore what you Germans get up to. Let’s face it: their surveillance of you is hardly oppressive, is it? What can you tell me about the Swiss Wood Syndicate?”

“Nothing at all.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

I shrugged.

“Come now, General. There’s no need to be so coy about this. The SWS manufactures wooden barracks. Presumably the SS and the German Army have a use for wooden barracks.”

“If you say so.”

“Only, some of these barracks end up being used in concentration camps, don’t they?”

“I really wouldn’t know. Look, I just remembered something. Someone else who might confirm who I say I am. Heinrich Rothmund of the police section at the Swiss Department of Justice and Police. When I was a detective working for Kripo in Berlin I had several conversations with Rothmund. A missing persons case that was never resolved. I wouldn’t say we’re old friends but he’ll know exactly what we spoke about then.”

“But as you yourself have said, the Swiss police take a dim view of any interference with the diplomatic community in their country. I can hardly ask Herr Rothmund to come here and identify you without alerting him to the fact that you’re being held against your will. I’m afraid I’d soon find myself asked to leave Switzerland for good.”

“I’m sure you can think of a way of checking me out without raising his suspicions. After all, it’s the intelligence community you work in, not a local department store. Even your mind ought to be able to devise some means of establishing beyond all doubt that I am who I say I am.” I shrugged. “Look, Mr. Dulles, I’m just trying to save us both some valuable time here.”

“That reminds me, General, when is your next scheduled meeting with Police Inspector Weisendanger?”

“Tonight. At six.”

“We both know that this can’t be true. By the terms of your visa he’s only obliged to meet with you once a day. To make sure that you keep out of trouble. Since the two of you had breakfast this morning, I have to conclude that your next meeting must be tomorrow. But it would be useful to know at what time this will be. Are you to have breakfast again tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“So, we have until then to get to know each other better.”

Allen Dulles — for so I believed him to be — checked his wristwatch and stood up.

“I will see you this afternoon, General,” he said. “I have a lunch appointment, here in Zurich. You will be well looked after in my absence. And you might take advantage of your time to reflect upon our conversation. In the absence of your cooperation I should hate to tell my associates here to treat you roughly, just as I should regret having to provide German intelligence with evidence of our conversations. You’re no good to me if I have to burn you, General. I should much prefer it if we can establish a proper working relationship for the future.”

“You mean you want me to spy for you.” I smiled. “Well, why didn’t you say so? I don’t have to be General Schellenberg to do that. Bernie Gunther could be just as useful a spy as him. I’m not nearly as expensive as a general. And after all, as you say, I do sometimes move in elevated circles. Since I’ve never been a Nazi, it’s my earnest wish that the war ends as soon as possible. Is that straight enough for you? As my country was hijacked by a bunch of gangsters, I have no reason not to betray it and, more particularly, them, to people like you. So, by all means let’s talk about my becoming an American spy. Where do I sign?”

Allen Dulles checked the bowl of his pipe, relit it carefully, and stared at me through eyes that slowly narrowed behind his glasses.

“We’ll talk again, this afternoon.”

He was about to leave the room when one of his OSS men handed him a photograph, which he looked at for several seconds through ruminative clouds of pipe smoke.

“Now, this is interesting,” he said. “While we’ve been talking, one of our more diligent desk analysts has come up with this photograph. Perhaps you’d care to comment on this.”

Dulles handed me the picture. There was a caption on a label affixed to the bottom of the print that I hardly needed to read as I recognized the picture immediately. It read: Picture taken at the Prague Circus Krone in October 1941 for local Czech newspaper. The two officers in foreground are Generals Heydrich and Frank. Also pictured are Heydrich’s wife, Lina, Frank’s wife, Karola, Heydrich’s three aides-de-camp, believed to be Ploetz, Pomme, and Kluckholn, and an unknown man, but also believed to be a senior officer in the SD.

“That’s you, isn’t it?” said Dulles. “That ‘unknown’ German officer with Generals Heydrich and Frank?”

“Yes, that’s me,” I admitted. “I see no point in denying it. But I don’t know that it tells you anything very much, Mr. Dulles. After all, none of us is wearing a uniform. It certainly doesn’t tell you that I’m an SS-Obersturmbannführer, which I think is the rank that Walter Schellenberg held around that time.”

“It tells me that you knew Heydrich pretty well if you went to the fucking circus with him and his wife.”