Sheba

‘The fortunes of war, Herr Admiral.’ He laid a file on the desk as Canaris buttered some toast. The Admiral looked up. ‘What’s this?’

‘Operation Sheba, Herr Admiral.’

‘You mean you’ve come up with a solution?’

‘I believe so.’

‘You think this thing could be done?’

‘Not only could it be done, Herr Admiral, I think it should be done.’

‘Really.’ Canaris poured coffee into the spare cup. ‘Then I insist that you have a cigarette and drink that while I see what you’ve got here.’

Ritter did as he was told and limped across to the window. The 3rd of April. Soon it would be Easter and yet it rained like a bad day in November. His leg hurt, but he was damned if he was going to take a morphine pill unless he really had to. He swallowed the coffee and lit a cigarette. Behind him he heard Canaris lift the telephone.

‘The Reich Chancellery, the Führer’s suite,’ the Admiral said, and added after a moment, ‘Good morning. Canaris. I must see the Führer. Yes, most urgent.’ There was a longer pause and then he said, ‘Excellent. Eleven o’clock.’

Ritter turned. ‘Herr Admiral?’

‘Excellent, Hans, this plan of yours. You can come with me and tell the man yourself.’

Ritter had never ventured beyond the main reception area at the Chancellery before and what he saw was breathtaking, not only the huge doors and bronze eagles but the Marble Gallery, which was four hundred and eighty feet long, the Führer’s special pride as it was twice as long as the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles.

When they were admitted to the Führer’s enormous study they found Hitler seated at his desk. He looked up. ‘Something important, I trust.’

‘I think so, my Führer,’ Canaris said. ‘This is my aide, Captain Ritter.’

Hitler took in the scarred face, the stick, the medals, rose, came round the table and took Ritter’s hand. ‘As a soldier I salute you.’

He went back to his chair and Ritter, overwhelmed, stammered, ‘What can I say, my Führer?’

Canaris intervened. ‘The question of the Suez Canal. Captain Ritter has come up with an extraordinary plan. In fact, what is the most extraordinary thing about it is its simplicity.’ He laid the file on Hitler’s desk. ‘Operation Sheba.’

Hitler leaned back, arms folded in an inimitable gesture. ‘I’ll read it later. Tell me, Captain Ritter.’

Ritter licked dry lips. ‘Well, my Führer, it all started with a professor of archaeology at the University called Muller and an extraordinary find he made in Southern Arabia.’

‘Fascinating,’ Hitler said, his eyes glowing, for his passion for architecture was intense. ‘I’d give anything to see that temple.’ He sat back. ‘But go on, Captain. You use the site as a base, but how does that advance the cause?’

‘The essence of the plan is its absurd simplicity. A single plane, a bomber trying to attack the Canal is an absurdity. One can never be certain of accuracy.’

‘So?’ Hitler said.

‘There is a two-engined amphibian called the Catalina, an American plane that can drop wheels and land on the ground as well as water. It has an extraordinary cruising range. Better than sixteen hundred miles carrying a bomb load of one and a half thousand pounds.’

‘Impressive,’ Hitler said. ‘And how would such a plane be used?’

‘As I say, absurdly simple, my Führer. The plane lands at our site in the desert and takes on not bombs, but mines. It flies to Egypt and lands on the Suez Canal itself. There the crew offload many mines, which will drift on the current. I would suggest somewhere near Kantra as a good spot. The crew will of course sink the Catalina, leaving on board a large quantity of our latest explosive, Helicon, which will do an enormous amount of damage to the Canal itself. I need hardly point out that the mines floating down will meet ships travelling north from Lake Timsah. I think we may count on several sinking and thus causing a further blockage.’

There was silence for a while as Hitler sat there staring into space and then he smacked a fist into his palm. ‘Brilliant and as you say, absurdly simple.’ He frowned. ‘But this plane, this Catalina. Can you get hold of one?’

‘There is one available for sale in Lisbon, my Führer. I thought we could buy it and start our own airline in Dahrein, a Spanish company, naturally. I’m sure there would be plenty of coastal trade.’

Hitler got up, came round the desk and clapped him on the shoulders. ‘Quite. I like this man, Herr Admiral. Put his plan into force at once. You have my full authorization.’

‘My Führer.’ Canaris led the way to the door, turned and forced himself to give the Nazi salute. ‘Let’s get out of here,’ he whispered to Ritter, turned and opened the door.

As they went along the Marble Gallery Canaris said, ‘You certainly covered yourself with glory there. Naturally I’ll authorize the necessary funding for the Catalina but it occurs to me that there might be a problem regarding a suitable crew. Of course, there is no reason why Germans should not be flying for a Spanish airline.’

‘But much better if they were Spanish,’ Ritter said.

‘And where would you procure them?’

‘The ranks of the SS, Herr Admiral, they have many Spanish volunteers.’

‘Of course,’ Canaris said. ‘It would be perfect.’

‘I have already tracked down a suitable pilot, a man with much combat experience in the Spanish Civil War. He is at present employed as a courier pilot by the SS. I’m seeing him later this morning at Gatow airfield.’

‘Good. I’ll come with you and see for myself,’ Canaris said, and led the way down the marble stairs.

Carlos Romero was twenty-seven; a saturnine, rather handsome young man, son of a wealthy Madrid wine merchant, he had learned to fly at sixteen, had joined the Spanish Air Force at the earliest possible moment and trained as a fighter pilot. When the Civil War came he had opted for Franco, not because he was a dedicated Fascist, but because that’s what people of his class did. He’d shot down eleven planes, and had the time of his life. He’d even flown with the German Condor Legion.

Suddenly it was all over and he didn’t want that, and then he’d got a whisper that the SS were taking Spanish volunteers. A pilot with his record they had snapped up without hesitation, employing him mainly on courier duties, ferrying high-ranking officers.

So here he was at the controls of a small Stork spotter plane a thousand feet above Berlin, an SS Brigadeführer behind him. He called the tower at Gatow, received permission to land and drifted down towards the airfield, bored out of his skull.

‘Mother of God,’ he whispered softly in Spanish, ‘there must be something better than this.’

There was, of course, and he found it when he went into the mess and took off his flying jacket, revealing a well-tailored SS uniform in field grey. He had a small Spanish shield on his left shoulder, and wore the Spanish Order of Merit for gallantry in the field and an Iron Cross First Class for his exploits with the Condor Legion.

He was aware of Canaris first, because of his high rank, although he did not recognize him, but Ritter he did, and went forward with genuine pleasure.

‘Hans Ritter, by all that’s holy.’

Ritter got up to greet him, leaning on his stick, and shook hands. ‘You look well, Carlos. Spain seems a long time ago.’

‘I heard about your leg. I’m sorry.’

Ritter said, ‘Admiral Canaris, Head of the Abwehr.’

Romero got his heels together and saluted. ‘An honour, Herr Admiral.’

‘Join us, Herr Hauptsturmführer.’ Canaris waved to the mess steward. ‘Champagne. Bollinger for preference, and three glasses.’ He turned to Romero. ‘You are a courier pilot, I understand. Do you like that?’

‘To be frank, Herr Admiral, these milk runs of mine bore me to death.’

‘Then we’ll have to see if we can find something more rewarding for you,’ Canaris said as the champagne arrived. ‘Tell him, Hans.’