Himmler had tried to kill two birds with one stone in Greece, von Berg realized: eliminate the Baron and obtain the Maranatha text. Now he would get neither, for the text was safe in Greece, and von Berg had no intention of missing this meeting, not with the truly significant document inside his leather briefcase on the seat beside him.
As the autobahn curved east, von Berg could see more majestic mountains in the moonlight. Yes, it was good to come home to his beloved Bavaria, good to be alive. So good that the thought of the Reichsfuhrer working up some remorse and breaking the bad news to the Fuhrer of the Baron’s unfortunate end at the hands of religious fanatics made him smile. He pushed the pedal to the floor, and the Mercedes took off.
15
H itler’s holiday house at Obersalzberg was reached by a precipitous road that wound its way up Mount Kehlstein and ended at a bronze portal blasted into the rock. Here an SS guard snapped to attention as Baron von Berg proceeded to drive through a long marble tunnel lined with chandeliers. When he emerged in the vast underground garage at the other end, he stopped the Mercedes, and an SS valet opened the rear door only to discover that the passenger was dead.
“His shirts weren’t pressed, and he was always on time, never early,” von Berg explained to the terrified attendant, jumping out of the driver’s seat. “Now, I won’t be long, so inform the airfield in Berchtesgaden that my private plane will arrive and take off in three hours. Unload the globe from the trunk and have it brought up to the house. In the meantime, have my car washed and get that blood off the backseat. You might also inspect the wiring under the hood before we leave, to ensure we don’t have any unfortunate accidents, because you’ll be my driver.”
The parking attendant gave him a stiff-armed but shaky Nazi salute. “ Zu Befehl, Herr Oberstgruppenfuhrer!”
“Excellent. Carry on. And don’t scratch the fender this time.”
Von Berg stepped into the waiting elevator and sat down on a gray leather seat. As the polished brass cage began its slow three-hundred-foot ascent up the shaft in the heart of Mount Kehlstein, he glanced at his watch and turned to the sleepy SS guard operating the elevator. “Rather unusual for the Fuhrer to hold a situation conference this early, wouldn’t you say? He’s not exactly what I would describe as a morning person.”
“Ach,” replied the operator with a nod. “He is having trouble sleeping these days and keeps us all up every hour to accommodate him.”
“And accommodate him we must. Is my delivery here?”
“Yes, Herr Oberstgruppenfuhrer.” The operator pulled a hook on the floor to reveal a lower compartment. Below were two SS orderlies with a large object draped in canvas: the Templar Globe. They would exit on the lower level of Hitler’s house.
“Very good. Have it ready when I call.”
When the elevator reached the top, von Berg proceeded to the anteroom of the Berghof, Hitler’s holiday house. Oberfuhrer Rattenhuber, the Nordic-looking chief of the SS bodyguard, seemed very surprised to see him, as though he had just seen a ghost. He was so surprised, in fact, that he failed to ask General von Berg to hand over his pistol when he brushed past without waiting to hear the magic words “The Fuhrer will see you now.”
16
H itler was standing in front of the large picture window, looking out at the hills of Salzburg while he addressed his generals, his hands clasped behind his back. He was wearing the field-gray military uniform. At the sound of von Berg’s footsteps, he turned sharply with a frown that quickly became a smile.
“Von Berg, at last!” he said, walking over and warmly clasping von Berg’s hand with both of his own.
“ Guten Tag, Chief,” replied von Berg, dispensing with the ingratiating “Heil Hitler” of outsiders.
“I see the rumors of your death are greatly exaggerated. Please sit down.”
Von Berg nodded and looked at the disappointed faces of the four men seated around the long map table. They were General Alfred Jodl, chief of staff of the Armed Forces High Command; Admiral Karl Doenitz, commander in chief of the naval staff; Admiral Wilhelm Canaris, chief of military intelligence; and, finally, von Berg’s boss, Reichsfuhrer Heinrich Himmler, chief of both the state and the secret police, looking paler than usual, von Berg thought, as he took his seat next to the devil and smiled.
“As I was saying,” Hitler continued, “now that Rommel’s overrated Afrika Korps have disgraced us with their defeat in Tunisia, the Allies hold the whole North African coast, with General Eisenhower’s army at the western end of the Mediterranean and General Montgomery’s army at the eastern end. That the Allies will use their new position to launch an invasion into our Fortress Europe there can be no doubt. Our entire southern front is exposed from France in the west to Greece in the east. The only thing between us and them is the moat that is the Mediterranean.”
At this everybody nodded, Admiral Doenitz in particular, acknowledging that the Mediterranean was his fleet’s responsibility to defend.
“But where will they land?” asked Hitler. “That is the question, and we must know the answer if we are to crush their armies on the beaches. I shall hear reports from our two intelligence chiefs. Canaris, you first.”
Admiral Canaris nodded to an SS orderly, and the curtains were drawn and the lights dimmed. Two tapestries at opposite ends of the room lifted to reveal a projector on one wall and a movie screen on the other. Below the screen sat a large chest with built-in speakers and a large bronze bust of Richard Wagner on top. The film began by showing a funeral procession that von Berg recognized as Catholic.
“This footage was taken by one of our agents in Spain,” said Canaris, narrating. “Two weeks ago the body of a British courier, a certain Major Martin of the Royal Marines, washed up on the shores near Huelva. Apparently, his plane was shot down over the Mediterranean. He was carrying two letters from the Imperial General Staff in London to General Alexander and Admiral Cunningham in Tunisia. Abwehr agents managed to photograph the contents of the letters before the British authorities claimed the corpse from the coroner.”
These men will believe anything, thought von Berg, as his former master proceeded.
“A careful analysis of those letters reveals the Allies are going to attack Sardinia and Greece,” Canaris explained. “The British Eighth Army, under General Montgomery, and the American Seventh Army, under General Patton, will strike Sardinia from their positions in Tunisia. But that will be a diversionary blow. We believe that the main target of the operation will be an invasion of Greece.”
A map of Greece appeared on the screen, complete with animated arrows that pinpointed where the enemy would strike.
“From their positions in the Middle East, two divisions of General Wilson’s Ninth Army are detailed for landings on the west coast of Greece. The Fifty-sixth Infantry Division will land near Kalamata, and the Fifth Infantry Division will land on the stretch of coast south of Cape Araxos. We expect them to be joined by Montgomery’s Eighth Army and Patton’s Seventh Army for the advance up the Greek mainland.”
Von Berg watched Hitler’s eyes glaze over as Canaris continued his narration.
“At the same time, we must reckon with the probability that Wilson’s other divisions-how many he has, we don’t really know-will invade the east coast of Greece, taking the Dodecanese islands in the process. The code name for this operation, according to the documents found with Major Martin, is Husky. Lights.”
Curtains were pulled back, and Hitler asked for comments.
Himmler cleared his throat. “As the Fuhrer is aware,” he began, “SS agents in Istanbul recently intercepted their own Allied communique, one that contained a secret microfilm.”
“Yes, yes,” said Hitler, eyes widening with interest. “Go on, Reichsfuhrer.”