A few minutes later Schellenberg removed a section of the exhaust pipe from which he then extracted a carefully wrapped tube of papers that was about a meter in length.
We took the tube of papers into the house. On the desk in Meyer’s study, and under the eyes of a rather severe and Flemish-looking family group portrait, we tried spreading the plans out on his narrow desk; but we soon moved them onto the floor where it was easier to keep them flat and see what was what. From time to time I glanced around at our surroundings. The house was full of rough timber ceilings, nut wood floors, Gothic cupboards, old tapestries, tiled ceramic stoves, and expensive works of fine art. Thanks to Bernard Berenson’s last book on old masters, I knew they were expensive because they had gold frames that were even bigger than the paintings. That’s what’s called connoisseurship. But you didn’t need to be a connoisseur to see that the most beautiful thing in the house was Patrizia herself. Quite possibly she was Meyer-Schwertenbach’s second wife — she was certainly young enough. And that’s what’s called cynicism. Although I can’t imagine there was a man there — myself included — who’d seen the dogs with their muzzles on her lap having their ears folded who didn’t envy them just a little. She and Eggen came and found us in her husband’s study and listened carefully as Schellenberg described what was in the German plans.
“I had these plans stolen to order from the Bendlerblock’s Strategic Planning Section,” said Schellenberg. “On the day after the building was hit by an RAF bomb. That way I didn’t think they would be missed. Or at least not for long.”
“So that was you, was it?” I said. “Clever. You know they asked me to investigate the theft of some plans. To avoid involving the Gestapo.”
“What did you conclude?”
“That they’d been destroyed in the fire.”
Schellenberg nodded. “Good.”
“I was told not to worry too much because it turned out there were copies of the plans kept at the Wolf’s Lair, in Rastenburg. So I dropped it.”
“This plan was code-named Operation Christmas Tree,” he explained, “and is dated October 1940. This was submitted for consideration by General Ritter von Leeb of Army Group C in response to a directive from General Halder of the General Staff’s Operations Section. German forces — the blue arrows — would attack from occupied France in the west, from Germany in the north, and from Austria in the east. The black arrows represent Italian forces, who would attack from the south. The number of German divisions — twenty-one — is a strong indication of the expected level of resistance. Von Leeb estimated as many as four hundred and seventy thousand Swiss troops would oppose ours. But the real reason the plan was set aside was because Hitler made the decision to attack Russia in the spring of the following year. Perhaps even earlier, as a memo attached here shows Christmas Tree was canceled as early as November eleventh, 1940.”
“And so,” said Meyer, “but for the Russian invasion we might now be living under the Nazis.”
“A Swiss invasion could still happen,” said Schellenberg. “As this later plan proves. Operation Province-in-Waiting was prepared in the summer of 1941, by Colonel Adolf Heusinger, chief of the Operations Division of the Army General Staff. It was Heusinger who planned Operation Barbarossa for the invasion of the Soviet Union.”
“He was a busy man in 1941,” I said. “Wasn’t he?”
“You can see here how Province-in-Waiting differs from Christmas Tree. For one thing, there will be a Rhine crossing, in twilight or fog. With seaplanes carrying lightly armed troops landing on the main Swiss lakes, including Zurich, Lucerne, and Geneva. The idea being that these troops would attack Swiss border defenses from the rear, rendering fortifications worthless. Himmler calls this plan the Swiss Project, and until recently it remained the one most likely to be implemented in the event that Hitler decided he needed a quick victory to restore the faith of the German people in his leadership. Himmler even named the man who will head up the Nazi police state that Switzerland will become: an SS major-general called Gottlob Berger. He’s always been a very vigorous Nazi, with all that such an appellation entails.”
“The man’s an absolute swine,” I said. “He runs the main SS office in Berlin.”
“You said ‘until recently,’” observed Patrizia. “Are we finally safe?”
“I regret to say no,” said Schellenberg. “Recent events in Italy have made Switzerland strategically important as never before. With the collapse of Mussolini and the Italian fascists now imminent, the responsibility for defending Italy now rests with the German Army. That means Italian supply routes are critical. Which means that new plans are being formulated even as we speak. I happen to know that another SS general, Hermann Böhme, who is also the chief of the Austrian military intelligence service, has been charged by Himmler with devising a new invasion plan by the end of the year, for implementation in the summer of 1944.”
“Jesus Christ,” I said. “And this is the man who wants to extend peace feelers toward the Allies.”
“As I said, Himmler likes a sure thing.”
“But,” interjected Patrizia, “you’ve often said, Schelli, that our forces were highly respected by the Wehrmacht. That Swiss marksmanship and our fighting spirit would help to deter them.”
“That’s true, Patrizia. Still, it’s up to us now — to help deter them even more.”
“That’s a tall order for the people who weren’t deterred by the sheer size of the task of invading Russia.”
“Which is precisely why, Gunther, I’m here at Wolfsberg now,” insisted Schellenberg. “All war relies on spies to discover information that reveals the enemy’s true intentions. But that has never been enough. Deception is just as important. Bonaparte was a master of deception. Maneuvers from the rear, he called this. At the Battle of Lodi he had some of his army cross the River Po to persuade the Austrian commander de Beaulieu that he was attacking him; but in reality he had the bulk of his army cross further upriver, enabling him to attack de Beaulieu from the rear, and to defeat him. I’m the chief of SD Foreign Intelligence. It’s my job to discover the enemy’s true intentions. But it’s also my job to devise deceptions. The Russians have a good word for this that I rather like. It’s maskirovka, and in my opinion there is no one better at devising effective and persuasive maskirovka than a writer of fiction. Especially detective fiction. A man such as Paul Meyer-Schwertenbach, who possesses an imagination second to none. Between us, we’ve cooked up a plan that I’m going to take back to Germany and present to the High Command. It will be a complete work of fiction, of course. But as with all the best fiction, it will have a strong element of truth. The kind of truth that some of the generals in Germany, like poor Johann de Beaulieu, will simply want to believe.”
Thirty-seven
In an elegant dining room a horse-faced maid served a dinner of cold rabbit fillets with creamed horseradish, and pike and perch with a peppercorn sauce, on Meissen tableware that was the same color as the napkins and the blue-and-white curtains. A virtual cornucopia of pears, red currants, and plums occupied a central spot between two candelabra. Silver place settings glittered and crystal glasses chimed lightly as Meyer poured a delicious Spätburgunder from an ancient-looking and probably very valuable wine jug. Patrizia was up and down from a mahogany Zopfstil chair with a back that was almost as straight as hers, helping the maid to bring to the table tureens of vegetables and more fish, bowls of radishes and pickles, bread baskets, and sauce boats. On the wall, a picture of a lady wearing a wimple as tall as a circus tent stared down at our simple Swiss dinner and licked her lips at seeing so much food. She was probably German.