Authors: Timothy Findley
not only for the Albrechtstrasse, but also for the Wilhelmstrasse.
And it was true. He had been: though no one else
on the Wilhelmstrasse knew of it.
Both now sat back and played out whatever remained of
their smiles.
A white coated orderly appeared just then with a copper urn of ersatz Turkish coffee and its complement of tiny cups and a pyramid of sugar loaves.
von Ribbentrop went to the windows, looking out at the
summer trees, forcing an imposing posture so his back obscured a whole block of light from reaching into the room.
It would not have done for the orderly to quit the major’s office under the impression the Minister was seated like a suitor. Standing stiff with authority—his walking stick dangling down from grey-gloved fingers—His Excellency presented the very image of a man who had come to lay down
the law. Schellenberg was left at the mercy of appearing to have fallen into his chair under the weight of some accusation.
The orderly’s retreat was suitably subdued and when the door had clicked and he was gone His Excellency noted the brightness of the day and returned to his place as suitor before the desk.
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“There are all these stories one hears.” he said as he laid two loaves of sugar neatly on the plate before him and began to remove his gloves. “Such as the tale that His Royal Highness left the Villa not only under guard but ‘under wraps’,
as the British say. Is it true he was bandaged?”
Schellenberg placed a sugar loaf between his teeth and
drew the heavy liqueur of the coffee through his lips with as raucous a hiss as any Turk or Levantine.
His Excellency was more refined and merely dipped his sugar loaf in the European fashion and held it poised and stained and slowly disintegrating above his cup while he waited for the answer to his question. When it came. though it stopped his heart, it did not prevent the sugar from reaching his mouth.
“Yes,” said Schellenberg. “His Royal Highness was bandaged.
But who wouldn’t have been? Apparently he had been
shot in the face.”
“Shot?”
“In the face.”
“But surely such a shot would have killed him.”
“Yes. One would think so. But it didn’t.”
Schellenberg sipped once again at his coffee and bit through the centre of his sugar.
“Shot…” von Ribbentrop muttered, as if the word had only just been coined and he was trying every variation he could find of inflection. “Shot. How extraordinary. Shot…”
and he looked at Estrade.
Estrade drew an sntire cup of coffee through her teeth and finished with a loud intake of breath, von Ribbentrop perhaps was waiting to hear that Estrade had pulled the trigger.
“He was shot by a Britisher,” Schellenberg said.
His Excellency stared.
“A handful of British soldiers, wading out of the sea. not only managed to abduct our Prince, but to wound him and render him incapable.”
“Are you saying, then,” His Excellency said. “our quarry has been kidnapped and removed from Europe by Mister
Churchill?”
The thought of Winston Churchill plotting against the
Duke of Windsor was too alarming to encompass.
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“Perhaps,” said Schellenberg. “But how can a person know for certain? We only report what it was we saw. The British Commandos arrived. There was a shot and the sound of
much breaking glass and as we know, the Duke and Duchess were removed together to the ship.”
“With the Duke in bandages?”
“Yes. Your Excellency. With the Duke entirely wrapped
of head and hands in bandages,” said Estrade.
“Hands, too.”
“Oh, yes. Very much of the hands. And all the face.”
Estrade sat back. Schellenberg, watching the Minister, bit very hard into another sugar loaf.
“These British Commandos.” His Excellency said. using
one of his dove-grey gloves to dust the long dark edge of Schellenberg’s desk. “Their arrival was so timely.”
Schellenberg nodded. “Yes.”
“But you say you knew? You were prepared for their coming?”
The Major nodded again.
“May one ask how it was you knew?”
Schellenberg-Schaemmel shrugged.
“Very well,” said von Ribbentrop. “May one ask—at least—
why the Wilhelmstrasse was not told of their imminent arrival?”
Estrade flicked her gaze at Schellenberg, who said; “We did not dare to warn the informant, Excellency. And the slightest activity on the part of our agents would certainly have done so.”
von Ribbentrop withdrew his gloves into his lap. “You
are saying. I presume, that someone in Portugal who knew o.f our plans got word to the British and…”
“Not necessarily in Portugal. Minister.” Smiling now, teeth and all.
von Ribbentrop smoothed his gloves into a pair of hands that rested on his knees. “Then you are saying someone on the Wilhelmstrasse is not to be trusted. That someone on the Wilhelmstrasse informed the British of our plans to kidnap the Duke and Duchess of Windsor?”
Schellenberg did not reply.
von Ribbentrop shrugged. “I see.” And he too smiled. The
“war” between the Foreign Office and Central Security would never end.
von Ribbentrop had his own mask to wear—though not
so elaborate a mask as Schellenberg-Schaemmel. For many years the international charmer, the champagne salesman who sold his magnums of bubbly Facsism during his days
as Ambassador to Britain in the 1930s had appeared to be an innocuous dilettante, seductively arrogant but harmless.
von Ribbentrop ran his own information service, independent of the Wilhelmstrasse, independent of the R.S.H.A.
Schellenberg was aware of this, but not on whose behalf the information was garnered.
But now von Ribbentrop wanted every bit of information
he could get; wanted it so badly he was sweating with desire for whatever Schellenberg could tell. He smells of anxiety, Estrade thought.
His Excellency said, “So—however it was possible—you
intercepted this message, saying the British Commandos
were coming, and you sent along that note to Her Royal
Highness which read; ‘Beware of British .friends…’ “
The silence that followed this was terrible, for von Ribbentrop had overplayed his hand.
Schellenberg was quick to take advantage. “Your Excellency seems to know the wording of my note by heart.”
Luckily, von Ribbentrop was able to use a riposte that had once been used on him when the shoe was on the other foot.
“The wording of your note, Major Schellenberg,” he said, “is known by heart from here to London.”
Schellenberg was forced to retreat, and von Ribbentrop
was well aware it must be passing through the major’s mind that one of his agents in the Villa Cascais had played the game on more than one side.
Estrade shifted in her chair.
von Ribbentrop, now having regained the upper hand.
decided to press for more advantages. His tone was that of a man who knows a good deal more than he will admit—
and who muses aloud in order to put the fear of God into his adversary. “You know,” he said, “I am still intrigued and I am still wondering how it can be that Fritxi Schaem-
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mel—sitting in his sordid room at the Hotel Barcarena—
could have known to the very hour when these British Commandos would arrive. I am still wondering how it could be
he would not only know of their arrival, but also what their intentions might be. ‘Beware of British friends…from one your interests at heart.’ How charming. How quaint the
phrasing. How considerate the sentiment. And to send such a thoughtful message with a gift of flowers. So touching.
And yet—there was nothing done to prevent the arrival of these British friends. )ust Herr Fritzi with his nudist magazines and his binoculars and his own private scheme up
his sleeve…And his own league of cohorts inside the Villa conniving and conspiring to…what? Collect perhaps a private ransom? Perform a little blackmail? Or a lot?”
von Ribbentrop was rolling up the fingers of one grey glove and then the other, creating a pair of soft, cloth fists which he laid out flat on his knees.
“And this agent…” von Ribbentrop shrugged “…this informant. Must it not have been someone who knew the
British were coming because they had (old the British to come? I mean—these Commandos cannot have come by
chance. Certainly not by chance on the very night before the Marques de Estella might have crossed the border with the Windsors into Spain. And if not that contingency, then your other, Major Schaemmel…forgive me! Major Schellenberg, whereby the Windsors would have been transported by gun.
How exquisite that timing was. And based on so much intimate knowledge of what it was we were up to.”
von Ribbentrop now looked directly at Estrade. His tone changed completely. Hardened into contempt. He pointed
at her. “Who is this woman, Schellenberg? Tell me who she is.”
Estrade sat with her knees pressed together, von Ribbentrop looked at her eyes. Quite dead. Such eyes were a gift
to one whose work was in the ground. Some of the secrets they contained were even—apparently—hidden from herself.
“Well?” said von Ribbentrop.
Schellenberg rose from his place behind the desk and
wandered out into the centre of the room. For a very long
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moment he refused to speak, but stood instead first here then there with his hands in his trouser pockets, in and out of his pockets as if he might be counting his fortune in lint.
And when at last he spoke, it was so very quietly von Ribbentrop had to turn his head to hear him.
“I will strike a bargain with you, Excellency,” he said—
and at once von Ribbentrop’s back went rigid. Bargain was perhaps the most dangerous word in the current lexicon.
“I will strike a very special, perhaps somewhat foolish, bargain with you. Foolish because I might be prepared to pass
on a piece of information I have not yet had the chance to analyse.
von Ribbentrop looked across at Estrade. Her lips were
parted as though there was a sudden lack of oxygen in the room.
Schellenberg said, “I will tell you more; if you will agree to bargain with me. Yes?”
von Ribbentrop sat further back in his chair. One hand
was resting on the head of his stick, the other laid out flat on the edge of the desk, where by now he had made a display of his perfect gloves.
He considered the situation briefly. He needed more information regarding what had gone on in the Villa. He
needed—desperately—to know whatever Schellenberg might be able to tell him about this agent who had warned the British. His own information concerning events in the Villa had come from the steward—and the steward had been helpful.
But he had not been everywhere in that stormy night.
He had not heard everything.
And what, after all, did von Ribbentrop have to lose7 There was nothing Schellenberg could ask that would do much
more than make the moment awkward for him.
And so he said yes.
Schellenberg stood directly behind him. “For three weeks and more, at the Villa Cascais,” he said. “as I’m sure you’re aware, my agent Estrade played the role of private secretary to the Duchess of Windsor.”
von Ribbentrop pressed the small of his back in hard
against the chair before he spoke. “A most extraordinary coup. I congratulate you. But yes; I knew of it already.”
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Schellenberg then said, “During all that time. Estrade had access to the Duchess of Windsor’s wardrobe, her luggage.
even to her handbag…”
von Ribbentrop felt as though he might faint.
“I would like to show you something. Excellency,” Schellenberg said, and went around behind his desk. taking a single sheet of paper which he withheld for the briefest moment before he passed it across for the Minister’s perusal.
“I don’t know what to make of this.” the voice of Fritzi Schaemmel drawled from Schellenberg’s lips. “And I
thought—I don’t know why—you might be able to help me unravel it.…So this is my bargain. Excellency. I will show you this, if you will tell me what it means.”
von Ribbentrop stared.
“It was removed from the Villa by my friend Estrade…”
Schaemmel said. “She attaches much importance to it, and I wondered perhaps…do you?”
Slowly—very slowly—von Ribbentrop turned the sheet
of paper in his fingers and watched it as it slowly—very slowly—exploded in his face.
On it, written in the Duchess of Windsor’s schoolgirl hand, was a single word:
PENELOPE.
And underneath it, she had drawn—though crudely, as
if only absent-mindedly—the image of an eagle surmounting the globe. Which was, of course, von Ribbentrop’s personal insignia. But; “no,” he said. “No. This means nothing.”
On the street level, von Ribbentrop hurried to find a washroom.
He entered, inspected the cabinets for any indication
he might not be alone, and then went into one of them,
locked the door, took off his hat, bent over the toilet and threw up his lunch and his breakfast.
In the half hour that followed, he threw up twice more
and took some pills to counter his anxiety. Sitting there, with his trousers down around his knees and his feet drawn back so his shoes and spats might not be recognized, von
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Ribbentrop considered the possibilities of how much Schellenberg knew.
If the cabal had been exposed, then everything was lost.
The pact they had made with the future would be null and void—and that was unthinkable. Unthinkable.
Hess must be warned at once. And then the others. But
not the cabal’s upper echelons just yet. Not yet—and—pray God—never. They had chosen von Ribbentrop to orchestrate Penelope and if he had blundered—they would cut him off.
Before Rudolf Hess could be faced, however, there was one other contact von Ribbentrop must make. Dangerous, but
mandatory. He must speak with Air Vice-Marshal Sir