The Judas Code

His tone was almost flippant and it surprised Churchill. Sinclair, who looked like a Scottish laird, was canny but dour. In the past he had shown animation solely when talking about his only son Robin; Robin had died on the beaches of Dunkirk.

Perhaps imminent danger brought out the flippancy in him; it was a drug that affected men in many different ways. It made some grovel, it made some exultant, some foolhardy. For me it does all those things, he thought, but the public must only see the bravado.

Suddenly from the direction of the afternoon sun Spitfires attacked. Machine-guns chattered; the neatly-arranged squadrons of German aircraft broke up and Churchill was on his feet shouting: ‘Bravo!’

Clementine came running out and handed them both steel helmets. ‘If you won’t take shelter,’ she said, ‘you’d better wear it.’

The sky above the serene countryside was now daubed with skeins and whorls of white smoke; from the midst of the high-battling planes one fell spinning towards the ground, trailing black smoke.

‘One of theirs or one of ours?’ Sinclair asked.

‘God knows, poor devil.’ Churchill sat down again on the garden seat beside Sinclair. ‘But I do know this, we can’t afford to lose many more. Max Beaverbrook is doing a superb job but even he can’t replace the aircraft at the rate we’re losing them. You see people only count the planes we lose in battle: they forget the ones destroyed on the ground when the Huns bomb our airfields.’

‘At least we know where they’re going to hit,’ Sinclair said, flippancy discarded.

‘Ah, Ultra, my most secret source. But we’ll have to do better than that. If they continue to hit the airfields then we’re done for. I wonder,’ said Churchill thoughtfully, ‘if a bombing raid on Berlin would taunt Hitler and Göring into bombing our cities instead of our defences …’

Two aircraft detached themselves from the battle. A Dornier chased by a Spitfire. They roared so low over Chartwell that Churchill and Sinclair could see the pilots. The Spitfire’s guns were blazing, shell cases clattering on the roof and terrace.

Black smoke burst from the Dornier. It turned over slowly with funereal majesty and disappeared as the Spitfire climbed exultantly and returned to the battle.

But the battle was almost over. The battered armada was returning home, discharging its bombs on to the countryside as it went. The trails of white smoke spread, entwined, drifted … ‘Floral tributes,’ Churchill remarked.

But Sinclair was looking towards the pall of black smoke where the Dornier had crashed and Churchill knew what he was thinking.

Churchill guided him back to Lisbon. ‘This contact, this man Hoffman, or Golovin as he used to be called, is he sympathetic?’

‘He’s being cultivated,’ Sinclair said.

‘In what way? It’s a warm day, you can divest yourself of your cloak of secrecy.’

‘As you know, he works for the Red Cross and he’s a pacifist.’

‘So was Chamberlain,’ Churchill remarked enigmatically. ‘But he was strong.’

‘I think Hoffman – we both know that his real name is neither Hoffman or Golovin – is strong. But at the moment he doesn’t realise that he’s being manipulated, so he’s cooperating.’

‘In what way is he being manipulated?’ Churchill asked impatiently.

‘Moulded would perhaps be a better word. As you well know, there have been a lot of peacemakers in evidence in recent years, and some of them are still swanning around Lisbon. Hoffman has been put in touch with them. Persuaded that he might be able to contribute something towards ending hostilities.’

Churchill said drily: ‘He might be able to do just that.’

An all-clear sounded in the distance, others joined in, an eerie but welcome orchestra on a tranquil afternoon.

‘I believe they’ve been dubbed Wailing Winnies,’ Churchill said. ‘Anything personal, do you think?’ He took off his tin hat and threw it on the grass. ‘I wonder how many more there’ll be today.’

‘I hear’, Sinclair said, ‘that they intend to put up something like 1,800.’

‘And I wonder how many will get back.’

‘More than we tell the public,’ Sinclair said.

‘You really are a pessimist, aren’t you. What about some champagne?’ He waved towards the house but Clementine was already on her way with a tray, a bottle of Möet Chandon and two glasses. ‘What a woman!’ Churchill exclaimed.

Clementine put the tray on the wooden table in front of them. ‘I’m going back for a cup of tea,’ she said. ‘But I thought you’d like a victory celebration.’

‘As if I needed an excuse,’ Churchill said, easing the cork out of the bottle.

When Clementine had gone, Sinclair said: ‘I think I’m realistic, not pessimistic. You forget I’ve been in Intelligence for a long time.’

‘Then you must realise that it’s necessary to broadcast encouraging statistics. God knows, the British people have little enough to be optimistic about. There’s not so much difference between the statistics we put out and my speeches.’

‘Your speeches are magnificent. A rallying call. The greatest weapon we have. Bar none,’ he added, so that Churchill wondered if he was casting doubts on the Grand Stratagem in which, Lisbon apart, he was the only other conspirator. How old was Sinclair? Fifty-five, something like that. When war was declared Churchill had wondered if Sinclair wasn’t too decent for his job; he had, after all, been employed by a Government that deified naïvety. But if there had been too much chivalry in his character it had been sent packing by bereavement and he now wore it as a disguise.

Sipping his champagne, Churchill stared at the white trails that had merged into a single cloud in the sky and thought: ‘I enjoyed that battle, no doubt about it; but I’m not a warmonger …’ But the introspective arguments were all too familiar. ‘I am a man for the times,’ he reassured himself. ‘And they will discard me once again when it’s all over …’

Despite the warmth, the champagne, the presence of Sinclair, he felt suddenly alone. A man for the times … a figure beckoned into an arena by circumstance.

‘And the final circumstance,’ he said, ‘will be victory. And to win that victory,’ he said to Sinclair who was looking at him curiously, ‘we have to return to the plan, the reason for your visit.’

Sinclair relaxed saying: ‘Of which Lisbon is the last instalment.’

‘But the most important. Without it the first phase will be for nothing. Now let’s run through Phase One again,’ by which he meant he would run through it.

*

The comprehensive idea, Churchill said, was to match Germany and Russia against each other in a prolonged engagement in which they would bleed each other dry. In that way the world would be rid of two tyrannies of which, by their magnitude, the Bolsheviks were the more dangerous.

On August 23, 1939, Stalin and Hitler had signed a non-aggression pact with Poland as the shared spoils. Both dictators were merely buying time because there had never been any secret about the Führer’s ultimate designs on the Soviet Union. It was, in fact, a classic pact of shared deceit. (Earlier that year Stalin might just as adroitly have signed a pact with Britain and France had they shown any inclination to throw in their lot with the Bolsheviks.)

But if Britain was to be saved – and she was militarily in no position to save herself – then she could not sit back and wait for one or other of the two despots to break their infamous alliance. While she waited she could succumb to invasion or slow death through isolation.

The first step then of Phase One was to blast the Luftwaffe out of the skies and sink as much as possible of the invasion fleet that Hitler would undoubtedly assemble across the Channel. By doing that Britain would convince Hitler that the invasion of Britain – Operation Sea Lion – was a mistake.

‘His heart isn’t in it anyway,’ Churchill said, lighting a fresh cigar and pouring them both more champagne. ‘So now we reach the crux of Phase One. Having been persuaded that his instincts are right – that it would be a mistake to invade Britain – he must then be convinced that the time is ripe to break his pact with Stalin and attack Russia. Prematurely!’ Churchill stood up and took a turn round the garden seat. ‘I’ll tell you something,’ he said, stopping in front of Sinclair. ‘Two questions will always torment historians chronicling the Second World War – until, one day, the truth comes out as it always does …’

Sinclair tilted his head politely. ‘And they are?’

‘One, why Hitler exposed himself on two fronts by invading Russia too soon.’ He stared into the bubbles rising in his glass of champagne.

‘And two?’

‘Why Stalin ignored all the warnings that Hitler intended to attack when he did.’

‘Warnings from whom?’ asked Sinclair, trying to cope with an invisible invasion force that had been assembled across the Channel, dispersed and converted into an army poised to attack the Russians.

‘Myself among others,’ said Churchill enigmatically.

Then he sat down again and continued to expound on Phase One.

If Hitler was to be persuaded to invade the Soviet Union prematurely then he must be convinced that his tactics against Britain had been successful. In other words that Britain had been forced to the edge of the negotiating table. If he believed that then the nightmare of war on two fronts would recede.

But the Führer was a wary negotiator – ‘the only mortal he wholly trusts is Adolf Hitler’ – and any suggestion that Britain was ready to come to terms would have to come from the top. From Churchill!

It would be the duty therefore of British Intelligence to get word to Hitler that Churchill was willing to discuss an armistice after he had turned against Russia. After, that was, he had proved his determination to eliminate the Bolshevik menace – an aim which Churchill shared.

At the same time he would have to be persuaded that the Red Army wasn’t prepared for such an attack. This was easy enough because Stalin himself had torn the heart out of it.

Churchill slumped back in the seat. ‘Well, what do you think?’

Sinclair said: ‘You want me to work out details of how your alleged intentions should reach Hitler?’

‘Without committing anything to paper,’ Churchill said. ‘Of course we can’t make any move through normal diplomatic channels: I’d get thrown out of the Commons if word got out that I was contemplating a deal with Adolf. Hitler will understand that.’

‘It shouldn’t be too difficult,’ Sinclair said. ‘All we need is an intelligence source that Hitler trusts – as much as he trusts anyone.’

Churchill nodded, yawned. He needed a snooze; that was the way to defeat fatigue; naps enabled you to work a long day – and night. He was grateful to Jacky Fisher for teaching him to work at night: the eccentric old First Sea Lord in the last war had started work at two a.m. and finished at two p.m.

But Churchill couldn’t snooze just yet: he had to convey the most important part of the conspiracy to Sinclair. He straightened up and said: ‘But all this will be for nought if Stalin realises that the Nazis are poised to stab him in the back.’

‘So we have to persuade him otherwise?’

‘Exactly, and that is Phase Two, the eye of the whole conspiracy. If Stalin believes that Hitler is reneging on his agreement so soon then he will mass his troops, purged or otherwise, on the borders and there will be two possible outcomes.’

Churchill paused as he caught sight of Clementine at one of the windows of the house. She was pointing at her wristwatch. The message was clear: time for your nap. He waved at her.

Sinclair filled in the first possible outcome. ‘There would be one hell of a battle.’

Churchill nodded. ‘But not the sort we want. It would be another Waterloo with one or the other side emerging victorious. We would still have an enemy and an implacable one at that.’

‘And the other outcome?’

‘They’d patch it up. Slap each other on the back and blather about military manoeuvres. Withdraw their hordes and prolong their alliance. The first outcome,’ Churchill said sombrely, ‘would be unfortunate, the second would be a disaster – we could well have two implacable and united enemies.’

Churchill projected his imagination to what he hoped would happen. He saw blood on snow. He blinked – and saw a sparrow taking a dust-bath in a bed of roses.

He stretched, massaged his aching shoulder. He sipped what was left of the champagne in his glass but it was flat.

If they have accused me in the past of being a warmonger what would they say if they knew what I was contemplating now? They must never know in my lifetime, he decided. Perhaps one day when the war was distant history. When what I hope to achieve can be assessed against the sacrifices involved.

He sighed and said to Sinclair: ‘What we have to achieve is a long, drawn-out war and that can only happen if Stalin is caught unawares. If Hitler is fooled by that lack of preparation and lured across the border to come face to face with the Russian winter. The Bolshevik hordes will retreat, regroup, re-arm; the Nazis will be extended until they’re ready to snap. Then, God willing, they’ll fight each other to a standstill. Or, at the very least, be so palsied that it will be at least a decade before either of them can muster the strength to turn on us once again. By which time we and the rest of the world should, in any case, be prepared.’

Sinclair said levelly: ‘What you are suggesting, Prime Minister, could involve the deaths of millions.’

Churchill said quietly: ‘Millions of deaths? You are probably right. But what you have to remember is the alternative. And that, quite simply, is the end of civilisation as we know it. The extermination of democracy. The death of liberty. The end,’ pointing at the green tranquillity in front of them, ‘of all this.’

The sparrow finished its dust-bath and flew away.

‘Winston.’ Clementine’s voice reached him from the back door but Churchill ignored it: his deafness, not as bad as some people believed, was sometimes a great asset.

After a while Sinclair said: ‘Odd to think that the key to the whole thing is a young man named Hoffman who hasn’t the slightest inkling of what’s afoot.’ He knocked out his pipe on the heel of one of his brogues.

‘The key to Phase Two certainly,’ Churchill replied. ‘But first of all we have to convince Corporal Hitler of our good intentions if he does attack Russia. Do you have any ideas?’

‘Some,’ Sinclair replied.

‘Please be a little more explicit, colonel, we are on the same side you know.’

Sinclair scraped the charred bowl of his pipe with the blade of a silver penknife. Where would either of us be without our dummies? Churchill pondered as ash fell from his cigar.

‘I believe in keeping an operation like this as tightly parcelled as possible,’ Sinclair said at last.

‘Lisbon?’

‘It’s the obvious centre. Much better than Switzerland, always has been. You can get in and out of the place because it’s not landlocked. By sea and air,’ he added.

Churchill said: ‘I do know where Lisbon is.’

‘But, of course, we wouldn’t use Hoffman in this phase. He isn’t ready for it.’

‘Of course not. That goes without saying, surely.’ Churchill suspected that Sinclair was wasting time, hoping that Clemmie reached them before he had to elaborate. ‘Who then?’

‘Another agent,’ Sinclair told him.

Clementine was walking across the lawn towards them, determination in her stride.

‘Who, man, who?’

‘With respect, sir, you did say you weren’t interested in the details.’

‘I am now.’

Clementine was a hundred yards away, rounding a bed of red, white and blue petunias.

‘Well, the man I have in mind won’t be an innocent abroad like Hoffman.’

Churchill stood up and prodded his now-cold cigar at his spymaster. ‘For the last time, Sinclair, who is this man?’ He wasn’t all that interested but he didn’t like to be defied.

‘Admiral Wilhelm Canaris, head of German military intelligence,’ Sinclair said. His usually enigmatic features added: Satisfied?

‘Thank you, colonel,’ and to Clementine who was now standing beside them, empty basket and scissors for cutting flowers in her hand: ‘There you are, my dear.’

‘Here I am,’ she said, ‘and there you are, which is not where you’re supposed to be at all. It’s long past time for your nap.’ Her tone implied that this was a far more serious matter than staying out of doors during an air-raid.

Churchill gave her a peck on the cheek and Sinclair a wink. ‘Very well, my dear, just off.’

‘And so am I,’ said Sinclair, bowing to Clementine.

As Churchill walked thoughtfully across the lawns the siren at Westerham began to moan another warning. Churchill turned and looked inquiringly at his wife but she shook her head firmly and he continued on his way to the house.

CHAPTER FIVE

The softest touch for a creator of disinformation is a subject who wants to believe the creator’s lies.

So I am lucky in that respect, Sinclair thought as he walked his red setter in the woods near his Berkshire home: Hitler wants to believe my lies – that Britain is at last ready to acknowledge his genius and do a deal.

And I’m also lucky that, for the time being, Hitler still trusts the purveyor of the lies, Admiral Canaris, head of the Abwehr, the intelligence section of the German High Command.

But I am unlucky in my own state of mind. The head of an intelligence agency should be impersonal, clinical in his judgement. But that is no longer true of me, not since the death of Robin. Now I am fuelled by hatred and that distorts judgement.

He picked up a stick and threw it for the dog, who disappeared among the rotting silver birch trees; a gun emplacement had blocked the natural drainage and the trees were dying like over-watered house plants. But it was a quiet place, becalmed among green fields, especially on evenings such as this with shafts of fading sunlight reaching its bed of moss. A place to contemplate. A place to plan. A place to hate.

The dog came bounding back and placed the stick at his feet and he threw it again, thinking: ‘Admiral Canaris and I have a lot in common. We are both confused by hatred. I loved my son and so now I hate Germany: he loves Germany but hates Hitler. But you’ve got to stop this,’ he admonished himself. ‘Start to plan!’

Once more he threw the stick. How to entice Canaris to Lisbon? That shouldn’t be too difficult; he was already involved with Franco in neighbouring Spain, and Lisbon was the European capital of espionage, which was Canaris’s profession.

To anticipate the reactions of Canaris he would have to study him more deeply. As he walked down the flinty lane towards his home in Finchampstead he poked a particularly bright flint with his walking stick and found that it was a jagged sliver of shrapnel.

When he reached the big rambling house he called to the setter: ‘Robin, come here.’ But the dog’s name was Rufus.

*

In his study he consulted the file on Canaris.

He lit his pipe and, as the day died outside and his wife cooked an austerity meal in the kitchen, the admiral emerged from the dossier and took a bow.

He was fifty-three years old but looked older. His silken hair was prematurely grey and he was known as Old Whitehead.

He had served in the Navy in the last war with distinction. On one occasion his cruiser had been scuttled off the South American coast before the superior guns of a British warship; he had been interned on an island close to Chile but had escaped to the mainland in a rowing boat disguised as a Chilean. He had crossed the Andes on horseback … taken a train to Argentina … sailed to Amsterdam on a forged passport, calling at the British port of Falmouth!

A man to be reckoned with.

His escapades had continued in spectacular fashion and his star had been in the ascendant until he had fallen foul of Admiral Erich Raeder who had blocked his promotion in the conventional Navy, thereby setting him on course for espionage.

Ironic, mused Sinclair, that Raeder had advocated defeating Britain before attacking the Soviet Union.

On January 1, 1935, on his forty-eight birthday, Canaris had become head of the Abwehr.

He was 5 feet 3 inches tall. He had pale blue eyes. His manner was mild. He had difficulty in sleeping. He was a hypochondriac although his only known complaint was bad circulation which accounted for the coldness of which he continually complained.

He was a pessimist. He detested Hitler because of his persecution of the Jews and he feared for his country because he believed its leader was a madman.

He was subject to fits of melancholia.

In Lisbon the approach would have to be circumspect. Canaris was co-operating with British Intelligence but he certainly would not co-operate to the extent of bringing about Germany’s downfall.

So he would have to be persuaded that Churchill genuinely wanted to settle for peace; that, with the spectre of war on two fronts removed, Hitler would be able to concentrate on crushing Russia.

But Canaris was a sly old fox. What if he still had lingering doubts about perfide Albion? Well, there was one way in which the admiral could be persuaded that it was in everyone’s interests to tell Hitler about Britain’s change in policy. Blackmail.

From the kitchen came his wife’s voice. ‘Dinner’s ready, dear. Spam fritters and scrambled eggs – dried eggs, I’m afraid.’

*

Old Whitehead winced at the first scream.

He abhorred cruelty. But then he reminded himself that the man being beaten up in the adjoining room was a draft-dodger and felt a little better because he also abhorred that particular brand of cowardice.

But who are you to moralise? Admiral Canaris asked himself, sitting in an easy chair and picking up a copy of Signal, the Services’ propaganda magazine. You with your double standards.

His hands trembled as he turned the pages of the magazine. What a mess he had become since the death and glory days when he had been a U-boat commander and then captain of the cruiser Schlesien; since he had been diverted into espionage.

But perhaps that is your true vocation, intrigue, because you even intrigue with yourself. Deceive yourself, manipulate your conscience, trade secrets with the enemy, assuring yourself that it is for the good of the country you love …

Furthermore you are a pessimist, Canaris. Your punishment? The admiral turned a page of the magazine and stared at a photograph of a sailor with his arm round the waist of a girl with her hair in braids; the sailor’s face was bold; like mine once was in those far off days of youth and optimism.

He turned another page and Adolf Hitler stared at him.

From the room next door another scream and a voice shouting in English: ‘I don’t know! I … tell you … I … don’t … know.’

A thud, followed by the sound of a body falling.

Canaris glanced at his wristwatch. Another couple of minutes and he would call it off because in all probablity the Englishman was telling the truth.

He was one of the many informants who during the past couple of weeks in Portugal, Switzerland, Sweden and, indeed, in London itself, had reported a dramatic change in Britain’s policy.

According to the reports Churchill, despite his swashbuckling oratory, wanted to do a deal with Hitler because he realised that the position of his bombarded and besieged islands was hopeless.

In his offices in Tirpitzufer in Berlin Canaris had studied the reports with scepticism. There were too many of them all at once.

Then two highly plausible sources had come up with the same information in Lisbon and he had flown to the Portuguese capital.

But before confronting them he had decided to put a lesser informant to the test. A dispensable informant such as the draft-dodging Englishman – of whom there were quite a few in Lisbon – who was at this moment having his teeth knocked down his throat in the basement of the German Minister’s residence.