Fear Itself

  BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  The Tormenting of Lafayette Jackson

  Hands On

  Stillriver

  Keeping Secrets

  Without Prejudice

  Copyright

  This edition first published in hardcover in the United States in 2012 by The Overlook Press, Peter Mayer Publishers, Inc.

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  Copyright © Andrew Rosenheim 2011

  Lines from ‘Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening’ from The Poetry of Robert Frost edited by Edward Connery Lathem, published by Jonathan Cape. Reprinted by permission of The Random House Group Ltd.

  First published in Great Britain in 2011 by Hutchinson

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.

  ISBN 978-1-46830-413-8

  Contents

  By the Same Author

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Part One: 1936-38

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Part Two: 1939

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Part Three: 1940

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Part Four: 1940

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  For Clare

  Part One

  1936–38

  1

  August 1936

  Klagenfurt, Austria

  SCHELLENBERG CROSSED THE square quickly, avoiding the Town Hall, three storeys of pale quarried stone and a mansard roof that had originally been the house of a minor Hapsburg. Banners from a recent rally were still up, their red and black a vibrant contrast to the sombre grey slate of the paving stones. At the east end of the square, trencher tables stood in the bright sun, covered in crumbs from the platters of Schwarzbrot und Wurst that had been laid out for the attendees. Though there was no need to lure them with rewards.

  He was tired from his trip, and had slept badly – but what could you expect from a railway hotel? He shuddered at the memory of his grim room, but the very pleasant accommodation he was used to when travelling might have led to questions – Are you here on business, Herr Schellenberg? Do you have relatives in Austria? What is your view of the ‘situation’? Questions required answers, and answers helped people’s recollections. On this trip he did not want to be remembered.

  His colleagues thought he was in Linz, further north and the boyhood home of the Führer, meeting with members of the Austrian Nazi Party, helping to plan for what was now a certainty in one, maybe two years’ time – the Anschluss, when Germany came in and the two countries were united. Even his family thought he was there, for it was crucial that there be no slip, however unintended, that would link him to the man he’d meet today.

  Klagenfurt was not a large city, but the train station was crowded: it was market day, and people came from all around to buy the local specialities – Speck, the slabs of smoked marble-white pork fat streaked by dark strips of lean, and produce from the Rosental, the Slovene-speaking valley that was the most fertile in the region. He was leaving town while the market visitors were coming in, so the carriage of his local train was deserted.

  It was a short trip, just twenty minutes, the train gliding west along the north shore of the Wörthersee, a lake shaped like a thin elongated worm running east to west. On every side the land rose rapidly into foothills covered by firs, and in the further distance separate ranges of mountains loomed, which in the clear air of this summer day looked much closer than they were. On the shore itself sat a series of resort hotels, some gathered in clusters to form the core of several small towns – including Pörtschach, where Schellenberg left the train.

  The main street was the same road that ringed the entire lake, and he walked west along it, past shops and cafés, and two grand hotels that faced the water. From their grounds he could hear the sound of tennis balls struck softly on clay courts, and across the road on the lawns running down to the water hotel guests were stretched out in deck chairs to catch the high midday sun. It must be nice to have a holiday, he thought – without resentment, for he knew his mission was potentially crucial for the Reich.

  To the south he saw the range of the Karawanken Mountains, which formed the border with Yugoslavia. Behind them reared the Julian Alps, jagged and snow peaked. Here was the Dreiländereck, the corner where the three countries of Austria, Yugoslavia, and Italy met in an uneasy nexus. There had been fierce fighting near there in the last war, the Austrians and Italians locked into a system of battlements as complicated as any of the famous labyrinthine trench works in Belgium and France. His own father had fought there, as part of the German reinforcements sent to help the Austrians in the 1917 breakout at Caporetto. Much of the fighting had been waged almost invisibly, at the very top of the range of mountains Schellenberg could see now in the distance. We were fighting nearer to God, his father was fond of saying with a tart smile. Not that he seemed on our side by the end.

  On the outskirts of Pörtschach a garage sat back from the road, with a solitary petrol pump, several cars parked to one side of the lot, and a shed that functioned as the office. Inside, a man in oil-stained overalls stood behind a counter, adding up figures on a scrap of paper.

  ‘Guten Tag,’ said Schellenberg.

  ‘Grüss Gott,’ muttered the man, without looking up.

  ‘Herr Schmidt has left a car for me, I believe.’ He didn’t give his name.

  The man nodded, still intent on his sums. He reached with one hand under the counter and brought out a small brown envelope, which jingled as he pushed it across the counter. ‘The Mercedes-Benz,’ he said.

  Schellenberg nodded. ‘Much obliged, I am sure,’ he said, and went out the door with the keys. He stopped for a moment and pulled a pair of tan driving gloves from a coat pocket. They were small-sized and tight; he had to stretch the leather over each finger until he could clench his fists.

  The car was almost new – a 170 DS sedan. It started up with a roar, then purred like a spoiled cat. Thank you, Herr Schmidt, thought Schellenberg as he drove away, whoever you may be. A sympathiser of course, but then many Austrians were, especially here in Carinthia.

  He drove into the hills, along winding paved roads, through small farms and past the occasional Gasthaus. Once he had to slow for cows on the road. The paved surface gave way to gravel as he climbed higher, then to rough track, and as he entered deep forest he turned off onto an old fire road. From the absence of tyre marks he could see th
at no vehicle had come this way for months.

  The track moved laterally across the side of the hill, and after a mile he turned onto a small spur that ended abruptly in a cul de sac carved from a copse of towering spruce; here his car could not be seen from the track. He got out and locked it, then set off through the woods, moving quietly but quickly along the soft ground which was covered by dried pine needles that had accumulated over the seasons, scenting the air with a mild resinous perfume. After walking less than half a mile, heading down the mountain, he stopped and stood on a ledge of rock that perched over a small clearing, not even the size of a tennis court. He stayed here for a moment, listening carefully. Satisfied, he hopped down and stood waiting in the clearing.

  He didn’t have long to wait. Within ten minutes he could hear someone coming uphill, along the faded remnants of a trail. Moments later a man emerged from the trees. He was dressed in a loose-fitting green hunter’s jacket, with leather hiking shorts, knee socks and climbing boots; on his head sat a felt hat like those worn on Bavarian postcards. He was the incarnation of a hiking visitor, though the man was perspiring heavily and did not look as if he had enjoyed his climb. When he saw Schellenberg he raised a hand and gave a timid wave, then came across the small clearing.

  ‘Herr Werner, I presume,’ said Schellenberg cordially. The man nodded. ‘It is good of you to come.’

  The man named Werner shrugged. ‘And you are?’

  ‘Schellenberg of the SD.’ He proffered a gloved hand, explaining, ‘Urticaria. Hives bother me terribly in this heat. But tell me, Werner, where did you travel from?’

  ‘Venice, of course,’ said Werner, looking slightly surprised. He took off his hat. ‘As you instructed I changed at Villach. Though my way here was pretty roundabout. I believe it would be thoroughly impossible for anyone to reconstruct my journey,’ he said with a touch of pride.

  ‘Excellent. Did they stamp your passport at the border?’

  ‘No.’

  Schellenberg nodded. ‘It would have helped that your passport is American. If it had been Italian you’d have had a harder time. The Austrians round here are still sulking over the loss of the Kanaltal. Another injustice of Versailles we’ll need to sort out when we get here.’

  ‘I don’t understand why we couldn’t have met in Berlin,’ Werner said with a note of complaint.

  ‘It’s safer this way. Right now Berlin is crawling with foreign agents because of the Olympics.’

  ‘But Kuhn’s there. He claims he’s going to get to meet the Führer.’

  ‘Your work is more important than his.’ Especially since Kuhn is a fool, thought Schellenberg. ‘And it’s vital that there be no known link between us and you.’

  Werner seemed pleased to hear he mattered more than Kuhn. ‘I am ready to brief you on the American developments,’ he said.

  ‘You’ve brought a report?’ demanded Schellenberg. He was alarmed that all his precautions might have been endangered by simple stupidity.

  But to his relief Werner tapped his temple with a finger. ‘Just here.’

  ‘Ah, good. Proceed.’

  ‘We are preparing for the election. Naturally, if Lemke wins, we will not have anything to worry about.’

  Lemke? Why was he talking about him? A fringe candidate surely. ‘What about the Republican?’ he asked.

  ‘Landon has no chance,’ said Werner confidently. ‘Lemke, on the other hand, has the support of all right-thinking groups – Gerald L. K. Smith and Father Coughlin both support him unequivocally. And their followers number in the millions.’

  ‘And what happens if Roosevelt wins?’

  ‘That won’t happen—’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure you’re right, but we need to cover all possibilities, however remote.’

  Werner shrugged, as if he were humouring the German. ‘Then we will mobilise. The Bund has over 600,000 members; by the end of the year it will be a million.’

  ‘Really?’ said Schellenberg. ‘That’s impressive.’

  ‘We have set up three camps, as you approved. By next spring there will be six more.’

  ‘What about our special friend in America?’ he asked casually, though this was the most significant part of the conversation, indeed the only significant part.

  ‘You mean—?’ asked Werner, his eyes widening slightly.

  ‘Yes, the Dreiländer,’ said Schellenberg. ‘Tell me, why did you give him that code name?’

  Werner shrugged a shoulder. ‘He picked it himself. He knew you and I were meeting in this part of Austria, so it seemed appropriate.’ Werner swept an arm around them, taking in the woods and the distant mountains too, spanning the three countries whose borders converged at a point less than fifteen miles away.

  ‘That makes sense,’ said Schellenberg approvingly. ‘Drei Volker. And three loyalties. American on the surface; German deep down and true. And then, the inevitable allegiance to himself.’

  Werner looked a little shocked.

  ‘All agents have to have their own interests at heart,’ explained Schellenberg, as if he were talking to a much younger man. ‘As long as they coincide with their controller, it is a good thing.’ He suddenly asked with a sharp voice, ‘I take it no one else knows the Dreiländer name?’

  Was there hesitation in Werner’s face? It was hard to tell, and he said emphatically, ‘Only me.’ He added jokily, ‘And Dreiländer himself, of course.’

  Schellenberg nodded thoughtfully. ‘Tell me, is he well placed? You indicated he would be by now.’

  ‘Exceedingly. His patron has people in half of Washington, of course. He has access to everyone.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking of everyone,’ said Schellenberg with a hint of steeliness. He softened, asking, ‘Is it really true that Roosevelt is confined to a wheelchair?’

  ‘Yes. He had polio as a young man. He cannot walk unassisted.’

  ‘To think a cripple’s at the helm of such an emerging power. It seems quite incredible.’

  ‘It makes him an easier target.’

  ‘Perhaps. Though that man killed the Mayor from Chicago instead of Roosevelt.’

  ‘Was the assassin one of ours?’

  ‘Certainly not. He was an Italian, as you well know,’ said Schellenberg sharply. ‘Now tell me, Herr Werner, did you bring the weapon we sent you?’

  ‘Yes. Though I was rather surprised you wanted me to bring it here.’

  ‘We need to ensure you are well equipped,’ said Schellenberg flatly. ‘May I see it, please?’

  Werner reached into his jacket and brought out a pistol, handing it over grip first. The gun was short-barrelled and handsome – with a royal blue metal finish, and walnut checking around the rubber of its distinctive sloping butt. ‘It’s a very nice Luger,’ said Werner. ‘Be careful: it’s loaded.’

  Schellenberg held the gun, barrel down. ‘It’s very light,’ he said approvingly. He smiled at Werner, then suddenly his face grew alarmed. ‘Did you hear that, Herr Werner?’ he asked tensely, pointing towards the woods on one side.

  Werner turned to look, and Schellenberg lifted the pistol and shot him in the head.

  In the thin mountain air the noise of the gun reverberated as Werner fell to his knees. His hand gradually released his green felt hat as he toppled over, his head falling with a heavy thud on the thin grass.

  Schellenberg reached down and calmly placed the pistol on the grass. The noise of the shot wouldn’t travel far – not in this dense foliage and thick forest. And there was virtually no blood to speak of, just a dark maroon hole the size of a pfennig in Werner’s temple.

  Kneeling down, Schellenberg went through Werner’s pockets, taking off the dead man’s watch and extricating his wallet and passport. He found a few coins – schillings and some lira – and took these as well. Grabbing Werner’s jacket by both shoulders, he stood up and dragged the corpse across the ground to the edge of the forest, where he stopped and caught his breath. Then he propped the body to sit against the base of an enormous spru
ce, next to the boulder he had stood on just half an hour before. He spent a few moments brushing off the grass and earth on the knees of the man’s trousers.

  He went back into the clearing and retrieved the pistol, then came back to the corpse, where he took Werner’s right arm and let it flop to one side, so the hand trailed on the bed of dead needles that carpeted the ground. He placed the butt of the pistol flush against the still-warm palm, then closed the fingers gently until they encircled the gun.

  Stepping back, he examined his handiwork. It would do. An observant eye might notice the grass stains on the man’s knees and wonder how they got there, but it seemed unlikely – it was too obviously a suicide to let doubts creep in very easily. Even if someone went to the lengths of checking the prints on the gun, they would only find Werner’s – the driving gloves had seen to that.

  When the Austrian police arrived (if they ever did; it didn’t look as if anyone had been here for ages), they would be more interested in establishing the identity of the corpse than in questioning how the man had died. Good luck, thought Schellenberg. No wallet, no passport. It could be months before they even discovered Werner wasn’t Austrian, much less that he had come from the United States. And if they ever did succeed in establishing his identity, what of it?

  Werner had clearly been a fantasist. For all the many million German descendants in the United States, they seem ill-placed for power – located in communities hundreds, even thousands of miles from Washington, in places like Wisconsin and Texas. There were German communities closer to the hub, of course, especially in Baltimore and New York, but in these cities there were also many outlying ethnic groups. Jews by the thousand, especially in New York; the Irish, filling up Boston and never very reliable; even Negroes. A mongrel kind of state, which might make for a weak body politic in Schellenberg’s view, but it didn’t make that body pro-German. Werner’s idea that a popular uprising against the American government might take place, in support of a foreign power to boot, was misconceived nonsense. Schellenberg would leave that, as well as straightforward efforts at espionage, to the Abwehr – military intelligence, staffed by strait-laced officers of the old school. Most of them hopelessly antique.