The Heydrich Sanction Read online

  THE

  HEYDRICH SANCTION

  by

  Denis Kilcommons

  www.deniskilcommons.com

  PROLOGUE

  June 1940. London

  Kim Philby found the Dockers Arms off the Mile End Road without much trouble. The pub sagged against the end of a terrace of houses. Dress down, Burgess had advised, which was all right for him. Guy Burgess always appeared to have dressed down, whatever company he was in. They had been friends since Cambridge when both had been members of the Apostles, a group of fellow travelling undergraduates with pseudo-intellectual pretensions. A boys' club for egos.

  Burgess was rude, arrogant, drank far too much, had a dangerous predilection for members of his own sex, always looked as unkempt as an unmade bed and was wonderful company. Philby was lean and handsome with illuminating blue eyes and totally heterosexual. This had not affected their friendship.

  The smell of stale beer hung around the open door of the pub and got stronger as Philby went down a short corridor. Burgess and a square man with a square face sat by the window in the snug. The floorboards were rough and the distempered walls and ceiling were stained brown by the smoke of pipe tobacco and Capstan Full Strength. Burgess crossed the room and welcomed Philby with a grin.

  ‘What will you have?’ he said.

  ‘A glass of bitter.’

  ‘A glass of bitter, Mavis. And I’ll have another scotch.’

  ‘Another scotch, he says. Don’t you know there’s a war on?’

  When the drinks arrived, they went to the table and Burgess made the introductions.

  ‘Meet Boris,’ he said. ‘Not very original, but never mind. It might even be his real name.’ Boris did not look amused but shook hands with Philby. ‘We were saying, it’s about time you joined the Service.’ Burgess had been a member of Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service since January 1939. They had both been Soviet agents for much longer but, until now, Philby’s career had been in journalism. ‘Kennedy is back from Germany with a peace deal and Chamberlain will sign it.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Chamberlain wants peace at any price, and the price Hitler wants is very reasonable. Particularly since Dunkirk.’

  Philby, a war correspondent for The Times, had been based at the British Expeditionary Force’s headquarters at Arras. He had been one of the lucky ones who had been evacuated back to Britain.

  Boris spoke without warning, his voice heavily accented.

  ‘Resistance died with Churchill,’ he said. ‘Chamberlain will make peace and Hitler will turn East.’

  Chamberlain had been reluctant to declare war the previous year but had had no alternative after the German invasion of Poland. The bulk of Britain’s professional army had crossed the Channel and settled into a nine-month stalemate. At home, Churchill had been appointed First Lord of the Admiralty and began to pull the military machine together. Tragedy struck when he was killed in a road accident. The vacuum he left had drained the Government of the will to fight and subsequent events had panicked Chamberlain.

  German forces had invaded Holland, Belgium and France on May 10. Belgium had called for an armistice 17 days later as the BEF retreated to the coast. Philby had been lucky to get a ship from Boulogne back to England - most of the Army hadn’t. They had been captured on the beaches of Dunkirk waiting for an evacuation that never happened. Most of the 158,000 men, 25,000 vehicles and 140,000 tons of stores had fallen into the hands of the Germans. An imminent invasion had been expected and Chamberlain had advised the Royal Family to leave for Canada. They had gone on June 10 and, seven days later, France had capitulated.

  Now, it seemed, it was Britain’s turn.

  Joseph P Kennedy, the American ambassador in London, a close friend of Chamberlain and an admirer of Hitler and Nazi Germany, had flown to Europe to broker a deal. His opinions about Britain having no chance of winning the war or surviving an invasion were well known. Crucially, they were shared by the British Prime Minister.

  ‘Dunkirk was the last straw,’ said Burgess. ‘Chamberlain will take any offer. He doesn’t want to be the Prime Minister who lost both a war and an empire. He wants peace. He’s always wanted peace.’

  ‘He will accommodate Hitler,’ said Boris.

  ‘The whole bloody world knows Hitler’s real target is the East,’ said Burgess. ‘Lebensraum. The need for expansion, the hatred of the Slavs and Jews, the fear of the Soviets.’

  Boris said, ‘Hitler never wanted to fight England. You are fellow Aryans. He wants you as allies.’

  'What’s the deal Kennedy brought back?’ Philby asked Burgess.

  ‘All Hitler wants is Tanganyika, the Cameroons and Togoland. Japan will take Burma and Malaya, but there’s not a lot we can do about that. Britain will keep Asia, the rest of Africa and the West Indies. South Africa will endorse the deal. Australia and New Zealand have no option but to agree because they’re scared of the Japs. Peace will be made and Britain will remain undefeated and the Duke of Windsor will be crowned King.’

  Philby looked at Boris.

  ‘How long will the Soviet-German non-aggression pact hold?’

  ‘Until the ink is dry on an Anglo-German alliance.’

  Philby glanced at Burgess.

  ‘Will that happen?’

  ‘It’s part of the deal. Hitler will turn his tanks round and head East and the British Army will be re-armed and join him. The invasion of Russia will be next year.’

  Philby sat back in his chair, stretched his legs and pondered the future. These swiftly changing circumstances were why his own Soviet Control had been recalled and he was meeting with Burgess and the stone-faced Boris. He was loyal to his own nation, although he realised many of his countrymen might not understand his patriotism and his strong allegiance to the Soviet Union. He had been an active socialist as a student and had gone to Vienna in 1933, where a civil war was being fought between the ruling establishment and left wing workers. He had helped smuggle wanted socialists and Communists out of Austria. He had survived in one of the housing estates in the city that had been destroyed by Government artillery. More than a thousand men, women and children had died.

  He had been recruited into the Soviet Intelligence Service and told to hide his left wing past. He had cut all links with former political friends and had joined the Anglo-German Fellowship, a German-funded organisation that contained Hitler sycophants, Jew haters and aristocrats. He had visited the Propaganda Ministry in Berlin; in London, he had met von Ribbentrop, the German Ambassador.

  In 1937, he had covered the Spanish Civil War as a journalist, writing news stories from the fascist perspective. He had been awarded the Red Cross of Military Merit by Franco, and all the time he had gathered military intelligence for the Communists. He had left Spain in August 1939 and been sent to France with the BEF two months later.

  The years of subterfuge had been exhilarating and he had tested his physical courage through the action and conflict. He had never doubted the validity of the Socialist cause and he still didn’t, now that it appeared his mother country was on the verge of a not unlikely alliance with Nazi Germany and war with Russia. The British aristocracy and the establishment feared Communism more than Fascism.

  ‘We have to get you recruited into the Service as soon as possible,’ said Burgess. ‘I’ve put your name around.’

  In the future, Philby could be far more effective as a member of MI5 or MI6 than as a reporter.

  ‘Will they want me?’

  ‘They’ll welcome someone with your credentials. Your background is impeccable.’

  His father, Harry St John Philby, scholar, linguist, explorer, eccentric and member of the Athenaeum, had stood in a Hythe by-election the previ
ous year as candidate for the British People’s Party, which was anti-war and anti-Semite. After his defeat, he had gone to India and declared Hitler comparable with Christ.

  “How far will Britain go?’ Philby said.

  Burgess said, ‘Quite a way. There’s a codicil on the peace deal. Hitler wants Mosley as Prime Minister.’

  It was not a surprise. Sir Oswald Mosley was a charismatic orator and First World War hero who had been tipped as a future Prime Minister while a mainstream politician. He had formed the British Union of Fascists and had marched his Blackshirts into Stepney, Whitechapel and Hackney to fight fierce street battles against Jews and Communists. He had declared the need for a modern dictatorship to solve Britain’s social, economic and Jewish problems. It looked as if he would get his wish.

  ‘Can it happen here?’ Philby said. ‘The camps, the executions?’

  ‘More than likely, old chap,’ said Burgess.

  Philby stabbed the butt of his cigarette out in a tin ashtray.

  ‘And if Russia falls?’ Philby asked.

  Boris said, ‘If the Soviet Union falls, it will be obliterated.’

  ‘Where will that leave us?’ said Philby.

  ‘Playing the Great Game,’ said Burgess, quoting Rudyard Kipling. ‘For as long as it takes.’

  PART ONE

  Chapter 1

  June 14, 1963. Ollerton, Cheshire

  They had worshipped a Christian God in the village of Ollerton for more than a millennium. Part of the tower of St George’s Parish Church was Anglo-Saxon. Legend said bowmen had taken their arrows from the ancient yew tree in its grounds to use at Agincourt and had practiced their skills for centuries on the village green that lay beyond the lych gate.

  The Rev James Beatty walked down the path of the vicarage, happy to be out of his dog collar and into whites, carrying a cricket bag that contained the same bat and pads he had used at college 20 years before. His sweater was tied around his neck but he doubted he would need it. The evening was warm and sunny.

  He was 40 years old, dark haired and even featured. Some of the single ladies of the parish, and quite a few of the married ones, found him attractive, but while he was always pleasant he also maintained a distance that denied any possibility of flirtation. George Beatty was still mourning the loss of his wife who had died of cancer five years before, when his ministry had been in an inner city area of Manchester. Her death had put his vocation at risk for he had questioned the love of a God who had stolen his wife in such a cruel way. It had taken six long months for Cynthia to die.

  He had afterwards thrown himself into his work to deaden the pain and see if he could rediscover his God and his beliefs. Long hours and emotionally draining efforts to try to mitigate the problems of the poorest classes in society, had taken him close to a nervous breakdown. His bishop had removed him from his duties before that happened and, two years ago, he had been sent to Ollerton. The stated reason was to help its ageing vicar; the unstated reason was rest and recuperation.

  The vicar had died of a stroke three months after he arrived: he had been 82 and his end had been mercifully swift and without pain and Beatty had tried not to blame God for the arbitrary nature of death. Cynthia had been 32.

  Beatty was offered the parish and he accepted from a sense of inertia. Since then, as life went on and he kept the happy memories rather than the bad, he had come to acknowledge that it was an idyllic posting.

  The village green was a triangle that stretched out in front of him. The road that ran along the front of the church and vicarage was its base line. The village spread out along both sides of the road, a quiet rural highway that linked Ollerton with the hamlets of Morton Marsh to the West and Upper Bedford to the East. The vicar glanced left as he prepared to cross, towards the Farmer’s Arms, then right in the direction of the petrol pumps of the garage and the gates of the school.

  One car approached in the distance and he crossed and stepped onto the turf of the green. To the left was a row of terraced cottages, a lane that led to the cricket ground where evening nets were being held, the half timbered Black Bull pub, and more cottages.

  To his right was the old ivy covered house that was both the home and surgery of the local doctor. Then came Ogilvy’s village store and Post Office, another short terrace, and Rose Cottage, a bungalow which looked as if it was about to be engulfed by rose bushes.

  At the apex of the green was a detached Victorian house in mature gardens that was the home of Colonel James Humphrey, a veteran of the Great War, a reservist during the Anglo-German conflict and a serving officer in Belfast and Catterick during the Russian War. Down its drive walked his son Simon, home from Durham University. He waved a bat above his head as a greeting to the vicar, who raised a hand in response.

  From the garden at the side of his parents’ store came Brian Ogilvy, also dressed in whites, also heading for the cricket field. His blonde hair was too long, as usual, and flopped over his face, as usual.

  ‘Hey, Brian,’ shouted Simon.

  ‘When did you get home?’ called Brian.

  ‘This afternoon.’

  Oh to be in England, thought the vicar. Robert Browning might have been waxing lyrical about the English countryside in April, but on a summer evening in June in such a spot as this, the sentiment was the same. There could be no finer place to be than in a peaceful English village. In olden days, they had practiced with their long bows. Tonight, they would wield the willow on the cricket field. Not much changed over the centuries.

  The vicar reached the lane at the side of the Black Bull and waited for the two young men who had been childhood friends but who, from the age of five, had gone their very different pre-destined ways. Simon to prep and public school and on to university, Brian to infant and junior school in the village, followed by three years at a secondary school which he had left at 14 to work for a dairy farmer. The two met and shook hands.

  ‘Still ugly,’ said Simon.

  ‘Still useless with that bat?’ Brian retorted.

  Simon pretended to lift it to whack him and Brian punched him on the arm.

  ‘Vicar.’ Simon shook hands with Beatty. ‘Are we going to win tomorrow?’

  ‘I think we’re in with a good chance, now you’ve arrived.’

  ‘Don’t tell him that. His head’s big enough already,’ said Brian. ‘Anyway. They’re supposed to have a demon fast bowler. Had trials for Lancashire.’

  ‘I won’t be putting anyone out, will I?’ said Simon.

  ‘Only if you get a duck,’ said Brian.

  The vicar said, ‘Come on. We’ll be late. Some of us need the practice.’

  He led the way along the lane to the cricket ground, from where they could hear the sound of leather on bat. The sound of summer in an English village.

  Chapter 2

  June 14, 1963. Hamburg

  The Top Ten Club was packed with lovers of rock and roll, prostitutes, pimps, sailors and riff raff. The Beatles finished an hour-long set that was a mixture of their own songs and rhythm and blues numbers copied from records brought into their home port of Liverpool by Cunard Yanks, Scousers who sailed the liners on the American run. The sound of Chuck Berry, B B King, Little Richard and Fats Domino was still known as race music in the United States and would not have been tolerated in the European Fascist Union except that it had been adapted and was being played by a white band with accents as bizarre as those of the original performers.

  The time was midnight and John, Paul, George and Pete pushed into a cubicle alongside Klaus Voorman, and drank beer sent over by an approving customer and waited for Rory Storm and the Hurricanes to start their set.

  John downed his first beer and immediately reached for another. He, George and Paul were overdosed on the German slimming pill preludin to help them stay awake until the club closed sometime around three. The pills gave them a raging thirst. Pete drank beer moderately; he didn’t take pills.

  ‘Went well, went well,’ said John.

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p; ‘What you need is a manager,’ said Klaus. ‘You should listen to Astrid.’

  ‘What we need is someone with money, my boy,’ said John rubbing his hands and mimicking the Shylock who was caricatured in a popular German TV programme.

  ‘You shouldn’t joke,’ said Klaus, looking round.

  ‘Or a queer,’ persisted John.

  ‘That’s also dangerous,’ said Klaus, but with a smile.

  ‘Especially for queer Jews.’

  ‘What’s all this queer talk about, then?’ said Paul

  ‘I’ve never slept with a queer,’ said George, ‘ but I’ve slept with a bloke who has.’

  ‘You mean Pete?’ said Paul.

  ‘Leave me out of it,’ said Pete, comfortable with his heterosexuality. He was the best looking member of the band. ‘I have no problems.’

  ‘Stop being a smug bastard or we’ll replace you with Starkey,’ said John.

  ‘He’s crap.’

  ‘Not as crap as you.’

  ‘His nose doesn’t fit.’

  Paul said, ‘Doesn’t fit where?’

  ‘You know.’

  ‘He’s got a point,’ said George. ‘How did he sneak it past the Purity Officer at the airport?’

  John said, ‘His nose is useful. It’s a docker’s umbrella.’ He meant the overhead railway line in Liverpool under which dockers took shelter when it rained. ‘Anyway, watch it.’ He pointed a finger with mock menace at Pete.

  George leaned forward and watched the end of the finger but said nothing.

  ‘You’re a bastard, Lennon,’ said Pete.

  ‘Just remember. No one is irreplaceable.’

  ‘Except you,’ said Pete.

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And Paul.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘And George.’

  ‘Give the man a coconut.’

  ‘You’re a bastard,’ he said, conversationally.