BERLIN — MAY 23, 1943

Two weeks before Detectives Gale and Warren inspected the body of Ramon Santiago in London, Hauptmann Walter Schäfer was summoned to the fourth floor of an elegant sandstone building on Tirpitzufer, headquarters of the Abwehr, the German intelligence service.

“Canaris wants to see you,” said Colonel Weber.

“The White Fox wants to see me?”

Walter looked at his boss. Perhaps Colonel Weber should also be called the White Fox. Only forty-two, his hair had considerably more salt than pepper. And why not? The war was going horribly. First, Stalingrad, then El Alamein. The names of those places—thousands of miles apart—would surely live on in the writings of future historians as the grave markers of the Third Reich.

Walter put on his cap, took the stairs two at a time, and hurried to the Admiral’s office. After knocking on the varnished wood, he heard the immediate response.

“Enter.”

Walter went in and stood in front of the Director who was bent over his desk, writing with his usual intensity. The old man stopped, re-reading what he had just composed and, head still down, pointed to the straight-back chair in front of the desk.

His hair prematurely white, Wilhelm Canaris was a full admiral who seldom wore uniforms. His decorations—including a German Cross in gold—lay in a desk drawer amid the pencils and paper clips. He told no jokes, attended few parties, had only one close friend. The office, although large, was as austere as its occupant: an old mahogany desk, some chairs, a solitary filing cabinet and a fireplace that never saw a fire. Its sole distinguishing feature was an enormous Mercator map of the world adorning one entire sidewall.

Walter removed his cap and sat, trying to avoid surveying the papers scattered across the Admiral’s desk. As a law student at Heidelberg University, he had seduced numerous girls with a repertoire of skills: near-photographic memory, conjuring tricks—only a single girl out of dozens had failed to be impressed with coins mysteriously appearing from her ears—and physical dexterity. One of those skills was the ability to read flawlessly upside down, and in French and English, to boot.

He could no longer resist the urge to look at the papers on the Admiral’s desk and, first peeking at Canaris to determine he was still preoccupied, Walter started reading. A laundry list—how prosaic! A menu for some dinner scheduled for the following Saturday. The letter of condolence that Canaris was now signing with his tiny handwriting. And then, the first sentence of a report that was so very familiar:

It is beyond doubt now possible to decapitate the British Government with a single blow.

“Still haven’t lost the knack. Eh, Schäfer?”

Walter turned to Canaris who was staring at him the way an aristocrat would look down at the boy shining his boots.

“Sorry, sir?”

“There are two things I particularly detest, Schäfer. To be treated like a fool. And to be treated like a fool to my face.”

Walter felt his skin turn crimson.

Canaris went on, “Your remarkable ... abilities. Do you really believe I would tolerate any ordinary man as Weber’s assistant? My own chief of staff? Do you really think I don’t know what each and every man in this department is capable of—his strengths, his capabilities, his ... foibles? Aren’t you aware who selected you for this work in the first place?”

Walter stared at the Admiral, scarcely comprehending. Canaris himself had been responsible for hiring him back in ’38?

“Perhaps you would like to pull some pfennings from my ears?”

Walter swallowed. Dear God, he thought. The rumors are true. He does know everything.

“Sorry, sir.”

Canaris continued to look at him, perhaps reconsidering Walter’s employment in the Abwehr, perhaps wondering why he had allowed Schäfer’s presence to soil the office of his betters. But after a brief shake of the head, a smile appeared on Canaris’s lips.

“Schäfer, you’re a very clever fellow, aren’t you?”

“If you say so, sir.”

“Oh, I do say so. A very clever fellow, indeed. This, for example.” He picked up the report. “Thirteen thousand people working for me across the globe. And not one of them saw this. Not one. Except you. And you saw it eighteen months ago.”

Walter tried not to show his pleasure. In truth, he realized, he had contributed little to the Abwehr in the past five years. God! Was it really five years ago that he had been a student in Heidelberg, putting the finishing touches to a dissertation for his law degree? And then one fine spring day, a knock at the door of his rooming house. A man of authority showed his identity papers and requested he join him for lunch. Three hours later he was introduced to Heinrich Weber. A man of Walter’s breeding and intellect, he was told, could be of great service to the Fatherland. Of course he agreed immediately. Obedience was in his blood.

Initially he had been disappointed. He believed he was little more than a glorified secretary to the colonel. Any fool could compose reports. But soon he realized those reports were destined to the General Staff who would make decisions involving armies, tens of thousands of men dispatched across the Continent, to the eyes of the Führer even.

And yet, as he sat across from the Admiral, he realized he had never actually contributed anything of real substance to the war effort. Until he wrote his report.

Canaris said, “You are very prescient, Hauptmann.”

Walter sensed it would be diplomatic to merely nod.

The Admiral reached around to a table behind him, picked up something. Turning, he tossed it onto his desk. It was a newspaper, folded in half and face up. The New York Times. The Abwehr arranged for all the major Allied newspapers to be dispatched to headquarters. The arrangements were simple enough—purchased by friendly contacts in Swedish, Spanish or other neutral embassies, they were shipped to Berlin in the diplomatic pouch. The only drawback to the process was the elapsed time from publication—this issue of the Times, Walter noticed, was dated eight days previously.

Then he read the headline atop three columns on the right-hand side, and gasped.

Churchill Visits Roosevelt. Summit Conference in Washington, D.C.

Canaris said, “It’s on page four.”

Puzzled but reluctant to ask what it was, Walter quickly turned the pages. And he gasped again.

A photograph of the Prime Minister walking down a ship’s gangway. The caption beneath identified the location: Winston Churchill shakes hands with sailors as he disembarks from the Queen Mary in New York harbor.

Canaris said, “Oh, it was obvious. So obvious that nobody else saw it.” He hefted the report. “It’s all here. Just like you predicted. Your reasoning was inspired, Hauptmann.”

“Not really, Admiral. It was ... logical. Anyone could have figured it out. Besides, it does us little good now. The ship has sailed—in every sense of the phrase.”

Canaris seemed pleased at the witticism. With a smile on his face, he picked up the phone. “Come in now, Colonel.”

After placing the receiver in its cradle, he said, “Hauptmann Schäfer, please bring that chair over next to yours.”

Walter went to the rear of the office, picked up the chair that was a match to his own and placed it in front of the Admiral’s desk. Someone knocked on the door and, without waiting for a response, entered.

“Ah Heinrich,” said Canaris. “Please join us. We have much to discuss.”

The Colonel nodded and sat down alongside Walter.

“I was telling our good friend Schäfer here how accurate his ... predictions were.”

Weber nodded again but remained silent.

“I haven’t yet told him how intriguing the recommendations are that he makes in this report. Intriguing, but not remotely feasible, eh Heinrich?”

The chief-of-staff seemed startled. “But sir, I— I think the plan is entirely feasible. That’s why I brought it to your attention more than a year ago.”

Another smile on the Admiral’s lips. “Indeed. But humor me, Heinrich. Tell me why Schäfer’s plan cannot possibly work.”

Weber seemed to understand. He took a breath, composing his thoughts. “Well, there are too many ... ifs. If Churchill crosses the Atlantic to meet with Roosevelt. If he takes the Queen Mary, should he do so. If we had an uncompromised agent-in-place. If that agent could get safely aboard the ship. If he could radio a waiting U-boat pack.”

Canaris nodded. “Indeed, a lot of ifs.” He turned to Walter. “Hauptmann, please rebut the Colonel’s list of ifs.”

Walter didn’t need to organize his rebuttal. He had spent six weeks researching, analyzing, thinking, about the plan. Now the arguments he had made to himself all those months ago and their responses came back to him.

“We know Churchill has to meet with Roosevelt. The current conflict is worldwide, across numerous battlefronts. It’s unrealistic that the leaders of two nations who are fighting for their existence would not meet to strategize.” He gestured to the newspaper. “Indeed, they have already done so. We also know that while the Boeing Clipper can make the crossing, the hazards of a three-thousand-mile, high-altitude trip across the Atlantic are simply too extreme for a man of Churchill’s age and health to undertake. Not to mention the dire consequences of a mechanical malfunction in mid-flight.

“Very well. So if the Prime Minister of Britain is to visit the President of the United States, how will he get there if not by plane? By ship, obviously. And there is only one ship that could be entrusted to the mission. The Queen Mary is the fastest vessel in the world. It can cross the Atlantic in five days, carrying an entire division of troops—fifteen thousand men!—in one voyage. And, since 1940, it has never been seen on the open water and had not received so much as a scratch.”

Colonel Weber, seemingly enthused with his task, spoke again. “All right. Let’s assume that is the case. However, your very argument undercuts your argument.”

He stood and walked to the large map on the sidewall. “Consider the North Atlantic. In terms of surface mass, it’s so large it could contain the entire continental United States. Now, consider the task of our U-boats. On a given day, the Queen Mary could be in the equivalent of ... Kansas,” he pointed to the center of America. “But our submarines could be in Texas here.” He pointed to the south, then to the west. “Or here, in Nevada.”

Weber returned to his chair. “Besides, even if our entire fleet of U-boats was in Kansas, it would be like searching for an object the size of the Eiffel Tower in that state. And even if we did locate it, the Queen Mary is, as the Hauptmann says, the fastest ship in the world. It can easily outrun any U-boat. Submerged, our boats have to use their electric motors and travel less than three knots per hour—the speed of a man running. On the surface, using their diesel engines, they can make around twelve knots—the speed of a bicycle. The Queen Mary can travel at more than thirty knots!”

He paused, then continued. “But let’s assume—by a miracle—that a U-boat finds itself in the same sector as the liner. The field of vision from a periscope is restricted to less than a quarter-mile—in calm seas. And even if the U-boat stays on the surface, the conning tower is so low to the water that the field of vision is restricted to less than fifty miles. It would be worse in any sort of heavy seas. And that’s in the daytime. On a moonless night, the liner could be a thousand meters away and it would be invisible. Without a precise location, at a precise time, sinking the Queen Mary is an impossibility.”

“Agreed,” said Canaris. He turned to Walter. “Hauptmann, all of the colonel’s arguments are presented in your report. And yet you were optimistic enough in finding, and recommending, a solution.”

“Yes, sir.”

Canaris seemed to muse on the idea. “Possibly. Possibly.”

Seeing the Admiral was wavering, Walter said, “Besides, the potential for success warrants the effort.”

“Heinrich? You agree?”

“Of course, Admiral. Hauptmann Schäfer’s original plan was clever—the elimination of the enemy’s head of state. But recent circumstances make it even more advantageous for us to attempt to implement it. Our sources in Washington tell us that Roosevelt and Churchill at their conference this month reached an agreement in principle for the invasion of France. The next conference will surely focus on the actual planning for such a huge enterprise. It should be recalled that for the Casablanca conference in January, Churchill’s entire war headquarters was essentially relocated from Storey’s Gate. For this next conference, we must assume that he will do the same, and more. So, if it were merely a task of killing Winston Churchill, the British war effort might suffer temporarily and morale would be affected. But another prime minister would be found, perhaps one not as formidable—Atlee perhaps. But someone, now that the Americans are in the war, who would feel under no compulsion to make peace. However, disposing of the entire professional military leadership of the British Empire in one bold stroke is an extraordinary opportunity.”

Walter added, “And what a message it would send to the Americans! That even after Stalingrad and El Alamein, the Third Reich has the strength to reach out and deliver such a blow.”

“Ah yes,” said Canaris, “but the resources to expend on such an adventure!”

“With respect, Admiral,” replied Weber. “I don’t believe the resources are that great.’

“The entire U-boat fleet of the Kriesgmarine assigned to one target?”

“For a very limited window of time.”

“And our single most valuable agent in England? An agent-in-place, who is uncompromised, perfectly hidden, motivated, trained. Ready for the signal to come into the open and strike at the heart of the enemy.”

“Now, I submit, is that time.”

Canaris sat back, and Walter thought he seemed pleased with what he’d heard. “Very well. To summarize: The two essential elements to put this plan into operation are an agent-in-place and the date of departure of Churchill’s next voyage to America.”

Walter considered for a moment—that’s what it came down to now, he realized—then nodded.

Canaris smiled. “We already have one of those elements. And very soon, gentlemen, I expect to have the other.”