black SS uniforms, their jackboots gleaming like black ice, their left breasts covered with medals and decorations, mostly unearned. Hitler’s last birthday celebration, his fiftieth, had been held on a scale to rival a Roman circus. Tens of thousands of marching soldiers, fireworks in every city and town, and a national cry of joy at midnight. This year’s celebration was quieter. The French and the British would not talk of the ceding of Belgium or Holland. Their sniveling days were over. They would fight. There would be war.
Chapter 2
Berlin, May 27, 1940, 4:00 p.m.
“So your agent needs orders?” said Heinrich Himmler.
“Yes,” Admiral Wilhelm Canaris replied.
“Are you sure this is the school?”
“No. We think so, but we need to go in to verify.”
“What do we know?”
“Our agent befriended a teacher. Showed him photographs of the boys. He thought they looked like two boys who were admitted in September. He wasn’t positive. The photographs were taken a few years ago.”
“Befriended?”
“Bedded.”
Canaris hid his contempt. If there was sex involved, Himmler wanted to know about it, especially exotic, that is to say, perverse, sex. Were the rumors true? Will he pursue this?
“I see,” said Himmler. “What was her story?”
Not interested in the heterosexual, Canaris thought, then answered, “She was looking for her nephews, German boys, runaways from their school in Strasbourg.”
“Why can’t she go in?”
“She eliminated the teacher when he became suspicious. She has been out in public with the him. If she was seen…we cannot take the chance.”
“What is the name of the school? Where is it?”
“The Petit Collège Sainte-Thérèse de l’ Enfant-Jésus. Near Fontainebleau. Locally it is known as Le Petit Collège d’Avon. Avon and Fontainebleau are basically one small town.”
Himmler grimaced at the papist nomenclature. “Who is the headmaster?” he asked.
“A Jesuit priest. Father Jacques. Born Lucien Bunel.”
“A troublemaker, no doubt,” said Himmler. “They are all subversives, the Jesuits. What do we know about him?”
“He has recently hired a Jew as a teacher. This man previously worked at a refugee organization in Paris. We believe there are students at the school under assumed names.”
“How do you know this?”
“The dead teacher was not a Jew lover. He said some of the students did not participate at mass, did not know their catechism. He spoke his mind to our agent.”
“What do you suggest?” Himmler asked.
“We could wait until we take Paris and then remove the boys, by force if necessary. It won’t be long. A week or two.”
“The Fuhrer wants the formula now,” said the bespectacled Himmler. “We are about to take Reims. He is concerned the boys will run. He is waiting for me to report our plan to him.”
Himmler looked pointedly at the telephone on his desk.
“I can send in another agent,” Canaris said. “We have a reporter at
Le Monde
. He can say he is doing a story on the school. It is in the old palace at Fontainebleau. It has historical significance.”
“And this Jesuit who is harboring students under assumed names, probably Jews, do you think he will cooperate?”
Canaris cringed inwardly at Himmler’s sarcasm. His agent in Paris had killed the teacher at three p.m. and reported to him at 3:15. He had relayed her report to the SS chief at 3:16. He took no chances when it came to Hitler, Himmler and the Friedeman formula. He had immediately been summoned here, where he was introduced to the woman sitting next to him, SS intelligence agent Marlene Jaeger. They sat facing the SS chief in his throne-like leather chair behind his massive, glass-topped desk.
“I—” said Canaris.
“Marlene?” said Himmler, interrupting, and turning to Marlene Jaeger.
“When was the last time the boys were seen?” said Marlene. This question she directed to Canaris, a naval hero of the first war and, she knew, a man
Chapter 2
Berlin, May 27, 1940, 4:00 p.m.
“So your agent needs orders?” said Heinrich Himmler.
“Yes,” Admiral Wilhelm Canaris replied.
“Are you sure this is the school?”
“No. We think so, but we need to go in to verify.”
“What do we know?”
“Our agent befriended a teacher. Showed him photographs of the boys. He thought they looked like two boys who were admitted in September. He wasn’t positive. The photographs were taken a few years ago.”
“Befriended?”
“Bedded.”
Canaris hid his contempt. If there was sex involved, Himmler wanted to know about it, especially exotic, that is to say, perverse, sex. Were the rumors true? Will he pursue this?
“I see,” said Himmler. “What was her story?”
Not interested in the heterosexual, Canaris thought, then answered, “She was looking for her nephews, German boys, runaways from their school in Strasbourg.”
“Why can’t she go in?”
“She eliminated the teacher when he became suspicious. She has been out in public with the him. If she was seen…we cannot take the chance.”
“What is the name of the school? Where is it?”
“The Petit Collège Sainte-Thérèse de l’ Enfant-Jésus. Near Fontainebleau. Locally it is known as Le Petit Collège d’Avon. Avon and Fontainebleau are basically one small town.”
Himmler grimaced at the papist nomenclature. “Who is the headmaster?” he asked.
“A Jesuit priest. Father Jacques. Born Lucien Bunel.”
“A troublemaker, no doubt,” said Himmler. “They are all subversives, the Jesuits. What do we know about him?”
“He has recently hired a Jew as a teacher. This man previously worked at a refugee organization in Paris. We believe there are students at the school under assumed names.”
“How do you know this?”
“The dead teacher was not a Jew lover. He said some of the students did not participate at mass, did not know their catechism. He spoke his mind to our agent.”
“What do you suggest?” Himmler asked.
“We could wait until we take Paris and then remove the boys, by force if necessary. It won’t be long. A week or two.”
“The Fuhrer wants the formula now,” said the bespectacled Himmler. “We are about to take Reims. He is concerned the boys will run. He is waiting for me to report our plan to him.”
Himmler looked pointedly at the telephone on his desk.
“I can send in another agent,” Canaris said. “We have a reporter at
Le Monde
. He can say he is doing a story on the school. It is in the old palace at Fontainebleau. It has historical significance.”
“And this Jesuit who is harboring students under assumed names, probably Jews, do you think he will cooperate?”
Canaris cringed inwardly at Himmler’s sarcasm. His agent in Paris had killed the teacher at three p.m. and reported to him at 3:15. He had relayed her report to the SS chief at 3:16. He took no chances when it came to Hitler, Himmler and the Friedeman formula. He had immediately been summoned here, where he was introduced to the woman sitting next to him, SS intelligence agent Marlene Jaeger. They sat facing the SS chief in his throne-like leather chair behind his massive, glass-topped desk.
“I—” said Canaris.
“Marlene?” said Himmler, interrupting, and turning to Marlene Jaeger.
“When was the last time the boys were seen?” said Marlene. This question she directed to Canaris, a naval hero of the first war and, she knew, a man
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