W.E.B. Griffin Zero Option

Chapter 1

76 Tirpitzufer, Berlin

1355, 17 August 1943

The eyes of the Oberstleutnant stationed behind the desk in the anteroom to the office grew wide with awe as the door opened.

The most important and imposing figures in all of the Wehrmacht had at some point during the war walked through that door: Guderian, Jodl, Keitel, Blomberg, Rommel-even Himmler and Göring. At some point each had reason to meet with Vice Admiral Wilhelm Franz Canaris, chief of the Abwehr. The Genius. Each of the figures was powerful and impressive in his own right, commanding vast military or political resources. But none, save perhaps Rommel, had a reputation as storied as the man who had just walked through the door.

SS Obersturmbannführer Otto Skorzeny would be impressive even to those who were oblivious to his many exploits that had bedeviled the Allies since the advent of the war. The commando's muscular six-foot-four-inch frame conveyed the attitude and physicality of the superb natural athlete he'd been before the war, as did the four-inch scar that spanned his left cheek-the consequence of a fencing duel while at university in Vienna. So consequential had his covert missions been that it was claimed that when British general Bernard Law Montgomery and his staff were poring over the detailed maps of Operation Husky-the massive July invasion of Sicily that had engaged nearly two hundred thousand Allied troops as well as more than seven thousand ships and aircraft-he had scanned the German troop, tank, artillery, and aircraft positions and asked his subordinates just one question: "But where is Skorzeny?"

The Oberstleutnant glanced at the large black-and-white wall clock above the door. All visitors to Canaris's office were expected to arrive five minutes prior to the scheduled appointment. No exceptions, no matter the visitor's importance. In most cases, those who were late were required to reschedule. Skorzeny, however, was precisely on time.

Skorzeny presented himself before the Oberstleutnant and said affably, but with standard Teutonic decorum, "Obersturmbannführer Skorzeny at Herr Admiral Canaris's pleasure."

The Oberstleutnant gestured deferentially toward one of the two chairs to his right. "Yes. The admiral awaits. Please be seated until the appointed time."

Skorzeny smiled. "I prefer to stand."

At precisely 2:05 p.m. the Oberstleutnant cleared his throat, rose from behind his desk, and opened the door to Canaris's office. Skorzeny proceeded through the door and saw Canaris seated behind a small, highly polished desk completely devoid of paper, pens, or memorabilia.

Skorzeny stood in front of Canaris's desk. Even at attention the commando looked relaxed and composed. Nazi Germany's intelligence chief placed the memorandum he was holding on the mirrorlike desktop and gestured for the commando to take a seat in one of the three high-backed chairs that formed a semicircle around the desk. Skorzeny bowed slightly and then sat in the middle chair. Canaris said nothing for several seconds, his thick white eyebrows forming a canopy over his penetrating eyes-their gaze appearing to look through and beyond anything they were directed toward.

Most found the gaze unnerving. Skorzeny simply smiled.

Canaris spoke softly and precisely.

"You have been briefed?"

"Only, Herr Admiral, that the mission in question concluded without obtaining the objective."

"That was an understatement, whoever briefed you. Were you informed of the nature of the objective?"

"I was told that its purpose was to obtain strategically critical scientific and mathematical data," Skorzeny replied.

Canaris nodded. "Again, quite an understatement. Who briefed you?"

"Oskar Brecht, Herr Admiral. It was clear he was being quite reserved in his brief."

"As he should be," Canaris said appreciatively. "The item to which Brecht was referring was being sought by the British, Americans, and Soviets, as well as by us. Each power considers the item to be of paramount importance to the outcome of the war as well as the postwar balance of power."

"May I ask, Herr Admiral, who has obtained this item?"

Canaris's gaze became even more intense, almost searing. "You understand, Skorzeny, that this information and the manner in which we've obtained it is known only to the Führer, Reichsführer Himmler, Reichsmarschall Göring, and me?"

"Fully understood, Herr Admiral." Skorzeny narrowed his eyes, but kept, his face relaxed. "Upon pain of death."

Canaris smiled coldly. "Precisely. Even with your understanding and assurances I am constrained to tell you only who obtained the information, not how we know they obtained it."

Canaris stopped speaking for several seconds seemingly to think through his next words. Although his office was the most secure location in all of Germany, he spoke in a hushed tone. "The Americans and British believe they have it in the form of the very professor who developed it: Sebastian Kapsky. But, actually, the Soviets have it." Canaris paused. "More precisely, the Soviets believe they will have custody of it imminently, in the form of the professor's notebook. Shortly after obtaining the information, whoever has it will have strategic dominance during the balance of the war and likely for decades thereafter." Canaris's jaw tightened. "They will be the world hegemon."

Skorzeny straightened. "Forgive my presumptuousness, Herr Admiral . . ."

Canaris waved dismissively. "No, no, Skorzeny. You are often two steps ahead. Please go on . . ."

Flattered but sober, Skorzeny said, "Again, at the risk of being presumptuous, I conclude that you would like me to somehow retrieve the information from whoever possesses it." He tilted his head. "Either by seizing Kapsky from the Americans, or his notebook of formulae from the Soviets. Or both."

The normally taciturn Genius permitted himself a barely perceptible smile at Skorzeny's confidence and nonchalance. "That, Obersturmbannführer Skorzeny, would be the most audacious operation in the history of modern warfare. Perhaps the most spectacular since the Greeks breached the walls of Troy with a wooden horse."

Skorzeny agreed. "The difficulty, of course, is in the logistics," he noted clinically. "Finding and seizing the mathematician, presumably somewhere in Britain or America, and finding and seizing his notebook of formulae-and any copies that may have been made-presumably someplace in Eastern Europe . . ." He seemed to concentrate on a spot on the ceiling. "Obviously, it would be difficult. Many will die. But it can be done. The most serious, and perhaps insuperable, problem is that it cannot control for any copies of the notebook that the Soviets may have made before we seize it."

Canaris nodded. "Your analysis is quite sound. But we calculate that the probability of copies being made before acquisition of the notebook is low. Our information is that the notebook will be or already is being conveyed to Moscow by a Major Taras Gromov. Our sources do not have his precise location at this moment, but it is calculated that he should be within thirty kilometers of Tallinn. We estimate that it will take him between ten to twelve days to deliver the notebook to OKRNKVD chief Aleksandr Belyanov in the Kremlin. Once in Belyanov's possession it will likely take a substantial amount of time to make copies, even if each of the characters in the formulae is legible and decipherable. I am advised that their scientists will endeavor to render each and every character of the various formulae with painstaking precision so that there will be no error, not the slightest deviation or misinterpretation. It must be flawless."

"What is the estimate, Herr Admiral, for how long that will take?"

"Given current battlefield deployments, as noted we calculate it will take Gromov between ten to twelve days to arrive at the Kremlin and another fourteen days-in shifts working twenty-four hours a day-to make and verify precise copies."

Skorzeny smiled. "Splendid. The logistical challenge remains daunting, but provided we are given accurate information regarding the whereabouts of the item, I assess the operation as feasible."

Canaris leaned forward. "You are exceptionally confident in your abilities, Skorzeny."

Without a trace of arrogance or hubris, the commando asked, "Forgive me, Herr Admiral. Should I not be?"

You have no reason not to, Canaris conceded to himself. Skorzeny had proven himself capable of executing the most audacious of missions, all while making the British and Americans look like fools. The mission would be impossible for all but Skorzeny. "What of acquiring Kapsky? How do you assess the probabilities of accomplishing that?"

"Clearly, that is far more problematic, both in terms of planning, timing, and actual execution," Skorzeny replied. "Kapsky likely is many thousands of kilometers-nearly a hemisphere-away from the notebook."

He paused, gazed for a moment at the floor, and then shrugged. "Assuming reasonably reliable intelligence and planning, the execution will be difficult but feasible."

Canaris assessed Skorzeny's demeanor for several seconds. The commando appeared clinical and sober, with no discernible trace of hubris or arrogance. Canaris pressed a button on the underside of his desk and the Oberstleutnant immediately appeared at the door. Canaris gestured toward Skorzeny. "Provide Obersturmbannführer Skorzeny with the Washington briefing packet."

The officer retreated and reappeared within seconds holding a dark brown expandable folder and handed it to Canaris. The Genius scanned the packet's contents and nodded to the Oberstleutnant, who turned and quickly left the office, closing the door behind him.

Canaris held up the packet. "You will study this on your way to Washington, D.C."

Skorzeny nodded. "I assume I am to depart immediately."

"The U-124 is at Kiel. It will disembark at six in the morning. the day after tomorrow and will take a little more than a week to convey you to the coast of the American state of New Jersey. You will be met there by Heinz Waltz, who will assist in every aspect of discharging your mission."

"Which is . . ."

"Bring Dr. Sebastian Kapsky here. Or, failing that, kill him."

Chapter 2

Washington, D.C.

0955, 17 August 1943

William "Wild Bill" Donovan's displeasure with meeting in the East Room was plain on his face. The spy chief, short silver-white hair neatly trimmed, was stocky but fit, his countenance that of a bulldog, as was his attitude toward lax security.

The East Room was too open, too accessible. Voices had a tendency to carry and echo, even when muted. Despite the fact that most everyone in the White House carried some level of security clearance, Donovan didn't trust anyone he hadn't known for at least ten years, and damn few of those.

A meeting of this sensitivity should be conducted in the War Room, located on the ground floor of the White House between the Diplomatic Reception Room and FDR's physician's office. Only a handful of individuals even knew it existed: Prime Minister Winston Churchill, General George Marshall, Admiral William Leahy, and, of course, Harry Hopkins. Not even FBI director J. Edgar Hoover or Eleanor Roosevelt was aware of it.

Donovan knew that Secretary of War Henry L. Stimson, seated across from him at the long, polished table, detested meeting in the East Room as well, but no one could discern it from his cool demeanor. The quintessential statesman, with an aloof but proper manner, the reserved Stimson believed in protocol. Certain things just weren't done-such as discussing clandestine operations in a cavernous room in which even quietly spoken words seemed to hang for seconds before dissipating into the air like cigar smoke. Stimson tilted his head toward his friend. "Has he been briefed at all about the outcome?"

"No. He wants to hear the whole story all at once, like a kid who doesn't want you to spoil the tale beforehand by telling him just a bit."

"Well." Stimson agreed. "It is a damn good story."

Donovan nodded. "Damn fine operation. If you had asked me at the outset what odds I'd give to a successful conclusion, I would have honestly said five to ten percent."

"I did ask you for odds. And I recall you said zero to five percent."

Donovan shrugged. "Hell, I'm surprised I was that optimistic."

Harry Hopkins, ubiquitous aide to President Franklin Delano Roosevelt, poked his head into the doorway. "The President asked me to relay that he apologizes for his tardiness but he should be with you in no more than five minutes."

Donovan turned to Stimson as Hopkins withdrew. "What do you make of him?"

Stimson thought for a moment. "Extremely efficient. Seems almost to run this place. The President apparently regards him as nearly indispensable. Why do you ask?"

"Too much of a busybody for my taste. Every time I turn around, he seems to be right over my shoulder."

"That's precisely what a commander in chief needs," Stimson said.

"I suppose."

Donovan had been a member of the Fighting 69th National Guard Infantry Regiment from New York in World War I. He was awarded the Medal of Honor after he continually exposed himself to enemy machine-gun fire to reconstitute his platoon and lead them in multiple assaults against the enemy, refusing to be evacuated despite his numerous injuries. He had little patience for those he perceived as perennial office staff, regardless of how valuable their contribution.

President Franklin Delano Roosevelt wheeled himself into the room in the wooden chair he had had specially fitted with wheels. He was pushed superfluously from behind by Laurence Duggan, Harry Hopkins's aide, who placed him at the head of the conference table before retreating from the room and closing the door. FDR's face bore a mischievous grin, causing the ivory cigarette holder clenched between his teeth to tilt upward.

"Why the sour faces, gentlemen? Is it because your Republican brethren seem to be dwindling toward extinction?"

"Given the overabundance of Democrats, Mr. President," Secretary of War Stimson said, "it's peculiar that you had to resort to us as your most critical appointments in a time of war."

FDR threw his head back and laughed. "And thank God, too. Not only do you know what you're doing, but you have the perfect sense of humor for the situation." The President paused to insert a fresh unfiltered Camel into his cigarette holder, light it, and place the holder into its rightful place in the left corner of his mouth. "Now, Bill, give me the Reader's Digest version of your magnificent operation to save the world from totalitarianism. An operation regarding which-let the record show-I had more optimism than you, you eternally pessimistic SOB."

Donovan grunted. "History shows pessimists are almost always vindicated in the end."

"Apparently not this time, thank God." FDR chuckled. "So tell me of this most unexpected success. Don't leave out any important details."

"Before I get started, Mr. President, how's Jimmy?"

Donovan, who on March 24 had been promoted by FDR to Brigadier General William Joseph Donovan, USA, had a fondness for the President's son, who had been temporarily assigned to the OSS. Now a major in the Marine Corps, James Roosevelt II had been awarded the Navy Cross in the Makin Island Raid.

"Jimmy's just fine and sends his respects. Now, tell me about the miracle in Poland."