NUMBER 76/78 TRIPITZUFER WAS SOLID STONE, a gloomy stronghold of a building rising from the banks of a spindly stretch of Berlin’s Landwehr Canal. In the first heady years of the Reich, the Abwehr had moved in, and hundreds of busy, well-bred intelligence officers had orchestrated their furtive plots behind closed mahogany doors. In the hard-pressed fall of 1943, though, the grand spaces of this sober, neoclassical espionage headquarters were largely vacant. Nowhere in Berlin seemed safe, but the building’s long, red flagstone roof may just as well have been a beacon signaling the location of a nest of enemy spies to the Allied bombers. Many of the top officials, including Admiral Canaris, had decamped to the relative safety of the concrete bunkers of the Zossen military complex south of the city. But some refused to be intimidated (or simply weren’t given the choice), and among these diehards were the technical wizards of Abwehr II, the sabotage department.
It was a meeting with an Abwehr II specialist that had brought Otto Skorzeny to Tripitzufer in late October 1943. He needed a bomb.
There were many ways to assassinate a man (as Mike Reilly had learned to his chagrin in the course of his troubled yet compulsive investigation). But when Hitler had anointed the celebrated SS major to lead Operation Long Jump, that meant the killing would be done as Skorzeny thought best.
As Skorzeny moved ahead to shape a tactical plan, he was not encumbered by the large gaps in his operational knowledge. It did not matter to him—at least not at this stage—that he had no idea where the meeting would take place, whether it would be in a city, in the countryside, or even on a ship at sea. Nor was he bothered about his ignorance concerning when the Big Three’s meeting would occur: the next week, the next month, or, for all he knew, the next year. Regardless of the location, regardless of the time he had to get the mission off the ground, he had known from the start how he’d get the job done.
“My knowledge of pain, learned with the sabre,” he had said in an attempt to explain his aggressive battlefield credo, “taught me not to be afraid.” “And just as in dueling when you must concentrate on your enemy’s cheek, so, too, in war. You cannot waste time on feinting and side-stepping.”
He would not sidestep his way through Long Jump. Skorzeny would not sequester himself on a rooftop with a sniper’s rifle, an unseen hunter stalking his prey. He would not slyly poison the food or the water. Neither would he sit impassively next to a pilot at ten thousand feet and order “Bombs away!” Nor would he call in the coordinates for an artillery attack, then watch from a safe distance as the powerful 88s blew the Allied leaders to kingdom come.
The most significant commando operation of the war, perhaps even in history, would define his legend for all times. He was determined to kill the enemy as a warrior would. It was important to him that in their last moments Roosevelt, Churchill, and Stalin know that Otto Skorzeny had come for them. He would stare into their eyes, and watch them die.
And for that he needed a special bomb.
CANARIS HAD INSTRUCTED General Erwin von Lahousen, the Austrian-born aristocrat who headed Abwehr II, to arrange to have one of his senior explosives experts available for a meeting with Skorzeny. And, of course, Skorzeny’s reputation had preceded him; his personal involvement made the importance of the forthcoming operation apparent. The specialist’s full cooperation was assured. But there was also a significant restraint on the discussion: Skorzeny could not divulge the exact nature of the mission he’d be undertaking. Not more than a half-dozen officials—including the Führer—in the entire Reich knew about the plot to assassinate the Allied leaders, and maintaining that secrecy was essential. The mere rumor of what was in the works would have the Allies running to ratchet up their protective measures; perhaps they’d even rethink the wisdom of the three heads of state getting together in one place. Skorzeny, therefore, could talk only in a broad, deliberately circumscribed manner and hope that would be sufficient to convey the sort of weapon he needed. He offered a riddle, but with few clues.
Skorzeny began, according to the memories of those briefed on the discussion, by explaining that he wanted to attack a group of people. At close quarters.
OK, the expert agreed, an antipersonnel device. Are you thinking a concussion bomb? That would do the most damage in an enclosed space, generate the greatest number of casualties.
No, said Skorzeny. Casualties were not an option. He needed kills. His targets must be eliminated. It was of no concern to him whether the bystanders survived or not.
A fragmentation bomb, then, the expert decided. One that had a tight kill zone. He thought a minute and said he had an idea: the Goliath. It was a remote control device that ran on treads. Armored, virtually indestructible. Carried an explosive payload that would immobilize a tank. And it was relatively light—about 150 pounds.
Skorzeny said that wouldn’t work. For one thing, it was too heavy. He might parachute in to the target area. Or possibly he’d be coming in by small boat. He was not sure at this point, but he needed to be prepared for any eventuality. He needed something lightweight. Easy to transport. And, although it went unsaid, he might just as well have added that he was not a soldier who did his killing by remote control.
Will you have a long window of opportunity? Time to detonate several bombs? the expert asked.
Skorzeny said he couldn’t be sure, but he hoped he’d have time to make at least two attempts before executing his escape. Perhaps he’d have time for more. Then again, he quickly corrected himself, maybe there’d be just the single chance. He sounded, he must have realized, haplessly imprecise.
The specialist, though, continued in his matter-of-fact way; there is a natural companionship when professionals talk about killing. You will require a long-running fuse? he simply asked.
No, countered the SS major. He’d prefer if the device detonated instantaneously. Then he thought for a moment and once again overruled himself. A variable fuse would be better. He could not predict how much time he’d require, he disclosed.
And the explosive charge? Would the targets be in the open? Or in a vehicle? A room?
Skorzeny conceded that at the moment that, too, remained unresolved. In fact, he might not know the location of his targets until the day of the attack. He needed, he said not for the first time, to be prepared for several possibilities.
A heavy explosive charge would increase the weight of the weapon, the Abwehr specialist worried. Which could create a problem in transport. He played with this problem in silence. Then: What if the bomb had a flexible charge, if the amount of munition could be adjusted on the day of the mission to suit the operational circumstances?
That would work, Skorzeny agreed. He might have been talking to Wilhelm Holters, his tailor on Tauentzienstrasse who sewed his bespoke uniforms. The conversation had a similar polite, earnest quality. Only now he wasn’t discussing the cut of his tunic. He was planning to murder three very important men.
The expert said he had a final question: Do you require the device to be relatively silent? Would that be necessary to facilitate your escape?
Quite the opposite, Skorzeny said. The louder the better would be preferable. He wanted panic. He needed the bystanders to be running for their lives, looking for safety. He’d make his getaway in the bedlam.
The expert asked for a moment to review all the requirements. When he finally spoke, he shared his conclusion with a pedant’s authority.
What you are looking for, he said, according to several of the Oranienburg commandos who’d later been briefed on the gist of the discussion, is a grenade that is not a grenade. He explained that the typical grenade was a highly mobile weapon, easy to deploy, with a short-burning fuse. A soldier could throw one after another at the enemy—if he wasn’t busy dodging bullets.
All the standard grenades, however, had drawbacks that made them unacceptable for the sort of mission that Skorzeny had outlined. The standard Nazi stick grenade, the famous “potato masher,” was portable enough, and the trinitrotoluene charge would let off a powerful blast in a confined space. But if the target was in a car, particularly an armored car, its effect was more problematic. And it was a very temperamental weapon: in close quarters its detonation, or often merely the heat from the initial blast, could ignite the fuses of any remaining grenades the assassin had in his pockets. Then he could forget about getting a second chance; he’d be the one going up in smoke while the targets escaped.
The expert’s lecture moved on to the Allies’ Mk2 grenade. The regulation “pineapple,” as the cast iron weapon was called because its grooved surface resembled the textured skin of the fruit, could be refitted with a Grenite mixture specifically manufactured for this mission, he said. That would certainly give the grenade more power and the sort of loud, resounding boom the op required. But there would be a standard delay of four to five seconds between pulling the pin and the explosion. And there was no way of altering the timing. Another problem was that the fuse let off a faint hissing sound when it started to burn, and that could alert the targets, give them time to—literally—run for their lives.
The 97 grenade used by the Japanese was quieter, but its fuse had an even longer delay. And in a rough-and-tumble parachute landing, or, to choose another operational possibility, while storming through a barricaded door, the weapon became unreliable. It had a very unstable firing pin; give it a good jolt and the primer was likely to initiate the explosive sequence. You’d have seven seconds to get rid of it. Of course, if you were in the middle of a firefight, then you might not even notice that the weapon had started arming itself before it was too late.
But just as Skorzeny was growing discouraged, his usual brimming confidence for once starting to ebb, the expert found a piece of paper and produced a quick, crude sketch. He drew what at first glance looked like a Humpty Dumpty–shaped creature, wide at the bottom and hips, with a cap on its small head.
It was a Gammon bomb, the expert explained. Named after its inventor, Captain R. S. Gammon of the British First Parachute Regiment. And it was a very ingenious and very effective hand-thrown weapon.
For starters, it packed a terrific punch. It was loaded with a newly developed RDX explosive that was many times more powerful than TNT. But, as Skorzeny had requested, the Gammon bomb’s charge was flexible. The amount of munition it carried could be quickly and easily adjusted. There was a fabric bag—the wide hips of the bomb—under the screw-off cap. This bag could be filled with a small stick of the RDX explosive in addition to, if you wanted to intensify the lethal force in the killing zone, razor-sharp shrapnel projectiles. It would be the perfect weapon for eliminating the enemy in a small, crowded room. But if you filled the bag completely to the brim with RDX, you could take out a tank or, say, several targets in a large space, even if they were protected by a wall of troops.
The fuse was changeable, too. The device could be set to explode on impact. Or it could be set with a delay for intervals up to five minutes. That could conceivably give you an opportunity to plant the device before the arrival of one’s targets and then sneak off before the fireworks.
And it was lightweight, completely portable. Even when packed with enough explosives to put a tank out of commission, the Gammon weighed little more than a pound. Plus, the wide bottom made it easy to grip; it could be hurled with accuracy over thirty yards, farther with a strong throwing arm and practice.
Skorzeny listened intently, and then asked one question: How many Gammon bombs were immediately available? He did not know how long he’d have before he’d need to launch his mission. The timing depended on circumstances beyond his control, he said with a soldier’s resigned battlefield candor.
The exact number? The expert said he didn’t know; he’d have to make a call before he could answer that sort of question.
When he left the room, Skorzeny used the solitude to process all he had learned. He began to visualize the attack in his mind. The targets would be clustered together, perhaps sitting at a table, perhaps eating dinner. They were old men, unable to run. Hell, Roosevelt couldn’t even walk. They would never escape from the blast. At detonation, their bodyguards would be irrelevant, unable to protect themselves, let alone their charges, from the salvo of knife-sharp projectiles flying toward them.
Tactics quickly clarified; it was as if Skorzeny drew energy from the process of coming to terms with the attack. Over the course of just moments it took a hardening shape. He and his handpicked group of commandos would have the responsibility of hurling the bombs. The Vlasov Russians would handle the soldiers, and most likely they’d be mowed down in the process. So be it; he had little sympathy for any Russians, no matter to whom they pledged their allegiance. All that mattered was that the Russians put up a fight. He needed them to give his team time to get in and, God willing, time to get out. They could do that. Especially if they were well trained, if their responsibilities had been drilled into them. Yes, he felt, his conviction building, with the Gammon bombs it could work.
There were two crates of Gammons at Zossen, the expert reported when he returned. He explained that the bombs had been recovered from a cache dropped into Belgium by the RAF for resistance fighters. The Abwehr had stumbled on them a while back. They had been stored away, sitting in the armory until a suitable opportunity arose for the bombs to be put to good use.
Skorzeny asked how many of the devices were packed in a crate.
Twenty-five, he was told.
A total of fifty bombs! Skorzeny rejoiced. That would certainly be sufficient for the Most Dangerous Man in Europe to become the Most Dangerous Man in History.
How soon can the crates be brought to my headquarters at Oranienburg? he demanded.