THE RUSSIAN GENERAL’S REPORT LEFT Mike stunned and angry. You do your job always knowing it could happen; so when your worst fear comes true, why should you still feel blindsided? But Mike did. He waited a long time before speaking. Yet all the time he was aware: Yes, this was how it was in Pennsylvania, the knife flying through the air straight toward the president. Now it was happening again: the Boss was a target. Only this time there were six assassins.
Nevertheless, Mike was too much of a professional to betray his complicated emotions; and, in truth, he also was not entirely prepared to reveal anything to the NKVD man that was not essential to their collaboration. He ushered the general into a downstairs room in the legation where they could speak without being overheard. They sat opposite one another, as if they were two old acquaintances, nothing in their manner to suggest the gravity of what was at stake, while the Russian did all the talking. Mike listened, while at the same time intently exploring his own thoughts.
Arkadiev had none of Mike’s fears. His analysis of the situation in Tehran was both confident and encouraging. The threat to the Big Three had been eradicated, he baldly proclaimed. After the Russian forces had rounded up the thirty-eight Nazi commandos, the operation had come to an end. Not that the Germans could ever have succeeded—the security garrison surrounding the three leaders was impenetrable. As for the six men who remained at large, they’d be running for their lives. With the other teams in custody, they had to realize the mission was over. Six men against three thousand troops? They’d have understood they wouldn’t have a chance. Besides, the Allies had been alerted. There was no longer any opportunity for surprise. At this moment, the general assured Mike, the six commandos were scrambling to make their way out of Iran and into Turkey. The Russian troops in the north had been put on alert. The border patrols would intercept them. It wouldn’t be long before he received word that the six Nazis were in custody, he guaranteed.
Mike paid close attention to everything the Russian said. He wanted to believe that the general was correct, that the Boss was out of danger. By all the laws of the game, it would seem a disaster had been averted. All that remained was to tie up the loose ends, to apprehend the six Nazis as they attempted to cross into Turkey. But Mike, the longtime student of assassinations, had spent his professional career trying to understand killers. And all he had learned told him that the plot was far from over.
Now it was Mike’s turn to speak. If everything he believed was true, he’d need the general’s help in the days ahead. He began, therefore, by acknowledging the debt owed to the Russian forces. The time he’d spent in the company of politicians had taught him that flattery could be a very effective weapon. Also, his gratitude had the added weight of truth. Mike shuddered to think what might have been if the thirty-eight Nazi commandos had not been detected, if they had successfully infiltrated into Tehran.
With that heartfelt courtesy delivered, he moved on to make his case. At the same time he took care not to be confrontational; in a chauvinistic shouting match with the Russian general, there’d be no winners. This conversation was his summit conference, and, like the following day’s talks among the Big Three, so much hung in the balance.
It is conceivable, Mike began equably, that you are right, according to summaries of the conversation. At this moment the six men are making their way to Turkey. That is certainly one possibility. But I don’t think it’s the most likely. Let me explain.
In the course of your interrogations, you discovered a carefully designed operation. The preparations had gone on for some time. The men had been handpicked. There was extensive weapons training. Safe houses had been arranged. Correct?
The general warily agreed.
So Mike plowed on. Then it can be assumed that these six came to Tehran with a very specific plot in mind. A mission they had been trained to execute.
Now the general stepped in with some force. But the men we apprehended had no knowledge of the operational specifics, he corrected. They didn’t know when the attack would take place. Or where. They would’ve been informed in Tehran. Only the signal to abort had been sent to Berlin. Mission over. No one else would be coming.
Then the general hesitated. There was something in his manner that suggested to Mike he was under some restraint. Perhaps he was unwilling to reveal what else had been discovered during the prisoners’ interrogation. (It’s a matter of record, for example, that he never mentioned Skorzeny’s involvement in the mission.) Whatever Arkadiev had on his mind, though, was not shared. He kept his counsel.
All Mike had to bolster his argument was what the Russian had previously disclosed. He would use it as best he could.
He said: We have to assume the six men at large were handpicked like all the others had been for this mission. Men chosen because they were experienced commandos. Correct?
The Russian nodded.
And no doubt they were well armed when they parachuted into Iran. Like the others.
Another small, confirming nod.
But at the same time they’re not like the others, he continued. They’re different. For one thing, they didn’t enter the country with the men you detained. They were a separate unit. And I suspect they weren’t disguised in Russian uniforms, or else your men would’ve found them by now. You have informed your troops to be wary of men trying to infiltrate their ranks. Right?
The Russian’s guardedness had returned. Then, grudgingly, Arkadiev acknowledged that the troops had been so informed.
So who are these six men? Mike asked rhetorically. They are similar to the ones you apprehended—handpicked, carefully trained veterans. But they’re also not like them. They’re not disguised as Russians. That would suggest, I believe, they were going to play a different role in the plot. I think they were the command team. Therefore, we have to assume they came to Iran fully informed of the entire plot.
What I’m saying is—they came to Iran with a carefully formulated plan to slip past all the security. A way they consider foolproof. A way to get at the Big Three.
The Russian started to speak, but Mike cut him off.
The fact that we haven’t caught them proves something else, he went on. These are six very resourceful men. They don’t panic. They’re patient. All my instincts are telling me—
At last the Russian seemed irritated. Instincts? he as much as challenged. According to one report of the conversation, he made it clear he did not want to explore any arena as nebulous as the American’s feelings.
But Mike ignored the barb. He refused to be diverted. Too much was at stake.
These are not the sort of men who are going to run, he continued. They have a mission. They’re not going to give up. They’re going to execute their assignment. They have the means: they’re heavily armed. And they have the opportunity: an ingenious plan designed in Berlin. I believe they’re hiding out in Tehran—waiting for the moment to attack.
After Mike had laid it out like that, even if the general didn’t agree, he was not prepared to say Mike was wrong. As Mike would later explain, “If anything happened to the President of the United States, we in the Secret Service would be deeply embarrassed, but the Russian Secret Service men would be dead by nightfall.”
It was agreed that new security measures would go into effect. The number of guards surrounding the embassies would be increased. There would be no deliveries of any kind to the buildings; all trucks summarily turned away before they could enter the compounds. Snipers were to be posted day and night on the embassies’ rooftops with orders to open fire immediately at the first indication of any attempt to breach the surrounding wall. Additional roadblocks would be erected to prevent people from entering or leaving the city.
And—their best shot as Mike saw things—a house-to-house search of the city would begin at once. He’d at last be on the offensive. He’d find the killers before they attacked. Before everything depended on his putting his body in front of the Boss. Before it all came down to his taking the bullet. Mike’s agents would accompany the Russian forces as they went door to door throughout Tehran. They would ask the British to help, too. In a city the size of Tehran, it would be, Mike admitted, “a real headache.” But there was no other way to find where the commandos were hiding.
But even as the new security precautions went into effect, even as the men started knocking on one door after another, these actions offered only small balms to Mike’s apprehension. He continued to believe that “half a dozen fanatics with the courage to jump from airplanes could probably figure out some way to get a shot in.” “And,” he also suspected, “it was logical to assume that, with the Nazi ’chutists shooting, one shot would be plenty.”
Unless Mike could stop them.
THAT NIGHT, BERLIN WAS IN FLAMES. The RAF’s bombers had intensified their nocturnal attacks on the city when the Cairo Conference had started and had kept at it as the Big Three arrived in Tehran. Each unforgiving night there was the wail of the sirens, the sputtering dirge of the antiaircraft batteries, and then, inevitably, the thick, powerful growl of the enemy bombers, as many as 750 planes in a dense swarm filling the dark sky for miles. A tense anticipation—until the moment when the bombs rained down, pounding, destroying, annihilating centuries of history. In the morning the firestorms would continue burning, spreading a dangerous mayhem across the city.
Sir Arthur Travers Harris, the head of the RAF Bomber Command, had no regrets. “They sowed the wind, and now they are going to reap the whirlwind,” he promised.
Schellenberg, who lived on edge through the nightly thunder, who in the light of each new day saw the smoldering piles of ash and rubble, had no doubt that an even more tumultuous whirlwind would soon be unleashed. The vindictive nightly attacks were, he predicted, only a prelude to the extraordinary retribution in store for Germany when the Allies won their unconditional surrender.
Unless something could be done.
In this tumult of fears and regrets, his thoughts turned to Long Jump. In a matter of days his ambitious plan had come tumbling down, one disaster after another until it had been broken apart like the city all around him. Ortel’s desperate radio message made it clear the South Team had been captured; by now they’d have paid for their daring with their lives. The North Team had never even managed to radio confirmation that they’d arrived in Iran. They had a transmitter; the only explanation for their silence was that they were dead. Same, too, for Oberg. He’d suddenly gone off air and hadn’t acknowledged any of Wannsee’s priority flashes requesting—pleading would be more accurate, he suspected—an immediate reply. And Skorzeny? He’d simply walked away from the wreckage, always the great survivor.
Nevertheless, Schellenberg tried to convince himself that there remained a reason to be hopeful. He wanted to believe that there was still the possibility, however unlikely, that Holten-Pflug and his team had managed to escape the Allies’ dragnet. That they were alive and kicking under the rubble. Was it, after all, so improbable that they’d discovered Ortel had been blown? That they never had an opportunity to send a signal from his set? That would explain their silence. When he looked at it all that way, it required only a reasonable leap of faith to believe that Holten-Pflug, the implacable aristocrat, and his team were still operational. That they had gone to ground with the plan locked in their minds. That they were at this moment in Tehran waiting for the prearranged moment to attack.
Encouraged, lifted out of his mood of morose resignation, a sudden memory rose up in his thoughts. There he was at the Lake Quenz commando school listening as the imperious instructor, bursting with confidence, unwavering in his conviction, lectured a student. “Fifty men!” vowed Sturmbannführer Rudolf von Holten-Pflug. “That’s all I need. Fifty men who are able and willing. Men who have the courage and the know-how to worm their way into the right places. One small bullet from one small revolver can do more damage than a whole regiment of artillery.”
Holten-Pflug did not have his fifty men. But he had courage and know-how. Yes, Schellenberg wanted to believe, if anyone could still succeed, it would be Holten-Pflug.
IN THE STILLNESS OF THE Tehran night, the man who had once promised he could change history with fifty men was lying low. He felt threatened, his sense of desperation mounting. Gorechi, the native interpreter, had found an abandoned mud hut on the periphery of the city. It was barely standing, but Holten-Pflug agreed it would have to do.
He’d arranged for the men to sleep in shifts; that way there’d be someone always on guard, and the team had hunkered down for the night. But Holten-Pflug couldn’t sleep. His mind was a ferment of questions and anxieties. He suspected that if they stayed in place, they’d be discovered in the morning. There were too many huts nearby, all apparently crowded with inhabitants. They would need to leave before daybreak. But where would they go? The journey across the surprisingly cold city to this temporary refuge had been made in a constant state of looming peril. He had suspected danger around every corner, peering out at him from every window. The awareness that he was leading his team through hostile territory patrolled by enemy soldiers had kept him keyed to every stray sound. He had to take stock. The increasing likelihood that they’d be caught before they could strike forced him to consider changing the plan. What if they tried storming one of the embassies tomorrow? But even as he threw out the idea, he could not muster up any false hopes. He knew how that sort of wild attack would end. They’d all be dead before they had gotten off a shot. His only chance of success, he reasoned, lay in his following the operation as it had been worked out in Oranienburg. He needed to keep to the timetable Schellenberg had set. And that meant waiting. But where could they hide in the meantime?
His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a truck pulling close to the hut. At his hushed command, the others were instantly on their feet, their weapons leveled. They were prepared to make a last stand.
In to the hut walked Gorechi. Following him was a bear of a man, broad and bearded. The nighttime shadows obscured his face except for a halo of dark, curly hair and glowing, dangerous eyes.
Earlier, Holten-Pflug had sent Gorechi out into the city; Iran was still the interpreter’s other life, he could move about undetected. His instructions had been to find a place where they could stay until it was time to launch their attack. Gorechi, therefore, had made the rounds, appearing at the homes of the men he had known years ago in the Melliyun movement, the native pro-Nazi party. He had asked if he and some friends could hide for a few days. He did not reveal it was a group of German soldiers who were seeking refuge, but it would not have been a leap for anyone to have presumed as much. After all, the Russians had already started going house to house, looking for foreigners. Everyone refused.
Then he went to the home of Misbah Ebtehaj, the Pahlevani wrestler. This was the native who had been one of Franz Mayr’s longtime assets, the same man Ernst Merser had recruited for the bold rescue of Lili Sanjari. And, like the two spies before him, Gorechi bought the wrestler’s cooperation. He offered him 1,000 pounds and the promise of a job. After the Nazis won the war, the authorities in Berlin would make sure Ebtehaj was appointed Tehran’s chief of police. The British pounds were counterfeit and the prospect of the Reich ever deciding municipal appointments in Iran was ludicrous, but the wrestler either didn’t suspect that anyone would dare to fool him, or he figured that at any odds it was a gamble worth taking. Whatever his reasoning, he agreed to help.
Ebtehaj would not, however, let the men stay in his house. He had a wife and four daughters; he did not think it would be appropriate to have six unknown men in close proximity. And he had heard about the house searches; it wouldn’t be long before the Russians would be knocking on his door. But, always enterprising, he had a better idea. He knew somewhere that would be secure, the perfect safe haven.
When he shared his suggestion with Gorechi, the translator agreed. It would be the last place the Russians, or for that matter any of the foreigners, would think to look.
The commandos piled into the wrestler’s truck. The night was still dark, and they tried to believe it offered them a chance to make their escape unnoticed. The drive across the city, though, kept them on high alert. The streets were empty, and Holten-Pflug couldn’t decide if that was a blessing or a curse. He feared the truck roaring down the vacant streets would attract attention from enemy patrols. He kept telling Ebtehaj to drive slowly, but the wrestler pretended he didn’t understand. They finally arrived without incident at an address on Farahzadi Street.
Holten-Pflug stared at a strange, unfamiliar building. It had a round base and high walls that tapered at a steep angle as they rose, climbing to a roof that seemed as sharp as the point of a spear. At first he thought it might be a mosque, but then the wrestler explained.
The major considered. Yes, he decided, no one would think to look for us here. He sensed that things had finally turned in his favor. He had found the perfect hideout, the perfect place to lie up until it was time.
He ordered his men to grab the equipment and hurry inside.
AND AS THE CLOCKS IN the city struck midnight, the phones rang in the American and British embassies in Tehran. The caller was Vyacheslav Molotov, the Soviet foreign commissar. He needed to speak with Averell Harriman and Sir Archibald Clark Kerr, the American and British ambassadors to the Soviet Union. Both men had already gone to sleep, determined to get a good night’s rest. The first session of the Tehran Conference would begin in the morning. But Molotov insisted they must be awakened. He had to see them right away.
With the new day still enveloped in darkness, the two ambassadors, now wide awake with alarm, rushed to the Russian embassy.
It was November 28.