INTRODUCTION
Washington,
DC
November
1940
Hitler has
knocked the free world onto its heels as he continues his
blitzkrieg across
Europe. His list of conquests already includes Czechoslovakia,
Poland, Denmark, Norway, France, Belgium, Luxembourg and the
Netherlands. Now his army is peering across the English Channel at
its next target, while Neville Chamberlain’s policy of appeasement
has left Britain woefully unprepared for the coming onslaught. For
several months the Luftwaffe has
been bombing London nightly from its airstrips in
Pas-de-Calais. A massive land invasion is the logical next step.
The United
States is officially neutral, but president Roosevelt is doing
everything in his power to assist the hawkish new Prime Minister,
Winston Churchill. A massive convoy program sends boatloads of
food, clothing and other supplies across the Atlantic. The
Lend-Lease Act, still working its way through Congress, will extend
unlimited credit to Britain for the purchase of American military
hardware.
The covert
war, however, is well underway. The U.S. Army Signals Intelligence
Service (SIS) has sent a detachment of cryptography specialists to
Bletchley
Park to assist in the breaking of German codes and ciphers.
That’s how I ended up here, doing what I’m doing now.
I’m
Biff St. Clair, First
Lieutenant, U.S. Army SIS. When I arrived at BP, the place was
overflowing with kooks, misfits, longhairs and pretty-boys. They
didn’t need, or want, me there. I volunteered to go back home,
but that didn’t fly. They sent me instead to visit Sir Frank
Nelson, head of Churchill’s Special Operations
Executive (SOE), a clandestine army of kooks, misfits,
longhairs and pretty-boys. Their mission: "set Europe ablaze,"
i.e., do anything and everything possible to disrupt Hitler’s
Third
Reich.
Not sure how
I got so lucky (my whole life, so far, has been a series of lucky
breaks) but SOE matched me with Mynx d’Meanor, a delectable little
morsel from Singapore, a far east outpost of the British Empire. We
are a team of covert “field agents.” Our mission: work behind enemy
lines to help resistance groups in the Nazi-occupied countries set
up secret communication networks.
I immediately fell
head-over-heels in love with Mynx – and I think the feeling is
mutual. Despite that, we work together well, and have been highly
effective in our first few assignments. Mynx is sharp as a razor
and tough as nails, a 100-pound package of TNT with a short
fuse.
Right now we
are “on loan” to the SIS. That’s why we’re here in Arlington –
waiting for our next assignment.
Arlington
Hall, Arlington, Virginia
Saturday
11/02/40, 2:45 PM
“Biff!” It’s the third time Mynx has slapped my wandering
hands. “If you’ll keep your mind on business and help me with
this, maybe we can get out of here in an hour or
so!”
“Deal!” I agree. “One hour of intense effort, then we’re
out of here!” Besides, my hands are getting
sore.
It’s a magnificent autumn day in northern Virginia. Not a
cloud in the turquoise sky, a brisk northwestern breeze. The
maples are ablaze in red and yellow, which reminds me that,
compliments of Lt. Col. Duncan Lee, Mynx and I have tickets
for tomorrow’s
Redskins-Pittsburgh Pirates game.
Today, however, we are stuck in this cramped office at
Arlington
Hall, working on the debriefing report from our last
assignment. In that caper we provided radio communications
for the Croix-de-Feu
in their botched assassination attempt of Pierre Laval, the
despised Nazi collaborator. Despite our best efforts it was a
typical French operation – FUBAR from the
beginning. Now, as Mynx puts it, we’ve got some ‘explaining’
to do.
Since lunch
I’ve been lobbying Mynx to knock off early and take a bus back to
DC. We both want to see the Reflecting Pool and climb Washington’s
Monument. She, on the other hand, is adamant that we finish our
report first. Mynx is right, of course (big sigh).
Office of
the Chancellor, Berlin, Germany
Saturday
11/02/40, 11:48 PM
Adolph Hitler
, a night owl at heart,
holds his most important meetings late at night. He arrives
rested and sharp, while his subordinates, having worked all
day, are exhausted and want only to go to bed. This tactic
helps assure their compliance with his crackpot orders and
demands. Tonight the commanding officers of the
Wehrmacht are assembled to hear the Fuehrer
announce a plan that will shape the destiny and determine the
fate of his “Thousand Year Reich.”
After a
glowing recap of their recent conquests, Hitler comes to the point
and purpose of tonight’s meeting. He reveals BARBAROSSA, his codename for Germany's plan to invade
the Soviet Union. It has long been the centerpiece of
Lebensraum,
the motivation behind his plan to dominate Europe.
“Generals of
the Oberkommando der Wehrmacht!” he is shouting and
obviously excited. “It is my dictate that we commence OPERATION
Barbarossa no
later than June 1st, 1941!”
At this the
generals leap to their feet, deliver the stiff-armed Nazi salute
and offer a lusty “Sieg Heil, Fuehrer!” in
response.
Office of
the Chancellor, Berlin, Germany
Sunday
11/03/40, 1:23 AM
Hitler’s
midnight pep rally is over. Despite their simulated enthusiasm in
his presence, the military leaders are shaken at hearing of the
Fuehrer's plan to invade Russia. As the meeting adjourns
they file out of the conference room in silence. A few officers
gather into small groups, whispering among themselves. Most leave
the building immediately. Perhaps the phrase ‘impending
doom’ best describes the true feeling that permeates the crowd
tonight.
Afterwards,
General Franz Halder, head of the Army General Staff, Luftwaffe Air
Marshall Hermann Goering, Foreign Minister Joachim von Ribbentrop
and Abwehr chief Wilhelm Canaris, meet privately with the
Fuehrer to discuss details of BARBAROSSA. Hitler,
oblivious to the negative impact of his announcement, is still
excited. He raves about the operation and seems to carom off the
walls with uncontrolled energy. Ten minutes into his overheated
monologue, the frustrated Halder raises a hand to
interrupt.
“But
mein Fuehrer,” the General objects, “with all
respect, we must consider the implications of fighting a war
against two mighty enemies at the same time – the Soviets to our
east and the Allies to our west.”
The room is
suddenly silent with tension – and fear. Hitler glares at Halder
for a moment that seems like an eternity to those present. He is
obviously upset, as much for the disruption of his soliloquy as by
the nature of the comment. Halder visibly wilts.
“Thank you,
mein lieber Halder,” his voice is dripping with
vitriolic sarcasm, “for bringing this elementary fact to my
attention.”
“You may not
be aware,” he explains, “that I have been planning this operation
for many years. You must understand that without American military
and industrial might the Allies are but a Paper Tiger. My plan
includes a brilliant strategy to neutralize the Americans
before they become involved in our war.”
“Please
Fuehrer,” General Goering interjects, hoping to soothe
Hitler’s temper and put him back on track. “You must share your
most ingenious strategy with us!”
“Ja,
Gentlemen.” Hitler brightens noticeably as he resumes his train of
thought. “The time has come for us to review the details of this
intricate operation. All of you, I am certain, are familiar with
the Zimmermann Telegram…
A sharp
intake of collective breaths is followed by stunned silence as the
Fuehrer delivers his own version of the half-baked scheme
that contributed much to Germany’s defeat in the Great War. Only
the mutton-headed Ribbentrop remains unperturbed.
“Who is
Zimmermann?” he asks Canaris in a low whisper. “Does he work for
you?”
Foreign
Ministry, Berlin, Germany
Sunday 11/03/40, 11:26 AM
Joachim von Ribbentrop sits behind the desk in his
elegantly appointed office. Oblivious to history and the
current situation, he puts the finishing touches on a message
that, once delivered, will initiate a series of events
leading to the destruction of Germany and Hitler’s evil
empire. He places his swastika-embossed fountain pen in its
holder then presses a button on the desktop
intercom.
“Miss Gruner,” he says. “Come into my office,
please.”
“Ja, Herrminister,” a sexy feminine voice
replies.
Seconds later the owner of that voice enters the room.
Lillian Gruner is a platinum blonde bombshell, tall and
shapely, with a balcony that you could recite Shakespeare
from. None of this is wasted on Ribbentrop, who hired Lillian
precisely for her textbook Aryan
attributes.
He once brought Lillian to a meeting at the Chancellery,
hoping to impress Hitler with his new trophy. Ribbentrop was
shocked to find instead that the Fuehrer was highly
aggravated by her presence. He is, in fact, a lifelong
misogynist who, by all accounts, lives a life of strict
celibacy. The
following day Hitler sent Ribbentrop a note, stating that
Miss Gruner is not to attend future
meetings.
Ribbentrop is too
dim to realize it, but Lillian has an IQ that, if it were a bowling
score, would easily crown her the PBA champion. She hides her
powerful intellect from most people, using her stunning appearance
as camouflage. In recent days, however, she has revealed her hopes
and fears to the fatherly Wilhelm Canaris, over wine and
candlelight dinners. He has much larger plans for Lillian – as a
future Abwehr
agent.
“Miss Gruner,” despite his baser
instincts, Ribbentrop has always maintained a proper formal
relationship with Lillian. “Please apply my special cipher to this
message, then have it transmitted as soon as
possible.”
“I
will do this immediately,
Herrminister.”
She turns on a stiletto heel.
“And Lillian,” He eyes her sternly. “This is highly
confidential. You must return the original to
me.”
“Ja, Herrminister,” Lillian leaves the room to
begin her task.
“Herrminister ist solch ein
Dummkopf!” Lillian thinks as
she returns to her desk in the outer office. She pulls a red
leather journal from the wall safe hidden behind a
larger-than-life-sized portrait of Die
Fuehrer. Sometimes she
wonders if that penetrating gaze can read her mind. She knows for a
fact that her phone is bugged and that there is a microphone hidden
in the base of the lamp on her desk. Ribbentrop tells her that this
is merely standard Gestapo procedure.
Lillian pins the
message to a small typist’s easel then opens her journal to the
substitution table corresponding to today’s date.
She looks at Ribbentrop’s
message for the first time. On the second reading her hands begin
to tremble and small beads of perspiration appear on her upper lip.
She struggles to regain her composure as she returns the book and
the message to her wall safe. Then she taps on Ribbentrop’s
door.
“Herrminister,” there is a slight strain in her
voice. “I am going to lunch now. May I bring something back
for you?”
“Danke Fräulein Gruner,” Ribbentrop looks up and
flashes a brief smile. “You are kind to think of me, but I
must leave soon for a luncheon with Air Marshall Goering at
Carinhall. I will be out for the rest of the
day.”
“Sehr gutter Herrminister,” with this news she
relaxes somewhat. “Your message will be transmitted within
the hour.”
“That will be sufficient,” he returns his attention to
the report he is reading.
Lillian dons sensible shoes and her knee-length ermine
coat then ventures out into the grey blustery weather. She
walks several blocks then turns into a narrow side street.
There she enters a phone booth and dials a number that is
etched into her memory. She lets the phone on the other end
ring twice then hangs up. Seconds later the pay phone rings.
She picks up the handset and puts it to her
ear.
“Canaris,” a gravelly man’s voice. Lillian’s knees
go weak.
Griffith Stadium, Washington,
D.C.
Sunday 11/03/40, 3:15 PM
“What a
great game!” I leap to my feet as "Slingin’ Sammy" Baugh completes
yet another forward pass. “GO REDSKINS!! YEAH!!”
“I don’t
understand,” Mynx complains. “Why do they keep hitting each
other?”
“Like I told
you,” I’ve tried to explain this to her before. “It’s a contact
sport. Uniquely American – What!?” a sharp tap on the
shoulder disrupts me in mid-sentence.
“You two.
Come with me, please.” A gruff-looking Army sergeant motions us
toward the nearest exit.
We jump to
our feet and follow the soldier to a Jeep that sits idling at the
main entrance. We know enough not to ask questions when the
military summons. The sergeant grinds the transmission into gear,
roars out of the parking lot and turns south onto Georgia
Avenue.
It’s a long
ride on a chilly day and the Jeep has no heater to speak of. Soon
Mynx and I are huddling in the back seat for warmth. We find a
heavy wool blanket in the back and wrap ourselves in it. One thing
leads to another and pretty soon we’re necking passionately. I’m
clumsily unbuttoning buttons and struggling to unsnap those pesky
little snaps. Mynx is writhing with anticipation, which only makes
my job more difficult.
“I’d like to
know who designs women’s clothes,” I complain. “It certainly wasn’t
a man!”
“You just
need more practice, Silly!” Mynx giggles. She is like putty in my
hands at times like this.
“Play time
is over!” the sergeant grinds the little Jeep to a halt. “This is
the end of the line!”
After a
quick rearrangement of clothing, we enter Lieutenant Colonel Duncan
Lee’s office at the SIS training camp, near Quantico. I still have
vivid, though mixed, memories of my days here.
“Mynx! Biff!
Great to see you both again!” Lee ushers them into his
office.
“Hope you
enjoyed the football game.” An aide enters with sandwiches and
coffee. “How about a snack?”
“Sounds
great!” I grab a bologna and cheese on wheat. “So was the
game.”
“I don’t
understand that sport at all,” Mynx complains. “Why is it called
football, anyway?”
“That
is confusing,” Lee admits. “But frankly, I brought you two
down here to discuss something even more confusing – and possibly
much more important.”
“Fire away,
Dunc.” I say, munching on the sandwich. “I’m all ears.”
“This just
came in today,” he scans a telegram as he speaks. “The details are
still sketchy, but it looks like we’ve got Nazis smuggling gold
into the southeastern US.” Suddenly he’s got my complete attention
… and Mynx’s.
“That’s all
we know at the moment.” He studies the report more closely then
looks up. “The FBI says Abwehr agents are landing all along
our southern Atlantic and Gulf coasts. They’re rowing to shore in
rubber rafts launched from U-boats.”
“Saboteurs?”
Mynx asks.
“Maybe,” Lee
continues. “They’ve found a dozen rafts already. All
Kriegsmarine issue.”
“What about
the gold?” I ask.
“This
morning they captured a couple of these spies near Biloxi. Each was
carrying about twenty-five pounds of rare gold coins.” Lee lays the
paper back on his desk. “They also had maps directing them to a
small village in Tennessee.”
“Sounds
like,” I conclude, “We’d better take the last train to
Clarksville and check it out.”
“White
House, actually.” Lee smiles at the future pun.
Bletchley Park, Buckinghamshire,
England
Monday 11/04/40, 8:07 AM
Alastair Denniston, head of the Government Code and
Cypher School (GC&CS),
stirs his tea absentmindedly as he skims the summary of
wireless messages deciphered during the night. A light tap on
the door derails his train of
thought.
“Good morning, Peter.” Denniston motions Peter
Calvocoressi, one of his most talented cryptanalysts,
to a nearby chair. “A spot of tea, my
boy?”
“Thank you, Sir,” waving it aside. “Couldn’t hold another
drop, if you know what I mean.”
“Indeed.” Denniston squirms uncomfortably. TB (tiny
bladder) is a terrible affliction, common amongst
middle-aged British men.
“Here’s an interesting catch, Sir,” Calvocoressi passes a
paper across the desk. “Just in from Beeston
Bump.”
“Hmm… what do you make of it, Peter?” Denniston examines
the enciphered communication thoughtfully. “Could it be
another in the BONIFACE
series?”
“Perhaps,” Peter replies. “But I’m not so
sure.”
OKH
Headquarters, Zossen, Germany
Monday
11/04/40, 4:48 PM
“The man is
truly deranged!” Pushing aside the Fuehrer’s latest orders
to Abwehr, Wehrmacht Field Marshall Walther von
Brauchitsch sits at his desk groaning, head in hands.
“That’s why
we must stop him for good.” The Admiral sits calmly, smoking a
pungent Turkish cigarette. “We cannot allow Die Sphinkter to destroy our
Fatherland.”
Canaris
retrieves his orders, tucking the paper into his suit coat pocket.
The chief of Abwehr, the German intelligence service, rarely
wears his uniform, except at official military
functions.
“An insane
plan, Wilhelm!” von Brauchitsch recalls. “We all know that the
Zimmermann debacle led to our defeat in the Great War. This is
essentially the same tactic. We can only expect the same
result!”
“All the
more reason why we must revive the conspiracy, Walther.” Canaris
rises and places a bony hand on the General’s shoulder. “This time
we must keep our nerve and our wits about us. We will talk again
soon.”
Canaris
glides silently across the plush carpet and disappears behind the
dark mahogany door.
Hotel
Excelsior, Berlin, Germany
Monday
11/04/40, 7:55 PM
The
statuesque young beauty and the wizened old sailor make an
incongruous couple as they sit in a private booth at the restaurant
of this luxurious hotel. The Admiral’s comforting presence begins
to make Lillian feel that she is doing the right thing, after all.
The champagne reinforces her sentiment.
“Did you
bring Ribbentrop’s message, my dear?” Canaris asks.
“Yes,”
Lillian replies, pulling a slip of paper from inside her pushup
bra. “I copied it word-for-word and hid it here.”
“Excellent!”
without a glance he tucks the paper into his coat pocket. “You are
a resourceful young lady.”
“Everyone
thinks I’m just a ‘dumb blonde,’” she replies. “I don’t bother to
contradict that impression. Frankly, I prefer to have people
underestimate me.”
“A clever
strategy,” Canaris strokes her hand lightly. Then he turns
serious.
“You must
understand,” he continues, “that by coming here tonight you are
committing yourself to the Conspiracy. There is no turning
back.
“Yes,
Admiral.” She nods her assent. “After reading Ribbentrop’s message
I am convinced that this plan will devastate Germany!”
“You speak
the truth, my child,” Canaris whispers. “As of this moment you no
longer work for that idiot Ribbentrop. You now work for the
Conspiracy. We must destroy Hitler before he destroys us
all!”
SIS
Training Site, Quantico, Virginia
Tuesday,
11/05/40, 9:22 AM
Mynx and I
are rested, well fed and finally warm again, after Sunday’s Jeep
ride. Duncan Lee is supposed to brief us on our new assignment
sometime this morning. We’re sitting in an empty office on pins and
needles, like a couple of kids waiting in line to see Santa Claus
at Macy’s.
“Ho! Ho!
Ho!” I give her my best St. Nick imitation. “What do you want
for Christmas, little girl?” Mynx hops on my lap and throws her
arms around my neck.
“First I
want a nice big juicy kiss!” She plants her soft red lips on mine
and offers a long, wet smooch that sets the tone for the rest of
this interview.
“Air!” I
pant. “Santa needs air!”
“Next I want
diamonds!” She kisses me again. “Diamonds the size of
radishes!”
“Ho! Ho!
Ho!” Santa is beginning to smell a rat. “That’s a pretty tall
order from such a tiny lass!”
“And furs!”
Another kiss. “Preferably silver fox.”
“Hey! You
must think Santa is made of money, or something!”
“You better
believe it, Big Boy!” She’s moving in for the kill. “And if Santa
wants what Mynxy’s got, then Santa better give Mynxy what
she wants!”
I’m on thin
ice here and we both know it. What I say next could have a big
impact on my future sex life – and my wallet. Think, Biff! Don’t
blow it!
Just then, a
knock at the door – I’m saved, for the moment. Mynx gives me a
dirty look then hops down to answer it.
“Zip up your
fly, Santa.”
She throws
open the door and there stands Duncan Lee. He steps cautiously into
our office. In his hand, a manila folder stamped with words ‘Top
Secret’ in bright red ink.
“Should I
come back later?” he asks.
“No, no!” I
straighten my tie. “We’ve been waiting for you. Trying to guess
what our next assignment will be.”
“Wait no
longer,” he says. “The information we need just came through a few
minutes ago.”
We gather
around the desk as Duncan pulls a telegram out of his folder and
spreads it out before us.
“This is the
key to our puzzle,” he says. “We believe that this message, once
you decipher it, will give us some clues to what the Krauts are
doing here.” He pauses. “That’s the first part of your
assignment.”
“You want
us to crack this code?” I’m somewhat incredulous. “We’re
field agents, Duncan. Don’t you have more qualified people
to work on this for us?”
“Well, yes…
and no.” He explains. “My staff is covered up trying to track the
Japanese fleet in the Pacific.”
“And BP?”
Mynx asks.
“They
intercepted this same message yesterday morning on the wireless and
passed it on to us,” Lee explains. “But they’re busy – and they say
this is an American affair.”
Note: the
British have cut all of Germany’s undersea communication cables, so
it must rely on radio to send and receive messages beyond its
borders. The Y-Station at Beeston Bump plucked this encrypted
message from the airwaves on Sunday when the Foreign Ministry
broadcast it in Morse code from their powerful transmitter in
Berlin. The German Embassy in neutral Portugal received the message
then relayed it by commercial telegraph to Ambassador Thomsen in
Washington, DC. The FBI intercepted it at this point, as they
routinely monitor all incoming foreign cable communications. They
passed it on to US military intelligence, which forwarded it to SIS
for action.
Duncan
leaves the mysterious message with us. Mynx and I are both
experienced cryptologists, though I’m a bit rusty. As we study it,
Mynx makes notes on her steno pad.
“Seems
strange that they’ve left the words and sentence structure intact,”
she observes.
“Unless it’s
a clever trick,” I note, “to throw us off track.”
“I’m seeing
the same ‘words’ more than once,” she jots down another
note.
“You’re
right!” I see them now. “OYI, CE, GL … and can I see other letter
patterns repeated within the larger words!”
The Ribbentrop
Telegram
“Seems
impossible,” Mynx observes, “that a high-level diplomat would use
such a simple encryption.”
“Looks like
Duncan had a hunch,” I pull another sheet from the folder. “Here’s
a letter frequency chart for the message.”
“… Seems to
support what I’m thinking,” she notes.
“Let’s get
started,” I grab a pencil. “This won’t take long,” I
hope.
Mynx pulls a
large easel-mounted flip chart from the corner and we attack the
cipher in much the same way you’d solve a cryptogram from the
Sunday newspaper. Within the hour the task is finished. We both
stare in disbelief at the plain text message we’ve
extracted.
Abwehr Headquarters, Berlin, Germany
Tuesday,
11/05/40, 9:37 AM
Admiral
Canaris is skimming the morning intelligence digest when his
deputy, Hans Oster, bursts through the door without knocking.
Canaris waits for Oster to speak. “Must be important news,” he
thinks.
“Admiral!”
Oster barely contains his excitement. “Did you look at the note
that Miss Gruner gave you last night?”
“No,”
Canaris replies. “I already know what’s in it. That’s why I gave it
to you to.”
“Take a
look!” Oster hands the note back to the Admiral.
Canaris
unfolds the faintly perfumed notepaper and stares at the clean,
unadorned script for a moment. A faint smile spreads slowly across
his deeply creased face.
“She did it,
Hans.” The Admiral looks up. “She did what I asked of her.” Oster
is grinning broadly.
“Lillian
omitted the second cipher,” Canaris continues, “the superencryption that would have protected Ribbentrop’s
message from the Brits and Yankees. Now Hitler is stripped naked
for all the world to see.”
“Think of
it, Admiral.” Oster sits on the edge of the desk, her note in hand.
“With her simple ‘mistake,’ Miss Gruner has sabotaged the
Fuehrer’s grand plan of world domination.”
“An innocent
mistake,” Canaris agrees, “but a mistake that required much courage
to commit.”
SIS
Training Site, Quantico, Virginia
Tuesday,
11/05/40, 10:49 AM
“Good work,
kids!” Duncan Lee studies the message we’ve just decrypted. “I’m
sure FDR will be very interested in this!”
“Got your
bags packed?” We both nod. “Good! I’ve got a plane waiting to fly
you to Fort Campbell. From there you drive to White House,
Tennessee and snatch that gold from right under their
noses!”
“When do we
leave?” Mynx asks. I already know.
“How does
now sound?” Duncan opens the door. Our friend the sergeant
is standing in the hall. He motions toward his Jeep, idling outside
the front door.
“Wait a
minute, Duncan!” I’m confused. “What are we supposed to do when we
get there?”
“That’s
right,” Mynx joins in. “We don’t have enough info to find the
gold.”
“Just go!”
Duncan pushes us out the door. “Call me when you get there. I
should have more news for you then.”
White House
Inn, White House, Tennessee
Tuesday,
11/05/40, 6:06 PM
“Good
evening!” the desk clerk greets us as we enter the lobby of the
rustic White House Inn. “You folks need a room for the
night?”
“That would
be great!” I reply. “The name is St. Clair. We don’t have
reservations.”
“Biff St.
Clair?” the clerk pulls an envelope from his ‘Guest’ mailbox. “This
came in from the telegraph office just about an hour
ago.”
He
hands me a Western Union envelope. In our room, I tear it open and
unfold a telegram on the small writing desk. We examine the new
message closely.
Telegram from Duncan Lee
“Looks pretty similar to the
Ribbentrop cipher,” Mynx suggests.
“Especially
the first message,” I agree. “Do you still have the key we
made?”
“It’s in my
purse,” she starts digging. “In… here … somewhere – here it
is!”
We discover
that the second message has a different key, but this is a minor
inconvenience. We soon decipher both messages and find that they
contain the information we need to solve this mystery – most of the
information, that is. We still have to do some old-fashioned
gumshoe detective work to locate the hidden cache of
gold.
“Mynx,” I
observe. “These must be the directions that were recovered from the
captured Abwehr spies.”
“Of course
they are, silly!” I look at Mynx, but she’s not smiling. “You
realize, Biff, that we have to find the secret cache and snatch the
gold before someone else comes looking for it.”
“This could
be dangerous.” I pat my trusty Walther P38, lodged securely in its
shoulder holster. Mynx carries a tiny 22-caliber revolver in her
purse.
“We better
get started,” Mynx whispers. “NOW!”
“You’re
right,” I agree. “Every minute counts!”
“It will be
completely dark in a few minutes,” Mynx peers through a crack in
the blinds. “Let’s change into our field clothes and head
out.”
My ‘spy
uniform’ consists of black wool chinos, turtleneck sweater and
stocking cap. A little charcoal on the face and I’m practically
invisible at night. I watch as Mynx slips into her black
form-fitting jumpsuit. It accentuates her slinky feline physique. I
love this job.
“Quit
salivating!” she snaps. “Let’s go!”
“Right!” I
concur. “We can sneak down the back stairs and out the kitchen
door.”
THE
MISSION
If you’ve
managed to come this far with Biff and Mynx, dear reader, we must
assume that you’re planning to solve this little conundrum. Your
mission, should you elect to continue, is quite simple. You must
complete the work begun by Biff and Mynx. That is:
- Decipher both telegrams
- Find the hidden cache
- Recover the gold before it falls into the
wrong hands
The
Ribbentrop telegram describes Hitler’s secret plan to ‘neutralize’
the U.S. military and keep America out of his war in Europe. In it
you’ll also discover why dozens of Abwehr agents are hiding
gold coins at White House, Tennessee as part of this plan. Duncan
Lee’s telegram contains the instructions found on two German spies
when they are captured on American soil. These messages describe
the exact location of the hidden gold.
Once you’ve
deciphered the Ribbentrop telegram, you’ll understand why time is
short. You must not procrastinate, but instead proceed immediately
to recover the hidden gold. You’ll most likely encounter
Abwehr spies and other unsavory characters at the cache
site. They’ll be armed and extremely dangerous. Be sure to carry a
pistol. A couple of concussion grenades might come in handy. You
may have a real fight on your hands, so come prepared.
BACKGROUND: Joachim
von Ribbentrop
Ulrich
Friedrich Wilhelm Joachim von Ribbentrop (April 30, 1893 – October
16, 1946) was Foreign Minister of Germany from 1938 until 1945. He
was hanged for war crimes after the Nuremberg trials.
Ribbentrop
is a fervent Nazi who successfully navigated the political
patronage system to advance to his current position of Foreign
Minister. Prior to that, he traveled across Europe for many years
as a salesman of champagne, wines and spirits. As such, he speaks
fluent French, English and Italian. He projects a polished demeanor
that is easily mistaken for sophistication. But Ribbentrop is, in
fact, an archetypical Nazi thug and arguably the most feebleminded
officer in Hitler’s administration.
The Foreign
Minister has access to Enigma encryption, a method that the British
have been unable to crack, despite a massive effort. The Enigma
machine is cumbersome, however, and he, like other top Nazi
officials, prefers his own simpler system for private,
off-the-record communications. Only Ribbentrop is so foolish to use
his for official correspondence of this magnitude.
The logical
source for a personal cipher is the Abwehr spymaster,
Wilhelm Canaris. It is, in fact, almost a cottage industry for him.
He happily provides these ‘boutique’ ciphers not only for
Ribbentrop, but also for Goering, Heinrich Himmler, Joseph Goebbels
and other top Nazi henchmen. They payoff for Canaris – he can
decipher their private exchanges and keep a close eye on the
darkest side of the National Socialist movement.
BACKGROUND: WILHELM
CANARIS
Wilhelm
Franz Canaris (January 1, 1887 – April 9, 1945) was a German
admiral and head of the Abwehr, the German military intelligence
service, from 1935 to 1944.
His long
career in espionage dates to World War I, where he served as an
intelligence officer in the German Imperial Navy and survived
several deadly encounters with MI6, the British secret intelligence
service.
Though never
a party member, Canaris originally supported Hitler’s National
Socialist movement, as the best organization to fight communism and
revive Germany as a nation. By 1938, however, he realized Hitler's
policies would bring catastrophe to Germany and secretly began to
work against the regime. His Prussian demeanor as an officer and a
gentleman provides a stark contrast to the thuggish nature of most
Nazi leaders.
Throughout
WWII Canaris conspired with top Wehrmacht generals to kidnap
or assassinate Hitler, then negotiate peace with the Allies. The
Gestapo
had long suspected him of passing military secrets to the British.
In early 1944 he was arrested, tried and sentenced to
death.
BACKGROUND: LILLIAN GRUNER
What did
Lillian do with Ribbentrop’s telegram that threatens to destroy the
Third Reich? In a word – superencryption. That is, she failed to superencrypt
Ribbentrop’s message before it was broadcast worldwide.
Superencryption would have protected Hitler’s devious plan from
prying British and American eyes; long enough, at least, for the
operation to have a chance for success.
She did this
on purpose, of course, at the Admiral’s suggestion. Canaris knew
that without superencryption British and American intelligence
would decipher Ribbentrop’s telegram almost as quickly as would
ambassador Thomsen.
BACKGROUND: DUNCAN
LEE
Who is
Duncan Lee? Few people know that the unassuming, intellectual SIS
colonel is a direct descendant of General Robert E.
Lee, leader of the Confederate Army and to many, a true
hero of the American Civil War.
Even fewer
realize that Duncan is the latest in an unbroken chain of General
Lee’s heirs to serve as supreme commander of the Knights of the Golden Circle (KGC), a secret society
founded in the 1850s promoting the secession of southern states
to form the Confederacy. As such, Duncan Lee may well be
considered the leader-in-exile of the long defunct Confederate
States of America.
What
dangerous game is Lee playing in this espionage adventure? Double
agent? Triple agent? No one really knows, as his full role in this
and other covert projects is, even today, highly classified
information. We leave it to the reader to contemplate and
decide.
Norcott
Close, Dunstable, England
Sunday,
12/08/40, 0930 hours
Home again.
After successfully foiling Hitler’s harebrained plan, Mynx and I
are back at SOE headquarters, preparing for our next assignment. We
share my apartment when we are in London, as her loft near Charing
Cross has been destroyed by the Luftwaffe night
raids.
It’s a cold
rainy morning. I’m lying in bed, awake. Thinking. Listening. Mynx
is curled up beside me, sound asleep. Far away across the field,
the tolling of the iron bell calls the faithful to their knees to
hear the softly spoken magic spells.
Outside my apartment the wooden floor creaks. I freeze, my
senses on full alert. A faint scraping sound, then all is quiet. I
rise, grab my pistol from the dresser, and creep silently to the
foyer. A heavy brown envelope lies on the doormat. Relaxing, I sit
at the desk and prepare to translate the familiar handwriting,
encrypted in the standard OSS low-security field
cipher.
“Here we go
again.” Mynx reads over my shoulder, revolver in hand. “At least it
should be warmer – I’ll dig out my cargo shorts!
FINAL
NOTE
Thanks for
your patience as I indulge in another literary ego trip across the
vast landscape of history. I hope you enjoy the story, or at least
don’t find it too painful. Please note that this is a work of
historical fiction. That is, the story is set among
real events, but is not part of that history. The links provide
contextual background. Some may be helpful in cracking the
cipher.
Read
carefully, this story provides clues that can help you deduce the
key for each encryption. Ribbentrop’s cipher is, however, both
ancient and simple; with a little effort you can crack it even
without the key. Mynx and Biff allude to the methods you’ll use.
Follow their lead and you’ll soon be in the field, tracking down
the hidden gold.
My
past experience has proven that no matter how I try, there will be
errors in this geocache. It’s inevitable. So, if you spot a
mistake, or have problems cracking the cipher, or if you just need
something clarified, don’t hesitate to contact me. I’ll help you
any way I can, short of giving you the final coordinates.