THE LAST GOOD WAR: A Novel

THE
 

LAST
 

GOOD
 

WAR
 

A Novel
 

Paul Wonnacott

Copyright © 2007 Paul Wonnacott

KINDLE ISBN: 9781614341963
ISBN-13: 9781601451194
ISBN-10: 1601451199

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

Printed in the United States of America.

With the exception of the historical figures mentioned in Chapter 25, the characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Cover photo by author: Enigma machine at National Cryptologic Museum, Ft. Meade, Maryland

Booklocker.com, Inc., 2007

0902

For
 

Andrew
Abby
Eli
Joey
Charlie

May they live in a world without war

—good or bad

In September 1945, as bejeweled dancers swirled at one of London's first postwar high society balls, a gentleman murmured contentedly,
“This is what we fought the war for.”

A droll lady, gesturing to the dancers, responded,
“Oh, do you mean they are all Poles?”

George F. Will

1
Enigma

26 January, 1929. 17:47. Post Office Central, Warsaw.

M
aczek had never considered himself anything but a simple postal clerk. He had never met a senior military officer. Certainly never a senior German officer, and certainly never one so flustered and out of breath.

“I'm the military attaché of the German Republic,” said Streicher, sucking in his stomach, standing on his toes and stretching to make himself look taller than his pudgy five foot, five inches. “I'm here for a package which came in today, addressed to the embassy. This wide.” He held out his hands, about two feet apart.

Strange. Most diplomatic mail, Maczek knew, was carried by courier; it never got near a post office. What could possibly be so important? He looked impassively at the portly but authoritarian figure dressed in the impeccable uniform of—what was he, a major or colonel? This, he thought, is the time to play strictly by the book.

“Sorry, sir, but deliveries must be made directly to the address on the label, or picked up by authorized personnel.”

Col. Streicher slid his identification card through the wicket.

“Sorry, sir,” said Maczek, checking his list. “Only two people are authorized to pick up mail from the embassy's postal box—Schultz and Nagel.”

“But
they're
only
clerks
,” Streicher huffed. “
I'm
their
boss
.”

“I'm certain you are, sir. But you can understand. We can't release mail without the signature of one of them.” Maczek continued deferentially; the German's temper was rising, and Maczek wanted to avoid an outburst. “We can't allow even a very senior person, such as you, sir, to pick up mail that may be intended for the ambassador.”

“I insist on seeing your supervisor.... And I need to use a phone.”

“Of course, sir,” said Maczek, pointing to a phone in the corner and disappearing into the back room. Maczek and his supervisor, Klimecki, soon found the package. With it were a few letters.

The package was heavy, wrapped in brown paper, sealed with glue and twine. Klimecki shook it gingerly; it didn't rattle. Carrying it carefully, he retreated to his office. Through the open door, Maczek saw him cross the room to his phone and turn the crank.

As Maczek trailed his boss back into the main lobby, Streicher was berating a young man. Maczek recognized him as one of the two clerks authorized to pick up the mail. Maczek knew enough German to understand the clerk's meek reply: he had already been on his way to the post office, for the regular, final pickup of the day, just before closing.

As he spotted the two Poles, Streicher quickly faded into the background, nodding to his clerk, who approached the wicket. Maczek handed over the letters, asking the German to sign.

When he saw only the thin letters, Streicher was suddenly back at the wicket, loudly insisting that the Poles produce the package.

Klimecki took over from Maczek. “I'm sorry sir, but it's not here.”

“It
must
be. It was on the train that arrived in Warsaw at 2:00 p.m.”

“That's possible sir, but it still isn't here. Sometimes packages are handled separately from letters; they're sorted later.”

“You mean it may be in your back room, among the unsorted mail?”

“Perhaps, sir, or it could still be at the train station.”

“Then I insist you look for it among your unsorted mail.”

“Sorry sir, but we can't do that. It's already past closing time.”

“But I insist.” The pink in Streicher's face was turning to red; he was clearly struggling, with only partial success, not to shout at the cool, unhelpful clerk. “You want a diplomatic incident? I'll give it to you.
I'm
a friend of the postmaster general.”

“Very well, sir, we'll see if we can find it.” Klimecki tried to suppress a grin; the postmaster general had died eight months ago, and his replacement had not yet been chosen. As Streicher's anger rose, Klimecki became more certain that he had made the right decision, to hold the package and call Polish military intelligence. He and Maczek retreated to the back room, where they broke out a new deck of cards and Maczek dealt. Klimecki sat impassively, hiding his joy at the three aces in the corner of his hand. Perhaps this would indeed be his lucky day.

The two began to speculate casually on what might be inside the wrapper. Secret war plans? Unlikely. New electronic equipment to intercept Polish radio communications? A new set of burglar tools, to break into government offices? Anything like that, and intelligence should know.

After thirty minutes, Klimecki returned to inform the Germans: After a diligent search, they could assure the Colonel that they simply did not have the package. Undoubtedly it would arrive Monday. Would the Colonel like to have it sent by special messenger to his embassy?

As Streicher stormed out the front door, intelligence officers were already coming in through the rear. The package was indeed important. In it was a coding machine, with ENIGMA stenciled on its cover. Working nonstop from Saturday evening until the early hours of Monday, they carefully disassembled it, taking numerous pictures of the three rotors at the top, and making detailed notes. Then they meticulously reassembled and resealed it, exactly the way it had come. A pristine package, ready for delivery on Monday.

8 November, 1931. The
Grand Hotel
. Verviers, Belgium.

H
ans Thilo Schmidt sat on the side of his bed. Beads of sweat were forming on his brow, in spite of the chill in the room. He snuggled his briefcase close to his hip, occasionally reaching inside to reassure himself that the manuals were still there.

He could still go back. But it would have to be within the next fifteen minutes. Then it would be too late. He would be in the clutches of the Deuxième Bureau for life. Or death.

His panic gave way to anger. That stupid woman. He was hopelessly in love with her. But it wasn't just her; he simply loved women. Why couldn't she realize, even a married man must have his flirtations, his little games? He could understand her shock, the first time she stumbled across him with the maid. But why did she insist on such a quick succession of maids, each uglier than the last? He had patiently tried to explain. Her little scheme wouldn't work; the uglier the maids, the more eagerly they fell into his arms.

Finally, her nagging had driven him to look elsewhere, to his cozy little nest in Berlin. But that was expensive. How was he supposed to afford it on his paltry salary at the Cipher Office? If only his father had been something more than that dull, pathetic professor of history. If only his father had restored the family fortune. If only....

It came. Three knocks on his door; then four. He rose, shuffled into the bathroom, and splashed water on his face. He was dismayed by his bloodshot eyes. If only he hadn't had quite so much to drink last night. But they wouldn't get the better of him. He'd drive a hard bargain. What he was offering—pure gold.

He quickly dried his face, slapping it three times—hard—and stepped purposefully from his room. He was quickly up the stairs to the third floor, cautiously opening the door and glancing into the hall. Nobody. Good. Two doors down to Room 34. He gently knocked three times. The door slowly opened.

G
ustave Bertrand was ecstatic. Rudolphe Lemoine of the Deuxième Bureau had a promising contact. A mid-level manager in the Cipher Office, no less. Perhaps he would enable them to listen in on communications between Berlin and the German armed forces.

But, said Lemoine, they had to be careful. Schmidt could possibly be an
agent provocateur,
sent by Berlin to lead them into a trap. More likely, he was puffing up his importance; he might have very little to offer. But it was a risk worth taking.

As Schmidt entered the room, he was obviously nervous. He stumbled over the edge of the carpet; he fidgeted with his collar; he kept clearing his throat. Bertrand tried hard not to stare. He had never seen a real, flesh-and-blood traitor before; his work with French intelligence had been confined to a detailed study of foreign codes. Lemoine, in contrast, was an old hand, and tried two small jokes to put Schmidt at ease. No success. Schmidt sat down, all business.

“I offer these samples to overcome your skepticism, to prove that I have access to information of the utmost importance,” he said, drawing three manuals from the briefcase. “As agreed, you will make an offer as to what they are worth.”

Schmidt placed the manuals on the coffee table. Bertrand could scarcely believe his eyes. They gave the detailed operating procedures for the new Enigma machine. He struggled not to show his pleasure; he didn't want the price to go through the roof.

“This, I should emphasize, is just a sample,” Schmidt continued. “I also have access to the current settings of the Enigma—our coding machine. And I will be able to obtain future settings. Provided, of course, that we can come to a satisfactory financial arrangement.”

There was a hush, broken only by the faint sounds of Bertrand turning the pages. Schmidt seemed scarcely to be breathing. After ten minutes, Lemoine began to put on his show of
sangfroid.
He leaned over the coffee table, glancing through a magazine to find the newest fashions in bathing suits. He stared out the window at the tennis game below. Shortly thereafter, Bertrand looked up.

“Yes, these may be of interest to us. Perhaps M. Lemoine and I could have a moment or two together.” He nodded toward the bathroom door.

The two Frenchmen retreated to the bathroom, leaving the door open so they could block Schmidt's escape if he suddenly changed his mind and tried to bolt. They turned on the taps to hide the sound of their voices.

“This is beyond my wildest dreams,” Bertrand began. “If he can provide the settings, we may have an open window on German plans.”

“How much should we offer?”

“Something big. Perhaps as much as 5,000 marks.”

Bertrand was concerned that he might have trouble with such a large figure; it was coming out of Lemoine's budget. Lemoine surprised him, dropping his pretense that he had not a care in the world. “We've got this fish on the line. Let's reel him in. How about 10,000?” More than a year's salary.

“Fine. Excellent.”

“The question is, do we give it to him outright, or do we let him have the satisfaction of bargaining us up?”

“That's your department.”

They returned, smiling.

Lemoine got right to the point. “We are willing to make a very generous offer for your material, say 5,000 marks... with more to come for future information.”

Schmidt paused. Bertrand was uncertain whether he was dissatisfied with the 5,000 marks, or whether he was thinking how he might provide a continuing flow of information. Schmidt scowled. Bertrand could feel the tension rise; he blurted out:

“We might do even better. We might get authorization for 10,000 marks.”

“
Might
get authorization?” Schmidt retorted. “You were supposed to come with a serious, firm offer.” He leaned forward, pressing his hands down on the armrests; he was about to rise.

“I can authorize that figure,” Lemoine said smoothly. “In fact, I can pay that amount now, in cash. With another 10,000 when you provide the current settings.”