Friday, March 20, 2009

Operation Nemesis: Day One


Operation Nemesis: Day One

May, 1940 - Chartwell Estate: In the Afternoon

“Hitler has millions who chant his name, but the man who makes Germany such a successful enemy is Reinhard Heydrich. He is personally behind every major success the Germans have achieved so far, including the disastrous Venlo affair, which caused us a severe loss of face. It will take us years to recover the loss of all our intelligence operatives in Europe, if ever we can,”

Sir Branwell Swift, Chief of British Secret Intelligence Service ( SIS ) also known as C to his staff informs Sir Winston Churchill in an acid tone which would reduce men’s livers to pulp, except that the Prime Minister has no liver because brandy, whisky and champagne at every hour of the day has taken its toll.

Churchill receives him in Chartwell, his estate in the country. Sir Branwell Swift places Heydrich’s dossier into Churchill’s hands. The loose bathrobe opens to reveal the plump, naked flanks of the Prime Minister. Sir Branwell is unfazed. He is used to this careless exhibitionism of the PM. The Prime Minister pauses to re-light his cigar.

Sir Branwell says softly, “Allow me, Sir.”

“Thank you, dear boy,” booms Churchill.

Sir Branwell clears his throat. Churchill settles himself into a leather armchair. There is the ever-present bottle of Bollinger Champagne surrounded by ice in a silver champagne cooler sitting on the table next to the brown leather armchair. On a silver tray are six Waterford flute glasses.

“Feel like pouring two of those?”

Sir Branwell fills two glasses and hands one to Churchill. The Prime Minister is reading the dossier intently. He takes a big swig out of the glass. Sir Branwell has poured himself half a glass. He is watching Churchill fixedly. He has no inclination and no intention of interrupting the PM. The dossier is too portentous, too vital. The dossier cannot be left overnight at the PM’s estate. Sir Branwell has all the time in the world. He has made the time. In his mind the key to winning the war is to neutralize Heydrich. The usually articulate PM is at a loss for words as he reads through Heydrich’s dossier. Sir Branwell waits. He will not be the first to break the silence. The PM pauses, drinks more champagne, continues reading. He is serene. It seems the PM needs to be sure he has read Sir Branwell’s suggestions correctly. He has.

The PM looks straight at C, then he shatters the silence with the softest whisper Sir Branwell has ever heard. “We have been targeting the wrong chap.”

“Sir, if anything should happen to Hitler, Reinhard Heydrich will succeed him. It’s well known he is the designated successor and it would make our task more than twice as hard if he is in charge of everything. The man is not human – he makes no mistakes.”

“Swift, how do we proceed?” the PM inquires as he places the dossier back into the hands of the chief of the SIS later known as MI-6.

Sir Branwell plunges in. “The first thing we do is stop trying to kill Hitler as long as Heydrich is alive. I suggest we avoid any contact with German Resistance to kill Hitler. We can’t help them until we know Heydrich is dead. He has to be our priority.”

Churchill looks at Sir Branwell with piercing eyes. “Go on,” he replies in the same low voice, which surprises the Chief of Intelligence.

“We must do a 180º turn and target Heydrich. It’s going to be very difficult as his staff is fiercely loyal to him, and the people of Czechoslovakia are both afraid of him and grateful to him for providing stability and prosperity in the Protectorate. They are much better off than Germany, no doubt Britain as well as a result of Heydrich’s leadership. It will be very difficult to find people willing to take the risk and support our efforts” states Sir Branwell, keeping his tone as low as the PM’s.

‘’Everything has to be ultra top secret as Heydrich’s intelligence network is the best the world has ever seen. We can’t count on the Irish operatives for support. I can’t even be sure he hasn’t compromised our own organization.’’

“I see,” repeats the Prime Minister. “The two of us are the only ones aware of this plan?”

Sir Branwell nods and takes a sip from his glass. A heavy wall of silence divides them although the PM is unaware of it.

There is no way in hell I can keep a portentous Operation like this between the two of us. Are you dotty? Or are you just playing at being naïve yet again? I hate it when political leaders play these pretend games with their Chiefs of Intelligence. I need to advise my Soviet people of the assassination we are planning. Without their active participation we haven’t got a Chinaman’s chance of succeeding. Bloody Hell, we need Stalin to help us win this war. For all the American money and braggadocio, without Uncle Joe they haven’t got a prayer- unless they send millions of soldiers to die in Europe. The Secret Intelligence Service is stuffed with Soviet moles; our very own English dupes except perhaps for Sir Anthony Blunt. Their loyalty lies with Stalin and his New World Order.

Churchill drains his champagne, puffs deeply on his cigar, and tucks in his black bathrobe. “So be it. Let the chips fall where they may.’’

“I can’t stress enough that this mission could be one of the most important keys to winning the war, Mr. Prime Minister. It has to succeed.”

“Quite. I have the utmost faith in your talents. Do what ever it takes to eliminate Heydrich. Remember, His Majesty’s Government does not and will not engage in political assassination hence if you and members of your team fail, I will feed you to the tigers.’’

“Iacta alea est, Sir.” Sir Branwell replies in a monotone. Inwardly he tells himself’ ‘’I never considered Churchill a teddy bear, unlike some who did and have come to rue the day. His whole being is bathed in blood, as is mine.’’

“Let the dice fly,” declares Prime Minister Churchill, “Julius Caesar’s favorite expression”.

The Chief of Intelligence gathers the papers of the Heydrich dossier, places them into a thick black leather briefcase, which carries only the dossier. “I must be going, Sir.”

“Indeed. It’s the usual wet drive back to London, and the sooner we start the operation the better.”

“What do you plan on calling this operation C?”

“Operation Nemesis, as that is exactly what he is- our Nemesis.”

“A good choice. I wish you good night. I fear we might have nightmares for as long as Heydrich is still in charge,” Churchill declares in his unique gravely voice.

“Our duty is to eliminate the world’s nightmares,” he agrees tonelessly.

“Good night, Swift, and Godspeed.”

“Good night, Mr. Prime Minister.”

Sir Branwell was not sure if there was a God, even if he attended Church on Sundays when he was in residence in his estate in Buckinghamshire. It aided his camouflage. Invoking God’s name when one was planning to commit a series of foul deeds, like a political assassination at the highest levels of German Power, did not seem quite right to him. On the other hand, killing one or many to protect the interests of your country erased any misgivings.

"It’s either Heydrich or us.’’

Back in his lair in Buckingham Gate, Sir Branwell Swift burns the entire dossier on Reinhard Heydrich in his massive granite fireplace, feeding the papers one by one into the fire. He does so in gelid rage. As a result of the Venlo disaster he doesn’t even know whom he can trust in his own organization. His SIS organization is completely compromised. His anger intensifies as he thinks of all those good agents, captured or killed, on the orders of Heydrich.

“He has bested not only me, I hate to say, but all the leading intelligence services of the Allies. He has cost me valuable men. They must be avenged. I must be avenged.”

He runs his eyes slowly around the salon. This is his secret space. No one comes here. Not even a cleaning woman. He does this distasteful if necessary job himself.

“Operation Nemesis. That’s the beginning of the end of you, Reinhard Heydrich. We shall never meet again. A pity! You are the best – but you have flaws, and I will find them, and then you will be no more,” says Sir Branwell loudly.

He paces the floor, like a caged cheetah, smoking out of a long jade cigarette holder.

“This will be a contest like no other – and the fate of millions upon millions will be affected by the outcome, whether they know it or not. I shall do everything in my power to bring you down, whatever it takes.

The BBC Radio and Berlin Radio are both on day and night. English and German voices babble on continuously. Sir Branwell pays no attention.

I am challenging you, Reinhard Heydrich, to a duel to the death. I’ll find a way to kill you. I have to. Let the world fear Adolf Hitler, the perfect actor. You are the thinker, the Ideatore, the Super Man. I fear you. Just as I know you are curious about me, I will learn everything about you.

Sir Branwell arranges a chess game for two. Since the death of T.E. Lawrence (of Arabia) he has not played chess. It would have been too boring and too tedious. Easy victories cannot be savored in such a manner.

White or black? Oh! Most assuredly black for you. If for no other reason than your particularly cold-blooded efficiency. I’ll take the white. Oh! Have no illusions. I am too ruthless myself to do honor to the color white, but somebody has to take the white color. The first move is mine. For the moment I am advancing one square forward. You are unaware of Operation Nemesis.

Sir Branwell continues his musings; in a harsh voice he keeps on talking to himself.

We lost two of our best agents in the Venlo Affair, to say nothing of the hundreds of our agents inside Germany. Because of Venlo, which you planned and successfully executed, Hitler was able to invade the Netherlands, Belgium and Luxembourg and nearly captured our entire army in Dunkirk.The Dutch violated their neutrality by conspiring with us – and you caught us by throwing us the bait of a plot to kill Hitler, which we fell for. You fooled me, one old enough to be your father. You’ve won the first round, but now the game gets a great deal more dangerous. One more for you. What?

Sir Branwell moves a black knight. In the immense panorama of war, Germany now occupies most of Europe. Only the small British Isles continues to defy Germany.

Now it’s up to David to slay the giant Not that the David of the Old Testament was an example of virtue. If he ever even existed. Never mind. It makes for a good story. He was a murderer, polygamist, liar and cheat. He betrayed his Generals and massacred children. He rid himself of an uncomfortable husband and General by placing him on the front lines where he knew he would be killed. In this way he bedded General Uriah’s beautiful widow Bathsheba and made her his concubine.

Sir Branwell sighs. “Few people are aware of King David’s vices. So, we must go on with the charade of David.”

He leans his head back across the chintz armchair, and then rises quickly. He is of average height but walks in such an imperious manner; he appears much larger than he actually is because of the force of his personality. He is slim but his muscles are well formed from boxing and wrestling which he enjoys naked as the ancient Greeks and Romans did. He has brown eyes with specks of gold, a fine aquiline nose, rather thick lips and a strong chin. A high forehead, topped by wavy dark hair. His graceful hands are at home holding and shooting any gun. Yet he is also an accomplished pianist, especially jazz. No doubt about it, he is a dashing man. He is a ladies man. With a handicap of seven in Polo he is also the envy of his male companions, some of whom he has bedded.

As Head of the SIS, Secret Intelligence Service, Sir Branwell has perfected his camouflage skills. He is endowed with an intense personality, which he continuously dissimulates. Indeed the masks he puts on continuously thrill him. He is now the quintessential grey personality. Grey coat, grey suits, and grey persona. He wills himself to become invisible to the common people, the working people and what one might call the average bloke. At the same time, he remains highly visible to those who hold the reins of power. He himself is one of them.

He gazes intensely across the chessboard at the life-size waxen figure of Reinhard Heydrich who sits and stares back at him in defiance. C is looking for the fatal flaw that will allow him to win the day primarily for Britain. He wasn’t sure if America would gain from Heydrich’s death. He sure as hellfire did not give a toss about the rest of the world, and never gave much attention to the pretty speeches of the PM.

Wild Bill Donovan’s good but he is not well, he’s had a very rough life as a soldier and as a spy. He’s also getting on in years. The OSS will surely surpass us with someone like Heydrich at the helm.

Sir Branwell trembles at the possibility that his rambling thoughts might become a fearsome reality. In the spy business one had no friends, only people with the same objectives for a limited period of time.

Heydrich, it has been a costly enterprise to commission your waxen figure from the artists working for Madame Tussaud

“Lord Swift, it is more difficult to create the likeness of a man sitting down than standing regally. This is a most interesting young man. I have never seen him before,” said Monsieur Mirabeau of the Wax Museum, Madame Tussaud’s principal artist, as he studied the photographs of Reinhard Heydrich.

His agents in Berlin had secretly obtained photographs of Heydrich taken during the various receptions and dinner parties held in honor of the athletes and the VIP guests who had attended the Berlin Olympics of 1936. As a spokesman for the German Olympic Committee he had worn bespoke grey and tan suits. He was in disguise. This was perfect for re-creating his likeness, for no one would be the any the wiser.

“I am not concerned about the cost. Don’t cut any corners, Mirabeau. This young man is too important. Take your time. I prsonally will bring you the SS uniform of a General whenever you are ready.

All color drained off the artist Mirabeau’s face. Until today he hadn’t a clue that Lord Swift was a deadly man.

“I need not remind you that this is a matter of National Security. Breathe one word of this to anyone and I swear I shall have to kill you myself much to my chagrin,” Sir Branwell rasped softly even as he laid his hand sottly over Mirabeau’s.

Mirabeau could only nod for his throat was too constricted with terror to reply. Sir Branwell ignored it. He continued his explanation as if no threats on his person or anything serious had occurred between the two.

By the way, dear boy, he is at least six feet and four inches tall and weighs about one hundred and eighty pounds of hard muscle. A champion swimmer, aviator, horseman, duelist, boxer, shootist and marathon runner. You can calculate the width of his arms and legs from my tenuous description can you not?’’

Mirabeau continued his examination of the photographs. “As I said Lord Swift, this individual will be a most challenging and intriguing subject.”

Laughter and the sound of running feet on the street of Buckingham Gate startles him. The sound is muffled because of the steady London rain. He opens the black curtain and peers down cautiously.

“It’s nothing. Two huddled figures are coupling against the wall of his building, A man and a woman? A man having a go with another man? He can’t distinguish well, but he can hear the sounds being carried up, up, up towards his window. This time it’s hetero, last night it was homo.”

A painful hardness presses against his tailored trousers. Swift is a sexual creature and he enjoys indulging his sexuality.

“Heydrich. Listen to me. You stood out during the games and events held at the Berlin Olympics. It was not only because you headed the International Sports Committee. There was something feral about you. I sensed something else too. Men respected you even if they did not like you. Your youth and your Nordic good looks called attention to yourself. You are an artist of invisibility and so far, also of invincibility. Passing yourself off as just a good sportsman was elegantly cunning. Oh I had my suspicions that you actually ran the SS, not Heinrich Himmler. When we shook hands at the reception hosted by Hitler at the Chancellery, I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt. What’s more, I was certain that you knew that I knew.”

The vibrant turquoise eyes of Heydrich and his flaxen hair strike a sexual chord. He has not allowed himself to be reminded of it, but it has bowled him over.

By Jove I am attracted only to individuals like you - blonde, fair and blue eyed young men and boys. You obsess me beyond belief, which is why I must kill you. Something tells me you are aware of my pedophilia, my secret weakness. Some might call it a vice, don’t be so disdainful about it. You do not tolerate homosexuality much less pedophilia in the SS or the SD. But I would not be so high and mighty. The Wehrmacht and the Abwehr has quite a few closet homosexuals and pedophiles that secretly keep catamites.

Damn! He could not rid himself of the need to fondle a young man’s genitals. In London it was risky and imprudent. His boys “came for a visit” only on weekends to his estate in Buckinghamshire. He was a generous patron. The boys kept silent. It behooved them for deep down they knew that Lord Swift was more dangerous than many nests of vipers in one basket.

Handsome Heydrich remains impassive to his mental masturbatory thoughts. Then Lord Branwell begins to remove his clothes, never taking his eyes off his enemy who had suddenly and capriciously become the object of his desire.

“You see how hard my cock is. I’d like to ram it into you, as you lie dead before me. Then I will piss and defecate on your perfect Nordic face. But I want you alive for now to hear you gasp and moan for more thrusts from me.”

Nothing but a disdainful silence emanates from Heydrich.

This arouses him even more. ‘’Heydrich, Heydrich, Reinhard, Reinhard, Reinhard,” he moans, fondling and clasping his rock hard penis.

“You are so beautiful. Your cock’s a dream to suckle. Plunge it into me, Do it! Kill me with delicious fucks. Nothing moves you. I can’t pleasure you. I don’t care.”

His strong fingers hold his penis in a vise like grip as he pumps faster and faster in a frenzy of lust and fury.

Droplets of blood stain his fingers“ I must have broken a small blood vessel, never mind, I can’t stop now,” Ah! AH! Yes, yes, yes. Release me.”

Ejaculation. Semen, more drops of blood, urine and saliva. Pants and gasps. Hands soaked with semen and urine. It runs down his legs and around his ankles. He looks down at his penis with admiration. It is still hard and overflowing with his juices.

The Teutonic God remains motionless across from him. ‘’Heydrich, I can’t resist doing this. It is so satisfying, I don’t want to stop.”

Sir Branwell smears his hands covered with his sperm on Heydrich’s countenance. He sticks his penis onto the slightly open lips of his prey. Up and down, left and right. Yes! That’s it. Aah!

And then the calm surrounds him after the tempest. “You are an unfeeling and solitary work of art. Soon you will be stone cold dead. Let’s start at the beginning. How did such a talented and sensitive musician from a good family become the most feared and powerful man in the Third Reich in such a short time? How can we defeat you? We will have to, in order to win this war. I know the answer is there. God and the Devil can both be dammed! I will find your weakness and use it against you.

But first I must cleanse myself of my bodily fluids. We must do this more often, by the way. It’s a form of deliverance for me. Yes. Let’s do it, after each chess game. I will wait for these moments with bated breath. If you must know, you are the reason for the best manipulation my cock has ever had. My orgasm was eternal. I am almost sorry we are enemies and that I must kill you. Fuck it man, you are one gorgeous piece of ass. If only you had been more Socialist and less of a Nationalist, we could have had the most rapturous sex together.”

He took a very long and deep breath and expelled it slowly and sadly.

“There’s no doubt about it. Life is shit,” stated Sir Branwell Swift.

Author's note: for more details regarding Churchill and his Chartwell Estate check out:,M1

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