The Fuehrermaster

by Daniel Wyatt

Hollinger looked about. The condition of the furniture in her room wasn’t much better than the pieces in his own office. He made a mental note of what he saw, then boldly reached for a framed picture on her desk, a recent shot of Langford in a tennis outfit, complete with sweater and shorts. She was holding a racket and her hair was tied back.

  “You like tennis, do you?” he asked her.

  “Whenever I get the chance.”

  “I’ve played a bit, too, back in the States. Couple times over here.”

  They glanced at each other uncomfortably. There was a long, uneasy pause as Hollinger returned the picture to its proper place. For a time the only sound was a ticking clock on the wall.

  “How did a nice girl like you get mixed up in this nasty business, anyway?”

  “I was selected.”

  “Yeah, really? Me too.” He sat up. “What’s your related background?”

  “Physics and mathematics.”

  “Teacher?” Hollinger probed.

  “Quite right. You?”

  “Engineering.”

  She suddenly lifted herself from her chair, rubbing her forehead harder and harder. “Mr. Hollinger, if you don’t mind, I really think I should lie down somewhere. Soon.”

  “Of course,” he said, watching her twist around the side of her desk.

  “I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

  “Fine.”

  She rushed away, leaving Hollinger alone with the aroma of her lilac perfume and a rear-view glimpse of her slim body heading down the hall. Another quick exit, thought Hollinger. Can’t she leave normally?

  FIVE

  London, England — April 9

  Simon Brenwood’s steel empire and various financial interests spanned the globe: Great Britain, Sweden, Africa, Canada, the United States. At forty-three he was one of the richest men in the British Isles. He was a man of influence. He also had strong political connections.

  Brenwood left his office late in the afternoon and told his chauffeur to drive to the General Post Office on the River Thames, a distance of eight miles through bombed-out streets. Once there, Brenwood went about his twice-daily ritual of unlocking his private post box. Today, he fingered through six letters, five posted in Britain, the bottom one from Stockholm. He didn’t expect another letter from Stockholm so soon. There had been a lot of activity coming through neutral Sweden over the last few weeks, enough for Brenwood to worry himself sick over. What if one of these letters was ever intercepted by the pesky Secret Service? So far, he had no reason to believe that they were tampered with. He slammed the box closed and was out of the post office in less than two minutes.

  Forty minutes later, at his two-story home in the northern suburbs of London, Brenwood removed his coat, handed it to his butler inside the door, and went to the study, asking not be disturbed until he came out. Brenwood locked the door behind him. He took a key from his desk drawer and unlocked the tall, polished mahogany cabinet next to the window to reveal the German Enigma II decoding machine. Paper was already in the roller. He flicked on the desk lamp and angled it towards the machine. He dug out the Stockholm letter and fumbled with it. The garbled message was long, the longest he had seen so far. Brenwood sat down in front of the machine, anxious to know the contents. With one finger, he carefully tapped out each letter as it appeared on the paper in his left hand. Like magic, the machine transposed each tap into its proper letter coordinate. Three words came to life ... five words ... seven words for a full sentence. One full paragraph later, he had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. Brenwood then completed the second and last paragraph, and sat back in his chair, every nerve in his body tingling.

  He couldn’t believe it. Good Lord, Hess was coming in person!

  At the start of the negotiations, the scheme seemed so simple. When he joined the British chapter of the Anglo-German Fellowship Association in 1936, he thought he was doing the only decent thing he could do. Through the organization he met a member, the Duke of Hamilton, and the duke’s best friend, a German named Albrecht Haushofer, who had been personally appointed by Rudolf Hess as the adviser on British Affairs to the German Foreign Office. Together, Brenwood, Haushofer, and Hess decided that Germany and England should stay on the best of terms for the good of Europe and the world. Brenwood remembered dining with Hess during the Berlin Olympics in 1936. The Deputy Fuehrer took him on a tour of Luftwaffe bases, where Brenwood was awed by the German aeronautical advancements. His opinion of an Anglo-German coalition still hadn’t changed in five years, despite the war. Now it was more important than ever. The lobby group had to be solidified once and for all. But why this way?

  Brenwood’s collaboration with other prominent Englishmen who shared his own views of European peace was becoming risky. Prime Minister Churchill had already purged the alliance with some success. He had banished the previous leader to a government position in the United States. But the list still grew. Military officers in the army, navy, and air force, and businessmen like Brenwood, held stubbornly to their political viewpoints of “peace with Hitler at all costs.” The only Englishman from the alliance who had met, talked, and dined with Rudolf Hess, Brenwood had been appointed the unofficial leader of the clandestine peace group in 1940. He accepted the post with enthusiasm, at first. A year later he wasn’t so sure. It was becoming more difficult as the months passed. Too many problems, too many delays. All he wanted was to see the thing through as quickly as possible before the plan backfired on the lot of them.

  Brenwood crumpled the paper in his hand. He knew the next step would not go over too well with the Duke of Hamilton.

  * * * *

  Bletchley Park, England

  Roberta Langford picked away at her dinner of mutton and Brussels sprouts at a corner table in the cafeteria. She wasn’t that hungry. She was lost in thought, reflecting on her last leave with Arthur. The late meal at the country inn near the North Sea ... the overnight stay ... the intimacy ... the romance ... and the drive out to the sea in the morning.

  In the midst of her daydreaming, she didn’t notice Spencer Winslow seeking her out in the throng of bodies, smoke, and conversation.

  “I got your note.”

  She glanced up. “Oh, yes. Sit down, Spencer.”

  “Sorry I missed you. I was in a meeting.”

  She stabbed at another piece of mutton on her plate, although she couldn’t bring herself to eat it. “That’s quite all right.”

  “Care for a cigarette?”

  “Don’t mind if I do. I’ve been appreciating them a little more of late.” She gave out a low, husky laugh.

  “Don’t we all know it. Allow me.” Winslow struck a match and lit her cigarette, then his own.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “So, what’s on your mind?”

  “Since you are the acting head of Committee B in Hollinger’s temporary absence, I wanted to let you know I’ve discovered something this morning about the Enigma II rollers.”

  “Hollinger just got back. Some workmen are taking boxes into his office as we speak.”

  “In that case, I’ll save it for him.”

  Winslow shrugged. “Suit yourself. I hope you don’t mind my tagging along, though?”

  “Not at all. Tell me, how did he ever get out before the weekend?”

  Winslow frowned. “He seems to have the knack of getting his own way. You’ll never guess what he was doing when I left him.”

  “I’m afraid to ask.”

  “He was putting up NO SMOKING signs in all the hallways of Hut Nine.”

  Langford laughed. “The crazy bugger.”

  “Do you find some humour in that? I certainly don’t.”

  “He’s in a class by himself.”

  “I’ll second that,” Winslow agreed.

  “Did you get a gander at that ring of his? How vain.”

  “If you only knew the whole story about him,” Winslow grunted. “You don’t seem to mind him, do you?”

  Langford thought of Hol
linger’s apology the day before. “No, I don’t, really. Leastwise, he has some good qualities.”

  “Name one.”

  “He has blue eyes. Like Arthur.”

  Winslow shook his head. “After how he embarrassed you, you compliment him? Well, did you know he doesn’t like redheads? He said he has an aversion to them. He told me so.”

  “Oh, does he?” she pouted.

  “It’s true. He looks like the type who’s shacked up with a few Yankee girls. Dames, as he calls them. He doesn’t really strike me as a Cornell man.”

  “Who can you compare him with? How many other Americans do know who went to Cornell?”

  “None,” Winslow admitted. “All I know is it’s a very prestigious private university in New York State. Nevertheless, he’s a bit off and kind of clumsy. And, speaking of Cornell, do you know he was nearly kicked off the campus?”

  “No!”

  “You want to know why? Get this, he was caught in bed with the dean’s wife.”

  “Good grief! The dean’s wife! Who told you?”

  “Lampert. It’s in Hollinger’s file. The whole thing was dropped when the dean discovered his wife had been sleeping around on him for years.” Winslow exhaled a cloud of smoke. “To tell you the truth, I don’t mind him either. He a likeable enough chap.”

  For the next few moments neither one spoke, until Winslow said, “Your hands are shaking. Are you not feeling well?”

  Langford extended her fingers to study them. “I’m tired. Haven’t had much sleep with the Enigma II push on. I could use a long rest.”

  “How’s Arthur?”

  “Fine. We’re planning a weekend in London, the first or second week of May. I got a letter from him today. But he didn’t quite sound himself. No energy to it. Not like the others. Something’s wrong.”

  “Must be the war,” Winslow said.

  “Maybe.”

  Winslow stood up. “Well, shall we go, my dear? Doesn’t look like you’re going to eat the rest of that lot. Our American cousin awaits us. I’m anxious to hear what you’ve uncovered about the rollers.”

  Langford didn’t budge. “So, he hates redheads, does he? He can wait then.”

  “Change your mind?”

  “Yes. Let’s have another smoke.”

  He smiled. “Just in case it might be a long meeting?”

  “Right you are, Spencer,” she said, flipping a cigarette from her purse. “Sit down.”

  * * * *

  It took Wesley Hollinger less than a week to realize what Spencer Winslow had referred to when he said, “You’ll find out soon enough,” on his first day at Bletchley. The major portion of the American’s work turned out to be boring, with mounds of Enigma II paperwork to plug through and a long list of menial administrative duties to take care of. Piled high in the registration room were neat rows of flimsy paper, the garbled Enigma II dispatches distinguished only by the call signs and the medium or high-range frequencies recorded by the English receiving stations. The stacks were gaining height every day, as Hollinger and the Hut Nine workers laboured around the clock in three shifts in an all-out effort to conquer the secrets of Enigma II. In preparation of an extended siege, Hollinger decided that his office needed a new desk, some new chairs, and more file cabinets, all charged to one of those mysterious Secret Service accounts that only a few in the organization were supposed to know about, let alone use.

  Taking a break, Hollinger slouched in his new office chair, head back, legs spread-eagled on his desk. He faced the dartboard on the far wall, fifteen feet away, with a fist full of darts. He began to throw one at a time. On the sixth try he hit the bull’s-eye. Then he heard two sets of footsteps down the hall. He quickly threw the last dart, just as Winslow came through the door.

  “Hey, watch it.”

  Hollinger scrambled to his feet as Winslow and Langford stood there, inside the entrance, blank looks on their faces.

  “Sorry,” Hollinger said, red-faced.

  Winslow grinned. “Nice chairs. Upholstered, too. I do hope we aren’t keeping you from something important.” When Hollinger didn’t reply, Winslow continued. “I was talking with Robbie. She might have something for us.”

  “Let’s hear it.” Hollinger adjusted the knot in his tie. “Any news is good news.”

  “I’m sure it is,” Winslow said, glancing at the dartboard and the darts stuck to it and in the wall.

  Langford withdrew and returned with the Enigma II machine on a waist-high trolley. “Well, Mr. Hollinger,” she began, “the Germans were very clever in putting this machine together. But I may have uncovered a flaw. The two wheels at the far right side of the rotating roller do not flip up every letter of the alphabet.” She pointed to each roller with a sharp pencil. “Only ten letters each. The same ten letters. The one next to these two displays only half the alphabet. The three other wheels work perfectly.”

  Hollinger gripped his desk and leaned sideways in his chair. “Why do you think it might be a flaw?”

  “Well, we know that sometimes in an airplane factory, at least so I’ve been told, one mistake can be made that is handed down to the next line and might not be corrected until a few planes are finished and in service. Let’s think back to what we know of Enigma II. They are in the experimental stage. There are only a few of them out. Less than ten was the last estimate, according to our garbled dispatches.”

  Hollinger swung the chair a quarter turn to look at the lawn shrouded in a light fog. When Langford paused, he said, “Are you suggesting that it might have been rushed into production?”

  “Yes. The Germans probably haven’t caught the error yet, at least not with six wheels. There are too many. Or maybe they have, but haven’t done anything about it. Why should they? Even with the flaw, it’s more complicated than the mother Enigma with the standard roller. And as far as they know, we haven’t cracked the first Enigma. So to them there’s probably no urgency.”

  It was good news to Hollinger, and so soon after his arrival at Bletchley. He stood up. “You know, if your hunch is wrong, and only this machine is flawed and not the others ... We have got to find ourselves another Enigma II machine so that we can be sure.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Fat chance of that,” Hollinger huffed, eyeing Langford. “If we continue to work out the permutations of this one and we are unable to decipher any of those stacks of messages in the registration room, all this has gone for naught.”

  “That’s about it, Mr. Hollinger.”

  Hollinger glanced away from his visitors. “But what if you’re right about the flaw? How long would it take to monitor all the possibilities so you can start deciphering?”

  Langford thought about it. “The computer could break them down in a few weeks, at the most.”

  Hollinger nodded, saying nothing.

  “What should we do?” Winslow asked.

  Hollinger sauntered over to Langford and with conviction said, “Keep going. Assume it’s not just this one they’ve buggered up. It’s all we got. Hell, don’t stop now.”

  “I won’t,” Langford promised.

  “Good. Oh, and Langford ...”

  “Yes.”

  Over the last few days, Hollinger had realized how important she was to the project. Winslow was right. She was the best, red hair and all. “Nice work.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She smiled, and glanced across the room at Winslow, who glanced back.

  “How are those headaches?” Hollinger wanted to know.

  “I’m still a little lightheaded today, but I do feel better. Thanks for asking, Mr. Hollinger.”

  “You’re welcome. Keep me posted on your work.”

  She smirked. “And I’ll leave you to your darts game.”

  SIX

  Munich, Germany

  The train carrying Nazi Germany’s Deputy Fuehrer clanged its way into the station, hissing clouds of steam, before banging to a stiff halt. Night had fallen and there was a chill in the air. Rudolf Hess emerged f
rom his private compartment and scanned the quiet crowd, mostly made up of soldiers, until he spotted his old friend, Professor-General Karl Haushofer, on the far side of the dimly lit platform.

  The professor was a tall man with a hook nose, a moustache, and grey hair. Hess guessed that none of the soldiers would know who the elderly man was. Haushofer’s background was a worthy one. He fought in World War I, and was a former military attaché to Japan. He later received his Doctor of Philosophy, majoring in geography, geology, and history. As a result of combining these three subjects in his own unique way, he became the Professor of Geopolitics at the University of Munich in 1921. He taught many students who eventually embraced his new beliefs of geographical imperialism, a new and controversial study of political geography as seen from a German point of view. To him and the new recruits, the Germans had been stabbed in the back by their government in the First World War. They all saw a new vision for Germany, one of power and force. Their destiny was to control the continent by divine right.

  One of the professor’s prized pupils was a fanatical youngster named Rudolf Hess, who had found himself disillusioned following the war. In Haushofer, Hess saw the father figure he had been searching for. They began to socialize. Haushofer loved Hess like a son. The professor provided the educational training that fixed Hess to the vision. Adolf Hitler later provided the political training. During the ill-fated Beerhall Putsch of 1923, in which Hitler and his henchmen attempted to seize power by force and were subsequently left scattered when the police moved in, Haushofer hid Hess in his home for a time during the roundup of the ringleaders. The deputy minister never forgot Haushofer’s brave act of mercy. The professor’s wife was half-Jewish. Once the anti-Semitic laws were enforced in the 1930s, Hess, who was second in command to Hitler by this time, threw his personal blanket of protection over the Haushofer family. And for that the German High Command never forgave Hess.

  The professor looked up as Hess walked towards him across the platform. His former student was clad in a greatcoat, hat pulled down over his forehead. He entered on the passenger side of the professor’s vehicle and slammed the door. Haushofer joined him in the front seat.