The Fuehrermaster

by Daniel Wyatt

  “Sounds like a bad distributor to me. No bloody spark,” she said.

  “How the hell would you know?” Hollinger grunted. He set the tools down and checked the wires for wear, twisting them with his hand.

  Langford removed a pair of pliers from the box, popped the distributor cap, and flipped it upside down. “Look,” she said, while Hollinger shone the light for her. “It’s filthy.”

  “Yeah sure, make me look like a schmuck, why don’t you?”

  “Clean the contacts every now and then, dearie.” She removed the handkerchief from her coat pocket and wiped the inside of the cap. As she put it back on, she noticed a crack on the outside. “See that?”

  He bent over the fender with her. “Yeah?”

  “Might be trouble. Better get it replaced in London.”

  “Thanks for the advice.”

  “If it can start, it should at least get us to our destination.”

  “It better or we’ll have to thumb it.”

  “I beg your pardon,” she said.

  “You know, hitchhike. It probably wouldn’t take us too long. I was left stranded once with this gorgeous blonde back in the Adirondack Mountains in New York. My car ran out of gas on a highway. All she did was show a little thigh and the first car stopped. Some old geezer—”

  “That’s quite enough. I have no intention of displaying my thigh in such a fashion.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Nobody out here, anyway.” He shook his head.

  “What’s the matter with you?”

  “You never cease to amaze me. How do you know so much about cars?”

  “My father taught me a few things. He used to be a mechanic before he went into the ministry.”

  “Figures.”

  Hollinger slipped behind the wheel and turned the ignition. This time the engine cranked and started. He revved it a few times for good measure. It was running rough but it would have to take them to London as it was.

  Langford slammed the hood down and got in on her side. “Put ‘er to the floorboards, cowboy, and get the hell outta here.”

  TEN

  London, England — April 21

  Hollinger prepared the reel of film on the projector inside the MI-6 Secret Service Headquarters. He turned out the lights, switched on the machine, and took a seat close enough to rescue the projector if anything should go wrong.

  He glanced over at Langford in the seat beside him. Both were tired after the auto trip from Bletchley so late at night. “Let’s see what we got here.”

  The screen began to show some footage taken a few years before the start of the war, one of the annual Nazi Party rallies at the enormous Nuremberg outdoor stadium. At least 100,000 people had to be in attendance, the majority in uniform. The camera slowly panned the faces of German High Command members ... Hermann Goering ... Josef Goebbels ... Heinrich Himmler ... and finally ... Rudolf Hess.

  “There he is,” Langford exclaimed.

  “Yeah.” Hollinger fixed his eyes to the screen.

  The Deputy Fuehrer removed his military cap and took the podium before a half-dozen microphones. Draped behind him was a huge swastika flag. Hess was a tall man with a solid build and broad shoulders. His deep-set eyes, square jaw, and high cheekbones almost gave him an American Indian appearance. Then Hollinger saw something. “How about that?”

  “How about what?”

  “His mouth. He has buckteeth.”

  “In the entire realm of things, should that mean anything?”

  Hollinger grinned. “Probably not.”

  Together, they seemed to enjoy the piece of film. Hess’s oratory that sunny afternoon bordered on insanity. He hollered almost as much as Hitler was famous for. Obviously Hess, too, could incite a crowd into a frenzy. At the conclusion to his charismatic speech, the crowd broke into a chorus of Sieg Heil. Hollinger grimaced. The film reaffirmed what he had concluded since Hitler’s rise to power. The Nazis were a bunch of theatrical rabble-rousers.

  Hollinger looked over at his companion. A few minutes before, she had lain down onto two chairs and gone to sleep. He shut the projector off and flicked on a small desk lamp to his right. Careful not to disturb her slumber, he grabbed the papers Langford had found in a section of top-secret MI-6 files, the same place they had found the film.

  He was amazed to find that the Secret Service had been keeping some unusual files, one on Rudolf Hess. Here, in Hollinger’s hands, was Hess’s military and political career, and medical records. It stated on the second page that Hess had suffered a near-fatal wound through his left lung in the First World War that had left permanent scars on his chest and back. Interesting. Next, Hollinger scanned a typed list of Nazi decrees enforced from 1934 to 1939, authored by Hess and his Chief of Staff, Martin Bormann, mostly of the anti-Semitic and anti-religion variety. Compulsory military service for all Germans. All persons who criticized party policies were to be reported to the Gestapo. All Jews were denied the right to vote or hold public office. Jewish doctors were forced to treat only Jewish patients. Jewish lawyers denied the right to practice their profession. Jews forced out of the business community. Any party members joining the clergy or caught studying theology were to be refused party status...

  The words leaped out at Hollinger. Hess was one powerful man. And a cutthroat too, when called upon. From the information on hand, Hollinger quickly worked out Hess’s involvement in the Night of the Long Knives in 1934. During Hitler’s early years, before he had obtained absolute control of Germany, he had formed a strong-arm group known as the SA — the Sturmabteilung — who were nothing more than a pack of thugs who beat up Hitler’s opponents and broke up the public meetings of other democratic parties. The leader of the SA was Ernest Roehm, a drunkard and child molester. By 1934, Roehm had three million in his private army, stronger in numbers than the combined forces of the German army, navy, and air force. He was out of control and secretly planning the takeover of the Nazi Party. Something had to be done. Hitler called a meeting with Goering, Hess, and Himmler. A list was quickly drawn up of those SA leaders “not faithful to the Fuehrer.” Roehm’s name was at the top. He was arrested, sent to prison, given a loaded gun, and ordered to use it on himself. He refused. Within the hour, a man entered the cell and shot Roehm dead. Unconfirmed reports credited Rudolf Hess with pulling the trigger. Hitler then used the roundups as an opportunity to rid himself of all opponents in a vast witch-hunt across the country. Over the course of a few days hundreds of Germany’s unfaithful were liquidated as the world sat and watched in horror. From then on, Adolf Hitler was the dictator of Nazi Germany. And Hess helped to propel him there.

  Hollinger closed the folder and placed it beside the other files that he and Langford had found. The contents of the other folders were just as strange. Prominent British politicians were being spied on by the Secret Service. He nudged Langford until she woke.

  “Come on, Robbie. It’ll be sunup soon. Let’s scram, pronto. I’ll drive you home.”

  She sat up, stretched, and yawned. “And where are you going, may I ask?”

  “A hotel for a few quick hours of sleep, then I’d better get the MG fixed. After that, I’m going to pay a little visit to someone at 10 Downing Street.”

  “Churchill?” she asked, startled.

  “Yep.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Not me. I never kid.”

  * * * *

  Berchtesgaden, Germany

  Adolf Hitler entered the room that was one of the most important to him on the Berghof estate. Large maps lined every wall. Europe, Asia, North Africa, and major cities on these continents, came to life before his eyes. A map of London was his favourite. It was the biggest and most detailed, and was in three sections, showing the neighbourhoods and individual main buildings. He could actually see the exact location of the House of Commons and 10 Downing Street, the home of his enemy, Winston Churchill. Today, the Fuehrer shuffled over to the newest addition to his room: a long, colourful map of
Scotland. Glasses to his eyes, he stood, alone, studying the route Hess had given for his flight to Dunhampton. He saw Holy Island, the Farn Islands, Cheviot Hills, Troon, St. Abb’s, Coldstream, and Peebles; all the landmarks mentioned by Hess.

  * * * *

  Twenty minutes later, Hitler met Karlheinz Pintsch and Martin Bormann at the entrance to the reception room.

  Pintsch extended the Nazi salute. “Heil Hitler.”

  Hitler turned to Bormann. “I do not want to be disturbed for anything.”

  “Yes, mein Fuehrer.” Bormann clicked his heels, spun around, and withdrew, closing the door behind him.

  Hitler shoved a chocolate in his mouth. “Come with me, Pintsch.”

  “Yes, mein Fuehrer.”

  They walked over to the cages, Hitler with his hands behind his back. Although Pintsch had been to Berghof twice before, he had yet to see the reception room with its huge window that framed the Bavarian Mountains. It was quite a view. The cages and the birds to one side reminded him of a zoo. It seemed that Hitler’s fascination with birds was not just a rumour.

  “Do you like birds?” Hitler asked, over the chirping.

  “Yes, I do, mein Fuehrer. But I’m afraid I do not know that much about them. Some of these look tropical.”

  “Over here are the birds native to Europe. The skylark, the bee-eater, the thrush. Farther down are my parakeets, my cockatoo, and my prized toucan, Frederick the Great. But Frederick hasn’t been eating lately. I hope he doesn’t die too, like the last toucan. He’s my most loyal bird of all. He eats right out of my hand. Loyalty is very important to me, Pintsch.”

  Pintsch’s nerves tightened as Hitler stared at him. Hitler suddenly stood at attention and shot out a Nazi salute with his arm. “Do you know that I can stand before my soldiers — my loyal soldiers — as they parade past me, and I can keep my hand raised for two hours. Did you know that, Pintsch?”

  “No, I didn’t, mein Fuehrer.”

  “Of course you didn’t. But I can.” Hitler dropped his arm down. “Goering can only hold his hand up for thirty minutes. No longer. Why? Because he’s made of flab. I am built of muscle. Your superior, Hess, can hold his hand up for an hour. That is it.” He paused for a moment to catch his breath. “Do you think Hess is loyal to me, Pintsch? What did you find?”

  “Nothing at all, mein Fuehrer.”

  “No papers hidden anywhere?”

  “Nothing.”

  Hitler drew closer. “Nothing at Augsburg when you searched his locker?”

  Pintsch cleared his throat, stepping back. He remembered how he had to scramble when Hess came back early. “I couldn’t find a thing.”

  “Has he been acting out of the ordinary?”

  “Not that I can see, mein Fuehrer.”

  “Has anyone been to his house?”

  “I’ve kept a close watch. Only those on official business.” Pintsch licked his lips. “Mein Fuehrer, may I ask what I’m looking for? Perhaps then I could be of more help to you.”

  “Very well! Stay here.” Hitler left and returned with three typed sheets in his hands. “I can’t tell you everything, Pintsch. However, I will say this. For weeks Hess has been attempting a flight to Scotland to conduct peace negotiations in my name with the British.”

  Pintsch prayed his knees wouldn’t buckle on him. He brought to mind his superior’s mysterious flights at strange hours, the coded messages to Lion in Stockholm. Mission Abort, three times. Sometimes he would send the Enigma messages himself, but most of the time Hess did it. And then there were the modifications to the Messerschmitt. Extra fuel tanks. Stronger radio. “I never suspected,” Pintsch exclaimed. “But when I think back, now it makes sense.”

  “You, Pintsch, must find out if Hess is acting for me or on his own. And there is only one way to do that. Look, look at my proposals. If Hess is in possession of any other proposals, then he is a traitor to the Fatherland, and disloyal to me. Then he will be dealt with. Now read them!”

  When he took the papers, Pintsch realized he was entering a new dimension, beyond anything he had experienced in duty to his country before. And it made him feel uneasy because espionage and politics were not his fields. He had no training in either of them, and frankly, he didn’t really want anything to do with them. Hitler motioned him to sit. Finding a chair, Pintsch forced himself to read. First, a membership board, a coalition of European countries, including England, would be set up and called the Council of Peace. Hitler would be its chancellor, naturally. A common currency would be established, based in Berlin. The pound sterling and the British parliamentary system would be abolished. All British interests would be either controlled outright or monitored by I.S. Filberg, the German business cartel. Lastly, England had to promise never to go to war with Germany again. Pintsch finished and looked away to the birds. The Fuehrer couldn’t be serious. The British on their last dying breath would never agree to such terms. They would rather fight.

  “What do you think, Pintsch?”

  Pintsch swallowed. He knew he had to be careful with his reply. “I am no politician, mein Fuehrer. But they do seem to be harsh.”

  “Harsh! You want to see harsh? If the British don’t comply with these points, we will bomb their cities day and night and crush them with a channel invasion!”

  “Yes, mein Fuehrer.”

  “One other thing, Pintsch. Be discreet.”

  “Mein Fuehrer?”

  “Hess must not know what you are doing, just in case he is as loyal to me as he claims.”

  Pintsch suddenly felt as if he was the one Hitler was watching and not Hess.

  ELEVEN

  Berlin, Germany

  Captain Wolfgang Geis sat at a table at a popular outdoor restaurant in the capital and tilted back his schnapps. He saw the delivery truck turn down the alley behind the restaurant, and caught a pretty fair glimpse of the man behind the wheel. His boys in the Gestapo had found the man and passed on his route; they had done their background work with precision. Himmler would be pleased.

  Geis quickly drank up and took to the pavement. The rear of the truck was thirty feet away at the end of the alley. The man stepped out and walked towards the kitchen entrance, oblivious to anybody watching him. Geis ran up and got a better look. The man was older, thinner for sure, and a bit taller than his counterpart, but it was the facial resemblance that staggered Geis.

  “You there!” Geis said, holding his arm across the door, blocking the driver’s way.

  The man stopped cold. “What do you want?”

  “Gestapo.” Geis flashed his identification.

  “What do you want with me?” the driver asked with some contempt. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “I didn’t say you did. I want to talk with you.”

  “Can you hurry up? I have a busy schedule.”

  Geis smiled. Even the eyebrows were nearly identical. “Remove your cap, please.”

  The driver hesitated as if he knew what the Gestapo agent was going to say next. He frowned and obeyed. “There. Better?”

  “Has anyone ever mistaken you for someone else?”

  “You mean Rudolf Hess? Yes, all the time.”

  * * * *

  London, England

  Requesting and receiving an immediate audience with Winston Churchill at 10 Downing Street, London’s most famous row house, on a few hours’ notice was a proud accomplishment for Wesley Hollinger. Colonel Lampert would never have tried to reach the Prime Minister’s office so early in his career. But Lampert didn’t have the vigour and the gall of the wavy-haired, blue-eyed American senior officer of Bletchley’s Committee B.

  The two undercover civilians, Lampert and Hollinger, so opposite in style, were now standing in Churchill’s wide library where the smell of stale cigar smoke lingered in the air.

  Lampert nodded at Hollinger and said, “At least the timing was perfect. The Prime Minister finished his afternoon nap and it’s tea time. I like his tea blend.”

  Hollinger was tired,
and looked it. “Me, too. Thanks for coming, colonel. I didn’t want to go over your head.”

  “This better be good, Hollinger. I still don’t understand why you can’t tell me without involving the Prime Minister.”

  “I want the Prime Minister to hear it from yours truly.”

  “Hear what, my boy?”

  Hollinger whirled on his heels to see a short, very stout man in half-moon reading glasses saunter towards them, steadying himself on a cane. He wore a dark-blue night coat, and brandished a long lit cigar in his mouth. His feet and chubby hands were small, his hair a wispy white. This squatty man could easily have been mistaken for a ditch digger, or a counter clerk in a Brooklyn delicatessen, not the leader of the greatest sea empire in the world. This was the man who seemed moderately popular with the ordinary English people, and who at the same time was known to the outside world as the individual who was not only carrying the bulk of Great Britain on his shoulders but that of the whole Free World as well.

  Awed in the presence of greatness, Hollinger had not seen Winston Churchill since the American’s second day in Britain. His face and hands were more wrinkled than Hollinger had recalled from that short meeting on January 2. He seemed heavier and more stooped. But what remained obviously unchanged was the inner strength that the 66-year-old leader seemed to draw from, as if it were always on reserve for the taking. Hollinger could see that strength in his eyes, his confidant walk, despite the cane, and his keen expression. He certainly was not the warmongering drunk his opponents thought him to be. He was fighting for his country’s survival against overwhelming odds.

  Churchill was the son of an American mother and an English father. He was the extreme Man of War, a seasoned politician whose aim on the home front was to solidify the coalition government in Britain. It was proving to be a hard struggle. In the 1930s, while his peers were ignoring the danger signs in Nazi Germany, Churchill was a lone voice against Hitler’s expanding war machine. Churchill had campaigned for more defence spending and was tagged an extremist. But he did have support from those who saw the danger. Men such as Colonel Raymond Lampert, others in the Secret Service, as well as a selected group of Americans, starting with Franklin Roosevelt and his intelligence adviser, Bill Donovan. Churchill had allies. The right people positioned in the right places.