by Daniel Wyatt
“Good to see you again, Wesley,” Churchill said in his lisp. His handshake was strong, his voice the same recognizable blare as in his radio broadcasts: hard, gruff, full of fight. “So, how is the Tyrant of Hut Nine?”
Hollinger froze at first. Damn. Churchill didn’t miss anything. He’d heard about the “no smoking” signs. “Fine, Mr. Prime Minister. Just fine.”
“I hope you don’t mind if I smoke?”
“Not at all, sir.”
“Have you been in touch with my friend, Mr. Donovan?”
“Yes, sir. He wrote me following my evaluation report of Bletchley. He said to give you his best.”
“Good man that Donovan.”
“Yes, sir. He is.”
“What about those Japanese? Are they going to start anything in the Pacific?”
“If they do, sir, I’m confident our forces will be ready to take them on.”
“And you, Colonel Lampert?” Churchill jabbed Lampert in the stomach with his forefinger. “How are you keeping? Have a seat, gentlemen.”
“A little tired, sir,” Lampert replied, easing into a padded chair.
“Hah,” Churchill chuckled from behind his smoky cigar. “Try keeping the hours I do. Look at Wesley, here. He looks like he hasn’t slept for twenty-four hours. The colonel working you too hard at Bletchley, boy?”
Hollinger had heard of Churchill’s late nights. The Prime Minister very seldom dropped off before two in the morning. “Actually, sir, I did manage to catch an hour or so in a hotel before I came over.”
“Care for a drink, anyone? It is tea time, is it not? Wine, whiskey, champagne, brandy.”
“I could be persuaded to try a brandy,” Lampert said.
“I thought you might. And you, Wesley?”
“The same here, sir.”
Churchill snapped his fingers at a butler who withdrew and re-entered the room with three drinks and a container of ice on a tray. He served the drinks and shrank away like a cat, not making a sound, clicking the library doors closed as he retired to the hall.
Churchill settled into his favourite armchair, his cigar in one hand and a glass of iced scotch in the other. “Now, young Wesley, what’s so damn important to get you out of Bletchley?”
“Yes, Hollinger,” Lampert muttered. “I’m dying to know myself.”
Churchill laughed, heartily. “You didn’t tell your superior? Wesley, you got the nerve.”
Hollinger blushed, and Churchill nodded at him to begin.
Hollinger bent down to his leather briefcase and nervously handled the small stack of papers inside. “Sir, it’s Enigma II. We’ve broken it,” he started out, his voice cracking.
“You have?” Lampert said. “When?”
“Last night.”
“And you kept it from me until this afternoon? Why? I was supposed to be the first one notified.”
Hollinger cleared his throat. “I wanted to tell you both in person. Actually, that’s only part of it. It’s the content of the intercepts themselves that ... well ... a series of them sent from Augsburg, Germany to a contact in Stockholm by the codename of Lion, are extremely unusual. They use a call sign of NPL.” He set the papers on his armrest. “These are the same Stockholm intercepts that you asked for, colonel. None of them had to be translated because, strangely enough, they were sent out in English. Of course, I was suspicious right off. The first one was this one, dated January 25, from Deputy THREE-FIVE-TWO-SIX-FIVE-TWO.” Hollinger handed the sheet to Churchill. “For your benefit, colonel, I had mimeographed an extra copy.”
“Thanks for thinking of me.”
Hollinger nervously passed the copies to Lampert, but dropped some sheets to the floor. “Sorry, sir. I’ll get them.”
Churchill looked at his sheet and glanced at Lampert as Hollinger retrieved the dispatches. “Go on, Wesley.”
“There are many more from Augsburg to Stockholm where the same codenames of Lion and Deputy keep cropping up. When I checked with the section of RAF Intelligence attached to Enigma, I discovered the RAF have a spy at Augsburg. The Messerschmitt factory is at Augsburg, and it also has an airfield. According to the RAF files the numbers THREE-FIVE-TWO-SIX-FIVE-TWO are the serial numbers of a Messerschmitt-110 belonging to none other than Rudolf Hess, the Deputy Fuehrer of Germany.”
“Hess?” Lampert asked, calmly.
“Yes, sir.”
“Exactly what are you implying, Wesley?” Lampert demanded, glancing at Churchill.
Hollinger coughed. “This, sir. On the night of January 27, almost three months ago, Rudolf Hess attempted to fly his personal ME-110 from Augsburg to Aalborg, Denmark. But he didn’t make it.” Hollinger shifted uneasily. He handed out the rest of the deciphered Hess-Stockholm Enigma II intercepts. Something wasn’t sitting well with him. Churchill and Lampert should have been more surprised. “See for yourselves,” Hollinger said. “Later, on the twenty-ninth of January, Deputy — that is Hess — sent Stockholm another cipher stating he was forced to return to Augsburg due to a fuel leak. At first I thought Ainwick was his destination. See the bottom of the intercept where it states arrive Ainwick 1700 hours. But the last stage of the flight I now know was meant for a rendezvous aircraft, not Hess’s plane.”
“How did you conclude that?” Churchill asked, peering over the top of his glasses.
“We’ve deciphered several messages indicating that Hess has new plans to fly to Scotland in person very soon and meet with Lion at a base called Dunhampton, not far from Wing Commander Duke of Hamilton’s Dungavel Castle. The codename for the flight is Operation Night Eagle, and Hess’s codename is Falcon.”
Churchill’s eyes were fixed to the appropriate paper. He didn’t look up this time until Lampert stared across at him. Then their eyes met.
Hollinger hadn’t noticed. He reached for a thick file in his briefcase. “Mr. Prime Minister, how familiar are you with the Duke of Hamilton and his social and political connections?”
“Why would you ask me that?” Churchill answered.
“Because the Secret Service has a file on him, along with Hess. And here it is.” Hollinger held it up and wiggled it in his hand. “It’s all here. The Duke’s pro-German leanings before the war. How he became friendly with several German pilots during a visit to Berlin in 1936 at the time of the Olympic Games. He attended a banquet at the chancellery hosted by Hitler and the Nazi Party. Two of his acquaintances were Professor-General Karl Haushofer and his son. Both just happen to be close friends of Hess. The same Professor Haushofer, by the way, whose Geopolitical views have influenced others so much, including Hess and Hitler, and certain Englishmen. Haushofer believes that Germany should lead a United Europe, side-by-side with her British brothers. One a land empire, the other—”
“You can skip the Geopolitics lesson, Wesley,” Churchill interrupted. “The colonel and I are familiar enough with it.”
“Yes, sir. Forgive me, sir. The professor’s son, Albrecht, is the bizarre one,” Hollinger continued. “He’s a teacher at Berlin University and the adviser to the German Foreign Office on British Affairs, appointed by Hess. He’s presently being investigated by the Gestapo for some alleged homosexual affairs with young boys. Albrecht and the duke had gotten together on a number of occasions before the war, in Britain and Germany. And let’s not forget that the duke was a member of the Anglo-American Fellowship Association, and that he had stated, as a conservative in the House of Commons only a month after the war started, that he stood for a just peace. And that’s not all. I also have in my briefcase a copy of a letter from Albrecht to the duke, dated September 1940. It was sent via a German spy named Mrs. V Roberts in Lisbon, Portugal — a letter the MI-6 intercepted before the duke saw it. There is also some information on Hess’s life. Apparently he was part of a homosexual ring in Munich and Berlin. Even his marriage some twenty years ago didn’t stop the rumours. There seems to be evidence of another homosexual ring in these files involving Albrecht Haushofer, maybe even Hess, the duke, and other no
ted British politicians. It’s a potential scandal.”
Hollinger dug for another folder in his briefcase. “There’s more. The Secret Service has been gathering information on many leading British politicians. Lord Halifax, for one, and his deputy, Mr. Butler. And your own Secretary of War, sir, Oliver Stanley. Then there’s the British Minister to Hungary, Owen O’Malley. And there’s William Strang.”
Churchill sprang from his chair, and with the help of his cane trotted over to Hollinger. “That’s quite enough, young man,” he said, snatching the folder from Hollinger’s grasp. “You are one bright boy. Too bright. You have walked into a hornet’s nest, Wesley.” He turned to face Lampert. “We’ll have to tell him, now, colonel.”
Lampert shook his head. “We have no other choice, sir. Damn you, Wesley, you had no business rummaging through our confidential Secret Service files.”
Hollinger searched the faces of Churchill and Lampert. They were fuming. “You both know about Hamilton, don’t you? And about the letter.”
“The letter and a lot you don’t know. The aborted flights to Denmark. And we know Hess has communicated with Simon Brenwood using Enigma II.”
“Brenwood?” Where had Hollinger heard that name before? “You mean the steel industrialist? You don’t suppose he’s the Lion mentioned in the intercepts.”
“He is,” Churchill replied. “It’s handled through one of his Swedish business firms and two-a-day mail deliveries to London. And we know the Falcon-Lion meeting is set for Dungavel Castle.”
Hollinger was astonished. It took several moments for his brain to catch up with what his ears had just heard. Churchill was right. Hollinger certainly had walked into a hornet’s nest. “Why is Hess trying to reach Brenwood in particular?”
“Because Brenwood is the figurehead of a small but powerful lobby group in Great Britain composed of influential business people and politicians — men like Stanley, Butler, O’Malley — who want to sign a peace treaty with the Germans, and the Duke of Hamilton is a key collaborator. It’s the duke’s air sector that Hess plans to fly through for the meeting. Some people I know would rather make amends with Hitler to save their own cowardly skins! The cards are in place to overthrow me.” Churchill sat down, throwing the file on a nearby nightstand.
“I’ve suspected collusion for some time, going back to Dunkirk,” he continued. “Lord Halifax wanted our government to sign a peace pact right after the evacuation, while Hitler was still in the mood, as he put it. The traitor! But I fixed him so he wouldn’t bother me. I banished the bugger to Washington. Made him our ambassador.” Churchill threw back part of his drink. “His wife came here on her knees begging me not to send them to America. I had no mercy.”
“So, that’s what happened,” Hollinger said, remembering the news of Halifax’s appointment to Washington.
“Still, behind my back, members of my own party wanted me to give in to Hitler and let him take the continent. This outstretched hand of peace, as Hitler refers to it in his broadcasts. I thought the signing of the American Lend-Lease this month would change everything. It hasn’t. And your President Roosevelt had offered us a blank check. All the supplies and war material we ask for. Getting back to Hess, how does he fit into all of this? He may be the missing part of the puzzle. He is definitely a peace messenger. The go-between. The message for Brenwood and his group of appeasers must be a vital one. Why else would Hess risk his life to fly here?”
“Can’t these appeasers be put behind bars?” Hollinger suggested.
Churchill stood up and went over to the drinks tray, puffing on his cigar. He turned to the rugged, young analyst. “You have a lot to learn about diplomacy, lad. There’s a broad line between being a traitor and an appeaser. Besides, if all these influential people were arrested for rising up against my leadership, it would ruin public morale in Britain. We can’t even arrest Brenwood yet for fear of losing an excellent chance of trapping Hess. We have to make it look as if no one suspects Brenwood. We have to be strong and united in this country, not weak and divided while that Nazi swine with the stupid haircut and his sewer rats are knocking at our door. Anything I have to do must be accomplished behind some backs, the way it’s always been done.”
Hollinger suddenly wondered if he would ever have been told the Hess secrets behind Enigma II if he and Langford had not been so snoopy. “Now I know why breaking Enigma II was such a priority. You wanted the jump on Hess,” Hollinger said.
“I like the jump on everybody.” Churchill dropped a fresh ice cube in his drink and sat down again. “Wesley, do you know how I was able to keep tabs on the German military machine long before the war began? I needed funds. I went straightaway to the King. He helped me establish my own Secret Service within the MI-6. Public money, lad.”
“I never knew that.”
“And Prime Minister Chamberlain didn’t know a thing. Not a thing! Because the King and I didn’t trust him. I’ll tell you something else, too. I have a spy in the appeaser group. Even the colonel doesn’t know who it is.”
“No, I don’t,” the colonel confirmed.
“So, you’re holding the trump card, sir,” Hollinger said. “You know when Hess is coming because we can intercept the ciphers at least twelve to twenty-four hours before the plotters see them. Why don’t you shoot Hess down while he’s over the North Sea?”
“Why do that?” Churchill grunted.
“Why not? Get rid of him. RAF Intelligence could be brought in on it. They have night-fighter crews, experts on airborne radar. They could track him coming out of Denmark.”
Churchill looked over at Lampert and grinned, reflecting on Hollinger’s idea. “I like your spunk, lad. But why on earth would we want to kill him? Why not see what he’s bringing with him?”
“Well, then, if you want him alive, let him be escorted to Scotland. If he’s expected at Dunhampton, let’s make sure he gets there and doesn’t crash-land somewhere else where the information may fall into the wrong hands.”
Churchill paused to consider the new suggestion. “You might have something there. I’d get working on it. With the colonel’s permission, of course.”
Lampert nodded, his face fixed. “With Enigma II cracked, we can spare him.”
Hollinger exhaled a sigh of relief. For a time there he thought he was going to lose his job altogether. “What do you suppose Hess is bringing, anyway?”
“Wesley,” Churchill said. “The Germans are mobilizing several Panzer divisions combined with air and ground units along the Polish-Russian border. It appears, to our sources, that the Germans are planning to attack the Soviet Union.”
Hollinger was awestruck. “Would Hitler really do it?”
“I wouldn’t put it past him. There’s a strong anti-Communist movement in Britain, especially in the appeaser group. Ridding Europe of communism would only make them happier. It’s rather simple. The appeasers overthrow me, sign a peace pact, and let the Germans knock off Stalin. The Geopolitical vision becomes reality. If Hess is carrying top secret plans for an attack on Russia, then he must be locked up as soon as he sets foot on our soil.”
“You’re absolutely right, sir.”
“German scientists are also working on splitting the atom. Atom bombs, my friend.” Churchill shook his finger at the American. “Destruction like you have never seen in your life. They would be able to control the world. Now, pick these papers up and return them. And don’t go poking around,” he said firmly. “From now on, if you want to know something, ask. We’re on the same side. Keep that in mind.”
“Yes, sir.”
“As for the escort idea, get on it right away. Call Group Captain Walker at RAF Intelligence today. Keep in touch. And get some sleep. You look bloody awful.”
“Yes, sir. I will get some sleep.” Hollinger gathered the papers and slipped them into his briefcase. It had been quite the afternoon. “Goodbye, sir.” He nodded at Lampert. “Colonel.”
“Mr. Hollinger.”
After Hollinger
left, Lampert rose to his feet and said, “I still don’t like the idea of him breaking into the files. He had no business in there. Now, another knows.”
“I guess it was bound to happen sooner or later. He was too close to the intercepts not to notice. He’s too smart, and like I said before, he’s lucky. What arrogance.”
“I’ll drink to that.”
Churchill smiled. “You know, colonel, he reminds me of someone.”
“Really? Who?”
“Me.”
TWELVE
Berlin, Germany — April 22
Himmler looked through the one-way glass at the middle-aged man slouched in a chair next to a table in the interrogation cellar. “So, this is the delivery driver your men discovered for you?” he asked Geis.
“Yes, Herr Reichsfuehrer.”
“How did you find him?”
“A friend of a friend. A conversation or two between people and—”
“Did anyone see you bring him in?”
“No, Herr Reichsfuehrer.” Geis handed his superior the file; he had the man’s information committed to memory.
“Felix Schubert,” the Gestapo leader said, springing open the manila folder.
“Yes, Herr Reichsfuehrer. A distant relation of the Austrian composer. A former bank clerk. He had training as a Luftwaffe pilot after World War I, but washed out. Fifty-years-old. Wife and two daughters, both married to officers in the service. He’s financially broke. A past criminal record and a heavy drinker. He used to be an informant for the German State Police under Von Hindenburg. Served only nine months in prison of a three-year term for robbing a jewellery store in 1931. Then someone on Hess’s staff found him and recruited him.”
