by Daniel Wyatt
“Hollinger, that fat little runt is the key to the appeaser lobby group and the best connection we have to Rudolf Hess. He has blood brothers in the army, navy, air force, the House of Commons, Churchill’s cabinet, not to mention business ties around the world.”
Brenwood’s high and mighty background didn’t mean a whole lot to Hollinger. “No big deal. He’s going down for the count.”
“Right you are, Hollinger. Do the honours.”
“I thought you’d never ask, sir,” Hollinger replied, grinning, tapping the holstered pistol strapped to his chest. The American left his driver’s seat, flipped the collar up on his coat, and walked over to the Rolls Royce. He tapped twice, until the white-haired chauffeur rolled the window down.
“Beat it, bub,” Hollinger said, standing in the rain.
“I beg your pardon.”
“You heard me.” Hollinger showed the man his MI-6 identification. “Move on. Shove off. Adios. In other words, get the hell out of here. We have business with your boss. We’ll escort him home. And one other thing, you never saw me. Got it?”
“I understand.” The man drove off.
Three minutes later, Brenwood appeared at the door, a wad of envelopes in his hand.
“Let’s go, Hollinger.”
Hollinger and Lampert made their move. They left the staff car, cut through the crowd and blocked Brenwood’s path to the curb before he could see that his Rolls Royce was gone. Lampert stuck out his ID and in an easy, controlled voice said, “Mr. Brenwood?”
“Yes.”
“Secret Service. Come with us, please. Out of the rain. Don’t make a scene.”
Brenwood turned pale. “What do you want with me?”
They snatched the letters and led him to the back seat of the staff car. Hollinger got in behind the wheel, while Lampert slid in the back with Brenwood. No one in the crowd noticed a thing. All at once, another car with Secret Service men pulled in behind them.
“What is this? What do you want with me?”
“Nervy little bugger, ain’t yuh?” Hollinger helped himself to the letters. “Why so nervous?”
“Who are you? You’re an American!”
“Good for you. Ten points to the snappy dresser in the blue suit. Nice tie, too. Too yellow, though.” Hollinger pushed a Stockholm-postmarked envelope into Brenwood’s face. “Now, I wonder how many points I get if I can guess what’s in the letter?”
“Does the name Lion mean anything to you?” Lampert asked, calmly. “Cat got your tongue? How about Deputy or the new name, Falcon?” he continued. “Or Operation Night Eagle?”
Brenwood winced when Hollinger tore the letter open with his manicured hands. “I know it’s in code,” Hollinger said, “but I do happen to know it states here that Rudolf Hess — Falcon — will rendezvous with Lion — that’s you, Brenwood — at Dunhampton, tomorrow evening, May the tenth. What about it, Brenwood?”
Brenwood swallowed the bile in his throat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about? I’m ... I’m just a messenger. I only deliver the letters.”
“Addressed to you? I’m afraid we can’t believe that one.”
Lampert waved to the two men in the other car. They came up and stood a short distance away on the sidewalk. The colonel turned towards Brenwood and in a slow, deliberate voice, free of emotion, said, “Simon Brenwood, you are under arrest for treason. Collaborating with the enemy in war time.” He leaned his head to the open window. “Take him away, gentlemen.”
“Yes, sir,” one of them said.
Hollinger and Lampert watched until Brenwood was driven off. Hollinger was proud of the fact — and he showed it — that his involvement with Enigma II had led to Brenwood’s arrest.
Lampert bent forward from the back seat and uttered, “Mr. Hollinger, this is far from over. But before you make your way to Scotland, kindly get yourself a haircut. It is not suitable for a Secret Service operative. You look like ... like a musician.”
Hollinger looked hurt. “But I just got a haircut last week.”
“Well, then ... get them to take some more off.”
“Yes, sir.”
* * * *
Munich, Germany — May 9
Forster, the Augsburg communications man, looked flustered as he made his way into Hess’s library and faced his superior.
“What’s the matter, Forster?”
“I’m sorry to disturb your lunch, Herr Reichsfuehrer. It’s this message I received only minutes ago on the Enigma II wire from Berlin. I thought it best that I run it over.” He removed several sheets of paper from his shirt pocket inside his coat.
Hess took the deciphered dispatches from Forster. They were from his good friend Bremmel, one of the Board of Directors of I.S. Filberg, the powerful German business conglomerate that Hess knew had helped fund and was still funding Hitler’s Nazi movement through organized international channels. Hess skimmed through the material in seconds. All the sensitive loans, including the American ones, were laid out in detail. A smile appeared on Hess’s lips as he folded the sheets in half. It was exactly the information he wanted. He would take it with him to Scotland. The British would find out who their friends really were.
“Forster,” Hess said, narrowing his eyes at his loyal employee, “You never saw this.”
“You’re right, Herr Reichsfuehrer. I didn’t.”
* * * *
RAF Dunhampton, Scotland
Jack Croucher and Ted Jones were already in the briefing room at Dunhampton when Group Captain Walker from RAF Intelligence arrived. This was their first look at Walker, who they had only spoken to by phone before. He was a thin man of average height with a thick, sandy-red moustache. The two airmen saluted the group captain, then sat down. This was the day Jones and Croucher were waiting for. Perhaps this briefing would explain some or all of the secrecy behind the aerodrome and the two weeks of testing the “bamboo bomber”, as they were calling it.
Walker brought a cloth-covered easel in with him, which he placed in front of the officers. “Good afternoon, gentlemen. So we finally meet.” He threw back the cover to show a map of the east coast of Scotland, the North Sea and Denmark. The airmen moved forward. “Your two weeks of intense training has been for a special reason,” Walker said. “You are now well acquainted with the Mosquito and her sophisticated airborne radar. Tomorrow you will fly towards Denmark, taking one turning point over the North Sea. Right about here.” His finger pointed to a map spot as Jones wrote the location on a note pad. “From there you will circle this area to the east. A German Messerschmitt BF-110 with fuselage markings NJ-C11 will be leaving a base near Aalborg, Denmark between the hours of 1900 and 2100. Given information on German navigation, the fighter is certain to ride a radio beam along its way. Its destination will be this aerodrome. Don’t ask why. It’s none of your concern. We want this aircraft and it’s your job to escort it in. Complete radio silence is vital within enemy coast range.”
Jones and Croucher glanced at each other.
“And another thing,” Walker continued, his eyes on the men. “In the next few days some, shall we say, strange newspaper headlines may be released about this particular ME-110 and its occupant. Don’t tell anyone you saw it. Don’t ask questions. Don’t assume anything. Don’t even talk about it among yourselves. That’s a direct order from someone a hell of a lot higher than me.”
How high up? Croucher wanted to say.
SEVENTEEN
The North Sea — May 10
Felix Schubert had passed his first test as soon as he was taken aboard the submarine at the port of Kiel. The submariners thought he was Hess.
A day later, in the privacy of his bunk, Schubert pondered Himmler’s peace terms for the umpteenth time. The trip was far from being the highlight of Schubert’s sudden intelligence career. The smell of oil, machinery, cigarette smoke, and dirty, unwashed bodies lingered in the air. Living accommodations were cramped. Every available space was taken by food, equipment, and torpedoes. The c
onstantly humming diesel engines had raised the temperature to over one hundred degrees. Fresh water was scarce, and the food tasted of diesel oil.
Schubert pursed his lips. The shock of Himmler’s papers had worn off by now. The Gestapo leader was offering the British appeasers one billion pounds from a Swiss bank account to be used for influencing more Englishmen to the peace cause. The conditions were that Winston Churchill would have to be removed from office. Himmler would be the new ruler of Germany with a grand new title of Fuehrermaster and Adolf Hitler would be arrested for crimes against the state. England and Germany would cease fighting. England would remain a sea power, and not be invaded, as long as Germany was given a free hand in Europe.
Politics meant little to Schubert. It didn’t matter to him who would be in power once it was all over. He only wanted to perform the mission to the best of his ability and be rewarded once he returned. It still bothered Schubert that Hess let him go after the 1932 elections without even a word of thanks. Himmler would treat him with the proper respect due him. Himmler would look after him. He had promised.
* * * *
Munich, Germany
From the window of his second-story room, Deputy Fuehrer Rudolf Hess looked over the garden he was so proud of. May had greened the lawn. It was peaceful and serene this Saturday afternoon shortly after two o’clock in southern Germany, the tenth day of the month of May. The sunshine glittered off the clear blue water of the swimming pool. He slid the window up and leaned on the ledge. The flowerbeds were full of bright colours, and the fragrance of the spring blossoms swept over him. The birch trees were nearly in full leaf and the rich-green grass had been freshly cut that morning after a solid rain two days before. Fifteen years ago, he would only have dreamed of owning such grand property.
Outfitted in his blue-grey slacks, tall airman’s boots, light-blue shirt and dark-blue tie, he climbed the stairs two at a time to his secretary’s office, where he scribbled a note to his wife, who was sleeping off the effects of a severe cold.
I firmly believe that the flight I am about to make will be crowned with success.
Should I not return, however, the goal I set for myself was worth the supreme effort. I am sure you all know me: you know I could not have acted any other way.
Hess sealed the note in an envelope and wrote on the outside, to be opened on Sunday, my darling. He walked to a small room that Ilse often used to read and write letters and slipped the envelope neatly inside the drawer, knowing she would look there in the next few days.
Next, he looked in on his son. Hess wondered if Ilse had found it a little unusual that for the past few weeks he had been spending more time with their four-year-old, Wolf-Rudiger, than he used to. The morning hand-in-hand strolls along the Isar River, which backed onto their garden, were more frequent and longer, and so were the trips to the nearby Hellabrun Zoo. Only yesterday, Hess and the boy had spent the afternoon with model trains and tanks. Today, Wolf was playing with some army toys. Hess kissed his son and left. Hess was still the same loving husband and father. He didn’t want anything to appear out of place. Outside of this special closeness to his son, Hess was the same man he had always been.
At the front window, Hess waited, facing the high bushes and the road. He imagined he was on his way to Dunhampton ... he could feel the cockpit deck rumbling beneath his boots ... he could smell the pungent aroma of fuel and oil ... he could see the props turning thousands of revolutions per minute. Then he recalled his first solo flight over twenty years earlier and how nervous he was. Today, he was anxious. He had the dream again last night. The long hall filled with Scottish and English country scenes had been more vivid this time. It only seemed right that he should have had it the night before his international peace mission, and it gave him the courage to believe he would be successful.
The wait was short. Pintsch and the chauffeur pulled up in Hess’s Mercedes, a black super-charged five-and-a-half litre SSK model. The Deputy Fuehrer grabbed his blue Luftwaffe flight jacket, and his briefcase containing Bremmel’s dispatches and Hitler’s peace initiatives. He went upstairs to find his wife still sleeping. Disappointed he couldn’t say goodbye, he closed her door quietly so he wouldn’t disturb her. Then he left through the front entrance of the house.
Pintsch stood outside ready to greet his master. “Good afternoon, Herr Reichsfuehrer,” he said, opening the front passenger door.
Hess took one last long look at his country home and wondered if he’d see it again. Then he recalled the dream. Of course, he’d come back. “Good afternoon, Pintsch.”
Pintsch closed the door and got in on his own side.
As the chauffeur drove through the iron gates, Hess wondered how much Pintsch really knew, if anything. Hess remembered Pintsch bending over the ME-110 cockpit. Hess was angry at the time, but changed his attitude soon after. If Pintsch was spying for Goering, Himmler, or Hitler, he had to have been forced in some way against his will. Pintsch was basically a good man, dependable and hard-working. He would be forgiven.
Pintsch handed his superior the latest weather forecast for three locations represented by letters which stood for Augsburg, Aalborg, and Glasgow. Hess realized from experience that the report was only a guide. Although he had made a habit of obtaining accurate weather forecasts every day for three months, he knew the conditions could change on short notice, especially over Scotland and the unpredictable North Sea. But so far, so good, according to the new weather report. There was no stopping him now. Saturday, May 10, 1941, Hess decided, would be written in the history books as the day of the Anglo-German peace mission that had saved the world and returned to him the respect he deserved.
The chauffeur drove the car through Munich, past the Saturday afternoon shoppers, and out onto the autobahn. After fifteen minutes, Hess suddenly asked the driver to pull over to the side of the road.
“Let’s take a walk and get some fresh air, Pintsch,” Hess announced, startling his adjutant. “We have the time. We’re running a few minutes early.”
“As you wish, Herr Reichsfuehrer.”
They strolled slowly through the grass.
Hess stopped inside a clump of tall pine trees about one hundred feet off the road. “Is something wrong, Pintsch? You don’t look yourself.”
“I’m concerned about you, Herr Reichsfuehrer. This is a very significant day, for some reason. I can feel it.”
Hess agreed with pleasant eyes. His adjutant looked as if he meant his concern. “It is a special day.” He held out an envelope for Pintsch. “See that you take this to the Fuehrer if I do not return from my flight after four hours. And remember to call the Air Ministry in Berlin the instant the four hours is up and ask for a radio beam to be sent from Aalborg in the direction of Glasgow, Scotland. I am conducting an experimental flight over the North Sea in close proximity to the enemy coast. And you’re one of the few who knows that.”
Pintsch took the envelope placed in his hand. “Yes, Herr Reichsfuehrer.”
“Did you bring your camera?”
“Yes, Herr Reichsfuehrer. I have it in my bag.”
They walked for another half-mile. Hess wanted to savour the moment of his beloved Bavaria, the smell of her trees and crocuses, her crisp, blue skies, and her white-capped mountains over the line of trees.
The silence between the two men lengthened. Hess was calm. He bent down and pulled up some grass by the roots. Bavarian grass. He rubbed the blades in his palms as Pintsch watched. Then their eyes met. That look relayed it all. Hess was now aware beyond any doubt that Pintsch could never have been collaborating against him.
“That’s it, Pintsch.” Hess threw the grass down. His mind was elsewhere, hundreds of miles away. Denmark. The North Sea. Scotland. “Let’s go.”
For the remainder of the forty-mile trip to Augsburg, Hess studied a file stamped REICH TOP SECRET. In it was the Fliegerkarte, an up-to-date flight map of the forbidden zones in Germany and Denmark, where every square kilometre of air space was monitored
. The times and altitudes of the “safe” areas were plainly marked out for the month of May, keeping in mind the time of day. Without the map, one wrong move could lead to his being shot down by his own anti-aircraft gunners. Hess could see that in order to exit Germany he — while passing through the Hamburg and Kiel zones — was compelled to fly at three different altitudes.
* * * *
Augsburg, Germany
The chauffeur braked the Mercedes and brought it to a stop on the concrete near the hangars. At his locker, Hess went about the routine he had planned. He changed into his blue Luftwaffe jacket, then searched for his leather flying suit. But it was nowhere to be found. So he took another suit nearby, which he knew belonged to the assistant airfield manager.
Pintsch watched his master’s every move. He reminded himself that Hess was above suspicion. He had to be. No papers were found inside his flying suit. Pintsch had stolen the suit the day before and had cut into the lining. Unless he was carrying other papers on his person or inside his briefcase. Turning his concentration elsewhere, Pintsch went about his orders. With his camera, he snapped pictures of Hess outside conferring with the airfield staff on the tarmac and being helped into his parachute.
As Hess waited on the tarmac, the engines were fired up, giving off a brief belching spurt of white smoke. Only one engine ran at first, and the mechanics had to be called over. Once the troubled engine caught, Hess turned to Pintsch and yelled in his ear over the engine thunder, “Watch your back, Karlheinz.” He offered his hand and they shook, a gesture that Hess had never before made to his adjutant.
