by Daniel Wyatt
“Of course they’re crushed, damn it. That was his plan.”
“Whose plan?”
Hollinger rubbed his face. “The impostor’s. Or was it Hess, and he got rid of the impostor? Oh, I don’t know.”
“What impostor? Wesley, you are not making sense. You’re delirious. Get some sleep and we’ll talk later, perhaps.”
Hollinger lunged out and grabbed Lampert by the lapel of his suit. “Listen to me!” he winced. “Uh, that hurt!”
“Unhand me!”
“Listen to me, both of you.” Hollinger hung on, glancing from Lampert to Langford, the pain secondary now. “There were two Hesses on the runway. Two! OK! I don’t know how or why. But there were two. Got it. TWO! They were nearly identical. I must have driven one of them out to meet the ME-110 coming in. He had a gun on me and wore a hat.”
Lampert tried to pull away from Hollinger’s grip. “Stop it! Confound you, man!”
“They fought right in front of me! I didn’t know who was who. You don’t believe me, do you? You think I’m nuts.” Hollinger released Lampert and fell back. Then he recalled Hess’s medical reports. The mortar wound to the chest. He snapped his fingers. “Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah, that’s right.”
“Oh yeah, what?” Lampert said, brushing at his lapel.
“Hess had a mortar wound to his chest that left a scar on the front and back. It was all in the medical report. Check the body, colonel. If it has the scars, then it’s him. And—”
“The buckteeth,” Langford snapped, quickly realizing she had given herself away.
“So, you’re the one who let him in.” Lampert stared at Langford, who blushed. “You didn’t tell me.”
“Forget that now,” Hollinger said, visibly tired and weakening by the second. He closed his eyes for a moment then opened them. “OK, look, you said he wants to cut a deal. What kind of deal?”
Lampert folded his arms. “Hess wants free passage from the British Isles with an aircraft. He promised that he and Himmler will take over the German government from Hitler, then postpone further aggressive action. He claims he has access to an anonymous and untraceable Swiss bank account worth a billion pounds sterling. The trouble is, he has no proof. We’re looking for his papers near where he went down. He also claims his briefcase flew out of his hand while bailing out.”
Hollinger grunted, his face twisted in shock. “One billion pounds! First, you better find out if it’s Hess you’re dealing with or the impostor. And the only way to do that is check the body for scars and for the buckteeth. Don’t just stand there. Colonel, please check the ... the ... body.” Then his voice trailed off and he shut his eyes.
Lampert called for a doctor, who made a quick examination by lifting back Hollinger’s eyelids, then said, “He’s exhausted. He’ll come around again. Give him some rest.”
“By all means,” Lampert sighed.
He and Langford left and stood in the hall.
“I don’t know what to tell Churchill. Are those medical reports on Hess the way Hollinger says they are?”
Langford nodded. “They are, sir. I saw them. I’d get a look at the body, if I were you, colonel, as crazy as it seems. Wesley was rather adamant, wasn’t he?”
“That’s an understatement. Well, I had better look into it. Two Hesses?”
Langford smiled. “What a war.”
“Indeed.”
* * * *
Langford opened the door and glanced in at Hollinger sleeping.
She didn’t know what to think of him. She was strangely attracted to the ruggedly handsome American whose brash ways were so different from the Englishmen she had known. She walked into the room and was struck with the impulse to hold his hand. It was as if that shaky first meeting at Bletchley when he snatched the cigarette from her mouth had never happened. She blotted it from her memory, along with his alleged statements about redheads. She squeezed his hand in hers, feeling his ring. It was a genuine diamond, all right. Yes, there was just something about him.
She blamed herself. It was her fault he was there, lying in the hospital bed. It was her fault ... her fault.
* * * *
The colonel returned to the hall in a mild daze twenty-five minutes later. In his long years in the world of Secret Service Intelligence, he had yet to encounter such a bizarre series of events.
“I called Headquarters to get the exact position of the scars,” he said to Langford. “Then I went to the morgue. They were on the body, as the report had stated.”
“Front and back?” she asked, lighting a cigarette.
“Yes,” Lampert replied. “And that’s not all. One bullet went through his mouth, but it was not enough to hide the fact he had buckteeth. Extraordinary. Hess’s body in our morgue. The Deputy Fuehrer of Nazi Germany. To confirm it, I called Buchanan Castle. They performed a quick physical on the prisoner. Got him out of bed, they did. No scars. No buckteeth.”
Langford exhaled a puffy, blue smoke ring. “So they are two Hesses. What do we do now?”
“What else? Call Winnie. Good grief, he won’t believe it.”
THIRTY
Buchanan Castle, Scotland — May 13
Schubert gawked at himself in the mirror over the sink. He hadn’t shaved in days, and had been wondering for hours why the Duke of Hamilton didn’t come back. Was the duke seeking a higher authority or did that person, Kirkpatrick, find a flaw during the interview? When three men in doctors’ smocks entered the cell an hour later, one of them holding Schubert’s flight suit, boots, and helmet, Schubert thought that the British were finally complying.
“We are ready to make a deal with you, Herr Reichsfuehrer,” the spokesman for the men said, as one of them threw Schubert’s flight gear inside the door.
“Where is my parachute?” Schubert demanded.
“You’ll be provided with a new one.”
“And the aircraft?”
The man hesitated, then replied, “A Bolton. But first, we have to give you a needle to put you out until we let you off at an RAF aerodrome.”
“Why a needle?”
“Security reasons.”
“Why not blindfold me?”
Schubert stood there in a long moment of silence. These men were not doctors. They were too burly. When the spokesman produced a long needle from his front pocket, Schubert kicked it from his hand. The two other men leapt towards Schubert and after a fierce struggle pinned him to the floor. They inserted the needle into Schubert’s left arm and held him down until he drifted into a mindless silence.
* * * *
RAF Dunhampton, Scotland
The next morning, Langford found Hollinger sitting partly up in bed and looking out the window at the morning mist rolling down the valley. He was stripped to the waist, except for the tight white bandage covering most of his powerful chest. His build reminded her of Arthur, big in the shoulders with well-developed biceps.
“Robbie, come on in,” Hollinger said. He brushed his hand through his hair. He noticed she was wearing the same clothes as yesterday, and they showed signs of being slept in.
She smiled. “Now, there’s an improvement, if I ever saw one.”
“I’m still a little on the groggy side from the morphine. But I’m getting used to one-arm shrugs. What’s up? Fill me in. Where’s the colonel?”
“In London consulting with Churchill.” She walked up to him, and dumped a Glasgow newspaper in his lap.
Hollinger glanced at the bold headlines:
RUDOLF HESS IN GLASGOW — OFFICIAL. NAZI LEADER FLIES TO SCOTLAND.
The front page carried two pictures of the downed Messerschmitt, along with an official statement issued from 10 Downing Street and an interview with ploughman David McLean, the man who caught Hess, under the line, “I found German Lying in Field.”
“Is he the real Hess?”
Langford sat in the chair beside him, and looked behind her. Then she decided to get up, close the door and return to Hollinger’s bedside. “No. The impostor.”
“So, he killed Hess, tried to kill me, then tried to fly out of the country. He didn’t get too far and it was then he thought he could cut a deal.”
“Exactly right.”
“What are we going to do with him now?”
“Keep him as a prisoner of war, naturally.”
“But he’s an impostor. Someone will find out, eventually.”
Langford shook her head and grinned. “Churchill has made it clear that anyone who knew him previously will not get within sight of him. Besides, the impostor is playing along with us.”
“How?”
“I don’t think he realizes that we know he’s a fraud. And the clever man is faking amnesia. He claims he can’t remember names and places due to the traumatic nature of the crash, and the drugging, and everything.”
“You’re drugging him?”
“Yes.”
“Amnesia, eh? The best way out if you’re an impostor.”
“Exactly what the colonel said. I have some other news for you. A sub was blown out of the water in the Forth of Firth on the morning of the eleventh. It could very likely have been the impostor’s drop off.”
“Who sent him? Hitler? Does anybody know?”
“Heinrich Himmler.”
“Damn! The Gestapo leader.”
“Right you are.”
“You never did tell me what you are doing up here in the first place.”
“Well ... it all started when I found out I had lost my baby.”
“You what?” Hollinger sat up, slowly. “You lost your baby?”
“Yes. I called Lampert from the hospital on the morning of the eleventh to ask him for time off to recover and that’s when he informed me what had happened to you. He and I drove up here together.”
“You mean to tell me that you yanked yourself out of the hospital bed to come up here to see me in hospital?”
“Yes, I suppose I did.”
“You’re quite the woman.” Their eyes locked. “How do you feel?”
“A little wobbly in the knees. But look at my hand. It hasn’t been that steady in months.”
A nice hand, too, thought Hollinger. Long, slender fingers. “Did your parents ever know?”
“No.”
“Then your reputation is intact.”
“Yes. What else was I to tell you? Oh, the Mosquito men never returned. No radio contact. Nothing. They just disappeared.” She looked sad. “The colonel said you knew who they were.”
Hollinger pictured Jones and Croucher. The poor lads probably crashed into the North Sea. “Yeah, I knew who they were.”
She stood as if she was ready to go. “Another thing. According to Lampert, the Special Operations Branch of the Secret Service have been asking a lot of questions about the prisoner and they want answers. The head of the branch has been a good friend of Churchill for years, part of the inner-intelligence group before the war. But he’s not been briefed about the impostor, and he won’t be either. He seems to be the only roadblock for the time being. If the impostor passes the branch’s scrutiny, then we’re in the clear.”
“For now.”
“Yes.”
“Then it’s not over yet?”
“No, not by any means. And we still have to find the impostor’s briefcase with the peace proposals before someone else does. But there’s too much ground to cover.”
“Like looking for a needle in a haystack.”
“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m expected back in London for a temporary assignment with the Secret Service. And you need time to get better.”
Hollinger smiled. “Thanks for coming, Robbie.”
“You’re welcome.” She strode to the door and turned, catching Hollinger looking at her. “We’ll see each other soon enough. Cheerio.” Then she opened the door and took to the hall, leaving Hollinger with the echo of her high-heeled footsteps.
“Adios, Robbie,” Hollinger said to himself.
THIRTY-ONE
London, England — May 16
Schubert couldn’t understand it. One minute he was told the Brits had made the preparations for him to fly to Europe, then the next minute he was seized by three men, drugged and taken by train to the Tower of London in the middle of the night, under heavy guard.
En-route to the capital, he was shown a copy of the London Times depicting his flight and crash-landing in Scotland. Had the news broken the same time the British were about to make a deal to let him go? And now were they forced to keep him in custody in the Tower?
Schubert made up his mind that there was only one way out of this. He had to continue to pretend he was going crazy — without putting it on too much — to prevent the British from knowing the truth, and hope that the Germans won the war. So far, it was looking good for Hitler’s forces. Britain appeared to be on its last breath. Through the train window, he saw mile upon mile of blackened frames where buildings once stood. The Luftwaffe had done their job and then some.
* * * *
Schubert stood for a man carrying a briefcase who entered the Tower of London cell and gave his name simply as Richardson. His fixed lips and dark eyes made Schubert uncomfortable, and he took an instant dislike to him.
“Sit down, Herr Hess. How is your ankle and back?” Richardson asked in fluent German.
“Better. My stomach is still bothering me, however.”
“I understand you have been eating everything placed in front of you. Beef. Chicken.”
Schubert sat slowly on the bunk. The springs let out a creak. “I was hungry.”
“I thought you were a vegetarian. Vegetarians are usually very particular about what they eat.”
“I have no choice. The British, so far, have not complied with my demands for vegetarian meals. I do not wish to starve.”
“You are in no position to demand anything, Herr Reichsfuehrer. You are a prisoner of war.” Richardson found the room’s only chair and withdrew a thick writing pad from his briefcase. “Where and when were you born, Herr Reichsfuehrer?”
“Alexandria, Egypt in 1896. No, 1894.”
“Don’t you remember your own birth date?”
Schubert shrugged. “My memory has been playing tricks on me lately. It was 1894, I’m sure of it. Yes, 1894.”
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“Two brothers, two sisters.”
“Their names, please?”
“Alfred, Gretl, Eva and ... and ... Hermann.”
“Your mother’s name?”
“Klara.”
Richardson removed a sheet of paper from his breast pocket and unfolded it. “Is this yours?” he showed a hand-drawn map to Schubert.
“Yes, it is. It shows the route I took across the North Sea.”
“Alleged route, you mean.”
“How else did I arrive?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out. You left Augsburg, correct?”
“Yes.”
“And you flew non-stop?”
Schubert tried to remember some of Himmler’s background information on Hess, who, according to the Gestapo, had often used Augsburg as his base for flights. “Yes, I did fly non-stop.”
“Then you reached the coast of Scotland and raced over the rooftops at more than three hundred miles per hour, according to reports from some frightened farmers.”
“Yes, I did fly low-level.”
“You seem quite proud of your little hedge-hopping caper.”
Schubert laughed. “Yes, I am. It was quite sporting, as you Englishmen would say.”
“Sporting? Why didn’t you play it smart by landing at your destination — Dungavel Castle — without all the fanfare? Did you know that you flew right over Dungavel at one point?’
“No, I did not. I lost my way. I flew low to get my bearings.”
“After all that, you lost your way!” Richardson removed a photograph from his inside breast pocket. “Who is this man, Herr Reichsfuehrer?”
“I don’t know,” Schubert answered,
giving it back.
“You should.”
“Why should I?”
“He’s one of your closest friends. He was your teacher at Munich University. Don’t you recognize Karl Haushofer, the Professor of Geopolitics?”
“No.”
The Englishman scribbled some notes, his head down. “You must miss your sport.”
“What sport is that? Flying?”
“No tennis.”
Schubert stretched. He remembered that Hess enjoyed tennis. “Yes, I do miss tennis.”
“According to sources you are quite good.”
“Thank you.”
“I am not familiar with the game. Would you mind telling me how the scoring system works?”
“I don’t seem to recall very much about the past. Ever since your people started drugging me. Why am I being drugged? Why was I not freed? I came in peace. In good faith.”
“I do not know the answers to those questions.” Richardson stood. “Goodbye, Herr Reichsfuehrer.”
* * * *
In the hall, Richardson held his pen to his lips, thinking. This man Hess was very peculiar. According to the Tower of London guards, his table manners were atrocious; a big contrast to the upper-middle-class upbringing that Hess had received. He could not remember personal details about himself, or his family, or his friends. And he was much thinner than the man shown in recently published photographs.
Richardson quickly added several figures in his head, then pondered the known facts and details of the ME-110, including its range. He estimated that the alleged course the prisoner had flown came to approximately twelve hundred miles, which was far outside the range of the aircraft, even if it had drop tanks. Then there was the high-speed sprint over Scotland for an hour, which was sure to gobble the fuel at a fantastic rate.
Richardson determined that the prisoner was lying about his facts — some or all. It was impossible for him to fly from Augsburg, deep in southern Germany, climb the mountains, zigzag around the German air defences, head into the stiff Westerlies over the North Sea, then make a straight dash to Scotland without refuelling. The information would go into Richardson’s evaluation report.
