Foo Fighters

by Daniel Wyatt

  “Are you in for a dilly of an assignment. Dulles has his moods. OK. No, he doesn’t like it one bit because Donovan asked for you, an outsider, from London too, above all the agents stationed here.”

  “So, them’s the breaks. I can’t help that.”

  “No, you can’t.” McCreedy paused. “OK, ever hear of Martin Bormann?”

  Hollinger shrugged. “Sure. One of Hitler’s henchmen. Don’t know that much about him, though.”

  “Most people don’t. Bormann has always kept it that way. Here’s the lowdown. He’s Adolf Hitler’s personal secretary.” McCreedy pulled a file from his briefcase, and used it as a guide. “Here’s the background check on him. Born June 17, 1900. Joined an artillery regiment in World War One. Served one year in prison for collaborating in the murder of his elementary teacher. In 1929, he married Gerda Buch, the ceremony witnessed by both Adolf Hitler and Rudolf Hess. The couple had ten kids.”

  “Ten!”

  “Yes, ten. And he probably had some illegitimate brats along the way too, the way he’s screwed around. Anyway, Bormann became Rudolf Hess’s Chief of Staff in 1933. After Hess literally flew the coop in 1941, Hitler abolished Hess’s post as Deputy Fuehrer and appointed Bormann to direct the newly created Nazi Party Chancellery. Since then, Bormann has outmanoeuvred all his rivals. For years he’s been the most powerful man in Germany, but very few know it because he stays out of the limelight, and is very seldom photographed, unlike Himmler, Goering, Goebbels, and the others. He makes most of Hitler’s decisions for him, handles his affairs, and he’s hated by the others in the German High Command for his closeness to the Fuehrer. He is also the Nazi contact to some very important Swiss bank accounts. We — the OSS — have heard through a good source in this country that Bormann is willing to cut a deal with us.”

  “A deal with the enemy?”

  “Right.”

  “What happened to Unconditional Surrender?”

  “Hah!” McCreedy chuckled. “Just something that sounds good for the Allied press. There are several deals in the works, Wesley. They all come under the umbrella of what a few of us in the OSS call Operation Paperclip. It is our job to get certain Nazis out of Germany before it falls in exchange for their advanced scientific knowledge, such as the V-weapons, the military jet aircraft, and this new aircraft, the Foo Fighter, which you are well aware of from the Foo File.”

  Hollinger shifted in the seat. He stared earnestly at McCreedy. “I thought that was classified. Only the London office knew of the file’s existence.”

  “Not anymore. Anyway, that’s why you’re here. You, Wesley, are going to be our American contact in these negotiations with the enemy. And I will assist you.”

  “The two of us?”

  “Yes. Let me emphasize that we here in Switzerland are especially interested in the Foo Fighter.”

  “I wonder why?”

  “Bormann’s intermediary is an unnamed member of the Swiss investment firm of Erickson, Fruge, & Company, a family-run bank that handles the accounts for Bormann and other Nazis, not to mention several large American companies. But that’s another story. The meetings will take place thirty miles from here in Lake Lucerne. I’ve been there once. Quite nice, actually. I hope high elevations don’t bother you. We’ll be up about a mile or more above sea level.”

  “Don’t worry about me, I can take it,” Hollinger said.

  “There’s another wrinkle. A South American country — namely Argentina — has volunteered to take in these Nazis, at a price.”

  “A piece of the pie? Money? A Swiss account or two?”

  “Yes. Therefore, at these meetings will be a representative of Juan Peron, a high-ranking official in Argentina who will probably be the next leader of that country. The man’s name is Benito Cocapo.”

  “So, we get the technology and the scientists, while Argentina gets the dough and hides the leaders.”

  “Aren’t you the perceptive one, Wesley? It’ll be an Anglo-Spanish-German consortium of cooperation. An understanding.”

  “And the press and the public won’t suspect a thing.”

  “Of course not. They never do. Chosen people will take the heat and be punished. Himmler, for example. Bormann’s sources have fed us documents to show that Gestapo chief Heinrich Himmler has ordered millions to their deaths in concentration camps. We are promised photos shortly. And we have copies of the written orders from the Fuehrer.”

  “How do you know Bormann isn’t behind these deaths, if he’s as close to Hitler as you say he is?” Hollinger asked.

  “You always were a straight shooter, Wesley. Good question. I thought of it too. Maybe he is. But that’s none of our business right now.”

  “Just follow orders.”

  “Right. Wherever they come from.”

  “Washington, you mean.”

  McCreedy said, “Or a hell of a lot higher than that.”

  Hollinger looked at Thomas McCreedy strangely. “You mean the Allies?”

  “You are so out of it, Wesley, old buddy. Not unlike every other war, this one is a rich man’s war, and a poor man’s fight. There are higher powers out there that make the world turn. People who even Roosevelt answers to. Men of money. International Bankers. Wall Street shakers. Oil barons. Steel magnates. These people know no borders and have no morals. Here’s one for you. Did you know that Standard Oil, my old employer, has shipped oil to the Nazis all along?”

  “They have?”

  “Yes, they have. And did you know that Standard Oil, Du Pont, and GM are the only ones who have world rights to tetraethyl lead, a major gasoline additive?”

  “I don’t get the connection. So? What of it?”

  “The Germans were short of it back in 1939.”

  “I repeat. So?”

  “They purchased twenty million dollar’s worth of it from Standard Oil, then turned around and attacked Poland to start the war. I saw the paperwork for it. You listen to me. This war was well planned out in the corporate board rooms of New York, London, and yes, even Berlin, all for the sake of power and profit.”

  “You’re nuts. Who the hell in Berlin, of all places, wanted this war to make money?” Hollinger asked.

  “Ever hear of I.S. Filberg?”

  “Sure have. The German industrial cartel. They were receiving Wall Street loans for their munitions factories before the war.”

  McCreedy was awestruck. “How did you know that?”

  Hollinger remembered the Hess peace initiatives. “Don’t ask.”

  “Geez! I guess I shouldn’t. Well, I’ve got news for you. The loans didn’t stop on December 7, 1941. It all comes under Trading with the Enemy Act, stamped and approved by Roosevelt himself so that the people who put him in power get rich off this war. All nice and legal. And Dulles is in up to his balls. He loves the Nazis. He always has. He’s been the legal advisor for the Anglo-German Schroeder bank.”

  “Go on. I don’t believe it.”

  “Believe it. Back home in New York, his law partner, De Lano Andrews, is advising the Germans as we speak through the New York branch of the Schroeder bank. I know this to be true. I know people on Wall Street. And I’ll tell you something else. Dulles was a law partner at Sullivan and Cromwell in the 1920s. They handled all the I.S. Filberg legal paperwork in America. Now do you know why Dulles doesn’t want his name mentioned?”

  Hollinger didn’t like the way the conversation was moving. “Are you telling me that Dulles is a traitor?”

  McCreedy shrugged. “Don’t let me decide for you. Figure it out for yourself.”

  The train lurched and began to move.

  McCreedy looked across at the slowly disappearing train station platform through the window. “Let’s go to the bar. I could use another drink. How’s about you?”

  “No. I’ve had enough. Take my advice, you have too. And take my advice on something else.”

  “Yeah, what?” McCreedy asked.

  “Be careful who you talk to about what you know.”


  Lake Lucerne

  The hotel desk clerk handed the sealed white envelope to Hollinger as soon as he and McCreedy checked in. They quickly read the note inside.

  Hollinger. See you at the shooting range. Erickson.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Yes, Mr. Hollinger?” the clerk asked, in German-accented English.

  “Is there a shooting range around here?”

  “Yes, there is, sir. Proceed to the walkway behind the hotel parking lot. Follow the brick path to the right. It’s about a three or four minute walk.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Let’s settle into our rooms first,” McCreedy suggested, puffing on a cigarette.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  Twenty minutes later, they followed the clerk’s directions. The brick path opened into a flat, grass clearing where people were trapshooting. The snow on the distant mountains surrounding Lake Lucerne glistened in the sunlight.

  Hollinger frowned. “How are we to find him in this?”

  “Search me,” McCreedy said.

  “Do you know what he looks like?”

  “Never met him.”

  “Great.” Hollinger took a few deep breaths. They certainly were high up, where the air was indeed thinner.

  They strolled down the line of men operating the traps for the shooters. Hollinger was fascinated by the shape of the traps. Round and flat... aerodynamically-sound... kind of like the Foo Fighters. No wonder they flew out of the machines so fast. Suddenly, one of the marksmen — a blonde woman with long hair tied in the back — fired a shotgun, shattered the clay pigeon flung from the trap, then turned around and strolled over to the agents, shotgun resting on her shoulder.

  Hollinger looked her over. She wore slacks, and was in her late twenties, average height, extremely attractive. She had clear, olive skin, wide lips, thin nose, and eyes like two blue crystals. Any man who didn’t find her stunning had to be dead.

  In English, but hinting of a German accent, she said, “Wesley Hollinger and Thomas McCreedy, I presume.” She held out her hand. Her voice was soft, yet business-like. Very professional.

  “Yes, we are,” Hollinger answered. “I’m Hollinger. This is McCreedy. And who might you be?” he asked.

  “Johanna Erickson.” Eyes flashing, she shook hands with the two men. There was an upright openness about her as well as a strength to her handshake. “By the look of surprise on your face, you had expected a man. Yes, I shoot traps, and yes, I am the one you will be bargaining with.”

  “You’re Erickson?” Wesley said with a grunt. So, Erickson wasn’t a him, but a dame with a very unmasculine shape.

  “So, you’re Hollinger.”

  The three chuckled.

  “How’s our mutual friend, Mr. Dulles?” she asked.

  “Fine,” replied McCreedy, nudging at his glasses. “Just fine.”

  “Good shooting out there,” Hollinger said, smiling.

  “Thank you. You should try it sometime.”

  “Well,” Hollinger said, glancing around at the trapshooting action, “when do we get started on our project?”

  “As soon as Cocapo arrives,” Erickson informed the Americans. “He’ll be coming along within the hour. We will all have dinner together at the hotel, yes?”

  “Sure,” Hollinger said.

  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I want to finish up.”

  “Don’t let us stop you,” Wesley muttered.

  She smiled with even, white teeth, and displayed a set of dimples. She moved away with an easy, alluring grace that impressed the two Americans.

  One good-looker, Hollinger thought, giving her a final once-over.

  “Not bad,” McCreedy said.

  Hollinger shrugged “Ah, so-so.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I’m hitched, remember.”

  * * * *

  Over wine in a small enclosed booth, away from the others in the room, the meeting of five commenced just after seven that evening.

  “Let me get something straight,” Hollinger said to the beautiful Johanna Erickson. Her hair was down and parted in the middle, and she now wore a white blouse and dark-green slacks. Hollinger chose to momentarily ignore the short, stubby Benito Cocapo, and his Spanish translator.

  “What is that?” she said in an equally-lowered voice.

  “Your firm is representing certain... Nazi individuals.”

  “Martin Bormann in this case,” she corrected Hollinger from across the table. “He, of course, could not be here in person.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Our banking firm will negotiate on his behalf. He insists on us talking directly with the Americans. Not the British or the Russians.”

  “And Mr. Dulles’s name is also our little secret,” Hollinger said to Erickson.

  “Of course.”

  “OK, now, where is Bormann?” Hollinger asked.

  “In Berlin. By Hitler’s side.”

  “It’s only a matter of time before Berlin falls with the Red Army closing in. Will he get out?”

  “He expects to.”

  “He’d better, for our sake and his. When does he plan to do this?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Hollinger.”

  “Too vague. Much too vague.” Hollinger shook his head.

  She frowned. “What more can I do?”

  “He is asking for his freedom in exchange for the recent technical inventions by German scientists. If he doesn’t get out, then we will be forced to deal with someone else. But it might be too late by then.”

  A waiter walked by.

  “Quiet,” Erickson warned in a muffled voice.

  They waited until he was safely on the other side of the room.

  “He... has... contacts. You will have your inventions,” she informed Hollinger.

  “And you,” Hollinger turned to Cocapo, “will take Bormann and whoever in for... safekeeping in this three-way transaction, I take it?”

  “And we get the rest,” McCreedy whispered, lighting a new cigarette.

  The two Americans thought of it together. Operation Paperclip. Cocapo drank from his wine glass, nodding once as the translator finished speaking in Spanish to him.

  “Allow me to clarify things. The OSS are willing to deal on two conditions,” Hollinger continued. “One, I see some documents first. Actual blueprints of these inventions.”

  “That can be arranged, Mr. Hollinger,” Erickson said.

  “Good. Two, we want the Peenemunde scientist team, including Wernher von Braun, intact.”

  Erickson calmly linked her slender hands on the table. She stared into Hollinger’s blue eyes. “If this is what you desire, I will relay your information to Herr Bormann.”

  He stared right back. Blue eyes on blue eyes. “Do that, please.”

  “May we order the food now?” Erickson said. “Trapshooting always makes me hungry.”

  “By all means. I’m famished myself.”

  THIRTEEN

  Antarctic — March 10

  Otto Bauer fell into a deep sleep very quickly. Then, within an hour, he woke with a start. He sat up in bed. He went to the window. All was quiet. But for some strange reason the large, powerful camp lights were off. At first he assumed the generator plant had failed. Then he saw two people dressed in white crawling on their bellies towards one of the huts next to his. A machine gun glinted in the moonlight. He saw two other people... squatting down low.

  What was this?

  He was startled by a loud crash, down the hall, next to his room. Sporadic gunfire erupted, followed by footsteps. Bauer didn’t know what to do, so he threw himself under the bed. Seconds later, from his vantage point on the floor, Bauer saw the door fling open and two sets of white boots.

  “No one in here!”

  Bauer froze. British accents. The British were in the Antarctic!

  “Check under the bed!”

  “You bet.”

  Bauer saw a set of boots strut over. The sheets and mattress w
ere flung off, exposing the bare springs. Bauer stared up through the iron mesh at two gun-bearing young men in all-white apparel.

  “Get the bloody hell out of there, Kraut!”

  “I’m coming,” Bauer said, sheepishly.

  “Ah, finally, we got one who speaks English.”

  Bauer rose to his feet, hands in the air. “That’s correct. I do speak English, Tommy.”

  The soldiers grinned at the German. “A cooperative one, too, I bet.”

  “Nice pyjamas,” one of them said, jabbing Bauer in the stomach with a gun until he winced. “Don’t think I’ve seen flannel quite that bright a yellow.”

  Bauer heard gunfire outside. Some yelling.

  “A present from my wife.”

  “If you say so. Get dressed. We’re leaving.”

  Another jab.

  “Quit it!”

  “Shut up, Kraut.”

  “Where are you taking me?” Bauer asked.

  “To our base for interrogation. Try and escape and we’ll shoot you.”

  Bauer smiled dryly. “Are you crazy? There’s no place to go.”

  “Yeah. And don’t you forget it.”

  Berlin

  The teletype machine in the communications centre next door to Bormann’s office began to pound away. Bormann didn’t wait for Fraulein Krueger or anybody else. He got up from his desk and checked it out for himself by hunching his bulk over the machine.

  Zurich.

  It was in the personal code that he and Erickson had worked out. Any reference to Switzerland or any city or particular people were non-existent on the top of the page. Message finished, Bormann ripped the paper from the machine and took it to his office.

  Lake Lucerne

  Hollinger knocked on the second-floor door, two down from the elevator. Seven-fifteen was too early for him. The sun had not yet come up over the mountains.

  “Come in,” shouted a female voice. “It’s not locked.”

  The American agent entered the handsomely-furnished hotel room, filled with bright wall lights. “Miss Erickson?” he called out.