by Daniel Wyatt
“Colonel.” Hollinger said.
“I know, Hollinger. We’ll get them,” Burns assured the OSS agent. “Are these aides with your group at Oberammergau?”
“One is. The other is with Wernher.”
“What are we waiting for?” Burns said. “Let’s move it.” By now, most of the jeep drivers had gathered around. “Follow me, men. Mr. von Braun, lead the way to your army barracks.”
“I would be glad to.”
Berlin
Bormann still hadn’t escaped the capital. Over the last twenty-four hours since he had fled the Fuehrerbunker, he had made it safely to the Friedrichstrasse subway station, one of the few areas in Berlin that remained in German hands, for the moment. Battle Group Mohnke was putting up a fight against their Red Army counterparts. In this German-held pocket, Bormann had watched the fighting for most of the day from the shadows of a dusty, bombed-out warehouse near the Weidendammer Bridge.
At night, he ventured out from his hideaway, staying low. He made his way along the Spree River, in the direction of the northwest suburbs, using brick rubble as a shield against Russian snipers. Downstream, he had found a spot where large concrete chunks of buildings had been thrown into the river enough so that he could walk across. But what was on the other side? No matter, he had to try.
Bormann reached the other side safely in the darkness and rested until morning, then set out on foot away from the Spree River, the thud of small arms behind him. The only faces he saw belonged to forlorn Germans. Not a Russian in sight. By now, Hitler’s former secretary was used to the dreary sight of war. Still, the damage and the waste brought on by the Fuehrer disturbed him. It was strange how immune he once was to the reality of war, stowed away with the Fuehrer wherever he went, be it Berchtesgaden, or the Chancellery, or the bunker. After an hour he saw houses ahead, a residential district, mostly untouched by shellfire. He was in the suburbs that led out of the city, and hopefully clean away from the Red Army. He stopped by the side of a stone house, opposite a tree and slouched down for another rest. He was truly lucky, so far. Leaning his head back, he licked his lips. He was thirsty and tired.
He closed his eyes for a moment and drifted off...
Then he was nudged awake by a young, dirty Russian soldier. Bormann stood to his feet. The Russian grinned at him. What was he doing alone? Were there other soldiers in the vicinity? Bormann didn’t wish to wait around to find out. He quickly kicked the legs out from the soldier, and fired his Luger into the man’s chest.
Twice.
THIRTY
Reutte, Austria — May 6
They were part of a special unit known as Jet Propulsion Section, Research and Intelligence Branch, Army Ordnance Technical Division, commanded by Major Robert Staver. McCreedy, Hollinger, and the two von Braun brothers watched as two U.S. Army sergeants lugged in the half-dozen crates of documents down the wooden steps and into the cellar of the three-story house.
As soon as the men departed, Magnus popped open the lid of each one. Pleased with what he saw at first glance, he nodded at his brother, whom he was interpreting for. Wernher von Braun, his arm in a sling, smiled. The paperwork appeared to be in order. Apparently, Staver’s men did well, digging the crates out of the abandoned mine in Thuringia only days before the Russian Red Army took over that area of Germany.
“Does it look like we have everything?” Hollinger asked.
“It seems that way, yes,” Magnus said, answering for his brother.
“The V-4’s?”
“Right here, Mr. Hollinger. In the middle of this first box.” Magnus rummaged through one crate and showed the OSS agents a two-inch thick file pertaining to the Foo Fighter.
“Geez!” McCreedy exclaimed, zipping through the technical pages. “Look at this will you.”
“I’m looking,” Hollinger said.
“Projekt Equinox, Mr. McCreedy and Mr. Hollinger. Of course, we do have other projects for your pleasure. Lasers, V-2’s, research on space travel, the sky is the limit, as Wernher has often told me.”
“A little pun there, right?” McCreedy added, smirking.
“A what?”
“Gentlemen!”
At the foot of the steps stood an officer. His hands behind his back.
“Who are you?” Hollinger spoke out.
The officer approached, confidently. He was average height, on the thin side, in his forties. “General Lomax, United States Army Air Force. I have been given the authority to commandeer all data pertaining to Project Equinox.”
“Says who?” Hollinger barked.
“The President of the United States and the Office of Strategic Services. That’s who. Here is my documentation.”
Hollinger opened the envelope passed to him.
“Damn, this thing is signed by Donovan. And Truman.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hollinger showed one of the pages to McCreedy.
“That’s Donovan’s signature, all right,” McCreedy said. “What gives?”
“Well, what do you know,” Hollinger frowned. “After all the time I’ve spent on this, weeks away from home, the Army Air Force is taking over the V-4 file.” Hollinger should not have been surprised. With Roosevelt gone, Truman in, there was a power shift in Washington. A changing of the guard.
“This is now a classified project,” Lomax insisted, taking the papers out of Hollinger’s hand. “Do not discuss it with anyone.”
“I know. I know. I’ve been there before.”
McCreedy grunted. “Since when does the Air Force tell the OSS what to do?”
General Lomax folded his arms across his chest. “Since now.”
Bavaria, Germany — May 8
American troops found Reichmarshall Hermann Goering on a congested road the day the war was officially announced over. They pulled him from his limousine and took him off to a local interrogation centre. He and his entourage of nurse, doctor, and adjutant were in good humour, especially Goering, who was treated as a celebrity.
Goering had wanted to surrender to the Americans after his SS captors released him three days earlier to fend for himself. At a hastily called press conference that afternoon, in the open air behind the interrogation centre, he was asked several questions in German.
“You know that Hitler and Goebbels are dead, do you not?” one reporter stood and asked.
Goering stayed seated, squinting in the bright sunshine. “Yes, of course I do.”
“Do you know the whereabouts of Heinrich Himmler?”
“I do not. I don’t care where he is.”
“Were you and Himmler friends?”
“No.”
“When did you see him last?”
“At Hitler’s bunker in Berlin. April 20th. It was a party for Hitler’s birthday.”
“Was that the last time you saw Hitler?”
“Yes.”
“Were you asked to be Hitler’s successor?”
“No.”
“Did you try to take power on your own?”
Goering felt a chill, despite the sun’s warmth. “I thought about it.”
“Where’s Martin Bormann?” a different reporter asked.
Goering cleared his throat. He knew now that he never should have collaborated with Bormann on anything. For all he knew, Bormann might have gotten away and was now lying on a tropical beach somewhere. Then again... Goering, on the other hand, had nothing left. No money. At least not in Germany. Only his Swiss bank accounts, which he couldn’t access. No V-4 blueprints. They were taken from him by the SS, who found them on his person. No Luftwaffe to command. No power.
Goering let the audience fall quiet. Then his lips began to move, slowly. “I hope that Martin Bormann is burning in hell, because that’s exactly what he deserves.”
London
Hollinger wished he had picked a better day to return to London. The town was celebrating. Shouting, drinking, dancing. The war was over. People clogged the streets. It took him hours to get from the airport to his
apartment building, a trip that should have taken forty or fifty minutes at most.
He climbed the steps, opened the door, and saw Roberta sitting on the couch.
She looked up, open-mouthed, as if she had seen a ghost. “Wesley, where the hell have you been?”
“Here and there. What kind of greeting is that?”
They ran for each other and embraced.
“Now, that’s better,” he said, kissing her. “You’re bigger. And your stomach’s in the way.” He poked her with his finger. “You look... well done.”
* * * *
Three days later, nine-pound, two-ounce Wesley Hollinger, Jr. was born to proud parents.
“Congratulations,” London’s OSS Director said. He and Hollinger were sitting in comfortable lobby chairs outside the maternity section.
“Thank you, sir. Cigar? But don’t smoke it in here.”
“I won’t.” Jack Dorwin took the cigar, dropping it into his inside suit jacket. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. So, did you find Bormann?” Hollinger asked, his voice low.
“Hell, no. The guy disappeared. No sign of him at the bunker, nor anywhere in Berlin. Not yet, anyway. Donovan and Dulles sure want him bad.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“The only news I got is that he left Hitler’s bunker on the first of May, only hours before the Red Army took the Chancellery. And hasn’t been seen since.”
“Any contact with his Swiss banking friends?”
“Nothing that they admit to.”
“The scientists?”
“That’s why I’m here. Wesley, I have some other news for you. I don’t know if you’re going to like it. Orders from Donovan.”
Hollinger slouched in his chair. “Where are they sending me this time?”
“How’d you guess?”
“I have this sixth sense. Where, sir?”
“Washington. After Roberta gets back on her feet.”
“Please, sir, let’s not rush it. She’s had a rough time of it lately.”
“I’ll hold Donovan off.”
“Thank you. So what will I be doing?
“A new assignment under Operation Paperclip. Donovan will fill you in. I don’t know anything about it myself, only that the scientists will fall into it. I can say this, too. There’s some big changes ahead for the OSS.”
“What kind of changes?”
Dorwin smiled. “You’ll see.” He stood. “So, can I pop in on Roberta and the baby now?”
“Sure,” Hollinger said, thinking of Washington instead.
It was back to the States. This time with a wife and baby.
THIRTY-ONE
Northwest Argentina — August, 1946
While Rudolf Hess, Hermann Goering and Albert Speer, and scores of other Nazis stood trial at Nuremberg for war crimes, a small band of fanatic Nazis were toasting a new pro-German regime, thousands of miles away in an elaborate Argentine mountain chalet high in the Andes.
“To the Fourth Reich,” the ex-submariner Manfred Stoeller said, hoisting his glass out at arm’s length.
“To the Fourth Reich,” the group of men joined in with enthusiastic voices. The six of them drank their schnapps. Like Stoeller, all were escapees from their Fatherland before it went under in May, 1945. Two men were SS concentration camp commandants. Another two were army generals. One used to be a Berlin doctor who had been on Heinrich Himmler’s Gestapo payroll. Stoeller’s story was unique. When Germany capitulated, he had taken to the open sea off northern Germany in a stolen submarine with a skeleton staff, who were presently splintered across South America. Refuelled in Spain, Stoeller had made it safely to the shores of Argentina. It was that easy. The five others in the group today had more hair-raising tales to tell. All had one thing in common. They had money socked away in bank accounts around the world, ready for future use.
“May this Reich survive,” Stoeller continued. Smiling, he said, “Now, the initiation.” Handed a copy of Hitler’s Mein Kampf by one of the army generals, Stoeller motioned at the Berlin doctor. A circle formed. “Doctor Straff.”
“Yes, Herr Stoeller.”
“With your left hand on the divine word, you will read the oath from the sheet, please,” Stoeller advised, holding a typed piece of paper for the doctor.
Straff, in his forties, wore a thick moustache over a tanned face. He took the sheet and began, “I, Doctor Walter Straff, of my own free will and accord, and under the threat of my own death, solemnly and sincerely swear that I will always secretly hail and henceforth never reveal the cherished mysteries of the Order of the Knights of National Socialism and our ruler, the Commander Fuehrer, to the profane, those who are not chosen to stand by us in our global struggle. I furthermore promise and swear that I will protect any and every fellow blood brother of the Order of the Knights of National Socialism from the profane who seek to pervert or destroy our hallowed Order, so help me the most excellent and worshipful lord of this world. Hail Commander Fuehrer and his divine wisdom.”
Stoeller snatched the sheet from Straff, as he had done to Otto Bauer off the coast of Greenland more than a year before. Stoeller then said, “Doctor Walter Straff, you are now a brother to the first degree of the Order of the Knights of National Socialism. Welcome to the elite fraternity.”
Straff glanced around at the faces in the circle. “Thank you. I am honoured.”
The other five members of the Order bowed, clicking their heels.
Stoeller handed Straff his gold Order medallion, and his bright red sash, embroidered with a black swastika inside a white circle. “Wear them on your person when you meet secretly with other brothers in the Order.”
“I will.” Straff cleared his throat. “May I ask a question blood brother, Herr Stoeller?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“It is because I am inquisitive.”
“Go ahead, please.”
“Who is the Commander Fuehrer, now that Hitler is dead?”
A slight twinkle sparked Stoeller’s eyes. “We thought you’d never ask. Come with me to the balcony, please.”
Together, the two walked the length of the room, stopping opposite the French doors. Sitting on the other side of the glass was a powerfully built man with a receding hairline, casually studying the mountain scenery through binoculars. He leaned on the round table in front of him. He was wearing some kind of uniform that was unfamiliar to Straff. The man’s boots shone like diamonds in the sun. Stoeller opened the door, and stepped out into the cool mountain air. The man didn’t move.
“Commander Fuehrer, we have sworn in another member of the Order.”
The man stood and turned around, slowly. His legs spread out. He was not tall by any means, and about the same age as he was, the doctor noticed. He had seen the man somewhere before. But where? That uniform was unusual. The breeches, the boots, the tunic. It was not SS. It was not Gestapo. It definitely wasn’t a military service uniform. That face. That round face. The uniform was that of a Reichsleiter. Not too many of those in the old Nazi regime. Then it hit him. Straff had only seen the man once before, at a Nazi Party rally in Berlin, 1937. But wasn’t he presumed dead by authorities? Straff recalled the recent newsreels he had seen, taken outside the bunker. The charred bodies. Hitler. Eva Braun. Goebbels, his wife, and his children.
Stoeller stood ramrod straight. “Doctor Straff, meet the Commander Fuehrer of the Order of the Knights of National Socialism.”
“Bormann?”
“Yes.”
“I mean, Herr Bormann?”
“Yes, it’s me.” Martin Bormann set his binoculars on the table. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Doctor Straff. Welcome to the Order.”
Straff’s expression displayed a combination of horror and amusement. “But Herr Bormann, how did you ever get out of Berlin? Did the Russians not have the city surrounded?”
“They did. But I got through.”
“How did you get off the continent?”
Bormann smiled
for the first time. “It wasn’t easy, Herr Doctor Straff. It wasn’t easy.”
Arlington, Virginia — October, 1946
At a newsstand after an easy day at the office, Wesley Hollinger Sr. bought a copy of the Washington Post and took it home to his suburban Arlington, Virginia bungalow with the paved driveway and the wide front lawn. He lived in a neighbourhood of other Washington working-class people. He was a family man now. Wife, kid, mortgage.
Hollinger’s old employer, the OSS, was no more. Disbanded by President Harry Truman on October 1, 1945 by Executive Order 9621, a new peacetime organization was beginning to rise in its place, unofficially entitled the Central Intelligence Group for the moment. Hollinger’s future position with them was still unclear, although he was presently an assistant to the Director of German Operations. His latest assignment was to monitor the recent reports of two Martin Bormann sightings in Argentina.
As he made his way through the door, Wesley Jr. ran for his father. Hollinger dropped the paper, picked his son up and twirled him over his head. “Hi, Wesley. How’s my boy?” His son squealed and giggled.
After dinner that night, with his son in bed, Hollinger finally got a chance to read the paper. He took the sports section first to catch up on details of the World Series between the Boston Red Sox and the St. Louis Cardinals, which the Red Sox were leading three games to two. Roberta joined him in the library. His wife was now a teacher in a local high school, but still on the British Secret Service part-time pay sheets. “Once MI-6, always MI-6,” she had been told by Colonel Lampert.
“Do you mind if I take a section?”
Hollinger looked around the side of the paper. He glanced down at the rest of the copy on the coffee table. “Go ahead,” he smirked, then returned to his reading.
After a few moments, Roberta shrieked. “My God! Wesley!”
“What’s the matter?”
“Tom McCreedy was found dead in his home, a suicide note by his bed.”
