by Daniel Wyatt
He turned around to the map of Europe, where the black pins and red strings identified the boundaries of the Axis Empire. Norway. Estonia. Latvia. Lithuania. Poland. Czechoslovakia. Hungary. Austria. France. An ever-expanding portion of western Russia. All under the shiny Nazi jackboot. The four neutrals — Sweden, Switzerland, Spain and Portugal — were the only untouched countries on the continent. Most of North Africa was Irwin Rommel’s domain, flying the Swastika. Algeria. Libya. And a chunk of Egypt. Great Britain stood off to one side, isolated, a mere twenty miles as the crow flies across the Channel from occupied France. Twenty miles from annihilation.
The door handle rattled.
Churchill peered over the rims of his half-moon reading glasses. Colonel Lampert, greyer, older, and heavier of late, one of those in the inner circle, had arrived for the weekly in-person MI-6 progress report.
“Close the door. Find a chair, colonel.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“How’s our lame man?” Churchill grunted, his voice sturdy.
“He snores,” Lampert answered.
Churchill laughed. “Don’t we all? What about that little problem?”
“I read him the riot act, sir. Even lost my temper with him, I did. He’ll cooperate.”
“It’s imperative that he does. Do everything you can to safeguard him against any further incidents.”
“Yes, sir. To start with, we’ve increased the drug dosage in his food.”
“Jolly good. The other things?”
A week before, the two men had discussed Prisoner Z’s future should the British be victorious over Germany and should the impostor go to trial.
“We’ve found an orthodontist in London who can alter the inside of the prisoner’s mouth slightly to give it Hess’s bucktooth appearance.”
“The handwriting? He’ll have to start writing to Hess’s wife soon. What’s her name?”
“Ilse, sir.”
“Well?”
“We found some pre-war notes in our files in Hess’s handwriting. A good forger will do the job for us.”
Churchill smiled. “Come for your afternoon spot of tea, have you?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Brandy?”
“I’d be delighted. An excellent offer that is fitting for the moment. But no whiskey and soda, sir?”
“I ran out.” Churchill found the brandy bottle and two glasses in a side cabinet. With shaky hands, he unscrewed the cap and poured until the glasses nearly spilled over. “Bottoms up.”
Lampert took his generous portion. “To the war effort.”
They sat around the table and drank.
Churchill licked his lips. “There’s people who want to interview the prisoner, you know. I have a letter right here. A newsman. His third written plea to me to see him.”
“Who is he?”
Churchill dug for the sheet. “Stephen Jordan.”
“Jordan? From the Daily Telegraph?”
“You know him?”
“Yes. One of those old Anglo-German Fellowship Association clods. Covered the Berlin Olympics in ‘36 for the Telegraph. And he knows the Duke of Hamilton quite well.”
“Is that so? Chances are he might have met the real Hess in Germany.”
“It’s highly possible.”
“I don’t like that. I’ll just ignore them. Anything else for me?”
“Our man in Portugal, Kenneth Sims, cabled Headquarters this morning.”
“Oh, yes, yes. Saturn.’’ Churchill nodded. “Operation Decoy. What did he say?”
“It seems the trap’s been laid. For the first day or so, after Sims gave the Gestapo man, Schmidt, the information, not a bleeding thing. Then the German took a Lufthansa flight to Berlin early this afternoon.”
“You think he’s heading straight to Himmler?”
“Could be, sir. Our agents have their ears open for any information coming through our listening posts in the neutral countries. Switzerland is always our best source.”
Churchill bit the Havana cigar between his teeth. He hoped this idea would bear fruit. Use the Hess papers to their benefit. Deliver the first blow. Alienate Himmler from the rest of those gutter rats. “Did you do what was necessary to Hess’s body?”
“Yesterday, two of our men had it taken out of the ground. They put it in a crate, filled it with some bricks, and dumped it a few miles into the Firth of Forth.”
“I’m glad of that, I suppose. Buried at sea.”
“Out of sight, out of mind, sir.”
“Precisely.”
“Have you heard from the Kid?”
Churchill grinned for the first time, his jaw thrust out. “A cable came through yesterday. The President got the good word — the Hess proposals and the impostor information. Hollinger and Donovan gave Roosevelt both barrels.”
“You think Hollinger knows the score? Remember how the sneak outsmarted us with the Hess flight.”
“Don’t remind me. Quite the lad, young Wesley,” Churchill said. “Lucky, more than anything.”
“There’s no sign of a Channel invasion, certainly not since the attack on Russia. He must see that.”
“It doesn’t matter. As long as he told Roosevelt what we briefed him on. That’s what really counts.” Churchill cleared the bile in his throat. “Incidentally, colonel, I want you to know that Hitler has given us an eleventh-hour peace offer, above and beyond his original proposals in Hess’s papers.”
Lampert’s eyes bulged. “He did! What offer is that?”
“Yesterday, a top secret communiqué came through our Embassy in Switzerland from the German Embassy. The two ambassadors are the only ones briefed. They’re waiting on my reply.”
“What’s in the offing?”
“If England signs a negotiated peace to end the war, Hitler said he is willing to give up some ... concessions, for a promise of a free hand in Russia.”
“Sizable concessions, are they?”
“Let’s say, previously-occupied territory, that I don’t wish to elaborate on.”
“You don’t say? Is he serious?”
“That’s not the point! Serious or not, this can’t be leaked out to anybody. I will tell our Ambassador to kindly inform the German Ambassador to go shit in his hat. Forget the whole thing as if it never happened! I’m not even going to discuss it with my cabinet.”
“May I make a suggestion, sir?”
“By all means, colonel. But I don’t necessarily have to follow it through.”
“If Hitler’s willing to make concessions — whatever they are — for Russia, then don’t you think we should negotiate with him?”
“If Rommel reaches the oil fields,” Churchill cut Lampert short, “it doesn’t leave us in a bargaining position. We’ll grind to a halt. Germany will set the world price of oil. What kind of peace will that be?”
“I’m merely thinking of a temporary truce. If Hitler is willing to deal, he just may burn himself out on the Russian Front. Remember what happened to Napoleon. The winter spoiled his plans for conquest.”
Churchill considered Lampert’s opinion. The Prime Minister detested yes men. The colonel was one man who would dare to speak his mind. Churchill didn’t object to men in the tight Whitehall circle doing that providing they eventually came to an understanding. Churchill’s understanding, of course.
“We’ll see if Hitler pays heed to history,” the Prime Minister said.
“We can always try testing him and come back with a clause of our own. Say ... Hitler has to give up North Africa too.”
“Nonsense! He won’t. He wants the oil. I told you, the issue is dead. He’s a monster. And not to be trusted. There will be no Vichy-type government in England.”
Lampert caved in. He knew better than to press. Obey blindly, like any soldier worth his salt. “Peace with Hitler” was a dirty phrase in Churchill’s presence, despite the gloomy possibility of total defeat.
“Speaking of Russia, sir, you don’t suppose the President asked Holling
er if we had notified the Russians about Operation Barbarossa.”
“I rather suspect he did. As far as Hollinger knows, we did too. We got the Russians into this war by sitting on our rumps and doing absolutely nothing to help them. The Americans, on the other hand, will require some coaxing.”
“You mean some ... lying to.”
Churchill didn’t mind Lampert’s honesty. “Just some stretching of the truth. Between friends. They believe anything we tell them, providing there’s some shred of truth to it. Donovan is under our wing and he’s close to the President. School mates. What did Roosevelt call him? My Secret Legs.”
Lampert shook his head. “We are on some dangerous ground, Mr. Prime Minister. What if they should discover we’ve been pulling their legs? It would cause a row in their papers. Our Lend-Lease could come to an end. The consequences could be worse than what we’re facing now.”
“They won’t find out. I will have to convince Roosevelt in our meeting that the fate of the world lies in his hands. Americans like that sort of thing. Good for their ego.” The Prime Minister laughed. “My God, if the Jewish camps and the German technology doesn’t do it, what will?”
“I have to wonder.”
“The President is holding all the cards. And he has to know it. We’ll just help him along.”
Lampert nodded.
“One other thing, colonel.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I want you to keep an eye on Hollinger. Just in case he finds out what’s really going on.”
Lampert nodded again. “As you wish.” The colonel knew that watching Hollinger’s every move was easier said than done.
* * * *
New York City
At 11:40, Aris trotted her way through the light rain to the restaurant within walking distance of her bank. Good thing she had reserved, for it was busy early today. As usual, she was given a window table. She always had to view the street.
Donovan’s man arrived exactly on the hour, closed umbrella in hand. She knew him simply as Smith. He was younger than her, in his twenties. He sat down and smiled, not saying a word to her until they started on some hot coffee delivered by a cheery waitress.
“Hello again, Mrs. Palini,” the man said to the attractive, dark-haired thirty-five-year old woman of Greek descent.
“Call me Aris, remember,” she replied. “How’s my old boss, Mr. Bill, getting along?”
“Swamped.” Smith leaned forward. He pulled out a cigarette and lit it. Lowering his voice he said, “Mr. Bill tells me you came across a file on Filberg.”
“He’s right, I did.”
“With what’s happening over in Europe, the colonel is very interested in anything to do with I.S. Filberg.”
“Don’t I know it. That’s why I called him.”
“Did you bring any of the sheets with you?”
“Of course not.”
He was surprised. “Why not?”
“I couldn’t chance it.” She looked around. “You don’t know Chapman. He’s in his vault every day. He’d know when something’s missing. How could I bring anything with me? Fold it up? Even the slightest crease or fold in one of those papers, and I’d be a suspect.”
Smith sighed. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”
“You think it’s invisible ink, don’t you?”
Smith nodded. “An invisible liquid of some sort. Could be milk, a sugar mixture, colourless vegetable juice. Trouble is, for us to read it, we’d have to either heat it or dip it into solutions. Once we do that, then the writing stays visible. We can’t put the papers back in the file like that.”
“No, we can’t.”
“Unless it’s read through a filter.” He shrugged. “Chances are that might be the case here. Put ourselves in Chapman’s shoes. He’d have to access the material every so often. At the same time, you’re not supposed to read it. So, maybe he reads it through a filter.”
“What kind of filter?”
“Could be a common red safety type, the ones used in a photo darkroom. If that’s the case, we’re laughing. But I have to get into your bank to see the file.”
“Yes, you would.”
“When?” Smith asked.
“The next occasion that Chapman leaves.”
“I’ll wait for your call.” Smith smiled wide.
Aris sipped her steaming mug of coffee. “What’s so amusing?”
“Quite the coincidence that your bank — a red-blooded American bank — has a file on I.S. Filberg, the huge German munitions conglomerate. I wonder what’s coming off? Anyway, good work.”
“Thank you.”
FIVE
Gestapo Headquarters, Berlin — August 1
Heinrich Himmler pressed the silver-framed pince-nez to the bridge of his nose and punched his intercom button firmly.
“Yawohl, Herr Reichsfuehrer,” answered the alert male adjutant in earnest.
“Has Hans Schmidt arrived yet?”
“No, he hasn’t, Herr Reichsfuehrer.”
“When he does, I want to see him at once, regardless of who else is in the appointment slot.”
“I understand, Herr Reichsfuehrer.”
Himmler wrote in his date book: 16:45. Spoke with adjutant concerning Schmidt. The last ten weeks, Reichsfuehrer-SS Heinrich Himmler had been methodical in his approach to the Hess case. The Fuehrer said that Hess had intended to hand the British the plans for Operation Barbarossa. That was enough for Hitler to seek revenge and retribution. Response would have to be swift. Heads would have to roll. No one of consequence could be spared.
That pleased Himmler, for it was he who would carry out Hitler’s decrees in the form of national emergencies. Himmler took to the new assignment with his usual structured energy and terror. He was the true law of the land who held the power of life and death over Germany and her conquered territories. Himmler had drawn up a numbered list and marked X’s beside each name. With a stroke of his gold pen, the former chicken farmer had stretched his tentacles and systematically directed the fate of the Deputy Fuehrer’s medical and physiological doctors — the mediums, the doctors, the therapists — who had treated him. They were promptly arrested. So were their assistants. So were many of their friends and associates. And the astrologers Hess had kept strange company with. Their associates. Their friends. All were interrogated. Most had been released by now.
The homosexual, Albrecht Haushofer was one of the first put out of circulation. He was Number 15 on the list. He was still in custody, tucked away in prison writing sonnets to amuse himself. The dreamy idiot.
X...
Albrecht’s father, the renowned father of Geopolitics, Professor-General Karl Haushofer, was brought in, drilled, then freed. Number 16.
X...
Hess’s wife remained unscathed, under Himmler’s watchful eye. He wondered if she knew of her husband’s guarded background, the homosexual ring he belonged to in Munich. It didn’t matter now. Or did it?
X...
The criminal, Martin Bormann, Hess’s former chief of staff, had taken over all of the Deputy Fuehrer’s former duties, by the Fuehrer’s orders. That was fine with Himmler. For now. It was Bormann’s idea to officially announce Hess’s assumed mental illness before really thinking the whole thing through. The German people were now saying that a crazy man had been second to Hitler. What did that say for the rest of the High Command? Bormann went out and spread the half-truths that Hess was not a real German because he had been born and raised abroad in Egypt, a country under British control, and that he had been harnessed by the British influence at an early age. Himmler promised himself that he would get Bormann ... one day ... soon. Bormann was just a slimy, bloated rat with a criminal record past.
A great and wonderful X by Bormann’s name. He’d be Number 1 on a future list. A black Mercedes would pull up and throw him in. Then he’d vanish. Without a trace. Like so many others.
Himmler wished he could have arrested the entire Augsburg personnel too. The airport and Messe
rschmitt factory staff, including the designers of the ME-110. But that would be going a bit too far. But a little scare wouldn’t hurt.
In the resulting shield of confusion and paranoia, Himmler was accountable to no one, except Hitler, whom Himmler could easily lie to for the sake of national security. Felix Schubert’s family were wiped out secretly on May 13, once the news broke of the Hess flight to Scotland. Number 25, Schubert’s wife, was bound in the middle of the night, taken outside her home and axed to death.
X...
In two separate incidents, within forty minutes of each other, Schubert’s married daughters, their husbands and their children were all shot through the head in their living rooms.
Seven X’s...
Aunts and uncles in the family were bound and drowned.
X ... X ... X...
Nieces and nephews strangled. Age was of no consequence.
More X’s...
Mutilated bodies of relatives and in-laws were piled near a lake shoreline, doused with gasoline, lit, and burned into the sand.
Even so, every day since May 13, Himmler still wondered who the man in British custody was. The BBC broadcast stated that he first gave his name as Captain Alfred Horn. Only Schubert knew that name. Or was it Hess behind bars? Or worse — both? Did one die? Did both die? How much do the British know?
With the Hess assignment taken care of under “Crimes against the State,” Himmler was now about to make contact with the American Embassy in Berlin. His latest plan to rid Germany of Hitler was sound. Kidnap his syphilitic highness on one of his next visits to Berghof, his mountain resort in Southern Germany, and whisk him off to Switzerland, less than two hundred miles west. No more of the Fuehrer’s pathetic birds, his messy chocolates, his useless wall maps. Himmler could easily confiscate Berghof and make use of the huge compound, the residence, the air-raid shelters, and the other outbuildings for the good of the Gestapo.
