by Daniel Wyatt
That was good enough for Jordan. He quickly ordered a round of drinks, and no one said another word until the filled glasses were brought over.
“Now, what about that crate?” the writer asked.
“What’s to tell? Two men I never saw before paid me to take ’em into the Firth, and they threw a crate in the water.”
“What kind of crate?” Jordan asked.
“Long. ’Bout the size of a coffin.”
“Your friend, Mr. Buford here, said there might have been a body in there.”
Warner sipped his drink. He was growing increasingly nervous. “I didn’t look at her, anything like that, mister. But when she went over, one of the gentlemen said, ‘So long, Kraut.’ The other one with him told him to shut up.”
“So, it was a German body?”
“How the bloody hell should I know. I don’t make of habit of looking at corpses. If she was a corpse.”
“What did you do then?”
“I steered ’em back to shore. They paid me good, and they told me to zip my lip.”
Jordan pulled out two business cards and gave them to the fishermen. “Thank you. If you hear anything, give me a ring in London. I promise not to print anything. You have my word. Your names won’t be mentioned anywhere.”
“Aye, make sure they aren’t,” Bennie replied. “Or there be a great deal of trouble for me, Laddie.”
“Me too,” Buford said.
“And me,” Jordan said, toasting his bitter with the men. “Cheers.”
The three clinked glasses, then drank.
EIGHT
West Coast of Scotland
Islands disappeared a thousand feet below, sliding under the nose glass. One Firth of Clyde trawler came ... and went. Then another. The Scottish Lowlands, the final stop for RAF Ferry Command, loomed straight ahead through a smoky haze.
The crew were anxious to touch ground. They were tired, cold, hungry, and had to use the washrooms something fierce. Most of the way, Hollinger dozed in the radio room, his oxygen plugged in and checked periodically by the radio operator for possible failure. Once they made landfall at the Scottish coast, Larry Waden nosed the Liberator into a long descent over the massive shipbuilding activity south of Glasgow for their stowaway to set his eyes on. “Prestwick, next stop,” Waden said to Hollinger standing behind him in the cockpit, banking the aircraft, roaring over Glasgow on a southwest course, heading for the open country. He called Prestwick tower for an altimeter setting and landing instructions.
Hollinger had to smile. It was in this area of Scotland that Felix Schubert had been shot down and forced to bail out three months ago.
Prestwick suddenly poked out of the mist. Throttling back to 155 miles per hour, Waden bent down right, pressing the landing gear lever. The aircraft shuddered and creaked for a moment. A good sign. “Landing gear down. Mixture?”
“Auto rich,” the co-pilot replied.
“Props?”
“Twenty-four hundred.”
“Intercoolers?”
“Open.”
“Cowl flaps?”
“As required.”
“Booster pumps?”
Bridgewater hit the switches. “On.”
“Wing de-icers?”
“Off.”
“Wheels?”
“Gear down ... and locked.”
On final approach, the concrete runways of Prestwick airport were clear for the landing. Hollinger saw other ferried aircraft lined up at dispersal. Hudsons. DC-3’s. Liberators. He stepped back to the edge of the bulkhead and sat down, head on his knees.
“Wing flaps twenty degrees,” Waden informed the co-pilot.
“Wing flaps twenty degrees.”
At 135 miles per hour, Waden dropped to full flap.
Bridgewater called out the speed. “One-thirty ... one-twenty-eight...”
The runway reached up for them. Hollinger was unconcerned. These guys knew what to do. Then it all happened so fast. The main gear hit the runway with a strange thud and the right side of the aircraft crushed to the concrete, throwing the crew to the right. Then the two starboard props clanked to an ominous standstill. Hollinger banged his head against the bulkhead, nearly knocking himself out.
The pilots knew they were in a pickle. The undercarriage had collapsed! The Liberator pulled to the right, screeching across the concrete, Waden and Bridgewater powerless to control the direction of the aircraft. The left side quickly crumpled under the strain, followed by the nose wheel. Full on her belly now, the other two props clanged to a dead stop. The Liberator slid sideways onto the grass, while the horrified crew could only watch and ride it out.
Lucky for them, the aircraft spun completely around to a full stop.
By then, Hollinger was thrown across the deck, his head coming to rest at Waden’s boots. Dazed, Hollinger leaned on an elbow and sniffed. The pungent smell of gas suddenly dominated the cockpit.
“Everybody out!” Waden released his straps, jolting from his seat. He turned around, tripping over Hollinger. “Get up, and get your ass outta here!” he yelled, pulling Hollinger up with him.
“I’m going.”
The men scrambled, bunched together as one, to the middle of the aircraft. The radio operator kicked open the fuselage door. The men leaped out.
“Run!” Waden cried.
They managed to get forty feet in the clear when two explosions, a second apart, rattled their eardrums, hurtling them to the ground.
* * * *
Prestwick
Hollinger felt a shove in the ribs and opened his eyes.
It was the Judge, pipe in mouth, glowering down at him. “What the devil are you lying about for, Wesley? There’s work to be done. Winnie wants to see you.”
Hollinger slid off the bench inside the airport, stretched, and yawned. He rubbed his face, leaning on the suitcase he had used as a pillow. He looked awful, badly in need of a shave. “Thought I’d catch some shut-eye. How goes it, colonel?”
“Get up,” Lampert ordered.
“What are you doing here?”
“Change of plans. I came up to give you a lift to London. Churchill awaits us.”
“The Big Guy? Today?”
Lampert nodded. “Yes, today. Hop to it.”
“No rest for the wicked.” Hollinger looked at his wrist watch. Three hundred miles and a debriefing with the Prime Minister. What a schedule. “What gives? We won’t get to London till, what, hell, after midnight.”
“Doesn’t matter. Time is of no consequence to Winnie. He never sleeps. You should know that by now.”
“All right, let’s go.”
Lampert reached down for Hollinger’s bag.
“Not so fast, colonel. I’m hungry.”
“Never mind. We’ll eat along the way. I brought along some sandwiches. Come along.”
“Yes, sir.”
Outside, they piled into Lampert’s Austin and began their long drive south.
Before long, Lampert lit his pipe. “I heard it was a wee bit of a rough landing.”
Hollinger sighed, rolling down the passenger window part-way to allow the smoke out. He hated how the English always understated things. “Yeah, it was rough. There was nothing left to salvage. We could have been fried if we hadn’t gotten out in time. Lucky for us, only the navigator had a few scratches.”
“What happened?”
“The undercarriage snapped on landing. They figure the locks malfunctioned.”
No one spoke for several minutes.
“Do you recall that newspaperman I spoke to you about? Jordan?”
“Yes, sir, I remember,” Hollinger replied. “From the Daily Telegraph? The one who’s been writing Churchill to see ... Prisoner Z at Farnborough. What did he do now?”
“He’s snooping. A little too much. He’s been asking questions around the area we dumped Hess’s body. And he tried putting pressure on the Duke of Hamilton to pull some strings for him.”
“An interview, I bet?”
/> “Precisely.”
“Is this leading to something?”
“We’ve commenced a twenty-four hour shadow on him. I’m asking for a volunteer before I pick you?”
“Special duties, is it?”
“Correct.”
Hollinger sighed. He had no choice and he knew it. “By all means.”
“I’d advise you to take some additional weapons training.”
“Swell.”
There was another long pause.
“Incidentally, Wesley, I saved you the crosswords.”
Hollinger grinned. “Thank you, sir.” While laid up in the hospital back in May and June, he had gotten into the habit of doing the crosswords in the London Times.
“But don’t do them on company time.”
“No, sir. Of course not. I’m too busy.”
“Tell me, lad,” Lampert asked, “how did you get on with the President?”
“You’d like him. He can mix a great martini for breakfast.”
“Interesting. And how’s Donovan?”
Hollinger sighed. “Oh, he’s still thinking up a storm. Always coming up with something or another.”
* * * *
Washington, D.C. — August 3
Donovan smiled. He was pleased with Smith’s photos.
“Nice work.” Donovan spun slightly in his office chair, left then right.
“Thank you, sir,” Smith said, seated across from the powerful man. “We owe it all to Aris.”
“Yes, Aris. How is she? Still as beautiful as ever?”
“I don’t know what she looked like before, when she was your secretary. But she sure as hell turned some heads in that New York restaurant yesterday.”
“I don’t doubt it.” COI Director Colonel Donovan looked down at the photos in his hands, reading. “There it is. A twenty million dollar loan to a German ball bearing plant. Can’t conduct a war without ball bearings, can you?”
“No you can’t, sir. Now we know that Kerr, Chapman & Company is dealing outright with the Nazis, and through the parent German company, I.S. Filberg, we presume, seeing that it was in their file. What would happen should we go to war with Hitler? Would this mean an end to the contract?”
Donovan didn’t answer for a long time. “I shudder to think.”
“You mean it might not?”
“Smith, what I’m about to tell you can’t leave this room.”
“Yes, sir. What is it?”
“You’ve stumbled on a can of worms. You must be briefed on some details. I heard a few things during my days as a Wall Street lawyer. I saw things. What do you know about I.S. Filberg?”
“It’s a German munitions conglomerate.”
“Well, hang onto your hat, boy. Did you know that they have an American Board of Directors?”
“Are you serious?”
“Perfectly.”
“Who?”
“Paul Warburg of Kuhn, Loeb & Company, a fairly large Wall Street investment house.”
“Kuhn, Loeb, eh? I’ve heard of them.”
“Yeah, and get this. Kuhn, Loeb are mainly Jewish. Also on the board is Charles Mitchell of the Federal Reserve Bank of New York, and none other than the man who put America on wheels, Henry Ford.”
Smith froze to his chair. “Henry Ford! I don’t believe it. Or I should say I don’t want to.”
“It’s true. This is the world of high finance, Smith, with strange bedfellows. You know, I don’t get it.”
Smith folded his arms. “What, sir?”
“Kerr, Chapman is only a small Wall Street banking firm. At least, small in comparison to the others.” Donovan shrugged. “Probably, a third or a quarter the assets of the big Wall Street banking houses. Why would the Nazi’s go to them? Why not some of the larger outfits?”
“Maybe the others weren’t playing ball.”
“Somehow, I can’t really see that, when you consider that Chase Bank in Paris has been operating wide open since the Nazi occupation last year.”
“It has?”
Donovan nodded. “You bet it has. Furnishing the Nazis with loans. I know that through our agents in France. Keep that under your hat, too, damn it. Anyway, we had better keep an eye on Kerr, Chapman.”
“You mean Aris will.”
“Yes, she’s our key.”
Smith sighed. “Sir, what do you know about Aris’s boss, Chapman?”
“Vincent Chapman? Met him a couple times. Banking ran in the family. His uncle, William Chapman, was one of the founding fathers of the U.S. Federal Reserve in 1913. Weird fellow, Vince. Supported Hitler since day one. A Nazi sympathizer. And the strange thing is, he’s Jewish too.”
“Is he now.”
“With a name change. Most of the board of the directors on Kerr, Chapman are Jewish, from what I can recall.”
“Fancy that. But I thought the Nazis hated Jews. What gives?”
“They got money. Lots of it. Ironic, isn’t it?”
“I’ll say it is, sir.”
“Meanwhile, these Jewish bankers here couldn’t care less what the Nazis did and are doing to their own people in Europe.”
“I guess not.”
“Thanks for coming, Smith, and so promptly. Keep in touch with Aris and me on a regular basis.” Donovan set the photos down on his desktop.
Smith stood. “I will, sir.
“And remember, Aris is married.”
“Happily?”
“Yes. Besides, she’s too old for you.”
“She sure don’t look it.”
“Goodbye, Smith.”
* * * *
MI-6 Headquarters
It was still as hot in London this Saturday as the day he left. Hollinger threw his hat on the desk in the Whitehall office allocated him in early July, and took to the corridor, chewing gum, a box in his arms. A two-hour private audience with the Prime Minister and a three-hour sleep were behind him now. Tomorrow, Churchill, well briefed by the Kid, would be on his way to his Atlantic conference with Roosevelt.
Hollinger turned a corner and there she was coming his way, head down, her quick trot echoing in the corridor. Roberta Langford was always in a hurry. He set the box by his feet and hid in a doorway. He waited...then jumped out and yelled, “Freeze!”
Langford screamed, dropping her papers. “Wesley! Oh, you, monster.”
“Hi, beautiful. The prodigal son returneth.”
“What did you do that for?”
“Aren’t you glad to see me?”
She gasped for air, her hand to her chest. “Under the circumstances, no. Besides, you look ghastly. Don’t you sleep?”
With one look, he gave her the impression that sleep was unimportant. “How the hell is a guy supposed to rest around here when he has a debriefing with the Big Guy at three in the morning?”
“Touchy, touchy. Sorry I asked.”
He helped her pick up the papers. “There you go. I saw your new title on your door. Fancy. Executive Assistant Enigma Operations. But the Colonel said you still work for me.”
“Only when called upon.”
He laughed. “Have you done something to your hair? You tied it back. I like it better the other way. You know, up in the front, down on the sides and back.”
She put a hand on her hip. “Do you now?”
He observed her dark-green, broad-shouldered jacket with matching skirt, and high heels with round toes. She had on a trace of lipstick and makeup. “Nice outfit. Rather becoming.”
She curtsied. “Thank you.”
“But the hair has to go.”
“You think so?”
“I do. Too matronly. By the way, I’m ready for that dinner you promised,” he said, gently.
“What dinner?”
“Remember, the day before I left?” He leaned on the door frame, folding his arms. “At your flat, too.”
“Oh, yes. I did. Didn’t I. I forgot. I’ve been so busy.”
He nodded. “Don’t look so enthused. I’m holding you to it. I could m
osey on over tonight.”
“Sorry, I’ll be working late.”
“Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow, it is,” she sighed, letting loose with a slight grin. “But I’ll have to break a previous tentative engagement.”‘
“Then break it.”
She smiled fully. “I can never get mad at you.”
Hands in his pockets, rocking on his heels, he said, “Atta girl. You know, deep down inside, you’re cracking. You like me.”
“Don’t be too sure about that. What do you say to kidney pie and Yorkshire pudding?”
“Oh. Is that all that’s left in England? Organ meats? Next thing you know I’ll be eating haggis. On second thought.”
“Don’t like the menu?”
“Just kidding. OK, I’ll try and force it down.”
“Incidentally, I wish you hadn’t put Redhead on an official trans-Atlantic cable.”
Hollinger laughed. “Security reasons. I didn’t want the enemy to know who you really were.”
She shook her head and looked down at the floor. “What’s that?”
“What’s what? Oh, that. Silly me.” He bent down to lift the box. “A package came for you. Special delivery. I was just about to put it on your desk.”
She perked up. “For me?”
“Yes, for you. Honest.”
“If you’ll excuse me, I’d better take the papers to the colonel. Shan’t be long. Be right back.”
“By the way, how’s the cold?”
“Fine, now. It’s almost gone. Thanks for asking.”
“You’re welcome.”
When Langford returned to her office, the box was on her desk. Hollinger was nowhere to be found. She pulled at the wrapping tape and opened the flaps. Her eyes bulged. She pushed her anxious hands through the contents — three pairs of silk nylons, six Baby Ruth chocolate bars, five packs of Wrigley’s chewing gum, a tin of American coffee, some fresh oranges, a small bottle of French perfume, and different shades of lipstick. In the land of rations and scarce commodities these were a gold mine of treasures, the likes she hadn’t seen since 1939.
Bless him. What a sweetheart Hollinger was. When he wanted to be.
