The Filberg Consortium

by Daniel Wyatt

  She waited almost five minutes, to the top of the hour, then placed the earphones on her head. In seconds, the Morse echoes came. She heard her call sign. Hamburg was clear tonight at the usual 7587 kilocycles. She removed her gloves and played with the dial. It was coming in perfect. She waited. Her finger on the key, she began to transmit her three-letter call sign six times with a consistent tap.

  DLM...DLM...DLM...DLM...DLM...DLM...

  She sat, listening for the reply. Hamburg gave their call sign, and WE READ YOU LOUD AND CLEAR in code. She jotted down the dots and dashes crackling over her phones. The message was a short one. It ended with Hamburg’s call sign. She tapped out her call sign.

  The line went dead.

  * * * *

  MI-6 Headquarters

  It was normally called after-hours, if such a term meant anything in this business. Wesley Hollinger took the priority call from His Honor at his apartment this cool, soggy Sunday evening at dusk and drove his MG pell-mell to the office. He slammed on his brakes in the car park, got out and trotted along the sandbagged front of the building. He whipped out his MI-6 identification at the door, and proceeded down the corridor, taking long strides. He stopped at the inter-office pigeon-holes. Nothing for him.

  He laughed to himself. He lost his shadow in the downpour. Too quick for him. Then again, the shadow probably knew about the call and held back. Hollinger didn’t know and he didn’t care.

  How ironic it was to him. Since his cafeteria conversation with Langford in August, Hollinger discovered he was being tailed by the same Secret Service he was employed by. But he didn’t mind. It was like a game of Cops-and-Robbers. It was great fun losing his tail and making it look like it was an accident because he was a fast driver anyway. Funny thing, Hollinger hadn’t spoken to a soul about Mein Kampf or to anybody about his Churchill accusations since. As far as he knew, Langford had kept her word too. He hoped. Langford, in fact, was hardly speaking to him at all anymore, outside of MI-6 work. She had put up the proverbial wall between them away from the office. And Hollinger hadn’t pressed it. He had tried to clear her from his mind by dating other English women. But that was difficult. No man could quite clear his mind of Roberta Langford. Maybe he could forget tattooed Annie Fannie. But not Robbie.

  Hollinger bounded up the stairs, using the handrail as support, to the executive section. He turned into Colonel Lampert’s office. At this hour it was free of secretaries. He knocked at the open door and entered.

  “That was fast,” Lampert said, swivelling in his chair, pipe puffing in his mouth. “And in this rain and blackout. However, why should I be surprised?”

  “What’s up?”

  “Forget Jordan for the time being. There’s a development in this other case. You’re going to Scotland.”

  “Why? What gives?” Hollinger removed his fedora, and unbuttoned his suit jacket, showing his holster and pistol.

  “Our sources picked up a message from Hamburg to Denise.”

  “I thought you retired Denise after the last Hess operation.”

  Lampert puffed on his pipe. “We couldn’t. The Germans kept asking for her. We had to call her out of retirement. We brought her out of mothballs three weeks ago to trap an agent. We’re going to use her again. The Germans have a new agent, codenamed Tommie.”

  “Another case for the double cross, the MI-5 Twenty Committee?”

  “I believe so, yes. He’ll be here in three days. Night low-level drop.”

  “And you want me to find out if this Tommie is the old Lancer with a new disguise.”

  Lampert took the pipe from his mouth. “You never cease to amaze me, young Wesley. That’s precisely what I want you to do. However did you know?”

  “I put two-and-two together. It’s been three months since Lancer disappeared. That’s time enough for scars to heal from the surgery. But I don’t know. I thought I wasn’t going to be put in the face of danger again.”

  “You won’t. I’ll send a few men with you. The Blue Force.”

  “Sounds like Dunampton all over.”

  “You won’t even have to meet him, unlike Hess.”

  “How many men?”

  “Four.”

  “Why me?”

  “We can’t take the chance on briefing any more agents on this Himmler thing, Operation Decoy.”

  “Well, it beats the hum-drum of the office.” Hollinger considered the past. It was better than Committee B, and Hut Nine. “OK. But how do you know it has anything to do with Himmler?”

  “I don’t. A hunch.”

  “Colonel, now you’re thinking like me.”

  Lampert grinned. “Scary, isn’t it.”

  “Damn right.”

  “By the way, I should let you know that Lawrence’s courier is on the way, somewhere in Vichy. Someone named Harris.”

  “Do you suppose the negatives will arrive before Tommie does?”

  “They’d better.”

  * * * *

  Berlin

  One glance inside The Pyramid and Adam Eiser knew he had invaded the domain of a homosexual cabaret. This would be a first. Eiser had spied on homosexuals before, and bullied them. But never had he asked them for help.

  Parading on the spotlighted stage were men in a chorus line dressed up like women. They were singing, and they wore makeup. At the tables, men had their hands on each other, watching the show. Two couples were kissing.

  Someone tapped him on the shoulder. “Hi, there. Come for some fun?”

  Eiser glared at a portly man about forty, bald, crooked teeth, with slicked-back hair. He was wearing a tuxedo, a white shirt, and a bowtie. “Not especially. I’m looking for Walter Buhle. Do you know him?”

  “Oh, Wallace. He’s in one of the back rooms.” The man pointed, studying Eiser with a curious eye. “Come on back later. I’ll buy you a drink.”

  “I think not.”

  Eiser edged through the crowd of onlookers, until he came to the hallway. Standing at the entrance was a brute of a man with huge muscles bulging from a white shirt. Obviously a bodyguard.

  “Ja?” He stuck an arm across the door frame.

  “Gestapo Headquarters sent me. I want to see Buhle.”

  The muscle man pulled his arm away. “He’s busy. You might have to wait a few minutes.”

  “Very well.”

  Eiser turned and watched the crowd and stage show. After a few minutes, a young man about twenty came down the hall and walked past the body guard.

  “You can go in now. Third one on the right. Knock first,” the bodyguard said.

  Eiser found the room, and pounded his fist against the door.

  “Come in!”

  Eiser flung the door open. A man was laid out on a bed, stripped to his waist. He was grey-haired, with a thin moustache — like Eiser. His chest was full of tattoos. In his hand was a drink.

  “Are you Walter Buhle?”

  The man bounded to his feet. “I don’t know you. How did you get in?”

  “Himmler sent me. I want some information.”

  “What kind of information?” Buhle closed the door.

  “The Reichsfuehrer said you ... were ... you knew Hess during his early days in Munich. Is that true?”

  “It’s possible.” The man’s disposition changed. He smiled.

  “He said you were close.”

  “Yes, close. He and I were ... friends. I miss him dearly.”

  “Then you shared the same bed, Herr Buhle?”

  “Many times. I was one of his favourites.”

  “Then you must know a lot about him. Physical features, birth marks.”

  Buhle sauntered to a table in the corner of the room. “Sit with me.”

  Eiser pulled out a chair. “I asked you a question.”

  “I want a favour first.”

  Glaring, Eiser leaned forward. It turned his stomach to see that Buhle used nail polish. “Himmler could shut this place down in twenty minutes if he wanted to. You can’t demand favours.”

/>   “Can’t I? Obviously, you don’t know the deal.”

  “Deal? What deal?”

  “Herr Reichsfuehrer will do no such thing, because we are a great source of information to him and the Gestapo. Military and political secrets pass through here. We have many noted visitors who say things under the influence. Now, the favour. Josie — my dog — died last week. I want a new one.”

  Eiser winced at him, a sneer on his lips. “A dog?”

  “A puppy to be exact. Say, a poodle. Bring me a poodle and I will give you your information on Hess.”

  “Get your own damn poodle!”

  “Forget the whole thing, then.”

  Reaching out quickly, Eiser grabbed Buhle by the hair and smashed his face to the table. Blood squirted from his nose. “Cross me and you’re kaput.”

  Buhle held his nose to stop the bleeding, at the same time reaching in his pocket for a handkerchief. “Go ahead. Do whatever you want,” he said, his voice muffled by the cloth to his face. “Himmler might not be too happy with you. I want my poodle by tomorrow. Then we talk.”

  Eiser stood up. “All right! Tomorrow!”

  “Bring it to my apartment at the Straumhausser. Sixteen Rhone Avenue. Room sixty-four. Six o’clock.”

  “And I suppose you want a specific colour, too?”

  Buhle removed the handkerchief and checked it for blood. “While you’re at it, yes. White, with a red bow.”

  Eiser cursed.

  “Now, now,” Buhle scolded, shaking his finger. “That’s not nice,” he said, returning the handkerchief to his nose.

  THIRTEEN

  Lisbon — November 25

  She emerged from the hissing, smoking train, her eyes roaming across the foreign faces in the station multitude. She felt safe and secure. No one should be paying any attention to her here in warm and tropical Lisbon.

  She flagged the first taxi she saw. She couldn’t wait to change. She saw a parked Mercedes across the street from the stuccoed train station. The car was impressive, black and polished. She saw another Mercedes, not far away. Then out of nowhere, it hit her. Where there were German cars, there were German drivers and German passengers. Dammit. They were here, minus the swastikas and jackboots. Those Nazi bastards could take Portugal too, if they wanted.

  “You speak English?” she asked the bulbous-nosed Portuguese man behind the wheel.

  He respectfully nudged the brim of his black cap and smiled. “Yes, Senorita.”

  “I’m American. Ma’am is quite sufficient. Do you know where the Empress Hotel is?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I do.”

  “Take me there, please.”

  * * * *

  It was simple for Hans Schmidt. The woman — Harris — was one of the first to get off. She stood out among the dark-haired men and women. Blonde. Hair in a bun. Five-seven. Grey skirt. White blouse. There was a carefree American swing in her walk.

  He looked around and jogged across the street. “Taxi!”

  “Yes, sir.” The driver was waiting in his vehicle, smoking a cigarette.

  Schmidt slipped an American twenty-dollar bill through the window and the driver’s eyes popped. “Follow that cab, but stay well back of him. If he doesn’t lose you, I’ll give you another one just like it.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  * * * *

  She checked into the Empress, the most expensive and luxurious hotel in Lisbon. Her room was ready. Good man, this Saturn, whoever he was. He had class. She took the elevator up.

  In the room, she undid her hair and let it fall to her shoulders. Then she showered — the first one in two days. She put on her pale-red lipstick, and slipped into a snug, knee-length, rose-coloured dress that revealed her firm, slender figure. She neatly placed a broad-brimmed white hat on her head, cocked over one eye; the rage back home in the States. This was the real Lydia Harris. No more hair-in-a-bun stuff anymore. She tossed her hair back with a flick, took to the stairs, and trotted two stories up. She knocked at Room 418.

  The door opened slowly, cautiously. A man in shirt sleeves and tie came into view.

  “Saturn?” she whispered.

  It took the stone-faced man some time to answer. He glanced up and down the hall. “Who are you?”

  “I’m ... Harris.”

  “You’re Harris?” the man said, in shock.

  “That’s me.”

  “Come in.” He rushed her inside, and closed the door.

  “Is anything the matter?”

  “I ... didn’t expect Lawrence to send a woman courier. All he said was — Harris.”

  And she didn’t expect to see such a well-tanned Englishman. “A good disguise, I suppose.”

  He smiled, and seemed to relax. “You’re American?”

  “That’s right. David knew it would be difficult for an Englishman taking a train through Vichy.”

  “Ah, you’re on first-names with him, I see.”

  She cleared her throat. “We know each other quite well.”

  “Perhaps we should also be on first-name terms?”

  “Good enough.”

  “I’m Kenneth Sims. Call me Ken.”

  “Lydia. Lydia Harris.”

  “Now that the formalities are over, we can — come, do sit down. Can I get you a drink?”

  “Not right now. Maybe later.” She smiled. “When we go for dinner.”

  “It would be a pleasure.”

  “Let’s do it then.”

  Harris found herself in a wide, sun-filled living room containing soft wall-to-wall carpet. The windows were open, a gentle breeze brushing the drapes. Over the terrace, the branches of a thick palm tree fluttered.

  “I presume that you know who Shean works for?”

  She nodded, sitting in a comfortable chair, crossing her smooth, long legs. “Yes. MI-6. Aren’t you going to ask me what I brought with me half-way across the continent?”

  “I was getting around to it.”

  She opened her purse and handed him a small manila envelope. “There you are.”

  “Your purse? You didn’t keep it in your purse going through Vichy, did you?”

  “No. Under my bra strap. Behind my back. I thought it safer than the front.”

  “I’m inclined to agree.” He slid the contents out. “Is that the lot? Three negatives of a man?”

  “Not just any man. I was told to tell you he is a German spy named Eiser, after plastic surgery.”

  “Adam Eiser! Are you positive?”

  “Yes. David told me his codename. Lancer.”

  “Bloody hell. Eiser! So that’s what this is all about.”

  Sims studied the 35mm negative transparencies against the light of the sunny window. “Excellent quality. How did Shean acquire them?”

  “A little burglary of a surgeon’s office in Switzerland, the one who performed the surgery. David got in, snapped pictures without anyone knowing, and developed the negatives.”

  “This is astounding. I know some people in London who’d like to take a look-see at these. What about you? Where are you going from here?”

  “New York.”

  “When?”

  “Two days, by Clipper.”

  Sims jumped to his feet. “I must go book a flight. Do you want to come for a ride? See some of the sights?”

  “No. No, thank you. I need a good rest. Never could sleep on trains.”

  Sims eyed his wrist watch. Coming on to three. “I’ll see you at seven, for dinner, then.”

  “Sure.”

  * * * *

  Schmidt slid a crisp British pound note across the counter to the hotel clerk with dark hair and moustache.

  “How may I help you?”

  “I need a room number.”

  The jittery clerk quickly tucked the money inside his pocket.

  “An American woman, blonde, about thirty, asked for a room today.”

  He checked the register, smoothing his moustache. “Miss Harris.”

  “Yes. What room is she in?”
/>   “Two-three-eight.”

  Schmidt turned and saw Sims get off the elevator and quickly blend into the crowd. The German calmly looked the other way. What was that swine Sims doing here in the same hotel as the girl? Where was the girl? And why was Sims in such an awful hurry to leave?

  Schmidt followed the Englishman around the corner of the hotel, a safe distance astern. Sims stepped into his automobile and drove away. Schmidt sauntered over to the taxi, jumping into the back seat. “Follow him.”

  “Another ten American dollars on top of the charge?” the Portuguese driver asked firmly.

  “Yes. Of course. Get going.”

  The first stop was six blocks away. From the other side of the cobblestone street, Schmidt and the taxi driver waited. Schmidt took note. The cable office. Fascinating.

  “Here he comes,” said the driver. He started up the engine at the same time that a streetcar passed by them. Sims got into his car and left.

  “Let’s go. Keep a safe distance,” Schmidt said.

  After driving five or six miles through narrow palm-lined streets, Schmidt came to one conclusion. “He’s heading for the airfield.”

  “I know another way, sir. We can beat him there if you like.”

  “Then take it.”

  * * * *

  Sintra Field

  Through the glass of the Lufthansa window, Schmidt saw Sims burst into the British Overseas Airways Office. He came out five minutes later, shoving an envelope in his suit-jacket pocket.

  Tickets! What else?

  His old MI-6 friend had booked a flight. To Whitchurch, more than likely. As a British Embassy worker he’d have priority status. He could bump anyone. And this right after sending a cable and a possible meeting with an American reporter. It had to be more than a coincidence.

  Schmidt returned to the taxi, a plan taking shape in his mind. “The Empress. Take the shortcut. Move it!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  * * * *

  Lisbon

  Wakened from a deep sleep, she stretched, and slid out of bed to answer the knock.