The Filberg Consortium

by Daniel Wyatt

  “No. Yes!”

  “Yes?”

  “I mean, your gun was stabbing me.”

  “It was?”

  “Yes.”

  “Too bad, ’cause you kiss even better than Annie Fannie.”

  “Who?”

  “You know, the clerk with the Union Jack on her tush.” He felt he had to tell everything, now. “I love you, Robbie. From the moment I saw you at Bletchley.”

  “That so? You certainly had a strange way of showing it. What happened to your aversion to redheads?”

  He shuffled forward. “Robbie—”

  “Back off, cowboy. You’ll be interested to know there’s ... complications.”

  “What complications? What’s up?”

  “Alex.”

  “Who the hell is Alex!” He tried to keep his cool.

  She didn’t answer.

  He paused. “Oh, yeah. Him. That officer — the fighter pilot — you’ve been seeing.”

  “Yes. Him.”

  “Well, have the two of you set the date or something?”

  “No. Not yet. But he gave me this engagement ring.” She lifted the blackout curtain to show him.

  He kept his distance. “Engaged? When?”

  “Yesterday.” She released the curtain, the room returning to the dark shadows.

  “Is that what you were going to tell me tonight?”

  “Yes, it was.”

  “Oh.” His voice trailed off. One day short. How stupid of him not to have noticed the ring she probably had been wearing all that day. That’s why she had been whistling. “So, it seems I was a day too late letting you know my intentions.”

  “Sorry. We thought it best that we announce the engagement now. He received a new posting to Banff, Scotland. He’s leaving next week.”

  “So he had to get it off his chest before he left.”

  “Yes.”

  “Does he know that you do classified work?”

  “No. Just that I’m with the Secret Service. Probably thinks I’m a secretary.”

  “How do you know he’s not a German spy?”

  “Good Lord! He’s a fighter pilot!”

  “Anyone can be a spy. Ever see him fly?”

  “Well ... no...”

  “Watch yourself.” Hollinger saw no point in loafing about any longer. “Well, no sense hanging around where I’m not wanted. I’ve had enough excitement for one night. I gotta go. Good night.” He made a move for the door and banged himself on a chair.

  She laughed.

  “What’s so damn funny?”

  “I think it’s safe to turn the lights back on,” she said.

  “Where are they?”

  “Straight ahead. On your right.”

  His shoulder smacked the wall. “Son of a—!”

  She laughed again. “Remember? No profanity.”

  He found the switch. The kitchen light snapped on. “There.”

  Langford joined him at the door, handing the fedora to him. “Going into work tomorrow?”

  “Of course. Oh-nine-hundred.”

  Langford grinned. “Well, I won’t be. Got the day off.”

  “Yeah, sure, rub it in, why don’t you.”

  “I probably won’t see you until you get back from Scotland. Be careful,” she said.

  He smiled, thinking of the woman he had in his arms only moments before. This was crazy. Now he was walking away from her. It was like fumbling on the one-yard line.

  “Thanks.” He donned his hat.

  “Good hunting, boss. Toodle-oo.”

  Their eyes locked. He took her by the arm. She pulled it off, and pushed him away, gently.

  After closing the door on him, she put her fingers to her lips, riding the emotion. She had done a good job of looking unaffected, except for a little blush at the door. Her body was still warm, excited, savouring the moment of passion. He was a strong man. She touched the ring on her finger, mindfully attempting to regain her dignity. He said he loved her. Did he mean it?

  But she must think of Alex now.

  If she could.

  * * * *

  Camp Z

  One of the many things the prisoner hated about his confinement at Mytchett Place was being forced to sleep with the overhead light on. These British were peculiar people. What was he going to do? There were two guards outside his door. Armoured glass had been fitted to the windows in October.

  Where would he go?

  The prisoner laid his head down on the cot, closed his eyes, and pulled the covers up. After a few minutes he saw Richardson by his bedside. He recalled the last time — the Tower of London. On this occasion, Schubert promised himself to be more polite. Richardson asked many questions that day in May, ones that the prisoner had trouble answering. Why was he eating beef and chicken? Where was he born and when? How many brothers and sisters did he have? What were their names? Did he know a man named Haushofer? What were the rules of tennis? What was his route to Scotland?

  Schubert sat up, throwing off the blanket. “Richardson. How nice to see you again. Don’t you recognize me? I am Rudolf Hess. Let me go now. I have come in peace. Why don’t you answer me?”

  In the hall, Vern motioned to his partner.

  “Come here!”

  “W-what’s the matter?”

  “Hess is talking to himself again. In German.”

  “Really?”

  Vern and Henry listened at the prisoner’s door, catching a name.

  “Who’s R-R-Richardson?” Henry asked.

  “I’ve no idea.”

  * * * *

  New York City

  In the closing hours at Kerr, Chapman & Company, Aris Palini made a long-distance call to Washington.

  “Mr. Bill,” she said. “More paperwork in the you-know-what file. The first in nearly five months.”

  “You’ll hear from Smith tomorrow morning.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  * * * *

  Lisbon — November 26

  Unable to fall asleep, Sims got up from the couch. It was after midnight. He threw on his robe. In the darkness, he quietly poured himself a scotch from the liquor cabinet, careful not to wake the sleeping beauty in his bedroom. Then he tiptoed through the French doors to the terrace.

  From the fourth-story iron rail, he looked down at the bright lights of the intriguing espionage capital of neutral Europe. The moon was up, clean and bright, combining with the lights to outline the city’s terracotta rooftops. The stars were flickering overhead. From this point, he saw the narrow streets of the old quarter winding like a maze up the Sintra Hills, crowded with soft-coloured houses and shops, some hundreds of years old. A cool breeze drifted in from the ocean — five miles west — and swept across the city, swaying the nearby palm branches. This was his Lisbon. Home for nearly two years. By this time tomorrow, he’d be in London. Another world away. Where war had reared its ugly head.

  He heard a sound and turned.

  Through the open French doors, Harris appeared in her nightgown, the moonlight falling on her long, blonde hair. “What a view,” she said, softly.

  “Yes.”

  “Can’t sleep?” she asked, shivering for a moment.

  “No. Hope I didn’t wake you?”

  “I couldn’t sleep either.”

  He held up his drink. “Thought this might do the trick. A warm scotch, straight up. Can I get you one?”

  “A Doctor Sims remedy for insomnia?”

  “You might say that.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  “Don’t go away.”

  “I’m not budging.”

  He returned with her drink. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers,” she said. She sipped and coughed. “Wooh. Wicked.”

  “Drink slowly,” he warned her.

  “I will.”

  They sat in the metal armchairs and placed the drinks on the iron table. An awkward silence came over them. They heard laughter, singing, and a piano playing from a distant bar.

&nbs
p; “Nice place, Lisbon.”

  “Yes, it is,” Sims answered her. “I’ve kind of grown to appreciate its climate and its people.” He heaved a sigh. “However, it does have a criminal element. Thugs, bookies, the underground.”

  She tossed her hair. “And spies hanging around. It reminds me of the Swiss. They value their neutrality.”

  “Yes, they certainly do that.”

  “How did you get started in your line of business?”

  “Recruited by a friend of my father’s.” Sims thought of London, Colonel Lampert, and Churchill’s inner circle. “MI-6 is a closely-knit family, Miss Harris.”

  “I told you before. It’s Lydia.”

  “Yes. Lydia.”

  The two grew quiet, giving time for Sims to admire her stunning features in the available light. She turned to him. She was attractive even now in the semi-darkness — flawless complexion, high cheekbones, full lips. Her wounds from the attack had been treated, and the swelling on the side of her head was covered by her hair.

  She saw him looking at her a shade too hard. “It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

  “Good. May I ask you something?”

  “Why not. Go ahead.”

  “What got you started as a courier?”

  “David. With my country neutral, Americans aren’t suspects.”

  “Until now.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Somebody knew you had brought something with you. And they sent word to Schmidt here.”

  “Well, you know, the Gestapo did come aboard the train twice in Vichy.”

  “Must have been one of those times. Something gave you away. You can’t go through Vichy again.”

  “But I’m coming back in a few weeks. I live in Switzerland. I work there,” she protested. “And—”

  “I know. David. Your boyfriend. German agents will follow you the minute you return to Europe. I know these people. In all probability, Gestapo Headquarters is putting together a file on New York Times correspondent Lydia Harris as we speak. They could arrest you as a spy. And your Embassy couldn’t do a damn thing to release you.”

  She sighed, taking a swallow. “You think so?”

  “I know so.” His answer was firm.

  She went quiet, taking a smaller swallow of her drink. “It’s dangerous now.”

  “That’s an understatement. This is war. The Germans enjoy war games. What did one famous person once say, ‘It is well that war is so horrible. We should grow too fond of it.’”

  The breeze blew at her hair. Harris pulled her nightgown tighter. “Sounds familiar. Where have I heard that before?”

  “Robert E. Lee. During your American Civil War,” he told her.

  “And didn’t General Sherman once say, ‘War is hell.’ Same war, by the way.”

  Sims respectfully tipped his head at her. “Point taken. It is hell.”

  For a full thirty seconds, neither Harris nor Sims said anything. They listened to the sounds of the city that didn’t seem to go to sleep.

  “Who’s Eiser?” she asked. “What makes him so important?”

  “He’s a legend in the German intelligence service. A killer. He makes your blood curdle. I know. I have crossed paths with him.”

  “Where?”

  “Before the war in England. He was a spy for the Germans. He’s half-English, his mother’s side. His father was German. In August 1939, three of us from the Service were ordered to arrest him. But he slipped through our fingers. He threw acid on one of our men, and stabbed me in the chest. I was in a hospital for weeks.”

  “That’s horrible.”

  “But at least I lived to tell about it. Most don’t. He’s learned a lot in two years on the other side. If he went in for plastic surgery, then he’s undoubtedly ready for an operation either on neutral soil, or in Malta, or North Africa, or even England, a place where his old face would be recognized by us. He could be coming home to roost. The Secret Service in London must have those negatives. With them, we can arrest him the minute he steps on our home soil.”

  She leaned back in the chair. “What’s London like? I’ve never been there.”

  “If you can take the blackouts, the smell, the rubble, the sandbagged buildings, the rations, you’ve got it made.”

  “I’m scared.” Her voice was shaking now.

  He moved his chair closer. It squeaked. “Of Schmidt?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t be,” he assured her. “He won’t try anything again. I won’t let you out of my sight until we’re aboard our flight to London.”

  “Why can’t he be stopped?”

  “If this was England, we would do something. Promptly. But what can we do in Portugal? Switzerland’s the same. Spies run wild.”

  “But he assaulted me.”

  “You don’t know for sure if it was him. You never saw his face.”

  “That’s true.”

  “The Portuguese authorities won’t do a bloody thing. Just consider yourself fortunate he didn’t kill you.”

  The alcohol seemed to be taking hold, dulling them both. He bent over and kissed her slowly on the forehead, like an innocent brother-to-sister kiss. The kiss of a protector. “Don’t worry, Lydia. We’ll be celebrating in London tomorrow. I know a great restaurant in Piccadilly.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “A toast. To London.”

  She lifted her glass. “To London, by Jove.”

  FIFTEEN

  Lisbon

  They woke a few minutes after seven, pulled themselves together, and consumed a breakfast of ham, eggs, and coffee together at the hotel dining room, served by staff in starched white coats.

  Then they took a taxi to Sintra Field. They set their luggage down on the warm concrete opposite the BOAC terminal. A small aircraft took to the air on the far runway. It was a sharp sunny morning, not a cloud in the sky. Perfect day for flying.

  “There she is in all her majesty,” Sims said to Harris, as she eyed their mode of transportation. The twin-engine Douglas DC-3 passenger airliner near the gate appeared sturdy enough to make the flight. The aircraft was painted in an overall pale blue, with red, white, and blue identification stripes on the long wing. It had large black letters on the rear fuselage — A-GBLL. It unnerved Harris to look over and see swastikas on two airplanes through the open doors of the Lufthansa hangar across the concrete. Two countries at war with each other — England and Germany — so damn close.

  The loudspeaker blared with a British voice. “THOSE PASSENGERS ON BRITISH OVERSEAS AIRWAYS FLIGHT 725 TO WHITCHURCH, ENGLAND ARE REQUESTED TO MAKE THEIR WAY TO BOARDING AT GATE TWO.”

  Sims smiled and pointed to the terminal’s main door. “After you.”

  “Thank you.” Harris wished she was as confident as her English friend.

  They boarded. Harris noted the other passengers in the cabin. Sims said that he knew three by name — all British Embassy officials. Six others were Jewish refugees, by the look of them. The others were two Spanish couples with money, the cut of their clothes giving them away as the privileged of society.

  She took a seat with Sims over the starboard wing. He offered her the window, but she didn’t want to look down once they were off the ground and over the ocean. “You take it,” she said.

  Outside, the loudspeaker voice exploded. “FINAL CALL FOR BRITISH OVERSEAS AIRWAYS FLIGHT 725 TO WHITCHURCH, ENGLAND.”

  * * * *

  Near Nantes, France

  The base CO, Major Ernst Jodel, accepted the deciphered Lisbon communique with shock and had to double-check with the base communications officer to see if it had been recorded properly.

  It was from his friend, Hans Schmidt. Top Secret. Odd, for it was in the form of an order. Jodel wasn’t accustomed to taking orders from the Gestapo. In most cases, there was no love lost between the men in black and the Luftwaffe. But he trusted Schmidt. He and Schmidt had an agreement. They shared intelligence on the diplomatic line, both interested in the Whitchurch-Lisbon-Gibra
ltar flights and other related information that passed through this side of the continent. But this flight had the makings of an international incident. Jodel wanted to know why Berlin had not authorized this. He pondered his telephone receiver. Only one option was available to him — telephone Schmidt’s business office in Portugal for verification.

  In minutes, he received his answer.

  * * * *

  Major Jodel looked up as Hauptmann Albert von Reiden reported.

  They saluted in unison.

  For such a mission, Major Jodel would call upon von Reiden, experienced Messerschmitt BF-110 pilot of 16th Staffel, Kampfgeschwader 50, decorated with the Iron Cross 2nd Class during the Polish Campaign. To date, he had made more than forty reconnaissance sorties over the Bay of Biscay.

  “At ease, Hauptmann von Reiden.”

  “You wished to see me, Herr Major.”

  Jodel cleared his throat. “One of the BOAC flights has departed from Lisbon. Fifteen minutes ago, destination England. I want you to take four fighters with you and intercept it. Its markings are A-GBLL.”

  “Do you wish me to escort it to France, Herr Major?”

  “No. Shoot it down.”

  “Mein Gott! Shoot it down? But, but...”

  “Yes, shoot it down. Orders from Berlin.”

  “But, Herr Major—”

  “Identify it and shoot it down! And don’t leave survivors. That’s all. Dismissed.”

  There was no movement on von Reiden’s part.

  “Why are you standing there? Dismissed!”

  Von Reiden clicked his heels and withdrew.

  * * * *

  MI-6 Headquarters

  Still half-asleep, Roberta Langford felt lousy this morning. Drained of energy, her mind and body were in disarray. And to top it off, her forehead was pounding from a headache that had started soon after arriving at work.

  It had been a long night. She had been up for most of it with Alex, discussing their futures. Over a pot of Hollinger’s strong American coffee, they talked of Banff. Alex was crazy about her and said he couldn’t live without her. Langford had to do something. This had carried on too long. She couldn’t pretend, so sometime before dawn she finally told Alex she didn’t love him. He left, dejected. She was exhausted, but contented. A great burden had been lifted from her. She surprised herself. There were no tears. Then she was called into Headquarters in the morning, after three hours sleep. It couldn’t have come at a worse time.