The Filberg Consortium

by Daniel Wyatt

  * * * *

  They heard the rumble of the engine first. Then the muffled scream.

  “Come on!” Hollinger hollered.

  * * * *

  Eiser leaped from the motorcar, and ran in the opposite direction to where Denise had been taking him. Not to be heard, he took to the grassy edge of the road. After a few hundred feet, he turned to the left, jumped a wet ditch, and stumbled across a weeded field, falling to his knees, twice.

  * * * *

  Pistols drawn, the men ran in the direction of Denise’s piercing cry for help. They saw the Vauxhall in the middle of the road. The headlights were on, the engine running. They advanced on it.

  Hollinger flicked on his flashlight.

  They split into two groups and walked around the front of the car, crouching low. Hollinger — on the driver’s side — probed the inside with his light. No one. He opened the door and Denise’s body slid headfirst to the road.

  “Acid to the face. Bloody throat,” Preston grunted, bending over her. “Only one man kills like that. It’s a different kind of cut than I remember, though. Less bloody.”

  “But obviously still effective.”

  “Quite so.”

  “Eiser?” asked Hollinger.

  Preston nodded. “Unfortunately.”

  “So it is him.”

  “True enough, Mr. Hollinger. He’s back. And he’s starting early. Where he left off. He must’ve known we had laid a trap for him. Dammit all.” In a fit of anger, Preston kicked the car. “He has to be the luckiest man on earth!”

  Preston’s outburst surprised Hollinger. “What are we waiting for? Let’s find him.”

  Preston shook his head. “In this soup? We don’t have a prayer. Lucky bugger! I’m afraid we’ll have to wait until morning. There’s no way of sealing off the area.”

  “Yeah, I think you’re right,” Hollinger agreed.

  “The colonel won’t like this.”

  “He doesn’t like much of anything, lately.”

  NINETEEN

  MI-6 Headquarters — November 28

  That afternoon, The Judge left word with his staff that he wanted to see Hollinger the minute he arrived in the building. Thirty minutes later, the young American appeared.

  “Sit down, Wesley.”

  Hollinger complied. “Yes, sir.”

  Lampert puffed on his pipe, drumming his fingers on his desktop. He was steaming, ready to explode. “All hell seems to be breaking loose, doesn’t it?”

  “You’re telling me.”

  “Eiser never should have gotten away. Never! He’s roaming about free somewhere and we don’t know what he looks like. We don’t know his cover, or why he’s back.”

  Hollinger sat silently. He was still tired from his trip up north. “No, we don’t,” he said. “Any word from Preston?”

  “Nothing! Eiser vanished. And on top of that he speaks an excellent English. He knows his way around. And why not? This is his home turf.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Another thing. What’s with you and Langford?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Getting a little chummy?”

  Hollinger recalled the walk with her in the park. “I dunno. Maybe. Whose business is it?”

  “You’re not sweet on her, are you?”

  “Who, me? I don’t like redheads.”

  The intercom buzzed.

  Lampert flicked a switch. “Yes, Margaret?”

  “Colonel, Guy’s Hospital on the telephone. Line two.”

  “Thank you, Margaret.” Lampert composed himself and stared at Hollinger.

  “Guy’s Hospital?” the American asked. “I wonder what they want?”

  “I’ve been expecting them.” Lampert lifted the receiver. “Hello. Colonel Lampert here.” Listening, the colonel glanced over at Hollinger. “Yes, Doctor. I will. Thank you very much.”

  Lampert hung up. “MI-6 has a good source at Guy’s Hospital. While you were gone, there was a new development. Flight 725 had a survivor. A woman. American. We had her flown into London.”

  “Someone actually survived?”

  “Yes. She refuses to give her name or say anything until she speaks to someone from her Embassy. I suggest you get over there on the double and ask her some questions. Don’t let your Embassy get a hold of this.”

  “Right.”

  “Now, run along.”

  Hollinger stood, wondering if this was going to be another alert for one of the knotheads tailing him.

  “Oh, and Wesley?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “It wouldn’t be proper for you to meet her like that. I’m sure she’s scared enough as it is.”

  “Huh? What do you mean?”

  “Look down. Your fly’s open.”

  * * * *

  Guy’s Hospital

  Lydia Harris was resting in bed when Hollinger found her in the private ward. She was sitting up in her gown, devoid of makeup, her face flushed, her hair tangled, her arm bandaged. Her eyes were glassy, faraway.

  “Good afternoon,” Hollinger said, removing his hat.

  “How do you do?”

  “May I talk to you, ma’am?”

  She brushed her hand through her hair. “It depends.”

  “On what?”

  “Who you are?”

  He flashed his ID at the blonde. “Wesley Hollinger. COI.”

  “COI? The American spy agency?”

  “Not so loud.”

  “Then you’re not from the Embassy?”

  “Nope. And it’s best they stay out of this. What’s more, we want to keep this out of the papers.”

  “That so?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Why?”

  “Classified.”

  “American intelligence, eh? In London? What gives here?”

  “Let’s say I’m observing for Washington. I work in collaboration with MI-6. So, what brings you overseas?”

  “I’m a writer.”

  “Who for?”

  “New York Times in Switzerland,” she replied reluctantly.

  “Correspondent, are you?”

  “That’s right.”

  “How’re you feeling?”

  She coughed. “I took a cannon shell in my thigh and I was unconscious for about half a day. I gashed my arm somehow. I don’t remember doing it. But other than that I’m great, considering I’m the only survivor of a passenger plane shot down by German fighters. How the hell do you think I’m feeling? Pretty damn rotten.”

  It was plain to Hollinger that she was in discomfort. “OK. May I ask why you were on the flight?”

  “I don’t know if I should answer that.”

  “Trust me, ma’am. We’re both on the same side.”

  “Really.”

  “Yes.”

  She hesitated. “All right. I flew over with an Englishman from Portugal, a friend of a friend I know in Switzerland.”

  “What’s the name?”

  “Who?”

  “The one in Portugal.”

  She hesitated again. “How do I know I can trust you?”

  “You can. Let’s have it.”

  “Ken Sims.”

  Hollinger felt a chill of goose bumps forming on his arms. “You! So you were the one flying with him. The man in Switzerland wouldn’t be David Shean, by chance?”

  “Yes.”

  “You must be the courier from Zurich. Harris.”

  She nodded back. “Yes, I am. Lydia Harris.”

  “Welcome to London, Miss? Mrs?”

  “Miss, if you please.”

  “Where are the negatives? We’ve been waiting for them.”

  “They went into the drink with everything else.”

  “Shit! Oh, excuse me. It’s just ... that ... everything’s been going wrong lately.”

  “Sims had them in a briefcase. Everything happened so fast. We were attacked. The plane struck the water. The only thing I could think of was to get out. Sims made it too, but
was shot by the fighters in the first pass. I really don’t want to talk about the details.”

  “That’s understandable. Did you look at the negatives? What can you tell me about them?” He withdrew a notebook and pen from his coat pocket.

  She rolled her eyes, concentrating. “I ... glanced at them. Put them up to the light a couple times.”

  “Anything!”

  She took a breath. “I can’t really say. It’s hard to tell with negatives.”

  “Anything at all? Any identifying features?”

  “A moustache, that’s all I can recollect.”

  “It’s a start.”

  “I want you to know that I have prints.”

  “Not any more.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your house in Zurich was ransacked while you were away.”

  “You guys are on the ball. Was my roommate hurt?”

  “They never touched her. Shean said the prints were nowhere to be found.” He looked towards the door.

  “One last question, Mr. Hollinger. Did the Germans shoot our plane down just for those three negatives?”

  “It appears so, yes.”

  “Someone pretty high up the ladder had to authorize it, right?”

  “Right. Some big wheel in Berlin. I won’t say who.”

  “Dirty business.”

  “You’re telling me, ma’am.”

  “Those Germans don’t miss anything.”

  “No they don’t, Miss Harris.” Hollinger turned for the door. “And as far as you’re concerned, Flight 725 had engine trouble. Got it?”

  A nurse entered the room. “And how are we feeling today?” She held out a thermometer.

  Harris looked at Hollinger oddly. “We or me in particular?” she mumbled, then opened wide for the stick of mercury. She took it, adjusting it under her tongue.

  Before the nurse could respond, Hollinger said, “It’s another language this side of the pond. Wait’ll you hear the Cockneys.”

  The nurse glared at Hollinger.

  “Just leaving, ma’am,” he said.

  “Good idea, sir.”

  * * * *

  London Daily Telegraph

  “News Desk.”

  “I want to talk to Stephen Jordan.” The voice was coarse, uneducated. Accent, Scottish.

  “Speaking.”

  “I’ve something you’ll be interested in seeing.”

  “What in particular?”

  “Not over any telephone line.”

  “Who are you?”

  “A friend of Jack Buford.”

  “I see.”

  “Meet me at the Orkney Inn.”

  Jordan lowered his voice. “Where’s that?”

  “Five miles south of Motherwell, on the road into town.”

  Jordan had made one excursion already to that part of the country and wasn’t looking forward to another. “That’s a long bloody way. How do I get there?”

  “Here’s the directions. Take the morning Glasgow train...”

  * * * *

  Southern Scotland

  At dawn, under partial-cloud, Eiser ditched the four-cylinder, black Hudson saloon, which he had stolen three miles from the spot he left Denise very dead. Hot-wiring the auto had been easy. Driving it any distance — especially during daylight — was tough. Finding petrol had been even tougher, what with the rationing. First, he had to find a can and a rubber hose, then proceed to siphon a few gallons.

  But he did it.

  He swiped a bicycle and followed a set of rail tracks into a village, arriving at the train station. He didn’t know where he was. There were no signs identifying the place. All signs were removed in 1940 under the threat of a German invasion. He looked around and saw a post office, two stores and, of course, a pub. Every Scottish and English village had a pub.

  Wide-eyed — Eiser hadn’t slept for a day and a half, his body filled with Benzedrine tablets — he considered his next move. Train to London. A surprise visit with an old acquaintance, assuming he was still there. His plans had changed now. Denise was a trap. He couldn’t use her to return to Germany. He had to think of alternatives. Boat. Fishing trawler. Anything that could float across the Channel or North Sea. He knew how to run boats. He had owned a small yacht in Argentina. Used it to entertain his lady friends. Sometimes overnight and weekends. He also had a friend or two at the Swiss Embassy in London, if they were still there.

  He went to the outside window beside the platform, paid his two-pounds-ten and bought a ticket for the London-bound train slated to arrive in thirty-five minutes. Then he strolled into the adjoining cafeteria and ordered fish and chips. He was starving. His last meal was the previous evening in Hamburg.

  * * * *

  Max Preston and the two other Blue Force men found the abandoned black Hudson by a bend in the road.

  “That’s the one,” Preston said, removing himself from the passenger seat and stepping onto the tarred road.

  The KBA 49 registration number confirmed it, lifted last evening from a country yard. He nodded to the driver in the other MI-6 auto, then pulled the hood up to run his fingers along the engine. Warm to touch. Undoubtedly ditched in the last half-hour. Maybe less.

  “Where to, Max?”

  Preston looked at his driver. “Try the village up the road.” He waved and pointed at the western horizon to the other driver. “He can run, but he can’t hide. Not this time.”

  * * * *

  By the time the train for London had pulled in, the station was packed with people of all ages, including men and women in uniform with their kitbags.

  Eiser, black bag in hand, stood ahead of a woman and her two twin boys about thirteen, and watched the ticket collector accept those aboard.

  “Are you a doctor?” one of the boys asked, as Eiser moved towards the train.

  “Yes, I am, as a matter of fact.” Eiser said, turning, tugging at the fedora he hated. He felt tired. The Benzedrine was wearing off.

  “What hospital?” the woman wanted to know.

  “I have my own private practice in Liverpool.”

  “That’s nice,” the woman said. “We always need doctors, especially during this time.”

  “Yes, we surely do, madam.”

  “Ticket, please,” the collector asked Eiser.

  Eiser dug for it. “Here you are, my good man.”

  TWENTY

  Northern England — November 29

  The Saturday morning train was busy, smelly, and smoky, reminding Jordan of a crammed cattle car. The body odour was the worst. It seemed that everyone in England was taking the train north to Glasgow this day. Fathers. Mothers. Daughters. Sons. Men and women in the service. Air Force, Navy, Army. Officers and ranks. Standing room only.

  For the first one hundred miles, the reporter had stood in the first compartment. Near Nottingham, he had found his way to a seat in the rear section. But by Leeds he had suspected something. A well-dressed man in a brown fedora, three seats up, pencilling in a newspaper crossword, would turn around every so often. Their eyes locked once. Once was enough to know.

  Jordan played it cool. At the next stop, a small town outside Glasgow, several people stood to get off. Using the crowd as a cover, Jordan darted from his seat, down the steps, and onto the concourse. Then he ran for it.

  * * * *

  The train started before Wesley Hollinger realized he had lost the man in the dark-rimmed glasses. He had turned around and Jordan wasn’t there anymore.

  Hollinger got up and walked to the compartment’s rear. He opened the door to outside. No sign of him on the concourse. Annoyed with himself, Hollinger returned to his seat. At Glasgow, the last stop, he walked off with the others. He slowed down until he was one of the last in the line. He suddenly turned around, poking a stiff-faced man in the ribs.

  They stopped, inches apart.

  “Excuse me,” the man said.

  “Hey, pal, why didn’t you go after him?”

  “Whatever are you talking
about, dear boy?”

  “For the love of Mike. This is ridiculous. I was following Jordan. And you’re following me. And we both work for Lampert. What gives?”

  “I beg your pardon. I don’t know what you were drinking, but you had better have another and get a good sleep out of it.”

  Hollinger watched the man jump into a taxi, then he headed to a telephone booth.

  “Operator.”

  “I’d like to make a call to London, please. Oxford 9-4-1-2,” Hollinger said into the receiver.

  A pause...

  “That will be two-and-sixpence, sir.”

  Hollinger dug into his back pocket, pulled out a fistful of coins, and studied them. He dropped the appropriate ones into the slots.

  Click-click ... The phone began to ring. He got the secretary, Margaret, first. Then...

  “Lampert here.”

  “Colonel? It’s Wesley.”

  “Yes, Wesley. What do you have?”

  “Not much, sir.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Glasgow. You’re not going to like this. I lost him.”

  “Confounded man! How did you manage that?”

  “He got off with some others.”

  “Where?”

  “Near Motherwell. By the way, I want a little more respect.”

  “Respect?”

  “You know what I’m talking about, sir. Would you be so kind as to get your damn tail off me?”

  “Wesley, you must have had a hard day. What tail are you referring to?”

  “I’ve been followed for months and you know it. Call him off! Now! Before I notify Wild Bill that a certain organization has been spying on a representative from the White House.” Hollinger waited for a response. “Colonel, are you there?”

  “Wesley, do not speak another word over this line.”

  * * * *

  10 Downing Street

  Churchill listened to the voice on his C-phone receiver in the depths of the War Room.

  “He knows.”

  “So what! Keep up your surveillance, colonel,” Churchill answered.

  “Keep it up?”

  “That’s what I said. Don’t stop now. Just don’t get caught, again, that’s all.”

  “Yes, sir. If you say so.”

  “I do.”

  * * * *