The Filberg Consortium

by Daniel Wyatt

  “How are you going to up and get away to Washington? Lampert will need a reason.”

  He shrugged again. “Easy. I’ll cable Donovan. We have an understanding. He can return a cable ordering me back. Pronto.”

  Langford looked into his face. “Sorry about your head. I’ll make it better.” She set her flashlight on the cabinet, pointing it towards the wall.

  He smiled. “You will? How?”

  This time, she made the advance, slowly, pausing at first, before going through with it. She reached out and ran her fingers through his wavy hair. He slid his arm around her waist and pulled her towards him. Then their lips met and they kissed, arms wrapped tightly to the other, bodies pressed together, all the time Hollinger holding onto his flashlight. The whole procedure seemed so much easier this time.

  Their lips released after some seconds.

  “How about that?” she asked, tucking her face into his shoulder as they held on. “I’m hooked on you, you know.”

  He was too shocked to answer.

  “Never expected it? Cat got your tongue, Wesley?”

  “I have to make an official protest. This is not standard operating procedure,” he said.

  “No, it isn’t.

  “Besides, I don’t like fast women.”

  “Liar.”

  “Gosh, you’re beautiful. Good kisser too.”

  “Thank you. Do I really kiss better than Annie Fannie?”

  “Yes. A lot better. Wait.”

  “It was just getting good,” she said, recalling Hollinger’s words to her at her flat.

  “Quiet. I’m thinking.”

  “You’re thinking pretty loud.”

  “Hush,” Hollinger said.

  “I don’t like it when you think so hard.”

  For some reason, he thought of Eiser. Out of the blue, he remembered something Lampert had told him. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? “Say, wait a second.” He released her.

  “What?”

  “I need to pay someone a call.”

  “Who?”

  “Can’t tell you. Let’s put these things back. By the way, does this mean you’re available now?”

  TWENTY-THREE

  MI-6 Headquarters

  Hollinger flew past Lampert’s secretary.

  She stood up and barked, “Mr. Hollinger, you can’t go in there!”

  He stopped. “Why not?”

  “The colonel’s on the telephone.”

  “Who with?”

  “The Prime Minister.”

  “Too bad.”

  “Mr. Hollinger! He’s not to be disturbed!”

  Hollinger opened the door, and pushed it wide open. “Colonel, I must speak to you. Immediately.”

  Lampert bounced from his chair. “Confound you, man! What are you doing barging in here? Sit down. Wait till I’m finished.”

  “I’m very sorry, sir,” the secretary apologized. “He walked right in.”

  “That’s quite all right, Margaret. Carry on.”

  “Very good, colonel.” She glowered at the grinning Hollinger and closed the door, making a grouchy sound at the same time.

  Lampert turned his attention to the voice in the receiver. “Yes, sir, it’s Wesley. No, sir. I can assure you that he’s not been drinking on the job. You’re not drunk, are you, Wesley?”

  * * * *

  Camp Z

  Eiser gave his papers to Henry, who opened the cage door carefully and studied the documentation. Vern leaned on the staircase rail at the end of the hall and looked over.

  “The prisoner has his own physician. Dr. B-Bates,” Henry said.

  “But as the papers state, I represent the Red Cross. I was sent to see that the international rules of treatment of POW’s has been properly observed for the prisoner, and to examine him.”

  “This is highly irregular, Dr. B-Bates. I-I was not given any prior notice of th-this.”

  “That’s standard practice, my good man, for the International Red Cross. They like to observe such things under normal circumstances.”

  “Catch us doing s-s-something, you mean?”

  Eiser smiled. “No, no. Nothing like that, I can assure you.” He shook his head. “I came down all the way from Liverpool. This will cause quite an incident if I have to go all the way back without accomplishing my duty to the Red Cross. And I do have permission from the Foreign Office. Everything is in order.” For a moment, Eiser thought the guard was going to refuse him entry.

  “Stay here, Dr. B-Bates. The prisoner’s t-taking a mid-morning nap. He didn’t sleep well last n-night.”

  * * * *

  MI-6 Headquarters

  Lampert replaced the receiver and glared at Hollinger.

  “Don’t you ever do that again. That was the Prime Minister. Who do you think you are? Coming in here like—”

  “Steady, colonel. You already have high blood pressure.”

  “I wonder why. To what do I owe the pleasure of this unannounced visit?”

  Hollinger stepped forward and leaned over Lampert’s desk. “Listen to me. I think I know the object of Eiser’s mission to England.”

  “You do? What?”

  “Eiser and Jordan were both with the Anglo-German Association, right?”

  The colonel nodded. “Yes, they were.”

  “They both know Hess. Or knew Hess. Right?”

  Lampert nodded the second time. “Yes, go on.”

  “Would they recognize the real Hess on sight?”

  “Probably. Yes, I guess so. What are you driving at?”

  “Put this all together. I followed Jordan to the area that Schubert’s ME-110 went down. Jordan asked the Duke questions about Hess and he was poking around the Firth of Forth. Then, after that, Eiser kills Jordan — so he wouldn’t be identified, I guess. Now, remember the file you showed me on Eiser? What were his specialties?”

  “Spying, muscle, assassination, sabotage, espionage, counterespionage.”

  Hollinger pointed his finger at Lampert. “Assassination?”

  An expression of horror shaped the colonel’s face. “Schubert?”

  “You got it.”

  “He wouldn’t, would he?”

  “Think about it. At first, I thought Eiser was going to spring Schubert.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You know, rescue him. Anyway, tell me if I’m wrong.”

  “Extraordinary. Assassination. Why? Unless the Germans know we have the phoney.” Lampert folded his arms. “You might just have something there. Why hadn’t we thought of it before?”

  “My thoughts exactly.”

  “If you’re right and he gets to the prisoner, we’ve had it. Churchill will have our heads. If you know what I mean? We have to get to that bugger Eiser before somebody like MI-5 does. If they start asking questions, there’s no telling what might come of it. It could blow this whole Hess thing right out in the open.”

  Hollinger agreed. “You don’t have to elaborate, sir.”

  “Do you suppose Eiser knows the prisoner’s at Mytchett Place?”

  “I’d say a yes to that. Jordan probably knew and would have told him.”

  “Yes, of course.” Lampert reached for his telephone. “I’ll get Preston to surround the estate.” He started dialling, his earlier anger at the American forgotten.

  “Good idea. Tell me, colonel, what’s with Preston, anyway?”

  “Meaning?”

  “He sure seems to have an axe to grind with Eiser.”

  “Oh, that. Don’t you know?”

  “Know what?”

  “Eiser almost killed him once.”

  “He did? No kidding.”

  “Just a moment.” The colonel turned his concentration to the receiver. “Preston,” he spoke into the receiver. “Listen to me! Make haste! Get some of your men over to Camp Z. Immediately.”

  * * * *

  Camp Z

  Eiser had to wait; the two sentries looking over at him occasionally. Suddenly, the prisoner walked out
from his bedroom into the caged area. He looked down the hall to the next room — the study — ignoring Eiser’s presence. Vern watched, then nodded at Eiser to proceed.

  Seated in the hall, Eiser got a good look at the prisoner through the wire mesh.

  Henry swung open the metal door. “Y-You may go in n-now, Dr. Bates.”

  Eiser got to his feet. “Thank you.” He went into the study and slowly closed the door.

  The prisoner turned around. They exchanged stares. “Who are you? What do you want?”

  Conscious of buried microphones, Eiser knew he had to work quickly and efficiently, at close range. “I was going to ask you the same question.”

  “I am the Deputy Fuehrer of Nazi Germany. I am Rudolf Hess.”

  Suddenly, the air-raid siren blared. The prisoner froze, looking up.

  Eiser stared at the man. This wasn’t the Hess that Eiser remembered. Too tall, too skinny, and his eyes were distant ... and different. Never mind the moles Buhle had talked about. Eiser wouldn’t have to check. “Like hell you are. You’re not Rudolf Hess. Greetings from Berlin, and your friend, Walter Buhle.”

  Eiser detected the spark in the prisoner’s eyes with the mention of Buhle. Eiser threw the prisoner to the floor, then gripped the needle in his medical bag. With the other hand, he muffled the prisoner’s mouth. One injection, and he’d be dead in seconds. They struggled. Schubert grabbed the needle from Eiser’s grasp, and threw it across the floor; it ended up under a couch. Eiser reached inside his coat for the knife, and lunged at the prisoner. With one swipe of the pen-like instrument, he gashed his arm.

  Then the door burst open. Henry appeared, his machine gun pointed at Eiser. Eiser kicked it away. In a swift move, he reached for one of the acid capsules and threw the contents at the guard. Henry screamed in agony. Eiser scooped up the gun and fled for the entrance before the other first-floor guard could react.

  “Stop! Or I’ll shoot!”

  Eiser spun around at the door and shot several rounds at the hall guard, missing him. Then he flew down the wooden stairs, to the bottom ... and the entrance.

  “Eiser!”

  Eiser looked up. By the time he realized he was surrounded by armed men, he was smashed square in the face by Preston. He dropped on the spot. Preston stood over the downed Eiser.

  He was out cold, blood dribbling from his mouth to the floor.

  Preston smiled. He had waited a long time for this.

  * * * *

  London — December 3

  Hollinger handed Lampert the trans-Atlantic cable.

  Lampert smiled, slowly, smoking his pipe. “So, Donovan asks for your presence in Washington immediately?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “Search me. You know how these things are.”

  Langford arrived at Lampert’s office and looked over at Hollinger, who glanced back.

  “Have a nice trip. Before you go, I want you to see our little message to Himmler.” Lampert nodded at Langford. “Miss Langford.”

  Hollinger took and read the typed sheet she handed him, and laughed. “Whose idea was this?”

  “The Big Guy’s,” answered Lampert.

  “Is this what you call isolating Himmler?”

  “You might say that, yes. Operation Decoy worked in one respect. Maybe we didn’t upset the Nazi higher-ups like we wanted, but we did flush out Eiser.”

  “It’s ... appropriate.” Hollinger looked at the sheet again. “Looks like something I would’ve thought of.”

  “With the agent Denise — God rest her soul — dead, we can get away with it. It’ll be transmitted this evening during her time slot.”

  “By the way, colonel, how’s Prisoner Z?”

  “Splendid,” Lampert replied. “His wound is healing nicely. At least there was no acid involved.”

  “Yeah. Lucky him.”

  “Commencing tomorrow, the entire staff at Camp Z will be replaced with new men.”

  “Isn’t that kind of...”

  “Kind of what?” Lampert asked.

  “Drastic?”

  “Not according to the Prime Minister. It’s his call. Eiser never should have penetrated even the first checkpoint. Doctor, my eye. When the prisoner has his own doctor. Most of the time Dr. Dicks lives right there. He just so happened to be out that day. Perhaps the next crew will be a whole lot more careful.”

  “Yes, they will.”

  “By the way, Miss Langford,” Lampert asked. “Is that gum you’re chewing?”

  Langford blushed. “Ah ... well...”

  “Not you, too.”

  Hollinger grinned over at Langford. “You’ve been holding out on me.”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “I didn’t think you had any left.”

  “I saved the last pack. Kind of stale, though. Ta, ta, gentlemen,” she said, taking the gum from her mouth and gently dropping it in the trash can as she left the office.

  After leaving Lampert’s office, Hollinger caught up with Langford and coaxed her into a small vacant room down the corridor.

  “Thanks a million, Robbie.”

  She blinked at him with sharp eyes. “What for?”

  “Believing in me.”

  She smiled. “Oh, ’twas nothing.”

  “While we’re here, I want to ask you one thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Will you marry me?”

  Langford’s face flushed. She couldn’t believe her ears. Surely he was teasing. A marriage proposal from the American with the so-called reputation? She had to think about it. Quickly, it seemed. What she had seen of Hollinger this year really didn’t compare with the MI-6 file on him. She knew the genuine Wesley Hollinger, and she liked what she saw.

  “Well?”

  “Is this one of your hypothetical situations?”

  “No.”

  “Do I have to decide on the spot?”

  “Yes. I have to know before I leave.”

  Roberta Hollinger, she thought. It had a ring to it. Or Roberta Langford-Hollinger, one of those charming, sophisticated working-woman names. Yes, that’s what it would be. Roberta Langford-Hollinger. Would her parents approve of the cocky Yank they had never met, but only heard second-hand stories about? It didn’t matter. It was up to her. She was a big girl. Decisions were made overnight in this war. Whirlwind romances ended up at the altar quicker than a snap of the fingers. Nothing was carved in stone anymore. Hitler’s stranglehold on Europe had changed everything. Live for today, not knowing what tomorrow might bring. This was 1941. Not 1901.

  He kissed her, holding her tight.

  “Yes, I will,” she replied, startled that she actually said it.

  “I’ll be back in a week, maybe. Don’t go anywhere. And don’t change your mind.”

  “I won’t. Unless, of course, I meet someone else.” She grinned, her lip curling up. “Just kidding.”

  “I should hope so.” He kissed her, lightly this time. “I love you.”

  “Likewise.”

  He winked, and left the room. She stood there, traumatized. Marriage? To Wesley Hollinger? Did she really say yes? Who would have thought it? She did ... she did say yes. Good grief. Then again, she always said she loved men with blue eyes.

  “Wait. Where do you think you’re going?” She chased him down the hall, cornered him in a closed doorway, and kissed him hard on the mouth.

  “Came to wish me luck, did you?” His eyes were soft and caring.

  “Yes. Break a leg.” She walked away, turned, and blew him a kiss down the hall. “Bring me back some more gum.”

  * * * *

  Hamburg

  Radio operator Gunther Gruhn removed his headphones and deciphered the Morse message that came through on Denise’s frequency at the top of the hour. Trouble was, it wasn’t her hand. It was definitely someone else’s. Gruhn took the message down anyway.

  * * * *

  Outside London

  The two-car motorcade braked on a cr
est next to some oak trees. The nearest buildings — a farm — were more than a mile downhill. The men in the second car yanked out a man whose hands were bound, and dragged him into a nearby meadow. The two men in the first car — one of them Max Preston — followed seconds behind.

  Preston nodded. The signal. The bound man was pushed to his knees in the soft earth. He looked up at Preston. The others stood around, forming a circle of men and steamy breath.

  “Remember me?” Preston asked, staring coldly at the German spy.

  “Should I?” answered Adam Eiser, glancing up, his face bruised. He had survived a vicious interrogation in which he hadn’t cracked.

  “Does London ... about ... August, 1939 ring a bell?”

  “Not especially.”

  “I was one of the three agents who came to arrest you. You stabbed one, putting him in the hospital for weeks. And you threw acid on another. Me.” Preston pointed to his chest. “Now do you remember?”

  “So?” Eiser was unmoved.

  Preston cleared his throat, extracting his gun from his holster. “I’ve been informed by MI-6 to give you your options. First, you can work for us and feed information back to Germany — information that we tell you to send.”

  “I’m not terribly fond of that one, old boy. What’s the second option?”

  Preston checked the gun chamber of his pistol. “You refuse to cooperate — we kill you. No trial. Frankly, you’re considered too dangerous.”

  “I’ll take neither.”

  “Sorry, can’t do.”

  “Too bad.”

  Preston sighed. He examined Eiser’s face for a hint of repentance. There wasn’t any. “Where did you go wrong? An Englishman?”

  Eiser showed no concern. “Deutschland, my Deutschland.” He spit in the Englishman’s face. “Schweinehund!”

  “I know my German, Eiser,” Preston replied, controlling his anger, wiping his cheek with a handkerchief. “It’s not nice to call me a dirty pig.’’

  “Sieg Heil!”

  “Poor man. How touching. Such a ... pathetic waste.”

  “I regret nothing. Do what you have to do, if you must.”

  “I will. For you, Herr Eiser, the war is over.”