Faked Passports

by Dennis Wheatley

  Goering smiled grimly. “Like most other people you still think in terms of 1914–18. But this is a different kind of war and we hold the trump cards because of our geographical position and, to be frank, our lack of scruple. If we choose we can carry the war into Norway, Sweden, Denmark, Holland, Belgium, Switzerland, Hungary or Rumania, any day we wish, and overrun these countries before the Democracies could possibly establish defensive fronts in them. That is why all these little nations must continue to do what we tell them whether they like it or not. On the other hand, the Democracies cannot attack us through any of our neutral neighbours, because that would mean abandoning their high principles. For the same reason they cannot threaten them and therefore cannot get the assistance out of them that we can.”

  “I appreciate your frankness, Marshal, in admitting that Germany is prepared to use methods which are quite obviously debarred to the Democracies.”

  “Why should I not be frank with you? Britain and France can’t have it both ways. During the peace they made the League of Nations their instrument—used it in a thousand ways to further their own interests under the guise of securing the so-called rights of the small nations. Now there is war how can they throw overboard the League and all the commitments with which it has landed them? In consequence the Democracies fight with one hand tied behind their backs whereas we, who have never pretended to have any other aim but to secure for Germany her rightful place in the world, fight with both hands free.”

  “That, admittedly, gives you a big advantage for the time being,” Gregory nodded, “but in the event of a great land offensive the whole situation might change entirely.”

  “Who said there would ever be a great land offensive? The Democracies do not wish to repeat the blood-baths of the Somme and Paschendaele so they certainly will not attack our Western Wall—which is infinitely stronger than any of our defensive lines in the last war. And where else can they attack us? Nowhere; without infringing the neutrality of one of the small nations and thereby having world opinion swing against them. They won’t do that, so it’s up to us; and it might suit us best to remain on the defensive while we develop the resources of our neighbours until the point is reached where we are entirely independent of the outside world.”

  “Fortunately—or unfortunately, as the case may prove—I gather that some of your more impatient colleagues are not in agreement with such a policy?” Gregory replied.

  “No,” Goering admitted angrily. ‘The fools cannot see that, given a little time, Germany will be in just as strong a position as if the Reich extended from the northern coast of Norway to the Black Sea—and that, mark you, without the unnecessary sacrifice of a single man or plane. These neutrals, countries which comprise by far the largest part of Europe, dare not resist any reasonable demand that we choose to make; and what more could we possibly ask? To march into them would only mean the destruction of their economic systems; whereas while we refrain from waging war upon them their industries remain going concerns which are being used for the benefit of the Reich.”

  It was grand strategy upon the Napoleonic scale, and Gregory admitted to himself the sense and force of the Marshal’s argument but he was given little time to ponder it as Goering went on almost at once, with a change of tone:

  “But we’re not here to discuss the European situation. Tell me as briefly as you can what you’ve been doing in Germany.”

  Gregory very wisely refrained from saying that it would take the whole evening to do justice to the full story of his adventures, but he was an excellent raconteur and he meant to attempt the game by which Scheherazade, in the Arabian Nights, managed to postpone her execution from day to day believing that although he had no chance of keeping Goering amused for a thousand and one evenings his tale would still be incomplete when the Marshal’s next appointment was due and he would reprieve his audacious visitor until after at least one more session—or perhaps two—by which time it was unlikely that he would be quite so fixed in his determination to have the story-teller shot. In consequence Gregory started at the first week of the war when as an old soldier he had been desperately anxious to get back into the Army but found himself unable to do so owing to his being over the age limit for a new commission or even acceptance as a private.

  That won Goering’s sympathy at once and he listened intently as Gregory spoke of the joy, at such a time of dejection, with which he had accepted the most unexpected offer of a secret mission that would enable him to serve his country. He told the story of his first secret visit to Germany, his meeting with Erika von Epp and his escape only to be interned in Holland, with such vividness that Goering alternately bellowed with laughter as he heard of the impudent tricks by which Gregory had escaped arrest or nodded with the appreciation of one brave man for another as he learned how Gregory had shot his way out of the traps which the Gestapo had set for him.

  By the time Gregory had reached the point in his adventures where he found himself caught and about to be murdered by Marxists in the East End of London there was quite a pile of cigarette butts in the big ash-tray; yet Goering remained enthralled and with obvious annoyance drew a telephone receiver from a hidden ledge under his desk in answer to a low buzzing.

  “What’s that?” he said. “A quarter past eight? Gott im Himmel! They have been waiting dinner for me for a quarter of an hour? All right. Tell them that I am still in conference. Lay places for two in the private dining-room, bring cocktails now and have dinner ready in a quarter of an hour.”

  Replacing the receiver he looked across at Gregory. “I have guests, but this house is always full of people and for once they must do without me—at all events till later. I wouldn’t, for anything in the world, miss hearing the rest of your extraordinary exploits. You must dine with me.”

  Gregory hid his inward satisfaction as he bowed his thanks. One really long, uninterrupted session with Goering was even better than several short ones between which the mood of his dynamic listener might change, and already he felt confident that he had the situation so well in hand that the unpleasant subject of shooting parties would not be raised again. He was conceited enough to look forward to the expression on Freddie Charlton’s face when the airman learned that Goering had actually abandoned his guests to entertain him privately and he hoped that Freddie was not feeling the suspense of his long wait too badly. If Goering was the sportsman Gregory believed him to be they would both be given a safe conduct out of Germany and, if Erika was still alive, be able to take her with them.

  Champagne-cocktails were brought by a white-coated barman who mixed them as required on a trolley that he had wheeled in. “Don’t take any notice of that fellow,” said Goering dismissively, “but go on with your story. He’s a deaf-mute—that’s why I gave him his job.”

  In the next quarter of an hour Gregory got as far as his departure for Paris in search of Madame Dubois and they sank three champagne-cocktails apiece; then a butler appeared and announced that His Excellency was served. Goering jumped up and with a purposeful stride led the way across the corridor to a small private dining-room that was furnished in red and gold.

  “What will you drink?” he asked at once. “Champagne or hock?”

  “If I were dining with anyone else I’d say champagne but with you I would prefer to drink hock.”

  With a shrewd glance at his guest Goering said: “I see you’re a connoisseur,” and turning to the butler he ordered: “Have a couple of bottles of my Marcobrunner Cabinet 1900 sent up.”

  “1900!” murmured Gregory. “By Jove! I didn’t know that there were any 1900 hocks still in existence.”

  Goering had already started on the hors d’œuvre. “I have a little, and it’s remarkable how these great wines last. The smaller ones would have turned to dish-water years ago but this is still perfect—marvellous.”

  “I remember drinking some of the famous ‘68’s when I was a boy and although they were then over forty years old they hadn’t turned a hair. My father had some of
the ‘68 Schloss Johannesburg.”

  “Beautiful—beautiful; I, too, remember drinking that classic vintage when I was a boy. There are no wines in the world to touch our great German wines.”

  “There I thoroughly agree with you,” Gregory smiled, “and the proof of the pudding is in the eating. People talk about burgundy as the king of wines but I’ve never heard of anyone paying more than two pounds for a classic burgundy, yet one must pay six pounds a bottle if one wants the very finest hock.”

  The bulky Marshal preened himself as though he, instead of Charlemagne, was personally responsible for the creation of the great vineyards on the Rhine. “Six pounds—” he said, “I’d pay ten to anybody who could find me more of some of the rarities I’ve got.”

  When the bottles of Marcobrunner arrived Gregory noticed that they bore the supreme honour paid only to superlative products of the vineyards—which is very rarely seen outside Germany or even in it—gold foil under their capsules, covering the whole of their long necks. When his glass had been filled he sniffed the wine and sipped it slowly. It was a dark golden colour and almost as heavy as Tokay with that wonderful flavour of subdued richness that only great age can give to a wine which has been sweet as honey when young.

  “Don’t play with it, man—drink it!” said Goering genially. “There’s plenty more in the bottles.” He took two big mouthfuls, rinsing it round his mouth with delight. “That’s the way to get the real flavour of a wine.”

  “Since we have a bottle apiece I promise you I won’t leave a sip in mine,” Gregory assured him with a smile; “I was only prolonging this amazing treat. There’s nothing I can say about the wine; it is beyond all praise.”

  “Good. Now, don’t take any notice of the servants but go on with your story.”

  While the rich courses came and went Gregory described his second war-time visit to Germany and the meal was finished before he had reached the point where Hans Foldar’s cottage was attacked. The two bottles were now empty of their priceless contents and for the first time in many minutes Goering interrupted to ask:

  “Will you have cognac or kirsch?”

  ‘Kirsch, thanks” said Gregory at once. He did not doubt that the Marshal’s cognac was of the same regal quality as his hock but he knew that the Germans had the extraordinary habit of icing fine brandy—which in his opinion entirely ruined its flavour—and old kirsch being a liqueur in which rich Germans specialise he thought it a safer and more interesting bet.

  “Right, then.” Goering stood up. “We’ll move back to the other room and drink our liqueurs there.”

  When they reached his splendid sanctum he took up a position in front of the mantelpiece with his legs splayed wide apart and his hands thrust deep into his breeches pockets. “Go on,” he said. “How did you manage to get that colonel’s uniform and make your way back to Berlin?”

  As Gregory told him he frowned when he heard of von Lutz’s death, for he had known and liked the Baron; but he laughed uproariously when he heard how Ober-Lieutenant Wentsich and Major Putzleiger had assisted in getting the fugitives safely out of the district in which they were being hunted.

  “And now,” said Gregory when he had finished his story, “as Erika is such an old friend of yours I feel sure you must know what has happened to her. Is she alive or dead?”

  “Alive.”

  “Thank God for that. Is she in prison?”

  “No.” Goering grinned. “Directly the Putsch failed she had the impudence to come straight to me. I ought to have had her shot—she deserved it; but—you know what she is—she talked me into getting her safely out of the country to Finland. She has relatives living in Helsinki—the von Kobenthals.”

  “You did? Well done! I had an idea that she’d come to you and I felt certain that if she did you’d help her.”

  “Why? There’d have been hell to pay if the Fuehrer had heard that I let her go. And think of the capital that might have been made out of such a story if Himmler or von Ribbentrop had got to hear of it! Those who are not for us are against us. Death is their portion, and at my hands they get it; old friends or new—it is all the same. The enemies of the Party are my enemies. She’s an enemy of the Party and what induced me to spare her I can’t think.”

  “I can. And it wasn’t sentiment.” The champagne-cocktails, the potent old hock and the kirsch that he was drinking had given Gregory complete self-confidence, so he added: “You’ve had too many of your old friends shot for anyone to believe that you would allow sentiment to sway you.”

  “What was it, then?”

  “Your genius for statecraft. You still talk about the Party as though it were a single entity—just as Stalin still talks of himself as a Communist, although he’s nothing of the kind. You know as well as I do that there are now two Parties in Germany. You, von Raeder and the Generals are now at daggers drawn with von Ribbentrop, Himmler and the pro-Russians; while Hitler, whose opinions are taken one day from one group and another day from the other, gradually shrinks into the background.”

  “Do you dare to insinuate that I am conspiring against my Fuehrer?” Goering’s big face was black and threatening.

  “No. I believe that you are loyal to him but that circumstances are proving too strong for you. Every day Hitler becomes more and more of a cipher. While he sits there brooding in Berchtesgaden, constantly vacillating, utterly unable to make up his mind which of half a dozen policies he ought to follow whole-heartedly, you have found yourself forced to take an ever greater degree of power into your own hands.”

  Goering sighed. “There may be something in that, but I’m no traitor.”

  “I didn’t suggest that you were; and there would be no cause for you to be if, as in the old days, Hitler’s advisers were united; but now that they have split into two almost equally powerful camps you feel that in protecting yourself you’re protecting Germany. You need all the support you can get to counter the moves of your enemies and to strengthen your hand for the day when the great show-down comes. That’s why you spared Erika. Consciously or subconsciously you knew that she would be on your side and that as she is a woman of immense influence she could be useful.”

  “Gott im Himmel, Sallust! You’re right—although I hate to have to admit it. For a foreigner you know a lot about us.”

  “Perhaps I know a little more than most foreigners, but not much. You forget that owing to your Press here being controlled the German people know very little of what goes on behind the scenes; in England we have our sources of information and all the broader issues are freely published. It’s common knowledge in every English village that you and von Ribbentrop are at each other’s throats over this Russian business.”

  The rich wines and subtle liqueur had also loosened Goering’s tongue. “That madman!” he exclaimed, suddenly giving way to furious rage. “Think what he has done—think!—think! He has lost us Italy, Spain, Japan—and for what? These filthy Russian murderers who do nothing but stab us in the back; who can’t send us one-tenth of the supplies they promised, as anyone who had travelled on their railways—let alone seen our secret-service reports—must have known. And look at the Baltic! Think of the disgrace, the loss of prestige in Germany’s having to withdraw her communities that have been settled in the Baltic ports for centuries. And now this lunatic is urging Adolph to stage a Blitzkrieg. I only managed to stop that attack on Holland—planned for the end of last month—at the very last moment. What the hell do we want to attack Holland for—or any other neutral country—when, as I said only before dinner, we already have all these little peoples in the bag?

  “And think of launching a Blitzkrieg at this time of year! I’ve a handful of ace pilots whom I can use for raids on English shipping, because they’ve done commercial flying over the North Sea for years, but in winter conditions most of my boys would lose themselves before they got half-way to London. It’s crazy even to contemplate such a thing before the spring, and even then, it’s taking a hellish gamble with my air f
orce.”

  “I know,” Gregory agreed. “Your game is to keep your air force intact as a constant threat which can be directed against any quarter—just as we kept our Grand Fleet intact in the last war. By risking it in a major action you’ve got everything to lose and nothing to gain.”

  “Of course. But people like von Ribbentrop don’t know the first thing about grand strategy. He doesn’t even know his own damned job; yet the fool must interfere with mine and constantly reiterate: ‘We’ve got the finest air force in the world so why shouldn’t we use it?”

  “Well, sooner or later you’ll …” Gregory broke off short as the low buzzer sounded, and striding to his desk Goering picked up the telephone from the ledge under it.

  “Hullo… what’s that?… They have … Well, tell the Soviet Ambassador from me that they’ll get more than they bargained for if the Finns call their bluff. Telephone that through at once and urge that no further step should be taken until he has seen me, and make an appointment for His Excellency to call on me at my flat in the Air Ministry as early as possible tomorrow morning.”

  He slammed down the receiver and turned back with a scowl to Gregory. “More trouble. The Russians have just broken off the broadcast of a musical programme to make a special announcement denouncing their seven-year-old non-aggression pact with Finland.”

  “That’s bad,” said Gregory. “D’you think they really mean business?”

  “I’m afraid so. And Finland is another sphere of German influence. There are many Germans settled there. It will be a further blow to our prestige if we have to bring them home. I must think now what I can do to counteract this new aggravation with which von Ribbentrop’s pro-Russian policy has landed us.”

  He strode up and down the room for a moment, then suddenly moved over to a bell and pressed it. He now showed not the least trace that he had drunk anything stronger than water as he spoke with abrupt detachment:

  “Our talk has been most interesting but I can’t give you any more of my time. I’ve told you what you want to know about Erika and, of course, it’s quite impossible for me to release you, but I’m sure that you’ll meet your end like a brave man.”