Faked Passports

by Dennis Wheatley

  “Thanks.” The packet consisted of 100-mark notes and Gregory counted himself off thirty from it while Goering carried on a quick conversation at the telephone. As Gregory was holding the bundle he felt an uneven strip across its bottom and turning it over he saw that some very thin, folded sheets of paper were wedged under the thick rubber band which held the notes together. The sheets were so thin that he could see the typescript through the top one. It might be just a check list of the numbers of the notes. On the other hand, it might be something of importance which had got caught in the rubber band by mistake. Anything coming out of Goering’s private safe was worth investigation and the Marshal still had his back turned at the telephone. Gregory knew that if he stole the ‘flimsies’, and they were missed immediately, his life would once more be forfeit, but the temptation to find out what the typescript was proved irresistible. Slipping it from under the rubber band he swiftly pushed it in his pocket; then, so that he should not have to hand the bundle back he replaced it on the shelf of the safe from which it had been taken.

  The Marshal finished his telephoning, turned round, gave a glance at the notes Gregory still held in his hand and swung the safe door shut again. He was no longer perspiring and looked as fresh as if he had slept the night through.

  “We’ll have some breakfast now,” he smiled, “then I’ll snatch a couple of hours’ sleep before I see the Soviet Ambassador.”

  In the private dining-room breakfast had already been prepared; real coffee, crisp white rolls, fresh butter, eggs, fish, sausage and cheese. As he sat down Goering’s personality changed again, and it was impossible to believe that he was the same person who had been working so furiously all through the night. He talked, like any country gentleman entertaining a guest, of the wild life on his estate, and mentioned quite casually that he meant to get back from Berlin by midday to join the guns as he had a shooting-party staying in the house.

  When the meal was done he summoned the aide-de-camp who had been charged with providing a change of clothes for Gregory and told him to see that his guest had everything he needed until he could start on his journey. Then, as they went out into the corridor he shook Gregory warmly by the hand.

  “Good luck, my dear fellow. It’s been a pleasure to see you here and when the war is over you must come and stay. We’ll kill some more bottles of Marcobrunner, and I really can offer you some excellent shooting.”

  “Thanks. I’ve enjoyed myself enormously,” Gregory said politely, and was inwardly tickled by the fantastic idea which flashed into his mind—that possibly his host expected him to write a bread-and-butter letter. Obviously the Marshal had completely forgotten for the time being that at just about that hour his guest would have been led out to die at his orders had it not been for that guest’s own wits and determination to save himself.

  The A.D.C. took Gregory to a suite where he bathed, shaved and changed. He retained his own shoes and took the opportunity to slip the typescript he had stolen into the false sole of one of them, where he still had most of the money he had brought into Germany. He then rejoined the A.D.C., who led him downstairs and through a long corridor to an underground aerodrome.

  Charlton was there, haggard and weary-eyed. He had been given dinner, but after that the poor fellow had been left all night in the waiting-room and owing to his acute anxiety he had not been able to get one wink of sleep. Yet when he saw Gregory he smiled and nodded cheerfully towards the Belgian plane which now carried the red, white and blue British circles.

  “Nice little bus, isn’t she?”

  “Yes,” Gregory nodded. “The Marshal’s giving it to us as a parting present, I managed to entertain him rather well at dinner last night.”

  Freddie grunted. “You might at least have sent down to let me know that things were all right. I suppose for the last eight hours you’ve been sleeping your head off?”

  “Not all the time. As a matter of fact, the Marshal kept me up pretty late but he was so hospitable that I found it a little difficult to get away.”

  “You old devil!” Freddie laughed. “Anyhow. I’m mighty glad to see you—er—looking so fresh,” he added as an afterthought.

  “Thanks. I’m sorry you had such a dull time last night, but I see you’ve had a shave so I take it they looked after you this morning?”

  “Oh, yes; they couldn’t have been nicer—bath, slap-up breakfast, everything—they even produced a change of underclothes when I hinted that mine were due for the long service medal.”

  “Good! And the Air Officer gave you all the particulars you require for our flight to Finland?”

  “Yes. I’ve got it all here.” Freddie held up a small, fat wallet. “And orders have been telephoned through to Anti-Aircraft Headquarters that they’re not to interfere with a small Belgian Sabina plane bearing British markings which will be flying over North-Eastern Germany for a special purpose.”

  “Yes. I fixed that with the Marshal. So long as you stick to the route you’ve been given we’re ensured a clear run out of the country.”

  The plane had been fuelled to capacity as it was desirable to avoid any questioning which might have arisen by breaking their journey at air-ports along the route, but with only two people on board, instead of the four for which it was built, the Sabina was easily capable of carrying enough petrol for a 700-mile non-stop flight. Directly it was reported ready Gregory and Freddie got into it.

  Gregory put his big packet of papers on his knees and felt in his pocket to make quite certain that his two passports and Goering’s letter were there all right. The head mechanic signalled to Freddie and the engine sprang to sudden life, making a deafening roar in the underground air-port. They waved good-bye to the Air Officer and mechanics, then the plane ran smoothly up the long slope out into the daylight and across the grass. A moment later it was in the air.

  “So you’ve got us out—and the gift of a plane into the bargain,” Freddie said, the moment he had taken off. “You certainly are a wizard.”

  “No—just a worker,” Gregory replied. “And, my God, it was a fight! I had to wrestle with Satan in person for about five hours and work for another six, so I’m about all-in. I’ll tell you the story later but I’ve been through the hell of a strain and I’m going to try to get some sleep now.”

  He closed his eyes and lay back in the comfortable passenger-seat beside the pilot. It was not until ten minutes later that he suddenly noticed how cold it had become, and opening his eyes again he saw that the altimeter registered 8,000 feet.

  “It’s darned cold up here,” he remarked. “Surely we don’t need to fly as high as this?”

  “Oh, yes, we do,” Freddie grinned. “I’m going much higher—as high as the plane will take us without our conking out through lack of oxygen.”

  “But why?” Gregory protested. “You’ve got your route and the anti-aircraft people have been told to let us through.”

  “Yes; but that’s only along a lane over North-Eastern Germany.”

  “Naturally—since we’re going to Finland.”

  “Finland?” gasped Freddie. “Surely you didn’t really mean to go there?”

  Gregory sat up with a jerk. “Of course. I’ve been entrusted with a special mission by Goering so I’ve got no option.”

  “Good God, you are crazy! Finland? My foot! Thanks a lot for the plane, but now I’ve got it I’m going home!”

  Chapter XII

  The Red Menace

  Gregory closed his eyes and sighed. After having worn down the most dynamic man in Europe by hours of skilful flattery, well-timed bullying and reasoned argument, it seemed a bit hard that, tired out as he was, he should now be called upon to cope with his pleasant but pigheaded young friend.

  Experience had taught him that the better the quality of the drink the less likelihood of a head the following morning, but even with the very best of liquor quantity will tell, and he now had a first-class hang-over. Breakfast and a bath had only stalled off the evil hour. His brain had b
egun to feel like cotton-wool, his eyes were heavy and he had a rotten taste in his mouth, but it was mental exhaustion, much more than the alcohol he had drunk, which had got him down. Moreover, he was a night-bird by nature and always at his very worst in the morning, when most other people were setting off to tackle the day’s work; yet the effort had to be made, so he said slowly:

  “Why not Holland, as that girl of yours is there?”

  “I’d make it Holland,” Charlton said sharply, “but for two reasons. Firstly, as a British Air Force officer the Dutch would intern me the moment I landed. Secondly, it’s my duty to report to my C.O. at the earliest possible opportunity—and if you’ve forgotten your duty I haven’t forgotten mine.”

  “Oh, Freddie, you make me tired,” said Gregory wearily. “D’you honestly think I’m the sort of chap who would sell myself to the enemy and that I’ve taken on this job to help the Nazis win the ruddy war?”

  “No—no, of course not. I didn’t mean that really; but when you said you were doing the job for Goering what the hell else was a fellow to think?”

  “Thanks for the somewhat dubious vote of confidence. Now, listen to me. I’m going to give you two very good reasons why you’re not going home before you’ve flown me to Finland. After that you can do as you damned well choose. The Finns won’t intern you, because at the moment they’re much too occupied with their own affairs to bother their heads about minor infringements of their neutrality; so if you don’t want to stay you can buy a suit of civilian clothes, and it shouldn’t be difficult for you to get a ship home from one of the Norwegian ports.”

  “Why should I do that, which might mean weeks of delay, when I’ve got a perfectly good plane?”

  “You haven’t got a plane. Goering gave this plane to me. But for goodness’ sake don’t let’s wrangle about side issues. The situation is this. Russia has demanded that Finland shall give her bases and receive garrisons of Red troops. If Finland agrees, she will never again be in a position to fight Russia and will be reduced to the state of a Russian province. That has got to be stopped somehow.”

  “I suppose you think you’re such a hell of a guy that directly the Soviet agents report your arrival in Helsinki Stalin will get a fit of the jitters and throw his hand in?”

  “Don’t be facetious, Freddie, or keep interrupting me. What I can do is to persuade the Finns to fight. I’ve got here the whole low-down on the Red Army and Air Force, showing their real weakness. Once the Finns see these papers they’ll realise that they’ve got a sporting chance.”

  “What, a mere handful of them against fifteen million armed Reds?”

  “Yes. I don’t suggest that they can march on Moscow but I do believe they can hold out until help reaches them from the other Scandinavian countries or the Allies.

  “I don’t suppose you know much about Finland, Freddie—few English people do. The Finns are grand fighters; they showed that in their War of Independence when with little else than shot-guns the Finnish farmers drove thousands of Red guards out of their country and at last made it their own. The state of education and civilisation in Finland is very high indeed. They are individualists in the best sense and have a passionate love of freedom. After a hundred years of Tsarist tyranny they managed to throw off the Russian yoke; for the past twenty years they have enjoyed real liberty, living in peace and well-being. Now their liberty is threatened again.

  “Think of those Finnish families, living just as our own people do at home; well-fed, well-clothed, enjoying their sport, books, music, cinemas; able to do and say just what they like without any dread of secret police spying upon them and dragging them off to prison or execution. Then think of what we know of Russia—the dirt, the poverty, the forced labour, the constant fear of husbands and wives that they may be separated over-night—never to see each other again—or one of them arrested on a false charge and condemned without even a hearing by some secret tribunal. The Finns are a little people but they are decent folk; they represent everything for which Britain and France are fighting. How can we allow them to be made slaves again when we have a chance to save them?”

  The plane was still climbing and Gregory paused for a moment to glance at Freddie’s set face, then he went on evenly: “That is my first reason—a sentimental one, perhaps. Now listen to my second. It is the thing that you yourself spoke of just now—our duty. It’s our duty to help win this war. If we can help more by temporarily abandoning routine and acting on our own, common sense tells us we should do so. Remember Nelson putting his blind eye to the telescope? Well, we’re not even ignoring the orders of our superiors; just remaining a few days longer than is strictly necessary on the list of ‘missing’, that’s all. Germany is getting supplies from Russia; not in great quantity, perhaps, but you can bet that she’s getting the things she needs most urgently—even if they come through on a hay-cart. If Russia has to fight Finland she’ll have to give first place to her own war and the supply of vital war materials which she sends to Germany will dry up. If we can get the Finns to fight we shall indirectly have extended the blockade along another fifth of Germany’s frontiers, and that’s as good as a major victory. Therefore you can serve your country infinitely better by taking me to Finland than you can by going home to report for routine duty.”

  Freddie had straightened out and the compass showed that he was heading not north-east but west—for England; so Gregory threw his last reserves into the battle by continuing: “Then I want you to think of the future for a moment. What is Russia’s real game? I talked to Goering for hours last night and I meant a lot of the things I said but others were so much hot air. The original programme of the Bolsheviks was world revolution, and they established the Comintern which financed subversive activities in every country with a view to carrying it out. But Lenin found the job too much for him. Russia was in such a ghastly state that he couldn’t pull it together without securing help from the outside world; so he announced the N.E.P.—New Economic Plan—by which the Bolsheviks proclaimed that they had altered their policy. Private internal trading was to be allowed again and the Soviet was prepared to recognise capitalistic governments in other countries and to live in peace with them. From that time onward the Comintern faded into the background. Nevertheless, Lenin made it abundantly clear that the N.E.P. was only a means to an end. He said in public speeches before his death that once Russia was on her feet again they must revert to their original policy and endeavour to bring about world revolution by any means in their power, including conquest by the Red armies.

  “Twenty years have elapsed since then. Russia is much stronger now. If we can occupy Russia with Finland and divert vital supplies from Germany we shall weaken Germany so that we are more quickly able to win our own war and yet leave her sufficiently strong to act as a bulwark against Russia. By inducing Finland to fight we shall also weaken Russia and—with luck—her slow, lumbering growth into a world-menace will be set back for years to come. Finland will be fighting Britain’s fight and the frontier of Christian civilisation—the right of every man, woman and child to justice, toleration and freedom—today lies not in the west, Freddie, but north-east, on the Mannerheim Line.”

  Freddie Charlton pressed his right foot down on his rudder-bar, bringing the plane round in a beautiful curve. “You’re right,” he said. “I’m afraid I don’t know much about such things and I’ve never quite looked at it that way before. You must be very tired, old boy; get some sleep. I’ll take you to Helsinki.”

  “Thanks, old chap. I knew you’d understand directly I explained things; and even if we fail in our attempt I’m sure you’ll never regret your decision.” At last Gregory was able to relax and a few minutes later he was sound asleep.

  As there was no longer any necessity for flying at a high altitude Freddie brought the plane down to 3,000 feet and headed for Danzig. The day was fine, and now that his wretched night was temporarily forgotten he was thoroughly enjoying being in the air again after his enforced three weeks on the
ground.

  On picking up Danzig he descended to 1,000 feet so that the German controls there could check him out of the country and report to Goering. Below him as he passed over the harbour he could see the tangled wreckage on the Westernplat Peninsula where the Polish garrison had held out so gallantly under a devastating bombardment from the German ships and shore batteries. Altering his course twenty degrees nearer to north he crossed the great, followed the coast-line for a while and thence flew over the Estonian islands.

  The land below him had been snow-covered for the last three hundred miles of his journey and he had to go up to 6,000 feet to get out of a snow-storm over the Gulf of Finland but at a little after eleven o’clock he made a perfect landing on the hard-rolled snow of the Helsinki air-port.

  In spite of the bumping the plane had got over the islands Gregory had slept for the whole of the four hours of the journey. Even the landing did not wake him, and Freddie had to shake him by the shoulder as the officials at the air-port came across to the plane. Once awake he declared himself much refreshed and, having first established his British nationality by the production of the faked British passport, he began to talk to the Finnish officials in voluble German, as they were more fluent in that language. His story was that they had flown direct from England with papers of the utmost urgency for the British Legation and that it was for that reason he had been given an R.A.F. pilot to bring him over.

  The Sabina not being a war-plane, the question of interning it did not arise; but normally there might have been difficulties about Freddie. As it was, the Finns were all so concerned by the abnormal conditions created by the crisis, and the additional air-traffic which was constantly coming and going as a result of it, that Gregory had no difficulty in persuading them that Freddie’s case was quite exceptional and that he should be allowed to retain his liberty—for the time being, at all events. A friendly official secured a taxi for them and, Gregory having directed the driver to take them to the best hotel, they drove through the suburbs to the centre of the town.