Faked Passports gs-3

by Dennis Wheatley

  On Gregory's asking if he could write a note she led him across a small hall straight into an office, where he scribbled a few lines which ran:

  "In return for breakfast this morning I can only offer you lunch at Boodle's on some future date, but as I have a train to catch we must do our business over the eggs and bacon."

  This cryptic message gave nothing away but it conveyed two facts. One, that the writer had urgent business to transact. Two, that as he was a member of one of London's most exclusive clubs he was a person of some standing and therefore his business was presumably of importance.

  A few minutes later the maid returned and led him along to a sitting room, where a tall, beaky nosed, fair haired man was standing in a dressing gown. He had evidently only just got out of bed and he regarded his dirty, bearded visitor with a by no means, friendly eye; but Gregory apologized with his most charming smile for having got him up so early and without waiting for an invitation to do so began to remove his furs.

  "In the ordinary way I should have sent the girl to tell you to wait until the office opens," Mr. Hills confessed, "but, quite frankly, your note intrigued me. One doesn't often receive an invitation to lunch at Boodle's in this godforsaken city. Not that I am likely to be able to accept it until the war is over, but it was a clever way of making me curious to find out what you want at once."

  "As you've probably guessed," Gregory said, "I'm a British Agent."

  Hills frowned. "Then you know quite well that you ought not to be here."

  "Don’t worry. I'm not being hunted by the Ogpu at least, not for the moment and I don't want you to hide me, or anything of that kind, but I had to come to you because several people's lives are hanging on my time and I can't afford to waste a moment. I want to get rid of this beard and. I'd be immensely grateful for a bath. Will you be a good chap and save me a precious half hour by listening to my story while I'm shaving and tidying up?"

  "Well if it's as urgent as all that." Hills smiled, and leading Gregory to the bathroom he produced clean towels, scissors and a razor.

  As Gregory went to work to make himself a little more presentable he gave the Vice Consul an outline of his doings in the last few months, then he passed him the pencilled translation of the typescript that had come out of Goering's safe.

  "Amazing " muttered the beaky nosed Vice Consul when he had finished reading. "And you're quite right about this thing. It proves up to the hilt just what so many of us have been afraid of. Germany never meant to fight over Czechoslovakia or Poland but, if she had to, her game was to make the war as short as possible, and localize the conflict; get a negotiated peace as soon as she could, then gobble up another slice of Europe a few months later."

  "That's it," Gregory agreed, "and the devil of it is, the plan still holds. There's a strong party among the Nazi leaders who're for changing it now that a major war is actually on. They want to overrun Belgium and Holland in order to have a slap at Britain, or to go down into Rumania and collar the oil; but the really clever boys are for keeping a stalemate going and their Army and Air Force virtually intact. Goering himself told me that and, although he didn't say it, there's no doubt now that he's hoping that Britain and France will get bored with the war and worried by its financial strain; so that through the mediation of Roosevelt or Mussolini they'll agree to a round table conference. Hitler will just give way a little bit but hang on to most of what he's got and after a nice breather be all ready to jump a new and bigger claim this time next year."

  "Well, what d'you want me to do?" Hills asked.

  "As time is such a vital factor and I can't speak Russian there are several ways in which you can help me," Gregory replied and, over breakfast, he went into details.

  When they had finished the meal they went into Hills' office and Gregory sat down to a typewriter on which he drafted a letter in German. It' was headed: "Karinhall, 27.rr.39," addressed to Marshal Voroshilov, Commissar for Defence of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics, and ran:

  "My dear Marshal,

  "This is to introduce to you Colonel Baron von Lutz. The Colonel Baron is not a member of the Nazi Party and unfortunately some of his criticisms have given great offence to certain of our Party Chiefs, particularly Herr Himmler. The affair will, I hope, blow over in due course but it is most desirable that the Colonel Baron and three friends of his should leave Germany for a time.

  "As he is an old war comrade of mine, and a very dear personal friend, I should naturally afford him my protection; since there is no question at all of his being a tractor to the Fatherland; but I do not wish to enter into a quarrel with my colleagues if this can be avoided.

  "He is a most able officer so it occurred to me to send him to you as he may prove of assistance should the Finns maintain their resistance to the Soviet demands and it becomes necessary to launch a campaign against them.

  "If you would receive him kindly and enable him. to arrange accommodation in the Soviet Union for the other members of his party, which includes two ladies or, if they wish, give them facilities to travel to one of the Scandinavian States I should consider it a personal kindness.

  "Heartfelt greetings and, in the event of a campaign, all success to your Arms."

  Having addressed an envelope for the letter Gregory took from his pocket Goering's original letter of introduction to Wuolijoki.

  With great care he proceeded to trace the signature, Hermann Goering, in pencil, again and again upon a thin sheet of paper. Then taking a pen he wrote over each signature until, after a ‘hundred or more trials, he was satisfied that he could do this with a bold, flowing hand. He next traced one more signature on a clean piece of paper, blacked its back with his pencil and, writing over the name, got a faint rubbing of it at the bottom of the letter. When he had inked this in it would have taken an expert in caligraphy to tell that it was a forgery.

  Having completed his preparations he asked Hills to accompany him to the station for Helsinki, as the line to Finland now terminated at the Russ6n rail head on the Karelian Isthmus, and the Vice Consul would he able to inquire about trains for him and see him off. It was still only nine o'clock in the morning when they left the house and Gregory, bathed and clean shaven once more, felt that in the last two and a half hours he had accomplished some most satisfactory work.

  They visited several shops, in which Hills purchased a fibre suitcase, shaving tackle and other necessities for Gregory, then proceeded to the station, where no difficulties arose. Gregory's railway warrant was made out to carry him to the Soviet G.H.Q. and as the Karelian Isthmus was the major front of the war, which was raging less than seventy miles away, trains were leaving for it with troops or supplies every half hour. After seeing Gregory into his carriage and having received his heartiest thanks Hills departed. Ten minutes later, just as day was breaking, the train moved out.

  For the first few miles there was little of interest to be seen; the creeks around which Leningrad is built were frozen over and once they had left the city behind the panorama was the same snow covered landscape that Gregory had known for many days, except that it was broken by many more buildings. The train travelled no faster than the one on which he had come south from Kandalaksha and it halted just as frequently; but after an hour it reached the pre war Russo Finnish frontier and half an hour later entered the southern part of the Mannerheim Line from which the Finns had been forced back.

  Here, in spite of the snow, there were many evidences of the war that had swept over the land a month or more earlier. Broken down lorries and limbers lay abandoned at the roadside; here and there a now silent gun still reared its muzzle to the sky out of a concrete emplacement that had been battered to pieces. Every village through which they passed, and every

  building, not only bore the marks of shell fire but in most cases had been blasted to the ground by the terrific pounding of the Russian bombardments. In many places tangled heaps of barbed wire straggled up out of the snow, sometimes with a frozen corpse still hanging on them l
ike a scarecrow V the train puffed on there was more and more evidence of the frightful carnage which had taken place as the Russians had hurled division after division against the Finnish lines. By one o'clock Gregory could hear the distant booming of the guns and at a little before two the train halted in a siding. All the troops got out and Gregory saw from the many trains collected there that they had reached rail head.

  The notice boards were all lettered in Russian, so he had to ask his way to the Railway Transport Officers' quarters, but he found an officer who could speak German; a tall, fair faced fellow who obligingly took him along to a block of hutments which housed the R.T.O.

  Having explained that he was a German officer who had to report to Marshal Voroshilov he was told that the Marshal had gone forward to Battle Headquarters as he had now taken over the direction of operations in person; but after a short wait Gregory was led out to a car which was taking two other officers up there.

  The road was a solid jam of troops moving up and down lorries, tanks, guns, infantry, ambulances, motor cycles and horse drawn vehicles so, even in the car, they made slow going. One of Gregory's companions spoke a little English but not enough to carry on an intelligent conversation and, after smiling an exchange of greetings, Gregory contented himself with watching the thousand activities that were going forward in the wintry scene.

  Soon they had reached the area where the Russian heavies were shelling the Finnish positions ten miles or more away. These monster guns were mostly on railway sidings to which lines had been specially run for them from rail head. Their blast was terrific and where the sidings were near the road each round nearly shattered the ear drums. Flights of great black bombers were roaring overhead as they came up from their bases at Leningrad and Kronstadt to pass over the Finnish line. They saw no Finnish planes and Gregory guessed that owing to their smaller numbers they were having all their work cut out to protect the Finnish towns so were unable to spare aircraft for bombing the Russian back areas.

  By three o'clock the road was winding through an area of big, irregular mounds covered with snow, out of which stuck jagged bits of brick wall and occasionally a twisted steel girder. The officer who spoke a little English told Gregory that it was the Finnish town of Nykyrka which had been virtually obliterated by the Russian guns before its capture. Soon afterwards the car left the road and going down a side track of sleepers which had been laid across the snow, entered a wood. Among the trees there were many lines of hutments and the car drew up before one of these, from which officers and orderlies were constantly coming and going. Gregory's English speaking companion took him past a sentry and secured him admission to an office where a big, shaven headed man with a fierce moustache was seated behind a table.

  Gregory introduced himself and stated his business, upon which the Russian replied in German:

  "As you can imagine, the Marshal is extremely busy. If you will give me the letter I will see that it reaches him."

  Presenting the letter, Gregory said: "I should be delighted for you to read it, but I would prefer to hand it to the Marshal in person."

  The Russian glanced through it and shrugged as lie handed it back. "As you wish, Herr Oberst Baron, but I doubt if the Marshal will be able to see you until next week."

  Gregory's throat muscles tightened. He had left Kandalaksha on the morning of Saturday, February the 24th, and it was now Monday afternoon. He had made the journey in just over two days, which was remarkably good considering conditions in Russia in the winter; but he could only count upon his friends remaining out of danger for seven days from the time he had started. After the coming Saturday orders might at any moment reach Kandalaksha for them to be sent under guard to Moscow and the beginning of the following week would be the absolute deadline.

  "Surely you can arrange for me to see the Marshal before then?" "he said quickly. "I am anxious about those friends of mine who are mentioned in the letter and it is a matter of great urgency.'

  The Russian shrugged again. "At the moment the greatest offensive of the war is just opening; the battle for Viborg. So for some days, at least, the Marshal will be much too occupied to give time to other people's personal affairs. In the meantime you had better be attached to the German Military Mission which we have here. Even if you are in bad odour with some members of your Government your personal introduction from Marshal Goering will be a recommendation to your brother officers. General von Geisenheim is the head of the Mission. I will send an orderly with you to his quarters. Report to him and he will arrange for accommodation to be provided for you."

  There was nothing that Gregory could do but thank the officer and accompany the orderly, through the twilight that was now gathering in the woodland camp, to another block of hutments a quarter of a mile distant; where, after waiting for ten minutes in an ante room, he was shown in to the German General.

  Knowing that ninety per cent of the German army officers detested Himmler and admired Goering, he had little trepidation about producing his forged letter. Having saluted smartly, he handed it over to the General with the words: "I have been told by the camp commandant to report to you,Herr General, and this letter will explain my presence here."

  General von Geisenheim was a tall, thin, blue eyed man with an aristocratic face and greying hair. He read the letter through carefully and replaced it on his desk. Quite casually he picked up his pistol holster from a near by chair, took the weapon out and waggled it at Gregory.

  "This letter is all right," he said with a frosty smile. "I know Marshal Goering's signature well. But I should be interested to hear where you stole it, because you, my friend, are not Colonel Baron von Lutz."

  Chapter XXIX

  The Battle For Viborg

  THE German Army can muster, with its reserves, some 5,000,000 men. Its officers, therefore including both the active and retired lists with staffs and specialists must number at least a quarter of a million, so it seemed incredibly bad luck to Gregory that out of 250,000 men he should have run into one of the' few hundred at most whom the late Colonel Baron should have known even as a passing acquaintance.

  He had realized that he had to take that risk, as it was certain that a number of German officers would be attached to Voroshilov's headquarters, but he had not thought it sufficient for serious concern and he had taken up the imposture of the Colonel Baron again simply because he had no choice in the matter. It was essential that he should be able to prove his identity to the Russians, if asked, by some other means than the letter and, while he had a perfectly valid passport issued by the German Foreign Office in the name of the Colonel Baron, it was quite impossible for him to fake another.

  "Come along! " snapped the General. "Who are you? And what game has led you to attempt this imposture?"

  Gregory sighed: "It's a long story, Herr General, and of course you're quite right I'm not von Lutz; although he was a friend of mine. I'm sorry to say that he died on the night of November the 26th, shot by the Gestapo on his estate in Brandenburg."

  "I'm sorry to hear that, as he was also a friend of mine." Von Geisenheim frowned. "But if he died on November the 26th he couldn't possibly have passed this letter on to you himself, since it is dated November the 27th."

  "That's right," Gregory said. "It was on that night I had the honour of dining with Field Marshal Goering."

  "How nice for you," the General smiled cynically. "Have you any other tall stories?"

  "Plenty," said Gregory, "if you have time to listen to them."

  "Unfortunately I have not. Quite obviously you are a spy, so you can tell them to the Gestapo. We have several Gestapo men with us here; they like us so much that they can't bear us to travel without them."

  Gregory's brain was working like a dynamo. If von Geisenheim once handed him over to the Gestapo his number was up. But as he studied the lean features before him things were beginning to come back to him and he felt almost certain that he had seen the General's face before. Anyhow, he must chance it.

 
"There's one story that I could tell the Gestapo, Herr General," he said slowly, "but as one gentleman to another I think it would be only fair to let you hear it first. It starts at the Pleisen Palace out at Potsdam on the night of November the 8th."

  "Eh, what's that?" The General sat forward suddenly.

  "I was present at a great gathering of high German officers there and they were preparing to attend a little party that was to be held at the Hotel Adlon later in the evening. The entertainment was to consist of arresting the three hundred odd members of a dining club called the `Sons of Siegfried', who were actually the Inner Gestapo, while Herr Hitler and his principal supporters were blown to pieces by a bomb in Munich. Are you too busy to hear any more?"

  "That's quite enough! " said the General. "If you were at the Pleisen Palace I suppose you saw me there, or afterwards at the Adlon?"

  The long shot had come off and at that moment there flashed into Gregory's mind the actual circumstances in which he had seen the General, so he replied: "I saw you shoot the very tall man, near the service entrance to the banqueting room, in the terrific gun fight that followed von Pleisen's assassination. It would interest me a lot, though, to know how you managed to escape arrest afterwards?"

  Von Geisenheim shrugged. "When the Putsch faded out most of the others changed into civilian clothes and tried to get out of the country. I didn't like the idea of being hunted like a hare or living concealed in an attic until the war was over, so the following day I went back to my office in the War Ministry just as though nothing had happened. Naturally, I expected to

  be arrested and executed within an hour of my arrival; but evidently any Nazis who recognized me in that horrible mere must have been shot afterwards. Nobody's ever questioned me about the matter from that day to this, so it was a case of a supreme bluff coming off. But I thought I knew most of the officers who took part in the affair, at least by sight, and I don't remember your face. What is your real name and regiment?"