The Fuehrermaster

by Daniel Wyatt

  Since the outbreak of the Second World War, Goering had assumed that if any German should meet any British peacemakers that he would be the natural choice. After the attack on Poland, he had informed the Fuehrer that he would fly to Britain to explain the situation. But Goering later reconsidered and thought it much too dangerous. And now Hess was about to try it more than a year into the war. Goering was a pilot, too, although he was now far too fat to squeeze into a fighter cockpit.

  Goering seethed with jealousy. Hess was trying to make him look bad.

  * * * *

  Berlin, Germany

  Wolfgang Geis shut the door to Himmler’s office behind him, walked toward his superior’s desk, and came to a halt. “Begging your pardon, Herr Reichsfuehrer?”

  Himmler stirred behind his desk. “What is it, Geis?”

  “Herr Reichsfuehrer, I have something for you so important that I rushed to tell you myself. My men picked up a word-for-word conversation today between the Fuehrer and Goering. Hess is going to fly to Scotland to seek a negotiated peace with the British.”

  “He’s going to what?”

  “Here it is, Herr Reichsfuehrer.”

  Himmler snapped the typed sheet from the Gestapo officer and studied it closely, silently waving Geis to sit. The wire-tap had paid off already. Goering had questioned Hitler on some modifications to Hess’s personal aircraft, including a more powerful radio and auxiliary tanks. Hitler told Goering details of Hess’s Operation Night Eagle. Falcon would be his codename. The Deputy Fuehrer needed daily weather reports and maps of the safe areas to fly. So, Himmler concluded, the rumours of peace negotiations were true. And Hess was in on it.

  “Very good, Geis,” Himmler smiled. “I am pleased with you. Keep it up and you may make colonel.”

  “Thank you, Herr Reichsfuehrer.”

  “Keep me informed. Dismissed.”

  Geis sprang to his feet. “Heil Hitler!

  NINE

  Augsburg, Germany — April 15

  Rudolf Hess arrived at Augsburg unannounced, threw on his flight gear, and had his chauffeur drive headlong to the aircraft. There, Hess climbed the wing and bent over his cockpit. He glanced around. He took out a screwdriver from inside his flight suit and promptly removed one side of the thin metal plate along the fuselage to the right side of the pilot seat. Then he slipped the leather folder of papers and photos behind the plate, and screwed the side in place. He had to hurry now. His ground crew, as expected, were racing towards him in a truck. He finished with seconds to spare as the two men drove up, skidding to a halt off the fighter’s port wing.

  “Sorry we are late, Herr Reichsfuehrer,” one of them said as he pounded up the wing in heavy boots. “We had no idea you were arriving.”

  Hess calmly seated himself and looked to the young man in the brown cap. “Don’t worry. It wasn’t a test of speed on your part. I decided at the last moment to take a morning flight. That’s all. I should have notified you first. It will not go on your record.”

  The man looked relieved. “Thank you, Herr Reichsfuehrer.”

  “Now, please get me ready, sergeant.”

  “It will be a pleasure, Herr Reichsfuehrer.”

  * * * *

  It was raining when Hess returned to base thirty minutes later. He was earlier than expected due to mechanical problems that needed attention. He ordered the crew to fix what he thought was a sticky rudder so that he could fly the aircraft again that evening at 1800 hours. Then he headed for the compound.

  As Hess swung open the door to the pilots’ room, he saw wet footprints on the concrete leading up to the front of his locker. He stopped and glanced around. No one else was there. It wasn’t raining before he left, so they couldn’t have been him. Had someone been in his locker? He unlocked it and checked the contents inside. His clothes had been moved, just a little, but enough for him to know that they had been disturbed. It was an amateurish job. Who wanted to search his locker? Did someone doubt his intentions? Himmler? Hitler? Goering? The opportunity to stash the papers on the aircraft could not have come at a better time. But did someone see him do it?

  * * * *

  Bletchley Park, England — April 20

  Wesley Hollinger had his late evening meal brought to him in his office because he didn’t want to leave. Hut Nine was buzzing with excitement after Langford had spread the word that something was coming down within the hour on an Enigma II breakthrough. He stole a glance at his watch. Almost eleven. He brought the cup to his lips and swallowed a mouthful of dark tea, the way he liked it. He was getting used to British tea since his arrival on the island, especially when it had a little dab of good American whiskey in it.

  A door slammed. The quick footsteps were familiar to him. Langford entered the office, her expression immediately convincing Hollinger that Bletchley’s luck had suddenly changed for the better.

  “It works, Mr. Hollinger. It works! Feast your eyes on this. We tried some of the older ones first.” By the sound of her voice she was tired, but a spark of electricity showed in her eyes.

  Hollinger wiped his mouth and read one of her deciphered communiqués sent from Adolf Hitler’s Chancellery in Berlin to the Luftwaffe attaché in Moscow, dated March 18. It was trivial, requesting the appearance of the attaché in the German capital as soon as possible. Nothing really, but at least Enigma II was being deciphered. A wide, satisfied smile appeared on Hollinger’s lips, the kind of smile that Langford and the others had not seen on Hollinger for days. Bletchley had finally broken Enigma II, and that was plenty to be happy about.

  “I like it. Yes, ma’am. I like it.”

  “Good news for the colonel.”

  “Hell, yeah.”

  “How far back should we go with saving the ciphers?”

  Hollinger slid his fingers through his thick mop of hair, and mulled the question over. Would there be anything of worth in the past diplomatic ciphers? “Make it the beginning of the year.”

  “Right you are.”

  “What else do you have there?”

  “The next few are somewhat unusual. I added a notation in each corner.”

  Hollinger looked at the top sheet of the set handed him and was taken aback by her hand-written inscription on the left side of the paper. “The original cipher was sent in English, not German?” he asked, puzzled.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Don’t you think that’s a little ... weird?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Call sign NPL.”

  “Not only that, sir, but it’s from Stockholm. So are the other ones in the pile.”

  Hollinger rubbed his chin and went down the sheets. “So they are. What do you know about that. Thanks. I’ll get onto it.”

  “Toodle-oo, then.”

  “Yeah. So long.” Hollinger’s eyes dropped to the first sheet.

  NPL

  URGENT

  CODE 33658

  TO STOCKHOLM LION KPG/1140

  FROM DEPUTY AUGSBURG

  3526/52 0800/01/25/41

  LEAVING AUGSBURG 1200 01/27/41

  WEATHER PERMITTING

  DESTINATION AALBORG

  ARRIVE AINWICK 1700

  END

  “Ainwick!” Hollinger whispered aloud.

  He knew the place, vaguely; if it was the Ainwick he was thinking of. He had been there once. Nice place too. He jumped from his chair and studied the wall map of the British Isles behind him. Ainwick was on the North Sea shore of England near the Scottish border.

  “If that don’t beat all,” Hollinger said to himself as he searched his desk directory for the RAF intelligence branch involved with Enigma. He found the phone number, took the receiver and dialled, hoping the contact he had spoken to earlier that week was still in. “Group Captain Walker, please. Priority Red.”

  “Yes, sir,” the receptionist answered.

  Seconds later.

  “Hello.”

  “Group Captain Walker?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wes
ley Hollinger at Bletchley. I know it’s late. But I need your help.”

  “Let’s go on scramble before we say another word.” Walker’s accent marked him as an upper-class Englishman.

  “OK.” Hollinger hit his telephone button and waited. “Are you with me?”

  “Yes, I can hear you clearly. Password?”

  “Hut Nine.”

  “What’s keeping you up so late, Mr. Hollinger?”

  “Like you. Burning the midnight oil.”

  “Priority Red is it? What can I do for you?”

  “I need some information. A few things actually. Got a note pad?”

  “Righto. Fire away.”

  “Have you ever heard of a place called Augsburg? In Germany, I believe.”

  “Indeed, I have, my man. It’s outside Munich. A test aerodrome for the Messerschmitt factory.”

  “Is that right? The next one. Aalborg?”

  “Denmark.”

  “Can you tell me if there is a Luftwaffe station there?”

  “As a matter of fact there is. ME-110 night fighters. They do a lot of patrol duty in the area.”

  Augsburg ... Aalborg ... Ainwick. Hollinger was beginning to picture a flight plan before him. “Now, I have some numbers for you. They are, let’s see, 3-5-2-6-dash-5-2. Can you tell me what they might represent?”

  “I’ll do what I can. Off the top of my head I’d say they sound like an aircraft serial number. Quite possibly a German series. I can check it out. Is that the lot?”

  “Yes, sir. When can you let me know?”

  “Stay there. I’ll ring you back in a few minutes, but it may require some additional research.”

  “Thanks. I won’t move.”

  Hollinger hung the receiver in place. Why was the message sent in English? That had to mean something. Was the contact in Stockholm an Englishman? An American? Or maybe a Canadian?

  For the next twenty minutes, Hollinger checked the gist of the other intercepts to discover they were unimportant. Then the telephone rang. He grabbed a note pad and put the receiver to his ear. “Hollinger here.”

  “It’s Walker.”

  Hollinger hit the scramble button. “Yes, sir.”

  “Where in the King’s name did you get that serial number?” Walker’s friendly tone had disappeared.

  “It’s a long story, group captain. Is it a German series?”

  “It is.”

  “Well?” Hollinger clicked his silver, ballpoint pen.

  “I do hope there’s no security leak here.”

  “What are you talking about? What security leak?”

  “The MI-6 have a spy in the Messerschmitt factory at Augsburg.”

  “They do? I didn’t know that.”

  “I didn’t either. I checked his file. His transmissions have been released to Royal Air Force Intelligence.”

  “And? I’ve been cleared, remember?”

  “Apparently those numbers belong to Rudolf Hess’s personal airplane, a D-version ME-110. We even know his fuselage markings because he uses the airbase at Augsburg for his flying.”

  “So, what are the markings?”

  “N-J-C-1-1.”

  “Oh, shit! Hess?” Hollinger’s eyes shot to the message in his hands. Bingo! Rudolf Hess, the Nazi Deputy Fuehrer. So, that’s who “deputy” was in the dispatch.

  “Yes, Hess. What’s this all about?”

  “Thanks, Walker. I’ll be in touch. Ah, toodle-oo.”

  Before Walker could reply, Hollinger hung up and wrote the fuselage markings down. He slumped in his chair, realizing that he was on to something even bigger than the Enigma II breakthrough. He shook his head, attempting to pull some sense out of it. Had Rudolf Hess really tried to reach Ainwick on the coast of England on January 27? Who was he to meet? What did Lampert have to do with this, if anything? Why did he want all the Stockholm ciphers brought to him in person? And who the hell was Stockholm Lion?

  Hollinger drew a breath and buzzed his intercom. “Langford?”

  “Yes, Mr. Hollinger?”

  “You’re still up?”

  “Too excited to sleep.”

  “Thanks again.”

  “You’re more than welcome, sir.”

  “From here on I want every cipher with the call sign NPL put directly on my desk. Check all the ciphers going back to last year for the same call sign, which means fishing for them in the garbage. Retrieve everything.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Tell the next shift that too or, better yet, leave a note somewhere, because we’re driving to London. Now.”

  “We? Now?”

  “Yes, we, us, now! Lampert wanted these Stockholm intercepts delivered in person and that’s exactly what we’re going to do. I thought I’d bring you along because you could use a break, a couple days off to see your family. So, be ready in fifteen minutes.”

  “Good grief, fifteen minutes?” she choked. “How can you expect a woman to pack in fifteen minutes?”

  * * * *

  Langford dashed to pack and was ready on time. Hollinger checked out at the gate and raced his MG over the country roads through the darkness. Ten miles outside Bletchley, Langford asked Hollinger to stop.

  He pulled the car over and said, “What’s the matter with you?”

  “I’m not feeling very well. I could use some air.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes, now.”

  She got out, slamming the door behind her, then knelt down beside the ditch and vomited. When she finished, Hollinger helped her up and gave her his handkerchief to wipe her mouth.

  “Thank you,” she said, her breath steaming in the cool night.

  “Keep it.”

  She walked back to the MG and reached inside her purse for her cigarettes. With trembling hands she opened the pack.

  “You’re pregnant, aren’t you?”

  Langford dropped the pack to the ground. Hollinger calmly picked it up and held it out to her. “Well, aren’t you?” he repeated louder.

  “How dare you ask a woman that?” she replied, her voice rising an octave, as she snatched the pack from him.

  “I’m no idiot. I’ve suspected for some time.”

  “Oh, have you.”

  “Yeah. You can hardly eat. You’re always tired. Your headaches. Now the vomiting. Well, are you?”

  She still didn’t answer. Instead, she turned around, bent over, and threw up some more. This time Hollinger went ahead and wiped her mouth for her with the handkerchief.

  “Hell’s Bells. Don’t you think I can do that myself?”

  Hollinger stepped back. “OK, OK. Don’t bite my head off. You still haven’t answered me. I’m waiting.”

  “All right! Yes, I am what you might call knocked up.” Her voice quivered as she held back from crying. She stumbled to the sports car and steadied herself against the fender. “And I don’t know what to do.”

  Hollinger stood beside her. “What about your navy boyfriend? Does he know?”

  “No. I want to tell him myself when we get together in two more weeks.”

  “Do you love him?”

  “Yes, I certainly do.”

  “Well then, if he’s any kind of man and has any thread of decency in him, he’ll marry you.”

  She sighed. “I wish it were that easy. My parents are the problem. They’ll die. My father’s a minister.”

  “Oh, I see. The embarrassment.”

  Langford began to sob, softly. It had all come to a head. Her pregnancy. Too many long hours at Hut Nine. Too many sleepless hours worrying about Arthur in Scapa Flow. Too much stress trying to break the Enigma II secrets. Too little food. “They won’t have anything to do with me,” she said, wiping away the tears. She took a deep breath and straightened up.

  “Strict and proper Englishman, I take it? You’ll have to tell them. Why not on this trip to London?”

  “Oh, no.” She shook her head. “I couldn’t. Not now. Not until I tell Arthur first.”

  “Being the father, I s
uppose that’s proper.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Beautiful night, you know,” Hollinger said, searching for something to say. Anything. “No wind. The stars are bright. Look at them.” She glanced up, unconcerned. “Don’t get me wrong, and I don’t mean to be disrespectful towards you in your condition, but in the universal realm of things your problem is just a speck, just like those stars out there.”

  Langford smirked. “As an analyst, is that your final assessment?”

  He gently placed his hand on her shoulder. “Hang in there. You’ll get through this. You’re too damn tough of a woman to give up. A lot of people are counting on you, Roberta, especially that new life you’re carrying.”

  “You called me by my first name.”

  “Yeah, I guess I did,” Hollinger chuckled. “It’s a nice name. Maybe it’s high time you started calling me Wesley.”

  Langford could feel herself warming to him. “Maybe I will.”

  “OK, then.”

  They stood there staring into the dark night.

  “By the way, Wesley, what do you suppose is in those ciphers that has us firing off to London?”

  He shrugged. “Nothing much, really. Ever hear of Rudolf Hess?”

  “Good grief, who hasn’t?”

  Hollinger informed her of the conversation with Walker, then said, “Actually, I asked you along because I need your help.”

  “So, there’s a catch?”

  He nodded. “I need you and your Secret Service ID to get us into some files that I wouldn’t be able to get into on my own. And the middle of the night is probably the best time to pull it off.”

  “So that’s it. You devil.”

  “Yeah, that’s me. You game?”

  “Oh, why not. I’m in enough trouble as it is.”

  Bowing, he said, “After you, my lady,” and he opened the passenger door for her.

  She turned her nose up and laughed. “Thank you, kind sir.”

  “There, you see, you’re looking better already.”

  But when they got into the MG and he turned the ignition, the engine wouldn’t start. Hollinger pounded his fist on the steering wheel. Reaching for the flashlight in the glove box he got out, opened the hood, and examined the wires. He then went for his toolbox on the floor beneath his seat. Langford got out with him and together they looked the engine over.