by Daniel Wyatt
“Done for?” the white-haired man answered with a question. “Are you joking? Churchill stole the floor.”
“He did?”
“He sure did, Mr. Brenwood. He was magnificent. Got a standing ovation, he did. He took the vote by 447 to 3.” Then the reporter hurried off.
Brenwood stood open-mouthed. How the bloody hell did that bastard do it? Suddenly, in one instant, all the negotiations with the Germans in the last few months were in serious jeopardy. Tortured inside, Brenwood staggered back to his Rolls Royce, bumped twice by the last of the reporters fleeing the building. He glanced at his chauffeur who had the door open for him. “Take me home,” he said in a trance.
“Yes, sir.”
* * * *
Munich, Germany
Karl Haushofer arrived at Hess’s estate that afternoon.
“A little further, professor,” Hess advised. “Let’s keep walking. Make everything look normal. Even my own house doesn’t feel safe anymore.”
Hess didn’t feel satisfied until they came to the creek a hundred yards behind the house. “There.”
“Churchill won a vote of confidence today.”
“Yes,” Hess replied. “The Fuehrer notified me.”
“Doesn’t that change your plans?”
“No. I’m still going.”
“You mean the Fuehrer granted you permission in spite of Churchill’s victory?”
“No. He ordered me to call it off, but I’m going anyway. We can’t afford to wait until Churchill gains a stronger control over his government. You said you had something to tell me about your son?”
“Yes. A Gestapo agent came to Albrecht’s house to ask him questions regarding his British friends.”
“The Gestapo!”
“Yes, Rudolf.”
“When?”
“Yesterday. They wanted to know who in the British group has had any previous contact with you.”
“You mean before the war?”
“Yes. I don’t like the Gestapo in this. How much do you think Himmler knows?”
Hess thought about it, and turned to his friend. “More than I first suspected. Thank you for coming, professor. I will see you to the front gate.”
“Be careful, Rudolf.”
“I will.”
* * * *
Augsburg, Germany
Hess reached down and gently moved the stick towards the windscreen. The green fields below rushed up to meet him. Fifty feet off the ground, he eased on the throttles and watched the ME-110 speedometer climb to over three hundred miles per hour. Buildings, roads, and trees flashed past him almost like a solid line of colour and shapes. There was nothing that Hess enjoyed more than racing across the German countryside at low level, the roar of the engines in his ears, the slipstream whistling over the cockpit. Low level was the only way to get the true sense of an aircraft’s speed. “Like riding on the wings of an angel,” he once told the envious Karlheinz Pintsch.
The twin-engine fighter was running on cue, all the controls responding to his moves. The ME-110 was ready. Hess was ready. The world was ready. Hess saw the base and the sprawling Messerschmitt factory on his port side. He heaved back on the stick. The aircraft climbed sharply, sticking Hess to the back of his seat. Then he let up on the throttles and gave right rudder. In a wide turn, he contacted the tower for landing clearance and dropped the landing gear. On the downwind leg, he turned onto final approach. Careful to keep the speed at the required ninety-five miles per hour, he levelled out by adjusting the rudder pedals. Lower and lower he came towards the ground, until the runway was only inches underneath him. Lower ... then he chopped the throttles. The wheels banged with a screech. He rolled to the end of the runway and spun the aircraft around with a blast of throttles.
At dispersal, Hess climbed from the cockpit and leaped to the concrete. Pintsch came forward to meet his master.
“Does everything meet with your satisfaction, Herr Reichsfuehrer?”
Hess smiled, delighted with the ME-110’s performance and handling. “Yes. Wait for me. I am going to communications.” He waved to a man behind the wheel of a refuelling truck.
“Certainly, Herr Reichsfuehrer.”
* * * *
A tall, blonde-haired cipher clerk greeted the deputy minister inside a private cubicle in the communications sector attached to the administration building. “Good afternoon, Herr Reichsfuehrer.”
Hess locked the door, unzipped the front of his flying suit and pulled up a chair close to the Enigma II machine. “Good afternoon, Forster,” he said to the only subordinate he had briefed on his flight to Scotland. Forster was a recently married young man who could keep secrets, one of Hess’s inner army. “I have a message for you to send to Stockholm. Are you ready to record?”
“Yes, Herr Reichsfuehrer.” The eager clerk quickly grabbed a notebook and sat beside Hess. As the Deputy Fuehrer slowly typed from a sheet in his left hand, the clerk stood back and alertly jotted down each letter dictated to him by Hess as it appeared on the second keyboard above the first. After several minutes, Hess stood to his feet, and waited for the clerk to jot down the last letter of the message.
“Wire it at once,” Hess demanded, turning away from the young man and leaving the way he came in.
Outside the building now, Hess stopped cold. He saw Pintsch more than a hundred yards away on the wing of the ME-110, leaning into the cockpit. Hess’s first reaction was that his adjutant was deliberately searching for something. Could it have been Pintsch who rummaged in his locker two weeks ago? Hess had suspected his adjutant as a culprit but couldn’t break down and accuse him because he didn’t want to believe it and he didn’t have the proof. Until now, that is. Was Pintsch doing this on his own or was he working for somebody? The Gestapo, perhaps? It had not crossed Hess’s mind until now to stick a private spy on his adjutant, the one person — next to Forster — he thought he could trust. Then again, maybe, just maybe, Pintsch wasn’t up to no good at all.
* * * *
Pintsch’s heart beat rapidly as he studied the cockpit’s interior, intent on finding anything unusual among the dials, the gauges, and the levers. He climbed into the seat and ran his hands behind the rudder pedals. Nothing. He looked behind him between the back of the seat and the wall of the navigator’s compartment. Nothing there. Then he heard a truck approaching. He got out and stood on the wing just as the truck drew alongside the staff car.
Hess stepped out, still in his flight gear. “Is anything wrong, Pintsch?” Hess asked firmly, looking up at Pintsch on the fighter. “What are you doing?”
“Just wishing, as always, Herr Reichsfuehrer,” Pintsch answered. “Just wishing.”
“Wishing what, may I ask?”
“That I could fly.”
Hess smiled. “Not that again. Come down from there.”
FIFTEEN
Bletchley Park, England
Wesley Hollinger shuffled down the hall of Hut Nine. He was about to open the door and go for a spell of fresh air to clear his mind of the day’s work, when he heard Winslow call out to him.
“Wesley, wait,” Winslow said, jogging over, handing a sealed envelope to his boss. “This is for you, from Robbie.”
“I thought she was on duty.”
“Not anymore. She asked me to put in for her.”
“Where is she now?”
“Her room.”
“OK. Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Hollinger returned to his office, and slammed the door. He opened the envelope to find a decoded Enigma II intercept stating that Hess was going to take another run at a flight on the evening of May 10. Hollinger was flabbergasted. Hess would be risking a lot after Churchill’s recent convincing victory.
Hollinger reached for his scrambler and dialled. “Colonel?”
“Yes, Mr. Hollinger.”
“It’s what we’ve been waiting for, sir. A Stockholm intercept. Hess will try for Dunhampton, May 10th. Ten o’clock our time.”
Hollinger heard an audible sigh on the other end. “We’ll be ready for him. See you in London.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hollinger hung up, and headed out of the door in the middle of a misty rain for a separate out-building at the end of a stone road a short distance from Hut Nine. Emerging inside a plain, multi-roomed whitewashed structure, Hollinger brushed the rain off his coat and threw it on a hangar in the foyer. He was met by Langford’s young assistant coming out of one of the washrooms to the side. She had just taken a shower. Her hair was wet and she had a towel wrapped around her, exposing her bare arms and legs several inches above her knees.
“Mr. Hollinger,” she said, shocked to see a man in the female quarters. “What are you doing here?”
“Where’s Robbie?”
The woman pointed with one hand, her other holding on to the top part of her towel. “Second one down. Other side.”
“Thank you.”
Hollinger walked up and knocked twice on the door. “Robbie. It’s Wesley.”
“Go away,” came Langford’s voice from the other side.
“Let me in or I’ll break the door down.”
“Are you deaf? I said, go away.”
“No, I won’t.”
A small crowd of curious women began to gather in the hall. He glanced at them and said, “Business.”
They stared back.
Langford opened the door a little and peered out. Her face was flushed and her make-up was smeared. She had let her hair fall free, and it was quite long, down to her shoulders. Hollinger eased the door open the rest of the way and entered the tidy room lit by a large lamp stand near the bed.
“What’s going on? Why aren’t you on duty?” he asked, while she pushed the door closed.
She sat on the bed. Then began to cry, head down, hair across her eyes.
“What’s the matter?”
She wiped her eyes with a tissue. She got up for a letter on the dresser and gave it to him. “Here.”
It was not good news for Langford, Hollinger discovered, as he read the slanting style of a left-hander. The contents were what the Americans would call a Dear John Letter. Her navy boyfriend had found another woman. He threw the letter on the dresser, where his eyes rested on a photo of a navy officer and a faded wedding snapshot taken twenty or so years before, by the look of it. Her boyfriend and her parents, without a doubt, he thought.
“So, he dumped you before you could tell him he’s a papa. Seems you’re in a bit of a jam.” He looked over at the picture of the officer and wondered how much longer it would stay in her room before she threw it in the garbage.
She sniffed. “What am I going to do?”
Hollinger stood beside her and put his arm on her trembling shoulder. “Now, now, it’s not so bad. These things happen.”
“Not so bad?”
“Hush. Keep your voice down.”
“How can you stand there and say it’s not so bad? You’re not the one in this predicament. And don’t tell me that in the world realm of things it doesn’t count.”
“I wasn’t going to. That statement’s a little worn out. Have you told your parents?”
“No.”
“You can’t keep putting it off, Robbie. I’ll drive you to London first thing in the morning. I have to see Lampert anyway.”
The only sound now was the clatter of rain on the window. He took the opportunity to look closer at the two pictures on the dresser. Langford was a good blend of her parents. She had her mother’s eyes and face, her father’s chin. “Your parents, I take it?” She nodded. “They look like understanding people. You said your father’s in the ministry. Then he should practice what he preaches. You know, forgiveness.”
She said nothing.
“Look, why don’t you take the rest of the evening off.”
“I was going to anyway.”
“Oh, were you?” Hollinger grinned. She still had her sense of humour. “Get a good night’s sleep. I’ll be in the car at seven-thirty.” He turned towards the door.
Langford blew her nose in the tissue. “I’ll be ready. Wesley?”
“Yeah,” he responded, looking back.
“Thanks for caring,” she sniffed. “You’re the only one who knows, so far.”
He smiled at her and said, “Hang in there.” Then he left quietly.
* * * *
Berlin, Germany — May 8
“There you are, Herr Schubert,” Heinrich Himmler said, standing over several items on the table in the interrogation cellar. The Gestapo leader polished his pince-nez, then jabbed it in place on his nose. “Luger, stiletto, sunglasses, briefcase. Inside the briefcase are the peace terms. Study them when you are alone aboard the submarine. No one, other than the British group, are to see them. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Herr Reichsfuehrer.”
Schubert scooped up a bulging manila envelope and glanced across at Colonel Geis, who was standing in the corner. “And these others?” Schubert asked, glancing down at the table.
Himmler nodded at Geis to take over.
“Hess artefacts,” Geis said, stepping forward. “They are to prove your identity. Two pictures of Hess and his son, in addition to a picture of Hess at Hitler’s mountain retreat in Bavaria; two visiting cards from Karl Haushofer and his son, Albrecht; an assortment of drugs and vitamins Hess has been known to take. If you happen to get lost at any time, we’ve supplied you with a Scotland road map, some identification, and an envelope marked Captain Alfred Horn, an identity you can assume if someone thinks that they recognize you. Keep these particular artefacts on your person. In your trousers. Your shirt pockets.”
“Of course.”
“Now, the codes. The name of your mission?”
“Operation Night Eagle.”
“Your codename?”
“Falcon.”
“Your British contact?”
“Lion, the only British appeaser who has met Hess in person.”
“Very good. Be careful with him. Don’t say too much. Don’t say too much to anybody. Let the peace terms do the talking. Use only English. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have your orders for the sub skipper?” Himmler asked.
“Yes, Herr Reichsfuehrer.”
“The nature of your mission when you leave here?”
“I will be flown to Kiel, where a submarine will take me to the Firth of Forth on the coast of Scotland, on the tenth. There to rendezvous with me will be an agent codenamed Denise. She will drive me to Dunhampton, where Hess was supposed to fly to. But I shall be the new Hess. A British welcoming committee will take me to Dungavel Castle, home to the Duke of Hamilton, where I will present the peace terms. Then I will be returned to Dunhampton to meet up with Denise, and she will return me to the sub.”
“And what if you are asked why you did not fly as first agreed upon?”
“There was an intelligence leak and the mission had to be changed.”
“Good. You’ve studied the Scottish countryside map?”
“Yes, Herr Reichsfuehrer.”
“Perfect. Any questions? Anything you do not understand?”
“Nothing,” Schubert said.
“Excellent. It’s time to depart. Good luck.”
“Heil Hitler!”
The three of them saluted each other, then the Gestapo leader called Geis outside the cellar.
“Is your bomb team ready at Augsburg?”
“Yes they are, Herr Reichsfuehrer. We are waiting on your orders.”
“What do you think, Geis? Can Schubert pull this off?”
“He’ll do it, Herr Reichsfuehrer,” Geis said confidently. “He needs the money we promised him.”
Himmler rubbed his chin. “Too bad he’ll never see his reward. You see, Colonel Geis, when Schubert returns to Kiel, I want you there to greet him. Find out everything the British said to him. I want their reaction to the peace plan. Then do away with him as you please. And don’t leave a tr
ace. Understood?”
Geis didn’t appear surprised at the explicit order. “Consider it done, Herr Reichsfuehrer.”
SIXTEEN
London, England
“Colonel, sir, there’s a call for you.”
Lampert pressed the intercom to thank his secretary and picked up the receiver. He glanced at Hollinger standing in the centre of the room, twirling his fedora in his hand. “Excuse me a moment, Mr. Hollinger.”
“Sure.”
“Lampert here,” he said into the receiver.
“Raymond. It’s Charles.”
“Yes, Charles.” Lampert didn’t expect to hear from his friend, the Director of MI-5 Twenty Committee so soon. They had spoken only yesterday.
“I have something you may be interested in. We’ve picked up a radio signal from Hamburg. You said to give you a ring if we catch any peculiar enemy activity on or near the tenth.”
“That’s right. Let’s have it.”
“There’s going to be a sub drop off the Firth of Forth on the tenth. One of these human cargos. In daylight, of all things. Somewhere between 2000 and 2100 hours. The destination will be Dunhampton.”
“Dunhampton! Yes, I certainly am interested, old top. A drop, you say.”
“That’s right.”
“Who’s it for?”
“Denise. There’s more to it. I’ll send the message up to you. If there’s any change, I’ll ring you.”
“Yes, thank you, Charles. Keep in touch. I’ll give you another number where you can reach me. I’ll be in Scotland for a few days. Dunhampton, actually.” Lampert read the telephone number to his friend, then hung up.
“What is it, colonel?” Hollinger asked.
“It seems we might have a last minute visitor. A sub drop. His destination is also Dunhampton.”
“That’s weird.”
“Yes, Hollinger. Weird. I had better call Winnie.”
* * * *
Lampert rolled down the window of the MI-6 staff car. “There he is, Hollinger. Right on time for his morning run, as always.”
From their parked position by the curb, Lampert and Hollinger watched Simon Brenwood leaving his Rolls Royce and making his way through the crowd in the light rain to the Post Office. Behind the wheel, Hollinger tugged at the brim of his fedora. He was not that impressed with the first glimpse of the rich steel man known to the Secret Service by the Enigma II codename of Lion. “Well, well, a Rolls Royce. Just a fat little runt, isn’t he?”