The Fuehrermaster

by Daniel Wyatt

  “Yes.” Lampert frowned. “A little. I wonder why? Anyway, we’ve got to keep Hollinger alive. He’s our answer to this. I know a specialist in London who’s done work for our department. I’ll call him. Do you have a scrambler in your office?”

  “Yes, I do. Be my guest.”

  Lampert knew he had better call Winnie, too.

  * * * *

  Berchtesgaden, Germany

  Upon arrival at Hitler’s Bavarian hideaway later that Sunday morning, Karlheinz Pintsch saw Albert Speer, Hitler’s architect, sitting in the anteroom.

  “Excuse me, Herr Speer,” he said. “Would you permit me to see the Fuehrer first? I have an important personal message from the Deputy Fuehrer.”

  “Of course. I can wait.”

  Pintsch bowed. “Thank you.”

  Just then, Hitler, in grey jacket and black trousers, slowly descended the stairs off to the side. The bright lights caught his Iron Cross for an instant. He looked tired and disturbed, another sleepless night for him. He had finished an interview minutes before with Dr. Fritz Todt, the Minister of Armaments, and he was in the midst of preparing a reception for Admiral Jean Darlan of Vichy France that would take place after lunch.

  Pintsch displayed the Nazi salute. “Heil Hitler. The Reichsfuehrer asked me to deliver this letter to you in person.”

  “Come with me,” Hitler demanded, leading the way into the nearby salon. Inside, door closed, they both sat in padded chairs.

  Hitler grabbed the envelope from Pintsch’s hands, placed his glasses over his eyes and read the hand-written message.

  My Fuehrer, when you read this letter I shall be meeting with my British friends. You can imagine the decision to take this step was not easy for me, since a man of forty has other ties with life than one of twenty.

  Mein Fuehrer, I will convince them and explain later. Trust me. It has been done for the betterment of mankind.

  Hitler began to burn red with rage. “He’s going to tell the British about Operation Barbarossa. I know it. I can feel it in my bones. I can always feel such things. Hess, you fool. I told you not to go.” Hitler collapsed in his chair and slapped his forehead once ... twice. “This is awful. Awful! Bormann! Where is Bormann?” Hitler shouted at the top of his lungs, rising and waving his arms.

  Martin Bormann rushed in from another room. “Yes, mein Fuehrer?”

  Hitler’s eyes bore down on Pintsch, then returned to Bormann. “Get me Goering, Ribbentrop, Himmler and Goebbels by the fastest means possible. And confine all the guests to the upper floor!”

  “Yes, mein Fuehrer.”

  “Quickly! Go!”

  Then Hitler stomped over towards the frightened Pintsch, only inches away. But he was so mad he couldn’t speak. With an abrupt swing of his arm, he left the room, slamming the door behind him.

  * * * *

  Alone in the salon, except for an SS guard, Pintsch rubbed his trembling hands together. What was to happen now? His thoughts were answered when Bormann entered the room minutes later. Hess had reminded Pintsch more than once that Bormann was not to be trusted. Be careful with him. Watch your back, Pintsch.

  Bormann cleared his throat, a nasty smile appearing on his lips. “Captain Karlheinz Pintsch, you are under arrest. You will be taken to Obersalzberg until a court of inquiry can be arranged to probe your part in the events of today. Heil Hitler!”

  Two tall SS guards stepped forward and stood beside Pintsch. He followed them down the winding marble staircase to the main floor. Led into the back of a Mercedes, with the guards to either side of him, Pintsch gave the two men, both of whom he knew, a tormented look.

  “What’s this all about?” one of them asked, politely. “There must be a mistake.”

  “This is no mistake.”

  “What did you do?”

  Pintsch watched the mountains through the windshield as the chauffeur drove the Mercedes through the front gate. “I don’t really know.”

  * * * *

  Inside the compound, nothing that the inner circle did to pacify Hitler worked. The Fuehrer fumed relentlessly, pacing his study, Hess’s message in his hand. Bormann and the others could only look on, helplessly.

  Hitler didn’t know what to make of Hess. At one time he had been considered a loyal and trusted subordinate. Now Hitler was feeling more sorry for the German people. What would he tell them? His eyes rested on the last sentence of Hess’s message.

  And if, my Fuehrer, this project — which I admit has very little chance of success — ends in a failure, if fate decides against me, there will be no harmful consequences for you or Germany; you can always deny all responsibility — simply say that I am insane.

  Hitler slapped his forehead. What a catastrophe. “Hess must have had a mental derangement. What lunacy on his part! Why did I agree to this?” Hitler turned to the men. “Where is Goering and Himmler? Why haven’t they called?”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Outside Glasgow, Scotland

  Maryhill Barracks was an old army training centre surrounded by barbed wire. In it, Felix Schubert was confined to a six-by-ten-foot rundown room containing a cot. He was in great distress throughout the night and was unable to fall into a proper sleep. At three-thirty in the morning he complained to a doctor about several ailments: a broken ankle, a stomach ache, and pains in his upper lumbar and back. Schubert asked for a sedative and received one. In minutes, he was fast asleep with his flight suit and boots still on, his parachute wrapped and by his side. Seven hours later he was wakened by an orderly and told to expect the Duke of Hamilton to arrive shortly.

  * * * *

  The duke appeared at Maryhill with his intelligence officer, Flight Lieutenant Benson, and was pointed to a room where they examined the German’s possessions. He had a map of Scotland, photographs of Hess and his son, and Hitler and Hess together, an assortment of vitamins and drugs, two visiting cards from Karl Haushofer and his son, and a postmarked envelope that read Captain Alfred Horn, Munched 9. The map of Scotland caught Benson by surprise because someone had ink-marked the approximate location of Dungavel Castle by name. Hamilton made an attempt to look astonished.

  A guard duty officer appeared while Hamilton was fingering the vitamin capsules. “Strange combination of pieces, is it not, sir?”

  Hamilton agreed, nodding. He put a set of pills down on the table, recalling that Albrecht Haushofer had said that Hess was one of those health nuts. “Take me to your German prisoner.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The duke managed a dry smile when he finally saw the prisoner in a room down the hall. Was this Hess? He appeared to be the Deputy Fuehrer from news photos he had seen of Hitler’s right-hand man. The duke was confident that Benson did not recognize the German. He would soon, once the news broke. Assuming it was Hess. How could this be kept silent? Albrecht had also said that Hess and the duke should meet one day because they had a lot in common.

  But like this? Here?

  They found the prisoner sitting on the edge of the bed, his flight suit stripped to his waist, his arms out, his hair a tangled, sweaty clump. He had casual clothing underneath and looked to be in some distress. He stood to face his visitors.

  “I am Wing Commander the Duke of Hamilton. This is my Intelligence Officer, Flight Lieutenant Benson. You were asking for me?”

  “I should like to speak to you alone,” Schubert answered the duke in English.

  Hamilton turned to Benson and the guard duty officer. “Leave me with him until I call for you.”

  “Yes, sir,” they replied separately.

  Schubert waited patiently for the men to withdraw, then said, “I saw you at the Olympic Games in Berlin. Don’t you remember? You lunched with us. I don’t know if you recognize me — but I am Rudolf Hess.”

  “Where is your proof of identity?” the duke asked, remembering the games but not the lunch. He would have known if he had lunch with someone as prominent as Rudolf Hess.

  Schubert rummaged beneath his pillow for a pict
ure of Hess and his son. “Here. This should prove it.”

  “I can see it’s a snapshot of you,” Hamilton observed. “But that doesn’t mean it’s a snapshot of Hess. What is the codename of your mission?”

  “Operation Night Eagle.”

  The duke was convinced now, handing the photograph back. “What do you want with me?”

  “Please, with your influence, you must arrange for me to leave your country. I was trying to fly to Ireland, but I didn’t make it. I was shot down.”

  “Ireland? Well, why did you seek me out? And why did you leave Dunhampton. You were supposed to be driven to my castle.”

  Schubert needed a good story. And he had one that he had taken most of the evening to conjure up. It would have to save his own skin and include Himmler’s motives, should the papers be found. “There is a power struggle within the Nazi government. A German agent working for Adolf Hitler discovered my true plans. He flew into Scotland in my place, and I came by submarine. At the same exact time, we surprised each other at Dunhampton. I shot him, but not before he shot one of your men. I had to escape by aircraft and find you, and to give me time to sort through this. I feared for my life. I couldn’t stay at Dunhampton. But I couldn’t find your castle in the night. Albrecht once said you could be trusted. Please, you must get me out of your country before anyone finds out, so I can fulfil my destiny in the new regime.”

  “What new regime?”

  “I need safe passage to Ireland where I will make contact with my own collaborators in Germany through the embassy. Then I must return and make the moves before Hitler ruins our country. It’s up to me. We can live in peaceful harmony again, Germany and Great Britain, but only if Hitler’s shadow is erased forever and Churchill steps down. Until that happens I want England’s assurance of a temporary truce.”

  “Who in the German High Command knows you are here?”

  “Adolf Hitler and Heinrich Himmler. I come in the name of Himmler, who hopes to be our new Fuehrer. We both wish an agreeable end to hostilities. I have planned the trip with Hitler for months. Only he believes I’m here acting on his behalf to sell his own peace plan to you and call a truce so that he can attack the Soviet Union, although I was not supposed to reveal the attack. Please you must let me go before anyone knows I’m here.”

  “Do you have any paperwork with you?”

  “The briefcase carrying the proposals flew from my hand when I aborted the aircraft.”

  “You mean the briefcase is out on the moors somewhere?”

  “Yes.”

  Hamilton did not like that. “I’ll need a photograph. Anything.”

  Schubert returned the photo of Hess and his son. “Take this or anything else I brought with me. There is something else I must tell you. There is one billion pounds sterling waiting for your peace group in a Swiss bank to use as you wish to influence others to your peace cause.”

  Dumbfounded at the figure, the duke left the cell with the photograph stuffed inside his jacket. He sought the officer in charge of the sickbay. “You might have a very important prisoner here.” He looked to the direction of the hall, then to the officer. “I think it would be wise to move him out of Maryhill, and keep him somewhere in secret with a double guard.”

  “Yes, sir. If you insist.”

  “I do.” Hamilton then spoke to his intelligence officer in the adjacent room. “Benson. I want you to get every available man to help you.”

  “Help me with what?”

  “To find something.”

  “Find what?”

  “I will tell you outside.”

  * * * *

  Edinburgh, Scotland

  Hamilton and Benson made their return journey to RAF Turnhouse an hour later, where Hamilton dropped the photograph into his briefcase. Next, he telephoned 10 Downing Street, clearing his name through three people until a voice came over the line introducing himself as Churchill’s personal secretary.

  “What do you have for us?”

  “I can’t say over the phone,” Hamilton answered. “I’ll be at Northolt in an hour and a half. Kindly have a car there.”

  “As you wish. I’ll make the arrangements.”

  “Thank you.”

  The duke rushed to his Hurricane fighter and flew it down to Northolt, arriving there in late afternoon. When he checked in at the watch-hut, he was handed a sealed envelope. He opened it to find he had been ordered to fly to Kidlington.

  * * * *

  RAF Kidlington, England

  After nightfall, an enormous black car met the duke at the tarmac.

  “The Duke of Hamilton?” The chauffeur saluted.

  “Yes.”

  The chauffeur held the door open, and the duke slid in, holding his briefcase. He removed his leather flying jacket. “Where are you taking me?”

  “To Ditchley Park, sir. To see the Prime Minister.”

  Covering over four thousand acres, Ditchley Park was owned by Mr. and Mrs. Ronald Tree, old friends and parliamentary supporters of Winston Churchill. The eighteenth-century Georgian mansion north of Oxford contained seven reception rooms, twenty-four bedrooms, and ten bathrooms. This was Churchill’s secret weekend getaway during the war. The duke arrived to see Churchill’s entourage at the end of a meal, and in good spirits. Brandy and cigars had been passed around. With Churchill were some members of his staff, including Professor Lindemann, his scientific adviser; Sir Archibald Sinclair, the Air Minister; and his Military Secretary, General Ismay. The group had just received the reports on the London raid. They were saddened to hear that the House of Commons absorbed a direct hit and was partly destroyed, and this only four days after Churchill’s stirring speech that spared the coalition government defeat. But they were delighted that thirty-three enemy bombers had been shot down.

  Churchill, in dinner jacket, stood and greeted the wing commander. “I’ll be with you in a moment, Douglo,” he said.

  The other guests finished their meals and retired elsewhere, leaving Hamilton, Churchill, and Sinclair. Churchill nodded at Hamilton.

  The duke sat at the table and began. “I have just come from Maryhill Barracks in Glasgow. A German officer named Captain Alfred Horn had parachuted down in Scotland last night. He now claims to be Rudolf Hess.”

  “Hess? Are you sure it’s him?”

  “Yes, Mr. Prime Minister. I’m sure of it. He asked for me personally. I saw him in his cell and spoke with him. He said he has come to Britain with offers of peace.” Hamilton then showed the two men the photograph of Hess and his son. “He was carrying this when he bailed out.”

  Sinclair studied the photo Hamilton gave him. “It looks like Hess, I suppose.”

  “Hess or no Hess,” the Prime Minister huffed, after a short pause, “I’m going to watch the Marx Brothers. After that, you and I, Douglo, are going to have a private little chat.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The entire delegation of guests withdrew to another room, where a projector was ready. The evening’s film was The Marx Brothers Go West. Given a comfortable chair, the duke was so exhausted from his activity during the day that he dropped off to sleep.

  Near midnight, the room lights flicked on. Hamilton woke, startled. He had slept through the entire movie. The others had left, except for Churchill who was now clad in an elaborate dressing robe. He lit a cigar and puffed slowly. He closed the door to the room and sat across from the wing commander. Everything up to now was a put-on for Sinclair and the others. “So, what exactly does Hess want?” he barked.

  “He came to inform us that he and Heinrich Himmler are seeking to overthrow Hitler, and Himmler will be the new Fuehrer.”

  “Himmler? Not Hess?”

  “Yes. And he wants safe passage out of Scotland, so that he can return to Germany via Ireland and the German embassy there. He said there is little time left because Hitler plans to attack Russia and he must be stopped. In fact, he begged me to get him out of the country. In the meantime, he wants England and Germany to cease all op
erations of war so he and Himmler can make their moves. And he said that there’s one billion pounds sterling waiting for the appeaser group as blood money. He also demands that you, sir, step down.”

  Churchill scowled. “I will not! The nerve of him. One billion pounds! Does he have any proof, any documentation of the bank account?”

  “No. He does not.”

  “Does he have any paperwork at all?”

  “None at all.”

  “Then it’s only hearsay. We can’t believe a word he says.”

  “He claims he lost everything when he bailed out of the aircraft. His briefcase and the papers are in the Moors somewhere.”

  “Find them, damn it!”

  “I have Benson on it already, sir. Another thing, Hess said that Hitler knows that he — Hess — made the trip, only he is using it for the sake of his own peace plan with Himmler.”

  “Are you absolutely certain it was Hess?”

  “He knows the codename.”

  “Operation Night Eagle.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did Brenwood at any time suspect you’ve been reporting to me?”

  “No, I’m sure he didn’t. And that was right up to the seizure of his cronies at my castle. I hope to God no one else knows we’ve been collaborating.”

  Churchill smiled through a cloud of cigar smoke. “No one. Not Lampert. Not Hollinger.”

  “This incident won’t help my reputation when word leaks out that Hess was looking for me. There are probably rumours circulating now that I allowed the aircraft free passage in my air space. What about the press? What about my association with Albrecht Haushofer?”

  “Don’t worry, Douglo. From here on in you won’t be heard from. Your good name will be protected. The name Haushofer doesn’t mean a thing to most of those in the press and the British public. It’ll stay that way. As for Hess, I’ll see to it that no one in Britain who knew Hess personally will get anywhere close to him until we sort this mystery out.”