The Fuehrermaster

by Daniel Wyatt

  Hamilton sensed there was more to it. “What mystery?”

  “Lampert filled me in. I want to know why Hess — or whoever he is — shot someone a half-dozen times in the head at Dunhampton.”

  “He what? He told me that one of Hitler’s agents was after him. The agent had flown in while Hess came by sub and they clashed. Something smells here, sir. I thought all along that we were communicating with Hess to come to Britain by air. Then he shows up by sub. So who’s the pilot?”

  “We don’t know. And why was he shot up so many times? It’s almost as if Hess doesn’t want us to recognize the body. As for Hollinger, he was shot twice and is now in a coma. He’s alive, but barely. He may have some answers for us. However, if Hollinger dies, then we might be forced to deal with Hess in another way. We can’t keep his confinement a secret forever. Someone of consequence may have to identify him because too many people will start asking questions. I’ll send someone with you to Scotland.”

  “Who, sir?”

  Churchill brought to mind Ivone Kirkpatrick, the present controller of European Services at the BBC, and the former First Secretary of the British Embassy in Berlin from 1933 to 1938. He was a good man. A Churchill man. “What about Ivone Kirkpatrick?”

  Hamilton shrugged. “He’ll do.”

  “You two have to stall Hess as long as you can. He’s lying about something.”

  “Or everything.” Hamilton looked down. “Dear God. Russia. Another two-front for Germany. That’s what did them in the last time. You’d think they would have learned their lesson. They would be crazy to attempt it again. If that happens, though, it will take the strain off us. We’d almost invite it right now.”

  “We would, Douglo.”

  “If you had to, would you make a public announcement about Hess, Mr. Prime Minister?”

  Churchill brooded over that. He could say that the Nazi empire was in disarray. Here was Germany’s deputy minister fleeing his own country. Could they say Hess was a loony? “Right now, I’ll stay silent on the issue. There’s another factor here. The Germans. We still haven’t heard from them. We’ll have to just sit on our rumps before we officially state anything. Any peace talk news may only harm our war effort.”

  “I suppose it would, yes.”

  Churchill nodded, chomping on his cigar. Disdain marked his face. “Yes. One way or the other, whether Himmler or Hess is in charge or not, it’s still the same disease. Britain is going to fight Germany tooth and nail, whether it’s now or later. There will be no peace until we rid the world of Nazism.”

  “That seems rather straightforward,” the duke said.

  Churchill stretched. He looked weary. “It’s late. You’d better head on to London and pick up Kirkpatrick. Have him call me if he wants any verification.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Berchtesgaden, Germany — May 12

  Adolf Hitler locked his hands behind his back and paced back and forth in the sitting room, considering his unfortunate dilemma. He feared the worst. It was approximately thirty-six hours since Hess had left. He was not returning. If no announcement or word from Britain had come by now, then assuming Hess had reached them, the English group was not ready to talk peace. Maybe he didn’t make it. Even if he did, Hitler decided, and informed the group of Operation Barbarossa, the British would probably not feed the information to the Russians. There was no love lost between the two countries. And if they did, Stalin wouldn’t believe them anyway.

  Hitler reached into his coat pocket to discover he had run out of chocolates. Someone knocked at the door. “Yes! Come in!”

  “Mein Fuehrer,” Martin Bormann said, appearing. “Doctor Dietrich is here.”

  “Send him in.”

  Hitler’s press adviser, Dr. Otto Dietrich, had been briefed on Hess’s mission over the telephone. He was an astute man who was aware of complications that might arise from Hess’s flight if it was not handled properly. “Heil Hitler,” Dietrich said, entering the room, executing a Nazi salute.

  Hitler extended his arm lazily, then dropped it. “Dietrich, we have to react now. We haven’t heard from the English. Before Britain exploits this, you must prepare a radio communiqué that will discredit Hess and his one-man mission. I know that won’t be easy because Germany loves their deputy minister. Our allies in Italy and Japan must see that we are not scheming behind their backs to sign a peace on our own.”

  Hitler picked up his pacing again. He stopped at the window and turned square to Dietrich. “I want to see your first draft in half an hour. That is all. Go.”

  “Yes, mein Fuehrer.” Dietrich saluted and took his leave.

  Hitler sighed. Hess had been his friend and confidant for twenty years. What would the German people think? They weren’t fools. Hitler knew they would wonder why Hess had to suddenly take off in a plane and land on enemy soil. Many would be curious if he left with the Fuehrer’s blessing. Hitler nodded to himself. Hess had the right idea in his parting letter, reiterating what he had said weeks ago. Hess must be declared insane. But how would the German people respond? If the Deputy Fuehrer was insane, then why was he still in office? What would that say for the other leaders?

  Hitler slammed his hand down on the desktop. His people would swallow it because he was their Fuehrer and he knew what was best for his people.

  * * * *

  Buchanan Castle, Scotland

  Ivone Kirkpatrick’s trip to Scotland to observe and interview the German pilot who called himself Captain Alfred Horn was a comedy of errors. Accompanied by the Duke of Hamilton, the former British Embassy official had left London by aircraft that evening. Strong winds forced them to land unannounced and refuel at Catterick, an airfield that had been heavily bombed during the weekend. The RAF authorities were in no hurry to send Kirkpatrick and Hamilton on their way until they were positively identified through London. That took more than an hour.

  At twenty minutes to ten, the two had landed at Hamilton’s headquarters in time to hear a German radio announcement on short-wave declaring that Rudolf Hess had been missing since May 10, having taken off that day from Augsburg on a flight from which he had not returned. A letter he left behind was incoherent, giving evidence of a mental derangement. All this had led Hitler’s office to believe that Hess was a victim of hallucinations, and it was feared that Hess had crashed or met with an accident somewhere.

  It was now imperative that Kirkpatrick make the identification as soon as possible. The duke asked his adjutant to drive them to Buchanan Castle; the prisoner had been transferred there from Maryhill Barracks. But because all the road signs had been removed the year before, the adjutant, unfamiliar with the area, lost his way. Several times he had stopped to ask for directions, but was met by blank stares from the local people who feared that they were dealing with spies on such a night.

  * * * *

  They finally reached the castle after midnight. The commander met the duke and Kirkpatrick in the yard, then took them up a long flight of stone stairs to a tiny attic room with a slanted ceiling.

  Schubert was asleep on an iron bed under a brown army blanket. He woke immediately and threw the blanket aside. He was unshaven and wore grey flannel pyjamas. He acknowledged the duke with a nod, then glared at the middle-aged gentleman with the moustache, greased-back hair and flickering eyebrows.

  “Don’t you recognize me, Herr Reichsfuehrer?” Kirkpatrick asked in perfect upper class German.

  Schubert had never seen the man before. “Should I?” he answered in his common German dialect.

  “I am Ivone Kirkpatrick. I was First Secretary at the British Embassy in Berlin for five years.”

  “I have met so many people during that time, diplomats from all nations,” Schubert said, carefully. “But I do seem to recall your name. Why did you bring him?” he asked Hamilton, switching to English.

  Hamilton didn’t know what to say.

  “Leave me with the duke, please?” Schubert said to Kirkpatrick.
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  When the BBC official withdrew, Hamilton said, “I didn’t want to say too much. He’s part of our group, but he doesn’t know anything about your specific peace plans.”

  “Who else does?”

  “Others who need to know. Trust me on that.”

  “Then I can leave?”

  “Not at this time.”

  Schubert’s eyes narrowed. “Why? You are making a terrible mistake. I cannot stay here any longer. You must give me passage out this very day.”

  Hamilton stood his ground. “Not so fast. How do we know that what you are telling us is true? We haven’t found your proposals. How do we know if you came with anything at all? Goodbye, Herr Reichsfuehrer. We’ll be in touch.”

  * * * *

  Kirkpatrick and Hamilton walked into the yard. The sky was starting to lighten to the east. Dawn was approaching. Waiting for them across the road was the duke’s adjutant behind the wheel of the RAF staff car.

  “That’s not Hess,” Kirkpatrick whispered.

  Hamilton was stunned. “What are you talking about! I thought you recognized him.”

  “I met Hess face to face in Berlin before the war. We spoke at a Chancellery reception. Although it was only a few minutes, it was sufficient to know that the man we have in custody here is not the Deputy Fuehrer I remember. He looks to be under great stress. He is too skinny. He is too tall and too old. The Hess I knew knows how to conduct himself. He is a highly intelligent man. He speaks a distinguished German, not that gutter garbage I heard back there. I was talking with one of the guards. He said that this fellow flew all the way from southern Germany, by himself, without a single change of clothing or even a toothbrush. It simply does not make sense. Why didn’t he fly to a neutral country with these so-called peace initiatives that you and Churchill told me about? Why into an enemy country, for God’s sake? How did he plan to get out afterwards? Did he have an escape route? He must have known he would run out of fuel. The real Hess — at least the one I recall — is too methodical, too organized to attempt anything so foolhardy.”

  The duke rubbed his eyes. “We’re both tired, Mr. Kirkpatrick. You haven’t seen Hess in what — four or five years?”

  “Six to be precise. It was 1935.”

  “Consider this, Mr. Kirkpatrick. A man can change in six years.”

  “Yes, but can he grow taller?” Kirkpatrick argued.

  “He claims to be Hess. Germany says Hess is missing. The man does look like Hess. What else do you need? Your job is to identify him, and leave the rest to the interrogating authorities. I think it’s Hess, at least physically. Churchill wanted a diplomatic identification of the prisoner. That’s your job. You did it.”

  “Are you asking me to not make waves?”

  “You might say that, yes.”

  Kirkpatrick frowned. “Why didn’t Churchill insist on someone else to identify Hess? Why me? I know two London journalists who spent considerable time interviewing Hess in Germany before the war. Why not call them?”

  Hamilton smiled. The last thing Churchill wanted was more people involved. Besides, newsmen were trouble. “Maybe we will. Meanwhile, let’s go grab some sleep?”

  TWENTY-NINE

  Berlin, Germany

  “They have found Hess.”

  “Who has, mein Fuehrer?”

  “The British.”

  Himmler had mixed emotions during the telephone conversation in his study with Adolf Hitler. “What happened, mein Fuehrer?”

  “They have just issued a statement on their radio. Hess aborted near Glasgow. His plane crash-landed. He broke his ankle during the fall, the silly fool, and gave his name as Horn.”

  “Horn?” Himmler repeated, as he felt a strange tickle at the base of his throat. Captain Alfred Horn was the name he had given to Schubert. “I wonder why he did that, mein Fuehrer?”

  “I don’t know. The British also said he had photographs with him to prove his identity. Do you know anything about this, Himmler?”

  “Why should I, mein Fuehrer?”

  “I thought the Gestapo knew everything.”

  “Not everything, mein Fuehrer. I knew nothing of Hess’s flight.”

  “If you say so, Himmler. If you hear of any further developments, let me know.”

  “I will, mein Fuehrer.”

  “How are the new plans for the Jewish problem coming along?”

  “On schedule. You will have your report by the end of this month, mein Fuehrer.”

  “I’m looking forward to reading it. Goodbye, Himmler.”

  Himmler hung up. What had happened? Did Schubert find Hess? Who was claiming to be Horn, Schubert or the real Hess? Who was in the plane before it crashed? And where was the submarine? There was no word from Steider since the evening of the eleventh. Did the British find the sub and sink her? The possibilities were endless. If Schubert was in British hands — Churchill’s hands — then the mission was doomed. They would know he was a pseudo-Hess after proper interrogation. British Intelligence was not composed of idiots.

  Himmler had to do something.

  * * * *

  Twenty minutes later, Wolfgang Geis answered the front door in his night robe, surprised to find Himmler waiting for him on the darkened porch in civilian clothing.

  “Herr Reichsfuehrer, why are you here at this hour?”

  “Let’s go for a walk, colonel. We need to talk.”

  Geis didn’t like the tone of his superior’s voice. “It’s late, Herr Reichsfuehrer. Can’t it wait until morning? I can come to the office early.”

  “No, it can’t wait. Now. Please.”

  “It’s about Hess isn’t it? Or is it Schubert? Or is it both?”

  “We have to discuss them.”

  Geis had an inkling what was coming. He considered slamming the door and running for his life. He couldn’t see Himmler making a house call just for a chat. “I prefer not to, Herr Reichsfuehrer,” he said in the darkness.

  “In that case, we’ll talk right here. You bungled Geis. Gestapo colonels do not bungle.”

  “But, Herr Reichsfuehrer — “

  Before Geis could finish, Himmler pulled out a gun from his leather coat and shot three times.

  * * * *

  RAF Dunhampton, Scotland

  Wesley Hollinger wove in and out of consciousness for nearly thirty minutes. When he finally opened his eyes he tried to focus on the white ceiling above him. He couldn’t move, not with the stabbing pain in his chest and shoulder. He looked to one side and saw an intravenous machine attached to his arm. Then it dawned on him. He was in a hospital, in the land of the living. Beyond the window, it was dark. Then he remembered that for most of the time he was semi-conscious he saw the blurred outline of a woman in long hair calling his name, softly.

  Gentle footsteps came towards him from across the room. He caught the whiff of lilac perfume. When the fog over his eyes gave way, he saw Roberta Langford smiling sweetly at him. Her face was bright. She wore a white blouse and matching blue suit; jacket and skirt moulded to her firm figure. Her hair was up in front, curled on the sides and down to her shoulders at the back. It was the way he remembered her best.

  “Robbie?”

  “Hello there, Wesley.”

  “What are you doing here? Where am I?” His voice was weary and gruff, his mouth as dry as sand.

  “You’re in the hospital.”

  “I know that. Which one?”

  “Dunhampton.”

  “Oh, oh yeah. Dunhampton.” He rubbed his eyes. “I need a glass of water, please.”

  “Hang on, I’ll grab you one.”

  He drank from the cup she handed him. “I didn’t think water could taste so good. Nice and cold, too.”

  Taking the cup back, Langford said, “I’m sorry, Wesley. It’s all my fault.”

  “Sorry? For what? What’s your fault?”

  “I was the one who got you into this. If I hadn’t let you in the MI-6 Headquarters, then you wouldn’t have gotten the information that led t
o you being shot and brought in here.”

  “Hush. Don’t talk like that. I did it to myself. It was my idea to search the files, as you may recall.” Grimacing, he tried to pull himself up despite the dizziness in his head and the pain in his chest. “Anyway, putting all that aside, did they get him?”

  Langford pressed him back down as if she was an understanding nurse. “It’s best to lay down.”

  “Did they get him?”

  “Quiet, you. You were shot twice in the chest and you’ve been out for nearly two days.”

  “Two days!”

  “Yes. Forget that for now. Colonel Lampert wants to talk to you. It’s frightfully urgent, I suspect. Are you up to it?”

  “I was out for two whole days?”

  “Yes, you were.”

  Hollinger leaned his head to one side and touched the bandage wrapped around his chest. His head aching, he tried to recall the events on the tarmac. He saw two Hesses. He knew he did. Or did he? Of course he did. “Good idea, Robbie. Get me the colonel. I have to tell him something.”

  He waited in a comatose state until he saw Lampert standing by the bed, unlit pipe in his mouth.

  “Hello there, ol’ top. How are we feeling?”

  “Hello yourself. I don’t know about you, but I got one hell of a pain in my gut.”

  “We’re glad you’re back with us. You’re going to have to take it easy for a while. But you’ll be up and around soon. A bullet came very near your right lung. But the doctors pulled it out.”

  “Never mind me, colonel.” Hollinger gasped and coughed. “Where’s Hess?”

  “He flew off after he shot you and the pilot. He crash-landed near Eaglesham, attempting to leave the country. We were hoping you could shed some light on the situation. Apparently, he wants to cut a deal with us.”

  “Where’s the other guy? Is he still alive? What did he look like?”

  Lampert looked puzzled. “Why would you—”

  “Did he look like Hess?”

  “Hess? Oh, no. You must be confused. As I told you, Hess flew off. He’s in custody not far from here. As for the corpse, they just finished embalming it. It was one terrible mess. A good four or five bullets to the head. His skull and face bones were crushed to pieces.”