by Daniel Wyatt
A voice from the open bathroom answered, “Yes.”
“Wesley Hollinger, ma’am. I got your note from the desk.”
“Oh, yes. Wait a minute, won’t you.”
Johanna Erickson appeared, a thick towel around her body, exposing tanned arms and long, shapely legs. She was combing out her wet hair after a shower. Hollinger was stunned. She was gorgeous, and he couldn’t stop staring at her.
Her hand went to her hips. “What is the matter, Mr. Hollinger?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all. I see beautiful women wrapped in a towel, hell, almost... oh... everyday. Why should anything be the matter?”
She laughed, her dimples prominent. “I’ll be right with you. I have some news. We shall have breakfast, yes?”
“Sure thing. I might be hungry.”
She did not close the door completely. This surprised Hollinger.
He could see her reflection in the full-length mirror. Then, she removed her towel. She casually continued combing her hair, stark naked, as if nothing was wrong. Hollinger got a good look now. He saw everything. It had been four years since he had last seen a naked woman other than Roberta. If this was 1940, when he was unattached, and footloose, he’d... She looked up. Her eyes were riveted on his. Or was it that... she... just happened to glance up. No, it was deliberate, or accidentally on purpose. Hollinger’s heart began to stir. She knew he was looking at her. Then she shut the door closed.
He stepped forward, then hesitated, weighing it all up. What am I doing? he thought, suppressing an urge to push the door open on her. Is that what she wanted, for me to come bursting in? Then what?
“I’ll wait on the couch,” he called out, his voice cracking, his wife coming to mind. What am I doing? Snap out of it, Wesley. You’re not single anymore.
Pity. I guess.
“I won’t be long,” she said.
* * * *
The dining room was busy with customers, considering it was a Saturday and not yet eight in the morning. They were led to the same booth as the evening before. It was starting to lighten outside, through the wide, French doors overlooking the lake.
Politely waiting for Erickson to sit first, Hollinger took his seat and asked, “Why just the two of us?”
“It’s the way I wish to work. I do not want all five of us to be seen together all the time. It’s a precaution.”
“If that’s what you want. We do the same thing in our line of business.”
“I know you do. Dulles is no exception.” She moved closer to him, until their thighs were touching. Hollinger noticed the sweet smell of perfume on her, like a strongly scented flowerbed.
Hollinger was too embarrassed to slide away. “Dulles’s name is not to be repeated, remember.” And if McCreedy was right about Dulles’s Nazi connections, Hollinger could see why.
“Yes, I do remember. There’s another reason for the two of us to meet,” she smiled, slightly.
“And what’s that?”
“I think we make a handsome couple. Don’t you agree?”
He couldn’t drive her unclothed image from his memory. “I’m a married man, Miss Erickson.”
“I know that. I saw your ring. Are you happily married?”
“Yes, I am. And my wife’s expecting in May.”
“Congratulations. I was married once. To a German soldier. He died on the Eastern Front.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“I’m not.”
Hollinger was taken aback. “Oh? Why is that?”
“He was a rotten man. We had divorced long before he went to war.”
“Your family is German, too, isn’t it?”
“German background, yes. My accent gives it away. We are German Swiss. There is a difference. My grandmother — my mother’s mother — was French. I was born and schooled in Zurich.”
“How did you meet your husband, if he was German?”
“I worked for a time in Berlin. Gunther came from a well-to-do family. The marriage was arranged. He was not my choice. It was many years ago. I was so young.”
“You Swiss are strange people.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Whose side are you on?”
“In the war?”
“No, in the World Series.”
“Excuse me?”
“Never mind. Yes, I meant the war.”
She pulled back. “We’re on the side that wins. But we never fail to bank for anybody and everybody as we see fit. Be it British, German, Italian, American.”
“But mostly the Germans. The Allied press have referred to you as the Nazi bankers.”
Erickson gave him another of her dimpled smiles, followed up by a hearty laugh. “Yes, I know the saying. Six days of the week we work for the Germans, and on the seventh day we rest and pray for the Allies.”
“One thing’s for certain. By the time the war’s over, your nation in general and your family’s bank in particular will undoubtedly be filthy rich.”
Erickson didn’t seem hurt. “I won’t argue with you, Mr. Hollinger. That has been our plan. Our goal. Even so, in the midst of this war and all the calamity around us, I am a private woman of simple pleasures, such as, oh, classical music... champagne mixed with orange juice for breakfast. Won’t you join me in my favourite liquid refreshment?” She nodded at the middle-aged waitress who had showed up at their table.
Hollinger smirked. “Well, I’ve never tried that before.”
“Eggs? Toast? What is your fancy, Herr Hollinger?”
“I don’t usually eat much for breakfast. Eggs and toast are fine, I guess. Sure.”
Erickson nodded at the waitress, who seemed to know what was expected. Then she left quickly.
“Martin Bormann cabled me this morning.”
“He did? Why didn’t you say so earlier?”
“I wanted to get to know you a little better, away from your partner.”
“Really. Well... what did Bormann say?”
“You’ll have your blueprints.”
“Question is, how soon?”
“As soon as he can have someone put them together in a package.”
“What about the second part, Wernher von Braun and his team?”
“That remains to be seen. The only way you will take them in is at the end of the war. They are too valuable to the Nazi cause and too well guarded. They will stay until the end, which is not too far off.”
Hollinger sighed. “So, I might be in Switzerland for a while, until all this is sorted out?”
“Yes. Maybe you might get a chance to sample other things the Swiss have to offer. We are a very hospitable people.” She put her hand on his leg, above his knee, then quickly withdrew it.
Their eyes lingered.
“Do you mind forward women, Mr. Hollinger? Why, Mr. Hollinger, I do believe you’re blushing.”
“Look, Miss Erickson, if I didn’t know any better I’d say that you’re trying to seduce me,” Hollinger said, staring away at Thomas McCreedy entering the dining room.
She smiled. “Mr. Hollinger, is that what you think I’m doing? Sorry, my time here is short. After breakfast, I must take my leave of you, and see you again in a few days. I will return to Zurich. I will be in touch once I hear further from Bormann.”
“If he’s not too busy.”
“I’ll see if he can tear himself away from the Fuehrer.”
McCreedy walked up. “Wesley, where you been? Trying to cut a deal without me?”
Hollinger and Erickson looked up.
“Join us, Mr. McCreedy,” Erickson said.
“Don’t mind if I do.”
FOURTEEN
Werra, Germany — March 13
The scientists found it cooler and harder to breath at six thousand feet above sea level in the alpine mountains. The air would take some getting used to. After five disorganized days of arranging the new underground compound, Karl Zeller and Wernher von Braun eyed the flatbed truck proceeding through the gate, grinding its way
into the dusty compound. An unsmiling pair of Luftwaffe guards approached the driver.
“It’s a good thing we don’t need a runway for it,” Zeller said.
Von Braun nodded, hands in his trenchcoat pockets. “True. No room here.”
“Where will we keep it hidden?”
“Under camouflage netting in the trees, right about... there,” von Braun pointed a hundred yards across the compound.
“The best place, I suppose.”
“The only place for now, Karl.”
“Yes, for now,” Zeller said, “until the Americans find it. We hope.”
“They will. Reichsleiter Bormann, I’m sure, will lead them here personally, should he have to,” von Braun said, his face fixed like stone.
“I don’t doubt it. As long as he doesn’t leave us out of the OSS deal.”
“I thought we are part of it.”
“We are,” Zeller answered.
“Then quit your worrying. It’s the perfect arrangement for everybody. Do as Bormann ordered you, and make a complete copy of the blueprints.”
“I finished them not twenty minutes ago. That’s what I came to tell you, Wernher.”
“Good. The Americans must see the documents as they requested. Is the courier ready?”
“Yes.”
“Then send him on his way.”
“Of course, Wernher.” Zeller turned to leave.
“Oh, Karl. I have some bad news.” Von Braun faced his friend. “Goering telephoned me. We have lost communications with Camp Berlin.”
“We have?”
“Their last transmission was garbled, but spoke something about a British attack. You know what this means?”
Zeller paused to think it through. “Yes. Our titanium supply has been cut off.”
“We only had enough shipped to us for one fighter. This” — he pointed to the truck — “is the only one of its kind.”
“Then we had better treat it nicely.”
“To be sure, Karl. To be sure.”
Northeast Germany
An intoxicated Hermann Goering stood dejected in the hall of his empty country estate overlooking the brilliant view of the bluff and tranquil waters of the Dolln See. Alone, he looked around, slowly, his footsteps echoing off the bare timber walls of Karinhall. This was Goering’s getaway, named after Karin, his first wife, a gentle, blonde, elegant Swede. A lavish, thatched-roof country lodge, Karinhall was built in Norse style on Schorf Heath, a rocky Prussian terrain of lake and forest reaching from northeast of Berlin to the Baltic coast. At a cost of fifteen million Reich marks out of the pockets of hard-working German taxpayers, Karinhall had the best of everything, presented dramatically by Goering, who prided himself on his Renaissance possessions. In her heyday, the estate had Flemish tapestries, fountains, statues, crystal chandeliers, expensive sculptures and embroidery, and a full load of stolen art treasures from occupied countries.
But this was no more.
Today, the estate was empty. Everything had been shipped south, close to Switzerland for safety. Just minutes ago, Goering had heard the exact count given to him by his aides — 739 paintings, sixty pieces of sculptures, and fifty tapestries. They were now being shipped to the Party Chancellery in Berlin. From there they would be sent south in a truck that would leave Berlin tomorrow — March 14.
The Reichmarshall considered his bleak future. He had a copy of the V-4 blueprints under his shirt, should he need them. His red sash and his medallion had been carefully packed away in a hidden compartment in his suitcase. He suddenly brought the Order and Bormann to mind. The Reichsleiter had said that the Americans — the OSS — had made contact with Bormann’s banker in Switzerland. But could that runt-of-the-litter-kiss-ass Bormann really be trusted? Could anyone in Germany be trusted? That afternoon, before the phone lines were cut, Hitler telephoned to order that every captured Allied bomber crew be turned over to the Gestapo and shot. Had the Fuehrer flipped his lid?
Goering turned his back to the Dolln See beyond, and shuffled out of the estate through the huge wooden door, head slightly down, tears in his bloodshot eyes. His hands could not stop shaking. He finally stuffed them in the pockets of his Luftwaffe greatcoat. His knew his condition was serious and worsening. He was a man on the edge. He met his chauffeur outside. The sweet smell of pine seemed to revive him. Spring was in the air. The temperature had been rising steadily that week.
“All is ready for your departure, Herr Reichmarshall.”
“Thank you, William.”
Goering saw that everything was in order. Hundreds of erect Luftwaffe troops were standing guard in a circle around the estate. The passenger door was open to his armour-plated limousine. Beside another automobile, his manservant, Robert, and nurse, Christa, in charge of the drug and medicine cabinet, along with his doctor, Ramon von Ondarza, waited respectfully for the Luftwaffe Commander-in-Chief whose once-lethal Luftwaffe was now in shambles.
Goering took one last, long, inebriated look at his beloved lodge and squeezed into the limousine. How could this have happened?
FIFTEEN
Over Berlin — March 18
It was a bright day. Few clouds. Perfect visibility. Too bad he was in the midst of the stiffest anti-aircraft fire in all his twenty missions. The flak officer at the briefing that morning knew what he was talking about when he said that Berlin had the heaviest guns of the German cities.
Sergeant Art Tooney spun his ball turret back and forth. The bomb doors opened with a creak. He could clearly see the other bombers in the huge stream of hundreds, arranged in V’s, flights, squadrons, and groups. They were a solid overcast of bombers. Another Maximum Effort. Flanking the bombers, far out to the left and right, dots in the sky, were the escorting P-47 and P-51 fighters. He looked down and saw the streets in the Berlin suburbs over 20,000 feet below. He closed his eyes, wishing it was over. He swallowed hard. Then... one explosion shook Lucky Lady, belting him to the side.
Another explosion rocked the bomber.
That was close. Too close.
Tooney opened his eyes. A B-17 in the formation was going down, two engines smoking, tail plane shot away! White smoke meant loss of oil. One chute... two... Then another bomber took a hit. Black smoke this time. A fire. And then a third in the group to the rear, a giant dark hole in her fuselage. She was falling out of formation. Tooney swallowed, on the verge of vomiting. Panic infected him, then passed quickly... as if he had been slapped in the face. That’s not going to happen to us! Not us. We’re the lead ship of the mid-group. Hang in there, or she’s goodbye, Charlie.
Tension was the killer for Tooney. Staying alert, constantly searching the sky, was too much sometimes. On this mission, his oxygen mask had iced up, and his heated flying suit was not operating properly. Either it was too hot or too cold. Now it was too hot on the gloves, and was burning his fingers. Damn! It was not his day.
Over the intercom he could hear the bombardier instruct the pilot on the bomb run. “STEADY... STEADY... LEFT A BIT.”
Then the bomber shook violently.
“WHAT WAS THAT?” asked a voice.
“WE’VE BEEN HIT! NAVIGATOR TO PILOT. NUMBER TWO ENGINE ON FIRE!”
Tooney felt the bomber losing altitude. Oh no! Shit, no! Still, they remained on their bomb run.
“I SEE IT. RELAX. I’M SHUTTING IT DOWN. BOMBARDIER, HOW IS THAT TARGET?”
“I HAVE IT IN MY SIGHTS.”
“TELL ME WHEN. MAKE IT QUICK.”
“BAD CROSSWIND, SKIPPER.”
“CAN’T HELP IT.”
A long pause...
“NOW!”
“IT’S ALL YOURS. YOU HAVE THE AIRCRAFT.”
Tooney knew what was happening. On every bomb run, the bombardier, once he had the target through his eyepiece, would ask for control of the aircraft. In essence, he was flying the bomber, although only for a short time, until he dropped the payload. The plane had to stay level, unable to dodge the flak.
Another long pause... an etern
ity to Tooney... waiting for those magic words from the navigator.
“BOMBS GONE! LET’S GET OUTTA HERE!”
Tooney felt Lucky Lady jerk upwards, free of four-thousand-pounds of explosives. He stared below to watch the bombs descend. Part-way down, they meshed in with the other bombs from the formation. Then... he saw the flashing rings of destruction as each bomb collided with the earth. One... two... three... Within seconds, too many, too fast to count. Dark, billowing smoke began to rise. By the time the formation banked left to return to England, Tooney wondered what it was like for someone caught in the midst of all that hell on earth down below.
Lake Lucerne
It took most of the week to get the package together that Erickson had promised. McCreedy and Hollinger studied the blueprints and miscellaneous folders relating to the German secret weapons at a round table in Hollinger’s room, while Johanna Erickson looked on. Before their eyes were the diagrams and formulas for missiles of short-range and long-range variety, new jet fighters, revolutionary hand weapons called lasers, drawings of night-vision goggles... there was no end to it. Hollinger was especially fascinated by the V-2, the supersonic rocket that had been devastating parts of London.
“What do you say now, Mr. Hollinger?” she said, standing over them.
Hollinger was speechless.
“We’re impressed, to say the least, by the weaponry,” McCreedy said in his Virginian drawl, adjusting his glasses.
Erickson folded her arms over her white, silk blouse. She was smartly-dressed in business attire, black skirt and matching jacket. “I thought so.”
“We didn’t realize that the Germans were this advanced,” Hollinger said, finding his tongue, holding some of the files. “Not by a long shot. These concentration camp photos are most disturbing.” He saw scrawny prisoners with pathetic faces, dressed in mere rags, peering through a barbwire fence. “You say Heinrich Himmler is responsible for this?”
“According to Bormann’s sources, yes.”
“Jews?”
“Yes. An elimination of a race is what it is. “