by Daniel Wyatt
Lampert climbed the squeaky oak staircase, one level up. At the top, he looked around. All the windows were closed. The mansion was surprisingly cool. The prisoner’s bedroom was on the first floor, surrounded by a metal cage. Beside it was the sitting room on one side, the bathroom on the other. Lampert nodded at the sentry who stood opposite the caged-in room, then glanced over at the second guard who had been added at the end of the hall in June after the prisoner had leaped over the staircase in a botched suicide attempt and had fallen to the floor below. Security was tighter now in Camp Z. Everyone — inside and out — carried weapons at all times, although they knew the prisoner wouldn’t get too far in his current invalid condition.
“Your identification, sir.”
“Of course,” said Lampert.
The colonel flipped out his pocket-sized MI-6 Secret Service ID and waved it under the nose of the eager sentry, one of the new faces. He took it, looked, then returned it. They were expecting him.
“He’s in the sitting room, colonel.”
“Thank you.”
Lampert opened the door.
Prisoner Z was seated in a wheelchair, next to a mahogany table. He looked up grimly, his eyes watery, his left leg in a cast. He was pitifully pale and hollow faced and still appeared to be in some agony from the fall in June. He had aged years, it seemed to Lampert, in only months.
“Yes, who are you? A doctor?” Prisoner Z asked in German-accented English, his voice shaky.
Lampert slid into a chair, and leaned onto the table. “No.”
“What do you want then?”
“Let me be frank with you.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know any Frank.”
Lampert exploded. “Oh, shut up! Don’t be such a ninny. Look here! We’ve been hearing some things about you. You’ve been up to no good. And we want you to stop. Immediately.”
“Stop what?”
“You’ve been talking to the guards and making statements like ‘How do you know I’m the real Rudolf Hess?’ Is that true, dear boy?”
The prisoner looked directly at Lampert, his mouth hardening. “I came to Britain in an unarmed plane. A flag of truce. I’m kept in this ... this pigstyso the Duke of Hamilton can’t find me. My rights are being violated under the rules of the Geneva Convention.”
Lampert’s fist clenched. “Rights! You listen to me. We know your name, everything about you, including your real purpose in coming here two months ago, and we’ll go after your family in Germany if you do not cooperate. What do you think of that, Herr Felix Schubert? Are you following me?’”
Schubert’s face flushed red. “You know my name? How? It’s the drugs, isn’t it?”
“Shut up! You are Rudolf Hess, the Deputy Fuehrer of Nazi Germany,” Lampert continued. “Any more trouble from you and we’ll do away with your miserable life. You will not play any more silly games. You will not attempt any stupid suicides to gain attention.” Lampert waited. “Do you understand? Can I at least get a nod?”
Schubert nodded twice. “I was hoping you were a doctor. I have a headache.”
“I’ll give you a worse headache if you dare to trifle with us.”
Schubert hung his head.
Lampert got up, his eyes on the German. “No ... more ... trouble. You know what I mean?” Then he vanished beyond the door.
THREE
The White House
Hollinger revelled in the once-in-a-lifetime moment like a six-year-old with a new toy.
To arrive at the Oval Office inside the one-hundred-and-twenty-five-room White House, he and Donovan were steered by an aide up wide stairs, down long corridors, and past large furnished rooms. The White House was better than Donovan’s description of it only minutes before. Churchill’s 10 Downing Street was a dump by comparison. Finally, they were ushered to a small reception area.
“Have a seat, gentlemen. You might have to wait a few minutes.”
Hollinger and Donovan thanked the man, who smiled his pleasure before disappearing through a side door.
“I feel I should fill you in on something, Wesley,” Donovan said.
“Yes, sir?”
“Churchill didn’t send you. It was more like Roosevelt summoned you.”
“He did?”
“Yes. They both happened to occur at the same time. The President has to come to a decision about you.”
Hollinger fiddled nervously with the fedora in his hand. “What kind of decision, sir?”
“Either send you back to England or keep you here in some capacity. It could very well be based on how you handle yourself today.”
Hollinger was surprised and disappointed. “It is? I don’t get it.”
“The President wants to see if you’re of use to us there. What you’re made of. The reports he’s been getting from London are that you’re some playboy out for a good time.”
“That’s ridiculous. Where on earth did he get that idea?”
“I dunno. Churchill, maybe.”
“Sir, I can assure you that I’m not the wild man people say that I am. My younger years in college got all blown out of whack by someone or some people and the information found its way into a MI-6 file that the British are using as the gospel truth.”
“OK, OK. You have me convinced. Remember, be yourself. Just don’t be too defensive.”
“Yes, sir. But I still don’t get it. Why me in the first place?”
“Because you’ve already been briefed on the Hess mission.”
“Is that all?”
“No. To put it simply, you’re available.”
“Oh,” Hollinger smirked. “You mean I just happened to be in the right place at the right time.”
“Exactly.”
Minutes later, the aide returned. “You may go in now.”
Hollinger thanked the aide again for the quick tour, and hurried after Donovan through the door into the Oval Office. The President was behind his desk, in green tie and white shirt sleeves, cigarette in mouth. He turned to greet Donovan first. “Wild Bill, how goes it, fellah?” he said jovially, over-emphasizing one of the colonel’s nicknames.
“Swell, Mr. President.”
“Excellent. Put er there!”
Donovan set his briefcase at his feet and shook hands with the nation’s mighty commander-in-chief. Then the President’s strong eyes fell on Hollinger, the young, rugged American with the thick, wavy hair, superbly-cut suit and large diamond ring on his hand.
“Mr. President,” Donovan said, “this is Wesley Hollinger, one of our COI agents in England. He was instrumental in the breaking of the German Enigma II diplomatic code I had briefed you about. And he also had considerable experience with the breaking and decoding of the Japanese Purple code.”
“So you’re the fellah who’s turned England upside-down, eh? What name do you prefer to go by?”
“Sir?” Hollinger gulped.
“What should I call you? The Kid or the Tyrant of Hut Nine?” Roosevelt then broke into thunderous laughter.
Hollinger relaxed and marvelled at his commander-in-chief. The newsreels did not show the bona fide Franklin Delano Roosevelt. Although his two well-established trademarks were present — the glasses pinched to the bridge of his nose and the cigarette holder in his mouth at an arrogant upward angle — the public knew very little of the private man. FDR had been victimized by polio, wheelchair-bound for the last number of years. To walk, he used cumbersome leg braces and crutches. Still, it was a shock for Hollinger to actually see the President’s metal companion beneath him. With his large upper chest, strong shoulders and deep voice, he looked every bit the man who had won his third term of office in 1940 by promising to keep 140 million Americans out of the war, this to satisfy the bleeding-heart isolationists who were condemning the President for speaking out of both sides of his mouth by being friendly to Britain. As Hollinger perceived it, the President was the Babe Ruth of American politics. Someone who Hollinger’s father would probably call a real Iron Ass.
&
nbsp; Roosevelt’s handshake was firm and warm. “Sorry, son. I couldn’t resist that.”
“That’s quite all right, sir. I should be used to it by now.”
“You’ve made quite the impression over there. Welcome to the White House, Wesley.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Sit down, you two. Coffee? I know you like yours black, Bill. And you, Wesley? Coffee?”
“Yes, sir. Coffee sounds great.”
Roosevelt took the silver pot on his messy, paper-filled desk and poured for the two men as they took up chairs. Hollinger set his fedora on his arm rest, then added cream and sugar to the mug given him.
“It’s nice to drink a good cup of coffee again, sir,” Hollinger said, casually.
Roosevelt smiled, crushed his cigarette in a desk ashtray, and lit a new one for his holder. He folded his arms. The wheelchair creaked. “How’s the shoulder injury, son?”
“A little touchy sometimes, sir. Thanks for asking.”
“So, mister, can England hold out?” the President barked.
Hollinger had been forewarned — the President would be blunt. He also seemed as haughty as his overseas counterpart, Winston Churchill. “The situation is grave. However, the British don’t scare easily. Churchill doesn’t plan to throw in the towel. But he believes a Channel invasion is still coming, forthwith.”
“Does he?”
“Yes, sir. The oil of Iraq and the Persian Gulf is a priority. Without oil, Britain will go belly-up. Rommel has his eye on the fields. So ... Churchill wants more aid. Planes. Ships.”
The President listened with modest concern. “What else is new?” he said, with little effort.
“The Brits have cracked the German codes, sure. We know that keen communications and updated intelligence operations are the keys to winning a modern war. But they are in no condition to stop Hitler by themselves. As you may know, Churchill was nearly overthrown by parliament two months ago.”
Roosevelt nodded. “We were well aware of it.” He glanced at Donovan. “In detail.”
“If that had happened, the appeasers would have taken over by now.”
“Are you saying we should get into this war, Wesley?” Roosevelt thundered.
Hollinger paused to study Donovan. He sensed the President was toying with them. “With all due respect, sir, we might have to eventually, in the not too distant future. Before England falls. Not after.”
“What do you think of this, Bill? Is he telling us the truth or is he another angel of British propaganda playing with the President?”
Donovan pinched the brim of his hat in his lap. “I think he’s giving it to us straight. They barely scraped through the Battle of Britain. Radar saved them. I agree with Wesley. They can’t win with Enigma and radar alone. They need some muscle.”
“Ours?”
“Maybe.”
Roosevelt threw his head back, cigarette in his mouth. “But are we prepared for war?” His tone indicated that he already knew the answer.
“No more than the British were in ’39.”
“True, Bill.” Roosevelt turned again to Hollinger. “Wesley, you’re getting around, knowing the ropes. You must be well-enough versed on England’s readiness. You’ve spoken to Churchill, I understand. In person.”
“Yes, sir. Three times.”
“What’s his upcoming strategy?”
“Survive till the end of the year. Somehow.”
“Doesn’t sound too healthy.”
“No, sir. It doesn’t. Some people feel Britain will lose the war.”
“Hitler is only one problem,” the President said slowly. “What about the Japanese? You’ve heard the latest, the freezing of assets across the board. The oil contracts on hold. The ban of further gas and iron ore shipments to their island. They want to negotiate. The next topic. What about this ... Hess incident?”
Hollinger cleared his throat. Yes, FDR was a blunt man. And he jumped from subject to subject. “That’s why I’m here.”
“Lay it on me, young man. With the tar on. The way I prefer it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Donovan dug into his briefcase and handed Roosevelt several mimeographed sheets that had made their way across the Atlantic in Hollinger’s briefcase. Hollinger gave a heady explanation of what appeared to be two sets of peace proposals, Hitler’s and Hess’s, before the President picked up more of the details on his own. Roosevelt had a peculiar way of reading, twisting the sheets at different angles. Hollinger looked uncomfortably around the office for several moments of silence, while his leader digested as much of the information as he could.
The President broke the silence after two minutes. “Are these direct copies of a German type?”
Hollinger nodded. “There’s a few spelling and punctuation errors, therefore we think they’re from Hess’s actual typewriter. Maybe by his own hand.”
“Says here he was seeking asylum?” the President asked, glancing over his reading glasses at Hollinger.
“Yes, sir, that’s correct,” Hollinger confirmed.
“Do you believe it?”
“Yes, sir. We have no reason not to.”
“I see. And Hitler let him go. Only Hitler thought Hess was representing him. The Fuehrer, that is.”
“Yes, sir.”
Roosevelt rubbed his face with a hand. “Hess claims the Germans have atomic weapons. I didn’t expect them to be that well along. Jet aircraft, five hundred miles per hour, and rockets. Three times the speed of sound. That’s astonishing!”
“Still years away, sir. But scary, just the same.”
“The battle plans for the attack of Russia. So he did bring them.”
“Yes, sir. Prior to the attack in June, Churchill’s men supposedly informed the Russian Embassy in Great Britain.”
“And the result?”
“Stalin didn’t believe the British.”
The President laughed. “I guess he does now.”
“Yes, sir. He sure does.”
Silently, the American leader read more. “Concentration camps?”
“Yes, Mr. President. Two of note, Auschwitz and Dachau have been around for a few years to house political prisoners and Jews. Now, they are being converted over to what Hess described as—”
“Internment camps,” the President answered. “In other words, execution sites.”
“That’s correct, sir. They go by several names. But, beneath the fancy words they have one purpose. That is to enslave and to kill.”
The President’s face went pale. “The Germans are methodical people. What’s their method of execution?” His voice seemed weak.
“We don’t know that yet, sir. Most of this is still in the planning stages. Along with their version of genetic breeding. Some master Aryan race.”
The President inhaled noisily. “Have these reports been verified?”
“Yes, sir. MI-6 agents have confirmed everything as true.”
The President seemed to deflate by the second. “Classic case of the inmates running the prison. Coffee isn’t strong enough this morning. What do you say to a martini? You game, Wesley?”
“I’ll try anything once, sir.”
“Atta, boy. I’m going to like you,” the President said, perking up, his voice rising.
I hope so, Hollinger wanted to say. He and Donovan eyed each other, both slowly grinning. Hollinger was not accustomed to drinking before eleven in the morning. Roosevelt buzzed the intercom for his valet, who brought with him all the ingredients on a roll-out, then left. The President enjoyed doctoring up the exact amounts of gin and vermouth, topped with a strip of lemon.
On his first taste, Hollinger was sold. Donovan knew what he was talking about. The presidential martinis were great. “Sir,” Hollinger said, holding his drink up, “I’ve yet to taste a martini anywhere quite this good.”
Roosevelt beamed. “Thank you, Wesley. I take pride in my bartending.”
“That’s not all with Hess, Mr. President,” Donovan said. �
�There was another set of proposals found.”
“Another set?”
“Yes, sir. Here they are.”
Roosevelt buried his attention in the mimeographed copies handed to him from Donovan’s briefcase. “Himmler? What does he have to do with this?” He paused to read. “One billion pounds! You mean he was prepared to hand the British a billion pounds tucked away in a Swiss account? I find that figure a little far-fetched.”
Donovan and Hollinger glanced at each other.
“So do we, sir,” Hollinger confirmed. “The one billion booty seemed legit, at first. But now we know it was a lie to entice the appeasers. British agents in Switzerland checked it out. There’s no more than the equivalent of fifteen million dollars after the exchange — at most — in the account. MI-6 tried to access it, but came up short when they discovered Himmler had placed a secret codename to it. The money was only the beginning of Himmler’s participation in the Hess flight. He had a plot of his own. We think he had schemed to kill Hess in mid-flight, and send a man over by sub instead, to present a peace deal with the British. Part of the pact would see Himmler take over as the new Fuehrer.”
The President raised an eyebrow. “Himmler? That’s incredible.”
“But something went wrong. Hess escaped the net and flew his way to Scotland the same time Himmler’s man arrived by sub. Himmler’s man shot Hess dead, then attempted to fly out of Scotland for Ireland, using Hess’s aircraft, only—”
“Hold on here, boy. What do you mean he shot Hess dead? Who the hell is behind bars in England?”
“Sir,” Hollinger said. “The man the Limeys have in custody is an impostor.”
“What!”
“A Hess look-a-like. With new experimental truth drugs, they’ve discovered his name is Felix Schubert.”