by Daniel Wyatt
The biggest X of all ... the mighty Fuehrer himself, Adolf Hitler. Hitler was too naive. Espionage, counterespionage, and spying was of little importance to him. He hated spies. He didn’t trust them. Found them too double-hearted. But to Himmler, spying meant everything in the grand scheme of things. Spying was his lifeblood. With Hitler out of the picture, the Gestapo leader would be the most powerful man on the continent. The various organizations and agencies of the Third Reich would fall under his control. He would demand absolute obedience to the state. The state in one word would be ... Him.
Heinrich Himmler. The grand Fuehrermaster.
He would be the master spy of the super intelligence network that would devour the others. The German Secret Service headed by Admiral Wilhelm Canaris was one such agency destined to fall. Canaris’s days were numbered. The details were sealed away in a letter that Himmler would courier to an important American official close to his Ambassador, a letter that was presently tucked in a safe inside his first floor office at Gestapo Headquarters there at 4 Prinz Albrechtstrasse.
* * * *
Camp Z
Prisoner Z lifted his head and chest, then his entire body off the bed.
It was a struggle. He knew the British were trying to drive him mad ... and there was nothing he could do about it. He was confident it was the food, because after every meal he felt a warming sensation on the nape of his neck. He walked across the floor, sat, closed his eyes, and put his head on the table, wrestling with the throbbing in his head.
He remembered a submarine trip. Where was he going? The sailors and officers were calling him Reichsfuehrer. They treated him with great respect. They bowed. They saluted. They clicked their heels. They knew who he was.
He stiffened to attention in the chair, lifting his head, pretending he was on his feet.
Why not? I am Rudolf Hess ... I am the Deputy Fuehrer ... I know the Fuehrer’s innermost thoughts. They told me I did.
Who told me?
The Englishwoman, the dark-haired woman on the beach called him by a codename. Falcon. Then by Reichsfuehrer, once she knew who he was. She was surprised to see him. But she knew who he was on sight. He read it in her pretty face.
She should. I am Rudolf Hess ... I am the Deputy Fuehrer. The Englishman told me the same thing. The one who came to my cell. But he called me Schubert. He was trying to confuse me. Or is that my name?
No.
He ignored the dizziness and the discomfort of the cast on his left thigh. He stood and saluted, arm out like a ramrod.
Sieg Heil! Sieg Heil! I am Rudolf Hess ... I am the Deputy Fuehrer. I know the Fuehrer’s innermost thoughts.
* * * *
Gestapo Headquarters
Himmler peered up from the lenses of his pince-nez.
“Herr Reichsfuehrer. Hans Schmidt is here.”
“Show him in,” Himmler instructed his adjutant. “Then leave us alone.”
The adjutant bowed, clicking his heels. “Yawohl, Herr Reichsfuehrer.”
Schmidt stepped in and saluted the man with the smile and thin moustache in the black Reichsfuehrer SS uniform. “Heil Hitler!”
“Heil Hitler.” Himmler wrote the time of Schmidt’s arrival in the date book. “What do you feel is so important, Herr Schmidt, that it made you leave the sanctity of your beloved Lisbon?” Himmler beckoned his visitor. “Come. Come closer. Don’t be shy.”
The agent walked up and came to an abrupt halt, looking straight ahead. In a shaky voice, he said, “Herr Reichsfuehrer, I am grateful for your speediness in receiving me. Some recent information has come to my attention that I felt I had to report to you in person.”
Himmler folded his hands over his desk papers, and smiled, his eyes piercing. “Go on.”
“You must ... understand the unpleasantness of it. And the difficulty for me to say what—”
“Never mind the speech, Schmidt! Tell me what it is. I’m a busy man.”
The agent clicked his heels. “A British Secret Service agent in Portugal approached me and said there’s been ... some ... rumours since Hess’s flight to Scotland.”
Himmler felt a twinge in his spine. “Hess?”
“Yawohl, Herr Reichsfuehrer.”
“What about the fool?”
Schmidt licked his lips before going on. “He said that he was deserting the sinking ship. Of course, I said Hess was pronounced crazy by the Fuehrer and that we are the masters of—”
“Never mind what you said. What did he say?”
“He said there was turmoil in our High Command. He said that ... you, Herr Reichsfuehrer ... have ... have...”
“Have what? Spit it out!”
“Have aspirations to oust Adolf Hitler and be the Fuehrer yourself. He said it came from a good source.”
A sudden, controlled shockwave hit Himmler. He jumped from his chair and stood face to face with Schmidt. “What!”
The agent stepped back. “That’s what he said.”
“I’m surprised at you! That is ridiculous, Herr Schmidt. Totally ridiculous! You booked a Lufthansa flight and came all that way to tell me that! I wouldn’t do any such thing to the Fuehrer.”
The agent winced. “I realize that, Herr Reichsfuehrer. I did feel obliged to inform you of it.”
“What was his source? Did he have documentation? Any confirmation?”
“Well ... no, Herr Reichsfuehrer. He did not.”
“You didn’t see any papers?”
“No, Herr Reichsfuehrer.”
“How very interesting. You went on his word? The word of an Englishman?”
“Well, I—”
“Don’t you realize how utterly stupid you sound? We’re at war with these people. Don’t you see what the British are trying to do? They are desperate. They will try anything to turn us against each other. I would never do anything to the Fuehrer. Never! It is ludicrous to even think of it.”
“Yes, of course I knew that—”
“Have you told anyone else?”
“Oh, no. Never.” Schmidt shook his head violently, his eyes frightened, and large. “No one, Herr Reichsfuehrer.”
“I forbid you to discuss this outside this room!”
“Yes, Herr Reichsfuehrer.”
“To anyone! And avoid any similar situations at all costs. Ignore these Englishmen. Do you understand me?”
Schmidt nodded. “Yes, Herr Reichsfuehrer. But there is one other point that the British agent brought up, Herr Reichsfuehrer.”
Himmler stared into the agent’s face, inches away. “Well!”
“He said that they know what we have planned for the Jews.” Schmidt’s voice was barely audible. He blinked once. “What does he mean by that, Herr Reichsfuehrer?”
“Nothing!” Himmler exploded, stabbing a finger an inch from Schmidt’s face. “Nothing at all! The British don’t know anything. They made a fool of you, Schmidt. Are you going to let them do it again?”
“No, Herr Reichsfuehrer. I will not.”
Himmler showed him the door. “Very well. Go. Return to your duties in Portugal and make yourself useful. And don’t listen to any more silly rumours. How dare you! Dismiss.”
“As you say, Herr Reichsfuehrer. I am sorry to bother you.”
“Yes, yes. Of course, you are.”
Looking relieved, Schmidt clicked off an arm salute. “Heil Hitler!”
Himmler swung around, arm outstretched. “Heil Hitler.”
Himmler turned away. He had been forced to do nothing to Schmidt, outside of intimidating him. Himmler had disposed of Geis over the Hess mission. But he had to, the bumbling imbecile. He let Hess get away in a substitute aircraft. Schmidt was another matter entirely. He was too valuable. He couldn’t snuff him out. Besides, if the British were testing one German agent, they could be testing others.
He couldn’t kill them all.
* * * *
Montreal, Quebec, Canada
The Kid checked into his room at the Mount Royal Hotel that evening. It was spacio
us, with a large window, heavy gold-coloured drapes, and a huge double bed. From what he had seen of the other parts of the city’s plush hotel, Hollinger was impressed with everything, including the fancy lobby, the elegant dining room, and the wide dance stage on the top floor.
“This is living, man,” Hollinger said to himself, tossing his fedora into a chair, and flopping backwards onto the soft bed.
Two days had gone in a flash, from his White House briefing with the President on the status of Great Britain and the Hess mission, to surprising his parents in Rochester with a visit. Back home, he found time to play some tennis with his younger brother, and check out two of the girls he remembered. Today, he took a long bus trip over the Canadian border into Montreal under the cover of official U.S. Government business. Any good cover had to be at least close to the truth, Donovan had told him. It was in this case.
On the way to the hotel, he had stopped in at a book store and noticed an English translation of Adolf Hitler’s Mein Kampf. Hollinger bought it. Behind the counter stood a blonde woman. She was pretty, like Robbie. Nice legs too. He found he was always thinking of Roberta Langford now. The woman had smiled and he smiled back as he took the book and the change. Montreal women that he had seen so far weren’t too bad. Especially the blondes.
A knock at the door sprang Hollinger off the bed. “Come in. The door’s open.”
A thick-set man in his thirties, wearing dress slacks, tie, white shirt, and a leather flying jacket entered. “You Hollinger?”
“That’s me. You’re American, aren’t you?”
“You got it.”
“Where you from?”
“Cincinnati, Ohio. You?”
“Rochester, New York. Pleased to meet you,” Hollinger said. “I’m Wesley Hollinger. You’re my pilot.”
They shook hands.
The pilot looked at Hollinger’s well-cut suit. “Larry Waden. So, you’re the government man. The Lend-Lease observer.”
“Yeah, that’s right.” Hollinger told him, amused at his own cover. “Quite the place, here. I like it.”
“It’s OK.” Waden lit a cigarette. “Can’t do anything in a hotel room by yourself. Come on. We’ll show you the spots uptown.”
“Lead the way, Larry.”
“Stick close, though. Don’t get into any arguments with Frenchmen.”
“Why not?”
“They don’t like this war. They say it’s England’s fight.”
“Sounds like our own country.”
The pilot caught the irony. “Yeah, guess you’re right,” he smirked. “Be careful, just the same.”
* * * *
The Peel Tavern was a favourite haunt for Royal Air Force Ferry Command aircrews.
Laws were different in Quebec. This was an all-male establishment. No women in Quebec pubs. Here at the Peel one could buy a quart of beer for two-bits, and pick from a forty-gallon drum of oysters on ice. The rest of the pilot’s crew — the co-pilot, the navigator, the radio operator — had already started their drinking.
Waden made the introductions, amid the smell of liquor, oysters, and thick cigarette smoke.
“Coming along for the ride, are you?” the American co-pilot asked, draining his drink.
“Sure am,” Hollinger said.
“It’s your butt, buster. By the way, that a fake diamond or what?”
Hollinger glanced down at the ring on his finger. “This? Ah, it’s nothing.”
“Like shit it is.”
SIX
Dorval, Quebec — August 2
The Kid and the crew rode the dawn shuttle bus from the Montreal hotel over twenty miles of mostly wide-open country to RAF Ferry Command Headquarters at Dorval Airport.
After a greasy ham-and-eggs breakfast, Hollinger followed the men to the briefing, then to the tarmac where he observed with interest the pilots performing the all-important visual on the aircraft that reminded him of a turtle with wings. Other crews were lined far down the tarmac with their own aircraft, performing the same ritual.
The air temperature was cool, in the low sixties. Larry Waden and co-pilot, George Bridgewater, checked the outside of the B-24 Liberator first. Walking completely around it, their alert eyes searched up and down the odd-shaped chunk of four-engined, American-built machinery about to be flown to England.
Engine leaks...? Cracked glass...? Rivets loose...? Tires ok...?
Waden stomped his cigarette on the asphalt, and helped the crew manually spin the four huge props by hand to circulate the oil inside the walls of the engines before start-up.
“All aboard!” Waden groaned, finished with the outside inspection.
Hollinger grabbed his baggage, and followed in tow. But when he took his first few steps in his bulky flight gear and boots, he tripped and fell, catching himself before he dropped flat to his face. The crew laughed. Hollinger picked himself up and stumbled red-faced through the fuselage opening into the bare metal interior.
“Come on up here, Hollinger,” the radio operator said, trudging towards the cockpit. “Throw your stuff right there, across from my station.”
Hollinger looked around. No chair. Only a corner. His home for the several hours to Gander, Newfoundland. Oh well, he had to make the best of it.
* * * *
Barcelona
Adam Eiser eased into the soft sand, allowing the hot sun to beat down on his already-tanned body. It was part of a well-deserved rest between assignments in South America. North Africa was next. Land of Rommel, the Desert Fox. Now there was a man Eiser wanted to meet.
Eiser leaned to one side and through his dark sunglasses saw a Spanish woman with deep brown skin walking along the water’s edge. He flipped off his glasses for a better look. She was attractive in her blue, tight-fitting, one-piece bathing suit. Her hair was long and dark, reminding him of the women in Brazil. Earlier, she had been with a man. He was gone now. Who was he? Husband? Friend? Lover? Would he return? Did they have a spat? A lover’s spat? He watched her stroll the length of the not-so-busy beach, finally disappearing on the other side of the rocky bend. Eiser lay back, his sunglasses on.
He heard the soft flip-flop of thonged footsteps in the sand.
“Adam Eiser?”
Eiser turned to the voice, his eyes falling on an out-of-shape man with a barrel stomach, brown blazer, white slacks. No tie. His puffy face was blotched-red and sweaty.
“Maybe. Who might you be?”
“The German Embassy sent me to find you,” the man panted, out of breath.
“You found me. What now, old boy?”
The man removed a white envelope from an inside blazer pocket. “A communiqué for you, sir. From Berlin. I suggest you answer it promptly.”
“Dear me. Is that so?”
“Yes.”
The fat man shuffled away, heaving with each step.
Flip-flop. Flip-flip. Flip-flop...
* * * *
Dorval
Hollinger watched, standing at the rear of the cockpit, admiring the pilots’ skills. Waden stuck his head through the pilot window and cried “Clear” to the fire guard posted below. Then he held up one finger on his right hand, to signify he was going to start number one engine — the port-outer — first.
“Ignition?”
Bridgewater’s right hand went for the four switches on the co-pilot’s right. “On.”
“Prime number one?”
Bridgewater depressed a switch on his right, then released it. He did that four times. “Number one primed.” He gave his pilot the thumbs up.
“Start number one.”
Bridgewater hit the starter until the 1,000-plus horsepower Pratt & Whitney 14-cylinder radial engine cranked, threw out a healthy belch of white smoke, then fired up. Once it began running, Waden quickly brought the fuel mixture to the required auto-rich. Bridgewater shut the booster pump off and eyed the oil pressure gauges ahead of him, just below the windscreen.
“Oil pressure coming up,” he shouted over the engine thund
er.
Waden nodded. Waiting until the engine ran smoothly at 1,000 RPM, he called out to start number two. In minutes, all four engines were running. Hollinger could barely hear himself think with the high-powered engines buzzing the metal around him. The crew were now on intercom.
Waden checked the flight indicator and the directional gyro. Next, his eyes fell upon the instrument gauges...
Oil pressure...
Oil temperature...
Cylinder head temperature...
Fuel pressure...
Carburettor air temperature...
Tachometers and manifold pressure...
A call to the tower confirmed the radio check, altimeter setting and time. The wheel chocks were removed. Waden pulled the mighty machine away.
He edged the aircraft to the end of runway two-eight, and turned it into the wind.
“Auto rich. Brakes set,” Bridgewater said over the intercom.
“Props?”
Bridgewater checked the high RPM and governor limits. No problem.
“Running up the engines.” Waden started with number one by advancing it until it reached 2,000 RPM. Bridgewater watched the magneto setting, as Waden cracked the engine wide open. The manifold pressure climbed. He pushed the supercharger slowly open until the desired manifold pressure rose. He and Bridgewater followed the same procedure for the other three engines.
“Superchargers are set and ... locked. Gyros ... set. Wing flaps twenty degrees?”
The cop-pilot’s left hand reached between the two men. “Wing flaps at twenty degrees.”
“Doors and hatches?”
The navigator flicked on the intercom. “Closed.”
“Cowl flaps?”
Bridgewater set the flaps to the trail position of ten degrees.
“Booster pumps?”
“On.”
Bridgewater contacted the tower and cleared the machine for take-off.