The Filberg Consortium

by Daniel Wyatt

  * * * *

  Gestapo Headquarters

  Spy master Heinrich Himmler did his best to stay cool and collected when the Fuehrer telephoned from the Russian Front.

  “Yawohl, mein Fuehrer. I have a report. The commando squads are following orders and performing admirably.”

  “The Jewish problem, how is that coming along?”

  “The special camps will be running at full capacity, mein Fuehrer, by the end of the year or early next year.” Himmler knew that to be a lie. For now, just tell Hitler what he wanted to hear.

  “Why the delay?”

  “It is taking some time for the logistics, the paperwork and the blueprints, the bidding, and then we have construction of the units. Organizing the prisoners into staging areas for transport.”

  “Speed it up! There is no place for the unfit.”

  “Yawohl, mein Fuehrer.”

  “And the chemical? What is it called?”

  “Zyklon-B, mein Fuehrer. Hydrogen cyanide crystals. The Filberg organization says it’s an instant kill. Merciless, you might say.”

  * * * *

  Himmler hung up, and pressed the intercom.

  “Yawohl, Herr Reichsfuehrer.”

  “Ask Herr Eiser to return at once.”

  Himmler wrote in his date book. 11:15 — spoke with the Fuehrer on the Jewish problem.

  “Yawohl, Herr Reichsfuehrer.”

  In a few moments, Himmler stared at his resummoned visitor.

  “How is our Fuehrer, Herr Reichsfuehrer?”

  “Worried.”

  Adam Eiser dared to show a ragged smile.

  Himmler knew the cocksure agent wouldn’t be a pushover like Schmidt or Geis or the others. The flamboyant, six-foot-four, thirty-five-year-old agent with the unblinking, ice-grey eyes was too clever for that. Himmler’s file on agent Eiser was clear. He worked for money and the Nazi ideals he had cherished since his teenage years. He took risks. He took the jobs no one else wanted or could do. He was useful. He was fond of inflicting pain and death, and had his own unusual code of self-preservation. He was making a very decent living as a “specialist” in a market that catered to his talents. He was one of the few men Himmler respected. Anyone who could outsmart Admiral Wilhelm Canaris, the German Secret Service chief, and get away with it he had respect for.

  Eiser had guts. Recruited by Canaris in 1940, Eiser had been handed what some would consider a thankless assignment, and that was to spy on the German Intelligence High Command based in Berlin. He had acquired the necessary data needed to report to Canaris, all the while going straight to Himmler — by his own initiative — and reporting to the Gestapo leader on everything he was telling Canaris. Himmler admired snitches who worked for him. Eiser was a smart snitch who covered his tracks. Himmler convinced Canaris to let Eiser jump to the Gestapo without letting Canaris know that he was the one being spied on the whole time. Canaris had no choice. A mere mention of his intimate relations with known Berlin prostitutes — the evidence in Himmler’s Gestapo dossier — was the convincing factor. Canaris was the one who forgot to cover his own tracks.

  The Reichsfuehrer-SS wiped his pince-nez clean. He studied Eiser’s features to confirm his evaluation. Eiser looked too Nordic. Nothing could be done about the eyes and deep voice. But the long, light hair, prominent jaw, high cheek bones, and Roman nose could go. He’d have to start wearing a hat. Hats were popular where he was going.

  “What exactly did you have in mind, Herr Reichsfuehrer?”

  “Two jobs.”

  “The usual fee?”

  “Better. Much better. A new donor has stepped forward. An interested rich party.”

  “Who, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “I.S. Filberg.”

  “The business cartel?”

  “The same. The first job ... 50,000 pounds sterling in your Zurich account. And I’ll throw in a bonus. After these two, a well-deserved month’s vacation to the Riviera. All expenses paid.”

  Eiser’s eyes gleamed. “I like them already.”

  “I thought you might, Herr Eiser.”

  “What is the second?”

  “I’ll get to that. The first one is your old stomping grounds. You will confine your activities to—”

  “England?”

  Himmler nodded. “Yes. The second a ... backyard job.”

  “Germany?”

  “You are reading my thoughts, Herr Eiser.”

  “England? Germany? Highly unusual, wouldn’t you say?”

  Himmler smiled. “Yes. For the first assignment, you will be in and out. No radio communication with Hamburg once you are there.”

  “Why is that, Herr Reichsfuehrer?”

  “You’re only contact will be our agent Denise.”

  “I’ve heard of her. And she’s pretty too, I hear.”

  “Yes, she is.”

  “What exactly is my job?”

  “Kill Party member Rudolf Hess.”

  Eiser didn’t speak for several seconds. “Kill Hess?” he said, as if he asked the question every day.

  “Yes.”

  “But he’s in British custody, Herr Reichsfuehrer. Probably guarded like no other person on all the island.”

  “I know that, Herr Eiser.”

  “And I’m a wanted man in England. I wouldn’t get very far.”

  Himmler smiled. “I know that too, Herr Eiser. I have a plan, a new identity, falsified papers, and a perfect cover for you.”

  “May I be so bold as to ask why you want him dead, Herr Reichsfuehrer?”

  “Certainly. The person in custody may not be the genuine article. Someone could have inserted an ersatz Hess.”

  “Who?”

  “The British, naturally. You know Hess, I understand.”

  Eiser folded his hands in front of him, bringing Party Member Hess to mind. The first meeting was in the Chancellery. December, 1939. Hess was tall, slim, wore a meticulously-cut uniform with the shiniest black boots. He was clever, cool, suspicious of anyone too close to the Fuehrer. “Yes. I met him. Briefly. Twice. But...”

  “But what?”

  “That was some time ago.”

  “Yes, at the Chancellery. Don’t worry. I know someone who will help you in your identification of the Deputy Fuehrer when the time comes.”

  Eiser sat up. “What if he’s the real Hess?”

  “Simple enough. While you’re there, kill him anyway.”

  “Kill him?”

  “He’s crazy, isn’t he?”

  “So the German radio and newspapers say. How will I kill him under the English noses?”

  “Lethal injection. Takes only seconds to work.”

  “I see.” Eiser considered what he was up against. “Why is I.S. Filberg so suddenly interested in Hess?”

  “It doesn’t concern you, or me for that matter. Will you still take the first assignment then?”

  “Of course, Herr Reichsfuehrer.”

  “I thought you might. I must know one way or the other if the man in Churchill’s hands is Hess or an impostor. Either way, he dies. Clear enough?”

  “Yes, Herr Reichsfuehrer.”

  “Very good. But first, I have to send you somewhere, to see ... a specialist.”

  “Where, Herr Reichsfuehrer?”

  “A trip over the border. Switzerland.”

  They stared at each other.

  “I see,” Eiser said.

  “What is on your mind, Herr Eiser?”

  “What does my backyard job entail?” Eiser laughed. “Kill the Fuehrer?”

  “Oh no. Nothing like that. Just kidnap him. For one-hundred thousand pounds.”

  * * * *

  Rastenburg, East Prussia

  His First World War Iron Cross reflected the strong indoor lighting. The decoration was the one possession he was most proud of, the one he had worked the hardest for. In 1917, he had single-handedly captured enemy soldiers at gunpoint. Since the attack on Russia, more than twenty years later, he found himself spending
most of his time here at Wolf’s Lair, his fortified bunker close to the Eastern Front, directing the war against his hated Communist enemy.

  In silence and solitude over his wide map of the Eastern campaign, Adolf Hitler began to consume his light lunch of raw vegetables, yogurt, and mineral water. His Blitzkrieg forces were advancing swiftly into the heart of the Bolshevik empire. The network of fighters, bombers, armour, and infantry, coupled with precise radio communication was a well-oiled machine. In the first nine hours of the attack, his forces destroyed over 1,000 Russian aircraft, and within a week ninety percent of their front-line aerial strength. Speed! ... Speed! ... Speed! Lightning war, like the world had never seen before. He had introduced a radical change in tactics in which air power was the key.

  Although Russia was his prime target, Hitler’s deepest innermost thoughts were directed at the British. His heart ached. He couldn’t understand why they were still fighting him. They were numskulls. Hadn’t they read Mein Kampf? Had he written it in vain? Bolsheviks were the German enemy, not the British. He allowed the miracle at Dunkirk to take place. He ordered the panzers to hold up at the beaches to give time for the British to surrender and ink a peace deal. They escaped. But they didn’t talk. They didn’t sign. Churchill — he is the one who’s poisoned their minds.

  Hitler snickered. England fought the Battle of Britain bravely, but stupidly. It was so useless. It wasn’t any prelude to invasion as Churchill had bellowed in his broadcasts. It was a tactical bluff to lure England to sign a peace pact. There was no point to invading England. They were supposed to be his blood brothers. Now they were interfering with his plans for expansion. All Europe was his, and Britain had better stay out of it now. They were poking their noses where they didn’t belong.

  David Lloyd George, Britain’s Prime Minister during the Great War, and the Duke of Windsor were Hitler’s favourite Englishmen. Both had visited Germany and Berghof, and declared their unquestionable admiration for the New German Order. Lloyd George should be in power, not that Jew-loving Churchill, who had refused the latest generous offer of concessions. And the Duke should be on the throne once more, not his brother George VI, Churchill’s pawn.

  Hitler hammered his fist on the table, furious that his peace offer to Churchill was thrown back in his face. If the world only knew what he — the Fuehrer — was willing to give up! Hitler now had to trounce the Russians to bring England to its knees and make peace. A beaten Russia would sign. There would be no mercy on them. No negotiated peace. Only unconditional surrender. It was the only way now, the Fuehrer had decided. It was all going to his plan. He was counting on a twenty-week campaign to finish off Stalin’s forces. Five months. Tops. He was already a quarter-way there. Then total capitulation.

  Hitler reflected on Hess and the ill-fated flight. Whether the British and Russians had intercepted the plans for Operation Barbarossa or not, it didn’t matter.

  Hess, you nincompoop.

  * * * *

  MI-6 Headquarters

  Hollinger stood at his Whitehall office window and faced the car lot, his fingers crinkling the blinds. Through the slit he saw the RAF officer open the car door for Langford. Hollinger watched every one of her graceful moves. She kissed the officer lightly on the lips and climbed in.

  The two drove off into the light surface fog. Hollinger yawned. Wake up, sleepyhead. He closed the blinds, cursing under his breath. Was the Englishman the previous engagement she would have to break? Hell, they kissed. The nerve of her. With the lipstick he had bought her in Washington! How long had this relationship been going on? What a rail he was. No great catch on her part. What did she see in the schmuck? At least he had good taste, though. But damn. Langford.

  Why her?

  There was no denying it. Hollinger was taken by Roberta Langford. In the States, he thought he could forget her. And he did for a time. But seeing her again brought back the fervour. A year ago this would not have been possible. He was falling for a redhead, after all the jokes he used to make about redheaded women. And a redhead who smoked!

  “Some guys have all the luck,” he mumbled, closing the blinds and returning to his half-finished crossword. He yawned once more.

  Then he thought about something. She was probably wearing the nylons he gave her, too.

  NINE

  Zurich — August 4

  With a clank of wheels and a hiss of steam, the Munich Special jerked into the train station. David Shean was there to greet it.

  Sunday started out quiet for Shean, a Monday-through-Friday salesman dealing in telephones, typewriters, and radios. During off-hours, he was on the lookout for any unusual activity or irregular sort of people in the country that had come to be aptly named as Spy Alley.

  Switzerland was a small country wedged between the borders of Germany, Italy, and France, and surrounded by a natural barrier of mountains. She had declared herself professionally neutral in 1815, following the end of the Napoleonic Wars, and had remained that way ever since. By 1941, she had been growing rich off the Second World War by banking for the Germans. The Swiss deplored the Nazi tactics, although it didn’t stop them from exporting a major portion of her goods to the Third Reich. Western countries called the Swiss ‘cynical opportunists’ and ‘renegade Germans’. Germany criticized them for being a haven for Jews and Marxists. Meanwhile, Hitler had a thousand agents in Switzerland, hundreds out of the ranks of the Gestapo. The Americans and the British also had hundreds of their own agents in the country and they used their respective embassies for communication channelling.

  The Swiss had a favourite saying: “Six days a week we work for the Germans. On the seventh day we rest and pray for the allies.” This Sunday, Shean saw an interesting man step onto the sheltered platform beneath the white-crossed Swiss flag and amble his way into the forest of bodies. He was in his thirties, two or three inches over six feet. Brown hair. No hat. But it was the brutal, cold eyes that first pinched a nerve in Shean. He had a memory for such things.

  No mistake. It was Lancer. They had a long-standing nickname for him — Acid Man. What the bloody hell was Lancer doing here? Shean tucked his newspaper under his arm, took to the street on foot and followed the man, carefully. The sidewalks were moderately busy with morning traffic. A crowd was always a good cover. Shean kept him within sight at more than forty feet back. Twice Lancer turned, nonchalantly. Shean expected it both times, and merely kept walking, slowly, his eyes searching the storefront windows.

  Six blocks from the station, Shean was surprised to see Lancer slip through the revolving glass doors of a ten-story office building. On a Sunday? Shean followed. No one was inside the lobby. Metal elevators were straight ahead. No movement by the numbers overtop. No one was on the stairs to the right. Shean grunted.

  He had lost him.

  * * * *

  MI-6 Headquarters, London

  Sunday at the office wasn’t any less busy than any other day. As was the custom, Colonel Lampert’s secretary would always promptly serve the first tea of the day at 10:30. When she arrived exactly on time, Lampert said to her, “Ring Hollinger for me, would you please, Margaret?”

  “Yes, sir. Any instructions?”

  “Tell him to see me here. Immediately.”

  “Right away, colonel.”

  Content with his tea, Lampert waited patiently, looking across the room to the framed pictures of Churchill and King George VI. An organized mess, the colonel’s spacious office contained stuffed bookshelves, sagging from the weight. Files littered the floor. He lit his pipe and the sweet smell of pipe tobacco filled the air.

  Hollinger appeared in under a minute.

  “Spare me a few moments, Wesley. I wish to have a word with you.”

  “Sure.”

  “What’s that in your mouth? Gum?”

  “Sure is. Wrigley’s. From the good ol’ USA. Want some?”

  “Certainly not. Get rid of it. I don’t want any gum chewing in my office.”

  “Yes, sir. If you say so
.” Hollinger lifted his foot and stuck the gum to the side of the shoe.

  “Oh, for the love of—”

  Hollinger glanced up, grinning. “What’s the matter?”

  “Never mind. How did you do at the firing range?”

  “Not bad. I think I hit the target a couple times.”

  “Yours, or somebody else’s?”

  Hollinger laughed and sank in a chair, the pistol that had been his companion of late was visible, strapped to a chest holster under his jacket.

  Lampert had two files on his cluttered desk, beneath a bright desk lamp. “How’s the shadowing?” He took a swallow of the tea.

  Hollinger shrugged, cracking his knuckles. “Jordan’s a good little boy. Goes to work, goes home to his wife. Or goes out for a few bubblies, then goes home to his wife. Nothing out of the ordinary. I think we’re wasting our time.”

  “Keep on him,” Lampert demanded.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Lampert then walked Hollinger through the Sims-Schmidt discussion in Portugal, and Schmidt’s subsequent flight to Berlin. “Winnie named it Operation Decoy. We’re feeding information to those close to Himmler, based on the Schubert’s peace papers. We want to isolate the Fuehrermaster, monitor his reaction and see whether the information will climb the ladder. Maybe we can spark a sudden turn of events that will trip up the upper echelon of the regime. Perhaps cause some infighting or topple it. You know what I mean?”

  “Wishful thinking. I hope it doesn’t backfire on you.”

  “Why should it?”

  “You never know.”

  Lampert moved a file towards Hollinger, laying it open for him. The American saw the photograph of a man with a receding hairline, in his forties. “Look at this, if you would.”

  “Who do we have here?” Hollinger asked, turning the file his way.

  “His codename is Lawrence.”

  “Ordinary codename.”

  “He’s rather keen on Lawrence Olivier movies.”

  “To each his own. I prefer Clark Gable. Better yet, Betty Grable. You know, A Yank in the RAF.”