The Filberg Consortium

by Daniel Wyatt

  Lampert frowned, dragging on his pipe. “Yes, I saw it. It wasn’t very good.” He pointed at the picture. “His name is David Shean. MI-6 out of Zurich, Switzerland. Good man. Comes highly recommended.”

  “By whom?”

  “Me.”

  “OK,” Hollinger muttered.

  Lampert took the file back and gave Hollinger another. “Take a look.”

  The American read the tab in the top corner. “Adam Eiser. Hey, how about that.”

  “You heard of him?”

  “No. It’s just ... the name. Say it fast and it comes out like atomizer. Maybe his parents didn’t like him.”

  “Please, let’s get back to the file, shall we. There are spies. Then there are master spies. Eiser is the latter. This morning, Shean saw him in Zurich.”

  “What’s unusual about that?”

  “Last we heard, Eiser was in South America. Something significant might be in the offing. This man’s frightfully good and he’s dangerous. The best foreign agent the Germans have. Codenamed Lancer.”

  “How did this Shean get word to you so fast?”

  “A regular cable. Plain-language code.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I don’t kid.”

  “An uncoded cable? Why?”

  “They’re quick and easy. Even if a neutral technician is blackmailed to tap the cable, it doesn’t matter. An uncoded transmission is above suspicion if it looks innocent, which this is. MI-6 has a man at our London cable office. He can get it to us in minutes. Here.”

  Hollinger took the sheet from Lampert’s hand.

  HEAD OFFICE SIX FOUR. AMAN IN TOWN. ARRIVED BY TRAIN. LARRY

  “What does Aman stand for? Is that a misprint?”

  “A hard A-sound. A-Man. It took a while for it to register on me. Our agent even changed his codename a tad to Larry. A-Man is undoubtedly short for Acid-Man. A nickname someone in MI-6 had given Eiser years ago. I’ll explain shortly.”

  “You think someone sent for him?”

  “Yes. It’s highly possible because he’s worked primarily for the SD.”

  “What’s the SD?”

  “The Sicherheitsdienst. The secret intelligence and security service arm of the Nazi Party, run by Himmler. Their duties cover a wide range of internal surveillance and espionage around the world.”

  Hollinger flipped through the half-inch of paperwork, until he came to a faded photograph of three men in suits, drinks in their hands.

  “That was taken here in London in 1937,” Lampert said. “At an Anglo-German Fellowship Association black-tie affair. Eiser’s in the middle. Stephen Jordan to the right.”

  Hollinger froze. “Wait a sec. Eiser and Jordan knew each other?”

  “Yes, they did.”

  “Anglo-American Fellowship Association, eh? Did anybody in England not belong to that outfit?”

  “A few.”

  “Who’s the cat on the left?”

  “Joachim von Ribbentrop, then German Ambassador to Great Britain. Getting back to Eiser. He’s of mixed decent. A one-time British citizen. But an ardent Nazi. British mother, German father, a dock worker. The father’s nationality was the dominating factor.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Will you keep quiet and let me finish.”

  “Sorry, sir. Go on.”

  Pipe in mouth, Lampert cleared his throat, and gave Hollinger the data from memory. Eiser was an only child. Born, 1906 in Liverpool and reared there. Mother died when he was ten. His father never remarried. Eiser went to private schools, schools that his father could barely afford. He had high marks. Always at the top five percent of his class. The father died in a work-related accident in 1930. By then, Adam was a firm believer in the National Socialist Party. He had training as a doctor, but dropped out of university after two years.

  The Depression came along. He drifted from job to job. He had girlfriends, but never married. A lover of the arts — the theatre, fine music. Joined the British Fascist Movement and the Anglo-German Association, offering his services to the Germans through their Embassy to spy on the British. The British knew what he was up to from a source inside the German Embassy. They let him operate to see who he was making the rounds with. He reportedly knew Hess and the Haushofers. He had vast contacts in Parliament and Whitehall. Helped to distribute the English-translated version of the Nazi newspaper, Volkischer Beobachter. He made friends with British newspapermen and businessmen, and collected lists of those sympathetic to the Nazi cause. Two weeks before war broke out in Poland, he disappeared and wound up in Germany, and a new career with Wilhelm Canaris of the German Secret Service, followed by Himmler and the Gestapo and Sicherheitsdienst.

  He was a man of many talents. A lone wolf. A real pro, with a certain flair for the dramatics. For years he had made fools of the British. Besides being illusive, he was an expert at explosives, muscle, spying, assassination, espionage, counterespionage, and sabotage. He had worked mostly in neutral countries. He had a distinct style of killing, when he got the chance at close range. He would keep small steel capsules of hydrofluoric acid in his pockets and would throw them in the faces of his victims to catch them off-guard, then stab them in a main artery behind the ear. The victims choked to death. Due to his medical training, he knew precisely where to strike. His weapon was a thin, British-made dagger, common to female Secret Service agents. Hence, his nickname of Acid-Man and codename of Lancer.

  “By using the acid and the dagger,” Lampert said, “we always know where he’s been. He incriminates himself, almost as if he wants to leave clues. But we’ve never been able to catch him. It’s a game he’s played with us for two years.”

  Hollinger flipped the file closed and slid it towards Lampert. “It sounds as though he enjoys his assignments.”

  “No doubt. A Nazi of independent thought. The worst kind.”

  “I hope I never meet up with him.”

  “My sentiments too. He travels rather light, but packs a wallop. Most ingenious, I’d say.”

  “I agree.”

  “And he works for money. Lots of it. Usually paid in pounds sterling in a Swiss bank.”

  “A high-roller, eh?”

  “Quite. Perhaps money will be the death of him one of these times.”

  “I’m glad I won’t have that to tempt me,” Hollinger joked. “Not with what my government’s paying me.”

  “Same here, lad.”

  “You too, huh? Just here for the love of it.”

  Lampert smiled slowly. “Funny, the same week that Eiser is spotted, a colleague of his in Brazil disappeared. Edgar Heinemann, codenamed Bradley. A mentor of Eiser for a time.”

  “SD?” asked Hollinger.

  “Yes. But thought to be retired. He just up and vanished. MI-6 has asked Donovan and your COI for some assistance in that part of the world. Thought you should know this information.”

  “Thanks. Any significance or connection? Heinemann and Eiser pulling up stakes and moving out, I mean?”

  “I don’t know. Perhaps. It’s worth looking into.”

  “And what about Jordan? It seems a coincidence that we’re tailing Jordan at the same time, don’t you think?” Hollinger asked.

  Lampert puffed on his pipe. “Maybe.”

  * * * *

  Zurich

  Shean paced the entrance near the revolving door for the rest of the afternoon, watching a few faces come and go on this off-day.

  No sign of Eiser.

  Five o’clock came and went. They’d be closing the building in another thirty minutes. Still no sign. Shean wondered if Eiser, by chance, knew he was being followed. Shean raised himself to his feet, and threw his newspaper in a trash can. There was only one other way Eiser could have left. Out the back. Shean’s footsteps echoed on the marble floor as he strode to the balcony above the entrance. He glanced over at the building’s long directory in block letters on the wall board for the umpteenth time. Then something finally registered. Under the heading of p
lastic surgeons, he found two names.

  One was German.

  Dr. Seissburg.

  * * * *

  London

  At the flat, Langford was the perfect hostess. She was ladylike and polite, and waited on Hollinger’s every want. But the evening wasn’t going well until she brought out the brandy and poured it into two crystal glasses. She and Hollinger drank and seemed to loosen up quickly.

  “How did you like the kidney pie, there boss?” Langford asked. She lit a Player’s, and puffed.

  He smirked. “I ate it, didn’t I? Anyway, the Yorkshire pudding was delicious.”

  “I thought you seemed rather partial to it. You ate over half the pan.” She blew out a perfect smoke ring.

  “I couldn’t stop.”

  “I’m glad you had the decency to leave me a corner.”

  He shrugged. “Well, I had to. You being the hostess and all.”

  They retired to a long brocaded sofa in the small living room, taking their brandy with them. The comfortably-furnished, one-bedroom flat was on the first floor in an unbombed area of London within walking distance of MI-6 Headquarters, which was ideal for Langford. Flats were safe again with the Blitz over. Londoners with unscathed houses and apartments like this one to go home to had been gradually ascending from the depths of the underground subway tunnels since the last attack on May 10.

  Hollinger watched as Langford kicked off her shoes and crossed her legs. He was not surprised to see that she had on a pair of the American-bought nylons. They looked good on her. He liked the way she appeared. Her hair was up in the front, down on the sides and back. She was wearing a white, silk blouse and stylish blue skirt that showed off her slim waist and shapely figure.

  “Anyone ever tell you that you have nice legs?” Hollinger asked.

  “Is this relevant?”

  “Depends.”

  “On what? Don’t answer that. All right. Yes. You’ve told me. Three times, I think.” She sighed.

  “Fancy that. But who’s counting?”

  “You are one rather tactless man.”

  “Yes, I am. You changed your perfume.”

  “Yes. Thought I’d try a new French brand that someone gave me.”

  He grinned, making her grin.

  “I’m told the colonel says our prisoner is cooperating.”

  “Schubert? Yeah, after a little threat,” Hollinger answered.

  “The President is in-the-know now, is he?”

  “Oh, yes. About the impostor. And he has the full lowdown on the peace papers.”

  “Splendid. Will the German plans for domination make you Americans fight for us?”

  “Not that by itself. We’re part-way there already, without the people’s support. Roosevelt’s in a jam, and he knows it. If he goes too far in aiding Britain, he could be impeached for breaking the neutrality laws.”

  Hollinger went on to describe in detail the rest of the meeting and what he remembered of the White House, including the inside of the Oval Office. As the American talked, he noticed Langford’s eyelids drooping and her forehead starting to crease. Then he got to the martinis.

  “You had martinis with the President ... in the morning?”

  “Yep. Eleven o’clock. There’s something I can tell my grandchildren.”

  “You have to get married first. Then again, in your case, probably not. You really are precious.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you’ve been to 10 Downing Street and the White House, hobnobbing with Churchill and with Roosevelt. I haven’t even met Churchill, yet.”

  “Maybe you will someday.”

  “I doubt it. Why little old me?”

  He shrugged. “I dunno. It might happen. I’ll try and get you in.”

  She attempted a smile. “More brandy?”

  “No thanks.”

  “I know I shan’t.” She massaged her temple and grimaced. “I’m feeling a ... headache coming on.”

  “You’re not ... you know...”

  “Pregnant? Certainly not!” Her hand went to her hip.

  “Just asking.”

  “Good grief! You were assuming.” Her eyes burnt into his.

  “Are you seeing anyone?”

  “Maybe. Must you know so much about me?”

  “What about that beanpole of a flyboy?”

  “Then you do know?” She paused.

  “Everybody does. The office is talking about it.”

  “He’s a nice man, thank you very much.”

  Hollinger pictured them kissing in the parking lot. “I hope he’s treating you well.”

  “He is.” She gave him a slight smile. “He’s a perfect gentleman.”

  Which means he’s boring as hell, Hollinger wanted to say. “That’s nice. If he gives you any trouble, let me know.”

  “Protect my virtue, will you?”

  “Yeah, something like that.” He scratched his chin. “Look, I know the evening’s still young and all that, but you don’t look that well. I’ll run along. Maybe I’ll relax and read a new book I bought.”

  “Which one?”

  “Mein Kampf,” he told her.

  “Hitler’s Mein Kampf!”

  “No Churchill’s. Of course, Hitler’s.”

  “You’re joking. Mein Kampf?”

  “Yes, Hitler’s book of bent ideology.”

  “Why on earth would you want to read that?” She felt her forehead.

  “I want to see for myself what he says in it.”

  “Oh.”

  Hollinger stood, followed by Langford. They looked into each other’s eyes. Hollinger fumbled with his hat. “I’ll see you at the office. I hope you feel better soon.”

  She walked him to the door. “Thank you. I hope so too.”

  “I’m sorry if I upset you.”

  “It’s been lovely, really.”

  “Ah, you’re just saying that.”

  “Yes, I am.” As she began to close the door on him, she said through the crack, “Till tomorrow, boss. Ta, ta.”

  “Adios.”

  In the hall, Hollinger didn’t move for several moments. He stared at the chipped door. It was a deep mystery to him why he couldn’t get to first base with her. Was he too abrupt with her? Nah, she thrived on that. It’s what kept her charged in a man’s world. She liked to pretend she didn’t like it.

  What the hell was it then?

  His flat was a roomy, one-bedroom on the fourth floor with connecting living room and kitchen. Although only two miles from Langford’s place, it was in a better end of town and offered a brilliant view of the city on two sides.

  Inside, Hollinger did exactly what he told Langford he’d do. He first put on a pot of strong American coffee, then curled into his chair with Mein Kampf. He thought back to the blonde counter woman in Montreal who sold him the book. Pretty, like Roberta.

  Strange, that he didn’t like redheads before he came to England. Then he met Roberta. She was really quite a knockout. So outgoing. So intelligent. A brain. And so doggone stubborn. Like a mule. She was no pushover. And not one to mince words. If any woman could be an iron ass, she probably could be. What a woman.

  Hollinger shook his head, opened the book to the first page, and began to read.

  TEN

  Argentia Bay, Newfoundland — August 9

  The President inhaled the brackish, damp air. He relished the sea aroma this dull, cloudy, misty morning at 0900 hours aboard the pitching deck of the American battleship cruiser USS Augusta. In the First World War, he was the Assistant Secretary of the Navy. Roosevelt’s love for the open water continued unabated as the current reigning Commander-in-Chief.

  The President arranged himself in his wheelchair, beneath a set of long, grey guns pointed across the Bay to the green hills beyond. He drained his hot mug of coffee, and asked his son for a fill-up. Ready to receive the British Prime Minister, the President wore his leg braces over a brown suit, with a brown hat. The ship beneath him had been cleaned to pe
rfection. Gathered in a group of military brass and civilians, the waves lapping against the hull, he watched with the others as one to the east in anticipation of Churchill’s ship, set to arrive in minutes.

  Roosevelt had been in office eight turbulent years. After taking the oath in the midst of the Great Depression, he had informed his nation, “The only thing to fear is fear itself.” At the time, one of every four workers was jobless. Thousands were standing in bread lines. Farmers and city workers couldn’t pay their mortgages. Thousands of banks were closing their doors. Five thousand banking institutions collapsed the day before Roosevelt’s inauguration on March 4, 1933.

  Roosevelt made bold strides in legislation to combat the bad times. He spent billions on relief and public works programs. Government agencies shot up overnight, labelled by their three-lettered initials — CCC, TVA, CWA, WPA, NRA. And he became FDR. He placed federal controls on business. Conservative-minded people said he had gone too far, that he had made government too powerful. But the common man adored him. He quickly became the President who people either loved to love or loved to hate.

  For the first six years of his administration, FDR’s goal was to prop America back on its feet again. Since 1939, and Hitler’s attack on Poland, the President had been concentrating his efforts on the war. Trouble was, he was an outsider looking in. He hoped that Churchill would understand that. But he knew that to convince the British leader of America’s sincerity might be tougher than any opposition the President had to face in implementing the New Deal.

  At last, an officer spotted two ships steaming towards them.

  “Looks like the British delegation now, dad,” Elliott Roosevelt said. “I wonder what Churchill’s like? Some say he’s a bully.”

  “Now where have I heard that before,” the President said, his eyes moving up to his son.

  They laughed.

  Roosevelt set his coffee down, and stood, supported by his son. Someone pushed the wheelchair off to the side. The President had made up his mind that he would not greet his long-distance ally sitting down.

  Three ships burst through the surface mist, the hum of their engines drawing closer by the second. They were destroyers, with grey camouflage that blended into the sea. Then a fourth ship, HMS Prince of Wales, far bigger than the others, split through the three and chugged alongside the Augusta, causing the American cruiser to rock gently. Just that May, the war-weary Prince of Wales had blasted the Bismarck to the bottom of the sea. A host of men stood on the deck. Roosevelt saw Churchill right off — short, squatty, cigar in mouth, dressed in Navy blue, holding to the rail with both hands. The ship’s paint was peeling and parts of her showed rust. Her band aboard quickly struck up The Star-Spangled Banner. The Augusta replied in earnest with God Save the King.