The Filberg Consortium

by Daniel Wyatt

  “To paraphrase own dear William Shakespeare, ‘thou protests too much, methinks.’ “

  “Meaning?” Hollinger asked.

  “Your opinion is so strong that you don’t necessarily believe it.”

  “Oh, don’t I? What about you?”

  “You’re forgetting the broken Munich agreement,” Langford went on. “How can you trust Hitler’s word? What about the extermination camps, and ... and the jet aircraft, and...”

  “Wait a sec. How did you know about the jets and camps?”

  “Lampert briefed me on the full details of Hess’s papers, and the Master Race genetic testing.”

  “He did?”

  “Yes. Well, what about them?”

  Hollinger hesitated. “If they’re on the level.”

  “According to our foreign agents, they are.”

  “Wise up. That’s only what we’re told. How do we know the papers are legit?”

  “You’re incorrigible.”

  “Listen to me, Robbie.” His hand moved towards her hand, touching it. “Trust me on this.”

  “Based on what? Nothing I’ve heard from you in the last few minutes.”

  “Robbie, please. I thought you’d be one person who would understand.”

  “I don’t.” She wasn’t in the mood, and pulled her hand away. She fixed him an unconvinced cold stare, the other hand on her hip. “Leave me alone!”

  “You take offense at my opinions?”

  “Oh, good guess!”

  “Don’t foam at the mouth or anything.”

  Her face turned a deep red. “Oh! Sometimes I could just—!”

  “I’m not a traitor. I have an opinion.”

  “That’s your prerogative.”

  Hollinger grunted. “We’ll see who’s right.”

  “I don’t suppose there’s the slightest possibility in your mind that you’re wrong?”

  Hollinger stood his ground. “None whatsoever.”

  “This is no way to make friends and influence people.”

  “Them is the breaks,” Hollinger chuckled. “Give me some time on this, to show that I’m right.”

  “How much time?”

  Hollinger shrugged. “End of the year.”

  “Bugger you! Why not ask for the end of the century.”

  “Promise me. I beg you. I need time. You’re a level-headed woman, and ... well ... fair.”

  She frowned. “End of the year. After that ... I...”

  “What?”

  “I don’t know yet.” She whirled in her seat and bolted to her feet. “Meantime, I shall take my leave of you.”

  She made an attempt to walk away, but stumbled. “Not now,” she snapped, annoyed with herself.

  Hollinger chuckled. It seemed her foot had fallen asleep. She stalked off in a huff and a flash of skirt, too cross with him to speak. She was not Robbie the sweetie now.

  Then she returned half a minute later. “I believe the word is imperious,” she snapped, head high, chin out.

  “I thought you called me incorrigible.”

  “I’m referring to the puzzle, you buffoon.”

  “Oh.” Hollinger pulled the crossword sheet from his breast pocket. “Yeah, you’re right. It fits. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome, I suppose. Hypothetically.”

  Then she turned to leave for the second time, murmuring something indistinguishable.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing!”

  * * * *

  Hollinger spit out his gum and headed to Lampert’s office.

  “Close the door, Wesley. Sit down.”

  The American found a chair. “Bad news?”

  Lampert was in his shirt sleeves, tapping a pen on his desk blotter. “Perhaps. We still cannot locate Eiser. We fear he went to Switzerland for plastic surgery to do a job right under our noses. No pun intended. Every MI-5 agent here in England and MI-6 agent in Europe and Africa knows his face. He has to change it if he ever wants to come to this end of the world and we think he will.”

  “Geez. How long does it take a patient to heal completely?”

  “Funny you should mention that, Wesley. I called a specialist this morning, just before you came in the door. It takes two, possibly three months, given a doctor of calibre. I wonder what Eiser’s up to?”

  “Yeah. By the way, when’s the Prime Minister due back in town.”

  “Sunday.”

  “I hope his trip was worthwhile.”

  “So does he. Incidentally, Wesley, the COI located Edgar Heinemann — Eiser’s tutor — for us.”

  “Where?”

  “San Francisco. Bought a boat ticket for Honolulu, Hawaii, he did.”

  “Hawaii, eh? Lucky bum.”

  * * * *

  10 Downing Street — August 18

  Churchill had returned to London that morning from his Argentia Bay conference with Roosevelt. His first order of business was a morning report to the House of Commons. Then, in the afternoon, he found his way to the underground War Room.

  His phone rang. He closed a file and lifted the receiver of the C-phone. “Yes.”

  “We best go on scramble, sir.”

  Churchill pressed the proper button. “Do you hear me?”

  “Yes, sir. Welcome back.”

  “Thank you, Colonel Lampert.”

  “Successful, I trust?”

  “Yes and no. The President agreed only to enter the war should Japan attack the Dutch or our own possessions in the East Indies or Malaya. What’s new with you?”

  “He knows, Mr. Prime Minister.”

  “Who?”

  “Hollinger. At least he has an inkling, I’m afraid. I don’t know how he does it.”

  “Who told him?”

  “He figured it all out on his own, sir. He was overheard in the cafeteria. He knows why he went to Washington. Whether we told Stalin—”

  Churchill swore over the line. “What about the May 9th Falcon File transmission?”

  “Not that I know of. Neither he nor Langford know. I think.”

  “You hope. Now what do we do?” Churchill asked.

  “We can’t panic. We’ll make out as if we don’t know. I can keep him busy with projects. If we send him home, Donovan will ask questions. Then Roosevelt will ask Donovan questions. We’re stuck with the clod. He has us over a barrel.”

  “Seems so.”

  “One other thing, sir. Hitler’s concessions got back to Washington somehow. Donovan asked Hollinger for verification. The Kid said he hadn’t heard anything. Five countries, sir! Hitler’s willing to give up five countries!”

  “Yes,” Churchill admitted for the first time to Lampert. “If we can take him at his word.”

  “I can see what this means. If Donovan knows the score, then so does Roosevelt.”

  “I’m afraid the President does already, colonel.”

  “Oh, blasted.”

  TWELVE

  Honolulu — November 23

  He stirred the darkroom tray in his apartment closet. Under the orange light, the black-and-white images appeared like magic on the last of the eight-by-ten-inch photo papers. He hovered over the final picture, an excellent angle of the Harbour entrance, and studied it carefully through the small magnifying eyepiece.

  He was a perfectionist. Perfect negatives made perfect prints. He slipped the sheet into the water tray, then the fixer, and eventually to the second tray of water. From there, he hung it up with clothes pegs on the line with the other photos to dry. Five prints altogether displayed a low-level panoramic view of Pearl Harbor, Hickam Airfield and Ford Island that day, Sunday, when most of the ships were either at anchor or in dock. Shots of the four carriers, the Hornet, the Enterprise, the Yorktown, and the Lexington, were especially distinguishable. Rumours spoke that the carrier Saratoga, now stateside in California, would soon join the Hawaiian fleet. That would make five flattops.

  It was an awful comedown for the widowed, 52-year-old Edgar Heinemann to drive a cab six days a
week. It was the least favourite cover he ever had to use. The pay checks were meagre. Tips weren’t bad, though. But the other money was coming in once more. Quite handsomely, thanks to a German friend who entrusted him to a Japanese diplomat in Rio de Janeiro, and who, in turn, happened to be a member of the Japanese Third Bureau Section 5, the Japanese Naval Intelligence specializing in espionage in America. Poor Heinemann had run himself broke in South America, living the socialite life of a rich retiree. Bad women, crooked card games, and one too many slow horses.

  Arriving in Hawaii in August, Heinemann, codenamed Bradley, took his job seriously, at first casually absorbing all he could of the island of Oahu. Then he set out to ferret more detailed information, by conducting his own surveillance of Pearl Harbor and the surrounding area. He was utilizing several methods to obtain his information — newspapers, radio broadcasts, photography, and siphoning bits and pieces from the sailors he picked up nearly every day at the Navy Yard front gate. One of the simplest things was to observe the Pearl Harbor activity from an exceptional vantage point — near Spring Tide Restaurant on Aiea Heights, overlooking the waters.

  By mid-October he was handing over twice-weekly reports on the day-to-day readiness of the American Fleet to the Japanese Consul-General’s office in Honolulu. The data was then radioed in code to Tokyo. One such report was invaluable to the Japanese. Heinemann had discovered that the American air patrol searches behaved in a predictable pattern. They used three aircraft per patrol, and guarded only the north and south approaches to Oahu. A local gift shop was Heinemann’s best find. There, he had purchased a set of photos showing an aerial panoramic view of Pearl Harbor and had passed them along to the Consul-General.

  It was easy being a spy on Oahu.

  * * * *

  Washington, D.C.

  Donovan lifted the receiver of his office phone. “Yes, Aris?”

  “Sir, there’s an important meeting underway here. A half-dozen faces I couldn’t recognize. But I overheard one name.”

  “Who?”

  “Silsoner.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Keep in touch.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Bill.”

  * * * *

  Vichy France — November 24

  Inside the compartment, Lydia Harris craned her neck to see the French policeman accompanied by a man in plain clothes board the train at the Marseille stopover. Her nerves tightened. The wind seemed to leave her. All she had to do was stay calm. She had nothing to worry about. She was above suspicion.

  He had to be Gestapo. German. Yellow hair. Tall. Stiff. Bolt upright. Beige trenchcoat. He was her age. Although this was the unoccupied neutral section of France, she knew Nazi Germany ran the show, and could officially move in and takeover any time they damn well pleased, the way they had done when they overwhelmed Northern France in 1940.

  Assuming it would take the latest boarders some time to arrive at her compartment, Harris dragged on a cigarette, pretending to read a political column in The New York Times. She could feel the small manila envelope pressing against her spine under her bra strap. They wouldn’t dare frisk her there. Or would they? What about a strip search? She tried not to think about it. The French mother and her teenage daughter across from Harris stared ahead, lost in their thoughts. The elderly French woman beside her smiled. Harris smiled back. She wished she could appear as unruffled as they were.

  Twenty minutes later the door banged open. “Passports and traveling documents,” the policeman snapped in French. “S’il vous plait.”

  Mother and daughter showed their ID and documents first. Harris watched as Yellow Hair checked them, then turned to the older woman. He asked the three of them questions in perfect French. They answered promptly, in tones anxious to please. Harris knew enough French to catch the gist of the conversations. All three were on working visas in Vichy.

  Then he held his hand out to her. She gave him the passport and some documentation that he had to fold out. He was staring hard, right through her face and eyes, a grin on his lips. Harris’s hair was tied back in a bun, and she wore her reading glasses. She had refrained from using her red lipstick and makeup. Her blouse buttons were done up to her neck. Her grey skirt fell a modest few inches below the knee. Any other time she would have been dressed to the nines, and left a button or two loose at the top. For this trip, her English friend had warned her — too pretty, too noticed. A whole lot of skill and some lady luck would have to get her through.

  “Lydia Harris. Says here you’re American?” The German switched to faultless English, his smile a patronizing put-on.

  “Yes, I am,” she answered. And you’re very German.

  “Born 1911. Thirty years old?”

  “That’s right.” She smiled with even, white teeth. “Although I don’t like to advertise my age.”

  “You Americans are so vain. Thirty is not very old. Are you married?”

  “No. Divorced. I go by my maiden name.”

  He looked at the occupation on the passport. “A correspondent for The New York Times. A writer.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The woman’s face on the passport — small black and white picture that it was — revealed a very beautiful, almost perfect face. He stared at the ID, a slight curl to his grin. “Your photo is ... shall we say ... different.”

  She said nothing.

  “Where do you reside, Miss Harris?”

  Stick to the truth, she was told. “Zurich.”

  “It’s rare to see a woman overseas correspondent. Yes?”

  “Yes, it is,” she replied. The envelope felt clammy against her skin. You’re not kidding buster, she wanted to have the courage to say, instead. She wasn’t just some dumb blonde. She had taken an extreme amount of heat from her peers to get where she was. She took the pressure and the bed offers, and shook off both. She had worked so hard to succeed that it had destroyed her marriage.

  “What’s the nature of your business in Vichy?”

  “I’m traveling to Lisbon. My Embassy in Switzerland reserved a flight on a Pan-American Clipper to New York.”

  “And why are you flying to New York?”

  “A vacation. I haven’t been home in over a year.”

  The Gestapo man read the paper issued by the American Embassy in Switzerland. “It seems to be in order. Have a good trip, Miss Harris.” He neatly folded the paper and gave it to her. The put-on smile vanished.

  She forced herself to be polite. “Thank you.”

  The French policeman left the compartment first. The Gestapo agent followed, closed the door slowly, and turned his back to the passengers to make a note on his pocket-size writing pad.

  * * * *

  Gestapo Headquarters

  Himmler was astonished. Doctor Alfred Seissburg — the hawk-nosed buzzard — had outdone himself.

  Eiser tapped the hat in his hands. He smiled roughly, his eyes glistening. “Does it meet with your satisfaction, Herr Reichsfuehrer?”

  Himmler nodded, bending down, looking closely at Eiser, not two feet away, scrutinizing him. Eiser’s new face was nothing short of miraculous. The good doctor had thinned out his Roman nose, cut back on his prominent jaw, and filled in flesh below his high cheek bones. No surgery marks. His hair was cut short, almost to a brush cut, touched up with a little white dye around the temples. He had grown a moustache. The only thing the same were the fierce eyes and the bass voice.

  “Excellent,” Himmler said, delighted, hands on hips. “Waiting the extra month was worth it. I do hope you enjoyed convalescing and biding your time in the Swiss Alps with Freda, your lady companion.”

  “Why, of course, Herr Reichsfuehrer. She kept me warm at night.”

  “And you found time for a good tan?”

  “The sun is rather bright on the slopes.”

  “You learned to ski, did you?”

  “Yes. Freda was a good teacher.”

  “Play time is over. Now to the work.” Himmler’s
smile faded. “They will never recognize you in England.” Himmler swiped a small piece of paper off his desk and handed it to Eiser. “I want you to see that person at once. He frequents an establishment called The Pyramid, in the red light district of Berlin.”

  Eiser’s eyes fell on the name and address on the slip. “Walter Buhle. Who is he?”

  “He knows Hess from his Munich days. They were very close, I understand.”

  “Just how close?”

  “They were in one of these all-male organizations a few years ago, before our Party came to power. Need I say more? That is all. Dismiss.”

  * * * *

  Hamburg

  Radio operator Gunther Gruhn enjoyed a cigarette while leaning on the desk top in his soundproof booth, his transmitter deathly silent. Outside his booth, down the aisle, sat nineteen other operators each with his or her own frequency range to scan, all sets tuned west to England.

  Ten minutes to go until Denise reported in. Gruhn knew everything about the agent Denise. He knew exactly how she tapped her key. Why not? He had trained her. He had befriended her. And he had also slept with her that last night in Hamburg, 1940, before they had sent her to enemy territory.

  Tonight the airwaves were average to steady at the receiving station. Not much in the way of data from German agents across the North Sea in England. So far. Met reports predicted clear skies through the night.

  The signal should be sharp.

  * * * *

  Firth of Forth

  It was a bitterly cold evening. The dampness was a killer. The slim woman with the dark, curly hair arrived at the deserted two-story house at the water’s edge as she had done routinely once a week for the last several months.

  Denise’s movements were precise, mechanical by now. She took the same creaky stairs to the top floor and loosened the same planks in the corner of the same old master bedroom. She reached in for her British-made Mark II Suitcase Transceiver, code book, and paper pad. She slid the radio onto the dusty work table by the wobbly chair. She lined the frequency crystals to one side, and switched the power on. The set hummed softly as it warmed up. She wished she could warm up with it. She checked the position of the aerial — in place against the wooden window sill.