The Filberg Consortium

by Daniel Wyatt

  “Yes, who is it?” she said, leaning against her side of the door. She slowly slipped her nightgown over her body, buttoning it up.

  “Room service, Miss Harris.” A man’s voice.

  “I don’t remember calling for room service.”

  “Compliments of the house, ma’am.”

  She hesitated, then opened up. The door banged her in the face. Hands lunged out, sending her crashing to the floor. A gasp escaped her lungs. In an instant, she found herself gagged with a handkerchief, her arms bent at odd angles behind her back. She was dragged into the bedroom and thrown on the bed. A swift knee to her back pinned her. She couldn’t see her assailant. Not this way, face down. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed the white sleeve of a jacket and a faint smell of hard liquor. She tried to squirm, but the grip grew tighter. Her throat tightened. Beads of perspiration formed on her forehead. She should have gone with Sims. What a fool she was staying here. By herself.

  “Don’t move. You scream, you die.” The voice was now distinctly German.

  “What do you want?” she managed to emit through the handkerchief.

  “What information did you give Sims?”

  “Nothing.”

  A slap across the side of the head, above her temple, stunned her. The sound echoed in the room.

  “That’s not the right answer. Let’s try again. What information did you give Sims?”

  Another slap came down on her. Harder.

  “Negatives,” she tried to say, dizzy from the blows.

  “What?” He drew closer to her ear, hovering over her. “What did you say?” He shook her.

  “Negatives!”

  “Negatives of what, Fraulein?”

  She shook her head. For that she received another slap.

  “I think you do know. Don’t look back! I warn you!”

  A knee crunched into her spine. A shiny knife slid by her right eye. If she wasn’t terrified before, she certainly was now. Her imagination went to work. The beast was going to kill her. Slice her up.

  “Tell me who it was or I’ll cut your heart out through your spine. I’m going to let the gag go.”

  She couldn’t suck in oxygen quick enough. Her head began to spin. Only what her eyes focused on stayed in focus ... The rest ... gradually ... greyed over.

  * * * *

  She didn’t come to until she heard the pounding on the door. It took her a few moments to realize where she was. It took all her strength to get herself off the bed. Her whole body was one big sore — arms, wrists, back, head, mouth, ribs. She licked her dry lips, and tasted blood. She looked down at herself. She was still alive. Her clothes were still on. And that nasty German with the liquor breath had vanished. So had the handkerchief. But he had left the room turned upside-down, clothes strewn about.

  She must have fainted. But how long was she out? Why had he left her alive? Then again, she hadn’t seen his face. Had he heard someone? Perhaps the real room service.

  The pounding continued. “Lydia!”

  Slowly, one foot in front of the other, she stepped forward, fell, then got up. Like a drunk, she stumbled to the door, managing to move her legs as best she could. Left ... right ... left ... right. She tightened the belt of her nightgown. The door was unlocked. Her blood ran cold. Ready to lock it, she said, “Who is it?”

  “Lydia, it’s Ken. Let me in.”

  She opened the door a fraction.

  Sims first peeked inside, then entered, staring at her, stunned to see a red welt on the side of her head and dried blood above one eye. “What on earth!”

  She tried to smile. She promised herself she wasn’t going to cry. “I complained about the accommodations.”

  Sims saw that the place had been ransacked. He gently placed his hands on her shoulders. “Who did this?”

  “I didn’t get a look at him. But he had a German accent. He knows I gave you something.” Her voice cracked. “He wanted to know what it was.” Then her bottom lip quivered, and she burst into tears.

  He set her down on a chair, giving her a handkerchief. “There, there. Schmidt, I’ll bet,” he said under his breath. “I saw him leave in a taxi, outside the hotel. Did you get a glimpse of him at all? What was he wearing?”

  She wiped her eyes and described what she had seen. “A white jacket. That’s all.”

  “Hotel jacket, probably. Disguised himself as an employee. What did he find out?”

  “That I gave you negatives. He doesn’t know what they are, though.”

  “The Germans were tipped off. They must have been. Listen to me. I booked a BOAC flight to London. I had better change it to two seats. For tomorrow. You’re coming with me.”

  “But I’m going to New York.”

  “Not out of Lisbon you’re not. Try London. You’ll never last another day around here. That man’ll kill you. You can stay with me in my room tonight. We’ll have dinner here. With that lump, I don’t think you’ll want to be seen in public, anyway.”

  She brushed her hand through her hair. “You’re room?”

  “Don’t worry. It’s not what you think. You’ll be safe there.”

  “I’ve heard that one before.” She laughed a little. Her side hurt. She winced, and wiped her tears.

  “Yes, you probably have.”

  “Do you have a gun?”

  “Bloody right. If anybody breaks in, I’ll shoot first.”

  * * * *

  Berlin

  Eiser drove his Mercedes to the eight-story Straumhausser apartment building at a few minutes to six, and steered to a side lot.

  For the entire ride from the pet store, the poodle had plopped his front paws on the passenger window and never stopped barking. He barked at the traffic. He barked at pedestrians. He barked at a German Shepherd that was taking its out-of-shape owner for a walk.

  “Come along, vermin!” Eiser snapped at the furry-white runt with the red bow.

  It growled. Eiser slapped it across the mouth, and it yelped.

  Eiser stepped on the elevator with a woman and her ten-year-old son, a uniformed Hitler Youth.

  The poodle growled. “Shut up!” Eiser hit it. “Sorry,” he said to the woman. “He’s not house-trained yet.”

  She nodded, smiled awkwardly, and turned away.

  On the sixth floor, Eiser found Buhle’s room. Buhle met Eiser wearing a white shirt and dress slacks, a loosened tie slung around his neck.

  “Going out, are you?” Eiser asked

  “Yes.”

  Inside, Eiser handed Buhle the dog. “It’s yours. Here you go, boy.”

  Buhle took the animal in his arms and patted its ears. “Good boy. I think I’ll call it Rudolf.”

  “If you want. I really don’t care.”

  Eiser slammed the door behind him. “Now, talk.”

  Buhle played with the pup. “To start with, Hess has a fairly large mole on his right arm, up from his elbow. And several cute moles on his bottom, his left cheek.”

  Eiser cleared his throat. He didn’t think he’d get that close to the prisoner. What was he going to say? Drop your pants? “Anything else?”

  “Yes, his right nostril is slightly crooked. At least the last time I saw him.” Buhle put the poodle down and let it scamper around the apartment. “Frisky, isn’t he?”

  “Yeah. Makes my dear heart flutter. Is that all you can remember about Hess?”

  “Yes. Why do you want to know this?”

  “Can’t tell you,” Eiser grunted.

  “Oh, one other thing. But it could be my imagination. I saw his face once on a news reel. Many years ago. He was making a speech. It didn’t look like him.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It didn’t look like him. At least, the Hess I knew. His jaw. His face somehow. Can’t quite figure it.”

  “Are you saying that someone could have been impersonating Hess?”

  “I’m guessing. Maybe I’m wrong. It’s weird, though.”

  The dog strutted up to Eiser, lifted
its leg, and peed on his pant leg.

  Eiser looked down, booted the dog across the room, then withdrew his gun. “I hate poodles.”

  Buhle turned white. “Don’t kill him!”

  “Shut up!”

  Eiser fired. His aim was perfect. He turned to Buhle. “Thanks for the information.”

  “Pig! What am I supposed to do with a dead poodle?”

  “Flush him down the toilet,” Eiser grunted.

  FOURTEEN

  MI-6 Headquarters

  The deadpan BBC Home Service voice on the high-powered radio — next to the NO SMOKING sign and the framed glossy photo of FDR — echoed off the walls of the office. Hollinger turned up the volume and listened to every word.

  It was not good news for the Allies. Erwin Rommel’s Afrika Korps were thundering towards Egypt and the treasured oil fields beyond. On the Eastern Front, the Germans were unleashing their forces against Moscow. Advance Wehrmacht units had fought their way to the suburbs. They had taken Istra — forty miles northwest of the Russian capital. The gap was closing.

  In his mind’s eye, Wesley Hollinger put himself in a German soldier’s shoes. He could see the spires of the Kremlin through his telescope. Stalin had to be shaking in his boots. Total victory for Hitler was only one final push away. Was England next? Hollinger still couldn’t bring himself to believe it.

  The inter-office telephone rang. He reached for it.

  “Wesley?”

  “Yes, colonel.”

  “I have a decoded cable in my hand. Saturn has the negatives. He reserved two seats for a BOAC morning flight tomorrow. Flight 725.” Hollinger heard the rustle of paper. “Take-off from Lisbon nine-fifteen our time. Due to arrive at Whitchurch around five. Why don’t you hang about, old chap, and see them for yourself? We’ll have an aircraft ready to fly the negatives to London. Then take your trip up to Scotland knowing what you’re up against. You know what I mean?”

  “Yes, colonel. Swell.”

  “Hopefully, we can nail this thing down before anything gets out of hand.”

  Later, Hollinger walked two doors down to Langford’s office. She was still on lunch. He sat down in a chair, alone, and waited. He wondered how he would say it to her. Just say it, that’s all. Today was a good time. She seemed to be in a great mood for some reason. She had a smile on her lips and a bounce to her step. His eyes travelled around the room. Her office was the same picture of neatness that she was in personal appearance. Her desk contained many papers, but they were organized into three tidy stacks. The file cabinets to one side were tightly shut. Not a pen or pencil out of place. Not a speck of dust anywhere. Shades of Lampert. Then he heard the tap of heels down the hall. A whistle. It was Robbie’s unmistakable quick step.

  She turned the corner. “Fancy meeting you here, boss.”

  “Hi, Robbie. Look. I can’t take this any longer. We have to get something squared away.”

  “Whatever are you talking about, dear boy.”

  “Oh, come off it. You know.”

  She walked around her desk. “No, I don’t. I’m busy.”

  “So am I. We have to iron some things out. That means talk.”

  She sat down, struck a match, and held it to a cigarette. “So, talk.” She puffed and flicked the match out.

  “Not here. Tonight. Your place. About ... eight?”

  “This isn’t another history lesson on Hitler, is it?” She took a drag.

  “You can bet your ass it’s no history lesson. They don’t go over well.”

  She gave it heavy consideration. “Oh, all right. Eight o’clock. Don’t be late because ... I have something to tell you too.”

  * * * *

  Zurich

  The sun set. The street lamps flickered on on this cool night.

  The driver wound the top-down Mercedes convertible slowly through the cobblestone street until he came to a series of small, two-story row houses with dormers, tucked close together with barely a walkway for each front property. He drew the shiny convertible to a stop. “This is it,” he said to the passenger. “Three-forty-one.”

  “Let’s get in and out before her roommate comes back. Remember, don’t move so much as a dust particle.”

  “Right.”

  They walked up. The driver eased the lock open with his skeleton key. Once in, he locked up behind them. A living room light was on. A night light. They started with their search on the first floor. Kitchen cupboards. The dresser. A drop-leaf desk. Nothing. Next came the basement. They rummaged through a few boxes and checked the contents within. Nothing. They heard a car door slam. The house door opened seconds later. Then they heard footsteps right above them.

  “She’s here,” the passenger whispered. She was early. He carefully and quietly climbed the stairs, his associate behind. From the darkness of the door frame, he saw a woman walk past the dresser on her way upstairs. He removed his gun from his holster.

  The driver pointed upwards.

  The passenger shook his head. “Leave her be. See what she does.”

  They stood there and listened. The door to the bathroom closed. After a few minutes, the shower started.

  “Up we go,” the passenger said. “These houses have two bedrooms. I’ll take the one on the right. Forget your home manners now. Speed takes priority.”

  The driver nodded. “Right.”

  * * * *

  London

  Inside her flat, Langford lit a cigarette and served tea to Hollinger who had arrived a few minutes early.

  “Do tell. What is it?” she asked. “What do we have to iron out?”

  “I know you’re still sore at me for my comments about the Big Guy.”

  “Not in the least. I’ve forgotten them.”

  “I don’t think so. You’ve hardly spoken a word to me except for official Secret Service business.” He got up and strode to the window, looking through a side slit in the blackout curtain.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  He wheeled around abruptly. “Flick out the lights.”

  “What on earth for?”

  “Trust me.”

  “This is a novel approach.”

  “Ah, it’s not that. What kind of mind do you have, anyway? I want you to see something out here.” He motioned to the window. “Come on! The lights! Quick!” He snapped his fingers.

  She doused the lights, then stumbled around in the darkness. “Ouch!”

  “Hurry up.”

  “Blasted! I banged my knee!” She grunted.

  “Good girl. You didn’t swear.”

  “Profanity never gets one anywhere. Lift the curtain so I can at least see where I’m going.”

  “Oh, yeah. Sorry.”

  She felt her way to the window. “What’s the trouble?”

  “See the car down there? The beat-up one?”

  He held the curtain open for her. She sauntered towards him. He could smell her hair and fragrant perfume this close.

  She let her eyes grow accustomed to the inky night. She saw several cars. “Which one?”

  “The dented Morris. Across the street. Up from my MG.”

  “I see it. So?”

  “The bloke in there’s tailing me.”

  “What for? Who is he?”

  “I thought you might know.”

  She stared at him. “Why would I know?”

  She sounded sincere to him. “Ever since our little talk in the cafeteria, I’ve been shadowed.”

  “Are you daft?”

  “You don’t know anything about it?”

  “NO!”

  “Do I have your word that you didn’t tell anyone about our conversation?”

  “You have it.”

  “Well, then, someone must’ve overheard us. I told you not to talk so loud.”

  “Do you really think MI-6 is tailing you?”

  “Positive.”

  “All this time? Three months!”

  “You betcha. Do I have your word a second time that you don’t know
anything about my being tailed?”

  “Yes! I swear to God. I didn’t know.”

  “OK, I believe you. My office is bugged too. The receiver is on top of the ceiling light. Maybe I was on to something.”

  “Good gracious! Well ... someone ... must’ve had his reasons.”

  “Reasons! That’s why I didn’t want to say anything in your office, just in case they bugged your office too. What do you think of Churchill and the Judge and the boys now? If I was way off with my political accusations, they wouldn’t have gone to the trouble. Would they?”

  “I — I don’t know what to say. If that’s the case, why do you keep working for us?”

  He shrugged in the darkness, eyeing the street. She had posed a good question. His President’s words were ringing in his ears once more. How do we know the British aren’t holding anything back? “I don’t know, I guess. It’s still fun.”

  “Fun? Everything is fun to you.”

  “But when it comes right down to it, my side and your side have the same common goal.”

  “Yes. Fight Hitler.”

  “No. Save our own butts. We accomplish it by staying out of the war. You do it by fighting.”

  “I see. An analyst’s assumption.”

  “There’s something else I want to iron out.” He was closer to her now.

  “What?” She looked into his eyes.

  They were face-to-face. His heart pounded in his chest. He couldn’t help himself. The smell of her perfume, the warmth of her body so close. He desperately wanted to say a number of things, but he couldn’t find the words. He let go of the curtain, then took her in his powerful arms and kissed her with fervour and purpose, although clumsily. After all these months. He wondered how he had waited so long to kiss her. Her lips were soft, her breath sweet, despite a slight scent of tobacco. She struggled for a second, then gave way. Her arms slid around his neck and strong shoulders. She was responding, the way he hoped she would. They were heartbeat to heartbeat. He felt her body crushed to his chest. She tried to speak, but couldn’t. He kept kissing her. One kiss lingered long, until...

  Breathless, she shoved off, stepping back. “Stop it!”

  “Why? You don’t like fast men?”