The Filberg Consortium

by Daniel Wyatt

  “STARBOARD BLISTER TO PILOT!” the sergeant in the centre hatch bubble shouted over the intercom.

  “PILOT HERE.”

  “I SEE SOMETHING THREE POINTS OFF THE STARBOARD BOW!” the sergeant exclaimed, eyeing the glint of metal through his binoculars.

  The pilot pushed on the throttles to the dual engines high on top of the wings, executing a bank to the right. “YEAH, I SEE IT,” he acknowledged in his headset. He made one pass at five hundred feet and looked straight down.

  “I SAY. THERE’S SOMEBODY DOWN THERE, SKIPPER!”

  “BY GOD, IT LOOKS LIKE THERE IS.”

  The pilot flicked the intercom button on his headset. “PILOT TO WIRELESS.”

  “HERE, SKIPPER.”

  “SEND A MESSAGE TO WHITCHURCH. SIGHTED WHAT APPEARS TO BE THE WING OF A DOWNED DC-3 IN SEARCH SECTOR FOUR, NORTH-NORTHEAST. ONE PERSON ABOARD. STATUS, UNKNOWN. STAND BY FOR COMPLETE EVALUATION IN A FEW MINUTES. GOT THAT?”

  “GOT IT, SKIP.”

  The pilot descended at the rate of two hundred feet per minute in a tight circle. Downwind, he swept low on another pass. He came around, reduced power and speed, and splashed into the water a few hundred feet from the wing. Then he applied power until he was alongside the piece of metal.

  The sergeant left the hatch, jumped into the water, and swam a few feet until he found a woman in a white blouse and brown skirt. She was face down, reeking of salt and oil, her clothing pasted to her body. Her right thigh had a large bloodstain, soaked through her skirt. Climbing aboard the floating wing, the man knelt over the woman. He gently reached for one of her sunburned arms to check her pulse. It was weak, but pumping. He waved for help.

  “Give me a hand. It’s a woman. She’s alive!”

  A second man jumped into the water. “Easy with her,” he said.

  Harris was conscious of men’s voices as they were handling her. She blacked out, and then came to when they gently moved her into the Catalina and wrapped two thick blankets around her chilly body.

  The pilot advanced the throttles and lifted off the water surface.

  Harris lay on her back, her head cradled against a rolled-up blanket under her neck. Voices ... she looked up at two men. Through cracked lips, she mouthed a weak, “Thank you,” to her rescuers, who were now stripped to their waists and drying themselves off. The blankets wrapped over her were working, thawing her out. She was flooded by a dulling warmth for the first time in hours.

  “Don’t worry, ma’am,” one man said. “You’re safe now.”

  “Thank you. Thank you.”

  The man smiled, running his hand through his wet hair. “All in a day’s work, ma’am,” he said. “We’d better look after that wound you got there, too, soon as we get into shore. You took a bullet did you?”

  “Yes.”

  With tender hands, he gave her a mug of hot coffee, straight from a thermos. She accepted, gratefully. Sitting up, she pressed her fingers around the cup before drinking from it. She smiled and swallowed. He took back the coffee and held it for her. The whole sickening episode filled her thoughts, and she tried to open her mouth to say more. But she could only utter one long sigh. Then she closed her eyes ... and passed out from the pain in her thigh.

  He checked her arm. “Her pulse is stronger already.”

  “Let her sleep. Looks like she had a rough afternoon.”

  “You’re not kidding.”

  * * * *

  Tankan Bay, Japan

  An ocean away, the Kuriles lay between the Japanese mainland and Siberia, a thousand miles north of Tokyo. Shrouded in clammy fog most of the year, this chain of fifty bleak and volcanic Pacific islands had seen snowflakes in the air for several grey, wintry days.

  On November 22, a Japanese Task Force had steamed into Etorufu — the largest of the Kurile Islands. Their orders from Tokyo had been explicit. Stand by. So there they lingered for four days.

  Then ... in the pre-dawn of the 26th, a second set of orders came. The Force weighed anchor and slipped out to sea in dense fog, undetected. This massive unit of men and machinery was directed by Commander in Chief of the Japanese First Air Fleet, Vice Admiral Chuichi Nagumo, aboard the carrier, Akagi. Thirty-one ships were deployed. Six carriers. Two battleships. Two heavy cruisers. One light cruiser. Three submarines. Nine destroyers. Eight tankers.

  The carriers steamed in two parallel columns, the battleships protecting the rear. The submarines, cruisers, and four destroyers secured the carriers’ flanks. The remaining five destroyers held a course several miles ahead, scouting for the fleet.

  Nagumo’s next order would be to wait on a final coded message from Tokyo. Either he would maintain his eastern course at thirteen knots, or he would turn back to port. The fleet was under strict radio silence. Any Dutch, American, and British vessels encountered along the way were to be fired on and sunk. Ships of all other nations were to be boarded and their radios seized.

  They meant business.

  EIGHTEEN

  Washington, D.C. — November 27

  It was a cool morning in the capital when Smith and Colonel Donovan once again conferred at COI Headquarters.

  Donovan had the photos in his hands, more invisible ink 35mm shots through a red filter of I.S. Filberg contracts, compliments of Aris and Smith. “So, the big boys have bobbed to the surface,” Donovan said, turning in his chair. “And they’re using Kerr, Chapman & Company to hold the paperwork. Clever. Sit down, son,” Donovan told Smith.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Donovan flipped through the shots. “National City Bank. Dillion, Read and Company. Both owned by the Rockefellers. Kuhn, Loeb and Company, too? Why am I not surprised?”

  Smith sat in a chair. “Nothing surprises me lately.”

  “Me neither,” Donovan admitted. “Three more New York firms. Silsoner’s Equitable, Trust Company, a Morgan bank. Aris was right. Henry Silsoner was at the meeting. Hell, these are some of the biggest banks in the world. All sending millions to the Nazis through I.S. Filberg for Hitler’s war machine.” Donovan found his way to other glossy photos. “To help the Nazis build fighter and bomber planes, tanks, ball bearings, and who knows what else.”

  “The annoying thing is, sir, what they are doing is perfectly legal.”

  “I know.” Donovan stared at his white textured ceiling. “It’s just ... we could be going to war with these people.”

  * * * *

  Hamburg

  The security guard at the airfield gate recognized Heinrich Himmler in the back seat of the black Gestapo Mercedes and removed his grip on the machine gun. “You may proceed,” he snapped to the driver, at stiff attention.

  “Thank you.” The driver put the car in gear, and forged past the steel and wire gate. He steered for the second hangar on the right. The wide door was open, the sun falling on the nose of the JU-52 transport. The crew were alongside the fuselage, the pilot smoking a cigarette. At best, twenty minutes of daylight remained. A hundred feet opposite the door, Himmler and Eiser got out, and strode slowly across the concrete towards the opening.

  “Our Greenland station reported in,” Himmler said, head down, hands behind his back. “The weather calls for clear skies, cloud later over the North Sea.”

  Eiser nodded, taking the information in. His fedora, turtleneck, and blazer attire marked him as a common Englishman.

  “Do you have everything you need?”

  “Yes, Herr Reichsfuehrer. It’s all in the medical bag. Ration book, lethal injection, English paper and coin currency, my doctor ID, War Office pass. The lot.”

  “Make sure you establish a rendezvous return with Denise once you make contact with her, so that she can radio Hamburg for a return flight.”

  “Yes, Herr Reichsfuehrer.”

  “This man in London, this Jordan fellow. Do you have a good alibi for him? He will want to know where you’ve been for two years.”

  “Yes. I’ve worked on that. I was badly injured — burnt — at Dunkirk with the medical corps, to
such a degree that I needed plastic surgery on my face.”

  “Very good. Can you trust him to give you what you need?”

  “If he doesn’t know, a colleague is bound to. Writers have their own grapevine.”

  “Passwords?”

  “Committed to memory, Herr Reichsfuehrer.”

  They proceeded through the hangar door.

  Himmler smiled, coldly. “Good luck, Eiser. Return quickly. Your next assignment awaits you.”

  “I am at your service, Herr Reichsfuehrer.”

  Himmler wondered if he was that loyal. “Don’t flatter me, Eiser. Tell the truth. You like the money and benefits.”

  “Just a tad.”

  “Spoken like a true Englishman.”

  “By the way, Herr Reichsfuehrer. Are you absolutely positive no one in England knows my new face?”

  Himmler’s next thoughts fell upon the BOAC flight out of Lisbon, and his conversation with Major Jodel. “Positive.”

  They stopped under the wing of the DC-3.

  Himmler glanced down at the concrete. “One other thing, Eiser.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The Gestapo leader lifted his head. “Why did you have to shoot Buhle’s poodle?”

  “It peed on my leg.”

  “Oh.”

  * * * *

  East Coast of Scotland

  The three-engined Junkers JU-52 transport was the most durable aircraft in the Luftwaffe aerial arsenal. Without her, the Nazi invasions of Norway, Crete, Tunisia, and Russia would not have been successful. Although poky and bulky, the JU-52 had a distinct feature that allowed her to be a valuable piece of machinery in spy operations. Due to her double-wing construction of full-flaps and ailerons, she could land and take-off in only a few feet of space.

  When the unmarked JU-52 carrying Adam Eiser left the Hamburg airstrip at sundown, the sky had been clear. Now cloud appeared over the North Sea, merging water and sky into one mass. Then a moderate crosswind picked up. The pilot kept an eye out for RAF fighters and Coastal Command twin-engines. Then came an unexpected fog once the transport reached the Scottish coast. The weather reports were wrong. This was going to be difficult — but not impossible — at night with radio silence. The last thing the pilot wanted was to be sent off course. Under a low ceiling, he continued undaunted, flying on dead reckoning and bare wits. A shot of schnapps from the bottle he had in his boot helped. He had flown in worse conditions on the Russian Front, his training ground for such missions. Schnapps helped there too.

  * * * *

  On the tarred road, opposite the grass airstrip, Wesley Hollinger stood poised with the Secret Service men of Blue Force, all armed with automatic pistols, their two cars hidden in the bushes.

  The fog had engulfed Denise. Only the glow of the four fires spaced in a line twenty feet apart were visible more than three hundred yards across the field.

  “She’s getting worse, Max,” Hollinger said.

  “Seems so,” answered Max Preston, the man with him. “A real Scottish pea-souper.” He sighed. “You know, I can’t figure out why he’s coming back.”

  “Sounds to me as if you know this Eiser fellow.”

  “I do. We ... go back. Smoke?”

  “No thanks. Never took up the habit.”

  “Oh, yes, I forgot.” The Englishman struck a match, covering the flame with his hand.

  * * * *

  Adam Eiser peered over the cockpit seats at the orange and yellow-lit instrument panel. The altimeter read four hundred feet. Ahead, no sign of the fires.

  England.

  After a two-year absence, he was returning to the country of his birth, and to a welcoming committee of one. Poor misguided Britain. They were losing this war. Badly. He mulled the mission over in his mind. Find the prisoner. Confront him. Identify him. Hess or no Hess. Then take care of him. Then ... return. Inform Hitler of Himmler’s treachery. And be rewarded.

  “Still on course?” Eiser asked.

  The co-pilot nodded, not bothering to glance back.

  * * * *

  Denise buttoned her coat to her neck and edged closer to one of the fires. A damp coldness had invaded the lowlands tonight. Typical late November in this part of Scotland. At least there was no wind. One side of her was warm, the other side was freezing. She turned around, her backside to the flame. She couldn’t see the Secret Service men through the ever-thickening fog. Which meant they couldn’t see her.

  That was not good.

  Then she heard the rumble of engines. British engines didn’t sound like that. She ran for the end of the field, clear of the flight path.

  * * * *

  The JU-52 co-pilot pointed to the glow.

  “That’s it,” Eiser said, tugging at his fedora. “Nice going.”

  The pilot didn’t reply. He banked right to line up to the left of the fires.

  * * * *

  On the ground, Hollinger and Preston glanced up as a thundering silhouette made a pass overtop in the foggy darkness. Preston stamped out his cigarette.

  “Is that her?”

  “She’s a JU-52, all right,” replied Preston. “I’d know that sound anywhere. Time to anti-up.”

  Three Secret Service men stepped out from the cars in the bushes.

  * * * *

  At an altitude of fifty feet, the pilot made a necessary visual of the field, the length and width now imprinted on his mind. Then he banked and levelled off for final approach. He flew over what appeared to be a clump of trees. The fires were dead ahead, burning away through the mist. He eased the stick forward.

  “Look out!” the co-pilot shouted.

  The pilot pushed back on the column. Eiser fell backwards on the deck.

  “How are you doing back there?” the co-pilot asked Eiser.

  “Having the time of my life, I am.”

  “Sorry, telephone wire. Get yourself to the hatch. I’m not sticking around any longer than I have to. Good luck. Heil Hitler.”

  Eiser picked himself up. He caressed the small steel acid capsules in his left blazer pocket, and the holster inside his shirt that contained the instrument he called “the shaft”, a gold-plated ball-point pen that with one click turned into a knife with a thin, three-inch-long blade. He looked down at his carrying bag.

  * * * *

  She watched the transport airplane make a perfect landing opposite the farthest of the fires. An image formed, squatting down, carrying a small piece of luggage, running the few feet to the centre of the fires. The German airplane bounced to the end of the field, and spun around. The engines noise rose and the aircraft took to the air in only a few feet.

  In seconds, total silence once more.

  She ran for the image, stopping short ten feet back. Careful, calm yourself, she thought. Act normal. “The blackbird flies after midnight,” she said.

  “Only on Sunday.”

  “Tommie?”

  “At your service. Denise?”

  “Yes. Heil Hitler.”

  “Heil Hitler. Pleased to meet you, Denise.”

  “Likewise. We’d better douse the fires. Hurry.”

  “Of course.”

  She tended to the flames by grabbing a shovel and digging up pieces of turf and snuffing the flames out. Her mind was spinning. Either the man was very good with an English accent or he really was English.

  “Let’s go. This way,” she insisted. “I have my car waiting.”

  Denise turned the ignition of the Vauxhall parked off the narrow tarred road.

  “Where to?” he asked, looking across at her in the front seat. He removed his fedora for a moment, and smoothed his hair. He placed his carrying bag by his feet.

  “A country inn about four miles from here,” the woman replied. “I’ve booked a room for you. Your name is Floyd Hogan. After that, you’re on your own. I know the innkeeper. He will notify me of your return. I will then make the arrangements for your flight to Germany.”

  “Fair enough. I hope you know your way in this soup.
It’s horrible. Just the way I remember Britain.”

  She laughed nervously. She turned the wheel and pulled the small black vehicle onto the bumpy road. She could not drive too fast. The fog was too thick — the visibility was down to twenty feet — and she didn’t want to miss the crossroad where the Secret Service men were laying in wait to intercept Tommie. The blackout headlights — only two small beams — made everything worse.

  In an instant, her thoughts went back to the May sub drop in daylight. The man in the hat and sunglasses — Rudolf Hess in her car. She had talked with him. She had driven him to Dunampton aerodrome. She had taken the wrong road — the south road — and messed up the rendezvous. Then Hess escaped the base and crash-landed — shot down — near Glasgow. Now this. The bait to lure one more German agent.

  “You are jittery, Denise. What is the matter?”

  She needed a comeback. “I can’t see,” she said quickly.

  They passed the old cemetery on the left. The crossroad was coming up. She slowed down. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Tommie’s head turning to her. She drove on.

  Slower.

  Creeping.

  “Why are you slowing down?” he asked, his tone unfriendly.

  She slammed on the brakes.

  Her hand went for the door knob. But the man anticipated the move. He grabbed her by the hair and twisted. In a panic, her heart raced away on her. As she struggled, she felt a liquid thrown against her face ... it burned something awful. A painful, stinging burn. Like falling into the flames of a furnace. She screamed. Everything went black. She couldn’t see.

  “Amateurs,” Eiser uttered, reaching for his knife.