The Filberg Consortium

by Daniel Wyatt

  Near Motherwell, Scotland

  It worked. Nobody followed him. Maybe no one was after him at all. But he had to be sure. A quick exit was the only answer.

  At a pub a block from the train stop, Jordan asked directions for the Orkney Inn. Nothing to it, the owner said. Take the west road out of town, then past the stone wall. Turn right at the clump of trees and go about two or three miles. Piece of cake. Right there by the road. With dark clouds approaching from the west, Jordan borrowed the owner’s bicycle with the promise he’d return it. A smell in the air indicated rain on the way. He’d have to hurry.

  Jordan’s legs were sore by the time he peddled off the tarred road leading into the old stone and clapboard Orkney Inn. In the gravel lot were a few trucks and autos. Rain began to fall. He had made it, just in time.

  A whiskered farmer about fifty, in dirty coveralls and rubber boots, stepped down from a dented truck and met the journalist near the door. “You Stephen Jordan?” He offered his hand, appraising the Londoner.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How are you?”

  “Can’t complain. How are you?”

  “Don’t ask, lad. Hop in. Leave the bike round the corner. It’s safe here.”

  “You bet.”

  They got into the truck.

  The stranger pushed the starter, let out the clutch, and pulled onto the road. He pressed the accelerator of the rough-running motor, grinding the first two gears. The truck was drafty, chilly, and in desperate need of a new muffler. The bench seat had worn through in spots, exposing the padding. The stranger put the wipers on. They squeaked loudly, but were doing the job.

  “Where are we going?” Jordan asked.

  “Up the road. A few minutes from here.” The stranger’s breath smelled of pipe tobacco.

  Jordan had never been impressed by the moors. This was ugly, desolate country, except for the occasional heavy woods and bushes, small sheep and cattle herds, and scattered buildings. And it all looked worse under the rain and the dark, cloudy skies. This was a farmer’s rain. Steady. No foreseeable let-up. Ten minutes later, the farmer braked the noisy machine to a standstill opposite a grassy field.

  The man pointed. “Hess’s plane came down there. You can still see the plough marks, if you look close. For weeks the Secret Service were all over here, looking.”

  “Looking? Looking for what?”

  “Lost papers that were in the plane.”

  “How do you know they were looking for papers?”

  “I figured it out once I had a look at them. The papers, I mean.”

  “You saw the papers?”

  The man nodded. “I know the person who found them. Inside a zipper part of a briefcase.”

  Jordan spotted the grassy ridge through the rain, about two miles from the crash site. “How long has this person had ... this briefcase and papers?”

  “A few months. Certain people I know thought you might be interested. You made a pretty fair impression on someone who happens to be a good friend of mine. Jack Buford. Him and me go back a long way. He said you were trustworthy.”

  “Tell him thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “I will. You know, something’s fishy about that Rudolf Hess flight.”

  “You bet there is.”

  “Everybody here in these parts is saying the same thing. The gist is that the German plane had free passage.”

  “Jack Buford told me that too.”

  “Those papers could have something to do with her, lad. It’s up to you to find out if they’re on the up and up.”

  “What does this person want for them?”

  “Nothing. We don’t like Churchill nor the Duke of Hamilton neither. Just leave us out of your investigation. You never met us or saw us.”

  Jordan stirred in his seat, pleased with his luck. “It’s a deal. When do I get to see these papers?”

  The farmer reached under his seat and pulled out a leather briefcase. “Here it is, lad.”

  * * * *

  London

  Eiser had a good night’s sleep and a hefty breakfast that morning. In the early afternoon, he walked to a sidewalk phone booth, with a telephone number on a piece of paper. Trafalgar 3-2-2-6. He dialled and waited, looking around.

  “Good morning. Daily Telegraph,” said the newspaper operator.

  “Good morning. May I please speak with Stephen Jordan?”

  “Hold on, please. I will connect you to his department.”

  “Thank you.”

  A voice came on the line.

  “Editorial.”

  “Stephen Jordan?”

  “Not here, I’m afraid. Won’t be back till Monday morning. Any message?”

  “No, thank you. I’ll call him then.”

  Eiser hung up. But when he left the booth, he was stopped by a military policeman, and asked for an identity card. Eiser remained calm. “There you are, sir.”

  The man looked at the made-in-Berlin fake. Colour of eyes ... height ... date of birth ... “A doctor, are you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “From Liverpool?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Long way from home. What might you be doing here?”

  Eiser put his hand into his medical bag. “Official Red Cross work. I have the papers, if you care to see them.”

  The policeman studied Eiser curiously, returning the card. “That won’t be necessary, Dr. Bates. Carry on.”

  Eiser tipped his cap. “Good day.”

  “Incidentally, do you always carry your medical bag with you?”

  “Why, yes, I do. With a war on I am a doctor twenty-four hours a day.”

  * * * *

  Camp Z

  He felt for the parachute under his seat. Over the nose, the Firth of Clyde glistened in the moonlight. He gave left rudder. Suddenly, bullets punctured his cockpit, wing, and the port engine.

  The RPMs and pressures fell off.

  He banked hard to port and nosed down. The only running engine was vibrating the fighter. A water landing was impossible at night. His only way out was back to the mainland. He struggled, slipping into the parachute ... and considered Dungavel Castle.

  The fighter was hanging on by a prayer, one engine out, the other barely running. Straining was more like it. Six thousand feet. Complete darkness. This is where I get out, he said to himself. Dungavel Castle is out there ... somewhere. The Duke of Hamilton’s castle.

  He threw his gun and stiletto out the hole in the broken window. He was now on a mission of peace. He reached overhead, sliding back the cabin, his right hand on the briefcase. He stuck his head too far into the open slipstream, and was thrown back. Hard. He knocked his head. Dizzy for a moment, he tried again. The turbulent slipstream stole his breath away, pushing him back again.

  He was terrified. He pushed. He shoved. He swore. He heaved back on the stick to send the nose up. The fighter climbed and climbed, until it stood on its tail. It stalled. The fighter hung motionless for a brief, split-second of time.

  He jumped. The briefcase was torn from his hand.

  He was free. He spread his body out and pulled the chord.

  Nothing happened. No flutter. No kick in the pants. He pulled and pulled.

  The ground came rising up to meet him.

  Then he woke up in his bed. A bright light overhead. It took him several moments to comprehend where he was. Maryhill Barracks? No. Farnborough. He rubbed his sweaty face. Yes, Farnborough.

  Schubert was dreaming again.

  TWENTY-ONE

  London — December 1

  Stephen Jordan squirmed at his newsroom desk, contemplating his next move.

  It was hard to know who to reach with the papers. The American Embassy seemed the most obvious. It concerned them, in a way, providing the papers were not fakes. But did they know the information already? It had nothing to do with the British, really. But, then again, he could use it as leverage with the Prime Minister’s office to interview Hess, or whoever the prisoner
was. With the papers, Jordan could obtain the secrets of the prisoner. All it would take was one interview and he’d know. One interview. One look.

  When Jordan left his office and went to the Men’s Room, he noticed a tall man leaning against the far wall, near the elevator. The man followed him in. They were the only two inside. Jordan thought it odd that the man waited inside, by the door, while Jordan did his business into the urinal, then joined him at the sinks, where Jordan washed his hands and face.

  “Stephen?”

  Jordan looked over. “Do I know you?”

  “Don’t you recognize me?”

  Jordan thought there was something in the man’s deep voice that was vaguely familiar. “No ... I don’t think so.”

  “Adam Eiser.”

  “Eiser?”

  Jordan was stunned. It had been two or three years since the Anglo-German Fellowship meetings. The voice and the steel-grey eyes were the same. But the rest ... His face was entirely different. He had a dark tan. A moustache. And the hair — short, grey on the sides.

  “Hello again, old friend,” Eiser said.

  Jordan still wasn’t sure. “But ... what happened? Where have you been?”

  “Surgery, old man. I joined the Army. I had my face burned during the evacuation at Dunkirk. A German bomb got me. The doctors fixed me up after my invalid release.”

  “Good job, I dare say.”

  Eiser’s tone grew low. “I need your help, Stephen.”

  “How?”

  “I hear you’ve been asking about Hess.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I want to know the same things you do — is he for real or not.”

  “You too? Why?”

  “I have my own reasons. Medical mostly. I work for the International Red Cross. Like any newspaperman, we want the truth. Perhaps, we can work together. Two heads are better than one.”

  Jordan shook his head. “I can’t find anything out. The Prime Minister ignores my questions regarding the prisoner. Interviews have been refused. It’s a stonewall. What’s worse, I’m being tailed. All the time.”

  “You are? Who?”

  “I don’t know. That’s another thing. Don’t be seen with me in public, for God’s sake. They’ll tail you too.”

  Eiser smiled. “Thanks for telling me. Where is the prisoner now?”

  “Mytchett Place,” Jordan said.

  “Where is that?”

  “Some old country mansion near Farnborough. Camp Z, they call it. Armed to the teeth. I know, I’ve been there. Outside, anyway. I saw the prisoner from a few hundred feet away. That’s as close as I got. I suppose you have a plan?”

  “I do,” Eiser said. “But I can’t explain here. We have to talk. I must know everything about this Camp Z and what kind of official identification I need to pass the gate and the checkpoints.”

  “Maybe, you came to the right person.”

  * * * *

  In the afternoon, Jordan phoned the Army to confirm Adam Eiser’s status with that part of the service. There was no record of any Eiser with any branch of the Army in 1939, 1940 or 1941.

  This didn’t sit well with the newspaperman. Should MI-5 or MI-6 — whoever was following him — be notified? What did Eiser want? Did he really have orders from the International Red Cross? Jordan left the Daily Telegraph newsroom and drove his auto across the city under the fading light of a crisp, mid-autumn day. He passed the American Embassy.

  Blasted! He couldn’t go in. The traffic had been too congested for blocks. His shadow was out there and would see everything. Now what? Try another day. At night? He didn’t wish to phone, for fear of his home and office lines being tapped. He had to keep his wits about him. What was Eiser up to? It would make for a smashing story. Jordan kept the papers stuffed inside his shirt, and drove to Eiser’s hotel, taking countless turns, with the hope of losing the shadow. By nightfall, he was sure that he had.

  He knocked at room 310, briefcase in hand. Eiser opened.

  “Did anyone follow you?” Eiser asked, looking up and down the hall.

  “I lost him.”

  “Come in.”

  Eiser shut the door and the two went into the plan over a bottle of brandy, with Jordan emphasizing the secrets on how to get through the gate. “Here’s your permission from the British Foreign Office to speak with Hess.” Jordan slipped Eiser a letter-sized envelope, containing a sheet of paper. “Official office stationary. Signed by Sir Alexander Cadogan with his office stamp. All you have to do is fill in your name. Typed, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “Without that sheet they’ll turn you back. Just hope they don’t call the Foreign Office for verification.”

  Eiser opened it. “Is the signature authentic?”

  “A forgery. A damn good one.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  Jordan thought of the phone call and one of the letters in his mailbox. “An anonymous friend, who wants to stay anonymous. I figure it’s someone close to the situation. A guard in Camp Z.”

  “Excellent.” Eiser put the envelope in his shirt pocket. “Anything else?”

  “Yes. The prisoner’s quarters have been replaced with armoured glass. Now there’re one hundred and thirty troops guarding him night and day. Another thing, he tried some stupid suicide attempt back in June when he leaped over a rail and fell down one floor. He broke his thigh and had it in a cast until September. So, he probably can’t move too fast.”

  “Now, tell me more about this Mytchett Place.”

  Jordan sighed. “The armed guards are everywhere. Inside. Outside, in the bushes and trees. The prisoner goes for walks in the gardens, but stays inside most of the time, especially now. Too ruddy cold. They will ask for your ID at the gate, then again on the first floor, where his bedroom and study is. Then you are in. Watch what you say. The walls have ears. The British record every word. They will send the guards bursting in there in seconds if they feel something isn’t quite right.”

  * * * *

  Hollinger and the Blue Force team led by Max Preston entered the front lobby of the rundown four-story hotel and moved into position. They each took a floor. Hollinger on the third. Preston on the second.

  Preston carefully considered what Hollinger had told him the day before. If Eiser had taken a train all the way to London, as they had suspected, then he could possibly contact one or two or more of his Anglo-German Fellowship friends. One of Eiser’s associates was Stephen Jordan, who Hollinger had already been shadowing. It was a long shot. But there wasn’t anything else to go on.

  * * * *

  Jordan stood up.

  “Going so soon, Stephen?”

  “I’m a married man. My wife is expecting me. You know where to find me.”

  “Yes. Well, I don’t think I’ll be needing you after this.”

  “But I thought we were working together. I’d like to know what you find out about the prisoner.”

  “I can’t do that. I work alone. No one is to know I’m in England. You see, Stephen, I answer to a higher authority.”

  * * * *

  Hollinger heard the fight from the hall; a man’s low scream and what sounded like a struggle, then a loud bang on the wall. Then silence. He ran up, pounding on the door. He withdrew his gun from his holster.

  “Jordan? Is that you? Are you in there? Jordan! Open up!”

  * * * *

  Eiser’s eyes went to the alley. His only way out. It was a trap. They were waiting for him. Again. He gathered up his hat, coat and carrying bag. He crossed the room, flicked the lights out, and darted for the window.

  “Jordan!” he heard from the door.

  Eiser slid the blackout curtains and window up, barely making a sound.

  * * * *

  Hollinger crashed the door down and punched on the light. The window was wide open. He ran to it and looked down the fire escape. He turned to Stephen Jordan, face down on the floor in a small pool of blood. The brief
case beside him was empty. His broken glasses a yard away.

  Hollinger bent down, and flipped the body over. His hand grazed something, crackling underneath Jordan’s shirt. He undid three buttons and saw a large manila envelope. He pulled it out and took out the contents. He scanned the first page ... the second page. The paragraph in the middle of the first page jolted him. A loan for twenty million dollars!

  “Son of a bitch!” he said aloud. Could this be what Jordan drove past the American Embassy with? Footsteps in the hall startled Hollinger. He folded the envelope into fours and squeezed it into his inside coat pocket.

  Max Preston ran in, and looked down at Jordan. “Acid burns!”

  “Yep.” Hollinger rose to his feet, twirling his fedora. “And a slit throat. Same kind of mark. You get one guess who’s been here. I had it pegged right.”

  “But we were late again.”

  Preston and Hollinger conferred in the dark alley after questioning the desk clerk.

  Hollinger glanced up to the third-floor fire escape. “I must have just missed him. I checked around the alley. Didn’t find anything.”

  “He travelled light,” Preston said. “Nothing left in the room.”

  “He sure picked a dump to stay in.”

  “The front desk said he remembered the man. Said he gave his name as Barrow. Liverpool accent, he thought. For the first time, we have a pretty fair description of him,” Preston said, reading from a note pad over a small flashlight. “Six-foot-two. Short hair. Brush cut. Grey over the ears and above the neck. Thin moustache. Neatly trimmed. And a tanned face.”

  “So he’s seen some sun since the surgery,” said Hollinger.

  “Precisely. Light-coloured eyes. Grey or blue-grey. He couldn’t remember. Rather handsome.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  “Eiser could have squeezed some information from Jordan, then eliminated him so he couldn’t identify him.”

  “Like he did with Denise. Who’s next?” Hollinger asked.

  “I wonder. I’ll ring Lampert and give him the update. He’ll undoubtedly notify MI-5. Between them and us, we’ll turn London upside-down.” He paused. “What the bloody-hell does Eiser want in England?”