by Daniel Wyatt
* * * *
Hollinger returned to his flat after ten that evening. He flung his hat, coat, and jacket on the sofa. Rolling up his sleeves, he cracked his knuckles, and plunged his six-foot frame into the chair. He loosened his tie, and reached behind him to the cabinet to fetch a bottle of wine and a clean glass.
He opened to page two of the papers he had found on Jordan, and poured a drink. Given the conditions, he didn’t feel the least bit remorseful about taking the papers from Jordan’s body. The typed sheets appeared official enough. An Enigma II transmission, dated May 9, 1941. The Falcon File. Point of origin — a German by the last name of Bremmel. Destination — Deputy Augsburg 3526/52. Hess’s identification! Hollinger knew that much from the beginning of the year. He sat up. He took a sip of wine. He was tired, but his mind was functioning clearly.
The pages were based on information that Bremmel had received in confidence from the firm that had employed him, I.S. Filberg. Filberg, it seemed, had been receiving loans from several American banks to the tune of millions of dollars in order to finance their war factories. Hell, Nazi war factories! Hollinger read on.
The transmission had been sent to Hess. Incredible. Hollinger took a bigger sip of wine. His blood was up. Here it was, all laid out in detail. Each bank. Each German factory. When the loans were signed. Any idiot could figure it out. The significance of the information was brought home to him. His home — America.
Hollinger closed his eyes. Think, Wesley. Were the papers planted by someone? By Eiser? What would be the purpose? Why would Eiser or one of his superiors plant such information on an Englishman’s body? What else did Eiser or anybody have to gain? If the papers were legit, how did Jordan come by them? He had made two trips to Scotland. One of those not far from Glasgow. Had someone been feeding him these documents, or were they found near the crash site? Someone in Great Britain had been holding the information. Now, there was a possibility. Found near the crash site. Why not? Had Hess brought these with him on his peace mission? Yeah, that was possible. Hell, yeah. He had warned the British of the death camps, the jet aircraft, the atomic weapons. So why not a possible Nazi-American alliance? Hess too had a plan when he left Augsburg that day, May 10; an agenda of defection and forewarning.
Now Washington was brought into this, like it or not. May 9. Had Hess received the information the day before he had left Augsburg? Amazing.
Hollinger put his head in his hands. His stomach was in knots. This had to be a bad dream. Desperately, he dredged his own subconscious for answers, considering the possibilities, piecing it all together. He was suddenly — unexpectedly — mentally and physically exhausted. Hollinger picked the papers up and pressed them in his hand. Then it came to him. The Falcon File. Of course. The Falcon File would provide the answer. But how would he get into it?
He swallowed the wine in his glass and filled it again. And he didn’t stop there. He consumed a second ... and a third glass. Then he had his answer.
TWENTY-TWO
London — December 2
Eiser had slept badly. He closed the door to the lavatory and stripped to his undershorts and socks. He knew he had no time to try a patch test, the way most people did, to find if he’d have an allergic reaction to the chemicals. He had to work quickly. The sun would rise soon and he had to be out of the guesthouse before the others woke. It was a good thing he had used the landlady’s typewriter the evening before to tap Dr. Jason Bates on the government document given to him by Jordan. He did a good job too. It was evenly centred. Eiser slipped the plastic gloves on over the cracked sink, took the bottle in his right hand, and poured the black dye into his hair, massaging it in with his hands as he went.
He let the dye set. He washed his hair to remove the colouring from the scalp, and cleaned the mess in the sink. He washed up, carefully shaved his moustache off, and swallowed a Benzedrine. Then he threw on his trousers, fresh turtleneck sweater, and blazer, and left the house as quietly as he could.
* * * *
Hollinger checked in at the second floor of Guys Hospital. In the waiting area was a man in a leg cast. Another man was steadying himself on crutches.
“Are you a relative?”
“A friend,” Hollinger answered the ward nurse politely. Probably her only one in London right now.
“Miss Harris will be out straightaway, sir.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Hollinger said, politely. He sat on a nearby bench and browsed through the city’s tabloid, the London Times. Ten minutes later, she appeared down the hall, a small piece of luggage in her hand. Her leg still seemed to be giving her some pain. But she was moving around.
Hollinger got up and removed his hat. She walked towards him. “Hi there, Miss Harris.”
“Hi there yourself, Mr. Hollinger.”
“You seem ... chipper.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to escort you to the London airport, ma’am.”
She leaned closer and dropped her voice, “Is that the other part of the deal?”
He took her away a few feet. “Yes, I’m afraid so, ma’am. We’ve booked a New York bound Clipper flight for you this afternoon, out of Whitchurch. A plane in London will fly you there.” He eyed his watch. “In a few minutes, actually.”
“I don’t have any choice in the matter, do I?”
He shook his head, smiling. “How’s the leg?”
“Sore. But I can walk on it. The arm’s fine.” She raised her hand. “See?”
“Great.”
She did a quick twirl, tossing her hair with her hand. “What do you think?”
Hollinger looked at the new dress the MI-6 had purchased for her. A light green, it looked great on her. She had makeup on. Gosh! She was really quite pretty. Too pretty. A Betty Grable type. In less than a week, she seemed to have recovered miraculously from her injuries.
“Don’t you look smashing,” he said, boldly.
“Charmer. Come on. Lead the way.”
He smiled, reached for her new suitcase, and took her down the elevator.
* * * *
The drive through the London war zone in the drafty top-up MG convertible obviously depressed her; the craters, the cracked pavement, the bombed-out buildings. Structures not damaged by German bombs were reinforced by sandbags.
“Geez,” she uttered. “I didn’t realize it was like this.”
“Not a pleasing picture, is it?”
“No, it’s not.”
“This is probably the worst area. Twenty thousand Londoners have died so far, across the city.”
This was the writer’s first ride in a cramped English sports car. The MG was not new by any means, but functional. It had a powerful well-tuned motor. Hollinger drove it fast, weaving in and out of traffic. He squealed the tires around one corner, making several pedestrians gawk.
“Slow down, will you.”
“Sorry.” He let off the pedal. “I’m in a bit of a hurry. I have to get back.”
“Well, I want to live. Long,” she said.
“OK.”
“Do you think we’ll get into this war?” she asked him bluntly.
“Yeah, we will. Some day. Either here in Europe or the Pacific.”
“You seem confident of that.”
“I am. Sort of.”
They reached the airport and Hollinger braked in front of the twin-engined Avro Anson on the tarmac. The pilot was waiting outside the machine. Hollinger opened the car door for Harris, and retrieved her luggage from the back.
“Thank you.”
“I’m sorry things couldn’t have worked out better for you.”
She shrugged. “I’m alive, aren’t I? Thanks for your help. The new clothes and everything.”
Hollinger shook hands with her. “You’re welcome. What are you going to do when you return to the States?”
“Ask for another assignment, naturally,” she answered.
“Good luck. Maybe we’ll see each other again some time.”
She looked at him strangely. She doubted that she would ever lay eyes on him again. “Yeah, maybe,” she said.
* * * *
Camp Z
Adam Eiser double-checked his image in the rear-view mirror before he steered the stolen Morris to the gate at Mytchett Place. He could feel his second Benzedrine kicking in with a punch. He had taken his time driving, trying not to be noticed. A private auto was a rare sight in the wartime British countryside. He had to take the back roads. And he had to conserve the siphoned fuel in the tank.
An armed guard stopped him, holding his palm up. It was the first of two checkpoints at Mytchett. The toughest. Once past here, Jordan had told him, he was on his way. He rolled the window down.
The guard leaned over, his breath steaming in the cool air. “Yes, sir. What might I do for you?”
“My name is Dr. Bates. I’ve come on behalf of the International Red Cross.”
“The nature of your business?”
“To see the prisoner, and evaluate his medical condition.”
“Papers, please.”
“Yes, sir.”
Eiser dug into his medical bag for the credentials — the Red Cross and British Foreign Office verification, and the War Office pass. The guard closely examined the forged signature of Sir Alexander Cadogan on the latter sheet, the stamp, and the Red Cross paper.
“Dr. Jason Bates?”
“Yes.”
The guard pursed his lips. “Do you have any identification?”
“Yes.”
Eiser showed him the three Berlin phonies — driver’s licence, ID card, and birth certificate. The guard scanned them for several seconds.
“Very well. You may proceed. Park on the left.” The guard returned everything.
Eiser heaved a sigh deep inside. “Thank you.”
* * * *
MI-6 Headquarters
Hollinger found Langford standing by the window, smoking a cigarette. She was wearing an attractive outfit — blue jacket, matching blue shirt, white blouse.
“And where were you?”
She turned around and blinked once. “What concern of that is yours? I’m not at your beck and call.” Then she thought twice on what she had said. He was her boss. She was there for him. “I had the morning off.”
He closed the door behind him, and pushed a note at her.
She read: Is the room bugged?
“Well?”
She shook her head. “No. We’re safe.”
“OK.” He handed her the contents of a manila envelope. “I have something to show you. Here. Get a load of this. Tell me what you make of it.”
She took papers from Hollinger’s outstretched hand. Her trained eye scanned the material in a flash. “American bank loans to ... the Germans?” She looked up, her voice cracking. “Where did you get it?”
“A long story. No time to go into it. See the date?”
“Yes. May 9. Falcon File transmission from the Bremmel ... in Berlin ... to Deputy Augsburg ... Hess!”
He nodded. “Yes, indeed. Hess.”
“Yes, but is it genuine? It could be a fake.”
“You’d know the answer to that one. It would have come through Bletchley.”
“I was off that day in May, I remember. I was in London.”
“I need your help.”
“Oh, my. You have that look in your eye. I’ve seen it before.”
“There’s one way of checking this out to see if it’s on the level.”
She seemed to foresee what was coming. “I know. If we received it at Bletchley, then we did have prior knowledge. If that’s the case, then Hess might have been trying to warn us of an agreement between American bankers and German war factories.”
“Wunderbar.”
Langford stood up and came around the front of her desk. Her shoes were off, as usual. “I take it this was part of the package he brought with him on his peace mission?”
“If this information is in the file room, then it was part of Hess’s package. And chances are Churchill and Lampert know about it, and are keeping it under wraps.”
“Why?”
“To use it against somebody — us — at the opportune time.”
She shook her head. “I don’t like this.”
“Now all we have to do is confirm this.”
“Only if there’s another copy in the file room.”
Hollinger put the papers into the envelope. “Except, someone could have destroyed them. And there might not be anything there. But we have to find out. You have access to the room. I don’t.”
“Yes, but, the Hess intercepts are under the Confidential section,” she argued. “We’d need permission from Lampert. If unauthorized people were caught in there, we’re—”
“Up the creek without a paddle.”
“Worse. I’d be thrown out of the Secret Service for good. Blacklisted forever. You’d be sent back to Washington.”
“We just won’t get caught, that’s all. Got a key?”
“I have a number of keys for the different rooms. I don’t know if I have one for that one.”
“Some of the locks could be the same. Let’s try.”
“I don’t know about this. I got roasted over letting you in a restricted area the last time.”
“Robbie, I have no intention of sitting on my butt, doing nothing. I have to know.” He smiled. “Besides, the end of the year that you promised me is almost up.”
“But why do I have to be involved?”
“You’re in too far not to be.”
She smiled, pausing. “I don’t know why I get into these predicaments with you. Oh, very well.”
“Atta girl. No time like the present.” He looked down at her. “Get your shoes on. Your Honor left for lunch.”
* * * *
The third floor contained rows upon rows of metal cabinets, all files for the Secret Service Headquarters. The tiled floor appeared to have been freshly waxed. Several people were scattered about when Hollinger and Langford arrived.
“There,” Langford pointed.
The Confidential section was a walled room off to the right. The door was closed. No light underneath.
“What’re you waiting for?” Hollinger said.
“Easy, boy. Pretend we’re looking through some drawers near the door.”
He grinned. “Yours or mine?”
She stared at him. “Don’t get smart.”
“Let’s go.”
They walked across the floor and stopped beside the cabinets in front of the Confidential section. They looked around. They were in the clear. She squatted down and tried the lock, while Hollinger played the lookout. The first key didn’t work. Neither did the second. She tried the third. The fourth.
“Doesn’t this remind you of stealing biscuits from your mother’s biscuit jar?”
Hollinger smirked. “No. More like whiskey from my father’s liquor cabinet.”
“Whatever. Hush! Somebody’s coming!”
Langford knelt down by the nearest file cabinet and pulled out the drawer. Hollinger looked with her, the two of them trying to appear as if they had the right to be there. A man walked by, looked at them, then left through the entrance.
“Hurry,” Hollinger urged, “before someone else comes along.”
Langford crawled over to the door and tried more keys, frantically, one by one. The eighth one clicked, and the lock gave way. She waved him over. Hollinger crawled across the floor and went in behind her. Inside, he closed the door, and they stood up.
It was pitch dark.
“Don’t try anything now,” Hollinger said in a hushed tone.
“Don’t you wish!” she whispered.
Hollinger dug for the two small flashlights in his suit pocket. He flicked them on and gave Langford one. They dusted themselves off.
“OK, where to?” he said, moving his light around the room. Four rows of cabinets were directly in front of him.
“All Falcon File intercepts are fil
ed by date. I’ll start to the left. You take the right.”
Quietly, they both opened a drawer about the same time, and checked the dates on the tabs.
“I think it’s on your side,” she said.
He opened a drawer nearest the floor. “You’re right. January ’41. February. Here. Bull’s-eye. May.” He pulled out the appropriate month and went to stand up.
A crash of metal made Langford jump. “What’s the matter?”
“I banged my head on the top drawer.”
“Oh, good heavens.” She laughed. “Why didn’t you close it first?”
“It’s not funny.”
“Keep it down! And don’t swear.”
“Shit! Did that hurt.”
“Don’t get mad and bang it shut.”
They looked in the file. May the fourth. The seventh. The ninth ... Hollinger slid the papers out.
Langford’s pulse quickened as she read. It was staring her in the face. “There it is. Word for word.”
“Yep. Was I right or what?” he winced, holding his head.
“I suppose I owe you an apology.”
“I’ll take a band-aid right now. I think my head’s bleeding. I might even need stitches.”
“What are you going to do?”
“About my head? Probably see a doctor.”
“No, the file, stupid!”
“Possession is nine-tenths of the law. Notify my boss in Washington. What else? In person.”
“Under the circumstances,” she said, “I don’t blame you. But what can you do? What can anybody do?”
“I dunno. But, you know, deep down inside, I don’t blame the Big Guy for trying to draw us into this thing. This could be one way of doing it. I’d do it myself if I were in his shoes.”
“You would?”
He nodded. “Yep. Chalk it up to, let’s say, justifiable fabrication on his part.”
“Why such a fuss then all this time?”
He shrugged. “I dunno. I guess I wanted you to admit that I was right. Good thing, too, because I only had another month to go.”
“You sure went to great lengths to achieve your goals.”
“That I did.”
“May I ask a question?”
“Certainly,” he said.