by Eddy Shah
Frick knew that Schiller was also greedy. His family had owned considerable estates in the east, lost after the First World War when raging inflation destroyed his grandfather's estate. Lost to a rich Jewish family who were eventually to die in the concentration camps after Hitler had promised to return the estate to his father for duties performed. But the end of World War Two and the separation of Germany brought that agreement to an abrupt end. As soon as reunification came about, Schiller applied for the return of his family's estates. He was horrified to find that a British grocery family, close relatives of the Jews who had taken over his lands, had title to the property. The will that gave them title had been written on a torn out page of a 1938 diary, the only paper available when the family learnt of their imminent fate in the gas chamber. The estate had been willed to another prisoner, a distant cousin, on the clear understanding that should it ever be returned to Jewish hands, the monies and profits taken from it would be devoted to the creation of a Zionist state. The estate itself was to be used for the well being of those Jews who had also suffered at the hands of the Nazis and other oppressors of the faith.
Schiller now found himself fighting those who his father had always taught him were responsible for the break up of Germany and all she had stood for. They were thieves, and once again they would be stealing the land that was not theirs, the land and estates that were Karl Schiller's by right of inheritance.
He had been a keen and willing convert to the cause, his hatred fuelled by Grob Mitzer whom he knew and trusted as a friend and corporate colleague. Mitzer's death had stunned him, but not for too long. Within half an hour he had contacted those on the Council he trusted and given a good account as to why he should fill the vacant seat. His last call had been to Frick, the man he knew he must convince.
'I hadn't considered you ready for the council yet,' said Frick, when Schiller had finished. He lied, for the financier was the obvious choice. He knew Schiller's history, knew his greed for what he felt was rightfully his, knew of his birthright hatred of the Jews. They had known each other for some considerable time and Frick trusted Schiller as much as he could trust any man.
Schiller had pleaded, once again going through the many reasons why it was right for him to gain a seat on the Council. Then he pledged loyalty to Frick and to his leadership. When he had begged enough, when there was nothing else to repeat, Frick had agreed to surrender to Schiller's inheritance request.
'When we come to power, my dear Schiller,' Frick had concluded, 'we shall return what is rightfully theirs to those who have supported us. That is the least we can do.'
From that moment on Schiller was his man.
'But,' Frick went on, 'if we are to take our rightful place in history, then it's time we came out of the woodwork.' He paused, sensed their uneasiness. They were used to working in the dark; they had become a secret society. They had sat with their friends and heard the vilification of Hitler and the Third Reich at dinner parties, in the cinemas, on television and in books and newspapers. Nazi hating had become big business. And they had kept their counsel, never spoken out about their own beliefs.
And now they were being asked to come out in the open.
He felt them shudder; they were in the tunnel and the thunder of the oncoming express train was rattling the rails.
'We have nothing to be ashamed of,' he stated clearly. 'We can't always apologise for the past.'
He stood up, aware of them all watching him. They were frightened men, even Schiller was ram rod straight in his seat. What the hell had they expected, after all these years?
'It's easy to be frightened,' Frick said as he walked round the table, behind them, their eyes following him. 'I, also, am frightened. But we mustn't let our fear overcome our purpose, our duty. There have been far greater forces of darkness in our land than the Third Reich. The Americans, the British, the French. Even the poodle French. They told us how to live our lives, occupied us until we lived our life their way. Whatever nice things they said to our face, they always had their troops in the background, on our soil, waiting to beat us if we suddenly changed our minds. And we had the Russians. They hid their dark deeds behind the Wall. But they still raped our country, disgraced us, pissed all over us for the crimes of fifty years ago. And however bad their crimes against us were, they always justified them by saying ours were worse. We became two countries. Two countries, until the will of the people decided we'd had enough and they went out in their hundred of thousands and pulled the wall down. With their hands. Like I did. On that great night, I stood with them and chipped away with my bare hands, until my fingers were bleeding, to bring down that iniquitous wall. But, like Nietsche said, no herdsman and one herd. They have earned their freedom and don't know what to do next. Our people need direction. And while they're looking for that direction, they are vulnerable. Vulnerable to the rabble-rousers, to the communists, to the fascists, even to the Zionists. You've seen the riots in Berlin, the destruction of the synagogues, even the bomb that killed Grob Mitzer. Surely his death must show you that we can't stay hidden any longer. That it is time for us to take our rightful place. Time for us to be the herdsman. We have the means. We even have our own secret police. The Stasi, Hoenicker's secret police, have been good Stermabeitalung for us. An army of men with nowhere to go.'
As he looked round, he saw that his words were starting to have some effect. One or two of the older members were nodding in agreement. They had waited for so long that some of them had forgotten what they were waiting for.
'Do you know how many Stasi members there were?' he asked suddenly. 'Do you?'
'More than twenty thousand, mein Fuhrer,' said Buhle, the newspaper proprietor.
'More than that, my dear Klaus. That's how many full time staff there were. There were another ninety thousand part timers. Members of the reserves, the army, informers and part time officials. Imagine. We have an army of more than one hundred thousand trained soldiers to choose from. That is bigger than the whole British Army. Not all will come with us. But even if only one in four follows us, we will have nearly thirty thousand people under our command.'
'A unique position,' commented Buhle.
'Unique indeed. To have that and also face a Germany which is being torn apart. It must have been the same in the early days of the Reich.' He appealed to their greed for power. 'Imagine. The day he came to power.' They all knew who 'he' was. 'Imagine. After all the turmoil, after the years of shame, to be in a position where power is absolute, where the future of Germany is in your hands. Can't you see him? Standing there, in Berlin, being sworn in as Chancellor in 1933. What a momentous time, what a magnificent occasion. Surrounded by his lieutenants, his architects of government. Believe, and it can happen again.' He urged them into his vision. 'Believe. Believe. All this can be ours. But it won't jump into our laps. It's a prize we have to take. And to take it, we have to show ourselves. Otherwise, all we've believed in, all that we and those before us have suffered for, will be wasted. Our time will not come again.'
He went back to his seat at the head of the table.
'Reunification.....cannot be wasted.' It was the newest member of the Council, Schiller, who spoke. The others looked up in surprise. They had not expected the newcomer to speak so soon. 'Grob Mitzer, our friend, my closest friend, gave his life for this chance. So have countless others, thousands upon thousands who have waited, and many have died, in South America and Africa and other hideous, secret parts of the world. They have, throughout their exiles, sent us money and resources to help us fuel our movement. Our Fuhrer is right. Delay means termination. I, like many of you, have so much to lose if this goes wrong. I don't want them to brand me a bully-boy because I'm a National Socialist, to discredit me through their media. But the prize is worth the risk.'
'Well spoken,' applauded Frick. 'Bravo. Well spoken. We are all respected. We all have positions of influence. But as anarchy increases, so we will be expected to use that influence. Klaus Buhle, through his papers
and television interests, can sow the seed for us. He can defend us, can separate us from the past, from the concentration camps and lost wars. He can compare Germany with what it was in the 30's. The National Socialists led us out of depression then, and the National Socialists can do it again. We're not warmongers, but liberationists. Fighting for the values of our heritage. The media will make us respectable.' He already knew that Mitzer's record was under scrutiny, but that could wait. Buhle was bringing that situation under control. 'Against the anarchists, and the communists, that is the only way they can portray us. And with your names leading the party, how can we be taken as warmongers and murderers?'
'That's if the riots and bombings continue,' said Swingler, one of the old crowd. 'The police say they have everything under control.'
'They always say that,' replied Frick. 'They have no idea what's going on.' He didn't add that he was responsible for much of the terrorist acts, and that he would ensure they continued. 'These things always run on longer than people imagine.'
'Even so,' Swingler persisted, 'it's the Lucy Ghosts who'll haunt us. It's their money that made this possible. When they return, their records will brand them as war criminals. Associate with them and we'll be attacked as Nazis.'
'We leave them where they are. Until we're in power.'
'But they want to come back now.'
'They must wait their turn.'
'They've waited a long time. In their swamps and forests, hidden from the world.'
'Then they'll have to wait longer.'
'But we spent millions on destroying their records. We...'
'Willi Kushmann spent millions. Wasted money. I had the highest regard for him, but he was a dreamer. Now's the time to be practical. Realists. The only way to bring back the Lucy Ghosts is to prepare a Germany that wants them back. Help win this fight and we'll have them back sooner than you expect.'
Ch. 55
Newark Station
New Jersey
They never completed the train journey to Penn Station.
Adam insisted they leave the AmTrak Crescent at its penultimate stop in New Jersey. They ate an early lunch, packed their bags and stepped off the train at 1.19 p.m. Adam was impressed; the train, after nearly thirty hours and one thousand miles, was only two minutes late.
They heard the final 'All aboard' as they left the station and took a cab to Teterborough Airport. It was some distance and they refrained from talking throughout the one hour trip.
Teterborough serves private aircraft with the same intensity that Le Guardia and Kennedy serve the commercial routes in and out of New York. As executive jets and smaller piston engined aircraft fly the final approach to Teterborough's runways, the twin towers of the World Trade Center in Manhattan are only five miles away.
'Almost touch them with my hand,' thought Jenny Dale as she looked out on the skyscrapers, then turned her attention to flying the small, six seater, twin engined Piper Seneca onto the final approach. She had maintained two thousand feet for the last five miles.
'Cleared to land,' crackled the tower operator over her headset.
'Roger.' She eased back on the twin power throttles and pushed the mixture and prop levers fully forward.
She looked to her right once again, savoured Manhattan outlined against the afternoon sky. She pushed the yoke forward and the plane's nose dipped as it started downward towards the runway.
Jenny Dale, dark haired, tall with a buxom figure, and twenty-nine years old, was a ferry pilot from Dagenham in Essex. She had been flying for twelve years, had studied with her father who flew Concorde as a senior British Airways captain, and soloed on her seventeenth birthday. Flying was in her blood; she was the son her parents never had. After she gained her private pilot's licence, she was an instructor at a flying school at Biggin Hill before sitting for her commercial ticket at the age of twenty-one. By then she had accumulated over two thousand hours.
But commercial flying in bloody great buses in the sky never appealed to her. She was an adventuress and she soon turned to ferrying. The easiest way to deliver a plane someone has purchased is to fly it there. As most light aircraft are either made in the United States, or sold on the second hand market there, she learnt to fly the Atlantic in small planes. The northern route from Canada to Europe often included landing in Greenland and Iceland. It was a difficult journey, especially in the winter months when the vagaries of intemperate and often violent weather meant that remote airports could be closed down within minutes.
It was an exciting, yet dangerous life, but one that suited her nature.
She greased the Seneca onto the runway and cleared left, towards the small, but busy terminal and the parking ramps in front of it.
'To the top,' she told the refueller, 'and that includes the ferry tanks inside.' She opened the double rear doors and pointed out the two 45 gallon tanks which were her emergency supply if an airport closed down on her. They were lashed together, upright and side by side, between the rear four seats. A series of switches and fuel locks allowed the pilot to change tanks in mid flight.
She left the refueller and walked into the terminal.
'Hello,' said the Englishman as she helped herself to a mug of courtesy coffee at the desk.
'Hi,' she smiled back.
'You going across the pond?' he asked.
'Yes.'
'Where?'
'Manchester.'
'Could do with a lift.'
'Not insured for it.'
'Worth a thousand pounds to you.'
'Why?'
'Just fancy it. Never done it before and we fancy the trip.'
'We?'
'My friend,' he pointed to where the woman sat, 'and me.'
'People try and get drugs through this way. We're told not to do it.'
'I'm a soldier.' He showed her his passport and warrant card. 'Not a drug dealer.'
'Can't you manage more than a grand? I'm just a simple working girl, you know.'
'Fifteen hundred?'
She nodded. 'Okay. Be ready to go in half an hour. She'll have to sit in the back. Bit cramped, but I need the heavier weight up front. Weight and balance of the plane.'
Adam knew she was lying. She just wanted male company to talk to.
'No problem,' he said and went back to Billie. 'We've got a lift.'
'Why this way?' she asked.
'Because your customs and immigration never check on people leaving the country. Only on those coming in. This way we won't be on any ticket manifesto, not until we get across to Europe.'
'Smart.'
He introduced Billie to Jenny and saw her disappointment when the pilot explained she'd have to sit in the back with the ferry tanks. She would be even more disillusioned when she saw how limited the space actually was.
Forty minutes later the small plane, now over its weight limit, clawed its way into the sky, its two turbocharged 220 horsepower engines screaming at full power, and headed northwards at eleven thousand feet towards Canada and its overnight destination of Goose Bay, Labrador.
It was an eight hundred mile trip, flown in murky conditions with moderate turbulence. They rarely saw the ground, only snatches of lakes or wooded countryside appearing through the rare break in the stratus cloud.
The twenty knot tailwind helped, and their airspeed of two hundred knots reduced the journey to just over four hours.
That was four hours too long for Billie wedged in behind the ferry tanks. The bumpiness had churned her stomach and given her a headache, but she kept her complaints to herself. She started to regret her impulsiveness in joining a wild goose obstacle chase.
Up front, Adam watched the girl handle the plane with an ease that comes only with experience. She had left the plane on auto pilot as they flew north over Massachusetts, Maine and crossed the border into Canada at Presque Isle.
They came in to land in a snowscape, the lights along the thin ribbon of recently cleared runway coming into view and stretching out in front of them as the
Seneca descended on its final approach to Runway 27 at Goose Bay.
She then took control and taxied off the runway as three Canadian Air Force F11's blasted into the sky on a training mission farther to the north. As she taxied in to the small civilian terminal, Adam watched the three fighter planes ease their pointed noses skyward and climb at over thirty thousand feet a minute. Now that was power. His F40 was a Dinky toy compared to them.
Billie couldn't believe the cold and she rushed towards the warmth of the terminal. Adam and Jenny followed after, carrying the bags.
'Are you crew?' asked the customs man.
'Yes.' Adam indicated Billie who was now stretching her legs in the terminal. 'She's my girl. She's along for the ride.'
'We're off at the crack of dawn,' added Jenny.
Customs nodded. He was doubling for Immigration who had gone home to babysit while his wife went to the movies with her sister. He waved them through. No record of any passengers was made of their arrival. But then ferry flights were the order of the day at Goose.
Both the Aurora Hotel and Labrador Inn were fully booked and the cab driver finally deposited them at the Royal Inn. They were lucky, there were two rooms and the women decided to share.
Adam was in Room 17, little knowing that this was where the Russian agent Hans Putiloff had been killed in the early days of this affair. He locked the door, showered and freshened up for supper. When he left his room, he knocked on the women's door; he would wait for them in the small restaurant at the front of the hotel.
They joined him ten minutes later. He was at the bar, audaciously flirting with the shapeless young waitress in the even more shapeless sweater. She was enjoying every minute of it; men of this calibre were not something you came across every day, especially in Happy Valley, Goose Bay.
'I'm having mooseburger,' he said, directing them to the table by the window. 'Mooseburger! What about that?'
The waitress took their orders. Her dream of an exciting evening had abruptly disappeared.