The Suicide Exhibition

by Justin Richards

“One more than we intended,” Green said. “And as you know, he didn’t survive long, poor bastard.”

  Sarah shook her head. “I still don’t understand how you knew about this raid, or whatever it was, how you knew it was going to happen.”

  Miss Manners gave a polite cough. “I have a friend,” she said, glancing at Brinkman for his permission to elaborate. He nodded, and she adjusted her spectacles before continuing. “She is part of a group that makes various claims, including that they can divine information from some rather unorthodox sources. But her … employer, if I can call him that, has been right before.”

  “But this employer of hers isn’t deemed reliable enough to be able to second troops from regular army units?” Guy guessed.

  Again Miss Manners glanced at Brinkman before she went on: “Her employer, though I use the term rather loosely as he’s more of a mentor I suppose, well … He’s Aleister Crowley.”

  There was silence for several moments. Guy was aware that his mouth was open in surprise.

  “Who?” Sarah said.

  “You’ve never heard of him?” Guy was amazed.

  Sarah shrugged. “The name sounds familiar, but…” She shrugged.

  “The press called him ‘the wickedest man in the world,’” Miss Manners said.

  “That’s not far off the truth,” Green said. He was smiling and making a point of not looking at Miss Manners. “Bit of a libertine. Spiritualist. He’s into all that occult mumbo-jumbo and talking to the dead stuff.”

  Miss Manners coughed again. “And he did predict that the Ubermensch would come ashore at Shingle Bay, Sergeant.”

  Green’s smile faded. “He did, yes. Well, after all I’ve seen—maybe there’s something in that nonsense after all.”

  “There were also Ultra intercepts, as well as Crowley’s rather less orthodox information-gathering,” Brinkman said.

  Guy recalled hearing the term “Ultra” earlier in the meeting. But Brinkman was not forthcoming.

  “All you need to know is that we are occasionally allowed access to information from an unimpeachable—and entirely non-spiritual—source. You’ve been to Bletchley and met Wiles, I’m sure you can put two and two together. Just keep the answer to yourselves.”

  “And how is Wiles involved?” Guy asked, deciding to save the mental arithmetic for later.

  “The UDTs emit signals,” Davenport said. He’d been sitting back with his arms folded, watching and listening with amusement to the previous exchanges. “Transmissions that are picked up and recorded by the Y Stations. They monitor all radio traffic. Dr. Wiles is a bit of an expert at unravelling such things. Though he’s not made a lot of headway so far.”

  “It’s been more of a hobby for him up till now,” Brinkman said. “But I’ve finally secured permission for him to put together a small team at Station X to work exclusively on the UDT problem. Hopefully we’ll get some results.” He leaned across the table toward Guy and Sarah. “It’s a lot to take in, I know. And a very incomplete picture, I’m afraid. Like yourselves, we have more questions than answers.”

  “I do have one more question I think you can answer,” Guy said.

  “Oh?”

  “How does Rudolf Hess fit into all this? Assuming he does.”

  “He’s on the periphery,” Brinkman admitted. “Like us, he is worried by what’s going on, and I don’t mean the war. How much of what he says is reliable isn’t clear. How much he actually knows is a moot point. But what he has told us … That is, what he told us before he decided that it was best to shut up and pretend he actually knows nothing … What he told us is…” Brinkman hesitated, searching for the right word. “Terrifying,” he said at last.

  With that, he stood up and strode from the room. Green followed close behind him. The meeting was apparently over.

  “I’ll see you both later,” Davenport said jovially as he also left.

  Miss Manners ushered Sarah and Guy from the room. “I’ve put together some briefing papers,” she said. “You should read Colonel Brinkman’s report to General Ismay, and his account of his meeting with Hess. Again, I’m afraid you’ll come away with rather more questions than answers but thus is progress made.”

  “Is this progress?” Sarah asked Guy quietly as they returned to the main office.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I have the horrible feeling we’ve opened Pandora’s Box. And whatever we’ve let out can never be put back in.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Dawn had been breaking across Glasgow by the time Colonel Brinkman and Sergeant Green arrived at Maryhill back on 11 May 1941. Brinkman was disappointed that the UDT had turned out to be a German plane after all. But he was determined to be meticulous about every detail, so Sergeant Green drove them to Glasgow to interview the pilot.

  The discovery of the pilot’s actual identity lifted Brinkman’s mood a little. But it dipped again when the officer in charge of the barracks told him a man from the Foreign Office was already with Hess. The additional presence of the Duke of Hamilton intrigued Brinkman more than anything—not least as technically the man outranked him.

  “You mind if I take a break, sir?” Green asked. “I could do with a smoke.”

  Brinkman nodded for him to go ahead. “I’ll send for you if I need you. This Pentecross,” he went on, thoughtfully. “Same chap as at Ipswich do you think?”

  “It’s an unusual name,” Green conceded. “Seems likely. But probably a coincidence. He deals with Germans who turn up on British soil—like at Ipswich, and the same here. Even so…” he added.

  “Even so,” Brinkman echoed.

  Corporal Matthews led Brinkman through the barracks. They were coming to life now as day broke. But the block where Hess was being held was quiet and empty. Two men stood at the end of the corridor, one looked pale, dabbing at his face with a folded handkerchief. The second man had the bearing of a soldier, even though he wore a civilian suit. Pentecross, Brinkman decided.

  “I have to talk to Whitehall,” the shorter man—Hamilton—said. His voice was shaking as much as his hand. “Someone in authority. The implications…”

  “You can start with me, sir,” Brinkman told him. “Perhaps then my journey won’t have been a complete waste. I’m Colonel Brinkman.”

  Hamilton was getting some color back in his features and his relief was obvious. “Of course, Colonel. Perhaps you can make sense of what I’ve just heard.”

  “Perhaps.” Brinkman glanced at Pentecross. “Who are you?” he asked, though he already knew, of course.

  The man from the FO straightened to attention. “Major Pentecross, sir. Foreign Office.”

  Brinkman nodded. So he still used his rank even though he’d been discharged. Brinkman wasn’t sure he approved of that. “You won’t be needed, Major,” he said. “Dismissed.”

  Five minutes with Hamilton was more than enough to convince Brinkman that his trip had not been wasted after all.

  * * *

  They spoke German throughout. Colonel Brinkman recognized the Deputy Fuhrer from newsreel footage and photographs. But he was surprised how pale the man looked, how nervous. His hands were clasped tightly on the table in front of him in the small room. So tight the knuckles whitened.

  “Hamilton did not understand.”

  “No,” Brinkman said. He sat down behind the desk, aligning the pencil neatly across the top of the pad that lay there waiting. “I spoke to him just now. But I do.”

  “You think so?” Hess smiled thinly. It was a fleeting moment. “I doubt it.”

  Brinkman shrugged. “Convince me.”

  “You know what I told Hamilton?”

  “Some of it. As you said—he didn’t really grasp the implications, though they worried him. He doesn’t know that we have been logging what we call Unknown Detected Traces for some time.”

  Brinkman leaned back, wondering if he had said too much. Did the Germans know about RDF, or RADAR as they were now calling it? Not that Hess would be going back to Germany
.

  “For some time?” Hess shook his head. “They have been coming here for centuries. For millennia. Or rather, they used to come here.”

  Brinkman leaned forward again. “And now they are back?”

  Hess did not reply. Brinkman waited, but still Hess offered nothing.

  “So why did you come?” Brinkman asked at last. “You were alone. Your plane was armed with machine guns, but there was no ammunition on board. We know the Luftwaffe tried to intercept your flight.” He didn’t know that, but it seemed likely.

  “We have done a terrible thing,” Hess said slowly. He unclasped his hands and waved away Brinkman’s response. “Oh, you will tell me that we have done many terrible things. Many you don’t even know about. But none of them as terrible as this.”

  “And what have you done?”

  “We have sought out forbidden knowledge.”

  That surprised Brinkman, though he didn’t really know what to expect. He needed to draw the information out of the man. Hess had come here for a reason, and it was not a trivial matter. He’d defected from the Fatherland. He’d betrayed the Fuhrer just by being here. Whatever the cause, it was more important to Hess than his reputation, or probably his life. Brinkman waited for Hess to go on.

  “The Fuhrer has never been much interested in the occult. But Reichsfuhrer Himmler is another matter. The knowledge of the Ancients has also fascinated him. He sees connections there that, to be honest, I do not. But there is no harm in indulging his interest. Others pander to it. I share it, up to a point. I showed enthusiasm. Or rather, I used to.”

  Brinkman knew of Himmler’s obsession. It was well documented. “Himmler believes that the symbols and rituals of the occult are some residue of ancient wisdom, is that it?”

  “Knowledge, wisdom, science that we have long forgotten. And he has gathered enough evidence to convince the Fuhrer that something of what he claims is true.”

  Brinkman shook his head. “Forgive me, but what has this to do with our UDTs? With these objects we have been … following?”

  “I shall come to that.” Hess seemed more comfortable now as he told his story. There was some color in his cheeks again. “Could I have some coffee, do you think?”

  Brinkman didn’t want to break off the debriefing, so he opened the door and called to Matthews for coffee.

  “Tell me,” Hess said, “are you aware of a book called The Coming Race?”

  Brinkman was not.

  “You should read it. It is by Edward Bulwer-Lytton. Lord Lytton, in actual fact.”

  “He is British?” Brinkman wondered where this was leading.

  “He was English,” Hess confirmed. “Primarily a politician. But he wrote cheap fiction. Few remember him now, but he coined several phrases that have become clichés in your language.” Hess smiled, breaking into English to say: “It was a dark and stormy night.”

  “Hardly the height of literary prowess,” Brinkman said. “Though evocative, I’ll give you that.”

  “It might appeal to ‘the great unwashed’—another of his phrases. Or how about, most aptly, ‘The pen is mightier than the sword?’”

  Now it was Brinkman who smiled. “I am not sure that Herr Hitler would agree with that.”

  “He sees both as a means to an end. He is the author of a bestselling book, don’t forget. But we digress. While he was never an enthusiastic devotee of the occult, The Coming Race struck a chord with the Fuhrer. It tells of a man who falls through the earth and discovers a maze of tunnels and catacombs inhabited by an ancient, advanced race. They rely on unknown technology, especially an oil with miraculous properties called Vril—from which they take their name.”

  “And Hitler thinks the story is true?”

  “Allegorical, perhaps. It is yet more evidence of an ancient, hidden society that has secret knowledge. Knowledge that, encouraged by Himmler, the Fuhrer craves.”

  “And I thought Himmler was only interested in the Holy Grail,” Brinkman said sarcastically. Coffee had arrived, but he had been so absorbed in Hess’s words that he hadn’t even noticed.

  “He follows any lead that might render up the secrets. And not without success.”

  Brinkman leaned forward to pour the coffee. “Oh?”

  Hess shook his head. “The details—later. All we need concern ourselves with now is that he has gone too far. He discovered something. Back in 1934, I think. In Tibet. I say ‘discovered’ but perhaps I should say ‘disturbed.’”

  “But you don’t know what?”

  “I only know that there were consequences. Someone—something—knew of the discovery. It was as if the archaeologists set off an alarm. In 1936, five years ago now, something crashed in the Black Forest, not far from Freiburg.”

  “A plane?”

  “Not just any plane. The locals described it as a flying disc.”

  Brinkman nodded. That tied in with some of the vague eyewitness reports of UDTs. “What happened to it?”

  “The SS took possession of it. What was left after the crash was taken to Wewelsburg—Herr Himmler’s residence, if you can call a restored Renaissance castle a residence.”

  “And this is what Himmler used to convince the Fuhrer of his beliefs?” It seemed likely.

  Hess nodded. “And now he is closer to Hitler on these matters than I ever was. I confess, even after the Black Forest crash, I dismissed much of it as fantasy.”

  “But now you are not so sure.”

  “Now I know better. That is why I am here.”

  “And what exactly do you know?”

  Hess leaned across the table, hands once more clasped tightly together. “I know that bodies were recovered from that crash. There are rumors of a survivor, held at Wewelsburg. I know that we too have detected objects in the sky that are not aircraft flown by either side in this conflict. I know that Himmler, on the Fuhrer’s instructions is using spiritualists to try to contact what he calls ‘the Coming Race,’ though whether they come from within the earth or beyond it, I cannot say. I have seen, at Wewelsburg, I have seen … Such things.”

  “And why are you telling us all this?”

  There was a sheen of sweat on Hess’s brow. “Because it has to stop. Himmler is tampering with forces he does not understand. None of us can understand them. And in doing so, he has provoked the ire of a society far more advanced, far more aggressive, far more dangerous than our own. He and the Fuhrer hope to harness the forces of that race—forces and powers we cannot even dream of. But I fear they will be destroyed by them instead. And it will not stop there.”

  Hess leaned back suddenly, staring up at the ceiling. Brinkman waited. He could tell the man had not finished.

  “There is a war coming,” Hess went on at last. “Not the war we are already fighting, but a greater, more dangerous conflict than we can imagine. I have always believed—as I think the Fuhrer believes—that there is an affinity between our peoples, between the Germans and the British. Our two countries should not be in conflict. When the time comes, we should be standing together against the common enemy. And that time is coming fast.”

  He leaned forward and thumped the table, making the coffee cups jump. “They are already here—don’t you understand? I’m not concerned about the tiny war between Britain and Germany. I don’t care if America or Russia get involved, though God help the Reich if they do.”

  Hess was breathing heavily, his eyes glistening with tears and his voice trembling with emotion. “I am talking about a far greater war. And we are already fighting it.”

  * * *

  Brinkman wrote up his notes in the car traveling back south. He barely noticed the passing countryside, hardly registered how far they had come. Before he knew it, they were at the outskirts of London.

  He had left instructions that Hess was to speak to no one, though the man had lapsed into a sullen silence. Brinkman guessed he was already regretting his rash flight to Britain, already deciding that he would find little sympathy for his fears here. Brinkman himse
lf wondered just how much of what the man said he could believe. How much could he afford not to believe?

  As soon as they were back, Brinkman handed his scrawled notes to Miss Manners. What with the motion of the car and his rush to get down everything he could recall, they were barely legible.

  “Type these up, best you can,” he ordered. Carbon copy to me, the original to the Prime Minister, accompanied by a memo I shall draft now.”

  Miss Manners sniffed as she leafed through the pages. “You think he’ll read it?”

  “I hope he will. At the very least, he’ll shuffle it on to someone else.”

  “Let’s hope it’s someone perceptive.” She placed a carbon between two sheets of foolscap paper and rolled them into the typewriter.

  In truth, Brinkman expected to hear nothing except possibly an acknowledgment of his memo and the usual Prime Ministerial order to “keep buggering on.”

  But two days later, he was summoned to Downing Street.

  * * *

  “MI5 haven’t a bloody clue. No idea what to do with the man. For the moment they’ve sent him to the Tower of London, which I suppose makes some sort of symbolic point. They think he’s barking mad, to tell you the truth. But what about you, Oliver—do you think he’s genuine?”

  “Oh yes,” Brinkman said. “He’s definitely Hess, and he certainly believes what he says. He probably is barking mad as well. But more than anything, the man’s terrified, though he keeps it under control.”

  General Hastings Ismay gave a short bark of laughter. “That goes for us all. Though I gather he’s feeling the pressure now. Clammed up so tight they can’t get so much as a peep out of him.” Ismay—known to his friends and colleagues as “Pug”—swirled the whiskey round the inside of his crystal tumbler, letting the ice cubes clink together. He was Chief Military Assistant to Churchill—in effect, the Prime Minister’s Chief of Staff. No one was closer to—or more trusted by—the Prime Minister.

  “He’s still loyal to Hitler and to Germany,” said Brinkman. He won’t do or say anything to undermine the enemy’s war effort. But he sees these Vril, as he calls them, as a separate issue.”