Faked Passports

by Dennis Wheatley

  Here, in spite of the snow, there were many evidences of the war that had swept over the land a month or more earlier. Broken-down lorries and limbers lay abandoned at the roadside; here and there a now silent gun still reared its muzzle to the sky out of a concrete emplacement that had been battered to pieces. Every village through which they passed, and every building, not only bore the marks of shell-fire but in most cases had been blasted to the ground by the terrific pounding of the Russian bombardments. In many places tangled heaps of barbed wire straggled up out of the snow, sometimes with a frozen corpse still hanging on them like a scarecrow. As the train puffed on there was more and more evidence of the frightful carnage which had taken place as the Russians had hurled division after division against the Finnish lines. By one o’clock Gregory could hear the distant booming of the guns and at a little before two the train halted in a siding. All the troops got out and Gregory saw from the many trains collected there that they had reached rail-head.

  The notice-boards were all lettered in Russian, so he had to ask his way to the Railway Transport Officers’ quarters, but he found an officer who could speak German; a tall, fair-faced fellow who obligingly took him along to a block of hutments which housed the R.T.O.

  Having explained that he was a German officer who had to report to Marshal Voroshilov he was told that the Marshal had gone forward to Battle Headquarters as he had now taken over the direction of operations in person; but after a short wait Gregory was led out to a car which was taking two other officers up there.

  The road was a solid jam of troops moving up and down—lorries, tanks, guns, infantry, ambulances, motor-cycles and horse-drawn vehicles—so, even in the car, they made slow going. One of Gregory’s companions spoke a little English but not enough to carry on an intelligent conversation and, after smiling an exchange of greetings, Gregory contented himself with watching the thousand activities that were going forward in the wintry scene.

  Soon they had reached the area where the Russian heavies were shelling the Finnish positions ten miles or more away. These monster guns were mostly on railway-sidings to which lines had been specially run for them from rail-head. Their blast was terrific and where the sidings were near the road each round nearly shattered the ear-drums. Flights of great black bombers were roaring overhead as they came up from their bases at Leningrad and Kronstadt to pass over the Finnish line. They saw no Finnish planes and Gregory guessed that owing to their smaller numbers they were having all their work cut out to protect the Finnish towns so were unable to spare aircraft for bombing the Russian back areas.

  By three o’clock the road was winding through an area of big, irregular mounds covered with snow, out of which stuck jagged bits of brick wall and occasionally a twisted steel girder. The officer who spoke a little English told Gregory that it was the Finnish town of Nykyrka which had been virtually obliterated by the Russian guns before its capture. Soon afterwards the car left the road and going down a side-track of sleepers which had been laid across the snow, entered a wood. Among the trees there were many lines of hutments and the car drew up before one of these, from which officers and orderlies were constantly coming and going. Gregory’s English-speaking companion took him past a sentry and secured him admission to an office where a big, shaven-headed man with a fierce moustache was seated behind a table.

  Gregory introduced himself and stated his business, upon which the Russian replied in German:

  “As you can imagine, the Marshal is extremely busy. If you will give me the letter I will see that it reaches him.”

  Presenting the letter, Gregory said: “I should be delighted for you to read it, but I would prefer to hand it to the Marshal in person.”

  The Russian glanced through it and shrugged as he handed it back. “As you wish, Herr Oberst-Baron, but I doubt if the Marshal will be able to see you until next week.”

  Gregory’s throat muscles tightened. He had left Kandalaksha on the morning of Saturday, February the 24th, and it was now Monday afternoon. He had made the journey in just over two days, which was remarkably good considering conditions in Russia in the winter; but he could only count upon his friends remaining out of danger for seven days from the time he had started. After the coming Saturday orders might at any moment reach Kandalaksha for them to be sent under guard to Moscow and the beginning of the following week would be the absolute deadline.

  “Surely you can arrange for me to see the Marshal before then?” he said quickly. “I am anxious about those friends of mine who are mentioned in the letter and it is a matter of great urgency.”

  The Russian shrugged again. “At the moment the greatest offensive of the war is just opening; the battle for Viborg. So for some days, at least, the Marshal will be much too occupied to give time to other people’s personal affairs. In the meantime you had better be attached to the German Military Mission which we have here. Even if you are in bad odour with some members of your Government your personal introduction from Marshal Goering will be a recommendation to your brother-officers. General von Geisenheim is the head of the Mission. I will send an orderly with you to his quarters. Report to him and he will arrange for accommodation to be provided for you.”

  There was nothing that Gregory could do but thank the officer and accompany the orderly, through the twilight that was now gathering in the woodland camp, to another block of hutments a quarter of a mile distant; where, after waiting for ten minutes in an ante-room, he was shown in to the German General.

  Knowing that ninety per cent, of the German army officers detested Himmler and admired Goering, he had little trepidation about producing his forged letter. Having saluted smartly, he handed it over to the General with the words: “I have been told by the camp commandant to report to you, Herr General, and this letter will explain my presence here.”

  General von Geisenheim was a tall, thin, blue-eyed man with an aristocratic face and greying hair. He read the letter through carefully and replaced it on his desk. Quite casually he picked up his pistol holster from a near-by chair, took the weapon out and waggled it at Gregory.

  “This letter is all right,” he said with a frosty smile. “I know Marshal Goering’s signature well. But I should be interested to hear where you stole it, because you, my friend, are not Colonel-Baron von Lutz.”

  Chapter XXIX

  The Battle for Viborg

  The German Army can muster, with its reserves, some 5,000,000 men. Its officers, therefore—including both the active and retired lists with staffs and specialists—must number at least a quarter of a million, so it seemed incredibly bad luck to Gregory that out of 250,000 men he should have run into one of the few hundred—at most—whom the late Colonel-Baron should have known even as a passing acquaintance.

  He had realised that he had to take that risk, as it was certain that a number of German officers would be attached to Voroshilov’s headquarters, but he had not thought it sufficient for serious concern and he had taken up the imposture of the Colonel-Baron again simply because he had no choice in the matter. It was essential that he should be able to prove his identity to the Russians, if asked, by some other means that the letter and, while he had a perfectly valid passport issued by the German Foreign Office in the name of the Colonel-Baron, it was quite impossible for him to fake another.

  “Come along!” snapped the General. “Who are you? And what game has led you to attempt this imposture?”

  Gregory sighed. “It’s a long story, Herr General, and of course you’re quite right—I’m not von Lutz; although he was a friend of mine. I’m sorry to say that he died on the night of November the 26th, shot by the Gestapo on his estate in Brandenburg.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, as he was also a friend of mine.” Von Geisenheim frowned. “But if he died on November the 26th he couldn’t possibly have passed this letter on to you himself, since it is dated November the 27th.”

  “That’s right,” Gregory said. “It was on that night I had the honour of dining with Field
-Marshal Goering.”

  “How nice for you,” the General smiled cynically. “Have you any other tall stories?”

  “Plenty,” said Gregory, “if you have time to listen to them.”

  “Unfortunately I have not. Quite obviously you are a spy, so you can tell them to the Gestapo. We have several Gestapo men with us here; they like us so much that they can’t bear us to travel without them.”

  Gregory’s brain was working like a dynamo. If von Geisenheim once handed him over to the Gestapo his number was up. But as he studied the lean features before him things were beginning to come back to him and he felt almost certain that he had seen the General’s face before. Anyhow, he must chance it.

  “There’s one story that I could tell the Gestapo, Herr General” he said slowly, “but as one gentleman to another I think it would be only fair to let you hear it first. It starts at the Pleisen Palace out at Potsdam on the night of November the 8th.”

  “Eh, what’s that?” The General sat forward suddenly.

  “I was present at a great gathering of high German officers there and they were preparing to attend a little party that was to be held at the Hotel Adlon later in the evening. The entertainment was to consist of arresting the three hundred odd members of a dining club called the ‘Sons of Siegfried’, who were actually the Inner Gestapo, while Herr Hitler and his principal supporters were blown to pieces by a bomb in Munich. Are you too busy to hear any more?”

  “That’s quite enough!” said the General. “If you were at the Pleisen Palace I suppose you saw me there, or afterwards at the Adlon?”

  The long shot had come off and at that moment there flashed into Gregory’s mind the actual circumstances in which he had seen the General, so he replied: “I saw you shoot the very tall man, near the service entrance to the banqueting room, in the terrific gun-fight that followed von Pleisen’s assassination. It would interest me a lot, though, to know how you managed to escape arrest afterwards?”

  Von Geisenheim shrugged. “When the Putsch faded out most of the others changed into civilian clothes and tried to get out of the country. I didn’t like the idea of being hunted like a hare or living concealed in an attic until the war was over, so the following day I went back to my office in the War Ministry just as though nothing had happened. Naturally, I expected to be arrested and executed within an hour of my arrival; but evidently any Nazis who recognised me in that horrible mêlée must have been shot afterwards. Nobody’s ever questioned me about the matter from that day to this, so it was a case of a supreme bluff coming off. But I thought I knew most of the officers who took part in the affair, at least by sight, and I don’t remember your face. What is your real name and regiment?”

  “I have no regiment,” Gregory had to admit. But, loosening his furs, he took out the Iron Cross that had served him so well already, and added: “Yet General Count von Pleisen gave me this for the part I played. You will see his name engraved on the back of it.”

  Von Geisenheim looked at the inscription and handed the Cross back. Lowering his bright eyes he stared thoughtfully at the blotting-pad in front of him.

  Gregory waited there in silence. Fate had given him a bad break in facing him with an officer who had known the real von Lutz but she had evened up the scales by making him one of the rebels who had participated in the anti-Nazi conspiracy, and so given Gregory a hold over him; but how slender and fragile that hold was Gregory knew only too well. He could almost see the thoughts racing through von Geisenheim’s brain.

  ‘This man is not one of my brother-officers. He may have stolen the Cross just as he stole the letter. He is a spy of some kind and damnably dangerous to me. I thought that I’d got away with murder, but I haven’t—not quite. This fellow can denounce me to the Gestapo. They will arrest me on suspicion and send me back to Berlin. Inquiries will be made about my movements on the night of November the 8th. I shall not be able to account for them satisfactorily. That will be quite enough for Himmler. I shall find myself facing a firing-squad. How can I protect myself from that? The best way would be to shoot this impostor dead where he stands and simply say afterwards that he attacked me. A nasty business, but it’s a case of his life or mine.’

  “Herr General” Gregory broke in upon his thoughts, “I imagine that you’re now considering the best way to eliminate me with as little trouble as possible before I have a chance to tell the Gestapo what I know; but I would ask you to remember that von Pleisen gave me this decoration because he considered that I, an Englishman …”

  “An Englishman!” exclaimed the General. “Well, really! You speak remarkably good German.”

  “Thank you. As I was just saying, I was decorated because I had rendered a great service to all those who had the best interests of Germany at heart. In the past you also have served that cause. The time may come when both of us will have an opportunity to work for it again. Will you not, therefore, regard me as a friend—at least until you have heard what I have to say?”

  “Very well. Sit down and tell me about yourself.”

  As Gregory pulled up a chair he was easier in his mind. He knew that if only he could convince the General that he had not the least intention of betraying him the German would observe his confidence as far as the Russians were concerned and even, perhaps, do much to help him; so he told the truth for once, but not the whole truth, and these were its limitations.

  He recounted the failure of his attempt to get out of Germany with Freddie on the night of November the 8th, their meeting with the real von Lutz, their stay with him in Hans Foldar’s cottage, the fight that had followed and the manner in which he and Freddie arrived at Karinhall. He cut the reason which had induced Goering to send him to Finland and said only that the Marshal had agreed to do so on compassionate grounds when—as was the fact—he had virtually signed his own death warrant by telling the truth about himself because he was so anxious to learn if Erika were dead or alive.

  Von Geisenheim had been regarding Gregory with polite attention yet with a reserve which suggested that it was hardly reasonable to expect him to swallow this incredible story in its entirety. But when Erika’s name was mentioned he suddenly laughed. “Come, come! This is too much. You can’t honestly expect me to believe that you were having a love affair with the famous Gräfin von Osterberg—the most beautiful woman in Germany.”

  “I am still,” Gregory replied seriously. “I left her only two nights ago up at Kandalaksha; you can check that up. And I’m proud to say that if only we can get out of this alive she has promised to divorce von Osterberg—who has never been anything to her but a friend—and marry me.”

  “Donnerwetter! You are lucky then, as well as brave. So the Frau Gräfin is here in Russia? Go on, now. This becomes much more interesting.”

  Gregory then told how he had found Erika in Finland, how his English pilot had run into his ex-fiancée and how the four of them had decided to fly to Sweden on the first day of the Russo-Finnish War. He refrained from giving any account of their affair with Wuolijoki and Grauber, as to have done so would have necessitated his giving away the part that Goering had played in inducing the Finns to fight, but told how their aeroplane had been commandeered and that rather than remain in Helsinki they had flown with Captain Helijarvi to Petsamo. From that point he told the whole truth, except for suppressing his visit to the British Vice-Consul in Leningrad that morning.

  When he had finished the General glanced at the letter again. “But this mentions the other members of your party, and it is addressed to Voroshilov. Why should Marshal Goering have given you such a document when he thought you were going to Finland?”

  “Oh—that,” Gregory laughed, “I forged it in a hotel in Leningrad only a few hours ago. The ink of the signature is hardly dry and that worried me rather. Somebody might have noticed that it’s colour doesn’t tally with the fact that it was supposed to have been written nearly three months ago.”

  “Umph! I missed that; but the signature appears to be genuine
. How did you manage to fake it?”

  “I was able to copy it from a letter Goering gave me to Erika; which she had fortunately kept and passed on to me before I left Kandalaksha.”

  “May I see it?”

  Gregory shook his head. “I’m sorry; but I destroyed it after having forged the other; I thought it was too dangerous to carry it about any longer.”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Von Geisenheim shrugged. “The details of your story hang together too well for me to doubt you further. Now, what am I going to do about you?”

  “Both of us are neutrals here and both of us have risked our lives to destroy the Nazi régime,” Gregory said slowly, “so I think we should forget for the time being that our countries are at war. And, since you appear to know Erika, I very much hope that you will use all the influence you have to secure me an early interview with Voroshilov, in order that I can prevent her falling once more into the hands of the Gestapo, who are the common enemy of us all.”

  The General nodded. “I’ll do what I can but don’t count on that too much. It’s the very devil to get these Russians to do anything. Voroshilov himself is a very able man but, as you doubtless know, they’ve massacred thousands of their best officers in the last two years and most of the present staff are hopelessly incompetent. The mess they have been making of their campaign is almost incredible. I and my colleagues were sent here to help them but they hardly ever consult us and generally ignore our advice on the rare occasions that they ask for it.”

  “How is the war really going?” Gregory asked. “I have heard little authentic news since it started.”

  “They thought it would be a walk-over and that the Finnish workers would greet them with open arms, so they made no proper preparations at all before launching their first attacks. In consequence, their only initial success was in the far north. On January the 1st the 163rd Soviet division was trapped and cut to pieces at Suomussalmi and a week later the 164th division was routed with heavy losses in the same area. On January the 10th the Finns won another major victory down here on the Isthmus, but at the end of January Voroshilov left Moscow to take command himself. The Finns managed to annihilate the Soviet 18th division at Kitella on February the 5th, but by the 7th Voroshilov had brought up some 200,000 fresh troops and nearly all of them were Budenny’s famous shock battalions. Since then the attack has been continuous. The Finns have put up a wonderful resistance, but by mid-February they had to abandon Suoma and had been driven from all their positions in the southern half of the Mannerheim Line. They are still holding a line outside Viborg but I have no doubt at all that Voroshilov will go right through now, as he is outflanking them by throwing the left wing of his Army across the ice where there are no prepared positions except for the island forts.”