The Ultimate Secret

by David Thomas Moore

  “You idiot! I’ll–”

  “Herr Sekretär? Fraulein Obersturmführer?” One of the clerks had returned from the thirteenth floor, a document list in hand.

  Farlhaber snatched it. “Give me that!” She pored through the list. “This one?” she said, pointing. “The underlined one? 4B-37-DZ?”

  “Yes, Fraulein Obersturmführer.” The clerk was visibly trembling; his voice shook.

  “Top secret...” murmured Schmidt, leaning over Farlhaber’s shoulder. “April 1942... What is this? This code name?” The box, and all the boxes on that row, were assigned to code name Endlösung. “What does it mean?”

  Farlhaber’s already fair skin had paled. “It means, Herr Sekretär, that our discussion is over. There is no avoiding loss of face, no reacquiring this file on the black market. You!” She jabbed a finger at one of the clerks, who stammered, saluted and flushed. “Get me something to write on. We must send a telegraph to Berlin, fast as you can.”

  “What’s going on?” demanded Schmidt. “What’s Endlösung?”

  “The end of our careers, Schmidt. Both of them. Our lives, too, if we do not act quickly.” Farlhaber shouted at the clerk again. “Hurry! We must contact an officer in the SS. Adler is his name. Obersturmbannführer Dietrich Adler.”

  STANLEY, THE FALKLAND ISLES, 1999

  STANLEY. THE ‘HONG Kong of South America,’ as it was sometimes known.

  Since Perón had instituted the SAU, the Britannian outpost had become a thriving port, the centre of trade between the Empire and the Latin collective. In four decades, the city had grown and built upon itself, until there was no distinction between Stanley and the islands; one vast city, covering the whole of the landmass. Landfill had even joined the islands up and extended them around, until the colony was now several times its original size, and still it grew.

  Towers of brass, and glass, and steel. The streets – good paved streets, cleaned and policed by Britannian automatons – were home to modern steam cars, and the trams, as they say, ran on time. The Stanley Stock Exchange was second only to London’s in terms of the wealth it carried every day, and was increasingly said to surpass it in terms of its influence on global stock prices. Any banker, inventor, investor or (increasingly) gentleman worth his salt had offices here.

  The airfield, built on pontoons in the continental side of the artificial island, was surrounded by some of the tallest, newest and most luxurious hotels in the world. As Jamie and Tinks – battered, bandaged and bruised – limped off the airship and made their way to their pre-booked rooms at the Savoy, this was a profoundly-anticipated comfort.

  Come lunchtime, washed, better dressed and – in Jamie’s case – his bandages replaced, they made their way to the terrace bar as agreed.

  The maitre d’ took their names, nodded in recognition and ushered them to a table on the balcony, overlooking the busy road below. They joined a young Indian woman, who looked to be less than twenty years old, dressed in a smart Western skirt suit and drinking tea. She smiled as they approached, and stood.

  “Jamie, I take it? And, if I have this right... Tinkerbell?”

  Tinks smirked. “‘Tinks’ is fine. It’s an old nickname.”

  “Quite. Please, take a seat. Is tea acceptable, or do you need anything else to drink? My treat, of course. Marcel?” She waved to the maitre d’.

  “Tea’s fine, thank you,” protested Jamie, waving once and easing himself painfully into a seat. “And you’re...?”

  “Call me Kim,” said the young woman, who waited for Tinks to join her partner before sitting again.

  “We’ve got your box,” said Tinks. “As agreed. It’s in the safe in our room. Thought it wouldn’t be best sense to...”

  “No, of course,” said Kim, pouring tea for the two of them. “I shall have a man come around to collect it. And here, as agreed” – she nodded to an envelope on the table between them – “is the fee. Five thousand pounds. Six, in fact. My employer was most distressed to learn of your injuries, and – aside from putting our medical staff here in Stanley at your disposal, for as long as you need it – asked me to pay you a bonus for your work. He is very pleased.”

  Jamie and Tinks looked at each other. “You don’t want to check it first?” asked Jamie. “What if we rip you off?”

  “Then,” replied Kim, still smiling, “my employer would, with considerable regret, have to go to the necessary lengths to get the money back from you.”

  “The files are all encrypted, you know,” said Tinks. “Some sort of Nazi code.”

  Kim nodded, as she picked up her cup and took another sip. “Of course. We don’t anticipate it being a problem. We have cryptographers on staff.”

  “Mind telling us what it’s all about?” asked Jamie, picking at the cakes on the tea tray. “Just curious, mind.”

  Kim smiled tightly. “In this matter, I’m afraid, I am chiefly a messenger.”

  Tinks picked up the envelope, slipped it into a pocket. “Good luck to you, then.”

  “Thank you, Tinks. And you. And thank you both for your efforts. You have been most valuable to us.”

  “Cheers.” Tinks stood, and helped Jamie to his feet again. “Good doing business with you.”

  “And with you. I’ll be in touch very soon about more work.”

  CAT AND MOUSE

  One does not hunt in order to kill;

  on the contrary, one kills in order to have hunted.

  – Jose Ortega y Gasset (1883 – 1955)

  NEW YORK, USSA, 1999

  OTTO HARTMANN FLEW over New York. He soared among towers of glass and concrete higher than any tree, riding the updrafts, banking on corners. He and Ingo had a mission, but for the moment, he enjoyed the sheer freedom of the sky.

  Below him, the traffic of the Socialist Union’s Greatest City passed to and fro. One or two of them pointed up to him, from time to time, but nobody seemed alarmed or outraged at the sight of the wing-flier. Nowhere were the different stations of life so mingled: bankers rubbed shoulders with garbage-men, politicians with factory workers. The young Schwarzes gathered in back streets to dance to their modern beats, throwing themselves around on hands and knees and shoulders and buttocks.

  Otto sneered. This was such a selfish place, lacking the guidance of a loving Führer, the unity of purpose of the Master Race. It was a city of strangers, passing each other in the street, no-one making eye contact, everyone intent on their own business. At least Magna Britannia he could respect, if grudgingly. Their Queen tied them to their past and ushered them into their future, and they understood the importance of tradition, of maintaining values. But the Americans... their presidents were mortal men, effete and venal, and their heroes were flawed; homosexuals, Jews and undesirables to a man. Even the air felt unclean, oily.

  They would have to exercise caution. New York was a place of gods: of ‘Doc Thunder’ and the others, his friends and foes. Even the skies might not be safe here. The Party’s only real presence in this city – in the whole of the Socialist Union – was Das Untergang, keeping to the shadows, manipulating the underworld. They couldn’t, daren’t, show their faces. Even using the wing-harnesses was a risk, but one that Obersturmbannführer Adler had deemed worth taking, in light of their prey.

  He banked again and swung uptown, towards Central Park. Ingo swept into view around the side of a great gothic tower, and Otto signalled him, receiving a nod in return. Adler had given them a location for their target, an apartment a block off the park.

  They took their bearings, and set out across the sea of green.

  “THERE’S A LOT of it,” said Ledgerwood, leafing through the fifth or sixth folder he’d pulled out of the battered old box.

  “There is,” said Kim, patiently, leaning on the dust-sheet-covered credenza by the balcony. The high-ceilinged apartment was grand, luxurious, still furnished, but had clearly not been used in years. After the riotous, crowded residences of her own Mumbai, and even the austere, beautiful high-rises of Stanle
y, it seemed a profligate waste of space. She didn’t believe the home belonged to Smith, or even to the East India Company; much of the time, she seemed to be trading off a complicated web of favours and debts she doubted even Smith had a full grasp of, and which she could barely even comprehend. It was her apartment this weekend, which was all she needed to know.

  “There must be forty folders in this box.”

  “Something like that.” She offered him a reassuring smile. “We appreciate it will take time to complete.”

  “I mean, if it was already on tape, it’d be no problem,” said Hotston, perching on the arm of a covered chair. “We’d be done in less than an hour. It’s an old code; wartime, by the looks of things. Even if Rosie hasn’t already seen it, she’ll crack it pretty quickly.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” Kim righted herself and brushed her hands together.

  “But as it is, we’ll have to type the text in first,” he protested. “It’s going to take weeks.”

  “We don’t have weeks. What can you do for me in one day?”

  Ledgerwood laughed, still flipping through the folder. “The two of us? Half of one folder, maybe. I type with four fingers, and Stewart here with two. Get us a couple of stenographers to put the code onto tape for us, and we can possibly get half the box done.”

  “That’s not a half-bad idea, actually,” said Hotston, standing. “They can transfer the encrypted code from the pages to tape without having any idea what it all means. There are at least half-a-dozen law firms within a few blocks of here; I’m sure we can get a couple of clerks for the day, even on a Saturday, provided money’s no object.”

  Kim grimaced. “I wouldn’t say money’s no object, but I should be able to extend the budget that far. I’ll look into it right now, if you two want to get started. Any preferences for breakfast?” She started towards the door.

  “Wait. Will this affect our fee?” asked Hotston.

  “Not at all, Dr Hotston,” said Kim, halting at the entrance to the apartment’s front hallway. “One thousand pounds, and all charges brought by the Committee for Ethics in Analytics to be dropped. As agreed.”

  “That’s the main thing we want, to be fair,” rumbled Ledgerwood. “We have money. We want to go home.”

  The young Indian smiled. “As it happens, my employer’s client specifically mentioned it. You have an admirer, doctors; one who wants to see you home every bit as much as you wish to return. It will be accomplished.”

  “How curious,” said Hotston. “Any idea why?”

  “None, alas. At any rate, please excuse me. I must go and find your clerks.”

  “Of course, Kim. Thank you.”

  She bowed her head slightly and left the apartment as the two men set to work.

  “AND YOU’RE SURE of it?” Adler closed his billfold again, returned it his jacket pocket. There wasn’t a hint of a German accent in his voice. In his pinstriped suit and spats, to the wretched creature huddled at his feet, he was just another wealthy New Yorker.

  The filthy woman flashed her ruined teeth at him as the note disappeared into the folds of her many layers. “Absolutely,” she said. “Top floor. Moved in this week. Pretty girl; foreigner of some sort.”

  Adler looked up at the apartment block and then back down at her. “Thank you,” he said. “You’ve been most helpful.”

  Two shots rang out. Amidst the noise and traffic of the bustling metropolis, they were barely noted.

  Adler stepped over the homeless woman’s corpse, his pistol still smoking as he tucked it into its hiding place.

  OTTO ALIGHTED ON the roof of an apartment block on East 62nd Street and ducked behind the parapet, resting a hand on a gargoyle overlooking the road. With a light touch on the controls, he allowed his wing-harness to idle, the clanking and wheezing giving way to a gentle hum that would not be heard from the ground. He watched Ingo settle on a church across the way, and nodded at him.

  He scanned the street, taking in the ranks of apartment buildings, looking for the one Adler had described. So much of this city looked the same! Brownstone, he’d been told; five storeys. That one, on the corner. He waved at Ingo on the church, pointed. The other man nodded in understanding, clambered around the steeple to get a better view.

  To begin with, they were to observe only, to establish who was in the apartment, who the girl had brought in to her conspiracy. It would not do to strike, only to leave witnesses who knew what she had found. They had to burn them out, destroy them utterly.

  Endlösung was compromised again; the second time in a year. Following the trail this time had been more of a challenge, crossing into and out of Britannian territory as it did. Eventually, Untergang had stumbled across word of their documents, through compromised elements in the American intelligence community.

  Otto spat. Spying was no work for a true soldier. What Adler did, what he and Ingo did, was noble: keeping secrets, preserving the sanctity of the Ultimate Reich. Uncovering secrets was the work of cowards and rats; rooting through the soiled laundry of the world.

  Shaking his head to clear such distractions from his mind, Otto settled into his hiding place and focused on the apartment. The window was lit, as the early autumn evening began to settle in. There would be at least three: the girl, at least one man to decode the documents, at least one guard. Perhaps more. And there may be a fixer, a deal-maker. The girl was in New York to sell stolen documents, after all; in this city of scoundrels and rats, surely someone would be rubbing his soiled hands, hoping to profit from the exchange.

  A shadow passed the balcony window; a large man, over six feet tall and broad with it. Otto grinned at the thought of the challenge. Was that the guard? Would he be skilled in battle? Please, let him be a true warrior! A challenge to truly test the mettle of the best of the Luftwaffe!

  Another figure, this one pausing in the window, drawing the curtain. A man, smaller than his companion, with a shaven head, in the manner of criminals. The code-breaker, perhaps.

  There! Otto’s eyes were drawn to the ground floor, where a girl – the girl who had stolen the files, by the looks of her – stepped out of the front door and onto the sidewalk. She turned to her left and walked east, away from the Park. Otto caught Ingo’s eye across the road and gestured, and his partner took to the air, his harness’s clatter carrying softly on the light breeze. Otto shot a glance down at the girl, but she showed no sign of hearing the machine. Ingo followed the girl’s progress down the street, keeping to the shadows above the rooftops, blocking her view with the trees planted on either side of the broad avenue. Otto returned his attention to the apartment.

  He suspected it could take some time to be sure of their targets.

  “THIS IS EXTRAORDINARY stuff, really. Simply extraordinary.” Ledgerwood shook his head in wonderment as he read the screen on the Rosworth Mk IV.

  “Steady on, chap. We’ve done better.” Hotston sipped at his coffee, bought in a paper cup, of all things, from a vendor on the street.

  “Now, we have. This was ’forty-two,” said Ledgerwood, pointing to the display. “Treble-encrypted, most of this, and they’ve even embedded pictures, rendered into code via Lovelacian algorithms. I had no idea the Germans had this kind of stuff, back then.”

  “The best of their best,” said Kim. “If our information is correct, the Ultimate Reich would have brought to bear whatever expertise they could to protect this secret.”

  “I’ll say,” said the big analyticist, taking a swig of his own coffee and grimacing. “Are you sure there’s no tea?”

  “Is it likely to delay a result?”

  “Not at all,” he said. “Final pass now. Be done by nightfall.”

  “It is gone nightfall already.”

  “Is it?” Ledgerwood glanced out the window. “Good Lord. Well, then, be done soonish. Apologies for that.”

  “Not at all. Do carry on.”

  ADLER CREPT UP the stairs of the apartment block. He’d closely watched the building all day, seen the y
oung woman come and go, made sure of who was present and what he would find up there. There must be no mistakes. He never made mistakes, at any rate; but this time, especially, every part of the strike must be perfect.

  He had not wanted to risk alerting her to his presence by ringing the bell at the street entrance, and so he had – after due observation – noted a rear entrance, used to access the small communal garden the residents used in the summer. Entering a neighbouring building under the pretence that he was a door-to-door salesman, he had dispatched the young man who had answered the door, robbed him to conceal the motive for the kill and concealed him in the building’s laundry block. Then he’d let himself out the back door and vaulted the fence.

  Now he found himself climbing the steps, absolutely silent, Luger in hand. There were lights on in the apartments on most of the floors; voices murmuring softly in the night. He progressed slowly and with great care, holding his breath on every landing, determined that there should be no reason for any of the residents to open their doors and see him.

  At length, he reached the top floor. He glanced at the name plate on the door – empty, of course – and briefly debated kicking the door in, but decided in the end to essay one more deceit. Taking a moment to compose himself, he reholstered his pistol, reached out and pressed the doorbell button.

  OTTO HAD MOVED across two roofs, and was now directly across from the apartment block where the girl and her friends were lurking. Ingo had moved closer as well, and now perched on another brownstone apartment building close to their target.

  Night had fallen, and in that time they were confident that they had identified everyone working in or dealing with the apartment: the girl, the two men he’d seen earlier, and the two young women the girl had returned with after leaving the block this morning. They were now all in there at the same time, and Adler’s deadline was closing. It was time to strike.