The Filberg Consortium Page 4

  The President was mortified. “Good Lord! Are you serious? An impostor?”

  Hollinger nodded. “’Fraid so.”

  “No wonder the British are so tight-lipped about it.”

  “Churchill couldn’t tell you the truth, sir, over the wire. In case the line was tapped by the enemy.”

  “Who else knows?”

  “Only a handful.”

  “How long will the British keep this a secret?”

  “With the real Hess dead, we might have to take it to our graves.”

  “It’s a massive cover-up, then.”

  “Only a few choice people know. It’s labelled Most Secret, as the Brits say. Churchill, us three, a few members of MI-6. MI-5 don’t and will not know. Neither will the Special Operations Branch of MI-6. Churchill has made it clear that no one in England who knew Hess before the war will see the prisoner. Movies, photographs, unauthorized interviews are forbidden. The impostor, meanwhile, is under heavy guard in a castle fifty miles southwest of London. He’ll play along if he knows it’s his only way to stay alive.”

  Roosevelt grinned, bringing the martini to his lips and swallowing. “An impostor. What do you know? You saw this man, did you?”

  “Yes, sir. He ... he was the one who shot me.”

  “Oh.”

  A hush swept over the three men.

  “I saw both him and the real Hess up close, a few feet apart,” Hollinger continued. “The likeness is pretty fair, enough to fool those who had never met him face to face.”

  “I see. Hitler’s broadcasts said Hess was crazy. Hallucinating, was the word,” Roosevelt said, glancing at Donovan. “Since the news of his flight, Stalin is suspicious. He’s convinced that Germany and England are plotting against him.”

  Hollinger shook his head. “It might look that way to him. But that’s not the case. It’s a desperate situation, Mr. President.”

  Roosevelt sat up, clenching the cigarette holder in his mouth. “Wesley, you’re already privy to some sensitive information. Therefore, it’s quite safe to tell you a story, one that Wild Bill knows well. I decided to go for my third term of office last year for one reason. One reason only. England — Churchill in particular — needs this administration. We see eye to eye. There’s been a direct channel between us for two years. We share secrets. You’ve been a witness to some of this at Bletchley Park. Another administration in the White House would have passed England off as lost. My situation is critical. They have me by the short hairs. If the truth were known about how we were secretly aiding Britain, I’d be impeached by now. Tell the Prime Minister that.”

  “I will, sir.” Hollinger felt at ease in his heart. Perhaps, he was headed back to Great Britain.

  “On the whole our country isn’t behind England. Not enough to send American boys over. I can’t afford to bring a divided nation into this. Even though we’re already in it more than most Americans realize. We’re neutral and we don’t want to abuse the neutrality laws. Only Congress can declare war. Not me. Tell Churchill that and I will too, when I see him. But damn it, one of these times,” Roosevelt nodded with a fluid firmness, a pride in his voice, “we’ll get into it. How and when is the question.”

  Donovan looked over at Hollinger as if to say, see I told you.

  “I hope it won’t be too late, for England’s sake,” Hollinger said.

  “Me too, boy. This is it?” Roosevelt waved the papers in his hand. “How do we know that the British aren’t holding anything back?”

  Hollinger had been considering that for weeks. “To my knowledge, they aren’t. Then again, that’s all they gave me.”

  “Leave the room for a moment, won’t you, Wesley,” the President ordered, smiling, “so we can talk behind your back.”

  “Yes, sir.” Hollinger stood and crossed into the reception area and sat down in a wide, comfortable chair. His future was being discussed in the Oval Office. Him. Wesley Hollinger, one of Wild Bill’s sidekicks. If it was all the same to him, he’d vote to gladly remain in England. He only had to wait ten minutes to find out the verdict. Donovan called him back to face the President.

  “Wesley,” Roosevelt said firmly, raising a finger. “Return to England. Keep a low profile, but your eyes and ears should be open for anything that might concern us as Americans first. I want somebody who can sink their teeth into the situation there. Report directly to Colonel Donovan.”

  Hollinger was relieved. And another chance with Roberta Langford. “Yes, sir.”

  “This has been a most enlightening morning. Thanks for coming, you two.” Roosevelt returned the papers to Donovan. “Shocking. Have a safe trip back, Wesley.”

  Donovan stood beside Hollinger, the briefing at an end.

  “Thank you, sir,” Hollinger replied, grabbing his fedora off the arm rest. “And a special thanks for the refreshments.”

  The President appreciated the remark, looking up from his wheelchair. “Good luck, and God speed, my boy.”

  Filing out in step with Donovan, Hollinger came to some quick conclusions. He was won over. FDR and Churchill had a lot in common. They knew which end was up. They were ruthless with their opponents, in a democratic sense. And they could drink at any hour. Any day. Iron Asses, the both of them.

  Walking down a hall, Donovan turned to Hollinger, and in a low voice said, “By the way, our little talk in the car about the war is not to be repeated to anyone. In fact, forget I said it.”

  Hollinger cleared his throat. “What talk?”

  “Good boy. Hollinger, you’ll go far in the COI.”

  FOUR

  Camp Z — July 30

  Once Stephen Jordan pin-pointed the general location of the mansion, which he knew was well back off the road, he drove on with extreme caution. He would have to stop his car a good mile back and take the rest of the way on foot.

  He’d stick to what the anonymous telephone caller had whispered to him. He left the car and worked his way through the thicket called Windsor Forest, squatting down as he came to the edge of a clearing. He saw the red-brick mansion through the trees. He couldn’t go any further. The anonymous caller had warned him of that. His powerful binoculars would have to do the rest.

  So this was Camp Z. Run exclusively by MI-6. Two detachments, one from the Coldstream Guards, the other from the Scots Guards, were detailed to guard the famous prisoner, so Jordan’s contact said. The grounds were also fortified against German Commando raids. Every soldier was outfitted with a firearm, either a pistol or a machine gun. A few had both. So watch it, Jordan was told.

  Jordan climbed the tall tree nearest the clearing and pushed aside a branch and some leaves to study the nearest gun post and garden beyond with his eyepiece. Four men were inside the barbwire barricade.

  Jordan waited.

  After an hour, the back door swung open. A man in dark clothing emerged, two guards propping him up. Jordan had heard of the prisoner’s accident. The man on the phone was right for the umpteenth time. The prisoner’s upper leg was in a cast. It was plain to see from a few hundred feet away. Jordan flipped his dark-rimmed glasses up into his hair and with the binoculars to his eyes, he zeroed in on the prisoner’s face. The prisoner was closer now, making a slow, unsteady turn of the property in one corner.

  Jordan shook his head. He couldn’t tell conclusively. It was too far. The German did look like Adolf Hitler’s deputy. It would have been easier to tell had he not sustained the injury because Rudolf Hess had a distinct walk. The prisoner was out in the yard for only ten minutes, then a guard assisted him into the mansion. Disappointed, Jordan started to climb down.

  Then he stopped cold.

  An armed soldier appeared, thirty feet off to the right. Jordan pulled his hand out of the foliage, slowly, not to be heard. It didn’t matter. The howling engine of an overhead banking fighter suddenly drowned out every noise for a few seconds. The soldier walked along the clearing and stationed himself immediately under the tree, his Bren-gun by his side. Jordan clutched the trunk
with one hand, his binoculars with the other. He closed his eyes and said a silent prayer. The sound of the fighter was gone. It was very quiet now. All the soldier had to do was look up and Jordan was cooked. He’d be marched off to the mansion and interrogated. And he’d have a lot of explaining to do.

  Then Jordan heard a strange noise. A hissing. Blasted! The soldier was relieving himself in the weeds. Pissing right under the tree! The strong smell of urine drifted up to Jordan, nearly gagging him. When the guard finished up, another soldier stepped forward.

  “Anything?”

  “All quiet on the eastern front.”

  “Let’s push off. Tea time.”

  The soldiers walked away into the clearing. Jordan moved his foot.

  The soldiers heard it, stopped, and brought their firearms up.

  “What was that?”

  They ran for the forest. Jordan held his breath. Then two robins flew out of one of the trees. The guards stopped short.

  “Whew,” one guard sighed out loud.

  “Birds. We’re getting paranoid. Come along. Before the tea gets cold.”

  * * * *

  London Daily Telegraph

  Jordan loosened his tie and flipped through his office files until he found the bold Glasgow Daily Record front-page headlines of the Rudolf Hess flight.

  NAZI LEADER FLIES TO SCOTLAND.

  RUDOLF HESS IN GLASGOW OFFICIAL.

  HERR HESS, HITLER’S RIGHT-HAND MAN HAS RUN AWAY FROM GERMANY AND IS IN GLASGOW SUFFERING FROM A BROKEN ANKLE. HE BROUGHT PHOTOGRAPHS TO ESTABLISH HIS IDENTITY.

  Jordan poured over the crisp clipping which included the government’s official statement, and the account from the ploughman who had captured Hess, a man named David McLean, a simple nobody who had become famous overnight by pure accident. Jordan slapped the paper down, and removed his glasses to rub his eyes. He recalled the wild rumours he’d been hearing since the prisoner had crash-landed his ME-110 in Scotland more than two months ago. Back in May, Jordan checked one such rumour out by asking someone he knew personally, Ivone Kirkpatrick, the BBC executive who made the official government identification of the pilot with the Duke of Hamilton. At the time, Kirkpatrick told Jordan that he felt that the prisoner looked different than the Hess he had known in Berlin. However, Kirkpatrick had since denied he ever said such a thing.

  Why? Had someone talked to him? Warned him? Even threatened him? Were they the same people who were denying the newsman — Jordan — access to the prisoner? It seemed anyone who knew Hess on sight wasn’t allowed to visit him. The editor of the London Times was one of those kept at length. And the steel magnate Simon Brenwood — Churchill’s fiercest opponent — refused to talk. Four letters to him on newspaper office stationery had gone unanswered.

  Then came yesterday’s anonymous phone call. And two letters later left in his mailbox. One was an official government document with a significant first line.

  OPERATION ORDER NO.1. MOST SECRET.

  It instructed a certain unnamed person to proceed to a place called Camp Z at 1200 hours on Sunday, May 18. The location of the camp and the person’s duties were described in detail. He was responsible for the health and comfort of Prisoner Z. Food, books, writing materials, recreation were to be provided. But no newspapers or wireless. No contact with the outside world. Any visitors had to be authorized and signed for with paperwork by Alexander Cadogan, Permanent Under Secretary at the Foreign Office, with the genuine Foreign Office stamp. The second letter was one such signed and stamped verification. Only the name had to be filled in to be valid.

  The anonymous person knew a lot. And he probably wanted to stay anonymous. Jordan had a flood of questions. Who was he? How close had he gotten to the prisoner? A guard there now? A former guard? Why was he helping a newsman? He knew where the prisoner was in custody, how to get there, what to watch out for and the dangers along the way, and even some little titbits about the man behind bars. For instance, the prisoner’s eating habits and table manners were atrocious. He sat hunched at the table, elbows spread out. He especially enjoyed beef and chicken dishes, and often wolfed them down. And he was rude, obnoxious, somewhat dim-witted.

  Jordan didn’t miss the clues. Hess was supposed to be a vegetarian, from an upper middle-class background. Jordan saw it for himself five years ago in Germany. Jordan had to laugh. He was so young then. Barely twenty. So inexperienced. His first year on the job. A bright-eyed idealist who sought the truth. He had spent some casual time with Hess at his home outside Munich in 1936. He had met and chatted with his wife, Ilse. Fine woman. Intelligent, like her husband. Jordan remembered how Rudolf Hess walked. Proud, stiff, upright. He was courteous. Not rude. Jordan even took a turn with the Deputy Fuehrer on his beautifully-manicured property. He lunched with him. Vegetable dishes, of course.

  Something — no! — a lot, didn’t fit. Jordan could forget the whole Hess thing, like the rest of England had settled to doing. But for Jordan, forgetting it was not an option. He was a newsman who still felt compelled to find and report the facts, even under the cloud of military secrecy and the stiff censorship inflicted on newspapers during the war. He was still an idealist. Only a few years older, wiser, and a hell of a lot smarter, thank you very much. Some people in London knew the truth. A precious few. Some close to Churchill, or perhaps Churchill was part of it too. Maybe his whole damn cabinet knew. For the hundredth time today Jordan contemplated what had been driving him mad for weeks.

  Was this man imprisoned at Camp Z Nazi Germany’s Deputy Fuehrer Rudolf Hess or ... a carefully-laid plant pretending — for some reason — to be Hess?

  * * * *

  10 Downing Street

  “Hitler knows that he will have to break us in this island or lose the war. If we can stand up to him, all Europe may be free and the life of the world may move forward into broad sunlit uplands. But if we fail, the whole world, including the United States, including all that we have known and cared for, will sink into the abyss of a New Dark Age, made more sinister and perhaps more protracted by the lights of perverted science. Let us therefore brace ourselves to our duties and so bear ourselves that if the British Empire and its Commonwealth last for a thousand years, men will say, ‘This was their finest hour.’”

  It had been over a year since Churchill’s “Finest Hour” radio broadcast had inspired the free world. The powerful speech — still talked about in the free world — had helped to carry Great Britain through the Blitz and the Battle of Britain. But that was last year. In 1940. Ancient history in this war, where strategy was changing significantly from month to month, year to year.

  The voice behind that mighty radio broadcast puffed furiously on his thick Havana cigar this afternoon, hunched over the end of the conference table in the underground War Room one hundred feet below Whitehall and his Downing Street residence. Insiders called it “The Hole in the Ground.” Designed to house 2,000 people, the Hole was the nerve centre of the English war effort.

  Connecting dungeon-like rooms were ugly and damp, with exposed timbers, braces, wires, and pipes, lit by candles in lanterns. Communication tubes, powered by compressed air, lined the walls and whistled as messages were sent from one department to another. In these surroundings stood a map room, a cabinet room, a radio station, a power station, and the Prime Minister’s office. Here, in the midst of musty smells, Prime Minister Winston Spencer Churchill continued to conduct the affairs of his country at war with Adolf Hitler’s Nazi Germany.

  By the summer of 1941, military officers, politicians, and newsmen were labelling the plump, strong-willed, Churchill a virtual dictator, who had his own agenda for ruling by decree. In private, one Member of Parliament went so far as to say that the only way to fight Hitler was with another Hitler. Appeasers feared him. No wonder. He had banished Lord Halifax, the leader of the “British Peace Party” to Washington as Ambassador to the United States. Soon after, he had the gall to exile the figurehead of the appeaser group, the Duke of Windsor, to the Bahamas to act as
Governor, a dull, meaningless assignment for the man who had secretly supported Hitler all along. And Churchill had Halifax’s successor, Simon Brenwood, arrested. If the Prime Minister could take care of such VIP’s, many wondered what he could do to others of lesser note, such as House of Commons back-benchers who didn’t toe the line. Since the Hess flight, few had been testing him now that the high-level Fifth Columnists were brought under control and were behaving. Brenwood, Butler, O’Malley, Oliver, Strang. The Duke of Hamilton.

  At his desk, across from the large-scale map of Europe, the sixty-six-year-old War Lord was in a surly mood. He was losing the war, and he’d be the first to acknowledge it to close friends. He couldn’t continue to fight a war on just words. Rommel — the Desert Fox — still had his way with the demoralized British forces. The Wehrmacht continued to goose-step across the Russian Plains. Enemy U-Boat strength had picked up. As a result, more Allied cargo ships were being torpedoed to the murky Atlantic bottom. Since Dunkirk, Great Britain had little left of her armed forces. It still bothered Churchill how France had capitulated so easily in 1940, with barely a fight, leaving England in such a desperate state. The French had the strongest Army in the world — on paper, at least. But Hitler’s forces cut through them like a knife through butter. All because the fools didn’t believe in the danger of air power. They paid for it, dearly.

  Over his cigar, Churchill read a few copies of the Enigma intercepts — meteorological reports and Hermann Goering’s orders to his Luftwaffe fighter and dive-bomber leaders on the Russian Front. Sent over from Colonel Lampert’s office, they were on the standard eight-by-ten inch sheets. Each message indicated the frequency, the time, the date, the call-signs of the receiver and the sender, not to mention the guts of the message. Today’s intercepts spoke of a thrust to Leningrad. Frightening stuff. The Germans were unbeatable.

  Churchill found it alarming to know so much. It reminded him of the Blitz last November 14 when Bletchley had intercepted four hours in advance the next German bombing target. It was to be Coventry, that evening! Churchill could have called for an evacuation of the city to save lives. But if he had done that the Germans would have known their Enigma code had been broken. Churchill had to let the raid go on, with regret, knowing that more lives would be saved in the long run, in the overall war picture. Churchill did not enjoy playing God. Terrible business, running a country during a war.