The Filberg Consortium Read online

  Waden turned to his side and gave the thumbs-up to Hollinger.

  Hollinger nodded. Time to head back to the radio compartment for the take-off.

  “This is it, gang,” Waden announced over the crackling intercom. “Gander, here we come.”

  * * * *

  Outside Eaglesham, Scotland

  Wing Commander the Duke of Hamilton poured a glass of wine from an expensive decanter for his uninvited visitor at Dungavel Castle. The last time the two had spoken face to face was at a membership meeting of the Anglo-German Friendship Association in London in 1937.

  “Why can’t anybody get near him?”

  “Security,” the handsome RAF officer answered. “The Prime Minister said, in no uncertain terms, no interviews, no snapshots, no movies of him.”

  Stephen Jordan rose from his chair in the Duke’s study, and gazed gloomily upon the lonely moors through the open window. Hamilton watched him. Jordan wondered if he had driven all that way north for nothing, wasting what the newspaper people tagged a “gas pass.” He probably wouldn’t get another chance to misuse the gas-rationing system quite like that for some time.

  “According to the Glasgow Daily Record, Hess asked for you after he crashed his plane. What did he really want?”

  “Nobody seems to know for sure,” Hamilton said. “What does it have to do with you?”

  “I want to see him.”

  “What for?”

  “Interview him.”

  Hamilton’s eyes were locked on Jordan. “Not bloody likely.”

  “We’re not being told everything about this flight. I’m looking for — what do they say in court — the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth? Who was he trying to reach, Douglo? A VIP or two?”

  “Don’t Douglo me. It doesn’t matter. It’s over.”

  “Then you know who he was trying to contact?”

  “No, I do not.”

  Jordan grunted. “This is not some isolated incident. I think the man might be an impostor.”

  “That one’s made the full circuit. Don’t listen to such lies. I saw the bloke. It’s him.”

  “Are you positive?”

  Hamilton held back. He wanted to say that he remembered Ivone Kirkpatrick’s words after he had made the official government identification — that’s not Hess. Kirkpatrick said the prisoner was too thin, too old, too dumb, under great stress, a poor speaker. Hamilton shook it off. He didn’t care if it was Hess or not. The man had caused him enough trouble. “Of course I’m positive.”

  “But you never saw him before the tenth of May, did you? It said so in the news release.”

  Hamilton paused. “That’s right, I never saw him before,” he admitted.

  “Then you can’t be so positive.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “You have some clout in London. You can arrange for me to see him.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “But why did he try to contact you?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea. It has absolutely nothing to do with me. Two weeks after the flight, Sir Archibald Sinclair cleared my name in the House of Commons of any wrongdoing in the matter. Remember?”

  “So noted. Yes, I do recall,” Jordan relented. “Then you’re not about to help me?”

  Hamilton wanted nothing more to do with Falcon, Operation Night Eagle, Dunampton, Maryhill Barracks, Simon Brenwood, Hess, the Haushofers, and the blasted Anglo-German Fellowship Association. “I want to forget that Rudolf Hess had ever come here. You had better forget him too.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “Take it however you want. You wasted your time coming here.”

  Jordan understood. “That seems obvious.”

  “I shouldn’t worry anymore about Hess, if I were you. For your own good, leave it be. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must attend to some RAF business. I will see you out.”

  * * * *

  MI-6 Headquarters

  Langford saw the black Morris from the Whitehall concrete steps. Her friend was on time. Fancy that. She had never known an RAF officer to be late for anything. They looked at everyday life with an ETA approach — Estimated Time of Arrival.

  She walked to the parking lot and returned his smile with one of her own. He was waiting for her, passenger door open. Always the perfect gentlemen, he was.

  “Hi there, flyboy. I don’t have much time. Let’s go.”

  “I know just the place for a working girl,” he said, through the window, shutting the door for her once she was safely inside.

  He could use a good lunch, Langford wanted to tell him. And many more. And some extra dinners thrown in too for good measure. Her friend, Alex Nevin, was a skinny, light-haired flight lieutenant, a Hurricane pilot from a London-area fighter station on a twenty-four-hour leave. He had four official kills in the Battle of Britain in 1940. She knew he was serious about her. Too serious, too soon for her, although they had known each other for years, growing up in the same east-end neighbourhood of London.

  Nevin started the motorcar and put it in gear. In less than fifteen minutes, they were inside a small pub that — according to Nevin — served the best black market pork chops in London. As was his habit, he had reserved a table. He was a thoughtful, organized gentleman. Over a scotch-and-soda for him and a bitter for her, he talked. She listened attentively, shoes off. She nodded at the appropriate times. Except when he came to what was really on his mind.

  “I could be facing a transfer.”

  “When?”

  “A month or two. Longer, maybe. There’s talk of a squadron movement.”

  “Where to?”

  “Scotland. Banff, to be exact.”

  “Banff! You might as well be at the North Pole.”

  He chuckled. “Not quite. But they say you can see it from there.”

  “When will you know?”

  He shrugged. “Oh, one way or the other, in the next few weeks. Maybe. We’re keeping our ears open. Will you miss me?”

  She had to think about it. She smiled. “Of course I’ll miss you.”

  His hand slipped into hers. They lapsed into a silence.

  Langford felt uncomfortable. Yes, this was getting serious.

  “So, my dear, how was your morning at the secret society?” he asked.

  “None of your business.”

  “You’re a mysterious woman. Are you ever going to tell me what you do?”

  “Only under a threat of death.”

  “Yours or mine?”

  “Both. Don’t press me.”

  A waitress drifted towards them, awkwardly balancing two plates in her palms.

  “Here comes the pork chops. Am I hungry.”

  “There you go, lovies,” the waitress said, plunking the plates in front of her customers.

  Langford smiled. Nevin’s plate was a double-order. “Good grief,” she said. “Where on earth do you put it?”

  “Oftentimes, I have to wonder myself.”

  SEVEN

  New York City

  Aris faced him at the counter inside the moderately-busy Kerr, Chapman & Company bank first thing in the morning. “I’ve been expecting you. Come right this way, Mr. Smith,” she calmly said to the man, opening the waist-high, wooden gate for him.

  “Thank you.”

  “Your paperwork is ready to sign, sir.” A stack of files under her arm, she led him down a long hall, past a male employee, and into one of the boardrooms. She snapped the door lock inside, and turned over the Filberg file. “Make it quick,” she said, coldly. “We only have twenty minutes.”

  “Right.” Smith spread out the blank sheets on the polished table. He reached into his briefcase for a three-inch square red filter and a 35mm camera, and ran the filter over two of the pages. He grinned. “Ah. Perfect!”

  Aris folded her arms, and stood by the door. “What is it?”

  “See for yourself.”

  She bent over the table beside him, just enough for him to catch a view of the top p
art of her cleavage through the collar opening of her white blouse. Then she withdrew, realizing what he was looking at. “Why don’t you tell me, instead. I didn’t bring my reading glasses with me.”

  He returned to his work. “Just a minute. I need to locate the first page.”

  “Yes, you better.”

  Red filter to his right eye, he brushed his way through the papers until he came to page one. “Just as I had suspected. It’s a loan. Twenty million, dated July 28, this year. No time to read, though.”

  “Yes, take your pictures and move on.”

  Smith placed the filter onto the lens and crudely taped it in place with black electrician’s tape. Then he carefully snapped off each of the six pages in the file. He looked over at Aris. “I think we just pulled the irons out of the fire.”

  * * * *

  Camp Z

  Henry and Vern were new to the job on Monday of that week. This mild afternoon they assisted Prisoner Z with his awkward stroll through the mansion’s garden. Half-way into the exercise, the prisoner had to let go of their shoulders to ease down on a stone bench. It was just too difficult with his left leg in the cast.

  Felix Schubert sat, dreamily, his mind playing tricks on him once more. The flowers and the stone steps of the gardens passed before him. He squinted in the sunshine. Glossed over the bright colours was a blurred image of The Duke of Hamilton.

  Schubert was at Maryhill Barracks again. Scotland. Spring, May 10th.

  He looked up slowly. “I saw you at the Olympic Games in Berlin,” he said, his voice frantic, shaking. “You lunched with me and my wife, Ilse. I don’t know if you recognize me — but I am Rudolf Hess. I am the Deputy Fuehrer.”

  The two guards exchanged curious glances.

  “Here we g-go again,” said Henry, the younger guard, the one with the stutter. “I think he’s t-t-talking to you this time.”

  “Of course ... you’re Rudolf Hess,” Vern said to the prisoner, holding back a grin.

  “You don’t believe me!” Schubert snorted. “I brought proof of my identity.”

  “I believe you. Really, old chap. I believe you.”

  Schubert faced Henry. “And you must be Kirkpatrick. May I leave now?”

  “Sorry, old top. Y-You can’t.”

  “I want to leave now. I came in good faith, on a mission of peace. What am I doing here?”

  “Let’s g-go back to your room. I’ll phone London.”

  “Who in London? Who will you speak to?”

  “Churchill.”

  Schubert’s outlook brightened. “Yes, Kirkpatrick. Phone London. Talk to Churchill. Please convince him of my good intentions. I have come in peace.”

  “C-Come with us now,” Henry pleaded. “You look tired, Herr D-Deputy Fuehrer.”

  “Yes, I am. But, please, please help me.”

  “We’ll help you,” Henry said, taking Schubert away.

  A short time later, Henry and Vern were in the hall on the second floor. A low-flying aircraft buzzed overhead. Four days on special duty at Camp Z, and they had seen and heard strange things. Still, their orders were explicit. Keep Prisoner Z isolated. No visitors were allowed unless cleared through the proper authorities. His health and comfort had to be assured. He would have food, books, writing materials and a typewriter available to him. He could walk around the garden perimeter as much as he wished. He liked to walk, although since the accident it was too hard for him to get around without assistance. For several weeks he had been forbidden to receive any news of the outside world. But that had been lifted shortly after his accident. He now had the London Times delivered to him every two days.

  “At least he s-stopped asking us if he was the real H-Hess or not.”

  Vern frowned. “Yeah. Wonder why?”

  “He’s harmless, I suppose. B-B-Barmy, but harmless.”

  “And getting worse.”

  “Right you are,” agreed Henry.

  “He’s an odd one, he is. If he’s the second in command in Nazi Germany, then maybe the rest of those Nazi blokes are just as bad.”

  “Or w-worse.”

  * * * *

  Near Greenland

  “PILOT TO CREW,” the pilot announced over the intercom through his headset. “YOU CAN COME OFF OXYGEN. HEY, JACK?”

  “WHAT’S UP, SKIP?” the radio operator answered.

  “SEND OUR STOWAWAY UP.”

  “YOU BET.” The radio operator tapped Hollinger on the shoulder and pointed to the nose of the bomber. “The boss wants to see you.”

  Hollinger removed the oxygen hook-up, and crawled on his knees towards the cockpit, where the engine noise intensified. How could they stand the racket, he wondered? At 8,000 feet, the cloud cover dispersed, and the sun broke through. Out of the port glass of the Liberator, Hollinger saw his first glimpse of Greenland. It was merciless country. It definitely wasn’t green. From a number of miles out, it appeared to be one big, black rock, with fiords and glaciers stretching out from the shoreline to meet the water, like branches on a tree.

  “THERE SHE BE, MEN,” Waden said over the intercom. “GREENLAND. KEEP AN EYE OUT FOR GERMANS.”

  Hollinger overheard. “Germans? Out here?” he yelled.

  “You better believe it,” Waden shouted, nodding. “Some long-range aircraft of theirs have been spotted on occasion.”

  “Really?”

  Waden nodded. “Condors. The Germans are supposed to have a weather station out here somewhere. The story goes that they send daily radio reports to Berlin.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “We picked up a signal on our set last month. Right about here. They refuel subs too. Before they come and hit our supply ships on the way to Britain.”

  Hollinger was taken aback. Germans that close!

  * * * *

  Near Firth of Forth

  The modest stone-walled country pub in the land of kilts and bagpipes was milling with afternoon customers, a relaxed middle-aged group of thirsty, red-faced, weather-beaten Scottish fishermen and farmers.

  Stephen Jordan felt like the foreigner that he was, being the only man in the place with a suit and tie. He soon struck up a conversation with one of the counter patrons, Jack Buford. He was an approachable man about fifty, thin patch of grey on his head.

  “Newspaperman, eh?” Buford puffed on his pipe. “It’s funny. Yeah, son, there has been some mighty peculiar things around here,” the man said, downing the last of the ale in his glass. When he spoke, his lips barely moved. “’Ere comes the rain. ’Tis foul weather it is.”

  Jordan glanced at the nearest of the windows, wet and dirt-streaked. Outside, lightning rolled across the sky. The inn shook from a blast of thunder. “Just how peculiar?”

  Their attention was diverted to a man arriving through the main door.

  “Look what the wind blew in,” Buford chuckled.

  The man was elderly, in faded work clothes. Buford eyed the old man setting himself down across the bar. “Hello there, Charlie. How’s the shoulder?” Out of the side of his mouth, he said to Jordan, “He slipped and fell off the dock in a rainstorm two weeks back. Hurt himself bad.”

  “Thought I’d pop in for a few pints. To fix it up,” Charlie replied, cheerfully, shaking the rain off.

  “Medicinal purposes?”

  “You bet.”

  Buford laughed. “Where was I, son?”

  “The peculiar things around here.”

  Buford lowered his voice. “Oh, yeah. Yeah. You hear a lot of things in a country pub. People talk. That strange Hess flight, in particular.”

  “What about it?”

  “You want some more ale, son?”

  “No. No, thank you. What about the Hess flight?”

  “The story is that the moment that plane was tracked, one of the radar technicians at Edinburgh — his father comes round occasionally — was told that the plane wasn’t to be touched.”

  “Really?”

  Buford nodded. “Really. Safe passage, or some
thing or other.”

  “A safe passage? Who has the power to do such a thing?”

  “I can’t answer that, son. Maybe that Nazi-loving son-of-a-bitch Duke of Hamilton fellow or someone higher than him. Who knows? The Secret Service, maybe. I often wonder what that Hess fellow really was doing here.”

  “You and millions of others. Do you remember anything else odd?”

  “Yeah, son, there was. You sure you don’t want another pint of ale?”

  “I’m sure. What else?”

  “Try a stout. It’ll put hair on your chest.”

  Jordan hated stout. “Please. What else?” he said, anxious to get on with it.

  Buford looked around. “Two men threw a body into the Firth a few miles from here,” he whispered.

  “A body?”

  “Yeah, son. That’s what I said. A body. It was in a crate, but she was a body nonetheless.”

  “What two men? What did they look like?”

  “English. Like you. In trench coats. They rented a boat one afternoon and took to the Firth.”

  “Can you vouch for this?”

  “Can I! I know the man who drove them out.”

  “That a fact?”

  “He’s sitting just over there. Bennie Warner’s his name.”

  “Where?”

  “The one in the corner, by himself. Come on over.”

  They got out of their seats and crossed the floor. Buford made the introductions. Warner looked Buford’s age. The three sat down together.

  “Tell him Bennie, about the crate.”

  “Didn’t I tell you, Jack, not to blab it?”

  “I know, but this Jordan fellow seems to be all right. He promises not to print anything.”

  “What good is a promise from a newspaperman? What do you mean you won’t print it? What are you here for?”

  “My own satisfaction,” Jordan answered. “Just want to tie up some loose ends.”

  “Come on, Bennie,” Buford urged his friend.

  “But they threatened me.”

  “They won’t do anything. They don’t know where to find you.”

  Warner belched. He had finished his third drink and was on his fourth rolled cigarette. “Buy me another bitter and I might be forced to loosen me tongue, Laddie.”