The Suicide Exhibition: The Never War (Never War 1) (6 page)

It was next sighted visually by a Royal Observer Corps position near Chatton at 22:35 hours, and identified as an enemy Bf110
flying at approximately 50 feet. This is well below the safety margin. Having identified the craft as a Hostile rather than an Unknown, two Spitfires from 602 Squadron were scrambled. A Defiant was also sent from RAF Prestwick, but all three aircraft failed to intercept RAID 42.

Contact was lost, until the Operations Room at RAF Turnhouse reported a crash south of Glasgow at 23:09 hours. The remains of a Bf110D were duly discovered, although the pilot had parachuted to safety before the crash.

The pilot was subsequently apprehended by a farmer near Eaglesham. He had sustained an ankle injury and identified himself as Hauptmann Alfred Horn. He claimed to have vital information for the Duke of Hamilton, whom he demanded to see.

The prisoner was handed over to the Home Guard, and is now being held at Maryhill Barracks in Glasgow pending interrogation by an FO Translator Officer.

Guy was amused to see his description as a ‘Translator Officer’. The report seemed very full, and right up to date, but perhaps such efficiency was normal. Guy recalled hearing ‘Station Z’ mentioned when he was at Uxbridge, down in the RAF bunker with Keith Park. ‘Unknown Detected Trace’ as well, although it seemed to be a term that just meant the observers didn’t know what they were looking at…

He didn’t have time to ponder further because, while Guy had been reading, Corporal Matthews had returned with the prisoner. The man was tall and broad, dark-haired and with a heavy forehead and prominent eyebrows. He limped across to sit on the other side of the desk, waiting while Guy finished reading the report and returned it to the folder.

When Guy looked up, he saw the man’s dark eyes staring intently at him.

‘You are not the Duke of Hamilton,’ the man said in German.

From the report, Guy knew that the man had asked for Hamilton before. ‘You know the Duke?’ he replied, also in German.

‘We have met, just the once. A few years ago.’ The man leaned back in the chair, elbows on the armrests, tapping the tips of his fingers together. He seemed not at all nervous or disconcerted.

‘Your plane crashed. Were you lost?’

‘No. The bad weather was to blame.’

‘You don’t seem to have had an escort. And you couldn’t have had enough fuel to get back home.’

‘What makes you think I planned to return to Germany?’

Guy wasn’t sure what to make of that, so he tried a different tack. ‘You think the Duke can help you in some way? Maybe put in a good word?’

The man laughed. Standing in front of the closed door, Corporal Matthews frowned. He evidently didn’t understand a word of the exchange.

The prisoner leaned forward across the desk. ‘I do not need a good word, as you put it. I have information that I shall share only with the Duke of Hamilton. He will know who to pass it on to.’

‘What is the nature of this information, Hauptmann Horn?’

‘It is classified. And “Hauptmann Horn” is merely the name I gave my captors. I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed when they didn’t recognise me.’

There
was
something familiar about the man, Guy realised.
They had not met before, he was sure of that. But he’d seen a picture of the man, perhaps. Or newsreel footage… It came to him in a dizzying flash just as the man spelled it out:

‘If I tell you who I really am, perhaps that will smooth the wheels and you will summon the Duke. My name is Rudolf Hess, and I am the Deputy Fuhrer of the Third Reich.’

It was like he was in a different room, watching the scene unfold. Guy was aware how startled he must look. Corporal Matthews was looking on in bewilderment. Hess seemed amused at Guy’s surprise.

‘But – why?’ was all Guy could eventually stammer.

‘Why come here? Oh there will be a story, I am sure. Bormann will already be working with Goebbels to denounce me. He’s been after my job for years, you know. No doubt they’ll say my nerves deserted me and I came to sue for peace or some such rubbish.’

‘Whereas…?’ Guy prompted. He still could not believe that he was sitting opposite the Deputy Fuhrer in an ill-furnished office in a Glasgow barracks.

‘Whereas, as I told you, I have vital information for the Duke of Hamilton.’

‘Why the Duke of Hamilton?’

‘As I say, we have met. Once. Briefly. He is well-read. We share certain… interests. I think, from what I know of him, that he will understand the importance of my information.’

‘But you won’t tell me.’

Hess leaned back and folded his arms. His small eyes narrowed to slits as he stared back at Guy. ‘Are you familiar with the work of Lord Lytton?’

‘Is he a colleague of the Duke of Hamilton?’

Hess sighed. ‘Hardly. Perhaps you know him better as Edward Bulwer-Lytton?’

Guy shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not. Perhaps I don’t move in the right circles.’

‘Or read the right books.’ Hess nodded, as if coming to a decision. ‘Lord Hamilton – it must be him. His Grace will know who in your government should be informed.’

Guy was obviously getting nowhere. Maybe the man was mad, driven over the edge by the war and the weight of responsibility. Did he have a guilty conscience? Yet he seemed very much in control.

‘You think Hamilton will talk to you?’ Guy asked.

Hess nodded. ‘But tell him this. Tell him I wish to speak of the Vril. Tell him it concerns the Coming Race.’ He stood up, putting his weight on his good leg. ‘Now I am tired. I will rest until His Grace arrives.’

Lord Hamilton, it transpired, had already been contacted. But he had no idea of the real identity of the captured German. Having spent an intense half hour with the barracks commander, Guy had just ended an urgent phone call to Chivers in London when there was a knock on the door of the room he was now using as an office.

‘Hamilton,’ the newcomer announced, shaking hands with Guy. He looked as if he was on his way to a funeral, dressed in a black suit and carrying a dark hat. ‘I’d only just got home and changed out of uniform,’ he said. ‘Ironic, really, as I’m the head of air defence for Scotland so it was me who despatched the planes to shoot this blighter down. Anything I should know before I speak to him?’

‘You mean apart from the fact that he is actually the Deputy Fuhrer, sir?’

Lord Hamilton laughed. But the smile froze on his face. ‘My God – you’re serious, aren’t you?’

‘It’s Hess all right. I recognised him from newsreels and the press. But he made no secret of it to me. Do you know him, sir?’

The Duke shook his head. ‘Rudolf Hess. Dear God… Did he tell you why he’s here?’

‘Refuses to talk to anyone but you, sir.’ He summarised what Hess had told him. ‘He said he wants to talk about the Vril, if that means anything?’

Hamilton frowned. ‘Possibly.’

‘And he said it’s about the Coming Race, which I assume is
some Aryan Nazi propaganda.’

Hamilton’s frown deepened. ‘You would think so, wouldn’t you. But I’m not sure. It is also the title of a novel. Very well.’ He turned to go.

Guy made to follow, but Hamilton shook his head. ‘I speak passable German, Major. I’ll see him alone. At least to begin with. We have met once before, back in ’36, I think. Once I’ve gained his trust…’

‘Then I’ll wait outside. In case you need me, sir.’ Guy did his best to hide his disappointment. He was intrigued, he couldn’t deny it. What the hell was really going on here?

Hess was brought back to the room. He nodded to Guy as Matthews led him inside. A moment later, Matthews emerged again.

‘Doesn’t want you in there either?’ Guy said.

‘There’s a colonel on his way up from London,’ Matthews said. ‘Looks like I get all the meeting and greeting jobs, sir.’

‘You must be good at it.’

He leaned against the wall by the door, straining to hear what was going on inside the room. But all he could make out was the faint burr of indistinct conversation. He replayed what Hess had said in his mind, but it still made little sense. Why had the man come here – to the enemy? Whatever the reason it was important to him. It wasn’t a step he has taken lightly.

Guy stepped back sharply as the door opened. Through it he could see Hess still sitting at the desk. The man did not turn round.

The Duke of Hamilton’s forehead was filmed with sweat, and he was deathly pale. His eyes had a startled, haunted look about them. He stared at Guy, opened his mouth to say something. But then he looked past him, along the corridor.

Pentecross turned to see Matthews returning. With him was a colonel – tall and thin with narrow features and close-cut dark hair.

Hamilton dabbed at his face with a folded handkerchief. ‘I have to talk to Whitehall,’ he said. His voice was shaking as
much as his hand. ‘Someone in authority. The implications…’

‘You can start with me, sir,’ the colonel said. ‘Perhaps then my journey won’t have been a complete waste. I’m Colonel Brinkman.’ He obviously knew who the Duke was, presumably from Corporal Matthews.

Hamilton was getting some colour 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 Guy. ‘And you are?’

Guy straightened to attention. It felt strange not being in uniform. ‘Major Pentecross, sir. Foreign Office.’

Brinkman’s mouth twitched as he considered. Then: ‘You won’t be needed, Major. Dismissed.’

In something of a daze, Guy allowed Matthews to lead him back through the base. He was angry and tired, but also intrigued and mystified. When he got back to London he was going to demand that Chivers tell him what the hell was going on.

They emerged into the morning light at the edge of a large parade ground. Matthews said something about organising transport to the station and how often the trains ran to London. But Guy barely heard him.

He was staring at a soldier leaning against the wall close to the door, smoking a cigarette. His mind was in a whirl. It was the same sergeant he had seen in the RAF bunker at Uxbridge, and before that at the hospital in Ipswich.

‘Major Pentecross.’ The man took a last drag, then flicked away the butt end. ‘Good to see you again, sir.’

THE FUHRER WAS
white with rage. Hoffman stood at the back of the room, doing his best to blend into the wall. Hitler’s fist crashed down on the desk again, scattering papers. Behind him, a half-smile edged on to Bormann’s face.

Himmler was impassive and silent. He let Heydrich do the talking, and take the lion’s share of Hitler’s rage.

‘You are in charge of Reich security,’ Hitler shouted. His finger jabbed at Heydrich. ‘
You
. How can this have happened? How could you
let
this happen?’

‘We none of us anticipated this,’ Heydrich admitted. ‘Even…’ He hesitated as the Fuhrer stared up at him through pale blue eyes with pin-prick irises. ‘Even the Reichsfuhrer, who was with him just a few days ago.’

Hitler turned towards Himmler, who spread his hands apologetically.

‘There was no indication, no sign of this imbalance of the mind when he was at Wewelsburg. Though I did think he seemed a little…’ He paused as if to select exactly the right word. ‘Preoccupied. I sent you a report, of course.’

‘You did?’

‘But events have moved so fast that perhaps you have not yet seen it.’

Hoffman made a mental note to have the report sent as soon as they left the Fuhrer’s office. If necessary he would
type it himself in the anteroom. Interesting, he thought that no one mentioned that Hess had spent four hours alone with Hitler the day before he flew to Britain. There were no notes from the meeting, no witnesses – Himmler had already had Hoffman check.

Hitler wiped his hands down his face. Doing so, he seemed to wipe away his fury. He sat down at the desk and stared back at the men standing the other side. ‘Why?’ he asked quietly.

Hoffman suppressed a shudder. Hitler was at his most frightening when he was like this. The aftermath of his rage was more dangerous than the initial sound and fury.

‘The Deputy Fuhrer – former Deputy Fuhrer,’ Heydrich corrected himself, ‘feared a war on two fronts. That’s how it looks from the letter he left behind and from what others have said.’

‘Britain should have made peace with us,’ Hitler said. ‘They had their chances.’

Himmler nodded. ‘If we had been dealing with a reasonable man like Halifax instead of that madman Churchill…’

‘The campaign against Russia cannot be deferred,’ Hitler snapped, interrupting Himmler. ‘Hess knew that.’

‘Exactly,’ Heydrich agreed. ‘Which is why he went to England.’

‘Scotland,’ Himmler corrected him quietly.

‘To sue for peace before the glorious war against the Communists begins.’

‘The Reich asks no one for peace,’ Hitler said. ‘Though Britain and her Empire should be our natural allies.’ He leaned back in his chair, arms folded, brooding. ‘Once Stalin is crushed, Britain will truly be isolated and then they will come begging for peace.’

‘We must consider what damage has been done,’ Himmler said. ‘I believe it can be contained. This is more of a propaganda problem than a military one. Herr Hess was not privy to the planning of Operation Barbarossa.’

Hitler sniffed and waved a hand in the air. He seemed suddenly bored with the whole discussion. ‘Goebbels can
handle it.’ He leaned forward suddenly, eyes fixed on Himmler. ‘But Hess knows other things. He has seen Wewelsburg. He knows what you are doing there.’

‘A glimpse, no more. We showed him very little, and as I say he was distracted. Now we know where his mind really was – planning this flight to Britain. He saw little and understood less. Besides,’ a smile cracked across Himmler’s round face, ‘if he tells the British what he has seen they will think he’s insane. They will not believe a word of it.’

Hitler nodded slowly. He dismissed them all with a wave of his hand, and started to rearrange the papers on his desk into neat piles.

Outside, Himmler waited until Heydrich and the others had gone, then turned to Hoffman. ‘You will organise the report I mentioned.’