Faked Passports (22 page)

Gregory removed the letter, which he folded and put in his pocket as he wished to keep it handy so that he could destroy it at once in the event of any accident by which the plane might be forced down while still over Germany.

“I understand,” he said. “That was a marvellous night's work you put in and I'm certain that you'll never regret it. By the bye, I suppose you can let me have some money? As the Colonel-Baron and your secret representative I should naturally put up at the best hotel when I reach Helsinki.”
Actually, he still had nearly £300 on him, being the balance of the 5,000 marks that Sir Pellinore Gwaine-Cust had given him before his first trip into Germany, but Gregory had always believed in ‘spoiling the Egyptians' and saw no reason why the Nazis should not pay his expenses in Finland.

Goering nodded. “Certainly. I like my people to put up a good show.” As he spoke he walked over to a large painting of Napoleon Bonaparte which was opposite his desk and, feeling behind the edge of its gilt frame, twisted a concealed knob to a combination that he evidently carried in his mind. The picture and its frame swung noiselessly outward revealing an enormous wall-safe, with many shelves and compartments, to the six-inch-thick steel door of which the picture was affixed.

Picking up a fat packet of bank-notes from one of the shelves he began to count them, but at that moment the telephone buzzer sounded. Thrusting the packet into Gregory's hands the Marshal said impatiently: “Here! Take 3,000 marks from this. That should be enough and give you a good margin to bribe your way into the Finnish Foreign Office quickly if the small people show any signs of keeping you waiting.”

“Thanks.” The packet consisted of 100-mark notes and Gregory counted himself off thirty from it while Goering carried on a quick conversation at the telephone. As Gregory was holding the bundle he felt an uneven strip across its bottom and turning it over he saw that some very thin, folded sheets of paper were wedged under the thick rubber band which held the notes together. The sheets were so thin that he could see the typescript through the top one. It might be just a check list of the numbers of the notes. On the other hand, it might be something of importance which had got caught in the rubber band by mistake. Anything coming out of Goering's private safe was worth investigation and the Marshal still had his back turned at the telephone. Gregory knew that if he stole the ‘flimsies', and they were missed immediately, his life would once more be forfeit, but the temptation to find out what the typescript was proved irresistible. Slipping it from under the rubber band he swiftly pushed it in his pocket; then, so that he should not have to hand the bundle back he replaced it on the shelf of the safe from which it had been taken.

The Marshal finished his telephoning, turned round, gave a glance at the notes Gregory still held in his hand and swung the safe door shut again. He was no longer perspiring and looked as fresh as if he had slept the night through.

“We'll have some breakfast now,” he smiled, “then I'll snatch a couple of hours' sleep before I see the Soviet Ambassador.”

In the private dining-room breakfast had already been prepared; real coffee, crisp white rolls, fresh butter, eggs, fish, sausage and cheese. As he sat down Goering's personality changed again, and it was impossible to believe that he was the same person who had been working so furiously all through the night. He talked, like any country gentleman entertaining a guest, of the wild life on his estate, and mentioned quite casually that he meant to get back from Berlin by midday to join the guns as he had a shooting-party staying in the house.

When the meal was done he summoned the
aide-de-camp
who had been charged with providing a change of clothes for Gregory and told him to see that his guest had everything he needed until he could start on his journey. Then, as they went out into the corridor he shook Gregory warmly by the hand.

“Good luck, my dear fellow. It's been a pleasure to see you here and when the war is over you must come and stay. We'll kill some more bottles of Marcobrunner, and I really
can
offer you some excellent shooting.”

“Thanks. I've enjoyed myself enormously,” Gregory said politely, and was inwardly tickled by the fantastic idea which flashed into his mind—that possibly his host expected him to write a bread-and-butter letter. Obviously the Marshal had completely forgotten for the time being that at just about that hour his guest would have been led out to die at his orders had it not been for that guest's own wits and determination to save himself.

The A.D.C. took Gregory to a suite where he bathed, shaved and changed. He retained his own shoes and took the opportunity to slip the typescript he had stolen into the false sole of one of them, where he still had most of the money he had brought into Germany. He then rejoined the A.D.C., who led him downstairs and through a long corridor to an underground aerodrome.

Charlton was there, haggard and weary-eyed. He had been given dinner, but after that the poor fellow had been left all night in the waiting-room and owing to his acute anxiety he had not been able to get one wink of sleep. Yet when he saw Gregory he smiled and nodded cheerfully towards the Belgian plane which now carried the red, white and blue British circles.

“Nice little bus, isn't she?”

“Yes,” Gregory nodded. “The Marshal's giving it to us as a parting present, I managed to entertain him rather well at dinner last night.”

Freddie grunted. “You might at least have sent down to let me know that things were all right. I suppose for the last eight hours you've been sleeping your head off?”

“Not all the time. As a matter of fact, the Marshal kept me up pretty late but he was so hospitable that I found it a little difficult to get away.”

“You old devil!” Freddie laughed. “Anyhow. I'm mighty glad to see you—er—looking so fresh,” he added as an afterthought.

“Thanks. I'm sorry you had such a dull time last night, but I see you've had a shave so I take it they looked after you this morning?”

“Oh, yes; they couldn't have been nicer—bath, slap-up breakfast, everything—they even produced a change of underclothes when I hinted that mine were due for the long service medal.”

“Good! And the Air Officer gave you all the particulars you require for our flight to Finland?”

“Yes. I've got it all here.” Freddie held up a small, fat wallet. “And orders have been telephoned through to Anti-Aircraft Headquarters that they're not to interfere with a small Belgian Sabina plane bearing British markings which will be flying over North-Eastern Germany for a special purpose.”

“Yes. I fixed that with the Marshal. So long as you stick to the route you've been given we're ensured a clear run out of the country.”

The plane had been fuelled to capacity as it was desirable to avoid any questioning which might have arisen by breaking their journey at air-ports along the route, but with only two people on board, instead of the four for which it was built, the Sabina was easily capable of carrying enough petrol for a 700-mile non-stop flight. Directly it was reported ready Gregory and Freddie got into it.

Gregory put his big packet of papers on his knees and felt in his pocket to make quite certain that his two passports and Goering's letter were there all right. The head mechanic signalled to Freddie and the engine sprang to sudden life, making a deafening roar in the underground air-port. They waved good-bye to the Air Officer and mechanics, then the plane
ran smoothly up the long slope out into the daylight and across the grass. A moment later it was in the air.

“So you've got us out—and the gift of a plane into the bargain,” Freddie said, the moment he had taken off. “You certainly are a wizard.”

“No—just a worker,” Gregory replied. “And, my God, it was a fight! I had to wrestle with Satan in person for about five hours and work for another six, so I'm about all-in. I'll tell you the story later but I've been through the hell of a strain and I'm going to try to get some sleep now.”

He closed his eyes and lay back in the comfortable passenger-seat beside the pilot. It was not until ten minutes later that he suddenly noticed how cold it had become, and opening his eyes again he saw that the altimeter registered 8,000 feet.

“It's darned cold up here,” he remarked. “Surely we don't need to fly as high as this?”

“Oh, yes, we do,” Freddie grinned. “I'm going much higher—as high as the plane will take us without our conking out through lack of oxygen.”

“But why?” Gregory protested. “You've got your route and the anti-aircraft people have been told to let us through.”

“Yes; but that's only along a lane over North-Eastern Germany.”

“Naturally—since we're going to Finland.”

“Finland?” gasped Freddie. “Surely you didn't really mean to go there?”

Gregory sat up with a jerk. “Of course. I've been entrusted with a special mission by Goering so I've got no option.”

“Good God, you
are
crazy! Finland? My foot! Thanks a lot for the plane, but now I've got it I'm going home!”

Gregory closed his eyes and sighed. After having worn down the most dynamic man in Europe by hours of skilful flattery, well-timed bullying and reasoned argument, it seemed a bit hard that, tired out as he was, he should now be called upon to cope with his pleasant but pigheaded young friend.

Experience had taught him that the better the quality of the drink the less likelihood of a head the following morning, but even with the very best of liquor quantity will tell, and he now had a first-class hang-over. Breakfast and a bath had only stalled off the evil hour. His brain had begun to feel like cotton-wool, his eyes were heavy and he had a rotten taste in his mouth, but it was mental exhaustion, much more than the alcohol he had drunk, which had got him down. Moreover, he was a night-bird by nature and always at his very worst in the morning, when most other people were setting off to tackle the day's work; yet the effort had to be made, so he said slowly:

“Why not Holland, as that girl of yours is there?”

“I'd make it Holland,” Charlton said sharply, “but for two reasons. Firstly, as a British Air Force officer the Dutch would intern me the moment I landed. Secondly, it's my duty to report to my C.O. at the earliest possible opportunity—and if you've forgotten
your
duty I haven't forgotten mine.”

“Oh, Freddie, you make me tired,” said Gregory wearily. “D'you honestly think I'm the sort of chap who would sell myself to the enemy and that I've taken on this job to help the Nazis win the ruddy war?”

“No—no, of course not. I didn't mean that really; but when you said you were doing the job for Goering what the hell else was a fellow to think?”

“Thanks for the somewhat dubious vote of confidence. Now, listen to me. I'm going to give you two very good reasons why
you're not going home before you've flown me to Finland. After that you can do as you damned well choose. The Finns won't intern you, because at the moment they're much too occupied with their own affairs to bother their heads about minor infringements of their neutrality; so if you don't want to stay you can buy a suit of civilian clothes, and it shouldn't be difficult for you to get a ship home from one of the Norwegian ports.”

“Why should I do that, which might mean weeks of delay, when I've got a perfectly good plane?”

“You haven't got a plane. Goering gave this plane to me. But for goodness' sake don't let's wrangle about side issues. The situation is this. Russia has demanded that Finland shall give her bases and receive garrisons of Red troops. If Finland agrees, she will never again be in a position to fight Russia and will be reduced to the state of a Russian province. That has got to be stopped somehow.”

“I suppose you think you're such a hell of a guy that directly the Soviet agents report your arrival in Helsinki Stalin will get a fit of the jitters and throw his hand in?”

“Don't be facetious, Freddie, or keep interrupting me. What I
can
do is to persuade the Finns to fight. I've got here the whole low-down on the Red Army and Air Force, showing their real weakness. Once the Finns see these papers they'll realise that they've got a sporting chance.”

“What, a mere handful of them against fifteen million armed Reds?”

“Yes. I don't suggest that they can march on Moscow but I do believe they can hold out until help reaches them from the other Scandinavian countries or the Allies.

“I don't suppose you know much about Finland, Freddie—few English people do. The Finns are grand fighters; they showed that in their War of Independence when with little else than shot-guns the Finnish farmers drove thousands of Red guards out of their country and at last made it their own. The state of education and civilisation in Finland is very high indeed. They are individualists in the best sense and have a passionate love of freedom. After a hundred years of Tsarist tyranny they managed to throw off the Russian yoke; for the past twenty years they have enjoyed real liberty, living in peace and well-being. Now their liberty is threatened again.

“Think of those Finnish families, living just as our own people do at home; well-fed, well-clothed, enjoying their sport, books, music, cinemas; able to do and say just what they like
without any dread of secret police spying upon them and dragging them off to prison or execution. Then think of what we know of Russia—the dirt, the poverty, the forced labour, the constant fear of husbands and wives that they may be separated over-night—never to see each other again—or one of them arrested on a false charge and condemned without even a hearing by some secret tribunal. The Finns are a little people but they are decent folk; they represent everything for which Britain and France are fighting. How can we allow them to be made slaves again when we have a chance to save them?”