Faked Passports (25 page)

“What, the chap you told me all about?” Freddie exclaimed. “The fellow whose eye you bashed in on the night of the Army
Putsch
in Berlin?”

“Yes, that's the man. I must fly now and pull every gun I know to get possession of those papers again before Grauber can send them out of the country.”

“When can we expect you back?” asked Freddie.

“I can't say for certain, but I'll try to return between five and
six. Still, don't bother about me. You're out of all this now and it's your own affair if you stay here or make arrangements for getting back to England.”

“Good lord, no! I'm not quitting at this stage,” Freddie announced quickly, “and I'll be standing by to give you a hand any time you want one.”

“Thanks, Freddie, thanks. I'm glad you feel that way, because the chances are that I'll need all the unofficial help that I can get.”

With a nod Gregory hurried away. The porter got him a taxi and he drove through the cold, sunny streets lined with their snow-covered buildings to the address of the von Kobenthals. It proved to be a long, low house standing in its own grounds, above one of the many bays along the shore, with a fine view of the scores of little islands which fringe the coast-line of South Finland.

He gave the name of Colonel-Baron von Lutz to a trim maid, who was evidently expecting him for she led the way straight across the hall to a comfortable sitting-room that overlooked the sea. Erika was waiting near the window, her eyes fixed on the door, waiting for him.

Inside the room he paused, drinking in once more all the perfection of her loveliness; her golden hair, her widely-spaced, deep-blue eyes, her generous mouth, the regal carriage of her head, her slim, beautifully-moulded figure. He knew that she was twenty-eight, but, in spite of her hard youth when half Germany was starving and the life of intrigue she had led since, she did not look a day over twenty-five. She was one of the very few German women he had ever known who had both the taste to dress well and the courage to ignore Nazi convention, which decrees that women's duty is to be useful rather than decorative. She was dressed very simply now but not a hair of her head was out of place and she carried herself with the air of a princess.

For a long moment they stood gazing at each other. The door closed behind Gregory; then without a word she was in his arms. They clung together as though they would never let each other go; not kissing, but cheek to cheek, straining together in a fast embrace. Suddenly Erika gulped and began to cry.

“Darling,” Gregory murmured. “Darling, what is it? We're together again now.”

“I know,” she echoed, “I know. But it's too much; I can't bear it.”

He laughed gently. “But, dearest, I've never seen you cry before.”

“I—I haven't cried for years. I'm hard as nails—you know I am—at least, I was before I met you. I despise women who cry, but this—oh, I can't believe it's true.” She dug her pointed nails into his shoulders.

“Yes, it's true, my sweet.” He began to kiss her very tenderly; then with increasing passion until their mouths were locked in a long, breathless kiss.

Ten minutes later she was curled up on his knees in an armchair listening as he began to tell her how he had found out where she was and how he had managed to reach Finland himself. He left all details till later, giving her only the bare facts of how he had been shot down on his way out of Germany the night they had parted … taken refuge in the woods … managed to get back to Berlin to look for her … seen Goering … become the Marshal's secret emissary … and had his papers stolen by Grauber less than an hour before.

When he had done, he said: “Now where d'you think Grauber will have taken that packet? To the German Legation?”

She shook her golden head. “No. Goering has too many friends there, so Grauber wouldn't trust those papers to the Legation safe.”

“Wait a minute,” Gregory interrupted. “He can have no idea—thank God!—where I got all that stuff. My letter of introduction from Goering is still in my pocket so the Marshal's not involved. Grauber will assume that I managed to get back to Berlin and stole those papers somehow.”

“Good. I'm glad for Hermann's sake that Grauber doesn't know the part he played. He's quite capable of looking after himself but it's better that he should choose his own time to have a row with von Ribbentrop on the question of major policy.”

“That's exactly what he said to me himself.”

“But what about the report? Won't that give things away?”

“No. I might have drafted that myself or it might have been compiled for me by a high-up German official in the pay of the British. Grauber will know that I couldn't have stolen all those documents without some sort of inside help. The thing is—what will he do now he's got them?”

“It's difficult to say,” Erika replied thoughtfully. “There's no point in his sending them back to Berlin unless he can find
out where you got them. That would simply be sending coals to Newcastle. He certainly won't hand them over to the Finnish Government, because he is Himmler's man and Himmler and von Ribbentrop are hand-in-glove. Von Ribbentrop naturally wants Finland to accede to Russia's demands without fighting so that there should be no further excuse for Russia's delaying supplies which he is counting on from her. Grauber won't pass the papers to the Soviet Legation here, either; there would be no point in doing that and it would only show how much we know of Russia's real weakness. As far as I can see, he will simply put them in his own safe at Gestapo headquarters.”

“They have a headquarters here, then?”

Erika smiled, showing her small, even, white teeth. “Is there a capital in the world where the Gestapo have not got a headquarters? Their H.Q. is a fair-sized private house in the northeastern suburbs of the city. It's almost country out there and I suppose that's why they chose it; they didn't want too many people constantly watching their comings and goings. Every German in Helsinki knows it, though.”

“Well, it's one of the things I wanted to know and it looks as if our chance of getting back my packet is by robbing the safe there.”

“That's easier said than done.”

“Don't I know it, darling. D'you think we could get any help from the Finns?”

“It all depends. To whom was your letter of introduction from Goering addressed?”

“It's not addressed to anyone but he told me to present it to
Monsieur
Wuolijoki, at the Finnish Foreign Office.”

“Oh, Wuolijoki—he's a grand little man; I've met him at parties several times during the last few weeks. He's very pro-German; but by that I mean he's pro my kind of German—not Hitler's.”

“Yes, I gathered that from Goering. But what matters now is—do you think he's the sort of chap who would be prepared to risk his job by adopting very unorthodox methods in the service of his country?”

“I don't know. But these Finns are extraordinarily patriotic. Both Germans and British consider themselves patriotic people but I don't think either of us has this love for our country so deeply in us as the Finns. Perhaps it's because they have only had theirs as a free people for such a little time. Every one of the men whom I have talked to these last few days says he would
much rather fight than give in to Russia; and by that they don't mean fight as our peoples would—with a good chance of coming back alive or, if they're wounded, being evacuated to a comfortable hospital where they'll have every attention until they're well again. By fight they really mean
go out and die
; because even the most optimistic of them know that Finland can't possibly stand up to Russia's weight of numbers. They're openly making bets with each other as to how many Russians each of them will kill before he is killed himself.”

Gregory remained silent for a moment. By his impostures in England, France and Germany he had caused the death of numerous innocent people, through no fault of his own. It was just his luck that he had managed to get away whereas they had been caught and had died as a result of their association with him; yet he had left a scarlet trail of blood behind him. Now he was an impostor once more, posing as Colonel-Baron von Lutz; and to what end? To plunge a whole nation into war when perhaps the wholesale suffering and death which war would inevitably bring might possibly be avoided.

He sighed. “Poor fellows, it's pretty frightful for them, isn't it? And it makes me feel an utter swine to think that it's my job to try to persuade their Government to take the step which will make their sacrifice necessary, when their lives would at least be safe if they gave Russia what she wants.”

Erika shook her head. “They don't want their lives at such a price; and I believe they're right about that. It's not only the dishonour they would feel in having given up everything that they've worked for these last twenty years; they know that once they allowed the Reds through the Mannerheim Line no-one's life or liberty would be safe in Finland. All the writers, the officers, the capitalists, the deputies and the leaders of Finnish thought would be shot. The Universities and schools would be closed; there would be riots among the students and the Red Guards would shoot them down. Then Stalin would conscript the leaderless masses for forced labour and transport them into the depths of Russia. It would be the same frightful business of race extermination as is now going on in Poland. In five years' time there wouldn't be a Finn left in Finland.”

“No. I suppose that's true,” Gregory agreed, “and rioting wouldn't do them any good once the Reds were in here. If they're going to fight they must fight now. Holding the Mannerheim Line is the only chance they've got. If only they had an
Air Force as good as their Army—small as it is—I'd be a bit happier about things, though.”

“Yes. That'll be the worst part—the bombing. But the women here seem as brave as the men, and they've made up their minds to face it.”

“We'll pray they don't have to. After all, everybody thought that the Germans would bomb London the first day of the war; but they didn't; they haven't bombed it yet. There's just a chance that Stalin may not be altogether indifferent to world opinion and may refrain from using his Air Force on that account. But let's get back to Wuolijoki. I've got an appointment with him at three o'clock—as von Lutz, of course—so I'll keep it, present Goering's letter, tell him what's happened and ask his help.”

“If you're going to ask him for any assistance which might prejudice his official position I think you'd better see him here. Even walls have ears, as they say, and I doubt if the Finnish Foreign Office is any exception.”

“My clever sweetheart,” he kissed the backs of her fingers one by one, “how right you are. And even if there's no leakage to the outside world, we don't want to compromise Wuolijoki with his own people should he be game to help us. D'you think you could persuade him to come out here?”

Erika released herself from his embrace, stood up, smoothed out her skirt and walked over to the telephone. “I'll try,” she smiled.

It took her a quarter of an hour to get through but at last she was connected with Wuolijoki and told him that the person with whom he had an appointment at three o'clock was with her. For special reasons, which she could not explain, it was highly desirable that the interview should take place in private so, she asked, could he come out to the von Kobenthals'?

Wuolijoki said that he was frantically busy but that if the matter was really urgent he would endeavour to do so about tea-time. Erika assured him that it was of the utmost importance and begged him to come out at once, but the best he could do was to promise that he would definitely call between four and half-past. She then hung up.

She had hardly told Gregory the result of her conversation when they both caught the sound of a low, distant murmur like the rushing of a great wind. “Planes!” exclaimed Gregory, and they both ran to the window.

As they reached it the murmur increased to a thunderous
roar and, staring out over the snow-covered islands of the bay up into the pale-blue sky, they saw scores of black dots which within a few seconds took shape as great black war-planes rushing towards them. It was squadron after squadron of the Red Air Force coming up across the Gulf of Finland from their new bases in Estonia, less than fifty miles away.

Grabbing Erika's arm as the leading planes hurtled low overhead, Gregory ran her towards the door. “Quick!” he cried, as he flung it open. “Where's the cellar?”

“It's only a demonstration,” she protested, pulling back. “We should have been certain to have heard of it if war had been declared.”

“It may be a demonstration with bombs,” he said grimly. “Nobody ever declares war these days, so we're not taking any chances. If I were manning a machine-gun I'd stay above-ground and see the fun but only fools risk their necks when they're powerless to help with any form of retaliation. If we're wounded we'll only make more work for the ambulance men. Come on! Where's that cellar?”

“You're right.” Erika had to shout to ensure herself being heard above the din that the planes were now making as they circled within a hundred feet of the roof-tops. “This way. The von Kobenthals have converted one of the rooms in the basement into an air-raid shelter.”

She led him downstairs and along a corridor to a room, the ceiling of which had been shored up with big baulks of timber and its windows, only half of which were above ground-level, were protected with sand-bags. A fat woman—obviously the cook—was sitting there knitting and the maid who had let Gregory in was with her. The von Kobenthals were out, and two days before they had packed their two children and governess off to Sweden; but it soon transpired that a third maid was somewhere in the house, so forbidding Erika and the others to leave the room Gregory went up to look for her.