‘Is everything alright, Alex?’
Swan shrugged. ‘I’m fine, Arthur. Why do you ask?’
It concerned him that Swan’s thoughts were elsewhere, and as an ex-Scotland Yard detective, his instincts made him notice the sudden mood change in someone. ‘You just seem a bit distracted by something all of a sudden.’ He decided to change the subject. ‘Did you see that the Americans want to base the F-111 at their stations at Upper Heyford and Lakenheath next year?’
‘Yes, from what I hear from dear old Hammer Higgins, the machine didn’t do very well in South East Asia. It’s a good thing that the RAF didn’t have it in the end.’ Swan turned to look at a painting of a sleek, silver delta-winged aircraft flying between two green hills, mounted on the wall opposite him.
He sighed. ‘I wonder how HB is doing. He was a lovely chap! Haven’t spoken to him in a few years now.’ He paused for a few moments, thinking about the former aircraft designer from the Silver Angel affair, then slammed his hands together. ‘Anyway, back to work. Lots to do. I was due to see Chief Inspector Davies this morning. He called me last night and said he may have a breakthrough in the Oldfield case. But seeing that I now have to see Staffy of the Yard, I think this will have to wait.’
Pleased to see his colleague suddenly back to his old self, Gable rose from his chair. ‘How about a cuppa?’
Swan nodded. ‘Yes, I would love one old boy. If I know Staffy, he will want to be doubly sure that he has his facts right. After all, he still insists that the brains behind the train robbery worked for the GPO.’
The two men laughed as the telephone rang.
Swan picked up the receiver. ‘Whitehall 9921 Good morning, Alex Swan speaking.’
Gable looked at Swan’s changing facial expressions as he listened to the caller.
Swan then confirmed that it would be okay to see him. ‘Yes, of course young man, I’ll be here and so will my colleague, Mr Arthur Gable. Shall we say eleven thirty then? Jolly good. We will see you then, Mr Stevenson. Goodbye for now.’ Swan put back the receiver.
Gable commented curiously. ‘That’s funny, that’s the name of the tug boat skipper who found the German chap. They said his name on the radio.’
Swan smiled. ‘Indeed it was the name of the boatman, Arthur. And my dear chap, you are not going to believe who was on the phone.’
At almost midday at a stately home in Hollenstedt, a small town to the west of Hamburg, a tall man with a long, faded, scar down the side of his left cheek stood looking around at the people in the large reception room.
On the ceiling, two large crystal chandeliers with droplets of clear cut glass resembling an inverted fountain cascaded down. At intervals, around the pale walls, hung original colourful paintings of birds of prey by German artist, Max Ernst.
However, the wall at the front of the room was bare, a solitary hook embedded into the centre, surrounded by a faint outline, indicating a painting had once been mounted there.
In previous times, this vast emporium had entertained the gentry of German hierarchy, with names such as the last Emperor, Kaiser Wilhelm II, Otto Von Bismarck and the infamous Red Baron himself, Manfred Von Richthofen, as well as the more recent figures of Germanic history, such as: Herman Goering, Josef Goebbels and the chancellor himself: Adolf Hitler.
The man strode over towards a door, opened it and left the room. In another part of the room, two other men were in conversation next to a table laden with an extravagant buffet. Holding a plate, the taller of the two men raised a sandwich to his mouth. He was enjoying himself as he talked about the old days of the Third Reich to the other man. Although they had not known each other, Ernst Hoffenberg and Pauli Freumann discovered they had both been administrative officers in different offices of the Reichstag in Berlin. Hoffenberg was now based in London and had flown over to Hamburg earlier that morning, while Freumann now worked at the Berliner Museum, now a major attraction in West Berlin.
They paused their conversation, stepping aside to allow a blonde woman in a blue dress to approach the table. With his ageing Aryan deep blue eyes, Hoffenberg watched her lecherously as she placed some food items on her plate then turned around and gave a coy smile to the gentlemen.
Hoffenberg’s eyes followed her, as she dissolved into the crowd of other people, Taking in her gyrating body shape through the dress estimating her to be in her early thirties, he gestured to Freumann with a mischievous. Freumann laughed silently in acknowledgement. He reached over to whisper in Hoffenberg’s ear, and now fully informed of the woman’s identity, Hoffenberg’s lustful face had suddenly changed to one of fear.
At the far end of the room, the tall man with the facial scar had returned and a shroud of silence descended, as all eyes were now on him.
Impeccably attired in a double-breasted pinstripe grey suit, Gunther Fleischer, took up his position confidently. His shortly cut silver grey hair was brushed over to one side, a trait he had maintained since his days as an Obersturmfuhrer, with the secret Nazi engineering group known as: Organisation Todt, named after its founder Fritz Todt, and responsible for numerous projects throughout the Second World War.
Fleischer himself had recently taken over his family’s business empire from his father, and the former wartime manufacturer of Hitler’s military machines, now specialised in the design and production of construction vehicles. Unknown to the allies during the last war, the factory located a few miles from the city of Hamburg, was the location for innovative weapon design concentrating on the testing of new armoured vehicles. Externally, the estate resembled a large farm with long barns and workshops. This highly secret Nazi establishment set in the suburbs of a great city had also managed to avoid the onslaught of incendiary bombs that rained night after night. The only evidence of Allied devastation had been a light bombing from American A-26 Invaders of the 416th Bomber Group, carrying out hit and run attacks from their forward operating base in Holland, and that incident itself was only after the crews had pursued a convoy of German transport vehicles along the perimeter road.
Later in the war, as the allies advanced across the River Elbe, the factory had been abandoned, all trace of its secret functions erased from the site.
Staring through piercing, sea-blue eyes, Fleischer surveyed the crowd before him. Under his arm was clamped a rectangular object covered in a red cloth.
With all eyes now trained on him, the room’s occupants maintained their silence and began to automatically form into two straight lines to face him. Fleischer smiled, and in his native Bavarian accent, addressed them with his prepared and memorised speech. ‘My dear comrades, I hope you have all had the opportunity to enjoy the excellent food and wine, and please continue to do so. Especially the salmon, as I caught it myself.’
He listened for the expected astonished gasps from his attentive audience, and was not disappointed.
He smiled, again pausing for a few moments, then standing to attention, took a deep breath. ‘I now call your attention to our project and its progress. We have been successful so far in hindering the progression of the American and Russian space programmes with devastating effect. The work done to the Atlas and Vostok projects has been a great achievement! However, the allies continue to see these disasters and delays as mere technical errors, and still move towards their respective goals. One goal they both share at this moment in time, is to be the first to the Moon!’ He raised a finger. ‘As for the British, they are just pawns in this bigger game of chess. They continue to test rockets on the Isle of Wight using our stolen sacred High Test Peroxide based fuel formula, but their new socialistic government can no longer afford it. One more failure to the Black Arrow rocket, will encourage its cancellation outright. So we must make this a priority over the next few weeks. Our comrade codenamed ‘Falcon’, is in place to see that this will happen. Unknown to the British, their Black Arrow could potentially become an instrument of death, and our plan will then force their government to scrap the project the very next day.’