She stood on the rocks and watched the surf picking up in intensity. With the countrywide blackout enforced, she couldn’t see a light anywhere.
“We’re coming up to low tide,” Snowden said to her. A stiff wind at their backs, he studied the water with binoculars for any sign of a conning-tower showing above the water. “It’ll be further out now, what with the low tide. Let it go.”
Denise dug for the flashlight inside her coat. Using Morse code, she flashed her call sign several times, followed by the letters A-B-O-R-T another six times, then signed off. She turned to Snowden. “Do you think they got the message?”
“Whether they did or not, I’ll radio the navy.”
“And what about Hamburg?”
“Send them your last communiqué. After that, Denise is officially retired. We can’t take any more chances. This one was horrendous enough. Despite the rendezvous foul-up, you performed quite well. Good job.”
Denise smiled. “Thanks. But I’m glad it’s over.”
* * * *
Lieutenant Steider read the Morse blinks clearly through the periscope more than six hundred yards offshore. It was an abort. Hess was on his own.
“Up scope,” he ordered, pulling away from the periscope eyepiece. “And take her out to sea!”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
* * * *
A tight procession of six black sedans, headlights blacked out, chugged slowly along the tarred road. A quarter mile distant, Dungavel Castle marked the foggy landscape. Overhead, the stars were out in full force.
“Keep your eyes on the road, young man, and push on,” Colonel Lampert said to the driver across from him in the front seat of the lead vehicle.
“I’m trying to, sir. But I can’t see a thing.”
“Hold up here,” Lampert said, once the driver came alongside the castle gates.
Lampert got out and waited for the occupants from the five other cars. When they assembled for last-minute instructions, he asked them to check their pistols. He then sent two of the cars ahead with orders to surround the house in case anyone tried to escape.
“I’ll knock,” he said to those men remaining. “As soon as I say Secret Service, we rush inside and cart them off. Tally ho.”
The estate had several cars tucked inside the gates. No sounds could he heard, even as they reached the oak front doors. Lampert knocked, waited, and knocked again. He caught the faint sound of footsteps on the other side.
The door opened, and a tall butler in his sixties appeared. “Yes.”
Lampert showed his pocket identification with a flick of the wrist. “Secret Service.” Then he pushed ahead, followed by the other agents. Lampert stopped and glanced down a long hall of oil paintings. At the very end was an open door with a brightly-lit room beyond, from where he heard laughter and the clinking of glasses.
“What’s the meaning of this?” the butler asked, his voice shaky.
“Never you mind. That way,” Lampert said, pointing to the room. “Two of you stay here at the entrance.”
Eight Secret Service men rushed down the length of the hall, pistols drawn. They made way for Lampert to enter the room first. The meeting was not what Lampert had imagined. He had pictured a great party for Hess and the peace-pact signing, not nine well-dressed men, five of them seated around a long, polished table, and the other four standing and looking on. All had drinks in their hands. What was this, a Sunday afternoon bridge club? Lampert recognized two of them from news photos as prominent politicians. One other was a high-ranking officer in the army. The sight of each one — powerful as they were in their own right — drove home the fact to Lampert that these men and others had been conspiring to overthrow someone much more powerful and smarter than they were — Winston Churchill. It was up to Lampert to show that they were taking on the wrong man and the wrong team.
“Who the bloody hell are you!” the army man shouted. “I demand an explanation! How dare you march in—”
“Shut up!” Lampert held out his hand and showed his ID. He glared at the faces slowly, as the MI-6 men spread out, guns pointed. “Secret Service. You are all under arrest.”
“On what grounds?”
“Treason,” Lampert replied. “Collaborating with the enemy, namely Rudolf Hess. You will be held at MI-6 Headquarters until Churchill himself decides what to do with the lot of you. And by the way, your friend, Brenwood, couldn’t make it. He’s ... tied up.”
Lampert walked up to the table, poured himself an inch of red wine into a crystal glass, and downed it. “Not bad. Must have been a good year.” He thumped the glass to the table. “Get these traitors out of here.”
* * * *
Wing Commander the Duke of Hamilton was flabbergasted when two different observer posts miles apart phoned RAF Turnhouse with the same information — an ME-110 was racing low over the Scottish countryside on a course southwest of Glasgow. Now Hess was in the air, again. So soon. He was supposed to land at Dunhampton, then be escorted to Dungavel. What was he doing? Did something go wrong? Whatever had transpired, Hamilton had to act to shift any suspicion away from him.
“Alert 141 Squadron at Ary to send up a Defiant and pursue the intruder,” he barked at his controller, knowing that he had ordered that particular base on stand-down for the evening.
* * * *
At six thousand feet, Schubert sighed at the sight of the glittering Firth of Clyde only a kilometre or two over his port wing. According to the crumpled map in his left hand, he was 160 kilometres from British-controlled Northern Ireland and over three hundred kilometres from neutral Ireland. The latter seemed the only alternative.
He thought ahead to the landing, while he struggled to keep the fighter steady in the frigid, breezy cockpit. He gave left rudder to line up on his anticipated course. He felt for the parachute under the seat. If worse came to worse, he could ditch the fighter in the water and parachute in. Then ... his cockpit Plexiglas crashed to his lap! Now both side windows had been blown out. What happened? A glance down at the gauges told him that the RPM and engine pressures were rapidly falling. An aircraft flew past and banked. Damn! He was under attack!
Schubert banked hard to port and dove at the same time. He didn’t have a hope of making Ireland, not with a dying engine that was vibrating the entire aircraft. And a water landing was impossible at night. His only way out now was back to the mainland. He reached down and struggled with the parachute. Think. Think. Then it came to him ... Dungavel Castle. The British collaborators could get him out of this.
Hold on. Find Dungavel Castle in a blackout? Fat chance of that.
* * * *
At 2305 hours, another telephone call broke the silence at RAF Turnhouse.
“Wing Commander?” said the controller, receiver in hand, to Hamilton who had just entered the combat room.
“Yes, what is it?”
“The observer post at Eaglesham Moor reports the ME-110 flying an erratic course as if the pilot is looking for something.”
“Is the Defiant still in pursuit?” Hamilton asked another airman.
“Not anymore, sir. He lost the intruder, but the pilot claimed some hits.”
* * * *
Schubert took the damaged fighter up to 6,500 feet, and it strained to get there. The machine was now hanging on by a thread and a vapour, the fuel tanks reading empty. He threw the gun and the stiletto out the port opening, then reached overhead and slid back the cabin roof, his right hand on the briefcase. Bailing out of an aircraft would be a first for him. To start what he thought would be a simple procedure, he made the mistake of sticking his head too far into the open, turbulent slipstream. He was thrown back. He tried again. The slipstream pushed him back yet again. Now he was terrified he’d never get out.
One more time!
He pushed, he shoved, he swore under his breath, but he still couldn’t get out. Landing in the cockpit seat, he decided that the conventional method of evacuating an aircraft was not going to work. So, he heaved back on the stick to send the nose up. The fighter climbed until it stood on its tail ... and stalled. It took perfect coordination to complete the next step. As the ME-110 hung motionless for a brief, split-second, Schubert jumped into the night.
The slipstream tore the briefcase from his grasp. But at least he was free. Tumbling at first, he managed to control his descent by spreading his body out.
Then he counted to ten ... a bit too fast ... and pulled the cord.