Chapter Thirty-five

The monoplane’s flight over the Channel had been uneventful—the wind calm, the visibility excellent. It was fortunate for Scarlett that such was the case, for the stinging irritation of his unhealed surgery coupled with the pitch of his fury would have made a difficult trip a disastrous one. He was hardly capable of keeping his mind on the compass bearings and when he first saw the Normandy coast, it looked unfamiliar to him. Yet he had made these very same sightings a dozen times.

He was met at the small airfield outside of Lisieux by the Paris contingent, consisting of two Germans and a French Gascon, whose guttural dialect nearly matched that of his associates.

The three Europeans anticipated that the man—they did not know his name—would instruct them to return to Paris. To await further orders.

The man had other intentions, insisting that they all sit uncomfortably together in the front seat while he occupied the entire space in the back. He ordered the car to Vernon, where two got out and were told to make their own way back to Paris. The driver was to remain.

The driver vaguely protested when Scarlett ordered him to proceed west to Montbeliard, a small town near the Swiss border.

‘Mein Herr! That’s a four-hundred kilometer trip! It will take ten hours or more on these abysmal roads!’

‘Then we should be there by dinner time. And be quiet!’

‘It might have been simpler for mein Herr to refuel and fly…’

‘I do not fly when I am tired. Relax. I’ll find you some “sea food” in Montbeliard. Vary your diet, Kircher. It excites the palate.’

‘Javohl, mein Herr!’ Kircher grinned, knowing the man was really a fine Oberluhrer.

Scarlett reflected. The misfits! One day they’d be rid of the misfits.

Montbeliard was not much more complex than an oversized village. The principal livelihood of its citizens was farm produce, much of which was shipped into Switzerland and Germany. Its currency, as in many towns on the border, was a mixture of francs, marks and Swiss francs.

Scarlett and his driver reached it a little after nine in the evening. However, except for several stops for petrol and a midafternoon lunch, they had pushed forward with no conversation between them. This quiet acted as a sedative to Scarlett’s anxiety. He was able to think without anger, although his anger was ever present. The driver had been right when he had pointed out that a flight from Lisieux to Montbeliard would have been simpler and less arduous, but Scarlett could not risk any explosions of temper brought on by exhaustion.

Sometime that day or evening—the time was left open—he was meeting with the Prussian, the all-important man who could deliver what few others could. He had to be up to that meeting, every brain cell working. He couldn’t allow recent problems to distort his concentration. The conference with the Prussian was the culmination of months, years of work. From the first macabre meeting with Gregor Strasser to the conversion of his millions to Swiss capital. He, Heinrich Kroeger, possessed the finances so desperately needed by the National Socialists. His importance to the party was now acknowledged. The problems. Irritating problems! But he’d made his decisions. He’d have Howard Thornton isolated, perhaps killed. The San Franciscan had betrayed them. If the Stockholm manipulation had been uncovered, it had to be laid at Thornton’s feet. They’d used his Swedish contacts and obviously he maneuvered large blocks of securities back into his own hands at the depressed price.

Thornton would be taken care of. As was the French dandy, Jacques Bertholde. Thornton and Bertholde! Both misfits! Greedy, stupid misfits!

What had happened to Boothroyd? Obviously killed on the Calpurnia. But how? Why? Regardless, he deserved to die! So did his father-in-law. Rawlins’ order to kill Elizabeth Scarlatti was stupid! The timing had been insane! Couldn’t Rawlins understand that she would have left letters behind, documents? She was far more dangerous dead than alive. At least until she’d been reached—as he had reached her, threatened her precious Scarlattis. Now, she could die! Now it wouldn’t matter. And with Bertholde gone, Rawlins gone, and Thornton about to be killed, there’d be no one left who knew who he was. No one! He was Heinrich Kroeger, a leader of the new order!

They pulled up at L’Auberge des Moineaux, a small restaurant with a buvette and lodgings for the traveler or for those desiring privacy for other reasons. For Scarlett it was the appointed meeting place.

‘Take the car down the road and park it,’ he told Kircher. ‘I’ll be in one of the rooms. Have dinner. I’ll call for you later—I haven’t forgotten my promise’ Kircher grinned.

Ulster Scarlett got out of the car and stretched. He felt better, his skin bothered him less, and the impending conference filled him with a sense of anticipation. This was the kind of work he should always do! Matters of vast consequences. Matters of power.

He waited until the car was far enough down the street to obscure Kircher’s rear-mirror view of him. He then walked back, away from the door, to the cobblestone path and turned into it. Misfits were never to be told anything that wasn’t essential to their specific usefulness.

He reached an unlighted door and knocked several times.

The door opened and a moderately tall man with thick, wavy black hair and prominent, dark eyebrows stood in the center of the frame as if guarding an entrance, not welcoming a guest. He was dressed in a Bavarian-cut gray coat and brown knickers. The face was darkly cherubic, the eyes wide and staring. His name was Rudolf Hess.

‘Where have you been?’ Hess motioned Scarlett to enter and close the door. The room was small; there was a table with chairs around it, a sideboard, and two floor lamps, which gave the room its light. Another man who had been looking out the window, obviously to identify the one outside, nodded to Scarlett. He was a tiny, ugly man with bird-like features, even to the hawknose. He walked with a limp.

‘Joseph?’ said Scarlett to him. ‘I didn’t expect you here.’

Joseph Goebbels looked over at Hess. His knowledge of English was poor. Hess translated Scarlett’s words rapidly and Goebbels shrugged his shoulders.

‘I asked you where you have been!’

‘I had trouble in Lisieux. I couldn’t get another plane so I had to drive. It’s been a long day so don’t aggravate me, please.’

‘Ach! From Lisieux? A long trip. I’ll order you some food, but you’ll have to be quick. Rheinhart’s been waiting since noon.’

Scarlett took off his flying jacket and threw it on the sideboard shelf. ‘How is he?’

Goebbels understood just enough to interrupt. ‘Rheinhart?… Im-pa-tient!’ He mispronounced the word, and Scarlett grinned. Goebbels thought to himself that this giant was a horrible-looking creature. The opinion was mutual.

‘Never mind the food. Rheinhart’s been waiting too long—-

Where is he?’

‘In his room. Number two, down the corridor. He went for a walk this afternoon but he keeps thinking someone will recognize him so he came back in ten minutes. I think he’s upset.’

‘Go get him—And bring back some whiskey.’ He looked at Goebbels wishing that this unattractive little man would leave. It wasn’t good that Goebbels be there while Hess and he talked with the Prussian aristocrat. Goebbels looked like an insignificant Jewish accountant.

But Scarlett knew he could do nothing. Hitler was taken with Goebbels.

Joseph Goebbels seemed to be reading the tall man’s thoughts.

‘Ich werde dabei sitzen wahrend Sie sprechen.’ He pulled a chair back to the wall and sat down.

Hess had gone out the corridor door and the two men were in the room alone. Neither spoke.

Four minutes later Hess returned. Following him was an aging, overweight German several inches shorter than Hess, dressed in a black double-breasted suit and a high collar. His face was puffed with excess fat, his white hair cropped short. He stood perfectly erect and in spite of his imposing appearance, Scarlett thought there was something soft about him, not associated with his bulk. He strutted into the room. Hess closed the door and locked it.

‘Gentlemen. General Rheinhart.’ Hess stood at attention.

Goebbels rose from the chair and bowed, clicking his heels.

Rheinhart looked at him unimpressed.

Scarlett noticed Rheinhart’s expression. He approached the elderly general and held out his hand.

‘Herr General.’

Rheinhart faced Scarlett, and although he concealed it well, his reaction to Scarlett’s appearance was obvious. The two men shook hands perfunctorily.

‘Please sit down, Herr General.’ Hess was enormously impressed with their company and did not hide the fact. Rheinhart sat in a chair at the end of the table. Scarlett was momentarily upset. He had wanted to sit in that particular chair for it was the commanding position.

Hess asked Rheinhart if he preferred whiskey, gin, or wine. The general waved his hand, refusing.

‘Nothing for me, either,’ added Ulster Scarlett as he sat in the chair to the left of Rheinhart. Hess ignored the tray and also took his seat. Goebbels retreated with his limp to the chair by the wall.

Scarlett spoke. ‘I apologize for the delay. Unforgivable but, I’m afraid, unavoidable. There was pressing business with our associates in London.’

‘Your name, please?’ Rheinhart interrupted, speaking English with a thick Teutonic accent.

Scarlett looked briefly at Hess before replying. ‘Kroeger. Herr General. Heinrich Kroeger.’

Rheinhart did not take his eyes off Scarlett. ‘I do not think that is your name, sir. You are not German.’ His voice was flat.

‘My sympathies are German. So much so that Heinrich Kroeger is the name I have chosen to be known by.’

Hess interrupted. ‘Herr Kroeger has been invaluable to us all. Without him we would never have made the progress we have, sir.’

‘Amerikaner—He is the reason we do not speak German?’

‘That will be corrected in time,’ Scarlett said. In fact, he spoke nearly flawless German, but still felt at a disadvantage in the language.

‘I am not an American, General—’ Scarlett returned Rheinhart’s stare and gave no quarter. ‘I am a citizen of the new order!… I have given as much, if not more than anyone else alive or dead to see it come to pass—Please remember that in our conversation.’

Rheinhart shrugged. ‘I’m sure you have your reasons, as I have, for being at this table.’

‘You may be assured of that.’ Scarlett relaxed and pulled his chair up.

‘Very well, gentlemen, to business. If it is possible, I should like to leave Montbeliard tonight.’ Rheinhart reached into his jacket pocket and took out a page of folded stationery. ‘Your party has made certain not inconsequential strides in the Reichstag. After your Munich fiasco, one might even say remarkable progress…’

Hess broke in enthusiastically. ‘We have only begun! From the ignominy of treacherous defeat, Germany will rise! We will be masters of all Europe!’

Rheinhart held the folded paper in his hand and watched Hess. He replied quietly, authoritatively. To be masters of but Germany itself would be sufficient for us. To be able to defend our country is all we ask.’

‘That will be the least of your guarantees from us, General.’ Scarlett’s voice rose no higher than Rheinhart’s.

‘It is the only guarantee we wish. We are not interested in the excesses your Adolf Hitler preaches.’

At the mention of Hitler’s name, Goebbels sat forward in his chair. He was angered by the fact that he could not comprehend.

‘Was gibt’s mit Hitler? Was sagen sie über inn?’

Rheinhart answered Goebbels in his own tongue. ‘Er ist ein sehr storener geriosse.’

‘Hitler ist der Weg! Hitler ist die Hoffnung fur Deutschland!’

‘Vielleicht fur Sie.11’

Ulster Scarlett looked over at Goebbels. The little man’s eyes shone with hatred and Scarlett guessed that one day Rheinhart would pay for his words. The general continued as he unfolded the paper.

The times our nation lives through call for unusual alliances—I have spoken with von Schnitzler and Kindorf.

Krupp will not discuss the subject as I’m sure you are aware—German industry is no better off than the army. We are both pawns for the Allied Controls Commission. The Versailles restrictions inflate us one minute, puncture us the next. There is no stability. There is nothing we can count on. We have a common objective, gentlemen. The Versailles treaty.’

‘It is only one of the objectives. There are others.’ Scarlett was pleased, but his pleasure was short-lived.

‘It is the only objective which has brought me to Montbeliard! As German industry must be allowed to breathe, to export unencumbered, so must the German army be allowed to maintain adequate strength! The limitation of one hundred thousand troops with over sixteen hundred miles of borders to protect is ludicrous!… There are promises, always promises—then threats. Nothing to count on. No comprehension. No allowance for necessary growth.’

‘We were betrayed! We were viciously betrayed in nineteen eighteen and that betrayal continues! Traitors still exist throughout Germany!’ Hess wanted more than his life to be counted among the friends of Rheinhart and his officers. Rheinhart understood and was not impressed.

‘Ja. Ludendorff still holds to that theory. The Meuse-Argonne is not easy for him to live with.’

Ulster Scarlett smiled his grotesque smile. ‘It is for some of us. General Rheinhart.’

Rheinhart looked at him. ‘I will not pursue that with you.’

‘One day you should. It’s why I’m here—in part.’

‘To repeat, Herr Kroeger. You have your reasons; I have mine. I am not interested in yours but you are forced to be interested in mine.’ He looked at Hess and then over at the shadowed figure of Joseph Goebbels by the wall.

‘I will be blunt, gentlemen. It is, at best, an ill-kept secret—Across the Polish borders in the lands of the Bolshevik are thousands of frustrated German officers. Men without professions in their own country. They train the Russian field commanders! They discipline the Red peasant army… Why! Some for simple employment. Others justify themselves because a few Russian factories smuggle us cannon, armaments prohibited by the Allied Commission… I do not like this state of affairs, gentlemen. I do not trust the Russians… Weimar is ineffectual. Ebert couldn’t face the truth. Hindenburg is worse! He lives in a monarchial past. The politicians must be made to face the Versailles issue! We must be liberated from within!’

Rudolf Hess placed both his hands, palms down, on the table.

‘You have the word of Adolf Hitler and those of us in this room that the first item on the political agenda of the National Socialist German Workers party is the unconditional repudiation of the Versailles treaty and its restrictions!’

‘I assume that. My concern is whether you are capable of effectively uniting the diverse political camps of the Reichstag. I will not deny that you have appeal. Far more than the others… The question we would like answered, as I’m sure would our equals in commerce. Do you have the staying power? Can you last? Will you last?… You were outlawed a few years ago. We cannot afford to be allied with a political comet which burns itself out.’

Ulster Scarlett rose from his chair and looked down at the aging German general. ‘What would you say if I told you that we have financial resources surpassing those of any political organization in Europe? Possibly the Western hemisphere.’

‘I would say that you exaggerate.’

‘Or if I told you that we possess territory—land—sufficiently large enough to train thousands upon thousands of elite troops beyond the scrutiny of the Versailles inspection teams.’

‘You would have to prove all this to me.’

‘I can do just that.’

Rheinhart rose and faced Heinrich Kroeger.

‘If you speak the truth… you will have the support of the imperial German generals.’