Jekyll Island Enigma

The

JEKYLL  ISLAND ENIGMA

Table of Contents

Title Page

Jekyll Island Enigma

PREAMBLE

Chapter 1

Chapter  2

Chapter  3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter  19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

J A C K  O W E N

Old Book Shop Publication

Palm Beach, FL  33480

owenobs@gate.net

Copyright Jack Owen, 2009

First published in USA, 2010

Paperback edition 2012

ISBN: 9780938673026

This novel is entirely a work of fiction.

The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the

work of the author's imagination.  Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is

entirely coincidental.

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All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in a retrieval system, or transported, in any form or 

any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without  prior permission of the publishers.

Dedicated to the memory of  Capt. David Wilding and his perpetual pursuit of paths untraveled  –  from here and beyond.

And to Susan (Hixon) Kennedy who was there when the Jekyll Island Enigma was born.

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The German merchant submarine 'Bremen' set course from Heligoland for New York August 26, 1916.She and her crew were never officially heard from again.

Dwight R. Messimer

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Finally, in December 1941 the United States entered World War II. The end of the Jekyll Island Club did not come suddenly and dramatically out of fear of enemy attack against the concentration of wealth on the Island or by presidential decree, as many have supposed. 

William Barton McCash and June Hall McCash

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It was not until February 7, 1942 (four months after America entered the war ) that Admiral King finally established the Anti-Submarine Warfare Unit of the Atlantic Fleet. 

Edwin P. Hoyt

Nov 3, 2010 ... The Federal Reserve is going back to Jekyll Island to celebrate the 100 year anniversary of the infamous 1910 Jekyll Island meeting

www.businessinsider.com

PREAMBLE

American and European readers are aware of the phrase The shot heard around the world. In America the 1775 conflict, a shot at Concord sparked the War of Independence. In Europe the 1914 assassination of Austrian Archduke Franz Ferdinand triggered The Great War.

The shot not fired  –  in the engine room of the Nazi prison ship Altmark during Valentines Day weekend, 1940, though it technically didn't quite start a war—played a part. It certainly had far reaching results for the Lion family future, and many others caught up in the second global conflict which followed. It has taken the author more than half a century to unveil the full story.

History books record the role of Lieutenant Eric Lion, R.N., in freeing 299 prisoners captured by the Nazi commerce sea raider Graf Spee’s supply tanker Altmark in Jossingfjord, Norway.  The popular press created an eight day wonder. His royal connections (including German lineage and anglicized name change from Leonhardt  to Lion) were featured on the front page of all allied newspaper echoing the bold patriotic catch phrase headline: THE NAVY’S HERE. 

Details of his later activities in America during 1941, apart from fund raising appearances on Countess Millicent Zhirkov’s International Red Cross Defense Bond tour, remained an enigma.

Records obtained under the Freedom of Information Act confirm anecdotal stories at home and abroad of his presence on Jekyll Island, Georgia, just weeks before Pearl Harbor. Lion’s encounter with the U-boat ghost ship  Bremen in St. Andrew Sound is also revealed. I wish to acknowledge here the bravery and patriotism of the many civilians and servicemen whose actions in those perilous pre-war days, saved so many lives.  My special thanks those survivors whose response to my initial article in the Georgia Chronicle. Their eyewitness accounts helped complete this work of faction.

Jack Owen, Palm Beach, 2009

~~Prelude ~~

The first rays of the Georgia sun rising above the Atlantic Ocean glinted off the windows of Jekyll Island Club's conical tower. It could be seen, clear as a beacon, from the cockpit of a bi-plane approaching the leg-of-lamb-shaped Barrier Island.

Below, in the shadows and shafts of light squeezing between gnarled branches of live-oak and dangling Spanish moss; noisy Blue jays, Cardinals and Mockingbirds darted between freshly raked white-sand traps, and dew-soaked greens, seeking early worms. Cicadas clacked, mosquitoes buzzed and no-seeums swarmed around Clyde Harper's head in mangroves lining Jekyll Island Creek.

Stoically, the poacher munched on an apple. while concentrating on the multiple ripples generated by a school of fingerling mullet, marring the deep-flowing placid surface of the tidal waters. He ignored the familiar thrumming in the air as the single-prop plane approached.

Pilot Dusty Miller saw few lights shining from the sprawling four-story Gothic building topped by its conical tower, as he approached. In years gone by, during the height of the social and hunting season, he would have given the area a wide berth to avoid errant shots. But in the second week of February, 1941, the club’s dwindling membership from attrition, crushing losses of the Depression and the easier accessibility and popularity of Palm Beach further south in warmer Florida, reduced its exclusive millionaires' roster.

The crop-duster lowered the Stearman’s nose, banking slowly over the lone fisherman poised with casting-net amongst the mangroves, before circling back to the mainland and a peach orchard due for a dusting.

Harper dropped the core of his apple, heard it plop into the out-flowing water and with practiced accuracy, flung the fine skein onto the milling finger-mullet to add to his bait bucket.

An ebbing tide swept the browning apple core between banks of the island and the sweeping expanse of rustling salt-marshes stretching to mainland Georgia, housing the harbor town of Brunswick. It bobbed into the confluence of many streams emptying into St. Andrews Sound, squeezed between Jekyll and Cumberland Islands, until being extruded into the Atlantic Ocean and on to Gulf Stream.

That massive river of warm water eventually squeezed between the beleaguered British Isles and fortress France under its new Nazi masters. But even the mighty Gulf Stream could not reach far enough to bring comfort to the crew of the frigate H.M.S. Damocles, Valentine's Day, 1940, rolling across the frigid waters of the North Sea on anti-submarine patrol,

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Chapter 1

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H.M.S. Damocles’ gunnery officer had barely wedged himself onto a bench between the frigate’s bulkhead and tiny wardroom table and managed one cautious sip from a steaming mug of cocoa cradled in gloved hands, before she began a starboard heel.  A change of engine pitch and vibrating rumble below decks added to the shudder of her steel hull battering through the frigid North Sea off Norway’s coast.  He abandoned the mug to the mercy of the table fiddles, pulled his duffle coat hood up and headed topside before the Tannoy speaker crackled.

Lieutenant Lion to the bridge.

On deck he scanned white-topped seas for a clue to the ship’s course change: a tell-tale glimpse of an enemy periscope, a long range Luftwaffe spotter, anything to break the monotonous anti-submarine patrol of the North Sea. He saw nothing but roiling grey seas.

"Guns, we’ve been ordered to join a task force with Altmark in its sights, the captain told Lion. They’ve got her in view heading for Heligoland, hugging Norway’s neutral coast. Captain Vian is directing the operation from HMS Cossack. We’re to form part of the screen to prevent Altmark dashing home to Germany - and taking our chaps with them."

A grin spread over Lion’s face. Action.

Damocles buzzed with rumor from mess deck to wardroom as she held course for the sea  passage between Norway and Denmark.  The German  powerful pocket battleship and surface raider Admiral Graf Spee  had rampaged through  the South Atlantic the previous year netted nine allied merchant vessels. Captured crews were transferred to her supply ship Altmark captained by a rabid Nazi, before Royal Navy ships cornered the battleship following the battle at the River Plate, Uruguay, where she was scuttled by her captain. The Royal Navy spent weeks scouring the seas for Altmark and her captives.

Damocles’ upper works and rigging were glazed with black ice after pounding through a frigid lumpy sea before they reached the entrance to Jossing Fjord.  She carefully wound her way through the black waters, bounded on its edges by crumpled sheets of thick pack-ice and the twinkling lights of Norwegian homes, toward a cluster of ships slowly maneuvering for advantage.

Those are Norwegian torpedo-boats, the captain pointed," and the destroyers over there are Captain Vain’s ship Cossack and the Intrepid . That tanker close to the ice-pack is the Altmark." Lion followed his captain’s description and stooped to peer through the bridge’s gimbaled range-finder glasses.

"Cossack is the staging vessel for a massed boarding party. Here’s your chance to use your German, eh?"

Sir?

We are joining the boarding party. Pick your men and get on over there, the captain ordered crisply.

Aye, Aye, SIR! Lion snapped back.

But the team, including a few bruisers from his own Division whose shore-going exploits made them frequent visitors to the Captains Table for punishment, did not reach before the attack began.

Altmark’s Captain Heinrich Dau tried to ram into Cossack. But Captain Vain out-maneuvered the ploy, sending both ships crashing alongside each other to allow his boarders to clamber onto the prison ship.

Bloody hell, we missed the fight! Lion cursed aloud when small-arms flashes lit the night and a roar,  thunderous as fans cheering a home football team scoring at Portsmouth, echoed off the craggy cliffs surrounding the fjord.

"Sir, they’re getting away on the ice, on the other side of Altmark," an excited boy seaman Cossack squealed.

Got it! Set a course for them. Lion shouted to other Damocles boats while urging  his own crew to row faster.

Some of the escaping Germans never made it to shore alive. They were shot down from the deck of Altmark. The falls from her ships boats, dangled down her side.

Come on men, up and att’em! Lion was first to follow his order, slipping and slithering across the ice, hauling himself hand-over-hand up the slick lifeboat lines until he reached Altmark’s deck.

Below his feet a roar of men shouting and screaming to be released, greeted him. Quickly he glanced about; an occasional small-arms flash from forward, a cluster of tussling men on the bridge and a steady stream of men climbing out of the hold.

Blimey, it’s the Navy. ‘Bout bloody time, one shadowy figured called out. You’d better get orf, mate, there’s a bleeding bomb set to go bang, any minute.

The shadow scampered off before Lion could question him. Lion seized the first of his men from Damocles to stumble aboard.

Get all the prisoners you can over the side onto the boats or the ice, but make sure to get them off this ship. Lion shoved the sailor toward a group of dazed prisoners clustered on deck.

He pushed through the crowd scanning the deck for an engine-room hatch. It found him first; with a nasty crack on the shin from a loose hatch-clip. Hurriedly, he un-dogged the other clips to free the cover. Oily smells mixed with a wave of heat from Altmark’s engines wafted into his face.

Lion slid down the metal ladder, feet barely touching its rungs, into the cavernous engine-room. Eyes squinting in the glare of bare light bulbs, he scanned the maze of pipes and tubes seeking the scuttling valves. Somewhere, in the far distance overhead, he heard the trill of a bosun’s whistle recalling Cossack’s boarders. Lion, skidding over greasy metal plates, worked his way deeper into the bowels of the ship.

The whine of a bullet flashed past his head, followed by a metallic collision of high-velocity metal striking solid metal. He doubled into a crouch. Hefting a heavy service revolver out of its holster, Lion peered cautiously from behind a massive dynamo, looking for the marksman.

A spanner clinked noisily spinning into the propeller shaft tunnel aft, focused his attention to another ladder leading to the upper deck. Lion fired rapidly toward the base of the ladder. The sharp explosions were deafening in the confined area, but not loud enough to cover a sharp yelp of fear.

Come out, with your hands empty, or stay down here with me and be blown to Kingdom Come. You won’t make it up the ladder, Lion shouted in fluent German, the guttural notes echoing in the cavernous silence.

A grubby wad of cotton-waste spiked on a fireman’s rake, slowly poked into the air followed by an oil-grimed pale-face youth in an engineer’s boiler-suit. Cautiously, Lion advanced until they faced each other.

Where is it? Lion asked quietly.

I threw it away! The young engineer held his empty hands open. A tear of humiliation coursed down his cheek.

Not the gun. The scuttling charge! Lion insisted.

Overhead the sounds of men rushing across Altmark’s deck to safety faded. The young engineer shrugged his shoulders. Lion moved the pistol barrel to rest on the man’s grease-smeared nose, watching his wide-open eyes cross, his shoulder’s brace and a new determined set of his mouth.

God spare me from martyrs! Lion hissed angrily. So, you’re prepared to die for The Leader?

Carefully, the engineer nodded. Lion felt sure the young fool was prepared to sacrifice himself and they would both be blown to shreds. By the look of him, Lion guessed, he would probably die a virgin, unless...

How would you like to enter Valhalla as a soprano? Lion smiled grimly

"Well, sonny, let’s see if you’re ready to sacrifice your balls for der Furher!" He lowered the revolver foresight to point straight at the horrified engineer’s groin.

On the count of three... Lion jammed the cold steel roughly into the centre of a rapidly spreading wet area staining the engineer’s boiler suit.

Ouef, no, don’t shoot. It’s over there. The petrified engineer pointed a shaking hand below the grated deck toward a heavy brass wheel attached to an orange painted valve near Altmark’s lower hull.

Up you go, and don’t look back. Lion stepped away from the thoroughly rattled engineer who twisted around, grasped the ladder and clattered up it as fast as his shaking feet could carry him.

The sounds of his progress echoed in Lion’s ears when he cautiously climbed down to the valve to examine the scuttling charges attached to it. Quickly and calmly he disarmed the simple but deadly device designed to take the ship -and its prisoners - deep into the icy depths of Jossing Fjord.

Lion’s later reward for what the London Times newspaper headlined a Dashing Rescue and the Daily Mirror called "The Shot Not Heard" initially was promotion. But along with the third gold stripe he was steered into the shoals of society and politics. They proved quite equally hostile to navigate as the North Sea or Atlantic Ocean.

In the summer of 1941 Commander Eric Lion, R.N. was assigned to join a troupe of decorated veterans of the European War Theatre for a goodwill speaking tour in the United States of America.

Chapter  2

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Countess Millicent Zhirkov , Chairman of the 1941 Chicago Cotillion Ball, pored over the Grand Hotel seating plan. She moved color-coded name tags around ten-top tables with the confidence of a Field Marshall deploying troops in a war game.

No, this won’t do, she shook her head, shot a glance at her grand-daughter cum social secretary Mary and redeployed two names.

Why?

Because, young lady, their names are different but they share the same bed, unbeknownst to their other halves!

Mary laughed. Millie! Is nobody’s secret safe from you?

Not many, honey. Especially when it involves affairs of the heart. Remember child, I’ve had a lot of experience.

Wattles under the chin of the much married Texan wobbled. An observer would be hard put to imagine Millie Tallmadge in her prime; a fiery full-bosomed statuesque redhead who had cattlemen fist-fighting in the dusty Dallas streets. Sadly, the sands of time had permanently settled in the lower half of her hour-glass figure.

Mary sighed, resigned to yet another telling of an oft told tale. She was well aware of the accumulated wealth from Millie’s various husbands. One made her a rich widow when he died, four she divorced. Then she married the Count. It was his title which helped elevate her to the ranks of high society, Chicago style.

The Count was a bargain, Millie recited, once again. "A Russian émigré who lost his land, his mines and his money to the Bolsheviks. When I found him walking the tables in Monte Carlo he was charming, smart - and desperate. He put me in mind of Daddy Steve."

Mary never knew her grandfather, Steven Buckley. Only about his exploits in the cattle trade moving herds from the plains to the Chicago stockyards where beef was turned into dollars. Lots of them. When he was struck down by a heart attack he left behind a widow, albeit a rich one, and Mary’s mother Cynthia.

The pragmatic Millie soon found one replacement, then another and another. She scandalized Chicago Yacht Club members when she married, divorced then remarried the same flamboyant stockbroker-sailor.  Her lawyers relieved him of his 700-ton ocean-going motor-yacht Voyager in the settlement.

He was lucky I left him enough to buy a toy boat, for him and his toy boys to enter the Mackinac Races, Millie would recall. Another CYC member who’d made his money from mining, soon shared the connubial bed in the master stateroom aboard Voyager. Their annual winter cruises to the Jekyll Island Club, Georgia, where he was a charter member, sufficed until the conclusion of the Great War in Europe.

It’s a pity you were too young to remember the Club in its heyday, Millie sighed, turning her attention back to the seating plan.

Mary placed a comforting hand on her grandmother’s shoulder. In the years since Millie adopted her, after her own parents lives ended when their lightweight Model-T Ford was crushed between two streetcars, they had become close confidants. The 13-year-old Mary, was a boarder at Roedean School for Girls in far off England when Millie’s transatlantic telephone call reached her with the news.  1929 was also the year the Stock Market crashed and Millie became widowed again. Her less-than-millionaire husband stepped through the panoramic stern window of Voyager and plunged into the icy waters of the St. Laurence Seaway.

Gold, my dear, gold. It’s the only thing you can trust, Millie’s oft repeated  advice, when she undertook to supplement her granddaughter tutelage, became a life lesson litany. Millie’s distrust of paper money stemmed from the worthless confederate currency her father had been forced to accept for produce, during the Civil War. It had been his ruin.

A gentle knock on the door to the Grand Hotel’s board room interrupted them. The door partially opened and a page boy in burgundy uniform and pill-box hat poked his head into the room.

C’mon sonny. What’ve you got? I told them no interruptions.

C-Countess. It’s a telephone call – from the White House!

Millie and Mary exchanged glances while the boy advanced with a telephone on a silver tray then placed it on the boardroom table before plugging its cord into a baseboard socket. He lifted it to ensure a connection and handed it to Millie. She waved the messenger out of the room.

A series of clicks, buzzes and operator sounds crackled the earpiece before she recognized the tinny voice of the President’s mistress.

Hello, hello..

Lucy dear, how are you?

Millie, is that you? Good. I have some wonderful news...

The witch is dead?

No dear don’t be silly...she’s just out of town. But Franklin has tasked me to ask some of my closest friends...

Your closest few hundred, you mean...

Millie, stop interrupting dear, this is important. We, that is, Franklin wants to show our support to our English cousins...

You want money?

Millie. We don’t want anything from you but your help in organizing a nationwide tour to showcase some of their war heroes.

And? Millie pressed.

Well, and support the International Red Cross Defense Bond in its efforts to encourage our fellow countrymen and women, Lucy emphasized, to buy bonds for the war effort .

We’re not at war.

Millie dear. You know it is just a matter of time. This year, next year, we’ll all be in it together.

Let me call you back, Lucy. When is this happening? We have plans for the Fall and the Grigori’s not exactly pro-British since Churchill allied with Uncle Joe’s bunch of thugs, Millie explained.

That was last month, dear. We must look ahead. After that horrible little house painter has been removed, Franklin thinks we can deal with the Bolshies. The telephone crackled and popped as switchboards at both ends of the hookup processed calls.

I’ll be in touch, Millie hung up quickly.

That’s too much to ask of you. Mary protested when she heard the gist of the conversation. You should be easing out of these duties.  The sweep of her arm encompassed notebooks, place cards, ribbons, thumb-tacks, lists of names, swatches of  decorative cloth, photographs of center-piece assemblages, glassware and plates  being considered for the gala.

What do you mean, Millie huffed, eyes narrowing.

As soon as the gala is over we have to start on your party. Your 75th Birthday, Mary emphasized the number.

"A piece of cake...

No pun intended, they chorused, laughing together.

Don’t worry hon. Lucy knows I can’t resist a challenge and he knows if you want a job done, find the busiest pair of hands. He’s so devious though, I wonder what’s really going on, she mused.

Chapter  3

Abruptly the two admirals of the Third Reich stilled their conversation when Kapitanleutnant Horst von Konig entered the paneled study. A faint odor of diesel oil and brine radiated from the submariner’s travel-creased uniform. He quietly walked on rubber-soled shoes across the polished oak parquet floor.

Konig silently prayed the chill bead of perspiration trickling down his spine was from the heated room and not nerves or a resurgence of irritating adolescent blushing. When a man reached thirty, commanded a U-Boat in the German Navy and turned red in the face it should be from anger—or schnapps he thought irreverently—not fear of scrutiny by superior officers.

The admirals’ cold unblinking stares bored into him. The tick of a facial muscle twitched beneath the U-boat commander’s blackbird sharp eyes. Konig’s tall wiry figure, topped by prematurely gray cropped hair, swayed slightly.

Fighting to maintain his equilibrium on dry land, Konig wondered what mission would warrant the attention of both men whose common thread was not their rank, but choice of clandestine career. Admiral Karl Donitz, Flag Officer for Submarines, was no mystery. They had met several times during Konig’s career. But the man warming his rump at the fireplace, nicknamed The Prince of Shadows, Konig knew only by reputation. Even in the security of the castle, he observed, Admiral Wilhelm Canaris, Director of the German High Command Intelligence Service, sought concealment by positioning himself with the light source behind him.

Donitz broke the silence. You may stand at ease. The admiral has an assignment which will require some delicacy. The details of your sailing orders will not, repeat not, cover the points you have been called here today to receive. Do you understand?

Yessir! snapped Konig, mystified.

Basically, you will pick up special cargo in Vichy Martinique and transfer it to a point off the Atlantic Coast of America. There you will liaise with a sympathizer and conduct an exchange for scarce war materiel desperately needed by us, and our Japanese friends. Donitz rattled off instructions.

The admiral’s words indicated the lengths to which French Marshal Petain’s newly formed right-wing government of Vichy following the capitulation of France, would stretch to accommodate its Nazi masters. By cooperating, France temporarily escaped the ignominy of occupation by foreign troops.

A frown flickered across Konig’s face. A milk run...I’ve become a milkman.

This is no ordinary pickup and delivery, Admiral Canaris rumbled softly, startling Konig.  The man who reveled in secrets accurately interpreted the U-boat commander’s reactions.

Donitz glanced at a scrap of paper in his hand before instructing Konig. "You will be loading aboard 1,000 flasks of mercury which will require every available centimeter of space. Therefore certain storage modifications will be made before you depart. The operation will take place within American territorial waters. The final transfer of materiel will be to a Japanese freighter, within the Bahamas Islands group. It  has to be at sea, en route through the Panama Canal, no later than December 1, 1941."

Donitz offered no explanation before crumpling his note and tossing it into the fire. He stepped to a baronial desk and retrieved a folder stamped with an ominous skull and crossed bone, plus a  hefty plain canvas bag.

"You will also be carrying as supercargo a liaison passenger with the acting rank of Oberleutnant zur See (Sub-Lieutenant). This dossier is to be read only by you. Your eyes only. No notes. It must not leave the room. Donitz handed the folder and bag to Konig. This bag contains standard sailing orders and some useful instructions."

Donitz’s eyes twinkled as they met Konig’s bewildered stare. He allocated the submariner a tight smile then rang a small silver hand-bell on his desk. Instantly the study door opened. An armed storm trooper stepped into the room, the heels of his heavy boots clicking together at attention.

Keep this officer under observation, Donitz barked. No notes are to be taken. He is not to leave this room.

Sir. The guard leveled a lethal glare at the navy man.

Konig. also snapped to attention as the admirals exited the study into the great hall of the castle. Konig caught a glimpse of liveried servants standing behind each chair of a long mahogany table laden with glittering silver and sparkling crystal that reflected the candlelight from many elaborate candelabra. The medal-bedecked uniformed guests of all branches of the Third Reich, and their expensively dressed ladies, turned their heads and applauded Hitler’s favored admirals entering the room. The door thudded shut behind them, leaving Konig in an oppressive silence.

Konig, relaxing a little, directed a comment to the guard. At least they could have fed me.

The guard stood stony-faced, making no response, his eyes watching Konig’s every step toward the desk to examine the folder.

The only thing Konig had eaten since leaving the French Atlantic U-boat shelter at Lorient was a couple of sandwiches hastily prepared by his steward. The storm trooper who drove the official car sent to collect him, seemed content to make do with iron rations. When they stopped for fuel during the long journey, Konig felt lucky to find a head, let alone food. His stomach growled as he sat and opened the folder.

A crinkled onionskin typewritten letter lay loose on top of the dossier. The passport photo pinned to it showed a flaxen-haired young man with the identification Oberleutnant Zur See Gerhardt Muni. The letter instructed the reader to afford Muni every consideration, by order of the signatory.

The flutter in Konig’s stomach had little to do with hunger pangs when he deciphered the signature. It  belonged to  Reinhard Heydrich, nicknamed Crown Prince of the Order of the SS. He was also known as Hitler’s hatchet-man.

My God! An exclamation hissed through Konig’s lips. He set the letter aside with a  quivering hand. Suddenly the mysterious milk run took on a totally new dimension of danger. Secret refueling operations, even smuggling war materiel out of a neutral country, were not new missions for Konig. But having Heydrich’s hand-picked observer aboard would raise the stakes.

He patted his jacket pocket, withdrew a flat gun-metal case and extracted a twisted black Dutch cheroot. Prudence prevailed however, so he limited himself to merely chewing on its end without lighting it.

Konig turned his attention to the dossier stamped Top Secret code named Operation Gungnir. Like all other gymnasium graduates he knew of Wotan the legendary Nordic hero and his magic spear Gungnir which never missed its mark.

I hope we are that lucky, Konig muttered to himself with the skepticism of a submariner who had seen too many torpedoes miss their target.

Konig skimmed through the protocols and bureaucratic legalese. Heydrich had an agent in place in America on a two-fold mission: one to coerce industrialists into secretly stock-piling military war materiel to drive up prices and deprive the Roosevelt government of its avowed intent to create a two-ocean fleet, also to ship mercury to Japan’s munitions factories.

It is imperative this mission is conducted in the utmost secrecy. Roosevelt has already diverted warships and vital materiel to Churchill, despite a concerted effort of our American supporters to keep the USA out of the conflict. Roosevelt will seize any incident of perceived aggression to propel the unlimited resources of his country into a war effort against the Fatherland. Until Operation Barbarossa has reached a successful conclusion, we cannot risk fighting on a second front.