Mrs. Wilkins would not tell him that she was the great granddaughter of the American Champion Paul Morphy, or that she started reading books on and playing chess seriously since she was 5 years old.
The lady chess master made her next move and began to make her own commentary. “Your knight on a4 was a nice attack on my bishop, however since my bishop has dived down for the sacrifice against two pawns, your knight is now sitting there on the rim, and will probably be out of play for quite some time, thus equalizing my sacrificed bishop.”
The Count looked at this knight, which he in fact did move to a4 to attack her bishop she had just sacrificed. Indeed, with all the trouble in the middle, his knight was now rather useless, away from where he needed it most. Even though this knight was his ‘extra’ piece in the material fight, it was as if the piece were off the board since it was so far away from the real action of the game now – near his king. She indeed had the advantage.
“With the skill you display on the board, Mrs. Wilkins…”
“Jean, please, you may call me Jean.”
“Jean. If the talent you display the board is apparent in other areas of your life, I could have perhaps used you in that meeting upstairs.”
“Let me guess, was it that bastard Prescott who changed the original agreement?” Jean said while taking out a cigarette, which the Count promptly lit. She took a few puffs. “Pulled the old bait-and-switch?”
“Are you a psychic too?” The Count said while waving out the match.
“I read Tarot cards.” Jean said exhaling her first drag. “But no, I didn’t need to be in the meeting or be a psychic to see he and his friends are bastards. I know that prick. I know them all. Patriots! Their American Liberty League… ha! Those scumbags are here to simply protect their investment with that madmen, Adolf.” Mrs. Wilkins made another move.
The Count now ignored the chess game. “It appears you have a dislike for your husband and his group’s politics.”
“I dislike anyone that is against America.”
“But Prescott, and your husband, they are Americans.”
Jean glanced through the three doorways that led from the study to other areas of the house to make sure they were alone. “My husband and those other pigs upstairs are fascists.”
“I see.” The Count replied without actually understanding.
“Count, were you reading the newspapers in the summer 1933?”
Stunned, the Count could not answer.
“Then you probably didn’t hear about the Business Plot?”
The Count, normally informed in all political matters around the world, had to shake his head ‘no’.
“The Business Plot, or as I call it, the Wall Street Putsch almost occurred back in 1933 when many of those men meeting upstairs plotted a coup to overthrown Roosevelt.”
“No…!” Even to the Count, this sound absurd.
“Yes! Every one of those men upstairs wanted to install a fascist dictatorship. It all fell apart when the Marine they approached to take over Washington DC, an arrow straight Major General Smedley Butler, exposed it to Roosevelt.”
“A coup? In America? Unbelievable!” The Count was astounded, but did start to believe. His mind raced back to the early 1930’s when he heard a parallel story when his wife arranged a horoscope reading for his birthday. The reading, done with the renowned Swiss astrologer Karl Ernst Krafft, was given as a gift in the spirit of fun and entertainment. For this reason the Count did not take the young seer seriously when warnings were given of a plot against FDR, whom the Count had invested heavily.
“Since the plot failed, they doubled down on Hitler over in Germany.” Jean finished her cigarette. “That was a weak move, my good sir.” Jean said, studying the Count’s last move, and noticing Bush walking down the stairs.
The Count returned to the board and saw what he did not see one move ago – he was beaten. “Mrs. Wilkins, you are indeed quite a remarkable woman. Before this, I thought myself a rather competent chess player, have studied many of the games by Max Euwe and Alexander Alekhine in our newspapers…”
“Oh, yes! Max was from Holland, just like you, wasn’t he?” Mrs. Wilkins said smiling as if she had known, or even played with, the previous world champion.
Bush walked up and stood in front of the chess table while the Count and Mrs. Wilkins remained focused on the board. He leaned over the Count as if studying his position.
“While we couldn’t come to terms on this deal, being that I am director of the Union Banking Corporation, which represents Thyssen’s holdings in America, and you seem to deal with him in some of your Dutch companies, we might be able to streamline a few goings on to help get some of Thyssen’s steel money out of Germany and over to America for save keeping… going by way of Holland, of course.”
Again the Count was astonished. Krafft had mentioned the plotters are those who play both sides. Was this American banker already working with the Germans?
“Herr Bush. Perhaps we can speak of this tomorrow? After my defeats here, both on the conference table upstairs and on the chessboard here, I shouldn’t want to make it three in a row on the same day.”
“Tomorrow, then.” The six-foot-four-inch elegantly dressed banker uttered and bowed to Mrs. Wilkins, then departed.
“I hear you have a wonderful singing voice, Prescott, do sing something next time we have a party. Yes, sweetie?” Jean said without looking up from the chessboard. Prescott Bush ignored her comment and returned upstairs.
“Piece of shit.” Jean said as she pulled out another cigarette as if to wave Bush out of her life. Her eyes returned to the board and then moved her knight. “Check-mate.”
The bell shaped device was approximately nine feet wide and fifteen feet high. When the switch was flipped for the first time, the counter rotating cylinders swirled into motion and emitted a humming sound that was ten pitches lower than a Mercedes engine idling.
Small items in the underground test bunker such as papers, pens, and photos on desks began to rattle, and then slowly as if by magic, lift into the air. The switch was pulled down even more and the humming sound increased in intensity. Now larger objects not tied down began to shake and slowing rise in the air, as if all gravity in the room was being sucked into the bell-shaped object that was now radiating in a bizarre reddish glow.
Then the bell itself began to lift. Applause broke out all around the bunker.
And it’s mine. Sporrenberg thought while applauding and smiling at his colleagues. All mine. The allies will be finished and Hitler and all his cronies will then answer to me.
Chapter 21 – The Break
At precisely 3:36 am, each of the Messerschmitt’s 110’s engines coughed and sputtered as if they, too, thought it was too early in the morning to get moving. It was also colder than usual for a May. The ground crew were long gone having prepared and gassed the plane around midnight. They were told there was no need to see the pilot off, since Hess wanted as few people as possible to see him leave.
“SM2928.” A voice filtered through the headphones. He only half heard the instructions, since the headset was not on his head. Rudolf Hess did not answer. As Deputy Minister of the Nazi Party, he rarely answered to anyone.