Secrets of the Last Nazi (29 page)

E
ast Berlin

12.02am CET (11.02pm -1 GMT)

M
yles felt
the crisp night air again – his wet clothes were freezing more than ever, and clinging to his body, making it difficult for him to move. He was in no condition to attack Dieter.

Myles turned, and started jogging back to the minibus, gripping the keys he had just taken from Zenyalena’s body. He jumped into the driver’s seat, poked the keys into the ignition, and turned them. Then he drove away, leaving Stolz’s apartment for good.

Confused by the small streets of Berlin, Myles decided to turn onto whichever street was larger at each junction he found. That way, he knew, he’d soon find a street with directions. The roads were deserted. Certainly no sirens or screaming ambulances. Dieter hadn’t set off his wonderweapon yet….

Myles soon reached the autobahn, and then accelerated, speeding towards Potsdam - the only place near Berlin that he knew.

After twenty minutes he recognised his surroundings – he had been driven this way by Glenn when he first arrived in Germany. Once he found the signposts, the Cecilienhof was easy to reach.

The minibus’s tyres screamed as he swerved into the hotel carpark, then parked up and jumped out, losing his balance on his weak leg. Only as an afterthought did he turn off the headlights and the engine. He’d need the vehicle again.

Straight to reception.

Fortunately, there was a familiar face on duty: it was the brunette. She was shocked to see Myles – so late at night, breathless, and desperate. She was obviously perturbed by Myles’ appearance, tilting her head warily as if she wanted to comment on Myles’ wet clothes and lack of footwear. ‘Mr Munro – how can I help?’ she said, her voice unsteady.

Myles ignored her. Instead, he grabbed the hotel’s courtesy phone and dialled a familiar number as fast as he could.

00… 44… 7788…

It was Helen’s number – her CNN mobile. The number rang.

No answer, then a recorded message.

‘Hi, you’ve reached Helen Bridle. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.’

BEEP

Myles wondered what to say. ‘Er, Helen. Are you there? Sorry to call you so late. You’re probably asleep… But this is important. Please pick up the phone….’ Myles realised his voice was sounding a little desperate, as the receptionist caught his eye. ‘… Er, Helen. When you get this message, please stay somewhere safe - far away from Berlin. Understand? Nowhere near. If you do, you’ll die – probably from concentrated Sarin or some other Nazi chemical. I don’t know exactly, and I can’t say how I know. Not over the phone, not ‘til we’re face-to-face again. I’m looking forward to seeing you face-to-face again soon. So please trust me, don’t go to Berlin… er, thank you. And, er, love you, too.’

Embarrassed, he put down the phone. Had he done enough to keep Helen out of danger? Would his message save her life, two days from now? He thought of calling again, but realised it wouldn’t help. There was no more he could say.

‘Clothes. Do you have any spare clothes?’

The woman sized Myles up, her eyes still alarmed. Myles wondered if she saw blood from Heike-Ann’s wound on his trousers. She turned to fetch something from an office behind her, then came back with a pressed white business shirt. ‘I have this… Sir?’

But Myles was gone. He had already sat down at the internet terminal next to the front desk, determined to find the terrorist website. He found a search engine and typed in:
‘Mein Kampf Now’
, then pressed enter. Ten of 134,000 results came up. Myles scrolled through the first screenful, then the second, then the third, then the fourth. None of them seemed right.

Next he tried
‘Humanitarian Pursuit’
. Pages appeared on peace negotiations, food aid, even mountain climbing. But still no sign of the website he needed. He slumped back in his chair.

Myles’ mind drifted to the predictions about himself: that he would die today, too, and that Helen would somehow ‘cease to be’ two days later.

He began typing.

‘A-S-T-R-O-L-O-G-Y… P-R-E-D-I-C-T-I-O-N-S’

… and clicked.

A selection of sites appeared. He wondered: would they confirm the verdict of the Nazi prediction machine? Of course they wouldn’t. It didn’t matter which of the sites he picked: none of them would predict someone was about to die on a certain day, especially if that day was today.

‘Mr Munro, Sir…?’

Myles turned. The receptionist was pushing a trolley towards him: coffee, orange juice and warm toast.

‘Early for breakfast, I know, Sir,’ she smiled. ‘But you look like you could do with something to eat.’

Then she offered him a bag of clothes. Myles peeked inside: a whole business suit, with shirt, underwear, a tie, and a pair of smart shoes.

‘I guessed your size, Sir – we have others if you need them. And feel free to take a shower.’ She pointed to the door of a luxury suite behind reception, beaming sympathetically.

Distracted, Myles thanked her with his eyes, and picked up the toast. Only as he began eating did he realise how hungry he was.

But his mind was still focussed on Helen. He had to save her.

He remembered Dieter’s words: ‘The world will soon be transformed from Berlin – a new Reich starting from where Hitler started…’

Dieter had to set off the lethal liquid from somewhere high-up, so it could spread through the air.

But where had Hitler started his Reich? Not in Vienna in 1938, as Stolz had thought. Hitler had destroyed Germany as soon as he came to power. Myles went back to the keyboard.

H-I-T-L-E-R 1-9-3-3

Straightaway an image came up: the Reichstag, Germany’s Parliament building, in flames. Of course. Myles remembered how Hitler had hired a stooge to set it on fire a month after coming into office. It gave the dictator a perfect excuse for ‘emergency measures’ which shut down democracy. The Reichstag didn’t re-open properly until after the war.

Myles clicked on the image, and saw the new glass roof to the building. It was high. Sarin released from the top into the wind could blow over the whole city. The ideal place to set off the wonderweapon
.

Myles rushed back to the receptionist. ‘Do you have any tourist leaflets?’

‘Certainly Sir…’ She pointed to a whole stand full of promotional flyers and brochures, trying her best to be helpful, even though she was still obviously unnerved by Myles’ appearance. ‘Do you want any particular one, Mr Munro, Sir?’

‘The Reichstag. Do they have a tourist programme?’

She nodded, and picked out the leaflet. ‘Yes – visits from eight in the morning, I think.’ She looked back at the clock behind her as she handed him the paper. ‘Five-and-a-half hours away. You’ve still got time to have a shower….’

Myles was already engrossed in the leaflet, trying to work out where Dieter could set of the bomb.

‘Er, Mr Munro. You really should have a shower, if you want to visit. Otherwise, they might not let you in…’

Myles looked up and accepted the point, but had just one call to make first.

So he picked up the clean clothes and wandered towards the shower room. He had to be ready for what the machine had predicted would be his last morning alive.

And he hoped Helen picked up his warning.

E
xactly 588 miles
due west of Berlin, as Helen was taking out her phone to pass through airport security, she noticed she had a missed call. No number had been left, but there was a message. Stepping out of the line, she pressed ‘play’ and listened.

Then, without a moment’s hesitation, she hurried back through ‘Departures’, to the long line of ticket desks within Heathrow’s Terminal Two. ‘I need to change my flight,’ she explained, remaining professionally calm. ‘To Berlin – whichever airport is closest to the city centre. The next flight, please.’

F
ed
, washed and dressed, Myles thanked the receptionist as he left the hotel.

‘No problem, Sir,’ said the brunette.

Myles wondered whether the woman would call the police - he could tell his bloodied late night appearance had alarmed her. So, as soon as he was in the minibus, he turned the ignition, barely allowed the engine to settle, and pulled out of the carpark. Then he noticed the fuel gauge – almost empty.

To the east, the sky was beginning to lighten. In an hour or so the sun would rise. His last sunrise?

He wondered about driving away. Driving to Helen. Anywhere – just to escape, so they both had a chance of surviving the Sarin attack. But would that make them safe? He didn’t know. It would certainly leave the people of Berlin in danger.

He looked at the fuel gauge again – if he tried to drive anywhere but the centre of Berlin, he wouldn’t get there.

He realised: whatever the prediction said, there were some things he just had to do. Danger mattered less than his duty. He just
had
to stop Dieter. He didn’t have a choice. Not because of the prediction, but because of who he was.

Onto the autobahn, he checked his watch again. Ten minutes past four: whatever was going to kill him had less than twenty hours left.

He drove into Berlin city. Still no wailing police sirens. Still no sign of panic. Still most people asleep, although he did notice some early morning buses carrying a few drowsy commuters to work.

He knew Dieter would be on his guard, and would recognise the minibus if he saw it, so he couldn’t risk parking near the Reichstag. Instead, he drove near the building, then found a sidestreet about a kilometre away. He pulled up, took out the key, and locked the vehicle behind him.

Trying not to put more pressure on his recovering knee joint than was necessary, he walked towards the Reichstag. He stopped in the Platz der Republik, the green space outside the modern Parliament building, where he found a bench.

From there, he had a distant view of the entrance to the Reichstag. He could see anybody who entered, but was far enough away that he wouldn’t be noticed himself. He was tall, certainly, but dressed in a fresh business suit, Dieter was unlikely to spot him.

Then he waited.

The first rays of sun lit up the park. Myles noticed a municipal cleaner amble around, emptying the bins. He saw an early morning commuter rushing somewhere with a coffee cup, a couple of disorientated tourists, and eventually a tour group from the Far East.

As the time passed six forty-five, he saw security men enter the Reichstag, relaxed as they clocked in for their morning shift. Roughly a quarter of an hour later, the night shift clocked off, leaving the building calmly, either alone or in pairs.

The sun was becoming stronger now. As it rose over the Reichstag, it shone straight into his eyes. Myles shaded his face with his hand, determined to keep watching.

Half-past seven, and tourists started to gather near the entrance. Parliamentary staff with ID badges ignored them as they swiped into the building, their mind on other things. A quarter-to-eight, and the crowd was swelling. Was Dieter amongst them? There was certainly no-one dressed like Dieter, and nobody wearing wet clothes. If Dieter was waiting to go in then, like Myles, he had found a way to change what he was wearing.

Five minutes to eight. Still no sign.

The security man in charge of the door was looking up at the clock. Then the entrance opened. The compliant tourists were counted in. None of them could have been Dieter. Myles had been wrong.

Still more people were nearby: a politician with an aide, comparing notes on the day ahead. A secretary in uncomfortable heels. A huddle of journalists. Almost by coincidence, Myles saw a frame he recognised from somewhere. Like Myles, the man was checking his watch, rushing to some sort of meeting…

Then Myles sat stiff, as the shock electrified his whole body: it was Dieter.

Myles stood, then started to jog, then run across the grass towards the Reichstag, ignoring the weakness in his knee. He reached the entrance just as the main door was closing.

‘Verzeihung, mein Herr,’ said a security official.

‘Sorry?’

‘I’m sorry, Sir, no entry.’

Myles peered over the heads of the people in front of him. He could see Dieter had been checked off some sort of list and allowed to wander freely within the building. ‘But I need to go in,’ Myles pleaded.

‘Have you arranged with us in advance?’ The guard could tell Myles looked confused. He’d met many tourists like him before. As with the others, the official spoke with a firm tone – respectful, but closing off the option. ‘Visitors are welcome, Sir, but you have to register with us beforehand.’

Myles searched the man’s face. Head tipped forward and lips pursed, the man had an ‘I’m sure you understand’ expression
.

Myles thought about explaining, but knew it would be no use. If he told them Dieter was about to unleash Sarin, the bureaucrat would arrest him, not the real terrorist
.

Myles gestured towards the guard’s papers. ‘Well, can you put me on the list now, please?’

‘I’m afraid not, Sir – we only accept reservations by email.’

‘I can email you now if you like. Do you have internet access, somewhere?’

‘We do, Sir. But I’d need to see your ID to let you use it.’

Myles checked his pockets and eventually found his passport – which was still wet - and handed it over.

The guard paused, wondering whether to accept the soggy document. But he did, checked it, then raised his eyebrows as he glanced back at his list. ‘Munro, Myles… Mr Munro, we already have you on the list. For the 0800 tour.’

Myles couldn’t understand how his name had been put on. The hotel receptionist? Helen back in Oxford? Glenn, even? Someone had done it for him. He decided now was not the time to wonder who or how. He had to catch Dieter, and stop him doing whatever he was planning.

‘Thank you, Sir.’ Myles nodded to the guard as he took back his passport, and hobbled through the security gate.

He shuffled towards the pack of visitors, joining the group just as it left the entrance area to begin the tour. His tall frame scanned over their heads to see Dieter near the front, about ten metres away.

Again, he thought of calling out, of trying to get both himself and Dieter arrested. But he still couldn’t trust the guards. They’d just arrest him. Dieter would at least have a chance to run and set off his wonderweapon. No, Myles had to do this another way.

Gently, he tried to manoeuvre through the people. He passed an Italian couple, bumping the woman as she read from a guidebook. Myles went round an American adjusting his camera-straps, and overtook two students gazing up at the new architecture. He was getting closer to Dieter…

Then a stout woman came to the front, the ID card dangling from her neck indicating she was some sort of official guide. ‘Good morning, and welcome to the Reichstag building….’ The woman clapped as if she was bringing a classroom of juniors to order.

Myles tried to pay attention, but his mind was on Dieter. The woman caught his eye. Myles felt duty-bound to smile back, pretending he was vitally interested in what she had to say.

‘…This is the building that most famously was destroyed in February 1933. The fire that night….’ The tour-guide started directing her words elsewhere in the crowd.

Myles checked on Dieter. The Frenchman was bending down to tie his laces. Myles still needed to get closer. He tried to ease his way past a man in a wheelchair, then a mother with her teenage daughter. But he knocked the girl’s digital camera, which clattered to the floor.

The tour official glared at him, then pointed at the wall. Her outstretched arm was blocking his way. ‘… and this is actual graffiti from Russian soldiers in May 1945. The Soviets lost about 70,000 soldiers fighting for Berlin at the end of World War Two, and this historic writing, drawn with coal on sandstone, was preserved as a memorial to those deaths…’

Myles raised his eyebrows in mock-interest, forcing himself to turn and admire the Russian lettering high-up on the inside walls. He turned back to look for Dieter, but the woman was obscuring his view.

Now the guide was beaming her eyes at him – the woman was trying to flick her hair back. Was she
flirting
with him? She raised her voice. ‘… and when this building was renovated for reunited Germany, in the 1990s, a decision was made to be sensitive to history. At the base of the large, spiral ramp to the ceiling, you will see photographs from the past – such as President Truman, Prime Minister Winston Churchill and Soviet Premier Josef Stalin, meeting in Potsdam to discuss the fate of Europe after the War. There’s also a picture of US President Ronald Reagan, when he made a famous speech here in the summer of 1987…’

Myles allowed the woman’s gaze to swing away. Finally, he could walk forwards again.

He limped on, towards where Dieter had been. But the man wasn’t where Myles was expecting. Myles turned around to look properly. Where had he gone? Myles checked the entrance again. No sign of him there…

‘Sir, you look as though your child has just run off.’ The tour guide’s humour roused a small laugh from the crowd.

‘I… I don’t have a child.’

‘Well, whatever you’re missing, I can help you find it later.’ The corners of the woman’s mouth rose, locking into a professional smile. Myles returned the gesture feebly, still concentrating on Dieter. He allowed himself to drift with the herd as the tour guide led them on - into the centre of the building.

Myles knew Dieter must have peeled off somewhere. Into a toilet? Or a side-corridor? Somewhere… but where?

‘Now, ladies and gentlemen, would you all please look upwards…’ The guide’s instructions were unnecessary since they were all gazing upwards anyway. Above them was a huge dome, made of glass panels in a metal frame. A ramp spiralled down from the very top, allowing people to walk up to the highest point in the building, viewing all of Berlin on the way up. ‘… you will see glass, which symbolises the transparency and openness of the new Germany…’

Myles noticed a curved cone hanging down from the centre of the dome above. Mirrors had been placed on the sides. Reflections of tourists as they climbed to the top appeared then disappeared, as the people shuffled out of view.

‘… and by climbing up to the top of glass dome, people can look down on their elected representatives working in the Parliament below them. This is the opposite of the discredited dictatorship of Adolf Hitler, when the politicians looked down on their people…’

Then, in one of the mirrors, Myles glimpsed a reflection of Dieter climbing up the ramp. Within an instant, it was gone again. But it was enough for Myles to know the psychopath was walking to the top of the glass dome.

‘… and we hope this new German Parliament will survive much longer than the last…’ But the guide’s words were lost on Myles. He’d already started racing up the ramp, hobbling as fast as he could, desperate to catch Dieter before the man ended this newest vision of Germany.

Myles sprinted upwards, forcing the muscle around his wounded knee to compensate for his weakened ligaments. He began to spiral up, grabbing the rail with his hand to pull himself faster - probably his last chance to catch Dieter.

He passed the pictures of Berlin through the ages: the horror of World War One, the rise of the Nazis, the Reichstag burning down in 1933, Hitler controlling Europe, then the city in ruins. Myles ignored them all. He had to climb higher.

He overtook a crowd of foreigners bunched around another guide. He limped passed a security guard, a very old woman who had probably known Germany during the war, and an old man with grey skin in a wheelchair, who was being pushed slowly to the top.

Myles didn’t register any of them. As he reached the halfway point, he began to see the panorama of the city – the offices, the old buildings, the open spaces. All in danger, if Dieter released the liquid from Stolz’s wonderweapon.

Myles raced on, refusing to be distracted by a small chunk of the Berlin Wall visible on the ground below, preserved as a monument to the Cold War. He tried to look ahead, desperately seeking out Dieter. But he still couldn’t see him. He had to keep going.

Myles was approaching the top, now. He ignored the pain in his lungs, and the twinges in his ruptured knee. An attendant frowned at him for running. Myles nodded - he understood – but kept on anyway. He just had to catch Dieter before the Sarin liquid was released.

Only as he approached the top viewing platform did he allow himself to slow. He looked around. Surely this was where Dieter must be… Myles scanned a full 360 degrees, but there was still no sign.

He studied the tourists around him: a family group, some teenagers, workmen in overalls… none of them looked like Dieter. Where had the Frenchman disappeared?

Myles paused, and finally stopped. He bent down, his hands on his knees to catch his breath. He looked up and stared around again. He was at the top, now. Such a small place – how had Dieter vanished?

He knew he had to think. To stop Dieter meant thinking like him. Myles had to understand what Dieter was planning.

Myles knew Dieter had the bottle of nerve agent – taken from Stolz’s tin in the trench. He could have pretended it was water to bypass the guards at the Reichstag entrance. So where would he have taken it?

Myles scanned around again. He looked down at the spiral ramp, checking Dieter hadn’t run down again. No sign of him.

He checked the lower viewing platform, and the ground-floor of the Reichstag building. Still no sign.

In desperation, Myles looked outside, checking the panorama of Berlin in case Dieter had managed to leave the building. Dieter was nowhere.

Myles spun around, beaten, drawing confused looks from the tourists on the viewing platform beside him.