Secrets of the Last Nazi (4 page)

5
.15 p.m
. GMT

O
n the fourth
floor of St Thomas’ hospital, while Myles slept, Helen started to rifle through the rest of the file – papers a thief had tried to steal from the Imperial War Museum, at the cost of his life.

The first few pages seemed to be a series of newspaper clippings. All about Rudolf Hess, Hitler’s trusted second-in-command, until he mysteriously flew to Scotland in 1941 and tried to cut a peace deal.

Next were documents about how weather forecasts helped Eisenhower plan D-Day, then some typed letters between an American Corporal Bradley and his major from 1945.

She checked the front of the file. A small white sticker had the words ‘World War 2 – war/natural world’ scribbled on it. The documents were background research papers for Frank’s new exhibition.

Then she returned to the page marked, ‘Communism’ and rubbed the old paper between her fingers. If it was a hoax, it had been done very carefully. She peered closer to notice the paper had been torn. She was holding only part of the page - the bottom half had been ripped away. Someone had taken the prediction seriously enough to tear it in two.

Suddenly she jolted upright.

The movement made Myles stir. ‘Helen?’ He was still drowsy.

Helen put her hand on his shoulder. ‘I’ve got something for you.’

Myles took a moment to focus, then hauled himself upright, into a sitting position to listen.

‘The papers. They’re from World War Two, but they seem to predict the fall of the Berlin Wall …’ She showed him the document. ‘… See – November 1989. How did they do that?’

Myles shrugged. ‘One of Frank’s practical jokes, I guess.’

He glanced at the rest of the papers. Most were in German – he couldn’t read them.

Then he was drawn to the correspondence between Corporal Bradley and his superiors, and started to read.

H
e turned
the page to see a short reply from the Major.

Then another letter from Bradley, this one dated a fortnight later.

The word ‘must’ had been underlined in pen – probably by Bradley himself. Myles was growing to like Corporal Bradley: the man shared his own disrespect of authority. The letter was followed by a curt military telegram:

C
orporal Bradley
: reassigned to Alaska, with effect from August 2
^nd
, 1945.

M
yles imagined
Bradley being taken off his work, and shook his head. Poor Bradley – he had lost his battle, and the bureaucrats had reassigned him to freezing Alaska as a punishment. ‘Helen, do you reckon you might be able to track down this guy, Corporal Bradley?’

Helen’s face opened up at the possibility. ‘I could try, if he’s still alive. He’d be very old by now.’

Myles wondered. Whoever Bradley was, he had found some reason to think the German SS Captain Stolz was very important. Myles didn’t care for the Second World War, and worried even less about satisfying the governments of Britain, France, the USA and Russia. Helping Bradley beat the bureaucrats, though – that made sense. ‘So, what do you reckon about taking up Simon Charfield’s assignment, and following up on Bradley’s advice – seventy years late?’

Helen nodded. ‘Yep, I think you should.’ Then she looked again at the ‘Communism’ page, with its eerie predictions about 1989. ‘Be careful, Myles.’

Using Helen’s mobile, Myles called Simon Charfield directly to accept. Relieved that he had his man, Charfield printed off a standard Contract of Short Term Assignment, or COSTA, and carried it along Whitehall, across Westminster Bridge, and into the hospital.

H
e passed
the contract to Myles, with a pen, and waited. Only when he had the signed COSTA, and was about to leave to arrange air tickets, did he ask, ‘Were you persuaded to come along by the Bradley letters?’

‘You put them in the middle deliberately, didn’t you,’ answered Myles.

‘I did, yes,’ admitted Charfield. ‘To make you feel like you’d found something.’

Myles accepted the answer, then shook his head. ‘It wasn’t the letters from Bradley which persuaded me,’ he said. ‘It was the replies.’

G
ripping
his economy flight ticket with his teeth, Myles manoeuvred his injured knee onto the plane. His height and the aluminium crutches made it awkward. Along with his briefing pack, there were too many things to hold. But at least his briefing pack was slim: a few emails printed out, a scanned photo of Stolz, and a last page with just a single sentence on it.

Myles checked the back of the paper: nothing. That was it.

The emails were correspondence between five people he’d never heard of were copied in. Then he looked at the email addresses: mostly fco.gov.uk – the British Foreign Office. But there was also an @state.gov – the US State Department, and one from someone using @diplomatie.gouv.fr, which meant the Quai D’Orsay – the French Foreign Ministry. He scanned through the pages. The very first message had come from the Russian Government, but they’d been left off the rest of the email chain.

He read the text. Some mention of Werner Stolz, but he wasn’t the main subject of the emails. Most were about whether or not to re-open a joint investigation into Stolz, as the Russians demanded. Much of it was legal jargon, debating how much of the agreements reached in the closing months of World War Two still applied.

Myles put the papers down and looked out of the plane window, wondering what had he stumbled into.

The airline stewardess was leaning towards him. ‘Your seatbelt, Sir?’

Still thinking about Stolz, Myles registered the instruction and clumsily tried to fit one part of the mechanism into the other. He watched the runway as the plane accelerated, about to take off, and pondered why were the Russians so interested in such a very old man who had just died. What made this low-level SS officer so special?

The plane shuddered as the nose began to rise. Myles read the emails again. He was missing something. This was a puzzle he couldn’t solve – not yet. He didn’t have enough pieces. And he knew most of the pieces of the puzzle dated from the end of World War Two. Some would be lost, some buried, and – if they were important enough – some hidden. It meant that to solve it, he’d have to investigate the world as it was at that time. The world when it was at war. The world which still obsessed so many of his students.

He knew he’d get help from Helen. If anybody could track down the former Corporal Bradley, it was her. It would make a great story, potentially for broadcast. But he would have to learn more about Stolz himself. Who was this man, and what sort of life had he lived?

Myles began to imagine Stolz when he was a soldier. A time when people gave hysterical support to Hitler, when Germany seemed able to conquer the world, then – as the war turned against the Nazis – when the Third Reich crumbled and collapsed. How had Stolz reacted to it all?

Myles woke to find the plane landing at Berlin’s Tegel airport.

Back on his crutches, handed to him with the stewardess’ goodbye, Myles hobbled towards the aircraft steps. Halfway down, he paused to breathe in the surprisingly fresh Berlin city air. Then he was disturbed by a call from below.

‘Munro?’ It was an American voice.

Myles peered down. The man who had called out had already turned away, scanning around to see who might be watching.

As he reached the bottom of the steps, Myles tucked one of his crutches under his arm and offered a handshake.

The American ignored it. ‘You got any baggage?’

His voice was cold and purposeful. Myles noticed his whole head was shaved in an extreme buzzcut: this was a man who coped with baldness by eradicating any trace of hair from his scalp. The American had an ex-military bearing. He obviously kept himself in shape. Probably in his late forties, but it was hard to tell. ‘I said, you got any baggage?’

‘Yes. One bag. I couldn’t really take much carry-on.’

The man kept scanning around, avoiding eye contact with Myles when he spoke. ‘So, you’re the history professor from Oxford University?’

‘Just a lecturer, but yes, at Oxford.’

The American let the words settle before he replied. ‘And you do the Nazis?’ He said ‘Nazis’ with his mouth pulled wide, as though saying the words was a painful instruction from a dentist.

‘It’s hard to be a war historian without covering the World Wars. So, yes, I “do” the Nazis.’ Myles wondered whether to explain his unorthodox theory of war. But first he wanted to know more about the frosty American who was guiding him through the arrivals terminal. ‘Sorry, your name is?’

The American looked at him sideways, then offered Myles a hand to shake. ‘Glenn. You can call me Glenn.’

Myles stopped on his crutches to accept the gesture. ‘Hello, Glenn. Just “Glenn”?’

‘I said you could call me Glenn. I didn’t say it was my name ...’

The American supressed a smirk. Myles had come across people like ‘Glenn’ before. Probably a spook – they often worked on just a first-name basis. That way, even if they said something notable, nobody could quote it. All that could be reported was that there was someone called ‘John’ or ‘Sarah’ working on a particular topic in the national intelligence agency. Myles understood: ‘Glenn’ could be a firstname, middlename, surname, nickname, code-name or just a random designation given to the well-honed American official standing beside him.

Glenn pointed upwards, directing Myles’ eyes towards a sign. Myles duly pulled out his passport, ready to be checked. Glenn waited by Myles while he queued. ‘… So, you read up much about Werner Stolz?’

Myles shook his head. ‘Not sure there’s much to read, is there?’

The American didn’t reply immediately. Myles sensed the man was measuring his words before he said them. ‘That’s the thing. There might be more to read than we thought.’

Myles presented his official document to the German border official, who flicked straight to the photo page.

‘Welcome to Germany.’

‘Thank you.’

Myles was curious about the fact the American didn’t show anything to the official – he just made eye-contact and was waved through. Myles kept up with his questions. ‘More to read about Stolz, you mean?’

‘Sort of,’ explained Glenn. ‘It looks like there might be a problem with the original file. You see, it looks like something went missing …’

Neither of them noticed the ‘tourist’ testing his camera near the passport queue.

G
lenn took
Myles’ bag and led him to the airport’s parking lot. ‘I guess you can’t drive – with your leg.’ The American nodded towards Myles’ knee brace.

‘Yeah,’ accepted Myles. ‘But the doctor reckons I should be out of this in about a fortnight.’

‘Good,’ said Glenn, as he put Myles’ bag in the trunk and opened the passenger door. The American had hired an anonymous mid-range car.

Myles thanked him, threw his crutches in the back, then hauled himself inside.

The radio came on with the ignition, and a German woman’s voice started speaking. Probably an advert for something. Although he couldn’t understand the language, Myles tried to work out what she was selling.

Glenn switched it off. Silence.

The barrier to the parking lot lifted as they left the airport.

‘So, Myles – you’ve worked with Americans before?’

‘Yes.’ Myles sense Glenn already knew his answer.

‘So, tell me,’ Glenn checked the rear-view mirror as he spoke. ‘What happened between you and those terrorists?’

Myles sighed. Always the same. The only thing he was known for: false allegations. Glenn had probably googled his name to read all about it.

‘I was the patsy.’

‘Patsy, huh, Myles? Like Lee Harvey Oswald?’ Glenn was teasing Myles for a reaction. ‘So who do you blame?’

Myles paused and thought. Glenn’s response was odd. Most people, when he explained he had been set up, suspected he was still guilty somehow. But Glenn seemed to take for granted that the authorities were wrong, even though he was employed by them. Glenn
was
the authorities.

Glenn was still concentrating on the road, not really expecting Myles to answer. ‘You see, Myles,’ he continued. ‘I don’t care who you blame for your problems, as long as you don’t blame the Americans.’

‘OK …’ Myles puzzled through Glenn’s answer. ‘… So why shouldn’t I blame the Americans?’

‘Because there are more important things at stake here. Americans and Brits need to stick together.’

‘Like during the war, Glenn?’

‘Yes, Mr Military Historian,’ Glenn relaxed properly for the first time since Myles had met him. ‘Like during the war.’

The roads were fast and well-maintained. Glenn drove the car past a few of the city’s most famous sites. Myles recognised the Reichstag, Germany’s parliament, with its new glass dome. The design had won almost every architectural award there were. It topped a building which rose high above the grassy Platz der Republik, where tourists meandered between flowers and greenery, admiring Berlin’s post-war renaissance, while also still fascinated by its horrific past.

Myles spotted the nearby parking lot, and recognised it at once: buried underneath was the infamous Hitler bunker, where the dictator spent much of his last year. The thick concrete walls and its location deep underground had foiled Soviet attempts to destroy it after the war. A memorial to the holocaust had been built nearby, just in case anyone tried to resurrect Hitler’s reputation.

Myles saw the main river, the Spree, clean and fresh-looking as it flowed slowly through the city. A small boat carried more tourists, who were being spoken to by a guide. Myles guessed they were learning how the river divided the city between East and West Berlin for more than four decades, looking out for signs of the Cold War on the river banks. He remembered the famous quote from Karl Marx, the prophet of communism:

‘He who controls Berlin controls Germany. He who controls Germany controls Europe. He who controls Europe controls the world …’

Now he had seen Berlin, he understood what Marx had meant a little better.

A
s they drove
into the suburbs, the houses appeared carefully maintained. The lawns were smart and many of the buildings had recently been painted. This was the rich metropolis at the centre of New Europe. No sign of the nation’s troubled history at all. But then, that was all a long time ago.

The car slowed and pulled into the forecourt of a hotel. Myles glimpsed the sign.

Schlosshotel Cecilienhof, Potsdam

Myles knew it immediately: this was where the Potsdam conference had taken place in July 1945. It was in this building that the new US President Truman, the Soviet dictator Stalin, and the British Prime Minister had carved up post-war Europe – days before Churchill had been kicked out by the British electorate, and just before the Cold War started in earnest. Now it had been converted into a top-class hotel. Whoever had booked it for them had a wry sense of humour.

The concierge, dressed smartly in a formal uniform, approached the car to open the door. When he saw Myles’ scruffy clothes, he supressed a sneer, but upon seeing the artificial support around Myles’ knee, he offered an arm to help him climb out and up some steps.

Through a pair of double doors at the top, Myles found himself in the hotel lobby. He was greeted by an attractive brunette. ‘Mr Munro. Welcome.’ The receptionist beamed, blushing slightly. Myles was about to respond when the woman gestured to the inside of the building. ‘Let me guide you to your party, Sir.’

She directed him past the lobby area, along a refurbished corridor, around a couple of corners and up a small flight of stairs. ‘These executive rooms have been hired for your group’s privacy, Sir.’ She pointed towards two heavy but modern-looking doors. They were probably sound-proofed.

Inside, sitting around a table beside Glenn, were two unfamiliar women and a man.

The man, who was wearing a casual jacket, quickly stood up and offered a handshake. ‘Mr Munro?’ The words came with a heavy French accent. He leaned forward.

‘Pigou. Jean-François Pigou, Flight Lieutenant, French air force.’ The Frenchman was enthusiastic. Myles sensed he was eager to get going.

‘Good to meet you, Flight Lieutenant Pigou. I’m Myles Munro.’

The two women also stood up. The first, slightly older and considerably taller, wore make-up and a beret. ‘Zenyalena Androvsky,’ she said. Although she was obviously Russian, Zenyalena’s dark blonde hair was in a Western style. Her suit was bright orange but stylish. ‘You may call me Zenyalena.’ She squared up to Myles, looking him in the eye as she shook his hand.

Just from her face Myles could tell she was unorthodox. There was something about her eyes, too, which drew his attention – they seemed to be open too wide, as if she was too alert.

‘Glad to meet up, Zenyalena.’

Zenyalena shook his hand with a jolt, hurting Myles’ wrist. When he reacted, the Russian woman gave a satisfied grin, then sat down again.

Myles turned to the younger woman. Dressed in practical clothes, she seemed plain, dowdy even. With the manner of a librarian, she was much less showy than the Russian. But something about her face told Myles she was highly intelligent.

‘My name is Heike-Ann Hassenbacher. I’m your interpreter, from Germany.’ There was only a slight German accent in Heike-Ann’s words – she spoke English better than many English people.

‘I’m Myles Munro. Good to meet you. I’m guessing you’re not just an interpreter.’

‘Correct. I’m with the diplomatic police, here in Berlin. My work is looking after foreign diplomats and dignitaries. I’m here to facilitate your investigation.’ The woman patted her stomach. ‘And before you wonder, yes, I
am
pregnant, although I may be fat, too.’

‘Congratulations – when’s it due?’

‘Thank you. Mid-term at the moment,’ said Heike-Ann, peering down at her bulge. ‘About four months to go.’

Aware that the introductions were over, Glenn positioned his body in a way which made clear he was in charge. ‘Good, we’ve all met each other, so let’s start.’

The group seemed to nod at once. Glenn spread out some papers on the table. Myles, Jean-François and Heike-Ann all leant forward to look.

Only Zenyalena held back. Myles sensed she had an issue with the American assuming command. She was looking round at the team, not following Glenn’s lead.

Glenn either didn’t notice Zenyalena’s reaction or just ignored it. ‘So, our mission is to investigate Werner Stolz and his papers …’ the American said. He continued with his eyes down at the paper, ‘… and the mandate for this comes from an edict agreed by our respective governments after the war – before any of us were born.’

‘Can you just stop there, please?’ It was Zenyalena.

Glenn looked up. ‘Yes?’

‘Mr Glenn, I think before we start, we need to appoint a chairman.’

Glenn lifted his eyebrows.

Zenyalena turned to the others. ‘Jean-François, would the French government object to us appointing a chairman?’

Jean-François was also surprised. He smiled, then shrugged. His expression made clear he didn’t care one way or the other.

‘Good.’ Zenyalena scanned towards Heike-Ann, and seemed to consider asking her, then decided not to. Their interpreter was German: she didn’t have a vote. Zenyalena moved on to Myles. ‘And the British? Do you mind?’ She stared at him for an answer, not blinking.

Myles paused, and caught Glenn’s eye as he spoke. ‘I suppose there’s a good precedent for it: November 1943. When FDR, Churchill and Stalin first met at the Tehran Conference, Stalin said exactly the same thing. He proposed the American President as chair, just to make sure it wasn’t the Englishman.’

Glenn lifted his head. ‘So Myles, you think it’s the turn of the Brits to chair this time?’

Zenyalena spoke before Myles could answer. ‘Well, the Russian delegation would like to propose these meetings are chaired by France.’

Jean-François looked surprised again, but took the invitation with a small laugh.

Zenyalena pressed her point home. ‘Jean-François, would you mind being chairman?’

‘Yes, no problem.’

Glenn caught Myles’ eye again. His expression was clear: the American could object, but only if he had British back-up.

Myles wasn’t so sure. This wasn’t the time to fight. Instead, he proposed a compromise. ‘How about this: France to chair for now. We’ll pick another chair in a week or so. Yes?’

Zenyalena slowly began to nod, followed by Heike-Ann and Jean-François.

Then Jean-François clapped his hands, and spoke to the team. ‘So that’s agreed. I’ll chair for now. Another chair later. Good.’

The Frenchman leaned over the table, slightly embarrassed. He placed his large hands over the papers which had been in front of Glenn, and slid them towards himself. Then he tried to sort them out. ‘So … so …’ He picked out a faded yellow page with old typewritten text on it. It was a list. ‘So this is the original Allied report. From 1945 …?’

Glenn nodded, still smarting from being evicted from his team leader role. ‘Yes. The page you’re holding is the inventory on Stolz’s papers.’

‘And do you know who typed it up?’

Glenn shook his head. ‘Some part of the de-Nazification team. Someone in 1945, at an American army base south of Munich. But I don’t know who exactly.’

‘Can we find out?’ asked Jean-François.

‘Maybe, but whoever it was, they might be dead by now.’

Jean-François nodded sympathetically, accepting there were limits to what they could learn. He turned back to the papers. From the second pile he drew out a more modern-looking sheet. This page was white, not faded. The letters on it had come from a computer printer using a contemporary font. He pushed it to the middle of the table. ‘And this is the list of papers found in Stolz’s apartment?’

Glenn turned to Heike-Ann, encouraging her to speak.

Heike-Ann duly obeyed. ‘Yes, that’s correct,’ she said. ‘That is the list made by the Berlin city police team in his apartment yesterday.’

Jean-François continued to interrogate Heike-Ann, ever so politely. ‘And all the papers on this new list are from 1945 or earlier?’

‘Yes.’

Jean-François considered the two lists. He compared them, putting them next to each other in front of him on the coffee table. Then he spoke softly.

‘Now, I don’t want to accuse. But does anybody know why the list written in 1945 is incomplete?’

The whole team looked blank.

Jean-François asked again. ‘So nobody knows why, in 1945, they didn’t list all of the papers?’ He looked at all four of the people sitting around him in turn, wondering if any of them might volunteer something. They all remained silent. Jean-François continued, drawing out the final piece of paper. He turned to Zenyalena. ‘And does anybody know why the Russian government has decided that Stolz’s papers would need to be re-examined after his death?’

The Russian diplomat was about to answer, but Glenn interrupted. He had a sarcastic tone. ‘They probably thought it would be amusing.’

Jean-François accepted Glenn’s humour. ‘OK, so we go through all of Stolz’s papers. We read them all, and report on anything which might still be “amusing” seventy years later. Is that agreed?’ He looked straight across at Zenyalena. ‘Zenyalena – is Russia happy with that?’

‘Yes: Russia is content.’

Jean-François turned to Myles. ‘Britain?’

‘Fine.’

‘And finally, the US. Glenn?’

Glenn shrugged his shoulders, much as Jean-François had earlier. The Frenchman took it as consent.

‘Good. Then let’s start looking through what we’ve got …’

Myles raised his hand.

Jean-François acknowledged him. ‘Yes – Great Britain.’

‘Plain “Myles” will do. It’s just – I wonder if we’ll learn more about this man, Stolz, if we see where he lived. Can we visit his apartment?’

Myles’ suggestion was met with accepting faces.

Jean-François nodded in agreement. ‘Right – so we look through the papers we have, and we do it in Stolz’s old apartment.’