Secrets of the Last Nazi (5 page)

W
erner Stolz’s
skin had become grey many years ago – the same colour as his hair, his old photos, and his eyes, which just stared up at the ceiling.

The stiffness which had overtaken his body in the hours after his death had now passed from his limbs. When the autopsy assistant placed his corpse on the inspection slab, Stolz’s expression was relaxed – serene, even. The single bullet which had passed through his brain, leaving an entry wound in one temple and a larger exit wound in the other, had done nothing to remove the satisfaction from his face.

‘Danke.’ The forensic pathologist invited her assistant to stand back from the body. He duly retreated. Then she bent down for a closer look at the head wound. Satisfied that it was just a single bullet, she spoke calmly to her assistant. ‘Greifzirkel, bitte.’
Callipers, please.

She held out her palm to receive the implements. Then she closed the aperture and held them next to Stolz’s ear, over the entry wound.

‘7.6-7.7 mm.’ The pathologist said the numbers as if they were no surprise at all. She had seen other men of Stolz’s generation kill themselves this way. They all used 7.65 mm bullets.

It also meant she knew where to look next. Checking her latex gloves were clear of nicks and holes, she probed a short aluminium rod into his mouth, and pushed his tongue to one side. It was there, as expected. ‘Pinzette, bitte.’

The assistant duly gave her some tweezers, and for the next three minutes, the pathologist used them to pluck tiny fragments of glass from his gums and cheek. She collected the fragments in a shiny metal bowl, then she took a small ball of cotton wool to soak up the remaining saliva. She placed the swab in the bowl and passed it to her assistant.

The assistant nodded. He didn’t need instructions – he already knew he would have to test for cyanide.

It was a common pattern: a man, usually born between 1900 and 1925, who knows he’s about to die. He looks for meaning in his life, and decides his most fulfilling moments were in the service of the Führer. De-Nazification is forgotten, and he decides to die as he would have died with the Third Reich: crunching a cyanide capsule just before sending a 7.65 bullet through his head. Exactly the same death as Adolf Hitler himself.

The phenomenon even had a nickname: Führoxia –
death caused by the Führer.

The pathologist knew how to confirm the diagnosis: blood and saliva tests for cyanide, and a final check that the victim fired the bullet themselves, through tests for traces of gunpowder on their hands.

The pathologist gently lifted Werner Stolz’s wrists and wiped another swab of cotton wool along his fingers. She dropped the second swab into a second metal bowl, and passed it over to her assistant, who was already testing the first sample. ‘Blut auch, bitte,’ she instructed.

The assistant nodded again, confirming that he would also check Stolz’s blood.

The pathologist began taking off her gloves, confident of her initial diagnosis: Führoxia, even though it was becoming increasingly rare. But then, Werner Stolz had been one hundred and three years old. There were few of his generation left.

The assistant quietly mixed the chemicals, being as careful with the sodium hydroxide solution he used for the test as he was with Stolz’s poisoned blood.

As expected, the cyanide test was positive.

Next, he took a pair of sterile tweezers and lifted the finger swab from the aluminium bowl. The assistant dropped it in a small plastic bag and added a few drops of reagent. Then, while he waited the six minutes for the test to complete, he tidied the old man’s body.

Six minutes later, he was perplexed: the gunpowder test was negative.

He stared at the results for a moment, sure there had been a mistake.

He repeated the test, making sure to collect a proper sample of residue from Stolz’s fingers this time. More reagent, and another six-minute wait. But it still came back negative.

The assistant re-read the initial report. That made clear that Werner Stolz had been found in the middle of his carpet. There was no sign of anything which could have protected his fingers.

The assistant froze, alarmed by what the science was telling him: that someone else had put the Walter PPK to Stolz’s temple and squeezed the trigger – after Stolz himself had bitten the cyanide pill.

That could make it assisted suicide – or even murder.

Finally, the assistant smiled to himself. He had proven the pathologist wrong.

It was not Führoxia at all.

F
ather Samuel stared
down at his device, and the three words on its small display.

Not suicide. Killed.

He used his thumbs to type back a two-word response.

By whom?

As he pressed ‘send’, the rotund priest became concerned about the strength of the encryption between the two mobile communication units. Even if the content of his messages were safe, he was sure someone, somewhere would be monitoring the connection between Israel and Germany.

But he became even more concerned, one minute later, when he received the reply.

Guess.

He let out a breath of exasperation, cursing to himself.

Father Samuel rolled his eyes to the Heavens, where he saw his monastery’s magnificent ceiling. It was the artwork of religious devotion: years of dedicated craftsmanship, reminding him that his people had endured centuries of suffering.

They had survived before, and it was his duty to ensure they would survive this.

More calmly, he typed back just three words.

No more deaths.

Another minute passed, before he received his answer.

You won’t need to pay extra.

Then he sat down to wonder whether he needed to do more to ensure a satisfactory outcome in Berlin. The chance of a
real
problem remained extremely low, but if it did happen, the impact would be unimaginably huge.

W
ithin two hours
of their first meeting in the exclusive Cecilienhof Hotel in Potsdam, the team of five had driven into the centre of Berlin.

Myles gazed out of the car window, wondering at the sights around him. He saw a woman in a hijab pushing a pram, and two men with tight haircuts holding hands. T-shirts were loud and even the office workers seemed casually dressed. German society had rebelled against everything the Nazis stood for.

Even more dramatic was the evolving cityscape. Cranes and construction equipment seemed to be everywhere: Berlin was being refashioned. Concrete and Prussian brick were being replaced by slick metal trimmed with wood and high-quality plastic. It was a very visual departure from the past.

Meanwhile, scars from the Cold War – including the great wall which had divided the city for more than twenty-eight years – had mostly disappeared, and bomb damage from the end of the Reich was completely gone. Myles noticed not a single street sign bore a bullet hole, which meant those which had been damaged in the intense battle for the city in the spring of 1945 must have been replaced. There were no scorch marks from explosions, or any of the tell-tale chipped concrete he’d seen in other former war zones. The Soviet assault had involved two-and-half million troops, yet all trace of their presence, in this part of Berlin at least, had been erased.

Glenn, in the driving seat, allowed the satellite navigation device to direct him through the traffic.

‘Turn left, one hundred yards,’ instructed the computerised voice.

Glenn duly obeyed, pulling the hire car quietly into a secluded cul-de-sac.

‘Am Krusenick 38. You have arrived at your destination.’

Zenyalena was the first to open a door. She stared up at the building in front of her. ‘He hid this away pretty well …’

She was right. Stolz had bought an apartment in former East Berlin. Although the street had been laid down in the 1890s, the whole district had been flattened by bombing raids in the war. Number 38 was a functional and dour five-storey block, built by the Communists over the pre-war foundations. Myles imagined it was probably damp inside, and cold in the winter. There were signs it had been renovated, probably not long after 1989, when the city was reunited. Some of the upper floors had been repainted more recently, but it still looked stark.

Myles sniffed the air: he could smell the city’s main river, the Spree, which ran nearby.

Heike-Ann pulled out the police envelope which contained the keys, unsure whether to offer them to Glenn or Jean-François. Glenn deferred to the Frenchman, who took them with a grateful nod. ‘Thank you, Heike-Ann,’ he said, sizing up the building in front of them all. He began testing the keys in the lock. The first didn’t fit, nor the second. But the third one did. He turned his wrist, then gently pushed open the door. ‘Let’s go in,’ he said, as he searched for and quickly found a light switch.

Glenn, Zenyalena, and Heike-Ann followed inside, with Myles hobbling along behind, battling with his crutches.

They were in the shared lobby of the apartment block. The ceiling was high, and the floor carpeted with a plastic mat. A wire-metal door locked off the small space which housed machinery for the lift. It had been swept recently, but not a thorough clean: the dirt had just been brushed under the mat, not taken away.

Heike-Ann pointed them towards the single door on the ground-floor: Stolz’s apartment. Myles noticed the paint was worn and neglected. It was a sad place for Stolz to spend his final years.

Jean-François guessed which of his remaining keys fitted this inside door, and got it right first time. He unlocked Stolz’s apartment and led them inside.

The interior was much better kept than the outside of the flat would suggest, but certainly nothing special. The walls were painted an old shade of beige, and the furniture seemed like it hadn’t been used much. Perhaps Stolz hadn’t invited many friends over. Perhaps there had been no friends to invite.

The main living room was dominated by an expensive-looking dining table, with four cardboard boxes on top. Glenn approached them and started opening. Other members of the team watched in silence.

Each box contained the same thing: a set of old files. Glenn pulled one out and peeled open the cardboard. There were several sheets of paper inside.

The American looked up at the others. ‘So these are all his papers?’

Heike-Ann nodded. ‘Yes. All the papers in the flat – which is all the papers he had relating to the period before May 1945. They’re all here.’

Glenn absorbed the information as he leafed through some of the titles. Then, believing he had the rest of the team’s permission, he started to read some of them out. ‘So we have here a box with a German title: ‘Milit
ä
rische Operation Werwolf – Technologie’. Heike-Ann, what does that mean?’

Heike-Ann tried to take the question seriously, even though it barely needed any translation. ‘In English, it means “Military Operation Werewolf – Technology”.’

Zenyalena looked puzzled. ‘Werewolf?’

Myles recognised the reference. ‘Operation Werewolf was Hitler’s plan for resistance in Germany once the country was occupied by the Allies. The Führer expected thousands, perhaps millions of his followers to keep fighting after his death.’

Jean-François lifted his head back as if a half-memory about Operation Werewolf had returned to his mind. ‘So you think these papers relate to technology for Operation Werewolf?’

‘Perhaps,’ answered Myles. ‘But most resistance to occupation is very low-tech – it uses technology everybody already knows. If this is high-technology and secret, then it might be about the wonder weapons Hitler believed could bring victory when he was losing.’

Zenyalena registered the point. ‘Good,’ she said, speaking firmly. ‘Then we must examine all these papers. There are four boxes and, not counting Heike-Ann, there are four of us.’ She had already gone towards the table. ‘One each,’ she said, picking a box and pulling it to one side.

Jean-François was happy to oblige, and stood next to the box nearest to him.

Myles offered the choice between the remaining two boxes to Glenn, who lifted a file from one of the boxes, then read the title: ‘Wirtschaft’.
Economy
. He pushed it across the table to Myles. Myles accepted it, leaving Glenn to take the last one.

Jean-François looked around. The American, Russian and Brit had already started peering into their boxes, lifting out obscure papers to see what they could find.

The Frenchman clapped his hands to gather their attention. ‘So: we all take our boxes back to the hotel and read through them tonight. Then we meet again tomorrow at ten in the morning to report back.’ Jean-François spoke with a certain charm that made it hard to say no. ‘Is that agreed?’

Only Zenyalena managed to quibble. She directed her words to Heike-Ann. ‘Half-agreed – Heike-Ann, you said these were only his papers relating to the period before May 1945. Do you know where his other papers are – his papers from after 1945?’

‘I understand they are with his lawyers,’ replied Heike-Ann.

‘Then we must get them,’ Zenyalena instructed, matter-of-factly.

Glenn stopped what he was doing, as if the Russian had just said something outrageous. ‘No. There’s no reason to do that.’

Zenyalena turned her body to the American, facing him squarely. She seemed to have expected objections from Glenn. ‘Yes, there is a reason. We want to examine all that Stolz knew at the end of the war. That means reviewing things he wrote afterwards, as well as before.’

Glenn didn’t reply immediately. Instead he paused, then pulled from his pocket a folded print-out of an email. He scanned down it, then stopped and picked on a phrase. ‘Here, your request: “The team shall re-examine all papers and other materials belonging to SS Captain Werner Stolz.” We can’t re-examine papers if they weren’t examined already. Your words, Zenyalena.’ Glenn waved the paper towards the others. ‘Our inquiry is limited to papers from 1945 and earlier.’

Zenyalena shook her head. ‘You’re reading it wrongly,’ she said, her tone dismissive. ‘‘All papers and other materials”. That means all. Recent ones included.’

‘But how can we re-examine them, Zenyalena? They were never “examined” in the first place.’

She shrugged, gloating with a satisfied grin. ‘Easy,’ she said. ‘We examine them twice.’

Jean-François seemed insulted that the team were arguing. ‘We must all agree,’ he suggested. ‘If the American delegation doesn’t want to re-examine the more recent papers, that is no problem. But the others can.’

Glenn snorted, unimpressed by the Frenchman’s weak answer. He turned to Myles, hoping for a better response.

Myles began to speak carefully, thinking as he spoke. ‘Glenn certainly has a point. “Re-examine” does suggest only the papers which had been looked at already. But, if there is some mystery to this man, Werner Stolz - an important mystery – then only by looking at his whole life can we find out what it is.’ Myles raised his eyebrows, half-apologising to Glenn, who seemed to be losing most of the arguments at the moment.

Glenn returned his glance - the American was accepting Myles’ point. But he was also making clear that soon he would need Myles’ support. The special relationship – Britain and America – mattered here. Silently, Myles acknowledged it too.

‘Good,’ said Jean-François, seeming happier. ‘Then I will go now to the lawyers who are holding Stolz’s other papers. Heike-Ann, I will need you with me because my German is very poor. Does anybody else want to accompany us?’

Zenyalena raised her hand. ‘I will come.’

‘Excellent. Anyone else?’

Slowly the American raised his hand, copying Zenyalena. ‘Well, I don’t want this to be a purely Franco-Russian affair,’ explained Glenn. He tried to say it as a joke, but the humour was flat. Geo-politics seemed to matter too much to him.

‘Welcome along, Glenn. And Myles - you coming, too?’

Myles had already started on the material from his box. Someone had scribbled a translation in English on a large section of the text and he was absorbed by what he was reading.

‘Myles?’

Myles looked up to see the four faces inviting him out. ‘Oh, no thanks. I’ll make a start here. And it’s hard for me to travel, with my leg. You’ll be back soon, right?’

Jean-François nodded firmly.

Heike-Ann and Zenyalena waved their goodbyes, while they followed the Frenchman out of the room. Glenn patted Myles on the back, and then left with the others. Myles heard the outside door close behind them.

He glanced up from the files and through the window. He could see the four of them standing outside the car, arguing about who should drive. Glenn eventually tossed the car keys over to Zenyalena, who began to adjust the seat.

Myles looked back into the room. Something didn’t seem right, but he couldn’t work out what it was.

He studied the walls. Stolz had collected a lifetime’s worth of books and memorabilia. On a shelf stood a framed photo of the man looking middle-aged next to the Olympic rings. The 1974 Munich Olympics: Stolz must have had VIP tickets to the event.

Stolz had obviously been wealthy. Yet his main apartment, on the ground floor in the centre of Berlin, was dark. It was close to the River Spree, but had no riverside view. It seemed damp - Myles could smell the river inside the building. Surely Stolz could have chosen a better place to live than this?

Myles edged towards the bookcase. The titles were all in German. Even though he couldn’t translate the words, he could deduce what they were about. Some science, some history, some travel, and an old Prussian novel. Myles noticed an encyclopaedia of the twentieth century, which had been flicked through many times. The only other book which seemed to have been read so much was titled, ‘Ephemeris’. Myles peeked inside: it was a strange timetable, full of symbols and numbers, a different month on every page. Carefully, Myles placed it back, not sure what he had found. He ran a finger along the shelf – some dust, but not much.

Diagonally above the book case was an airvent, which seemed out of place. Stolz had connected a filter to it – a man determined to keep out the carbon from the city traffic?

Myles opened a drawer and found all sorts of small things: train tickets, receipts, a faded set of instructions to some household device. Stolz was a hoarder, but not of large things – the dead German seemed to have collected items which carried information. Myles picked out a photo of the man in his mid-twenties, posing while a jubilant crowd was gathering behind him. Stolz was grinning, as though he had just won tickets to see some big attraction. Myles noticed an out-of-focus swastika in the image. On the back was scribbled simply, ‘Vienna, 1938’. He replaced the picture, trying to leave it untouched.

From the lobby of the apartment block, Myles heard the gentle whirring of the lift start up. One of the other residents would be returning to their flat above him.

The distraction made Myles focus. The papers: that was where Stolz’s secret lay. That was where Myles had to search.

His thumb moved along the top edges of the papers in his file. Many of the pages were worn: someone had flicked through them before.

Then he noticed more handwritten scribbles under the typewritten text. He gently lifted out the page, careful not to pull too hard in case the paper tore. It was another translation. The words had been done with a fountain pen and the black ink had faded. Myles guessed the scrawls were from the 1940s. It was probably from one of the first people to interrogate Stolz - perhaps from Corporal Bradley himself.

He placed the sheet flat on the table, stretching out the wrinkles with his palms. It was entitled, ‘Cross-Border Economic Systems’. Myles began to read: