The Seventh Secret (31 page)

"Very well, call me back in five minutes."

Emily lingered impatiently by the telephone, watching Foster, Kirvov, and Tovah studying their menus. Foster's profile was strongly etched, and once again she felt the warmth of his face and body. But she would not let the feeling detract from another excitement she felt awaiting Blaubach's return call.

Five minutes had passed. She allowed it to become six minutes, and then she was dialing Blaubach's office once more.

He was on the phone immediately. "I think I have what you want. When the Ministry was repaired and made usable again?"

"Yes, please," said Emily.

"It was rebuilt in 1952."

She had to be sure. "You said 1952. No mistake about that?"

"No mistake whatsoever. It was originally constructed for Göring in 1935. It was damaged, partially, in 1944. It was repaired and reconstructed in 1952. One can see from the lighter-colored stone blocks where the repairs were made."

"Yes, and a few decorations were added, a ceramic tile mural at the entrance for one thing."

"I don't recall. But all the additions and repairs were definitely made in 1952."

Her heart was thumping again. "Thank you so much, Professor."

"Happy to be of service. You can expect to hear from me again later today."

Emily hung up, spun around, and hurried into the café. She could see the three of them waiting for her news as she approached their table.

She did not bother to sit down. Her nerves were taut now, and she remained standing. "Incredible news," she announced. "The old Göring Ministry was not re-paired until 1952. That was when the tile mosaic was put on the front. Yet Hitler painted it and included the mosaic." She paused to catch her breath. "That means Hitler could have painted it only after 1952. Seven years after the end of the Second World War. Which means one thing."

Kirvov's head was bobbing, its Slavic countenance flushed by the revelation. "It means Hitler was alive at least seven years after the war, maybe ten, maybe twenty or more. It means Hitler could be alive today."

A
t eight-thirty in the evening, the four of them were seated at a table in the middle of the Restaurant Kempinski, one of the best restaurants in West Berlin.

"It must be one of the best," said Foster, fingering the menu. "Look at those prices."

"And the place settings," added Tovah.

On the rich white tablecloth, beneath a gold chandelier, the porcelain service platters were shining, and the silverware was gleaming and heavy.

Foster picked up the Scotch that had just been set down before him. "I propose we toast Emily." They all raised their glasses.

"To your success tomorrow at the
Führerbunker
."

They all cheerily chimed in, glasses clinking.

Emily felt heady with her good fortune. Three hours earlier, shortly after returning to her suite in the Kempinski with Foster, the telephone in her sitting room had rung. The caller had been Professor Otto Blaubach with good news. His council had just granted Emily permission to excavate, not only the Old Chancellery garden but the mound behind it that for almost forty years had concealed what was left of Hitler's personal
Führerbunker
. Digging could begin tomorrow for one week. Blaubach had reminded her of her promise to share with him and the East German government anything she found that might be of historical or political interest.

The instant the call was over, Emily had suggested the celebratory dinner, and she and Foster rounded up her guests.

Now that the others with her in the Restaurant Kempinski had toasted the success of her enterprise, Emily sat back, nervously drained. "Yes, I admit it, I'm scared," she said.

"You have nothing to worry about," Foster assured her.

"What if something is there?"

"Emily, I suspect nothing is there, neither Hitler's real dental bridge nor the cameo. I'm positive you're on the right track. What happened this afternoon at the Göring ministry supports that."

Emily eyed Nicholas Kirvov seated at the restaurant table to her left. He was not a demonstrative type, although there had been a perceptible lilt in his tone throughout their drive back from East Berlin. Now, Emily noted, his face was once more impassive. "How do you feel, Nicholas, since your discovery this afternoon? Is your work here finished?"

He seemed to weigh her questions, and considered his answer. "Not quite finished," Kirvov said. "Do you want me to tell you what is on my mind?"

"Please," Emily urged him.

"It is true, we made the discovery that to have painted the oil I own, Hitler would not have killed himself in 1945. He would have had to be alive in 1952 or after. That is an excitement, of course, and of enormous importance. But it all hinges on one thing. That Adolf Hitler himself actually painted the oil with his own hand."

"You examined the oil after you acquired it," said Foster. "You felt certain it had been done by Hitler."

"I still believe that is so," said Kirvov. "Yet, what happened today slightly undermines my faith in the authenticity of the work. Certainly, if Hitler painted it, the anachronism indicates that Hitler was alive in or after 1952, when he was already supposed to have been dead seven years." Kirvov paused. "If what we have learned is true, it means that Hitler went into hiding after his supposed death. It also means that at some point Hitler emerged from his hiding and stood himself before the reconstructed Air Ministry and painted his oil. Somehow, I can't imagine him taking such a risk. It makes me wonder if he really painted the picture."

"Nicholas," said Emily, "suppose he didn't stand there before the building and paint it? Suppose he painted it from a poor photograph that someone, some friend, had taken of the building? You yourself said that in his early days as an artist, Hitler executed most of his sketches and drawings using postcards, merely copied them."

"That is true," Kirvov admitted.

"So maybe he did the same again."

"Maybe," said Kirvov. "But for my own purpose, I've got to be certain that the work was actually done by Hitler. I need indisputable proof of that."

Foster injected himself into the exchange. "Nicholas, surely by now you must know which gallery in Berlin sold the painting to the steward who traded it to you. You can go to the gallery for the provenance."

Kirvov sighed unhappily. "Rex, I am ashamed to admit I do not have the name of the gallery. That is my problem. The steward was to send it to me when he got home. It hasn't arrived." Kirvov fumbled for a Cuban cheroot in his jacket. "Still, I am not through. I have decided to spend another week here. I mean to devote it to verifying the authenticity of the Hitler painting."

"How?" Emily asked him.

"By continuing my search for the art gallery that sold it to the seaman."

"There must be hundreds of art galleries in West Berlin," said Foster.

"There are," agreed Kirvov. "I've already gone through the telephone directory and visited many. But there are columns of them. Luckily, I need not spend time visiting each one. The steward did tell me that he bought the painting from a gallery in the center of West Berlin, not far from the main avenue. I expect he meant not far from the Kurfûrstendamm."

"That's what it sounds like," said Foster.

"Which narrows the area I must search," said Kirvov. "Tomorrow morning I will again go in and out of art galleries and show them my painting. Sooner or later I will stumble on the right gallery. If I'm satisfied with their authentication, then it means you too are on the right trail."

"It would mean a lot to me," Emily admitted. "If I can be of any help—"

"No, don't worry," said Kirvov crisply. "You go ahead on your own path, each of you. I'll manage this detour myself." His eyes came to rest on the blond Israeli girl. "And you, Tovah, what will you be up to?"

"Yes, Tovah," Emily quickly added. "You've been eager to tell me something since last night. I'm sorry we got so involved in other things. Do you want to tell me now, or would you rather ... ?"

Tovah came on with verve. "It is no secret I have been bursting to tell all of you. It's about Hitler's double." She glanced about her at the other tables and dropped her voice. "If your theory is correct and you can prove Hitler survived, there would have to have been a double that died in his stead. I told you I would look into the whole business of a double. Well, I did." She grinned happily. "Hitler did have a double, believe it or not. You can believe it. It's true."

Emily blinked at the young Israeli woman. "You can prove it?"

"I have proved it. Listen."

With undisguised relish, Tovah recounted her search for a Hitler double in the person of Manfred Müller, the satiric Hitler imitator, and concluded with her meeting with Anneliese Raab, who had helped shoot the Berlin Olympics film.

"Anneliese told me that Müller has a son in Berlin," Tovah went on. "She's arranging for me to meet the son, Josef Müller. Maybe this can give me the last word on what happened to Hitler's double."

Emily was pleased, but thoughtful. "Wonderful work, Tovah. But"—she considered it—"what if Josef Müller tells you his father is alive and well and leads you to him?"

"Then I'm afraid we've lost," said Tovah. "A Hitler double still alive does not give us a double being cremated next to the
Führerbunker
in Hitler's place. On the other hand, Josef might tell me that his father died in 1945 under strange and inexplicable circumstances."

Emily turned to Foster beside her, covering his hand with her own. "Rex, tell Nicholas and Tovah about Zeidler."

Without further prompting, Foster addressed Kirvov and Tovah Levine. He gave them the highlights of his interview with Zeidler, and spoke of Zeidler's suggestion that he search out the missing plan for the mysterious seventh bunker at Spandau Prison. Foster intended to see the American director of the prison guards the day after tomorrow.

When he returned his attention to Emily, he said, "Of course, the really crucial undertaking is the one that commences in the morning alongside the
Führerbunker
. Have you got everything lined up, Emily?"

"Everything, I hope. Professor Blaubach promised me permits would be in order, permits for my driver Plamp and me to take his car into the East German Security Zone, permits for the Oberstadt Construction Company's work truck to follow me, and for Andrew Oberstadt himself with a three-man crew to do the excavating. We start at ten in the morning."

"And then the chips are down." Foster signaled the waiter for refills of their glasses. "Let's drink to that, to the hope that Emily hits the jackpot."

It was midmorning, and they were inside East Berlin.

Tension gripped Emily. She was seated alone in the back of Plamp's Mercedes as they drove cautiously along Niederkirchnerstrasse toward the guardhouse that stood sentinel beside the electronic gate leading into the East German Frontier Security Zone.

Although she had been here once before, with Ernst Vogel, and had met Professor Blaubach at the entrance, this time she felt more insecure, felt alone and vulnerable. Leaning forward, narrowing her eyes as she looked through the car's windshield, she realized that the memory of her previous visit had blurred and everything was now coming into sharper focus.

As the car moved up the street, nearing the gate, slowing, Emily saw that there were a half dozen green-uniformed East German guards in full view. Beyond them was the fence that merged abruptly into the Wall once more. Approaching the gate, she cast about for sight of Andrew Oberstadt, and the truck and equipment he was to bring with three of his best construction workmen. The truck could not be seen, and, Emily suffered a stab of apprehension.

They had come to a halt a few yards before the line of waiting soldiers—effectively armed, she could see, with what appeared to be machine guns slung over their shoulders. Plamp hastily left the driver's seat to help Emily out of the rear.

Just as she emerged, she sighted a blue Toyota pickup truck coming toward her. She recognized the muscular, hefty, beetle-browed driver as Andrew Oberstadt, with two members of his excavation crew squeezed into the front of the truck beside him and a third laborer squat-ting in back.

When Oberstadt's truck had come abreast of the Mercedes, the construction company owner hung out of the cab window to call to Emily. "Sorry to be late. They delayed me at Checkpoint Charlie. Practically dismantled the truck. Anyway, we're here and ready to get going." He nodded toward the soldiers. "I suppose we'll have to go through it all over again here."