Secrets of the Last Nazi Page 5

Berlin, Germany

  9.10 a.m. CET (8.10 a.m. GMT)

  * * *

  Glenn 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.

  * * *

  As 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 Ameri
can 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.’

  Fourteen

  St Hedwig Hospital,

  Berlin

  10.48 a.m. CET (9.48 a.m. GMT)

  * * *

  Werner 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 a
nd 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.