Secrets of the Last Nazi

by Iain King

  Heike-Ann used her mobile to contact the Berlin police, then informed the concierge with a quiet explanation. Hotel staff swiftly made sure nobody else went upstairs until the emergency services had arrived.

  The first police units came within minutes. Others followed, including a medic and forensic teams. Only once they were well-established did Heike-Ann return to Glenn, Zenyalena and Myles, who had found seats within sight of the reception. Nobody felt able to return to the team’s executive meeting room, except the Russian who had gone back to retrieve her half-drunk coffee.

  ‘The Berlin police want us to write statements about last night,’ instructed Heike-Ann. She turned to Myles and Glenn. ‘English is fine. And Zenyalena – you can write in Russian. We can translate.’

  One of the officers came over and gave Myles, Zenyalena and Glenn two sheets of paper each and a pen. Still sombre, the three of them started writing. Heike-Ann caught the attention of the officer before he left and indicated she should write something, too. The officer duly returned with pen and paper for her.

  After a few minutes, Glenn leaned back and handed his sheets back to one of the police officers. He looked over at the others. ‘Did any of you hear anything – in the night?’

  Myles shook his head, still writing.

  Only Zenyalena looked up to answer. ‘I don’t think we should share our evidence. That would be corrupt,’ she said curtly.

  Glenn mused the point over in his mind, wondering if Zenyalena was accusing him of something. But he didn’t react.

  Zenyalena finished her statement and handed it in. Heike-Ann did the same.

  They turned to Myles, watching his hand struggle across the paper. His fingers gripped the pen in an odd way, seeming to push the pen rather than pull it, and his words looked clumsy on the page. Only after several more minutes did he sit back like the others, his statement finally completed.

  Myles sensed the others had been watching him, intrigued by his messy handwriting. He tried to guess what they were thinking. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘They didn’t choose me for my pen work.’

  The smallest smile appeared on Glenn’s face. ‘Dyslexic?’

  Myles shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’ He raised his eyebrows to show he didn’t care either.

  It was as Myles handed in his papers to a member of the crime investigation unit, which was rapidly taking over the hotel, that he noticed a man who had just arrived – someone not with the police. With a military bearing and a shoulder bag, the man went to the hotel’s main desk. He spoke to the receptionist and there seemed to be a brief conversation. After some uncertainty, the visitor looked shocked. Then he was pointed towards Myles, Glenn, Zenyalena and Heike-Ann, sitting quietly in the lobby.

  The man approached, his face uncertain. ‘Good afternoon. Do you speak English?’ He spoke with a noticeable French accent, similar to Jean-François’.

  Myles pulled himself up with his crutches. ‘Lieutenant Colonel Pascal?’

  The Frenchman looked puzzled. He hadn’t expected to be recognised.

  Myles smiled as they shook hands. ‘Good to meet you. I’m Myles Munro, from Britain.’

  Zenyalena stood up also, extending her hand to the French Colonel. ‘Zenyalena, Russian Federation.’

  Glenn remained seated, and just waved his hand in mock welcome. ‘Glenn. United States.’

  Heike-Ann stood up to offer the Frenchman a chair. But the man just seemed confused. Carefully he placed his shoulder bag onto the floor. ‘At reception they said “Condolences” when I asked for Jean-François. He’s… he’s dead?’ He said it in disbelief, not ready to accept it could be true.

  But the four faces in front of him confirmed it. Heike-Ann put her hand on the man’s shoulder and encouraged him to take a seat.

  Pascal duly sat down. Still not sure where to begin – the French Colonel seemed to have too many questions in his mind. ‘But… how?’ he spluttered. ‘When did this happen? He emailed me last night …’ The colonel seemed to be assuming it had been an accident. Finally, he realised the presence of so many policemen in the hotel was no coincidence. ‘Murdered?’

  Zenyalena started nodding.

  Heike-Ann felt the need to qualify the Russian woman’s answer. ‘Probably murdered. An investigation has started.’ She tried to console the Frenchman with her eyes.

  ‘But he told me there was an international investigation team,’ said Pascal. ‘All about … Er, Mr Werner Stolz. Is that right?’

  Glenn looked up, resigned. ‘Was is correct. We no longer have the whole team. The investigation is with the Berlin police now.’

  Zenyalena exploded. ‘No. This investigation is not over.’ She stamped her foot on the word ‘not’. It made the coffee table rattle, and some of the police team waiting in the lobby looked over. Zenyalena hunched forward, keen to make her points more quietly but with just as much force. ‘Look. This investigation has been mandated at the highest level …’

  Zenyalena’s words were interrupted by Glenn scoffing, but he let her continue.

  ‘… It’s only over when we say it’s over,’ she said. ‘And if we let this German police investigation take over the Stolz papers, we all know what’s going to happen.’

  ‘Tell me, what’ll happen, Zenyalena?’ taunted Glenn.

  Zenyalena took the bait. ‘I’ll tell you what’s going to happen, Glenn. Jean-François’ computer will go to some scientist who works for a German court. Everything Stolz wrote will go to some great warehouse where it never gets looked at again. Whatever secret he had, it will always stay a secret.’

  ‘But Zenyalena, we can’t go on. We’ve lost our team – unless you haven’t noticed, one of us got killed last night. He was our team leader, for Christ’s sake …’ Glenn was getting exasperated. ‘… And that means it’s not safe for us to continue. It’s with the police now. It has to be. Hell, it was all nonsense anyway.’

  Zenyalena stood up. She lifted her half-drunk cup of coffee and flicked it towards the American. Glenn reacted swiftly, standing to dodge the flying liquid, but some of it still landed on his sleeves.

  Glenn brushed off his clothes. ‘I think I should fly back to the States.’

  He turned to leave, but Zenyalena called after him. ‘Wait. Wait— there is a way we could continue.’

  ‘Explain.’

  ‘We have a replacement for Jean-François – here.’ She pointed at the Frenchman. ‘Colonel Pascal, your ID, please.’

  Pascal was now doubly confused – still digesting the news about his friend’s death, and also trying to understand the mad Russian woman. He pulled out a diplomatic passport and a military identity badge, and offered them to whoever was interested.

  Glenn accepted them both, checked them, then handed them back with a nod.

  ‘So Pascal’s on the team?’ pressed Zenyalena.

  ‘No,’ insisted Glenn. ‘Under the deal reached by our respective foreign ministries, it has to be nominees from each of the four governments. Not just – no offence, Colonel – the “friend” of a nominee. And it’s still too dangerous.’

  Myles watched them argue. Glenn definitely had a point – whatever value this investigation might bring, Jean-François’ death changed things. Myles knew he’d been lucky to survive the carbon monoxide attack. Whoever was trying to harm them would try to do it again.

  Zenyalena could tell she was losing the argument. She looked around for support. ‘Lieutenant Colonel Pascal – surely you’ll come with me?’

  Pascal looked uneasy. He was shaking his head. ‘I don’t know what this investigation is about. But I’m sure it wasn’t so important that Jean-François should die for it.’

  ‘But Colonel Pascal – to continue is what your friend would have wanted.’

  The Frenchman could tell Zenyalena’s appeal was a little desperate. He wasn’t budging.

  Zenyalena turned to Myles. ‘Myles – will you join me? We only have to travel to Vienna. Otherwise, all these papers – whatever secret Stolz had
discovered - it’ll all go to bureaucrats.’

  That word – ‘bureaucrats’. Myles thought of the mindless paper pushers who had plagued him for so long. The people who always wanted to control things, and who destroyed the things they controlled. He remembered the note from Corporal Bradley, written way back in 1945. Bradley had warned them about the bureaucrats.

  Myles began to nod. ‘Yes, Zenyalena. We should go to Vienna. You, me, and whoever wants to join.’

  Glenn cursed. ‘Damn it, Myles. That goes against the whole international protocol.’

  ‘I know – so?’ said Myles. ‘Maybe protocols have to be ignored sometimes. You coming?’

  Glenn shook his head, still disgusted the Englishman had sided with the Russian.

  Myles understood. He spoke to Pascal. ‘I know you’re upset. You’re probably still in shock. But we’d like it if you came with us, if you can.’

  Pascal studied Myles’ face, then Zenyalena’s. He could tell the two of them were determined to go. Slowly, he seemed to acquiesce. ‘OK, but just to Vienna.’

  Myles turned back to the bald American. ‘You know, Glenn, you may not want to come, but I’d feel safer knowing you were with us.’

  Glenn glanced sideways at Myles, wondering if the Oxford academic had some clever plan. Myles just raised his eyebrows, open-faced: he wasn’t hiding anything.

  Glenn turned to Heike-Ann. ‘Will the Berlin police allow us to take off to Austria?’

  ‘Yes, Glenn, in a few hours. We can all be traced if they want to follow up. It’s not a problem.’

  ‘Then if we travel, we have to do it quickly,’ concluded Glenn. ‘We have to wrong-foot whoever did this to Jean-François. The police must let us take the overnight train to Vienna. Tonight.’ Glenn looked up at the others, his face still uncertain.

  Zenyalena gloated. ‘Good – so America can be persuaded after all.’

  The five of them stood up, preparing to pack their things and decamp from Potsdam’s Schlosshotel Cecilienhof.

  Then Zenyalena stopped, ‘One more thing,’ she said, jerking her head towards Myles. ‘Jean-François was our chairman. Although Lieutenant Colonel Pascal can represent France, our team still needs a new leader.’

  Myles didn’t respond, but he saw Glenn’s expression. He could tell what the American was thinking. Glenn would not allow Zenyalena to be leader, and Zenyalena would not accept Glenn. Myles felt the faces of the two superpower representatives turn towards him.

  It was Zenyalena who made the suggestion. ‘Myles, would you … be our leader?’

  Myles realised he didn’t have much choice. Involuntarily, he found himself nodding.

  He was about to lead the team south – to Vienna.

  * * *

  Just a few metres from the room where Jean-François’s body had been discovered, a man was breathing through his mouth to remain as quiet as he could. He was still trying to listen to all that was happening in the hotel, while remaining unseen.

  Just as Dieter had expected, the police had come. Also, as expected, the police had presumed the killer was far away. After all, the Frenchman’s body was several hours old; he checked his watch to calculate exactly how old. Reliable, German police – they were so predictable, it made him smile…

  Less expected was that the so-called ‘international team’ were travelling to Vienna. Did they know what they were looking for, or just hoping to find something? Whichever was true, there was a chance they could find out more.

  He took out his communicator, and typed a message with his thumbs.

  International team suspect more Stolz papers hidden in Austria.

  Dieter pressed ‘send’, wondering how his paymaster would receive the news.

  He didn’t wait for an instruction to follow the team; he would do that anyway.

  And he would remain unseen.

  Thirty

  Berlin Hauptbahnhof ‘Berlin Central Station’, Central Berlin

  9.04 p.m. CET (8.04 p.m. GMT)

  * * *

  As Heike-Ann anticipated, the Berlin police forced the team to wait several hours in the hotel. Finally, when they were allowed to leave, they had just a few minutes to collect clothes, personal items and their copies of Stolz’s papers from their rooms. Then they shared two taxis to Berlin’s Central Station, and managed to board a train to Vienna at sunset.

  Myles sat alongside Pascal for the rail journey south, and watched the German countryside swish by as the twilight turned to darkness. Illuminated buildings would flash out of the gloom, then whizz past as the train journeyed on. He would glimpse farms, level crossings and the silhouette of trees, each for just a second before they disappeared from view. Spotlights shone up at a faraway church, turning it into an eerie beacon of something sinister.

  He thought about Helen. He was anxious to know what she had discovered about Corporal Bradley. Then he wondered whether she would hear about Jean-François’ murder somehow – with all her sources in the media, it was likely. He would have to tell her about the death first, so he could justify why he still needed to find Stolz’s secret, even though the stakes were now so much higher. He resolved to call her as soon as he had a quiet moment in Vienna.

  Myles felt the movement of the wheels on the track and remembered all those histories about the First World War: it was the rail network, they said, which had tripped Europe into war. Back in the ill-fated summer of 1914, each of the imperial powers had sent its troops to the front according to train timetables. When they heard that rival empires had mobilised, they were forced to do the same for fear of being left unguarded. And once the mobilise-by-rail plan had been put into effect, there was no way to stop it.

  Myles also used to lecture on how railways ensured a defensive war: it meant troops could be sent fast to plug any ‘breakthrough’ in the trenches, while the attackers could never advance faster than marching pace. Defenders always had the advantage, leading to the long, slow, and bloody attrition of World War One.

  Some of his students had trouble accepting such a simple explanation: that so many deaths could be blamed on the movement of railway vehicles. Human affairs explained by physics. Myles was uncomfortable with it, too. But the facts fitted: life and death in the ‘Great War’ had been determined more often by train tracks than by the decisions people took.

  It was hard to guess what the others were thinking. Pascal still seemed numbed by Jean-François’ murder. The impact of the news was only hitting him now, a half-day after he had heard about his friend’s terrible demise.

  Zenyalena, sitting opposite, was more upbeat. She was enthralled by the night-time scenes through the window – dimly lit farms, some roads which ran alongside the railway line, and an occasional castle, floodlit for tourists. It was as if she was still searching for clues about Stolz. She seemed like some of the better students Myles taught back in Oxford: always keen to learn, and fearless to take a gamble on being wrong for the prize of extra knowledge.

  Glenn was slumped with his arms folded, as if he didn’t care. But he was still reading through Stolz’s papers. Myles sensed a determination about him, and a quiet professionalism hidden behind his difficult manner.

  Heike-Ann also said nothing. Like Pascal and Zenyalena, her eyes were directed out of the window. But instead of trying to spot things in the darkness outside, she seemed hypnotised by the movement.

  Pascal nudged her. ‘Hey. You were there when they found Jean-François. What was he reading before he died?’

  Heike-Ann looked surprised by the question. Then she remembered – the computer screen. ‘Gauquelin. Michel Guaquelin. The biography of a Frenchman who died in 1991.’

  Pascal’s face looked blank. He didn’t recognise the name. ‘And do you think he asked for me because of this “Gauquelin”, or something else?’

  Heike-Ann lifted her shoulders. ‘I don’t know,’ she admitted.

  Like Myles and Glenn, Zenyalena had been listening in. ‘There was a page about Gauquelin in Stolz’s papers.’ She
started flicking through the files, trying to be helpful. Then she pulled something out and handed it to him. ‘Here.’

  Pascal turned the page toward him and read it.

  * * *

  Michel Gauquelin started as a sceptic of all things mystical, and tried to use maths to prove there was no basis for many traditional beliefs. But when he investigated the birth dates and times of thousands of people, he established that the position of the planets Mars, Jupiter and Saturn at the time of birth really did influence their future career. His results were verified by several respected sources and have been repeated in many independent studies since. Gauquelin became most famous for the so-called ‘Mars effect’: people born when the planet Mars is on the horizon or directly overhead are more likely to excel in the military or at sport than people born at other times. Since Mars is a planet traditionally associated with war and sport, Gauquelin’s findings confirmed an ancient tradition. Gauquelin’s conclusions have split the scientific community between those who accept his work but can’t explain it, and those who insist it must be fraudulent.

  * * *

  Pascal turned the paper over. There was nothing on the other side. ‘That’s all?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s all,’ confirmed the Russian. ‘Which is why we need to find out more.’

  Pascal looked at the paper again, then slumped back in his seat, silent.

  It was a few seconds later before Glenn spoke, his eyes still fixed on his papers. ‘So, Pascal, if you’re wondering how you got yourself into this mobile madhouse, Michel Gauquelin is the crazy Frenchman you should thank.’

  Pascal just looked blank, unsure how to respond. ‘You mean this “crazy Frenchman” is somehow responsible for Jean-François’ death? Even though he’s dead?’

  Zenyalena butted in. ‘No, Pascal, you should blame a different Frenchman. One from four hundred years ago: Nostradamus,’ she explained. ‘He was a famous mystic who used ancient “science”, like astrology, to predict lots of things. Even the rise of Hitler.’