Secrets of the Last Nazi

by Iain King

  Glenn turned away, an expression of contempt on his face.

  Zenyalena ignored him. She began to recite from memory.

  ‘From the depths of the West of Europe,

  A young child will be born of poor people,

  By his tongue he will seduce a great troop;

  His fame will increase towards the realm of the East.

  The edicts of the Pope will be overruled

  By Hitler, and Italy is a fascist republic.

  ‘Wild men ferocious with anger, cross over rivers,

  The greater part of the battlefield will be against Hitler;

  In armour of steel they will make the great assault,

  When the child of Germany will heed no one.’

  Zenyalena looked around, expecting the rest of the team to be amazed by the accuracy of the prophecy. Instead, they just looked mystified.

  Myles spoke with a puzzled frown. ‘Did Nostradamus really write the name “Hitler”, back in the 1500s?’

  ‘He wrote “Hister” – just one letter out,’ answered the Russian. ‘And everything else he got right – Hitler’s alliances with the “realm of the East”, Japan and fascist Italy. And how the Allies turned the battlefield against him. There’s even a line about how Hitler’s fate would remain a mystery – which it did. The Allies were never sure the Nazi dictator really killed himself.’

  Heike-Ann leaned forward, her body language most sceptical of all. ‘You know, Nostradamus’ poems could be read in other ways.’

  Zenyalena accepted the point, but only partly. ‘True, but the Nazis used them,’ she said. ‘Stolz might have been ordered to research how Nostradamus made his predictions. And perhaps he actually found out.’

  Thirty-One

  Langley,

  Virginia USA

  5.44 p.m. EST (10.44 p.m. GMT)

  * * *

  Sally Wotton wondered whether she should really be doing her job at all. Perhaps her PhD was wasted. It certainly felt that way when she was just browsing websites. Special websites, for sure, but most of the sites she checked for the CIA were too amateurish to be threatening.

  In the last fortnight, only one website had really impressed her boss. It was that Mein Kampf Now page, the Hitler fansite with library images of the dead dictator and the nutty predictions far off in the future. Crazy stuff, but not yet proved to be nonsense. And whoever was behind it had protected it with multi-layer defences. It was the high quality of those cyber-walls, added to the very odd nature of the threats, which made it so intriguing.

  Noticing the site had earned her two words of praise from her boss. ‘Thanks, Sally,’ he had said. It was the only truly positive feedback she’d received since she started her job.

  Sally re-read the report from the tech boys. They confirmed they couldn’t locate the site because it wasn’t really located anywhere. Instead, they described it as ‘transient’ with ‘multiple uploading paths’. It meant there was very little chance of finding out who was behind the site, or – just as important – where they were based. From the data traces, somewhere in Europe seemed the most likely source, but that was little more than a guess.

  An alert at the bottom of her computer screen changed colour, indicating something new had just been uploaded onto one of her listed ‘watch sites’. Sally clicked on the icon.

  Mein Kampf Now

  Sally leaned forward in anticipation. She waited, while her computer connected itself to the page. Then she leapt back in horror, recoiling from the screen as fast as she could.

  The image which repelled her was a grotesque photo of someone hanging in a hotel room. Dead, or nearly dead, the man was suspended by thin wire which gouged into his neck. The picture had been taken with a flash, making his face look especially pale and drained. Crimson fluid dribbled from the victim’s tongue, which protruded from his mouth as though it was trying to escape. From the man’s horrific expression, he was dying in terrible pain.

  Now she knew this website was serious. Photos of someone being murdered in one of the cruellest ways possible automatically made Mein Kampf Now a priority.

  As she began to overcome her initial revulsion, Sally scrolled down the page. The terrifying image shifted up and out of her sight. It was replaced by recently-added text.

  In August 2016, I will prove my power with a nuclear device. Your military will be very scared! Then, in the autumn of 2027, I will use atomic power to cause destruction and death. But even this will be nothing compared to my nuclear activities in the years 2049, 2050 and 2051…

  Sally’s heart quickened.

  … And I will strike the United Kingdom in 2024 and 2025, ripping out its confidence as a nation.

  Did that mean a nuclear attack against the UK? Sally thought not – it was another sort of strike. These were two different threats. And like the others, they were disturbingly precise.

  What worried Sally most was the pathological determination behind it all. Murdering someone to make a point? Making bizarre boasts long in advance? Super-tight webhosting which not even the CIA could crack? It all pointed to a committed psychopath. Mein Kampf Now was masterminded by someone who would use extraordinary means to carry out their extraordinary threats.

  She scrolled back up to the ghastly photo, tagged it ‘For Immediate Analysis’ and sent it to the tech boys – they may have failed to find out where the website was coming from. If the picture was genuine it would contain clues, perhaps in the background.

  Then she printed out the latest version of the website, impatiently looming over the machine as the pages came out.

  As she was running down the corridor, rushing the printout to her boss, Sally wondered what they could do about the nuclear threat, and the danger to the USA.

  And she knew, whoever was behind Mein Kampf Now, they would make sure their terrible predictions came true.

  DAY FOUR

  Thirty-Two

  DAY FOUR

  Heldenplatz

  Vienna, Austria

  7.53 a.m. CET (6.53 a.m. GMT)

  * * *

  All five of the team managed to get some sleep on the train. It meant that when they arrived at Vienna’s Central Station, they had all been oddly refreshed by the overnight train journey.

  They climbed out, and took in the modern design – clean glass and iron. Like Berlin, it must have changed enormously over the century of Stolz’s life. Myles caught sight of a large digital clock: it was fifty-three minutes past seven in the morning. If there was a rush hour in Vienna, then this was it. But the commuters seemed too poised to be rushing. This was, after all, a city famous for its waltzes – everything moved at a pace which was measured and sedate.

  From Vienna’s central station, it was a short taxi ride to the central square – the ‘Heldenplatz’. The three men and two women just squeezed into a single vehicle, Myles the most cramped of all, with his head bent over to fit inside. But he could still see the great sights of the city as they drove by – the Opera House, museum and grand shopping arcades – mixed with the normal scenes of modern Europe: small cars, mothers with children, and a rubbish collection truck.

  Myles watched Glenn survey the architecture – one facet about Europe that the American seemed to respect. Heike-Ann and Pascal were awestruck. Only Zenyalena seemed slightly resentful. Myles shot her a queried expression, to which she just raised her eyebrows in response.

  The taxi pulled up near an ornate building.

  Heike-Ann helped Myles with his crutches, making it easier for him to swing his injured leg out of the vehicle. Like an impromptu tour-guide, she pointed to the space behind them. ‘Here we are: Heldenplatz. It means “Place of Heroes”.’

  Glenn looked around them, disappointed. ‘So this is it? This is the square?’

  Heike-Ann nodded.

  Glenn seemed unconvinced. ‘It’s not the best place to hide a bunch of papers, is it?’

  He was right. The piazza was almost barren, the surface made of hard concrete and paving stones. Th
e only obvious landmarks were two statues of men on horses: Prince Eugene of Savoy and Archduke Charles of Austria.

  Myles read out Stolz’s description again:

  ‘“Schoolmate’s Tract. ONB (where the empire began, 15.III.38).”’

  Zenyalena looked up at the statues. ‘Could Stolz have gone to school with Prince Eugene or Archduke Charles?’

  Pascal’s face lightened up for perhaps the first time since he had been told of Jean-François’ death. ‘I doubt it,’ he said. ‘Not unless he was much older than we think.’ The Frenchman gestured towards the cast iron plates on the bottom of each statue. Their dates were 1663–1736 and 1771–1847. Zenyalena accepted the point.

  Glenn started looking at the paved surface. ‘Where exactly did Hitler speak from in 1938?’

  Zenyalena and Pascal started searching for plaques or marks in the ground – anything which might show where the dictator stood to make his famous ‘Anschluss’ speech.

  But Heike-Ann was quick to stop them looking. ‘There won’t be any signs. De-Nazification: any marking would count as a “monument” to Hitler, and the laws forbid that.’

  Glenn started shaking his head. ‘So, we can’t even know where he stood? And even if we did know, it would just be a spot on the pavement.’ He was looking despondent. ‘Ridiculous. This whole thing is ridiculous. We ain’t finding anything to do with Stolz here. Come on, Myles – you’ve got to admit. It’s not looking good, is it?’

  But Myles wasn’t giving up. ‘If these papers are not hidden in the square, could they still have a “Heldenplatz” address?’

  Heike-Ann weighed up her answer. ‘I suppose so, yes. Some of these buildings around the edge could count.’

  ‘And what are the buildings?’

  Heike-Ann glanced around. She shrugged – not because she didn’t know, but because there were so many. Standing in the centre of the square, she began to turn a full 360 degrees, labelling off the sights as she saw them. ‘There’s the Hofburg Palace, the Conference Centre, the city’s ring road, the outer castle gate, the national library, the Parliament, the town hall … Austria’s unknown soldier …’

  As she spoke, Myles realised: Heldenplatz didn’t offer too few places for Stolz to hide his papers. It offered too many.

  Glenn picked up the theme. ‘Austria’s unknown soldier. Did Stolz see himself as an unknown soldier?’

  Zenyalena answered with sarcasm. ‘You mean a secret behind-the-scenes bureaucrat type of soldier?’

  Then Myles made the connection. ‘But Hitler did. That was how he promoted himself. He made himself out to be an “everyman” – the voice of the trenches. The unknown soldier betrayed by the politicians in Berlin.’

  Pascal was puzzled. ‘So we look at the tomb of the unknown soldier?’ he asked.

  ‘No,’ explained Myles. ‘Stolz’s clue was “Schoolmate’s Tract”. It means we look for schoolmates of Hitler.’

  Something Myles said seemed to resonate with Heike-Ann. She took out her smart phone and found a webpage. The search term, ‘Hitler Schoolmate’ yielded several thousand results, but one name was clearly at the top. ‘“Wittgenstein”, she read out. ‘Anyone heard of someone called “Wittgenstein”?’ She said it oddly, like she was tasting strange food.

  Myles could see none of the others knew the name, apart from perhaps Pascal who was trying to recall. ‘Ludwig Wittgenstein was either mad or a genius, probably both,’ he told them. ‘He was an Austrian who fought on the same side as Hitler in the First World War. But unlike Hitler, instead of using his spare moments to refine fascism, Wittgenstein developed a philosophy – a completely different way of thinking about the world. You’ve heard of “I think therefore I am”?’

  Glenn spoke tentatively. ‘The foundation of Western philosophy? Is that right, Myles?’

  ‘Yes – it used to be. Until Wittgenstein proved it was wrong. Some say the mad Austrian – Wittgenstein, not Hitler that is – destroyed Western thinking. Philosophy has never been the same since. While Hitler was threatening Western civilisation, Wittgenstein was destroying its ideas. And if they were at school together, we may have broken into Stolz’s clue.’

  Heike-Ann had found a webpage showing the two of them in the same photo – an annual school photograph from Linz Realschule, 1901. In neat rows, a class of eleven- and twelve-year old schoolboys was posing for the camera. Wittgenstein was near the middle, with the junior Hitler just one row above. Heike-Ann held the phone where the others could see. Hitler’s unmistakable eyes seemed to drill out towards the camera. Just from the image, they could tell the future dictator was a strange boy.

  Heike-Ann scrolled down. ‘It says here they were born in the same week, both in April 1889. Wittgenstein on the 26th, Hitler on the 20th.’

  Pascal tried to think it through again. ‘So, how is Wittgenstein connected with Heldenplatz? Was he here when Hitler spoke in 1938?’

  Myles knew he couldn’t have been. Wittgenstein was probably teaching at Cambridge University at the time, and the philosopher was never a fan of Hitler. Then it hit him. ‘But Wittgenstein did write some famous papers,’ he said. ‘And his first book was called the “Tractatus”. “Schoolmate’s Tract” - it must mean “Wittgenstein’s Tractatus”.’

  Then, like a light illuminating her face, Heike-Ann suddenly understood another part of the clue. ‘“ONB” – I thought it was something translated into English,’ she said. ‘But the automatic translator didn’t change the letters, because it’s an abbreviation. It’s ONB in German. ONB means Österreichische Nationalbibliothek – the National Library of Austria ...’ She pointed. ‘… And it’s just over there.’

  Thirty-Three

  Heldenplatz

  Vienna, Austria

  8.30 a.m. CET (7.30 a.m. GMT)

  * * *

  As Myles saw the words, in English under the German, ‘National Library of Austria – Heldenplatz Entrance’, he knew they’d come to the right place. He hobbled towards the door of the building as quickly as he could, his ruptured knee slowing him down when he wanted to rush. The rest of the team followed behind, then Glenn, Zenyalena and Pascal overtook him as they realised, like Myles, that this must be where Stolz had hidden his papers. Only Heike-Ann walked more slowly, careful not to strain herself while she was pregnant.

  Glenn started quizzing a receptionist. ‘Do you have all the books written by Ludwig Wittgenstein?’

  An intelligent-looking woman in her mid-thirties, the receptionist nodded. She quickly saw her reaction was good news to the bald American and his friends and obviously felt the need to bring him down a little. ‘But you know he really only wrote one book, the ‘Tractatus’. All the other things he wrote were just papers, articles for academic journals – that sort of thing…’ The woman seemed familiar with Wittgenstein’s work.

  Zenyalena decided she couldn’t let the American lead the questioning. She elbowed Glenn out of the way and spoke to the receptionist herself. ‘So are all his books— er, sorry, his one book. Is it on display?’

  The receptionist shook her head. ‘Only copies - the original manuscript is in an American University. But since Wittgenstein wrote it in the trenches, there’s not much left, just a few soggy notes.’ She checked on her computer. ‘Er, we have twelve copies – in the Upper Reading Room.’

  Zenyalena looked around at the others. Twelve copies of a very public library book. It wasn’t a promising way to hide secret papers.

  But Myles knew they had to check. ‘And which way is the Upper Reading Room?’

  The woman stood up to point around a corner to some stairs. Myles thanked her as he took her directions. The others followed, then Zenyalena began half-running in an attempt to get to the books before anyone else in the team. Myles heard Glenn mutter curses as he ran after her, with Pascal closely behind. Only Heike-Ann stayed with Myles, both of them moving at walking pace.

  After two steep flights of stairs, Myles and Heike-Ann followed a corridor into the Upper Reading Room, which was
vaguely eerie. No one was inside, except Glenn, Pascal and Zenyalena, who had just found the right shelf.

  ‘But they’re paperbacks,’ Zenyalena complained. Disappointed, the Russian pulled down the first of the identical books. ‘Where inside do we look?’ She started flicking through the pages, realising there was too much to read.

  Finally Myles caught up, calling across to Zenyalena as he arrived. ‘Find the contents page. Then find where Wittgenstein explains how we deceive ourselves when we think we’re making free choices.’

  The five of them huddled around the Russian. It was Heike-Ann who saw the contents page first. ‘Section Five. Turn to Section Five,’ she said.

  Zenyalena quickly rifled through the pages until she was on Section Five.

  Nothing – just a normal chapter.

  ‘Try the other books,’ instructed Myles.

  Zenyalena picked up the next copy. Glenn took one too. Pascal and Heike-Ann did the same.

  It was Heike-Ann who found some thin pen marks scribbled in the margin. Someone had notated the book, as if a student was making notes to themselves. But something about the handwriting – it was jagged and deliberate – suggested it had been written by an old person with an infirm grip. Heike-Ann held out the notes for the others to see:

  Schauen Sie in die Ablage der Wiener Polizeiakten von 1913 - WS

  Myles pointed at the last two letters. ‘WS – Werner Stolz, right? What does the rest of it say – can you translate?’

  ‘It says, “See the file of official records from the Vienna police from 1913.”’

  Myles acknowledged the clue, then gave an instruction to the team. ‘OK, let’s split up. Everybody look for old Austrian files.’