by Iain King
‘No. I know what you’re going to do.’
Zenyalena looked surprised. She genuinely didn’t know what they were about to do. She kicked him. ‘Well, Frank - What are we going to do?’
‘You’re going to let the water in,’ replied Frank, gesturing towards the emergency hatch with the yellow handle. ‘Come on. It’s obvious. We’re next to the River Spree, and we must be below the water level down here. You expect one of us to confess as the water’s rising. Except I’ve just been told I’m going to die today, and that it’s ‘death by water’. So I hope you understand why I’m reluctant to have my hands tied.’
Pascal tried to make Frank relax, ‘Nobody’s going to drown, if you do as you should.’
‘Good. Then don’t tie me up.’
Zenyalena’s face tightened. She hadn’t expected anyone to refuse. She gripped the gun firmly and toyed with her finger near the trigger. ‘Frank. This is your last chance.’
Frank sensed Zenyalena was serious. He tried to control his rage, looking around, as if to find another reason not to have his hands tied. Then, very slowly, he relaxed his arms and pushed his wrists out, towards Pascal.
‘Thank you, Frank. This won’t take long….’ Pascal tied the cable around Frank’s wrists, checked it was firm, then turned back to the machine. ‘OK, Zenyalena. I’m going to need your help with this.’
‘What are you planning?’
Pascal was too focussed on the Nazi prediction machine to respond. He delved his hands into the inner workings, feeling his way around the device. After a few moments his expression changed. ‘This. This is what the terrorists want.’
Zenyalena squinted, unsure. ‘The whole machine?’
‘No. We wouldn’t be able to take it out of here,’ conceded Pascal. ‘It’s too big. But there must be a small part inside. The algorithm – calculated from the papers in this room.’ Using Glenn’s utility knife, Pascal had managed to unscrew a heavy cover plate from the top of the machine. He peered down inside. ‘I can see it. The mechanism. And we can lift it out.’
Zenyalena glanced across at her captives. They all glanced back, as Pascal called over. ‘Zenyalena, I need you to help me extract it.’
Checking again no-one was going to rush for her weapon, Zenyalena hauled the gun onto her shoulder so she could lend Pascal a hand. Together they managed to pull out a suitcase-size mechanism. It was the core of the Nazi computer. Mostly gears and wheels - like the inner workings of a clock, but also with beads on rods like a small abacus, and sockets where cables plugged in.
‘Thanks, Zenyalena.’ Pascal gathered his breath. He stared at the delicate device in front of him. ‘This machine is the greatest of the Nazi wonderweapons.’
Zenyalena frowned, unsure. ‘But, can it kill?’
‘It’s far more powerful than that. It can predict the future. It is the product of a truly massive research programme. More than a million deaths were involved in gathering the information it contains. SS Captain Werner Stolz might even have killed people to test it. Refined and honed, until it was the perfect prediction device – perhaps one of the first real computers. Unfortunately for the Nazis, it must have predicted a future in which they were defeated….’ Pascal turned to the four people on the floor, all with their hands bound. ‘… and we can see why it’s so valuable. It’s already cost many, many lives. Most recently, my good friend Jean-François. It may be about to cost more…’ Pascal’s voice was even. He spoke with strength. It was an ultimatum voice. ‘… So, Frank, Heike-Ann, Glenn and Myles - whoever is the terrorist collaborator in this room, reveal yourself now. Or I will destroy this machine.’
There was silence.
Pascal looked around at the four people with their wrists bound. Still nobody spoke.
Pascal tried again. He held up the heavy metal plate he had taken off to extract the inner core of workings, and pointed a corner towards the delicate device. ‘I can smash this machine so easily – and the greatest scientific advancement of the Nazis will be lost forever.’
‘It’s not, actually.’
Glenn looked around, trying to identify the lone voice which had interrupted.
Heike-Ann lifted her head up from the floor to see who had made the unexpected comment.
Zenyalena scanned her hostages.
But Myles knew already. It was a voice he’d known since university.
It was Frank. Pascal looked down at him. Zenyalena slung the gun barrel back into her hands, levelling the weapon at him.
Frank was unfazed. ‘Whatever you say, it’s not the Nazi’s greatest scientific achievement.’
Pascal squinted in suspicion. ‘No? What was, then?’
‘I don’t know. Rockets. Jets, maybe.’
‘Why not this?’
‘Because it doesn’t belong to the Nazis. The ancient Greeks built machines which could predict the position of the planets. And the prediction part – lots of civilisations have done that.’
‘But this Nazi machine is so precise…’
‘So are modern computers. There are programmes online which give predictions and dates like that machine has just done.’
Pascal and Zenyalena didn’t know how to respond. Zenyalena’s fingers tightened around the trigger, ready to fire at Frank in an instant. Silence gripped the room.
The museum curator was eventually answered by Glenn. ‘Frank’s right. Whereas the Nazis took years to gather the data for this machine, the internet can gather data in seconds. Now people are just a single click away from nonsense about the planets…’
‘It’s not nonsense,’ Frank was getting frustrated again. He turned to Glenn, angry that the American was belittling him. ‘Not nonsense at all. Predicting things from the planets is more accurate than predicting the weather. And there are lots of websites which can do it – most of them better than that Nazi clockwork thing.’ Frank could tell Glenn was still a sceptic. ‘Look, Glenn, I can prove it to you. We need to go online. Has one of you got a smartphone?’
Glenn shook his head. ‘No. We all got rid of them in Vienna, when we realised we were being followed.
‘Well, I’ve got one. In my trousers, if we can get a signal down here.’ Frank started wriggling. He was struggling to stretch his tied hands into his back pocket, as if he trying to reach something.
BANG
The vibration of the Spandau gun shook the whole underground room, deafening everyone. Zenyalena jerked backwards, shocked by what had just happened, as her gun recoiled.
Heike-Ann, Pascal and Glenn stared at the Russian, wondering how her weapon had fired.
But not Myles. He had seen where the bullet had gone. ‘Frank?’
Frank was bent double, looking confused. He tried to shake his head. ‘I think I’m not too hurt…’ But blood was spreading on his shirt.
Zenyalena’s face froze in shock. She really hadn’t expected the Spandau gun to fire. She dropped it and rushed towards Frank, lifting him up. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’ She cradled him, then realised it was doing no good, so she pulled up his shirt instead.
A single bullet wound, in the chest.
Frank wheezed out a few words. ‘Is it… is it bad?’ He tried to inhale, but air wasn’t coming into his mouth. Instead, he was sucking with the wound. It was taking blood into his lungs.
Myles called over to Zenyalena. ‘Put pressure on it.’
Zenyalena tried, working desperately. She ripped cloth from Frank’s shirt and pressed it into the wound.
Myles tried to shuffle towards his old friend. ‘Frank, we’re going to help you, OK?’
Frank gave as much of a nod as he could. Myles could tell Frank was overcome by pain.
Zenyalena became frantic, pushing the fragment of cloth harder into the wound. Frank was beginning to lean over, collapsing on the floor.
Glenn came across and began to help too. ‘It’s a lung wound. We mustn’t let air into it.’
The American snapped into action, a trained first-aider. Even though his
hands were tied, he managed to push on the wound more effectively than Zenyalena. Frank seemed to revive a little.
Myles tried again. ‘Frank, Frank – can you hear me?’
Frank started spluttering. Myles knew he had to help his friend immediately. Frank probably had only minutes left.
Then Myles saw someone grinning down and pointing the gun towards him. It was the person he had least expected to be the traitor.
Sixty
Near St Paul’s Cathedral, London
10.15pm GMT
* * *
Father Samuel and Professor Cromhall were guided through to the private dining room by the most courteous restaurant staff either of them had ever experienced. Sparkling cutlery on a crisp white table cloth awaited them, along with Philip Ford, Executive Chairman of one of London’s richest financial institutions.
‘Father Samuel, Professor,’ said the chubby banker, straining to shake hands with his guests. ‘So good to have the time for a proper conversation.’
Father Samuel bowed his head with humility. ‘Thank you for agreeing to see us, Philip.’
The banker gestured to their seats, then to the menu. He made sure his dining partners ordered their food before the real business started. ‘So, how can I help you?’
‘It’s how we can help each other, really,’ began Father Samuel. ‘You see, some information is at risk of becoming public. Information which might impose, er, ‘unnecessary costs’ on all of us…’
The banker pulled a face, wondering whether he was about to be blackmailed. Silently he urged Father Samuel to continue.
‘… it’s to do with the planets,’ continued Samuel. ‘The correlation with human behaviour: it’s leaking out.’
‘Financial astrology?’ scoffed the banker, straightening his knife and fork, which were already perfectly positioned. ‘Does anybody still believe that?’
‘Yes, I thought you did, Mr Ford,’ answered the Professor, half accusing, half taunting his host. ‘At least, that’s why my university has invested so much of our endowment through your bank. How else were you generating such excellent returns?’
‘If you mean the link between Venus and the gold price,’ mocked Ford, ‘that stopped more than a decade ago. When people heard about it, and used it for deals, the correlation was traded away. Market forces.’
‘Not just Venus,’ pressed home the Professor. ‘All the correlations. They are how you earn your bonuses, aren’t they? Market-beating returns, year-after-year – you can only do that with special knowledge. Knowledge which is rare, perhaps because few people trust it.’
The conversation shut down as the door to their private dining area swung open. Three waiting staff brought three magnificent-looking plates of food, which they made a show of presenting before gently resting them before the diners. Eventually the staff left and privacy was restored.
Father Samuel made sure the banker understood. ‘You see, Philip, if this information gets out, all your competitive advantage will be lost - just like betting gold on Venus lost its lustre when others joined in.’
‘And not just your bonuses,’ added the Professor. ‘Profits in the insurance industry would collapse if more people knew about their future. Mortgage dealers wouldn’t be able to charge a risk premium. Pension providers, too – the whole financial industry stands to lose billions if this gets out.’
Philip Ford decapitated a prawn. Without words, he let his guests know he didn’t like being pushed around.
Father Samuel sensed the banker’s mood, and tried to offer reassurance. ‘Please don’t feel you are alone, Philip. We too are deeply concerned about this.’ He tried to make a joke of it. ‘You’re dining with two people who have even more at stake than you. We would all be impoverished.’
Professor tried to underwrite the point. ‘The Father is right. Faith in science would be shattered if this gets out.’
Philip Ford digested the pleas with his food. So they all wanted the information supressed. This wasn’t a hijack, it was a business proposition. ‘So what do you want from me – money?’
Father Samuel and the Professor nodded.
‘How much – a few million?’
‘That’s too much,’ demurred Father Samuel. ‘Half a million would be plenty, Philip, for what we have in mind. But we must be quick….’
Sixty-One
East Berlin
11.19pm CET (10.19pm GMT)
* * *
Myles looked up at the Frenchman, ‘Pascal – can you untie me? To help him?’
There was no answer. Instead of trying to help, alongside Zenyalena, Pascal had picked up the weapon.
‘Pascal?’
Pascal was pointing the Spandau gun towards Myles. ‘Stay there.’
Myles froze.
Zenyalena’s eyes widened. ‘Pascal. You?’
Pascal didn’t answer. Instead, he just tilted his head slightly. He fired, and the bullet killed Zenyalena in an instant. Zenyalena’s body slumped down onto Frank’s legs. Frank yelped in shock.
Glenn and Myles turned their gaze to Pascal, trying to understand what had just happened. It made no sense.
Glenn grabbed Zenyalena’s chin and turned her face towards him. Zenyalena’s head flopped sideways, expressionless. Glenn let go, and the dead Russian collapsed. ‘So Zenyalena was the terrorist?’
Pascal didn’t respond.
Myles turned to see Frank still suffering. Blood was filling his lungs. Just as the machine had predicted, the curator was drowning. Myles tried to shuffle towards his friend, but the Frenchman turned and pointed the gun at him.
‘Freeze,’ ordered Pascal.
Myles knew he had to obey. ‘Pascal, we’ve got to save Frank.’
‘Why?’ Pascal threw the word into the air without wanting an answer. He was glancing through some of the papers, deciding which ones to collect.
‘So, Pascal – you’re the terrorist?’
‘Not according to the website.’
Myles and Glenn stared at each other, still trying to understand. Myles was completely baffled. ‘The ‘website’?’
Pascal bent down and pulled a smartphone from his ankle – it had been strapped to his leg, hidden. ‘Yes, the website. It’s where the ‘terrorists’ are.’ He said ‘terrorists’ with a sneer, as though it was a concept only for little people. ‘You guys and – sorry, Heike-Ann, ladies too – wouldn’t get it. I’ve been uploading predictions from Stolz to a website. Then, when they happen, claiming credit for the events.’
Myles glanced back at his old friend, dying in front of him. ‘But why did you save us – in Vienna and Munich? And in the forest in France?’
‘Because I could – it was a thrill. And the predictions said I was almost invincible…’
Myles was more puzzled than ever.
Pascal mused on, talking to himself as if he was the only person in the bunker. ‘…And attacking those old machine guns felt… amazing. It made me feel like a real soldier. Some people would pay a lot of money for excitement like that.’ The old Pascal had gone.
Myles realised the helpful French Colonel had just been an act. ‘But - if those predictions made you ‘invincible’, how come you’re due to die tomorrow?’
Pascal looked at his watch. ‘If the predictions are true, then yes. But I’ll die the most respected man in the world.’
‘Most respected? You won’t even save Frank from drowning in his own blood…’
‘Only we know that. And soon the world will think Frank was killed by you, Myles.’ He held out the smartphone again. ‘It’s easy. I’ve already gone online to predict that the world will soon be transformed from Berlin. A new Reich – starting where Hitler started. All I have to do is put your name to it.’ He glanced across at Glenn, pulling a face of mock sympathy. ‘Oh - don’t feel left out. I’ll name you, too. There are lots of people willing to believe the plot to destroy the world, or whatever they call it, was inspired by Brits and Americans working together.’
My
les still couldn’t make sense of it. He tried to absorb it all. ‘And you, Pascal?’
‘I will name myself as the head of the humanitarian mediation group trying to sort out this mess. I just put my name on the ‘Humanitarian Pursuit’ site. Easy.’
‘But Pascal…’
‘Call me Dieter, please. That’s my real name. And that’s the name people will soon be praising all over the world. You really believed I was a French Lieutenant Colonel, didn’t you.’
Glenn shook his head, still not understanding. ‘Dieter – Pascal – I don’t know what you are.’
Dieter laughed. ‘Well I’m not French, at least.’
‘But that call from the French Foreign Ministry, asking us to let you join the team. It was a woman’s voice.’
‘Yes. I paid her to do that. An actress – I said it was for a TV show. She’s dead now.’
‘And the email from Jean-François?’
‘I wrote that, while he was hanging. And I’m glad you were impressed by my fake ID, Glenn – they were expensive. Paid for by someone who thought they could order me around, just as Germany used to be ordered around.’ Dieter leant towards Frank, bending down to examine the curator’s wound.
Frank was already gasping, his lungs flooding quickly.
Dieter sneered. ‘Well, the prediction said water, but it looks to me like your friend might drown in his own blood. It is liquid, I suppose.’ Dieter left him, and instead shifted towards the emergency water hatch. He kicked it, and the yellow lever jerked across.
Myles watched in horror as the metal plate buckled. Rust started to darken as it grew damp. Water was seeping through from the River Spree behind. ‘You, you can’t…’
Just seconds later the hatch burst open. Water began pouring into the secret bunker.
Myles looked across at Frank: the predictions were coming true. His old university friend would drown.
Myles had a choice, and only an instant to make it: try to save Frank, or take on Dieter – with his hands tied.
Dieter guessed what Myles was thinking, and trained the machine gun on him. ‘Stay where you are, please, gentlemen…’ The Frenchman had stepped over them, back to the prediction machine. For Glenn and Myles, he was out of reach – for now.
