by Iain King
He thought again of Helen, and wondered how she could die in two days’ time if Dieter himself was due to die tomorrow. He tried to force the predictions out of his mind. He had to concentrate.
He turned onto Am Krusenick - the minibus was still there, but no sign of anyone.
He limped along as swiftly as he could, his wet socks padding along the pavement. He was watching for any signs of Dieter as he went. A few bedroom lights were on behind curtains, but they were far away. Myles was still alone.
He approached Stolz’s apartment block. Wet footmarks were on the ground, leading out. Myles stared down at them: Dieter seemed to have come out, gone to the minibus, then run away.
Myles’ first thought was to follow them, to chase Dieter while the trail was still hot. Had Dieter doubled-back? Was it a trick?
He charged up the steps, ignoring the pain surge in his knee. At the top he opened the entrance to the lobby, and rushed to the door of Stolz’s flat. It was unlocked: he barged in, and checked the room.
No-one around, and no place to hide.
He gazed down at the hole in the floorboards. Was Dieter waiting below? He froze and listened, wondering in the silence whether he had already made too much noise.
Nothing.
Then he crept through the broken floorboards, carefully stepping into the hole and down the steps.
The basement was flooded. Sodden sheets of paper covered the surface of the water, which had stopped rising. But no sign of Dieter. Myles cursed. The man had escaped.
One of the pages washed against his foot. Myles fished it out. It was the life story of ‘Person Number 1006220’, their ethnicity confirmed by a small Star of David. Life events were summarised in German words which Myles couldn’t translate - born in December 1912, with something in May 1930, August 1935, and January 1939. The last date was 3rd August 1943.
Myles held the paper with two hands as it dripped. He didn’t know whether to preserve it out of respect or screw it up in frustration.
Person 1006220: another victim of the bureaucrats.
Then he saw a form slowly turning in the water. He peered closer, trying to make it out. Slowly he identified a boot, then realised it was attached to a body. It was Zenyalena, her face staring down to the bunker. Zenyalena, Jean-François, even Frank… Dieter had killed them all.
He pulled the corpse towards him, feeling its weight in the water, and delved into her pockets. The keys to the minibus were there – he fished them out, then flicked the dirty water from his hands as he limped back out.
Myles dashed upstairs, back to the lobby, and outside, where the air felt even colder.
He opened the door to the minibus and peered inside. There were wet footmarks by the pedals, and the wiring had been pulled down from under the dashboard. Dieter had tried to hotwire the vehicle, but failed.
Then he realised: the bottle of nerve agent was gone. Dieter must have taken it.
So that was Dieter’s plan: to set off one of Hitler’s ‘wonderweapons’ – seventy years late.
Myles looked at his watch: one minute to midnight.
Would he die from Sarin poisoning tomorrow?
Would thousands of others?
Would Sarin kill Helen too, making his partner ‘cease to be two days later?
Angry, he slammed the door shut, and ran as fast as he could, following the wet footmarks on the pavement.
He knew he must be ten minutes behind Dieter, but not much more. If he ran, there was a chance he could still catch him.
Myles sprinted along Am Krusenick, his feet in wet socks feeling every piece of grit on the road. But he ignored the pain, and ran on. The neoprene bandage which supported his healing knee seemed to be slowing him down. Quickly he reached down, ripped apart the Velcro, and tossed it away.
He limped on – faster now. Dieter’s footprints turned. Myles turned with them. Then, round the corner, they seemed to disappear.
It didn’t make sense. There was nowhere for the Frenchman to go. No patch of grass to hide his footprints. No surface which wouldn’t show the water. It was as if Dieter had flown into the air.
Myles desperately scanned around. No clues anywhere – nothing which seemed out of place.
Then he noticed, thrown into a kerb some metres away, a jumble of footwear. Myles rushed closer: it was Dieter’s socks and shoes, all sodden with water. Dieter must have realised he was leaving a trail, so he took them off, dried his feet somehow, then continued on barefoot.
With no wet footmarks to follow, he didn’t know where to look. He checked his watch again. Just past midnight…on the day he was due to die.
DAY SIX
Sixty-Four
DAY SIX
East Berlin
12.02am CET (11.02pm -1 GMT)
* * *
Myles felt the crisp night air again – his wet clothes were freezing more than ever, and clinging to his body, making it difficult for him to move. He was in no condition to attack Dieter.
Myles turned, and started jogging back to the minibus, gripping the keys he had just taken from Zenyalena’s body. He jumped into the driver’s seat, poked the keys into the ignition, and turned them. Then he drove away, leaving Stolz’s apartment for good.
Confused by the small streets of Berlin, Myles decided to turn onto whichever street was larger at each junction he found. That way, he knew, he’d soon find a street with directions. The roads were deserted. Certainly no sirens or screaming ambulances. Dieter hadn’t set off his wonderweapon yet….
Myles soon reached the autobahn, and then accelerated, speeding towards Potsdam - the only place near Berlin that he knew.
After twenty minutes he recognised his surroundings – he had been driven this way by Glenn when he first arrived in Germany. Once he found the signposts, the Cecilienhof was easy to reach.
The minibus’s tyres screamed as he swerved into the hotel carpark, then parked up and jumped out, losing his balance on his weak leg. Only as an afterthought did he turn off the headlights and the engine. He’d need the vehicle again.
Straight to reception.
Fortunately, there was a familiar face on duty: it was the brunette. She was shocked to see Myles – so late at night, breathless, and desperate. She was obviously perturbed by Myles’ appearance, tilting her head warily as if she wanted to comment on Myles’ wet clothes and lack of footwear. ‘Mr Munro – how can I help?’ she said, her voice unsteady.
Myles ignored her. Instead, he grabbed the hotel’s courtesy phone and dialled a familiar number as fast as he could.
00… 44… 7788…
It was Helen’s number – her CNN mobile. The number rang.
No answer, then a recorded message.
‘Hi, you’ve reached Helen Bridle. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.’
BEEP
Myles wondered what to say. ‘Er, Helen. Are you there? Sorry to call you so late. You’re probably asleep… But this is important. Please pick up the phone….’ Myles realised his voice was sounding a little desperate, as the receptionist caught his eye. ‘… Er, Helen. When you get this message, please stay somewhere safe - far away from Berlin. Understand? Nowhere near. If you do, you’ll die – probably from concentrated Sarin or some other Nazi chemical. I don’t know exactly, and I can’t say how I know. Not over the phone, not ‘til we’re face-to-face again. I’m looking forward to seeing you face-to-face again soon. So please trust me, don’t go to Berlin… er, thank you. And, er, love you, too.’
Embarrassed, he put down the phone. Had he done enough to keep Helen out of danger? Would his message save her life, two days from now? He thought of calling again, but realised it wouldn’t help. There was no more he could say.
‘Clothes. Do you have any spare clothes?’
The woman sized Myles up, her eyes still alarmed. Myles wondered if she saw blood from Heike-Ann’s wound on his trousers. She turned to fetch something from an office behind her, then came back with a pressed wh
ite business shirt. ‘I have this… Sir?’
But Myles was gone. He had already sat down at the internet terminal next to the front desk, determined to find the terrorist website. He found a search engine and typed in: ‘Mein Kampf Now’, then pressed enter. Ten of 134,000 results came up. Myles scrolled through the first screenful, then the second, then the third, then the fourth. None of them seemed right.
Next he tried ‘Humanitarian Pursuit’. Pages appeared on peace negotiations, food aid, even mountain climbing. But still no sign of the website he needed. He slumped back in his chair.
Myles’ mind drifted to the predictions about himself: that he would die today, too, and that Helen would somehow ‘cease to be’ two days later.
He began typing.
‘A-S-T-R-O-L-O-G-Y… P-R-E-D-I-C-T-I-O-N-S’
… and clicked.
A selection of sites appeared. He wondered: would they confirm the verdict of the Nazi prediction machine? Of course they wouldn’t. It didn’t matter which of the sites he picked: none of them would predict someone was about to die on a certain day, especially if that day was today.
‘Mr Munro, Sir…?’
Myles turned. The receptionist was pushing a trolley towards him: coffee, orange juice and warm toast.
‘Early for breakfast, I know, Sir,’ she smiled. ‘But you look like you could do with something to eat.’
Then she offered him a bag of clothes. Myles peeked inside: a whole business suit, with shirt, underwear, a tie, and a pair of smart shoes.
‘I guessed your size, Sir – we have others if you need them. And feel free to take a shower.’ She pointed to the door of a luxury suite behind reception, beaming sympathetically.
Distracted, Myles thanked her with his eyes, and picked up the toast. Only as he began eating did he realise how hungry he was.
But his mind was still focussed on Helen. He had to save her.
He remembered Dieter’s words: ‘The world will soon be transformed from Berlin – a new Reich starting from where Hitler started…’
Dieter had to set off the lethal liquid from somewhere high-up, so it could spread through the air.
But where had Hitler started his Reich? Not in Vienna in 1938, as Stolz had thought. Hitler had destroyed Germany as soon as he came to power. Myles went back to the keyboard.
H-I-T-L-E-R 1-9-3-3
Straightaway an image came up: the Reichstag, Germany’s Parliament building, in flames. Of course. Myles remembered how Hitler had hired a stooge to set it on fire a month after coming into office. It gave the dictator a perfect excuse for ‘emergency measures’ which shut down democracy. The Reichstag didn’t re-open properly until after the war.
Myles clicked on the image, and saw the new glass roof to the building. It was high. Sarin released from the top into the wind could blow over the whole city. The ideal place to set off the wonderweapon.
Myles rushed back to the receptionist. ‘Do you have any tourist leaflets?’
‘Certainly Sir…’ She pointed to a whole stand full of promotional flyers and brochures, trying her best to be helpful, even though she was still obviously unnerved by Myles’ appearance. ‘Do you want any particular one, Mr Munro, Sir?’
‘The Reichstag. Do they have a tourist programme?’
She nodded, and picked out the leaflet. ‘Yes – visits from eight in the morning, I think.’ She looked back at the clock behind her as she handed him the paper. ‘Five-and-a-half hours away. You’ve still got time to have a shower….’
Myles was already engrossed in the leaflet, trying to work out where Dieter could set of the bomb.
‘Er, Mr Munro. You really should have a shower, if you want to visit. Otherwise, they might not let you in…’
Myles looked up and accepted the point, but had just one call to make first.
So he picked up the clean clothes and wandered towards the shower room. He had to be ready for what the machine had predicted would be his last morning alive.
And he hoped Helen picked up his warning.
Exactly 588 miles due west of Berlin, as Helen was taking out her phone to pass through airport security, she noticed she had a missed call. No number had been left, but there was a message. Stepping out of the line, she pressed ‘play’ and listened.
Then, without a moment’s hesitation, she hurried back through ‘Departures’, to the long line of ticket desks within Heathrow’s Terminal Two. ‘I need to change my flight,’ she explained, remaining professionally calm. ‘To Berlin – whichever airport is closest to the city centre. The next flight, please.’
Sixty-Five
DAY SIX
Schlosshotel Cecilienhof, Potsdam, near Berlin
4.50am CET (3.50am GMT)
* * *
Fed, washed and dressed, Myles thanked the receptionist as he left the hotel.
‘No problem, Sir,’ said the brunette.
Myles wondered whether the woman would call the police - he could tell his bloodied late night appearance had alarmed her. So, as soon as he was in the minibus, he turned the ignition, barely allowed the engine to settle, and pulled out of the carpark. Then he noticed the fuel gauge – almost empty.
To the east, the sky was beginning to lighten. In an hour or so the sun would rise. His last sunrise?
He wondered about driving away. Driving to Helen. Anywhere – just to escape, so they both had a chance of surviving the Sarin attack. But would that make them safe? He didn’t know. It would certainly leave the people of Berlin in danger.
He looked at the fuel gauge again – if he tried to drive anywhere but the centre of Berlin, he wouldn’t get there.
He realised: whatever the prediction said, there were some things he just had to do. Danger mattered less than his duty. He just had to stop Dieter. He didn’t have a choice. Not because of the prediction, but because of who he was.
Onto the autobahn, he checked his watch again. Ten minutes past four: whatever was going to kill him had less than twenty hours left.
He drove into Berlin city. Still no wailing police sirens. Still no sign of panic. Still most people asleep, although he did notice some early morning buses carrying a few drowsy commuters to work.
He knew Dieter would be on his guard, and would recognise the minibus if he saw it, so he couldn’t risk parking near the Reichstag. Instead, he drove near the building, then found a sidestreet about a kilometre away. He pulled up, took out the key, and locked the vehicle behind him.
Trying not to put more pressure on his recovering knee joint than was necessary, he walked towards the Reichstag. He stopped in the Platz der Republik, the green space outside the modern Parliament building, where he found a bench.
From there, he had a distant view of the entrance to the Reichstag. He could see anybody who entered, but was far enough away that he wouldn’t be noticed himself. He was tall, certainly, but dressed in a fresh business suit, Dieter was unlikely to spot him.
Then he waited.
The first rays of sun lit up the park. Myles noticed a municipal cleaner amble around, emptying the bins. He saw an early morning commuter rushing somewhere with a coffee cup, a couple of disorientated tourists, and eventually a tour group from the Far East.
As the time passed six forty-five, he saw security men enter the Reichstag, relaxed as they clocked in for their morning shift. Roughly a quarter of an hour later, the night shift clocked off, leaving the building calmly, either alone or in pairs.
The sun was becoming stronger now. As it rose over the Reichstag, it shone straight into his eyes. Myles shaded his face with his hand, determined to keep watching.
Half-past seven, and tourists started to gather near the entrance. Parliamentary staff with ID badges ignored them as they swiped into the building, their mind on other things. A quarter-to-eight, and the crowd was swelling. Was Dieter amongst them? There was certainly no-one dressed like Dieter, and nobody wearing wet clothes. If Dieter was waiting to go in then, like Myles, he had found a way to change what he
was wearing.
Five minutes to eight. Still no sign.
The security man in charge of the door was looking up at the clock. Then the entrance opened. The compliant tourists were counted in. None of them could have been Dieter. Myles had been wrong.
Still more people were nearby: a politician with an aide, comparing notes on the day ahead. A secretary in uncomfortable heels. A huddle of journalists. Almost by coincidence, Myles saw a frame he recognised from somewhere. Like Myles, the man was checking his watch, rushing to some sort of meeting…
Then Myles sat stiff, as the shock electrified his whole body: it was Dieter.
Myles stood, then started to jog, then run across the grass towards the Reichstag, ignoring the weakness in his knee. He reached the entrance just as the main door was closing.
‘Verzeihung, mein Herr,’ said a security official.
‘Sorry?’
‘I’m sorry, Sir, no entry.’
Myles peered over the heads of the people in front of him. He could see Dieter had been checked off some sort of list and allowed to wander freely within the building. ‘But I need to go in,’ Myles pleaded.
‘Have you arranged with us in advance?’ The guard could tell Myles looked confused. He’d met many tourists like him before. As with the others, the official spoke with a firm tone – respectful, but closing off the option. ‘Visitors are welcome, Sir, but you have to register with us beforehand.’
Myles searched the man’s face. Head tipped forward and lips pursed, the man had an ‘I’m sure you understand’ expression.
Myles thought about explaining, but knew it would be no use. If he told them Dieter was about to unleash Sarin, the bureaucrat would arrest him, not the real terrorist.
Myles gestured towards the guard’s papers. ‘Well, can you put me on the list now, please?’
‘I’m afraid not, Sir – we only accept reservations by email.’
