by Iain King
‘I can email you now if you like. Do you have internet access, somewhere?’
‘We do, Sir. But I’d need to see your ID to let you use it.’
Myles checked his pockets and eventually found his passport – which was still wet - and handed it over.
The guard paused, wondering whether to accept the soggy document. But he did, checked it, then raised his eyebrows as he glanced back at his list. ‘Munro, Myles… Mr Munro, we already have you on the list. For the 0800 tour.’
Myles couldn’t understand how his name had been put on. The hotel receptionist? Helen back in Oxford? Glenn, even? Someone had done it for him. He decided now was not the time to wonder who or how. He had to catch Dieter, and stop him doing whatever he was planning.
‘Thank you, Sir.’ Myles nodded to the guard as he took back his passport, and hobbled through the security gate.
He shuffled towards the pack of visitors, joining the group just as it left the entrance area to begin the tour. His tall frame scanned over their heads to see Dieter near the front, about ten metres away.
Again, he thought of calling out, of trying to get both himself and Dieter arrested. But he still couldn’t trust the guards. They’d just arrest him. Dieter would at least have a chance to run and set off his wonderweapon. No, Myles had to do this another way.
Gently, he tried to manoeuvre through the people. He passed an Italian couple, bumping the woman as she read from a guidebook. Myles went round an American adjusting his camera-straps, and overtook two students gazing up at the new architecture. He was getting closer to Dieter…
Then a stout woman came to the front, the ID card dangling from her neck indicating she was some sort of official guide. ‘Good morning, and welcome to the Reichstag building….’ The woman clapped as if she was bringing a classroom of juniors to order.
Myles tried to pay attention, but his mind was on Dieter. The woman caught his eye. Myles felt duty-bound to smile back, pretending he was vitally interested in what she had to say.
‘…This is the building that most famously was destroyed in February 1933. The fire that night….’ The tour-guide started directing her words elsewhere in the crowd.
Myles checked on Dieter. The Frenchman was bending down to tie his laces. Myles still needed to get closer. He tried to ease his way past a man in a wheelchair, then a mother with her teenage daughter. But he knocked the girl’s digital camera, which clattered to the floor.
The tour official glared at him, then pointed at the wall. Her outstretched arm was blocking his way. ‘… and this is actual graffiti from Russian soldiers in May 1945. The Soviets lost about 70,000 soldiers fighting for Berlin at the end of World War Two, and this historic writing, drawn with coal on sandstone, was preserved as a memorial to those deaths…’
Myles raised his eyebrows in mock-interest, forcing himself to turn and admire the Russian lettering high-up on the inside walls. He turned back to look for Dieter, but the woman was obscuring his view.
Now the guide was beaming her eyes at him – the woman was trying to flick her hair back. Was she flirting with him? She raised her voice. ‘… and when this building was renovated for reunited Germany, in the 1990s, a decision was made to be sensitive to history. At the base of the large, spiral ramp to the ceiling, you will see photographs from the past – such as President Truman, Prime Minister Winston Churchill and Soviet Premier Josef Stalin, meeting in Potsdam to discuss the fate of Europe after the War. There’s also a picture of US President Ronald Reagan, when he made a famous speech here in the summer of 1987…’
Myles allowed the woman’s gaze to swing away. Finally, he could walk forwards again.
He limped on, towards where Dieter had been. But the man wasn’t where Myles was expecting. Myles turned around to look properly. Where had he gone? Myles checked the entrance again. No sign of him there…
‘Sir, you look as though your child has just run off.’ The tour guide’s humour roused a small laugh from the crowd.
‘I… I don’t have a child.’
‘Well, whatever you’re missing, I can help you find it later.’ The corners of the woman’s mouth rose, locking into a professional smile. Myles returned the gesture feebly, still concentrating on Dieter. He allowed himself to drift with the herd as the tour guide led them on - into the centre of the building.
Myles knew Dieter must have peeled off somewhere. Into a toilet? Or a side-corridor? Somewhere… but where?
‘Now, ladies and gentlemen, would you all please look upwards…’ The guide’s instructions were unnecessary since they were all gazing upwards anyway. Above them was a huge dome, made of glass panels in a metal frame. A ramp spiralled down from the very top, allowing people to walk up to the highest point in the building, viewing all of Berlin on the way up. ‘… you will see glass, which symbolises the transparency and openness of the new Germany…’
Myles noticed a curved cone hanging down from the centre of the dome above. Mirrors had been placed on the sides. Reflections of tourists as they climbed to the top appeared then disappeared, as the people shuffled out of view.
‘… and by climbing up to the top of glass dome, people can look down on their elected representatives working in the Parliament below them. This is the opposite of the discredited dictatorship of Adolf Hitler, when the politicians looked down on their people…’
Then, in one of the mirrors, Myles glimpsed a reflection of Dieter climbing up the ramp. Within an instant, it was gone again. But it was enough for Myles to know the psychopath was walking to the top of the glass dome.
‘… and we hope this new German Parliament will survive much longer than the last…’ But the guide’s words were lost on Myles. He’d already started racing up the ramp, hobbling as fast as he could, desperate to catch Dieter before the man ended this newest vision of Germany.
Myles sprinted upwards, forcing the muscle around his wounded knee to compensate for his weakened ligaments. He began to spiral up, grabbing the rail with his hand to pull himself faster - probably his last chance to catch Dieter.
He passed the pictures of Berlin through the ages: the horror of World War One, the rise of the Nazis, the Reichstag burning down in 1933, Hitler controlling Europe, then the city in ruins. Myles ignored them all. He had to climb higher.
He overtook a crowd of foreigners bunched around another guide. He limped passed a security guard, a very old woman who had probably known Germany during the war, and an old man with grey skin in a wheelchair, who was being pushed slowly to the top.
Myles didn’t register any of them. As he reached the halfway point, he began to see the panorama of the city – the offices, the old buildings, the open spaces. All in danger, if Dieter released the liquid from Stolz’s wonderweapon.
Myles raced on, refusing to be distracted by a small chunk of the Berlin Wall visible on the ground below, preserved as a monument to the Cold War. He tried to look ahead, desperately seeking out Dieter. But he still couldn’t see him. He had to keep going.
Myles was approaching the top, now. He ignored the pain in his lungs, and the twinges in his ruptured knee. An attendant frowned at him for running. Myles nodded - he understood – but kept on anyway. He just had to catch Dieter before the Sarin liquid was released.
Only as he approached the top viewing platform did he allow himself to slow. He looked around. Surely this was where Dieter must be… Myles scanned a full 360 degrees, but there was still no sign.
He studied the tourists around him: a family group, some teenagers, workmen in overalls… none of them looked like Dieter. Where had the Frenchman disappeared?
Myles paused, and finally stopped. He bent down, his hands on his knees to catch his breath. He looked up and stared around again. He was at the top, now. Such a small place – how had Dieter vanished?
He knew he had to think. To stop Dieter meant thinking like him. Myles had to understand what Dieter was planning.
Myles knew Dieter had the bottle of nerve agent – taken from Stolz’s
tin in the trench. He could have pretended it was water to bypass the guards at the Reichstag entrance. So where would he have taken it?
Myles scanned around again. He looked down at the spiral ramp, checking Dieter hadn’t run down again. No sign of him.
He checked the lower viewing platform, and the ground-floor of the Reichstag building. Still no sign.
In desperation, Myles looked outside, checking the panorama of Berlin in case Dieter had managed to leave the building. Dieter was nowhere.
Myles spun around, beaten, drawing confused looks from the tourists on the viewing platform beside him.
Suddenly, he felt his knee buckle. The joint collapsed beneath him, and he tumbled to the floor in agony. Pain was surging back. His ligament had ruptured again. Resisting the urge to cry out, he cursed himself for removing the neoprene support, and for pushing himself so hard.
The intense pain made him look up. And only then, noticing the glass above him, did he spot the opening in the dome. Workmen had removed one of the transparent panels. Myles couldn’t tell whether it was to clean the glass or do repairs, but there was now an access to the outside. It was a space large enough for someone to crawl through, and to get onto the roof. It was the only way that Dieter could have gone.
Myles pushed himself off the floor, just managing to stand on his one good leg. He edged towards the hole and grabbed the sides with his hands, then lifted himself up. Some of the tourists cued up photos, imagining Myles was performing a stunt or making a protest. Myles ignored them, concentrating on getting up. He squeezed out, suddenly feeling the wind blast against his skin, then clambered round the dome at the top of the building, until he saw the man he had expected to see.
Holding the bottle of clear liquid high, with his arm outstretched arm, Dieter was about to release the nerve agent.
Sixty-Six
Central Berlin
8.23am CET (7.23am GMT)
* * *
Myles tried to edge closer, pulling himself along a rail with his arms, his weight on his one good foot as he dragged his useless leg behind him. He felt the wind blow hard against him as he tried to circle round the top of the dome. He wondered if he could catch Dieter unaware. Perhaps to grab his liquid, perhaps to push him off. Anything to stop the man setting off the wonderweapon.
Clumsy as ever, Myles gripped tightly to the steel frame. He heaved his leg around a metal bar trying to approach quietly.
Dieter was just a few metres away. The Frenchman’s back was turned. Myles had a chance.
‘…Don’t get blown off, now… that’s not your fate…’ It was Dieter’s voice.
Slowly, Dieter turned round, raising the clear liquid toward Myles as if he was making a toast. ‘Good morning, Myles. Glad you could make it…’
Myles froze in place. He didn’t know how to react.
‘… Don’t worry about being blown off the top of the dome. You can come closer if you want….’ Dieter saw Myles wasn’t moving. The Frenchman shrugged and began to smirk. ‘… Or you can stay where you are. Up here, we’re both close to the heavens. That’s why I added your name to the guest list for the Reichstag. I knew you’d come. Even though you’d been told you were about to die, I knew you’d come to the most dangerous place there could be.’
Myles kept gripping tightly to the metal frame. He tried to keep his voice calm and reasonable. ‘It doesn’t have to be dangerous, Dieter. We can both get out of this. Just because the machine said we’d both die today, it doesn’t mean we have to.’
Dieter grinned again. ‘You think? You really think that? Is that why you telephoned someone due to die in two days’ time, to warn them away?’
‘Helen?’
‘Yes. You did call her, didn’t you?’
Myles didn’t want to satisfy Dieter by confirming he was right. He remained silent, just tipping his head forward, encouraging Dieter to say more.
‘You’re wondering how I know, aren’t you, Myles? Shall I tell you how I know you called Helen?’
‘Go on.’
‘Because she’s there. Look.’ Dieter turned his head, pointing out towards the Platz der Republik – the large green space where Myles had waited just a few minutes before. There was Helen, directing a cameraman who was setting up his equipment. Helen hadn’t seen them. Myles’ call last night, telling her not to come, had only encouraged her. And when he said Berlin, she had naturally come to the city’s centre of government - to the Reichstag. Trying to make her safe had put her in danger. He kicked himself for not predicting how she would react. Even if he warned her away now, she’d only come closer. Typical Helen – always heading towards trouble…
Dieter saw Myles’ face and began to laugh. ‘You see - even when we try to cheat our fate, fate still wins. You know, Myles, after we all climbed out of the cavern in Landsberg, I climbed back in. The globes said Berlin was the place I’d change the world.’
Myles’ eyes fixed on the bottle of clear liquid in Dieter’s hand. ‘What do you want your fate to be, Dieter? You could still walk away from all this…’
‘Not anymore. Not with the websites, remember? I’m the humanitarian, you’re the terrorist.’ Dieter lifted the bottle up, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger, and letting it sway in the wind. ‘If you try to take this liquid, my funeral will draw many more people than yours - probably even more than Helen’s, when she dies of Sarin poisoning the day after tomorrow.’ The Frenchman was still keeping himself a few metres clear from Myles. ‘You are trying to take this liquid from me, aren’t you, Myles?’
Myles paused before he answered, then decided to be honest. ‘Yes, I am.’
‘You see, Myles? You might say it’s your character, or because you want to save people – perhaps just to save Helen. But you’re completely predictable, too. Just as the machine assumed you were.’ Dieter began to smirk. Intellectually superior and he knew it. ‘You can’t leave here either…’
Myles refused to respond.
Dieter began to ponder. ‘… so let me predict, Myles. You’ll ask me to come down again. I’ll refuse. Then you’ll go for the Sarin. We’ll both fall all the way down there.’ He peered down. ‘You die from a great height. The bottle smashes, releasing the Sarin, so I die from multiple causes. Helen examines your dead body, inhales this stuff and dies tomorrow evening. All the machine’s predictions come true – every single one. I die a martyr, you die a terrorist, and Helen’s death means CNN runs the story for a whole week.’
Myles tried to shake his head, still gripping the metal. ‘Why are you so keen to know what’s going to happen, Dieter?’
‘We all are. It’s human nature.’
Myles thought about making a lunge for the liquid. It was exactly what Dieter was expecting, but what else could he do? In his mind, he calculated how far he was from Dieter – close enough for it to be worth a try.
Myles looked down: the surface of the glass dome curved away from him, down to a mid-level viewing platform. Some of the tourists were already gazing up, realising that Dieter and Myles were not on the top of the dome for any normal purpose.
Could Myles drag Dieter down to the rooftop without the glass bottle breaking? Unlikely: if they slid down the glass dome, he wouldn’t be able to keep hold of the liquid.
Dieter lowered the bottle slightly, holding it straight in front of Myles, taunting him. ‘I’m ready to die, Myles. I’ve found Stolz’s secret. And my death will help make Germany strong again.’
‘Is that why you did it all?’
‘No. I did this because Stolz’s secret belonged to Hitler. The Führer left it for the German people. When they hear I died trying to stop you releasing the Sarin, I’ll become a hero. They’ll respect the things I stood for.’
Now Myles understood: Dieter wanted him to attack.
Dieter grinned once more, gripping the neck of the bottle as if it was an old stick hand-grenaade. ‘No, Myles? Not coming towards me?’ Myles saw Dieter’s eyes pick out Helen on the green space below. The
psychopath pulled his arm back, aiming, preparing to throw…
Something in Myles removed his capacity to choose. A deep instinct thrust him from the metal frame, lunging the small distance towards Dieter.
Dieter turned to meet him. As Myles’ body slammed into the Frenchman, Myles felt the bottle of liquid smash against his shoulder. Within an instant, liquid burst out, soaking his shirt and splashing onto his face.
Myles knew he was covered. He knew he had no chance of surviving the nerve agent. And, as he lost his footing on the roof, it was his instincts which made his grab Dieter on the way down.
Together, they began to slide off the glass dome. Faster and faster, Dieter and Myles accelerated as the curve of the dome became steeper. They began to freefall. Down towards the hard surface below.
Myles gripped Dieter as tightly as he could. He saw the viewing platform rushing up, towards his head. He knew both of them would die.
In the last moment before his skull smashed against the concrete, Myles got satisfaction from hoping he had saved Helen.
Hope that, in one small way, he had managed to beat the predictions.
Sixty-Seven
Langley, Virginia, USA
5.25pm EST (10.25pm GMT)
* * *
As Sally Wotton prepared to close down her computer, she took one last look at the image of Myles Munro. He had been quite good looking…
And he had been to so many places: Afghanistan, Libya, Iran… and that was just recently.
The Oxford University lecturer in military history had obviously lived an exciting life. Such a pity - that life was now over.
Her fingers touched the screen, wishing she could have saved him from the deadly fall. But she’d seen the live feed from the satellite. There was no way he could have survived. The paramedics had carried away two completely motionless bodies.
The public reports about him from several years ago, when he was sacked over a scandal involving terrorists from Africa, didn’t ring true to Sally. She could tell he had been a scapegoat. They always try to blame the misfits…
