The Seventh Secret

by Irving Wallace

  THE SEVENTH SECRET

  Irving Wallace

  Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press

  © 2011 David Wallechinsky & Amy Wallace

  Cover Design By: David Dodd

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  The Prize

  The Man

  The Almighty

  The Chapman Report

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  The Two

  AMY WALLACE

  Desire

  The Prodigy

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  For Sylvia Wallace my wife

  And

  Ed Victor my friend

  Though a good deal is too strange to be believed, nothing is too strange to have happened.

  -THOMAS HARDY

  When you have eliminated the im-possible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

  -SIR ARTHUR CONAN DOYLE

  Chapter One

  When he walked away from the small private room and the press conference, moved through the crowded Café Kranzler restaurant, and emerged onto the sundrenched Kurfûrstendamm, he felt highly elated.

  Standing on the broad sidewalk of the lively Ku'damm this early afternoon in late July, Dr. Harrison Ashcroft—and now, since last year, Sir Harrison Ashcroft—considered delaying further work to enjoy a brief respite. On this, his tenth visit to West Berlin in five years, he knew that he had reached the climactic moments of his monumental work. He was on the verge of solving the great mystery and bringing his project to a successful—perhaps world-shaking—conclusion.

  He had managed a leave of absence from his post teaching modern history at Christ Church College at Oxford University to undertake this awesome biography. In the forty years since Adolf Hitler's end, the Fames remarkable story had begged to be written by him. At last, as his fourteenth book, and perhaps his most memorable one, Dr. Ashcroft had determined to write the definitive biography, Herr Hitler. But he had realized at the outset that at his age—then sixty-seven—he could not tackle all the research and writing alone. So he had invited his lively thirty-four-year-old daughter Emily, a brilliant lecturer in history at Ox-ford, to collaborate with him. From the start, he had known that he could not have made a better choice.

  Emily Ashcroft had been uniquely qualified to assist her father on their mammoth effort. After his wife's death in a climbing accident more than twenty years ago, Dr. Ashcroft alone had raised his daughter. It now seemed inevitable that the little girl, brought up in an atmosphere of scholarly curiosity, amid thousands of books, and constant travel, should have become a historian like himself. She too had specialized in the modern history of France and Germany, and spoke the languages of both those countries fluently. Also, she had been fascinated by the now distantly romantic Second World War and the dominant role the strange and enigmatic Adolf Hitler had played in it. Twice, during the earlier research stages, Emily had accompanied her father to Berlin. This time, on what might be his last and most crucial visit to West Germany's first city, Dr. Ashcroft had again left Emily behind in Oxford to organize notes for their final push.

  Their final push meant solving the last mystery of Adolf Hitler's death with Eva Braun, his wife of one day, in the depths of the underground Führerbunker beside the Old Reich Chancellery on April 30, 1945.

  Two months ago, after considerable firsthand research—in West Berlin talking to surviving eyewitnesses, and in East Berlin examining the medical reports and photo-graphs made available by the Soviet Union through his friend and colleague, Professor Otto Blaubach—Dr. Ashcroft, along with Emily, had been ready to accept the standard and authorized version put forth by biographers and historians of Hitler's demise.

  Returning to Oxford from his previous visit to West Berlin, where his definitive biography of Hitler had been widely publicized, and about to undertake the final section of the long work, Dr. Ashcroft had received a surprising and disturbing letter from West Berlin, an unexpected letter that gave him pause.

  The letter had been written by one Dr. Max Thiel, who identified himself as Hitler's last dentist. Dr. Thiel had read about Ashcroft's important biography. As one of the handful of survivors of those who had known Hitler personally, Dr. Thiel wanted the book to be more accurate than any that had preceded it.

  And then, at the close of his letter, Dr. Thiel dropped his bombshell.

  All histories to date on Hitler and Eva Braun may have been wrong. Hitler and Eva may not have com-mitted suicide in the Führerbunker in 1945. Both may have fooled the world. Both may have survived. In fact, Dr. Thiel had evidence to prove it.

  After the first shock, Ashcroft began to regain his objectivity. As his daughter Emily reminded him, the survival theories and clues about Hitler and Eva had never ceased since their deaths. Crackpots abounded and persisted, and Dr. Max Thiel sounded like another one of them. Surely, Emily pointed out, Dr. Thiel had brought his so-called evidence to the attention of previous biographers. Obviously they had seen fit to ignore him. Emily had urged her father to ignore him as well, throw away the silly letter and resume work with her to bring the biography to a final conclusion.

  Yet the letter nagged at Ashcroft. He had always been a perfectionist. He had toiled too hard to disregard any challenge to his scholarship. Rereading Dr. Thiel's simple letter several times, Ashcroft became convinced of its sincerity. The thing to do was to learn whether this Dr. Thiel was really the person he purported to be.

  Had he actually been Hitler's last dentist? A week's Investigation gave Ashcroft his disconcerting answer. Dr. Thiel had indeed been Hitler's last dentist, a Berlin specialist, really an oral surgeon, and he had treated the Führer a number of times in the last six months of the German dictator's life. Furthermore, Dr. Thiel himself had written the disturbing letter and was still alive, at the age of eighty, in West Berlin.

  Below his signature, on the fateful letter, Dr. Thiel had boldly printed out his telephone number.

  Dr. Harrison Ashcroft had no choice but to call that number.

  Dr. Thiel himself had answered the phone. His voice was deep, firm, and assured. What he had to say was lucid and certain. No senility there. Yes, he had the evidence he had written about. No, he did not wish to discuss details on the phone. However, he would be happy to receive Dr. Ashcroft at his home in Berlin and let Dr. Ashcroft see for himself and make up his own mind.

  The invitation was irresistible, and Dr. Ashcroft's curiosity had mounted.

  Three days ago, Ashcroft had arrived in West Berlin alone, checked into the Bristol Hotel Kempinski, whose entrance was just off the Kurfûrstendamm, and promptly gone to see Dr. Max Thiel. The meeting had been friendly, intriguing, and persuasive, and his scholar's heart had leaped at the chance to get at the truth.

  To do so, he had realized, he would have to dig in what had once been the garden beside the Führerbunker, the garden where history books recorded that Hitler and Eva Braun's remains had been buried in 1945. One problem. The Führerbunker area was on the East Berlin side
of the wall that divided the city, actually inside a no-man's-land area surrounded by a cement wall and wire fencing and East Berlin soldiers. To get permission to enter the Security Zone and dig, Ashcroft would need a go-ahead from the Communist East Berlin government and therefore from the government of the Soviet Union, which had long considered the matter of Hitler's death closed. Fortunately, Ashcroft had a well-placed friend in East Berlin.

  Years ago, shortly after the Second World War, at an international conclave of modern historians held at the Savoy in London, Ashcroft had served on a panel with Professor Otto Blaubach of East Germany. Ashcroft and Blaubach had found that they had much in common, including a shared interest in the rise and fall of the Third Reich and Adolf Hitler. Ashcroft had entertained Blaubach at his own home in Oxford, and thereafter had met with him several times in East Berlin. Mostly, their friendship had ripened through correspondence. As time passed, Professor Blaubach's stature had grown in the German Democratic Republic. Now he was one of East Germany's eleven deputy prime ministers on the Council of Ministers.

  If one wanted to unearth something in a highly guarded and forbidden zone in East Berlin, Professor Blaubach was obviously an influential person to contact. So Ashcroft had got in touch with his old friend, who had greeted him warmly. Blaubach regarded the request as unusual but possible to fulfill, and promised to try to obtain approval from his colleagues on the council for the dig.

  The night before last, Blaubach had responded. Per-mission granted. Ashcroft could proceed with his dig.

  Thrilled, Ashcroft had telephoned his daughter Emily in Oxford to report on his progress. Equally excited by her father's news, Emily had wanted details of Dr. Thiel's evidence that Hitler had not died in the Führerbunker. Ashcroft had held back, preferring not to go into it on the phone. He had preferred to wait and spell it all out for her when he returned from Berlin with what might be a stunning new ending to their book.

  "I'm going to start the dig the day after tomorrow. First I want to have the press conference—"

  "The what?" Emily had interrupted.

  "Press conference. Just a few of the top television, radio, and print media reporters in West Berlin."

  "But why, for heaven's sake? That's not your sort of thing, Dad, going public prematurely."

  "I'll tell you why," Ashcroft had replied patiently. "Now that Dr. Thiel's theory is to be tested, after so many years, it occurred to me that there might be other people like him around. Others who knew Hitler, knew of his last days, who might be encouraged to come forward with new information. Emily, I intend our book to be the last word, the absolute truth. That's why."

  "Oh, Dad, I wish you wouldn't do it," she had objected.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Don't make this public. I'm not sure how to put it to you, except this way. You have a worldwide reputation for pure scholarship. Conservatism in what you write, accuracy in what you write, has been your trademark. Our Hitler book will be the high point of your career. Don't mar it with far-out speculations. I know you've seen this Dr. Thiel and seen or heard some sort of evidence. But it could be fake, could be wrong. It could make you—us—look foolish. Dr. Thiel's conjectures go against every solid piece of existing fact. Hitler did shoot himself and give Eva Braun cyanide in the Führerbunker in 1945. Their bodies were observed being carried out to be cremated. They were cremated. Those are the facts."

  Ashcroft had hesitated. In their five years of collaboration, he had rarely been at odds with his daughter. But then he had said, "Maybe. Maybe, Emily. Let's be sure. I have to go ahead."

  He had gone ahead, swiftly, with determination to lay the last ghost.

  For the dig, he had telephoned the Oberstadt Construction Company, one highly recommended to him. Then he had made arrangements for the press conference today—limited to twelve reporters, four from television and radio, the rest from the leading newspapers and magazines.

  From his guten Tag to his auf Wiedersehen, the press conference had gone well. For one hour, he had spoken without interruption from the press and at the end had accepted questions. Everyone had known about his Hitler book. But he was here, he had announced, to make one final investigation of the deaths of Adolf Hitler and Eva Braun. Some "new evidence" required that he dig at the old burial site, and sift through it once more. Despite the numerous questions, he had been guarded about the "new evidence" and how he had obtained his lead. He had not mentioned Dr. Max Thiel's name.

  Now it was over, a success, and if there were any more old Nazi-era hands, eyewitnesses to dredge up, this publicity might bring them into the open.

  He stood before the restaurant, enjoying the activity on the busy Kurfûrstendamm. It was one of his favorite streets in the whole world. It made Piccadilly and Piccadilly Circus look tacky. It really had the grandeur of the Champs Elysees, only it was livelier. He scanned the wide sidewalks, the numerous glass display cases on the sidewalks, the leafy green trees standing like sentinels on either side of the street.

  Briefly, he considered taking a leisurely stroll up toward Breitscheidplatz with its Kaiser Wilhelm Memorial Church, the low octagonal modern house of worship made of glass and steel, incongruously standing next to the unrepaired war-torn clock tower of the original church. Maybe make a visit to the Europa Center, with its three floors of shops, theaters, cafés, and its nineteen stories of offices surmounted by the giant circular emblem advertising Mercedes-Benz. He might linger in the new Romanisches Café, not half so good as the old one he had known in his youth, but still nostalgic and the Kaffee was not at all bad.

  Or more sensibly he might turn away and take the few steps back to his room at the Kempinski. And have another look at the architectural plan of Hitler's Führerbunker before digging for the truth tomorrow.

  The truth and Hitler won. No time for relaxation.

  Harrison Ashcroft inhaled the warm summer air and started down the Kurfûrstendamm toward the Kempinski Corner Café , a restaurant fronted by an outdoor terrace of fables and chairs. From there he could turn into Fasanenstrasse, the side street that led to the Bristol Kempinski's marble-faced hotel entrance.

  Walking briskly, in good health at seventy-two and full of purpose, Harrison Ashcroft headed for the corner. His mind was on Dr. Thiel's unusual evidence, on tomorrow's dig, on Hitler's last day.

  He had reached the corner, crossed over to the Kempinski Café, and turned right toward the hotel entrance.

  That moment, turning, ready to resume his walk, he heard his name called out loud, or thought he did, and instinctively looked over his shoulder to see who had called him.

  But there was nothing to see but the large metal grille of the heavy truck swinging into the side street to block his view. Suddenly, the truck screeched, jumping the curb, rising high, smashing the flower planter on the corner, sending screaming diners into wild retreat.

  Then the truck, momentarily out of control, swerved sharply away from the Café and roared along the sidewalk toward him.

  The mammoth grille and tires loomed up over him, and the suddenness and fright of it paralyzed him.

  The grille of the truck struck him full on, like a thud of Samson's fist, drove him off his feet and into the air, catapulting him into the side street itself.

  He landed hard on his face, half-blinded, half-conscious, broken and bleeding. He tried to raise his head from the pavement, to protest the indignity and the obscenity, when he saw the truck's grille and thick tires once more looming directly over him as it careened back into the street.

  Feebly, he tried to lift a hand to deflect it, but the tires were upon him, the last thing he would ever see in this life.

  The tires rolled over him, squashing and crunching. The blackness was instantaneous. The blackness was forever.

  After the burial, sitting desolate in the rear seat of the funeral home's black Daimler, Emily's first instinct and desire as she began the return ride from the cemetery to Oxford was to tell her father about the funeral. She wanted to tell h
er father about the ceremony, so well attended by prominent people from the faculty, countless friends, all his relatives, several civil servants down from London, and even their favorite clerk from Blackwell's bookstore. She wanted to share this with her father, tell him about it as she always told him everything. But then with a jolt she realized that she couldn't because he wasn't there. He was in the ground. He was gone. It was unbelievable. For the first time in her life, he wasn't there.

  She realized then who was there. In the rear seat of the Daimler next to her was Pamela Taylor, their mousy redheaded secretary and typist, dabbing yet another Kleenex to her puffy eyes and swollen nose. On Emily's other side, sitting stiffly, staring ahead at the chauffeur and the countryside, was her Uncle Brian Ashcroft, at sixty-nine her father's younger brother, head of an accounting firm in Birmingham.

  They were all tearless now, cried out, emptied of emotion, and saving what was left of themselves for the post-funeral reception at her father's house—her house—several blocks from the university, where her father had lived a lifetime.

  The dreadful news had come in early evening by telephone from the police in West Berlin. Miss Emily Ashcroft? There has been a serious accident. Your father, Sir Harrison Ashcroft, knocked down by a truck and killed. A hit-and-run driver. Your father died immediately. Sorry, so very sorry.

  There had been more, but Emily had been unable to comprehend it. In complete shock, somehow disbelieving, she had managed to phone their old family physician, irrationally thinking he might save her father. But the physician had understood the reality, had come over at once, had given her a sedative, and had then summoned Pamela, who in turn had summoned some of Dr. Ashcroft's closest faculty friends.