Foster wrinkled his nose. "Not much. But I like to write when I can."
"Write? Like what? Have you published any books?"
Foster responded cheerfully. "I'm about to. My first book is almost ready."
"May I ask what it's about?"
"The title will tell you. It's called Architecture of the 1000-Year Third Reich." He waited for her reaction.
She sat up. "That's a new one. You mean the building done under Hitler?"
"Exactly. What he built and what he planned to build if Germany won the war. Here, let me show you."
He got to his feet and started to cross the room. She snatched up her tape recorder and followed him.
On the drafting table lay a portfolio. Before opening it, he said, "I've always been intrigued by World War II. As an architect, I focused in on what Hitler had built and planned to build. I wanted to know more, and tried to find books on the subject. There were none. So I decided to do one myself."
"Not because you liked Nazi architecture?"
"No, because I hated it, but I felt that a visual record of this period should be preserved. Hitler's building program is what we call Fascist architecture. It's anonymous, and quite ugly. Fascist architecture is like a baked potato or a pound cake. All filled in. There's no lightness to it, no personality, no romance, no emotion, no passion. Let me show you."
He opened the portfolio.
"These are photographs of buildings that went up under Hitler, and models. in miniature of drawings of buildings he wanted constructed after he won the war. Happily, most never saw the light of day. Here is a photograph of the New Chancellery that Hitler did have Albert Speer build for him in Berlin. These are Speer's comments in my caption." Foster began to read to her from the caption. "'Strictly speaking, the element Hitler loved in classicism was the opportunity for monumentality. He was obsessed with giantism.'
Foster went on. "When Hitler first set eyes on the Old Chancellery, he abhorred it. He thought it some-thing 'fit for a soap company.' He wanted his New Chancellery nearby to be majestic. Speer saw that it was exactly that. A visiting diplomat entered the building on the Wilhelmsplatz through a court of honor. He went up an outside staircase into a medium-sized reception room, and then through double doors seven-teen feet tall into a large hall decorated in mosaics. Then up more stairs into a mammoth gallery four hundred eighty feet long—twice as long as the Hall of Mirrors in Versailles—going on past seemingly endless office rooms adding up to seven hundred twenty-five feet more. Only then did he reach Hitler's own reception hall, and finally Hitler's huge personal study with its desk bearing an inlaid design of a sword half out of its sheath, a marble-topped table at the window—used for conferences, after 194 and gilded panels over the room's four doors. These panels depicted four of the virtues, namely wisdom, prudence, fortitude, and justice. The floors were marble everywhere. Hitler would not permit carpeting. 'That's exactly right,' Hitler said. 'Diplomats should have practice in moving on a slippery surface.'"
Foster slowly turned the pages that showed photographs of the exterior and interior of the New Chancellery. "Anyway," Foster went on, "Hitler loved it. 'Good, good!' he told his architect. 'When diplomats see that, they will know fear.' Later, Speer wrote about his buildings for Hitler, 'They were the very expression of a tyranny.'"
Foster resumed flipping the pages.
"Next, let me show you an example of something grand that Hitler never had a chance to finish. This is his plan for the Prachtallee—the Avenue of Splendor—in the center of Germania, as he intended to rename Berlin. Hitler was an admirer of Georges Haussmann, who designed the great boulevards of Paris. Hitler wanted to outdo Haussmann. This Avenue of Splendor was intended to be seventy-three feet wider than the Champs Elysees and three times as long, leading to the Führer's palace. For the top of the palace, Speer suggested a German eagle in gold holding a swastika in its talons. Hitler liked that but a few years later suggested the golden eagle should hold a globe of the world in its talons instead."
The reporter was pointing to a model of a vast indoor room. "What's that?" she asked.
"The dining hall of his palace, large enough to seat two thousand guests at once."
"My God," murmured Joan Sawyer.
"And so it goes, page after page of plans never carried out. Speer wryly called it his 'drawing-board architecture.' Now look at this. It's the quote I want to use to end this section and, indeed, my book. It is a very effective quote from Albert Speer's secret diaries kept in the prison at Spandau."
Joan Sawyer bent closer and read the quote out loud. "Albert Speer wrote: 'For what was never built is also a part of the history of architecture. And probably the spirit of an era, its special architectural aims, can better be analyzed from such unrealized designs than from the structures that were actually built. For the latter were often distorted by scarcity of funds, obstinate or inflexible patrons, or prejudices. Hitler's period is also rich in unbuilt architecture. What a different image of it will emerge if someday I produce from my desk drawers all the plans and photos of models that were made during those years."
Joan Sawyer straightened up and regarded Foster with new respect. "And that's exactly what you've done."
"I hope so," said Foster. He considered his portfolio.
"That palace of Hitler's was going to be immense, full of two-story-high colonnades with ornaments of gold and bronze. But don't be fooled by that. Although he liked his buildings to intimidate visitors, both by their size and ostentation, Hitler preferred—deep down inside—structures that were stark, simple, native German, and with few international touches. You may not believe that, seeing his models. But it was so. Still, with the world in his talons, I guess he got carried away."
Foster closed his portfolio. "Well, there you are."
Joan Sawyer's eyes were glowing. "You're right, it's a fascinating project."
Foster gave up a half smile. "Like looking at a lineup of snakes. -
"When is it coming out, your book?"
"When it's completed. I have a few more pages to finish. That's why I'm hoping to go abroad this week. To wind it up. The book should be published next spring."
"I wish you luck." Joan Sawyer shut off her tape recorder. "Would you mind if I came back with a photographer next week and had him shoot a few pictures from your book? Of course, you won't be here . . ."
"I'll be taking this copy with me. But my secretary has a duplicate copy. You can see her."
The reporter had gone to retrieve her capacious purse, and was stuffing her recorder into it. "They'll make wonderful illustrations for my story." Then, as if worried he might change his mind, she added, "It'll make great publicity for your book."
Foster grinned. "Why do you think I gave you all this time?"
Thanking him, she shook his hand, and hurried out the door.
For a few minutes, Foster lingered at his drafting table, spreading his portfolio wide and turning the pages.
What he saw again pleased him. A solid job. But then there were several blank pages at the end. For the seven missing plans he knew existed but had not been able to find.
This reminded him that Dr. Harrison Ashcroft had promised to help him locate them. Then he remembered that Dr. Ashcroft was dead.
He went back to his desk to find the Los Angeles Times story he had been reading but had not read entirely because of the reporter's interruption. He found the piece about Dr. Ashcroft's funeral and resumed going through it. He was sorry for the man, and for his own missed opportunity to meet with him.
He came to the last line of the dispatch, and sat up, suddenly revived. "Miss Emily Ashcroft, the daughter of the deceased, had been collaborating with her father on the book, and she has announced that she will finish the biography of Hitler alone, according to her London publisher."
Rex Foster felt a surge of hope once more. Of course his problem could be solved. Emily Ashcroft would know all her father's sources. She would be able to tell Foster who, among Sp
eer's ten architectural associates, might have the missing plans.
Foster's instinct was to reach for the phone immediately, call Miss Ashcroft in Oxford, arrange an appointment with her, learn whom to see in West Germany, and get over there to complete his own work. Before reaching for the phone, Foster's eye fell on his desk clock. Late morning here meant early evening in Oxford. An acceptable time to call. Momentarily he hesitated, thinking it might be too soon after her loss to bother her. Then he remembered the deadline for his book.
Ringing Irene Myers on the intercom, Foster asked his secretary to try the telephone number they had for Dr. Ashcroft's home in Oxford.
A few minutes later, Irene was on the ICM again.
"Mr. Foster, I have someone at the Ashcroft number in Oxford. But not Miss Emily Ashcroft. Apparently she's not in. I have a Miss Pamela Taylor—"
"Who?"
"She's the secretary and she's been staying in the house since Dr. Ashcroft's death. Do you want to speak to her?"
"I'd better."
Foster got on the line.
"Miss Taylor? This is Rex Foster calling from Los Angeles. I don't know if you'll recognize my name—"
The soft-spoken British voice was uncertain. "I—I'm not sure."
"I had a recent correspondence with Dr. Ashcroft. I'm the architect who needed some information from him on Adolf Hitler. He agreed to see me. Next week, in fact. I had an appointment. But now .....He faltered. "I just learned what happened to Dr. Ashcroft. I can't tell you how sorry I am."
"It's a terrible loss," said Pamela Taylor. "Mr. Foster, you say? I do recall your name the appointment. .
"Well, I was just wondering. Miss Emily Ashcroft was working on the biography with her father—"
"Oh, yes."
"—so it occurred to me that perhaps she would have the same information that her father had, and would be able to help me as he had agreed to help." He was apologetic. "I know it's a little soon—"
"I'm sure she would be most cooperative."
"Can you tell me what time you expect her back this evening."
Pamela Taylor was regretful. "I'm afraid she won't be back this evening. She left London this morning for West Berlin."
"West Berlin?"
"To finish the project she and her father were working on."
"How long will she be in Berlin?"
"I don't know. Her stay is indefinite. It would be safe to say she'll be there at least two weeks."
"Can you tell me, Miss Taylor, where she's staying in Berlin? Perhaps I can look her up."
There was a brief silence on the other end. Then Pamela Taylor spoke. "It's supposed to be hush-hush---"
"Miss Taylor," said Foster patiently, "I'm sure she wouldn't mind. After all, since her father gave me an appointment, I'm positive she would, too."
"Yes, you're right. Very well. She's at the Bristol Hotel Kempinski in Berlin. Should be all checked in by now."
"Thank you, Miss Taylor. I appreciate it. I'll get in touch with Miss Ashcroft. Again, I'm terribly sorry about the accident. Hope to meet you one of these days."
Hanging up, Foster came to his feet, and hurried into the reception room.
Irene looked up from her typewriter. "Any luck?"
"Yes, definitely. Emily Ashcroft is in West Berlin. The perfect place to see her and get what I need. So, Irene, let's start right in. Book me on the first flight available to Berlin tomorrow. If tomorrow is impossible, make it the next day. Then call the Bristol Hotel Kempinski in Berlin. Have them hold a room for me, single, double, whatever accommodation they have.
"The reservation—for how long?"
"Who knows? Tell them a week. But it'll be for as long as I need. just pray that Emily Ashcroft stays safe and sound. She's my big hope."
Having settled into a small, modern, air-conditioned room on the eleventh floor of the Hotel Guarani in Asunción, Tovah Levine sat at the dressing table reading La Tribuna and sipping the last of her breakfast coffee.
Feeling refreshed after her shower, feeling relaxed about being in the capital once more after the four exhausting weeks in the back country of Paraguay, Tovah was trying to catch up on the world since she had disappeared from sight. On page three the name Hitler jumped out at her, arrested her attention, and she brought up the paper to read the brief item in Spanish. Anything that mentioned a Nazi was grist to her mill.
Sir Harrison Ashcroft, the world-famous historian from Oxford University, was laid to rest yesterday in a Methodist cemetery outside Oxford. Ashcroft, co-author of a forthcoming biography on the life of Adolf Hitler, suffered fatal injuries in a hit-and-run auto accident in West Berlin last week, where he was visiting to complete research on his book, Herr Hitler.
Tovah thought that Ashcroft's name struck a small chord in her memory. She might have read one of his earlier books while at the university in Jerusalem. She wasn't sure. In any case, she wasn't terribly interested in yet another book on Hitler, and she moved on inquisitively through the rest of the newspaper.
Soon she was through with the newspaper and her coffee, and she sat back in the chair a minute to organize her thoughts before her two o'clock luncheon date with Ben Shertok, who was coming in from Buenos Aires to meet with her. She had seen Shertok once before, upon her arrival in South America over a month ago. She had been impressed by him, his sharpness, his importance. He was high up in Israel's intelligence service and was the Mossad chief for four countries in South America. It was a key post, she knew. Only Mossad agents in West Berlin, in their unending search for Nazis—and in Syria, in the persistent hunt for Palestinian terrorists—had more responsibility and larger staffs. Paraguay, Chile, Argentina, and Brazil were still prime targets, as the favorite hideouts for many prominent leaders of the Third Reich, but Tovah had the feeling that the entire area was being phased out as a hunting ground. All of the most wanted Nazis were now in their seventies and eighties, and one by one they were dying off. Soon there would be few left to pursue, catch, prosecute. Still, even though Walter Rauff, inventor of the mobile gas chambers, had escaped them through natural death, there was from time to time a Klaus Barbie to be found in this area and extradited to France to stand judgment. Remembering this alleviated one's discouragement.
Tovah had taken a LATN flight from Concepción to Asunción, and a minibus from Presidente General Stroessner Airport the fifteen kilometers into Asunción. The arrangement had been that she would have a single room at the Guarani Hotel for the day, meeting Shertok in the lobby, and together they would go out to a restaurant for lunch where she could make her report. However, upon her arrival at the Guarani reception desk, where she had a reservation as Helga Ludwig (the name on her passport, a German name more appropriate for a Latin country hospitable to Germans but wary of Jews), she found a telex waiting for her. Ben Shertok requested that they lunch in her room and talk. This sounded more sensible to her, the desire for privacy, and she looked forward to room service.
Now she considered the time. It was still morning, ten after eleven. Shertok would not be here until two o'clock. This gave her at least a full two hours to spend on her own. She did not know Asunción well. She had been in the capital city twice before: once for a week, eight years ago when she was nineteen and trying to polish up her Spanish during a six-month tour of South America, and again just recently for two days before she had undertaken her travels through Paraguay as a Mossad agent. She had the urge now to walk about the center of the city for a closer and more leisurely look. And maybe pick up a few gifts, trinkets for her parents and brothers in Tel Aviv, with whom she would be reunited the day after tomorrow.
She reached into her suitcase for something to wear, something light, a sleeveless blouse, cotton skirt, sandals, for it was warm outdoors and becoming more humid. Once downstairs, she walked into the Parque Independencia. The palacha trees of the plaza were all pink on this day, and the avenues lined with Spanish Colonial buildings were lovely with their jacaranda and orange trees. There were gleaming
high-rises every-where, and small whitewashed stuccoed buildings, mostly shops, with red-tiled roofs. She studied some new restaurants, several refurbished government buildings, and stopped to look at the goods the lace vendors had for sale. She purchased some handkerchiefs for her mother and favorite aunt.
In a roundabout way she headed for the Plaza de la Constitución, dutifully studied the Congressional Pal-ace, and sat down in a shady spot to cool off and watch the foot traffic, which had thinned out after the siesta period had begun at noon.
Dreamily sitting on the bench, Tovah was in a mood to reconstruct the last three years that had brought her to this steamy, remote city. In school, earlier, her languages had been English (everyone among the young in Israel spoke English), Spanish (because it was challenging), and German (because her grandparents on both sides had been born in Germany, and lived and died there—died in concentration camps or gas chambers—but their children had been sent to Palestine, grown, met, married, and become her parents).
To improve her Spanish she had taken that first vacation to South America, and had twice accompanied her father to West Berlin, on a matter of reparations. Her paternal grandfather had owned a prosperous department store, suffered its confiscation by Hitler, and met his own death in the Nazis' Final Solution. West Berlin had been an alien place to Tovah, and despite its liveliness and excitement she despised it, despised what it had been. Yet she had found the young people decent and friendly and much like herself and her Israeli friends. When she had mentioned this softness in her to her father, he had laughed and said, "Don't worry about the young. They are not your enemies. Worry about the old ones, those from sixty to eighty. They were most of them Nazis, you can be sure. They are the ones who say, 'Ah, that was a good time under the Führer. Now our Berlin is filled with strangers, our young who are stupid and drugged by the Americans and other foreigners. We need to be harder on them. We need to clean out the garbage.' Those are the ones, Tovah, who wish for a nation of blondes again."
The Seventh Secret Page 5
