by Iles, Greg
“What I see,” said Stern irritably, “is a history professor who has lost touch with reality.”
Natterman cackled. “That’s because you’re blind, Stern! Blind like all the rest! Blind to history! I told Hauer that the key to this mystery lay in the past, but the arrogant fool didn’t believe me!”
“What in God’s name are you babbling about?”
“Egypt, Stern, Egypt. Don’t you see? All these mystical signs and symbols, they lead ultimately to one man: Rudolf Hess!”
“How?” Stern snapped.
“Because,” Natterman explained, “Rudolf Hess was born and raised in Egypt! He went to school in Alexandria until he was fourteen years old!”
Stern sat in stunned silence. “That’s true,” he murmured finally. “I remember now.”
Natterman was nodding with nervous energy. “I’m going to find him, Stern. I’m going to deliver that Nazi bastard into the modern world. It will be the academic coup of the century!”
“Take it easy, Professor. I think you’re letting your imagination run away with you. That eye could mean any number of things. And the name Phoenix has been used to name everything from cities to cars to condoms. You’re stretching logic too far. So Hess was raised in Egypt … I presume he attended a German school there, and he was still only a boy when he emigrated to Germany.”
“He did attend a German school,” Natterman admitted. “But fourteen is not so young. And childhood impressions are often the most vivid of our lives. The treasures and mysteries of Egypt’s past would have fascinated any European boy. No, Stern, I don’t think I’m stretching logic. It’s simple deductive reasoning.”
Stern looked thoughtful. “Think what you wish, Professor. I will say this: I’m not so sure Hess’s original mission is over yet”—he smiled—“I just don’t think Hess, is running it.”
Natterman looked anxious. “What do you mean?” “I mean that Hess flew to Britain to arrange an Anglo-German peace. I accept that as fact. Whatever delusions Hess may have had, the strongest connection, the only real foundation for such a peace was the widespread belief in England that Germany represented the last and strongest possible barrier against an expansionist-minded Russia. Against communism.”
“That’s freshman history,” said Natterman. “What’s your point?”
“My point is that things may not be so different now. The Soviet Union is disintegrating, Professor. The heart of the military colossus is economic chaos; the great warrior is starving inside his armour. Russia’s provinces and satellites seethe with resentment and sedition. One day not so long from now, Professor, the Soviet Union could explode.”
“And?”
“And I’m not the only fool who knows that! I’m saying that some people may still believe that Germany represents the best natural barrier against Russia, the unstable colossus.”
“Germany? As a barrier to Russia?”
Stern smiled coldly. “Not Germany as you know it. But a Germany reunited. Reunited and armed with nuclear weapons. Its own nuclear weapons.”
“No,” Natterman breathed. “That can’t be true. If we Germans wanted nuclear weapons, we could have developed them ourselves long ago. We invented the ballistic missile, for God’s sake!”
Stern snorted. “It’s no more fantastic than your fairy tale about Rudolf Hess.”
“Hess is alive!” Natterman insisted. “I know it!”
Stern’s face hardened. “Whether he is or he isn’t, Professor, I don’t want you mentioning his name in front of anyone from this moment forward. You understand? No one. Not friends, not family. Fantasies like yours can produce hysterical responses in some people.”
“But not in you,” Natterman said, eyeing the Israeli closely.
“Since you think Hess is alive, Professor,” Stern said gamely, “tell me this. If Hess survived his mission to England, why didn’t he return to Germany? To his beloved Führer?”
Natterman opened his mouth to speak, then realized that he did not have an answer. “I won’t know that until I know what Hess’s real mission was,” he said. “Until we find Hess himself.”
Stern swung onto the access road for Frankfurt-Main International Airport. “Professor,” he said, “we are after two different things. You’re obsessed with the past, I fight in the present. But the Hess case links us. We’re on a road we cannot see, and at the end of it, I fear, lies something as evil as human beings can devise. I believe that the danger that exists now came out of the past. But I can’t rip away the curtain of time and see what ill-begotten proposition Rudolf Hess carried to England forty-seven years ago.” Stern flicked his lights and passed a slow-moving BMW. “So you know what I think? I think maybe having a German history professor along with me is the next best thing. Even if he is an ambitious, close-mouthed goyim who thinks he’s Simon Wiesenthal.”
Stern swung the car into the ticketing check-in lane. When he had parked, Natterman climbed out and looked at him across the car’s roof. “I just hope you’re not condemning my granddaughter to death by making this stupid side trip to Israel,” he growled.
Stern bunched his coat collar higher around his neck. “This mystery has waited half a century to be solved, Professor. It can wait one more day.” He turned and hurried into the terminal.
I wonder, Natterman asked himself, walking toward the huge glass doors. I wonder if it can.
THE NAZI PLAN
Hess is insane. He is the Dove of Peace. He is the Messiah. He is Hitler’s prince. He is the one honest man they’ve got. He is the worst assassin of the lot. He has a mission to preserve mankind. He is a “bastard”. He has been dotty since the age of ten. And all this time he has been one of Hitler’s top men …
“Hess, the Deputy Führer”
By AP HERBERT, 1941
After Hess parachuted into England
CHAPTER TWENTY
January 7, 1941, The Berghof, The Bavarian Alps
Rudolf Hess stood alone before the great picture window of Adolf Hitler’s Alpine headquarters and waited for his Führer. Hess was a big man, with an athlete’s body—broad across the shoulders and, even at forty-seven, narrow through the waist—yet Hitler’s window dwarfed him. Like all things designed by or for the Führer, it was the largest in the world. Silhouetted against its Olympian panorama, Hess looked like a tiny extra in the corner of a movie screen.
Deep in the valley below him, the village of Berchtesgaden slept peacefully. Beyond it the magnificent Untersberg rose skyward, covered with fresh January snow. Far to the north Hess could just see the rooftops of Salzburg. He could understand why the Führer retreated to this mountain eyrie when the pressures of the war became too onerous. This was one of those times. As Hess stared out at the mountain, a stabbing pain pierced his stomach. He bent double, clenching his abdomen with his heavily-muscled forearms until the agony abated. He had endured these attacks for three weeks now, each in stoic silence. For he knew it was no organic toxin that caused the pain, but anxiety—a terrible, withering apprehension. The first attack had struck him on December 18, less than twelve hours after Hitler issued his secret Directive Number 21. In that order the Führer had commanded that all preparations for plan Barbarossa—the full-scale invasion of Soviet Russia—be completed by May 15 of this year.
Hess regarded Directive 21 as insanity, and he was not alone. Some of the Wehrmacht’s most gifted generals felt the same. Hess felt no moral qualms about betraying Stalin or attacking Russia. If a few million Russians had to die to create new living space for Germans, so be it. But to attempt the invasion now, while England remained unbeaten in the west? Madness! Hess had a single hope. If peace with England could somehow be secured before Barbarossa was launched, suicidal tragedy might yet be averted. Just six months ago Hitler had offered peace to the British from the floor of the Reichstag, and Winston Churchill had immediately answered with a resounding “No!” Yet that had not discouraged Hess. With the help of Professor Karl Haushofer, a family friend, he had sent a sub
-rosa letter to England proposing a secret meeting in Lisbon between himself and Douglas Hamilton, the Premier Duke of Scotland. The subject to be discussed: Anglo-German peace.
The Duke of Hamilton was renowned as the first man to fly over Mount Everest, and Hess liked the idea of dealing with a fellow flyer. He himself had won the dangerous air race around the Zugspitze, Germany’s highest peak. Hess had met Hamilton briefly at the 1936 Olympics in Berlin, and the dashing young duke had seemed just the type of fellow who could short-circuit the tedious process of diplomacy and bring Churchill to his senses. Yet three months had passed since the peace letter began its circuitous journey to England, and still Hess had received no answer.
For the first few weeks he hadn’t worried too much; Hitler had given tacit consent to the peace feeler, and gratefully he hadn’t seemed too disappointed when the effort did not immediately pan out. Even as weeks turned to months—while Hess grew more agitated with each passing day—Hitler seemed unconcerned. Then on December 18, Hess, to his horror, discovered the reason for the Führer’s uncharacteristic patience. Hitler meant to invade Russia whether peace with England had been secured or not! From that day forward Hess had prayed desperately that an answer from the Duke of Hamilton might still arrive—that peace negotiations could still be arranged. He hoped that he had been summoned to the Berghof today to discuss that very event. Wiping the sweat from his brow, he took another long look out at the great mountain across the valley.
Legend told that the Emperor Charlemagne slept beneath the Untersberg, that one day he would rise up to restore the lost glory of the German Empire. Hess had often boasted that Adolf Hitler was the fulfilment of that prophecy. Now he was not so sure. No man was more faithful to the Führer than he, but lately he had begun to think back to the old days, to the Great War. Hess had been Hitler’s company commander then, and young Hitler only a dispatch runner, one more mustard-gassed soldier betrayed by the Jewish financiers.
Hess caught his breath as another stab of agony twisted his stomach. He shut his eyes against the pain, yet even as he did, a horrifying vision filled his mind. He saw the frozen, limitless steppes of Russia stretching away before him, league after league, drenched in blood. German blood. When the pain finally eased, he pressed his sweaty palms to the great sheet of glass, fingers outspread, and looked out at the Untersberg in silent invocation: If ever there was a time for you to rise, emperor, it is now! What the Führer plans was beyond even Napoleon, and I fear that without some miracle, the task he set us is too great.
“Rudi!” Adolf Hitler called across the richly appointed salon. “Come here! Let me see you!” When Hess turned from the window, he felt a jolt of astonishment. The effusive welcome had not surprised him; Hitler often complained that his senior staff did not visit the Berghof frequently enough. But his clothes … Hess was startled speechless. For some time now Hitler had worn dark business suits during the day, and dressed with particular severity around the time of military conferences. But today—with a major war conference scheduled in a matter of hours—he looked just as he had during the early thirties, wearing a blue linen sport jacket, white shirt, and a yellow tie to top it all off. Hitler strode forward and clapped Hess on the back, then led him away from the window.
“I’ve had historic news today, Rudi,” he said, his voice quavering with excitement. “Prophetic news.”
Hess braced himself for whatever revelation might follow this ominous preface. “What has happened, my Führer?”
“All in good time,” Hitler said cryptically. “Tell me, how are your training flights progressing?”
Hess shrugged. “I’ve managed one or two a week since October.”
“Good, good. Anyone taking an unusual interest in your activities?”
For a moment Hess thought he had seen the Führer wink, but he banished the thought. “I don’t believe so.”
“Not Göring? Or Himmler?”
Hess frowned. “Not directly, no.”
Hitler’s eyes flickered. “Indirectly?”
“Well …” Hess looked thoughtful. “Last fall Himmler lent me his personal masseur, to see if he could relieve my stomach pains.”
“Felix Kersten?”
“Kersten, yes. He was a bit more inquisitive than I thought proper at the time. Is he one of Himmler’s spies?”
“Notorious!” Hitler cackled.
Hess was perplexed. He had not seen the Führer in such a mood since Compiegne, after the French surrender. He watched Hitler clasp his hands behind his blue-jacketed back, then pace across the room and stop before a magnificent Titian nude. “I have a destination for you, Rudi,” Hitler said to the painting. “At last. Would you like to guess it?”
Hess felt a tightening in his chest. He had played these games before, and he knew Hitler would say nothing more until he had guessed at least twice. “Lisbon?” he tried impatiently.
‘No.
“Switzerland?”
“No!”
Hess could hear the laughter in Hitler’s voice. This really was intolerable, even from the Führer. Just as Hess started to say something he might regret, Hitler turned to him with an expression that could freeze molten steel. “England,” he said softly.
Hess thought he had misheard. “I beg your pardon, my Führer?”
“England,” Hitler enunciated, his eyes flashing.
With a sudden surge of elation Hess understood. “We’ve had an answer from the Duke of Hamilton! Professor Haushofer’s letter has done it!”
Hitler waved his hand irritably. “No,no, Rudi, don’t be silly. Haushofer and his son are merely decoys—diversions meant to confuse British Intelligence.”
Hess opened his mouth to protest, but no words came out.
“I know Haushofer is an old friend of yours, but his dilettante son is a member of the German resistance, for God’s sake. But for you, I’d have had him shot months ago.”
Hess was dumbfounded. To hear that all his peace efforts to date had been in vain was bad enough, but the revelation that his old friend’s son was a traitor … it was beyond belief!
“And the Duke of Hamilton, my Führer? There is no chance that he might still help us?”
Hitler snorted. “The Duke of Hamilton is as loyal an Englishman as you could find, Rudi. Of course, that doesn’t mean the duke can’t prove useful.”
“England,” Hess murmured, trying to will away another stomach cramp. “Would my visit be in an official capacity?”
“Of course not,” Hitler scoffed. “That kind of play-acting I leave to blusterers like von Ribbentrop. Your mission will be all substance, Rudi. A master stroke of statesmanship!”
Hess stood silently for some moments. “Do you … do you mean that you have a plan to secure peace from the British?”
“That is exactly what I mean. Fate has answered us in our hour of need. Peace with Britain, Rudi, and Russia is within our grasp.”
Apropos of nothing, Hitler launched into a critical assessment of the Russian steppes, various campaigns against Mussolini, and then segued into a harangue about his arrogant nephew, Ciano. From years of practice Hess managed to look attentive while ignoring the entire monologue. His mind was filled by an image of himself flying hell-for-leather over the English Channel on an errand to see God only knew what Englishmen. Finally his anxiety got the better of him, and, quite out of character, he interrupted Hitler. “You wish me to fly to London, my Führer?”
“Not yet,” Hitler replied, ignoring the interruption.“I’m not sure of the exact destination yet. But certainly not London. My God, they’d throw you in the Tower before you got a chance to speak to anyone!”
“Undoubtedly,” Hess agreed.
“What is it, Rudi?” Hitler frowned. “You seem uneasy.”
“Well … England. I mean, it’s not neutral. We’re still at war. If I were to be captured there, the results could be catastrophic.” Hess saw Hitler’s face darken, as it always did at the slightest hint of opposition. “I’m not worri
ed for myself, of course’ ” he said quickly, “but with all that I know … the Russian invasion … Barbarossa.”
“I’m well aware of the risks,” Hitler snapped. “But there is no alternative, Rudi. We must have peace with England now, no matter what the cost. I have considered every option. I even thought of sending your double in your place. He hasn’t done anything but sit on his backside in Denmark since we trained him.”
Hess felt a jolt of surprise. He had almost forgotten he had a double. The Führer obviously had not.
“But it would never work,” Hitler declared. “The English will be looking for a trick, and they know you too well. A simple check for your war wounds would unmask any impostor.” Hitler chuckled. “I’m afraid you’re almost as famous now as I am, old friend. And that’s what makes you perfect for this mission.”
Hess cleared his throat. “What exactly is the mission, my Führer?”
Hitler began pacing out the room. “The operation will be called Mordred. But for the time being, the less you know the better. I only tell you your destination now because I must know you can reach England on the given night. Whatever training or navigational practice you need to ensure success on such a flight, you must do it.” Hitler stopped pacing and looked into Hess’s deep-set eyes. “Can you fly alone to England, Rudi? Alone in the darkness?”
Hess nodded crisply. “Absolutely, my Führer.”
Hitler nodded. “Do you have any parachute training?”
Hess’s eyes widened. “No.”
Hitler clucked his tongue. “I thought not. You probably won’t need it, anyway. I’m told the Duke of Hamilton has a landing strip right beside his castle.”
Hess felt more confused than ever. “But you said that the Duke of Hamilton was a loyal Englishman!”
Hitler smiled enigmatically. “That is quite irrelevant.” His eyes twinkled. “Do you remember The Scarlet Pimpernel, Rudi?”
Hess’s heavy black eyebrows bunched in puzzlement. “I … I believe you showed the film here at the Berghof, didn’t you?”
