by Iles, Greg
And contrary to what Heydrich boasts, failure is always a possibility. In the event—God forbid—that something does go wrong, my personal envoy and confidant cannot be captured on British soil. For in your head you will carry the secrets of Barbarossa. If the “impossible” happens—if the fanatics miss their targets, if they lose their nerve, if they’re caught, if the mission is blown and the great gamble is all for nothing—my messenger will I have to die. You, Hess, will have to die. And, quite simply, there will be no one there to kill you. No Reinhard Heydrich—no steely-eyed SS officer sworn to shoot without question at my order. You will have to do it yourself. Can you do that, I wonder? You once proclaimed to a multitude that I, Adolf Hitler, am Germany. Will you die for Germany, old friend? Will you die for me?
With his right hand on Hess’s powerful shoulder, Hitler looked deeply into the bright, worshipful eyes. “Rudi,” he said softly, “there are two possibilities…”
One hour later Rudolf Hess rose and marched to the door of the study. He turned and placed his right fist against his heart. “My Führer,” he said, “to die for Germany is no more than we ask of any soldier. In the most extreme circumstance I shall sacrifice myself with an unfaltering heart. My only regret is for my wife and son.”
Hess paused for a moment, too full of emotion to speak. “Yes,” he said at length. “Even they would understand. Deutschland Über Alles: these words are our creed.” Hess took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “Do not let this trouble you, my Führer. We were never meant to fight the English, and this is the solution Fate has provided us. You, Adolf Hitler, were sent by God to free the world from the scourge of the Bolshevik and the Jew! I believe that with all my heart. If my death were to bring our goal one day closer, my life would not have been wasted. But I shall not fail.” Hess nodded solemnly. “I await your final orders. Hell Hitler!”
Hitler felt a numbing jolt of profound sadness. The sight of Rudolf Hess, tall and resolute, his hard-muscled right arm extended in the Nazi salute, moved him almost to tears. This man, born to wear the German uniform, possessed a devotion far deeper than loyalty, deeper than patriotism. As Hess turned and marched through the study door, Adolf Hitler, his hands resting on the plans for the world’s youngest imperial city, realized that he had not asked the ultimate sacrifice of his deputy or his friend—but his disciple.
BOOK TWO
If … the Jew conquers the nations of this world, his crown will become the funeral wreath of humanity, and once again this planet, empty of mankind, will move through the ether as it did thousands of years ago.
Eternal Nature inexorably revenges the transgressions of her laws. Therefore, I believe today that I am acting in the sense of the Almighty Creator—by warding off the Jews I am fighting for the Lord’s work.
ADOLF HITLER, Mein Kampf
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
2.04 a.m. Lufthansa Flight 417. South African Airspace
The German airliner shuddered against the increased drag of descent. Hans Apfel took a deep breath and gripped the armrests tighter. The announcement bell rang. “Attention ladies and gentlemen,” said a male voice. “This is your captain speaking. We are now beginning our descent into Jan Smuts International Airport. We expect to arrive on schedule. The temperature is seventy-eight degrees Fahrenheit in Johannesburg. There’s been no rain for two weeks, and none expected soon. We hope, you enjoy your stay in South Africa, and we appreciate your flying Lufthansa. Danke Schön.”
“Nice change,” Hauer remarked.
“What?” said Hans.
“The weather.”
“What?”
“It’s summer here, Hans. No snow. We’ve hardly had a break for three weeks in Berlin.”
“Oh. Sorry. I was thinking about the exchange. Have you settled on the plan yet?”
Hauer nodded. “With our limited resources, there’s really only one option. We’ve got to find some place that’s really open, but with plenty of concealment for me. An empty football stadium would be ideal. I can hide in the stands—the high ground—while you make the exchange on the field. You’ll have two jobs. The first is acting.”
“Acting?”
Hauer nodded. “You’re going to be holding a grenade, and you’ve got to act like you’ll blow everyone to hell if they don’t hand Ilse over as soon as they touch the papers.”
“I won’t have to act,” Hans said.
“I’m afraid you will. it won’t be a live grenade. We won’t have access to one. We’ll buy an empty one at an army surplus shop. The grenade is just a prop to speed things along. We want Ilse in your hands ten seconds after you hand the papers over.”
“And my second job?”
“Running. As soon as you get Ilse, you’ll start walking toward preplanned cover. The kidnappers will have no intention of letting you escape alive, of course. When you hear the first shots, you run like hell.”
“What’s your job?”
Hauer made a pistol with his thumb and forefinger. “Suppressing fire. The second you get Ilse clear of my line of fire, I start knocking people down. The first shot you hear will be mine. I’ll take out the men on the field, plus anyone they may have covering the exchange location.”
Hans studied Hauer’s face. “Can you do that?”
“I won’t lie to you. Two snipers would be better. But I’m still one of the best rifle shots in Germany. I can do it.”
Hans stared out of the small window at the stars hanging above the African darkness. “Have you used this plan before?”
Hauer smiled faintly. “I’ve seen it used. Ten years ago I saw terrorists use it successfully against the Cologne police.”
“Oh.”
The Lufthansa jet leaned sixty-five degrees to starboard, banking for final approach. Hans gripped the armrests of his seat and stared straight ahead.
Hauer watched him silently, wishing he could reassure his son more. At least he had spared Hans what he himself knew: that the terrorists who had used his hostage-exchange plan had escaped the Cologne football stadium only to be blown to pieces in a train station an hour later. Escaping an exchange point with Ilse might not be too difficult; escaping from South Africa was another thing altogether. Hauer laid his callused hand over Hans’s and squeezed tightly. “We’ll get her, boy,” he said softly.
Hans looked over at his father, his jaw resolute. “I’m ready. But there’s something I can’t get out of my mind. Who cut the throat of that Afrikaner who attacked Professor Natterman? Why did he do it? And where did he go? Did he just disappear?”
Hauer’s face darkened. He knew exactly why the unknown killer had cut the Afrikaner’s throat, and if Hans opened the foil packet in his inside coat pocket, he would know too. The killer had escaped with three pages of the Spandau diary. At Hauer’s orders the packet had remained hidden for the duration of the flight. But sooner or later, Hans would have to be told the truth. Otherwise he would find it out for himself. “Hans,” he said, “I’ve got a feeling we may meet our elusive killer sooner than you think.”
2.21 AM El Al Flight 331: Over Tel Aviv, Israel
The El Al 747 flew a lazy racetrack pattern over Ben-Gurion Airport at a comfortable twenty-eight thousand feet. One of a dozen tiny blips on the emerald air-traffic screens below. An equipment malfunction on runway three had caused a delay, and until the men who monitored the skies over Tel Aviv granted clearance, Professor Natterman and his reticent Jewish companion would have to wait in the sky along with two hundred and seventy other impatient travellers.
“What are these mysterious things we need to pick up?” Natterman asked. “Weapons? Explosives?”
Stern looked out at the darkness. “We will need weapons,” he murmured. “But we’ll have to get them in South Africa, not Israel. I arranged it all from your cabin.”
Natterman tried without success to ignore the acid stomach he had developed during the flight from Hamburg. Combined with the stinging pain radiating from his ripped nostril, the indigestion made
the unexpected delay almost unbearable. “Do you think they’ve arrived in Pretoria yet?” he asked.
Stern looked at his watch. “If they took the first flight out of Frankfurt, they should be landing in Johannesburg right about now.”
“God help them,” Natterman whispered. He sat quietly for a while, then added, “I’ve been thinking about what you told me back in Frankfurt. About that Lord Grenville character. The one who owns the corporation called Phoenix AG. If Grenville is English, and his company is based in South Africa, why did you come to Berlin at all?”
“That’s a good question, Professor. But the answer is complicated and, for now at least, private.”
“If you’re not going to tell me anything,” Natterman grumbled, “why did you bring me along in the first place? A man like you doesn’t do things without a very good reason.”
“That’s true, Professor,” Stern said. “I brought you with me for two reasons. One is that you may be able to provide historical information that might help me. I know you’re bursting at the seams to tell me your theories about Rudolf Hess, and there is some of it I need to hear. But first, let me explain how this is going to work. You want information about what I think is going on in South Africa. Fair enough. But you are going to have to earn it. You will answer my questions about the Hess case now; then I will decide how much information to give you in return. If you tell me things I do not already know, I’ll reward you in kind. But this is the only time we will discuss Rudolf Hess. Do you agree?”
Natterman sat without speaking for nearly a minute. Then he cleared his throat and said, “What do you want to know?”
“Tell me about Hess and the British. Was there a pro-Nazi clique high in the British government in 1941?”
Natterman folded his hands together on his lap. “It’s very complicated, Stern.”
“I think I can stay with you, Herr Einstein,” Stern said dryly.
“All right, then. Yes, there was a group of Nazi appeasers—very highly placed—who wanted to make a deal with Hitler. That’s been proved. Or at least it’s being proved, by an Oxford academic. The question is, was that group sincere? Do you follow me, Stern? Were the members of this group English fascists who loved the swastika? Or simply war profiteers out for all the gold they could get? Were they paranoid anticommunists who wanted peace at any price so that Hitler would be free to crush Russia? Or—and here’s the rub—were they patriotic Englishmen leading Hitler by the nose until it was too late for him to invade England? Do you see my point about complexity?”
Stern waved his hand.
“And if they were genuinely pro-Nazi,” Natterman went on, “were they truly operating in secret? Or was British Intelligence aware of them all along? After all, what better stalling ploy could MI-5 have come up with than letting real traitors lead Hitler on—letting him think he could neutralize England without an invasion—until he could no longer wait to attack Russia? Remember, these ‘traitors’ weren’t the class of people one likes to arrest for treason. We’re talking about the backbone of British government and industry. What if MI-5 decided to use these blue-blooded turncoats while they could, and then slap them on their noble wrists when it was all over? Are you with me, Stern?”
“I’m ahead of you, Professor. What if the top officers of British Intelligence—expecting a few closet Reds from Oxford—were virulent anticommunists? Brothers-in-spirit with your alleged aristocratic, pro-Hitler clique? What if for strictly pragmatic reasons British Intelligence wanted to do a deal with Hitler, thereby freeing him to crush Stalin? Or … British Intelligence could have been ordered to explore such a deal. In that case the impetus to make peace with Hitler would have originated at the highest level of British government. And I mean the very top. Excluding Churchill, of course. But including the monarchy.” Stern winked at Natterman. “Are you with me, Professor?”
Natterman gave him a black look. “You should have been a historian, damn you. You’ve struck the main pillar of my thesis—the Duke of Windsor. British Intelligence has been helping to conceal Windsor’s shadowy past for years. All records of the duke’s wartime activities are sealed forever by order of Her Majesty’s government. Yet in spite of that, there’s a growing body of hard evidence linking Windsor to the Nazis. It’s almost certain that in 1940 the duke met Hess secretly in Lisbon to try to reach an accommodation with Hitler that would put him back on the throne. Windsor was the archetype of the privileged, Russo-phobic, Jew-hating British admirer of Hitler. And I’m sure you’re aware of the fact that many informed sources believe British Intelligence murdered Number Seven in Spandau last month.”
“Yes. But I have my doubts about that. I’m not sure that in this day and age the British would kill over the reputation of the royal family. It’s tarnished enough already.”
“If Windsor were merely the tip of an iceberg,” Natterman mused, “they might. Many historians believe that Lord Halifax, the British foreign secretary during the war, and possibly as many as forty ranking members of Parliament continued to try to make a deal with Hitler long after Churchill declared: ‘We shall never surrender!’ I doubt if the most revered families in England would care to have their names linked to Adolf Hitler after all these years. And no Englishman in his right mind wants Churchill’s ‘their finest hour’ myth stained. Think about it, Stern. Neville Chamberlain is excoriated today, and he was merely an appeaser. Men who sought to accommodate Hitler after the Battle of Britain would be branded collaborators.” Natterman looked thoughtful. “You know, I’d be surprised if some of those noble English family trees haven’t spread quite a few branches into South Africa.”
“Branches,” Stern muttered. “It’s roots I’m interested in, Professor. And not the roots of the past, either. I mean the roots of conspiracy in the present. The here and now. That’s where the threat to Israel is.”
Natterman’s eyelids lowered in meditation. “I don’t know about any threat to Israel,” he said, “but I think I’ve earned some information, Stern.”
The Israeli shook his head slowly. “Professor, what you have told me thus far is available in libraries. I want your analysis. Amaze me with the fruits of your years of scholarship!”
Natterman looked up at Stern, his lips pale with anger. “If you know so much, why don’t you finish this conversation alone?”
When Stern didn’t respond, Natterman said, “All right, I’ll give you something. But you’d better be prepared to pay me back in kind.”
“Ask and it shall be given, Professor.”
“That’s the New Testament, Stern.”
“You were saying?”
Natterman actually blushed as he whispered his next words. “What I am about to tell you, Stern, I learned by … by rather dubious means.”
Stern’s eyes flickered interest.
“As I told you, several historians are currently working on the Hess mystery. Two of them are at Oxford University. You may not know this, Stern, but history is a very competitive field. In the top rank anyway. And it pays to know all you can about your competition.”
“Are you telling me that you have your own spies, Professor?”
Natterman averted his eyes. “I prefer to call them ‘friends.’”
The Israeli chuckled. “Naturally.”
“One of these friends,” said Natterman, “managed to get a very close look at the Hess research going on at Oxford. It seems that there’s a very mysterious fellow who figures in the Hess case. A heretofore unheard of fellow, who seems to have done some particularly nasty mischief on the night of May 10th 1941. In the Oxford draft papers he is referred to as Helmut, but—”
“Another German named Helmut in England on that night?” Stern sat up.
Natterman smiled cagily. “The Oxford draft research indicates that. However, I believe that ‘Helmut’ is simply a code name—a, device that the Oxford historians are using to mask this person’s real identity. Never in my own research have I found anyone named Helmut associated with the He
ss case in any way.”
“You’re not telling me you think ‘Helmut’ is a code name for the real Hess?”
Natterman smiled triumphantly. “In the Oxford papers ‘Helmut’ is referred to as having had one particularly distinguishing characteristic, Stern. I think it will interest you.”
“Well?”
“He had only one eye.”
Stern looked surprised, then thoughtful. “That might tie in with our tattoo,” he allowed. “But I shouldn’t think you’d be too happy about it, since Rudolf Hess had two perfectly good eyes.”
Natterman raised a long forefinger. “He did as of May 10th 1941. But if Hess survived that night—as I believe he did—he had plenty of time left to lose an eye. He might even have lost it on the very night of his flight!”
“You should be writing movies, Professor. Do you know how many men lost eyes in the Second World War? Do you plan to scour all Africa for a one-eyed man, in the hope he will lead you to your fantasy Nazi?”
“We’ll see how fanciful I am,” Natterman muttered.
“Why couldn’t there have been a German named Helmut in England on that night in May?” asked Stern.
“There could have been,” Natterman admitted. “But there wasn’t. So—have I earned your half of the story?”
“Yes, Professor, I think you have. Just one more question, though. Were there any Russians involved in the Hess case, as far as you know?”
“Russians?” Natterman was silent. “In Hess’s original mission? None that I know of. But I’ll certainly think about it.”
“Please do that. And please remember our deal when we get on the ground. No fairy stories about Rudolf Hess in front of anyone. Talk like that can make some Jews very upset.”
Natterman nodded solemnly.
“Attention ladies and gentlemen,” demanded the loudspeaker. “Please take your seats. We have been cleared for approach to Ben-Gurion Airport.”
