by Jack Higgins
'So, Schultz, how goes it?' Bormann asked.
'No problems, Reichsleiter.' Schultz delivered a perfect party salute. 'Are you going up?'
'Yes, I think so.'
Schultz led the way towards a steel elevator and pressed the button. He stood back. 'At your orders, Reichsleiter.'
Bormann and Rattenhuber moved inside, the colonel pressed the button to ascend and the doors closed. He carried his Schmeisser and there was a stick grenade tucked into his belt.
'Not long now, Willi,' Bormann said. 'The culmination of many months of hard work. You were surprised, I think, when I brought you into this affair?'
'No - an honour, Reichsleiter, I assure you,' Rattenhuber said. 'A great honour to be asked to assist with such a task.'
'No more than you deserve, Willi. Zander was not to be trusted. I needed someone of intelligence and discretion. Someone I could trust. This business is of primary importance, Willi, I think you know that. Essential if the Kamaradenwerk is to succeed.'
'You may rely on me, Reichsleiter,' Rattenhuber said emotionally. 'To the death.'
Bormann placed an arm about his shoulders. 'I know I can, Willi. I know I can.' The lift stopped, the door opened. A young man in thickly lensed glasses and a white doctor's coat stood waiting. 'Good evening, Reichsleiter,' he said politely.
'Ah, Scheel, Professor Wiedler is expecting me, I trust.'
'Of course, Reichsleiter. This way.'
The only sound was the hum of the generators as they walked along the carpeted corridor. He opened the door at the end and ushered them through into a working laboratory, furnished mainly with electronic equipment. The man who sat in front of a massive recording machine in headphones was similarly attired, like Scheel, in a white coat. He had an intelligent, anxious face and wore gold-rimmed, half-moon reading spectacles. He glanced round, took off the reading spectacles and got up hastily.
'My dear professor.' Bormann shook hands affably. 'How goes it?'
'Excellent, Reichsleiter. I think I may say, it couldn't have gone any better.'
Fritz Wiedler was a doctor of medicine of the Universities of Heidelberg and Cambridge. A fervent supporter of National Socialism from its earliest days, a Nobel prizewinner for his researches in cell structure and one of the youngest professors the University of Berlin had ever known, with a reputation as one of the greatest plastic surgeons in Europe.
He was a supreme example of a certain kind of scientist, a man totally dedicated to the pursuit of his profession with a fervour that could only be described as criminal. For Wiedler, the end totally justified the means, and when his Nazi masters had come to power he prospered mightily.
He had worked with Rascher on low-pressure research for the Luftwaffe using live prisoners as guinea pigs. Then he had tried spare-part surgery, using the limbs of prisoners where necessary at Geghardt's sanatorium near Ravensbriick where Himmler often went in search of cures for his chronic stomach complaint.
But it was as a member of the SS Institute for Research and Study of Heredity that he really came into his own, working with Mengele at Auschwitz on the study of twins, first alive and later dead, all to the greater glory of science and the Third Reich.
And then Bormann had recruited him. Had offered him the chance of the ultimate experiment. In a sense, to create life itself. A challenge that no scientist worth his salt could possibly have turned down.
'Where are the rest of the staff?' Bormann asked.
'In the rest room, having their evening meal.'
'Five nurses. Three females, two males, am I right?'
'That is correct, Reichsleiter. Is there anything wrong?'
'Not at all,' Bormann said tranquilly. 'It's just that in these difficult times people tend to panic and make a run for it. I just wanted to make sure none of your people had.'
Wiedler looked shocked. 'None of them would think of such a thing, Reichsleiter, and besides they'd never get past the guards.'
'True,' Bormann said. 'So - it goes well, you say. Are we ready yet?'
'I think so, Reichsleiter. You must judge for yourself.'
'Let's get on with it then.'
Wiedler took a bunch of keys from his pocket, selected one and moved to a door at the other end of the laboratory. Bormann, Rattenhuber and Scheel followed. Wiedler inserted the key in the lock, the door swung open.
Music was playing, Schubert's Seventh Symphony, slow, majestic, the sound of it filling the room. Wiedler led the way in. They followed.
A man in flannel slacks and brown shirt was sitting at a table under a hard, white light, reading a book, his back towards them.
Wiedler said, 'Good evening, Herr Strasser.'
The man called Strasser pushed back his chair, got to his feet and turned and Martin Bormann gazed upon the mirror image of himself.
Rattenhuber's startled gasp had something of horror in it. 'My God!' he whispered.
'Yes, Willi, now you know,' Bormann said and held out his hand. 'Strasser, how are you?'
'Never better, Reichsleiter.'
The voice was identical and Bormann shook his head slowly. 'Not that I can tell with certainty. I mean who knows exactly how he speaks, but it seems all right to me.'
'All right?' Scheel said indignantly. 'Reichsleiter, it's perfect, I assure you. Three months we've worked, day and night, using the very latest in recording devices, using tape instead of wire. Here, we'll demonstrate. When I switch on the microphone, say something, Reichsleiter. Anything you like.'
Bormann hesitated then said, 'My name is Martin Bormann. I was born on June the 17th, in Halberstadt in Lower Saxony.'
Scheel ran the tape back, then played it. The reproduction was excellent. Then he nodded to Strasser. 'Now you.'
'My name is Martin Bormann,' Strasser said. 'I was born on June the 17th, in Halberstadt in Lower Saxony.'
'There, you see?' Scheel said triumphantly.
'Yes, I must agree.' Bormann tilted Strasser's chin. 'I might as well be looking into the mirror.'
'Not quite, Reichsleiter,' Wiedler said. 'If you stand side by side, a close examination does indicate certain features as not being quite the same, but that doesn't matter. The important thing is that no one will be able to tell you apart. And there are scars, not many, it's true, but I've arranged it so they appear as creases in the skin, the natural product of age.'
'I can't see them,' Bormann said.
'Yes, I don't think I've ever worked better with a knife, though I do say it myself.'
Bormann nodded. 'Excellent. And now I would have a word with Herr Strasser alone.'
'Certainly, Reichsleiter,' Wiedler said.
He and Scheel moved out and Bormann pulled Rattenhuber back. 'The question of the staff, Willi. You know what to do.'
'Of course, Reichsleiter.'
He went out and Bormann closed the door and turned to face himself. 'So, Strasser, the day is finally here.'
'So it would appear, Reichsleiter. The Kamaradenwerk? It begins?'
'It begins, my friend,' said Martin Bormann, and he started to unbutton his tunic.
Wiedler and the other waited patiently in the laboratory. It was perhaps twenty minutes later that the door opened and Bormann and Strasser appeared. The Reichsleiter was in uniform. Strasser wore a slouch hat and a black leather coat.
'And now, Reichsleiter -' Professor Wiedler began.
'It only remains to say goodbye,' Martin Bormann said.
He nodded to Rattenhuber who was standing by the door. The colonel's Schmeisser bucked in his hands, a stream of bullets knocking Wiedler and Scheel back against the wall. Rattenhuber emptied the magazine and replaced it with a fresh one.
He turned to Bormann, face pale.
'The staff?' Bormann inquired.
'I locked them in.'
Bormann nodded approvingly. 'Good - finish it.'
Rattenhuber went outside. A moment later there was the rattle of the Schmeisser sounding continuously above a chorus of screams. The Russian a
rtillery had started again, the building shook violently far above their heads.
Rattenhuber came back in, walking slowly. 'It is done, Reichsleiter.'
Bormann nodded. 'Good - finish off here now and we'll go downstairs.'
He walked out into the corridor, followed by Strasser. Rattenhuber took the stick grenade from his belt and tossed it in through the door of the laboratory. As the reverberations died away, there was the angry crackling of flames as chemicals ignited.
Smoke drifted out into the corridor as Bormann and Strasser reached the elevator and Rattenhuber ran towards them. 'No need to panic,' Bormann said. 'Plenty of time.'
The elevator doors opened. They stepped inside and started down.
When the doors opened at the bottom, Schultz was waiting, a Walther in his hand, his two SS guards behind him, Schmeissers ready.
'No need to worry,' Bormann said. 'Everything's under control.'
'As you say, Reichsleiter,' Schultz said, and then he looked at Strasser and his mouth opened in amazement.
'We are leaving now, Schultz, all of us,' Bormann said gently. 'Bring in the rest of your men.'
Schultz turned, walked a few paces and whistled, fingers in teeth. A moment later the two guards from the garage door ran down the ramp.
'If you'd line them up, I'd just like a word about the situation we're going to find outside,' Bormann said.
'Reichsleiter.' Schultz barked orders at his men, they lined up and he stood in front of them.
'You have done good work. Excellent work.' Behind Bormann, Rattenhuber was climbing into the field car behind the MG34. 'But now, my friends, the time has come to part.'
In the final moment, Schultz realized what was happening. His mouth opened in a soundless cry, but by then Rattenhuber was working the machine gun, driving Schultz and his men back in a mad dance of death across the concrete.
When he finally stopped, a couple of them were still twitching. 'Finish it,' Bormann ordered.
Rattenhuber picked up his Schmeisser, walked across to the guard and fired a short burst into the skull of one who still moved. He moved back hastily as blood and brains sprayed his boots and in the same moment became aware of the harsh metallic click as the MG34 was cocked again.
He swung round to find Strasser standing in the field car behind the machine gun. 'To the death, Willi, isn't that what you said?'
His fingers squeezed, the face beneath the brim of the slouch hat totally lacking in any kind of emotion. It was the last thing Willi Rattenhuber saw before he died.
Strasser stopped firing and jumped down. 'It's time I was away. I'll take Schultz's Mercedes.'
'And me?'
'I suggest you wait here till eleven o'clock. Start back to the bunker then. You should arrive around midnight, allowing for the state of the streets.'
'Dangerous times,' Bormann said. 'An artillery shell, a piece of shrapnel, a stray bullet, not to mention the possibility of running into a Russian patrol.'
'Like the Fuhrer, I walk with the certainty of a sleepwalker,' Strasser said. 'I wear invisible armour, believing completely that nothing will happen to me - to either of us. A great deal depends on us, my friend. The future of many people.'
'I know.'
Strasser smiled. 'I must go now.'
He crossed to the open Mercedes tourer and climbed behind the wheel. As he started the engine, Bormann picked up a Schmeisser and hurried across to him. 'Take this.'
'No thanks, I won't need it,' Strasser said, and he drove away up into the darkness of the ramp.
Ritter was squatting on the ground, his back against the wall, Schmeisser across his knees. His eyes were closed, but he wasn't really asleep and heard the sound of the approaching vehicle as soon as Hoffer, who was on guard.
'Major!' Hoffer called.
'I know,' Ritter said.
He stood beside the sergeant-major listening, and Berger joined them. 'It isn't a tank anyway.'
'No, some sort of car,' Ritter said.
It braked to a halt outside, and steps approached. The three men waited quietly in the darkness, there was a pause, a slight, eerie creaking and then the judas gate opened. Ritter and Berger flashed their torches at the same moment and picked Strasser out of the darkness.
'Herr Strasser,' Berger said cheerfully. 'We were just getting ready to go into blazing action. Why can't you whistle a few bars of "Deutschland Uber Alies" or something?'
'If you could get the doors open I have a Mercedes outside that would probably be better under cover. We don't want to attract any unwelcome attention.'
Hoffer said, 'My God, it's the -'
Strasser turned towards them. He looked directly at Ritter and said calmly, 'Strasser - the name is Heinrich Strasser. I'm here to act on behalf of the Head of the Party Chancellory in the matter you already know of. You were expecting me, Major?'
'Oh, yes,' Ritter said. 'You were expected.' He turned to Hoffer as Berger opened the garage doors. 'Bring in Herr Strasser's car for him, Erich.'
Strasser put an arm around Berger's shoulders. 'Have we got any chance of getting away with this thing?'
'I don't see why not,' Berger told him. 'To try such a thing at all at this stage is something they won't even be considering. At least, that's what I'm counting on.'
They moved towards the Storch, talking in low tones. Hoffer drove the Mercedes into the garage and Ritter closed the doors again.
The sergeant-major whispered, 'But that man isn't Herr Strasser. It's the Reichsleiter himself. What's going on here?'
'I know, Erich, and Berger said they hadn't met, when it's obvious they know each other very well indeed.'
'So Berger knows who he really is?'
'And who would that be, Erich?' Ritter put a cigarette in his mouth. 'Martin Bormann or Heinrich Strasser - what's in a name, and if he prefers one to the other, who are we to argue?'
'Major Ritter,' Strasser called. 'One moment, if you don't mind.' They crossed to the plane and Strasser looked at his watch. 'Nine o'clock now. Captain Berger thinks we should leave around midnight.'
'So I understand,' Ritter said. 'What about take-off? I mean, it will be pitch dark, unless they send bombers over and start a few more fires, that is.'
'When we go, we go very fast,' Berger said. 'I've got a case of parachute flares in the Storch. I'll start the engine, and the moment I'm ready to go, I'd like you to fire the first one. After the first hundred yards, another. We might even need a third, I'm not sure. You'll be able to fire the pistol quite easily through the side-window.'
'During the actual take-off period then we will be considerably exposed,' Strasser said.
'For two or three minutes only. Of course, once we're airborne, the darker the better, but unless you want to end up on top of the Victory Column ...' He shrugged.
'Anything but that, Captain,' Strasser said. 'It should, however, prove an exhilarating few minutes.'
Ritter went and sat on a packing case near the door. He put a cigarette in his mouth and felt for a match. Strasser walked across and produced a lighter.
'Thank you,' Ritter said.
'Is there anything you would like me to explain?'
'I don't think so,' Ritter said. 'The Reichsleiter's orders were quite explicit.'
'Good, then I think I'll get a little rest. Something tells me I'm going to need my strength before the night is out.'
He moved away, and Hoffer, who had been hovering nearby, came and squatted beside Ritter, his back against the wall. 'Well, what did he have to say?'
'What did you expect?' Ritter asked.
'Didn't he offer you some sort of explanation?'
'He asked me if there was anything I'd like him to explain, I said there wasn't. Is that what you meant?'
'Yes, Major.' Hoffer's voice sounded totally resigned now. 'That was exactly what I meant.'
At 11.30 the Russian bombardment started again, spasmodically at first, but within fifteen minutes it was in full throat.
Berger sto
od by the doors, checking his watch in the light of his torch. At five minutes to midnight precisely he said, 'All right, let's have those doors open and take her out.'
The night sky was very dark, occasionally illuminated by brilliant flashes as shells exploded, although they seemed to be concentrating on the area further to the east. The four men took the Storch out between them, two on each wing, and turned her round in the side-street. There was just enough room, the wall on either side only inches away from the wingtips.
The sounds of battle increased in the middle distance and Berger, who pushed beside Ritter, said, 'Just think, hundreds of thousands of people trapped in this holocaust tonight face certain death and yet if the engine starts and the propeller turns, we by some special dispensation will live.'
'Perhaps - perhaps not.'
'You've no faith, my friend.'
'Ask me again when we're passing over the Victory Column.'
They turned the Storch into the East-West Avenue, the wheels crunching over broken glass.
'What about your wind direction, Berger?' Strasser asked. 'These things should always be pointing the right way, am I right?'
'As far as I can judge, there's a crosswind,' Berger said. 'North to south, not that it makes much difference. We don't after all, have a great deal of choice.'
The avenue was very dark and quiet, the Russian artillery devoting itself exclusively to the district around Potsdamerplatz. Berger said, 'Right, everybody in except Major Ritter.'
Ritter said, 'What do you want me to do?'
Berger handed him a flare gun and cartridge. 'Walk up the avenue about fifty yards and wait. The moment you hear the engine start, fire the pistol, then turn and run back as fast as you like.'
'All right,' Ritter said. 'I think I can handle that.'
Hoffer pulled at his sleeve. 'Let me, Major.'
'Don't be stupid,' Ritter said coldly.
He walked away into the darkness, suddenly angry, with himself as well as Hoffer. The sergeant-major meant well, he knew that, but there were times ... Perhaps they'd been together for too long.
He was counting out the paces under his breath as he walked, and now he paused and rammed the cartridge home. It was quiet except for the dull rumble of the guns, and when the engine of the Fieseler Storch roared into life, the noise was shattering.
