Secrets of the Last Nazi (20 page)

D
ieter had become invisible
.

No-one could see him. No-one realised he was there. No-one knew who he was. His disguise was working.

But it also meant he had been forgotten. No-one had remembered what he’d done. No-one apart from Dieter himself, of course.

It was almost ten years ago, now. Throwing pink paint over the leader of the far right group in the European Parliament had been only part of it. It was hitting the politician with the tin which had landed him in jail.

If Dieter had been attacking the politician because he was too extreme, like everybody else, he might have got off. But Dieter had assaulted the man because he wasn’t extreme enough.

Perhaps Dieter should have lied in court. His lawyer told him to stay calm, and pretend he was making a political statement against the far-right leader because the man was racist. But Dieter detested the man - the politician offered no protection at all to Germans, like him, forced to live under French rule because their land had been surrendered as ‘war compensation’ decades earlier.

Like Hitler, Dieter’s single year in prison had been easy. He’d learned useful things: a thief had taught him how to beat a CCTV system. A murderer had taught him what it felt like to kill someone, including how to overcome the instinct to offer mercy in the closing seconds. Both useful when he’d broke into the Berlin Hotel to kill Jean-François…

Dieter was glad his most recent victim had been a Frenchman. He would make that other Frenchman, Pascal, disappear soon too…

The year in prison also made him focus. It wasn’t enough just to attack the metropolitan culture, the silly ‘live-and-let-live’ mentality of his childhood city, Strasbourg, and all the Euro-nonsense that went with it.

Stolz’s secret would enable him to reverse the humiliation. No longer would Germans, like him, be ashamed of their past. Dieter would soon be able to shame the French. And wasn’t it the purest poetry that he’d be able to do it at the Compiègne railway carriage. Just like Hitler.

Dieter looked up at the prison. He tried to pick out cell number seven. Hitler’s old cell. What would the brilliant dictator have made of the international team?

Dieter knew: Hitler himself had predicted the Cold War. It was in his writings. Dismissed now, of course, but the once-great man had seen it all. Hitler knew the alliance between the Americans and the Soviets was phoney. Just as the international team was phoney now. Perhaps Hitler had been informed by forecasts from Stolz. Perhaps he was just a genius, much like Dieter himself.

Now, he realised, his mission to uncover Stolz’s secret had given him the chance to be much more. What had started as paid work, hired by the fat Christian from Israel to gather some papers, had given Dieter a chance to win the stature of a world statesman. It was just as Hitler himself had promised:

‘No matter how weak an individual may be, the minute that he acts in accordance with the hand of Fate, he becomes more powerful than you could possibly imagine.’

Dieter wondered whether he could really pull it off. Surely he could. After all, he had already lived the predictions that he was virtually indestructible, and they were due to hold true for another two days. Using Stolz’s secret, Dieter would scramble up the pile of excrement called society, to win the human race.

Now only plastic tape was preventing Dieter from going inside – tape set up by all the municipal officials and prison staff, all the useless people. Calmly, Dieter walked towards the blast hole. He stepped over the broken concrete where Pascal’s grenade had blown off the cover. He bent down, under the cordon. Then he took hold of the ladder, and climbed down
. Invisible.

In the cavern below he went straight to the metal desk and the machine with the dials. He quickly found the switch, and waited while it hummed and buzzed into life.

Then he set the dials, one by one.

January…

29
^th
…

Dusk…

It was his birthday, his birth year, his time of birth.

He lifted his head to watch the hanging globes sway, revolve and settle in their new positions. The coloured lights started to shine on the third sphere from the sun. Dieter stared up, trying to make out what would happen to him in northern France. Mars was active there – but did that mean action or violence? And he was going to be surprised there, too - an unexpected role reversal, a sudden loss of power. A twin threat of some sort.

He knew he had to prepare himself. If he was going to confront guns, then he wanted them to be his own.

But then he saw, in the eastern half of Germany, so, so many lines converging on Berlin.

There was Uranus, Mars, Neptune, and Saturn: all four were active in the German capital. All active for him.

Uranus: surprises

Mars: violence

Neptune: illusion

Saturn: authority

Perfect: the place where he could
surprise
the world with
violence
, and become an
illusion
of
authority
.

So it was to be Berlin. Berlin would be where he would transform himself. In Berlin he would cease to be Dieter-who-threw-paint-at-the-fascist. He would become Dieter, new leader of the world.

He knew the old phrase: he who controls Berlin controls Germany, he who controls Germany controls Europe. He who controls Europe controls the World.
Very soon that person would be him.

Quietly, he turned off the machine, stepped back, and slowly climbed up and out of the cavern beneath Landsberg prison.

Back on the patch of grass, he turned his smartphone back on, and waited while it found a signal. There was a new message from Father Samuel:

All means now valid. Destroy all Stolz papers. Call me.

He smirked, relishing the feeble panic of his paymaster. Then he pressed ‘call’.

Father Samuel answered almost immediately. ‘My Friend,’ he said. ‘Did you understand my message?’

‘Yes,’ replied Dieter. ‘Would you like the whole team to be… concluded?’

Father Samuel paused, but only briefly, before he answered, ‘I would.’

‘Then you need to deliver something for me,’ said Dieter, coolly. ‘I need one device, fully operational and set exactly as we discussed, and it needs to be old.’

‘How old?’ asked Father Samuel.

‘A century would be perfect,’ replied Dieter. ‘German manufacture, please – they’re the best, usually. And by noon at the latest, it needs to be precisely five hundred metres south of this location: 49 degrees, 25 minutes, 38 seconds north; 2 degrees, 54 minutes 23 seconds east.’

Dieter could hear Samuel inhale, shocked by the demand as he scribbled down the longitude and latitude. After a few seconds, the query came back. ‘But my Friend, that over is northern France. And I do not yet have the device.’

‘Correct. But just as I have delivered for you, I know you will deliver for me.’ He ended the call without waiting for another excuse.

Then he walked away – back to the taxi rank.

No-one noticed him leave. No-one had noticed him at all.

M
yles’ hotel telephone
rang at 0630 - someone had set a wake-up call for him, although he didn’t know who. He slumped out of bed to pull back the curtains. The Alps looked stunning: brightly lit by the dawn sun. The almost-full moon was about to set behind them. For ancient peoples – with no televisions or street lights – these heavenly bodies would have been natural marvels. No wonder they struggled to understand the passage of the moon and planets above them. No wonder they searched for a mysterious connection between the state of the sky and their own lives. What had they found, exactly? Myles wondered whether he was close to discovering it again.

As he gazed at the view, Myles understood the real puzzle of the planets was not whether there was a connection. There definitely
was
a connection. The evidence was clear – to everybody except the scientists and religious fundamentalists who had a motive to deny it. Planets could be used for predictions, and those predictions could be good or bad, useful or harmful. The real puzzle of the planets was: how could the power to make accurate predictions be kept from people like the Nazis, and used only for good? And that puzzle was far harder to solve.

He remembered Glenn had called for a rendezvous in the restaurant at 0700. Not wanting to be late again, he dressed quickly and hurried down.

Glenn was the only team member to be there before Myles. The American was already halfway through a breakfast of pancakes and maple syrup.

‘Did you have a good rest?’ Myles asked.

Glenn huffed. ‘No, but then I didn’t really expect to.’ He passed his hand over his perfectly clean-shaven scalp, as if he had spent his whole break agonising about Stolz. There was almost a minute’s silence before Glenn spoke again. ‘So what do you think about all this horoscope shit?’

Myles knew a loaded question when he heard one. But he decided to be honest. ‘You know, I’m not sure.’ He tried to explain. ‘The thing is this, there
is
a correlation. Stolz has found clear patterns between the planets and human events.’

‘Oh, come on,’ scoffed Glenn, swigging coffee. ‘You’re meant to be an academic.’

‘Yes, and that means accepting evidence. If the evidence isn’t what you expected, you have to go with the evidence. You heard of quantum physics?’

Glenn raised his eyebrows, chewing: he had heard of quantum physics, but didn’t know anything about it.

‘You see Glenn, quantum physics doesn’t make sense either,’ explained Myles, leaning forward to avoid other people in the restaurant listening in. ‘It says electrons can influence each other without any sort of connection between them. It sounds like so much nonsense, but it’s been proven as true.’

‘So you’re saying Stolz proves astrology to be true?’ Glenn put the question like a dare. ‘Really?’

Myles looked down, shaking his head. But he wasn’t saying no. He was about to explain when he felt a pair of hands on his shoulders.

It was Zenyalena, wide-eyed as ever, wearing bright purple this time, and clearly re-energised. ‘Gentlemen. Myles – Glenn.’

Myles and Glenn returned the greeting.

Zenyalena sat down beside the American and lifted a pancake from his plate. ‘Any news on Pascal?’ she asked, putting the pancake into her mouth.

Myles and Glenn both shook their heads.

Zenyalena shrugged, then pulled a face. ‘So, have you two learned anything interesting overnight?’ she asked.

Myles was about to answer when he noticed Heike-Ann at the entrance to the restaurant. She hadn’t seen them yet, so Myles stood up and beaconed her over.

‘Well, I found out about this place,’ announced Zenyalena, unconcerned that nobody seemed to be listening. ‘It was a German army base before the Americans took it, and it held out for a whole month after the end of the war.’

‘And your point is?’ asked Glenn.

‘We know Stolz took one of the last planes out of Berlin in April 1945. He came here, for some reason,’ Zenyalena explained. ‘Then the Americans insisted on interviewing him here – not one of the interrogation centres they had already set up. Very odd.’

‘Nothing odd about that,’ retorted Glenn. ‘He flew to southern Germany to escape the Red Army. He probably preferred surrendering to the Americans, which makes perfect sense, given how the communists were treating people.’

‘So how did you treat Lieutenant Kirov? There’s no memorial to him here. No record of him at all.’

Glenn clattered his knife and fork onto the table, exasperated. ‘Of course there’s no record of him, Zenyalena. It was seventy years ago, soldiers had been dying every day, and he wasn’t even American. What do you expect?’

‘Well, I say we find out more,’ insisted Zenyalena.

Furious, Glenn stood up. Myles wondered whether he was about to hit the Russian, but suddenly his face broadened into a smile. Heike-Ann’s did too, then Zenyalena’s. They had all seen Pascal.

Pascal joined them at the table, wearing fresh clothes and looking relaxed. Apart from a small scar on his jaw, which was covered by a surgical dressing, he seemed completely unharmed.

‘Looks like you got the medical treatment,’ said Glenn.

Pascal tipped his head to one side. ‘I was expecting something huge and American,’ he joked, gesticulating with his hands. ‘But it was just a First Aid station!’

‘What can you expect from a place called ‘Hotel Edelweiss’?’ mocked Glenn. ‘You OK?’

‘Yes – it was all minor. They released me after an hour.’

‘Enough,’ said Zenyalena. ‘We are all here. We need to keep ahead of whoever is following us.’

Myles saw the others eye each other. Another argument was looming – perhaps one which threatened to pull the team apart. ‘I know where Stolz’s next clue leads,’ he interjected. They all looked at him.

‘Where?’ asked Pascal.

‘France,’ Myles explained. ‘About five hundred miles west of here.’

Glenn pulled Stolz’s paper from his pocket, and unfolded it to reveal the clue, written out in garish highlighter pen. ‘You sure?’ he asked.

Myles nodded. ‘I am. The only question is, how do we get there?’

‘There’s a vehicle rental place in the town,’ proposed Zenyalena.

Pascal acknowledged her suggestion, but dismissed it. ‘Too slow,’ he said. ‘We need to be faster than whoever’s following us.’ Then a thought struck him and he turned to Glenn. ‘Could we fly?’

‘Another helicopter? I don’t know,’ said the American. ‘It’s not a medical emergency this time. But I can try for you.’ He stood up from the table, and began looking for someone to ask.

As soon as he was gone, Zenyalena turned to Myles. ‘This place – it’s 500 metres south of a railway carriage, is it?’

Myles indicated she was correct. ‘Yes, in Compèigne,’

‘Then, I say we fly to the carriage,’ continued the Russian, ‘but we travel the last half-kilometre by ourselves. We don’t want an American army helicopter crew barging in on whatever we might find there.’ Without waiting for a reaction from the others, she turned her mobile phone back on and started to book a rental vehicle – a minibus – to meet them in France. She passed her phone over to Myles so he could give the exact location.

Glenn returned, and, looking surprised himself, announced that there was indeed a helicopter which could take them, leaving in forty minutes. It was another Chinnook, flying to NATO Headquarters in Belgium, with space for passengers and time for minor detour. It could complete the journey in less than three hours. Heike-Ann, Zenyalena, Pascal, Glenn and Myles made sure they were on board. Soon, they were thundering into the sky above the United States Army Garrison Garmisch-Partenkirchen, as they soared up and flew away.