Secrets of the Last Nazi (3 page)

F
light Lieutenant Jean
-Francoise Pigou exhaled in disgust, shaking his head and tutting loudly at the TV. The only customer in the café, he raised his hand at the screen, inviting the café manager to red card the referee with him.

The café owner smiled: Pigou might not be the most gifted military secondee ever to stride through the ornate halls of France’s Foreign Ministry, the Quai D’Orsay, but he could be relied upon to keep everyone up-to-date with the progress of the Paris St Germain football team. The flight lieutenant’s enthusiasm for the game had filled the whole café more than once. He had charm, even if he was completely undiplomatic. It would be a pity when Pigou’s secondment ended, and the officer would return to his normal work, with the French air force.

Jean-Francoise’s anger at the referee’s decision evaporated when a young, professional-looking woman came towards him, a thin folder of papers in her hand. Jean-Francoise stood up to meet her. ‘Carine – you’ve come to watch with me?’

Carine smiled, but sat down with her back to the TV. ‘No, but I knew I could find you here. Is the game over yet?’

‘Not yet,’ said Jean-Francoise, gesturing, ‘but the result is known’

‘Good, then I can give you this.’

The flight lieutenant took the folder with a puzzled expression. ‘Thank you. What’s inside?’

‘A short trip for you – to Berlin.’

Jean-Francoise tipped his head in gratitude. ‘Tell me more.’

Carine settled herself in her seat as she explained. ‘There’s a very old German guy, Werner Stolz, who just died. He used to be SS. The Russians démarched the Americans about him.’

Pigou had just learned enough from his immersion in the Foreign Ministry to understand that a démarche was an official reprimand issued by one country to another, diplomat to diplomat. ‘So how did I win a trip to Berlin?’

‘The Americans agreed to an investigation, calling the Russian’s bluff. I reckon it means there must be nothing to investigate. Your assignment could be short.’

Jean-Francoise chuckled, ‘I understand: I am the perfect choice for an unimportant mission.’ He made clear he wasn’t at all insulted. ‘I like Berlin. But why do they want a Frenchman?’

Carine’s face reacted to show that even a French career diplomat could be surprised occasionally. ‘Well, you see, the Russians have been a bit clever. They did their démarche through a very old protocol – from the Yalta conference, of 1945. It means the United States have to give equal status to Russia, and equal access to all assets of the defeated Germany, including all the Third Reich’s information. As a side-effect, it means there’s also a role for the other Allied powers, France and Britain.’

‘So this treaty means I’m going along as a side-effect?’ queried the French airman.

‘Yes, Jean-Francoise, but I’m sure you’ll put yourself in the centre of things.’

S
imon Charfield
, assistant deployments manager at the British Foreign Office, arrived back at his computer, still eating his sandwich. He entered his password one-handed, and waited for the new emails to load up. Meanwhile, his eyes drifted out of the window – towards the queue outside Churchill’s cabinet war rooms. The bunker from which the British Prime Minister had sheltered from the Blitz always drew tourists. As a human resources specialist in the diplomatic service, Simon often wondered what the holidaymakers did for work, and whether any of the British ones might just be suitable for the ‘ad hoc assignments’ it was his duty to fill.

The manager turned back to the screen, and immediately discounted the diplomatic telegrams – ‘Diptels’ – which analysed events around the world. The Middle East peace process, the latest news from Zimbabwe, details about a key election in the Far East – none of it was for him. There was another email chain, all about a British secondee whom he had selected recently for the border monitoring mission in Georgia, which he just ignored. The most important email, he understood quickly, was one from UKMIS – the British diplomatic mission to the United Nations in New York.

I
MMEDIATE
: UK Secondee required for International Investigation Team (Berlin).

S
imon read
the email and understood quickly: a UK national was required to join a team also comprising nominees from the US, France and Russia. The Briton on the team, the email reckoned, would add most value if he or she was expert in military history, able to travel swiftly to Germany, and felt comfortable accepting a US lead. Immediately, he knew who he should send.

He double-clicked on his database icon, and a separate window opened on the screen. Simon whizzed through the fields, ticking boxes for ‘short-term assignment’, ‘Europe’, and ‘previous experience of multi-national work’, then, in the box for additional criteria, typed in the words, ‘military history expert’. As ever, the computer took less than a second to check through the thousands of pre-cleared deployable civilians on the database. But, because Charfield had added the extra requirement of ‘military history expert’, it meant far fewer names came up than usual. In fact, just one name:

Myles Munro.

Just as he had expected. And because there was only one candidate and the appointment was urgent, he wouldn’t even need to bother with an interview.

Other processes, though, would still have to be followed. Dutifully, he clicked on the name. More information came up, which he scrolled through:

C
harfield had put
the asterisk there himself, a reminder that there was a story about the person which was too sensitive for the computerised records. Usually, he scribbled it on a removable yellow post-it note. If ever there was a Freedom of Information request about the individual, he could peel off the note, so it didn’t need to be submitted. He kept reading.

A
nother asterisk
? He’d hadn’t noticed the second asterisk on Munro’s file before. Succumbing to his curiosity, he moved over to the filing cabinet and fetched out the slim cardboard cover which bound together the sheets of A4 on Myles Munro. The first yellow note fluttered out as he opened the folder. It was the note he had scribbled himself:

M
yles Munro may be
healthy and physically very fit. But I don’t know how the hell he passed his driving text – he can barely tie his shoelaces. He’s less coordinated than a kitten on YouTube.

S
imon Charfield laughed
at his own wit, but quickly sensed others in the office were turning towards him, so he pretended to cough instead, and buried his head in the folder.

He searched for the other note. What was there on file about Myles Munro’s ‘authority issues’? He looked, but couldn’t find it. All he could see was something else handwritten – again, in his own handwriting - slipped into the ‘previous assignment’ parts of his notes. It bore just one word:

Exonerated
.

I
t was true
. Myles Munro had been accused of terrorism, and lambasted by the newspapers for it. There were probably people who still thought he was guilty. But Charfield knew the truth: Myles Munro was the most effective individual on his database. Even if he was sometimes a little bit too individual.

Charfield knew he had to confirm Myles Munro’s security clearance for an assignment like this. He checked: Munro had been tested, and passed. The only remark listed under ‘noteworthy risks’ referred to his long-term partner, who was a journalist and a foreign national. The assistant deployments manager recognised the woman’s name – he’d seen her interviewing important people on TV, usually ripping them apart. Then he remembered the words from the Diptel: ‘Candidate must … be comfortable accepting a US lead’. Munro was perfect for the job.

He flicked to the contact details. Stuck over the address and telephone number for Munro’s college in Oxford was yet another small peel-off square of yellow. He had found the missing note on ‘authority issues’ – more hand-written words, this time written in a loopy, feminine script, from one of his predecessors:

T
his candidate asked
me if I was a bureaucrat. When I admitted I was, he wasn’t interested.

H
e wondered about the words
. What if Myles Munro turned down this assignment?

Simon glanced outside again and, watching the queue of tourists outside Churchill’s war-room bunker, an idea came to him – a plan which would make sure Myles Munro said ‘yes’.

H
elen thanked
the nurse for directing her to the room then, when she saw Myles was asleep, crept in as quietly as she could. She stood over him and examined the small cuts on his face, until she was satisfied the damage was only superficial.

She squeezed his hand and held it for a moment. When there was no reaction, she whispered into his ear. ‘Myles, it’s me, Helen.’ Then she kissed him.

Myles rolled his head on the pillow, squinting as he turned towards the lissom silhouette standing next to him. Helen put her hand on his forehead. ‘Well, your brain’s still together.’

‘Thank you.’

‘So – you looked left when the traffic came from the right, huh?’ She still found it funny that Myles had trouble with his left and right.

Myles smiled. ‘I didn’t have you looking after me,’ he said, touching her forearm. ‘No, I was chasing someone.’

Helen nodded. ‘And your leg? The doctor told me you’d need a special bandage …’

Myles’ expression made clear what he thought of the doctor.

‘When you’re better … no more thief chasing please.’ She moved to sit down beside him.

Myles motioned his eyes towards the medical file on his bedside table. ‘What did the doctor say about my scan?’

Helen smiled. ‘He asked me about your personality. He said, “We know he’s very intelligent, but do you have any evidence of Mr Munro being odd?”’ She tried her best to emulate the English doctor’s accent. ‘I told him it was a silly question. Looks to me like the oddball is the doctor ...’

‘They’re trying to do research on people,’ Myles explained. ‘Using brain scans to predict personality.’

Helen screwed up her face in revulsion. ‘I hope you said no – I don’t want you to be experimented on, Myles.’ She paused. ‘Although it would be interesting to see what the research said.’

The door opened. Frank’s head appeared, flustered, as usual. He was carrying a bag which bulged and made it hard for him to walk with his stick. ‘Helen – I’m not interrupting, am I …?’

Helen welcomed him in and gave up her chair.

Frank sat down and placed his walking stick on the floor. ‘So they put something on your leg, then, Myles?’

‘Yeah – a flexi-thing.’ Myles lifted up the grey wrapping around his knee, turning it in curiosity. ‘What do you think?’

Frank nodded in appreciation of the medical handiwork. ‘You’ll only be limping for a few weeks. After that you’ll be fine.’ Then he delved inside his bag and pulled out some papers. ‘Myles – I remembered what you said about your day job. History’s all happened, and all that? Well, I got you this.’

He passed a printed-out email to Myles, who held it for Helen to see. ‘It’s a job,’ explained Frank. ‘A short-term assignment – in Berlin … I’ve been asked to see if you might be interested.’

Myles frowned, already looking sceptical. ‘Why didn’t they ask me directly?’

‘Something about last time, I was told,’ replied Frank, baffled. ‘It’s from a friend of mine in Whitehall.’

‘Simon Charfield?’ suggested Myles.

‘Yes – how did you guess? Anyway, they need a military historian – someone British – to join a Frenchman, a Russian and an American.’

‘The old Allied war powers?’

Frank nodded.

Helen read through the text with her eyebrows raised. ‘So, a Brit, a Frenchman, a Russian and an American go to Berlin …’ She smirked at Myles. ‘It sounds like the beginning of a joke.’

Frank wanted them to take it seriously. ‘Come on, it’s easy work. There’s some guy who died. An old Nazi. Russia’s insisting that an old protocol means the man’s papers have to be looked at again, now he’s dead.’

Myles and Helen didn’t answer immediately. They kept reading the page. Helen finished first. ‘It doesn’t say what was so special about this guy,’ she said, looking up at Frank. ‘Er …’ She scanned the email for the old man’s name. ‘… Captain Werner Stolz. Why him?’

Frank shrugged his shoulders.

Myles was looking pensive. ‘So this means getting inside the head of an old Nazi bureaucrat?’

‘Yes, Myles. You’d get an insight into how the Nazi system really worked.’ Frank hoped his words might sell the idea to Myles. Instead, they put him off.

It wasn’t just that Myles hated bureaucracy – he didn’t like studying the Second World War at all. It meant accepting the old-fashioned theory of war: that war was between countries, not people. War as described by most TV documentaries, including their obsession with World War Two, was misleading. Worse than that, it was dangerous. Most modern wars are inside countries, not between them, as Myles lectured his undergraduates. Students loved Myles for his radical views.

Myles put the paper down, next to the image of his brain scan. ‘Thanks Frank. But I’ll pass for now.’

‘Are you sure, Myles?’ Frank was surprised Myles was turning down the offer. ‘It’s work you can still do with a bad leg … It’s just, if you are interested, Whitehall will need to know in a day or two.’

‘Yes, Frank, I’m sure.’

Helen tried to change the subject. ‘Any idea what that guy was trying to take from your museum?’

Frank stretched his face in an expression which said,
I can help with that one
. He dug into his bag again and fished out some papers, which he placed on the table. ‘Here.’

Helen looked at them, not sure how to react. ‘These are what he took?’

‘Yes. The police gave them back to me.’ Frank turned his head to look at the file as he spoke. ‘They’re papers from my new exhibit, mainly. All about how the natural world impacts on war. But one, I know will fascinate both of you …’ Frank opened a cardboard file with some ceremony, and revealed a single sheet of typewriting.

Myles still looked bemused. ‘What is it, Frank?’

‘It’s a real “Hitler letter”,’ Frank answered, proudly. ‘It’s a note which allows the bearer to draw on “All Resources of the Reich” in the performance of their duty. And look: here’s the signature.’ Frank pointed to an illegible squiggle near the bottom of the page. The dictator hadn’t put much effort into writing his name.

Myles sat up in bed. ‘So you think the museum thief was a trophy hunter?’

‘Could have been – working for a private collector, maybe. An Adolf Hitler signature can earn quite a bit at auction,’ explained Frank. ‘Funny to think that Hitler – probably the most evil man in history – is still causing people to die.’

Even Frank was still fascinated by the dead dictator. Like so many of Myles’ pupils, Frank was drawn in by the Hitler myth.

Myles refused to look at the signature. Instead, he focussed on the small print at the bottom. He pointed out a name.

‘“SS Captain Werner Stolz”, it says. Is that who this “Hitler letter” was for, Frank?’

Frank peered closely at the name, then slowly pulled his face back. ‘Yes, the same guy who just died in Berlin,’ he said, mildly amused. ‘Well, isn’t that funny?’

Helen and Myles looked at each other. Neither of them believed it was a coincidence.

Myles turned towards the other papers, and thanked Frank with his eyes. ‘Reading material for while I get better, huh?’ He flicked his thumb up the edge of the pages, glimpsing the material inside. Most of the documents were in German – a language he couldn’t read. ‘Simon Charfield should get a German speaker for this – not me,’ he said.

He waved to Frank, who stood up to leave. Helen showed the museum curator out of the room. By the time she returned, Myles was asleep.

Helen sat back down and started leafing through the papers. A page slipped out and fluttered to the floor. The paper had yellowed and the words on it were from an old-fashioned manual typewriter. As she bent down to collect it, she saw the title was simply ‘Communism’, and began to read:

The event of 1917, which we associate with the revolution in Russia, is first repeated between November 1952 and July 1953. This major change in communism will soften the ideology; it will become defensive and diplomatic. Stalin’s style of communism will be no more. The event happens again in March 1989, June 1989 and November 1989. The first of these could end the monopoly of communism in government; the second – in June – will see governments oppose the people; and on the third, in the second week of November 1989, the people will rise up against communism – and win.

This was history she knew well: March 1989 was when non-communists were first allowed to take their place in the Russian Parliament. On 3
^rd
and 4
^th
June 1989 the government of communist China cracked down on democracy protestors in Tiananmen Square. And the evening of 9
^th
–10
^th
November was when the Berlin Wall tumbled down, taking with it communism in Eastern Europe.

She turned it over, searching for a date. When she spotted it at the bottom, Helen found herself involuntarily shaking her head at the information in front of her.

She tucked her hair behind her ear, trying to remain calm as she realised she wasn’t holding a report about world events. It wasn’t a report at all. It was far, far more important than that. The papers she was holding had the potential to shape world events.