Secrets of the Last Nazi (28 page)

1
1.30pm CET (10.30pm
GMT)

G
lenn struggled
with Heike-Ann in his arms, trying to lift her. ‘Well, Myles – you gonna help me carry her up?’

‘No. Not up,’ Myles replied quickly. With his eyes, indicated sharply downwards.

Glenn looked confused. ‘Down? You crazy?’

‘It’s the only way, Glenn. If we go up, Dieter will take us out one at a time – with your knife.’

Glenn began to realise Myles was serious. He watched while Myles delved down, through the paper on the surface, into the water, and found Heike-Ann’s legs. Then he lifted. And, together with Glenn, they placed her on the empty shell of the prediction machine – safely out of the water.

Glenn cast a ‘you first’ look at Myles, who nodded in acknowledgment, as he waded back towards the emergency hatch.

Myles took a deep breath, then ducked his head down. The water was too murky to see through, but he knew where the hatch was. He felt his way in. It was a narrow tunnel. The sides were smooth, Nazi-era concrete, part covered in algae. The water became clearer as he swam out of the bunker, but it was flowing against him.

He pulled himself along, trying to beat the current. The tunnel went along, then down. He kept hauling himself through, following it down for a metre or so, until it started to rise again. He felt pain in his lungs – he needed to breathe. But he ignored the instinct to turn back. Then, through the cold, clear water, he could see some sort of light. The tunnel led straight to the river.

His instinct told him to continue – to swim up for oxygen. He was about to allow himself to float to the surface, up into the clear air above the river. But then he realised: if he escaped now, he’d never be able to get down to the hatch again. He had to go back.

He pulled his legs into his chest and manoeuvred his tall body around in the tunnel, trying to shut out the intense sensation in his chest. Swimming in this direction he could allow the flow to push him along, back towards Stolz’s secret bunker. He reached the open emergency hatch, squeezed through, then burst up through the surface of the water.

He spluttered for air, peeling a wet sheet of paper from his face. At last, he could breathe again.

Glenn shouted over. ‘Can we do it?’

Myles nodded, still catching his breath.

Glenn saw Myles needed to get oxygen back into his body, but the water was still rising. They had to leave fast. ‘Time to go, Myles.’

Myles understood. ‘Glenn: I’ll lead, you push Heike-Ann down after me, then follow. And Heike-Ann – can you hear me?’

Heike-Ann roused, trying to respond.

‘Heike-Ann, I want you to breathe, now - as deeply as you can. Understand? You’ll need to hold your breath.’ Myles prepared himself again – a deep breath, an exhale, another deep breath to fill his body with air, then he ducked down.

It was harder this time. The water was higher – more paper to push through, and further to go down before they reached the emergency escape hatch.

When he was finally in, he wedged his feet against the sides and bent back to take Heike-Ann.

Through the water, he felt Glenn passing him the woman’s hands. Fumbling in the cold liquid, Myles only just managed to grab them. He hauled them with him, and pushed on.

The extra resistance from Heike-Ann’s body made it difficult to advance along the tunnel. He was progressing at only half the speed he had gone before. Could he make it this time?

Then he felt Heike-Ann’s body come with him. Glenn was pushing from behind.

Myles kept on, along the horizontal part of the tunnel, feeling where the concrete was still smooth. He pushed against decayed joints and girders, trying to get traction against the current.

Then the downward part. He kept pulling, hoping Heike-Ann’s body wouldn’t get stuck. He dragged the body down, down and… eventually - through.

Finally, he was at the outlet, where the tunnel fed into the River Spree. He pulled Heike-Ann once more. Nothing. She seemed stuck.

He yanked again. Still no movement…

His lungs were piercing from the dive. He tried to ignore the agony. He knew he probably had only one last chance… Then he felt Heike-Ann’s body loosen. It was coming free. Glenn had pushed her again.

As quickly as he could, Myles kicked with both his legs, ignoring the twinges in his bad knee. He swam up towards the surface, lifting Heike-Ann with him. At last, he broke into the air, and gasped as his mouth became clear.

He dragged up Heike-Ann, who bobbed to the surface, followed closely by Glenn. Glenn burst for breath too, inhaling suddenly and deeply.

Myles checked on Heike-Ann , and shouted to the American over the noise of the water. ‘She’s still unconscious.’

Glenn tried to shake the water from their interpreter’s face, then hold her up so she could breathe. But she didn’t seem to be responding. Myles knew they had to get to the riverbank fast.

The access tunnel had opened into the middle of the river, where it was deep. Half covered in algae and green underwater plants, it was easy to see how it had remained hidden throughout the Cold War. It meant Myles and Glenn had to swim about ten metres to the side, dragging Heike-Ann with them, both with their hands still tied. ‘Keep her head out of the water…’ Myles shouted over the rush of the water.

They swam as quickly as they could, still holding Heike-Ann with their bound wrists and kicking with their legs. As they neared the edge, Myles realised there’d be no way up: this part of the river had been lined with concrete.

He scanned the riverbank. A short distance downstream there were some metal stairs. With a tilt of his head, he pointed them out to Glenn, who understood. They changed course, and allowed the flow of the river to wash them along. Eventually, they reached the steps, Myles crashing into them first.

Together they hauled Heike-Ann out and dragged her clear. With her lying down on the flat surface, Myles turned her pale body to the side, and then pumped her chest, careful not to press on her swollen abdomen. Water surged out. He repeated the motion. More liquid again. This time, though, she seemed to react, woozy and in pain - but alive.

Still recovering and breathing heavily, Glenn allowed himself a small sigh of relief. ‘You know, Myles – I didn’t think we’d get out of there.’

Myles put Heike-Ann in the recovery position. ‘So you didn’t believe the prediction you’d survive?’

Glenn didn’t answer. Myles wondered if he still had something to hide.

L
ate evening
in the centre of Berlin, Myles could see his breath in the air.

He bent down to check on Heike-Ann. Her face was blanched and cold, her body sodden. ‘We’ve got to get her some help,’ he said, realising blood was still oozing out of her gunshot wound. She needed help fast.

Glenn looked down at his wrists, frustrated they were still tied. ‘Any ideas?’

Myles glanced around for something which could free his hands, and fixed upon the concrete along the river bank. He rubbed the electrical cable on the edge - the plastic coating tore, and gradually the metal strands inside began to fray. As they severed, the binding became looser. Back and forth, he pressed hard on the sharpest part, until the cord was loose enough to slip his hands out. He rubbed his wrists where the cable had been.

Then he saw, about a hundred metres away, two people - a man and a woman enjoying a late evening stroll. He darted off towards them, calling out. ‘Hey – hey…’ Waving his hands as high as he could raise them, he got the man to turn his head. Then he stumbled on the pavement stones, and had to break his fall with his shoulder.

The man rushed over, and placed a hand on his back. ‘Ist alles in Ordnung?’

Myles gasped in reply.

The woman realised he wasn’t local. ‘English?’

Myles nodded. He pointed to the man’s jacket, still catching his breath. ‘Do you have a phone? We need an ambulance…’ He turned to show them Glenn and Heike-Ann – two silhouettes by the riverbank. One standing, one lying flat.

The man pulled out a device, slowly starting to call, but Myles urged him towards Glenn and Heike-Ann. ‘Go – go there.’

Although the man wasn’t sure, Myles directed the couple again. The woman led the way towards Glenn and Heike-Ann, and the man began to follow, his phone clutched to his ear as he went. Myles stayed where he was, still recovering, watching as the man and woman reached his friends. He knew Glenn and Heike-Ann would alert the Berlin Police.

Briefly, Myles wondered about going to the authorities himself. They might let him warn Helen, but he wasn’t sure. He certainly couldn’t trust them. Just trying to explain everything would take too long. If Dieter had put Myles’ name on some terrorist website, he’d be arrested before he could warn anyone. They’d never believe what he now knew about the planets, and without that they wouldn’t take the threat of Dieter seriously. Helen would die.

No, he needed to find the man who fooled them into calling him ‘Pascal’. Dieter had to be stopped by Myles himself, and he needed to do it fast. He was fighting the worst prediction from Stolz’s machine: that Dieter would cause Helen to die in two days’ time. The thought of Helen drove him on even faster. He
had
to save her.

He gauged his bearings: the underwater tunnel was only a few metres long. Stolz’s place in Am Krusenick must still be close. But he realised they’d come out on the other side of the river.

He searched along the footpath, scanning for some way to get back over. Upstream there was a small road bridge. He started hobbling towards it, limping as fast as his legs would allow, as the night air felt even colder on his wet clothes and knee brace, which was stiff and waterlogged. He stumbled again, and crashed down on the hard surface. Ignoring the injury, he pushed himself back up and carried on.

He reached the bridge and staggered up the raised part, his gait uneven. Would he really be able to confront Dieter like this? He imagined the Frenchman was waiting in Stolz’s basement, ready to strike him and Glenn as they emerged, with the rising water, from the chamber below. The narrow entrance meant only one of them would have been able to climb out at a time. For Dieter, it would make the perfect ambush. But Myles could surprise him from above. He could knock him out or lock him in. As long as Dieter hadn’t predicted what he would do.

Myles’ shoes were clipping loudly on the pavement. Still going forward, he bent down to prize them off. It didn’t work. He accepted he had to stop, then fumbled with the laces, before he could toss each one into the water. He continued on again, his socks now much quieter on the concrete.

He looked at his watch – a quarter to midnight. The machine had predicted he would die tomorrow. Did that mean he should attack Dieter immediately, in the last fifteen minutes of the day?

Myles kept hobbling forward, trying to solve the puzzle as he ran. Could he trust a prediction machine? Even though it had been accurate in the past, would it come true again?

He thought again of Helen, and wondered how she could die in two days’ time if Dieter himself was due to die tomorrow. He tried to force the predictions out of his mind. He had to concentrate.

He turned onto Am Krusenick - the minibus was still there, but no sign of anyone.

He limped along as swiftly as he could, his wet socks padding along the pavement. He was watching for any signs of Dieter as he went. A few bedroom lights were on behind curtains, but they were far away. Myles was still alone.

He approached Stolz’s apartment block. Wet footmarks were on the ground, leading out. Myles stared down at them: Dieter seemed to have come out, gone to the minibus, then run away.

Myles’ first thought was to follow them, to chase Dieter while the trail was still hot. Had Dieter doubled-back? Was it a trick?

He charged up the steps, ignoring the pain surge in his knee. At the top he opened the entrance to the lobby, and rushed to the door of Stolz’s flat. It was unlocked: he barged in, and checked the room.

No-one around, and no place to hide.

He gazed down at the hole in the floorboards. Was Dieter waiting below? He froze and listened, wondering in the silence whether he had already made too much noise.

Nothing.

Then he crept through the broken floorboards, carefully stepping into the hole and down the steps.

The basement was flooded. Sodden sheets of paper covered the surface of the water, which had stopped rising. But no sign of Dieter. Myles cursed. The man had escaped.

One of the pages washed against his foot. Myles fished it out. It was the life story of ‘Person Number 1006220’, their ethnicity confirmed by a small Star of David. Life events were summarised in German words which Myles couldn’t translate - born in December 1912, with something in May 1930, August 1935, and January 1939. The last date was 3
^rd
August 1943.

Myles held the paper with two hands as it dripped. He didn’t know whether to preserve it out of respect or screw it up in frustration.

Person 1006220: another victim of the bureaucrats.

Then he saw a form slowly turning in the water. He peered closer, trying to make it out. Slowly he identified a boot, then realised it was attached to a body. It was Zenyalena, her face staring down to the bunker. Zenyalena, Jean-François, even Frank… Dieter had killed them all.

He pulled the corpse towards him, feeling its weight in the water, and delved into her pockets. The keys to the minibus were there – he fished them out, then flicked the dirty water from his hands as he limped back out.

Myles dashed upstairs, back to the lobby, and outside, where the air felt even colder.

He opened the door to the minibus and peered inside. There were wet footmarks by the pedals, and the wiring had been pulled down from under the dashboard. Dieter had tried to hotwire the vehicle, but failed.

Then he realised: the bottle of nerve agent was gone. Dieter must have taken it.

So that was Dieter’s plan: to set off one of Hitler’s ‘wonderweapons’ – seventy years late.

Myles looked at his watch: one minute to midnight.

Would he die from Sarin poisoning tomorrow?

Would thousands of others?

Would Sarin kill Helen too, making his partner ‘cease to be two days later?

Angry, he slammed the door shut, and ran as fast as he could, following the wet footmarks on the pavement.

He knew he must be ten minutes behind Dieter, but not much more. If he ran, there was a chance he could still catch him.

Myles sprinted along Am Krusenick, his feet in wet socks feeling every piece of grit on the road. But he ignored the pain, and ran on. The neoprene bandage which supported his healing knee seemed to be slowing him down. Quickly he reached down, ripped apart the Velcro, and tossed it away.

He limped on – faster now. Dieter’s footprints turned. Myles turned with them. Then, round the corner, they seemed to disappear.

It didn’t make sense. There was nowhere for the Frenchman to go. No patch of grass to hide his footprints. No surface which wouldn’t show the water. It was as if Dieter had flown into the air.

Myles desperately scanned around. No clues anywhere – nothing which seemed out of place.

Then he noticed, thrown into a kerb some metres away, a jumble of footwear. Myles rushed closer: it was Dieter’s socks and shoes, all sodden with water. Dieter must have realised he was leaving a trail, so he took them off, dried his feet somehow, then continued on barefoot.

With no wet footmarks to follow, he didn’t know where to look. He checked his watch again. Just past midnight…
on the day he was due to die.