The Seventh Secret (11 page)

A hospitable beginning.

Picking up the green booklet on which her suite number was printed, she saw that the first page was headed Herzlich Willkommenim Bristol Hotel Kempinski Berlin. The other pages contained photographs of, and information on, the amenities that the hotel offered.

Then Emily realized that underneath the booklet there was a telephone message that had been left for her.

Reading it she saw that it was from Peter Nitz, the
Berliner Morgenpost
reporter, who had written to her last week to tell her he had witnessed her father's accident. She had answered to inform him that she was coming to Berlin to finish the research her father had begun, and that she hoped she could meet him soon after her arrival not only to thank him in person for his kindness but to get an overview of what she could expect in Berlin. The telephone message, taken at the reception desk this morning, told her-that Peter Nitz would be pleased to call upon her at two o'clock. If he did not hear from her, he would come directly to her suite.

This gave her time to unpack and take a bath and get into some fresh clothes. After her three pieces of luggage had been deposited in the bedroom, Emily had opened the garment bag and hung it in a closet. Then she had unstrapped her two suitcases. One contained blouses, underthings, and shoes, as well as a small travel kit of toiletries. The other contained books and files that were part of the reference material needed for the final chapters of Herr Hitler.

Taking up her kit of toiletries, Emily moved into the bathroom. There were mirrors everywhere. As she undressed, Emily became conscious of her naked body. Not half bad for a schoolteacher—Jeremy Robinson notwithstanding, the bastard. Her auburn hair, green eyes, tilted freckled nose with delicate nostrils, and her full lips might not be found unappealing by someone decent, someday. The breasts, perhaps, might be a bit small for some tastes, but they were firm. The stomach was flat—the strenuous daily exercises paid off—the small waist supple, and the brown beauty mark below the deep navel not uninteresting. The hips were acceptably feminine, the thighs full yet the legs long and shapely. Still, this attractiveness had never found her the right man. After graduation from college, enamored with a literature professor fifteen years her senior, she had eloped. It had been an ill-fated union. He was immature, arrogant, a womanizer, and worst of all a lush. The marriage had lasted only six months. After that, there had been several mild attachments and affairs, but none with any depth or real commitment.

Gradually, she had found her main satisfaction in teaching and writing. Five years ago, when her father had invited her to join him in researching and writing alternate chapters of Herr Hitler, she had been thrilled. But sometimes, more frequently than before, she longed for the love, companionship, and bodily warmth of a wonderful mate. The meeting at the BBC with Jeremy Robinson had given her hope, but with hindsight she could see that it was her need for a mate and not her feelings for Jeremy himself that had propelled her into the relationship. Blindly, she had not permitted herself to see that Jeremy had been a hope misplaced. Following that disaster, her absorption in Adolf Hitler and his incredible court of Nazi clowns had become more fulfilling than ever.

Now, with a last glance at her nude figure, Emily immersed herself in the tepid bubble bath and pondered whether she alone would solve the riddle of Hitler's end. Peter Nitz was a fair enough start. As a newspaperman, be might offer her some leads. And there would be Dr. Max Thiel, who believed that Hitler had survived the war, as well as the East German, Professor Otto Blaubach, who might give her permission to excavate at the Führer bunker site.

Once she had finished her bath, and dried herself with the terrycloth robe provided by the hotel, Emily sought a softcup skintone bra and string nylon panties (she disliked panty hose), then dressed herself in a simple white blouse, cool pleated blue skirt, and low-heeled pumps. No stockings. She had just finished applying her makeup when she heard the buzzer and noted that Peter Nitz was exactly on time.

He proved to be a short, thickset man with thinning. black hair and a receding hairline, small bright eyes, and a scraggly mustache, and he was holding a cigarette. There was a flick of a smile, but she could see he was a serious sort.

Nitz stood in the middle of the room watching her.

"I'm so pleased you could come, Mr. Nitz," she said. "Will you have lunch? I can ring room service."

"I've had lunch, thank you. But you go ahead and order for yourself."

"I had a snack on the plane. It should last me a while. Maybe you'll have something to drink?"

"Well—"

"There are some bottles on the TV, and ice."

Unceremoniously he stepped to the television set, uncapped the bottle of Scotch, dropped some ice into a glass, poured himself two fingers, and took a sip. Smacking his lips, he patted down his wet mustache and walked to the couch where Emily had seated herself. He lowered himself at the far side of the couch.

"Most of all," Emily began, "I wanted to see you to thank you in person for your kindness in sending me that letter."

"It was something I felt I had to do. I hope it didn't upset you?"

"On the contrary."

"I mean where I wrote you all I had witnessed of your father's death."

"I'm glad you were so forthcoming. I wanted to know what actually happened." She hesitated. "You suggested it might not have been an accident."

Nitz shrugged. "It could have been. It might not have been. How does one know? I thought that the hit-and-run looked—well—deliberate. Still, I couldn't be sure. Did you speak to the Berlin police?"

"A man named Schmidt. The chief of police. He had little to offer except that they'd be watching for the truck. But he didn't even know what make of truck it was. I don't think the police will be able to do very much."

"They won't," Nitz agreed.

Emily showed her bewilderment. "But if the accident was deliberate, who would want to do it and why? My father knew few people here. As far as I know, he had no enemies."

Nitz tinkled the ice cubes in his glass and drank. "No enemies—that is, unless Adolf Hitler did survive when he was supposed to have died."

"Does anyone truly believe that?"

Nitz downed the remainder of his drink and set the glass on the coffee table. "Since the afternoon of April 30, 1945, when Hitler was supposed to have committed suicide with a bullet in his brain and his bride, Eva Braun, allegedly killed herself with potassium cyanide, the speculations have never ceased. Josef Stalin himself always believed Hitler had escaped in a submarine, possibly to Japan. General Eisenhower told reporters that there was reason to believe Hitler had slipped away unharmed. British intelligence often maintained that a Hitler double had been incinerated in the Chancellery garden. Russian identification of the charred bones, skull, and jawbone that they recovered beside the
Führerbunker
were always contradictory and uncertain. But you know all that, Miss Ashcroft."

"I know one thing," said Emily. "Since Hitler could not be tried at Nuremberg, he was tried in absentia by a Munich denazification court in the fall of 1947 to settle his estate. Forty-two witnesses testified as to Hitler's death. The Bavarian Ministry of Justice announced its conclusion in October of 1956. The court declared, 'There can no longer exist even the smallest doubt that Hitler took his own life on 30 April 1945 in the
Führerbunker
of the Reich Chancellery in Berlin by shooting himself in the right temple.'"

"Correct," Nitz said.

Emily stared at the German reporter. "In the light of that, Mr. Nitz, do you think it is possible that Hitler survived? Do you believe he got away?"

Without hesitation, Nitz replied, "No, I don't believe he got away." He paused. "But your father surely entertained that possibility. I heard him personally say so at a press conference before his death. Let me remind you, your father spoke of some evidence indicating that it was not Hitler's jawbone and teeth that had been found by the Russians. He felt that this could be verified, or dismissed, after he was able to excavate the
Führerbunker
area. Do you know what your father was looking for?"

"I don't, I'm sorry to say. We were about to under-take the conclusion of our biography, when my father received a letter from someone in Berlin who had been close to Hitler. This person stated that the accepted version of Hitler's death was false. My father learned that this informant was not a crank, and so he came to Berlin to see him. My father phoned me in Oxford the night before his death. He was in a jubilant mood. His informant had advised him to dig for something in the Chancellery garden area, and my father told me that he had received permission to dig. He intended to begin his excavation the day after his press conference."

"You know, of course, who his informant was—and is."

"I do. But I'd rather not mention any name until I have permission to do so."

"Do you know what he told your father to dig for?"

"No. My father didn't want to tell me on the phone. Now I hope to find out for myself." Her gaze held on Nitz. "But you think that's fruitless. You think there's no chance Hitler survived."

Nitz dug into his jacket for a package of cigarettes, plucked one out, and put a lighter to it. "Look, Miss Ashcroft, I don't want to discourage you. It would be wise to satisfy yourself. At the same time, as a journalist who has seen and heard so much nonsense, I am a cynic, and I remain a cynic in this matter. I think Hitler and his lady died as history tells us. Before you meet your dissenting informant, and maybe go off the deep end, you might speak to an actual witness who was in the
Führerbunker
when Hitler took his life. There are still some of them around, scattered about Germany, old people now, but many of them with vivid memories of the events of April 30, 1945. In fact, there was one of them right here in the neighborhood."

Emily sat forward. "Who?"

"Ernst E. Vogel. He was an SS bodyguard at the
Führerbunker
when both Hitler's corpse and that of Eva Braun were carried out and cremated. I interviewed him for a short feature about two years ago. He was very convincing as he related the facts that he remembered."

"This Herr Vogel, is he still alive?"

"I should think so. He seemed healthy enough then. You might start with seeing him before you go further. Then you can judge for yourself. I have Vogel's phone number and address in my desk at the office. I'll call it in to you as soon as I get back."

"I'd be most grateful, Mr. Nitz."

"Once you've seen Vogel, you can then see your dissenting informant, and weigh their opposing views."

Emily was silent for a few moments, watching Nitz smoke his cigarette. At last, she gave an embarrassed cough. "I have a confession to make to you, Mr. Nitz. I want to be truthful. I don't have an appointment to see the German informant my father saw, the one who was close to Hitler. So far, he's refused to see me."

Nitz's ears seemed to perk up. -He won't? Why not? He saw your father."

"Yes," said Emily. -Then, after my father's death, I wrote him that I was coming to Berlin to follow through, and I hoped he would see me and give me the same cooperation and information that he had given my father. He answered me with one line—he could not see me or anyone else about the matter.- She paused. -I wonder why the change of heart?"

Nitz considered this. "He may have been scared into silence by your father's suspicious death. He may have become worried about neo-Nazi fanatics—oh, yes, some of them still exist." Noting the quick curiosity on Emily's face, Nitz decided to elaborate the point. -Miss Ashcroft, you are familiar with
Unternehmen Werwolf
created in the closing days of the war?"

Emily nodded. "Enterprise Werewolf, guerrilla groups of German soldiers established by Himmler, trained by the Waffen SS, after D day. They were dressed in civilian clothes, and were supposed to infiltrate the Allied lines and assassinate any important Germans who were collaborating with the enemy. You think there are some still around?"

"Not unlikely. They were secret fanatics determined to protect Hitler's image—and his life. Your informant might very well worry about these neo-Nazis, might fear one of them could search him out and kill him, too. I suspect your informant is simply afraid to see you."

"Well, I'm going to persuade him otherwise," Emily said with determination. "I'm going to use all the wiles I possess to make him see me."

Nitz stubbed out his cigarette and stood up. "I wish you good luck. Remember me if you get a story I might be able to use."

Emily was on her feet. "I won't forget. I owe you a good deal. Not only for your kindness, but for your suggestion about Vogel."