The Seventh Secret (45 page)

And then he saw. His whitish beam of light had hit a dead end. A solid wall of concrete blocked the end of the tunnel. But then, with knowledge of his destination, he felt sure that the obstruction could not be solid concrete. It, too, had to have an opening, an exit point. Unless it had been cemented solid.

Quietly but swiftly, he reached the wall that barred the tunnel. He was up against it, inspecting it minutely, hunting for signs of exit marks, and soon, low in the center, he found the telltale signs.

He set down his lantern, knelt, looked closely, dug his fingers into the top of the square slab, smaller than the one at the entrance to the tunnel, and felt a wave of relief as he realized it was loosely set in, not cemented into place, just shoved into its hole.

He reached for his chisel and as quietly as possible began to pry at the square slab.

It was easily moved, and not thick, and it almost fell into his eager hands. He had it free, and quietly set it behind him onto the floor of the tunnel. There was a square hole at ground level that could comfortably accommodate his body. Through the hole, he realized, dim illumination was shining. He snapped off his lantern and put it to one side at the edge of the tunnel.

Flattening himself on the ground, he squirmed through the hole. Coming through it, he could see a wooden partition a few yards ahead, with a wooden door built into it, but the door was not flush with the concrete floor, and a sliver of light, subdued, shone through it.

Quietly, quietly, Foster pushed himself off the floor and to his feet.

His heart was going faster now, adrenaline flowing.

On tiptoe, on rubber soles, he approached the door. No lock. He turned the handle, and drew the door back a few inches.

The first thing he realized was that he was perched on some sort of mezzanine—with a staircase leading down to. . .

And then his jaw fell open. Stretching out before him, well below, dimly lighted for the sleeping hours, was another
Führerbunker,
but enlarged, more than twice as wide, more than twice as long as the original. A neat warren of closed cubbyholes, probably offices, certainly sleeping quarters.

And he knew at once what he had found.

Hitler's secret seventh bunker.

With astonished eyes, he took it in. Hitler's refuge beneath the city of Berlin, hidden away and populated for forty years. An undetected city beneath the city.

His eyes scanned the incredible sight below, and almost instantly he realized that he was not alone here above the secret bunker.

He was not alone. He had company.

W
hat Foster saw, what his gaze was riveted upon now, was the back of a guard, a young Nazi soldier in a gray uniform, a swastika band around one slack arm, the other arm propping up a submachine gun. Circling his waist was a belt with a holster that held what might be a Luger .08.

To Foster, it was evident that the soldier's head had dropped forward, chin resting on his chest.

He was breathing heavily, and he emitted a series of snores.

He had dozed off during his boring night duty. He was seated on the landing of a staircase that appeared to run down to the bottom of the vast bunker and he was certainly asleep.

Foster's next move was clear. He did not give it a second thought. He pulled the hammer out of his trouser pocket, gripped the handle, slowly pushed aside the door a few inches more, and slipped through.

Crouching low, Foster advanced lightly on his rubber soles toward the back of the slumbering guard. Foster's peripheral vision caught sight of no one in the bunker stretching below.

A few feet behind the slouched guard, Foster tried to hold his breath and gradually rose to give himself more leverage.

Foster was above the young Nazi now, staring at the other's mat of sandy hair. Foster lifted the hammer up over his shoulder. He took aim.

The hammer flashed downward, the impact hard and sure, striking the Nazi a solid blow at the base of his skull.

The victim uttered no sound. He began to fall sideways, unconscious, and his submachine gun, jarred free of his leg, was beginning to fall, too.

Desperate to prevent the sound of a falling body or a clatter from the submachine gun, Foster darted out his free arm, hooking it around the youth's body, holding it, even as his hand reached forward to keep the submachine gun upright, and his fingers just managed to clutch it.

One more glance at the area below.

No one had been alerted. No one in sight.

Still, Foster knew that he dare not lose a precious second. He was in the subterranean land of the enemy, heirs to the most ruthless killers of modern times, and he must be ready. Returning the hammer to his trouser pocket, he took a firm hold of the submachine gun with his right hand and lifted the inert guard off the landing with his left arm. Inching backward, he eased himself and his burden through the door.

Lowering the body to the floor, Foster studied_ his victim. A young snub-nosed man, maybe early thirties, his eyes closed. The blow had broken the skin, probably fractured the skull, and there was a light trickle of blood on the Nazi youth's neck. Foster could not tell if the inert guard was still breathing or if there was any pulse. Whatever his condition, the guard would be unconscious a long, long time, maybe forever. Studying the body, Foster could see that the young man was slightly shorter than himself, but with similar measurements. Foster was satisfied that the change would work.

What came next was familiar to Foster. He had done it once on a Viet Cong corpse before an infiltration in Vietnam. He had seen it duplicated in movies. Yes, it was a familiar act, and he hoped that it would be enough. Kneeling, he hastily started to strip the outer garments off the unconscious soldier, removing his gun belt and holster, his high-buttoned tunic, his trousers, his shoes.

Foster cast around for a spot to hide the limp body. Noticing what appeared to be a built-in storage cabinet against a wall, he stood up, went to it, and tugged the pair of doors open. It was indeed a cabinet with three mattresses stacked on the floor. Foster hurried back, dragging the soldier's deadweight, and with difficulty lifted him onto the top mattress, stretching him out there. One more examination. Not a sign of conscious-ness. There'd be no danger from this guard.

Quickly, Foster stripped off his own clothing. Throwing his garments into the storage cabinet, he closed the doors. Then he returned to the Nazi's uniform and began to get into it. Finished, he found the gray uni-form a bit baggy, the trousers a few inches short, but not a serious misfit. He fixed on the gun belt, drew the Luger from the holster, studied it, and confirmed that there was a bullet clip in the grip.

Now he was ready. Wearing the Nazi uniform was repugnant to him, but the disguise was worth any cost since it offered him the one hope of reaching Emily. He prayed that she was still alive, and, if alive, unharmed.

With more confidence, he went through the door to the landing where he had first seen his victim dozing during sentry duty. Briefly he crouched surveying the scene below. In his architect's mind's eye, he tried to overlay upon it the seventh bunker design he had gone over so many times and committed to memory.

The bunker below fitted its blueprint perfectly. It had been. designed, Foster knew, after the general pattern of the smaller
Führerbunker
, but on a much larger scale. He could see all the lesser rooms on either side of the wide central corridor. From what he had seen of the plan, the large suite would be at the far end of the corridor. It was the kind of suite that would accommodate someone in command, someone like Adolf Hitler.

No question that Hitler had prepared the suite—and this bunker—for himself and Eva Braun.

The possibility that Hitler himself might be there struck him more forcibly. Hitler. If not Hitler, certainly Evelyn Hoffmann, because now he was convinced that Evelyn Hoffmann was none other than Eva Braun.

And if Eva Braun controlled the suite, it was likely that Emily might be there, too.

That would be his destination, that large suite, and he would go straight to it.

He expected that there might be other night sentries, at least one or two, along the corridor, and he was ready for any challenge.

He started down the staircase, clumping sure-footed in his too-tight Wehrmacht short leather boots, descending to the near end of the dark green carpeted passage.

Confidently, he undertook his tense march between the two rows of closed doors toward the command post. No one in sight.

And then someone.

Lolling at one side of what appeared to be an office door, another night sentry, another young one, a lanky blond busily cleaning his fingernails, his Heckler and Koch set against the wall beside him.

Foster advanced toward him without a break in stride. When almost abreast of the sentry, Foster reconsidered whom he should ask for. Frau Evelyn Hoffmann or Frau Eva Braun. Instinct made him revert back to what he had originally planned to say.

Out of the corner of his mouth, Foster spoke to the second sentry in perfect German. "Have an urgent message for the Number One." No gender. No name. The neuter Number One. Safe. He hoped.

The sentry hardly bothered to look up. "She's probably asleep by now—but if it is something special, you better go ahead."

Foster saluted, and, with his best military bearing, like a soldier carrying a vital message to his leader, continued to march straight ahead. He waited for the sentry to reconsider, summon him back, but the summons did not come.

Arriving before the suite at the far end of the corridor—no openings, all wood, complete privacy—he remembered the design on the drawing of the seventh bunker. Turning left he hurried down the hall, and there was the door to the suite.

Uncertain of what might be awaiting him inside, Foster put a hand on the brass knob and twisted it as quietly as possible.

The entrance door gave, and he was standing inside a small reception room furnished with a modest desk, a swivel chair, and two pull-up chairs. No one was in the room. Then another door.

Easing off the heavy military boots, he moved, stealthily to the next door. No lock. He opened it. He peered inside. Two floor lamps were all that lit the windowless room. What he saw was a combination living room and office, an oversized oak desk to the right, and across from it a couch and two overstuffed easy chairs facing a wood shelf resembling a mantel, with filled bookshelves under the mantel instead of a fireplace.

As far as he could see, the long room was unoccupied. But he was wrong.

"Rex—" a hushed female voice called out.

He knew that sound had come from Emily, who was struggling to lift herself above the back of the couch and be seen.

In his stocking-feet, Foster rushed to the couch. Emily, bound hand and foot, had sunk down on the couch once more, was lying on her back, waiting for him. Kneeling, working swiftly to undo the thin knotted rope that held her, he managed to smile at the disbelief showing in her pale face. Her auburn hair was in disarray, and her tweed skirt had hiked up above her knees—obviously from her efforts to free herself—but she seemed uninjured.

"Are you all right?" he whispered, loosening the knots.

She nodded.

"Anyone else here?" he whispered again.

"Ssh," she said. "Yes, in the bedroom. Be careful." Then, as her arms came free, "How did you get in here?"

"Never mind. You'll see."

He was untying the strands at her ankles, and he helped her to a sitting position. "God, I was praying you'd be all right." He was up on the sofa beside her, embracing and kissing her.

She clung to him, then moved her mouth to his ear.

"I wouldn't have been all right in the morning. They're holding me for questioning. A horrible man named Schmidt was here a few hours ago—"

"Chief of police, Berlin, and a closet Nazi."

"—to use Sodium Pentothal on me, to find how much we know, so we can be found and eliminated. But just as he was coming here, he was notified he must appear immediately at a hearing tonight concerning Ernst Vogel's death. To prove it was suicide not murder. Apparently important, because he had to rush back for that. He promised he'd return in the morning to administer the Sodium Pentothal and question me. I'm supposed to be the first of our group. Once I talked, I was to be killed and cremated. When he left, Schmidt told her he'd work on me early before going to Munich."