The Seventh Secret (47 page)

"Where did Bormann go?"

"He was to meet us and stay with us in the other bunker after."

"Did he?"

Momentarily, Eva seemed bewildered. "No. Bormann was to meet us at the other entrance—"

"The Café Wolf?"

"It had a different name then. It was a bar in the same place. But—I—I don't know—Bormann never came. Later, some said he was killed leaving the
Führerbunker
—by maybe a Russian artillery explosion. I don't know."

Foster saw that her attention was drifting, and he hoped that her memory was not impaired.

"Eva, this bunker to which you and Hitler escaped, when was it built?"

"After Stalingrad. The Führer had the plan."

"Wasn't Hitler afraid the laborers would give away the secret location?"

For a while she was silent. "I don't know—I never thought about it."

"So you lived down in this bunker, and no one ever found out about it?"

"No one."

"Did Hitler ever leave the bunker to go up into the city?"

"No, never, of course not."

"And you—did you ever leave here while Hitler was alive?"

"I wanted to, of course, but the Führer would not permit it. Not until we had the baby . . ."

Had the baby? Foster could not believe his ears. He searched her bland face for some indication of fantasy.

He said slowly, "You and Hitler had a child?"

"Everyone knows that." Her tone was impatient. "Yes of course. So you had the baby—"

"Before my husband became seriously ill. Once we had Klara, my husband wanted her raised normally inside Berlin but never to be known as our daughter. So after all those years in the bunker, I was allowed to go out and take Klara with me. The Café Wolf was there by then and I went out—"

"Who did you give Klara to?"

"My former maid—the first Liesl. Wolfgang Schmidt knew that Liesl had settled in Berlin. He felt it was safe to tell her about our escape, especially after giving her a large sum of money. Schmidt arranged for Lies! to take Klara as her own child."

"That was your first time outside. When was the next?"

"A few years later." There was a pained expression on Eva's face when she resumed. "After my husband died."

"He was very ill?"

"Only toward the end. Before that he was getting well. He kept busy planning the future, sometimes reading, listening to music, even painting. I made him paint to distract him." She seemed confused once more. "No, it was before he died—some years after Klara's birth—that I went out the second time. I wanted to take photographs of some of his favorite old buildings for him to copy—to paint—but I could find only one—Hermann's building—the Reichsluftfahrtministerium on Leipzigerstrasse. A number of years later, I saw the Wall for the first time—an architectural atrocity inflicted on a wonderful city—"

"And your husband died. When?"

"When the American president died, was killed, Kennedy, in Texas. It was on the radio. My husband died of Parkinson's disease on that day." Her eyes teared up. "We had a ceremony. Then we cremated him."

"After that you came out of the bunker?"

"Once a month, maybe, to see Klara and Liesl and sometimes Schmidt. No one could recognize me anymore, so there was no problem. Gradually, I began to leave the bunker more often, soon every week, to see Klara, as her aunt Evelyn. Lovely Klara, something to cling to. Also, of course, there always was the work—"

"What work?"

"You know, to carry on what my husband had been doing. "

"You mean to encourage an armed conflict between the United States and the Soviet Union?"

"Oh, that was going to happen anyway, my husband was always sure." She smiled faintly. "It will be a wonderful day, to see them annihilate each other. We dislike the Soviet Union and the United States equally, although America has had one leader we've come to respect. I mean the cowboy president who honored our forty-nine Waffen SS dead in the Bitburg cemetery last spring. My husband would have appreciated his thoughtfulness. But all other Americans and Russians remain our enemies. It will be good to know they have destroyed each other."

"This American and Russian conflict—when was it to happen? Did you know when?"

"Someday, someday in the future." Her voice became almost inaudible. "But first—first there was something more important. To be ready when the time comes. Germany must be ready. Germany was all that mattered. To make Germany strong again. To be ready for its reemergence."

"How?"

"By eliminating our enemies. Schmidt will get rid of the foreigners tomorrow, just as he has dealt with so many of our enemies over the years. Then he goes to Munich to begin a tour of Germany. He will meet the persons who have contacts with the one hundred fifty-eight organizations of Nazi sympathizers like the Brown Action Front in Rosenheim and the Belsen Scene in Diisseldorf. But more useful will be his meetings with respectable and trustworthy German backers, industrialists, politicians, war veterans, others who are friends, to set up the new party."

"The new party," Foster repeated quietly. "What kind of party?"

"Maybe one of the old ones, to take it over, or start a new one. National Socialism again. With another name. Schmidt will decide."

"And Schmidt will be in charge?"

"Yes, Wolfgang Schmidt. It has to be someone with the best anti-Nazi credentials for the public. When it is formed, the party, when it is in place, and after America and Russia have destroyed each other, we will resurface as the nucleus to take over the party, to assume control."

Foster stared at her. "This is what you've been planning?"

"For many years." Eva shook her head. "There was so much—so much to do and I always worried my husband would overwork, in his condition—but he sent them millions of American dollars in Argentina—and Dr. Dieter Falkenheim prepared the nuclear materials, brought them here to the bunker—he is here with them. To be feared, every country must have a nuclear capability."

The words nuclear capability sounded unnatural, coming from Eva. It was as if she was parroting others, perhaps even her departed husband. "That is true, Eva," Foster agreed. "But still, you must start by taking control of Germany. I'm not sure this is clear to me. Can you tell me again—how would you do it?"

There was more impatience. "The normal way. It is obvious. The political party will be in readiness. There will be plenty of money. There are many wealthy ones throughout Germany and in South America who remember the old days, the good days, and want them back. They want power again. They will help us become the majority party. They will welcome us when we resurface and lead it. We were getting prepared when my husband died.''

"And he left you to carry on, Eva?"

For the first time, no answer. He asked again, still no answer. Eva's eyes were beginning to focus on him.

Time for a second shot, he decided. Quickly he applied the tourniquet, located a vein, injected the hypodermic needle. Then he gave her another minute, praying he had not put her to sleep.

Eva's eyes remained open, but became unfocused once again.

Bending closer to her, Foster resumed. "Eva, we were discussing your role. You were left to carry on—to carry out the political plan."

"To be in charge of our faithful ones down here. But on the outside it is Wolfgang Schmidt who works with us. He knows everyone. He has the right connections. He will be our—our—"

"Your front man. Your leader."

She nodded.

Foster began to question Eva more closely about the details of the takeover, and she rambled on with the answers.

As she continued to speak, mouthing Hitler's expectations of the nuclear holocaust he foresaw, and the revival of another holocaust inside Germany, Foster's mind went to the perpetrators of Hitler's first holocaust and their heirs. With a shiver, he glanced at his watch. If everything went right above ground—if Mossad's agents had not been thwarted—the means to end this madness should be near happening. And if it was about to happen, there was barely time enough to get out of the bunker before Mossad's lethal gas began pouring in.

Yes, it was time to get out, and to take Eva Braun with him.

"Eva," he said, "do you have a flashlight?"

"A strong one. In my bedside-table drawer. I keep it handy for when we have a power failure."

Rising, he opened the drawer and withdrew the flashlight.

"Okay, Eva. I'm about to untie you. We're going for a walk."

He had laid down the flashlight and bent to undo the knots at her ankles.

Suddenly a huge black shadow fell upon the wall in front of him.

Startled, Foster whirled around.

There, in the bedroom doorway, filling the entire doorway, was the mammoth figure of Wolfgang Schmidt.

For a frozen instant, face to face, Schmidt was equally surprised and immobilized. Then, like a savage animal, he came to life. "You, Foster, you sonofabitching bastard!" he roared. "What in hell do you think you're doing here? What are you doing to her?"

Implacably, like a vengeful giant, his beefy red face crossed with fury, he began to advance into the room.

As Schmidt reached beneath his jacket for his holster, Foster shouted at him, "Don't make another move, Schmidt, or you're dead!"

But Foster knew that he could not fire his own Luger. The shot would certainly bring a half dozen underground Nazi guards on the run. Instead, Foster snatched the flashlight from the bed as Schmidt jerked free his Walther P-38.

Flinging himself at the giant, Foster slammed the flashlight down on Schmidt's gun hand. Schmidt gasped with pain as his automatic flew free, plummeting to the floor.

Desperately, Foster kicked at the gun as hard as he could. The force of his foot sent the gun skidding out of the bedroom, ricocheting off the hallway wall, and bouncing away out of sight toward the sitting room.

Infuriated, Schmidt hammered a pawlike fist against the side of Foster's head, driving him against the foot of the bed, where he crumpled to his knees.

Spinning away, Schmidt rushed out of the bedroom to retrieve his weapon.

Foster sprang to his feet, stumbled, and went swiftly in pursuit of Schmidt.

In the sitting room, he could see Schmidt eyeing him as he reached down to recapture his gun. Schmidt's meaty hand had touched the automatic when Foster made a leaping dive toward his body.

Schmidt crashed to the floor, the gun once more eluding his grip. With another roar, Schmidt pushed himself to his feet as Foster also staggered upright. In a frenzy, Schmidt lashed out at Foster, missing, missing again, but with his third blow he caught Foster flush on the jaw and sent him reeling hard against the mantelpiece.

As his shoulders hit the mantelpiece, Foster raised his arms and grabbed at the mantel to maintain his balance. Striking Eva's precious Grecian urn, he dislodged it and sent it tumbling to the floor with a loud thud.

Schmidt, murder in his eyes, massive arms extended, a wild Neanderthal man, was coming at Foster for the kill.

Foster thought he was done for.

Propelling himself forward, almost into his adversary's clutches, Foster raised himself upward, letting loose a powerful judo kick. Bewildered, Schmidt tried to grab the flailing leg, deflect the kick, but he was too slow. Foster's flashing foot caught him hard and full in the groin. The German doubled up in agony, trying to stifle his cry of pain as his hands dropped to his crotch.

Sucking for breath, Schmidt sank to a knee, and immediately Foster was upon him, driving his foot against the German's temple.

Schmidt toppled sideways to the floor, momentarily stupefied. But he was strong as an ox, and trying to rise once more. In those seconds, Foster knew that if Schmidt recovered, got up again, he himself might not survive the other's brute strength.

Frantically, in mortal terror, Foster sought some weapon, anything that could be a weapon. There was none, and then his fingertips touched the bronze of the overturned Grecian urn on the floor. Grabbing it in his two hands, Foster swung around toward Schmidt, who was shaking his head, trying to rise. Foster lifted the urn high and, with all his strength, brought it down hard, smashing it against the German's skull. Schmidt's head fell back, seemed to fall sideways against a shoulder, and Foster struck him again and again with the urn, until the German's groan became silence, and his eyes closed, and he keeled over on the floor unconscious. Foster stood breathless over him, aware that the urn had become uncapped in his attack and that the gray ashes it had contained now covered Schmidt's still countenance and his chest.