Secrets of the Last Nazi (11 page)

1
0.14 a.m
. CET (9.14 a.m. GMT)

M
yles rushed
to the hanging body. He grabbed the Frenchman’s legs, which were cold and felt like pre-cooked meat, to push the body upwards – if there was any chance Jean-François was still alive, the weight needed to be taken from his neck. But the movement only forced the blood which had pooled in the man’s mouth to spew out. Myles felt the liquid soak onto his back.

Looking up at Jean-François’ neck, Myles could see how deeply the wire had cut. Exposed flesh glistened with half-dried body fluids. The skin was bruised blue, and distorted muscles bulged out on one side. Jean-François’ tongue was poking from his mouth, and his lips were discoloured.

Quickly, Glenn grabbed the chair from the desk and stood on it. The American unwound the piano wire from the light socket, so that all of Jean-François’ weight transferred to Myles who, still holding the man’s legs, manoeuvred the body onto the bed.

The Frenchman’s cadaver was stiff, and his face fixed in an expression of extreme fear. His eyeballs gazed out as if he had seen pure evil, the blood vessels inside them had burst. It was clear that the wire had not just cut into his throat, but also choked his jugular artery, severing the blood supply to his head for however long the Frenchman had been hanging.

Myles bent down, daring to peer straight into Jean-François’ last moments. There was something about the dead man’s face, his eyes and his jaw. Myles tried to see beneath the red saliva oozing out of Jean-François’ mouth to wonder what the man’s last words might have been. The torture evident in his eyes was not just physical, but also psychological; it seemed his death had come in the midst of absolute terror.

Heike-Ann pushed two fingers onto an unbloodied part of Jean-François’ neck to check for a pulse. She shut her eyes while she waited the few seconds it took to be absolutely certain the man was dead. Eyes still closed, she shook her head and withdrew her hand. There was no need for her to announce that Jean-François had no pulse. All four of them had already concluded the Frenchman died several hours ago.

While Heike-Ann and Zenyalena moved away, Heike-Ann with her hand to her mouth in shock, Glenn pointed to Jean-François’ wrists. ‘Look …’ he whispered. Without touching the body, the American drew Myles’ attention to two narrow red lines. ‘… His hands had been tied. And now they’re free. Someone cut the binding after he died. Someone watched him die.’

Myles understood. ‘And piano wire. It’s meant to be one of the cruellest ways to die. You know, when the Stauffenberg bomb plot failed to kill Hitler in July 1944, the dictator ordered the conspirators to be hung from piano wire.’ Myles kept trying to read Jean-François’ expression. ‘It’s as though whoever did this was trying to ... they weren’t just trying to kill Jean-François. Right?’

Glenn acknowledged the point, while Heike-Ann supressed an audible reaction.

Zenyalena was distracting herself from the corpse by examining the Frenchman’s desk. Papers from Stolz were still out, as though Jean-François had been reading them when he was disturbed by his killer. Also, his laptop computer was still on, showing a screen saver. Zenyalena clicked on the mouse. A webpage came up, probably the last webpage Jean-François had read. Zenyalena turned the screen around so they could all read it.

Zenyalena scrolled down.

She spoke to the others without looking up. ‘It’s a biography. About another dead Frenchman …’ The Russian pulled out one of the papers, ‘… and it matches what he’d been reading from Stolz. Look – a paper from Stolz on this “Mr Gauquelin”.’ Then she noticed Jean-François’ email system was open too. Zenyalena guided the cursor on to the ‘sent’ folder and clicked. There was a single, fairly long message sent just before midnight. Zenyalena brought it up. ‘It looks like he was emailing the Quai D’Orsay, the French Foreign Ministry.’

Glenn exhaled demonstrably, making clear he thought it was bad taste for Zenyalena to be reading their colleague’s emails so soon after he had been murdered.

Zenyalena ignored him, and carried on reading. ‘The email’s in French,’ she said. ‘There’s a whole bunch of stuff here about … us. He says, “Glenn, United States, probably military intelligence, obstructive at times, secretive …”’

Glenn raised his eyebrows, but didn’t say anything. He looked across at Jean-François’ body, deciding not to challenge the dead man’s assessment.

‘Er, “Myles Munro, Great Britain”,’ continued Zenyalena. ‘“Cooperative, unusual and exceptionally intelligent … Zenyalena Androvsky, Russia, prepared to cause disruption within team but determined to understand Stolz …”’ She skimmed on through the text, deliberately leaving out some of Jean-François’ words on her. ‘Then he goes on to describe Stolz’s papers. He says, “Stolz’s papers seem to describe future events. It seems the Nazis made predictions which have later proven to be correct. The question is,
how
? Stolz may have found some link between human events and predictable natural phenomena. This would have allowed him to forecast future natural events, and then make accurate conjectures about human affairs – all with very precise timings for when they would happen …’ Then Zenyalena skipped to the end. ‘‘‘… I suggest you send someone else to join the team here – we need someone who understands both statistics and history. Lieutenant Colonel Pascal would be ideal, if he’s available. Otherwise, try someone at the French Defence Academy.’’’

There was silence in the room. Myles and Glenn’s eyes naturally reverted to Jean-François’ body. They were trying to understand the man’s final moments, and – like amateur sleuths – studying the horrific corpse to deduce whatever they could about who killed their friend and colleague.

Finally, Heike-Ann spoke up, her voice now flat and authoritative. ‘Gentlemen, Zenyalena. We are in a room where a murder happened, and we are contaminating evidence. Please, can we all leave?’ Myles sensed that Heike-Ann’s request was motivated by more than just a professional need to help a police forensic team - she was also reacting to the corpse, her hands on her swollen belly, as if she was calming her unborn baby.

Zenyalena reminded her who was in charge. ‘Thank you, Heike-Ann. But we have already established that the authority of this team to investigate Werner Stolz is above the normal laws of Germany. And that includes any laws you have about evidence at crime scenes. Agreed?’

‘Yes, but,’ Heike-Ann gulped, preparing to answer back quietly. ‘This is now the second unlawful killing in Berlin, after Stolz himself. Three, if we include the attempted murder with carbon monoxide …’ She gestured towards Myles. ‘I have no idea who did this to Jean-François. And I don’t think any of you do, either …’

Glenn, Myles and Zenyalena all looked blank. None of them even had any suspicions.

‘… OK,’ concluded Heike-Ann. ‘We need to bring in the German police. This needs a proper investigation. Before anything else bad happens.’

Glenn’s posture seemed to be agreeing with Heike-Ann. ‘She’s right. We have all of Stolz’s papers. We can take them back to our capitals, and each of us can examine them there.’

But Zenyalena wasn’t having it. ‘No, Glenn. We
don’t
have all of Stolz’s papers. We know he hid some more – probably in Vienna.’

‘In Heldenplatz? Come on …’ Glenn said the words mockingly, ridiculing the idea that Stolz had managed to stow some papers secretly in a large, popular piazza in the centre of the Austrian capital. He squared up to Zenyalena. ‘Anyway, without Jean-François, we have to end this investigation.’

‘No, Glenn. If we stop examining Stolz now, we can be sure his secret will be lost.’ Then she caught something in the American’s eye. ‘Or is that what you want? Do you want Stolz to keep his secret?’

‘No. I want to find it as much as you do. But look, Zenyalena.’ He pointed at Jean-François’ body, still lying on the bed. ‘That could have been any of us. You, me, Heike-Ann or Myles. And who knew what Jean-François was researching? Not many people.’ Glenn was scanning the others for a reaction. ‘Jean-François’ death needs to be investigated as much as Stolz’s papers. And until we know who did this, there’s a chance that someone else gets killed. It could be you next, Zenyalena.’

Glenn’s last comments were met by quiet shock. He had gone too far –almost as if it was a threat. There was no need for the Russian to reply.

The four of them stood still, all eyes fixed on Jean-François’ corpse.

Finally, after more than a minute, Heike-Ann spoke very quietly. ‘Come on. I think it’s time for us to leave the room, now.’

Without words, they all accepted she was right. Together, the team shuffled back out, acutely aware that their former leader was no longer with them.

1
0.35 a.m
. CET (9.35 a.m. GMT)

M
yles
, Glenn and Zenyalena walked back down to the hotel lobby, still silenced by what they had seen.

Heike-Ann used her mobile to contact the Berlin police, then informed the concierge with a quiet explanation. Hotel staff swiftly made sure nobody else went upstairs until the emergency services had arrived.

The first police units came within minutes. Others followed, including a medic and forensic teams. Only once they were well-established did Heike-Ann return to Glenn, Zenyalena and Myles, who had found seats within sight of the reception. Nobody felt able to return to the team’s executive meeting room, except the Russian who had gone back to retrieve her half-drunk coffee.

‘The Berlin police want us to write statements about last night,’ instructed Heike-Ann. She turned to Myles and Glenn. ‘English is fine. And Zenyalena – you can write in Russian. We can translate.’

One of the officers came over and gave Myles, Zenyalena and Glenn two sheets of paper each and a pen. Still sombre, the three of them started writing. Heike-Ann caught the attention of the officer before he left and indicated she should write something, too. The officer duly returned with pen and paper for her.

After a few minutes, Glenn leaned back and handed his sheets back to one of the police officers. He looked over at the others. ‘Did any of you hear anything – in the night?’

Myles shook his head, still writing.

Only Zenyalena looked up to answer. ‘I don’t think we should share our evidence. That would be corrupt,’ she said curtly.

Glenn mused the point over in his mind, wondering if Zenyalena was accusing him of something. But he didn’t react.

Zenyalena finished her statement and handed it in. Heike-Ann did the same.

They turned to Myles, watching his hand struggle across the paper. His fingers gripped the pen in an odd way, seeming to push the pen rather than pull it, and his words looked clumsy on the page. Only after several more minutes did he sit back like the others, his statement finally completed.

Myles sensed the others had been watching him, intrigued by his messy handwriting. He tried to guess what they were thinking. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘They didn’t choose me for my pen work.’

The smallest smile appeared on Glenn’s face. ‘Dyslexic?’

Myles shrugged. ‘I don’t know.’ He raised his eyebrows to show he didn’t care either.

It was as Myles handed in his papers to a member of the crime investigation unit, which was rapidly taking over the hotel, that he noticed a man who had just arrived – someone not with the police. With a military bearing and a shoulder bag, the man went to the hotel’s main desk. He spoke to the receptionist and there seemed to be a brief conversation. After some uncertainty, the visitor looked shocked. Then he was pointed towards Myles, Glenn, Zenyalena and Heike-Ann, sitting quietly in the lobby.

The man approached, his face uncertain. ‘Good afternoon. Do you speak English?’ He spoke with a noticeable French accent, similar to Jean-François’.

Myles pulled himself up with his crutches. ‘Lieutenant Colonel Pascal?’

The Frenchman looked puzzled. He hadn’t expected to be recognised.

Myles smiled as they shook hands. ‘Good to meet you. I’m Myles Munro, from Britain.’

Zenyalena stood up also, extending her hand to the French Colonel. ‘Zenyalena, Russian Federation.’

Glenn remained seated, and just waved his hand in mock welcome. ‘Glenn. United States.’

Heike-Ann stood up to offer the Frenchman a chair. But the man just seemed confused. Carefully he placed his shoulder bag onto the floor. ‘At reception they said “Condolences” when I asked for Jean-François. He’s… he’s dead?’ He said it in disbelief, not ready to accept it could be true.

But the four faces in front of him confirmed it. Heike-Ann put her hand on the man’s shoulder and encouraged him to take a seat.

Pascal duly sat down. Still not sure where to begin – the French Colonel seemed to have too many questions in his mind. ‘But… how?’ he spluttered. ‘When did this happen? He emailed me last night …’ The colonel seemed to be assuming it had been an accident. Finally, he realised the presence of so many policemen in the hotel was no coincidence. ‘Murdered?’

Zenyalena started nodding.

Heike-Ann felt the need to qualify the Russian woman’s answer. ‘
Probably
murdered. An investigation has started.’ She tried to console the Frenchman with her eyes.

‘But he told me there was an international investigation team,’ said Pascal. ‘All about … Er, Mr Werner Stolz. Is that right?’

Glenn looked up, resigned. ‘
Was
is correct. We no longer have the whole team. The investigation is with the Berlin police now.’

Zenyalena exploded. ‘No. This investigation is
not
over.’ She stamped her foot on the word ‘not’. It made the coffee table rattle, and some of the police team waiting in the lobby looked over. Zenyalena hunched forward, keen to make her points more quietly but with just as much force. ‘Look. This investigation has been mandated at the highest level …’

Zenyalena’s words were interrupted by Glenn scoffing, but he let her continue.

‘… It’s only over when we say it’s over,’ she said. ‘And if we let this German police investigation take over the Stolz papers, we all know what’s going to happen.’

‘Tell me, what’ll happen, Zenyalena?’ taunted Glenn.

Zenyalena took the bait. ‘I’ll tell you what’s going to happen, Glenn. Jean-François’ computer will go to some scientist who works for a German court. Everything Stolz wrote will go to some great warehouse where it never gets looked at again. Whatever secret he had, it will always stay a secret.’

‘But Zenyalena, we can’t go on. We’ve lost our team – unless you haven’t noticed, one of us got killed last night. He was our team leader, for Christ’s sake …’ Glenn was getting exasperated. ‘… And that means it’s not safe for us to continue. It’s with the police now. It has to be. Hell, it was all nonsense anyway.’

Zenyalena stood up. She lifted her half-drunk cup of coffee and flicked it towards the American. Glenn reacted swiftly, standing to dodge the flying liquid, but some of it still landed on his sleeves.

Glenn brushed off his clothes. ‘I think I should fly back to the States.’

He turned to leave, but Zenyalena called after him. ‘Wait. Wait— there is a way we could continue.’

‘Explain.’

‘We have a replacement for Jean-François – here.’ She pointed at the Frenchman. ‘Colonel Pascal, your ID, please.’

Pascal was now doubly confused – still digesting the news about his friend’s death, and also trying to understand the mad Russian woman. He pulled out a diplomatic passport and a military identity badge, and offered them to whoever was interested.

Glenn accepted them both, checked them, then handed them back with a nod.

‘So Pascal’s on the team?’ pressed Zenyalena.

‘No,’ insisted Glenn. ‘Under the deal reached by our respective foreign ministries, it has to be nominees from each of the four governments. Not just – no offence, Colonel – the “friend” of a nominee. And it’s still too dangerous.’

Myles watched them argue. Glenn definitely had a point – whatever value this investigation might bring, Jean-François’ death changed things. Myles knew he’d been lucky to survive the carbon monoxide attack. Whoever was trying to harm them would try to do it again.

Zenyalena could tell she was losing the argument. She looked around for support. ‘Lieutenant Colonel Pascal – surely you’ll come with me?’

Pascal looked uneasy. He was shaking his head. ‘I don’t know what this investigation is about. But I’m sure it wasn’t so important that Jean-François should die for it.’

‘But Colonel Pascal – to continue is what your friend would have wanted.’

The Frenchman could tell Zenyalena’s appeal was a little desperate. He wasn’t budging.

Zenyalena turned to Myles. ‘Myles – will you join me? We only have to travel to Vienna. Otherwise, all these papers – whatever secret Stolz had discovered - it’ll all go to bureaucrats.’

That word – ‘bureaucrats’. Myles thought of the mindless paper pushers who had plagued him for so long. The people who always wanted to control things, and who destroyed the things they controlled. He remembered the note from Corporal Bradley, written way back in 1945. Bradley had warned them about the bureaucrats.

Myles began to nod. ‘Yes, Zenyalena. We should go to Vienna. You, me, and whoever wants to join.’

Glenn cursed. ‘Damn it, Myles. That goes against the whole international protocol.’

‘I know – so?’ said Myles. ‘Maybe protocols have to be ignored sometimes. You coming?’

Glenn shook his head, still disgusted the Englishman had sided with the Russian.

Myles understood. He spoke to Pascal. ‘I know you’re upset. You’re probably still in shock. But we’d like it if you came with us, if you can.’

Pascal studied Myles’ face, then Zenyalena’s. He could tell the two of them were determined to go. Slowly, he seemed to acquiesce. ‘OK, but just to Vienna.’

Myles turned back to the bald American. ‘You know, Glenn, you may not want to come, but I’d feel safer knowing you were with us.’

Glenn glanced sideways at Myles, wondering if the Oxford academic had some clever plan. Myles just raised his eyebrows, open-faced: he wasn’t hiding anything.

Glenn turned to Heike-Ann. ‘Will the Berlin police allow us to take off to Austria?’

‘Yes, Glenn, in a few hours. We can all be traced if they want to follow up. It’s not a problem.’

‘Then if we travel, we have to do it quickly,’ concluded Glenn. ‘We have to wrong-foot whoever did this to Jean-François. The police must let us take the overnight train to Vienna. Tonight.’ Glenn looked up at the others, his face still uncertain.

Zenyalena gloated. ‘Good – so America
can
be persuaded after all.’

The five of them stood up, preparing to pack their things and decamp from Potsdam’s Schlosshotel Cecilienhof.

Then Zenyalena stopped, ‘One more thing,’ she said, jerking her head towards Myles. ‘Jean-François was our chairman. Although Lieutenant Colonel Pascal can represent France, our team still needs a new leader.’

Myles didn’t respond, but he saw Glenn’s expression. He could tell what the American was thinking.
Glenn would not allow Zenyalena to be leader, and Zenyalena would not accept Glenn.
Myles felt the faces of the two superpower representatives turn towards him.

It was Zenyalena who made the suggestion. ‘Myles, would you … be our leader?’

Myles realised he didn’t have much choice. Involuntarily, he found himself nodding.

He was about to lead the team south – to Vienna.

J
ust a few metres
from the room where Jean-François’s body had been discovered, a man was breathing through his mouth to remain as quiet as he could. He was still trying to listen to all that was happening in the hotel, while remaining unseen.

Just as Dieter had expected, the police had come. Also, as expected, the police had presumed the killer was far away. After all, the Frenchman’s body was several hours old; he checked his watch to calculate exactly how old. Reliable, German police – they were so predictable, it made him smile…

Less expected was that the so-called ‘international team’ were travelling to Vienna. Did they know what they were looking for, or just hoping to find something? Whichever was true, there was a chance they could find out more.

He took out his communicator, and typed a message with his thumbs.

Dieter pressed ‘send’, wondering how his paymaster would receive the news.

He didn’t wait for an instruction to follow the team; he would do that anyway.

And he would remain unseen.