Bad Company

Berlin
The Führer Bunker
30 April 1945
2.

IF THERE WAS a hell on earth, it was Berlin. It seemed to be on fire, a charnel house, black smoke drifting everywhere. The city was doomed, everyone knew that, and the Russians were already in control of the eastern half.

The people were on the move, refugees from their own city, carrying what they could, a few pitiful belongings, with the desperate hope that they might somehow get to the West and reach the advancing American army.

Groups of SS were stopping anyone in uniform. Those without a pass or some sort of order were shot on the spot. Shells were dropping in, fired at random by Russian artillery. People cried out in alarm and scattered.

Sturmbahnführer Baron Max von Berger sat in the front passenger seat of a Kübelwagen, the German equivalent of a jeep. He had an SS corporal driving, a sergeant in the rear seat clutching an MP40 Schmeisser machine pistol. As they moved along the Wilhelm-strasse close to the Reich Chancellery, they saw three SS soldiers with two men in civilian clothes on their knees, about to be shot.

Von Berger told his driver to halt. “Stop!” he said. “What is your authority for this?”

The men paused. Their leader, a sergeant, had a brutal unshaven face. He took in von Berger’s black leather coat and the young face, and failed to notice the Knight’s Cross with Oak Leaves and Swords under the collar of the coat.

“And who the hell are you, sonny?”

“Sturmbahnführer von Berger.”

The smell of brandy was powerful. “At your age? You look about nineteen. I bet you stole the uniforms, you and your mates here.” He cocked his Schmeisser. “Let’s see your authority.”

“Oh, I can show you that.”

Max von Berger took a Luger from his right-hand coat pocket and shot him between the eyes. The sergeant in the rear of the Kübelwagen sprayed the other two as they turned to run.

The two men who had been faced with death got up in a daze and von Berger waved them away. “Clear off.” He turned to his driver. “Carry on.”

The Kübelwagen turned out of the Wilhelmplatz and into Vorsstrasse and approached the Reich Chancellery, which was, like everything else, a victim of the bombardment, defaced and crumbling. It had long since passed functioning as any kind of headquarters, but under thirty meters of concrete was Adolf Hitler’s last command post, the Führer Bunker. It was a self-supporting, subterranean world complete with electricity, fresh water and extensive kitchens; still in touch with the outside world by radio and telephone; and crowded with people like Bormann and Ribbentrop and numerous generals, all trying to avoid the harsh reality that, thirty meters over their heads, the Third Reich was coming to a disastrous end.

The vehicle ramp was ruined, but there was room to park the Kübelwagen to one side. The SS sergeant got out and opened the door for von Berger. “Quick thinking, Herr Baron.”

“A reflex, Karl – it’s been a long war. You didn’t do too badly yourself.” He got out, reached for a briefcase, turned and walked to the two SS sentries at the Bunker entrance.

They sprang to attention. “Sturmbahnführer.”

“One of you deliver this to Major General Mohnke’s aide. It’s the report the general wanted on the state of Number Two Brigade’s readiness for the final assault.” One of the men took it and went downstairs. Von Berger turned to the other and clapped him on the shoulder. “Find me a drink. I got shot in the left hip last year, and some mornings it hurts like the devil. I’ll be in the garden.”

The boy went off on the double and von Berger said, “Come on, Karl,” and went round to the once-lovely garden, now a wreck, with some trees uprooted, the occasional shell hole. There was a sadness to the place for what once had been and, for a moment, the artillery seemed like only the sound of distant thunder on the horizon. He took out a cigarette case, selected one, and Karl Hoffer gave him a light. A tough, hard young man of twenty-five, Hoffer was a forester from the Baron’s great estate in the forest of Holstein Heath, the Schwarze Platz, the dark place. They’d served together for four years.

“So, my friend, we’re in a fine fix, aren’t we?”

“We were in Stalingrad, too, but we made it out, Baron.”

“Not this time, Karl. I’m afraid we might have to take up permanent residence. I wonder what it’s like at home.”

He was thinking of Schloss Adler above the village of Neustadt. It had been his family home for seven hundred years, a huge expanse of forest, dark and mysterious, dotted with villages, every inhabitant a member of the extended family of which he was the head.

“Have you heard from the Baroness?” Hoffer asked.

“I had that letter four months ago, but nothing since. And you?”

“Just that one from my Lotte in February. She mentioned the Baroness, of course.” Lotte worked as her maid at the Schloss.

Von Berger’s father, a major general, had been killed during the Polish campaign in ’thirty-nine, elevating Max suddenly to the title of Baron. His mother had died at his birth. The only woman in his life was his beloved Elsa, and they had married early because of the war. Like von Berger, she was twenty-three, and the boy, little Otto, was three years of age.

The young SS guard appeared clutching a bottle and two glasses. “I’m sorry, Herr Baron, it’s vodka, I’m afraid.”

Max von Berger laughed. “I’d say that’s rather appropriate, but you’ve only brought two glasses.”

The boy flushed. “Well, I did put one in my pocket, Sturmbahnführer.”

The Baron turned to Hoffer. “See how well we train them?” He took the bottle, jerked off the cork, then poured liberally into one of the glasses and tossed it down. He gasped, “God, that hit the spot. The Russians made this one in the backyard.” He poured another, which went the same way. “Great. Take that for a moment, Karl.”

“Baron.”

Von Berger removed his leather greatcoat and handed it to Hoffer. “Suddenly my hip feels fine.” He poured a third vodka and gave the boy the bottle back. “Now you too.”

He got a cigarette out of his case one-handed, the glass of vodka in the other. Hoffer gave him a light and the Baron walked away, enjoying his smoke and sipping the vodka.

Hoffer and the boy had a quick one and poured another. The boy was fascinated by von Berger. “My God, his uniform. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

Hoffer was wearing combat camouflage gear. He shrugged. “I’ve got the same thing under this lot. Except for the medals.” He grinned. “The medals are all his.”

In spite of his youth, Baron Max von Berger had seen action in Poland, France and Holland with the Waffen SS. Afterward, he’d transferred to the 21st SS Paratroop Battalion and been wounded at Malame in Crete. Then had come Rommel’s Afrika Korps and the Winter War in Russia. He wore a gold badge, which meant he had been wounded five times.

In spite of the silver Death’s Head badge on his service cap and the SS runes and rank badges on his collar, he was all Fallschirmjäger, in flying blouse and jump trousers tucked into paratroop boots Luftwaffe-style, though in field gray.

The gold-and-silver eagle of the paratroopers’ qualification was pinned to his left breast above the Iron Cross. The Knight’s Cross with Oak Leaves and Swords hung from his throat.

Karl Hoffer said, “He’s special people, the Baron. We’ve been through four years of hell together and we’re still here.”

“Maybe not for much longer,” the boy said.

“Who knows? In Stalingrad, we thought we’d had it, and then right at the end we both got wounded and they put us on one of the last planes out. Three hundred and fifty thousand men went down the drain, and we made it out.”

At that moment, General Mohnke appeared from the garden entrance of the Bunker. He ignored them and moved toward von Berger.

“Baron, the Führer wants to see you.”

Max von Berger turned, puzzlement on his face. “The Führer?”

“Yes, at once.”

Von Berger paused beside Karl and held out his glass. Karl filled it and von Berger toasted him. “To us, my friend, and the three hundred and sixty-five men of the battalion who died for whatever.” He tossed the drink back and threw the glass away. “So, General,” he said to Mohnke, “let’s not keep the Führer waiting.”

He followed the general down a flight of steps, the concrete walls damp with moisture. Soldiers, mainly SS, were crammed in every nook and cranny of the apparently endless corridors and passageways. There was a general air of despair – more than that, resignation. When people talked, it was in subdued tones against the background of the whirring electric fans that controlled the ventilation system. The soldiers only stopped talking at the surprising sight of Max von Berger in his immaculately tailored uniform, medals aglow.

They passed through the lower levels that housed most of the Führer’s personal staff, Goebbels and his family, Martin Bormann, and many generals. Mohnke still led the way, but von Berger knew exactly where he was going, for he had been there before.

In the garden bunker was the Führer’s study, as well as a bedroom, two sitting rooms, bathroom facilities and a map room, close by and convenient for the constant conferences. Mohnke knocked on the door and went in. Von Berger waited. There was a murmur of voices, then Mohnke returned.

“The Führer will see you now.” He grabbed the young man’s hand. “Your comrades of the SS are proud of you. Your victory is ours.”

A slogan initiated by Goebbels in one of his inspired moments, and the subject of much ribaldry in the ranks of the SS. In any case, von Berger couldn’t imagine what he had done to cause such adulation.

“You’re too kind, General.”

“Not at all.” Mohnke was sweating and looked slightly dazed. He stood back and von Berger passed into the study.

The Führer sat at his desk, leaning over a map. He seemed shrunken, the uniform jacket too large for him; the face seemed wasted, the eyes dark holes, no life there at all, his cheeks hollow, a man at the end of things. The young woman beside him was an SS auxiliary in uniform. She held a sheaf of documents, which she passed one by one for Hitler to sign with a shaking hand. Her name was Sara Hesser. She was twenty-two years of age and had been pulled in by the Führer himself to act as a relief secretary.

He glanced up at her. “Deliver these. I’ll see the Baron in the sitting room. You can then bring the special file to me. Is it up to date?”

“As of last night, my Führer.”

“Good.” He stood up. “Follow me, Baron.”

He shuffled ahead, opened the door and led the way into the first sitting room. He sat in an armchair by a coffee table.

“Baron Max von Berger, Sturmbahnführer of the SS, you took a holy oath to protect your Führer. Repeat it now.”

Von Berger clicked his heels together. “I will render unconditional obedience to the Führer of the German Reich and People, Adolf Hitler, Supreme Commander of the Armed Forces, and will be ready, as a brave soldier, to stake my life at any time on this oath.”

Hitler nodded in satisfaction. “You have a magnificent record for one so young and yet you never joined the Nazi Party. Why not?”

“It didn’t seem appropriate, my Führer.”

“A typical response from the head of a great family. The aristocrat to the end – and yet you served me well. Why was that?”

“It’s a matter of honor, my Führer. I took the oath.”

“Just what I thought you’d say. You’re a remarkable young man. I sensed that when I decorated you with the Swords. That’s why I made you an aide. I was saving you. You’d be no use to me dead and that’s what would have happened if you’d returned to the front.”

Max von Berger took a deep breath. “What would you have me do, my Führer?”

“The most important task left to anyone in this Bunker. The Russians are coming. They want to cage me, and I can’t have that. My wife and I will commit suicide – no, no, don’t look like that, von Berger. The important thing is my work must continue, and you will play a part in that, the most important part.”

By his wife, he was, of course, referring to his mistress, Eva Braun, whom he had married around midnight on the 28th.

“We must see that National Socialism survives, that is essential. We have vast sums of money, not only in Switzerland, but in South American countries sympathetic to our cause. Many of my emissaries are already in the Argentine and Brazil. We must maintain the Kameradenwerk, the Action for Comrades.”

There was a knock at the door and Sara Hesser came in, a briefcase in one hand. Hitler waved her to one side. “I have no secrets from Sara, as you will see.”

“So where do I fit in, my Führer?”

Hitler raised a hand. “The Führer Directive.”

Sara Hesser opened the briefcase, extracted a sheet of paper and passed it to von Berger, who read it with some astonishment. It was explicit:

The Führer Bunker, April 30, 1945.

The bearer of this pass, an aide on my staff, is Sturmbahnführer Baron Max von Berger, on a personal assignment from me. All personnel, civil and military, will render him every assistance.

Adolf Hitler

“This may help you,” Hitler said.

For Max von Berger, the implications were breathtaking. “But in what way, my Führer?”

“To get through whatever happens to you in the next few days. To help you get home, to survive and prepare yourself for your inevitable capture by the Americans or British.”

Von Berger was bewildered. “But there are no Americans here, my Führer, only Russians.”

“You don’t understand. Listen. During the last few days, many planes have flown in from Gatow and Rechlin, using streets such as the East West Avenue near the Brandenburger Tor as runways. Field Marshal von Greim came in the other day in a Fieseler Storch.”

Max von Berger struggled to control himself. The only reason for von Greim to come to Berlin was to be promoted to head of the Luftwaffe. The Führer, of course, could have told him on the telephone. Instead, von Greim had flown in from Munich escorted by fifty fighters, and forty of them had been shot down.

He said patiently, “And how does this affect me?”

“I spoke to the commandant of the Luftwaffe base at Rechlin. A pilot has volunteered to fly you out in a Storch. It has already arrived and is waiting in that huge garage at Goebbels’s house. The heavy rain and steam from the fires will make it an ideal time to go.”

“But to do what, my Führer?”

Hitler put out a shaking hand and Sara Hesser put the briefcase on the desk. “When the war is over, industry will collapse and so will your family’s company, Berger Steel. Eventually, though, things will start to improve, and especially for you. In here, you will find details of deposits in Switzerland, code words, passwords, which will give you access to millions. You’ll build Berger back into a power.”

Von Berger was speechless.

“That is not all.” Hitler opened the briefcase and produced a book bound in dark blue. “I have kept a diary for the past six months, a time in which everyone has betrayed me. Goering, Himmler.” He shook his head. “And no one tried more than me to be reasonable. I even sent Walter Schellenberg to Sweden to meet Roosevelt ’s representative, did you know that? No, of course you didn’t. I offered a negotiated peace to combat the Red menace. Am I the enemy? No. It is that dog Stalin. Together, the U.S. and Germany, we could have smashed him, but, no, my offer was rejected. The Americans will reap the whirlwind, believe me. The Russians will not recognize what they have taken. The damage they will do to Berlin is beyond anyone’s comprehension. Yet Roosevelt and Eisenhower have decided to hold back after the Elbe crossing. Patton and his tanks could be here in twenty-four hours, but they’ve been told to stay where they are in obedience to Stalin’s wishes and allow the Reds to take Berlin.”

“My God,” von Berger said.

“Believe me, in the years to come, America and Britain will rue this as their greatest folly. And it is all in my diary. Every day, I have dictated it to Fraülein Hesser. You may notice the trembling in my hand – an unfortunate ailment that has plagued me for some time. But I have signed each entry.”

“So what do I do with the diary, my Führer?”

“There will come a time when it will be of use to advance our cause. I do not know when – but you will, Baron. You will be its keeper. It is a holy book, Baron. I want no copies, your oath on that? Protected at all times. You may read it, if you wish. You will find the account of my dealings with Roosevelt particularly interesting.” He shook his head. “I have every belief that you will achieve this for me.”

And Baron Max von Berger, a great soldier and a brave man, but who had always despised the Nazi Party, for some reason felt incredibly moved. The young woman put the diary and documents back into the briefcase and handed it to him.

Hitler said, “So, you will leave within the next hour because of the bad weather.”

“May I take my sergeant with me?” von Berger asked.

“Of course. You can also take Fraülein Hesser.” He glanced up at her.

She said, “No, my Führer, my place, my duty, is with you.”

“So be it.” Hitler stood and held a shaking hand to von Berger. “Strange. Not even a Party member, and yet I chose you.”

Von Berger shook his hand strongly. “I accept the task. It is a matter of honor.”

“On your way. We shall not meet again.”

Sara Hesser went and opened the door. Max von Berger, the briefcase in his hand, paused and turned, and the sight of Hitler, hunched at his desk, was to haunt him for his entire life.

“My Führer.” He gave a military salute.

Hitler gave a thin smile. “Even now you cannot bring yourself to give me a Party salute. You touch your cap like a British Guards officer.”

“I’m sorry, my Führer.”

“Oh, go on. Just go.” Hitler waved his hand and Sara Hesser closed the door on the Baron.

He found his way back up the crowded passageways and through the garden bunker, where he found Hoffer and the young SS soldier sitting under a concrete awning in the entrance, drinking the rest of the vodka while it rained relentlessly.

Hoffer stood up. “Baron?”

“We’re getting out, Karl. Believe it or not, but we’re going to get out.”

“But how, sir?”

Von Berger took him to one side. “I’ve been given a special mission by the Führer. There’s a light plane waiting. I’m not saying more, but we’re going home, we’re going to Holstein.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“Well, it’s true. Give me my coat and get some weapons.”

He turned and the boy said, “You’re going, Sturmbahnführer?”

Von Berger smiled and clapped him on the shoulder. “What’s your name, boy?”

“Paul Schneider.”

“Then I’ll tell you what, Paul Schneider. Instead of waiting to face death at the hands of the Russians, you can come with us, fly to the West and surrender to the Americans.”

“I can’t believe it,” the boy gasped.

“Sergeant Hoffer just said that.” He turned to Hoffer. “Get moving.”

Within forty minutes, von Berger, Hoffer and young Schneider left the Bunker, exiting into Hermann Goering Strasse. They were well armed with military packs containing extra ammunition and grenades. Each one had a Schmeisser machine pistol slung across his chest.

There were people pouring along the Tiergarten in hordes now, a terrible panic having taken over, and the fog, made worse by the smoke, swirled across the city, not even the heavy rain managing to clear it. The rumble of artillery was constant, women with children screamed, terrified.

The three men moved along the Tiergarten on the edge of the crowd, cut across by the Brandenburg Gate to Goebbels’s house. It showed evidence of damage, obviously from shell splinters, but the very large garage was intact. There was a judas gate in the main door and Hoffer opened it gently.

“Hold it,” a voice called, and a light was switched on. A small Fieseler Storch spotter plane appeared, a young Luftwaffe captain standing beside it in uniform and flying jacket. He held a Schmeisser at the ready.

Von Berger moved past Hoffer. “I’m Sturmbahnführer von Berger. Who are you?”

“My name is Ritter – Hans Ritter – and thank God you’re here. This is the fourth time I’ve done this run and it wasn’t fun. Could I ask where we’re going?”

“To the West, to Holstein Heath in Schwarze Platz. There’s a castle, Schloss Adler, above Neustadt. Can we make it?”

“Yes. It’s a three-hundred-mile flight and we’ll have to refuel somewhere, but I’ll tell you what, Sturmbahnführer, I’d rather be there than here, so let’s get the hell out of this place. Get your lads to open the doors.”

“A sound idea.”

Hoffer and Schneider opened the sliding door and Ritter climbed into the Storch and started the engine. The three men clambered in and Hoffer closed the door.

Outside, the fleeing refugees turned in astonishment, then fled to either side as the Storch bumped over rubble and glass and turned toward the Victory Column. The rain was torrential.

Ritter boosted power and roared down the avenue toward the Victory Column. People scattered, the Storch lifted and, at that moment, Russian artillery opened up, shells exploding on each side. The plane banked to starboard, narrowly missing the Victory Column, and rose up through the fog.

At two thousand feet, Ritter leveled off. “We’ll stay low until we’re well away.”

When one looked down, there was only fire and artillery bursts and drifting smoke and fog. Hoffer said, “It looks like hell on earth. I can’t believe we’re out of it.”

Von Berger got two cigarettes from his silver case, lit them and passed one back to Hoffer.

“So, you were right after all, Karl. It’s Stalingrad all over again.”

Speaking above the roaring of the engine, Ritter cried, “As I said, it’s three hundred miles to Holstein Heath, and I’m very low on fuel. I’m going to make for the Luftwaffe base at Rechlin.”

“That’s fine by me,” von Berger told him, “if you think it wise.”

“It is. We have no idea what’s going to be available to us along the way. Mind you, it all depends on the weather at Rechlin. We’ll see.”

Some time later, he descended through the torrential rain and fog and called in. “ Rechlin Tower. This is Captain Ritter, out of Berlin. Must land to refuel.”

There was a crackle of static and a voice said, “I suggest you try elsewhere, Captain. The fog’s bad here. We’re down to four hundred meters.”

“I’m dangerously short of fuel.”

“The visibility’s getting worse all the time, believe me.”

Ritter turned to von Berger inquiringly. The Baron selected another cigarette and Hoffer lit it for him. Von Berger blew out smoke and said to Ritter, “We got out of Stalingrad and we’ve got out of Berlin. Everything else is a bonus. Let’s do it.”

“At your orders, Sturmbahnführer.”

The Storch descended very quickly, nothing but the fog surrounding them, and the driving rain, a gray, impenetrable world. Von Berger had no fear, too much had happened already – some strange destiny was surely at work. Even at four hundred meters, there was nothing.

He cried out to Ritter above the noise of the engine, “Go for it. What’ve we got to lose?”

Ritter nodded, a strange fixed smile on his face, took the Storch down, and suddenly at a suicidal level of three hundred meters the Luftwaffe base of Rechlin came into view: the buildings, the hangars, two runways. There was evidence of bombing and two aircraft burned at the side of the runway, an old Dornier and a JU885 night fighter. A fire crew was in the middle of dousing the flames.

Ritter made a perfect landing and taxied past the astonished fire crew to the hangars and switched off.

“Well, that was close.”

“You’re a genius, Ritter.”

“No, sir. It’s just that now and then one gets better, usually when it’s needed.”

As they got out, a field car drove up, a Luftwaffe colonel at the wheel. He got out. “Good God, it’s you, Ritter. Straight from Berlin? I can’t believe you got out. How are things?”

“You wouldn’t want to know. This is Sturmbahnführer Baron Max von Berger and his boys.” He turned to von Berger. “Colonel Strasser is an old friend.”

“May I inquire about your purpose, Baron?” Strasser asked.

Von Berger opened the briefcase and took out the Führer Directive, which he passed across. Strasser read it and noted the signature.

“Your credentials are impeccable, Baron. How may I assist?”

“We need refueling for an onward flight to Holstein Heath.”

“I can handle that, all right. We’ve still got plenty of fuel and you are welcome to our hospitality, but there’s no way you’re going anywhere for some time. Just look.” He waved toward the runway, the fog rolling in at ground level.

“I’ll see that you’re refueled and checked out, but there’s no guarantee of departure. You can use the officers’ mess, and in the unusual circumstances, your men may join you. I’ll drive you all there.”

“I’ll stay with the plane for the moment,” Ritter said. “Make sure everything is okay.”

Strasser got behind the wheel of the field car. Von Berger and his two men got in and they drove away.

The mess was strangely desolate, an orderly at the bar, another acting as a waiter. He brought Hoffer and Schneider stew and bread and beer, and they sat by the window and ate.

Schneider said, “I can’t believe I’m out of Berlin. It’s like a mad dream.”

“Where are you from?” Hoffer asked.

“ Hamburg.”

“Which isn’t looking too good these days. You’re better off with us.”

Behind them, in a corner by the bar, the waiter served von Berger with ham sandwiches and crusty bread and salad. Strasser came back from his office to join him.

“ Champagne,” he told the waiter and turned to von Berger with a smile. “We’re lucky. We’ve still got good booze and decent food. I don’t think that will last.”

“Well, at least it’s the Yanks and the Brits who are coming, not the Russians.”

“You can say that again.” They sampled the champagne when it came and started on the sandwiches, and Ritter joined them.

“Everything’s being taken care of, but I can’t see us getting off for a few hours. What’s going to happen to you, Strasser?”

The colonel poured him a glass of champagne.

“Gentlemen, I don’t know what your mission for the Führer is and I don’t want to know. Personally, I await the arrival of the Americans with every fiber of my being.” He toasted them. “To you, my friends. It’s been a hard war.”

There were plenty of staff rooms at headquarters, and they all helped themselves to beds. Von Berger, dozing, was awakened by Strasser at two-thirty in the morning.

“Time to go.”

Von Berger sat up. “How is the weather?”

“The fog has cleared to a certain extent, but the rain is still bad. The word is that the Russians have totally encircled Berlin. That could pose a serious threat here. Let’s hope the Yanks make it first.”

“Off we go, then.”

The Storch waited beside Runway One, Ritter with it, Hoffer and Schneider inside. Strasser got out of the field car and handed von Berger a bag. “Sandwiches, sausages, a couple of bottles of booze. Good luck, my friend.” He shook von Berger’s hand vigorously and suddenly embraced him. “What in the hell were we all playing at? How did we get in such a mess?”

Von Berger was incredibly moved. “Keep the faith. Things will change. Our time will come. I’ll seek you out.”

Strasser was astonished. “You mean that, Baron?”

“Of course. I’ll find you, believe me. I shall repay your help this night.”

He clambered into the plane after Ritter, closed everything, and outside, Strasser put his heels together and gave him a military salute. Von Berger returned it. The plane roared down the runway and lifted into the murk.

Ritter had given von Berger earphones and a throat mike. He spoke to him now. “I’ll take it very carefully. With our low speed and the weather, it could be three and a half hours, maybe even four to Holstein Heath. Most of the time, I’ll fly at two or three thousand, maybe higher if the weather continues bad.”

“That’s fine.”

The flight was difficult with the rain and the patchy fog, sometimes clear and at others swirling relentlessly. One hour, two, the whole trip became monotonous. Von Berger had passed the food bag to Hoffer, who opened it and handed the sandwiches and sausages around. The wine was cheap stuff with a screw cap and he poured it into paper cups. Even Ritter had some and held out the cup for a second helping.

“Come on, it won’t do me any harm. I need whatever help I can get in this weather.”

Von Berger finished his food, knocked back his wine and lit a cigarette. Rain beat on the windows. It was the strangest of sensations hammering through the bad early morning weather. What am I doing here? he thought. Is it a dream? I should be in Berlin. He shook his head. I should still be in Berlin.

And then he thought: But I’m not. I’m on the way home to see Elsa and little Otto and Karl will see his Lotte and the two girls. It’s a miracle and it’s because of the Führer. There must be a meaning to it.

Ritter said, “It’s still a bit thick down here. I think we’ll be okay. I’m going up to four thousand.”

“Fine.”

They came out through intermittent fog. It was clear up there and clear to the horizon, a full moon touching the edge of the early morning clouds.

Suddenly, there was a roaring, and the Storch was thrown to one side in the turbulence as a plane banked away to starboard and returned to take up station on the starboard side. They could see the pilot in the cockpit, the Red Star on the fuselage.

“What have we got?” Ritter asked. “Looks like a Yak fighter, the new model with cannon. That could damage us.”

“So what do we do?”

“Well, I’m really too slow for him, but that could also be an advantage. Planes that are too fast sometimes overshoot. I’ll go down and hope he’ll do something stupid.”

He banked, went down fast to three thousand meters, then banked again to port, went to two. The Yak started to fire its cannon, but too soon, because of his excessive speed, and he overshot and banked away.

He came in again, and this time punched a couple of holes in the starboard wing and splintered the window. Ritter cried out and reared back and there was blood on his face.

Ritter said, “I’m okay, it’s just a splinter. It’ll give me an interesting scar. I’m getting tired of this – I’m going down further. I’ll show this bastard how to fly.”

He went hard, all the way, and leveled at five hundred feet. The Yak came in again on his tail and Ritter dropped his flaps. The Storch seemed to stand still, and the Yak had to bank steeply to avoid hitting them and went down into the farmland. There was a mushroom of flame below and they flew on.

“I said you were a genius,” von Berger told him.

“Only some of the time.”

Von Berger turned to Hoffer. “Get the battle pack open. Find a dressing for his face. Give him a morphine ampoule, too.”

Ritter said, “Better not. I’ll tell you what, however – open that other bottle, whatever it is.”

“I thought it was wine, but it’s vodka,” Hoffer told him.

“Good. I’m always better flying on booze.”

It was perhaps five or five-thirty in the morning that they came in toward Holstein Heath, approaching at two thousand feet, the dark, mysterious forest below, the Schwarze Platz, villages dotted here and there, and then Neustadt and Schloss Adler above it on the hill.

Von Berger felt incredibly emotional as the plane banked, very low, Ritter searching for a suitable landing.

“There,” von Berger growled. “The meadow by the castle.”

“I see it.” Ritter turned in, slowed and made a perfect landing, rolling to a halt.

In the quiet, it was Schneider who said, “I still can’t believe it. We were in Berlin and now we’re here.”

Behind them, a few people were coming up hesitantly from the village as von Berger and the others got out of the plane. Von Berger stood holding Hitler’s briefcase, as a dozen men and a few women approached.

The leader, an aging white-headed man, almost recoiled. “My God, it’s you, Baron.”

“A surprise, Hartmann,” von Berger said. “How are you?”

“Baron, what can I say?” Hartmann removed his cap, took von Berger’s hand and kissed it. “Such terrible times.” He turned to Hoffer. “And you, Karl.”

Von Berger said, “Here we are, safe by a miracle, from Berlin. I’ll explain later, but first I must see the Baroness, and Karl, his Lotte and the girls.”

Hartmann actually broke into weeping. “God help me, Baron, the news is bad. They are in the chapel at the Schloss.”

Von Berger froze. “What do you mean?”

“Your wife and son, Baron. Lotte and her daughters and fifteen villagers are in the church awaiting burial.” He turned to Hoffer. “I am so sorry.”

Hoffer was stunned, horror on his face. Von Berger said, “Who did this thing?”

“SS.”

“I can’t believe it.”

“Einsatzgruppen.”

Einsatzgruppen were not Waffen SS, but extermination squads recruited from the jails of Germany, many of the men Ukrainians. Von Berger had heard stories, that in the last few weeks they had thrown off all restraints, started looting and killing on their own, but he had hardly believed it to be true.

He was moving in slow motion now. The dream was so bad it was unbelievable. He said to Hoffer, “You go and see to your family and I’ll see to mine.” He turned to Ritter. “You’d better be off. My deepest thanks.”

“No,” Ritter said, “I’ll stand by you. I’ll come with you, if I may.”

“That’s kind, my friend.”

They went up the steep path to the Schloss, von Berger and Ritter, followed by old Hartmann, and came to the ancient chapel. Von Berger pushed the door; it creaked open and he smelled the church smell, saw the memorials to his ancestors and the main family mausoleum, its doors standing wide. A coffin stood there, the lid half back, his wife inside, with his young son cradled in her left arm. He gazed down at her calm face, noticed the bruises.

“What happened to her?”

“Baron, what can I say?” Hartmann asked.

“Tell me,” von Berger said. “Was she violated?”

“Every woman in the village was, Baron. Then the Ukrainians got drunk and started shooting and the deaths happened.”

“How many of these bastards were there?”

“Twenty – twenty-one. They moved on to Plosen.”

Ten miles up the road through the forest.

“So, we know where they are.” Von Berger turned to Ritter.

“You can still go. I appreciate more than you know what you’ve done. As I told Strasser, things will change for all of us, and I’ll search you out.”

Ritter’s face, with the dressing on the cheek, was haggard. “I’ve no intention of going.”

“Then go down to the village with Hartmann and make sure his truck is ready to leave. I have private business here.”

Ritter and Hartmann left. Von Berger stood by the mausoleum for a while, then went to the rear, where there were two statues of saints. His hand passed inside one, it groaned and creaked open. He slipped the Führer’s briefcase inside, then closed the secret door. He leaned over, kissed his wife and son, and left.

In the village, the tenants waited and he passed amongst them, holding his hand out to be kissed, though not in arrogance; it was a tradition that had reigned in Holstein Heath for hundreds of years. These were his people, and the women who cried in despair did it because they looked to him for guidance.

Hoffer came to him, his face bleak. “Your orders, Baron?”

“We’re going to get these swine. Are you ready to leave, Hoffer?”

Before he could reply, young Schneider said, “And me, too, Baron.”

“Excellent.”

“And you can include me,” Ritter said. “I can shoot a Schmeisser with the best of them.”

As chance would have it, it was at that moment that the Americans arrived.

Not that they were much of a force. It was a single jeep and the young captain in the passenger seat wore a steel helmet and combat gear. His shoulder patch indicated an Airborne Ranger. A sergeant was at the wheel. They rolled to a halt and sat there, watchful.

“Does anyone here speak English?” the captain asked.

“Of course,” the Baron said.

“Good. I’ll take your surrender. My unit is about ten miles back. I’m Captain James Kelly, on forward reconnaissance. This is Sergeant Hanson.”

“And what might you be doing here?”

“Hey, buddy.” The driver picked up a submachine gun. “Watch your mouth.”

Ritter and Hoffer and young Schneider raised their Schmeissers threateningly, and Kelly said to Hanson, “Can it.” He spoke to von Berger. “We have information that the castle would make a possible headquarters. Who are you, anyway?”

“Sturmbahnführer Baron Max von Berger, owner of Schloss Adler and Holstein Heath.”

Kelly shook his head. “Wait a minute. I’ve got a report that says von Berger’s in the Bunker with Hitler. One of his aides or something.”

“True as of yesterday,” von Berger said. “If you will look behind you at the meadows, you will notice the Storch in which Captain Hans Ritter here flew me and my two men out of Berlin.”

Kelly nodded. “Okay, we’ll argue about it later. You can all surrender your weapons now.”

“This is a great coup for you, Captain, but, if you don’t mind, not just yet. We’ve urgent business to take care of first.”

“And what would that be?”

Max von Berger told him.

Kelly shook his head. “That’s a terrible thing, but you four guys are going to take on twenty-one of these bastards? You could get killed and I can’t allow that to happen.”

“I see. I’m too valuable to lose?” Von Berger shook his head. “It’s been a long war, Captain. From El Alamein to Stalingrad, I’ve seen hell on earth, and for me the war is over. I don’t want to kill you, but I must kill these men. I could not live with myself otherwise. So we will leave in the old woodcutter’s truck, drive ten miles down to Plosen, and there we’ll find the Ukrainians and get the business done.” He turned to Hoffer. “You drive.”

Kelly started to say something, and then he stopped. “Ah, hell, Baron, I guess I’d do the same thing. But afterward…”

“You’re an optimist, I see. All right, let’s go.”

The road wound through dark, somber forest all the way to Plosen. When they were close, they came across a crowd of women and older men moving along either side of the road. Hoffer pulled up and recognized the village mayor.

“Hey, Frankel, what’s happening?”

“My God, it’s you, Karl. These Ukrainians, we know what they did in Neustadt. Young Meyer escaped on his motorcycle, came and gave us warning. We all left in a hurry, faded into the forest. I hear they did terrible things.”

Von Berger got out and held out his hand. “Frankel.”

The old man’s eyes widened. “Baron, this is unbelievable.” He kissed the hand. “Meyer told me about the Baroness and your son.” He turned to Hoffer. “And your Lotte?”

Kelly and Hanson came round from the jeep, and Ritter and Schneider joined them. Kelly said, “What’s happening?”

“The mayor of Plosen is just about to tell us,” von Berger said in English, then in German, “Where are they, Frankel?”

“I stayed close to observe. They came in two trucks and a Kübelwagen. They rampaged round the village and discovered two young women. Then they went to the inn, the White Stag. I could hear shouting, breaking glass. They’re all drunk.”

“Any guards?” Hoffer asked.

“Not that I could see.”

Von Berger patted his shoulder. “Take care of your people and I’ll take care of these animals.”

“But, Baron, there are twenty-four of them.”

“Really? I thought it was twenty-one.” He turned to Ritter, Schneider and Hoffer. “So, that’s six for each of us. Can we manage that?”

“Haven’t we always, Baron?” Hoffer opened a battle pack, took out double ammunition clips taped together and handed them to Ritter and Schneider.

Von Berger opened his black leather coat, took the Luger from his holster, checked it and put it in his right-hand pocket. “Have you a spare, Karl?”

Hoffer produced a Mauser from the battle pack and handed it over. Von Berger put it in the left-hand pocket of his coat.

“Twenty-four of these bastards and four of you. That’s odds of six to one,” Kelly said.

Von Berger smiled, grimly. “We’re Waffen SS. We’re used to it.” He clapped Schneider on the shoulder. “He’s only a boy, but he knows how to do the job. Six to one? So what? Take your camouflage blouse off, Karl.” Hoffer did so, and Kelly saw the medals, the paratrooper’s badge, a single Knight’s Cross at the throat.

“You will also have observed that Captain Ritter has the Knight’s Cross. It’s been a long war and it’s had a bad ending, but you must understand one thing. We intend to kill these Ukrainians, all twenty-four. Kill them.” He turned to his men. “Is this not so?”

Even Ritter got his heels together as they gave the answer: Jawohl, Sturmbahnführer.

He ignored Kelly completely now. “Let’s go,” and they scrambled into the truck and drove away.

As the jeep followed, Hanson said, “That guy is crazy, they all are.”

Kelly nodded. “Absolutely.” He took the Colt from his holster and started to reload it as they followed the truck.

They paused in the trees and looked down at the White Stag. It was quite large and very ancient, with the village church and a graveyard behind. Kelly glanced through field glasses at the two trucks and the Kübelwagen. There was no sign of guards, but the noise of drunken laughter drifted up. He passed the field glasses to von Berger, who had a look. He handed them back.

“I’ll go in the front door, which will put them off balance. They are, after all, supposed to be under SS authority. I suggest the rest of you go by the graveyard.” He said to Ritter, “Karl knows it well. The bar is very large. There are two rear entrances via the kitchen and side windows.” He turned to Kelly. “One favor. I’ll borrow your jeep to drive up to the door. You two can stay here and my friends will approach on foot.”

Kelly shook his head. “No, I won’t lend you the jeep. But I will drive it.” He turned to Hanson. “Give me that Thompson. I’ll see you later – maybe.”

“Go to hell,” Hanson said. “With all due respect, sir. I’ve been fighting since D-Day. A walk through a graveyard with the SS sounds just about right.”

Kelly and von Berger waited to give them a chance to slip down through the edge of the forest and move behind the church into the graveyard. Von Berger watched for movement through the glasses.

“Now,” he said, and Kelly drove them down the hill and parked beside the other vehicles.

Von Berger led the way up the steps, pulling on his leather gloves, and Kelly followed, holding the Thompson across his chest. Von Berger eased open the door and stepped in, followed by Kelly.

The Ukrainians were scattered around the room, some sitting at tables, a number standing at the bar, a couple behind the bar serving drinks. The leader was a Hauptsturmführer, a brute of a man in a soiled uniform, his face dirty and unshaven. He had a young woman on each knee, their clothes torn, faces bruised, eyes swollen from weeping. One by one, the men noticed von Berger and stopped talking.

There was total silence. Von Berger stood there, his legs apart, his hands in the pockets of the black leather coat, holding it apart, displaying that magnificent uniform, the medals.

“Your name?”

“Gorsky,” the Hauptsturmführer said, as a kind of reflex.

“Ah. Ukrainian.”

It was the way von Berger said it that the Ukrainian didn’t like. “And who the hell are you?”

“Your superior officer, Sturmbahnführer Baron Max von Berger. It was my wife, Baroness von Berger, and my son, along with fifteen others, that you butchered at Schloss Adler and Neustadt.”

Men were already reaching for weapons. Kelly lifted his Thompson, and suddenly Gorsky pulled the two girls across his knees in front of him so that only half his face showed.

“So what are you going to do about it? Take them, boys,” he shouted.

Von Berger’s hand came out of his right pocket with the Luger and he shot Gorsky twice in the left side of the skull, narrowly missing the girls, who dropped to the floor as Gorsky went backward in the chair.

The carnage began, Kelly spraying the bar area. A side window crashed open and Ritter and Hanson fired through. Some of the Ukrainians turned to run and flung open the doors to the kitchen, only to find Hoffer and Schneider. There was an exchange of fire, but not for long. There were dead men everywhere, just a few still moving. Hanson had stopped a bullet in the shoulder and Schneider in his left arm.

Von Berger took the Mauser from his other pocket and tossed it to Hoffer. “Karl. Finish them.”

“For God’s sake,” Kelly said.

“It is his right.”

Hoffer found five men still alive and shot each one in the head. The girls had run for it, screaming. Ritter had opened a battle pack and was putting a field dressing on Hanson, while Schneider waited.

“So that’s it?” Kelly surveyed the bodies.

“No. Now we go home and bury our dead. After that, we are yours to dispose of.” Von Berger put a hand on Kelly’s shoulder. “I am in your debt eternally. I will repay you.”

“Repay me?” Kelly was mystified.

“A matter of honor.”

He was, of course, handled personally by top officers in both British and American intelligence, since he had been one of Hitler’s aides in those last few months in the Bunker. His account of events was fascinating and recorded in the smallest detail, but for Allied intelligence there was a problem with Max von Berger. On the one hand, he was unquestionably SS, and a commander. On the other, he was a brave and gallant soldier who seemed never to have involved himself in the more unsavory aspects of the Nazi regime. Never involved himself in anything remotely connected with the Jewish pogroms. In fact, it was soon established that he had had a dangerous secret all along – one of von Berger’s great-grandmothers on the maternal side had been Jewish.

He had also never been a member of the Nazi Party, though it was true that most of the German population had also not been members of the party.

Which left only the question of the flight out of Berlin. Obviously, von Berger mentioned nothing to them of his interview with the Führer. Indeed, he had put together a reasonable story with Ritter, while they were still together.

The story was this: Ritter had been ordered to Berlin in the Storch as a backup plane in case there were problems with the Arado assigned to fly out the new Luftwaffe commander, von Greim. There had been no problems, however. Von Berger, as one of Hitler’s aides, knowing that the plane was languishing in Goebbels’s garage and that the end was only hours away, had seized the opportunity to get out and had taken two of his men with him.

It was a perfectly simple explanation. There was no reason not to accept it, and Ritter backed it to the hilt, and so, in the end, that was that. As prisoners of war, they were disposed of in various ways. Many were sent to England for farm work. Amongst them was Max von Berger, who was posted to a camp in West Sussex. The regulations were minimal and each day he was allocated to a local manor house and its home farm, along with several other prisoners. There was nothing unusual in this. Officers up to the level of general found themselves working in such a way.

The truth was that the other prisoners deferred to him, called him “Herr Baron” with respect, and the owner of the estate, an aging lord, soon realized he had someone special on board, and not only that, a countryman by nature.

Before long, he was running things. The war was over, the villagers in Hawkley were decent people, and gradually the Germans were accepted, even for a pint in the pub. And then, at the end of 1947, German prisoners began to be returned home, and amongst them was Max von Berger.

It was snowing when he arrived in Neustadt off the local bus. It drove away and, a bag in his hand, he went up the steps and entered the inn, the Eagle. Local men were in there drinking beer, some eating, and he saw old Hartmann by the bar and Karl Hoffer and young Schneider at a table nearby eating stew. Someone turned and saw him.

“My God, Baron.”

Everyone turned, the entire room went still. Hoffer moved first, jumping up, running to meet him, in an excess of emotion, embracing him.

“Baron, we wondered where you were. I’ve been back six months and brought Schneider with me. His entire family was killed in the bombing in Hamburg.”

Von Berger put an arm around Schneider, who was actually sobbing. “Come on, boy, we got out of Berlin, didn’t we? There’s nothing to cry about.”

He called to the landlord, “The bill’s on me, my friend, let the beer flow.”

He turned to Hoffer. “I’m so pleased to see you. Let’s sit down.”

In a corner booth, they talked, young Schneider listening. “We’re getting by,” Hoffer said. “It’s mainly subsistence farming, but we’re all in it together. Everyone is taken care of.”

“And you?”

“Well, I act as bailiff. It gives me something to do.”

“You haven’t…”

“Found someone? No, Baron.”

“What about the Schloss?”

“We had the Americans for two years, so it’s in good condition. The thing you don’t know about is the… situation with Holstein Heath.”

“And what would that be?”

“When the border between the East and West was agreed on by the Allies, we should have been inside the Eastern zone, and Communist.”

“I thought we were in the Western zone?”

“Well, no, that’s it. We aren’t there either. The whole of the estate isn’t in either of the zones. Someone made a mistake drafting the map.”

Max von Berger was astonished. “You mean we’re a kind of independent state?” He laughed out loud. “Like Monaco?”

Hoffer, an intelligent man, said, “Well, not exactly. The police are technically West German. However, they’re all local boys, mostly ex-army or SS, so they see things our way.”

“Excellent.” Von Berger drained his beer and stood up. “Show me the Schloss.”

Hoffer did, and he’d been right. It was run-down, but the Americans hadn’t kicked it to pieces. Finally, they approached the chapel. It was dark in the early winter evening, but candles flickered close to the mausoleum. Von Berger stood and looked and noticed some winter roses.

“Who are those from?”

“Village women. They like to keep things right. It’s the same at the church for the others, my wife, the girls.”

Von Berger said, “That day, Karl, those final killings. It wasn’t that I was leaving it to you. I felt you had a greater right.”

“I know that, Baron.”

“Do you ever regret what we did?”

“Never.”

“Good. Now, pay attention. We were comrades then and comrades now, and I am going to share my greatest secret with you.”

He went behind the mausoleum and pressed the hidden catch. The statue groaned and moved. Von Berger reached in and took out the briefcase.

“This is the true reason we left Berlin.” He opened it and extracted the blue book. “This is Hitler’s diary, Karl.”

“My God in heaven,” Hoffer gasped. “Can this be true?”

“Yes. I’ll tell you later what’s in it, but right now we’ll put it back.”

He pressed the catch and the statue reversed into place. He fastened the briefcase and held it up.

“And in here is the solution to all our financial problems. I’ll explain it to you as we go. The first thing we must do is visit Berger Steel. We’ll need decent suits and some sort of vehicle.”

“I’ve still got a Kübelwagen from the war, Baron.”

“Excellent. Stuttgart then, but Geneva first. That’s where the money is.”

Geneva was amazingly easy. At the bank, the passwords and codes from the material given him by the Führer inspired immediate compliance. The rather ordinary-looking banker indicated how immense the resources were at his disposal, and he transferred ten million into a liquid personal account, thus establishing his name and status. The bank, in effect, jumped to attention.

His next move was to contact Berger Steel’s lawyers in Munich, leading to a meeting on-site at the Stuttgart factory. They toured it with the general manager, Heinz. It was working, of course, but in a low-key manner, a certain amount of steel-making, but not much more than that.

“As you can still see, we had bomb damage, but on the whole we were lucky and we’ve an excellent workforce,” Heinz told him.

The lawyer, Henry Abel said, “Cash flow and investment, that’s the trouble. We don’t have enough of either.”

“Not anymore.” Von Berger turned to Heinz. “I’m transfering five million into the company accounts tomorrow.”

“Dear God, Baron,” Heinz said, “I’ll guarantee you results with that kind of money.”

And so it proved. Over the years, the company contributed more than most to the miracle that became West Germany. As they developed into one of the most important steelworks, von Berger diversified into construction, hotels, the developing post-war leisure industry.

Soon his tentacles moved westward to the United States, his hotel interests burgeoning, and an ex-Airborne Ranger officer turned New York attorney named James Kelly proved more than useful, eventually becoming head of legal affairs for the American branch of Berger International.

At an early stage, he sought out Colonel Strasser, as he had promised, and Strasser became an adept troubleshooter, eventually overseeing all personnel matters for Berger. Ritter had been a different case. As usual with many wartime pilots, Ritter had been unable to go without the adrenaline rush, so though Berger had kept him as a personal pilot, it was never enough, and one day in 1960, Ritter, performing at an airshow in an ME109, stalled for the last time and plunged into the ground. At the funeral, they stood together, the Baron, Schneider, Hoffer, Strasser and Kelly, who had flown over from the States.

“Thirty-eight years old, and after all that he did,” Strasser said, “I’d say that’s young. It frankly makes me uneasy.”

Schneider, always “Young Schneider” to them, said, “That Berlin flight was amazing. We shouldn’t even be here now.”

“Well, we are, and the work continues,” the Baron said.

As the Cold War extended, the position of the great estate of Holstein Heath became more ambivalent, but von Berger’s position as one of West Germany’s leading industrialists gave him the right international contacts needed to block anything the East German regime could do.

The estate had developed a prosperity beyond belief, with Karl Hoffer as general manager, and young Schneider as his assistant. Von Berger poured in money and totally refurbished the castle, using the apparently inexhaustible funds from Geneva. He even had a runway constructed in the meadow, big enough for small planes to land.

Any overt support of Nazi ideals was not part of his agenda. It would have been counterproductive anyway, but gradually over the years there was a quiet coming together of others whose names were on the lists in Hitler’s briefcase. Not the Kameradenwerk, the Action for Comrades that Hitler had mentioned, but a sort of secret brotherhood, almost like a Masonic order, with Max von Berger as a kind of godfather. Anyone with the right background, the right ideas, could turn to him and get a hearing, a handout, help. Always discreet, always reasonable, a legend to the former soldiers of the German army, there was nothing the authorities could complain of.

The truth was that the brutal death of his wife and son had killed something inside him in a single devastating moment. He had taken his revenge, which had proved no revenge. It had, as he’d read in a poem, made of his heart a stone, left him curiously lacking in emotion.

The years rolled on, and in 1970 that emotionally cold heart found release when, at forty-eight years of age, he formed an attachment for a young Italian woman named Maria Rossi. Attractive and clever, with a degree in accounting, she became a personal assistant, traveling the world with him, and the inevitable happened.

Von Berger fought against his feelings for her, for it seemed a betrayal of his wife, but before he had to make any final decision, the situation resolved itself. She left him quite suddenly, leaving behind a brief apologetic letter telling him that family business had called her away to Palermo. He never heard from her again.

Time went by, and people started to die on him. First, Schneider was killed in a stupid accident on the estate when a tractor he was driving turned over, crushing him to death. Strasser went next with lung cancer, ten years later.

Von Berger went to the funeral with Hoffer. It was 1982 and he was sixty.

“The grim reaper is spacing things out, Karl, have you noticed?”

“It had occurred to me, Baron.”

Hoffer had remarried in middle life: a cousin, a widow from the village. She had died of a heart attack only a year before. He was two years older than von Berger. “So what do we do?”

“Gird our loins. I’ve been thinking of going into the arms business, and there’s always oil, especially with Russia opening up.”

“May I ask why you need to do that, Baron?” Hoffer said patiently. “You already have enormous wealth.”

“My dear Karl, more than even you could imagine. But my life lacks purpose, Karl. There is an emptiness I cannot fill. Maria Rossi made me warm for a while, and then went. This void in me – I must fill it, and work and enterprise are the only way.” He clapped Hoffer on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about me, Karl. I’ll sort it out.”

The following day, back at the Schloss, he visited the chapel, opened the secret place, and leafed through the Hitler diary. He had read it so many times that he almost knew it by heart. There had never been any occasion to use it and as he replaced it now, he wondered if there ever would be.

He sat there for a while by the mausoleum, thinking of his wife and son, then took a deep breath and stood up. So, Russian oil fields and armaments. So be it. And he went out.

By 1992, he was seventy, his holdings in Russian oil extensive because of the temporary loss of the Kuwaiti oil fields in the Gulf War and the embargos placed on Iraqi oil. The money simply poured in, and the continuing threat in the Middle East and India and Pakistan made for more and more lucrative deals in the arms business.

In both Britain and the United States, there was unease at the highest level about his various dealings, but he didn’t care. He was now head of a consortium so staggeringly wealthy that his power was immense.

In 1997, James Kelly died in New York, but later in the same year, the Baron suffered his greatest blow of all when Karl Hoffer passed away with a heart attack.

The open coffin was on display in the chapel. Sitting beside it, alone, his hands on the silver handle of the cane he needed to get around these days, he thought of their years together in the war and that last final flight from Berlin.

“So, it would appear I am the last, old friend. My hip bothers me a great deal these days. You remember our old wartime motto: To the men of the SS, nothing is impossible.” He sighed, then gathered himself together. “So back to work.”

He limped out, and the chapel door slammed behind him. It was quiet, lit only by the guttering candles. Little did he know that just around the corner, a series of events were waiting that would change his life forever.