Secrets of the Last Nazi

PROLOGUE

SS Captain Werner Stolz watched as Corporal Bradley brought over the coffee. He eyed his interrogator, then thanked him for the drink and took a large swig.

Bradley sat down opposite, checked his watch, and began a countdown in his head. He waited almost a minute — allowing the Nazi to get comfortable — before he restarted the questioning. ‘So, Werner,’ he asked gently. ‘How does it work?’

Stolz just looked blank. He took more of the coffee, aware of the unusual taste but drinking it nonetheless.

‘Please, Werner,’ Bradley insisted. ‘Just tell me.’

‘What else can I say?’ shrugged the Nazi. His eyes glowered straight at the American, then glanced towards the young Russian scribbling in the corner, finally turning back to his interrogator. ‘I’m very sorry, Corporal,’ he offered. ‘Really. I can’t explain it, either.’

Corporal Bradley took off his glasses to sweep the hair back over his sweaty scalp, then flicked uselessly through the notes once more. He turned to his Soviet Liaison Officer. ‘Kirov — any ideas?’

Kirov put down his pencil, twisted around and faced the Nazi. ‘The Americans are treating you very well, Stolz,’ grinned the Russian. ‘They could treat you much less well.’

‘I know,’ agreed Stolz, trying to remove any trace of arrogance from his Austrian accent. ‘I also know neither of you will harm me.’

Bradley put his hand to his face, then glanced at his watch, calculating he had less than three minutes left. He needed a new tack.

‘OK then, Stolz,’ the American ventured. ‘You’ve got all the answers. What’s going to happen next?’

Stolz looked sympathetically at his interrogator, hugging his coffee with both hands as he spoke. ‘You’ll not get your investigation until we’re both dead, which is seventy years from now. It’ll be an international…’

‘Wait,’ interrupted Bradley, ‘I’m going to live another seventy years?’

‘I said we’d both be dead in seventy years,’ clarified Stolz, starting to sway on his chair.

Bradley tried to decode what he’d just heard, wishing he had more time. ‘You mean, one of us is going to live another seventy years?’

‘Yes,’ murmured Stolz, beginning to slump on the table. ‘My English is faulty. I mean, one of us dies today…’

Stolz seemed to switch off. Bradley tried to support him, hoping there was time for just one more question, but the Nazi was starting to collapse. Stolz’s chair clattered beneath him, and he spilled his drugged coffee over himself as he fell.

Bradley bent down to check his prisoner’s pulse. Stolz had been too sensitive to the scopolamine. Bradley made sure the half-conscious SS man could breathe and checked his watch again: somehow his timings had been wrong.

He was just about to fetch some water for Stolz when the door opened. A single man entered, distinguished-looking and with a silver moustache. Bradley had never seen the officer before, or his regimental crest, but noticed he was wearing an immaculately pressed uniform — a sure sign he’d only just flown in to liberated Europe. Then he saw the single metal star on his shoulders: the insignia of an American Brigadier-General. Bradley jumped to attention.

‘At ease, Corporal.’

Corporal Bradley relaxed only enough for his eyes to check on Stolz, who was spluttering under the table.

The Brigadier-General pointedly ignored the Nazi prisoner. ‘So you’re Bradley; the letter-writer,’ sneered the Brigadier, as he walked around the upturned chair. ‘You’re new to the army, aren’t you…’

‘Yes, Sir.’

‘Tell me, Bradley…’ the Brigadier glanced down at Stolz, who was writhing on the floor, before he turned back to the Corporal, ‘What did you do before the war?’

‘Er, High school teacher, Sir,’ replied Bradley, frowning to try to look serious. ‘Math, Sir.’

The Brigadier paused for several seconds before he answered. ‘Good, Bradley.’ The Brigadier’s voice relaxed, as he finally made eye-contact with Bradley. ‘We’ll be needing mathematicians now the war’s over… the war against the Nazis…’ Then he lifted Bradley’s papers, talking as if his mind was elsewhere, ‘And these are the only notes you have on Stolz?’

‘There are also two filing cabinets full. Next door, Sir,’ replied the Corporal.

‘But that’s all — all in this building?’

‘Yes, Sir.’

The Brigadier accepted Bradley’s response and replaced the papers.

Bradley was about to tell the general why the Stolz interrogation was so peculiar when he became distracted by the Brigadier adjusting his uniform — the general seemed to be unbuttoning his jacket. Gently, the Brigadier moved him aside.

The Brigadier raised his eyebrows towards the Russian in the corner. ‘And you must be Lieutenant Kirov?’

The Soviet Liaison Officer started to nod. Then, like Bradley, he reacted to a double-clunk noise, and a supressed mechanical cough. For a short moment Kirov’s body contorted, then he collapsed to the floor.

Instinct told Bradley to rush towards his friend, but quickly he saw that the Russian was beyond help. Kirov had fallen face-down and was now completely still, except for the blood slowly pooling around his chest. Bradley stared in shock. Then he noticed the Brigadier held a side-arm with a long silencer attachment.

‘We don’t want to investigate mumbo-jumbo — do we, Bradley?’ The Brigadier made eye contact with Bradley as he returned the pistol into his concealed holster, then wafted away the smell of gun oil and cordite.

‘No, Sir.’

‘And we don’t want to burden our Allies with it either. Understood?’

‘Yes, Sir,’ answered Bradley obediently. He knelt to support Stolz’s feverish body as the Nazi prisoner began to recover on the floor.

The Brigadier strutted back towards the door, carefully stepping around Kirov. He took the Russian’s pencil-written notes, wiped off splatters of blood, and folded them into his pocket.

‘Oh, and Bradley?’

‘Sir?’

‘A little less scopolamine in the coffee next time,’ he cautioned, smoothing down his uniform. ‘We want these Nazis to spew up their secrets, not their guts.’

The Brigadier left, closing the door behind him. Bradley never saw him again.