Secrets of the Last Nazi

TWENTY-FOUR

Even though his new line manager was away, Ludochovic didn’t conceive of altering the disciplined routine which guided his every working day. Perhaps because he was approaching retirement from the Russian Foreign Service, he now respected his responsibilities earnestly, taking them much more seriously than he had in middle age. What were once chores had since become the rituals which gave purpose to his life.

And so, just before the sun rose on a foggy Moscow dawn, Ludochovic completed the complicated processes which readied the Russian Foreign Ministry’s Department of European Affairs for the day ahead. He scanned the overnight security sheet for incidents — there were none — checked the seals on the main cabinets, wafted the electronic surveillance monitor around a few of the desks to detect any eavesdropping devices — none of those, either — and cranked up the mainframe computer to which all the personal terminals were connected. Then he completed the checklist of tasks near the door, finishing it off with a very precise signature, and checked his watch while he started the coffee percolator.

Finally, still alone in the office, Ludochovic prepared to gather the information he would need for the day ahead. As ever, his in-tray contained envelopes from the Foreign Ministry night team and the intelligence analysts: the usual reports. He opened his desktop terminal and set it to download emails, and walked over to check the fax machine. His last check was little more than a habit; hardly anyone in the Russian Foreign Ministry used faxes anymore as the technology was slow, cumbersome, and much less secure than properly encrypted email, so Ludochovic was perturbed when the machine suddenly switched itself on. Even more surprising was the covernote: a page scrawled in large handwriting, directing him to keep safe the 230 sheets which were to follow.

Instead of a signature, there were just two letters at the bottom of the sheet: ZA, the initials of his line manager, Zenyalena Androvsky.

TWENTY-FIVE

Sunlight began streaming in through the bedroom window. Blearily, Myles woke, realising he had gone to sleep without closing the curtains. He was still wearing yesterday’s clothes, and papers were sprawled across the bed — some floated onto the floor as he stirred and sat up. He tried to gather them together, checking what they said as he put them back in the file.

Myles scratched his head. Could Rudolf Hess — Hitler’s deputy at the time — really have believed this stuff?

Myles knew that Hess flew to Scotland in a Messerschmitt Bf110 in May 1941, on a one-man peace mission. But Winston Churchill refused to negotiate, so Hess was interrogated by British intelligence. They concluded Hess believed all sorts of ‘mumbo-jumbo’, and that he had been deluded by Nazi fortune tellers. The whole episode was bizarre, and was never properly explained — other than that Hess was mad, which was Hitler’s official line too.

Myles looked at the other files. Most of them were self-explanatory, but a single page they had received from Stolz’s lawyer was peculiar. Simply called ‘Locations’, it contained just four lines:

He checked the back of the sheet. Nothing — that was it. It was as if Stolz was presenting a riddle of some sort, but with clues no one could solve. Perhaps they had just been reminders to himself, in case his memory failed with his extreme old age.

Frowning, Myles put the ‘Locations’ page to one side, and turned to the three files marked ‘Nuclear’. Myles guessed they would be about Nazi plans for a wonder-weapon — after all, if Hitler had developed an atomic bomb, he could have dropped it on London and Moscow and won the war. The files might contain something secret, maybe stolen from the Russians — or Americans. But instead, he found what seemed to be notes from an enthusiast.

The first page of ‘Nuclear’ was about the Manhattan Project. There was a picture of the site in Los Alamos, then the time, latitude and longitude of the first nuclear reaction:

Nothing secret here: anyone with an internet browser and a search engine could find it with just a few clicks. The Nazis probably even knew about it before the end of the war, through their US spy network. So why had Stolz kept it?

Then Myles noticed some numbers at the bottom. Numbers which didn’t seem to relate to anything. He furrowed his brow, confused.

Below it was a series of dates, each with a short description. It was a set of predictions, some for events which had already happened. Myles started at the top:

Myles found himself nodding — it was the month when bombs were dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki to force the Japanese surrender.

He read further.

Another accurate forecast: Myles recognised the date of the world’s first fatal nuclear accident, when three power station workers had been killed at Idaho Falls in the USA.

Myles’ eyes rushed further down the list, skimming over predictions for the Chernobyl and Fukushima nuclear disasters. Every date was correct.

Myles squinted at the page, still bleary, wondering if he could be reading it correctly. Again: Stolz’s predictions seemed to have come true.

Myles looked at the rest of the list:

Did it mean those events were sure to happen? Or had Stolz just got lucky in the past — very lucky?

Myles checked the date again. In the corner, in small writing:

So — Stolz had carried on making predictions, even once the war was over.

Myles closed the file, bewildered by all the information he had read.

His thoughts were disturbed by a loud knock behind him. Myles called out, ‘Yes, who is it?’

The door opened. It was Glenn. ‘You should keep your room locked,’ he said.

Myles nodded, accepting the point. He’d gone straight to bed, and been too absorbed in Stolz’s mysterious papers to think about locking it since he woke up. ‘Sorry.’

‘Not a problem. You coming down to join us?’

Myles looked up at the clock. 7.15 a.m. Fifteen minutes late for the meeting.

Glenn tipped his head forward with his eyebrows raised, his face confirming, yes, you are late.

Myles scooped up his papers, then limped out of the room. He locked the door in front of Glenn before he followed the bald American downstairs.

Myles was expecting the whole team to be waiting for him in their executive meeting room. But just Heike-Anne was there. ‘Zenyalena and Jean-François late too?’ he asked.

‘Just Jean-François,’ explained the German, as if she was apologising on the Frenchman’s behalf. ‘Zenyalena went to look for him.’

Glenn left to order coffees for the team, then Zenyalena appeared. ‘Still no Jean-François,’ she said, looking flustered. ‘His door’s locked, and he’s not inside.’

Myles and Heike-Ann looked at each other. Myles asked the obvious question. ‘If his door’s locked, how do you know he’s not inside?’

‘I banged his door, and called out,’ said Zenyalena. ‘If he’s still inside, he must have become deaf overnight.’

Myles could imagine just how loudly Zenyalena would have thumped on the door. ‘He’s probably out. For a jog, or at breakfast or something.’

Glenn returned and sat down at the table. ‘So Jean-François isn’t here. Let’s make a start without him.’ Glenn’s posture made clear he was taking charge again. ‘Pigou can join us when he’s ready.’

Myles and Heike-Ann shrugged their agreement. Even Zenyalena — for once — accepted the American’s lead.

‘Good.’ Glenn opened up his file, and placed it on the table. ‘I read through the files I was given. They were interesting. There was stuff about the V1 and V2 rockets, but most of it was public information from the internet or textbooks. All stuff we could find out ourselves if we had an hour in a good library. Except…’ Glenn pulled out one of the papers and spun it on the table for the others to see. It was some sort of map of north-eastern France, with lots of dots, lines and dates laid over the top. ‘… I found this.’

Heike-Ann was stumped. ‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘I thought it showed launch sites for the V1 and V2 rockets,’ said Glenn. ‘Hitler fired them from France into England in 1944 and early ‘45…’

Myles, Zenyalena and Heike-Ann began to nod, prompting Glenn to carry on.

Then Glenn used a pen to highlight a line on the page. ‘… Except these lines here.’ The line ran almost vertically, north-south down the page, and seemed slightly curved. ‘These lines look like satellite tracks,’ explained Glenn. ‘But the Nazis didn’t have satellites. The first satellite went up in 1957. So why did Stolz plot them? This paper claims to have been written in 1943. It doesn’t make sense.’

Myles could see the team look puzzled — it didn’t make sense.

The American turned to the next file. ‘Then I found this.’ It was from the file labelled, ‘Sarin’. Glenn had circled the date: December 1944. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, this paper seems to confirm what before was only suspected — that the Nazis had developed Sarin, and they were planning to use it.’

‘Excuse me,’ asked Heike-Ann, unafraid to admit her ignorance. ‘What is “Sarin”?’

‘It’s a toxic liquid. Super-toxic, a nerve agent — the chemical weapon used on civilians in Damascus in 2013 which turned Syria into a real international crisis…’ Glenn pointed at the paper. ‘… This paper shows that the Nazis had discovered it, tested it successfully — probably on Jews or prisoners — and were planning to use it if Germany was invaded. Nobody knows how far their plans got. There were searches after the war, but nobody found any stockpiles. To use Sarin effectively you need to disperse it…’

Myles watched — Glenn was talking about something he knew quite a lot about. It confirmed his suspicions: the clean-shaven American had a military background. Either that, or he was something with the intelligence services.

‘… The best way,’ continued Glenn, ‘is to spray it from a plane, or strap it to a bomb which explodes high-up…’ Glenn used hand gestures to show something exploding. ‘Explode a half-litre bottle of Sarin, from the top of Big Ben, say, and you’ll kill tens of thousands of Londoners. Except, during the war, all the people in London were carrying gas masks, as a precaution against exactly this sort of attack. Now, from these papers, it looks like the Nazis really did have this stuff.’

Myles took Glenn’s point further. ‘… But when the Allies came in 1945, they found neither the papers nor the Sarin. Which means Stolz must have hidden them somehow.’

Zenyalena suddenly looked concerned. ‘And maybe hidden the Sarin, too. Do the maps show where it is?’

Myles and Glenn shrugged.

Zenyalena decided it was time for her to present. ‘Well, I read my papers too. Some were about the British Empire — mostly just facts from an encyclopedia. But this was the most interesting page.’ She pulled out a paper and put it on the table. It was entitled simply ‘End of British Empire’.

Glenn pulled a face, not sure what to make of it. ‘Looks like it’s just some dates, right?’

‘Yes, three of them,’ confirmed the Russian. ‘But they seem important. The first, October — November 1956, it says “Hubris then humiliation — Empire loses its confidence”.’

She looked at Myles, who understood the date. ‘The Suez crisis, right?’

‘Yes, Myles — when the United Kingdom made a secret deal with France and Israel,’ said Zenylena, clearly enjoying the chance to shame Britain. ‘They attacked the Suez Canal, but President Eisenhower refused to support it. Britain was forced to withdraw, and the Prime Minister resigned in disgrace.’

Zenyalena and Myles both looked to Glenn for a reaction. The American looked sheepish. ‘Hey — don’t blame me. I just follow the President’s orders.’

Myles shook his head. ‘That’s not the point, Glenn. In 1956, your President made Stolz’s prediction come true.’

‘He was trying to get re-elected at the time. I don’t think Stolz would have mattered all that much to him.’

‘Agreed, Glenn. But it means, somehow, Stolz made yet another accurate prediction.’ Myles turned back to Zenyalena. ‘What else does it say about the British Empire?’

‘Well, there’s something about 2024 and 2025, saying a “challenge will rip out national confidence”…’ She pulled a face, as if to say she couldn’t possibly know what that meant. ‘… Then this one: October 1984. He writes “UK power is suddenly undermined by a military shock.”’

Glenn looked confused, raking his memory. Then he began to smile. ‘Ah — he got one wrong. If he means the surprise attack on the Falklands, that was 1982. The UK wasn’t attacked in October 1984, right?’ Finally, Glenn thought he had one over on the dead Nazi.

But Myles shook his head. ‘Correct, the UK wasn’t attacked in 1984. The prediction still came true, though. In October 1984, a terrorist bomb destroyed the hotel being used by Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher. “Suddenly undermined” is a good description: the building was literally blasted away from under her.’

No one answered. Instead, the whole team just stopped and fell silent, as they realised what they had in front of them. Unless he had been using some sort of trick, Stolz really had been predicting the future.

And whether it was a clever hoax, or Stolz had actually made accurate predictions and was genuine, they had to work out how he had done it.

TWENTY-SIX

Father Samuel switched off his alarm clock. The alert was unnecessary: he was already awake, thinking through all that might happen following the peculiar events triggered by Werner Stolz’s death. Slowly, he swung his legs out of bed, gathered himself, and picked up his encrypted communicator. One new message. He clicked it open:

Then he clicked on the attachment, to open a very long file made up of 230 pages of information. It was an electronic intercept, taken from a photocopier in the Headquarters of the German Diplomatic Police.

Quickly, he typed a reply.

Father Samuel felt his heartbeat quicken as he checked the papers as fast as he could.

Nothing he didn’t yet know — although he suspected it would be news to many people who read it. Would it satiate their curiosity, or fascinate them to find out more? Father Samuel didn’t know, but at least he knew what the international team had.

Until he noticed an obscure one-page document towards the end of the attachment — a sheet which didn’t seem to relate to any of the others. From the single word title, Father Samuel realised it could be more important than all the other information in the attachment put together.

Swiftly, he began his morning prayer, and called on God to make the international team pass over that single page.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Three loud raps on the door broke the silence. Heike-Ann dutifully sprung to her feet to pull open the heavy door. It was a man from the hotel staff carrying a tray of coffees. Silently, they watched him serve beverages. Only once the waiter had gone, and the soundproof door had settled back in place, did the conversation resume.

Glenn volunteered the first reaction. ‘So, Stolz thought he could predict the future.’

Zenyalena shot back. ‘More than “thought”. He did predict the future.’

‘Oh come on.’ Glenn was pulling his chin back into his face, looking sceptical. ‘Nobody really believes all this. There’s always a better explanation. It’s just that people love voodoo stuff.’

Heike-Ann seemed to be agreeing with the American, tilting her head as she sipped her water.

Glenn realised the others were only half-convinced. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘Stolz’s “predictions” were probably written by a bunch of flunkies — just Nazis trying to impress their beloved Führer.’

Zenyalena shook her head. ‘Then explain how they’re so accurate.’

‘Most likely they were written after the event. Maybe Stolz wrote lots of predictions and just kept the ones which turned out to be true. There are lots of ways he could have done it.’

Zenyalena started to lean her head back and look down at the American. ‘So how do you explain Stolz getting so rich?’

‘Lots of people get rich…’ Glenn seemed to suddenly become aware he was talking to a Russian brought up in the Communist era. ‘… Well, lots of people get rich in the West, anyway. It doesn’t mean they have special powers to predict the future.’

Glenn tried to laugh it away, but the others all looked unsure — as though they wanted to believe Glenn, but the evidence they’d seen in Stolz’s papers was just too compelling.

Still hoping the Englishman was his most reliable ally, Glenn turned to Myles. ‘You teach at Oxford University, one of the world’s top academic establishments, right?’

‘I’m only a lecturer there,’ said Myles.

Glenn made his point. ‘Look at the evidence. People have been trying to predict the future for years. It’s never been done. It’s far more likely Stolz was doing some sort of fast-and-loose magic trick. Maybe he got money for it or something. He couldn’t have really been predicting the future. How could he?’

‘You may be right,’ said Myles, answering slowly. ‘Perhaps this is one big trick. But what if the Nazis really had cracked some ancient science which allowed them to predict the future? They’d keep it secret, wouldn’t they — just like Stolz. A very small number of people would have protected it — perhaps just him. And if they could, they’d make their fortunes from it after the war, just like Stolz.’

‘He must have written his predictions afterwards,’ huffed Glenn.

‘Then we have to test his predictions another way.’ Myles picked up the papers. He turned to Heike-Ann. ‘We’ve got the originals from Stolz, right?’

Heike-Ann nodded.

‘Then we send them for carbon dating,’ announced Myles. ‘If papers have the date “1942” on them, then we can take a sample and see whether they really were written around that time.’

Zenyalena took up the theme. ‘Is carbon dating accurate?’

‘It’s not perfect,’ accepted Myles. ‘But it’s accurate enough. We should know whether they were written in the 1940s. We just need to check whether they were written before the events they predict. We’ll have to get them sent to a laboratory. It usually takes a few weeks…’

Glenn, Zenyalena and Heike-Ann were silent, absorbing Myles’ suggestion.

Then, Myles remembered: Frank.

‘…although I know someone who could speed it up for us — someone at the Imperial War Museum in London. Is everyone happy with me sending some of the papers to be tested?’

Zenyalena replied stiffly. ‘Russia objects to Britain’s Imperial Wars, but we are OK with the museum testing these papers.’

‘Thank you, Zenyalena. Glenn?’

Glenn rubbed his fingers on his forehead, thinking. ‘I agree, but we need Jean-François’ consent before we send off papers. And we’ve already agreed our work needs to be kept secret. We can’t spread it to too many people.’

Myles nodded, picking up a pen. He started writing a note on the back of one of the photocopied sheets.

He allowed Glenn, Zenyalena and Heike-Ann to see the note. All three seemed content. Heike-Ann produced a large envelope for him and offered an array of Stolz’s original papers.

Myles thanked her, selected five of the papers at random, then placed them in the envelope. He sealed it, then wrote Frank’s name and the Imperial War Museum address on the front. ‘We’ll post this when we get the say-so from Jean-François,’ he explained.

Glenn started shaking his head, as though he was answering questions to himself. ‘You know, this just doesn’t feel right. If the Nazis had a secret method for predicting future events, how come they lost the war?’

Nobody answered. Not even Zenyalena, who just sipped her coffee.

Myles, meanwhile, turned to Heike-Ann, his mind elsewhere. ‘What does “ONB” stand for, in German?’

Heike-Ann looked blank. ‘Where’s it from?’

Myles pulled out the paper titled ‘Locations’. He laid it in front of the other three, and pointed to three capitalised letters.

‘We know Stolz hid some of his papers — probably after his flat was raided,’ recounted Myles. ‘If we find the rest of his papers, we’ll know how he did it…’ He began directing his words to Glenn. ‘… And whether it was a parlour trick or whether Stolz really had found some sort of correlation which allowed him to make accurate predictions.’

Glenn looked at the ‘Locations’ page. ‘So “Where the Empire Began — 15.III.38”. It looks like a date, and I know you Europeans put the month in the middle, right? So, March 1938. Stolz would have been in his twenties. Where was he on the 15^th of March 1938?’

Zenyalena threw up her hands. ‘Where Stolz was on a random day almost eighty years ago? We can never know that.’

‘We might,’ said Myles. ‘Anybody got a smartphone? What was happening on 15^th March 1938?’

Glenn pulled a slick mobile device from his pocket. Myles sensed he was showing off the new-looking gadget. Within a few seconds the American had found the Wikipedia webpage listing dates from the year mentioned in Stolz’s clue. ‘Here’s what there is for 15^th March 1938,’ said the American, as he began reading. ‘Soviet Union announces that one-time leading communist Bukharin has been executed. French Premier Blum reassures Czechoslovakia. Hitler makes a speech in Heldenplatz, Vienna, Austria, proclaiming the “Anschluss”, or Union, of Germany and Austria.’

Myles leapt forward. ‘“Where the Empire Began” — Stolz was from Austria, right? So for Stolz, the Empire was the Third Reich, and it only became an empire when his country, Austria, united with Nazi Germany — following Hitler’s speech in Vienna.’

Glenn tried to understand. ‘So you’re saying Stolz hid his papers where Hitler made his speech in Vienna — this “Heldenplatz” place?’

Heike-Ann was dismissive. ‘Nice idea, Myles, but “Heldenplatz” means “Place of Heroes”.’ She was shaking her head as she spoke. ‘It’s a huge, open square. You can’t hide papers in a square like that and keep them secret.’

‘You’ve been there?’

‘Yes. As a schoolgirl. The clue doesn’t make sense.’

Myles accepted her point. ‘You’re right — it doesn’t make sense. But if we want to find out how Stolz did it, we have to go to this “Heldenplatz” square. Somewhere in “Heldenplatz” is where he hid his secret…’ Myles looked around at Glenn, Zenyalena and Heike-Ann, silently asking them whether they wanted to travel south. ‘… So, what do you think? This is probably the best clue we have.’

Zenyalena was clear. ‘Simple — we go to Vienna.’

‘Thank you, Zenyalena. Heike-Ann?’

Heike-Ann shrugged her shoulders. ‘I don’t get a vote. I’m here to assist you. If the team wants to go to Vienna, I’ll come along.’

‘Good. Thank you, Heike-Ann. And Glenn?’

Glenn was more uncertain. ‘I don’t know. We go to some huge square in Vienna. Then what?’

‘We look for clues,’ replied Myles straightforwardly. ‘And if we don’t find any, we come back here.’ Myles was about to say more when he was interrupted by the sealed door being opened and the receptionist poking her head inside.

‘I know you asked not to be disturbed, but are you able to take a call? We’ve had a call from the French Foreign Ministry asking for you,’ she explained. ‘Should I put it through?’

Glenn nodded to the receptionist, who acknowledged him and left. A few seconds later, the phone began to ring.

Cautiously, the American picked it up. ‘Hello?’ He frowned with his eyebrows, concentrating on the faraway voice. ‘My name’s Glenn. I’m the United States representative on this team. And you are?’

After a short pause, Glenn nodded, seemingly satisfied by the answer. ‘Hello, Carine.’ He listened some more, then looked surprised. ‘Well, he didn’t ask us!’ Glenn’s eyes scanned around the rest of the group.

‘These things happen,’ continued the American. ‘Apology accepted. When’s he coming?’ Glenn’s face widened again, as he turned his wrist to check his watch. ‘… Well that’s probably going to be before Jean-François himself gets out of bed this fine morning…’

He leaned forward. ‘… And thank you. The team will discuss it with Jean-François. Until we agree to it, we haven’t agreed. We’ll probably send this Pascal guy straight home again. Understood…? Yes, Merci to you, too.’ Thank you.’

Glenn took the phone from his ear and pressed a button on it, checking it was off before he placed it back on the stand. Then he shook his head, dismissing the telephone conversation. ‘French Foreign Ministry,’ he explained. ‘Sounds like Jean-François has invited someone else to join the team. Why not have a party and just invite people from the street?’

Zenyalena kept her gaze fixed on the American. ‘Why do you ridicule him, Glenn? Jean-François probably has a good reason.’

Glenn paused some more. ‘I’ll tell you what,’ he said, with the look of a man about to cut a deal. ‘We’ll put all this to Jean-François. If he can persuade us to take on another person, then we will. And if he’s up for Vienna, then we all go. Otherwise, we stay here and the team stays as it is. Agreed?’

Zenyalena began to grin, as though she had just won a small victory. It was the first time in the whole investigation that Glenn had conceded something. She decided to cash in her winnings. ‘Let’s go up to Jean-François now, and ask him. All of us. He must be in — back from his run or whatever.’ She stood up.

Heike-Ann started gathering the papers on the table while Glenn reluctantly also came to his feet. Myles lifted himself on his bad leg. Zenyalena waited until everyone was with her, then led the party of four upstairs to the bedrooms.

On the upper floor, Glenn, Myles, with Heike-Ann bringing up the rear, checked the door numbers as they walked down the corridor.

Zenyalena was already ahead of them, pointing to the end. ‘It’s this one.’ She rapped her knuckles sharply on the door. She called through the door, her tone slightly embarrassed. ‘Mr Jean-François. Wake up time!’ Zenyalena smirked, imagining what Jean-François might be doing, and why he might not want to answer.

The team looked at each other silently. The room was silent too.

‘Jean-François.’ Zenyalena’s voice was sterner this time.

Again, nothing.

Myles bent down to look through the keyhole. He closed one eye and squinted inside with the other. ‘I can’t see anything in there. It’s too dark — he hasn’t opened the curtains.’

Glenn started to look concerned. He gestured for the others to make space. Then he knocked very loudly. ‘Jean-François.’ He was almost shouting though the door. ‘Wake up now. Are you alright?’

Still there was still no answer.

Looking reluctant, the American took two steps back, and rushed towards the door. His shoulder slammed into the wood, which stayed in place. Glenn recoiled. Then he turned accusingly to Myles. ‘You gonna help me, or just stand there?’

‘Let’s just get the spare key from reception,’ suggested Myles.

Glenn dismissed the idea. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Let’s just barge it open.’

Myles sized up the door frame. It was robust. Then he looked back at Glenn, and down at his own injured leg. ‘OK, let’s get inside.’

Together, they pushed again. The lock buckled, and the door swung open. Myles stumbled forward, unable to see into the darkness.

Zenyalena flicked a light switch.

Aghast, the four intruders — Zenyalena, Glenn, Heike-Ann and Myles — stood in silence at what they saw: in the middle of the room, Jean-François dangled from piano wire which cut tightly into his neck. Pale and lifeless, his face was frozen in an expression of terror.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Myles 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.

TWENTY-NINE

Myles, 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.

Just 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.

THIRTY

As Heike-Ann anticipated, the Berlin police forced the team to wait several hours in the hotel. Finally, when they were allowed to leave, they had just a few minutes to collect clothes, personal items and their copies of Stolz’s papers from their rooms. Then they shared two taxis to Berlin’s Central Station, and managed to board a train to Vienna at sunset.

Myles sat alongside Pascal for the rail journey south, and watched the German countryside swish by as the twilight turned to darkness. Illuminated buildings would flash out of the gloom, then whizz past as the train journeyed on. He would glimpse farms, level crossings and the silhouette of trees, each for just a second before they disappeared from view. Spotlights shone up at a faraway church, turning it into an eerie beacon of something sinister.

He thought about Helen. He was anxious to know what she had discovered about Corporal Bradley. Then he wondered whether she would hear about Jean-François’ murder somehow — with all her sources in the media, it was likely. He would have to tell her about the death first, so he could justify why he still needed to find Stolz’s secret, even though the stakes were now so much higher. He resolved to call her as soon as he had a quiet moment in Vienna.

Myles felt the movement of the wheels on the track and remembered all those histories about the First World War: it was the rail network, they said, which had tripped Europe into war. Back in the ill-fated summer of 1914, each of the imperial powers had sent its troops to the front according to train timetables. When they heard that rival empires had mobilised, they were forced to do the same for fear of being left unguarded. And once the mobilise-by-rail plan had been put into effect, there was no way to stop it.

Myles also used to lecture how railways ensured a defensive war: it meant troops could be sent fast to plug any ‘breakthrough’ in the trenches, while the attackers could never advance faster than marching pace. Defenders always had the advantage, leading to the long, slow, and bloody attrition of World War One.

Some of his students had trouble accepting such a simple explanation: that so many deaths could be blamed on the movement of railway vehicles. Human affairs explained by physics. Myles was uncomfortable with it, too. But the facts fitted: life and death in the ‘Great War’ had been determined more often by train tracks than by the decisions people took.

It was hard to guess what the others were thinking. Pascal still seemed numbed by Jean-François’ murder. The impact of the news was only hitting him now, a half-day after he had heard about his friend’s terrible demise.

Zenyalena, sitting opposite, was more upbeat. She was enthralled by the night-time scenes through the window — dimly lit farms, some roads which ran alongside the railway line, and an occasional castle, floodlit for tourists. It was as if she was still searching for clues about Stolz. She seemed like some of the better students Myles taught back in Oxford: always keen to learn, and fearless to take a gamble on being wrong for the prize of extra knowledge.

Glenn was slumped with his arms folded, as if he didn’t care. But he was still reading through Stolz’s papers. Myles sensed a determination about him, and a quiet professionalism hidden behind his difficult manner.

Heike-Ann also said nothing. Like Pascal and Zenyalena, her eyes were directed out of the window. But instead of trying to spot things in the darkness outside, she seemed hypnotised by the movement.

Pascal nudged her. ‘Hey. You were there when they found Jean-François. What was he reading before he died?’

Heike-Ann looked surprised by the question. Then she remembered — the computer screen. ‘Gauquelin. Michel Guaquelin. The biography of a Frenchman who died in 1991.’

Pascal’s face looked blank. He didn’t recognise the name. ‘And do you think he asked for me because of this “Gauquelin”, or something else?’

Heike-Ann lifted her shoulders. ‘I don’t know,’ she admitted.

Like Myles and Glenn, Zenyalena had been listening in. ‘There was a page about Gauquelin in Stolz’s papers.’ She started flicking through the files, trying to be helpful. Then she pulled something out and handed it to him. ‘Here.’

Pascal turned the page toward him and read it.

Michel Gauquelin started as a sceptic of all things mystical, and tried to use maths to prove there was no basis for many traditional beliefs. But when he investigated the birth dates and times of thousands of people, he established that the position of the planets Mars, Jupiter and Saturn at the time of birth really did influence their future career. His results were verified by several respected sources and have been repeated in many independent studies since. Gauquelin became most famous for the so-called ‘Mars effect’: people born when the planet Mars is on the horizon or directly overhead are more likely to excel in the military or at sport than people born at other times. Since Mars is a planet traditionally associated with war and sport, Gauquelin’s findings confirmed an ancient tradition. Gauquelin’s conclusions have split the scientific community between those who accept his work but can’t explain it, and those who insist it must be fraudulent.

Pascal turned the paper over. There was nothing on the other side. ‘That’s all?’ he asked.

‘That’s all,’ confirmed the Russian. ‘Which is why we need to find out more.’

Pascal looked at the paper again, then slumped back in his seat, silent.

It was a few seconds later before Glenn spoke, his eyes still fixed on his papers. ‘So, Pascal, if you’re wondering how you got yourself into this mobile madhouse, Michel Gauquelin is the crazy Frenchman you should thank.’

Pascal just looked blank, unsure how to respond. ‘You mean this “crazy Frenchman” is somehow responsible for Jean-François’ death? Even though he’s dead?’

Zenyalena butted in. ‘No, Pascal, you should blame a different Frenchman. One from four hundred years ago: Nostradamus,’ she explained. ‘He was a famous mystic who used ancient “science”, like astrology, to predict lots of things. Even the rise of Hitler.’

Glenn turned away, an expression of contempt on his face.

Zenyalena ignored him. She began to recite from memory.

‘From the depths of the West of Europe,

A young child will be born of poor people,

By his tongue he will seduce a great troop;

His fame will increase towards the realm of the East.

The edicts of the Pope will be overruled

By Hitler, and Italy is a fascist republic.

‘Wild men ferocious with anger, cross over rivers,

The greater part of the battlefield will be against Hitler;

In armour of steel they will make the great assault,

When the child of Germany will heed no one.’

Zenyalena looked around, expecting the rest of the team to be amazed by the accuracy of the prophecy. Instead, they just looked mystified.

Myles spoke with a puzzled frown. ‘Did Nostradamus really write the name “Hitler”, back in the 1500s?’

‘He wrote “Hister” — just one letter out,’ answered the Russian. ‘And everything else he got right — Hitler’s alliances with the “realm of the East”, Japan and fascist Italy. And how the Allies turned the battlefield against him. There’s even a line about how Hitler’s fate would remain a mystery — which it did. The Allies were never sure the Nazi dictator really killed himself.’

Heike-Ann leaned forward, her body language most sceptical of all. ‘You know, Nostradamus’ poems could be read in other ways.’

Zenyalena accepted the point, but only partly. ‘True, but the Nazis used them,’ she said. ‘Stolz might have been ordered to research how Nostradamus made his predictions. And perhaps he actually found out.’

THIRTY-ONE

Sally Wotton wondered whether she should really be doing her job at all. Perhaps her PhD was wasted. It certainly felt that way when she was just browsing websites. Special websites, for sure, but most of the sites she checked for the CIA were too amateurish to be threatening.

In the last fortnight, only one website had really impressed her boss. It was that Mein Kampf Now page, the Hitler fansite with library images of the dead dictator and the nutty predictions far off in the future. Crazy stuff, but not yet proved to be nonsense. And whoever was behind it had protected it with multi-layer defences. It was the high quality of those cyber-walls, added to the very odd nature of the threats, which made it so intriguing.

Noticing the site had earned her two words of praise from her boss. ‘Thanks, Sally,’ he had said. It was the only truly positive feedback she’d received since she started her job.

Sally re-read the report from the tech boys. They confirmed they couldn’t locate the site because it wasn’t really located anywhere. Instead, they described it as ‘transient’ with ‘multiple uploading paths’. It meant there was very little chance of finding out who was behind the site, or — just as important — where they were based. From the data traces, somewhere in Europe seemed the most likely source, but that was little more than a guess.

An alert at the bottom of her computer screen changed colour, indicating something new had just been uploaded onto one of her listed ‘watch sites’. Sally clicked on the icon.

Sally leaned forward in anticipation. She waited, while her computer connected itself to the page. Then she leapt back in horror, recoiling from the screen as fast as she could.

The image which repelled her was a grotesque photo of someone hanging in a hotel room. Dead, or nearly dead, the man was suspended by thin wire which gouged into his neck. The picture had been taken with a flash, making his face look especially pale and drained. Crimson fluid dribbled from the victim’s tongue, which protruded from his mouth as though it was trying to escape. From the man’s horrific expression, he was dying in terrible pain.

Now she knew this website was serious. Photos of someone being murdered in one of the cruellest ways possible automatically made Mein Kampf Now a priority.

As she began to overcome her initial revulsion, Sally scrolled down the page. The terrifying image shifted up and out of her sight. It was replaced by recently-added text.

Sally’s heart quickened.

Did that mean a nuclear attack against the UK? Sally thought not — it was another sort of strike. These were two different threats. And like the others, they were disturbingly precise.

What worried Sally most was the pathological determination behind it all. Murdering someone to make a point? Making bizarre boasts long in advance? Super-tight webhosting which not even the CIA could crack? It all pointed to a committed psychopath. Mein Kampf Now was masterminded by someone who would use extraordinary means to carry out their extraordinary threats.

She scrolled back up to the ghastly photo, tagged it ‘For Immediate Analysis’ and sent it to the tech boys — they may have failed to find out where the website was coming from. If the picture was genuine it would contain clues, perhaps in the background.

Then she printed out the latest version of the website, impatiently looming over the machine as the pages came out.

As she was running down the corridor, rushing the printout to her boss, Sally wondered what they could do about the nuclear threat, and the danger to the USA.

And she knew, whoever was behind Mein Kampf Now, they would make sure their terrible predictions came true.