Secrets of the Last Nazi

FORTY-EIGHT

Dieter had become invisible.

No-one could see him. No-one realised he was there. No-one knew who he was. His disguise was working.

But it also meant he had been forgotten. No-one had remembered what he’d done. No-one apart from Dieter himself, of course.

It was almost ten years ago, now. Throwing pink paint over the leader of the far right group in the European Parliament had been only part of it. It was hitting the politician with the tin which had landed him in jail.

If Dieter had been attacking the politician because he was too extreme, like everybody else, he might have got off. But Dieter had assaulted the man because he wasn’t extreme enough.

Perhaps Dieter should have lied in court. His lawyer told him to stay calm, and pretend he was making a political statement against the far-right leader because the man was racist. But Dieter detested the man — the politician offered no protection at all to Germans, like him, forced to live under French rule because their land had been surrendered as ‘war compensation’ decades earlier.

Like Hitler, Dieter’s single year in prison had been easy. He’d learned useful things: a thief had taught him how to beat a CCTV system. A murderer had taught him what it felt like to kill someone, including how to overcome the instinct to offer mercy in the closing seconds. Both useful when he’d broke into the Berlin Hotel to kill Jean-François…

Dieter was glad his most recent victim had been a Frenchman. He would make that other Frenchman, Pascal, disappear soon too…

The year in prison also made him focus. It wasn’t enough just to attack the metropolitan culture, the silly ‘live-and-let-live’ mentality of his childhood city, Strasbourg, and all the Euro-nonsense that went with it.

Stolz’s secret would enable him to reverse the humiliation. No longer would Germans, like him, be ashamed of their past. Dieter would soon be able to shame the French. And wasn’t it the purest poetry that he’d be able to do it at the Compiègne railway carriage. Just like Hitler.

Dieter looked up at the prison. He tried to pick out cell number seven. Hitler’s old cell. What would the brilliant dictator have made of the international team?

Dieter knew: Hitler himself had predicted the Cold War. It was in his writings. Dismissed now, of course, but the once-great man had seen it all. Hitler knew the alliance between the Americans and the Soviets was phoney. Just as the international team was phoney now. Perhaps Hitler had been informed by forecasts from Stolz. Perhaps he was just a genius, much like Dieter himself.

Now, he realised, his mission to uncover Stolz’s secret had given him the chance to be much more. What had started as paid work, hired by the fat Christian from Israel to gather some papers, had given Dieter a chance to win the stature of a world statesman. It was just as Hitler himself had promised:

‘No matter how weak an individual may be, the minute that he acts in accordance with the hand of Fate, he becomes more powerful than you could possibly imagine.’

Dieter wondered whether he could really pull it off. Surely he could. After all, he had already lived the predictions that he was virtually indestructible, and they were due to hold true for another two days. Using Stolz’s secret, Dieter would scramble up the pile of excrement called society, to win the human race.

Now only plastic tape was preventing Dieter from going inside — tape set up by all the municipal officials and prison staff, all the useless people. Calmly, Dieter walked towards the blast hole. He stepped over the broken concrete where Pascal’s grenade had blown off the cover. He bent down, under the cordon. Then he took hold of the ladder, and climbed down. Invisible.

In the cavern below he went straight to the metal desk and the machine with the dials. He quickly found the switch, and waited while it hummed and buzzed into life.

Then he set the dials, one by one.

January…

29^th…

Dusk…

It was his birthday, his birth year, his time of birth.

He lifted his head to watch the hanging globes sway, revolve and settle in their new positions. The coloured lights started to shine on the third sphere from the sun. Dieter stared up, trying to make out what would happen to him in northern France. Mars was active there — but did that mean action or violence? And he was going to be surprised there, too — an unexpected role reversal, a sudden loss of power. A twin threat of some sort.

He knew he had to prepare himself. If he was going to confront guns, then he wanted them to be his own.

But then he saw, in the eastern half of Germany, so, so many lines converging on Berlin.

There was Uranus, Mars, Neptune, and Saturn: all four were active in the German capital. All active for him.

Uranus: surprises

Mars: violence

Neptune: illusion

Saturn: authority

Perfect: the place where he could surprise the world with violence, and become an illusion of authority.

So it was to be Berlin. Berlin would be where he would transform himself. In Berlin he would cease to be Dieter-who-threw-paint-at-the-fascist. He would become Dieter, new leader of the world.

He knew the old phrase: he who controls Berlin controls Germany, he who controls Germany controls Europe. He who controls Europe controls the World. Very soon that person would be him.

Quietly, he turned off the machine, stepped back, and slowly climbed up and out of the cavern beneath Landsberg prison.

Back on the patch of grass, he turned his smartphone back on, and waited while it found a signal. There was a new message from Father Samuel:

He smirked, relishing the feeble panic of his paymaster. Then he pressed ‘call’.

Father Samuel answered almost immediately. ‘My Friend,’ he said. ‘Did you understand my message?’

‘Yes,’ replied Dieter. ‘Would you like the whole team to be… concluded?’

Father Samuel paused, but only briefly, before he answered, ‘I would.’

‘Then you need to deliver something for me,’ said Dieter, coolly. ‘I need one device, fully operational and set exactly as we discussed, and it needs to be old.’

‘How old?’ asked Father Samuel.

‘A century would be perfect,’ replied Dieter. ‘German manufacture, please — they’re the best, usually. And by noon at the latest, it needs to be precisely five hundred metres south of this location: 49 degrees, 25 minutes, 38 seconds north; 2 degrees, 54 minutes 23 seconds east.’

Dieter could hear Samuel inhale, shocked by the demand as he scribbled down the longitude and latitude. After a few seconds, the query came back. ‘But my Friend, that over is northern France. And I do not yet have the device.’

‘Correct. But just as I have delivered for you, I know you will deliver for me.’ He ended the call without waiting for another excuse.

Then he walked away — back to the taxi rank.

No-one noticed him leave. No-one had noticed him at all.

FORTY-NINE

Myles’ hotel telephone rang at 0630 — someone had set a wake-up call for him, although he didn’t know who. He slumped out of bed to pull back the curtains. The Alps looked stunning: brightly lit by the dawn sun. The almost-full moon was about to set behind them. For ancient peoples — with no televisions or street lights — these heavenly bodies would have been natural marvels. No wonder they struggled to understand the passage of the moon and planets above them. No wonder they searched for a mysterious connection between the state of the sky and their own lives. What had they found, exactly? Myles wondered whether he was close to discovering it again.

As he gazed at the view, Myles understood the real puzzle of the planets was not whether there was a connection. There definitely was a connection. The evidence was clear — to everybody except the scientists and religious fundamentalists who had a motive to deny it. Planets could be used for predictions, and those predictions could be good or bad, useful or harmful. The real puzzle of the planets was: how could the power to make accurate predictions be kept from people like the Nazis, and used only for good? And that puzzle was far harder to solve.

He remembered Glenn had called for a rendezvous in the restaurant at 0700. Not wanting to be late again, he dressed quickly and hurried down.

Glenn was the only team member to be there before Myles. The American was already halfway through a breakfast of pancakes and maple syrup.

‘Did you have a good rest?’ Myles asked.

Glenn huffed. ‘No, but then I didn’t really expect to.’ He passed his hand over his perfectly clean-shaven scalp, as if he had spent his whole break agonising about Stolz. There was almost a minute’s silence before Glenn spoke again. ‘So what do you think about all this horoscope shit?’

Myles knew a loaded question when he heard one. But he decided to be honest. ‘You know, I’m not sure.’ He tried to explain. ‘The thing is this, there is a correlation. Stolz has found clear patterns between the planets and human events.’

‘Oh, come on,’ scoffed Glenn, swigging coffee. ‘You’re meant to be an academic.’

‘Yes, and that means accepting evidence. If the evidence isn’t what you expected, you have to go with the evidence. You heard of quantum physics?’

Glenn raised his eyebrows, chewing: he had heard of quantum physics, but didn’t know anything about it.

‘You see Glenn, quantum physics doesn’t make sense either,’ explained Myles, leaning forward to avoid other people in the restaurant listening in. ‘It says electrons can influence each other without any sort of connection between them. It sounds like so much nonsense, but it’s been proven as true.’

‘So you’re saying Stolz proves astrology to be true?’ Glenn put the question like a dare. ‘Really?’

Myles looked down, shaking his head. But he wasn’t saying no. He was about to explain when he felt a pair of hands on his shoulders.

It was Zenyalena, wide-eyed as ever, wearing bright purple this time, and clearly re-energised. ‘Gentlemen. Myles — Glenn.’

Myles and Glenn returned the greeting.

Zenyalena sat down beside the American and lifted a pancake from his plate. ‘Any news on Pascal?’ she asked, putting the pancake into her mouth.

Myles and Glenn both shook their heads.

Zenyalena shrugged, then pulled a face. ‘So, have you two learned anything interesting overnight?’ she asked.

Myles was about to answer when he noticed Heike-Ann at the entrance to the restaurant. She hadn’t seen them yet, so Myles stood up and beaconed her over.

‘Well, I found out about this place,’ announced Zenyalena, unconcerned that nobody seemed to be listening. ‘It was a German army base before the Americans took it, and it held out for a whole month after the end of the war.’

‘And your point is?’ asked Glenn.

‘We know Stolz took one of the last planes out of Berlin in April 1945. He came here, for some reason,’ Zenyalena explained. ‘Then the Americans insisted on interviewing him here — not one of the interrogation centres they had already set up. Very odd.’

‘Nothing odd about that,’ retorted Glenn. ‘He flew to southern Germany to escape the Red Army. He probably preferred surrendering to the Americans, which makes perfect sense, given how the communists were treating people.’

‘So how did you treat Lieutenant Kirov? There’s no memorial to him here. No record of him at all.’

Glenn clattered his knife and fork onto the table, exasperated. ‘Of course there’s no record of him, Zenyalena. It was seventy years ago, soldiers had been dying every day, and he wasn’t even American. What do you expect?’

‘Well, I say we find out more,’ insisted Zenyalena.

Furious, Glenn stood up. Myles wondered whether he was about to hit the Russian, but suddenly his face broadened into a smile. Heike-Ann’s did too, then Zenyalena’s. They had all seen Pascal.

Pascal joined them at the table, wearing fresh clothes and looking relaxed. Apart from a small scar on his jaw, which was covered by a surgical dressing, he seemed completely unharmed.

‘Looks like you got the medical treatment,’ said Glenn.

Pascal tipped his head to one side. ‘I was expecting something huge and American,’ he joked, gesticulating with his hands. ‘But it was just a First Aid station!’

‘What can you expect from a place called ‘Hotel Edelweiss’?’ mocked Glenn. ‘You OK?’

‘Yes — it was all minor. They released me after an hour.’

‘Enough,’ said Zenyalena. ‘We are all here. We need to keep ahead of whoever is following us.’

Myles saw the others eye each other. Another argument was looming — perhaps one which threatened to pull the team apart. ‘I know where Stolz’s next clue leads,’ he interjected. They all looked at him.

‘Where?’ asked Pascal.

‘France,’ Myles explained. ‘About five hundred miles west of here.’

Glenn pulled Stolz’s paper from his pocket, and unfolded it to reveal the clue, written out in garish highlighter pen. ‘You sure?’ he asked.

Myles nodded. ‘I am. The only question is, how do we get there?’

‘There’s a vehicle rental place in the town,’ proposed Zenyalena.

Pascal acknowledged her suggestion, but dismissed it. ‘Too slow,’ he said. ‘We need to be faster than whoever’s following us.’ Then a thought struck him and he turned to Glenn. ‘Could we fly?’

‘Another helicopter? I don’t know,’ said the American. ‘It’s not a medical emergency this time. But I can try for you.’ He stood up from the table, and began looking for someone to ask.

As soon as he was gone, Zenyalena turned to Myles. ‘This place — it’s 500 metres south of a railway carriage, is it?’

Myles indicated she was correct. ‘Yes, in Compèigne,’

‘Then, I say we fly to the carriage,’ continued the Russian, ‘but we travel the last half-kilometre by ourselves. We don’t want an American army helicopter crew barging in on whatever we might find there.’ Without waiting for a reaction from the others, she turned her mobile phone back on and started to book a rental vehicle — a minibus — to meet them in France. She passed her phone over to Myles so he could give the exact location.

Glenn returned, and, looking surprised himself, announced that there was indeed a helicopter which could take them, leaving in forty minutes. It was another Chinnook, flying to NATO Headquarters in Belgium, with space for passengers and time for minor detour. It could complete the journey in less than three hours. Heike-Ann, Zenyalena, Pascal, Glenn and Myles made sure they were on board. Soon, they were thundering into the sky above the United States Army Garrison Garmisch-Partenkirchen, as they soared up and flew away.

FIFTY

Sally Wotton’s desk was quiet again.

The last upload to Mein Kampf Now had caused quite a stir. She had been asked to give ‘emergency briefings’, presentations to the top management group and one-to-ones with various deputy directors. It was the first time senior types at the CIA had taken a real interest in her work. A few of them even seemed interested in her, and she’d been asked — ordered — to come into work especially early, just in case there was anything new. But with no updates on the terror-group website for a while, and no breakthroughs from the tech boys trying to trace the uploads, the trail had gone cold. Even the photograph of a dead man hanging in a hotel room had been a tease — some analysts reckoned it was taken in northern Europe because of the furniture, but the background was too out-of-focus for anything more precise.

It meant Sally was back to browsing the web. Or, more accurately, browsing those website which a CIA computer algorithm had identified as ‘suspect’, and which belonged to the category assigned to her.

There was the usual dross. ‘Death sites’, crazy protestor sites, and obscene stuff which tried to frighten but didn’t. Sally now paid special attention to all the Hitler sites which came up, just in case any were connected to Mein Kampf Now. When she’d suspected one yesterday, she’d raised the alert immediately and within minutes a lonely teenager in rural Tennessee had his bedroom invaded by a swarm of Federal agents. Even though the agents soon found the youth wasn’t connected to the terror group, the teenager’s mother still took away his computer privileges and grounded him for a month as a punishment.

It made Sally wonder even more about her job. She was trying to do what the CIA was meant to do — to protect the USA from threats. Yet, when it had happened, Sally’s role seemed to have amounted to giving a few powerpoint presentations and getting some deputy directors to nod their heads in concern. She was fairly sure others had begun working on Mein Kampf Now without telling her, making her feel left out.

She scrolled down today’s list of highlighted sites.

She squinted, checking the words again. ‘Humanitarian Pursuit’?

She scratched her head. Why was something humanitarian a threat? Surely pursing humanitarian goals was a good thing, wasn’t it?

She clicked on it, and instantly realised why the algorithm had selected it. The website was linked directly to Mein Kampf Now.

Humanitarian Pursuit believes the threats made by Mein Kampf Now are horrendous. We believe in the Universal Declaration of Human Rights, and that all people should be allowed to thrive in peace and prosperity in every part of the world…

Mein Kampf Now and Humanitarian Pursuit have opposite goals…

She scrolled down. There were pictures of starving African children eating from tins of food aid, and a poverty-stricken farmer trying to take in a failed harvest. Library images? She didn’t know. She guided her cursor to read the text at the bottom.

Humanitarian Pursuit would like to meet the instigators of Mein Kampf Now. We want to talk to you, to understand you and — yes, we are self-confident enough to use the word — negotiate with you…

We believe Humanitarian Pursuit and Mein Kampf Now can agree a peace deal.

Sally raised her eyebrows.

‘Humanitarian Pursuit’ — she’d never heard of it before. She typed the phrase into a search engine, and only the page to come up was the one already on her screen. She checked whether this ‘Humanitarian Pursuit’ was registered with any Federal authority. It wasn’t.

She didn’t know whether to praise it or be suspicious. Was trying to negotiate with Mein Kampf Now a good idea or a very stupid one?

She knew her seniors wouldn’t be interested in this one. There were thousands of do-good organisations all across the world. Even though this one was trying to ‘do good’ with Mein Kampf Now, it wouldn’t be a priority for the CIA.

But it was a priority for her. Sally sent a request to the tech boys — she wanted the site traced and monitored, just like the original Hitler site.

Then she realised something very odd about the site indeed, and she smiled to herself. Something so simple, so easy to overlook. Now that would definitely interest her boss…

At last, her over-trained brain had been useful after all…

FIFTY-ONE

The flight was punctuated only by a brief refuelling stop just before the twin-engined helicopter passed out of German air-space. The team stayed on board. As they flew on, into France, Myles could make out the tell-tale ditches which had marked out the First World War trenches from a century earlier. Pascal noticed them too, and seemed fascinated.

As promised, the international team were dropped exactly where Myles had specified: in Compiègne, on a well-tended patch of grass and pavings in the middle of a wooded area. The Chinnook had evidently called ahead — the site had been roped off, and tourists moved away. The machine was able to descend safely, without anyone below it or too close to the rotor blades. The team rushed out, thanking the helicopter crew as they left.

Only as the Chinnook departed, rising away with its shuddering noise and squall, did Myles realise what a peaceful place they had come to. Like some sort of ornamental garden, there were solemn monuments and flagpoles, as well as the two-room museum and railway carriage he was expecting.

‘You’re the historian,’ said Zenyalena, turning to Myles. ‘Do we need to know about this railway carriage, or can we just follow Stolz’s directions?’

Myles lifted his shoulders, unsure. ‘It may be important. I don’t know.’ They moved towards it. The paintwork on the outside had been polished to a high shine, and the inside was preserved like a crime scene. Peering in through a window, Myles pointed to the table in the centre of the carriage. ‘This is a copy of Field Marshall Foch’s private train — commander of British and French troops towards the end of World War One. When a German delegation crossed the front lines to discuss peace terms, this is where they were taken. The Allies bugged their communications with Berlin, so they knew they could demand an unconditional surrender, and they got it. It was at that table that the armistice was signed, and the Great War ended.’

Zenyalena didn’t want the team to dwell on the history too much. ‘And then, later?’

‘Well, the First World War was known as the ‘War to End All Wars’, recounted Myles. ‘But the treaty which followed soon became the ‘Peace to End All Peace’. Hitler believed the Germans had been tricked. He thought they could have fought on to win, blaming Jews in Berlin for giving up early. That’s why, in 1940, when his armies had beaten France, he made the French surrender in this same railway carriage. He was trying to undo the humiliation of 1918. Or rather, pass that humiliation onto the French….’

Pascal, Heike-Ann and Glenn listened carefully to Myles’ words. Just as he did in Oxford’s lecture halls, Myles’s had captivated his audience.

‘… The Free French liberated this place from the Nazis in September 1944, just two weeks after the last train had taken people from here to the death camps…’

They were all fascinated — except Zenyalena. ‘Thank you, Myles. I think that is enough. Now let’s follow Stolz’s directions.’

Glenn held up his hand. ‘Wait. Surely there’s a reason Stolz sent us here. We need to know why.’

Pascal and Heike-Ann were nodding. ‘Could we at least check out the museum?’ asked the German.

Zenyalena shook her head. ‘No time. Stolz hid his secret files south of here, and that’s where we need to go. If there is a reason why he hid them near here, we’ll be much closer to finding it when we find those papers.’

Pascal, Heike-Ann and Glenn accepted they would have to leave the carriage and go with the Russian. The Russian woman couldn’t be allowed to find Stolz’s next hiding place alone.

Zenyalena marched to the car park, leading the team as she went. Myles found tried to keep up with the pace, but felt a sharp pain in his leg. He had to limp along behind.

The vehicle Zenyalena had hired was easy to find — it was the only minibus there. As she had arranged with the rental company, the keys were underneath one of the back tyres. She spoke as she reached for them. ‘Stolz said we needed to go five hundred metres south of here. No need to measure the distance — this has GPS. Easy.’ She clutched the keys in her palm, and opened the driver’s door.

Myles followed Heike-Ann and Pascal into the back of the minibus. Glenn, last in, made a point of riding shot-gun, sitting next to Zenyalena, who was in the driving seat. The American wanted to watch the GPS.

Zenyalena spoke without looking at him. ‘Set it for five hundred metres — due south.’

Glenn played with the controls, pausing to check it was right before he gave her the go-ahead. ‘Done.’

Zenyalena turned on the ignition and let the engine rumble for a few seconds before putting the vehicle in gear and driving out.

The computerised voice from the GPS — a woman with a mid-Atlantic accent which reminded Myles of Helen — was unambiguous. ‘At the next turning, take the first right…’ The first right was a small, gravel lane. It led away from the railway carriage and the ceremonial space around it, into the forest. ‘…200 metres…’

The team eagerly watched out of the windows. They were driving into the wood. The spot chosen by Stolz was somewhere amongst the trees.

‘…100 metres…’ declared the GPS.

Zenyalena allowed the vehicle to slow as they approached. Gravel crunched under the tyres. Myles sensed this road was not used very much.

‘…. You have now reached your destination.’

Zenyalena stopped the minibus.

Without words, Glenn jumped out, then opened the door for her passengers. ‘We’re here — wherever ‘here’ is. Let me know if you see something.’

Myles, Pascal and Heike-Ann stepped down onto the track. Zenyalena turned off the engine and lifted the handbrake, subtly pocketing the keys.

Silence. Not even the leaves in the trees made a sound.

Myles glanced around. They were on a rough roadway — small stones on mud — in the middle of a dense forest. Undergrowth covered most of the ground to both sides of them. There were no other people between here and the museum in Compiègne. It was a good place to hide something, although the seclusion also made it sinister.

Myles saw to one side of the small road: a pattern on the ground. The undergrowth was missing. He hobbled towards the brambles to make sure. As his suspicions proved correct, he advanced more slowly — partly out of respect, partly out of fear of unexploded munitions. It was a trench, from the First World War. ‘Be careful,’ he called back to the others. ‘This place could still be dangerous.’

While Pascal, Glenn and Zenyalena began to follow, Heike-Ann remained where she was. ‘Well, if it isn’t safe, shouldn’t we stop?’ she asked.

But Myles was already out of earshot. He examined the earthworks. Corrugated iron still held up the walls — rusted in places and defaced by recent spray-can graffiti. Wooden duckboards on the bottom of the trench had been buried by a century of autumn leaves and other detritus. In one direction, the trench stopped where it had been filled in — to make the track where the minibus was parked. The other way it led into the unknown, turning at a right-angle. The dense tree cover made it much darker in that direction.

As carefully as he could, Myles slid down into the trench, keeping the weight off his healing leg. Soil scraped onto his new velcro knee support. Weeds rubbed against his clothes.

Glenn jumped down beside him. ‘So this was the Western Front, huh?’

Myles nodded. ‘Part of it. The trees would have protected this part from artillery, which is probably why it’s still here.’

‘But Myles, I thought Stolz’s clue said ‘where He didn’t serve’. Does that mean Hitler served in the trenches somewhere else?’

Still gauging his surroundings, Myles shook his head. ‘Hitler never really spent much time in the trenches at all — just a few weeks out of the whole four years. His war record was mostly propaganda. Nazi fiction. He lied about it in Mein Kampf, too. Hitler spent his First World War comfortable in regimental HQ, a safe distance behind the front…’

Glenn kicked one of the sides. A small volume of earth tumbled down. ‘So you reckon we have to search this whole trench? Stolz could have hidden his stuff anywhere.’

‘No — remember: Stolz was an old man when he hid those papers, and he hid them recently,’ said Myles, as he started limping along. ‘We just need to look for signs of someone hiding papers.’

He remembered explaining to his students how trenches zig-zagged: to limit the damage from artillery shells, and to stop a single gun being placed along the length. The international team would have to follow the zigs and zags, turning each corner until they found whatever Stolz had buried.

Pascal and Zenyalena came down to join Myles and Glenn in the trench. Only Heike-Ann stayed near the minibus, too afraid to leave the gravel track.

Myles started to limp along the narrow passage. ‘Look for anything unusual. And watch out for booby traps,’ he warned. ‘Armies left lots of them whenever they retreated. Some didn’t get cleaned up afterwards.’

They turned the first corner. Part of the wall had collapsed, but grass was growing where it had fallen away. It was an old slippage. Myles stepped over it and continued, to the second corner, with the others following behind.

Myles noticed a white surface on the side near his feet. He bent down to inspect it. It was old — part of a skull buried many years ago. Then some beetles began crawling out of the earth beside them. Zenyalena winced. They left it and continued forward.

The third corner. Myles stopped. There, in the middle of the pathway, was an old ammunition box. It looked as though it had just fallen from the side of the trench. But something about the hole it had come from made Myles wonder: the exposed soil was fresh, with spade marks, as though it had been dug out recently. Myles bent towards it without touching. Paint on the metal cover had flaked off, and the rim where the lid joined the main part of the box was rusted. But there was much less rust than on other steel artefacts he had seen dug up from the trenches.

Zenyalena called from behind. ‘Do you think it’s from Stolz?’

Without answering, Myles tried to look closer still. Then he saw it: a Swastika. It was the confirmation he needed. ‘Yes. It must be. We’re in a First World War trench, and that’s a Second World War ammunition box. The Swastika — it’s from the Nazis.’

Still without touching, as if they all knew it could be deadly, the four of them positioned themselves until they were all standing above it. Glenn pulled a utility knife from his pocket, flicked open one of the blades, and offered it to Myles who took it gratefully.

Myles knelt down and slid the blade into the rust, between the lid and the main box. It was looser than he expected. ‘Do you want to stand back, just in case?’

Zenyalena frowned. ‘Of course not — we want to see what’s inside.’

Nobody else tried to protect themselves either — curiosity drew them all in. If the tin was booby trapped, Heike-Ann, still standing by the minbus, would be the only survivor.

FIFTY-TWO

Gently Myles placed pressure on the handle of the knife. The metal ammunition box flexed, like a spring being compressed. The rust started to crack. Myles eased the knife along. He felt it move then, suddenly, the lid flung open. Dirt sprayed onto Myles’ face.

Inside they saw a transparent plastic bag sealed with tape. ‘Now this isn’t from the World Wars,’ said Myles, lifting it out of the metal tin, and carefully turning it in his hands.

The bag contained some papers and a bottle. Clear liquid inside the bottle glugged from side to side as Myles tilted it. Then he noticed the label: something in German. ‘We’re going to need Heike-Ann to translate this before we open it.’ He looked up at the faces of Glenn, Pascal and Zenyalena. They all nodded. Finally, something they could all agreed upon.

After checking there was nothing else in the metal box, Myles carried the plastic bag as carefully as he could. They all returned to the gravel track and clustered around Heike-Ann. Heike-Ann pulled some latex gloves from her pocket and squeezed her hands into them before taking the bag from Myles. Then she placed the bag on the gravel, in clear view of the whole team, and delicately started to unpick the seal.

The plastic opened easily enough. Heike-Ann extracted the papers. There were lots of them: perhaps a hundred sheets. Most had yellowed with age, and had type-written text on them.

Zenyalena urged her to translate. ‘Well, what do they say?’

Heike-Ann squinted at the papers. ‘The title, it’s ‘Eid’ in German — it means ‘the passing of an oath or solemn promise’.’

The others stood bemused, waiting for Heike-Ann to explain the main text.

Heike-Ann started to read and translate at the main time. ‘‘Im April 1945 versprach ich ihm dass ich als Teil der Operation Werwolf auch weiterhin für Deutschland kämpfen würde. Diese Flasche mit einer konzentrierten Mischung aus Sarin und Tebum war die Waffe, die ich erhielt…’ ‘In April 1945, I promised Him I would continue to fight for Germany, as part of Operation Werewolf. This bottle of concentrated Sarin and Tebum mixture was the weapon I was given.’’

She looked down at the liquid inside the glass container. ‘Tebum?’ she queried, glancing up at Myles.

‘Tebum is a nerve agent, like Sarin,’ Myles explained. ‘Chemical weapons developed by the Nazis. Lethal — even in tiny doses.’

Heike-Ann made sure she was clear of the bottle. She turned to the next page. ‘Between April 1945 and May 1990, I could not access the Bunker Am Krusenick….’

Myles and Glenn looked at each other. Am Krusenick.

It was the road where Stolz had his basement flat. The place where Myles had been gassed.

Heike-Ann kept reading, translating as she went. ‘… so for the main part of my life I was forced to do without the knowledge we had rediscovered. These notes explain the method I developed in the absence of that science and our equipment.’

Heike-Ann turned the paper over to check there was nothing on the other side. It was blank.

Zenyalena urged her to look at the next pack of paper. ‘Well, what was his method?’

Heike-Ann started again. The page was thick with text. ‘It’s, er, a set of principles for — for predicting things. How to foretell life events, that sort of thing,’ she said, trying to summarise it.

The others exchanged glances, urgently wanting Heike-Ann to translate more. Heike-Ann just leafed through the pages, realising there was too much to go through. ‘This page is all about how to get the timing of an event… this one is all about how different angles have a different impact…’ She was becoming overwhelmed.

‘Come on. This is just more hogwash,’ said Glenn, shaking his head to dismiss it all.

Heike-Ann looked sceptical too. She turned the page, to reveal something from the Office of Joseph Goebbels. ‘It’s a propaganda plan,’ she offered. ‘Operation Blinker, it’s called.’ She scanned it. ‘Looks like a set of ten instructions for covering up the secret.’

Zenyalena snatched the ‘Operation Blinker’ page. Heike-Ann let her take it while she picked out the next set of papers — two sheets held together with a paperclip. The headline on the front page read simply ‘Nixon’. She held the page up for Glenn, who instantly recognised the disgraced President’s name.

Glenn’s face invited her to read it out.

‘Er, it starts ‘Richard Mulhaus Nixon, born 9.35 p.m. PST 9^th Jan 1913. 33:53 North, 17:49 West (Yorba Linda, California, USA)’….’ she began scanning through the text. ‘It says ‘Low chance of winning Presidential election in November 1960 because on Inauguration Day in January 1961, Nixon has both Jupiter and Saturn at the lowest point in the chart, opposing point of career success… 1968 election is much better, because then Jupiter on the rising horizon makes for popular Presidency with foreign policy focus. Saturn on setting horizon indicates confrontation with Congress.’’

Myles could see the others absorbing the information. ‘Well, it’s right so far — Nixon lost the 1960 election, then won in 1968. What else does it say, Heike-Ann?’

‘Er… ‘1972: Jupiter allows for criticism to be brushed off’ then, it says ‘April 30^th 1973: Uranus at 90 degrees to Sun — shock challenge to public image…’’ Heike-Ann turned the page. ‘… and on the next sheet, it says ‘20^th October 1973… something more about planets. Nixon to issue shock instruction, over-reach his power and respond in anger to achieve deception. Failure likely…’’ She looked up. ‘Myles: what was that about?’

Myles remembered his US history. ‘It was called the ‘Saturday Night Massacre’. Nixon tried to be bold. He dismissed the special prosecutor into Watergate, and also his attorney general. It backfired on him, though.’

Heike-Ann turned to the last page on Nixon. ‘Then it concludes: ‘Neptune, Moon, Venus, Mars, and Uranus — total difference from exact angles reaches zero on 8^th August 1974 at 2105 Eastern Standard Time.’’

Myles recognised the date and time. ‘Middle of the evening… The precise moment of Nixon’s resignation, live on TV. Stolz got it exactly right.’

‘I’m still not convinced,’ said Glenn, frowning. ‘Did he write that before Nixon resigned, or afterwards?’

Heike-Ann scoured the page. ‘It doesn’t say. It’s not dated…’

She turned the page, trying to find more. ‘…There doesn’t seem to be anything else on Nixon. But it does have this. It says ‘We were able to apply these methods to countries as well as people. 5.10 p.m. on July 4^th, 1776, counts as the USA’s birthday, when the colony launched a broadside over water against the British Empire. We realised that the planet Uranus returned to where it was on that first Independence Day in April 1861, exactly when Union troops fired cannons across Charleston Harbour to start the US Civil War. Uranus returned there again in early June 1944 for D-Day, when the Americans again launched a momentous attack over water, and we can expect something similar next time, in May 2026, or during the first three months of 2027.’’

Myles remembered the papers from Vienna. ‘The 83-year cycle. It was the Uranus cycle — that’s how long it takes the planet to go round the sun. Combining it with the moon — that’s how Stolz predicted D-Day.’

Heike-Ann read on. ‘ ‘We also applied these methods for the United Kingdom, using the Act of Union, which took effect on midnight on 1^st January 1801. This warned us of Neptune causing problems of arrogance and deception in October 1956, and Pluto undermining the leadership through destructive power in October 1984.’’ Underneath the page, Heike-Ann found a more recent sheet — dated just three months ago. She showed it to the others as she translated. ‘‘As a final proof, I have applied my methods to predict the forthcoming events…’’

She held up the list — a couple of US senators were named, with dates in the near future next to each one. Stolz had also thrown in the names of a US Supreme Court Justice, a European Prime Minister and a well-known pop star. Beside each one, next to a month and year, were the words ‘to die’: Stolz was foretelling the death of each one.

None of the team knew what to make of their discoveries. Pascal seemed transfixed by the liquid, Glenn’s body language was trying to convince the others it was all nonsense, while Zenyalena was absorbing Stolz’s principles for prediction.

It was Myles who drew them back to what could have been the most important reference in the whole box. ‘What did he mean by ‘his equipment’’ in ‘Am Krusenick’? and ‘The main part of the knowledge we rediscovered’?’

Pascal tipped his head, scowling at the others. ‘You must have missed something when you checked out his basement flat.’

Glenn wasn’t so sure. ‘We checked it pretty thoroughly,’ he said. ‘So did your friend Jean-François. And the German police.’

Heike-Ann looked back at the words. ‘Bunker Am Krusenick. It says ‘Bunker’. Could there be a bunker somewhere in Am Krusenick — under where Stolz used to live?’

‘It could make sense,’ suggested Myles, ‘if the place was only accessible through Stolz’s old basement flat. That would explain why the old man went there as soon as he could, after the Berlin Wall came down… And why he left a mansion outside Nuremberg for a damp inner city flat.’

Heike-Ann was about to reply when a crack exploded in their ears. Myles instinctively felt himself diving to the ground, almost hitting the bottle of nerve agent. He felt air rush passed him and splinters of wood fly around.

More bullets whizzed nearby. Exposed on the gravel road, he tried to gain his bearings, desperately trying to know where the firing was coming from.

Pascal was next to him, also trying to understand what had happened. Zenyalena and Glenn had dived towards the trenches. The American was trying to crawl into the ditch for cover.

Then Myles saw Heike-Ann fall to the ground.

FIFTY-THREE

Myles saw Heike-Ann had been hit near her elbow. Pascal made eye-contact, indicating they needed to help the woman towards the trench. He lifted her legs while Myles grabbed the German’s good arm, staying low. Together, they carried her towards the undergrowth, and passed her down to Glenn. Myles and Pascal slid into the ditch after her.

The firing continued over their heads. Zenyalena started to check Heike-Ann’s wounds while Glenn and Myles tried to understand who was attacking them.

‘It’s coming from at least two places,’ said Myles, cowering. ‘There must be two guns.’

He saw Pascal bend down to their wounded German translator. Then the Frenchman lifted himself out of the trench and started crawling back to the road.

‘What the hell’s he doing?’ Glenn shouted across to Myles.

Staying within the trench, Myles and Glenn could see Pascal crawl forward, his weight on his forearms. Then they glimpsed what he was crawling towards: a machine gun — which was firing by itself.

Myles and Glenn ducked, covering their ears from the horrendous noise, feeling their whole bodies shake with the clatter of the gun. Glenn slung himself tight into the protection of the trench. Myles felt splatters of mud and other debris showering them, kicked up as the arc of bullets swung by.

Pascal poked his head up to check how the gun was positioned — it was hidden under a camouflage net and mounted on a tripod, sweeping one way then the other. But its elevation was fixed: it was not firing down. There was just enough space for Pascal to crawl underneath the bullets.

The Frenchman rushed towards it as quickly as he could, then knocked the gun from below. It took him just a moment more to stop it firing.

With one weapon down, it was much easier to locate the other. Like the first, it was hidden and mounted, with no-one at the controls.

Myles and Glenn ducked again as the bullets swept towards them. They waited for the stream of metal to pass, then Myles called out above the clatter of the automatic gunfire. ‘Pascal?’

No reply.

Glenn stared nervously at Myles: had the Frenchman been hit? Myles shouted up, ‘Pascal. Are you there?’

Still no reply.

Neither of them wanted to lift their heads out of the trench to look.

Then they heard movement — a noise above the racket of the machine gun, something rushing through the undergrowth, and a body slamming onto the earth with a grunt.

‘Pascal?’

Nothing. The bullets swept close again.

Unable to work out what was happening above them, Myles and Glenn looked down to Heike-Ann and Zenyalena. Zenyalena had improvised a bandage around their translator’s wrist. Heike-Ann was still alert.

Rat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat-a…

The bullets swept overhead once more, skimming the top of the trench and sending splatters of earth flying into the air. Myles’ head recoiled, ducking into his shoulders. He saw Glenn trying to protect his ears from the racket.

Then it stopped. Silence — finally.

Myles looked at the American, who raised his eyebrows in surprise. Had Pascal disabled the second gun?

Myles called out again. ‘Pascal? Are you there?’

After a long moment, the reply came back. Pascal’s words were breathless and exhausted. ‘Yes. I’m here. And it’s safe now.’

Myles poked his head up, and saw Pascal recovering: the Frenchman was sitting on the second gun, relieved but drained.

Myles called out. ‘What happened?’

Pascal was too out of breath to answer immediately. Instead he just patted the gun metal. ‘I knocked it down.’

Myles and Glenn started climbing out of the trenches. Glenn approached the first gun, checking it was safe. Myles approached the gun near Pascal. He recognised it from pictures he’d seen: a Vickers .303 heavy machine gun. Once one of the most common automatic weapons from the Western Front, but now old and rare. He knew immediately it was one of the guns stolen from the Imperial War Museum.

Then he saw something next to it — a small black plastic box.

Pascal lifted it for him to see. ‘It was attached to the firing button….’ The Frenchman pulled out an aerial, still catching his breath. ‘…radio-controlled.’

Glenn called over from the first gun. ‘Hey, this thing’s been set on automatic,’ The American was running back towards them. ‘Someone made it fire by itself.’

Zenyalena emerged from the trench, with Heike-Ann’s arm over her shoulder. Heike-Ann was conscious, but in pain. Myles, Glenn and Pascal saw the Russian woman was struggling, and rushed over to help. All four of them carried Heike-Ann back to the gravel track, near to where she’d been hit, and laid her down. Blood had already seeped through the bandage.

Myles held her hand and lifted the injured limb in the air. ‘We’ll keep it up — you’ll lose less blood that way.’

‘Thank you.’ Heike-Ann was wincing, holding back the intense agony of a gunshot wound, and clearly worried about her pregnancy.

Pascal put his hand on her forehead, trying to calm her.

Glenn was still livid. ‘What was that? We’ve just been attacked. By…by…’ He didn’t know what to say.

Pascal completed the sentence for him. ‘By a ghost.’

Myles could tell something flicked across Zenyalena’s mind. The Russian ran swiftly towards the first gun, determined to inspect it for herself. It was just a few seconds later when she called out from where the first gun had been. ‘We’ve been betrayed.’

Glenn shouted back, angry that Zenyalena was stating the obvious. ‘Of course we’ve been betrayed. Hell, we’ve almost been killed.’

‘No, Glenn. It’s one of us,’ said Zenyalena, with a deadly tone in her voice. ‘One of the five of us must have done this.’ She ran back over to the group, furious. She was clutching one of the black boxes which had been attached to the machine gun. ‘Look….’ She held up the device. ‘…This is a short-range receiver. Someone must have set it off from very close by.’

‘You’re talking nonsense, Zenylena,’ said Glenn, still shaking his head. ‘Whoever it was could still be hiding round here — so not one of us.’

Heike-Ann called up from the ground, where she was still resting with her wound. ‘They used those things guarding the East German border — automatic machine guns. It could have been set off when we picked up the ammunition box.’

Zenyalena was having none of it. ‘You’re saying Stolz set those guns up? Some sort of trap to hide his precious papers?’ She pointed at the machine guns. ‘Those guns couldn’t have stayed hidden for any length of time. Not for even for a few days. Someone would have found them. And if they were there for a long time, they would have stopped working. Guns — especially vintage machine guns — need constant maintenance.’

Myles realised Zenyalena had a point. But it led to a terrible conclusion: one of the five of them was somehow involved in setting the trap.

Calmly, Pascal tried to mediate. ‘So we know those guns were put there recently, probably to hit whoever found Stolz’s papers. But it can’t be someone from our team, because any one of us could have been killed. It must be someone who had worked with Stolz.’ His logic was clear: someone else was trying to keep them from Stolz’s secret — someone prepared to use deadly force.

But Zenyalena still wasn’t accepting it. ‘No. Jean-François’ murder, the fire in Vienna, the ladder breaking in Munich, even Myles being gassed in Berlin. Whoever’s trying to stop us finding Stolz’s secret — they must be getting help from one of us.’

Myles looked at the other team members. If there was a traitor, who could it be? He wondered about each of the four people beside him.

Heike-Ann was still nursing her wounded arm. Surely she wouldn’t have set the gun to fire on herself?

Not Pascal, either. In the most heroic way possible, the Frenchman had just proved he was trying to help the team. And he had risked his life underground in Munich, and during the fire in Vienna, too.

Glenn? Glenn was still a mystery. Myles knew he was connected with some murky part of the US Government machine. Glenn had always been the most sceptical of Stolz’s material. But surely the American would have easier ways of disrupting the mission than setting up ancient machine guns?

That just left Zenyalena. Certainly, she was mentally unstable. But could she be mad enough to set up the guns and start the fire in Vienna? Unlikely. And Zenyalena was the most keen to find the traitor — she didn’t seem like the sort of woman who could bluff like that.

None of them could be a traitor — unless he was missing something. There had to be some other explanation.

Myles raised his voice. ‘When we left Munich, we all agreed not to tell anyone about this location. Yes?’

All four of the others agreed.

‘So, did anyone mention this location to anyone else?’

Glenn and Pascal shook their heads looking straight back at Myles.

‘Heike-Ann? Zenyalena?’

‘No,’ explained Heike-Ann. ‘I told my husband I’d be going to France, but I didn’t say where.’

Zenyalena gave a fuller answer. ‘I gave a report to Moscow, but that was about what we found in Munich. Not about this.’ She saw Glenn was still sceptical. ‘There’s no way Moscow could do this… even if someone intercepted my report, they wouldn’t know about this place.’

Myles tried something else. ‘So, maybe someone has found a way to follow us.’

Pascal raised a query. ‘Would that be possible? Even if someone tracked us here, setting up the machine guns would take time. We’d see them do it. And if they did, why use remote controls?’

Myles accepted Pascal was right. Even if someone was tracking them, it wouldn’t explain what had been happening. He was about to ask what they do next, when the quiet of the forest was interrupted by a faint noise. Something was coming down the gravel path. Footsteps.

Myles’ eyes alerted the rest of the team to the danger. Without words, he pointed to the trees, urging them to leave the track. Silently, Pascal and Glenn carried Heike-Ann into the undergrowth. Zenyalena ran back towards one of the machine guns. Myles crouched behind a tree, resting his supported leg on the ground as silently as he could.

He listened carefully. The footsteps were getting closer. It sounded like a single set of footsteps: just one person? Zenyalena also guessed whoever was coming was alone. She indicated to Myles she was ready with the gun.

But Myles recognised something odd about the steps. It wasn’t the sound of a normal person walking. The footsteps came in pairs — someone walking with an uneven gait.

Myles allowed his head to emerge from behind the tree. He could see the silhouette. He recognised it instantly, as he heard a familiar voice call out.

‘Myles? Myles, are you here?’

Myles allowed himself to stand up. In full view, he stepped out and walked back to the main track. Then he approached the man he had known for twenty years. He went to shake hands with his old pal. ‘Frank — Frank, why on earth are you here?’

As ever, Frank was sweating, but his face opened up when he saw his university friend. ‘Myles. Good to find you.’ The museum curator let his walking stick rest on his hip while he searched for an envelope in his bag. ‘I came to give you the carbon-dating results — you said they were urgent,’ he explained.

Then he realised Myles was not alone. First Pascal appeared, then Glenn. Heike-Ann sat herself up, wincing in pain as she did so. They looked at him, accusingly. Frank obviously couldn’t understand why.

Glenn made the first comment, his tone hostile. ‘So, Myles: was it you who told someone about this location?’

Glenn and Pascal stared at Frank, blaming him for the machine guns.

Myles knew he had to stand up for his old friend. ‘Yes, I did. I told my partner, Helen.’

Frank gathered Myles was in some kind of trouble and tried to back him up. ‘Er, yes, that’s right. And it was Helen who told me.’ Nervously he felt the need to say more, trying to sound positive. ‘Helen Bridle — she’s with CNN, you know.’ The museum curator held up the envelope. ‘I came to give Myles these — carbon-dating results.’

Glenn snatched it away.

Quickly, Pascal grabbed Frank’s walking stick. ‘Is this a real walking stick? Or is your limp just an act?’

‘It’s childhood polio, Pascal,’ said Myles, defending his colleague again. ‘Frank’s had a limp for years. And in case you’re wondering — could Frank have set up those machine guns? The answer’s no.’

Frank’s eyes looked scared, as if the danger he sensed in the people around him was suddenly very real. ‘Machine guns? The ones we had stolen from the museum over night?’

Myles was about to point to them when he felt his body recoil again.

Rat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat…

They all ducked as another explosive clatter of gunfire burst around them.

The bullets stopped. Myles turned to see. It was Zenyalena: she was holding the German machine gun, and had just fired a burst of bullets above their heads. ‘All of you: stay there. Myles: you lied. You told someone about this place, then tried to keep it secret.’ The Russian stood up, her hands still on the firing mechanism. ‘And in Vienna — that fire. You were behind it.’

‘No.’

‘Come on. It all points to you. The gas attack in Berlin — you did that yourself, didn’t you….’ Zenyalena’s voice had a sarcastic tone to it. ‘…And Munich. Now I understand. The grenade up didn’t go off because you didn’t want it to. That’s why Pascal had to do it.’

‘Oh, Zenyalena, come on.’

‘Be quiet. Traitor.’ Zenyalena was lifting up the gun, pointing it towards him. It was heavy — she could only just manage, and she was keeping her fingers away from the barrel, probably because the recent shots had made it too hot. Myles saw the belt of ammunition was almost finished. If she did shoot, she’d only manage one or two bursts of fire. But then, that was probably all she’d need to kill him — perhaps to kill them all.

Zenyalena staggered back to the gravel track, her eyes warily scanning Frank, Glenn, Myles, Pascal and Heike-Ann in turn. ‘We’ve worked out there must be a traitor. Now we know that the traitor is the Englishman. And he was working with this man.’ She eyed Frank, sceptically looking at his weak leg. ‘What I don’t know is whether any of you were also involved. Pascal, Heike-Ann, Glenn: do any of you want to admit something?’

Glenn, Pascal and Heike-Ann looked at each other — confused and defenceless.

Glenn tried to calm the Russian. ‘Zenyalena, I think you’re wrong.’

‘Well, I think I’m right,’ she replied, curtly. ‘Myles has a past which he has refused to mention: his involvement with terrorists from Africa. Any denials, Mr Munro?’

‘The newspapers had bad information,’ offered Myles.

‘Not good enough, Myles,’ dismissed Zenyalena. ‘We’ve always known you’re a misfit. Now, you’ve tried to kill us. To kill me. Which means, I should kill you.’

She steadied the heavy gun on her hip, preparing to fire.

Pascal shook his head. ‘Zenyalena, don’t do this. There must be some explanation.’

‘No.’ She stared back at Myles. ‘Myles: go over there.’

She was directing him to stand apart from the others. To stand next to the trench, where his body would tumble after he’d been shot.

Myles stared at the gun. Obey or resist?

Zenyalena shook the weapon in her hands, making sure the ammunition belt was hanging loose, ready to feed into the firing mechanism. Her eyes were open wider than ever. Myles knew she wasn’t bluffing.

The Russian spoke deeply and firmly, giving directions he had to obey. ‘Go. Now.’

Very slowly, his palms open and pointing down to show he was following her instructions, Myles started to walk.

Then Glenn called out. He had opened Frank’s envelope. ‘Wait. Zenyalena.’

‘What?’

‘The carbon-dating stuff. It looks genuine.’

Zenyalena didn’t seem convinced. Muscles on her face twitched: she was deciding between asking for more details and shooting Myles immediately.

Frank called out. ‘Yes, they’re genuine. I checked all the papers.’

‘And who are you?’

‘I’m the curator of the Imperial War Museum in London.’

‘Prove it,’ Zenyalena demanded.

Frank looked at her gun. ‘Er, that weapon. It’s an MG 08/15 air-cooled German machine gun. Nicknamed a ‘Spandau gun’, because it was manufactured in Spandau, near Berlin. The model you have dates from 1917. Check the serial number — it’ll prove I’m right.’

But Zenyalena refused to check. Instead she just curled her lip. ‘That just proves you know something about this ambush.’

She prepared to fire on Myles. ‘Mr Munro. You’re about to die. Anything we should know before I kill you?’

Myles thought about rushing her. Knocking her over, pushing the gun into the air… It might work, but it probably wouldn’t. She’d pull the trigger before he got close.

Instead, he’d have to convince her. ‘I told my partner, Helen, where we’d be, and I shouldn’t have, Zenyalena. I’m sorry.’

‘Sorry for setting up the machine guns?’

‘No, that wasn’t me. But there’s one more place we have to look. Maybe it’ll explain everything.’

Zenyalena’s eyes narrowed. ‘Where? We’ve checked out all of Stolz’s locations. Vienna, Munich, now here. Where else is there?’

‘There were four locations, remember.’ Myles breathed out. He started talking to the others as much as Zenyalena. ‘And the fourth location must be in Berlin.’

‘Berlin? Come on, we’ve already been there.’

‘No. The bunker in Am Krusenick street. Stolz’s last location — it must be underneath his old basement flat.’ Myles looked at Pascal. ‘Pascal: would you come?’

Pascal’s eyebrows rose. For a moment he was open-minded, then he decided. ‘Yes, Myles, I will come.’

‘Good. Thanks Pascal. Glenn?’

Glenn paused thoughtfully before he replied. ‘No, Myles. We’ve looked enough. This search has got crazy. I say we call it off now…’ The American turned to the Russian. He didn’t have a weapon, but he spoke as if he did. ‘And Zenyalena, put down that gun. Nobody gets killed. Heike-Ann needs to go to hospital. We should all just leave.’

Zenyalena swivelled her gun towards Glenn. ‘Glenn: get in that vehicle. Take the driving seat, please.’

Glenn raised his hands above his head, in an ‘if you really want me to’ gesture. He opened the door to the minibus and climbed inside. ‘Where are the keys?’

Zenyalena used her eyes to indicate the keys were in her pocket. ‘Pascal, Heike-Ann, Myles and you, Mr Imperial Curator…’

‘Er, Frank. My name’s Frank.’

Zenyalena just waved the Spandau gun towards him. ‘All of you. Get in the back.’

Pascal helped Heike-Ann into the minibus. Frank limped in after them, with Myles helping his old friend on board. Myles followed them in.

Zenyalena waited until they were all inside. Then, still clutching the heavy machine gun to her waist, she strained with the weight of the passenger door and heaved it shut. Leaving her captives in the vehicle, she walked back into the road. With one hand, she picked up the bottle of nerve agent liquid. Carefully, she placed it through the open window onto the seat next to the driver.

Glenn looked at the bottle of nerve agent, scared. Myles saw the danger, too. If Zenyalena fired at the bottle, they’d all die within seconds.

Zenyalena was several metres away from the bus now, standing in front of it. She could fire on the bottle with ease. She could kill all of them.

Instead, the Russian quickly searched the area. She picked up the papers from Stolz’ ammunition box. Then, checking around her again, she ran back towards the minibus, and climbed into the seat next to Glenn.

Glenn pointed to the glass bottle. ‘You be careful with that.’

Zenyalena nodded. She manoeuvred the machine gun onto the floor — there was barely enough space for it — then picked up the bottle. ‘I’m going to carry this…’ She turned round to make eye-contact with Myles, Pascal, Frank and Heike-Ann, all sitting in back. Her eyes sized them up. ‘…So if I die, we all die.’

Then she pulled out the keys for the minibus and handed them to Glenn. ‘Drive. Back to Berlin,’ she ordered. ‘Back to Stolz’s apartment block in ‘Am Krusenick’ Street. We’re going to discover what the old Nazi was hiding once-and-for-all, even if every one of us dies finding it.’

Glenn understood. He turned on the ignition, and started the vehicle rolling along the track, away from the forest and towards the highway.

FIFTY-FOUR

Dieter lifted out his smart phone with one hand, turned it on, waited, and kept it low.

There was a new message from Father Samuel.

So the fat man had set him up — two machine guns not one. He smirked — just as globes in the underground cavern had predicted for him.

No need to reply — better to play dead, he thought. He already had the money. He wouldn’t need to contact his old paymaster again.

Instead, without looking at the screen, he began to type.

He pressed his thumb on the bottom of the screen.

‘Send’

Hiding the glow of the phone with his jacket, Dieter typed on.

He supressed a grin.

There will be no talks. Humanitarian Pursuit — the answer is ‘no’.

He remembered Stolz’s list — the two US Senators, the European Prime Minister and the pop star — and the dates they were due to die.

In a single motion, he pressed ‘send’ again, as he palmed the phone into his hand.

Then he bent down to slip the device back into the strap on his ankle, as if he was tying his shoelaces.

Dieter settled back in his seat, and turned to look at the scenery of eastern France as it passed his window. The international team were so, so dumb… they still hadn’t worked out how their prize information was leaking to the Mein Kampf Now website…

He was still invisible. Still unnoticed. Still in disguise…

And he knew his latest upload— specific individuals with clear dates when they would die — was his best yet.

Within seconds, his upload appeared on a computer screen three thousand miles away.

Sally Wotton jolted up in her seat. It was another message.

Frantically, she scanned through the names of the people being threatened.

Then she hovered her cursor over the names, copied the list, and pasted it into an email she began to type.

Sally knew she had to act fast. She hoped her email would save some of the people named on the website. Perhaps the psychopath behind Mein Kampf Now would be caught as he tried.

And she also saw: the tech boys were finally making progress. The latest upload had come from the east of France, somewhere near the historical town of Compiègne.

But it made Sally wonder. Was this really a lone psychopath, as she suspected, or was there a group behind the Mein Kampf Now website? How was someone in France or Germany going to kill Senators based in the US?

She had always imagined a single loner was behind the threats — a common terrorist profile: male, educated, and with a motive to hate. But this suggested there might be a network.

What sort of conspiracy was Sally dealing with?

She didn’t know, but she knew she was close to cracking it.

FIFTY-FIVE

Myles knew going to Am Krusenick had only bought them time. Nothing more. They would never find Stolz’s secret — certainly not in the old Nazi’s Am Krusenick flat, because there couldn’t be a bunker hidden under Stolz’s apartment in East Berlin.

It was well-known that Hitler had built huge tunnel systems, mostly dug by slaves. These subterranean caves had stored stolen art and protected Nazis like Stolz from the Allied bombing campaign. But Myles remembered the newsreels: Soviet soldiers in May 1945 — the victorious Red Army in a destroyed Berlin, which hunted down snipers left fighting after their Führer had killed himself. When the Red Army had doubted Hitler was really dead, they had searched every room in every building. They had found thousands of German girls and women hiding underground, terrified of being raped, but not the Nazi dictator. Myles recalled the famous picture of Churchill from July of 1945: the British warlord inspecting Hitler’s bunker during a break from the Potsdam Conference, trying not to gloat. Then during the Cold War, and especially after 1961 when the Berlin Wall sealed off half the population, everywhere had been surveyed again. Berlin’s unique history meant the city had been searched for underground spaces many times over several years — and by very committed Communists. How could any remain secret?

Myles reckoned that whatever had been in the Am Krusenick Bunker, it would have been ransacked by Red Army soldiers in 1945. The ‘scientific equipment’ Stolz wrote about was probably destroyed. And that meant, when they got to Berlin, when they searched Stolz’s flat again, they would find nothing. They would be back where they had just been: to Zenyalena making accusations, to Myles being accused, and to the Spandau gun being pointed at him again.

He thought of Helen, wishing he could escape to be with her.

He looked around the minibus. Pascal was tending to Heike-Ann’s wounded forearm — their German translator was still losing blood. Myles sensed the Frenchman was eager to strike back. Glenn was driving, carefully and silently, still very self-contained. Myles could tell the American was wondering whether to call Zenyalena’s bluff. Myles tried to make eye-contact with Glenn through the rear-view mirror, but the man didn’t want to engage. Not yet. He wondered: if Zenyalena held Myles at gunpoint again, would Glenn allow Myles to be shot?

Myles didn’t trust the American. He sensed Glenn had some other agenda, although he couldn’t yet work out what it was.

Then there was Zenyalena. As the minibus chunted along the highway, from France into Germany, she was still cradling the nerve agent in her hands. The Russian woman would peer down at it, then glance at the GPS device on the dashboard. Sometimes she would turn to the back of the vehicle, checking on the four passengers who had become her prisoners — at least until they uncovered the last part of Stolz’s puzzle in Berlin. The minibus ride had not calmed Zenyalena. The woman still feared for her life. She was prepared to kill.

That left Frank. Like a schoolboy who’d tried to please but got everything wrong, Myles’ old university friend seemed the most nervous of all. Myles could tell Frank was still confused: the museum curator had come to hand-deliver some carbon-dating results. How had he ended up being held at gunpoint by a mad Russian woman? And driven to Berlin? If Frank had been less of a friend, he would have blamed Myles. Instead, Frank stayed silent. He just looked out of the window, watching as the scenery passed by and the minibus slowly travelled east.

Myles saw Frank’s envelope. ‘The carbon dating — can I see the results?’

Zenyalena’s head spun round, alert to any sort of trick Myles might pull. For a second she froze, glaring straight at Myles and Frank. Then she relaxed slightly. ‘Yes. Read them out for all of us, please.’

Slowly and deliberately, careful not to alarm Zenyalena, Myles drew the papers from the envelope. Inside were three sheets of computer print-out, with columns of numbers on each page. He tried to understand them. ‘Frank, can you explain?’

Frank looked over at the papers. ‘Certainly. I tested all the samples you posted from Berlin. This first column,’ he pointed to the left-hand margin, ‘that’s the item reference number. Each page tested was given a different code by the laboratory.’

Myles looked down the list: he had given Frank forty pages from Stolz’s file, and the carbon-dating lab had numbered each of them, from B1 to B40. ‘What does the ‘B’ stand for?’

‘Berlin. The second column shows the percentage confidence we have in the result.’

Myles skimmed the column: on all three sheets it was either 98 % or 99 %, with a single 97 %.

‘You see, Myles, all the data is at least 97 % certain,’ continued Frank. ‘The third column show the range of dates when the paper was probably written.’

Myles turned through the report. Through most of the first two pages of computer print-out, the dates were between 1939 and 1943, with a few 1944s and 1945s creeping in towards the bottom. Then, on the last page, there were anomalies: three of Stolz’s papers were more recent. ‘So everything really was written during the war, except these last three papers, from 1959?’

‘That’s right Myles. For all of them except those three, the date on the paper itself was probably accurate,’ said Frank. ‘Those last three — they must be fakes. They looked like the other Stolz papers, and had dates from 1942 on them, but they were written later.’

Myles tried to absorb the information: someone had been doctoring Stolz’s papers. He wondered why. ‘Tell me: what did these three papers say — the fake ones? What was on them?’

‘Well, you see, that’s the funny thing. One was about China attacking Soviet Russia in the 1950s, one was about Germany rising again in 1957, and the other was about Cuba — saying it would be destroyed by a volcano.’

Myles squinted in disbelief. He checked again with Frank. ‘But… but that’s all nonsense. None of that happened.’

‘Correct, Myles. You would think that someone who falsified a prediction — to write something after it happened — they’d write something true, to make themselves look wise after the event, right?’ Frank was explaining the results as if he was about to deliver a big punchline. ‘But, whoever tried to fake Stolz’s papers in 1959 was doing the opposite. They were trying to make predictions which were false.’

Zenyalena’s hand swiped out. She grabbed the computer print-outs from Myles. Then she stared at him, checking his face for any signs of resistance. Once it was clear Myles had let her take them, she checked the numbers for herself. After a few seconds she turned back to Frank. ‘How do I know these figures are genuine?’

Frank shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I suppose you have to ask the lab which did the testing. There could have been some sort of mix-up, but it’s unlikely.’

Zenyalena’s face screwed up with suspicion again. ‘Mix-up? Well isn’t that a quaint English word for all this…’ She threw the papers into the back of the minibus. They fluttered, towards Heike-Ann, whose face was looking pale. Pascal brushed them aside, careful to keep Heike-Ann’s wounded wrist high in the air.

Although the Frenchman was obviously angry, he didn’t retaliate. Just like Glenn, who kept driving, Heike-Ann who lay semi-conscious on the floor of the minibus, and Frank, who was still terrified.

‘Wait,’ demanded Zenyalena, directing her words to the American. ‘Stop here — pull over.’

The others watched as Glenn gently slowed the bus into a rest-stop. There were no other vehicles in the large layby — just a picnic bench and a postbox. None of them knew what Zenylena had in mind.

Zenyalena waited until the vehicle had come to a complete rest, then gestured towards Frank for the envelope which had contained the carbon-dating results. Frank duly handed it over, still bemused.

‘Stay still, everybody,’ ordered Zenyalena. She lifted up the gun and carefully placed the glass bottle of liquid back in her seat. Once she was outside, she took Stolz’s last set of papers, the ones they’d found in the trench, and scribbled something on the top sheet — Myles couldn’t see what it was, only that the words were in Russian. Then she wrote an address on the envelope, stuffed the papers inside, sealed it, and pushed it into the post box. Careful to keep the machine gun she was carrying low, so none of the fast-moving cars on the highway would notice it, she climbed back into the minibus. ‘Now drive, Glenn — to Berlin.’

Once more, the vehicle accelerated onto the main road, heading east.

Myles wondered whether he’d just missed a chance to disarm Zenyalena. Perhaps, but if he had tried, it would have been messy.

Then, like the rest of the team, he slumped into his thoughts, half-hypnotised by the movement of the vehicle, while his mind tried to solve the puzzle of Werner Stolz.

FIFTY-SIX

Helen ended her call to the States, thrilled that her editor had given her pitch the go-ahead. Proof of a link between the planets and human affairs would make an amazing news story, and she hoped the personal angle, tracing Bradley’s work from Germany to Alaska, was just right for TV. Although she also accepted it was going to be difficult — and not just because so many people would try to rubbish her work…

To start the piece, she needed to link up with Myles and his international team. She looked forward to seeing him again — she knew he’d love a surprise visit. But Myles had refused to carry any sort of mobile — it was important no-one could track where he was, he had told her. It meant the only way she could reach them was in person. She’d have to travel to eastern France, to get as close as she could to Compiègne — his last known position.

Her taxi soon pulled up outside the flat in Pembroke Street.

‘Yes, Heathrow Airport, please,’ she confirmed to the cab driver.

‘Which terminal, Miss?’

‘I don’t know, yet,’ she admitted.

But she did know she wanted to get there fast. Something deep in her gut told her Myles was in trouble.

FIFTY-SEVEN

Father Samuel thanked the college porter for the directions, and lumbered into the quad. He watched his footing on the uneven stone slabs, and barely registered the undergraduates he passed, some of them giggling, as he counted off the staircases to number twelve. In normal times, he would have stopped to admire the Renaissance masonry, and seek out religious symbolism in the gargoyles. He would have visited the chapel to absorb the incantations, or read the inscriptions.

But these were not normal times, and Father Samuel was not here for his own pleasure. There was no way he could enjoy himself when his whole belief system was under threat. And it wasn’t just his worldview: the shared understanding of Christianity, delicately constructed over centuries, often in the face of persecution, was in danger. The Church was imperilled by a revelation which would question faith around the globe. He was in Oxford to prevent a shock which could be as crippling as Pope Pius’s failure to oppose the holocaust, the recent child sex abuse scandals, or even the Enlightenment. Indeed, faith had never recovered from what Father Samuel once preached was ‘the decent into rationality’.

Father Samuel confirmed to himself he had reached staircase twelve, and heaved himself up the wooden steps. He found the door at the top was already open.

‘Come on in, Sam,’ invited the familiar voice, smug as ever.

Father Samuel duly entered. ‘Thank you for seeing me, Professor,’ he said, bowing his head. He sat in the only available chair, which he guessed was used to humiliate undergraduates every weekday during term time.

‘So you’ve seen the light, then Father Samuel?’ teased the Professor, turning to greet Samuel with a gloating expression. Even though he was passed sixty, the academic still seemed juvenile much of the time.

‘I’ve come to make peace, if that’s what you mean,’ offered Samuel.

‘Peace? You mean a compromise?’ dismissed the Professor. ‘So we agree that God ‘half-exists’, or something like that?’ He shook his head. ‘I think we both know that’s a bad idea.’ The Professor laughed to himself.

Father Samuel nodded in understanding. Professor Cromhall had certainly done well from his ‘outspoken’ critique of the Church, and defence of science. It had made the man a television celebrity. The Professor could even pretend to be a rebel, which was absurd given his place in the establishment.

‘Perhaps reconciliation is a bad idea, Professor,’ said Father Samuel. ‘But there are some ideas we should discredit together.’

The Professor did not respond immediately. Instead, he tried to gauge Father Samuel’s face. Eventually he spoke with a more measured tone.

‘What sort of ideas do you have in mind?’

‘Ideas which — were they widely believed — would make us both fools. For example, that there could be a link between the position of the planets and human affairs,’ offered Father Samuel, testing the Professor with a hint of a smile.

‘Astrology? That’s all nonsense,’ retorted Professor Cromhall. He sounded confident again. ‘No intelligent person looks at the evidence for that. Being intelligent means considering other evidence, while refusing to consider how planetary cycles match up with people’s lives.’ He said the words with a sneer, reciting the mantra he knew was false.

Their eyes met, and silently they acknowledged the truth. They both had to say astrology was nonsense, since everybody in authority said that. Their status would be in jeopardy if they said anything else.

‘Your pride in never having applied the scientific method to the link is well-placed, Professor,’ taunted Father Samuel, softly. ‘After all, in a battle between the traditional scientific method and astrology, I’m not sure who would win.’ He let the words float off into the air.

‘OK,’ suggested the Professor, negotiating. ‘I’m prepared to say ‘The evidence for astrology is greater than the evidence for the existence of God.’ Would that help?’

Father Samuel wasn’t buying. ‘It’s not enough,’ he explained. ‘The Nazis found evidence which goes much further. There’s a real danger it leaks — to the public…’

Finally, Professor Cromhall’s expression changed. He became ashen as he realised what the public revelation would mean. The myth that science could explain everything would be shattered. Faith in people like him would disappear. His credibility, his book sales, his television appearances — all would be lost if the link between the planets and human affairs was accepted.

‘…Professor, two centuries ago, scientists like you displaced churchmen like me to become the most trusted authority in society,’ continued Father Samuel. ‘Now you risk being displaced yourself by a new field of understanding. Science, like the Church, will belong only to yesterday.’

The Professor sized up his guest, wondering how much he could trust Father Samuel. He decided it was probably worth taking the risk. ‘Well can’t you…’ The Professor drew a single finger across his neck, miming a guillotine.

‘It worked in the past. The French statistician who publicised this before, Michel Gauquelin — when he died in 1991, it wasn’t from natural causes,’ said Father Samuel, raising his eyebrows to make sure the Professor understood the euphemism. ‘And just this morning, in France, one of my most diligent volunteers sacrificed himself for the greater good. But now there are too many people to silence.’

The Professor gulped. ‘So you have another plan?’

‘I do,’ said Father Samuel, finally nodding. ‘Let me explain…’

FIFTY-EIGHT

After ten-and-a-half hours of driving the minibus had reached the outskirts of Berlin. They were back in the land of tidy streets, perfectly kept green spaces, and architecture from the city’s so very mixed history.

Glenn pointed to the fuel gauge. It was almost empty. ‘We really need gas.’

But Zenyalena shook her head. ‘No. Keep going.’

‘Can we just drop Heike-Ann at a hospital, to make sure her baby’s OK?’

‘No. We keep going.’ Zenyalena’s tone was firm. Her eyes flashed, wide and intense, making clear to all she was mad enough to use the machine gun — perhaps even the nerve agent.

Glenn did as he was told, his eyes fixed on the road. Then, finally, he caught Myles’ glance in the mirror. Myles looked back at him. It was an ‘I’ll trust you if you trust me’ look. Within a second it was gone. But it was enough to give Myles hope. Or at least, some hope.

The minibus slowed as it reached its first traffic light. Myles wondered about trying to jump out, but he knew he couldn’t — not with his bad leg. He’d never escape alive.

The lights turned green, and the vehicle rumbled forward again, boxed in by traffic, as it drove towards the centre of Berlin. They continued down more streets, through the famous parts of the city — along the Kurfürstendamm, within sight of the Reichstag, and through the Brandenburg Gate. The oversized Russian embassy was nearby — the only building which really caught Zenyalena’s attention. Soon they were approaching Stolz’s old neighbourhood.

Finally, the minibus turned into Am Krusenick. Glenn rolled on to number 38. He parked up and put on the handbrake, then turned to Zenyalena for his next instructions.

Zenyalena’s eyes stared down at the American’s pockets. ‘You’ve still got the keys to this flat, haven’t you?’

Glenn paused before he replied. Myles could tell: he was wondering whether he could get away with a lie. But the Russian woman was watching him too closely. Slowly, Glenn nodded. He delved in and pulled them out, letting them jingle in his fingers.

Zenyalena carefully placed the bottle of nerve agent on her seat. She bent down to pick up the First World War machine gun again, then turned to the passengers in the back. ‘Everybody out.’

Pascal slid open the minibus door, then placed Heike-Ann’s healthy arm around his shoulder. Myles helped the Frenchman lift her down.

Zenyalena kept her distance, worried one of the team was going to rush at her to grab the gun. She scanned around, checking she wasn’t being watched from the street. She glanced up at windows in the buildings opposite. It was almost dark — even if there had been someone, they probably wouldn’t have seen the four men and one wounded woman being herded from the minibus at gunpoint. ‘Glenn: unlock Stolz’s flat,’ she ordered.

Glenn slotted the key into the first lock and turned it. The door to the block of flats swung open. He led the way into the lobby area. There he unlocked Stolz’s basement flat. It too opened, and Myles remembered the musty river smell which ran through the building.

Zenyalena’s face instructed the American to walk in. He obeyed, followed by Frank, with Myles and Pascal helping Heike-Ann. Zenyalena kept the gun on them all, silently watching them enter. ‘Gentlemen. I want you to take up this carpet and show me what’s underneath.’

Myles and Pascal rested Heike-Ann in one of the seats while Glenn kneeled down. He peeled back the edge of the carpet to reveal wooden floorboards.

Zenyalena pointed at them, her brow sweating with fear. ‘Pull them up.’

Glenn looked back at her, his face asking ‘how?’ The floorboards were nailed in place.

Zenyalena eyed Glenn suspiciously, then grabbed a pillow, which she held to the end of the gun: an improvised silencer. ‘Stay back,’ she said, aiming at the floor.

Glenn jumped away.

Zenyalena pulled the trigger, unleashing a short burst of bullets. Myles felt his ears pop while splinters flew into the air. Vibrations shook the room.

The Russian kept a tight grip on her gun, even though the barrel would have become scalding hot. She checked the ammunition belt: just a few rounds left, but it was all she needed to keep giving orders. She looked down at the shattered floorboards. ‘Now, take them up.’

This time Glenn obeyed, and began lifting the broken timber. Myles offered to help, but Zenyalena motioned with the gun barrel, instructing him to keep away.

As Glenn tugged at the broken wood, a dark space began to appear underneath. Myles peered into the hole. Concrete steps were leading down, into some sort of void.

Glenn looked back up to Zenyalena: as long as she held the gun, the American knew she was in control. ‘You want me to go down?’

Zenyalena considered the idea, then shook her head. ‘No. Myles: your turn.’

‘Down there?’

‘Yes, Englishman. Lead on.’

Myles tipped his head to one side, accepting the command but not sure how he was going to do it. Glenn shuffled aside, letting Myles through.

Still hobbling from his ruptured knee ligament, Myles edged towards the hole. He stepped down onto the first step, then the second, slowly descending into the dark. He had to duck his head to climb below the hole in the floorboards.

Downstairs was a basement like any other: the walls were damp and bare, there was a power socket and a cable, but nothing unusual. Then Myles noticed a hole in the concrete floor. It hadn’t been cut smoothly, probably just someone attacking the floor with a pickaxe. Stolz must have done it soon after he bought the flat, back in 1990. He would have been younger and fitter then. But he hadn’t needed to be strong: the concrete was thin, and — unusually for war concrete — it hadn’t been reinforced with steel.

It was a double floor…

Now Myles understood how Stolz had kept the bunker secret. In March or April 1945, when the Nazis knew the Russians were coming, they must have sealed the bunker with concrete. It had been done quickly — which was why there was no steel. But it was enough to fool the Soviets — they would have found only the basement with a concrete floor. Stolz’s secret would have remained hidden through the four decades of the Cold War. Then, in 1990, Stolz returned to break it open again. But to keep the bunker secret, he sealed off the whole basement with the floorboards at ground level. Not since the time of the Nazis would anybody but Stolz have seen whatever lay below.

Myles wondered what to do. He could go down, into the bunker — perhaps even try to escape. But would there be another exit? Unlikely: if there was, the bunker would have been discovered many years ago. Myles was probably standing over the only way in and the only way out.

He edged towards the cable and turned on the power at the socket. Electricity began to hum, and Myles saw light emerge from the void beneath him.

‘What’s going on down there?’ It was Zenyalena, calling from above.

Myles knew now wasn’t the time to lie. ‘There’s another level down, something below the basement.’

‘A bunker?’

‘I guess so,’ answered Myles, peering at vertical steps which led into whatever was beneath, a fixed ladder down through a manhole.

Zenyalena started to approach. She was still carrying the gun, and still looking suspicious. ‘Find out what’s down there,’ she ordered, tapping his side with the gun barrel.

Myles looked back at Zenyalena’s paranoid eyes. She had given up all pretence of being calm. Now she was pathological. There was no way Myles could refuse.

Careful to avoid sudden movements, Myles placed his good foot on the first rung, then lowered himself to allow his leg in a brace to take a lower rung. One step at a time, he kept descending until his whole body was inside the brightly lit bunker.

Zenyalena shouted down to him. ‘What’s inside?’

Myles tried to make it out. The first thing he saw was a bright yellow handle bearing the word ‘Vorsicht’ in Nazi-era lettering. He peered closer: it was the handle to some sort of emergency escape hatch. The small door had rusted, and had probably never been used.

The rest of the bunker was piled high with stacks of papers. Reams and reams, some filed between cardboard covers, others just stacked in rough piles. It was accompanied by the smell of old newspapers which had been allowed to become damp.

‘…. Looks like… just papers…. I think…’ He shook his head in disbelief. A storehouse for bureaucrats…

He stepped off at the bottom and saw one of the cardboard covers. He wiped off the dust to reveal a swastika. Nazi bureaucrats…

Zenyalena’s head was poking down from above. Her voice was edgy. ‘Well, what do the papers say?’

Myles picked up a file and opened it. The first sheet was titled ‘Hauptmann Gerhard Schnitzer, geb. 24. Februar 1910.’ Then there was a list of dates with a few words scribbled in German by each one. By the last date, 24, Dezember 1942, was simply a ‘†’ symbol, and the single word ‘Stalingrad’.

‘Myles, can you hear me? What do the papers say?’

‘Er, looks like old personnel records,’ he suggested. ‘German.’

He heard Zenyalena scuffle above him, but ignored it. He was too fascinated. What did these records mean? Why hadn’t the Nazis burned them, with all their other papers? And why had Stolz needed them so much?

He picked up the next file. Like the first, there was a large swastika on the front. Inside were papers for several soldiers — one page on each.

He turned the papers. Each page was a list of dates for a different soldier. Different birthdays, but always the same date of death. The file was a collection of people killed on 23^rd of July 1943, at Kursk — the largest tank battle in history.

He stared at one of the rough piles of paper. No cardboard cover on this, just a box to hold the sheets together. The top page had decayed too much to read, so he lifted it to read the one below.

The page had been signed with an illegible scribble and the time ‘14.18 Uhr’ next to it. Different handwriting had added at the bottom:

Myles wondered what the German text might mean. He lifted the next sheet.

It had the same illegible signature with the time two minutes later — ‘14.20 Uhr’

And underneath, again:

He flicked through the next page, and the next. All ended with exactly the same date, and the same time.

What happened to all these people on the 27^th of January 1944, at two-thirty-five in the afternoon?

Then he noticed the ‘†’ symbol. The same symbol as on the Kursk and Stalingrad files of German soldiers.

Suddenly the realisation hit him. He felt his whole body judder, as he tried to contain his reaction to the pages he was holding.

Of course: all the people died. More precisely, they were executed. Myles was looking at interview notes taken minutes before these people were stampeded into gas chambers.

Part of him wanted to drop the pages in disgust — to get rid of them — but he knew he shouldn’t. There was something special about these records. All other records of the holocaust had been systematically destroyed. So why had a Nazi kept these?

Footsteps started clanging down from above. Glenn was descending the ladder to join him, followed by Frank and Pascal, who was helping Heike-Ann with the difficult steps. Heike-Ann was barely able to find her footing — she looked drowsy, and was paler than ever.

Then he saw Zenyalena above them all, herding them down with her gun.

Glenn reached the bottom first. ‘What is it Myles?’

Myles showed one of the papers to Glenn. ‘Death records.’

‘Death records?’

‘Yeah,’ said Myles, disgusted. ‘From the Nazis.’

Frank helped settle Heike-Ann on the floor, then leant towards one of the stacks of papers. ‘Well, what do they say?’

Myles waited until Zenyalena’s feet were on the ground before he explained. ‘They’re records from people who died. Some of them Nazis killed in battles, from Kursk and Stalingrad. But most from interviews with Jews just before they were….’ He didn’t say the last word — murdered. Somehow using normal words to describe the holocaust wasn’t right. All of them knew about the industrialised killing of so many millions of people. It couldn’t be described in any normal way.

The team gazed in awe at the musty room. The papers on all sides made it claustrophobic. Glenn checked two piles, then a third. Frank looked at one of the covers. Pascal tried to count how many columns of paper there were.

But Zenyalena was having none of it. ‘Just papers?’ she grunted. ‘Is that all?’ She lifted her boot and kicked a stack in frustration. It tumbled down, collapsing beside her. Dust lifted up into the air, and the smell of damp mould grew stronger.

As the papers fell, they revealed part of a machine, which had been hidden behind. With dials and numbers on the front, it looked like the mechanical desk from the underground cavern near Munich.

The team gazed closer.

Zenyalena sensed the others coming towards her. ‘Stay back.’

They obeyed: since firing at the floorboards, Zenyalena had seemed trigger-happy.

She gestured with the gun towards Pascal. ‘Well, don’t just wait: take off the papers. Show us what it is.’

Pascal duly began to peel away the stacks of loose files. He revealed a dull metal desk with a basic keyboard. There were several dials with arrows on each, and an automated teleprinter attached to one side. The whole machine was mechanical, made just like an Enigma code-making machine. It was a primitive computer. A Nazi computer.

Pascal lifted his head up. ‘I’ve found a switch.’ Pascal pressed the button, and lights appeared from the behind the keyboard. It began to buzz. Still looking down at the machine, the French colonel spoke, hesitant and unsure. ‘I… I think we have to enter data….’

‘What sort of data?’

‘I don’t know. Looks like… dates. Dates and times.’

Zenyalena’s fingers rippled around the gun barrel while she pondered what she would do next. ‘OK. Enter this: 5^th September 1974.’

Pascal typed in the details, then waited. The machine seemed to want more data before it could work. ‘There’s still a light on for time and location.’

‘Then put in 0830 in the morning. Location: St Petersburg.’

Pascal queried it. ‘There’s a ‘Leningrad’ — the old name for St Petersburg.’

Zenyalena nodded her approval, and Pascal entered the city name.

Then, as if the machine were alive, it started whirring. Cogs and contraptions hummed inside, clicking and connecting. For almost a minute, the mechanical computer made loud, clockwork noises as small pieces of metal buzzed, whirred, rotated and settled inside. Then the tone changed. It was the hammer of the teleprinter. A page was being typed out.

Zenyalena’s eyes flickered nervously between the machine and the people in the room. Myles, Pascal, Frank, and Glenn watched transfixed while the most primitive computer any of them could imagine began to generate its result. Only Heike-Ann ignored it, lying semi-conscious on the floor.

Zenyalena waited for the teleprinter to finish, then lurched towards it and snatched off the paper with one hand, the other still clasping the machine gun. She held the page close, not letting anyone else read it. She seemed to read it twice as if she didn’t believe it the first time. She stared at it for several seconds more, as her grip on the gun seemed to loosen.

Then Zenyalena looked up. Her eyes were different now. She looked less mad, but also subdued, as though she had been confronted with a terrible reality.

Myles wondered if he had even seen tears in the Russian woman’s eyes. He tried to speak as softly as he could. ‘What does it say, Zenyalena?’

‘Predictions,’ she replied.

‘5^th September 1974 — that’s your birthday?’

‘Yes,’ she said, turning the page to show them all.

Myles recognised the dates, but not the other words written in German. ‘What does it say?’

‘It says I travelled in 1998, and was injured in June 2003. The percentages are probabilities — 80 % and 60 % likely.’

‘And were you?’

Zenyalena nodded.

Myles scanned through the rest of the page. On the bottom line was today’s date. Beside it was a familiar symbol. A single symbol, all on its own.

Underneath, the words:

Zenyalena and Myles looked at each other. Both of them understood what the machine was predicting.

Zenyalena wiped her face, clearing her eyes of any sadness. ‘ ‘Plötzlich’ means ‘sudden’,’ she explained.

Glenn tried to sidle close to her. ‘Oh, come on. This is just a fairground show. You don’t really believe it, do you?’

Zenyalena clutched the gun barrel tight in her hands. ‘Stay back.’ More calmly, she motioned to Myles. ‘Myles. Do you believe it?’

Myles wondered whether to lie, but decided it was better not to. ‘Yes, Zenyalena. I do. I do now. And I see how they did it.’ He gestured towards the paper stacked all around him. ‘These records. The Nazis gathered information from all these people. Soldiers who died, Jews they murdered — all of them. There could be more than a million sheets here. Then they found out which planets were significant when they died, identified a statistical link, and used it to make predictions.’

‘Predictions like mine?’

‘Yes, Zenyalena, I reckon so.’

Glenn was still shaking his head. ‘It doesn’t make the prediction right, though.’

Zenyalena was still on edge. She turned the Spandau gun back to Glenn. ‘When were you born, Glenn?’

Glenn pulled his passport from his back pocket and showed the birthdate to Zenyalena.

Zenyalena acknowledged it. ‘Good. What time?’

‘I don’t know. About eleven in the morning I think.’

‘Where?’

‘Maine.’

Zenyalena shot a look over to Pascal. Pascal understood, and dutifully entered the data.

Suddenly the machine was active again. It whirred and whizzed, as gears and cogs clunked together inside. They listened to the noise of little beads being shunted along an internal abacus, of circuits being formed, then broken, then connected again, and of life-decisions being calculated.

Then, as before, the tone changed as the printer started. Rippling her fingers on the air-cooling shaft of the gun barrel, Zenyalena invited Glenn to step forward.

Trying to pretend he didn’t care, Glenn extended his hand towards the paper. He picked it up and glanced at it. ‘I can’t read it. It’s in German.’

‘Well, show it to Heike-Ann.’

Glenn kneeled down and put the paper in front of Heike-Ann’s face. Heike-Ann — groggy and only half-awake — translated the paper. ‘It says the year you were born… a 70 % chance of getting married in the year 2001. Then travel in May 2005 and November 2010. Some mention of travel for work this year. Then more stuff for 2018, 2028. Something about you retiring in 2030…’

Zenyalena called over to her. ‘Nothing for now?’

‘Just travel for work. That’s all.’

Zenyalena nodded, accepting the point. She nudged the gun sideways. ‘You.’

Frank looked round. ‘Me?’

‘Yes, you. Mr Museum Curator, or whatever it is you do. Tell me your birthday, place and time.’

Frank raised his eyebrows. ‘Er, right then. I was born in Birmingham, England. Born at dusk, on the 21^st of March.’

Pascal entered the data, becoming familiar with the dials and controls. Again, the machine crunched the information and the wheels inside began to rotate and tumble.

Frank peered round, sweat collecting on his forehead, while he waited for the noise to change.

Then the teleprinter started. Careful to make sure no-one could approach her gun, Zenyalena ripped the paper from the machine.

She took time to study the page, as a half-grin spread on her face. ‘Were you injured when you were six-and-a-half?’

Frank frowned, puzzled. ‘Well, yes. If you’d call it an injury. That was when I contracted polio.’ He tapped his weak leg.

Zenyalena accepted the answer. ‘Heike-Ann,’ she called over. ‘What does ‘Wassertod’ mean?’

‘It means, literally ‘water-death’ — drowning,’ murmured Heike-Ann from the floor.

‘I’m going to drown?’ Frank seemed scared. Then a flicker of laughter appeared on his face, as if the prediction might be joke. ‘Well, the machine’s half-right and half-wrong. You see, my house boat sunk just a while ago. I almost did drown, actually…’ Frank looked for support from the other faces in the bunker. ‘The machine probably got the dates a little wrong.’

But Zenyalena shook her head, her voice still deadly. ‘There’s no mistake. According to this machine, you’re going to die the same day as me. Today. So don’t think you’ve escaped.’

Frank clutched his collar and loosened the shirt around his neck. ‘Does it really say that?’

Zenyalena threw the paper towards him.

Frank tried to grab it as it fluttered towards the floor. He stared at it, confirming that the last date was today, with the ‘†’ symbol next to it. Frank turned to his friend. ‘Myles, do you think this is true?’

Myles put his hand on Frank’s shoulder. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Well, do you think I have a choice?’

‘Yes, we all have a choice. You escaped when your boat sank, didn’t you? Just don’t take a bath today. Whatever these predictions say, we can still stay safe.’ Myles began directing his words at Zenyalena. ‘Come on, Zenyalena. Can’t we all go, now? None of us wants to die.’

‘No. One of us is a traitor. And at the moment, Mr Myles Munro, the most likely person is you.’ She pointed down toward Heike-Ann. ‘Her identity pass is in her purse. Glenn: take it out please.’

Glenn bent down to their wounded assistant and, careful not to cause her any more pain than she was already experiencing, lifted her handbag away. It was easy for him to find her German police identity card. He checked it, then passed it to Pascal, who typed in the details.

Again, the machine whirred and clanked. Then the teleprinter began typing and a page of details spewed out. Glenn stepped forward to take it, then passed it to Heike-Ann, on the floor.

The German policewoman read through it, not reacting. Then finally, as she reached the bottom, her eyes smiled. ‘It says next year I’ll have another baby.’

Zenyalena darted forward. ‘Show it to me.’

Lamely, Heike-Ann lifted the page for the Russian. Zenyalena scanned down the list of dates. The last line, with the ominous † beside it, was way off in 2041. Heike-Ann would survive.

Zenyalena called to her side. ‘Pascal — where were you born?’

‘Paris. Do you want me to enter my details?’ Pascal seemed to be the only member of the team keen to know his future. The Frenchman eagerly turned the dials, setting up the machine to predict what was to come.

They waited in silence while the mechanisms inside did their work. Another full minute of clockwork clanking. Then the page printed out. Pascal went to take it but Zenyalena stopped him. ‘No, leave it Pascal,’ she ordered.

Pascal looked unsure but knew, at gunpoint, he had to obey.

Zenyalena turned to Myles. ‘Englishman — carry it to Heike-Ann, please.’

Myles glanced an apology to Pascal, then picked up the page. It seemed much longer than the other predictions. Myles handed the sheet to Heike-Ann.

Heike-Ann scanned the page. ‘It says lots of things. It says you were dishonoured… received new wealth… Then travels this year. Also, this month, lots of extra courage and good luck. Then — tomorrow — disillusionment and…’ Heike-Ann’s words trailed off. The German didn’t want to read out the conclusion.

Myles took the sheet back and studied it himself.

The last line was tomorrow’s date, some words in German, and the ominous symbol:

Myles looked across at Pascal. He didn’t need words.

Pascal understood. The Frenchman just looked down at the paper to confirm the date. ‘Tomorrow?’

‘Yes, Pascal. That’s what it says. ‘Death from multiple causes.’’

Zenyalena tossed her head back. She let her hair brush on her shoulders, as if she was beginning to care about things much less. ‘Seems like dying’s about to become quite popular.’

Myles pointed down at Heike-Ann. ‘Look, Heike-Ann needs treatment. And she’s pregnant. Forget this machine and let’s get her some help.’

‘That’s not what the machine says,’ said Zenyalena coldly. ‘The machine reckons Heike-Ann doesn’t need any help. Her and Glenn are the only ones going to get out of here. You should help Frank, Pascal and me instead — we have only hours to live.’

‘Nonsense, Zenyalena. We can all get out of here alive. We just have to climb out.’

‘Don’t you even think about it, Myles. No-one gets out of here until I say they do.’ She pitched the gun towards him. ‘Myles — when were you born?’

Myles was about to answer when Zenyalena interrupted him. ‘No. Wait. I don’t trust you. Show me your passport.’

Myles conceded, trying to be calm. From his back pocket, he lifted out his passport and handed it to Zenyalena.

Zenyalena looked at it, frowning in scepticism. ‘This is you?’

‘Yes. Of course it is.’

‘You’re older than you look.’ She checked the details again, half-smiling to herself. Still holding the machine gun, she gestured towards him. ‘Show me that — the page of predictions for Pascal. Pass it to me.’ Zenyalena received the teleprinted paper on Pascal and held it in the same hand as Myles’ passport. ‘Well, well. Looks like you’ve got a twin.’

‘A twin?’

‘Yes. You and Pascal. Both born on 29^th January, same year.’

Myles and Pascal looked at each other. Pascal asked first. ‘What time?’

‘Ten-to-five in the evening, in Britain. You?’

‘Ten-to-six. Evening also. But Paris is an hour ahead. So it’s the same time. Exactly.’

Zenyalena called out to Pascal, reading from Myles’ passport. ‘It says here he was born in Southampton.’

Pascal’s eyes turned down in sympathy. He knew what the machine was about to say: Myles would share the same fate as him.

The cogs and wheels whirred again. Myles heard metal grind and tumble, imagining the complicated mechanics inside.

The teleprinter switched on, hammering letters onto the page. Even though the type was in German, Myles could understand the dates, reading line by line as the machine printed.

Myles scanned through it, realising he had led a life almost identical to Pascal’s

It showed the date he had been dishonoured — correctly.

It showed the date he had found ‘new wealth’ — correct again, when he was given the Oxford lectureship in military history.

Then tomorrow’s date, with the same deathly symbol next to it.

The only difference seemed to be words printed below the ‘†’.

Myles focussed on it, trying to distract himself from the prediction that he only had twenty-four hours to live. He concentrated, as if somehow he could crack the German. But he couldn’t. ‘What does this mean?’ he asked.

Pascal didn’t know. Zenyalena gestured towards Heike-Ann, urging Myles to check the words with her. So Myles bent down, and passed the paper to their wounded translator.

Heike-Ann read it, then looked up at Myles. ‘It says, ‘Death from a great height.’’

Myles refused to react. He could tell she was holding something back. ‘Is that all?’

Heike-Ann paused, before asking, ‘Do you have a girlfriend or partner?’

‘Yes.’

She was speaking softly. ‘What’s her name?’

‘Helen. Helen Bridle.’

Heike-Ann nodded, pausing again before she broke the news. ‘Well, I’m afraid this says ‘Girlfriend also ceases to be, two days later’. According to the predictions, Helen’s going to die two days after you.’

FIFTY-NINE

Myles tried to absorb the prediction about Helen, desperately wondering what he could do to protect her. If she just stayed in a safe place, could she avoid her fate? Myles knew he had to call her, or find some way to get a warning to her. It would be his last chance to communicate with her, if the predictions were accurate.

Zenyalena weighed the gun barrel in her hands. ‘So two of us will die today, two tomorrow, and two will survive,’ she said, eyeing the five people in front of her while she decided what to do.

Myles tried to reason with her. ‘Only if you believe the machine, Zenyalena. It doesn’t have to happen. You can still live. And the fact you’re holding that Spandau gun, I’d say you’re more likely to survive than any of us.’

‘Shut up. This isn’t about survival. It’s about the Nazi’s greatest secret…’ Zenyalena’s voice was shrill. She edged towards Myles. ‘… you see, someone has been trying to keep us from this secret. That’s why they killed Jean-François. That’s why they started the fire in Vienna, and trapped us underground in Munich. They even set-up machine guns against us in France. And if Stolz’s secret is worth protecting, it means the predictions are true. Which means I’m about to die…’ Zenyalena was now speaking just a few inches from Myles’ face. ‘… and I know one of you here has been trying to stop us finding this secret. Which means one of you is about to kill me.’ Zenyalena looked straight at Myles.

Myles stared back without flinching. He watched as the Russian woman flexed her hand near the trigger. Was she about to shoot? Myles couldn’t tell. But he knew she was about to do something…

Suddenly the Russian turned the gun barrel towards Glenn. ‘Glenn: on your knees.’

Glenn was shocked. ‘Me?’

‘Yes, Mr American, you. Do it now.’

Glenn submitted, kneeling down on the floor. ‘Zenyalena, I’m…’

‘Quiet. Put your hands on your head.’

Glenn obeyed.

‘Who do you work for?’

‘The American government.’

‘Which part?’

Glenn paused before responding. ‘A government agency.’

‘Which one?’

Glenn didn’t answer. Myles guessed he couldn’t answer. He probably wasn’t allowed to, even under duress.

Zenyalena shook the gun as she pointed it at him, her voice rising. ‘CIA?’

Still Glenn didn’t answer, but his body language seemed to confirm it. Some sort of intelligence agency. Zenyalena relaxed slightly. She had the response she wanted.

Then Glenn began to shake his head. ‘Actually, no. I’m not with the CIA.’

‘Really? Then why all the macho-spy stuff, Glenn?’

Still on his knees, Glenn sounded apologetic. ‘I’m only an advisor. I’m a Federal Government employee, but my job is to write reports about stuff.’

‘What sort of stuff?’

‘Agricultural outputs, job numbers, trade ratios, statistics.’

Zenyalena leant back and laughed. ‘Ha! The great Glenn. Just a bureaucrat after all!’

‘I was sent here by my government. We all were.’

‘I know. There’s nothing wrong with being a bureaucrat, Glenn.’ She was trying to sound polite. Nice, even. But it was insincere. ‘Nothing wrong with being an ‘advisor’ at all. The problem is that you’ve been trying to stop us finding this place, haven’t you…’

Glenn contorted his face. Without words, he was accusing her of talking baloney.

Zenyalena started addressing her words to the others. ‘I assume you’ve all noticed, too. Haven’t you? Every chance he had, this man tried to make us think Stolz’s work was nonsense. He always tried to slow us down and stop us. And now we’ve found the secret, the machine predicts that he’s going to get out alive and keep it for himself.’

Slowly she walked around the confined space, careful to step over the tumbled stacks of paper, until she was standing immediately behind him. Then she lowered the gun barrel until it levelled with the back of Glenn’s head. One press on the trigger and the American would die instantly.

There was sweat on her face, and a wry half-grin. Zenyalena looked up at the others for a reaction. ‘Now, I have a puzzle for you all,’ she declared, amusing herself. ‘If Glenn is about to die, it means the predictions are false, which means there was no secret to protect, so he must be innocent. But if Glenn lives, then the predictions are true, and he’s guilty. Innocent if he dies, guilty if he lives. Should I pull the trigger?’ She lifted her eyes to Myles. ‘Myles: should I pull the trigger?’

Myles shook his head firmly.

‘Why not, Myles? Don’t you want Glenn to be innocent?’

‘Because I don’t want Glenn to die. Zenyalena, we can all still live,’ he pleaded. ‘You can be stronger than the predictions.’

Zenyalena smirked. ‘Nice try, Myles.’

‘No, Zenyalena. If you kill Glenn then you prove the predictions false. Killing Glenn would destroy Stolz’s secret.’

‘Now you’re getting desperate. We know that at least one person here is not who they say they are. And I know: that person is about to kill me, unless I kill him — or her — first.’ She positioned her finger on the trigger, aiming at Glenn’s tightly-shaven scalp. Myles saw the muscles in the American’s neck tense up. Glenn knew he was probably about to die….

Then an interruption.

‘Wait.’ It was Pascal.

Zenyalena looked up, her eyes suspicious.

The Frenchman paused, trying to measure his words before he spoke them. ‘The person who is not just who they say they are is… is me.’

Zenyalena jolted. She pivoted on her feet and turned the gun barrel towards Pascal, squinting sceptically. ‘Explain.’

Pascal showed his empty palms in surrender. ‘Some terrorists are trying to get hold of Stolz’s secrets.’

‘And you’re a terrorist?’

‘No. I’m with a humanitarian group. I’m here to negotiate with them.’

Zenyalena’s eyes narrowed. ‘The French government sent you here to negotiate with terrorists?’

Slowly, Pascal nodded, shame-faced. His cover had been blown. He tried to explain. ‘When Jean-François was murdered, there was a terrorist website which claimed responsibility for it. They made other threats, too. The French government sent me here to find them and cut a deal.’

‘But they didn’t want to be seen to be talking with terrorists?’

‘Correct. If people knew the French government negotiated with such people, it would encourage more of them. We’d be forever held to ransom.’

Glenn piped up, still kneeling. ‘So the French really do talk with the bad guys…’ There was sarcasm in his voice.

Pascal responded with sincerity. ‘I was sent here by the French, but I don’t work for them. I work for an organisation committed to peace. It’s called ‘Humanitarian Pursuit’.’

Zenyalena was nodding subtly to herself. Pascal’s story rang true. ‘So that’s why you took such risks? Saving the papers from the fire in Vienna, placing the grenades underground in Munich, taking out the machine guns in France.’

‘Correct. I knew that we had to keep searching for Stolz’s secret. Otherwise we’d never find the terrorist.’

Suddenly Zenyalena became optimistic. ‘So you know who the terrorist is then?’

Pascal let the question hang in the air. Myles sensed there was a reason why he couldn’t answer.

Zenyalena kept on. ‘Is it someone in this room?’

Still no response from Pascal.

Finally, the Frenchman stepped out from behind the machine. ‘Zenyalena, it’s like this. I know something but not everything. I know someone here is not who they say they are. That person is linked to the terrorist group — they’ve been sending things to the terrorist website. And I know it’s not you.’

‘How do you know that?’

‘I can’t say, Zenyalena.’

‘So who is it?’

Again, Pascal didn’t answer, but his eyes were looking at Frank, Myles, Heike-Ann and Glenn. The accusation was obvious: it was one of the four of them.

Zenyalena turned towards them. She studied their faces, searching for any sign of tension: something which would reveal who was guilty. Slowly she allowed the MG 08/15 to sway in her hands, hoping one of them would admit something when the gun-barrel pointed their way.

But nobody reacted. She still couldn’t spot the traitor.

Pascal studied the four faces: Myles, Frank, Glenn and Heike-Ann. Only after a long pause did he return a glance to Zenyalena. ‘There is a way we can identify the terrorist, but it’s not something my organisation could support.’

‘What is it?’ Zenyalena was getting frustrated.

Pascal’s tone was sombre. ‘The terrorist has killed before. I think they will only reveal themselves when the alternative is death…. Which means, we must threaten death.’ Pascal hated his words as he said them.

But Zenyalena was encouraged — she seemed to have the initiative again. She jerked the weapon in her hands, pointing it back towards Myles. ‘Myles. Is it you?’

Myles shook his head in denial.

But before Myles could speak, Pascal interrupted again. ‘No, Zenyalena. Each of them will deny it. They have to be threatened together…’ He scanned the room for ideas, then saw some coiled power cables, and turned to the American. ‘Glenn — give me your utility tool, please…’

Glenn checked with Zenyalena. She was underwriting Pascal’s request. Glenn duly passed his utility tool to the Frenchman.

Pascal collected the tool and flicked out the main blade. Then he measured lengths of power cable and began to cut them, talking quickly. ‘To the three of the four of you who are innocent, please accept my apologies in advance for what I am about to do.’

He turned to face Glenn. ‘Glenn, please put out your hands.’

‘Come on Pascal — is this really necessary?’

Zenyalena levelled the gun at him. ‘Yes, Glenn, it is ‘really necessary’. Do as he says.’

Glenn put out his wrists. Pascal wrapped a length of power cord around them, then pulled it taut. He fixed it in place with a double-knot. ‘Glenn, if you’re innocent, then I’m sorry.’

‘Well, I am innocent, so I hope you are sorry.’

Pascal gave a half-smile, then went on to Myles. ‘The same, please: your wrists.’

Myles checked with Zenyalena: the Russian was pointing the gun at him. There was no way he could refuse. Reluctantly, Myles held out his hands.

‘Thank you, Myles…’ Again, Pascal wrapped a cord tightly and knotted it. He pulled it hard to test it was secure. It was.

Next Pascal bent down to Heike-Ann. He tried to engage her eyes as he bound her wrists, one of them now dark red with blood. ‘…I’m sorry, but I have to do this.’

Heike-Ann managed only a groggy reply. It was inaudible.

Finally, Pascal reached Frank. ‘Come on, Frank. If you’ve done nothing wrong, you’ve got nothing to fear.’

Frank was refusing to put out his hands, keeping his arms folded. The museum curator shook his head. He was incensed.

Zenyalena tried to cajole him, pointing the gun barrel towards him as she spoke. ‘Frank, do as the others. Allow yourself to be tied up.’

‘No.’

‘Frank, you must.’

‘No. I know what you’re going to do.’

Zenyalena looked surprised. She genuinely didn’t know what they were about to do. She kicked him. ‘Well, Frank — What are we going to do?’

‘You’re going to let the water in,’ replied Frank, gesturing towards the emergency hatch with the yellow handle. ‘Come on. It’s obvious. We’re next to the River Spree, and we must be below the water level down here. You expect one of us to confess as the water’s rising. Except I’ve just been told I’m going to die today, and that it’s ‘death by water’. So I hope you understand why I’m reluctant to have my hands tied.’

Pascal tried to make Frank relax, ‘Nobody’s going to drown, if you do as you should.’

‘Good. Then don’t tie me up.’

Zenyalena’s face tightened. She hadn’t expected anyone to refuse. She gripped the gun firmly and toyed with her finger near the trigger. ‘Frank. This is your last chance.’

Frank sensed Zenyalena was serious. He tried to control his rage, looking around, as if to find another reason not to have his hands tied. Then, very slowly, he relaxed his arms and pushed his wrists out, towards Pascal.

‘Thank you, Frank. This won’t take long….’ Pascal tied the cable around Frank’s wrists, checked it was firm, then turned back to the machine. ‘OK, Zenyalena. I’m going to need your help with this.’

‘What are you planning?’

Pascal was too focussed on the Nazi prediction machine to respond. He delved his hands into the inner workings, feeling his way around the device. After a few moments his expression changed. ‘This. This is what the terrorists want.’

Zenyalena squinted, unsure. ‘The whole machine?’

‘No. We wouldn’t be able to take it out of here,’ conceded Pascal. ‘It’s too big. But there must be a small part inside. The algorithm — calculated from the papers in this room.’ Using Glenn’s utility knife, Pascal had managed to unscrew a heavy cover plate from the top of the machine. He peered down inside. ‘I can see it. The mechanism. And we can lift it out.’

Zenyalena glanced across at her captives. They all glanced back, as Pascal called over. ‘Zenyalena, I need you to help me extract it.’

Checking again no-one was going to rush for her weapon, Zenyalena hauled the gun onto her shoulder so she could lend Pascal a hand. Together they managed to pull out a suitcase-size mechanism. It was the core of the Nazi computer. Mostly gears and wheels — like the inner workings of a clock, but also with beads on rods like a small abacus, and sockets where cables plugged in.

‘Thanks, Zenyalena.’ Pascal gathered his breath. He stared at the delicate device in front of him. ‘This machine is the greatest of the Nazi wonderweapons.’

Zenyalena frowned, unsure. ‘But, can it kill?’

‘It’s far more powerful than that. It can predict the future. It is the product of a truly massive research programme. More than a million deaths were involved in gathering the information it contains. SS Captain Werner Stolz might even have killed people to test it. Refined and honed, until it was the perfect prediction device — perhaps one of the first real computers. Unfortunately for the Nazis, it must have predicted a future in which they were defeated….’ Pascal turned to the four people on the floor, all with their hands bound. ‘… and we can see why it’s so valuable. It’s already cost many, many lives. Most recently, my good friend Jean-François. It may be about to cost more…’ Pascal’s voice was even. He spoke with strength. It was an ultimatum voice. ‘… So, Frank, Heike-Ann, Glenn and Myles — whoever is the terrorist collaborator in this room, reveal yourself now. Or I will destroy this machine.’

There was silence.

Pascal looked around at the four people with their wrists bound. Still nobody spoke.

Pascal tried again. He held up the heavy metal plate he had taken off to extract the inner core of workings, and pointed a corner towards the delicate device. ‘I can smash this machine so easily — and the greatest scientific advancement of the Nazis will be lost forever.’

‘It’s not, actually.’

Glenn looked around, trying to identify the lone voice which had interrupted.

Heike-Ann lifted her head up from the floor to see who had made the unexpected comment.

Zenyalena scanned her hostages.

But Myles knew already. It was a voice he’d known since university.

It was Frank. Pascal looked down at him. Zenyalena slung the gun barrel back into her hands, levelling the weapon at him.

Frank was unfazed. ‘Whatever you say, it’s not the Nazi’s greatest scientific achievement.’

Pascal squinted in suspicion. ‘No? What was, then?’

‘I don’t know. Rockets. Jets, maybe.’

‘Why not this?’

‘Because it doesn’t belong to the Nazis. The ancient Greeks built machines which could predict the position of the planets. And the prediction part — lots of civilisations have done that.’

‘But this Nazi machine is so precise…’

‘So are modern computers. There are programmes online which give predictions and dates like that machine has just done.’

Pascal and Zenyalena didn’t know how to respond. Zenyalena’s fingers tightened around the trigger, ready to fire at Frank in an instant. Silence gripped the room.

The museum curator was eventually answered by Glenn. ‘Frank’s right. Whereas the Nazis took years to gather the data for this machine, the internet can gather data in seconds. Now people are just a single click away from nonsense about the planets…’

‘It’s not nonsense,’ Frank was getting frustrated again. He turned to Glenn, angry that the American was belittling him. ‘Not nonsense at all. Predicting things from the planets is more accurate than predicting the weather. And there are lots of websites which can do it — most of them better than that Nazi clockwork thing.’ Frank could tell Glenn was still a sceptic. ‘Look, Glenn, I can prove it to you. We need to go online. Has one of you got a smartphone?’

Glenn shook his head. ‘No. We all got rid of them in Vienna, when we realised we were being followed.

‘Well, I’ve got one. In my trousers, if we can get a signal down here.’ Frank started wriggling. He was struggling to stretch his tied hands into his back pocket, as if he trying to reach something.

BANG

The vibration of the Spandau gun shook the whole underground room, deafening everyone. Zenyalena jerked backwards, shocked by what had just happened, as her gun recoiled.

Heike-Ann, Pascal and Glenn stared at the Russian, wondering how her weapon had fired.

But not Myles. He had seen where the bullet had gone. ‘Frank?’

Frank was bent double, looking confused. He tried to shake his head. ‘I think I’m not too hurt…’ But blood was spreading on his shirt.

Zenyalena’s face froze in shock. She really hadn’t expected the Spandau gun to fire. She dropped it and rushed towards Frank, lifting him up. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’ She cradled him, then realised it was doing no good, so she pulled up his shirt instead.

A single bullet wound, in the chest.

Frank wheezed out a few words. ‘Is it… is it bad?’ He tried to inhale, but air wasn’t coming into his mouth. Instead, he was sucking with the wound. It was taking blood into his lungs.

Myles called over to Zenyalena. ‘Put pressure on it.’

Zenyalena tried, working desperately. She ripped cloth from Frank’s shirt and pressed it into the wound.

Myles tried to shuffle towards his old friend. ‘Frank, we’re going to help you, OK?’

Frank gave as much of a nod as he could. Myles could tell Frank was overcome by pain.

Zenyalena became frantic, pushing the fragment of cloth harder into the wound. Frank was beginning to lean over, collapsing on the floor.

Glenn came across and began to help too. ‘It’s a lung wound. We mustn’t let air into it.’

The American snapped into action, a trained first-aider. Even though his hands were tied, he managed to push on the wound more effectively than Zenyalena. Frank seemed to revive a little.

Myles tried again. ‘Frank, Frank — can you hear me?’

Frank started spluttering. Myles knew he had to help his friend immediately. Frank probably had only minutes left.

Then Myles saw someone grinning down and pointing the gun towards him. It was the person he had least expected to be the traitor.

SIXTY

Father Samuel and Professor Cromhall were guided through to the private dining room by the most courteous restaurant staff either of them had ever experienced. Sparkling cutlery on a crisp white table cloth awaited them, along with Philip Ford, Executive Chairman of one of London’s richest financial institutions.

‘Father Samuel, Professor,’ said the chubby banker, straining to shake hands with his guests. ‘So good to have the time for a proper conversation.’

Father Samuel bowed his head with humility. ‘Thank you for agreeing to see us, Philip.’

The banker gestured to their seats, then to the menu. He made sure his dining partners ordered their food before the real business started. ‘So, how can I help you?’

‘It’s how we can help each other, really,’ began Father Samuel. ‘You see, some information is at risk of becoming public. Information which might impose, er, ‘unnecessary costs’ on all of us…’

The banker pulled a face, wondering whether he was about to be blackmailed. Silently he urged Father Samuel to continue.

‘… it’s to do with the planets,’ continued Samuel. ‘The correlation with human behaviour: it’s leaking out.’

‘Financial astrology?’ scoffed the banker, straightening his knife and fork, which were already perfectly positioned. ‘Does anybody still believe that?’

‘Yes, I thought you did, Mr Ford,’ answered the Professor, half accusing, half taunting his host. ‘At least, that’s why my university has invested so much of our endowment through your bank. How else were you generating such excellent returns?’

‘If you mean the link between Venus and the gold price,’ mocked Ford, ‘that stopped more than a decade ago. When people heard about it, and used it for deals, the correlation was traded away. Market forces.’

‘Not just Venus,’ pressed home the Professor. ‘All the correlations. They are how you earn your bonuses, aren’t they? Market-beating returns, year-after-year — you can only do that with special knowledge. Knowledge which is rare, perhaps because few people trust it.’

The conversation shut down as the door to their private dining area swung open. Three waiting staff brought three magnificent-looking plates of food, which they made a show of presenting before gently resting them before the diners. Eventually the staff left and privacy was restored.

Father Samuel made sure the banker understood. ‘You see, Philip, if this information gets out, all your competitive advantage will be lost — just like betting gold on Venus lost its lustre when others joined in.’

‘And not just your bonuses,’ added the Professor. ‘Profits in the insurance industry would collapse if people more knew about their future. Mortgage dealers wouldn’t be able to charge a risk premium. Pension providers, too — the whole financial industry stands to lose billions if this gets out.’

Philip Ford decapitated a prawn. Without words, he let his guests know he didn’t like being pushed around.

Father Samuel sensed the banker’s mood, and tried to offer reassurance. ‘Please don’t feel you are alone, Philip. We too are deeply concerned about this.’ He tried to make a joke of it. ‘You’re dining with two people who have even more at stake than you. We would all be impoverished.’

Professor tried to underwrite the point. ‘The Father is right. Faith in science would be shattered if this gets out.’

Philip Ford digested the pleas with his food. So they all wanted the information supressed. This wasn’t a hijack, it was a business proposition. ‘So what do you want from me — money?’

Father Samuel and the Professor nodded.

‘How much — a few million?’

‘That’s too much,’ demurred Father Samuel. ‘Half a million would be plenty, Philip, for what we have in mind. But we must be quick….’

SIXTY-ONE

Myles looked up at the Frenchman, ‘Pascal — can you untie me? To help him?’

There was no answer. Instead of trying to help, alongside Zenyalena, Pascal had picked up the weapon.

‘Pascal?’

Pascal was pointing the Spandau gun towards Myles. ‘Stay there.’

Myles froze.

Zenyalena’s eyes widened. ‘Pascal. You?’

Pascal didn’t answer. Instead, he just tilted his head slightly. He fired, and the bullet killed Zenyalena in an instant. Zenyalena’s body slumped down onto Frank’s legs. Frank yelped in shock.

Glenn and Myles turned their gaze to Pascal, trying to understand what had just happened. It made no sense.

Glenn grabbed Zenyalena’s chin and turned her face towards him. Zenyalena’s head flopped sideways, expressionless. Glenn let go, and the dead Russian collapsed. ‘So Zenyalena was the terrorist?’

Pascal didn’t respond.

Myles turned to see Frank still suffering. Blood was filling his lungs. Just as the machine had predicted, the curator was drowning. Myles tried to shuffle towards his friend, but the Frenchman turned and pointed the gun at him.

‘Freeze,’ ordered Pascal.

Myles knew he had to obey. ‘Pascal, we’ve got to save Frank.’

‘Why?’ Pascal threw the word into the air without wanting an answer. He was glancing through some of the papers, deciding which ones to collect.

‘So, Pascal — you’re the terrorist?’

‘Not according to the website.’

Myles and Glenn stared at each other, still trying to understand. Myles was completely baffled. ‘The ‘website’?’

Pascal bent down and pulled a smartphone from his ankle — it had been strapped to his leg, hidden. ‘Yes, the website. It’s where the ‘terrorists’ are.’ He said ‘terrorists’ with a sneer, as though it was a concept only for little people. ‘You guys and — sorry, Heike-Ann, ladies too — wouldn’t get it. I’ve been uploading predictions from Stolz to a website. Then, when they happen, claiming credit for the events.’

Myles glanced back at his old friend, dying in front of him. ‘But why did you save us — in Vienna and Munich? And in the forest in France?’

‘Because I could — it was a thrill. And the predictions said I was almost invincible…’

Myles was more puzzled than ever.

Pascal mused on, talking to himself as if he was the only person in the bunker. ‘…And attacking those old machine guns felt… amazing. It made me feel like a real soldier. Some people would pay a lot of money for excitement like that.’ The old Pascal had gone.

Myles realised the helpful French Colonel had just been an act. ‘But — if those predictions made you ‘invincible’, how come you’re due to die tomorrow?’

Pascal looked at his watch. ‘If the predictions are true, then yes. But I’ll die the most respected man in the world.’

‘Most respected? You won’t even save Frank from drowning in his own blood…’

‘Only we know that. And soon the world will think Frank was killed by you, Myles.’ He held out the smartphone again. ‘It’s easy. I’ve already gone online to predict that the world will soon be transformed from Berlin. A new Reich — starting where Hitler started. All I have to do is put your name to it.’ He glanced across at Glenn, pulling a face of mock sympathy. ‘Oh — don’t feel left out. I’ll name you, too. There are lots of people willing to believe the plot to destroy the world, or whatever they call it, was inspired by Brits and Americans working together.’

Myles still couldn’t make sense of it. He tried to absorb it all. ‘And you, Pascal?’

‘I will name myself as the head of the humanitarian mediation group trying to sort out this mess. I just put my name on the ‘Humanitarian Pursuit’ site. Easy.’

‘But Pascal…’

‘Call me Dieter, please. That’s my real name. And that’s the name people will soon be praising all over the world. You really believed I was a French Lieutenant Colonel, didn’t you.’

Glenn shook his head, still not understanding. ‘Dieter — Pascal — I don’t know what you are.’

Dieter laughed. ‘Well I’m not French, at least.’

‘But that call from the French Foreign Ministry, asking us to let you join the team. It was a woman’s voice.’

‘Yes. I paid her to do that. An actress — I said it was for a TV show. She’s dead now.’

‘And the email from Jean-François?’

‘I wrote that, while he was hanging. And I’m glad you were impressed by my fake ID, Glenn — they were expensive. Paid for by someone who thought they could order me around, just as Germany used to be ordered around.’ Dieter leant towards Frank, bending down to examine the curator’s wound.

Frank was already gasping, his lungs flooding quickly.

Dieter sneered. ‘Well, the prediction said water, but it looks to me like your friend might drown in his own blood. It is liquid, I suppose.’ Dieter left him, and instead shifted towards the emergency water hatch. He kicked it, and the yellow lever jerked across.

Myles watched in horror as the metal plate buckled. Rust started to darken as it grew damp. Water was seeping through from the River Spree behind. ‘You, you can’t…’

Just seconds later the hatch burst open. Water began pouring into the secret bunker.

Myles looked across at Frank: the predictions were coming true. His old university friend would drown.

Myles had a choice, and only an instant to make it: try to save Frank, or take on Dieter — with his hands tied.

Dieter guessed what Myles was thinking, and trained the machine gun on him. ‘Stay where you are, please, gentlemen…’ The Frenchman had stepped over them, back to the prediction machine. For Glenn and Myles, he was out of reach — for now.

Myles felt the water reach him. It was cold, and quickly formed a rising layer on the ground. Gushing in, it filled the room quickly. The stacks of paper were getting wet. Myles looked again at Frank. The man seemed confused as much as he was in pain. ‘Frank — Frank?’

Frank’s eyes rose toward Myles. He seemed apologetic again — sorry for dying…

Myles watched as Frank’s eyes seemed to switch off, and knew he had to help his old friend. Ignoring Dieter, he shuffled across to Frank and slammed his bound hands on the man’s chest.

Dieter caressed his finger on the trigger, tilting his head as he spoke. ‘Myles, leave him.’

Myles refused to obey the instruction. He was determined to save his old friend.

Glenn replied for him. ‘Are you so hung up on the predictions that you’re trying to make them come true?’

Dieter didn’t answer.

Glenn kept taunting, calling up at him. ‘You want Frank to die just so the machine is correct? That’s nuts.’

Dieter turned to the American. Glenn’s eyes widened in horror — Dieter was about to shoot.

Then, without words, the Frenchman just pulled the trigger.

Clunk.

Dieter looked down at the gun to see what had happened. The ammunition belt was exhausted.

Dieter edged back, then he let his gun fall into the water, but grabbed the utility knife instead. He held it down towards the two of them.

Realising they had a chance to overpower him, Myles and Glenn both rushed to their feet.

Dieter stabbed out at Myles. Myles dodged the blow but lost his balance. He stumbled down into the rising water.

Then Dieter lurched towards Glenn. Glenn rocked back, lifting his forearms in self-protection.

Dieter grinned. He leapt back to grab the innards of the Nazi prediction machine, hauling out the suitcase-sized device in a single motion. Quickly he darted towards the steps. Then he checked again behind him.

Myles stared up at him, defiant. Even though Myles was sitting with his hands bound in water now well-above his ankles, he was refusing to give up.

But Dieter knew he had them. ‘I’m not going far….’

He started to climb, still holding the knife and lifting the core of the Nazi computer as he clambered up the ladder.

Glenn looked to Myles, who had already turned back to Frank. The Englishman was applying pressure to his friend’s wound again.

Myles glanced up at the steps where Dieter had just gone. There was no chance of them stopping the man from escaping. He called over to Glenn, ‘Keep Heike-Ann’s face out of the water.’

Glenn turned to the woman, lying on the floor, and almost completely covered in water. She was barely conscious. The American put his bound wrists behind her head and hauled her up. She seemed to revive a little.

Frank, though, had grown pale. His face was contorted from trying to hold his remaining breath. Then the muscles on his forehead eased a little, as if he had a joke to share. He tried to speak, but could only mouth the words. ‘The machine’s wrong — not death by water…’

Myles slammed more pressure on to Frank’s chest. ‘Stay alive, Frank. Damn it — stay alive…’

But it was no use. Frank’s lungs were almost completely full. Frank swung his head from side-to-side. He knew he was about to die.

‘Frank…’

Frank tried to mouth something more, but blood started to choke him. It began dribbling out through his teeth.

A look of alarm cast over his features. He glanced towards the exit — the way Dieter had climbed out just moments before — knowing he would never follow. Then Frank’s eyes started to lock in place.

Myles rammed more pressure against the chest wound with his hands, pushing as hard as he could. He tried to tip Frank’s head forward, hoping to clear the blood from his mouth.

But the more he tried, the less difference it seemed to make. He tried again, and again, and again…

Glenn called over. ‘He’s dead, Munro.’

Myles knew it, but still couldn’t abandon his friend. He kept the pressure on Frank’s entry wound, even though Frank’s lungs were already full. He checked Frank’s neck: no pulse. His old friend’s body had gone limp. In a last effort, he lifted his hands to grab Frank’s hair and shake it, but it made no difference.

Frank was gone.

Finally Myles paused, then let go, exhausted. Frank’s dark blood oozed into the water. The body slumped down with it.

Glenn called over again, straining. ‘Come on — help me with Heike-Ann.’

Glenn was still holding up their German translator, who was conscious again but sagging in his arms. The American tried to heave her towards the exit.

Water was rising fast. It had come level with the top of the emergency hatch. Some of the old Nazi papers were beginning to float on the surface. Picking up dirt and dust, and mixed with blood from Zenyalena and Frank, some of the liquid had turned maroon.

As Myles stood up, the water came to his knees. With his hands tied, and one leg injured, he had trouble with his balance — just walking towards Glenn was difficult. ‘We’ve got to get out of here.’

‘Agreed,’ said Glenn, pulling Heike-Ann with him. Myles took the woman’s legs and they began to carry her.

They took her to the bottom of the rungs which led back up to Stolz’s apartment. Myles stared up. It was a ten metre climb — with tied hands, not easy holding Heike-Ann…

Glenn saw his concern. ‘Do you think we can do it, Myles?’

‘We’ve got to try…’ Myles lifted his foot onto the bottom rung, which was hidden below the water, still holding Heike-Ann. Then he realised he couldn’t hold the rungs and Heike-Ann at the same time. Not with his hands tied. ‘…Can you untie me?’

Glenn nodded. He tried to unpick the knotted cable, but it wasn’t loosening. He kept at it, trying different ways to free the knot, but there was no way it was going to slacken.

As Myles desperately tried to loosen the bindings on his wrist, he didn’t notice the stack of papers next to him start to sway. The water was making it unstable. Suddenly, the column collapsed, hitting Myles on the side and knocking him into the water. They were submerged.

Myles struggled to find air again, pushing up through the sheets of paper which covered the surface like lillypads. He had to regain his footing, then pushed up. Eventually he broke free, and shook the water from his head. Sheets of wet paper stuck to his body.

The water was now up to their waists. Glenn was finding Heike-Ann even harder to carry.

Myles looked at Glenn’s face and sensed what the American was thinking: with the rising water, the thick wads of paper floating on top of it, Heike-Ann’s semi-conscious body and their hands tied, could they really escape?

SIXTY-TWO

Glenn struggled with Heike-Ann in his arms, trying to lift her. ‘Well, Myles — you gonna help me carry her up?’

‘No. Not up,’ Myles replied quickly. With his eyes, indicated sharply downwards.

Glenn looked confused. ‘Down? You crazy?’

‘It’s the only way, Glenn. If we go up, Dieter will take us out one at a time — with your knife.’

Glenn began to realise Myles was serious. He watched while Myles delved down, through the paper on the surface, into the water, and found Heike-Ann’s legs. Then he lifted. And, together with Glenn, they placed her on the empty shell of the prediction machine — safely out of the water.

Glenn cast a ‘you first’ look at Myles, who nodded in acknowledgment, as he waded back towards the emergency hatch.

Myles took a deep breath, then ducked his head down. The water was too murky to see through, but he knew where the hatch was. He felt his way in. It was a narrow tunnel. The sides were smooth, Nazi-era concrete, part covered in algae. The water became clearer as he swam out of the bunker, but it was flowing against him.

He pulled himself along, trying to beat the current. The tunnel went along, then down. He kept hauling himself through, following it down for a metre or so, until it started to rise again. He felt pain in his lungs — he needed to breathe. But he ignored the instinct to turn back. Then, through the cold, clear water, he could see some sort of light. The tunnel led straight to the river.

His instinct told him to continue — to swim up for oxygen. He was about to allow himself to float to the surface, up into the clear air above the river. But then he realised: if he escaped now, he’d never be able to get down to the hatch again. He had to go back.

He pulled his legs into his chest and manoeuvred his tall body around in the tunnel, trying to shut out the intense sensation in his chest. Swimming in this direction he could allow the flow to push him along, back towards Stolz’s secret bunker. He reached the open emergency hatch, squeezed through, then burst up through the surface of the water.

He spluttered for air, peeling a wet sheet of paper from his face. At last, he could breathe again.

Glenn shouted over. ‘Can we do it?’

Myles nodded, still catching his breath.

Glenn saw Myles needed to get oxygen back into his body, but the water was still rising. They had to leave fast. ‘Time to go, Myles.’

Myles understood. ‘Glenn: I’ll lead, you push Heike-Ann down after me, then follow. And Heike-Ann — can you hear me?’

Heike-Ann roused, trying to respond.

‘Heike-Ann, I want you to breathe, now — as deeply as you can. Understand? You’ll need to hold your breath.’ Myles prepared himself again — a deep breath, an exhale, another deep breath to fill his body with air, then he ducked down.

It was harder this time. The water was higher — more paper to push through, and further to go down before they reached the emergency escape hatch.

When he was finally in, he wedged his feet against the sides and bent back to take Heike-Ann.

Through the water, he felt Glenn passing him the woman’s hands. Fumbling in the cold liquid, Myles only just managed to grab them. He hauled them with him, and pushed on.

The extra resistance from Heike-Ann’s body made it difficult to advance along the tunnel. He was progressing at only half the speed he had gone before. Could he make it this time?

Then he felt Heike-Ann’s body come with him. Glenn was pushing from behind.

Myles kept on, along the horizontal part of the tunnel, feeling where the concrete was still smooth. He pushed against decayed joints and girders, trying to get traction against the current.

Then the downward part. He kept pulling, hoping Heike-Ann’s body wouldn’t get stuck. He dragged the body down, down and… eventually — through.

Finally, he was at the outlet, where the tunnel fed into the River Spree. He pulled Heike-Ann once more. Nothing. She seemed stuck.

He yanked again. Still no movement…

His lungs were piercing from the dive. He tried to ignore the agony. He knew he probably had only one last chance… Then he felt Heike-Ann’s body loosen. It was coming free. Glenn had pushed her again.

As quickly as he could, Myles kicked with both his legs, ignoring the twinges in his bad knee. He swam up towards the surface, lifting Heike-Ann with him. At last, he broke into the air, and gasped as his mouth became clear.

He dragged up Heike-Ann, who bobbed to the surface, followed closely by Glenn. Glenn burst for breath too, inhaling suddenly and deeply.

Myles checked on Heike-Ann, and shouted to the American over the noise of the water. ‘She’s still unconscious.’

Glenn tried to shake the water from their interpreter’s face, then hold her up so she could breathe. But she didn’t seem to be responding. Myles knew they had to get to the riverbank fast.

The access tunnel had opened into the middle of the river, where it was deep. Half covered in algae and green underwater plants, it was easy to see how it had remained hidden throughout the Cold War. It meant Myles and Glenn had to swim about ten metres to the side, dragging Heike-Ann with them, both with their hands still tied. ‘Keep her head out of the water…’ Myles shouted over the rush of the water.

They swam as quickly as they could, still holding Heike-Ann with their bound wrists and kicking with their legs. As they neared the edge, Myles realised there’d be no way up: this part of the river had been lined with concrete.

He scanned the riverbank. A short distance downstream there were some metal stairs. With a tilt of his head, he pointed them out to Glenn, who understood. They changed course, and allowed the flow of the river to wash them along. Eventually, they reached the steps, Myles crashing into them first.

Together they hauled Heike-Ann out and dragged her clear. With her lying down on the flat surface, Myles turned her pale body to the side, and then pumped her chest, careful not to press on her swollen abdomen. Water surged out. He repeated the motion. More liquid again. This time, though, she seemed to react, woozy and in pain — but alive.

Still recovering and breathing heavily, Glenn allowed himself a small sigh of relief. ‘You know, Myles — I didn’t think we’d get out of there.’

Myles put Heike-Ann in the recovery position. ‘So you didn’t believe the prediction you’d survive?’

Glenn didn’t answer. Myles wondered if he still had something to hide.

SIXTY-THREE

Late evening in the centre of Berlin, Myles could see his breath in the air.

He bent down to check on Heike-Ann. Her face was blanched and cold, her body sodden. ‘We’ve got to get her some help,’ he said, realising blood was still oozing out of her gunshot wound. She needed help fast.

Glenn looked down at his wrists, frustrated they were still tied. ‘Any ideas?’

Myles glanced around for something which could free his hands, and fixed upon the concrete along the river bank. He rubbed the electrical cable on the edge — the plastic coating tore, and gradually the metal strands inside began to fray. As they severed, the binding became looser. Back and forth, he pressed hard on the sharpest part, until the cord was loose enough to slip his hands out. He rubbed his wrists where the cable had been.

Then he saw, about a hundred metres away, two people — a man and a woman enjoying a late evening stroll. He darted off towards them, calling out. ‘Hey — hey…’ Waving his hands as high as he could raise them, he got the man to turn his head. Then he stumbled on the pavement stones, and had to break his fall with his shoulder.

The man rushed over, and placed a hand on his back. ‘Ist alles in Ordnung?’

Myles gasped in reply.

The woman realised he wasn’t local. ‘English?’

Myles nodded. He pointed to the man’s jacket, still catching his breath. ‘Do you have a phone? We need an ambulance…’ He turned to show them Glenn and Heike-Ann — two silhouettes by the riverbank. One standing, one lying flat.

The man pulled out a device, slowly starting to call, but Myles urged him towards Glenn and Heike-Ann. ‘Go — go there.’

Although the man wasn’t sure, Myles directed the couple again. The woman led the way towards Glenn and Heike-Ann, and the man began to follow, his phone clutched to his ear as he went. Myles stayed where he was, still recovering, watching as the man and woman reached his friends. He knew Glenn and Heike-Ann would alert the Berlin Police.

Briefly, Myles wondered about going to the authorities himself. They might let him warn Helen, but he wasn’t sure. He certainly couldn’t trust them. Just trying to explain everything would take too long. If Dieter had put Myles’ name on some terrorist website, he’d be arrested before he could warn anyone. They’d never believe what he now knew about the planets, and without that they wouldn’t take the threat of Dieter seriously. Helen would die.

No, he needed to find the man who fooled them into calling him ‘Pascal’. Dieter had to be stopped by Myles himself, and he needed to do it fast. He was fighting the worst prediction from Stolz’s machine: that Dieter would cause Helen to die in two days’ time. The thought of Helen drove him on even faster. He had to save her.

He gauged his bearings: the underwater tunnel was only a few metres long. Stolz’s place in Am Krusenick must still be close. But he realised they’d come out on the other side of the river.

He searched along the footpath, scanning for some way to get back over. Upstream there was a small road bridge. He started hobbling towards it, limping as fast as his legs would allow, as the night air felt even colder on his wet clothes and knee brace, which was stiff and waterlogged. He stumbled again, and crashed down on the hard surface. Ignoring the injury, he pushed himself back up and carried on.

He reached the bridge and staggered up the raised part, his gait uneven. Would he really be able to confront Dieter like this? He imagined the Frenchman was waiting in Stolz’s basement, ready to strike him and Glenn as they emerged, with the rising water, from the chamber below. The narrow entrance meant only one of them would have been able to climb out at a time. For Dieter, it would make the perfect ambush. But Myles could surprise him from above. He could knock him out or lock him in. As long as Dieter hadn’t predicted what he would do.

Myles’ shoes were clipping loudly on the pavement. Still going forward, he bent down to prize them off. It didn’t work. He accepted he had to stop, then fumbled with the laces, before he could toss each one into the water. He continued on again, his socks now much quieter on the concrete.

He looked at his watch — a quarter to midnight. The machine had predicted he would die tomorrow. Did that mean he should attack Dieter immediately, in the last fifteen minutes of the day?

Myles kept hobbling forward, trying to solve the puzzle as he ran. Could he trust a prediction machine? Even though it had been accurate in the past, would it come true again?

He thought again of Helen, and wondered how she could die in two days’ time if Dieter himself was due to die tomorrow. He tried to force the predictions out of his mind. He had to concentrate.

He turned onto Am Krusenick — the minibus was still there, but no sign of anyone.

He limped along as swiftly as he could, his wet socks padding along the pavement. He was watching for any signs of Dieter as he went. A few bedroom lights were on behind curtains, but they were far away. Myles was still alone.

He approached Stolz’s apartment block. Wet footmarks were on the ground, leading out. Myles stared down at them: Dieter seemed to have come out, gone to the minibus, then run away.

Myles’ first thought was to follow them, to chase Dieter while the trail was still hot. Had Dieter doubled-back? Was it a trick?

He charged up the steps, ignoring the pain surge in his knee. At the top he opened the entrance to the lobby, and rushed to the door of Stolz’s flat. It was unlocked: he barged in, and checked the room.

No-one around, and no place to hide.

He gazed down at the hole in the floorboards. Was Dieter waiting below? He froze and listened, wondering in the silence whether he had already made too much noise.

Nothing.

Then he crept through the broken floorboards, carefully stepping into the hole and down the steps.

The basement was flooded. Sodden sheets of paper covered the surface of the water, which had stopped rising. But no sign of Dieter. Myles cursed. The man had escaped.

One of the pages washed against his foot. Myles fished it out. It was the life story of ‘Person Number 1006220’, their ethnicity confirmed by a small Star of David. Life events were summarised in German words which Myles couldn’t translate — born in December 1912, with something in May 1930, August 1935, and January 1939. The last date was 3^rd August 1943.

Myles held the paper with two hands as it dripped. He didn’t know whether to preserve it out of respect or screw it up in frustration.

Person 1006220: another victim of the bureaucrats.

Then he saw a form slowly turning in the water. He peered closer, trying to make it out. Slowly he identified a boot, then realised it was attached to a body. It was Zenyalena, her face staring down to the bunker. Zenyalena, Jean-François, even Frank… Dieter had killed them all.

He pulled the corpse towards him, feeling its weight in the water, and delved into her pockets. The keys to the minibus were there — he fished them out, then flicked the dirty water from his hands as he limped back out.

Myles dashed upstairs, back to the lobby, and outside, where the air felt even colder.

He opened the door to the minibus and peered inside. There were wet footmarks by the pedals, and the wiring had been pulled down from under the dashboard. Dieter had tried to hotwire the vehicle, but failed.

Then he realised: the bottle of nerve agent was gone. Dieter must have taken it.

So that was Dieter’s plan: to set off one of Hitler’s ‘wonderweapons’ — seventy years late.

Myles looked at his watch: one minute to midnight.

Would he die from Sarin poisoning tomorrow?

Would thousands of others?

Would Sarin kill Helen too, making his partner ‘cease to be two days later?

Angry, he slammed the door shut, and ran as fast as he could, following the wet footmarks on the pavement.

He knew he must be ten minutes behind Dieter, but not much more. If he ran, there was a chance he could still catch him.

Myles sprinted along Am Krusenick, his feet in wet socks feeling every piece of grit on the road. But he ignored the pain, and ran on. The neoprene bandage which supported his healing knee seemed to be slowing him down. Quickly he reached down, ripped apart the Velcro, and tossed it away.

He limped on — faster now. Dieter’s footprints turned. Myles turned with them. Then, round the corner, they seemed to disappear.

It didn’t make sense. There was nowhere for the Frenchman to go. No patch of grass to hide his footprints. No surface which wouldn’t show the water. It was as if Dieter had flown into the air.

Myles desperately scanned around. No clues anywhere — nothing which seemed out of place.

Then he noticed, thrown into a kerb some metres away, a jumble of footwear. Myles rushed closer: it was Dieter’s socks and shoes, all sodden with water. Dieter must have realised he was leaving a trail, so he took them off, dried his feet somehow, then continued on barefoot.

With no wet footmarks to follow, he didn’t know where to look. He checked his watch again. Just past midnight…on the day he was due to die.