Secrets of the Last Nazi

SIXTY-FOUR

Myles felt the crisp night air again — his wet clothes were freezing more than ever, and clinging to his body, making it difficult for him to move. He was in no condition to attack Dieter.

Myles turned, and started jogging back to the minibus, gripping the keys he had just taken from Zenyalena’s body. He jumped into the driver’s seat, poked the keys into the ignition, and turned them. Then he drove away, leaving Stolz’s apartment for good.

Confused by the small streets of Berlin, Myles decided to turn onto whichever street was larger at each junction he found. That way, he knew, he’d soon find a street with directions. The roads were deserted. Certainly no sirens or screaming ambulances. Dieter hadn’t set off his wonderweapon yet….

Myles soon reached the autobahn, and then accelerated, speeding towards Potsdam — the only place near Berlin that he knew.

After twenty minutes he recognised his surroundings — he had been driven this way by Glenn when he first arrived in Germany. Once he found the signposts, the Cecilienhof was easy to reach.

The minibus’s tyres screamed as he swerved into the hotel carpark, then parked up and jumped out, losing his balance on his weak leg. Only as an afterthought did he turn off the headlights and the engine. He’d need the vehicle again.

Straight to reception.

Fortunately, there was a familiar face on duty: it was the brunette. She was shocked to see Myles — so late at night, breathless, and desperate. She was obviously perturbed by Myles’ appearance, tilting her head warily as if she wanted to comment on Myles’ wet clothes and lack of footwear. ‘Mr Munro — how can I help?’ she said, her voice unsteady.

Myles ignored her. Instead, he grabbed the hotel’s courtesy phone and dialled a familiar number as fast as he could.

00… 44… 7788…

It was Helen’s number — her CNN mobile. The number rang.

No answer, then a recorded message.

‘Hi, you’ve reached Helen Bridle. Please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.’

BEEP

Myles wondered what to say. ‘Er, Helen. Are you there? Sorry to call you so late. You’re probably asleep… But this is important. Please pick up the phone….’ Myles realised his voice was sounding a little desperate, as the receptionist caught his eye. ‘… Er, Helen. When you get this message, please stay somewhere safe — far away from Berlin. Understand? Nowhere near. If you do, you’ll die — probably from concentrated Sarin or some other Nazi chemical. I don’t know exactly, and I can’t say how I know. Not over the phone, not ‘til we’re face-to-face again. I’m looking forward to seeing you face-to-face again soon. So please trust me, don’t go to Berlin… er, thank you. And, er, love you, too.’

Embarrassed, he put down the phone. Had he done enough to keep Helen out of danger? Would his message save her life, two days from now? He thought of calling again, but realised it wouldn’t help. There was no more he could say.

‘Clothes. Do you have any spare clothes?’

The woman sized Myles up, her eyes still alarmed. Myles wondered if she saw blood from Heike-Ann’s wound on his trousers. She turned to fetch something from an office behind her, then came back with a pressed white business shirt. ‘I have this… Sir?’

But Myles was gone. He had already sat down at the internet terminal next to the front desk, determined to find the terrorist website. He found a search engine and typed in: ‘Mein Kampf Now’, then pressed enter. Ten of 134,000 results came up. Myles scrolled through the first screenful, then the second, then the third, then the fourth. None of them seemed right.

Next he tried ‘Humanitarian Pursuit’. Pages appeared on peace negotiations, food aid, even mountain climbing. But still no sign of the website he needed. He slumped back in his chair.

Myles’ mind drifted to the predictions about himself: that he would die today, too, and that Helen would somehow ‘cease to be’ two days later.

He began typing.

‘A-S-T-R-O-L-O-G-Y… P-R-E-D-I–C-T-I-O-N-S’

… and clicked.

A selection of sites appeared. He wondered: would they confirm the verdict of the Nazi prediction machine? Of course they wouldn’t. It didn’t matter which of the sites he picked: none of them would predict someone was about to die on a certain day, especially if that day was today.

‘Mr Munro, Sir…?’

Myles turned. The receptionist was pushing a trolley towards him: coffee, orange juice and warm toast.

‘Early for breakfast, I know, Sir,’ she smiled. ‘But you look like you could do with something to eat.’

Then she offered him a bag of clothes. Myles peeked inside: a whole business suit, with shirt, underwear, a tie, and a pair of smart shoes.

‘I guessed your size, Sir — we have others if you need them. And feel free to take a shower.’ She pointed to the door of a luxury suite behind reception, beaming sympathetically.

Distracted, Myles thanked her with his eyes, and picked up the toast. Only as he began eating did he realise how hungry he was.

But his mind was still focussed on Helen. He had to save her.

He remembered Dieter’s words: ‘The world will soon be transformed from Berlin — a new Reich starting from where Hitler started…’

Dieter had to set off the lethal liquid from somewhere high-up, so it could spread through the air.

But where had Hitler started his Reich? Not in Vienna in 1938, as Stolz had thought. Hitler had destroyed Germany as soon as he came to power. Myles went back to the keyboard.

H-I-T-L-E-R 1-9-3-3

Straightaway an image came up: the Reichstag, Germany’s Parliament building, in flames. Of course. Myles remembered how Hitler had hired a stooge to set it on fire a month after coming into office. It gave the dictator a perfect excuse for ‘emergency measures’ which shut down democracy. The Reichstag didn’t re-open properly until after the war.

Myles clicked on the image, and saw the new glass roof to the building. It was high. Sarin released from the top into the wind could blow over the whole city. The ideal place to set off the wonderweapon.

Myles rushed back to the receptionist. ‘Do you have any tourist leaflets?’

‘Certainly Sir…’ She pointed to a whole stand full of promotional flyers and brochures, trying her best to be helpful, even though she was still obviously unnerved by Myles’ appearance. ‘Do you want any particular one, Mr Munro, Sir?’

‘The Reichstag. Do they have a tourist programme?’

She nodded, and picked out the leaflet. ‘Yes — visits from eight in the morning, I think.’ She looked back at the clock behind her as she handed him the paper. ‘Five-and-a-half hours away. You’ve still got time to have a shower….’

Myles was already engrossed in the leaflet, trying to work out where Dieter could set of the bomb.

‘Er, Mr Munro. You really should have a shower, if you want to visit. Otherwise, they might not let you in…’

Myles looked up and accepted the point, but had just one call to make first.

So he picked up the clean clothes and wandered towards the shower room. He had to be ready for what the machine had predicted would be his last morning alive.

And he hoped Helen picked up his warning.

Exactly 588 miles due west of Berlin, as Helen was taking out her phone to pass through airport security, she noticed she had a missed call. No number had been left, but there was a message. Stepping out of the line, she pressed ‘play’ and listened.

Then, without a moment’s hesitation, she hurried back through ‘Departures’, to the long line of ticket desks within Heathrow’s Terminal Two. ‘I need to change my flight,’ she explained, remaining professionally calm. ‘To Berlin — whichever airport is closest to the city centre. The next flight, please.’

SIXTY-FIVE

Fed, washed and dressed, Myles thanked the receptionist as he left the hotel.

‘No problem, Sir,’ said the brunette.

Myles wondered whether the woman would call the police — he could tell his bloodied late night appearance had alarmed her. So, as soon as he was in the minibus, he turned the ignition, barely allowed the engine to settle, and pulled out of the carpark. Then he noticed the fuel gauge — almost empty.

To the east, the sky was beginning to lighten. In an hour or so the sun would rise. His last sunrise?

He wondered about driving away. Driving to Helen. Anywhere — just to escape, so they both had a chance of surviving the Sarin attack. But would that make them safe? He didn’t know. It would certainly leave the people of Berlin in danger.

He looked at the fuel gauge again — if he tried to drive anywhere but the centre of Berlin, he wouldn’t get there.

He realised: whatever the prediction said, there were some things he just had to do. Danger mattered less than his duty. He just had to stop Dieter. He didn’t have a choice. Not because of the prediction, but because of who he was.

Onto the autobahn, he checked his watch again. Ten minutes past four: whatever was going to kill him had less than twenty hours left.

He drove into Berlin city. Still no wailing police sirens. Still no sign of panic. Still most people asleep, although he did notice some early morning buses carrying a few drowsy commuters to work.

He knew Dieter would be on his guard, and would recognise the minibus if he saw it, so he couldn’t risk parking near the Reichstag. Instead, he drove near the building, then found a sidestreet about a kilometre away. He pulled up, took out the key, and locked the vehicle behind him.

Trying not to put more pressure on his recovering knee joint than was necessary, he walked towards the Reichstag. He stopped in the Platz der Republik, the green space outside the modern Parliament building, where he found a bench.

From there, he had a distant view of the entrance to the Reichstag. He could see anybody who entered, but was far enough away that he wouldn’t be noticed himself. He was tall, certainly, but dressed in a fresh business suit, Dieter was unlikely to spot him.

Then he waited.

The first rays of sun lit up the park. Myles noticed a municipal cleaner amble around, emptying the bins. He saw an early morning commuter rushing somewhere with a coffee cup, a couple of disorientated tourists, and eventually a tour group from the Far East.

As the time passed six forty-five, he saw security men enter the Reichstag, relaxed as they clocked in for their morning shift. Roughly a quarter of an hour later, the night shift clocked off, leaving the building calmly, either alone or in pairs.

The sun was becoming stronger now. As it rose over the Reichstag, it shone straight into his eyes. Myles shaded his face with his hand, determined to keep watching.

Half-past seven, and tourists started to gather near the entrance. Parliamentary staff with ID badges ignored them as they swiped into the building, their mind on other things. A quarter-to-eight, and the crowd was swelling. Was Dieter amongst them? There was certainly no-one dressed like Dieter, and nobody wearing wet clothes. If Dieter was waiting to go in then, like Myles, he had found a way to change what he was wearing.

Five minutes to eight. Still no sign.

The security man in charge of the door was looking up at the clock. Then the entrance opened. The compliant tourists were counted in. None of them could have been Dieter. Myles had been wrong.

Still more people were nearby: a politician with an aide, comparing notes on the day ahead. A secretary in uncomfortable heels. A huddle of journalists. Almost by coincidence, Myles saw a frame he recognised from somewhere. Like Myles, the man was checking his watch, rushing to some sort of meeting…

Then Myles sat stiff, as the shock electrified his whole body: it was Dieter.

Myles stood, then started to jog, then run across the grass towards the Reichstag, ignoring the weakness in his knee. He reached the entrance just as the main door was closing.

‘Verzeihung, mein Herr,’ said a security official.

‘Sorry?’

‘I’m sorry, Sir, no entry.’

Myles peered over the heads of the people in front of him. He could see Dieter had been checked off some sort of list and allowed to wander freely within the building. ‘But I need to go in,’ Myles pleaded.

‘Have you arranged with us in advance?’ The guard could tell Myles looked confused. He’d met many tourists like him before. As with the others, the official spoke with a firm tone — respectful, but closing off the option. ‘Visitors are welcome, Sir, but you have to register with us beforehand.’

Myles searched the man’s face. Head tipped forward and lips pursed, the man had an ‘I’m sure you understand’ expression.

Myles thought about explaining, but knew it would be no use. If he told them Dieter was about to unleash Sarin, the bureaucrat would arrest him, not the real terrorist.

Myles gestured towards the guard’s papers. ‘Well, can you put me on the list now, please?’

‘I’m afraid not, Sir — we only accept reservations by email.’

‘I can email you now if you like. Do you have internet access, somewhere?’

‘We do, Sir. But I’d need to see your ID to let you use it.’

Myles checked his pockets and eventually found his passport — which was still wet — and handed it over.

The guard paused, wondering whether to accept the soggy document. But he did, checked it, then raised his eyebrows as he glanced back at his list. ‘Munro, Myles… Mr Munro, we already have you on the list. For the 0800 tour.’

Myles couldn’t understand how his name had been put on. The hotel receptionist? Helen back in Oxford? Glenn, even? Someone had done it for him. He decided now was not the time to wonder who or how. He had to catch Dieter, and stop him doing whatever he was planning.

‘Thank you, Sir.’ Myles nodded to the guard as he took back his passport, and hobbled through the security gate.

He shuffled towards the pack of visitors, joining the group just as it left the entrance area to begin the tour. His tall frame scanned over their heads to see Dieter near the front, about ten metres away.

Again, he thought of calling out, of trying to get both himself and Dieter arrested. But he still couldn’t trust the guards. They’d just arrest him. Dieter would at least have a chance to run and set off his wonderweapon. No, Myles had to do this another way.

Gently, he tried to manoeuvre through the people. He passed an Italian couple, bumping the woman as she read from a guidebook. Myles went round an American adjusting his camera-straps, and overtook two students gazing up at the new architecture. He was getting closer to Dieter…

Then a stout woman came to the front, the ID card dangling from her neck indicating she was some sort of official guide. ‘Good morning, and welcome to the Reichstag building….’ The woman clapped as if she was bringing a classroom of juniors to order.

Myles tried to pay attention, but his mind was on Dieter. The woman caught his eye. Myles felt duty-bound to smile back, pretending he was vitally interested in what she had to say.

‘…This is the building that most famously was destroyed in February 1933. The fire that night….’ The tour-guide started directing her words elsewhere in the crowd.

Myles checked on Dieter. The Frenchman was bending down to tie his laces. Myles still needed to get closer. He tried to ease his way past a man in a wheelchair, then a mother with her teenage daughter. But he knocked the girl’s digital camera, which clattered to the floor.

The tour official glared at him, then pointed at the wall. Her outstretched arm was blocking his way. ‘… and this is actual graffiti from Russian soldiers in May 1945. The Soviets lost about 70,000 soldiers fighting for Berlin at the end of World War Two, and this historic writing, drawn with coal on sandstone, was preserved as a memorial to those deaths…’

Myles raised his eyebrows in mock-interest, forcing himself to turn and admire the Russian lettering high-up on the inside walls. He turned back to look for Dieter, but the woman was obscuring his view.

Now the guide was beaming her eyes at him — the woman was trying to flick her hair back. Was she flirting with him? She raised her voice. ‘… and when this building was renovated for reunited Germany, in the 1990s, a decision was made to be sensitive to history. At the base of the large, spiral ramp to the ceiling, you will see photographs from the past — such as President Truman, Prime Minister Winston Churchill and Soviet Premier Josef Stalin, meeting in Potsdam to discuss the fate of Europe after the War. There’s also a picture of US President Ronald Reagan, when he made a famous speech here in the summer of 1987…’

Myles allowed the woman’s gaze to swing away. Finally, he could walk forwards again.

He limped on, towards where Dieter had been. But the man wasn’t where Myles was expecting. Myles turned around to look properly. Where had he gone? Myles checked the entrance again. No sign of him there…

‘Sir, you look as though your child has just run off.’ The tour guide’s humour roused a small laugh from the crowd.

‘I… I don’t have a child.’

‘Well, whatever you’re missing, I can help you find it later.’ The corners of the woman’s mouth rose, locking into a professional smile. Myles returned the gesture feebly, still concentrating on Dieter. He allowed himself to drift with the herd as the tour guide led them on — into the centre of the building.

Myles knew Dieter must have peeled off somewhere. Into a toilet? Or a side-corridor? Somewhere… but where?

‘Now, ladies and gentlemen, would you all please look upwards…’ The guide’s instructions were unnecessary since they were all gazing upwards anyway. Above them was a huge dome, made of glass panels in a metal frame. A ramp spiralled down from the very top, allowing people to walk up to the highest point in the building, viewing all of Berlin on the way up. ‘… you will see glass, which symbolises the transparency and openness of the new Germany…’

Myles noticed a curved cone hanging down from the centre of the dome above. Mirrors had been placed on the sides. Reflections of tourists as they climbed to the top appeared then disappeared, as the people shuffled out of view.

‘… and by climbing up to the top of glass dome, people can look down on their elected representatives working in the Parliament below them. This is the opposite of the discredited dictatorship of Adolf Hitler, when the politicians looked down on their people…’

Then, in one of the mirrors, Myles glimpsed a reflection of Dieter climbing up the ramp. Within an instant, it was gone again. But it was enough for Myles to know the psychopath was walking to the top of the glass dome.

‘… and we hope this new German Parliament will survive much longer than the last…’ But the guide’s words were lost on Myles. He’d already started racing up the ramp, hobbling as fast as he could, desperate to catch Dieter before the man ended this newest vision of Germany.

Myles sprinted upwards, forcing the muscle around his wounded knee to compensate for his weakened ligaments. He began to spiral up, grabbing the rail with his hand to pull himself faster — probably his last chance to catch Dieter.

He passed the pictures of Berlin through the ages: the horror of World War One, the rise of the Nazis, the Reichstag burning down in 1933, Hitler controlling Europe, then the city in ruins. Myles ignored them all. He had to climb higher.

He overtook a crowd of foreigners bunched around another guide. He limped passed a security guard, a very old woman who had probably known Germany during the war, and an old man with grey skin in a wheelchair, who was being pushed slowly to the top.

Myles didn’t register any of them. As he reached the halfway point, he began to see the panorama of the city — the offices, the old buildings, the open spaces. All in danger, if Dieter released the liquid from Stolz’s wonderweapon.

Myles raced on, refusing to be distracted by a small chunk of the Berlin Wall visible on the ground below, preserved as a monument to the Cold War. He tried to look ahead, desperately seeking out Dieter. But he still couldn’t see him. He had to keep going.

Myles was approaching the top, now. He ignored the pain in his lungs, and the twinges in his ruptured knee. An attendant frowned at him for running. Myles nodded — he understood — but kept on anyway. He just had to catch Dieter before the Sarin liquid was released.

Only as he approached the top viewing platform did he allow himself to slow. He looked around. Surely this was where Dieter must be… Myles scanned a full 360 degrees, but there was still no sign.

He studied the tourists around him: a family group, some teenagers, workmen in overalls… none of them looked like Dieter. Where had the Frenchman disappeared?

Myles paused, and finally stopped. He bent down, his hands on his knees to catch his breath. He looked up and stared around again. He was at the top, now. Such a small place — how had Dieter vanished?

He knew he had to think. To stop Dieter meant thinking like him. Myles had to understand what Dieter was planning.

Myles knew Dieter had the bottle of nerve agent — taken from Stolz’s tin in the trench. He could have pretended it was water to bypass the guards at the Reichstag entrance. So where would he have taken it?

Myles scanned around again. He looked down at the spiral ramp, checking Dieter hadn’t run down again. No sign of him.

He checked the lower viewing platform, and the ground-floor of the Reichstag building. Still no sign.

In desperation, Myles looked outside, checking the panorama of Berlin in case Dieter had managed to leave the building. Dieter was nowhere.

Myles spun around, beaten, drawing confused looks from the tourists on the viewing platform beside him.

Suddenly, he felt his knee buckle. The joint collapsed beneath him, and he tumbled to the floor in agony. Pain was surging back. His ligament had ruptured again. Resisting the urge to cry out, he cursed himself for removing the neoprene support, and for pushing himself so hard.

The intense pain made him look up. And only then, noticing the glass above him, did he spot the opening in the dome. Workmen had removed one of the transparent panels. Myles couldn’t tell whether it was to clean the glass or do repairs, but there was now an access to the outside. It was a space large enough for someone to crawl through, and to get onto the roof. It was the only way that Dieter could have gone.

Myles pushed himself off the floor, just managing to stand on his one good leg. He edged towards the hole and grabbed the sides with his hands, then lifted himself up. Some of the tourists cued up photos, imagining Myles was performing a stunt or making a protest. Myles ignored them, concentrating on getting up. He squeezed out, suddenly feeling the wind blast against his skin, then clambered round the dome at the top of the building, until he saw the man he had expected to see.

Holding the bottle of clear liquid high, with his arm outstretched arm, Dieter was about to release the nerve agent.

SIXTY-SIX

Myles tried to edge closer, pulling himself along a rail with his arms, his weight on his one good foot as he dragged his useless leg behind him. He felt the wind blow hard against him as he tried to circle round the top of the dome. He wondered if he could catch Dieter unaware. Perhaps to grab his liquid, perhaps to push him off. Anything to stop the man setting off the wonderweapon.

Clumsy as ever, Myles gripped tightly to the steel frame. He heaved his leg around a metal bar trying to approach quietly.

Dieter was just a few metres away. The Frenchman’s back was turned. Myles had a chance.

‘…Don’t get blown off, now… that’s not your fate…’ It was Dieter’s voice.

Slowly, Dieter turned round, raising the clear liquid toward Myles as if he was making a toast. ‘Good morning, Myles. Glad you could make it…’

Myles froze in place. He didn’t know how to react.

‘… Don’t worry about being blown off the top of the dome. You can come closer if you want….’ Dieter saw Myles wasn’t moving. The Frenchman shrugged and began to smirk. ‘… Or you can stay where you are. Up here, we’re both close to the heavens. That’s why I added your name to the guest list for the Reichstag. I knew you’d come. Even though you’d been told you were about to die, I knew you’d come to the most dangerous place there could be.’

Myles kept gripping tightly to the metal frame. He tried to keep his voice calm and reasonable. ‘It doesn’t have to be dangerous, Dieter. We can both get out of this. Just because the machine said we’d both die today, it doesn’t mean we have to.’

Dieter grinned again. ‘You think? You really think that? Is that why you telephoned someone due to die in two days’ time, to warn them away?’

‘Helen?’

‘Yes. You did call her, didn’t you?’

Myles didn’t want to satisfy Dieter by confirming he was right. He remained silent, just tipping his head forward, encouraging Dieter to say more.

‘You’re wondering how I know, aren’t you, Myles? Shall I tell you how I know you called Helen?’

‘Go on.’

‘Because she’s there. Look.’ Dieter turned his head, pointing out towards the Platz der Republik — the large green space where Myles had waited just a few minutes before. There was Helen, directing a cameraman who was setting up his equipment. Helen hadn’t seen them. Myles’ call last night, telling her not to come, had only encouraged her. And when he said Berlin, she had naturally come to the city’s centre of government — to the Reichstag. Trying to make her safe had put her in danger. He kicked himself for not predicting how she would react. Even if he warned her away now, she’d only come closer. Typical Helen — always heading towards trouble…

Dieter saw Myles’ face and began to laugh. ‘You see — even when we try to cheat our fate, fate still wins. You know, Myles, after we all climbed out of the cavern in Landsberg, I climbed back in. The globes said Berlin was the place I’d change the world.’

Myles’ eyes fixed on the bottle of clear liquid in Dieter’s hand. ‘What do you want your fate to be, Dieter? You could still walk away from all this…’

‘Not anymore. Not with the websites, remember? I’m the humanitarian, you’re the terrorist.’ Dieter lifted the bottle up, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger, and letting it sway in the wind. ‘If you try to take this liquid, my funeral will draw many more people than yours — probably even more than Helen’s, when she dies of Sarin poisoning the day after tomorrow.’ The Frenchman was still keeping himself a few metres clear from Myles. ‘You are trying to take this liquid from me, aren’t you, Myles?’

Myles paused before he answered, then decided to be honest. ‘Yes, I am.’

‘You see, Myles? You might say it’s your character, or because you want to save people — perhaps just to save Helen. But you’re completely predictable, too. Just as the machine assumed you were.’ Dieter began to smirk. Intellectually superior and he knew it. ‘You can’t leave here either…’

Myles refused to respond.

Dieter began to ponder. ‘… so let me predict, Myles. You’ll ask me to come down again. I’ll refuse. Then you’ll go for the Sarin. We’ll both fall all the way down there.’ He peered down. ‘You die from a great height. The bottle smashes, releasing the Sarin, so I die from multiple causes. Helen examines your dead body, inhales this stuff and dies tomorrow evening. All the machine’s predictions come true — every single one. I die a martyr, you die a terrorist, and Helen’s death means CNN runs the story for a whole week.’

Myles tried to shake his head, still gripping the metal. ‘Why are you so keen to know what’s going to happen, Dieter?’

‘We all are. It’s human nature.’

Myles thought about making a lunge for the liquid. It was exactly what Dieter was expecting, but what else could he do? In his mind, he calculated how far he was from Dieter — close enough for it to be worth a try.

Myles looked down: the surface of the glass dome curved away from him, down to a mid-level viewing platform. Some of the tourists were already gazing up, realising that Dieter and Myles were not on the top of the dome for any normal purpose.

Could Myles drag Dieter down to the rooftop without the glass bottle breaking? Unlikely: if they slid down the glass dome, he wouldn’t be able to keep hold of the liquid.

Dieter lowered the bottle slightly, holding it straight in front of Myles, taunting him. ‘I’m ready to die, Myles. I’ve found Stolz’s secret. And my death will help make Germany strong again.’

‘Is that why you did it all?’

‘No. I did this because Stolz’s secret belonged to Hitler. The Führer left it for the German people. When they hear I died trying to stop you releasing the Sarin, I’ll become a hero. They’ll respect the things I stood for.’

Now Myles understood: Dieter wanted him to attack.

Dieter grinned once more, gripping the neck of the bottle as if it was an old stick hand-grenaade. ‘No, Myles? Not coming towards me?’ Myles saw Dieter’s eyes pick out Helen on the green space below. The psychopath pulled his arm back, aiming, preparing to throw…

Something in Myles removed his capacity to choose. A deep instinct thrust him from the metal frame, lunging the small distance towards Dieter.

Dieter turned to meet him. As Myles’ body slammed into the Frenchman, Myles felt the bottle of liquid smash against his shoulder. Within an instant, liquid burst out, soaking his shirt and splashing onto his face.

Myles knew he was covered. He knew he had no chance of surviving the nerve agent. And, as he lost his footing on the roof, it was his instincts which made his grab Dieter on the way down.

Together, they began to slide off the glass dome. Faster and faster, Dieter and Myles accelerated as the curve of the dome became steeper. They began to freefall. Down towards the hard surface below.

Myles gripped Dieter as tightly as he could. He saw the viewing platform rushing up, towards his head. He knew both of them would die.

In the last moment before his skull smashed against the concrete, Myles got satisfaction from hoping he had saved Helen.

Hope that, in one small way, he had managed to beat the predictions.

SIXTY-SEVEN

As Sally Wotton prepared to close down her computer, she took one last look at the image of Myles Munro. He had been quite good looking…

And he had been to so many places: Afghanistan, Libya, Iran… and that was just recently.

The Oxford University lecturer in military history had obviously lived an exciting life. Such a pity — that life was now over.

Her fingers touched the screen, wishing she could have saved him from the deadly fall. But she’d seen the live feed from the satellite. There was no way he could have survived. The paramedics had carried away two completely motionless bodies.

The public reports about him from several years ago, when he was sacked over a scandal involving terrorists from Africa, didn’t ring true to Sally. She could tell he had been a scapegoat. They always try to blame the misfits…

The fact that Myles had been a misfit was obvious. Myles had clearly suffered from some sort of high-performing learning disability. The CIA file on him confirmed it. From what Sally could tell about his popular lectures at Oxford, his radical theory about Clausewitz was one of the greatest advances in military theory in almost two centuries. He had certainly been very bright. Very bright indeed.

Sally sometimes felt a bit like a misfit herself, although she guessed she’d been luckier in life than poor old Myles Munro.

But at least there was one thing she could do for this man — although it seemed a bit late: she could prove he’d been made a scapegoat again.

Sally’s logic was simple. Myles Munro had been named as a terrorist on the Mein Kampf Now website — alongside some federal employee called ‘Glenn’. Sally knew both were innocent. She knew because she had quarantined the site, alongside the Humanitarian Pursuit site which had tried to negotiate with them. Both sites had been isolated from the world wide web, so the psychopath’s threats had been read by no-one. Or rather, no-one outside the CIA.

It meant whoever was behind Humanitarian Pursuit must also have been behind Mein Kampf Now. There was no other way the humanitarians could have known about the terrorist threats.

And by uploading Myles Munro’s details onto the Mein Kampf Now webpage, the psychopath had given Sally an important lead. It meant she had a name, so she could order a bug on Mr Munro’s home phone, in Oxford, England, and all the numbers associated with it. When Myles Munro himself had made a desperate call to his partner’s CNN mobile, warning her to stay away from the Reichstag in Berlin, it had given them just enough time to get the message where it needed to go. Enough time to send agents to central Berlin, although sadly not enough time to save Myles Munro himself.

And the other guy? It looked like the psychopath uploading the threats had been someone called Dieter. An easy news search had revealed who this Dieter person was: a radical fascist, brought up a German in Strasbourg half a century after the town was given to France as compensation for World War One. He was an agitator, a rebel, an ideologue who had been jailed for throwing pink paint at a far-right Euro-politician. Dieter had tried to become a new Hitler, but failed.

Dieter had uploaded his own picture to the Humanitarian Pursuit website. He’d tried to claim credit for making peace with a terrorist organisation responsible for all sorts of bad things — from the deaths of senators, to nuclear accidents, to economic depressions and even wars.

So why hadn’t this Dieter guy put it all behind him? Why the terrorist website? Why the bizarre threats, most of them way off in the future? Sally understood: because Dieter believed he could predict the future. It allowed him to claim credit for bad things which happened. So why not try to claim credit for bringing peace?

It was all nonsense. It must be. Nobody can predict the future — it was impossible. Wasn’t it?

What if this dead Dieter person really had found a way to predict the future? Now the tech boys had found the real IP address and the location traces, she knew exactly where in Berlin this man had been. If Dieter had left paperwork — perhaps a machine or something — she could fly over, find it, and try to predict the future herself.

It would be far more interesting than her day job. She had just finished with the most interesting case her job would ever bring. She would close down her computer, only to power it up again tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that. She was about to leave the office, dissatisfied as ever, only to return the next day…

She went back to the computer screen to re-read the tech boys’ report on locations, but she couldn’t open it any more. Her security status didn’t allow it. Someone had changed the classification — it was now officially too sensitive for her to read. Even the traces from Dieter to contacts in Israel and England had gone. She slumped. No trip to Berlin. She wouldn’t be able to escape her job. She would have to close down her computer, leave the office, and be ready for another day there tomorrow.

As Sally Wotton left her computer and put on her coat, she finally understood how predictable her life was after all.

SIXTY-EIGHT

Dieter tried to tense his neck muscles to lift up his head, but blood in his hair had congealed to whatever he was lying on. He ignored the pain, and tugged several times until his scalp was free. As his vision cleared, he realised he must have been concussed from the fall.

Blearily, he looked around him. To one side, a paramedic in a yellow bio-chemical protection suit was preparing Myles Munro’s cadaver. Myles’ skin was grey, except for the ugly head wound from which his life had drained away. The paramedic was calmly removing the Englishman’s clothes and wiping the man’s tall body. Dieter allowed himself to smirk. He may have failed to save the last great secret of the Nazis, but he had at least killed the Englishman. And in doing so, he had proved Stolz’s wartime prediction computer — that triumph of Nazi science — was accurate.

He wobbled his head around to survey his own body, which was fixed in place on a medical bed. He realised he couldn’t move his legs. Worse, he couldn’t feel them. He reached his hand down to his pelvis, but there was no sensation at all.

Towards the far end of the sterile white room in which he lay, two men, also wearing full protective suits, stared at him.

‘Help me,’ he uttered. One of the men lumbered towards him.

Dieter hoped the man would treat him, even honour him — after all, he had just saved Germany. But instead of helping Dieter, the man produced a sidearm. Dieter knew the weapon: a SIG-Sauer P229, a handgun favoured by various parts of the US Federal government. Then he recognised the face inside the bio-mask: it was Glenn.

Glenn peered down, and pushed himself right up to Dieter. ‘Where’s the Sarin?’ he snarled.

Dieter glared back, refusing to answer.

Then he motioned towards Myles. ‘Death from a great height,’ he boasted.

Dieter saw Glenn’s non-reaction and laughed. ‘You believed the machine too, didn’t you…’

He grinned. Eyes still fixed on Glenn, Dieter’s fingers delved towards his pocket and found the old enamelled pillbox he had stolen from Stolz. Reassuringly, he felt the famous crooked cross on the cover, and marvelled at the German craftsmanship which had miniaturised the swastika so perfectly. He flicked the box open.

Glenn saw the movement and thrust his gun against Dieter’s temple. ‘Don’t think you can still release it — you’ll be dead before you try.’

But Dieter just smiled. Gently, he lifted the clouded capsule from his pocket into his mouth, carefully positioning it between his teeth.

‘Last chance,’ threatened Glenn.

Dieter replied with just a single word, ‘Fuehroxia.’

Dieter was just able to bite down on the cyanide pill before a bullet from Glenn’s pistol blasted through his brain, causing death from multiple causes.

And just as Dieter had managed to die like Hitler, he was also remembered like the Nazi-dictator: with no grave, no glory, and no monuments ever built in his honour.