Thunder Point

There could be no arguing with that and Bormann nodded. ‘Of course, my Führer.’

‘Then there only remains one more thing,’ Hitler said. ‘You’ll find someone in the bedroom. Bring him in.’

The man Bormann found in there wore the uniform of a lieutenant general in the SS. There was something familiar about him and Bormann felt acutely uncomfortable for some reason.

‘My Führer,’ the man said and gave Hitler a Nazi salute.

‘Note the resemblance, Bormann?’ Hitler asked.

It was then that Bormann realized why he’d felt so strange. It was true, the general did have a look of him. Not perfect, but it was undeniably there.

‘General Strasser will stay here in your place,’ Hitler said. ‘When the general break-out occurs he will leave with the others. He can stay out of the way until then. In the confusion and darkness of leaving it’s hardly likely anyone will notice. They’ll be too concerned with saving their own skins.’ He turned to Strasser. ‘You will do this for your Führer?’

‘With all my heart,’ Strasser said.

‘Good, then you will now exchange uniforms. You may use my bedroom.’ He came round the desk and took both of Bormann’s hands in his. ‘I prefer to say goodbye now, old friend. We will not meet again.’

Cynical as he was by nature Bormann felt incredibly moved. ‘I will succeed, my Führer, my word on it.’

‘I know you will.’

Hitler shuffled out, the door closed behind him and Bormann turned to Strasser, ‘Right, let’s get started.’

Precisely half an hour later Bormann left the Bunker by the exit into Hermann Goering Strasse. He wore a heavy leather military overcoat over his SS uniform and carried a military holdall which held the briefcase and a change of civilian clothes. In one pocket he carried a silenced Mauser pistol and a Schmeisser machine pistol was slung across his chest. He moved along the edge of the Tiergarten, aware of people everywhere, mainly refugees, crossed by the Brandenburg Gate and arrived at Goebbels’ house quite quickly. Like most properties in the area it had suffered damage, but the vast garage building seemed intact. The sliding doors were closed, but there was a small Judas gate which Bormann opened cautiously.

It was dark in there and a voice called, ‘Stay where you are, hands high.’

Lights were switched on and Bormann found a young man in the uniform of a captain in the Luftwaffe and a flying jacket standing by the wall, a pistol in his hand. The small Fieseler Storch spotter plane stood in the centre of the empty garage.

‘Captain Neumann?’

‘General Strasser?’ The young man looked relieved and holstered his pistol. ‘Thank God, I’ve been expecting Ivans ever since I got here.’

‘You have orders?’

‘Of course. Rechlin to refuel and then Bergen. A distinct pleasure actually.’

‘Do you think we stand a chance of getting away?’

‘There’s nothing up there to shoot us down at the moment. Filthy weather. Only ground fire to worry about.’ He grinned. ‘Is your luck good, General?’

‘Always.’

‘Excellent. I’ll start up, you get in and we’ll taxi across the road to the Brandenburg Gate. From there I’ll take off towards the Victory Column. They won’t be expecting that because the wind is in the wrong direction.’

‘Isn’t that dangerous?’ Bormann asked.

‘Absolutely.’ Neumann climbed up into the cabin and started the engine.

There was broken glass and rubble in the street and the Storch bumped its way along, passing many astonished refugees, moved across the Brandenburg Gate and turned towards the Victory Column in the distance. The rain was driving down.

Neumann said, ‘Here we go,’ and boosted power.

The Storch roared down the centre of the road, here and there people fleeing before it, and suddenly they were airborne and turning to starboard to avoid the Victory Column. Bormann was not even aware of any ground fire.

‘You must live right, Herr Reichsleiter,’ the young pilot said.

Bormann turned to him sharply. ‘What did you call me?’

‘I’m sorry if I’ve said the wrong thing,’ Neumann said, ‘but I met you at an award ceremony once in Berlin.’

Bormann decided to leave it for the moment. ‘Don’t worry about it.’ He looked down at the flames and smoke below as Berlin burned, the Russian artillery keeping up a constant bombardment. ‘Truly a scene from hell.’

‘Twilight of the Gods, Reichsleiter,’ Neumann said. ‘All we need is Wagner to provide suitable music,’ and he took the Storch up into the safety of the dark clouds.

It was the second part of the journey which was particularly arduous, cutting across to the east coast of Denmark and then up across the Skagerrak, refuelling at a small Luftwaffe base at Kristiansand for the final run. It was pitch dark when they reached Bergen and cold, very cold, a little sleet mixed with the rain as they landed. Neumann had contacted the base half an hour earlier to notify their arrival. There were lights in the control tower and the buildings, a poor blackout. The German occupying forces in Norway knew that the end was near, that there was no possibility of an Allied invasion. It simply wasn’t necessary. An aircraftsman with a torch in each hand guided them to a parking place then walked away. Bormann could see a Kubelwagen driving towards them. It stopped on the other side of the parked aircraft of which there were several.

Neumann switched off. ‘So, we made it, Herr Reichsleiter. Rather different from Berlin.’

‘You did well,’ Bormann said. ‘You’re a fine pilot.’

‘Let me get your bag for you.’

Bormann got down to the ground and Neumann passed him the bag. Bormann said, ‘Such a pity you recognized me,’ and he took the silenced Mauser from his greatcoat pocket and shot him through the head.

The man standing beside the Kubelwagen was a naval officer and he wore the white-topped cap affected by U-boat commanders. He was smoking a cigarette and he dropped it to the ground and stamped on it as Bormann approached.

‘General Strasser?’

‘That’s right,’ Bormann told him.

‘Korvettenkapitän Paul Friemel.’ Friemel gave him a half salute. ‘Commanding U180.’

Bormann tossed his bag into the rear of the Kubelwagen and eased himself into the passenger seat. As the other man got behind the wheel, the Reichsleiter said, ‘Are you ready for sea?’

‘Absolutely, General.’

‘Good, then we’ll leave at once.’

‘At your orders, General,’ Friemel said and drove away.

Bormann took a deep breath, he could smell the sea on the wind. Strange, but instead of feeling tired he was full of energy and he lit a cigarette and leaned back, looking up at the stars and remembering Berlin only as a bad dream.

1992

1

Just before midnight it started to rain as Dillon pulled in the Mercedes at the side of the road, switched on the interior light and checked his map. Klagenfurt was twenty miles behind which meant that the Yugoslavian border must be very close now. There was a road sign a few yards further on and he took a torch from the glove compartment, got out of the car and walked towards it, whistling softly, a small man, no more than five feet four or five with hair so fair that it was almost white. He wore an old black leather flying jacket with a white scarf at his throat and dark blue jeans. The sign showed Fehring to the right and five kilometres further on. He showed no emotion, simply took a cigarette from a silver case, lit it with an old-fashioned Zippo lighter and returned to the car.