Hitler's Secret (2 page)

The prime minister, Winston Churchill, strode briskly up the path leading directly from the River Thames to the Tower of London. His visit was supposed to be incognito, but in spite of a common beige gabardine raincoat and a dark Homburg hat pulled low, he was an unmistakable figure. The guards in kilts and bearskins who were guarding the entrance of the White Tower saluted crisply as he approached.

At Churchill’s side was another man. At least twenty years younger, he was tall with a pronounced nose, his receding hair a mousy brown. His eyes were gray, with dark shadows beneath them, perhaps from lack of sleep. He wore the uniform of an admiral of the Royal Navy, but was in fact a key member of the London Controlling Section, the prime minister’s ultra-secret intelligence and operations group, dedicated to defeating Adolf Hitler by covert means.

The admiral showed one of the guards his identification. It seemed perhaps a little unnecessary, given whom he was accompanying, but nevertheless the guard observed strict protocol and inspected the document carefully before saluting smartly once more and unlocking the heavy oak door.

“Well, MacPherson,” Churchill said as they stepped inside, “perhaps we will find a way of profiting from this strange business.”

A minute later they stood in a small soundproofed anteroom staring through a two-way mirror on the wall. In the cell beyond the mirror a dark-haired man limped from one wall to another with the help of a cane. Jet-black on top, his hair was shorn at the sides, but his eyebrows were thick, almost meeting above his piercing eyes. Rudolf Hess, Deputy Führer of the Third Reich.

Admiral MacPherson couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of wonder that the second most powerful man in Nazi Germany had flown solo from Germany by night, parachuted into Scotland, and was now imprisoned here in the Tower of London. It was a very strange set of circumstances indeed. His unexpected arrival had stunned not just the British but, if the press were to be believed, the Germans as well.

Hess had managed to break his ankle when landing in Scotland, and it was now in a plaster cast. This didn’t seem to stop his pacing, and he shot an occasional look at the mirror, his brow furrowed. He appeared to be deep in thought.

“Is he insane?” Churchill wasn’t wasting any time.

“We don’t think so,” replied MacPherson. He had just read a report of the latest interrogation to discover the reasons for Hess’s defection.

“Well, his ideas sound pretty far-fetched. He might have defected because he didn’t agree with Hitler’s invasion of the Balkans. But to have organized some incredible plot to depose the Führer so he can save his life? And that somehow this girl will set the ball rolling?” Churchill shook his head.

“I agree, it does sound less than rational.” MacPherson shrugged. “But it is clear he felt it was achievable — with our help.”

“Well, whatever harebrained plan the man thought up is irrelevant now. He has made his bed and he will have to lie in it. In the meantime the only matter that concerns us is this child.” The prime minister paused. “Admiral, do you believe she is who he says she is?”

MacPherson nodded. “I do. We have gone over the facts with him a dozen times. Besides, he has no reason to lie.”

“In that case, she is invaluable.” Churchill turned to the door. He had made up his mind. “Come along, MacPherson, we have work to do.”

They walked back down the path towards Traitors’ Gate, where the river launch had waited on the incoming tide to take the prime minister back to Westminster.

“Are we managing to keep Herr Hess’s whereabouts secret from Schellenberg’s agents in London?” Churchill asked.

“I’m confident of that, Prime Minister,” replied MacPherson. “So far as the German security service is aware, the Deputy Führer was moved from here to Windsor five days ago. We have a serviceable double there to keep their spies occupied.”

“Excellent work, Admiral.”

“You really think this girl can help us?” asked MacPherson as they approached the boat.

Churchill glanced up at the barrage balloons before he answered. “In the last month, Greece has fallen, Crete has fallen, and the Afrika Korps have us on the run in the Western Desert, so perhaps Egypt and the oil fields of Arabia will fall, too. Hitler’s U-boats are sinking half a million tons of shipping a week in the Atlantic, and our planes are being shot out of the sky faster than we can build them.” He took out a cigar and rolled it between his fingers. “Not only that, but the Americans steadfastly refuse to declare war on Germany, so we stand alone. And we are losing, let us make no bones about it. Having this girl will give us a victory we badly need, a propaganda victory. It will stiffen our side’s morale, win the hearts and minds of decent people in Germany, and deal a blow to the Führer that will strike at his very core.”

“He’ll never let her out of Germany alive if he so much as suspects our intentions,” said MacPherson.

“Then you must ensure he does not get a whiff of our plans, Admiral. This matter is above and beyond top secret, for your eyes only. Time is short. I assume you have agents on standby for instant action?”

“Of course, Prime Minister,” he replied smoothly.

“Good chap. I knew I could rely on you.” Churchill patted him on the arm and stepped onto the gangplank.

MacPherson saluted the prime minister smartly, but already his mind was spinning.

He didn’t have agents on standby. Not the kind he would need, anyway. German-speaking agents were thin on the ground, to say the least, and the ones they had were already known to Hitler’s security services. Now he had no more than two weeks to find and train top-class operatives that could get into Germany and back out again — with the most precious cargo in the Reich. How on earth could it be done?

The boy was running across his school’s cobbled courtyard as fast as he had across the bullet-riddled sands of Dunkirk a year ago.

He reached the entrance to the chapel tower and took the stone steps three at a time. It wasn’t easy. The treads were narrow, worn in the middle, and he was wearing studded cricket boots, which made him slide. He was still wearing his cricket whites, too, the knees scuffed green from a fumbled catch earlier in the afternoon. The air was stifling and he was dripping with sweat. He reached the door to the roof, and slammed back the bolt with the side of his hand. He gasped in pain as his knuckles, skinned red and raw, slid along the rough wooden door. Behind him he could hear the clatter of other cricket boots.

He stumbled onto the roof of the chapel. The English countryside lay spread out around him, the playing fields and cricket pitch away to the left. He heard a shout behind, and turned. Four members of his team were advancing towards him. The captain, Catchpole, was wielding a cricket bat.

“I’m really going to kill you this time,” he said.

“Just leave me alone, Catchpole,” said the boy. His accent had improved considerably since he had been dragged from the water at Dunkirk, and he was almost a young man now, taller and thinner. On arrival in England he had given the authorities the name of his father’s English friend, a chemistry professor at Cambridge, who had greeted him kindly, then sent him to this place. He must have thought he was being generous.

“Why should I, Nazi Boy?” sneered Catchpole. If there was one insult he hated above all the ones that were hurled at him, it was “Nazi Boy.” And they knew it. The boy looked around for some kind of weapon, but there was nothing to hand. It was fight or run, and, as there didn’t seemed to be anywhere to run to, fight it was, even though he knew he would take a beating. He raised his fists and planted his feet anyway, waiting for their charge.

Then his eye caught something behind them. New scaffolding up the side of the tower. A rope hung from it.

As the youths charged, the boy darted to his right and was past his pursuers before they could turn and give chase. He
reached the end of the roof and climbed onto the crenellated parapet. The scaffolding was about six feet away; the ground beneath many more. He could make it. He threw himself forward across the gap, landing with a thud on wooden planks, then grabbed hold of the rope. He turned. Catchpole was standing on the parapet, looking at the gap. He didn’t seem in any hurry to jump.

The boy tightened his grip on the rope and swung out. He sailed through the air like a pirate swooping between two ships, dropped with a satisfying thump on the roof of the dining hall, then scrambled down onto the main school roof. He turned on his heel and ran blindly on — missing the open skylight in his path …

With a startled yell, he fell straight through the hole, landing on a large round table, then crashing onto the floor, papers cascading around him.

Grimacing with the pain and trying to catch his breath, he glanced up at the skylight. Catchpole was staring down at him. The cricket captain slowly ran his finger across his throat, then disappeared from view.

“So glad you could drop in,” said Professor Maddox.

The boy scrambled to his feet and smoothed back his hair as the dust settled in the room. He was really in trouble now.

“You know, your behavior continues to confound all standards of English decency,” continued the headmaster. As he
spoke, the boy noticed there was another man in the room, sitting opposite. A tall, thin man, with keen gray eyes. He was dressed in a light summer suit and puffing on a cigar.

“Sorry, sir.”

“Stand up straight when you speak to me!” Maddox barked, his eyes darkening. “This is Admiral MacPherson of His Majesty’s Royal Navy.”

The young man stood to attention and swiveled his eyes to the other man.

MacPherson was studying him carefully. “That was quite an entrance,” he said.

Maddox rose from his chair. “Incredible as it seems, the admiral has a proposition for you.” He couldn’t hide the disdain in his voice. “I’ll tell you again, Admiral,” he added in an acid tone, “this boy is trouble.”

“That’s the sort we need,” MacPherson replied.

“Yes,” said the boy. “The answer is yes.”

Both men looked at him sharply.

“What?” Maddox said.

“To the admiral’s proposition, sir, yes.”

“You don’t even know what he’s going to ask you, you foolish child!” Maddox said, exasperated.

“Does it get me out of this place, sir?” the boy asked.

MacPherson nodded. “It does.”

“Then my answer is yes.”

“I told you he was a half-wit. I’m afraid your journey’s been wasted, Admiral.”

MacPherson ignored the headmaster. He stubbed his cigar out in the ashtray. “Go and clean up, get your things, young man. My car is outside.”

“I’ll do that, sir.” The boy grinned, then looked at the headmaster, waiting to be dismissed.

Maddox was incandescent with rage, but could do nothing. “Get out,” he said.

The boy needed no second invitation.

Back in his dormitory, he changed out of his cricket whites and pulled on a short-sleeved gray Aertex shirt, a dark blazer, gray trousers, and black shoes. Then he slid under the metal-framed single bed and pried up the floorboard he’d previously loosened to use as a hiding place. He reached down into the cavity and retrieved a small metal tin. Inside were a five-pound note, some coins, his father’s gold watch, and a new British identity card. He glanced at the watch’s face, the hands still frozen at 3:20
P.M.

The dormitory was hot and airless and mercifully silent. He put the watch into his blazer pocket, and everything else into a canvas backpack, along with a few other clothes. He left the school uniform behind.

The boy hurried back through the school, past a group of classmates who jeered and gave him the Nazi salute. He
ignored them and kept walking until he reached the dining hall. He stopped outside the main door and listened. The two cricket teams were inside having tea. He could hear the familiar voices and laughter of his tormentors. He peeked inside.

“… And then the dirty little sausage-eater started screaming for his mummy and daddy.” Catchpole was enjoying embellishing the tale. “
Mutti, Vati
…” The others were laughing hysterically as he leaped up from the table and began to goose-step around, holding two of his fingers horizontally under his nose, mimicking Hitler’s mustache. “
Vater, Vater
—” He suddenly stopped as he saw the boy at the door. Silence fell.

The boy walked across the room. “I’ll say good-bye then, Catchpole.”

He landed his punch full in Catchpole’s face, square on the bridge of his nose. He even heard the bone crack. Then he turned and walked calmly back to the door as Catchpole’s knees hit the wooden floor and his hands rose to catch the blood spurting from his shattered septum. The other cricket players were frozen to the spot.

As soon as the boy stepped out of the hall, he sprinted towards the school’s entrance. A moment later and a roar of angry voices erupted from inside. If they caught him now, he was a dead man.

Admiral MacPherson was standing beside a blue Hudson parked in the driveway.

The boy slammed to a halt beside him, his shoes skidding on the gravel.

“I’m ready to leave, sir,” he said, gasping for breath.

“Now, just a minute,” said MacPherson, resting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “We mustn’t be too hasty here.”

Behind them came the shouts and yells of the enraged cricket mob.

“Really, sir, it’s fine, let’s go.” The boy looked anxiously back. The mob had appeared at the school’s entrance, about fifty yards away. They were baying like hounds for blood.

“What the British government is asking of you,” said MacPherson, “is extremely dangerous. In fact, I’ll be blunt, it could be life threatening.”

The mob was almost upon them. Two weeks in the sick bay was the minimum he was looking at for breaking Catchpole’s nose. And when he came out, his life would be hell.

“I understand, sir. Really, I do. Can we please go?” The boy was almost pleading now.

“You’re sure?” MacPherson said.

The mob was ten yards away.

“Yes!”

“As you wish.”

MacPherson stepped aside and the boy threw himself inside the car. The admiral followed smartly, slamming the door behind him.

“Go!” he ordered the driver.

The car’s wheels spun on the gravel as the mob reached the car. The boy turned to look back through the rear window. His tormentors were standing impotently in the driveway, sprayed by the dust thrown up from the tires. He flicked them Churchill’s famous two-fingered “Victory” sign and settled back into the leather seat, for a moment savoring his settling of scores and the successful escape.

“Quite a send-off,” MacPherson remarked drily.

The boy reached into his jacket and felt for his father’s watch. It was still there.

“You saved my life,” he said, his heart thumping.