The Vatican's Last Secret

by Francis Joseph Smith

  In accordance with Hitler's last will and testament, Joseph Goebbels, the former Minister of Propaganda, became the new Head of Government and Chancellor of Germany. Wasting no time Goebbels and Martin Bormann sent a radio message to Admiral Dönitz informing him of Hitler's death. In accordance with Hitler's last wishes, Dönitz was appointed as the new President of Germany.

  Telegram sent from The Fuehrer bunker on May 1, 1945:

  To: GRAND ADMIRAL DOENITZ –

  Secret -- urgent

  Our leader, The Fuehrer, died yesterday at 15:30 hours. His Will and Testament appoints you as Reich President, Reich Minister Dr. Goebbels as Reich Chancellor, and Bormann as Party Minister. Time and form of announcement to the Press and to the troops is left to you. Bormann, Horst Myers, and Mikel Drunz intend to break out of the city to inform you of the Swiss and Vatican holdings. Vatican will assist.

  Confirm receipt.

  -- GOEBBELS.

  Goebbels' tenure as Reich Chancellor was brief. A few hours after sending this telegram, he poisoned his six children with cyanide capsules. Several hours later, he and his wife emerged from the Fuehrer bunker into the chancellery garden where they were shot, at their own request, by an SS orderly, doused with gasoline, and set afire.

  At the same time, in the Fuehrer bunker, several groups of women and soldiers gathered in preparation for a mass escape. Nominally under the command of Martin Bormann, they planned to follow tunnels that led from the Reich chancellery to the subway line, and then follow the subway line north, under the Friedrichstrasse, to the Friedrichstrasse station a few hundred yards south of the river Spree. At that point they would surface, link up with what was left of the main German Army battle group, and attempt to force their way across the Weidendammer Bridge, the last remaining bridge leading out of Berlin still in German hands. They would then try and proceed north and west, through the Russian lines, and save themselves as best they could.

  At 11pm the mass escape began. Moving in four, separate, small groups, they proceeded underground, as planned, to the Friedrichstrasse station. Each group moved at a different pace set by its leader. At some time during the escape, the groups lost contact with each other. At the Friedrichstrasse station each would emerge to find the ruins of Berlin in flames, and Russian shells bursting everywhere around them. The first group managed to cross the Spree River by an iron footbridge that ran parallel to the Weidendammer Bridge. The remaining groups likewise emerged at the Friedrichstrasse Station, but there became confused and disoriented by the smoke and rubble. They decided to make their way north along the Friedrichstrasse to the Weidendammer Bridge, where they found their way blocked, at the bridge's north end, by an anti-tank barrier and heavy Russian fire.

  They next withdrew to the south end of the bridge, where they were soon joined by the few remaining German tanks in all of Berlin. Gathering about the tanks, they again pressed forward. Bormann, Horst Myers, and others followed the lead tanks as far as they could. Suddenly, a rocket-propelled grenade struck the lead tank. The violent explosion stunned Bormann, Myers, Drunz, and lightly wounded several others. All decided it best to withdrawal the way they had come.

  Now it was every man for himself. Bormann, Myers, Drunz, and others followed the tracks of the surface railway to the Lehrter station. There Bormann, Myers, and Drunz decided to follow the Invalidienstrasse east. Others, including Arthur Axmann, head of the Hitler Youth, elected to go west. Parting ways, each wished the other good luck. After almost an hour of walking and dodging shellfire, Axmann encountered a Russian patrol blocking his way forward and decided it best to return and try and link up with the route Bormann had taken. Doubling back, he was lucky enough to find the point where they had separated no more than an hour before. After several minutes he realized he was on the right route when he soon found Bormann, Myers and Drunz on their backs, the moonlight reflecting off their faces. Each looked dead. Axmann could see no sign of an explosion, and assumed that they had been shot in the back. As he turned to leave, a hand grabbed his leg. Axmann turned to see Bormann was still alive; evidently he had just been knocked unconscious. Axmann leaned down to Bormann’s side.

  “Can you walk?” he asked. He now could see a thin veil of blood streaming from his ears.

  Bormann looked at him for several seconds, astonished, constantly shaking his head as if it would help stop the incessant ringing. The last thing he said he remembered was the shrill of an incoming Russian shell. Now, he had to deal with one hell of a headache. He leaned up on his elbows and, for a moment, wondered where he was. With some minor effort, Axmann helped Bormann to his feet. Bormann nodded his thanks.

  Bormann looked at his surroundings before turning to Axmann. “I am assuming the route you took is cut off?” he said matter of factly, still trying to shake off the effects of the earlier explosion.

  “The Russian bastards are like ants,” replied Axmann. “They are everywhere. I would think it’s only a matter of a few hours before the city capitulates to the Bolsheviks.”

  Bormann nodded in agreement before he walked over to where Myers and Drunz lay on their backs, wounded. Between himself and Axmann they managed to roll each over on their stomachs, both now able to see their backs riddled with shrapnel. Myers let out a small cry. To their left lay a two meter wide hole from an artillery shell. Myers and Drunz had evidently shielded Bormann from its effects.

  Bormann turned to Axmann: “We need to lift both of them up and get the hell out of here,” he ordered. “We are going to need their help. Each has separate bank codes and they know where the gold is located.”

  Russian shells were now dropping all around their position. In between the shell bursts, Russian voices could be heard in the distance. They had to hurry. Time was of the essence. The Russian noose was tightening around the last remaining pockets of German resistance.

  Bormann took hold of Myers wrapping his arm around his shoulder. Axmann tried to do the same with Drunz but Drunz waved him off saying he was okay to travel. Drunz pointed to the right saying it was best to continue down Invalidienstrasse. Unfortunately for Drunz, he was caught in Berlin as the last aircraft had left. But luck was on their side this night. Drunz, was also a native Berliner. He knew the back alleys and side streets. He directed them away from the last remnants of the German Army. No doubt the Russian’s would be pressing in that very direction. Using the darkness as cover, Drunz lead them on a scramble from building to building, finally reaching the rear of the Russian lines by early morning. There they huddled in the wreckage of an electrical supply factory until the early evening hour and with luck on their side, on to freedom, escaping from Berlin.

  Over the course of the next week they headed south, traveling by night, sleeping by day, they were able to avoid the Allied and Russian patrols. Once they reached the Bavarian Alps, they spent the next three months hiding out with the Axmann’s Hitler Youth contacts and Myers banking friends. Drunz also used some of his contacts in the Vatican to keep the area they were hiding, secure.

  They needed time until their “new” friends were ready to help them escape to another country, another life.

  This was where Mussolini’s number one man, Licio Gelitoni would help. Well, his former number one, with Mussolini hung by partisans near Lake Como in April 1945.

  Now Licio would be forced to operate independently in order to save his own skin and now provide his special services to the highest bidder.

  He also had it on good authority that Drunz and Myer controlled the monies. He would soon find out if his source was correct…….

  CHAPTER 71

  PRESENT DAY:

  TEL AVIV – MOSSAD HQ

  Captain Silverman stood over the man who had just confessed to being the Commandant of a notorious concentration camp. Not just any camp, but one that was responsible for processing and killing tens of thousands of people in the last months of the war. For the first time in his life Silverman actually felt as if he could kill an unarmed man in cold blood. But thi
s was no man, he was a monster. The man also boasted of his escape with Bormann at the war’s conclusion with assistance from the Vatican’s infamous Rat Line. The Rat Line being an informal network of churches and monasteries whose locations ran from Bavaria in Germany, through Austria, before ending in Genoa, Italy. Each location was responsible for providing accommodations for escaping Nazi’s. Some of the larger locations even had the capability to provide them with forged documents and new identities.

  The intelligence analysts sitting in the adjacent room sat in silence for most of Heber’s story, tears streaming down their faces. Each looked to the other for some form of comfort since most had lost someone to butchers just like Heber. They took minor satisfaction knowing that with the help of their recordings of Heber’s confession, the trial would be swift. The bastard probably wouldn’t live out the month before justice would find him.

  “So you see, Herr Silverman,” Heber whispered, a hint of cockiness about him, “I feel as though we Germans did the world a favor by eliminating certain people.”

  Silverman took a deep breath, held it for several seconds, then another. He had to remain in control of the situation; show no emotion. He couldn’t react to Heber’s taunts. It would only take Silverman two seconds to push the bridge of Heber’s nose into his skull, killing him instantly.

  Heber smiled at Silverman. He knew, at least for the moment, he held the upper hand. It felt good to be on top once more, thought Heber. Now he would push them over the edge, for he still had one more ace to play.

  In a low, confident voice, Silverman continued. “So can you tell us about the three kilos of Uranium-235 we found on the ship? In your story, you spoke nothing of how you received, nor on what how you were planning to use it.” He resumed his pacing around Heber, him trying to regain his prior form. “Our Intelligence says the Uranium was still packaged in its original Nazi lead-lined case. We also did a little digging into your train ride back in 1945. When the train was found in Austria, it still had the original manifest detailing every piece of looted treasure that was supposedly on board. Of course it was minus the gold, silver and uranium. We know what you stole. Hell, you just confessed to it only minutes ago. Just tell me where the rest of the Uranium -235 is located? The manifest states six kilos yet you were only carrying three kilos on the ship. Where are the other three?” he commanded, his voice rising. “Where are the other three kilos?” slamming his fist on the table in a momentary fit of rage.

  Heber looked to Silverman, smiling once more as he did, the smile conveying much more. “My I have another cigarette?” he asked, his tone slightly demanding. “And some water to go with it?” Heber leaned back in his chair awaiting Silverman’s response. It was all just a game to him.

  Silverman pulled a half-empty pack of Marlboro’s from his shirt pocket, tossing them and a pack of matches onto the table. He then grabbed the pitcher of water from a side table, refilling Heber’s glass. In silence he returned the pitcher to the side table, staring at the wall for several seconds before turning back to face Heber. “Okay you have what you want old man, now talk.”

  Heber nodded to Silverman as he slowly extracted a cigarette, placing it to his lips before striking a match. He inhaled slightly, relishing the taste of what probably would be his last smoke. He then pointed to his wrist. “My watch was confiscated when I was captured by your gang of pirates. Can you please tell me the time?”

  Silverman looked annoyed. He pulled his mobile phone from his pants pocket. “Its 10:35am,” he spat out in disgust. “Now get on with it.”

  “And may I trouble you for the date?” Heber asked. “Since I have been locked up in this concrete box I have lost all sense of time.”

  Silverman paused for a moment, knowing it to be the twelfth but thinking better of telling him the actual date. “The thirteenth,” he lied. “If you know what is good for you, you’ll start talking.”

  Heber realized his men would be in-place by now, at least if everything went according to plan. They better be, he thought to himself, he had paid them enough. He took two, long luxurious puffs of the cigarette before choosing to extinguish it on the table. “These things are bad for my health,” he said, laughing at his sick attempt at a joke. “Okay, let’s start with the product that was on the ship.” Heber paused, the pause planned. “You and your men caught me with the three kilos that I was providing, free of charge mind you, to the Palestinians.”

  Silverman turned his back on Heber, panic evident on his face, looking into the two-way mirror as he stalled for time trying to compose himself. After several seconds he turned back to face Heber. “What was their intent with the three kilos?” he said in a tone slightly elevated.

  Heber laughed aloud. “What do think they would do? What would you do with three kilos if you were a Palestinian?”

  Silverman looked to the ceiling trying to clear his head. “A dirty bomb,” he mumbled aloud before looking back to Heber.

  Heber nodded. “That’s right. A dirty bomb in Jerusalem,” he replied coldly.

  Silverman had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach. “What about the missing three kilos?”

  Heber smiled once more at Silverman, knowing the operation he funded should already be in-place. “I gave it to the Iranians. I believe they in-turn provided it to a radical Jordanian group who should have crossed your border sometime earlier this morning.”

  Silverman moved swiftly, grabbing Heber forcefully by the lapels of his prison uniform, lifting him from his chair. “And what did they plan on doing with it?” he commanded.

  Heber recognized he was a dead man either way. The least he could try and do was exact some form of satisfaction in seeing his enemy’s reaction. “Of course you are too young to remember how great Germany was at one time,” he replied confidently. “We ruled all of Europe and North Africa. We controlled the Sea’s. We were within months of winning the war until those bastard Americans came in on the side of the Allies.”

  Silverman saw his opportunity to take a measured swipe at Heber’s interpretation of history. “I guess you forgot that the Americans only declared war on the Japanese but your Hitler decided to declare war on them. The Americans in-turn had no choice but to declare war on Germany.”

  “You stick with your version of history, I’ll stick with mine,” he replied defiantly.

  Silverman had enough of the Nazi bastard gloating on the past. He effortlessly withdrew his service 9mm from the base of his back, knowing he had 30 seconds before someone from the other room could respond and reach the two of them. He shoves the 9mm into Heber’s mouth. “S/S Colonel Manfred Heber, start talking or I will scatter your brain matter against that far wall in three seconds.”

  Heber’s eyes went wide at the sudden change in Silverman’s demeanor. He nodded obediently. Silverman withdrew the weapon and started counting. “One, two…”

  “He looked him straight into his eyes before replying “Tel Aviv. It’s the back-up plan. If I succeeded, we would have hit both Tel Aviv and Jerusalem. I think our actions would have set you back many years.”

  Silverman looked to the two-way mirror in horror. He realized they had only hours to stop tens of thousands of innocents from dying.

  CHAPTER 72

  PRESENT DAY: BEIRUT, LEBANON

  Hezbollah's longtime leader, Sheik Hassan Nasrallah, sat back in a leather chair, sipping a cup of strong tea, reading the latest paper briefing from his intelligence officers. Around him, his aides scurried about in anticipation of the American Ambassadors arrival. This was considered a major coup for the Sheik since Ambassador Folkes was considered in Hezbollah circles as the Head CIA spy in the Middle East.

  The Ambassador had requested the get-together with assistance from Licio Gelitoni knowing that only Gelitoni could make such backdoor dealings happen. The get-together was called under the ruse of a truce. With Licio’s untimely death, it would, no doubt, be harder to arrange such gatherings in the future.

  Sheik Hassan Nasrallah’s group
held the distinction for killing more Americans than any other terrorist group until September 2001, when Al Qaeda assumed that role. Long considered one of the CIA's toughest adversaries, Hezbollah had for years been improving their ability to hunt and kill its enemies. The Israelis could vouch for this, with Hezbollah relying on patience and guile to exploit counterintelligence holes, acting more like a well-disciplined Army than a terrorist group. But Hezbollah did not get along with Al Qaeda, Sunni versus Shiite. And of course, Iran backed Hezbollah, depositing between $100 million and $200 million per year into a Hezbollah controlled bank, that is, as long as oil prices stayed at a high price.

  This was exactly what Ambassador Folkes hoped to exploit: Sunni versus Shite; the historic split in the schism that occurred when the Islamic prophet Muhammad died in the year 632, leading to a dispute over succession to Muhammad as a caliph of the Islamic community that spread across various parts of the world. If he could get each group to focus on the other, and away from the US, maybe, just maybe, he could get a breather to rebuild his operations. He had to. The CIA's operations in Lebanon had been badly damaged after Hezbollah Intelligence identified and captured a record number of U.S. spies. Not Americans, but locals who were in their employ. Sheik Hassan Nasrallah boldly boasted on Lebanese television that his people had rooted out at least twelve CIA spies who had infiltrated the ranks of Hezbollah. He went on to state that each was summarily executed after a short trial.

  Of course, the U.S. Embassy in Lebanon officially denied Nasrallah’s accusation. They had to. It was a perverse game that each government was forced to play.

  But CIA officials secretly had been scrambling to protect their remaining spies — foreign assets or agents working for the agency — before Hezbollah could find, and of course, eliminate them.