Secrets of the Last Nazi

by Iain King

  Myles nodded, thoughtfully. ‘So what did you find there?’

  ‘Mr Munro – Myles – you see, I’ve heard of you. You’re the military history guy with the unusual theories about war, right?’

  Myles didn’t respond. He didn’t care about his reputation. His silence confirmed the doctor was right.

  The doctor checked Myles’ bandages as he continued. ‘… And you see, Mr Munro, every brain is different. They’re unique – like fingerprints. And yours is unique too.’

  Myles tried to understand the diagnosis. ‘So my brain is unique, like everybody else’s?’

  ‘Yes. But yours is very unique – different,’ said the doctor. ‘Let me show you the images, to explain.’

  Myles waved his hand, ‘Don’t bother with that, just tell me what it means.’

  ‘Well, you might think in an unusual way, Mr Munro.’ The doctor watched to see Myles’ reaction. There was none; Myles just stared back at the doctor.

  Myles already knew he was odd. ‘Highly gifted but too ready to challenge authority’, was one official description. Some had said he was a misfit. Others said he was clumsy, couldn’t spell and had a problem reading aloud. His memory was extraordinarily good for abstract facts and dates, but hopeless for normal things, like where he’d left his keys.

  ‘So I’m different. So?’ asked Myles.

  The doctor nodded, calmly observing Myles’ face. Then he tried to cushion his words. ‘It means, Mr Munro, that you may experience life a little differently to other people.’

  ‘Everybody experiences life differently – don’t they?’

  The doctor was stumped, and started picking at his white coat. ‘If we may, we’d like to put you on a research programme. We think there might be a link between the shape of people’s brains and the lives they lead. We want to study you – to see if there’s a match between your brain and your behaviour …’ The doctor could see Myles was unsure about the idea. ‘…Oh, and we’d pay you.’

  The offer of money had no impact on Myles. ‘Would I have to come back here?’

  ‘Probably,’ confirmed the doctor. ‘Yes.’

  Myles started shaking his head. ‘Then, Doctor, the answer is no.’

  The doctor nodded his understanding. ‘You’re probably still in shock from your accident. Let me know if you change your mind. It’s actually quite amazing that you’ve not had problems before. Anyway, I think you’re booked for another examination in about half an hour, in the fracture unit in the east wing, ground floor. I’ll check.’ The doctor retreated from the room, humbled.

  Alone again, Myles thought more about the doctor’s offer. Research – Myles did enough of that in his university job. But research for him meant reading – or at least trying to read, since he was not very good at it. Myles would dig up old military facts from obscure sources and try to make sense of them. He’d never been the subject of research before. Apart from that one time, when the media had decided to research everything about him.

  Although Myles was usually curious, nothing made him curious about himself. There were so many more interesting things to discover.

  But deep down, Myles knew the real reason he didn’t want to be ‘researched’.

  He looked up at the hospital ceiling. It was antiseptic white. Dead white.

  He remembered coming to a room just like this one when his mother was thin. Deathly thin, like all those concentration camp survivors liberated from the horrors in 1945. His mother had died just a few days later – at the hands of the medical establishment. Cancer. They had said it was treatable. All the statistics, all the odds, all the numbers said she should have survived. It was a minor cancer – treatable, removable. Curable.

  Yet they had all failed.

  They’d put her on a drug trial. A double-blind, randomised control trial – funny pills twice a day, given to her and lots of other desperate people. Only after his mother was dead did Myles learn her pills were only placebos. Fakes. Had her death helped to prove something? Had she helped the numbers? To the teenage Myles, it seemed more like his mother had been sacrificed for the statistics.

  No calculus of chance and statistics was going to dictate his life. Not any more – the drug trial had already dictated his mother’s death, and that was enough. As the nurses came to collect his trolley, Myles knew he would refuse to take part in the research.

  And if the doctors really could use a scan of his brain to predict his behaviour, then they should have predicted his answer already.

  Eight

  Quai D’Orsay,

  Paris, France

  2.15 p.m. CET (1.15 p.m. GMT)

  * * *

  Flight Lieutenant Jean-Francoise Pigou exhaled in disgust, shaking his head and tutting loudly at the TV. The only customer in the café, he raised his hand at the screen, inviting the café manager to red card the referee with him.

  The café owner smiled: Pigou might not be the most gifted military secondee ever to stride through the ornate halls of France’s Foreign Ministry, the Quai D’Orsay, but he could be relied upon to keep everyone up-to-date with the progress of the Paris St Germain football team. The flight lieutenant’s enthusiasm for the game had filled the whole café more than once. He had charm, even if he was completely undiplomatic. It would be a pity when Pigou’s secondment ended, and the officer would return to his normal work, with the French air force.

  Jean-Francoise’s anger at the referee’s decision evaporated when a young, professional-looking woman came towards him, a thin folder of papers in her hand. Jean-Francoise stood up to meet her. ‘Carine – you’ve come to watch with me?’

  Carine smiled, but sat down with her back to the TV. ‘No, but I knew I could find you here. Is the game over yet?’

  ‘Not yet,’ said Jean-Francoise, gesturing, ‘but the result is known’

  ‘Good, then I can give you this.’

  The flight lieutenant took the folder with a puzzled expression. ‘Thank you. What’s inside?’

  ‘A short trip for you – to Berlin.’

  Jean-Francoise tipped his head in gratitude. ‘Tell me more.’

  Carine settled herself in her seat as she explained. ‘There’s a very old German guy, Werner Stolz, who just died. He used to be SS. The Russians démarched the Americans about him.’

  Pigou had just learned enough from his immersion in the Foreign Ministry to understand that a démarche was an official reprimand issued by one country to another, diplomat to diplomat. ‘So how did I win a trip to Berlin?’

  ‘The Americans agreed to an investigation, calling the Russian’s bluff. I reckon it means there must be nothing to investigate. Your assignment could be short.’

  Jean-Francoise chuckled, ‘I understand: I am the perfect choice for an unimportant mission.’ He made clear he wasn’t at all insulted. ‘I like Berlin. But why do they want a Frenchman?’

  Carine’s face reacted to show that even a French career diplomat could be surprised occasionally. ‘Well, you see, the Russians have been a bit clever. They did their démarche through a very old protocol – from the Yalta conference, of 1945. It means the United States have to give equal status to Russia, and equal access to all assets of the defeated Germany, including all the Third Reich’s information. As a side-effect, it means there’s also a role for the other Allied powers, France and Britain.’

  ‘So this treaty means I’m going along as a side-effect?’ queried the French airman.

  ‘Yes, Jean-Francoise, but I’m sure you’ll put yourself in the centre of things.’

  Nine

  Foreign and Commonwealth Office,

  King Charles Street, London

  1.35 p.m. GMT

  * * *

  Simon Charfield, assistant deployments manager at the British Foreign Office, arrived back at his computer, still eating his sandwich. He entered his password one-handed, and waited for the new emails to load up. Meanwhile, his eyes drifted out of the window – towards the queue outside Churchill’s cabinet war
rooms. The bunker from which the British Prime Minister had sheltered from the Blitz always drew tourists. As a human resources specialist in the diplomatic service, Simon often wondered what the holidaymakers did for work, and whether any of the British ones might just be suitable for the ‘ad hoc assignments’ it was his duty to fill.

  The manager turned back to the screen, and immediately discounted the diplomatic telegrams – ‘Diptels’ – which analysed events around the world. The Middle East peace process, the latest news from Zimbabwe, details about a key election in the Far East – none of it was for him. There was another email chain, all about a British secondee whom he had selected recently for the border monitoring mission in Georgia, which he just ignored. The most important email, he understood quickly, was one from UKMIS – the British diplomatic mission to the United Nations in New York.

  * * *

  IMMEDIATE: UK Secondee required for International Investigation Team (Berlin).

  * * *

  Simon read the email and understood quickly: a UK national was required to join a team also comprising nominees from the US, France and Russia. The Briton on the team, the email reckoned, would add most value if he or she was expert in military history, able to travel swiftly to Germany, and felt comfortable accepting a US lead. Immediately, he knew who he should send.

  He double-clicked on his database icon, and a separate window opened on the screen. Simon whizzed through the fields, ticking boxes for ‘short-term assignment’, ‘Europe’, and ‘previous experience of multi-national work’, then, in the box for additional criteria, typed in the words, ‘military history expert’. As ever, the computer took less than a second to check through the thousands of pre-cleared deployable civilians on the database. But, because Charfield had added the extra requirement of ‘military history expert’, it meant far fewer names came up than usual. In fact, just one name:

  Myles Munro.

  Just as he had expected. And because there was only one candidate and the appointment was urgent, he wouldn’t even need to bother with an interview.

  Other processes, though, would still have to be followed. Dutifully, he clicked on the name. More information came up, which he scrolled through:

  * * *

  Name: Myles Munro

  Occupation: Lecturer in military history, Oxford University

  Previous work:Various.

  Psychological:Detached, problem-solver;

  Exceptionally intelligent (0.1%);

  Not recommended for leadership positions,

  or work requiring compliance;

  Authority issues *

  * * *

  Charfield had put the asterisk there himself, a reminder that there was a story about the person which was too sensitive for the computerised records. Usually, he scribbled it on a removable yellow post-it note. If ever there was a Freedom of Information request about the individual, he could peel off the note, so it didn’t need to be submitted. He kept reading.

  * * *

  Physical description: Height – 6’4’ (1.93cm)

  Weight - 168lbs / 76 kg

  BMI – 20.4 (slim)

  Fitness Assessment - very fit*

  Previous assignments…

  * * *

  Another asterisk? He’d hadn’t noticed the second asterisk on Munro’s file before. Succumbing to his curiosity, he moved over to the filing cabinet and fetched out the slim cardboard cover which bound together the sheets of A4 on Myles Munro. The first yellow note fluttered out as he opened the folder. It was the note he had scribbled himself:

  * * *

  Myles Munro may be healthy and physically very fit. But I don’t know how the hell he passed his driving text – he can barely tie his shoelaces. He’s less coordinated than a kitten on YouTube.

  * * *

  Simon Charfield laughed at his own wit, but quickly sensed others in the office were turning towards him, so he pretended to cough instead, and buried his head in the folder.

  He searched for the other note. What was there on file about Myles Munro’s ‘authority issues’? He looked, but couldn’t find it. All he could see was something else handwritten – again, in his own handwriting - slipped into the ‘previous assignment’ parts of his notes. It bore just one word:

  Exonerated.

  * * *

  It was true. Myles Munro had been accused of terrorism, and lambasted by the newspapers for it. There were probably people who still thought he was guilty. But Charfield knew the truth: Myles Munro was the most effective individual on his database. Even if he was sometimes a little bit too individual.

  Charfield knew he had to confirm Myles Munro’s security clearance for an assignment like this. He checked: Munro had been tested, and passed. The only remark listed under ‘noteworthy risks’ referred to his long-term partner, who was a journalist and a foreign national. The assistant deployments manager recognised the woman’s name – he’d seen her interviewing important people on TV, usually ripping them apart. Then he remembered the words from the Diptel: ‘Candidate must … be comfortable accepting a US lead’. Munro was perfect for the job.

  He flicked to the contact details. Stuck over the address and telephone number for Munro’s college in Oxford was yet another small peel-off square of yellow. He had found the missing note on ‘authority issues’ – more hand-written words, this time written in a loopy, feminine script, from one of his predecessors:

  * * *

  This candidate asked me if I was a bureaucrat. When I admitted I was, he wasn’t interested.

  * * *

  He wondered about the words. What if Myles Munro turned down this assignment?

  Simon glanced outside again and, watching the queue of tourists outside Churchill’s war-room bunker, an idea came to him – a plan which would make sure Myles Munro said ‘yes’.

  Ten

  St Thomas’ Hospital,

  London

  4 p.m. GMT

  * * *

  Helen thanked the nurse for directing her to the room then, when she saw Myles was asleep, crept in as quietly as she could. She stood over him and examined the small cuts on his face, until she was satisfied the damage was only superficial.

  She squeezed his hand and held it for a moment. When there was no reaction, she whispered into his ear. ‘Myles, it’s me, Helen.’ Then she kissed him.

  Myles rolled his head on the pillow, squinting as he turned towards the lissom silhouette standing next to him. Helen put her hand on his forehead. ‘Well, your brain’s still together.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘So – you looked left when the traffic came from the right, huh?’ She still found it funny that Myles had trouble with his left and right.

  Myles smiled. ‘I didn’t have you looking after me,’ he said, touching her forearm. ‘No, I was chasing someone.’

  Helen nodded. ‘And your leg? The doctor told me you’d need a special bandage …’

  Myles’ expression made clear what he thought of the doctor.

  ‘When you’re better … no more thief chasing please.’ She moved to sit down beside him.

  Myles motioned his eyes towards the medical file on his bedside table. ‘What did the doctor say about my scan?’

  Helen smiled. ‘He asked me about your personality. He said, “We know he’s very intelligent, but do you have any evidence of Mr Munro being odd?”’ She tried her best to emulate the English doctor’s accent. ‘I told him it was a silly question. Looks to me like the oddball is the doctor ...’

  ‘They’re trying to do research on people,’ Myles explained. ‘Using brain scans to predict personality.’

  Helen screwed up her face in revulsion. ‘I hope you said no – I don’t want you to be experimented on, Myles.’ She paused. ‘Although it would be interesting to see what the research said.’

  The door opened. Frank’s head appeared, flustered, as usual. He was carrying a bag which bulged and made it hard for him to walk with his stick. ‘Helen – I’m not interruptin
g, am I …?’

  Helen welcomed him in and gave up her chair.

  Frank sat down and placed his walking stick on the floor. ‘So they put something on your leg, then, Myles?’

  ‘Yeah – a flexi-thing.’ Myles lifted up the grey wrapping around his knee, turning it in curiosity. ‘What do you think?’

  Frank nodded in appreciation of the medical handiwork. ‘You’ll only be limping for a few weeks. After that you’ll be fine.’ Then he delved inside his bag and pulled out some papers. ‘Myles – I remembered what you said about your day job. History’s all happened, and all that? Well, I got you this.’

  He passed a printed-out email to Myles, who held it for Helen to see. ‘It’s a job,’ explained Frank. ‘A short-term assignment – in Berlin … I’ve been asked to see if you might be interested.’

  Myles frowned, already looking sceptical. ‘Why didn’t they ask me directly?’

  ‘Something about last time, I was told,’ replied Frank, baffled. ‘It’s from a friend of mine in Whitehall.’

  ‘Simon Charfield?’ suggested Myles.

  ‘Yes – how did you guess? Anyway, they need a military historian – someone British – to join a Frenchman, a Russian and an American.’

  ‘The old Allied war powers?’

  Frank nodded.

  Helen read through the text with her eyebrows raised. ‘So, a Brit, a Frenchman, a Russian and an American go to Berlin …’ She smirked at Myles. ‘It sounds like the beginning of a joke.’