The Suicide Exhibition

by Justin Richards

  He could not let Himmler see what he truly thought, but Rudolf Hess was appalled.

  He mopped his heavy brow with a handkerchief, his dark eyebrows knitted together as they emerged into the light. Himmler gestured for the door to be sealed behind them before leading the way along a corridor. The only light came from flickering sconces where pools of oil burned and sputtered. The only sound Hess could hear was his own racing heart.

  The final meeting of his visit took place in the Hall of the Generals in the castle’s North Tower. Beneath the high vaulted ceiling, twelve stone seats were arranged in a perfect circle around a green and gold symbol of the sun inlaid in the marble floor.

  Himmler sat facing the Deputy Fuhrer across the circle. Himmler himself was an unimposing man, dwarfed by the room and even the chair he sat on. Everything about him was slight—his close-cut hair, the shadowy mustache, the almost-invisible frames of his round glasses. You could pass him in the street, Hess thought, and not notice the man. Except that here, like the spider at the center of its web, Himmler exuded an aura of absolute control. Here, despite his appearance, there was no mistaking who was in charge.

  The others present were Himmler’s assistant, Sturmbannfuhrer Werner Hoffman, and various generals and other high-ranking SS officers, as well as several white-coated scientists. No one took or spoke from notes.

  The unease and anxiety Hess felt grew with every report he heard. His brain was in a whirl, his senses numbed. Himmler listened intently to everything. He nodded and frowned, murmured corrections and asked for occasional clarification. It was exactly like a hundred other briefing meetings that Rudolf Hess had attended—except for the extraordinary surroundings and the terrifying subject matter.

  “How sure are you of this?” he asked at last. “Of any of this?”

  “You have seen the Vault,” Himmler said. The light reflected off the lenses of his glasses, hiding his small, dark eyes. “You know the legends. Some of what we have told you is speculation. No,” he corrected himself with a thin smile. “Not speculation. It is extrapolation. Theorizing from the facts. Probabilities rather than certainties, I will admit. But there is little room for error, isn’t that right, Sturmbannfuhrer?”

  Sturmbannfuhrer Hoffman had sat still and silent throughout. Now he nodded. “It would seem so, Herr Reichsfuhrer.”

  “It would seem so,” Himmler echoed, his voice quiet and ready. “You see, even the skeptical Sturmbannfuhrer Hoffman is a convert to our cause. And you, my friend, you with your knowledge and background and connections…” He waved a hand in the air as if dismissing the last vestige of doubt.

  Rudolf Hess shifted uneasily. The stone seat was cold and hard and uncomfortable. “The Fuhrer will want to see the process in action. As well as the…” He hesitated, unsure of how to describe what he had been shown. “As well as the artifacts, and the film. He will want proof that these people are not just … artists.”

  Himmler turned to Sturmbannfuhrer Hoffman. “What news of Streicher?” he asked.

  “Standartenfuhrer Streicher reports that his work is going well. Despite the, er, setback and the loss of eleven of his team when they broke into the main chamber.”

  Himmler leaned forward. A pale tongue licked out over his bloodless lips. “Do we have a replacement? Has he found it?”

  His assistant nodded. “He is confident that he has. The inner chamber is just like the first site. They need to proceed with caution. It will be a few days before the air has cleared and they can bring out—”

  “Details,” Himmler snapped. “Urge Streicher to make all speed. Obviously we cannot afford to damage the discovery. But I want it back here as soon as possible.”

  Rudolf Hess’s mouth was dry. “What has Streicher found?”

  “A burial chamber, just like the original site. And inside…”

  In his mind’s eye, the Deputy Fuhrer could see the film replaying again and again as if on a loop. The burial chamber. Streicher and his men opening the casket. The light shone inside, illuminating the contents. And the later footage, back at Wewelsburg.

  Himmler was still speaking, his tone eager, confident, triumphant. “We shall soon have another Ubermensch.”

  * * *

  Hoffman escorted Hess through the castle and back to his waiting car. The Deputy Fuhrer’s heavy eyebrows were knitted together in thought.

  “You seem troubled by what you have seen and heard,” Hoffman said as they emerged into sudden sunlight.

  “No,” Hess said quickly. “I see only opportunities.”

  “You would not be the only one who appreciates the inherent danger in what we are doing,” Hoffman said quietly. He glanced round. “Some might say that the potential risk outweighs the possible reward.”

  “Is that what you think, Surmbannfuhrer?”

  Hoffman smiled grimly. “It really isn’t for me to have an opinion, sir. But I am sure that whatever the Fuhrer decides will be for the best. And I’m sure he will value your judgment and advice.”

  Hess gave a snort of amusement. “I’m not.” He said it before he could stop himself. But once said, it hung in the air between them.

  “The Fuhrer, no doubt, has many things on his mind,” Hoffman said. “Many opinions whispered in his ear. I know that the Reichsfuhrer-SS spoke to him by telephone only yesterday.”

  Hess did not reply. He didn’t know Himmler had spoken to Hitler. What had they said? Was his visit here redundant? No doubt that brute Bormann had listened in, poisoning the Fuhrer’s thoughts with his own view of things.

  “I do not know the Fuhrer,” Hoffman was saying. “Not as you do. We met when I received this, of course.” He tapped the Iron Cross with Oak Leaves and Swords at his throat. It was one of the highest bravery awards the Reich presented. “But,” Hoffman went on, “I think he is perhaps very focused on the current military and political situation. I wonder if we should not be taking a longer-term view.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Hoffman smiled apologetically. “The military benefits of the work we are doing here and the discoveries we have made are obvious. But the implications are worrying. More than that. May I confide in you, Deputy Fuhrer?”

  Hess nodded. His chest tightened as he listened to Hoffman’s words.

  “I have stared death in the face, and felt nothing but determination and anger. I have waded ankle-deep in the blood of my comrades, and not so much as blinked. But what we are doing now, what might happen as a result of our work here—to us, and to the whole world … It terrifies me.”

  Hess felt the blood drain from his face. He was suddenly light-headed.

  “I sense that we are of a similar opinion, sir,” Hoffman went on. “I pray that the Fuhrer will listen to you.”

  “He must,” Hess breathed.

  “Or if he does not,” Hoffman said, “then I pray that someone will. There is no distinction between the Reich and her enemies in this coming war. There is only our world and the forces ranged against it.”

  Hess stared at him, not daring to speak. Fearful of what he might say. Afraid of the thoughts that were creeping into the back of his mind. If the Fuhrer would not listen to his warnings, then who would? All his doubts—about the war with Britain, the coming conflict with Russia, the future of his country … They all aligned behind this new danger.

  The silence was broken by the sharp crack of Hoffman’s heels clicking together. His salute was crisp and smart. “Heil Hitler.”

  Rudolf Hess, Deputy Fuhrer of the Third Reich, did not reply.

  CHAPTER 6

  The Greek politician spoke good English. But he seemed grateful to Guy for making the trip nonetheless.

  “I am sure there are some nuances—is that the word? Some nuances that might cause problems, Major Pentecross,” he said with an apologetic smile. He shook Guy’s hand warmly as the meeting ended.

  The Greek minister’s words mitigated the frustration of another long journey. It was approaching midnight on 10 May 1941 and the plane
was waiting to take the politician back to Crete. Guy was faced with the choice of a spare bed somewhere on the base at RAF Crosby-on-Eden or the prospect of a long ride back to London if he could beg a lift with one of the high-ups who’d attended the meeting.

  He got neither.

  As he handed his notes from the meeting to one of the secretaries to be destroyed, an RAF officer came up to him.

  “Major Pentecross? Telephone. Whitehall. Urgent.” Then, as an afterthought. “Sorry.”

  “Chivers here,” the voice at the other end of the phone announced. Guy would have recognized the plummy tone anyway. “You still at Crosby?”

  “So it would seem.” He was tempted to add: “That’s why I’m answering their phone.”

  “Good … Good. Got another little job for you.”

  “You want me to hang on here?” His heart sank.

  “Not there exactly. Want you to cut along to Maryhill Barracks. Seems they’ve bagged themselves a German flyer. Need help with the debrief. Bit sensitive really.”

  “Maryhill?” Guy had never heard of it. “Is that in Carlisle?”

  “Not quite, no. But you’re the closest man we’ve got. I’ll have someone ready to brief you as soon as you arrive. I’ve already arranged for the base to provide a car and driver to get you there. The chap you’ll be interrogating is…” There was a distant rustle of papers. “Hauptmann Horn, apparently. Probably nothing, but you never know.”

  “Fine.” Guy sighed. It would mean an early start. “I’ll get over there first thing.”

  “Um, tonight actually. If you would. The car should be waiting.”

  “Tonight,” Guy echoed. “To Maryhill Barracks, was it?”

  “Spot on.” Then the inevitable: “Rather you than me. It’s, er … It’s in Glasgow, actually.”

  They found him a staff car rather than a jeep, so at least Guy could sleep on the journey. He was too tired to be annoyed, and at least it seemed this was unlikely to be a false alarm. More than that, if they wanted him there tonight, then the German must be important.

  “Hauptmann” translated roughly as “captain.” It was a Luftwaffe rank, and Chivers had described the man as a flyer. He’d probably bailed out after being shot down. Pentecross wondered where they had picked him up. No doubt the briefing would make everything clear, he thought as he slipped into a mercifully dreamless sleep.

  Guy was instantly awake as the car pulled up at Maryhill Barracks. A corporal was waiting. He introduced himself as Matthews and looked about nineteen. His accent was from closer to London than Glasgow.

  Corporal Matthews led the way to what looked like an admin block. The first light of dawn was yellowing the sky, and there was a chill in the air that made Guy shiver.

  “Plane crashed, apparently. Bad weather.” Corporal Matthews gestured for Guy to enter an office. “Farmer found the pilot. Apprehended him with a pitchfork.” He shrugged. “That’s what they say, anyway. It’ll be in the report.”

  Matthews nodded at the single desk in the middle of the room, where a plain folder lay. There was a chair either side of the desk. Another stood against the blank white wall. The room was lit by a single bare bulb.

  “You need a few minutes, sir? Or shall I send in the prisoner?”

  “Send him in,” Guy decided. “I doubt this will take long, then you can cart him off to whatever internment center or POW camp is nearest.”

  Sitting at the desk, Guy found that the folder contained a single sheet of paper. It was a carbon-copy of a typed report.

  At 22:08 hours on May 10th (1941) Station Ouston north of Newcastle detected a RADAR (formerly RDF) trace 70 miles from the coast and heading for Lindisfarne. The sighting was designated HOSTILE RAID 42J. Since such a course makes no strategic sense, the base commander initially listed the craft as an “Unknown Detected Trace” in line with standard operating procedure, and Station Z was informed.

  However, unlike previous UDTs, this trace continued on a straight path at a speed consistent with standard aircraft. Ouston continued to track it, and the craft lost altitude as it crossed the coast.

  It was next sighted visually by a Royal Observer Corps position near Chatton at 22:35 hours, and identified as an enemy Bf110 flying at approximately 50 feet. This is well below the safety margin. Having identified the craft as a Hostile rather than an Unknown, two Spitfires from 602 Squadron were scrambled. A Defiant was also sent from RAF Prestwick, but all three aircraft failed to intercept RAID 42.

  Contact was lost, until the Operations Room at RAF Turnhouse reported a crash south of Glasgow at 23:09 hours. The remains of a Bf110D were duly discovered, although the pilot had parachuted to safety before the crash.

  The pilot was subsequently apprehended by a farmer near Eaglesham. He had sustained an ankle injury and identified himself as Hauptmann Alfred Horn. He claimed to have vital information for the Duke of Hamilton, whom he demanded to see.

  The prisoner was handed over to the Home Guard, and is now being held at Maryhill Barracks in Glasgow pending interrogation by an FO Translator Officer.

  Guy was amused to see his description as a “Translator Officer.” The report seemed very full, and right up to date, but perhaps such efficiency was normal. Guy recalled hearing “Station Z” mentioned when he was at Uxbridge, down in the RAF bunker with Keith Park. “Unknown Detected Trace” as well, although it seemed to be a term that just meant the observers didn’t know what they were looking at …

  He didn’t have time to ponder further because, while Guy had been reading, Corporal Matthews had returned with the prisoner. The man was tall and broad, dark-haired and with a heavy forehead and prominent eyebrows. He limped across to sit on the other side of the desk, waiting while Guy finished reading the report and returned it to the folder.

  When Guy looked up, he saw the man’s dark eyes staring intently at him.

  “You are not the Duke of Hamilton,” the man said in German.

  From the report, Guy knew that the man had asked for Hamilton before. “You know the Duke?” he replied, also in German.

  “We have met, just the once. A few years ago.” The man leaned back in the chair, elbows on the armrests, tapping the tips of his fingers together. He seemed not at all nervous or disconcerted.

  “Your plane crashed. Were you lost?”

  “No. The bad weather was to blame.”

  “You don’t seem to have had an escort. And you couldn’t have had enough fuel to get back home.”

  “What makes you think I planned to return to Germany?”

  Guy wasn’t sure what to make of that, so he tried a different tack. “You think the Duke can help you in some way? Maybe put in a good word?”

  The man laughed. Standing in front of the closed door, Corporal Matthews frowned. He evidently didn’t understand a word of the exchange.

  The prisoner leaned forward across the desk. “I do not need a good word, as you put it. I have information that I shall share only with the Duke of Hamilton. He will know who to pass it on to.”

  “What is the nature of this information, Hauptmann Horn?”

  “It is classified. And ‘Hauptmann Horn’ is merely the name I gave my captors. I wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed when they didn’t recognize me.”

  There was something familiar about the man, Guy realized. They had not met before, he was sure of that. But he’d seen a picture of the man, perhaps. Or newsreel footage … It came to him in a dizzying flash just as the man spelled it out:

  “If I tell you who I really am, perhaps that will smooth the wheels and you will summon the Duke. My name is Rudolf Hess, and I am the Deputy Fuhrer of the Third Reich.”

  It was like he was in a different room, watching the scene unfold. Guy was aware how startled he must look. Corporal Matthews was looking on in bewilderment. Hess seemed amused at Guy’s surprise.

  “But—why?” was all Guy could eventually stammer.

  “Why come here? Oh there will be a story, I am sure. Borma
nn will already be working with Goebbels to denounce me. He’s been after my job for years, you know. No doubt they’ll say my nerves deserted me and I came to sue for peace or some such rubbish.”

  “Whereas…?” Guy prompted. He still could not believe that he was sitting opposite the Deputy Fuhrer in an ill-furnished office in a Glasgow barracks.

  “Whereas, as I told you, I have vital information for the Duke of Hamilton.”

  “Why the Duke of Hamilton?”

  “As I say, we have met. Once. Briefly. He is well-read. We share certain … interests. I think, from what I know of him, that he will understand the importance of my information.”

  “But you won’t tell me.”

  Hess leaned back and folded his arms. His small eyes narrowed to slits as he stared back at Guy. “Are you familiar with the work of Lord Lytton?”

  “Is he a colleague of the Duke of Hamilton?”

  Hess sighed. “Hardly. Perhaps you know him better as Edward Bulwer-Lytton?”

  Guy shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Perhaps I don’t move in the right circles.”

  “Or read the right books.” Hess nodded, as if coming to a decision. “Lord Hamilton—it must be him. His Grace will know who in your government should be informed.”

  Guy was obviously getting nowhere. Maybe the man was mad, driven over the edge by the war and the weight of responsibility. Did he have a guilty conscience? Yet he seemed very much in control.

  “You think Hamilton will talk to you?” Guy asked.

  Hess nodded. “But tell him this. Tell him I wish to speak of the Vril. Tell him it concerns the Coming Race.” He stood up, putting his weight on his good leg. “Now I am tired. I will rest until His Grace arrives.”

  * * *

  Lord Hamilton, it transpired, had already been contacted. But he had no idea of the real identity of the captured German. Having spent an intense half hour with the barracks commander, Guy had just ended an urgent phone call to Chivers in London when there was a knock on the door of the room he was now using as an office.