The Seventh Secret

by Irving Wallace

  "Professor, I would leave a small area uncovered for a day or two, just for my search. I would then fill it in again. Restore it to what it is, a dirt mound. There would be no shrine.

  Blaubach accepted her explanation. "I will inform my colleagues on the council of your intention. It should overcome any objections." He turned the letter opener slowly. "You are not searching once more for Hitler's and Eva Braun's bodies, I take it? I assume there is more, something else."

  "Did my father tell you what he was after?"

  "I must say, he did not. He was guarded about what he was after. He generalized to me. He said that some former occupants of the Führerbunker had lately revealed other means to determine the time of Hitler's death. I did not press your father. We were old friends. He had my complete trust. But yes, he was guarded."

  She must be guarded, too, she told herself. Her father had not revealed the name of his informant, Dr. Thiel, and she must not reveal it, either. Of course, Blaubach could be depended upon. Still, she had promised Dr. Thiel that she would not make known the source of her father's or her own suspicions about Hitler's death.

  "Well," she said evasively, "I merely want to poke about for a few artifacts, exactly as my father planned to do. It is probably a longshot quest, but if I have any luck it might tell us either that Hitler and his Eva died precisely as history stated—or that they both misled us and survived."

  Blaubach let the letter opener drop on the desk. "Of course, Emily, I shall cooperate with you as you desire. I simply hate to see you disappointed. Frankly, I think your undertaking—this dig—will be futile."

  "Why?"

  "After the Soviet Army overran Berlin, they sent at least five teams of their best soldiers to scour the area for Hitler's remains. They inspected the shallow trench, the bomb crater, the underground rooms of the Führerbunker itself. What they found of Hitler and Eva Braun—their bodies—and a few documents—they made public. I doubt that the Russians overlooked anything."

  It was difficult, but Emily stood her ground. "If I may say so, Professor Blaubach, my father's research into the Soviet aftermath was intensive. I have studied his research. It is my impression that the Soviets did a hasty and haphazard job of investigation around the bunker and inside it. Really, it deserves another effort, one more postmortem."

  "You may be right about our Russian friends," said Professor Blaubach agreeably. "They are not always as efficient as they make themselves out to be. Even so, I wonder whether you know that they were not the last to excavate at the Führerbunker site?"

  "Yes, I know from our documentation there were others."

  "Definitely others. Not many people are aware that after the Russians finished their search in May and June of 1945 the other Allies, mainly members of the American and British intelligence, asked on December 3, 1945, to go over the same ground again. On December 30, the Russians allowed them to dig for a day or two. Using eight German laborers, the Western Allies spaded up the area and came across no further corpses resembling Hitler and Braun. They turned up a few items of clothing monogrammed E.B., obviously from Eva Braun's wardrobe. They unearthed some documents belonging to Josef Goebbels, who had also died a suicide with his wife and been buried nearby."

  "But the Americans and British searched for only a day or two? Rather superficial, I'd say."

  "Well, to be honest," Blaubach said uncomfortably, they wanted to dig longer, but the Russians would not let them. The Soviets accused them of confiscating vital documents that rightfully belonged to the Soviet Union, and the Russians halted the dig and would not extend further permission."

  "I see."

  "But lest you consider the Russians totally ungenerous, I must tell you that a month or so later, I think it was in January of 1946, the Soviets invited a group from the French military in Berlin to come to the Führer-bunker and resume digging in the garden area. The French did so, although they were not permitted to uncover the trench or bomb crater again, but they were allowed to dig around nearby. They found not a thing that was useful. There were more searches of the interior of the bunker by others, before a portion of it was blown up, and finally buried under dirt." Blaubach added hastily, "But, Emily, don't take it that I want to discourage you. You may find our East German officials more lenient than the Russians. You may get an opportunity to see for yourself. I will recommend, through proper channels, you be given permission to dig."

  "I really appreciate that. Thank you, Professor Blaubach." Emily came to her feet. "Will it be long?"

  "I should know quickly. You can expect to hear from me in two or three days at the most."

  Emily extended her hand, and Blaubach bowed to kiss it, but after she turned to leave, Blaubach's voice caught her before she could reach the door. "Emily—"

  She stopped and turned back to see him coming toward her.

  "—there's one more thing," he was saying. "If you have a moment to spare, you can do me a favor."

  Surprised that she might be able to help him in any way, she was instantly receptive. "Of course. Whatever you. . ."

  He hesitated. "As an authority on Hitler, you can be of assistance in a matter that has come up."

  "I'm flattered, Professor Blaubach, but I'm sure I'm far less an authority on Hitler than you are."

  "No, no, that is not true," he persisted. "I have some expertise on the Third Reich and modern German history, and this does include a degree of knowledge about the late unlamented Führer, but yet I'm sure you have some knowledge that has evaded me."

  "I'm less sure of that. Anyway, if I can be of use to you—"

  "It is not me," said Blaubach. "It is for someone else. I have in the next office, going through some of my own files, a gentleman from the Soviet Union. He is a distinguished scholar in his own field, the fine arts. His name is Nicholas Kirvov, recently appointed curator of the Hermitage in Leningrad."

  "Distinguished, indeed," said Emily, impressed.

  "Kirvov's hobby is collecting paintings that Hitler did in his early years. I'm positive you are familiar with that phase of Hitler's life."

  "Fairly familiar," Emily admitted.

  "Well, Herr Kirvov has been planning to mount an exhibit of Hitler's paintings in the Hermitage, merely as a titillating sidelight. Recently, he acquired one more oil painting, unsigned. He believes it to have been executed by Hitler himself. Since it is something unknown, Herr Kirvov wishes to include it in his Hitler exhibit. Because his exhibit will receive considerable press and public attention, Herr Kirvov feels that he must go to great lengths to authenticate every item in his show. He brought this Hitler item to me for my opinion. I have analyzed it, and fortunately, from a study of the brush strokes and other small points, I am able to reassure Herr Kirvov that the oil is indeed a work done by Adolf Hitler. Nevertheless, there remains a minor problem. It is a problem you may be able to solve for him."

  "I can't imagine, Professor, that I'd have any knowledge of a work of art, by Hitler or anyone else, that could possibly match Kirvov's own expertise. Still—" she shrugged "who knows? My father and I built a modest file of research and graphics on Hitler's artistic phase." She touched Blaubach's arm. "Of course I'd be glad to meet Mr. Kirvov."

  Blaubach's serious visage registered a look of pleasure. He quickly opened the door and led Emily into the corridor and then into an adjacent office. This proved to be furnished with only a set of brown file cabinets along one wall and a long conference table flanked by a dozen chairs in the center of the rectangular room. At the far end of the table, a sturdy middle-aged man sat concentrating on a pile of photographs. Upon the entrance of Blaubach and Emily, the man immediately pushed back his chair and leaped to his feet, puzzled.

  Blaubach had Emily by the crook of an arm, and was bringing her forward. "Herr Nicholas Kirvov," said Blaubach, "I want to introduce you to Fräulein Emily Ashcroft, of Oxford, England."

  Emily briskly stepped ahead and cordially shook Kirvov's outstretched hand.

  "Fräulein Ashcrof
t is an eminent historian at Oxford University," Blaubach went on. "Her specialty, in recent years, has been the life of Adolf Hitler. Indeed, she is in the process of completing a biography of Hitler, and has just arrived in Berlin for some last-minute research."

  "I am acquainted with your name," said Kirvov courteously. "I have seen it in print, even in the Soviet Union."

  "Do sit down, Emily," said Blaubach, helping her to a chair. "You, too, Herr Kirvov." Blaubach lowered himself into a chair beside Emily, waiting for Kirvov to sit once more. "Herr Kirvov, I've already taken the liberty of briefing Fräulein Ashcroft about your quest, your Hitler painting. It is our good fortune to have Fräulein Ashcroft in Berlin at the same time as yourself."

  Emily interrupted. "If there is anything I can do, Mr. Kirvov, I'll be only too pleased to cooperate."

  "You are most, most kind, Miss Ashcroft."

  She had liked him instantly. Despite a Slavic peasant quality in his physique—as a work of art he was all squares and cubes, brown hair cut squarely and short, square jaw, square broad shoulders—she liked him be-cause of his eyes. She often judged men by their eyes. Kirvov's were dark, sensitive, almost mournful, and his mouth was a poet's mouth.

  "Professor Blaubach just told me about your Adolf Hitler painting," said Emily. "I must say that is of interest to me, too. How on earth did you get your hands on it?"

  Emily's question had loosened up Kirvov. His eagerness to discuss his find lit his face.

  "I am happy to tell you," he said.

  At once he began to tell Emily about his collection of Hitler paintings, about the letter from a ship's steward named Giorgio Ricci who wanted to authenticate a Hitler painting he had purchased, about Ricci's visit to the Hermitage, about his own acquisition of the Hitler oil in trade for a Russian icon.

  "And now," said Emily, "you want to exhibit this new Hitler acquisition in a show at the Hermitage?"

  "I do. It would be—how do you say?—a feather in my cap to include it. But first I had to confirm that it was authentic. I knew that Professor Blaubach here was a famous expert. So I traveled to East Berlin with the painting, with the X rays of it and of my other Hitler art, to put them before him."

  "I understand Professor Blaubach authenticated your painting," said Emily. "Still you have a problem?"

  "A problem," said Kirvov. "I will show you what it is, and then perhaps you can help."

  As he spoke, Kirvov moved to the wall where the painting was leaning fully covered with a felt sack. Kirvov removed the cloth from the oil to reveal the picture of a large, unaesthetic stone building.

  Kirvov held the painting before Emily. "Obviously, an official building of some sort," said Kirvov. "It does not resemble a residence, nor even one of the opera houses or museums Hitler favored depicting in his youth. The structure suggests a typical government building. Don't you think so?"

  Emily nodded. "I'm inclined to agree with you."

  "How does one authenticate a work?" Kirvov asked, more to himself than to Emily or Blaubach. "One does so through scientific analysis. This has been done. One seeks to trace its provenance. This we do not have. Finally, one requires identification of the subject of the work, when possible. Knowledge of it, its location, can turn away the challenge of doubtful critics." Kirvov slipped the painting into the felt sack once more, and placed it on the conference table. "That is my problem, Miss Ashcroft. I don't know what the subject of this painting is or where and when it was done. I can place the settings and subjects of all of Hitler's art pieces that I have previously acquired. Almost everything he drew or painted in his youth was done in his favorite town of Linz or in Vienna or in Munich. I have gone over early photographs or drawings of buildings in those cities. This government structure is in none of those places." His soft eyes met Emily's own. "You might know this. Did Hitler paint anything anywhere else?"

  "He did and he didn't," said Emily, "but not really. When Hitler was an infantryman in the First World War, he undertook some drawings on the western front, mainly in Belgium, but none of these resemble the work you have. This painting you have, I'd like to look into it, for my own research purposes as well. Do you have any photographs of your painting?"

  "Too many," said Kirvov shyly. "I made copies to pass around like Most Wanted posters of known criminals." He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out an oblong envelope. From it he produced a five-by-seven-inch photograph of the painting and passed it over to Emily.

  She examined the copy of the piece of art once more. "You know, it really looks like one of those dreary office buildings that the Nazis threw up in Berlin in the early 1930s. But, of course, it couldn't be. Hitler never painted them. I'd guess this is a government building in another large German city. Let me look into it. I'll call my secretary in Oxford and have her photocopy our Hitler art file and also the file of government buildings in major German cities during the Third Reich. Then we'll see. Where can I get hold of you, Mr. Kirvov?"

  "I am presently staying in East Berlin. I intended to move over to West Berlin tomorrow for a few days. I planned to do some sightseeing—of government buildings. I assume you are in West Berlin, Miss Ashcroft?"

  "At the Kempinski."

  "I will stay at the Palace Hotel, not far away, where I have stayed briefly before."

  Emily came to her feet, slipping the photograph into her purse. "Then I will contact you at the Palace, as soon as I have my photo files and have gone through them. Let's hope we have luck."

  Kirvov had jumped up. "You don't know how grateful I am."

  She smiled. "Be grateful only if I am helpful."

  Professor Blaubach had preceded her to the door, opening it. He dropped his voice. "I thank you for this. As to your own request, I do not forget. We shall see what we shall see."

  It was late afternoon when the hired Mercedes let her out before the glass entrance doors to the Kempinski.

  After voicing her appreciation to Peter Nitz, who stepped out ahead of her, Emily told the driver Plamp, "If you are not tied up, I will need your services again in a few days."

  Plamp touched the visor of his chauffeur's cap. "I am ready to serve you anytime, Fräulein."

  Emily said good-bye to Nitz, then hastened into the hotel, crossing the lobby toward the concierge's desk. She was eager to get her key and reach her suite, where she could make telephone calls to the excavators her father had planned to employ in West Berlin, and to phone Pamela Taylor, her secretary in Oxford, on Kirvov's behalf. The building in the oil painting was one of those minor riddles that, for her, always made research more intriguing.

  "Suite 229," she said to the concierge.

  He turned to her with the key and a slip of paper. "Miss Ashcroft," he said, "there is someone waiting for you."

  "Someone?" she said vaguely. She read the message on the slip of paper: "Miss Ashcroft, I hope you can spare a minute to see me. I have come all the way from Los Angeles to meet you. I am in the Bristol Bar." It was signed "Rex Foster," a name utterly unknown to her.

  Puzzled, she turned to cross the length of the lobby toward the hotel's cocktail lounge.

  Standing at the entrance to the lounge, she cast about to see who the occupants were. There was no lone man waiting for her. There were three couples, in different parts of the room, seated in black upholstered chairs with drinks on the tables before them. There were two women deep in conversation, an elderly man and woman who appeared to be a long-married couple, and two others, an attractive thirtyish man and a young and pretty blond woman, who sat at a small table near an antique Steinway grand piano. The attractive thirtyish man, glancing past his partner, noticed Emily. Mumbling something to the blonde, he came to his feet.

  Emily watched as he swiftly approached her in long strides.

  Could this be her unexpected visitor from California? she wondered. What an interesting-looking man, she thought.

  He was upon her, a lopsided smile on his gaunt face. "Are you, by chance, Emily Ashcroft?" he inqui
red. "I am."

  He indicated the message slip still in her hand. "If you're looking for Rex Foster from Los Angeles, I'm afraid you've found him. If it's a bad time, I hope we can make another appointment. In any case, I hope you don't mind the intrusion."

  Her eyes fixed on him, she decided that she didn't mind anything at all. She hoped that her hair wasn't a mess and that her skirt wasn't wrinkled. Her original automatic reluctance to meet a stranger, possibly a pushy one, had been quickly dispelled by his person. His attraction for her, she realized, had been almost immediate. This time it wasn't only the earnest brown eyes. He was at least six feet tall, towering above her, with unruly black hair, craggy countenance, cleft chin, lean and athletic physique. She found that she had already done what men always say they do with sexy-appearing women—mentally undressed him. She had unwittingly done so—it had never happened before, not with Jeremy or anyone--and she marveled at her craziness.

  To cover her thoughts and unease, she was unnaturally abrupt. "Well, what can I do for you, Mr. Foster?"

  "Ideally, we could have a chat right here. But if you're pressed for time, we could make it any other day at your convenience."

  Her instinctive feelings surfaced. She did not want to put him off. She wanted to be with him here and now and she wanted to know more about him and his interest in her. "I—I have a little time," she said cautiously.

  "Wonderful," he said. "Perhaps you'd sit down and join us for a drink." He indicated his blond partner. "Then I can explain everything."

  Emily took in his waiting partner, and momentarily her heart sank. The female with the blond mane was younger than herself, and certainly prettier. His wife? His lover? His girlfriend in Berlin?

  Emily, patting down her auburn hair, said lamely, "I've been working," then erect as possible she trailed him across a small dance floor to his table.

  Foster indicated the empty chair beside his own, and before Emily could take it, he introduced her to the breathtaking blonde. "Miss Ashcroft . . . Miss Tovah Levine from Israel. We've just met, and we're both waiting for you."