The Seventh Secret

by Irving Wallace

  Relieved, Emily was able to acknowledge the introduction with a smile. Sitting again, Foster had summoned a waiter. "What can I get for you, Miss Ashcroft?"

  She wanted to have whatever he was having, to show they were as one. But then she felt that she should show her independence and assert herself. After all, he had come all this distance to see her. "Whiskey and soda," she said, "no ice." She decided that she had better deal with her visitor. "You came here," she said to Foster, "to see me?" Then, she realized, she must acknowledge the blond young lady as well. "And, I gather, so did Miss Levine."

  "You needn't mind me," said Tovah quickly. "I can wait my turn. Rex was here first."

  Foster nodded appreciatively. "Thanks, Tovah." He faced Emily once more. "Yes, Miss Ashcroft, I came to Berlin primarily to see you."

  "I can't imagine why."

  "I'll explain," he said. "To begin with, I'm an architect."

  "An architect?" She had never met one before. Somehow she had suspected from his appearance that he was a rich banker's indolent son. He seemed so relaxed and comfortable with himself, and confident. No, she corrected herself, not indolent. There was no indolence in the assurance and intensity of his manner. There was, she guessed, contained strength. "What—what do you do as an architect?" she blurted out foolishly, since she knew better but had been at a loss for something to say.

  Foster replied seriously. "I try to make lovely things."

  Fleetingly, Emily wondered if this was an intentional double entendre or an ingenuous remark on his part. She would love to have known. Anyway. "Buildings, presumably?"

  "Buildings, of course. I work very hard at it because I enjoy creativity. I like to see things grow under my fingers."

  His fingers, she noted for the first time, were slender and long. She wondered about their touch.

  "And has that made you successful?"

  "More or less," said Foster. "But even that's not enough. In America, it is not only the professors who must publish or perish. I am doing what I gather you've been doing, Miss Ashcroft, although I wouldn't dare compare the importance of my book project with your own. I'm preparing a book called Architecture of the 1000-Year Third Reich. About what Hitler had built in Germany—and what he planned to build had he won the war. So that's where our interests intersect. Adolf Hitler."

  "I see."

  "Frankly, like you, I've come to Berlin to finish my research and complete a book. I'm afraid I'll have some difficulty doing so without your help."

  She adored his eyes, and was ready to do anything for him. "How can I help you, Mr. Foster?"

  "All right. Here goes. My picture-and-caption book still has one incomplete section. There are some missing plans I had hoped to locate through the family of Hitler's chief architect, Albert Speer, but I have had to search elsewhere for the missing plans. I knew of your father's biography and I realized that if anyone knew about Speer's associates or assistants, it was your father. I had narrowed down my own hunt for the elusive plans to one of the ten associates to whom Speer may have assigned them, but I had no idea where to find this associate. It seemed to me that your father would likely know of this man. So I wrote to your father asking if I might come to Oxford and meet with him. He was-kind enough to give me an appointment for the very next week. But then"—Foster paused—"I read about his accident." Foster looked steadily at Emily. "I can't tell you, Miss Ashcroft, how sorry I am. Not for me, of course. For you."

  "Thank you. Please go on."

  "Two days ago, in reading about your father in the press, I learned that you had been collaborating with him so I made up my mind to try to see you."

  For an instant Emily was troubled. "How on earth did you find me here?"

  "I telephoned your home in Oxford hoping to speak to you. I planned to fly to London and drive up to see you. Your secretary answered and, after we had talked for some time, she admitted you had gone to West Berlin and were staying at the Kempinski."

  Emily frowned. "I made Pamela promise to tell no one I was here."

  "I'm afraid I wheedled it out of her," Foster said apologetically. "I reminded her that I already had been given an appointment by Dr. Ashcroft, and I was sure his daughter would not object to seeing me. In light of this, your secretary felt it was all right to tell me where you were. I hope this doesn't upset you?"

  "I take it you've had a lot of experience charming secretaries," she smiled. "At any rate, you got here."

  "I came to the Kempinski hoping to catch you and make a proper appointment. But you were out. So I decided to wait. Meanwhile"—Foster gestured toward Tovah Levine—"at the very moment I was asking the concierge about you, Miss Levine came up to the counter and overheard me. It turned out that she also had come to the Kempinski to see you. So we decided to wait for you together."

  Puzzled, Emily directed her attention to the pretty blonde. "And you, Miss Levine, why did you want to see me?"

  Tovah Levine, who had been listening and drinking, set down her glass. "To tell you the truth, Miss Ashcroft, I'm a working journalist. Recently, I was assigned to West Berlin to do a series of feature stories for the Jerusalem Post. When I learned you were coming here, I thought you'd make an excellent subject. Hitler still sells newspapers. Regrettable, but there it is."

  Emily blinked at the journalist. "And how did you know I was at the Kempinski?"

  "Easy," said Tovah Levine. "When I arrived, I checked into the Berlin foreign correspondents' press club. It keeps a record of the arrival of each and every celebrity in Berlin. It has connections with all the hotels in the city—with the concierges, assistant managers, receptionists----who pass on the names of foreign celebrities who've just registered. So I thought I'd come over and see if I could get a story."

  "Well, I'm hardly a celebrity," said Emily, "and I certainly can't give you a story. Believe me, Miss Levine—you, too, Mr. Foster---I really meant to keep my business here a secret. If word gets out that I am working here, it could be dangerous for me at worst—or my project at the very least."

  "Mum's the word, I promise you," said Foster, raising his right hand.

  "Good enough," said Emily. "As to helping out on your architectural book, I hope I can give you what you want. When would you like to meet?"

  "Tonight," said Foster. "Before you came into the lounge, I invited Tovah to join me for dinner at a restaurant in the neighborhood. I'd be very happy if you'd also be my guest."

  Emily feasted her eyes on him. He was so damn winning, irresistible in every way. Certainly she wanted to know him better, and soon. If Blaubach came through, she might be very busy. "Why not?" she said to Foster. "I was going to eat in my room. This is certainly a better offer. I thank you."

  "Very good," said Foster enthusiastically.

  Emily hesitated, gaze fixed on the blond journalist. "I can join you only if Miss Levine promises that whatever we discuss is strictly social and off the record."

  "I'll promise anything," agreed Tovah Levine, holding up her own right hand in a solemn pledge, "because I am fascinated—and because I am hungry."

  Emily laughed. "Ground rules set. Fine." She consulted her gold wristwatch. "It is almost seven. I need an hour to make several phone calls, and to bathe and change." She turned her full smile on Foster. "The lobby at eight o'clock?"

  Foster unwound his lanky form. "I'll be down at five minutes before eight watching the elevator, Miss Ashcroft."

  "Emily," she said, rising.

  "Me, Rex," he said with a grin. "I'll be waiting."

  The Berliner Gasthaus was on Schlüterstrasse, a five-block walk from the Kempinski hotel, and the three of them had a table at the rear. Foster had made the reservation at this luxurious restaurant because, despite the fact that it advertised 1920s-style cabaret entertainment, including transvestite acts, he had found on his previous visit that he could dine quietly in the back room, well removed from the floor show.

  Emily watched Foster past the flickering candles on their table as he selected dinn
er for all of them from the menu. She heard him ordering tomato soup, pepper steaks, tossed salads, and a red wine. Emily wished that she had him alone. Sipping slowly on her third whiskey of the evening, she told herself no more drinking before the meal. She wanted to keep her wits about her, and learn as much as she could about Foster.

  After the hectic day in East Berlin, the chance meeting with Foster, she had felt wound up, on edge. In her suite, before dinner, she had been busy on the telephone. She had called Oxford first, and instructed Pamela Taylor to photocopy their file on Hitler's art career for Nicholas Kirvov, and their file on architecture during the Third Reich for both Kirvov and Rex Foster, and to try to get everything in the mail to Berlin by overnight courier.

  After that, Emily had telephoned the excavator her father had planned to use at the Führer bunker site. She had found the name of the Oberstadt Construction Company among her father's papers. She talked to Andrew Oberstadt, who remembered the arrangement made with her father. "It would have been a fascinating excavation, and we looked forward to it," Andrew Oberstadt had said. "I was sorry about what happened to your father, and I was sorry not to have the opportunity to go ahead." Emily had told him that the opportunity might still exist. It would all depend on getting permission from the East Berlin government. "If I do get permission, it might be on short notice. Would you have a crew immediately available?" Andrew Oberstadt had reassured her that, for an undertaking like this, he would see that he had a trained crew readily available, and that he would supervise the excavation himself.

  Feeling better, Emily had noted the brief time left before she must meet Rex Foster and Tovah Levine in the lobby, and she had bypassed a relaxing bubble bath for a quick shower. When she was ready to dress, she reached automatically for one of her tailored suits, then she hesitated. The one thing she had not wanted to look like was a stuffy academic. She had felt female and, for the first time since the funeral, had experienced a sense of pulsing life. She had reached instead into a drawer for a blouse, a fine white batiste blouse that buttoned up to the collar, then she had stepped into a short navy blue skirt and pulled on a pink Eton jacket. The outfit was better than a suit, gave her a feminine shapeliness, but still did not give her the look she wanted. She had opened the top button of her blouse, and then experimentally the second button, and finally, more daringly, she had opened the third button. Moving her arms, she could see that a bit of cleavage showed.

  She had been satisfied. Demure and natural, yet sexy enough that Rex Foster, on seeing her, had permitted his eyes to linger on the open third button and the slight swell of her breasts and complimented her at once on her appearance. Stealing a glance at Tovah, Emily had seen that the young Israeli girl was rather smashing in a fuchsia silk-jersey dress that hid no curve of her well-endowed body. But Emily had not minded, since Foster seemed to have eyes only for her.

  Now, beside him in the Berliner Gasthaus, Emily decided to become more businesslike and by so doing bring Foster closer.

  "Rex," she began, "I'd like to know what you're really after. I'm only too willing to help, if I can. Exactly what is your problem with your book?"

  "You don't mind talking shop? Very well. I mentioned that Albert Speer employed a number of associate architects. Ten, to be exact. I've pinpointed most of their buildings, and their plans for structures. They were in Speer's archives. But there is one architect missing, the one who devoted himself to constructing hideaways around Germany for use by Hitler when he did his traveling during the war."

  "I think I know the hideaways you're referring to," said Emily. She cast a look at Tovah, to include her in the discussion. "Hitler preferred to live deep underground as the war heightened above ground. Speer assigned one of his most competent associates, a young man by the name of Rudi Zeidler, to design and construct these private air-raid shelters and bunkers throughout Germany."

  "Rudi Zeidler," Foster repeated. "He may be the architect whose plans I want."

  "Zeidler was the one who designed an underground shelter in a hillside, beneath a forest, in Ziegenberg, near Bad Nauheim. There was a similar subterranean headquarters in Friedberg." She turned fully to Foster. "Do you have the information on them?"

  "No, Emily. Those are new to me."

  "Zeidler also designed the Führerbunker itself, where Hitler and Eva Braun spent the last days of the war," Emily went on. "The Führerbunker was far underground. There were two levels, and Hitler and Eva had a six-room private suite at the very bottom. The top of this Führerbunker was covered with eleven feet of concrete and six feet of earth. Considering the compactness, it was brilliantly designed."

  "Yes, I have several crude sketches of it, but not the actual blueprint," Foster told her. "I didn't know that Rudi Zeidler was the architect. However, it's the actual plans for all those underground structures that I want from him. Do you suppose he's still alive?"

  "He probably is. I know that he was a year and a half ago when my father interviewed him here in West Berlin."

  "Would he be in the telephone directory?"

  "No. Most of the old Nazis aren't listed anymore. I remember my father had some trouble locating him. When he did, Zeidler was most cooperative."

  "Do you have any idea where I can find him?" Foster wanted to know.

  "No problem. His address and phone number are in our files in Oxford."

  "May I call your secretary for it?"

  Emily smiled. "I've already sent for it. The entire architecture file, I mean. I didn't know what you'd specifically want from it. Zeidler is in it, and the file is on its way. I should have it tomorrow afternoon."

  Impulsively, Foster leaned over and covered Emily's hand briefly with his own. "I'm truly grateful, Emily."

  Embarrassed, excited, she pointed of "Here comes the waiter with our food."

  While the soup was being served, Foster continued to regard Emily with appreciation. "I wish there was something I could do for you to return the favor."

  Emily wanted to tell him what he could do, but refrained. Instead, she said, "Never mind—" At once something practical did occur to her. "Actually, now that I think of it, you can do me a favor. Not for myself, but for a friend."

  "Whatever I can do, I'll be happy to—"

  "Today, for my own research, I went to East Berlin to see a government official, Professor Otto Blaubach, a long-standing colleague of my father's, and someone I already knew. He's trying to do something for me, so I'd like to do something for him. Professor Blaubach introduced me to a visitor he had been hoping to help and wondered if I could pitch in. The visitor, whom I met, was an extremely nice Russian, Nicholas Kirvov, the present curator of the Hermitage museum in Leningrad."

  For the first time since their drinks were served Tovah spoke up. "What I'd give to see that museum!"

  Emily addressed Tovah. "Well, maybe you can meet Kirvov and he'll invite you to Leningrad."

  "I hope so," said Tovah, dipping a spoon into her soup. "Sorry I interrupted," she said. "You were telling about meeting Kirvov."

  Emily had returned her attention to Foster. "Kirvov collects Hitler's drawings and paintings. He wants to exhibit them at the Hermitage."

  "They're awful," said Foster. "Absolutely banal."

  "Agreed," said Emily. "But that's not the point. They'd still make an interesting curiosity exhibit."

  "I suppose so," said Foster.

  "Anyway, Kirvov has just acquired an unsigned painting by Hitler of some kind of government building that no one can identify. Kirvov wants to know what the building is before he publicly shows the painting. I said I'd try to give him a hand. When I phoned Oxford I asked my secretary to send along our art file on Hitler—as well as our architecture file for both you and Mr. Kirvov. Rex, since you're an architect, and one who knows so much about Nazi architecture, you might know about the building in Kirvov's painting. Here, let me show you." Emily had opened her small purse and extracted Kirvov's photograph of the Hitler oil. She handed it to Foster.

 
As Tovah bent sideways to see it too, Foster studied the photo. "You're sure it's by Hitler?"

  "That's what the experts say."

  Foster shook his head slowly. "No building I can recall seeing in Munich or Frankfurt or Hamburg or anywhere, and I have a large collection of photographs of all the buildings that Hitler had thrown up during his time. Still, it does resemble so many of those dreary government office buildings that Hitler had constructed after he became chancellor. I may have seen something like this a dozen times—but where?" He squinted more closely at the photo. "It looks like one of a whole rash of buildings Hitler directed to be put up in Berlin in his first days as head of Germany."

  "Berlin?" said Emily. "But this is a painting by Hitler, and as far as we know he painted exclusively in Linz, Vienna, Munich. Never in Berlin."

  Foster's eyes remained fixed on the photograph. "No matter what, I'd still vote for Berlin."

  "Maybe Kirvov can look around the city for it," Tovah suggested.

  "That would be hopeless," Foster told Tovah. "The massive Allied bombings, toward the end of the war, and Marshal Zhukov's ground offensive leveled or ruined most of the government and industrial buildings in and around the city. There were two hundred fifty thousand buildings in Berlin at the close of the war. Of these, thirty thousand were totally demolished, twenty thousand badly damaged, one hundred fifty thousand partially damaged. Almost all the government buildings were among those totally destroyed. It's unlikely that this building exists anymore." He held the photograph up to Emily. "Mind if I keep this print for a couple of days? I want to go through my portfolio and see if there are any old photos that resemble this painting."

  "Of course, but let's check it against my own file when it arrives tomorrow."

  Emily hastily took a few spoons of her soup, but signaled for the waiter to take it away when he was removing the other plates. Before they could revive their conversation, the hot steak entrees were being served, and they waited until everything was in place.