"But why dig now, so long after? Everyone in the world knows that the Führer and Eva Braun died in the bunker and were buried there."
"Evidently everyone doesn't believe it, Effie."
Evelyn was studying the photograph once more. Shaking her head, she said, "It's crazy. I wonder what she is looking for?"
"It does not matter," Schmidt said, retrieving the newspaper, folding it, shoving it into his pocket. "I just wanted to reassure you, Effie, in case you heard about this. I promise you there will not be an excavation at the bunker, no more digging into the past."
"You promise?"
Schmidt lifted his bulk out of the chair, his fat lips curled into a smile. "I promise. You need not be concerned about Miss Ashcroft again."
For Emily, it had been a busy morning in her suite at the Kempinski.
The courier package of files, sent by Pamela from Oxford, had finally arrived. The top folders contained information devoted to Hitler's career as an artist and the rest were photographic files of all the government buildings constructed in major German cities under Hitler. Emily wasted no time in telephoning the Palace Hotel to learn whether Nicholas Kirvov had checked in. He had, and Emily was soon speaking to him on the phone.
"I have the material from Oxford," she said. "Maybe It will tell you more about the building in your Hitler painting."
"How kind you are," Kirvov said. "Are you free for lunch? We can have it here in the Grillroom restaurant, if you like. Then we can go through the files together."
Emily made the date. No sooner had she hung up than the telephone sounded. She picked up the receiver.
It was Rex Foster, and Emily felt a girlish delight in hearing his voice.
"I suppose it is none of my business," he was saying, "but where were you last night? I must have called a half dozen times."
She was pleased. "I was out inspecting the excavation site until near dinnertime. After that, I had dinner with the man who is going to head the dig for me—presuming I get permission. I spent the evening with him and his wife, telling them what I'd seen at the bunker site." She paused. "Why were you calling me? Oh, I suppose it was to find out whether I could help you locate the architect Zeidler."
"No, Emily, that's not why I called you. I just wanted to know how you were—maybe see you if you were free—"
"If you want to know how I am, why don't you come along with me to the Palace Hotel? I'm having lunch there with Nicholas Kirvov. Remember? Curator of the Hermitage in Leningrad. I'm going to try to help him with that Hitler painting of his. You could help, too. Bring along your portfolio of Third Reich architecture. Besides, you might enjoy meeting Kirvov. You have a lot in common."
"I'm more interested in what you and I have in common," said Foster. "So it's a date."
They agreed on a time to meet in the lobby.
And now, outside the Palace Grillroom at twelve-thirty, Kirvov was waiting for Emily, somewhat distressed. After welcoming Foster, he apologized to his guests. The Grillroom was crowded and they could not have their reservation for another half hour.
"Well, why don't we spend the time trying to solve the location of the building in your Hitler oil?" said Emily. She looked about her. "Maybe we could go to your room for more privacy, if you don't mind?"
"That would be perfect," said Kirvov eagerly. "Please come with me."
In a few minutes, Emily and Foster, with her photographic file and his architectural portfolio, were in Kirvov's room on the fourth floor. It was a pleasant room, Emily noted, pale velveteen drapes at the windows, the wallpaper a tan rice-paper fabric, a color television set with a vase of yellow rosebuds on top, a comforter on the double bed.
"Let's get straight to your oil," Emily suggested.
"Please, do be seated," said Kirvov, pulling two chairs up to a corner table, while Foster brought up a third chair. As they sat, Kirvov unwrapped his painting and set it down before his guests.
Constantly referring to the painting of the building in the Hitler oil, Emily peeled through her file of photographs of the government buildings of the Third Reich in Berlin. Meanwhile, also glancing at the painting, Foster was turning the pages of his architectural portfolio open on the floor beside the chair.
Emily gave a whoop. "I think I have it, Nicholas!"
She pulled a photograph out of her file and held it up beside the painting. "Isn't this it?"
Foster, watching, jerked a leaf out of his portfolio and studied it alongside her photo. His was another shot of the massive building from a different angle.
Emily could see at once that they were one and the same. "That's it," she declared. "Of course, neither of us has an exact shot of the front entrance to match the painting. I'll phone Pamela to see whether we've got anything in the other files, just to make certain."
"Do that," Foster said. He turned to Kirvov. "But I still think we've found your building, Nicholas."
The Russian was grinning. "You have, I'm sure you have. Only—I'd like to know, what is it?"
"The Reichsluftfahrtministerium," Emily told Kirvov. "The Reich Air Ministry, also known as the Göring Air Ministry." She read from the caption in back. "Construction started in 1933, completed in 1935."
"A remarkable find!" said Kirvov with enthusiasm. "The only Hitler painting I know of done in Berlin."
"He must have done the building after 1935, but no later than the early 1940s," said Emily. 'Because after that, he couldn't have painted it. Simply because it wasn't there. All of the Third Reich government buildings were destroyed, leveled flat, by the massive American and British air-raid bombings in the early 1940s."
Foster had brought his own portfolio piece closer and was rereading his caption. He lifted his head. "Not so fast, Emily. What you are saying is not quite true."
Emily was puzzled. "What do you mean?"
"All the big Third Reich government buildings were not totally destroyed and leveled by Allied bombings over Berlin in the 1940s. One building survived almost intact. One building only."
"Which one?" Emily wanted to know.
Foster indicated the photo attached to the leaf from his portfolio. "This very one. The Göring Air Ministry was the sole survivor of those bombings. It suffered thirty-five-percent damage, but the structure was never destroyed. The Air Ministry alone, of all this Hitler architecture, survived in Berlin. It stood in the 1930s and 1940s where it stands today in the 1980s. "
"What are you saying?" Kirvov interjected.
"I'm saying," continued Foster, "that while Adolf Hitler may have painted your oil in the 1930s—he could just as well have done the painting anytime during or after the 1940s—he could have painted it in the 1960s or 1970s or 1980s. Because the building remains there to be painted. He could have painted it anytime after his suicide in 1945."
"If he lived," said Emily quietly.
"If he lived," agreed Foster.
Emily stared at the other two. "I think before we try to digest this, we should now have lunch."
"And a stiff drink," said Foster thoughtfully.
They had spent most of the afternoon with Nicholas Kirvov at the Palace Grillroom eating lunch and speculating on the possibility that identification of the Göring Air Ministry in the Hitler oil might tell them something of the Führer's actual fate. Emily had been forced to remind herself that they were still short of facts, and indulging themselves in a guessing game. Immediately, Kirvov had become more practical. He had thought that he would like to have a look at the building depicted in his Hitler oil, and Emily and Foster promised to lead him to it in East Berlin as soon as they were free. Meanwhile, Kirvov would keep himself busy trying to track down the art gallery that had sold the Hitler oil, since he had not yet received its name from the cruise steward.
Now, returning to the lobby of the Kempinski in the late afternoon, Foster said to Emily, "You mentioned Rudi Zeidler this morning. Did your secretary send anything on him?"
"Zeidler, the Nazi architect you wanted to find. The one with
the missing plans. Of course. Forgive me, Rex, he slipped my mind. Yes, Pamela's package had some fat folders on Hitler's architects. I'm sure Zeidler's among them. I'll go through the folders right away and buzz you." She started for the concierge's counter. "Let me pick up my key and any messages."
"Go ahead," said Foster. "I have my key. I want to buy myself something to read. Meet you at the elevator."
Emily watched Foster veer off to the left, stopping at the stand that displayed numerous local and international newspapers and magazines. She went on to the concierge's counter and requested the key to her suite. When she turned away, she saw Foster walking slowly toward her. He had skimmed the front page of what appeared to be a German tabloid and was opening it to the second and third pages. Suddenly he halted in his tracks.
As Emily wondered what had gripped his attention, Foster resumed walking toward her.
He took her by the elbow, steered her away from the elevator in the direction of a table and three chairs in the lobby.
"There's something I want to show you," he said cryptically.
Puzzled, she sat down, eyes on him as he pulled up a chair next to her own.
'What is it, Rex?" she asked.
"You wanted to keep your visit here a secret, didn't your
"You know that."
"Who's in on your secret—I mean, here in Berlin?"
"Why just the people I have to work with like Professor Blaubach, two or three others. And, of course, a few I felt I could trust like you, Tovah Levine, Nicholas Kirvov."
"But you told no newspaper people?"
"Of course not. Well, actually one man named Peter Nitz on the Morgenpost. But he's the one who first warned me to proceed secretly." She creased her brow. "Why are you asking me all this, Rex?"
He unfolded the tabloid in his hand. "Because now everyone in Berlin knows the reason you're here."
"I—I don't understand."
He had opened the tabloid to the third page, and placed it in her lap. "See for yourself."
She took up the morning edition of BZ and found herself staring at the photograph of herself with Blaubach and Vogel at the Führerbunker mound. For seconds, she was aghast. Her eyes riveted on the caption.
"They—they even have my name, and what I'm trying to do," she said half to herself. She raised her head. "Rex, how did they get this picture?"
"I don't know. Obviously taken by someone from an observation platform at the Wall. Maybe the press keeps a lookout for what goes on out there."
Emily lowered the paper. "This is terrible," she said. "But I'm not going to worry about it. I have too much to do. I'll simply do what I have to do and go home and finish my work."
"Admirable," said Foster, "except I think you should be on your guard. Look, let's face it, Emily. I don't want to scare you but I want you to be realistic. This kind of exposure can put you in danger. I mean it could incite some neo-Nazi fanatics who might want to stop you—see that you meet with an accident—like your father did."
Emily straightened her shoulders. "I don't think anything will happen," she said. "After all, my father may have died in a genuine accident. I can't believe there are many Nazis around after almost a half century."
"No?" said Foster. "Then why are you trying to dig up the Führerbunker? To prove that they all died when they were supposed to? Or to find out if any of them are still alive?"
"That's another matter," she said stubbornly. "That's merely historical research, double-checking the past. And frankly, I don't think anything new will come of it." She stood up. "I think we should both go on with our work. But first I'll go through those architecture files and find you what you need on Rudi Zeidler."
Foster was on his feet. "If you insist. There's no rush on Zeidler."
"You don't want to hang around here forever. I'll have something on him before dinner. If you'd like to, you can come to my suite for a drink before I have a bite to eat. I should have what you want by then."
"Do you have a date for dinner?"
"As a matter of fact, I don't. I was going to order up a sandwich."
"Do you mind company?" He was leading her to the elevator. "I'd enjoy having dinner with you. Not only tonight. Any night you're free."
At the elevator, she pushed the button and faced him. "An attractive offer. What's behind it? Are you trying to protect me?"
"That could be one reason," he acknowledged. "But the real reason is—I want to be with you."
At once, she relaxed and smiled up at him. "Better," she said. "In that case, drop by at eight."
It was a quarter to eight, and in his room Foster had become increasingly restless.
Emily Ashcroft occupied his mind entirely. The fact that she might be exposed to danger made him realize more keenly how much he had come to care for her. Actually, despite his wariness about emotional ties, Foster admitted to himself that what he felt was far more than merely caring. He had never quite felt this way about another woman, wanting to be with one every minute and wanting her to be his very own.
He finished knotting his tie, and slipped on his jacket. The mantel clock showed it was fourteen minutes before eight. He decided to be early. If she was not ready for him, he would make himself a drink while she finished dressing. At least he would be near her.
Leaving his room, he waited for the elevator. When it arrived he took it down to the second floor. As the elevator doors slid open, he saw that suite number 229 was up the corridor straight ahead.
Stepping out of the elevator, he saw a room-service waiter, a stocky young man carrying a tray of drinks, appear from another corridor, go to Emily's door, and without knocking use a passkey to let himself in.
Foster's first thought was that Emily had considerately ordered cocktails for them in her suite before dinner, and that the waiter was just delivering them. Pleased, Foster sauntered down the corridor, expecting the waiter to emerge and depart. But the waiter did not come out. Foster became aware that the door to the suite was partially open, so he decided to go inside.
Entering the living room, he was surprised to see it empty. The waiter was nowhere in sight, although he had set the tray of drinks on the desk. Curious, Foster peered into the bedroom, expecting to see the waiter hovering while Emily signed the bill. But no one was in the bedroom either. This was mystifying. Tentatively, Foster stepped inside the bedroom, moving toward the bathroom, intending to call out to Emily.
Then, to his surprise, he could see that the bathroom door was wide open and he went swiftly to it, wondering what was going on. Instantly, he saw what was happening, and the shock of it rooted him to where he stood by the open door.
For the bathroom was anything but empty.
Running water could be heard, and Emily was obviously still in the shower—and outside the glass shower door, his back to Foster, stood the burly waiter, very still.
For a moment, Foster thought he had come upon a voyeur, or possibly someone who was going to attempt a rape. That instant Emily turned off the shower, and as she did so the waiter pulled a knife from beneath his jacket and yanked back the shower door.
Foster could hear Emily's choked outcry of disbelief. The waiter, knife upraised, was about to enter the shower.
In that frozen second, Foster felt all of his Vietnam-bred instincts to attack explode inside him, and he catapulted himself forward with a shout of rage.
Stunned, the waiter stopped and whirled about, knife still upraised, trying to make out what was happening. Foster was upon him like a madman, grabbing and twisting the waiter's raised wrist until the knife fell away to the floor. In a quick practiced judo motion, Foster crouched down, gripped the waiter, and flipped him high in the air over his head, sending the assailant crashing to the tiled bathroom floor behind him.
About to spin and grab the man, Foster's eyes held momentarily on Emily in the shower. He saw her naked and dripping wet, falling against a side of the shower, eyes closed, choking with fear, trying to keep her balance.
Assured that she was unhurt, Foster wheeled to deal once more with her attacker. But the burly waiter had managed to stagger to his feet, and without a backward glance he plunged into the bedroom. Breathing heavily, Foster started after him. By the time he reached the door into the living room, the waiter was gone. Foster rushed to the open door of the suite, and looked up the hotel corridor. He saw the waiter, on the run, disappearing around a corner.
He wanted to pursue the man, but he knew the murderous bastard would have carefully planned his own escape route. He would never catch him. He wondered whether he should phone down to the lobby, but he knew that interception was impossible, too. The killer would have found other means to enter the hotel and to leave it.
And all Foster really eared about at that moment was Emily and her safety.
He rushed back into the bathroom to help her. She was still in the shower. She had slid down the side of the tile shower and lay cringing beneath the dripping shower head in a state of collapse.
He ducked inside. Kneeling, he reached for her and tried to get hold of her wet, slippery body. As his arms went under her, trying to, take a firm grip, Emily realized it was Foster who was holding her and that she was safe, and she laid her head against his shoulder with a moan of gratitude.
With little difficulty he lifted her off the tile floor, and, as she curled tightly against him, he backed out of the shower, snatched one of the hotel's terrycloth bathrobes, and dropped it over her. Carefully, he carried her across the bathroom and into the bedroom.
"How are you? How are you?" he kept whispering.
"Thank God for you, thank God."
"Here," he said, still holding her and awkwardly tearing back her bedspread and blanket at the same time. At last, he managed it, and gently he deposited her on the bed and pulled the blanket over her body, throwing the robe beside her.
Covered, she began to regain her composure, blink-ing up at him. "What happened, Rex? Who was it?"
The Seventh Secret Page 16