The Seventh Secret

by Irving Wallace

  When the doorbell rang, Foster responded eagerly. He wanted to tell Emily what was on his mind, and then together they would return to the East German Frontier Zone.

  Opening the door, he did not hide his disappointment. Standing before him were Tovah and Kirvov. "Oh, hello," Foster said. "I was expecting Emily—"

  "We want to speak to you about Emily," Kirvov said.

  Foster drew them into the room. They both sat down, and he drifted back to the desk, keeping his eyes on them. Their expressions were grim, and Foster was at once concerned.

  "What is it?" he said. "Is Emily all right?"

  "We're not sure," Kirvov replied, "Let me explain . . ."

  When Kirvov finished, Foster was pale but controlled. "Why didn't you try to go in there after her, Nicholas?"

  "I considered it, even after the place was closed," Kirvov answered. "But I didn't know whether I'd be able to come out of there again, and if I couldn't, no one would know what had happened to either of us. Before she went in—"

  "That was damn foolish of her," Foster interrupted, agitated. "I'm sorry. Go on."

  "She was determined to go in alone," Kirvov tried to explain. "Before going in, she told me that if she did not come out, she wanted me to find you and you were to get the police—"

  "The police should be alerted at once."

  Foster was about to reach for the telephone, when Tovah shook her head. -No use, Rex. Now it's my turn. Let me explain."

  Hurriedly, she told him about herself and Mossad, and then what she could of Wolfgang Schmidt's back-ground.

  "I'll be goddamned!" Foster exploded. "And I actu-ally went to Schmidt to ask his help after Emily was almost murdered. The Nazi son of a bitch." He ex-haled. -Okay, so much for the police. Where does that leave us?"

  "With Mossad as our backup, Rex," Tovah told him. "You mean Golding can really help us?"

  "He can and will. It's a risky business, but Mossad has the capability to act inside Berlin. Beside the organization's trained agents—I don't know how many are undercover in the city—there are hundreds of other reserves in the Berlin community, anti-Nazis of every type and their offspring, experts at everything from armament to machines, who can be called upon to do whatever is necessary for the cause. Obliteration of the last vestige of the Third Reich is all they care about. Anyway, Chaim Golding wants to know what you think can be done, before he risks taking more obvious action."

  "He mustn't do anything obvious," Foster said. -No direct action yet. The police might interfere and stop it all." He swung back to his desk and rapidly reviewed the bunker plans spread before him. "The fact is, I do have one thought."

  Still studying the diagram of the Führerbunker, Foster said, "There's something definitely strange in this plan of the Führerbunker. It would be clear to any architect. Actually, I called Zeidler about this design of his. He knew it wasn't exactly right. He said that Hitler himself ordered his bunker laid out this way, and Zeidler could only follow orders. But there certainly is something missing, and if it is what I think it is, it will tell me the location of the seventh bunker."

  Kirvov was confused. "What seventh bunker?"

  "This one." Foster pulled his second blueprint out from beneath the one of the Führerbunker. "The one underground bunker Hitler ordered that has never been identified. Now I have an idea where it could be. It all depends on what I find when our dig gets into the Führerbunker."

  "You expect to go into the Führerbunker?" Tovah asked with surprise.

  Foster was putting on his jacket. "Tonight. By the time I return to the frontier area, the side of the mound should be excavated and there should be access into the Führerbunker."

  "You think it still exists?" said Kirvov.

  "Why not? It was originally built deep underground and reinforced by steel and concrete. Not even the Russians' bulldozing later could have made a dent in it, at least not in the deepest area Hitler used down below."

  "You can't go alone," protested Tovah. "Maybe I can—'

  "I have a permit to get in," said Foster. "You don't. You and Nicholas stay right here, and let Golding know what I'm up to. If I need you, I'll be in touch, somehow, you can be sure."

  Within the East German Frontier Zone, most of the great mound that covered the Führerbunker was lost in the darkness of the night. Only one side of the mound, the west side, was brightly illuminated by three gigantic spotlights.

  At the rim of the circle of light, Andrew Oberstadt, in soiled overalls and muddy boots, stood observing his night shift as the men cleared away a wider passage that led into a gaping hole in the side of the mound. They were shoveling up more dirt and debris, dumping it on two heaps, when Foster arrived.

  Oberstadt acknowledged Foster's reappearance with good cheer. "Well, Rex, I think we've just about done it. Be ready for you any second. It worked, going through the old emergency exit at ground level. I looked in myself a little while ago. Couldn't resist seeing what shape it is in. Not bad, considering forty years and the Russian bulldozing. The concrete roof appears to have protected the Hitler area below. The stairwell seems mostly intact. A few steps near the top broken, but as far as my flashlight could show me, the rest of the stairs seem to be in usable shape. You want to wait until morning to go down there?"

  "I want to go down there right now, Andrew."

  Oberstadt's reaction was a dubious one. "It's going to be pretty difficult looking for that cameo and the dental bridges in that hole. Even with portable lighting, it'll be difficult to find anything so small."

  "That's not what I'm looking for tonight, Andrew. I'm after something bigger."

  Oberstadt shrugged. "Well, you know what you're doing. I guess daylight wouldn't make it any easier down there. When do you want to start?"

  "This minute."

  "Mind if I join you?" said Oberstadt.

  "I could use you in the first part of the operation. It would be helpful. If I find what I want, it would be better if I stayed down there alone."

  "We'll need some fluorescent hand lanterns," said Oberstadt. "One for each of us."

  "I'd like you to bring something else, also," Foster said. "Something that could cut into concrete."

  "I have a battery-operated saw."

  Foster thought about it. "Bring the saw, and also a chisel and hammer."

  As Oberstadt hastened off, summoning a workman to give him a hand, Foster stared mesmerized at the gaping hole in the mound. Since it was partially illuminated by the standing spotlights, he approached it to see the condition of the old emergency exit.

  Stepping between the panting laborers, he reached the hole and bent to enter it. There had been a vestibule, he remembered hearing, that led to the outdoors from the four flights of steps. Most of it had been crushed, and now cleaned out, and the opening had since been shored up with timbers by Oberstadt's crew. Vaguely Foster could make out the concrete steps, heavily layered with dirt, several of the top ones misshapen, the rest plunging steeply downward into the darkness.

  Suddenly there were powerful beams of light from behind him. Oberstadt was at his heels, handing him a large fluorescent lantern, retaining the other, then reaching back to one of his men to take a canvas sack of hand tools and the saw.

  "Ready when you are," said Oberstadt.

  "Let's go," said Foster.

  "Watch your step," Oberstadt cautioned him.

  Foster led the way, as he perched precariously on the first smashed step, one hand on the wall, then eased downward to the next one, and the next, each one partially broken, but after that he could see that the caked treads were in good condition. With his lamp in front of him, Foster descended, and he could hear Oberstadt right behind him.

  Down and down they went, the full four flights. Forty-four steps, Foster remembered, and when he had counted the forty-fourth, he knew it was right, that he was at the bottommost level of the original Führerbunker .

  Here, in this lower labyrinth, fifty-five feet beneath the point he had entered, it
was stifling. It was difficult to breathe. He took a step, and the dust eddied up, making him cough.

  "You all right?" Oberstadt's voice sounded and resounded.

  "Okay. Let me make sure where we are."

  He knew the design of this lower command bunker. There would be eighteen cramped rooms stretching forty-five feet ahead, and this nine-foot-wide central corridor with its low ceiling led to all of them. But now, his mind on Emily, Foster was interested in only six of the rooms, Hitler's and Eva Braun's private suite, but mainly he was interested in two of the rooms, Hitler's living room and personal bedroom.

  Foster held out his lamp and tried to take in the condition of this lower bunker. It was a mess, intact but a mess. The once clean rust-brown ceiling and corridor walls were black with dirt and age, and spider webs hung everywhere. Here and there, before him, there were pools of stagnant water, and areas of crusted mud.

  Walking a few tentative yards farther, Foster called back, "The door should be right around here, on the right. Let me see."

  Then he saw it, through the shell of what had once been a waiting room, the thick fireproof steel door that he had read about, the one that led into Hitler's bunker living room.

  The handle of the door was there, badly rusted, and Foster hoped that it was still workable and that the door could be pushed open.

  Balancing his lantern, he found the door handle. It was cold. He clamped his hand on it, and turned it. With a groan of protest, the lock gave way. Foster leaned against the door to shove it open with his weight, but the pressure was not necessary. Creaking, the door slowly moved aside.

  For long seconds Foster remained immobile, as if unable to bring himself to leave the present and enter the past. Then he stepped forward into history. As he swung his lamp around, the black pit mushroomed to life in its bright gleam, and seconds later it was doubly illuminated by the reinforced brightness of Oberstadt's light beside him.

  The image so long in his mind had furnished the ten-by-fifteen-foot living room and prepared him for what to expect. There would be a desk or writing table to one side holding a framed photograph of Hitler's mother. On the carpet there would be three old chairs and directly ahead a small round table and the blood-stained blue sofa upon which the Führer and his bride Eva Braun had slumped in death.

  But the image was dissipated by reality, and Foster realized that this was forty years later and that he stood in the present. Although the Führerbunker had been quarantined by the Russians to keep out Red Army troops and the curious public, some souvenir-hunting Soviet medical personnel and soldiers had gone down below the first two or three days. They had been scavengers, seeking either mementos or furnishings for their devastated homes in Russia.

  Foster squinted about, wherever the lantern beam gave him light, The carpeting had been ripped up and carted away. Two of the three chairs were missing, and the third broken in parts so that it resembled kindling wood. The round table was gone. All that remained of the past were Hitler's desk on one wall and the moldy, filthy sofa on another.

  But Foster was searching for something.

  "Hold your light on the desk," he ordered Oberstadt.

  He moved ahead, and with one hand pulled the desk away from the concrete wall. He peered behind it, at the wall, then dropped to his knees and felt along the wall. It was smooth, dirty but smooth.

  Standing, he said enigmatically, "Not here. Let's go into the next room. That should be Hitler's private bedroom."

  The wooden bedroom door was stuck. Foster yanked at it a couple of times, and at once it flew open, fanning up a curtain of dust. Foster covered his nose and mouth, waiting for the dust to settle. Then he stepped inside the bedroom, with Oberstadt close behind him.

  This room was smaller than the living room. There was a single bed, narrow as an army cot, and it was stripped down to the frame. Even the mattress had been removed. Foster guessed that there had been a nightstand and lamp beside it once. Now they were missing. All the other furniture, whatever pieces there had been, had long ago been confiscated. But across the room a four-drawer bureau, too bulky to be taken away, still stood sturdily against the wall.

  Foster examined the bedroom walls and ceiling. They were concrete, and there were cracks everywhere.

  "Odd," said Foster. "Cracks here but not in the living room. Yet the same concrete."

  Oberstadt was playing his fluorescent lamp against a wall, studying a crack. "I don't understand. None of this should have cracked." He had found a screwdriver and was prying into a crack. "You know, somehow I don't think these fissures happened naturally. They might have been man-made."

  Foster agreed. "Simulated," he said quietly. "A form of camouflage."

  "A what?" asked Oberstadt, puzzled.

  "To make everyone ignore the real thing. You'll see. Here, help me move aside the bureau."

  They both set down their lanterns, took the sides of the bureau, and pulled it away from the wall.

  "Let's bring it nearer the center of the room," Foster said. "Okay, now take your lantern and shine it on the wall behind the bureau."

  Oberstadt did as he was told, and Foster was on his knees closely studying the wall that had been hidden behind the bureau. He ran his forefinger along four parts of the wall. "Yup, just what I suspected. Hand me your screwdriver, Andrew."

  Oberstadt gave him the screwdriver, and Foster pried away at the slits he had detected. Soon an outline in the wall took form. It resembled a rectangular panel Tour feet wide and three feet high.

  Foster got to his feet. "Just what I was looking for," said Foster.

  "What was that?"

  "Andrew, I've been an architect for a long time. I can't imagine anyone building a windowless room like this without some kind of interior escape hatch to supplement the door."

  "But there is an emergency exit. We just came down through it."

  "No, I'm speaking of a private exit. There was none on the plan of the Führerbunker . I couldn't believe it. Therefore, I reasoned, one must have been added afterward. By Hitler himself. A secret exit."

  Oherstadt's ruddy features showed disbelief. "That's a secret exit?"

  "I think it is."

  "But why? You mean in case of a gas attack?"

  "In this case, something more. A means of getting out of here undetected."

  "You mean he ... ?"

  "We'll know soon enough. You have your saw?"

  "I sure do."

  "Okay." Foster pointed at the four lines on the wall. "Let's go at it. I'm expecting it to be a slab that will come out. Let's see if it does."

  "You bet!" said Oberstadt enthusiastically. He set down his lantern and bag of hand tools, and picked up his saw.

  As Oberstadt went to the wall, and lowered himself to his knees, his saw poised, Foster said, "I hope it's not noisy."

  "It's noisy but it will be quick. If this is only a slab, then it has been cut to fit the opening and I won't be going through solid concrete. That looks like mortar that you've dug out. It should he easy as putty, and no louder than humming." He paused. "What's the difference anyway? I thought this was an escape exit."

  "Still could be. Depends—where to, and what's on the other side."

  "What is on the other side?"

  "I won't be sure until you finish."

  "All right, here goes."

  Oberstadt triggered the saw, and it gave out a low, steady hum. He set the blade against one of the lines on the wall, and immediately the noise became a metallic whine.

  Holding his own lantern up higher so that Oberstadt could see better, Foster was surprised at the progress the saw was making. It was going through the lines as if they'd been drawn on a piece of cake.

  Oberstadt paused only once. "You're right. It's a slab—wire mesh covered by mortar inside—and it should come out soon."

  Ten minutes later he shut off his saw and laid it down. His fingers dug into a side of the slab and rocked it slightly.

  "It was freestanding to begin with," O
berstadt said. "It's been lightly mortared in place, but now it is completely loose. Want to give me a hand?"

  They each took one side of the slab, and began to tug at it, gradually pulling it out of the wall.

  "Not too heavy," grunted Oberstadt, "because it's not solid concrete. Feels like no more than a hundred pounds." They slipped it to one side, and leaned it against the solid wall of the bedroom.

  Quickly, Foster, on his knees, moved toward the hole in the wall, raised his lantern, and looked inside. He backed away. "Just what I expected."

  "What did you expect?"

  "A tunnel like the ninety-foot one Speer constructed earlier, running from the Old Chancellery underground to the New Chancellery. Only Speer didn't build this one. I'm positive this one was built by Hitler's slave laborers. "

  "Now what?" Oberstadt asked.

  Foster smiled. "Now we part company. I have to go in there to see if I can find someone."

  "Someone? You'd better let me come along."

  "No, Andrew. In this case two's a crowd. One person can do it more quietly. This had better be done as quietly as possible."

  Oberstadt was doubtful. "You're sure you want to go alone?"

  "I think I better do it my way." He stuck out his hand. "Thanks, my friend. You'd better get back up top. If I need you, I'll call you."

  "You're the boss," Oberstadt said, rising.

  "I'll keep this one lantern," Foster said. "And—well, you might leave me a chisel and hammer."

  "Chisel and hammer. You've got them." Oberstadt passed them along, took hold of his own lantern and tool bag. Leaving Hitler's bedroom, he turned once. "Good luck, wherever you're going."

  Foster stuck the tools in his trouser pockets. He considered the rectangular hole in the wall. There was no question now. Hitler and Eva had gone out of the Führerbunker this way, had managed to have the slab replaced with the help of confederates, who also moved the bureau back against the slab in the wall.