The Seventh Secret

by Irving Wallace

  Sucking for breath, Schmidt sank to a knee, and immediately Foster was upon him, driving his foot against the German's temple.

  Schmidt toppled sideways to the floor, momentarily stupefied. But he was strong as an ox, and trying to rise once more. In those seconds, Foster knew that if Schmidt recovered, got up again, he himself might not survive the other's brute strength.

  Frantically, in mortal terror, Foster sought some weapon, anything that could be a weapon. There was none, and then his fingertips touched the bronze of the overturned Grecian urn on the floor. Grabbing it in his two hands, Foster swung around toward Schmidt, who was shaking his head, trying to rise. Foster lifted the urn high and, with all his strength, brought it down hard, smashing it against the German's skull. Schmidt's head fell back, seemed to fall sideways against a shoulder, and Foster struck him again and again with the urn, until the German's groan became silence, and his eyes closed, and he keeled over on the floor unconscious. Foster stood breathless over him, aware that the urn had become uncapped in his attack and that the gray ashes it had contained now covered Schmidt's still countenance and his chest.

  Putting down the urn, Foster, panting, kneeled beside Schmidt's limp body to make sure he was out. Plainly, the German was totally unconscious and might remain so for a half hour or more. Foster peered at the shattered crystal of his wristwatch. If everything had gone on schedule, soon, very soon, this room and the entire underground bunker itself would be filled with deadly gas. Schmidt would die, with all the others, long before he could ever recover consciousness. And, Foster reminded himself, he would die, too, unless he made haste.

  To be certain that Schmidt's body would not be discovered before the lethal vapors came through the ventilator, Foster sought a means of hiding the police chief s body. Then he remembered that he had passed Hitler's bedroom in the hallway. Gripping his fingers under Schmidt's armpits, and with great effort, he dragged the inert body through the room and into the hall to Hitler's bedroom. Opening the door, Foster pushed Schmidt inside, and pulled the door shut.

  Leaning against the door, Foster gave himself a few moments' breathing spell. Then, realizing that time was running out, and that he might be trapped with the others, he shook himself into action. With effort, he moved to the adjoining doorway and entered Eva's bedroom.

  He was not sure what he would find. Had the brawling so nearby aroused her, brought her back to normality?

  Incredibly, Eva was lying there as peacefully as he had left her. She was still glassy-eyed, in a nether-world, blissfully unaware of what had taken place outside the room.

  Foster picked up the flashlight, shoved it into a pocket, and approached Eva one more time.

  Standing above her, he repeated what he had said before. "Eva, I'm going to untie you, and then you and I, we're going for a walk."

  She blinked at him uncomprehendingly.

  Fast as possible, Foster began to free her from the bed.

  She was dazed and compliant, and no trouble at all.

  Foster had held her arm as they went through the secret bunker. The one guard on duty whom they passed snapped to respectful attention when he recognized Eva Braun, but ignored Foster, still clad in the Nazi sentry's uniform.

  After Foster had attained the mezzanine with Eva, he took one backward glance. He was able to make out what he had overlooked before—other soldiers on duty at the far end, none of whose paths he had crossed earlier with Emily, or just now with Eva.

  Eva had remained uncomprehending but obedient when he had told her to crawl from the bunker that had been her home since the end of the war into the darkened tunnel. With his own clothes in one hand, his flashlight in the other, he had squirmed in after her. He had switched on her flashlight, enabling himself to close the hole into the bunker and ease the slab back into place.

  Then, with gentle urging, the flashlight glowing on the concrete in front of them, he had moved her along the now familiar route underground to the opening that led into Hitler's old bedroom inside the smaller Führerbunker.

  She had gone through it on her knees, with Foster on his own knees behind her.

  Setting down the flashlight so that its beam encompassed part of the hole, he had lifted up the second slab and edged it toward the opening. Alone, using every ounce of his strength, he had managed to get the slab into place, kneeing it here and there to make it fit solidly. Then, taking up the flashlight, he had pulled her away from the bureau and, summoning what reserves of strength he had left, had pushed the bureau against the wall. Now the seventh bunker was truly sealed up.

  To orient both of them, he had aimed the beam of the flashlight in an arc around the dusty, cobwebbed bedroom. When the light fell on the frame of Hitler's bed, he thought he heard her gasp.

  Now he was guiding her through the doorway into what had been the Führer's sitting room in the last months of the war.

  This time he ran the flashlight beam slowly around the room, holding the beam on the sofa, the broken chair, the walls, the desk, the place above it that had once held Frederick the Great's picture and, finally, on Eva's face itself.

  Her face was ashen, a study in shock, and he heard her gasp a second time, more audibly. Her hands crept up to her mouth, and at last her words came through her fingers. "The Führerbunker," she said. "The sitting room, our room."

  He wondered if the forty years had fallen away, and she was reliving what she had lived then, her happier moments with Hitler, her long-desired marriage to him, the wedding reception with his staff and toadies.

  "Oh, my God," she whispered, "what have they done to it?"

  "The Russians came," Foster said matter-of-factly.

  "The animals," she said with a tremor.

  And now he knew that she was back into the present, with the drug fully worn off and her senses returned.

  She blinked into the flashlight. "Who are you? How did you get me here? I want to go back—"

  "You can't go back," he said curtly. "That's the past." Then he added, "The past is dead, or the last of it will be in minutes. I have other plans for you." He held the Luger in his free hand, so that she could see it, and he aimed the flashlight beam in front of her. "Now we're going up to the top, up the staircase to the old emergency exit."

  "Why?"

  "I want the truth, Eva. All of it."

  "I won't tell you anything, not a thing. And my name—my name is Evelyn Hoffmann," she reminded him haughtily.

  "Move!" he barked and prodded her with the gun.

  She moved, and he followed her through the reception room to the stairwell, and then up the concrete steps to the top.

  At the last opening, the one leading out of the mound, she held back.

  "Out you go," he ordered, pressing the muzzle of the Luger into her back.

  Stumbling, she stepped into the cool night air, and stood very still in the immediate area along the mound of earth inside the East German Frontier Zone. It was dark, but not completely. A few slivers of light shone down on parts of the field from the East German watchtowers.

  "Emily!" Foster called out, passing his flashlight in a semicircle to catch sight of Emily, who had promised him she would be back and waiting.

  But no one was visible anywhere.

  His heart fell, and he wondered what had happened to Emily, and whether she had got out of East Berlin and contacted Tovah and Golding and the Mossad agents.

  He wanted Emily here, to reassure himself that she was safe and to know that finally the epilogue to the Hitler story was being played out.

  He held the Luger in one hand, put his flashlight on the ground, and with his free hand awkwardly divested himself of his Nazi uniform and got into his own work clothes. When he was done, there was still no sign of Emily. Minutes were slipping away and he was in despair.

  And then he saw, at some distance across the field, a light that seemed to be approaching. It was approaching, bobbing as it drew nearer, a lantern being carried by someone, and as it came closer he was able to
make out that it was being carried by a woman.

  He knew that it was Emily at last.

  Suddenly, there was a loud report from behind him, and twenty yards away the distant light abruptly dropped down and the figure carrying the light went down with it.

  In a burst of fear, Foster tightened his hold on his Luger, and dashed toward the light on the ground, certain that Emily had been shot.

  But she was rising to her feet when he reached her, groping for the lantern.

  "Are you all right?" he wanted to know, helping her upright, holding her.

  "I tripped on something, that's all. Hurt my knee a little, nothing more. Thank God you got out with no trouble."

  He took the lantern from Emily and was hastening her back to the gaping excavation in the mound.

  "I have most of what we wanted to know from her. We can get the rest later. The main thing is that they have a plan to revive National Socialism in Germany. They want to be ready to take over again. Hitler dreamed of an inevitable nuclear war between Russia and the United States, as you know. They want to be in place for that. She gave me all the details."

  "Nazism again in Germany?" said Emily with disbelief "That can't be. They must be mad."

  "Obsessed. It was the last of Hitler's great hopes. Tell me, did you get hold of Tovah and her Mossad people?"

  "I did. Tovah said she'd get hold of Golding, have him round up the Mossad agents and the supply of gas and head for the Café Wolf and the bunker ventilation system. If it went well—"

  "Meaning if they weren't discovered by Schmidt's police."

  "Schmidt. What will we do with Schmidt?"

  "He's been taken care of. He turned up in the bunker. It was a little hairy for a few moments, but I was lucky to have age and speed on my side. I left him unconscious down below. If Golding comes through with the gas, that should take care of Schmidt, too."

  "Well, let's pray they're releasing the gas into the bunker right now. Unless there's a slip-up, every one of those Nazis should be dead in a few minutes."

  Foster was satisfied. "Afterward, the German military can remove the bodies, and ventilate the place. Then you'll have all their papers and you'll have Eva Braun—"

  "Eva!" Emily exclaimed. "Where is she?"

  "Why, right here with me," Foster said uncertainly. "I brought her here . . . she was right here . . ." He waved his lantern looking for her.

  But Eva Braun was no longer there.

  "She's gone," Emily gasped. "When you turned your back on her, she must have taken off."

  "She's not going to get very far in this Security Zone."

  "We can't just stand here. Let's try to find her," Emily insisted.

  Foster briefly considered this. "Not now, Emily," he finally decided. "Not by ourselves. We can't go wandering around here searching for Eva." He peered into the semidarkness. "Never mind about Eva. She's not going very far. She's trapped. Let the East Germans catch up with her."

  "But we want her."

  "We'll get to Eva, once they pick her up." He had Emily by the arm and was hurrying her across the field toward the East German guardhouse. "First, let's be sure Golding got the message and delivered the goods. That's what we must know."

  Once past the guardhouse, Foster had a change of mind. "Emily, you go ahead alone. Take my car, along with your papers, and get over to the Café Wolf. Find out whether there's going to be a happy ending. I'll grab a ride and be right behind you. Right now I want to hang around here for a little while. I am beginning to miss Eva. Maybe I'll get another chance to look for her. Please go, Emily. I'll catch up with you--and be on your guard, just in case."

  Chapter Twelve

  For several minutes after Emily had left for the Café Wolf, Foster remained outside the East German Frontier Zone, peering through the wire fence near the gate where three guards and their commanding officer stood. Foster watched for any movement in the semidarkness of the field that would give some sign of the reappearance of Eva Braun.

  There was no one, no sign of Eva anywhere visible. In those minutes, Foster knew that Hitler's wife would not be showing herself. Yet she would never get away, Foster was certain. The woman was bottled up, and with the coming of daylight she would be spotted and caught and would fall into the hands of the East Ger-mans. Still, Foster knew, no matter what happened, Eva Braun would not be lost to them. Later in the day, he or Emily would notify Professor Blaubach of the arrested woman's real identity. Foster could imagine Blaubach's stunned surprise.

  But for now, Foster felt it was hopeless—and pointless—to continue to stand there and wait. A more im-mediate matter was on his mind. He had to know whether the underground Nazis had been executed. He wished he had not given his car to Emily, or at least had accompanied her on her trip to the Café Wolf. He needed a car now.

  Foster started walking briskly toward the officer in charge of the gate, one Major Janz, a decent enough person who had treated him with courtesy so far. When Major Janz saw him approaching, he secured the Soviet SKS carbine hanging from his shoulder, and met Foster halfway.

  "I've been waiting here for one of my colleagues to finish up and come out, but I'm afraid I can't stay any longer," Foster explained. "Would it be possible for you to call a taxi for me? I know this is a bad hour, but there must be taxis around somewhere."

  "Absolutely," said the major. "I'll have one of my men call the Palast Hotel. Taxis should be there looking for a return fare to West Berlin."

  Major Janz called back to a guard, instructing him to phone for a taxi for Herr Foster.

  Foster thanked the major and resumed his vigil at the wire fence. Again the forbidding darkness gave him no clue to Eva Braun's whereabouts.

  Suddenly he was aware of Major Janz at his elbow. "No problem," the major was saying. "A taxi will be here in ten or fifteen minutes."

  "I certainly appreciate this," Foster said.

  The major lingered a moment, eyes on Foster. "Now everything is all right?"

  "Quite all right, thank you."

  But turning away from the fence, Foster wasn't sure everything was all right—for himself or for any of them, yet. It depended on what was happening far below ground in the secret bunker. Because if Schmidt and his fanatics had escaped extermination, it meant that they would be rising soon to hunt down Emily and himself, and Tovah and Kirvov as well, to extract vengeance and to kill.

  Behind the wheel of Foster's Audi, Emily headed for West Berlin. Once more, there was the delay at Checkpoint Charlie, longer than usual because of the hour of her appearance, but soon she was cleared and she stepped on the gas pedal, speeding the compact through the empty streets toward her destination.

  By the time she reached Askanischer Platz, and sought a parking place beyond it, her mind was on only one thing. Fervently she prayed that Tovah had been able to contact Golding, that Golding had been able to summon up help from Mossad's fighters, and that they had been successful in liquidating the insanity hidden beneath the city.

  Was it over, she kept asking herself, was it done?

  In the stillness of the bunker suite beneath Berlin, there was a movement.

  Slowly, slowly, the door from Hitler's bedroom was opening.

  A meaty hand pulled the door further. Wolfgang Schmidt, shaking his blood-encrusted head, was crawling out.

  Upon recovering consciousness, he had tried to reconstruct what had happened. He had returned to the bunker to be sure that the Ashcroft woman was still prisoner, and to learn whether Eva was all right. He had not found the Ashcroft woman where he had left her, and had gone to Eva's bedroom to check. There he had come upon that son of a bitch Foster, and Eva tied to the bed.

  There had been a fight, Foster and himself, and somehow he had been knocked out. His head was split-ting with pain, and he was sure he had been hit on the head by something heavy and suffered a concussion. Only his superb physical condition, his natural strength, had enabled him to survive.

  Bracing himself against the hallway wall opp
osite, weakened though he was, Schmidt managed to lift him-self to his feet.

  Reeling, he made his way to Eva's bedroom. She was not there. The bed was empty. And Foster, he was gone too. On rubbery legs, Schmidt turned toward the sitting room. He entered it. Also empty.

  On the floor he saw his Walther P-38. He picked it up.

  He tried to imagine what had happened.

  Foster had probably taken Eva hostage, and some-how got away by whatever means he had used to get in. All of them down here had been discovered, and they would be exposed and destroyed forever.

  Wavering, Schmidt tried to reason. Foster could not have gone to the police after seeing their chief in the hideout. To whom, then, would Foster have turned for help? Possibly the commanders of the four powers occupying Berlin. Possibly to reveal the secret of the bunker and to seek their military help.

  Somehow, this gave Schmidt a glimmer of hope. He knew the leaders of the four powers, knew them personally, and he knew how impossible it would be to make them move swiftly on anything, no matter how critical. They were always entangled in red tape, and hearing what sounded like a fantastic cock-and-bull story would not impel them to mobilize for action quickly.

  Before anything could happen, there still might be hope, real hope.

  Even though his head throbbed ceaselessly, despite the pain in his skull, Schmidt tried to reason further. Surely, while Foster sought help, he had left his allies above ground to keep an eye on the Café Wolf exit. But there could not be many of these. They could easily be overcome.

  There was still a chance to escape, Schmidt decided. He need only alert the trusted guards and other occupants of the bunker down here. Heavily armed with their latest weaponry—their machine guns and portable rocket launchers—they could easily make their way out of the bunker, through the Café Wolf, cutting down any feeble resistance with a hail of bullets.