by Jack Higgins
“So you were there for six months? Until April ’forty-five and the final catastrophe?” Hannah asked.
“That’s right. I was a relief secretary, the most junior of all. I made the coffee, that sort of thing.”
Dillon was filled with an enormous compassion for this woman, already old and, more than that, old beyond her years, a woman who had been at the sharp edge of history, but also a woman who was lying.
“So you knew the Führer?” Hannah asked.
“Of course, but the others were far more important than me, the other secretaries, I mean.”
Hannah nodded. “And Sturmbahnführer Baron von Berger? You knew him?”
“Oh, yes.” The old lady stroked Benny’s head. “He was in the Bunker for the last three months. Wounded in Russia. He came to be decorated, and the Führer took a fancy to him, made him an aide.”
“I see. Was there anything special about him?”
“No.” The old lady said. “The last couple of days were terrible, everything was confused. Then the Führer and his wife committed suicide and we all scattered, ran for it. A lot of us went through the underground tunnels. Some of us made it. I reached the West and the Americans a couple of weeks later.” She shook her head, as if looking back into a past that she didn’t want to see. “But I went through all this with the British intelligence people all those years ago.”
Ferguson interrupted. “So you didn’t see anything of von Berger at the end?”
She shrugged. “He was there and then he wasn’t, but that was true of so many people.”
Hannah carried on. “And yet we know that von Berger escaped from Berlin in a Storch aircraft. He was a prisoner of war for a couple of years, then became a hugely successful businessman.”
“I know nothing of that. Please believe me. I was just a relief secretary, nobody of any importance.” She said almost vacantly, “I made the coffee,” and because she was old and tired and her guard was down, she added, “The Führer liked it black and not too strong. The second cup he liked with brown sugar. Of course at the end, he had the palsy. His hands shook very much and I had to pour for him. He had to lift the cup with both hands. It was very awkward when he was dictating.”
In the astonished silence that followed, Hannah said, “The Führer dictated to you? But you told us you were a nobody?”
The old woman looked at her, dazed, put a hand to her face, and Dillon, in one of the cruelest acts of his life, shouted at her in German, “Fräulein Hesser, you have been less than honest. You will speak.”
Hannah started to protest, “For God’s sake, Sean-”
But he pushed her aside and towered over the old lady. “You took dictation from the Führer, didn’t you?”
“Yes.” She was terrified.
“What kind of dictation? Explain.”
Her head shook from side to side frantically. “No, I dare not, I swore a holy oath to serve the Führer.”
Already hating himself, Dillon raised his voice and thundered at her, “What was so special? You will tell me.”
She broke then and answered him in German. “For six months each day, he dictated his diary to me.”
Hannah spoke excellent German, and Ferguson spoke enough to understand. “Dear God in heaven, Hitler’s bloody diary,” he said.
Dillon knelt down and kissed Sara Hesser on the forehead. “I’m sorry I frightened you. It’s all right now.” He hugged her. “Just one more thing. What you said about Max von Berger. It wasn’t true, was it?”
Her eyes had filled with tears. “No. He was there in the Führer’s study on the thirtieth. I was there, too. The Führer had a mission for him. To fly out of Berlin in a plane hidden in Goebbels’s garage.”
“To do what?” Hannah asked.
“Why, to save the diary. A holy book, the Führer called it. He said it must never be copied.”
Ferguson said, “The diary was completely up to date, then?”
“Oh, yes, up to that very day. I covered the last six months of the war. All the traitors, all those who let him down, accounts of everything. His attempts to negotiate a peace with President Roosevelt. The secret meetings in Sweden.”
The silence was breathtaking. “His what?” Charles Ferguson whispered.
“Oh, yes,” she said. “I wrote down every word, General, and, in spite of the years, I remember everything,” which was exactly what she proceeded to tell them.
They left half an hour later and paused by the Daimler. “God, you were a bastard back there,” Hannah said to Dillon.
“He certainly was,” Ferguson said, “but it worked.”
“It was all those years ago, but the SS training never goes away,” Dillon said. “The shouted command, the harsh voice, and the response is a reflex.”
“Anyway, now we know where Max von Berger’s millions came from,” Ferguson said.
“And can’t do a thing about it,” Hannah said.
“We’re also in possession of the uncomfortable fact that in 1945, Hitler made a peace overture to Roosevelt and Roosevelt took it seriously enough to send Jake Cazalet’s father to Sweden to discuss it with Hitler’s representative,” Ferguson said.
“But, sir, if nothing came of it, does it matter?” Hannah said.
“Oh yes, my dear, it most certainly does. And the involvement of the President’s father makes it worse. The media would have a field day. Roosevelt, Cazalet and Hitler.” He shook his head. “It could do the President great harm.”
“And, at the worst, finish him,” Dillon said.
“Yes. Come on. Let’s go see von Berger.”
“I’m your man,” said Dillon, and hurried to his car.
As the Daimler drove away, Hannah said to Ferguson, “I hope the old lady will be all right, sir.”
“Yes, I’m sorry about that, but it had to be done.”
“What do you intend to say to the Baron?”
Ferguson smiled. “I haven’t the slightest idea, Superintendent.”
Newton and Cook let them leave and then followed. Twenty minutes later, Newton called. “We’re just passing the Dorchester. They’re turning into South Audley Street.”
“Fine. Hang around, in case I need you.”
Rossi switched off his phone and turned. “It would seem they intend to pay us a visit.”
Max von Berger smiled. “Well, that should be interesting.”
At the Rashid house, a maid in a black dress and white apron opened the door. Hannah said, “Is Baron von Berger at home? General Ferguson would like a word.”
“Yes, miss, you’re expected. Please follow me.”
She led the way upstairs from the hall and opened the door to the drawing room, where the Baron sat by the fire, Marco standing by the window.
“General, what a surprise. What can I do for you?”
Ferguson turned to Hannah. “Tell him, Superintendent.”
Afterward, the Baron shook his head. “An amazing story. Ridiculous, of course, but then what would one expect from an old lady who obviously went through traumatic times in the war? She obviously suffers from some delusion, some fantasy that she knew the Führer. I was an aide in the Bunker for three months and certainly knew the staff. I can’t recall a Sara Hesser.”
“Well, you would say that, ould son, wouldn’t you?” Dillon told him.
“Mind you, I’m intrigued by the whole idea,” the Baron said. “Perhaps the superintendent could give me the view from Scotland Yard. If, for example, I were in control of deposits in private accounts in Switzerland, would that constitute a crime in the U.K.?”
Hannah glanced at Ferguson. “No, sir, it would not.”
“And if someone gave you their diary for safekeeping, would that be illegal?”
“Of course not, but-”
“For God’s sake, let’s cut the nonsense and get down to facts,” Ferguson said. “We now know the truth about how you got out of Berlin and why. We also know the source of your money – the money that got you started again a
fter the war. And then there’s the diary: a holy book, Sara Hesser said.”
“A most fanciful idea.”
“Especially when it records meetings in Sweden between Hitler’s go-between and President Cazalet’s father.”
“As I said, a fanciful idea.” The Baron smiled. “Though it certainly wouldn’t help Jake Cazalet’s political future much, would it?” He smiled again. “But all this is nonsense. Stories of the Führer’s diary have abounded for years. Charlatans and forgers have tried to produce such items repeatedly. Now we have the fantasy of some aging lady. No, it won’t do.”
“Even if both British and German records indicate that she was indeed there in the Bunker?”
“Oh, really? Hmm. Well, there you are, then. I’m afraid there’s not more I can add, General – though if all of this were true, the prospect of it being revealed would be very unpleasant for the President, I should think. You take my meaning?”
“I certainly do.” Ferguson nodded to Hannah and Dillon. “Let’s go,” and he led the way out.
Marco poured an Irish whiskey and took it to his father. “Bravo, you deserve it. He never knew what hit him.”
“Ferguson is a very astute man, Marco. He won’t let it go – and this thing could easily leak.”
“But wouldn’t that accomplish your aim? To hurt the President?”
“But I don’t want it to happen yet. I want it to be on my terms and at a time to suit me.” He sipped his whiskey. “But the game is in motion now. The ball, as the English say, is in Ferguson’s court.” He sighed. “Hitler offered her a seat in my plane. It would have got her out and she refused, said it was her duty to stay with him.” He shook his head. “She should have died with the others.”
Marco lit a cigarette and walked to the window, staring out into South Audley Street. “Yes, it really would have been better, when you think of it.”
7.
MARCH WEATHER, DUSK falling early, rain drifting in across the Thames, and in the darkness of the porch of the church in Brick Lane, Marco Rossi waited in a black trench coat and rain hat.
Rossi wasn’t sure what he intended to do, and had certainly not mentioned to the Baron what he was up to, and yet there was a certain inevitability to things. He hadn’t driven in his own car and had taken a taxi to Wapping High Street and walked the rest of the way, which perhaps meant something.
He’d been there an hour, watching the house, not sure what he was waiting for, and then a light went on over the door, it creaked open and the old lady appeared with the Scottie on a lead. She was wearing a headscarf and a raincoat and put up an umbrella.
“Good boy, Benny,” she said, and set off down the pavement for the corner shop, whose lights were still on.
Rossi hurried along the other side of the churchyard and paused at the end by the wall opposite the shop where the old jetty jutted out into the river. There was no rail, just a single lamp giving a subdued glow. The old lady turned onto the jetty and walked to the end with Benny. Rossi, seizing his opportunity, darted up behind her as she gazed out at the bright lights of a riverboat passing by, put both hands on her back and pushed her over into the water.
She had released her grip on the lead and the dog barked and ran to the edge of the jetty. Rossi looked down, saw her flounder and go under. He dashed away as quickly as he had come to the shelter of the churchyard, and from there made his way back to Wapping High Street.
It was perhaps twenty minutes later that Mr. Patel, distracted by Benny’s constant barking, went outside and found the little dog, still with his lead on him, at the end of the jetty.
“What is it, Benny?” Patel demanded, retrieved his lead, then looked over and saw her frail body half in the water below.
The following morning, Charles Ferguson was having breakfast when his phone rang.
“Sir, it’s Bernstein.”
“Isn’t this a bit early, even for you, Superintendent?”
“Just listen, sir. I put Mrs. Sara Grant on the Special Branch Priority One list, just to keep an eye on her.”
“And?”
“She was found in the Thames last night, just off that jetty at the end of Brick Lane. The Indian gentleman, Mr. Patel, who owns the store, heard the dog barking and went to investigate. He found it at the end of the jetty with its lead still on and she was in the water.”
“Dear God,” Ferguson said. “Where is she now?”
“Wapping Mortuary.”
“Oh, we’re such idiots, Superintendent. Look, we’ll have to fast-track the postmortem. I’ll telephone Professor George Langley and ask him to do it this morning.”
“That is fast, sir.”
“He’ll do it for me. You will use your authority to take over the case from the Wapping police. It’s a Code One matter from now on. I’ll sign the warrant. Brook no interference from anyone. And notify Dillon.”
Dillon was on his morning run from Stable Mews, the hood of his tracksuit up against a light drizzle, when his mobile sounded and Hannah said, “It’s me, Sean.”
“At this time in the morning. Jesus, girl, am I finally getting through to you?”
“Shut up, Sean, it’s bad news,” and she told him. Dillon stopped in a doorway, stunned. “Are you still there, Sean?”
“Yes, I’m here.”
“What do you think?”
“It stinks, that’s what I think.”
The rage was in his voice. She said, “Sean, don’t do anything stupid. We have to be sure. George Langley will do the postmortem later this morning. He’s the best there is. He’s put more murderers behind bars than even you can imagine. If there’s the smallest thing wrong, he’ll find it.”
“He’d better,” Dillon said. “By God, he’d better.”
She rang off and Dillon stayed there for a while in the doorway, then walked away.
He went home and changed, then drove to Roper’s place and found him in the sitting room at the computers. The major said, “You’re early. That means something’s up.”
Dillon told him, then went and found the bottle of Paddy whiskey and poured a glass. “It’s early, even for me, but I need it.” He swallowed it down. “What do you think?”
“She was certainly a mine of information.”
“Which von Berger immediately denied as the fantasy of an aging woman.”
“Who promptly has some sort of accident and ends up in the Thames. Very useful, that happening,” Roper said.
“Yes. It’s all true, everything she told us. Von Berger’s mission from Hitler, his final flight out of Berlin, the diary – all true.”
“And now the source of that information is dead,” Roper said.
Dillon’s face was drawn. “I told her to trust me. I swore no harm would come to her. You know what she said to me? ‘You’re a good man, Mr. Dillon, in spite of yourself.’”
“I’m sorry, Sean.”
“I know somebody who’ll be a damn sight sorrier when I’ve finished with them.”
“Wait for the postmortem.”
“Of course I will.” Dillon looked like the Devil himself as he left.
It was the middle of the afternoon when Ferguson, Hannah and Dillon arrived at Wapping Mortuary, in response to Professor Langley’s call. The reception area was pleasant enough, and Hannah went to the desk and spoke to a young woman, who picked up a phone.
“I’m sorry, Professor Langley is just cleaning up. He’ll be with you shortly.”
Ferguson and Hannah sat down, Dillon lit a cigarette and stood looking out the window. Ferguson said, “You seem restless, Dillon.”
“No, angry.”
“Calm yourself, we’ll have the result soon.”
“We have that now. The only result was her death and don’t tell me it could have been a coincidence. Neither you nor I believe in them very much, not in our business.”
Before Ferguson could reply, a small gray-haired, energetic man entered. “Hello, Charles.”
Ferguson shook hands. “Thanks fo
r rushing this through, George. Detective Superintendent Bernstein here is the case officer. Sean Dillon is a colleague.”
“Sorry about the delay. Would you care to see the body?”
It was Dillon who cut in. “Yes, very much.”
Ferguson nodded and Langley said, “This way, then.”
The room he led them to was lined with white tiles. The fluorescent lighting was strangely harsh, and several steel operating tables stood in a line. There was a body on the first one, covered with a white rubber sheet.
“Mrs. Sara Grant. Do you know this woman personally, Charles?”
“We all do.”
“I’ll just show you her face, then. The rest is rather unpleasant. Autopsies usually are.”
She looked surprisingly calm, even the lines on her face seemingly smoothed, at peace in a way.
“Not a mark on her,” Langley said. “Nor anywhere. There was no fight here, no blows or wounds. The only reason for death was drowning.”
Dillon said, “You’re certain of that?”
“Absolutely. I noticed in the police report that the local shopkeeper who found her regularly saw her at night walking her dog along the jetty. She liked to stand at the end and watch the boats. I’ve visited the spot myself. There’s no handrail and a thirty-foot drop into the river.”
“You’re sure there were no marks at all, Professor?” Hannah said. “No indication of any kind of a struggle?”
“Not even bruising from the fall into the water. Of course, she was wearing a trouser suit and a heavy overcoat.”
“Is there anything else you can tell us?”
“Only that she had lung cancer. Wouldn’t have lasted more than a few months, anyway. Death by drowning, Charles, that’s the best I can do.”
“Dammit,” Dillon said. “There has to be more.”
“No, Mr. Dillon, she fell from the end of the jetty and drowned. Now, as to whether she had any help – which I know is what you’re wondering about – I couldn’t possibly comment on that. All I can say is that there are no signs of bruising, which on a woman as old and frail as she was means no violence of even the mildest kind.” He turned to Ferguson. “Charles, I realize that this is probably some sort of intelligence matter and no doubt classified. I’m happy not to know any more.”