Alex Scarrow - A thousand suns

The young woman had seated him in the ante-room. She said Hitler had been expecting him since lunchtime to join him in celebration. It was clear from the puzzled look on her face that she had no idea what it was Hitler was planning to celebrate. Now, listening to the murmurings through the wooden door, the Fuhrer’s mood seemed to have swung from a positive demeanour only a few hours ago to one of desperation.

Ahead of him he could see through an open door into Eva Braun’s sitting room. The German Shepherd he had seen last time was on the bed again, asleep without a care in the world.

He heard movement from inside Hitler’s study, and a moment later the door opened, and Eva Braun emerged. She smiled politely at Hauser and then turned and put her head round the door. He heard her inform Hitler that Hauser was waiting outside, and then she drifted past and walked into her sitting room.

‘Blondi, out, please,’ she muttered, roughly pushing the sleeping dog off and closing the door behind her as it stepped sluggishly outside.

Hauser waited a further minute or so before he heard Hitler mumble, ‘Come in.’ He stood up and cautiously entered the study.

Hitler was sitting behind his small desk; the light from the desk lamp shone across his tired face and picked out puffy, red eyes. He gestured with his trembling left hand, clearly no longer attempting to conceal it, towards the guest chair opposite the desk.

‘Please, sit down.’

‘Thank you, my Fuhrer,’ said Hauser dutifully as he sat down.

This time Hitler was wearing his uniform, the formal tan tunic Hauser had seen his leader wear in countless movie reels, but it looked scruffy and crumpled with several faint food stains down the front.

‘I was hoping we would have received word from the Americans some time this afternoon,’ he said, his voice wavering slightly.

‘Yes, it would seem they are cutting things a little fine, my Fuhrer.’

Hitler nodded. ‘It seems they haven’t taken my threat seriously.’

‘Then they soon will, I assure you.’

Hitler rubbed his eyes and sighed deeply. ‘I think not. They wouldn’t leave such a thing to chance. This can only mean they have intercepted the plane… it’s all over.’ He absent-mindedly stroked the decorative braiding on one of his cuffs. ‘We shall not be celebrating anything this evening, it seems.’

It was then Hauser realised that Hitler had dressed up for the occasion, worn his finest formal uniform ready to receive the telegram from the Americans. Hauser had little doubt that bottles of champagne lay ready in the pantry, unopened. Hitler looked pitifully like a child dressed for a cancelled birthday party, unwilling to change out of his party-best into his normal workaday things.

‘The plane may have been delayed across the ocean; it could even arrive a couple of hours after the deadline, depending on the weather. We will have to — ’

‘I think you are deceiving yourself… if they haven’t responded by now it is because they know there is no more threat. They must have intercepted the plane. Your bomb is no longer a threat to them.’

Perhaps he’s right.

Hitler inhaled deeply and smoothed down his tunic, aware that as he’d been wearing it all afternoon, it must now look untidy and creased.

‘I believe there is a small buffet laid out in the map room; feel free to help yourself,’ he muttered. ‘Please leave, there are things I need to attend to now.’ He dismissed Hauser with a limp flick of his wrist.

Hauser stood up uncertainly and saluted. Hitler barely acknowledged him, staring with lifeless and empty eyes at a small-scale architectural model of Speer’s on the corner of his desk. Hauser nodded curtly and backed out of the study, pulling the door closed behind him.

Frau Jung was waiting for him in the ante-room, her eyebrows raised curiously. ‘How is he?’ she asked.

Hauser merely shook his head, unsure of what to say, what to do next, where to go.

‘There are spare cots in the Stumpfegger’s rooms if you wish to stay, Dr Hauser. I’m not sure it’s wise to go outside again — ’

Frau Jung’s words were interrupted by a raised voice coming from down the main corridor. The young woman stepped angrily out into the corridor to see what the disturbance was all about. A junior officer approached her, walking briskly down the main corridor holding a single sheet of paper in his hand. ‘Frau Jung, I have a telegram for the Fuhrer.’

‘He’s not to be disturbed. That’s what he told me.’

‘It’s in English, you speak English do you not?’

‘Well, yes, a little. Give it to me.’ She took the sheet of paper from the officer and read it briefly.

‘Oh my…’

‘What is it?’ asked the officer.

Traudl Jung looked up at him and snapped angrily. ‘It’s addressed to your leader, not you!’ She stared challengingly at the officer until he turned on his heels and headed back up the corridor towards the telephone exchange room. She angrily muttered something about the slipping standards of discipline around the Fuhrer as she turned smartly around and knocked lightly on the door to Hitler’s study. Hauser heard him call her in, and she disappeared inside.

Hauser remained where he was, standing in the small ante-room, staring at the door and straining to hear what was being said beyond. Both Frau Jung and Hitler must be talking quietly, whispering even. He could hear nothing.

A minute passed before finally the handle of the door turned, and the door swung open, revealing Adolf Hitler. He had changed his tunic to a similar one, freshly laundered. He smiled at Hauser.

Mission Time: 21 Hours, 20 Minutes Elapsed

4.25 p.m., EST, fifty miles off the east coast of America

He awoke with a start.

‘Max, wake up, we’re nearly there,’ said Hans, jabbing his arm insistently.

Max felt the world quickly invade the warmth and comfort of his dream. It faded all too quickly. He hazily recalled images of a long dining table, Lucian beside him, his eyes as wide as saucers staring at the feast arrayed before him. It was a Christmas dinner, and Lucian must have been only seven, nearly eight; it had to have been Christmas 1933, perhaps ’34. He had been eighteen that year, and back from his first term at university. Max smiled; what a wonderful time that was, enjoying the novelty of his new life away from home. But he had been surprised at how much he’d missed Lucian during his first term. He had spent some of the money he had saved for several raucous nights down the local beer cellar to mark the end of term on a present that he knew would make that little porcelain face light up with ecstasy… a small army of painted soldier figurines. All through that meal he’d teased his brother about what surprise lay within his parcel beneath the Christmas tree.

‘Pieter said I should wake you up,’ Hans said apologetically.

He would have given anything for another five minutes back there, back then. ‘That’s all right, Hans,’ he said, stifling a yawn, ‘I need to prepare the bomb.’

He turned to look at Stef to see the boy was still unconscious. He lifted the blanket to check his leg wound and found several small patches of wet blood soaking through.

‘He’s still losing blood.’

It looked like a slow trickle of blood, but it was still leaking out of him. If they could find him some medical attention as soon as this was all over, he would pull through. The lad had lost a fair bit, but he guessed he still had a chance. It was more likely he was simply sleeping from exhaustion than passed out from lack of blood.

Good, let him sleep. If he’s moving around less, the tourniquet will do a better job.

‘Hans, what’s our position?’