Стив Берри - The Kaiser's Web--A Novel

Cotton had taken the time over the past few years to become familiar with the EU. It had been an experiment from the start. Twenty-seven countries thrown together by the Treaty of Rome in 1957, bound so tight with a common currency, free trade, and open borders that war among them would no longer be an option. The whole point had been to dissuade nationalism. In the last round of EU elections five years ago, only about 40 percent of voters had turned out. Not good. Unfortunately, many of the more centrist parties across Europe lacked the youth, vigor, and energy to compete with the excitement of the new right. And whoever controlled at least a third of the EU Parliament’s seats could block vital appointments, overrule policies, and push hard-liners for key positions, influencing myriad things including trade and immigration. It didn’t help that Western European nations stayed at odds with the EU’s newest members—all in the east, former Soviet satellite countries—which were luring jobs and industry from the west with cheap labor and low taxes.

A new east-versus-west battle.

Which the west was losing.

“Theodor Pohl is good at harnessing anger,” Danny said. “He casts himself as a macher. Man of action. And, unfortunately, that’s what he is. He can get things done. Marie Eisenhuth is more a seher. A visionary.”

“Aren’t you the bilingual one,” Cassiopeia taunted.

“I do have my moments. But four things make Pohl dangerous. He’s smart. No fool. Decisive. And most important, he can explain himself with an eloquence that others easily agree with. His nationalistic ideas are becoming widely accepted across Germany. His party could garner a solid number of seats in the Bundestag.”

The chopper kept heading west, the ride smooth in the afternoon air. Even Cassiopeia didn’t seem bothered by the flight. They’d learned that the Airvan had crashed into the woods with no one injured on the ground.

“Each European country seems to have their own charismatic new-right personality,” Danny said. “Their own Theodor Pohl, fueling the flames of ultra-conservatism and exciting fears. The German system makes the problem even more acute. With so many political parties, it’s doubtful anyone will achieve a majority. So a coalition will rule. Pohl has forged alliances with the Christian Democrats and the Free Democrats, enough to allow him to become chancellor. But to do that he, and his party, must outpoll Marie Eisenhuth and her party in the coming elections. His political partners are waiting to see how the people vote before finalizing their alliance. They want to shift right, but they also want to be sure it’s the way to go.”

“I assume Eisenhuth has a similar dilemma,” Cassiopeia said. “If she prevails the other parties fall in behind her?”

“Precisely.”

“So what does this have to do with us?” Cotton asked.

“The election is too close to call. It’s a little over sixty days from now. Three weeks ago Chancellor Eisenhuth received an email.” Danny hesitated. “Then two more emails after that. All supposedly from a man named Gerhard Schüb. What he was saying attracted the chancellor’s attention, so a meet was arranged for last Friday where a packet of documents was hand-delivered to the chancellor’s representative. The courier was Hanna Cress, the woman who was arrested, then murdered. And then there’s another rub to this itch. We’ve actually had contact with a Gerhard Schüb before. Through Jonathan Wyatt.”

That name Cotton knew.

A former American intelligence operative. Never a friend. For a while even an enemy. But eventually they came face-to-face on an island in Canada and settled their differences.

“Right before all that unpleasantness a few years ago with my assassination attempt in New York,” Danny said, “Wyatt had a confrontation in Chile with a man named Gerhard Schüb. He filed a report on what happened. When Chancellor Eisenhuth talked to me about her problem, she asked if we knew anything about Schüb. I made inquiries through Stephanie and she told me about Chile. Supposedly, according to Wyatt, Schüb killed himself there.”

“Wyatt is a loose cannon,” Cotton said. “Always has been. Are you saying he lied in his report?”

Danny shook his head. “More like he got played. We think he was tricked into believing Schüb was dead. I have his report with me.” Danny glanced at his watch. “We’re about half an hour out. Before we land I need you both to read it and something else, part of what was delivered last Friday by Hanna Cress.”

Danny reached beneath his jacket and removed a few sheets of paper, which he handed over.

Together, they read.

CHAPTER EIGHT

A pril 30, 1945. T he F ührer ’ s mood has progressively worsened since yesterday when the generals informed him that Berlin was lost and a counteroffensive from the 11th Panzer Army, which he thought would save the Reich, had not been initiated. He became incensed on learning that Himmler was negotiating independently with the Allies for peace. That action made him suspect everything related to the SS, including the cyanide capsules supplied for the bunker.

“They are fakes,” Hitler screamed. “The chicken farmer Himmler wants me taken alive so the Russians can display me like a zoo animal.”

He fingered one of the capsules and declared it nothing more than a sedative.

“Malignancy is rife,” he lamented.

To be sure of the poison, during the late morning he retreated to the surface and watched as a capsule was administered to his favorite Alsatian. The dog died quickly, and the act seemed to satisfy him. The Führer then descended back into the bunker and presented his two personal secretaries with a poison capsule each, commenting that he wished he could have provided a better parting gift. They thanked him for his kindness and he praised their service, wishing his generals would have been as loyal.

Earlier, near 2:00 A.M., they were all summoned to the bunker, officers, women, and men. Hitler appeared with Bormann. His eyes carried the same hazy glaze of late, a lock of hair plastered to his sweaty forehead, and he shuffled in what appeared to be a painful stoop. Dandruff flecked his shoulders thick as dust. The right side of his body trembled uncontrollably. The German people would be amazed to see the weakened condition of their Supreme Leader. We were assembled in a line and the Führer proceeded to shake each of our hands. Saliva drooled from his mouth. Bormann watched in silence. I heard Hitler mutter as he departed, “Alles in ordnung.” All is in order.

We all sensed that the end was near. This man who by sheer force of personality had so completely dominated a nation was about to end his life. There was so much relief that we hurried to ground level and held a dance in the canteen of the Chancellery. High officers who days before would not have acknowledged we existed shook our hands and talked openly. Everyone realized that postwar Germany was going to be greatly different. A realignment would occur not only in people, but in social order. All at the dance seemed to grasp that reality, and I watched with great amusement as egos crumbled.

By noon the news was not good. Russian troops had partly occupied the Chancellery. The Tiergarten had been taken. The Potsdamer Platz and Weidendammer Bridge were lost. Hitler accepted the information without emotion. At 2:00 P.M. he took lunch with his secretaries and cook. His wife, Eva, who normally ate with Hitler, was not there. Their marriage was little more than a day old and her absence from Hitler’s side was something to be noted. Such an odd wedding. The din of battle leaking in from aboveground. The cold gray concrete walls. A humid, moldy aroma that stained everything with a stench of confinement. Each declared that they were of pure Aryan descent and free of hereditary disease. Goebbels and Bormann served as official witnesses. The bride and groom barely smiled as vows were exchanged. An odd sort of fulfillment amid overwhelming failure.