Sam Eastland - Berlin Red

After the secretaries, Hunyadi interviewed Hitler’s chauffeur Erich Kempka, a rough, sarcastic man, who was himself a victim of the rumour leak. The story of his infidelities had been described more than once by ‘Der Chef’.

Then came Heinz Linge, one of Hitler’s valets, so nervous that he might have uttered some inconsequential detail in his sleep and thereby brought about the downfall of the Reich; his right eye began to twitch uncontrollably and Hunyadi dismissed him earlier than he had planned to out of fear that the man might be about to suffer a heart attack.

After Linge’s departure, Hunyadi glanced at his watch and realised that the day was almost over.

His final visitor was Hermann Fegelein, Himmler’s emissary to the Fuhrer’s court and, judging from the reputation that preceded him, someone universally disliked.

Unlike all the others, Fegelein appeared completely at ease, and it was this which made Hunyadi suspicious.

‘Why am I here?’ demanded Fegelein.

‘The Fuhrer believes that there is a leak of classified information from his Berlin Headquarters. Some of it is finding its way to the Allies, who are broadcasting it from their radio stations.’

‘You mean “Der Chef”?’

‘You have heard of him?’

‘Everybody has, but if that’s why you’ve brought me in I can tell you right now you are wasting your time.’

‘You may be right,’ answered Hunyadi, ‘but I must speak with everyone who has access to classified information in the bunker. And that would include you, Gruppenfuhrer, since you attend the Fuhrer’s briefings every day.’

‘That’s my job,’ he replied.

‘Nevertheless,’ said Hunyadi, ‘we must satisfy the Fuhrer’s curiosity.’

Fegelein slumped down into the chair on the other side of the table. He breathed in deeply and then sighed. ‘So ask away.’

‘I only have one question,’ said Hunyadi.

Fegelein blinked in confusion. ‘That’s all?’

‘If there was a leak,’ asked Hunyadi, ‘then where, in your opinion, would it come from?’

Fegelein thought for a moment before he replied. ‘Somewhere down the line,’ he said.

‘Down the line?’

‘Someone who has learned to slip between the cracks,’ explained Fegelein. ‘A person you see all the time but never notice. But you are wasting your time looking at me, and others like me. My kind of people do not risk our lives on spreading gossip. We have far too much to lose for that.’

‘Thank you,’ said Hunyadi. ‘You may go.’

Fegelein stood up and turned to leave. But then he turned back. ‘Why only one question?’

Hunyadi smiled, almost sympathetically. ‘If you were indeed the source of the leak, would you have admitted that to me?’

Fegelein snorted. ‘Of course not!’

‘Precisely,’ said Fegelein.

‘So why bring us in here at all?’

‘Firstly, because that is what Hitler wants. And secondly, so that there can be no doubt, in the mind of whomever is divulging this information, that they are being hunted now.’

Fegelein nodded, impressed. ‘A tactic which might lose you some friends before this investigation is over.’

‘There are no friends,’ said Hunyadi, ‘only the enemies I have already and those who do not know enough to hate me yet. In my line of work, that is an occupational hazard.’

‘If only there were someone you could turn to for help.’

Hunyadi stared at him. ‘Meaning what?’

‘Such a person might be very valuable.’ Fegelein held out his arms and let them fall back to his sides. ‘Don’t you think?’

‘If you are implying that I can request assistance from the SS, I am already aware of that.’

‘The SS is a large organisation which does not take kindly to strangers snooping about in their business,’ Fegelein told him flatly. ‘What you need is someone who can get the job done while still maintaining absolute discretion.’

Hunyadi narrowed his eyes with suspicion. ‘And this person might be you? Is that what you’re suggesting?’

‘It might be.’

Now I know why they hate you so much, thought Hunyadi. ‘And why’, he asked, ‘would someone like you make me an offer like that?’

‘Because I know who you work for, and I have lately found myself on the wrong end of his sympathies. Any gesture I can make to remedy that situation is worth doing. So you see, if I help you, then I am also helping him. All I ask in return is that, when the time comes, you remember who your friends are.’

‘I’ll keep it in mind,’ Hunyadi answered cautiously.

Fegelein handed him a business card. On one side, in embossed letters, were his initials, HF, and on the other side was a Berlin telephone number. ‘This is how to reach me, day or night,’ said Fegelein.

After the man had departed, Hunyadi turned his thoughts to the things he had learned that day. The most useful information had come, not from what his visitors had said, but from what they did not say. Tomorrow, he would go to the bunker, and report his findings in person to Hitler. The news was unlikely to go down well, and Hunyadi wondered if the messenger would be the first to fall.

That evening, after a meal of quail braised in a mushroom and cognac sauce, delivered from the kitchens of Harting’s restaurant on Muhlenstrasse to the apartment of his mistress, Fegelein sat in a high-backed chair made of crushed yellow velvet, smoking a cigar. Lazily, he held the phone receiver to his ear while his master, Heinrich Himmler, grilled him about the meeting with Hunyadi.

‘What did he want?’ demanded Himmler. ‘What is he looking into?’

‘A leak,’ replied Fegelein. ‘A flow of information from the bunker which has been finding its way into the hands of the Allies. Apparently, you can hear it almost every day on that pirate radio station of theirs.’

‘Is there any truth to it?’

‘No idea,’ sighed Fegelein, ‘but even if there is, it’s nothing serious.’

‘Nothing serious!’ scoffed Himmler. ‘How the hell can you say that?’

‘Because the information is useless,’ explained Fegelein. ‘It’s just gossip. There’s nothing to indicate that military secrets are being passed on to the enemy, at least from the bunker.’

‘Then why did he have to bring in a detective?’

‘Not just any detective,’ said Fegelein. ‘It’s Leopold Hunyadi.’

‘Hunyadi!’ exclaimed Himmler. ‘The last I heard, he was going to be shot, or hanged or something.’

‘He appears to have dodged both the bullet and the noose,’ replied Fegelein. ‘I must say I am not at all surprised. I have looked at Hunyadi’s police record. It is very impressive. He has received all four grades of the Police Meritorious Service medal.’

‘Four?’ asked Himmler. ‘I thought that there were only three – gold, silver and bronze.’

‘They gave Hunyadi one with diamonds, created just for him. Hitler personally stuck the badge on him, back in 1939. Do you know he also speaks four languages, including Russian, Spanish and Hungarian?’

‘Yes, yes, Fegelein,’ Himmler replied angrily. ‘Anyone would think you were starting up a fan club for Hunyadi! And none of this explains why Hitler did not give the case to our own man, Rattenhuber. He’s in charge of security in the bunker and he’s the one who should be investigating this.’

‘And he would be,’ answered Fegelein, ‘if Hitler trusted anyone at all down there in that concrete labyrinth.’

‘Do you mean he suspects us? The SS?’

‘I mean he suspects everyone, Herr Reichsfuhrer.’

There was a long pause, during which time Fegelein studied the whitening ash of his cigar as it slowly extinguished itself. Knowing Himmler’s distaste for tobacco, he did not dare to take a puff even when talking to the man on the phone, for fear that Himmler might hear the popping of his lips as he drew smoke.