David Gibbins - The Gods of Atlantis

Hoffman’s throat was dry. How much of this was he to believe? Was it all a huge delusion, another Nazi fantasy of salvation? His mind raced back over the last few days, searching for anything that might corroborate Himmler’s story. He remembered the orders he had received to report to the Zoo flak tower, issued from Gestapo headquarters. That had been unusual, but nobody disobeyed orders from the Gestapo, with instant executions going on all round. Hoffman had been desperate to escape from the Chancellery and the Fuhrerbunker and had welcomed the orders without a second’s hesitation. It had never occurred to him that the order might have come from Himmler himself, since by then Himmler had been excommunicated and was on the run, possibly dead. But it made sense. If the Gestapo and the SS knew that Himmler was still alive after Hitler’s death, their first loyalty would be to him, and they would obey any instruction he gave them. Himmler had created a nexus of power that had bound the strongest and most fanatical Nazis to him, knowing that that was what would matter in these final days. He had seen the fall of Berlin coming, and had planned for it. Hoffman had a sudden flashback to the Wagner concert a few days before. Behind all of Himmler’s symbolism, all the mythology, the heroic illusion that Wagner so embodied for the Nazis, there was a malign purpose. Himmler had been playing them all along. He had been orchestrating this since before the war.

Hoffman thought hard. Himmler had set up the Ahnenerbe more than ten years before, when he had begun to create the fantasy SS order-castle at Wewelsburg. Hoffman was beginning to think the unthinkable. He remembered all the hats Himmler wore, his tentacles in every limb of the Nazi state, his fingerprint on all the worst crimes: a man who had the ear of Hitler, who could feed the delusions, who could stoke up Hitler’s insane interventions in all aspects of the war, dooming the Reich to collapse and orchestrating the slide into defeat. He recalled what he had seen that day from his aircraft over Poland, the death camp at Auschwitz. Was this what that had really been all about? Had the most vile crime against humanity been part of the scheme of one man to usurp Nazi power, to elevate himself to the status of a god? All the death and suffering. The mass of humanity extinguished by this monstrosity seemed incomprehensible in its scale. He could only think of the children in the Fuhrerbunker, of the boy in the outsized helmet on the rooftop, his ears bleeding, doomed forever to hear the guns of this place. Who had been the true Fuhrer? Had they really all been dancing to Himmler’s tune?

He looked into the cold eyes opposite. Were they the eyes of a madman? Or were they the eyes of a ruthlessly calculating gangster, a megalomaniac whose time had come?

‘Do you have a torch?’ Himmler demanded.

Hoffman snapped back to the present. He had to keep focused. He patted his tunic pocket, and nodded. ‘Essential in the tower when the generator fails.’

‘Listen well. From here you will go to the entrance of the ammunition elevator. My two Waffen-SS guards will accompany you. You will take the spiral staircase down to the magazine. From there, follow the tunnel to the underground water reservoir, then the walkway round to the far wall. You will see a swastika symbol impressed into the wall, every metre. A reverse swastika.’ He put his hand on the swaddled object in front of him. ‘Go to the fifteenth swastika to the left from the entrance. You will use the palladion to open the door behind it, keeping the iron side of the palladion inwards. The door lock is magnetic and will spring open. Go down the shaft, and follow the tunnel that leads under the reservoir. There you will see another door with the same symbol. Use the key again. Inside you will find a lead box, and inside that a metal cylinder like a cigar case that contains a phial. Do not unscrew the cylinder. Seal it in your tunic pocket. You are with me?’

‘ Mein Fuhrer.’

‘If you lose count and try any other than the fifteenth symbol, the chamber will self-destruct. The Zoo tower will collapse inwards. A hundred thousand tons of concrete will fall on you. Do you understand?’

‘Completely.’

‘Go back up the shaft to the walkway around the reservoir. The guards will have been waiting for you there, and they will leave you and return to tell me of your success. Count four doors to the right from the shaft, and you will find another door with the swastika, leading to your escape tunnel. On opening that door with the palladion, you will have thirty seconds to close it behind you. Explosive charges around the reservoir will detonate, flooding the chamber beneath it and sealing off all the entrances. You understand?’

Hoffman nodded, his face set grimly. It seemed another absurd farce, symbols and secret passageways like Wewelsburg Castle, but he had no choice. His family’s salvation was at the end of that escape tunnel. Himmler eyed him closely, his face set in the quizzical smile, then continued: ‘We planned for this contingency – for an enemy onslaught – when the complex beneath the Zoo tower was built, and it is essential now that we activate the self-destruct charges, because the Russians are using the city sewer system to come up behind our lines. But my engineers also secretly laid massive charges below the foundations that will destroy the Zoo tower entirely. That is the job of the two generals behind you. Their families are here in the tower. I arranged that, so they could be reunited. Now their task is to destroy the tower before the Russians move in, to erase all evidence of what went on beneath the reservoir. They too are now SS knights. Herren SS-Obergruppenfuhrer?’

‘ Mein Fuhrer.’ The two men spoke in ragged unison, gruffly, and Hoffman heard their heels click. He felt a cold trickle of sweat down his back. Destroy the tower. Thirty thousand civilians were cowering inside. It was not the Russians the people of Berlin should have feared the most, but their own leaders. He saw images of the circus again, the insane spectacle he had been forced to attend after the Wagner concert, flashing and swirling before his eyes, confusing him. He was dizzy, reeling. He must try to stay in control, for the sake of his family, if they were truly still alive. There was still a chance.

Himmler looked at him. ‘The tunnel from the reservoir exits beneath Gestapo headquarters on Prinz-Albrechtstrasse. Use the palladion again as a key to get out. Close the door, and thirty seconds after that the tunnel will self-destruct.’ Himmler glanced at his watch. ‘Waiting outside the tunnel precisely thirty-five minutes from now will be two Gestapo officers who will be your security guards. The Gestapo headquarters building is defended by remnants of the SS-Charlemagne and SS-Nordland divisions, who will fight to the death. You understand me?’

‘Completely.’

‘You will arrive there after dark. There is an improvised landing strip on the street, kept clear by the Waffen-SS. A Fieseler Storch aircraft is waiting under cover. You can still fly, Herr SS-Brigadefuhrer?’

‘Naturally.’

‘Of course you can.’ Himmler cracked the crooked smile again. ‘That is why I chose you for this mission. You are one of our best pilots. Do you remember coming to me when you were a boy, wanting to fly for the Ahnenerbe? I was most impressed. Most impressed. You were the perfect age, the perfect material. And who do you think arranged for you to be posted six months ago to Berlin, to be feted, to be part of the inner circle where I could deploy you to this tower when the time was right? You were a hero of the Reich, a man with the perfect credentials, the perfect wife and family. Do you remember that it was I who introduced you to Heidi? I have looked after you in every way. I needed you here once I knew the end was near.’