The Suicide Exhibition: The Never War (Never War 1) (5 page)

‘There has been a castle here at Wewelsburg since the ninth century,’ Himmler said proudly as he led the way out of the cellars.

Although he was still reeling from what he had just seen, Hess was willing to bet that nothing of the original remained. He knew that Himmler had signed a hundred-year lease on the castle at a cost of a hundred marks, back in 1934. Since then he had in effect rebuilt it, if not in his own image then to his own design.

‘There is a very real possibility,’ Himmler went on, ‘that the original castle was the
bastion
. You know about the bastion, of course.’

‘The fortress that legend foretells will stand fast against the
forces of the East in the final confrontation,’ Hess said. He was familiar with the myth. In fact he was relieved that for all his delusions and credulities, Himmler accepted that war with Russia was inevitable.

‘Initially we used this castle as a training centre for the SS,’ Himmler went on, apparently ignoring Hess’s words. ‘A place where the elite can become versed in history, archaeology, astronomy, art and culture. Now it is much, much more than that.’

Hess was aware of this too. Wewelsburg had become the Reichsfuhrer’s centre of operations – a shrine and a cathedral for the quasi-religious order that Himmler had created. But to Hess, though he said nothing, the whole castle reeked of pretence and affectation.

Hess himself was a committed occultist, a member of the Thule Society who believed that Hitler was the German Messiah; an astrologer who thought that our faults lie not in ourselves but in the stars. The Thule Society believed that German Aryans were the true descendants of a race of Nordic ‘supermen’ from a long-lost landmass akin to Atlantis. Hess subscribed fully to this theory.

But what Himmler had just showed him at Wewelsburg caused him to question everything he thought he knew.

It was a disappointment to Hess that Hitler distrusted occult thinking and put little store in things that could not be proven. But once the Fuhrer saw what Himmler had at Wewelsburg, Hitler would have the proof he needed to believe. For the first time, the Deputy Fuhrer was forced to consider what that would lead to, and what reaction it might provoke from Hitler…

He could not let Himmler see what he truly thought, but Hess was appalled.

He mopped his heavy brow with a handkerchief, his dark eyebrows knitted together as they emerged into the light. Himmler gestured for the door to be sealed behind them before leading the way along a corridor. The only light came from flickering sconces where pools of oil burned and sputtered.
The only sound Hess could hear was his own racing heart.

The final meeting of his visit took place in the Hall of the Generals in the castle’s North Tower. Beneath the high vaulted ceiling, twelve stone seats were arranged in a perfect circle around a green and gold symbol of the sun inlaid in the marble floor.

Himmler sat facing Hess across the circle. He was an unimposing man, dwarfed by the room and even the chair he sat on. Everything about him was slight – his close-cut hair, the shadowy moustache, the almost-invisible frames of his round glasses. You could pass him in the street, Hess thought, and not notice the man. Except that here, like the spider at the centre of its web, Himmler exuded an aura of absolute control. Here, despite his appearance, there was no mistaking who was in charge.

The others present were Himmler’s assistant, Hoffman, and various generals and other high-ranking SS officers, as well as several white-coated scientists. No one took or spoke from notes.

The unease and anxiety Hess felt grew with every report he heard. His brain was in a whirl, his senses numbed. Himmler listened intently to everything. He nodded and frowned, murmured corrections and asked for occasional clarification. It was exactly like a hundred other briefing meetings that Hess had attended – except for the extraordinary surroundings and the terrifying subject matter.

‘How sure are you of this?’ he asked at last. ‘Of
any
of this?’

‘You have seen the Vault,’ Himmler said. The light reflected off the lenses of his glasses, hiding his small, dark eyes. ‘You know the legends. Some of what we have told you is speculation. No,’ he corrected himself with a thin smile. ‘Not speculation. It is
extrapolation
. Theorising from the facts. Probabilities rather than certainties, I will admit. But there is little room for error, isn’t that right, Sturmbannfuhrer?’

Hoffman had sat still and silent throughout. Now he nodded. ‘It would seem so, Herr Reichsfuhrer.’

‘It would seem so,’ Himmler echoed, his voice quiet and reedy compared with Hoffman’s gruff response. ‘You see, even the sceptical Sturmbannfuhrer Hoffman is a convert to our cause. And you, my friend, you with your knowledge and background and connections…’ He waved a hand in the air as if dismissing the last vestige of doubt.

Hess shifted uneasily. The stone seat was cold and hard and uncomfortable. ‘The Fuhrer will want to see the process in action. As well as the…’ He hesitated, unsure of how to describe what he had been shown. ‘As well as the
artefacts
, and the film. He will want proof that these people are not just… artists.’

Himmler turned to Hoffman. ‘What news of Streicher?’

‘Standartenfuhrer Streicher reports that his work is going well,’ Hoffman said. ‘Despite the, er, setback and the loss of eleven of his team when they broke into the main chamber.’

Himmler leaned forward. A pale tongue licked out over his bloodless lips. ‘Do we have a replacement? Has he found it?’

Hoffman nodded. ‘He is confident that he has. The inner chamber is just like the first site. They need to proceed with caution. It will be a few days before the air has cleared and they can bring out—’

‘Details,’ Himmler snapped. ‘Urge Streicher to make all speed. Obviously we cannot afford to damage the discovery. But I want it back here as soon as possible.’

Hess’s mouth was dry. ‘What has Streicher found?’

‘A burial chamber, just like the original site. And inside…’

In his mind’s eye, Hess could see the film replaying again and again as if on a loop. The burial chamber. Streicher and his men opening the casket. The light shone inside, illuminating the contents. And the later footage, back at Wewelsburg.

Himmler was still speaking, his tone eager, confident, triumphant. ‘We shall soon have another Ubermensch.’

Hoffman escorted Hess through the castle and back to his waiting car. The Deputy Fuhrer’s heavy eyebrows were knitted together in thought.

‘You seem troubled by what you have seen and heard,’ Hoffman said as they emerged into sudden sunlight.

‘No,’ Hess said quickly. ‘I see only opportunities.’

‘You would not be the only one who appreciates the inherent danger in what we are doing,’ Hoffman said quietly. He glanced round. ‘Some might say that the potential risk outweighs the possible reward.’

‘Is that what you think, Sturmbannfuhrer?’

Hoffman smiled grimly. ‘It really isn’t for me to have an opinion, sir. But I am sure that whatever the Fuhrer decides will be for the best. And I’m sure he will value your judgement and advice.’

Hess gave a snort of amusement. ‘I’m not.’ He said it before he could stop himself. But once said, it hung in the air between them.

‘The Fuhrer, no doubt, has many things on his mind,’ Hoffman said. ‘Many opinions whispered in his ear. I know that the Reichsfuhrer-SS spoke to him by telephone only yesterday.’

Hess did not reply. He didn’t know Himmler had spoken to Hitler. What had they said? Was his visit here redundant? No doubt that brute Bormann had listened in, poisoning the Fuhrer’s thoughts with his own view of things.

‘I do not know the Fuhrer,’ Hoffman was saying. ‘Not as you do. We met when I received this, of course.’ He tapped the Iron Cross with Oak Leaves and Swords at his throat. It was one of the highest bravery awards the Reich presented. ‘But,’ Hoffman went on, ‘I think he is perhaps very focused on the current military and political situation. I wonder if we should not be taking a longer-term view.’

‘What do you mean?’

Hoffman smiled apologetically. ‘The military benefits of the work we are doing here and the discoveries we have made are obvious. But the implications are worrying. More than that. May I confide in you, Deputy Fuhrer?’

Hess nodded. His chest tightened as he listened to Hoffman’s words.

‘I have stared death in the face, and felt nothing but determination and anger. I have waded ankle-deep in the blood of my comrades, and not so much as blinked. But what we are doing now, what might happen as a result of our work here – to us, and to the whole world… It terrifies me.’

Hess felt the blood drain from his face. He was suddenly light-headed.

‘I sense that we are of a similar opinion, sir,’ Hoffman went on. ‘I pray that the Fuhrer will listen to you.’

‘He must,’ Hess breathed.

‘Or if he does not,’ Hoffman said, ‘then I pray that
someone
will. There is no distinction between the Reich and her enemies in this coming war. There is only our world and the forces ranged against it.’

Hess stared at him, not daring to speak. Fearful of what he might say. Afraid of the thoughts that were creeping into the back of his mind. If the Fuhrer would not listen to his warnings, then who would? All his doubts – about the war with Britain, the coming conflict with Russia, the future of his country… They all aligned behind this new danger.

The silence was broken by the sharp crack of Hoffman’s heels clicking together. His salute was crisp and smart. ‘Heil Hitler.’

Rudolf Hess, Deputy Fuhrer of the Third Reich, did not reply.

THE GREEK POLITICIAN
spoke good English. But he seemed grateful to Guy for making the trip nonetheless.

‘I am sure there are some nuances – is that the word? Some
nuances
that might cause problems, Major Pentecross,’ he said with an apologetic smile. He shook Guy’s hand warmly as the meeting ended.

The Greek minister’s words mitigated the frustration of another long journey. It was approaching midnight on 10 May 1941 and the plane was waiting to take the politician back to Crete. Guy was faced with the choice of a spare bed somewhere on the base at RAF Crosby-on-Eden or the prospect of a long ride back to London if he could beg a lift with one of the high-ups who’d attended the meeting.

He got neither.

As he handed his notes from the meeting to one of the secretaries to be destroyed, an RAF officer came up to him.

‘Major Pentecross? Telephone. Whitehall. Urgent.’ Then, as an afterthought. ‘Sorry.’

‘Chivers here,’ the voice at the other end of the phone announced. Guy would have recognised the plummy tone anyway. ‘You still at Crosby?’

‘So it would seem.’ He was tempted to add: ‘That’s why I’m answering their phone.’

‘Good… Good. Got another little job for you.’

‘You want me to hang on here?’ His heart sank.

‘Not there exactly. Want you to cut along to Maryhill Barracks. Seems they’ve bagged themselves a German flyer. Need help with the debrief. Bit sensitive really.’

‘Maryhill?’ Guy had never heard of it. ‘Is that in Carlisle?’

‘Not quite, no. But you’re the closest man we’ve got. I’ll have someone ready to brief you as soon as you arrive. I’ve already arranged for the base to provide a car and driver to get you there. The chap you’ll be interrogating is…’ There was a distant rustle of papers. ‘Hauptmann Horn, apparently. Probably nothing, but you never know.’

‘Fine.’ Guy sighed. It would mean an early start. ‘I’ll get over there first thing.’

‘Um, tonight actually. If you would. The car should be waiting.’

‘Tonight,’ Guy echoed. ‘To Maryhill Barracks, was it?’

‘Spot on.’ Then the inevitable: ‘Rather you than me. It’s, er… It’s in Glasgow, actually.’

They found him a staff car rather than a jeep, so at least Guy could sleep on the journey. He was too tired to be annoyed, and at least it seemed this was unlikely to be a false alarm. More than that, if they wanted him there tonight, then the German must be important.

‘Hauptmann’ translated roughly as ‘captain’. It was a Luftwaffe rank, and Chivers had described the man as a flyer. He’d probably bailed out after being shot down. Pentecross wondered where they had picked him up. No doubt the briefing would make everything clear, he thought as he slipped into a mercifully dreamless sleep.

Guy was instantly awake as the car pulled up at Maryhill Barracks. A corporal was waiting. He introduced himself as Matthews and looked about nineteen. His accent was from closer to London than Glasgow.

Corporal Matthews led the way to what looked like an admin block. The first light of dawn was yellowing the sky, and there was a chill in the air that made Guy shiver.

‘Plane crashed, apparently. Bad weather.’ Corporal
Matthews gestured for Guy to enter an office. ‘Farmer found the pilot. Apprehended him with a pitchfork.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s what they say, anyway. It’ll be in the report.’

Matthews nodded at the single desk in the middle of the room, where a plain folder lay. There was a chair either side of the desk. Another stood against the blank white wall. The room was lit by a single bare bulb.

‘You need a few minutes, sir? Or shall I send in the prisoner?’

‘Send him in,’ Guy decided. ‘I doubt this will take long, then you can cart him off to whatever internment centre or POW camp is nearest.’

Sitting at the desk, Guy found that the folder contained a single sheet of paper. It was a carbon-copy of a typed report.

At 22:08 hours on May 10
^th
(1941) Station Ouston north of Newcastle detected a RADAR (formerly RDF) trace 70 miles from the coast and heading for Lindisfarne. The sighting was designated HOSTILE RAID 42J. Since such a course makes no strategic sense, the base commander initially listed the craft as an ‘Unknown Detected Trace’ in line with standard operating procedure, and Station Z was informed.

However, unlike previous UDTs, this trace continued on a straight path at a speed consistent with standard aircraft. Ouston continued to track it, and the craft lost altitude as it crossed the coast.