Secrets of the Last Nazi (6 page)

Myles wondered what the event was: what had happened in June 1939 to coincide with the Pact of Steel? What else had happened when the US Federal Reserve was founded in 1913? For every date, Stolz had told his interviewer about a change in the way money and power operate across borders, but what was he linking to it? Myles noticed the interval between the dates was not even.

He kept reading:

Myles read it again, amazed.

In 1957 and 1958: the European Economic Community – the future EU – was established, a cross-border bureaucracy to regulate trade in Europe.

October 1971: President Nixon abandoned the rules which fixed the dollar to the price of gold, and brought in a currency based on negotiated power.

August 1984: Economic deregulation dominant in many developed countries.

January 1995: the World Trade Organisation was formed.

November 2008: the credit crunch, causing great problems for banks around the world.

Each one of Stolz’s predictions had come true.

He read the rest of the paper.

Would these predictions become true, too?

Then Myles looked down at the bottom of the page. There was a simple reference. It had not been translated, because it didn’t need to be.

Myles stared at it, stunned.

5. Juli 1940.

It meant the original German words on this page had been typewritten in the summer 1940, many years before the events they predicted.

Myles recoiled from the table.

There were lots of possible explanations. Most likely, the page was written later and the date at the bottom was a lie. How else could the predictions and their precise timings have been made?

But then he began to wonder - why would someone fabricate these predictions? And surely, if it was a hoax, the team from 1945 would have rumbled it?

Behind him, he could still hear the whirr of the lift motor. It had been running for several minutes now. Odd: surely most rides within the five-storey apartment block would take just a few seconds …

Myles slumped down in a seat, taking the weight off his healing knee. He was feeling tired and light-headed. Sick, even.

He looked around the room – his head seemed to be spinning. Perhaps his vision was failing.

He wondered if it was the shock of discovering the old Nazi had been making such accurate predictions. Unlikely – it wasn’t enough to explain his intense nausea.

Could the paper have been poisoned somehow? Something chemical or even biological – a clever trap by Stolz to protect his papers? Revenge on anyone who tried to take his secret?

He examined the papers again. The documents were dry, there was no sign of any powder, and Myles had barely touched them. If he was being poisoned, it wasn’t by Stolz.

The pages in the box were fluttering slightly, as if there was a gentle breeze within the room. Staggering to his feet, he forced himself back to the boxes. He put his hand on top of them and felt warm air tumbling onto it. Slowly, with his balance failing, he lifted his arm, tracing the source of the draft. His hand reached back to the filter. Warm air was blowing in through it.

He fell backwards, and his head hit the floor. He felt his muscles stiffen, and his stomach convulse, as if it wanted him to vomit. He tried to get back on his feet again, but this time he couldn’t.

Suffocating, and with his muscles stiffening by the second, Myles realised he had become completely helpless.

J
ean-François opened
the door to the lawyer’s office for Heike-Ann, who accepted the gesture politely, and Zenyalena, who was much less gracious. The three of them had entered a waiting room. Zenyalena was the first to sit down, and choose the largest seat.

Glenn followed on behind, distracted by the English-language version of the Berliner
Morgenpost
, which he accessed on his mobile. He soon found what he was looking for.

Werner Stolz made his name in the 1950s and 60s as a financier, and later as a philanthropist. But the man was not always so well-intentioned. Originally from Austria, Stolz began working for the Nazis following the
Anschluss
between his native country and Germany in 1938. He soon found himself working for Hitler’s deputy, Rudolf Hess, and, after Hess’s bizarre flight out of Germany in 1941, for Heinrich Himmler. It was during this time that he became part of the notorious SS, rising to the rank of captain. But Stolz was never accused of any involvement in war crimes or the wider atrocities associated with the Nazis: he was part of the unit which investigated ancient and pagan wisdoms for the Third Reich. His work intrigued the Allies, who interviewed him following Germany’s defeat in 1945 …

Glenn could tell most of Stolz’s obituary was old. It was common practice for junior reporters to collect material on people like Stolz for use later. Every few years – usually in slack periods, like August and over the Christmas break – the obituaries would be reviewed and occasionally updated by the next generation of trainees.

… Stolz became a successful investment manager, with a reputation for achieving reliable returns and anticipating unexpected events. The great wealth he amassed in the 1950s and 1960s was then spent on a series of good causes. Werner Stolz became a familiar face as a donor to many charities in the mid-sixties. Cynics accused Stolz of trying to buy off his guilty conscience and make up for his time in the SS …

The cynics were probably right. Glenn continued reading.

… Stolz retired at the young age of fifty-five, then became obscure – he is thought to have left Germany for most of the 1970s and 1980s. Soon after the fall of the Berlin Wall in November 1989, Stolz bought a humble apartment in former East Berlin, where he lived for more than two decades, before retreating to a nursing home in Potsdam a few weeks ago …

Finally, Glenn reached the last paragraph. He scanned it, then – suddenly reacting to the words - leaned forward, as he read the text again. Then he exhaled deeply, wondering at the significance of what he had just seen.

He passed his phone to Jean-François, who held it so Heike-Ann could read it at the same time. Zenyalena made a point of using her own phone to find the same website.

Glenn watched Jean-François’ face, waiting until the Frenchman had finished reading. ‘So, Jean-François - what do you think?’

The Frenchman shrugged. He didn’t really think anything.

Glenn pressed home the point. ‘I mean about the obituary. The last paragraph.’ The American was raising his voice.

Jean-François still didn’t understand Glenn’s point. Heike-Ann also looked confused.

Frustrated, the American took back his phone, and brought up the final sentences on Stolz so the words filled the screen.

…The cause of Stolz’s death – at the age of one hundred and three - is yet to be confirmed by Berlin medical authorities. But it is understood that certain peculiarities surrounding Werner Stolz’s life have generated international interest. All Stolz’s pre-war papers are to be reviewed by a team drawn from The United States, Russia, France and the United Kingdom. Their work investigating this Nazi-turned-philanthropist has already begun.

Glenn pointed at the device. ‘See? Who do you think they’ve been talking to?’

Jean-François seemed innocent. ‘You think these journalists spoke to someone?’

‘Of course they have. They wouldn’t print that unless they knew.’ Glenn began quoting the last sentence, his irritation obvious. ‘It says, “Their work investigating this Nazi-turned-philanthropist has already begun”.’

Finally Jean-François was beginning to understand. ‘Well, I’m sure it was none of our team. It could have been someone at the care home – or the police …’

Glenn was unconvinced. He looked accusingly at Zenyalena. ‘Did you make this public?’

Before Zenyalena had a chance to answer, Heike-Ann finally spoke up. ‘It was me.’

Glenn and Zenyalena both turned to her. Jean-François’ face invited the German policewoman to explain.

Heike-Ann lifted her palms as she spoke, as if she had nothing to hide. ‘A man from the newspaper called me yesterday. They asked me to confirm that the international team had arrived. All I said was “yes”.’

Glenn and Jean-François looked at each other, uncertain what to do next.

Glenn followed up with questions. ‘How did the journalist know about our investigation, Heike-Ann?’

‘He said he’d been told by the Berlin police.’ Heike-Ann’s answer was straightforward. It was hard to believe she was lying.

‘Come on – that’s a trick from Journalism 101,’ sneered Glenn. ‘Make something up, pretend you had it from someone else, and ask for “confirmation”. You thought he was telling the truth?’

‘Yes, I did. He sounded truthful. Why should he lie?’

Jean-François held Heike-Ann’s hand. He squeezed it, as if to emphasise that she had done nothing wrong.

But Glenn was still angry. ‘Can we all agree: no more publicity? No speaking to journalists – or emailing, or any contact with them. Right?’

Jean-François looked uncertain.

Zenyalena volunteered a compromise. ‘No publicity unless at least three of us want it. Agreed?’

Glenn thought then slowly nodded his acceptance. ‘We’ll have to get Myles Munro’s agreement, when we get back to him.’

The American stared down at the obituary again. The consequence of it was clear. It meant the team’s work was no longer secret. Anybody reading the newspaper, or anybody who did a simple internet search for Werner Stolz, would find out that the dead German’s affairs – as well as his body – were the subject of research. Research which had been ordered at the highest level.

Eventually the door opened. A prim secretary appeared, holding the door handle. ‘Gentlemen, ladies. You may come through now,’ she said with a haughty tone.

Zenyalena allowed Jean-François to lead the way, then followed on. Glenn and Heike-Ann trailed behind.

They were being invited into a wood-panelled office. Books were carefully arranged on the shelves, cataloguing German court cases over many years. They looked neat and probably unread.

Wearing thick-rimmed glasses, an austere-looking man pointed to the furniture without making eye contact. ‘Good morning. Please ...’

Jean-François, Zenyalena, Glenn and Heike-Ann were offered leather-bound seats. As they sat, it became clear their seats were lower than the lawyer’s, forcing them to look up at him

The German lawyer repositioned a paperweight on his desk, then took off his glasses to polish them, paying more attention to imaginary dust on the lens than to the four people in his room. ‘… Now, I understand you have come to me in connection with the late Mr Werner Stolz.’ His English was weighed down by a thick accent.

Jean-François nodded. He sat forward, keen to make his point. ‘That’s right. You are the custodian of some of Mr Stolz’s files?’ The Frenchman said it as a question.

The lawyer remained silent.

Uneasy at the lawyer’s failure to respond, Jean-François continued. ‘Well, we are an investigation team representing the four Allied war powers – France, Great Britain, the United States and the Soviet Union.’

‘Does the Soviet Union still exist?’ The lawyer started chuckling to himself.

Zenyalena rolled her eyes. ‘The Soviet Union’s legal rights and obligations passed to the Russian Federation in December 1991.’ She turned to Jean-François, encouraging him to continue.

‘Yes, and we would like to examine all the papers placed in your keeping by Mr Stolz.’

The lawyer remained silent. Jean-François remained silent also, determined to make the lawyer answer this time.

Finally, the old German spoke. ‘You are correct that, before Mr Stolz died, he authorised me to safeguard some of his possessions.’

More silence. Jean-François was becoming infuriated. ‘So, can we see them?’

‘No, you cannot.’

‘And why is that, exactly?’

‘Because Mr Stolz was very clear about who was allowed to see them, and you are not that person.’

T
he room was closing
around him. His breathing became even more difficult. Myles looked up again at the air filter, and the black carbon stain darkening in the centre. The whirr of the lift motor vibrated in his ears.

Then he understood: carbon monoxide poisoning.

He tried to remember the symptoms: nausea, blurred vision, vertigo, exhaustion ... He had them all. Were there others? He didn’t know, but he could feel consciousness fading away from him.

Fresh air – he was gasping for fresh air.

Still lying on the floor, he jolted his head towards the door, hoping to suck oxygen from under it. He tried to stretch, dragging his damaged leg behind him and pushed with his elbows and thighs, the only parts of his body still strong enough to take him to safety.

He was getting closer. But the gas was closing in too.

Then he felt the presence of someone else in the room. Someone behind him, a man standing beside Stolz’s papers.

Desperately he tried to turn his head, but his muscles had stiffened too much. He couldn’t quite twist his body enough to see …

Then Myles felt a boot on his neck. The weight began pressing him firmly to the floor, and the sensation of total blackness took over him completely.