Thunder Point. Jack Higgins

The rear of the Reich Chancellery was also damaged, pock-marked by shell fire, and the once-lovely gardens were a wilderness of uprooted trees and the occasional shell hole. One blessing; there was little air activity, low cloud and driving rain having cleared the sky of aircraft for the moment.

       The man who walked in that ruined garden on his own seemed curiously indifferent to what was happening, didn’t even flinch when another shell landed on the far side of the Chancellery. As the rain increased in force, he simply turned up his collar, lit a cigarette and held it in cupped hand as he continued to walk.

       He was not very tall with heavy shoulders and a coarse face. In a crowd of labourers or dock workers he would have faded into the background, nothing special, not memorable to the slightest degree. Everything about him was nondescript from the shabby ankle-length greatcoat to the battered peaked cap.

       A nobody of any importance, that would have been the conclusion and yet this man was Reichsleiter Martin Bormann, Head of the Nazi Party Chancellery and Secretary to the Führer, the most powerful man in Germany next to Hitler himself. The vast majority of the German people had never even heard of him and even fewer would have recognized him if they saw him. But then he had organized his life that way, deliberately choosing to be an anonymous figure wielding his power only from the shadows.

       But that was all over, everything was finished and this was the final end of things. The Russians could be here at any moment. He’d tried to persuade Hitler to leave for Bavaria, but the Führer had refused, had insisted, as he had publicly declared for days, that he would commit suicide.

       An SS corporal came out of the Bunker entrance and hurried towards him. He gave the Nazi salute. ‘Herr Reichsleiter, the Führer is asking for you.’

       ‘Where is he?’

       ‘In his study.’

       ‘Good, I’ll come at once.’ As they walked towards the entrance several shells landed on the far side of the Chancellery again, debris lifting into the air. Bormann said, ‘Tanks?’

       ‘I’m afraid so, Herr Reichsleiter, less than half a mile away now.’

       The SS corporal was young and tough, a seasoned veteran. Bormann clapped him on the shoulder. ‘You know what they say? Everything comes to he who waits.’

       He started to laugh and the young corporal laughed with him as they started down the concrete steps.

       When Bormann knocked on the study door and went in the Führer was seated behind the desk, examining some maps with a magnifying glass. He glanced up.

       ‘Ah, Bormann, there you are. Come in. We don’t have much time.’

       ‘I suppose not, my Führer,’ Bormann said uncertainly, unsure of what was meant.

       ‘They’ll be here soon, Bormann, the damned Russians, but they won’t find me waiting. Stalin would like nothing better than to exhibit me in a cage.’

       ‘That can never be, my Führer.’

       ‘Of course not. I shall commit suicide and my wife will accompany me on that dark journey.’

       He was referring to his mistress Eva Braun, who he had finally married at midnight on the 28th.

       ‘I had hoped that even now you would reconsider whether or not to make a break for Bavaria,’ Bormann told him, but more for something to say than anything else.

       ‘No, my mind is made up, but you, my old friend, you have work to do.’

       Hitler stood up and shuffled round the table, the man who only three years previously had controlled Europe from the Urals in the east to the English Channel. Now, his cheeks were sunken, his jacket appeared too large, and when he took Bormann’s hands, his own shook with palsy. And yet the power was there still and Bormann was moved.

       ‘Anything, my Führer.’

       ‘I knew I could depend on you. The Kameradenwerk, Action for Comrades.’ Hitler shuffled back to his chair. ‘That is your task, Bormann, to see that the National Socialism survives. We have hundreds of millions in Switzerland and elsewhere in the world in gold in numbered accounts, but you have details of those.’

       ‘Yes, my Führer.’

       Hitler reached under his desk and produced a rather strange-looking briefcase, dull silver in appearance. Bormann noted the Kriegsmarine insignia etched in the top right-hand corner.

       Hitler flicked it open. ‘The keys are inside along with a number of items which will prove useful to you over the years.’ He held up a buff envelope. ‘Details of similar accounts in various South American countries and the United States. We have friends in all those places only waiting to hear from you.’

       ‘Anything else, my Führer?’

       Hitler held up a large file. ‘I call this the Blue Book. It contains the names of many members of the British Establishment, both in the ranks of the aristocracy and Parliament, who are friendly to our cause. A number of our American friends are there also. And last, but not least.’ He passed another envelope across. ‘Open it.’

       The paper was of such quality that it was almost like parchment. It had been written in English in July 1940, in Estoril in Portugal and was addressed to the Führer. The signature at the bottom was that of His Royal Highness the Duke of Windsor. It was in English and the content was quite simple. He was agreeing to take over the throne of Great Britain in the event of a successful invasion.

       ‘The Windsor Protocol,’ Hitler said simply.

       ‘Can this be true?’ Bormann asked in astonishment.

       ‘Himmler himself vouched for it. He had the Duke approached by his agents in Portugal at the time.’

       Or said that he had, Bormann told himself. That devious little animal had always been capable of anything. He replaced the document in its envelope and handed it to the Führer who replaced it and the other items in the briefcase. ‘This is standard issue to the U-boat captains at the moment. Completely self-sealing, water and fire-proof.’ He pushed it across to Bormann. ‘Yours now.’ The Führer gazed in space for a moment in reverie. ‘What a swine Himmler is to try and make a separate peace with the Allies, and now I hear that Mussolini and his girlfriend were murdered by partisans in northern Italy, strung up by their ankles.’

       ‘A mad world.’ Bormann waited for a moment then said, ‘One point, my Führer, how do I leave? We are now surrounded here.’

       Hitler came back to life. ‘Quite simple. You will fly out using the East-West Avenue. As you know, Field Marshal Ritter von Greim and Hannah Reitsch got away in an Arado just after midnight yesterday. I spoke personally to the Commander of the Luftwaffe Base at Rechlin.’ He glanced at a paper on his desk. ‘A young man, a Captain Neumann, volunteered to fly in a Fieseler Storch during the night, he arrived safely and is now waiting your orders.’

       ‘But where, my Führer?’ Bormann asked.

       ‘In that huge garage at Goebbels’ house near the Brandenburg Gate. From there he will fly you to Rechlin and refuel for the onward flight to Bergen in Norway.’

       ‘Bergen?’ Bormann asked.

       ‘From where you will proceed by submarine to South America, Venezuela to be precise. You’ll be expected. One stop on the way. You’ll be expected there too, but all the details are in here.’