Hess had a single hope. If peace with England could somehow be secured
before Barbarossa was launched, suicidal tragedy might yet be averted.
Just six months ago Hitler had offered peace to the British from the
floor of the Reichstag, and Winston Churchill had immediately answered
with a resounding 'No!' Yet that had not discouraged Hess.
With the help of Professor Karl Haushofer, a family friend, he had sent
a sub-rosa letter to England proposing a secret meeting in Lisbon
between himself and Douglas Hamilton, the Premier Duke of Scotland.
The subject to be discussed: AngloGerman peace. The Duke of Hamilton
was renowned as the first man to fly over Mount Everest, and Hess liked
the idea of dealing with a fellow flyer. He himself had won the
dangerous air race around the Zugspitze, Germany's highest peak.
Hess had met Hamilton briefly at the 1936 Olympics in Berlin, and the
dashing young duke had seemed just the type of fellow who could
short-circuit the tedious process of diplomacy and bring Churchill to
his senses.
Yet three months had passed since the peace letter began its circuitous
journey to England, and still Hess had received no answer.
For the first few weeks he hadn't worried too much; Hitler had given
tacit consent to the peace feeler, and gratefully he hadn't seemed too
disappointed when the effort did not immediately pan out.
Even as weeks turned to months-while Hess grew more agitated with each
passing day-Hitler seemed unconcerned. Then on December 18, Hess, to
his horror, discovered the reason for the Fuhrer's uncharacteristic
patience. Hitler meant to invade Russia whether peace with England had
been secured or not! From that day forward Hess had prayed despqrately
that an answer from the Duke of Hamilton might still arrive-that peace
negotiations could still be arranged. He hoped that he had been
summoned to the Berghof today to discuss that very event.
Wiping the sweat from his brow, he took another long look out at the
great mountain across the valley. Legend told that the Emperor
Charlemagne slept beneath the Untersberg, that one day he would rise up
to restore the lost glory of the German Empire. Hess had often boasted
that Adolf Hitler was the fulfillment of that prophecy. Now he was not
so sure. No man was more faithful to the Fuhrer than he, but lately he
had begun to think back to the old days, to the Great War. Hess had
been Hitler's company commander then, and young Hitler only a dispatch
runner, one more mustard-gassed soldier betrayed by the Jewish
financiers.
Hess caught his breath as another stab of agony twisted his stomach. He
shut his eyes against the pain, yet even as he did, a horrifying vision
filled his mind. He saw the frozen, limitless steppes of Russia
stretching away before him, league after league, drenched in blood.
German blood.
When the pain finally eased, he pressed his sweaty palms to the great
sheet of glass, fingers outspread, and looked out at the Untersberg in
silent invocation: If ever there was a time for you to rise, emperor, it
is now! What the Fuhrer plans was beyond even Napoleon, and I fear that
without some miracle, the task he set us is too great'Rudi!' Adolf
Hitler called across the richly appointed salon. 'Come here! Let me
see you!' w, he felt a jolt of asWhen Hess turned from the windo
tonishment. The effusive welcome had not surprised him; Hitler often
complained that his senior staff did not visit the Berghof frequently
enough. But his clothes ... Hess was startled speechless. For some
time now Hitler had worn dark business suits during the day, and dressed
with particular severity around the time of military conferences. But
today-with a major war conference scheduled in a matter of hours-he
looked just as he had during the early thirties, wearing a blue linen
sport jacket, white shirt, and a yellow tie to top it all off. Hitler
strode forward and clapped Hess on the back, then led him away from the
window.
'I've had historic news today, Rudi,' he said, his voice quavering with
excitement. 'Prophetic news.'
Hess braced himself for whatever revelation might follow this ominous
preface. 'What has happened, my Fuhrer?'
'All in good time,' Hitler said cryptically. 'Tell me, how are your
training flights progressing?' two a week since Hess shrugged.
'I've managed one or October.'
'Good, good. Anyone taking an unusual interest in your activities?'
thought he had seen the Fuhrer wink, For a moment Hess but he banished
the thought. 'I don't believe so.'
'Not Goring? Or Himmler?'
Hess frowned. 'Not directly, no.'
Hitler's eyes flickered. 'Indirectly?'
'Well ...' Hess looked thoughtful. 'Last fall Himmler lent me his
personal masseur, to see if he could relieve my stomach pains-' 'Felix
Kersten?'
'Kersten, yes. He was a bit more inquisitive than I thought proper at
the time. Is he one of Himmler's spies?'
'Notorious!' Hitler cackled.
Hess was perplexed. He had not seen the Fuhrer in such a mood since
Compiegne, after the French surrender. He watched Hitler clasp his
hands behind his blue-jacketed back, then pace across the room and stop
before a magnificent Titian nude.
'I have a destination for you, Rudi,' Hitler said to the painting.
'At last. Would you like to guess it?'
Hess felt a tightening in his chest. He had played these games before,
and he knew Hitler would say nothing more until he had guessed at least
twice. 'Lisbon?' he tried impatiently.
'No.
'Switzerland?'
'No!'
Hess could hear the laughter in Hitler's voice. This really was
intolerable, even from the Fuhrer. Just as Hess started to say
something he might regret, Hitler turned to him with an expression that
could freeze molten steel. 'England,' he said softly.
Hess thought he had misheard. 'I beg your pardon, my FuhrerT' 'England,
' Hitler enunciated, his eyes flashing.
With a sudden surge of elation Hess understood. 'We've had an answer
