'You are a fool, Bormann!'
Hitler sat down in an armchair, his hands clutching the arms, his forelock draped over his forehead as he stared at the other man. 'The generals who oppose my policy are just waiting for an opportunity to replace me – and those who have supported me, including Keitel and Jodl. Their positions – maybe their lives – depend on my continued existence. Your own certainly does. And so do the lives of all who, as you put it, visit us here. So – if anyone suspects he will be careful to keep his mouth shut!'
'I am sure you are right. Mein Fuhrer,' Bormann added.
'You are a fool,' Hitler continued thoughtfully, his bulging eyes gripping Bormann's attention. 'The whole of our success has been based on propaganda – which in itself is based on my original concept of The Big Lie! I have said – and proved – it time and again. A small lie people may question. An enormous lie so staggers them, they begin to believe it must be true. You see how it works in reverse?'
'Perhaps you would explain that to me?'
Bormann was still standing. But the Fuhrer had not suggested that he sit down. His mind was a whirl, fogged in a kind of hypnotic daze as the Fuhrer pressed on.
'The Big Lie. Who would ever dream that a man who looks just like the Fuhrer, who acts just like the Fuhrer, who speaks just like the Fuhrer can be anyone but the Fuhrer? '
Hitler jumped up suddenly in a characteristic burst of energy and again began pacing the room. His harsh tone mellowed and he became the soul of amiability.
'Bormann, I need your help. I want you always by my side. I can count on you, can I not?'
'Of course, mein Fuhrer! Always! '
The small, stocky Bormann found himself stiffening to attention. He gave the Nazi salute. Hitler stopped pacing and grasped him fondly by the arm. He smiled again and there was a film of moistness in his prominent eyes.
'May I mention the problem of the dog?' Bormann suggested.
'There is no problem – I made friends with Blondi during his visits to the Berghof. He trusts me – I have a rapport with dogs.'
'The only other problem,' Bormann began hesitantly, 'would appear to be insoluble – if you ever visit the Berghof again. I refer to Eva Braun..'
'The lady is one problem you do not have to worry your head about,' Hitler assured him, a humorous glint in his eyes. 'And I shall certainly visit the Berghof. Considering my life was confined there for so many years that is where I feel most at home.. ' He paused. 'I am glad you brought that up, Bormann. Until people get used to me, a change of scene should throw them off balance. So, in the near future we will all go to the Berghof – I need a rest from my arduous months of labour at the Wolf's Lair. I think that is all for now..'
Bormann returned to his own quarters, trudging slowly through the snow, in a state of turmoil. The past few days had been the busiest of his life. He had taken decision after decision, his mind too full of the present to look into the future.
Vaguely he had assumed that Heinz Kuby would be putty in his hands, to be moulded in any shape he wished. Now the 'robot' he had created was taking on a life and will of its own – and there was nothing he could do about it.
From the outbreak of World War Two, Adolf Hitler had demonstrated he was a military genius – fit to rank with Caesar, Frederick the Great and Wellington. In half-a-dozen crises he had proved his enormously superior flair.
April 1940. It was Hitler who had enthusiastically approved and backed the audacious invasion of Denmark and Norway. While his generals wrung their hands and predicted disaster, Hitler had ordered that the plans devised by Admiral Raeder should proceed.
Norway! A thousand miles of open sea and coastline. from its southern tip of North Cape – with the British Navy based at nearby Scapa Flow. Madness! Hitler had contemptuously waved aside all objections. Go ahead! Invade, General Falkenhorst! The plan had succeeded.
France! It was Hitler who put all his authority behind one general's crazy operation – Guderian's fantastic panzer drive through the 'impassable' roads of, the Ardennes, bursting out into the open country beyond, thundering across the Meuse bridges at Sedan. On and on towards the Channel while, again, his general staff shivered in their shoes and repeated their forecasts of disaster!
That was until the British were driven back across the water inside their inland fortress – and France fell within weeks. It was such brilliant successes which had cowed the High Command, which had led to Hitler being able to appoint his own tame men, Keitel and Jodl, to the peak of the command structure.
All this passed through Bormann's mind as, bleak- faced, he walked alone on that fateful afternoon under lowering skies in March 1943. What did the future hold? This was what obsessed him.
The plans of the Allied military dispositions in North Africa lay spread out on Colonel-General Jodl's desk. They had been delivered to him two hours earlier at his request by Ian Lindsay. Now the Englishman sat waiting and wondering as he struggled to conceal the tension inside him.
Jodl had time to communicate with the German High Command in Tunis – whose forces faced those of General Alexander. What would the verdict be? The Englishman was becoming aware there was something devious in Alfred Jodl's expression and nature. It would take an agile mind to survive the domestic warfare of the Wolf's Lair.
'I have communicated the contents of these plans to Tunis. I have further had their reaction to what you say purports to be the Allied order of battle..'
Jodl paused, tapping a pencil gently on his desk. A naked bulb shed a harsh light over the military documents. It was early in the evening, as black as pitch in the compound outside, where dense mist blotted out the masked lights. Jodl was playing with him – Lindsay could sense it as he was careful to resist the overwhelming temptation to say something – anything – to break the loaded silence.
'In a way these documents are a dile as to your bona fides – is that not so?' Jodl enquired eventually.
Lindsay shrugged, a gesture of complete indifference. 'That is for others to decide. I simply await my interview with the Fuhrer
'You may have to wait a long time, the German said sharply.
Lindsay's stomach revolved. God, something was wrong with the bloody documents. He wanted to reach for the pack of cigarettes in his pocket. Again he resisted temptation since Jodl, he felt certain, was waiting for the slightest sign of nerves.
The pencil continued tapping its tattoo. Lindsay could have wrenched it out of Jodl's hands and snapped the thing in two. Instead, he leaned back further in his chair and clasped his hands lightly in his lap.
'You may have to wait a long time,' Jodl repeated. 'You see, I happen to know the Fuhrer has a list of appointments as long as your arm.'
Lindsay nodded, no particular expression showing in his reaction as he concealed the shock of relief. Jodl's manner, his choice of words, had convinced him he was about to be arrested and interrogated.
'Tunis,' Jodl said suddenly, still staring hard at Lindsay, 'tells me all the present data as to the Allied dispositions on the African front coincides with the documents you brought us..'
For the second time the Englishman forced himself to hide his relief. This really was a tricky bastard – he was convinced Jodl had been testing him. He watched while the German arranged the documents tidily, returned them to the thick envelope and pushed the package across the desk.
'Your passport to the Wolf's Lair. Guard them well.'
His expression was ironic and even when he left the but Lindsay was uncertain whether he had gained the man's confidence – or at least his neutrality. An enigmatic personality, Colonel-General Alfred Jodl.
He closed the door behind him and stopped. Dense fog was rolling into the compound, an icy fog which penetrated his greatcoat and reached for his bones. The leaden silence – no, it was the complete absence of sound – bothered him.
Then he realized it was not the atmosphere which had alerted him. A shoe or boot had squeaked nearby. Standing quite still in the grey blanket of vapour he knew he was not alone. A hand grasped his arm.
'Don't make a sound!'
It was the soft, sleepy voice of Christa Lundt – he had already guessed her identity from the smallness of the hand which gripped his arm.
