Jack Higgins
Thunder Point
The second book in the Sean Dillon series, 1993
PROLOGUE
The city seemed to be on fire, a kind of hell on earth, the ground shaking as shells exploded, and as dawn came, smoke drifted in a black pall. In the eastern half of Berlin, the Russians were already formally in control, and refugees, carrying what they could of their belongings, moved along Wilhelmstrasse close to the Reich Chancellery in the desperate hope of somehow reaching the West and the Americans.
Berlin was doomed, everyone knew that, and the panic was dreadful to see. Close by the Chancellery, a group of SS was stopping everyone they saw in uniform. Unless such individuals could account for themselves, they were immediately accused of desertion in the face of the enemy and hung from the nearest lamp post or tree. A shell screamed in, fired at random by Russian artillery. There were cries of alarm and people scattered.
The Chancellery itself was battered and defaced by the bombardment, particularly at the rear, but deep in the earth protected by thirty meters of concrete, the Fuhrer and his staff still worked on in a subterranean world that was totally self-supporting, still in touch by radio and radio-telephone with the outside world.
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 laborers 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 Fuhrer, the most powerful man in Germany after 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 Fuhrer 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 toward him. He gave the Nazi salute. “Herr Reichsleiter, the Fuhrer is asking for you.”
“Where is he?”
“In his study.”
“Good, I’ll come at once.” As they walked toward 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 Fuhrer 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 Fuhrer,” 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 Fuhrer.”
“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, whom he had finally married at midnight on the twenty- eighth.
“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 Fuhrer.”
“I knew I could depend on you. The Kamaradenwerk, 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 Fuhrer.”
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
