States. We have friends in all those places only waiting to hear from you.”
“Anything else, my Fuhrer?”
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 Fuhrer. 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 Fuhrer, 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 fireproof.” The Fuhrer pushed it across to Bormann. “Yours now.” He 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 Fuhrer, 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 Feiseler Storch during the night. He arrived safely and is now waiting your orders.”
“But where, my Fuhrer?” 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.” He handed him an envelope. “You’ll also find my personal signed authorization in there giving you full powers in my name and several false passports.”
“So, I leave tonight?” Bormann asked.
“No, you leave within the next hour,” Hitler said calmly. “Because of the driving rain and low clouds there is no air cover at the moment. Captain Neumann thinks he could achieve total surprise, and I agree. I have every confidence you will succeed.”
There could be no arguing with that and Bormann nodded. “Of course, my Fuhrer.”
“Then there only remains one more thing,” Hitler said. “You’ll find someone in the bedroom. Bring him in.”
The man Bormann found in there wore the uniform of a Lieutenant General in the SS. There was something familiar about him and Bormann felt acutely uncomfortable for some reason.
“My Fuhrer,” the man said and gave Hitler a Nazi salute.
“Note the resemblance, Bormann?” Hitler asked.
It was then that Bormann realized why he’d felt so strange. It was true, the General did have a look of him. Not perfect, but it was undeniably there.
“General Strasser will stay here in your place,” Hitler said. “When the general breakout occurs he will leave with the others. He can stay out of the way until then. In the confusion and darkness of leaving it’s hardly likely anyone will notice. They’ll be too concerned with saving their own skins.” He turned to Strasser. “You will do this for your Fuhrer?”
“With all my heart,” Strasser said.
“Good, then you will now exchange uniforms. You may use my bedroom.” He came round the desk and took both of Bormann’s hands in his. “I prefer to say goodbye now, old friend. We will not meet again.”
Cynical as he was by nature, Bormann felt incredibly moved. “I will succeed, my Fuhrer, my word on it.”
“I know you will.”
Hitler shuffled out, the door closed behind him and Bormann turned to Strasser. “Right, let’s get started.”
Precisely half an hour later Bormann left the Bunker by the exit into Hermann Goering Strasse. He wore a heavy leather military overcoat over his SS uniform and carried a military holdall, which held the briefcase and a change of civilian clothes. In one pocket he carried a silenced Mauser pistol, and a Schmeisser machine pistol was slung across his chest. He moved along the edge of the Tiergarten, aware of people everywhere, mainly refugees, crossed by the Brandenburg Gate, and arrived at Goebbels’ house quite quickly. Like most properties in the area it had suffered damage, but the vast garage building seemed intact. The sliding doors were closed, but there was a small Judas gate, which Bormann opened cautiously.
It was dark in there and a voice called, “Stay where you are, hands high.”
Lights were switched on and Bormann found a young man in the uniform of a Captain in the Luftwaffe and a flying jacket standing by the wall, a pistol in his hand. The small Feiseler Storch spotter plane stood in the center of the empty garage.
“Captain Neumann?”
“General Strasser?” The young man looked relieved and holstered his pistol. “Thank God, I’ve been expecting Ivans ever since I got here.”
“You have orders?”
“Of course. Rechlin to refuel and then Bergen. A distinct pleasure, actually.”
“Do you think we stand a chance of getting away?”
“There’s nothing up there to shoot us down at the moment. Filthy weather. Only ground fire to worry about.” He grinned. “Is your luck good, General?”
“Always.”
“Excellent. I’ll start up, you get in and we’ll taxi across the road to the Brandenburg Gate. From there I’ll take off toward the Victory Column. They won’t be expecting that because the wind is in the wrong direction.”
“Isn’t that dangerous?” Bormann asked.
“Absolutely.” Neumann climbed up into the cabin and started the engine.
There was broken glass and rubble in the street and the Storch bumped its way along, passing many astonished refugees, moved across the Brandenburg Gate and turned toward the Victory Column in the distance. The rain was driving down.
Neumann said, “Here we go,” and boosted power.
The Storch roared down the center of the road, here and there people fleeing before it, and suddenly they were airborne and turning to starboard to avoid the Victory Column. Bormann was not even aware of any ground fire.
“You must live right, Herr Reichsleiter,” the young pilot said.
Bormann turned to him sharply. “What did you call me?”
“I’m sorry if I’ve said the wrong thing,” Neumann said. “But I met you at an award ceremony once in Berlin.”
Bormann decided to leave it for the moment. “Don’t worry about it.” He looked down at the flames and smoke below as Berlin burned, the Russian artillery keeping up a constant bombardment. “Truly a scene from hell.”
“Twilight of the Gods, Reichsleiter,” Neumann said. “All we need is Wagner to provide suitable music,” and he took the Storch up into the safety of the dark clouds.
It was the second part of the journey which was particularly arduous, cutting across the east coast of Denmark and then up across the Skagerrak, refueling at a small Luftwaffe base at Kristiansand for the final run. It was pitch-
