Hitler's Secret
Praise for
‘A dramatic, twisty thriller’
DAILY MAIL
‘Rory Clements’s timely spy thriller set in the 1930s evokes a period of political polarisation, mistrust and simmering violence’
THE TIMES
‘Clements creates lively, fast-moving plots’
SUNDAY TIMES
‘Beautifully done . . . alive and tremendously engrossing’
DAILY TELEGRAPH
‘Enjoyable, bloody and brutish’
GUARDIAN
‘This clever novel, rich in deceptions and intrigue . . . a standout historical novel and spy thriller by an author who can turn his hand to any historical period he chooses’
DAILY EXPRESS
‘A masterpiece of spies, intrigue and political shenanigans’
SUNDAY EXPRESS
‘Faster moving than C. J. Sansom’
BBC RADIO 4
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Letter from the author
Copyright
For Sarah, with love
CHAPTER 1
The telephone had been ringing in Bormann’s office all morning. Many prominent names of the greater German Reich wished to speak to the Führer and all calls had to go through Bormann. Hitler was back in Munich from the Wolfsschanze, his eastern headquarters, and it was a rare opportunity for his ministers to secure a private interview with him. The war against the Soviet Union was almost won and there was much to be discussed.
Each time the phone sounded, the efficient Bormann picked up the handset on the second ring. He spoke with exaggerated deference to the caller. Of course, Herr Reichsmarschall Göring. Indeed, Herr General. I am at your service, Herr Doktor. Heil Hitler! The only person with whom he was at all familiar was Himmler, the man he teasingly referred to as Uncle Heinrich.
The office stank of sweat, smoke and cologne. On the desk an ashtray overflowed with the detritus of a constant stream of cigarettes. Later, he would kick his secretary’s pretty arse and tell her to clean the place up. She liked having her arse kicked. And fondled.
Sometimes he might put a caller or two through to the Führer. But not this morning. Himmler, Rommel, Goebbels, Ley, Rosenberg, Streicher . . . they could all go whistle. It made no difference to Martin Bormann how important they considered themselves; he told them all the same thing: the Führer was engaged with his chiefs of staff and could not be disturbed.
His chiefs of staff! Bormann laughed out loud at the thought, his shiny, round face stretched tight with amusement. Hitler was engaged in the far more important business of playing with the adorable German Shepherd puppy that Bormann had given him. Settling back in his leather chair, Bormann lit another cigarette. But his good humour soon vanished and his brow darkened. He looked at his watch. He had something else on his mind, something that had to be resolved without delay. Smoke drifted from the cigarette dangling from his yellow fingers. The only time he didn’t smoke was when he was asleep or in the presence of the Führer.